self-hate. It is a surrender to the weaker and worse element in a man's nature. Even as he indulges this, and surrenders to Bacchus with every expression of pleasure, he is, in his willed self-debasement, willing his self- killing. Such a man will always suffer worse from wine, for such suffering and punishment is what he unconsciously seeks. In turning to Cleopatra and abjuring Octavia, Antony set himself to kill whatever was good in his own nature; he opened the door to his dark spirits. He beckoned defeat. I have never forgotten hearing a common soldier say, 'Bloody ruler of the world, you call him; a strumpet's fool and nothing else, poor sodding misbegotten bugger.'
I started to talk of Cleopatra and have involuntarily ended by discussing Antony. I have a good grasp of him, but the Queen is like quicksilver. Let me say one thing only: she was depraved, but not evil; my enemy, but, in her own light, justified; an enchantress, but one who, like Circe, turned men swine. She was also Rome's most dangerous and implacable foe.
TEN
I could now look back on a decade of achievement: I had restored order in that part of the Republic under my immediate control; I had avenged my father; none of the self-styled 'Liberators' survived to hold public office, though Antony still indulged the younger Domitius Ahenobarbus whose father had been among them; I had built up a loyal party of friends, dedicated to the service and virtue of Rome; with the able and industrious assistance of Agrippa I had already repaired years of neglect and damage to our public buildings; my policy had ensured the gratitude of my fellow citizens; acting in concert with my friend Maecenas I had encouraged and fostered the arts; under my patronage Virgil, secure in the possession of his ancestral lands, had almost completed his great poem in praise of Italy, the sublime Georgics, and was already brooding, in the deep mysteries of the poetic spirit, his hymn to Rome's destiny ('What, Caesar,' he asked me, 'is Rome's mission?' 'Order and clemency', I replied, a judgement to which he gave lapidary expression in the resounding line: 'to spare the humble and subdue the proud'); in honour of my achievements, my fellow-citizens had of their own will erected a golden statue of me in the Forum.
I had one private grief. Despite a lustrum of profound domestic happiness, Livia and I had no child of our own. Our tenderness continued to be lavished on my daughter Julia and Livia's sons, Drusus and Tiberius, as well as on my nephew Marcellus; the lack of a child born of our loins was nevertheless a sad deprivation; in vain Livia celebrated the mysteries of the Great Mother; in vain visited those shrines, to be found in all the country districts of Italy, to which village maidens resort that the Gods may bless their fertility. Speaking to you, my beloved grandchildren and adopted sons, it would be unseemly to rehearse the private questionings of the reasons for our unfruitfulness which disturbed our night hours. All I shall say here is that your happy presence has long consoled us for whatever might otherwise have been.
Yet in that long summer of my thirty-first year, this private grief nagged me, running like an itch in a muscle alongside a deeper pain. Whenever I lifted my eyes towards the east I seemed to see dark clouds loom over the hills. I could take no abiding pleasure in the lizard basking in the sun; the mimic war of the arena disturbed me. I was weary after ten years of struggle, and oppressed by the knowledge of what was to come.
I sought refuge in Livia and found her adamant. 'Rome cannot have two masters,' she said. When I protested that I was not 'master' of Rome, that, as a true Roman, I found the term 'lord' repellent, she withdrew herself from my embrace, and, resting on her right elbow, looked at me without smiling. 'You can no more hide from the truth,' she said, 'than a man can walk in a thunderstorm and remain dry.' 'The master's in bed,' said the painted slave-boy who guarded Maecenas' chamber.' 'No matter.' 'He's not alone,' the boy smirked. 'No matter. I must see him,' I said and pushed past.
The room was dark. I called for candles. Maecenas lay there, entwined with a blond, pale-skinned boy, a Gaul I suppose, whose face took on a fugitive expression as he woke to my interruption. Maecenas stretched himself.
'Caesar,' he yawned elaborately. 'Dear me. Perfect timing as usual. An hour earlier and I should have been seriously miffed. Run along, ducky,' he said to the boy, who withdrew sullenly now from the bed. He sat a moment on its edge, his hair tousled, eyes bleared with sleep and mouth slack-lipped. Then he rose to his feet, Maecenas patted him affectionately on the buttocks and he left us alone. 'Gorgeous, isn't he?' Maecenas said. 'I don't know why, I've suddenly developed a taste for these manly blonds, such a delicious combination of strength and softness, eagerness and shame. Do you know he…' 'Oh stop it,' I said, 'you don't have to put on this act for me.'
'Well, hand me that dressing-gown, there's a love. You look worried.'
'Would I be here at night if I wasn't? I couldn't sleep. My belly's disordered, I have a beastly headache and my nerves are a-jangle.' 'And Livia's no comfort, eh?' 'I didn't say that' 'No?'
'There are things you can't say to a woman, aspects you can't reveal, doubts you're reluctant to share.'
'Don't I know it. I love my own wife, you know. But she's not for every day. What is it?'
'I don't know what to do,' I said. I sat down on the bed. 'Help me,' I said. Then: 'I'm not telling the truth. I know what must be done. But I'm nervous. I'm apprehensive. There's so much to be done. I don't know if we can bring it off. I don't know if they will stand for it.'
Maecenas put his hand on my shoulder. 'Relax,' he said, 'we have come a long way since the Ides of March.' 'Caesar,' I said, 'travelled far to reach the Ides.' 'Your star shines bright,' he said.
We talked through the night, elaborating the courses open before us. Long talk with Maecenas always calmed me. I saw the subtlety of things, the complicated relations of one event with another; no one I have known could more surely discern the patterns that life traces to form the carpet of history. I always left him more confident of where to go and what to do. And yet this time, though my intellect assented to his argument, I still tasted the sour saliva of doubt and dismay. Agrippa was brusque. 'Look, mate,' he said, 'it's a damn sight less complicated than you think. Suppose,' he said, 'you're trapped in a defile by the enemy who are blocking both ways out. Well, you can't bloody wait. The only way is to smash your way through. That's how it seems to me. Now, look at the facts. That's what you forget, that you have to look at the facts, not your fears. Antony is Antony. That's bad enough. But now he's Antony and bloody Cleopatra. Rome needs Egypt. We can't feed the city without Egypt. We can't pay the troops without Egypt and the taxes of the Eastern Empire. Everything we've worked for in Italy depends on getting control of Egypt and the East. Conversely, while we hold Rome, Italy and the West, Antony can never feel his power is anything but precarious. I don't know what Antony wants. Maybe he wants to make himself king. Who cares? It doesn't matter a Greek's curse. There are opposing forces that cannot be reconciled. So, my boy, there's only one way out. We've got to biff him before he biffs us.'
'Antony has friends, relations, adherents here in Rome. We are by no means all-powerful here.' 'Well, biff them first. We've done it before.'
I shook my head. Arguing with Agrippa was like being an ox trying to argue with the slaughterer; he held a sledgehammer ready. But this time I shook my head.
'We can have no more proscriptions. The time for that is past.' I invited Virgil to come to see me in my villa in the Alban Hills. We ate on a terrace overlooking the holy stillness of Lake Albano. Olive trees and vines tumbled down to the lakeside under a sky of the most intense blue. The idle heat of summer lapped around us. We ate perch fresh from the lake and strawberries brought from nearby Nemi, and drank my own straw-coloured wine. Flowers closed in the heat, red, yellow and deep purple slashed with white, and, after we had eaten, the slaves left us alone.
During the meal we had talked of poetry and agriculture and, as ever, Virgil's calm knowledge refreshed me; but when we were alone, he said, in his quiet northern voice, that never sounded without offering a rustic comfort, 'Your spirit is perturbed, Caesar.'
I made a vague fanning gesture over the scene below us, now empty of humanity, as the peasants took their siesta, waiting for the sun to decline before they resumed their labours.
'Yes,' Virgil said, 'you are right. It is good. It is life. Nevertheless…'
'I don't want to fight Antony,' I said. 'It's very simple, isn't it?'
'Oh simple. When we have seen complications we cannot evade them by a mere return to simplicity. For the peasants who work the fields and groves, life has a rude simplicity. They must listen to the moods and rhythms of
