I must be made much of, decorated and destroyed. Letters he wrote to his friend Atticus – letters which I was to read when I impounded his private papers – show how wise I was to be wary: I was a mere boy, he said; yes, he was sure of my opposition to Antony, but not of my intentions to the Republic; he saw war-clouds gathering over the Apennines. He longed for Brutus and Cassius, whose purpose was reliable.
Yes, I was right to distrust him, but he was mistaken in his judgement. I revered the Republic too, as my subsequent action in restoring it and resigning my power have proved. But I had a different sense of what was practical. I knew even then that things would have to change if we wanted them to stay the same; that Rome could only be preserved from despotism if its nobility would accept government.
That November the fog was as thick in Rome as you find it under the Alps. I arrived back at the beginning of the month and stationed three thousand men outside the city in the hill-town of Alba Longa. We held a council in my stepfather's house on the Aventine. Marcellus spoke first, then my stepfather. Both argued that we had made no real advance since the spring while Antony grew stronger.
'You are in danger,' Marcellus said, 'of falling between two stools.' 'I have always said,' Philippus insisted, 'that you can't run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. It's beyond nature.' He spoke with the authority of the man whose backside is pinned to the fence. 'You have only two real choices,' he said. 'Either throw in your lot with Antony and take whatever he is willing to grant you, or do as I've always advised: give up the whole game and retire to your vineyards and beanfields. I know which course would please your mother.'
The Council achieved nothing. Maecenas yawned through it, Agrippa glowered. He had reconciled himself to our opposition to Antony, having been shocked by the murder accusation and angered by a gibe about 'the boy supported by the plumber's mate and the pansy'. He urged me now to call a public meeting and explain my case to the People. 'It's the Roman course,' he kept saying.
It made sense to me. Accordingly we arranged a meeting in the Temple of Castor for 10 November. The crowd's mood was uncertain. A tribune, Titus Cannutius, spoke first, attacking Antony and receiving excited applause. On the spur of the moment I jettisoned my prepared speech. I had been up all night writing it and had a fever coming on. This may have impaired my judgement. At any rate I was hardly launched before I knew I had not caught the mood. The art of public speaking consists first in sensing the audience's mood, in achieving a tacit empathy, so that you say what the crowd most deeply and unconsciously wants to hear. I failed. I attacked Antony of course, but I was too light, too mocking. I had not caught the intensity of the people's fear. They sniffed war and proscriptions on the chill tramontana that blew from Antony's northern camp. My mockery did nothing to dispel their apprehension. It made them rather distrust me: I seemed to lack the gravity and steadfastness of purpose that were needed to avert catastrophe. Even as I spoke I knew this. I suffered like an actor who finds himself in the wrong part. What had gone wrong? Later I decided I had been addressing myself to Maecenas instead of Agrippa. It was a lesson I was never to forget again. Meanwhile I plunged deeper. I heard myself launched on praise of Julius. That failed to restore the situation, for, instead of contenting myself with a recital of what he had achieved for Rome and a reminder of his generosity to the People, I heard my tongue declare my own intention 'to attain the honours of my father'. The words emerged from the fog and hung, nakedly ambitious, in the air. I sought to retrieve matters by dwelling on the indignities I had suffered from Antony. 'He has spread libels about me, he has accused me of shameful vices, he has even alleged that I was plotting his murder.' It was no good; it came over shrill. I felt my stature shrink in the imagination of those who heard me. The audience was even beginning to trickle away. I stopped in mid-sentence. Agrippa pulled me down and stood up himself.
'See here,' he said, 'it's simple. You all know what Antony is. I'm an ordinary man myself. I know you can't trust Antony. He'd make off with his granny's last sow. You know that fine. There's not one of you will feel safe if he wins. That's what this meeting's about. Now I know Octavian here better than any of you. You may think he's a bit on the young side. Well, just ask yourselves what sort of mess his elders have got us all in to. I tell you a pig in shit would find it stinking. What sort of future will they give you and your children? Maybe it's time they turned over and gave youth a chance. At least we don't have criminal records. We're not drunkards and we haven't murdered our benefactors. Octavian here's a good lad. All right, he's young, but he offers you all the chance of a decent future. You just think about that. If you've got any nerve at all, or anything but sawdust in your top storey, you'll back us. To the bloody hilt, if you've got your wits about you.'
Maybe it didn't quite convince them, but it saved the day. The colour crept back into Maecenas' cheeks. He had really been afraid. Being what he was, he never trusted a crowd. It was his constant fear that one false word and they'd tear us apart. I learned a lot that day. Cicero's reaction was characteristic: 'What a speech', he wrote to Atticus. 'Have I over-rated the boy's capacity, and underestimated his inheritance from Julius?' The tenth of November left me much to retrieve.
Fortunately, when you let yourself down, you often find that your enemies make mistakes which allow you time to recover.
We scurried out of the city that night, in a welter of baggage, recrimination, confusion and panic. Philippus, trembling like a man with fever, received us in his Sabine villa.
'You've blundered terribly,' he said. 'What were you thinking of? Were you mad enough to attempt a coup? You've put yourself outside the pale, outside the law. No respectable man will dare work with you now. Even Publius Servilius Isauricus, who's been your best friend among the consulars, has got cold feet.'
'He lent us Titus Cannutius,' I said. 'The tribune is his man, and it was with Publius Servilius' agreement that he led the attack on Antony.'
'Quite, absolutely, but it failed. And Publius Servilius wants no more of you. Look, here's a letter to that effect. Why, he even urges me, for my own safety, to deny you my house. What will your mother say? Why, oh why, didn't you listen to me? This is the price you are paying for disregarding my advice
I looked at his ignoble middle-aged terror, and turned to Agrippa.
'You were wise,' I said, 'in what you told the crowd. We have stumbled, no more. Stepfather, believe me, the game is not lost. But what I must know is where Balbus can be found.' 'He won't help you now either.'
'I think he will,' I said, 'and we need money. Money. If Balbus will raise me another half-million we shall come through.'
I have hardly mentioned Balbus. Perhaps I hoped, with that vanity that never absolutely deserts us, to tell you my story without reference to him. Yet, if I wish to instruct you (and tell the truth), I cannot avoid doing so.
Balbus was a phenomenon, a citizen of Gades in Spain, whom Julius had got to know in his first campaign in the country. His wealth, based on silver mines, great latifundia, and banking was enormous; it early became self- perpetuating. You will hardly understand that, my sons; indeed, despite my own banking blood, I do not know how it happens. There is, it seems, a law of the God Moneta: those who devote themselves to his service discover the secret of perpetual fertility. Beyond an indeterminate point money breeds money. Balbus early reached the stage when he could not consume the interest on his investments; before long he could not consume the interest on the interest which he laid out at interest. As long as he avoided injudicious investment, it seemed that his god had granted him a licence to coin his own money.
When I arrived at Brindisi at the end of March, I had found a note from him: 'Draw on me for whatever you need from Anaxogoras the Greek at the sign of the Fish in this city,' it said. I had my friend Publius Salvidienus Rufus take the note thither for verification of the seal. Then, by night, accompanied by Rufus and Agrippa, cloaked and hooded, we slipped through the darkened town on slimy cobbles to the Greek's house. He had received his own instructions. It was then I first sensed what no born gentleman realizes: the occult expedition of money. There were chests waiting for us, loaded with gold pieces. Where they had come from, I do not know. It is a religious mystery. All I had to do was sign for the gold. I dispatched Agrippa to fetch Maco and his legionaries with carts. It was that gold which financed my first march on Rome.
Now, in extremity, I said to Philippus: 'I am for Aretrium in Etruria. If Balbus will produce another half-million, we shall come through. Don't be afraid.'
I named the sum at random. I had no idea what we would need.
Balbus later said to me, 'I backed you the way I corner wheat when my agents get the first rumours of a bad
