Augustus

be.

IV. Quintus Salvidienus Rufus: Notes for a Journal, at Apollonia (March, 44 B.C.)

Afternoon. The sun is bright, hot; ten or twelve officers and ourselves on a hill, looking down at the maneuvers of the cavalry on the field. Dust rises in billows as the horses gallop and turn; shouts, laughter, curses come up to us from the distance, through the thud of hoofbeats. All of us, except Maecenas, have come up from the field and are resting. I have removed my armor and am lying with my head on it; Maecenas, his tunic unspotted and his hair unruffled, sits with his back against the trunk of a small tree; Agrippa stands beside me, sweat drenching his body, his legs like stone pillars; Octavius beside him, his slender body trembling from its recent exertion-one never realizes how slight he is until he stands near someone like Agrippa-his face pale, hair lank and darkened by sweat, plastered to his forehead; Octavius smiling, pointing to something below us; Agrippa nodding. We all have a sense of well-being; it has not rained for a week, the weather has warmed, we are pleased with our skills and with the skills of the soldiers.

I write these words quickly, not knowing what I shall have occasion to use in my leisure. I must get everything down.

The horsemen below us rest; their horses mill around; Octavius sits beside me, pushes my head playfully off the armor; we laugh at nothing in our feeling for the moment. Agrippa smiles at us and stretches his great arms; the leather of his cuirass creaks in the stillness.

From behind us comes Maecenas's voice-high, thin, a little affected, almost effeminate. 'Boys who play at being soldier,' he says. 'How unutterably boring.'

Agrippa-his voice deep, slow, deliberate, with that gravity that conceals so much: 'If you had it in your power to remove that ample posterior from whatever convenient resting place it might encounter, you would discover that there are pleasures beyond the luxuries you affect.'

Octavius: 'Perhaps we could persuade the Parthians to accept him as their general. That would make our task easier this summer.'

Maecenas sighs heavily, gets up, and walks over to where we are lying. For one so heavy, he is very light on his feet. He says: 'While you have been indulging yourselves in your vulgar displays, I have been projecting a poem that examines the active versus the contemplative life. The wisdom of the one I know; I have been observing the foolishness of the other.'

Octavius, gravely: 'My uncle once told me to read the poets, to love them, and to use them-but never to trust them.'

'Your uncle,' says Maecenas, 'is a wise man.'

More banter. We grow quiet. The field below us is almost empty; the horses have been led away to the stables at the edge of the field. Below the field, from the direction of the city, a horseman, galloping at full speed. We watch him idly. He comes to the field, does not pause there, but crosses it wildly, careening in his saddle. I start to say something, but Octavius has stiffened. There is something in his face. We can see the foam flying from the horse's mouth. Octavius says: 'I know that man. He is from my mother's household.'

He is almost upon us now; the horse slows; he slides from his saddle, stumbles, staggers toward us with something in his hand. Some of the soldiers around us have noticed; they run toward us with their swords half- drawn, but they see that the man is helpless with exhaustion and moves only by his will. He thrusts something toward Octavius and croaks, 'This-this-' It is a letter. Octavius takes it and holds it and does not move for several moments. The messenger collapses, then sits and puts his head between his knees. All we can hear is the hoarse rasp of his breathing. I look at the horse and think absently that it is so broken in its wind that it will die before morning. Octavius has not moved. Everyone is still. Slowly he unrolls the letter; he reads; there is no expression on his face. Still he does not speak. After a long while he raises his head and turns to us. His face is like white marble. He puts the letter in my hand; I do not look at it. He says in a dull, flat voice: 'My uncle is dead.'

We cannot take in his words; we look at him stupidly. His expression does not change, but he speaks again, and the voice that comes out of him is grating and loud and filled with uncomprehending pain, like the bellow of a bullock whose throat has been cut at a sacrifice: 'Julius Caesar is dead.'

'No,' says Agrippa. 'No.'

Maecenas's face has tightened; he looks at Octavius like a falcon.

My hand is shaking so that I cannot read what is written. I steady myself. My voice is strange to me. I read aloud: 'On this Ides of March Julius Caesar is murdered by his enemies in the Senate House. There are no details. The people run wildly through the streets. No one can know what will happen next. You may be in great danger. I can write no more. Your mother beseeches you to care for your person.' The letter has been written in great haste; there are blots of ink, and the letters are ill-formed.

I look around me, not knowing what I feel. An emptiness? The officers stand around us in a ring; I look into the eyes of one; his face crumples, I hear a sob: and I remember that this is one of Caesar's prime legions, and that the veterans look upon him as a father.

After a long time Octavius moves; he walks to the messenger who remains seated on the ground, his face slack with exhaustion. Octavius kneels beside him; his voice is gentle. 'Do you know anything that is not in this letter?'

The messenger says, 'No, sir,' and starts to get up but Octavius puts his hand on his shoulder and says, 'Rest;” and he rises and speaks to one of the officers. 'See that this man is cared for and given comfortable quarters.' Then he turns to the three of us, who have moved closer together. 'We will talk later. Now I must think of what this will mean.' He reaches his hand out toward me, and I understand that he wants the letter. I hand it to him, and he turns away from us. The ring of officers breaks for him, and he walks down the hill. For a long time we watch him, a slight boyish figure walking on the deserted field, moving slowly, this way and that, as if trying to discover a way to go.

Later. Great consternation in camp as word of Caesar's death spreads. Rumors so wild that one can believe none of them. Arguments arise, subside; a few fist fights, quickly broken up. Some of the old professionals, whose lives have been spent in fighting from legion to legion, sometimes against the men who are now their comrades, look with contempt upon the fuss, and go about their business. Still Octavius has not returned from his lonely watch upon the field. The day darkens.

Night. A guard has been placed around our tents by Lugdunius himself, commander of the legion; for no one knows what enemies we have, or what may ensue. The four of us together in Octavius's tent; we sit or recline on pallets around the lanterns flickering in the center of the floor. Sometimes Octavius rises and sits on a campstool, away from the light, so that his face is in shadow. Many have come in from Apollonia, asking for more news, giving advice, offering aid; Lugdunius has put the legion at our disposal, should we want it. Now Octavius has asked that we not be disturbed, and speaks of those who have come to him.

'They know even less than we, and they speak only to their own fortunes. Yesterday-' he pauses and looks at something in the darkness-'yesterday, it seemed they were my friends. Now I may not trust them.' He pauses again, comes close to us, and puts his hand on my shoulder. 'I shall speak of these matters only with you three, who are truly my friends.'

Maecenas speaks; his voice has deepened, and no longer shrills with the effeminacy that he sometimes affects: 'Do not trust even us, who love you. From this moment on, put only that faith in us that you have to.'

Octavius turns abruptly away from us, his back to the light, and says in a strangled voice: 'I know. I know even that.'

And so we talk of what we must do.

Agrippa says that we must do nothing, since we know nothing upon which we can reasonably act. In the unsteady light of the lanterns, he might be an old man, with his voice and his gravity. 'We are safe here, at least for the time being; this legion will be loyal to us-Lugdunius has given his word. For all we know, this may be a general rebellion, and armies may already have been dispatched for our capture, as Sulla sent troops for the descendants of Marius-among whom was Julius Caesar himself. We may not be as lucky now as he was then. We have behind us the mountains of Macedonia, where they will not follow against this legion. In any event, we shall have time to receive more news; and we shall have made no move to compromise our position, one way or the other. We must wait in the safety of the moment.'

Octavius, softly: 'My uncle once told me that too much caution may lead to death as certainly as too much rashness.'