Augustus

'Must, Caesar?' 'Must. If we are going to pass our life together.' 'Oh, are we?'

'I'm working on it.' I took her hand and placed it against my cheek. 'Feel,' I said, 'I've sacrificed my beard. For you. It's the end of one period in my life. I stopped shaving on the day I heard of my father's murder. Now I'm shaving again. You've changed the pattern.'

'I wish you wouldn't call that man your father. You had a real father, I suppose. What was he like?'

'An average man. Nothing remarkable. He liked fishing in mountain streams.' 'Very informative, that tells me a lot.'

She had a quick abrupt way of speaking, a slightly metallic voice. There was some nervousness behind it, some sense of insufficiency. It was quick and decisive and yet it suggested, even from those first days, when just to look at her lying back on the pillows, her pale face with its translucent skin and huge blue-grey eyes framed by the tresses of hair the colour of beech-leaves in autumn forests, sent my blood coursing, pricked me with sharp and anguished desire (and the fear that I might never have her, that she might always in the end deny herself, retain a mysterious and secret part). Her voice, I say, suggested even then a limitation of sympathy, a narrowness of understanding; it was perhaps this that made her so complete, and so completely desirable. She was so certain and yet at the same time so vulnerable because the world was more complicated than she found it to be, and somewhere in the recesses of her spirit she apprehended this, and, for all her courage, feared the knowledge. 'And the Dictator,' she said, 'what was he really like…?'

I looked away, out of the window. The sun shone on the heights of distant Aspromonte; in the nearer foothills the woods of chestnut glowed with a deep refulgent green; a rose-bush thrust pink flowers in through the window; purple wisteria spread itself over the terrace wall; a lizard basked on the broken masonry.

I said, 'He had charm. I was afraid of him. I owe everything to him. I didn't like him.'

She pressed her hand against mine. 'Oh,' she said, 'I am so glad to hear you say that.'

Her hand was strong, as big as mine (which as you know is rather small); her grip firm and dry.

I said, 'He was an egoist. He used people shamelessly. There was something cruel and self-regarding in his clemency.' (As I spoke, I thought: Am I describing myself?) Livia said, 'How can you love me? In my condition?'

'It's what my mother's friends genteelly call 'an interesting condition'.' 'I'm six months in pig,' she said. 'Oh Livia, as if that mattered…'

I leant forward. I put my arm round her and raised her head. I kissed her on the lips. It was like burying one's face in rose-petals. There was a faint smell of musk. She leant back, receiving the kiss.

She breathed: 'You're not one of these boys who just likes pregnant ladies, are you?' 'Will you marry me?' I said. 'Is that a polite command, Caesar?' 'No, Livia, I shall never command you'; and I never have. 'You have a wife, I have a husband.' 'Let's divorce them. They can marry each other…' 'No,' she said, 'not that. Still, you did shave your beard…'

I kissed her again. This time she responded. Her arms folded round my neck. We lay some minutes in joy, basking in love and desire, like the lizard in sunlight.

I divorced Scribonia as soon as possible. The timing was unfortunate for the divorce was ratified on the day that your mother, Julia, was born. However, I made it clear from the start that she was my responsibility, not Scribonia's. Tiberius Nero made no difficulties. In fact he said, 'Frankly Caesar, you'll find she has a mind of her own. And quite a temper. I can't say I'm sorry you're taking her off my hands. You'll look after the boy won't you, and whatever's on the way. I'll expect, mind you, that you put a few things in my way yourself.'

Livia's second son, poor Drusus, was born three days after our wedding. I know some people say I was his father, but this is not true.

SEVEN

The rain, blowing on a squally horizontal, reached us even in the shallow cave. Septimus, the thin-faced boy with the cauliflower ear, whom I had taken into my personal service, tried to shield a spluttering fire with his cloak. I drew my own about me and shivered. The gash in my thigh throbbed. I rested my hand on the bandage and it came away damp and sticky. My stomach heaved and my head ached. I laid my helmet aside; there was a dent that ran from the crown down to my left temple. I hadn't realized the Nubian had hit me so hard; no wonder I had a headache.

There were just six of us crowded in the cave which was really little more than a depression in the rock-face. The wind blew hard out in the bay. The ship that might have taken us off swayed like a drunken man on the jagged rock which it had struck. I watched it toss for a long time in the gathering gloom of the October afternoon. The last push of the year, I thought to myself, and it has come to this. It was a long time since the last desperate boat, launched from the ship, had disappeared from sight. Another had been carried round the point; it was possible it might be swept to land. But for a long passage we had gazed at the heads bobbing in the water. They were no more than sixty or seventy paces out to sea. We could hear their cries clearly; even, over the wind, identify the Gods whose aid they implored and who were deaf to them. And then there had been no voices, only the cry of gulls.

The light began to die. The sea still growled against the rocks away to the right, but below us, as the beach darkened, it was hard to tell where water stopped and sand began. A pall of grey-black enveloped everything. Then Septimus conjured his fire into being. The flames danced on the men's streaked and stricken faces. Eyes glinted red. Nobody spoke. All huddled as close to the fire as they could.

I could not give any orders. It was Septimus who took charge, sending a couple of the men back to the camp we had been forced to abandon. They were to seek out food and wine. They demurred, afraid; surely Pompey's men would have occupied it? 'Surely we'll starve if you don't,' Septimus said. They sat a long time in silence. Septimus crossed and whispered to them. I caught dark glances directed at me; my stomach quivered, my head throbbed and my mouth felt dry and sour. There was nothing to stop them seeking glory and riches by asking for Sextus Pompey himself. For a moment I was near commanding Septimus to keep us all together.

Then the two got to their feet, without talking, and slipped out of the cave. Septimus crossed over to me:

'It's all right, General,' he said. 'They'll do well enough. The camp will be full of looters. There's no one will know they're your men.' 'Are they?' I said.

He whistled a few bars of a tune, shrugged his shoulders, looked out to the invisible sea. 'What about your wound, General?' he said. 'It's in the heart,' I replied. 'I could do with a glass of wine,' he said. 'Do you want me to have a look at your thigh?' I shook my head. 'We were betrayed,' I said. 'The scouts…' 'Maybe so,' he said, 'we walked into it anyway…'

Night closed impenetrably about us, in a profound silence but for the sea's swell.

'Reckon they've scarpered,' said one of the two remaining unknown soldiers.

'Or had their throats cut,' his companion said. Through the firelight they fixed their eyes on me, and I had nothing to say.

Time passed. I longed to sleep. I drew my cloak tighter about me, but the ache in my head did not diminish, my thigh still throbbed, and I felt a new dull but persistent pain in my heart. My mouth was dry and my tongue touched salt-caked and broken lips. At such moments, men say, the mind flies to happier places. Broken soldiers are reputed to dream of home. But I had no thought of Livia, no longing for her. I felt emptiness. My attention was held by the dying flames, but there were no patterns in them. When I moved my leg it was like trying to lift the hoof of an unwilling horse.

One of the soldiers started to snore. He had stretched out like a dog and gave no more thought to the future than a dog gives. His companion slipped his hand under his tunic and began to masturbate. My gaze was held by the pumping movement, and I felt envy of the pair of them, then shivered. The screech of a hunting owl broke the night. I crawled to the entrance of the cave. The rain had stopped at last. The moon, emerging through breaking clouds, laid a pale yellow hand on the still sea. Behind us, somewhere on the island, Pompey's troops slumbered. I felt a hand on my shoulder. 'Can you walk, General?' Septimus said.

I shook my head doubtfully. He flicked a glance back into the cave. Both our companions now seemed still. The first still snored deeply. The other now lay, with his hand still under his tunic, and his legs curled up, but his head now rested on his comrade's chest. Septimus crossed light-footed and shook him gently. The only response was a