Augustus

'Well, our comedy is almost over,' he said. 'But there can be much sadness in a comedy.'

I did not know what to say. 'Maecenas,' I began. 'Maecenas-'

'Did you know him well?' Octavius asked.

'I knew him,' I said, 'but I do not think I knew him well.'

'Few people knew him well,' he said. 'Not many liked him. But there was a time when we were young- Marcus Agrippa was young, too-there was a time when we were friends, and knew that we would be friends for as long as we lived. Agrippa; Maecenas; myself; Salvidienus Rufus. Salvidienus is dead too, but he died long ago. Perhaps we all died then, when we were young.'

I became alarmed, for I had never heard my friend talk disconnectedly before. I said: 'You are distraught. It is a heavy loss.'

He said: 'I was with him when he died. And our friend Horace was there. He died very quietly; he was conscious until the end. We talked about the old times together. He asked me to look out for Horace's welfare; he said that poets had more important things to do than to care for themselves. I believe Horace sobbed and turned away Then Maecenas said that he was tired. And he died.'

'Perhaps he was tired.'

He said: 'Yes, he was tired.'

There was a silence between us. And then Octavius said:

'And there will be another soon. Another who is tired.'

'My friend-' I said.

He shook his head, still smiling. 'I do not mean myself; the gods will not be so kind. It is Horace. I saw the look on his face afterward. Vergil, and then Maecenas, Horace said. He reminded me later that once, many years ago, in a poem-he was making a little fun of one of Maecenas's illnesses-and in the poem he said to Maecenas-can I remember it?-On the same day shall the earth be heaped upon us both. I make the soldier's vow-you lead, and we shall go together, both ready to slog the road that ends all roads, inseparable friends.’… I don't think that Horace will outlive him by many months. He does not wish to.'

'Horace,' I said.

'Maecenas wrote badly,' Octavius said. 'I always told him that he wrote badly.'

… I could not comfort him. Two months later Horace was dead. He was discovered one morning by his servant, in his little house above the Digentia. His face was quiet, as if he were simply asleep. Octavius had his ashes interred beside those of Maecenas, at the farther end of the Esquiline hill.

The only one alive now whom he loves is his daughter. And I fear for that love; I fear most desperately. For his daughter seems to grow more careless of her position month by month; her husband will not live with her, but remains abroad, though he is consul for the year.

I do not believe that Rome can endure the death of Octavius Caesar, and I do not believe that Octavius Caesar can endure the death of his soul.

VIII. The Journal of Julia, Pandateria (A.D. 4)

The way of life that I had in Rome, then, was a way of almost utter freedom. Tiberius was abroad, spending even the year of his consulship in Germany, organizing the outposts there against the encroachments of the barbarian tribes. Upon the few occasions that he had to return to Rome, he made a ritual visit, and quickly found business elsewhere.

The year after his consulship, my father, upon his own initiative, ordered a replacement for him on the German frontier, and ordered my husband to return to his duties in Rome. And Tiberius refused. It was, I thought, the most admirable thing he had ever done; and I almost respected him for his courage.

He wrote to my father indicating his refusal to pursue a public life, and expressing a desire to retire to the Island of Rhodes, where his family had extensive holdings, to devote the rest of his years to his private studies of literature and philosophy. My father pretended anger; I think that he was pleased. He imagined that Tiberius Claudius Nero had served his purpose.

I have often wondered what my life would have been like, had my husband meant what he wrote to my father.

CHAPTER SIX

I. Letter: Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso to Tiberius Claudius Nero, on Rhodes (4 B. c.)

My dear Tiberius, your absence is regretted by your friends in Rome, which seems content in its own stagnation. Yet for the present, perhaps that stagnation is fortunate. There is no news of the past year that might profoundly affect our futures-and that, I suppose, in these days, is the best we can hope for.

Herod the Jew is dead at last, and that is perhaps best for all of us. During the last few years of his life, he was no doubt mad, and growing madder; I know the Emperor had become profoundly distrustful of him, and perhaps was considering to effect his overthrow; and that, of course, if it came to war, would have united the people behind the Emperor as nothing else might have done. Just a few days before he died, Herod had put to death one of his sons, whom he suspected of having plotted against him-which gave the Emperor occasion for another of his witticisms. 'I had rather,' he said, 'be Herod's pig than his son.' In any event, he is succeeded by another of his sons, who has made sincere overtures to Rome; so the possibility of an armed excursion seems remote at this time.

Incidental to Herod's death, and preceding it by some time was the departure from Rome of the unpleasant little Nicolaus of Damascus, of whom the Emperor has always been so fond. This may seem a trivial thing to record, yet it has some bearing on our futures, I believe; for this departure has saddened the Emperor more than one might reasonably expect. For now none of his old close friends remain-and he seems to grow more bitter and more private as the months succeed one another. And of course as one grows so, one's grasp upon power and authority progressively must weaken.

And that grasp does seem to be weakening, though in ways that are not yet significant enough to raise uncautious hopes. For example: this year, he refused the clamor of the Senate to accept his thirteenth consulship, pleading age and weariness. When it became clear that he was firm in his decision, the Senate demanded to know whom he would have to serve in his place- and he named Gaius Calvisius Sabinus! Do you remember the name? He is an old Caesarean, older even than the Emperor himself, and was consul once under the triumvirate, some thirty- five years ago, and served under the Emperor and Marcus Agrippa in the naval battles against Sextus Pompeius! The other consul is one Lucius Passienus Rufus (if you can imagine one of such an undistinguished name serving as consul), of whom you may or may not have heard. He is one of the new men, and I really have no idea of his allegiance to the family of the Emperor. I suspect that he will support the government, no matter who might be in power. So the consulship of this year promises no real consolidation that might be ranged against your eventual assumption of power. One who is senile, and one who has no name!

Somewhat more depressing (though we knew it had to come, eventually) were the rites of manhood conferred by the Emperor upon your stepsons. Gaius and Lucius (though neither is sixteen yet) are now citizens of Rome, they wear the togas of manhood, and no doubt as soon as he dares, the Emperor will give each of them at least nominal command of an army. Fortunately, he would not dare do more than that at the moment; and none of us knows what the future may bring. He will see that his old friend, Marcus Agrippa, though dead, is somehow in the center of things, even if it is only through his sons.

None of this, my dear Tiberius, need disturb us, I think; we have expected much of it, and that which we did not expect certainly has done us no harm.

But I fear that my concluding observations, tentative though they may be, offer some cause for apprehension. As you may have suspected, these observations have to do with the recent activities of your wife.

The scandals surrounding your wife have to some degree subsided, and they have done so for several reasons. First, the public is growing used to her behavior; second, what is often described as her infectious charm and gaiety have gone a long way toward softening opinion about her; third, her popularity among the young seems to be growing rather than diminishing; and last (and this is, for reasons that I shall shortly explain, the most ominous) her more blatant disregard of the proprieties seems to have diminished, and to have diminished substantially. It is to this last that I shall address myself.