I, Virgil, page 22
'You think it goes on, Publius?' he said. 'All this? After we die?'
The question took me by surprise: it was not the sort of question my father would normally ask. But I knew what he meant.
'Some people believe it does,' I said.
'Do you?'
I was silent for a moment.
'No,' I said. 'Not me.'
My father smiled.
'Then I'm sorry for you.' Then, after a while:
'Do you know what I believe?'
'No. Tell me.'
'I think we're part of it. Not separate. Part of it. Part of the land, of the rain, of the scents. When we die, we go back. There's no separation, ever again. We become the land, and it is all of us, all of us that've ever been.'
I had never heard him talk like this before. Perhaps he knew it was his last evening, and had already let go. I said nothing, and waited.
'And the land is all we have,' he went on at last. 'A child's cord is cut at birth, but if we cut the cord that joins us to the land we wither and die like a tree without roots. We can cover the earth with cities, or strive for any of a hundred different things, but it always comes back to that in the end. Without the earth under our feet we're nothing.'
'It's getting cold now, Father,' I said. 'Let's go back inside.'
'Just a little longer.' He closed his eyes again and turned his head away. 'You've been a good son, Publius. By your lights. I'm sorry I haven't been as good a father.'
'You made me what I am. You couldn't have given me more.'
His mouth twisted.
'"You made me what I am,"' he said bitterly. 'Well, that's certainly true, and I'm sorry for it. But what are you, Publius? Where are your roots? What do you believe in?'
'Let me get you a blanket.'
He sighed.
'No, that's all right. I'll come in now. You're right, it's turned cold and the evening's dead.'
He got up slowly and I moved to help him. As I took his elbow, he gripped my arm and turned his empty eyes on my face.
'Don't desert the land, son,' he said. 'Hold on to it, whatever happens. The land's your priority, your only priority. Remember that.'
I found him next morning, when I went to wake him, dead in his bed. He must have died early in the night, for he was stiff and cold. I tried to close his eyes, but the lids had frozen, and his sightless eyeballs watched me as I wept above his corpse.
52.
When the news of Antony's speech at Alexandria reached Rome, there was a public outcry. Octavian sent him a strongly-worded letter taking him to task for his liaison with Cleopatra and his treatment of Octavia. Antony replied in kind, telling Octavian that it was none of his business. He also, more significantly, sent letters to the Senate, offering to lay aside his triumviral powers if Octavian would do the same. This, of course, Octavian could not have. It was essential that Italy see him both as her leader and as her champion against the arch-fiend Antony; and Octavian immediately began working to bring this about.
That, long before it was formally declared, was the start of the real war. It was a war that suited Octavian admirably: a war of ideas, not of weapons. The fight against Antony was to be a personal one. 'Italy' and 'Caesar' were to be made synonymous; and to further this Octavian set about creating in the minds of Italians a pride in their national identity. Note, I do not say 'Romans': it contributed in no small degree to Octavian's success that he saw Italy as a single entity, and he based his strategy on conveying this to the people and linking himself with it indissolubly. At Rome itself, he and Agrippa, largely at their own expense, embarked on a public building programme to beautify the city and improve its amenities; and Maecenas saw to it that, although the benefactors were suitably modest, everyone knew where the money came from. Octavian also began to instil a pride in the traditional religion, restoring old temples, making costly dedications and lending his support to the priesthoods. In banning eastern religions from the city he was, in effect, clarifying the line between 'Italy' and 'Caesar' on the one hand and 'the East' and 'Antony' on the other.
Imagine an artist who wishes to paint a picture to hang high on a wall, far above people's heads, yet which must be perfectly visible and comprehensible from below. First of all, he simplifies his subject, reduces it to its basic components. Then he lines them in: crude shapes devoid of detail, that do not confuse with their complexity; distorted, perhaps, to allow for the angle of viewpoint. Finally he adds the colours – hard primary colours, or simple black and white, with no half-tones or mergings of one colour with another. Taken down from the wall, and viewed closely, such a picture would be ludicrous, a child's painting that offends by its lack of subtlety and poor draughtsmanship. Replace it where it is meant to be hung, however, and it strikes more truly than the finest work of Zeuxis.
That was how Octavian conducted his war against Antony, in its initial stages. It was a strategy of genius. It brought all of Italy behind him, and Antony, although he tried his best, had no answer to it.
. . .
By the new year, everyone knew that war was imminent. The consuls were both Antony's men and, after throwing down a challenge to Octavian on his behalf, they left Rome taking a large part of the Senate with them. On the face of it, this was a blow to Octavian: if he were to represent himself as the champion of the Roman state, then how could he justify the defection of both chief magistrates and much of the governing body? In fact, it made Antony's task far more difficult. Where Octavian had been at pains to have his own position clear-cut, Antony now found himself with a dilemma. He could lead his Roman supporters as a Roman magistrate, or his eastern allies as a Hellenistic king, but he could not do both. Whichever he chose, he was bound to offend the other party. This was to be crucial.
The year was spent in preparations. Antony gathered a huge fleet and called on his client-kings to mobilise their own troops. Cleopatra provided money – an immense amount, but only a fraction of the fabled Treasure of the Ptolemies held in Alexandria. She was already the major cause of friction between Antony and his Roman allies, but she refused to leave; and as she was paying most of the bills she had her way.
Then Octavian suddenly changed his tactics. He targeted Cleopatra as the prime foe. Antony became the innocent dupe, bound to her will by drugs and sorcery. In late May, almost on cue, Antony himself lent his enemies a hand by finally divorcing Octavia.
Although Octavian milked the divorce for all it was worth, his outrage was quite genuine. With the possible exception of his new wife Livia (and I am not sure even about her), his sister was the only person for whom he felt genuine affection; perhaps because she was everything he was not. Yet it had another effect even more damaging. Two of Antony's foremost supporters, Plancus and Titius, took it as a sign that Cleopatra's hold over him was now unbreakable, and in disgust defected to Octavian. They revealed that Antony had deposited a will with the Vestals in Rome; and Octavian, not scrupling under the circumstances to take it by force, made the terms public.
Most of the clauses came as no surprise, confirming as they did the grant of kingdoms to Cleopatra's children by Antony and acknowledging Caesarion as Caesar's heir. But there was one which was new and, in the eyes of the ordinary Roman people, outweighed all the rest. Antony asked that at his death he be buried with Cleopatra in Egypt.
I do not know if this was an invention of Octavian's or not. Certainly it could have been, since no-one but Octavian read the will; yet Antony never denied it, and it has the ring of truth. It seems a small thing, I know, but it had immense significance. In effect, Antony had disclaimed his Roman heritage. He had cut himself off from Italy; and in revenge Italy cut herself off from him.
Even Octavian, I suspect, was taken aback by the violence of the reaction. There had been some grumbling over increased taxes for the war. That ceased. It hardly needed Octavian's campaign of vituperation against Cleopatra to fan the flames, or even much prompting on the part of his secret agents to guide people down the path he wished them to go. First Italy, then the provinces joined together to swear an oath to Octavian of personal allegiance and solidarity. It was a tremendous vote of confidence, an open mandate for war. Octavian (or Maecenas) may have helped to engineer it, but in the last analysis it was Antony's own doing. He had not only dug his own grave, but jumped down into it and pulled the soil on top of himself; and Octavian needed only to stamp it flat to complete the job.
He did this before the end of the year. In an ancient and impressive religious ceremony not seen for generations, robed as a Priest of the War Goddess, Octavian declared on Rome's behalf a Holy War; not against Antony, which might have clouded the morality of the issue, but against the woman who had corrupted him: the drunken, beast-worshipping witch-whore Cleopatra.
The last stage of the war had begun.
53.
The Actium campaign justified all Italy's expectations, and proved that Octavian had finally come of age as a strategist. Before the sailing season was properly under way, he had transported his troops across the Adriatic and established a beach-head on the coast of Epirus in northern Greece.
You notice, of course, the discrepancy here. Octavian had crossed unopposed, and there had been no intervening sea battle. What had happened to Antony's numerically-superior fleet?
I discovered the answer much later, in a rare (and thankfully brief) conversation with Agrippa. I doubt if I will mention Octavian's close friend, admiral and erstwhile heir-designate again at any length in the remaining part of my story. We did not get on well; he classed me with Maecenas, whom he despised, as an effete unpractical scribbler, too clever by half and a natural degenerate. I saw him as a muscle-headed semi- illiterate boor with too great a sense of his own importance. No doubt there were faults on both sides. At least we respected each other's abilities, which on his side were considerable.
I cannot remember the exact circumstances of that talk. We had found ourselves fellow-guests of some notable in Brindisi. I was returning from a trip to Athens, he was on his way to Egypt on official business, and we were both detained for several days by adverse weather. The atmosphere was uncomfortable, the conversation stilted, but both of us felt it our duty to maintain the common politenesses.
Agrippa was a big man, heavily-muscled, with a broad, jowly face. He reminded me of these dogs that peasants rear for bull-baiting. Maecenas once said – and he was only half-joking – that Agrippa could hold only one thought in his mind at a time, if it were simple enough. I would not wholly agree. He was a superb tactician, and in military matters far superior to any of his rivals or colleagues, Antony included. Only in the broader fields of strategy and politics did his military skills let him down. Agrippa was no Caesar, not even an Octavian.
We were, as I said, fellow-guests. I was sitting in the solar, making some notes from a philosophical text, when he entered. He had not expected to see me, and was visibly taken aback; in fact, for a moment I thought he would march straight out again. Finally, however, he drew up a stool and sat by the window, glaring out at the rain.
'Pissing weather,' he growled.
I took this for an opening conversational gambit, and agreed pleasantly. We said nothing more for some time. Agrippa fidgeted with a large ring on his right hand. I noticed his fingers were broad and stubby, the nails black and broken.
'You coming or going?' he said at last.
'Coming. I'm just back from Greece.'
'Pissing country. I wouldn't give you tuppence for it.'
'Athens has its points.'
'So they say. The north was enough for me.' He laughed; a short, barking laugh. 'Mind you, I was busy at the time.'
I laid aside my book.
'So I've heard,' I said. 'Along with several other people.'
He glanced at me suspiciously to see if I was making fun of him, but I met his eyes with a look of bland innocence.
'Oh yes,' he said. 'You were safe in Italy at the time, weren't you, Virgil? Along with Maecenas. Taking care of things like good little housewives while the men did the work.'
'Someone had to do it.' I was unruffled. 'Not that I was concerned personally.'
He grunted and scratched his barrel chest. I could see this was going to be a jolly get-together unless I steered the conversation into more congenial waters.
'I've always wondered,' I said, 'how you managed to catch Antony on the hop like that. Was it luck?'
'Luck be damned,' he growled. 'Ahenobarbus sold him out. Caesar'd had it arranged for months.'
This was complete news to me. Ahenobarbus had been Antony's commander of the fleet, responsible both for giving warning of a crossing and stopping Octavian's troops from landing. I knew that he had gone over to Octavian later in the war – he died shortly afterwards – but not that he had thought of it so early on.
'Ahenobarbus was a traitor?'
'I don't like that word. He saw sense, certainly.'
'Why? Why did he do it?'
Agrippa shrugged.
'Who cares? It's none of my business. Couldn't stand that bitch Cleopatra, I expect. Like a lot of them. Thought Antony was betraying the Roman state.' He enunciated the words carefully, with a twist to his mouth. 'These sodding Republicans were all alike. Too pious for their own good, and brains in their arses.
'Did Antony know?'
'Probably. But there wasn't much he could do about it, was there? He had enough problems keeping his shower together, and Ahenobarbus was well in with the nobs.' He stood up abruptly. 'Looks like it's clearing. Think I'll have a stroll down to the harbour, get some fresh air, see how the ship's doing.'
'I'll see you at dinner, then,' I said.
He looked down at me, frowning; then he nodded and went out.
He did not reappear that evening, or indeed on many other occasions while our enforced companionship lasted. Perhaps he preferred to dine on hard tack and bilge water with his friend the captain.
Agrippa was right about Antony's difficulties in holding his army together. The problem, of course, was Cleopatra. If she had withdrawn to Alexandria and left him to fight it out alone, the result might have been quite different. As it was, he was stuck on the defensive. He could not invade Italy with her beside him – his Roman allies would not have stood for that – nor could he force her to leave, since she was his main source of money and supplies; besides, the eastern allies would have seen it as a slight. He could only encourage his enemies to come to him and, having caught them between his own forces and the sea, either starve them into submission or smash them where they stood.
In the end, he did neither. Agrippa moved south and took Patras and Corinth, severing Antony's own lines of supply. In the north, the local allies on whom he was depending went over to Octavian, while his fleet was of little help since he refused to provide it with soldiers (perhaps because he did not trust Ahenobarbus?) As the noose tightened and food ran short, the bickering and desertions began. Recognising that his position was rapidly becoming untenable, Antony fell back on Actium.
The battle of Actium – the last, decisive battle – was fought on 2nd September. Antony had six squadrons – about three hundred and fifty ships – plus one more, Cleopatra's, to protect his rear. Aboard were some thirty- five thousand men. Agrippa, commanding Octavian's fleet, lay further off the coast, waiting for the prevailing wind to shift to the north-west, as it usually did around midday. When the wind changed, both Antony and Agrippa moved, Antony under oars, Agrippa using sail. They clashed, and ships were sunk on both sides.
At that crucial moment the three squadrons to the left and centre of Antony's line suddenly deserted; and a further two, their avenue of retreat blocked by Cleopatra, raised their oars in surrender. At a single stroke Antony had lost his whole fleet, except for the remains of his personal squadron – some forty ships, currently engaged with the enemy –and Cleopatra's. Transferring from his own damaged craft to Cleopatra's flagship, he abandoned the battle and ran for safety. The remaining ships, seeing their leader gone, gave themselves up.
The next day Octavian sent the news back to Rome by the fastest available cutter. Most of Antony's surviving ships he burnt as a thank- offering, having first detached the bronze rams from their prows and set them up as a victory monument. There only remained the question of Antony and Cleopatra themselves; but their fate was a foregone conclusion.
54.
It was to be several months before that fate was sealed. Octavian had to move cautiously. He was facing now, not Antony, who was a broken man, but a far more dangerous adversary, Cleopatra herself.
I had a slave once, a certain Simon, from the mountains to the north- west of Pella, the Macedonian capital. His left arm, from elbow to wrist, was a red, wrinkled mass of scar tissue (I got him cheap because of it). When I asked him how he had come by such a terrible wound, he told me the following story.
Before he was taken as a slave, he had been a hunter. One day he and some friends started a lioness. Simon got in a cast of his javelin and wounded the beast in the side. The lioness escaped, but she was badly hurt and he followed her meaning to finish her off. She ran down a narrow corrie and disappeared into a cave at its end.
Simon's friends were for giving up: they had no torches with them, nor did they have the stomach to follow a wounded lioness into her lair. Simon, however, thought differently. The animal, he knew, was seriously weakened, probably already dead or dying. Also, the cave was narrow, little more than a fissure in the rock. If he advanced with his spear held out in front of him the lioness would have no room to manoeuvre and would, if she attacked, spit herself on the point. Besides, he wanted to finish the job. Despite his friends' warnings, he went in.
