Augustus

I suddenly find myself on my feet; a power has come upon me; I speak in a voice that seems not my own: 'I call you Caesar, for I know that he would have had you as his son.'

Octavius looks at me; the thought had not occurred to him, I believe. 'It is too early for that,' he says slowly, 'but I will remember that it was Salvidienus who first called me by that name.'

I say: 'And if he would have you as his son, he would have you act as he would have done. Agrippa has said that we have the loyalty of one legion here; the other five in Macedonia will respond as Lugdunius has, if we do not delay in asking their allegiance. For if we know nothing of what will ensue, they know even less. I say that we march on Rome with the legions we have and assume the power that lies there.'

Octavius: 'And then? We do not know what that power is; we do not know who will oppose us. We do not even know who murdered him.'

Myself: 'The power shall become what we make it to be. As for who will oppose us, we cannot know. But if Antonius's legions will join with ours, then-'

Octavius, slowly: 'We do not even know who murdered him. We do not know his enemies, thus we cannot know our own.'

Maecenas sighs, rises, shakes his head. 'We have spoken of action, of what we shall do; but we have not spoken of the end to which that action is aimed.' He gazes at Octavius. 'My friend, what is it that you wish to accomplish, by whatever action we take?'

For a moment Octavius does not speak. Then he looks at each of us in turn, intently. 'I swear to you all now, and to the gods, that if it is my destiny to live, I shall have vengeance upon the murderers of my uncle, whoever they may be.'

Maecenas, nodding: 'Then our first purpose is to ensure that destiny, so that you may fulfill the vow. We must stay alive. To that end we must move with caution-but we must move.' He is walking about the room, addressing us as if we were schoolchildren. 'Our friend Agrippa recommends that we remain here safely until we can know which way to move. But to remain here is to remain in ignorance. News will come from Rome- but it will be rumor confounded with fact, fact confounded with self-interest, until self-interest and faction become the source of all we shall know.' He turns to me. 'Our impetuous friend Salvidienus advises that we strike at once, finding advantage in the confusion that the world may now be in. To run in the dark against a timid opponent may win you the race; but it is as likely to plunge you over a cliff you cannot see, or lead you to a mark you do not wish to find. No… All of Rome will know that Octavius has received word of his uncle's death. He shall return quietly, with his friends and his grief-but without the soldiers that both his friends and enemies might welcome. No army will attack four boys and a few servants, who return to grieve a relative; and no force will gather around them to warn and stiffen the will of the enemy. And if it is to be murder, four can run more swiftly than a legion.'

We have had our say; Octavius is silent; and it occurs to me how odd it is that we will so suddenly defer to his decision, as we have not done before. Is it a power in him we sense and have not known earlier? Is it the moment? Is it some lack in ourselves? I will consider this later.

At last Octavius speaks: 'We shall do as Maecenas says. We'll leave most of our possessions here, as if we intend to return; and tomorrow we make as much haste as we can to cross to Italy. But not to Brindisi-there's a legion there, and we cannot know its disposition.'

'Otranto,' Agrippa says. 'It's nearer anyway.'

Octavius nods. 'And now you must choose. Whoever returns with me commits his fortune to my own. There is no other way, and there can be no turning back. And I can promise you nothing, except my own chance.'

Maecenas yawns; he is his old self again. 'We came across on that stinking fish boat with you; if we could endure that, we can endure anything.'

Octavius smiles, a little sadly. 'That was a long time ago,' he says, 'that day.'

We say nothing more, except our good nights.

I am alone in my tent; the lamp sputters on my table where I write these words, and through the tent door I can see in the east, above the mountains, the first pale light of dawn. I have not been able to sleep.

In this early morning stillness, the events of the day seem far away and unreal. I know that the course of my life-of all our lives-has been changed. How do the others feel? Do they know?

Do they know that before us lies a road at the end of which is either death or greatness? The two words go around in my head, around and around, until it seems they are the same.

CHAPTER TWO

I. Letter: Atta and Marcius Philippus to Octavius (April, 44 B. c.)

By the time you receive this letter, my son, you will have arrived at Brindisi and heard the news. It is as I feared: the will is now public, and you have been named Caesar's son and heir. I know that your first impulse will be to accept both the name and the fortune; but your mother implores you to wait, to consider, and to judge the world into which this will of your uncle invites you. It is not the simple country world of Velletri, where you spent your childhood; nor is it the household world of tutors and nurses where you spent your boyhood; nor is it the world of books and philosophy where you spent your youth, nor even the simple world of the battlefield to which Caesar (against my will) introduced you. It is the world of Rome, where no man knows his enemy or his friend, where license is more admired than virtue, and where principle has become servant to self.

Your mother begs you to renounce the terms of the will; you may do so without traducing the name of your uncle, and no one will think the worse of you. For if you accept the name and the fortune, you accept the enmity of both those who killed Caesar and those who now support his memory. You will have only the love of the rabble, as did Caesar; and that was not enough to protect him from his fate.

I pray that you receive this before you have acted rashly. We have removed ourselves from the danger in Rome, and will stay here at your stepfather's place in Puteoli until the chaos has settled into some kind of order. If you do not accept the will, you may travel safely across the country and join us here. It still is possible to lead a decent life in the privacy of one's own heart and mind. Your stepfather wishes to add some words to this.

Your mother speaks to you from the love that is in her heart; I speak to you from my affection, too, but also from my practical knowledge of the world and of the events of the past days.

You know my politics, and you know that there have been occasions in the past when I could not approve of the course that your late uncle pursued. Indeed, I have from time to time found it necessary, as has our friend Cicero, to assert this disapproval on the floor of the Senate. I mention this only to assure you that it is not from political considerations that I urge you upon the course that your mother has advised, but from practical ones.

I do not approve of the assassination, and had I been consulted about it I would most certainly have recoiled with such aversion that I myself might have been in danger. But you must understand that among the tyrannicides (as they call themselves) are some of the most responsible and respected citizens of Rome. They have the support of most of the Senate, and they are in danger only from the rabble; some of them are my friends, and however ill- advised were their actions, they are good men and patriots. Even Marcus Antonius, who has roused the rabble, does not move against them, and will not; for he, too, is a practical man.

Whatever his virtues, your uncle left Rome in a state from which it is not likely soon to recover. All is in doubt: his enemies are powerful but confused in their resolve, and his friends are corrupt and to be trusted by no one. If you accept the name and the inheritance, you will be abandoned by those who matter; you will have a name that is an empty honor, and a fortune that you do not need; and you will be alone.

Come to us at Puteoli. Do not involve yourself in issues whose resolution cannot improve your interest. Keep yourself aloof from all. You will be safe in our affections.

II The Memoirs of Marcus Agrippa: Fragments (13 B. c.)

…and at that news and in our grief we acted. We made haste to sail and had a stormy crossing to Otranto, where we landed in the dark of night and did not let our persons be known to any. We slept at a common inn and made our servants absent themselves, so that no one might suspect us; and before dawn we set out on foot toward Brindisi, as if we were country folk. At Lecce we were halted by two soldiers who watched the approach to Brindisi; and though we did not give our names, we were recognized by one who had been in the Spanish campaign. From him we learned that the garrison at Brindisi would welcome us, and that we might go there without danger. One walked with us while the other went ahead to tell of our coming, and we came to Brindisi with the full honor of