you know, she is a devoted gardener, and the creation of her gardens on the Bay has been her chief interest. 'Nobody,' she once said to me, 'can be unhappy planting flowers…'
Julia was furious when the match was first proposed. You can guess why. But she is now reconciled to it. She realises that my father is a great man. 'I am not going to ask you about Julia,' Agrippa said to me, 'because I don't think I would like the answer. But she'll behave herself now, you'll see. What she needs is authority…' I didn't see her for two years
7
It is not my intention in this brief memoir to dilate at length on my military exploits. I have observed that there is a sameness in accounts of campaigns and that it is almost impossible to differentiate between one year's service and the next. Indeed they blur in my mind. Yet in as much as the greater part of my adult life, till I retreated into philosophic retirement, has been passed in camps, completely to ignore my memories of soldiering would give a misleading picture of my life.
Yet I write this in no expectation of being read. Indeed in the hope that I will not. I write for my own satisfaction, in pursuit of my personal enquiry into the nature of truth; in an attempt to answer the two perplexing questions: what manner of man am I? What have I done with my life?
When my mind drifts back now, it is images rather than a coherent narrative which present themselves to me: mist rising from horse lines in the thin keen wind of a morning by the Danube; long marches, the men ankle-deep in mud behind creaking waggons, as the beech and ash woods of Germany enfold us; a hill-top in Northern Spain, when snow fell below us in the valleys but we lay on dry, iron-hard ground under the stars; grizzled centurions lashing at the transport horses, yelling at the legionaries to put their shoulder to a wheel that was spinning as if in mockery of their efforts; a boy with blood oozing from his mouth as I rested his dying head on my arm and watched his leg kick; my horse flinching from a bush which parted to reveal a painted warrior, himself gibbering with terror; the sigh of the wind coming off a silent sea; the tinkle of the camel bell across desert sands. Army life is a mere collection of moments. My first independent command was, however, glorious. I use the word in full awareness that it can rarely be employed without irony, even if the understanding of the irony is reserved to the gods.
Everyone knows that the greatest power in the world after Rome is Parthia. This vast empire extending to the boundaries of India, and influential beyond them, is fortunately divided from us by a wide and inhospitable desert. It was in that desert that the millionaire triumvir, Marcus Crassus, seeking to emulate the glory of his colleagues Caesar and Pompey, suffered, thanks to his vanity and ineptitude, the greatest disaster ever to befall Roman arms. His troops were cut to pieces at Carrhae, all killed except those taken prisoner, his standards captured, and he himself slain. (His head was thrown on to the stage of the theatre in which the Parthian Emperor was watching a performance of The Bacchae.) Later Mark Antony led another expedition against Parthia, meeting with almost equal disaster.
The desert divides the two empires, but in the north the kingdom of Armenia serves as a buffer between them. In race and culture the Armenians are closely allied to the Parthians, a similarity which deepens the hatred they feel for them. But Armenia is of great strategic importance, for it thrusts itself like a dagger into each of the two empires. It is in Rome's interest to control it, since by that means we can defend the security of our empire; but the same consideration applies in reverse to Parthia. Therefore the domination of Armenia is the chief point of dispute between the empires, and a matter of prime importance to Rome.
This Augustus recognised. I have remarked before that his acuity was admirable whenever he was able to disengage his intellect from personal affections. Now it happened, when I was twenty-two, that King Artaxes of Armenia was assassinated by his fellow countrymen, whom he had shamefully abused. Roman help was sought. I was surprised to be put in command.
'I have no fear as to your capabilities,' Augustus said. 'Besides, these Orientals are all easily impressed by position. They will know you are my son…'
I was intoxicated by the clear air of the mountains, the vigour of the highlanders, the beauty of the young women. I was revolted by the untruthfulness displayed by all with whom I had dealings. There was not a single man on whose word you could rely. We took advantage of the confusion of the situation to install the late king's brother, Tigranes, on the throne. He was a loathsome fellow who slept by choice with his sister, but he owed everything to us, and his terror of the Parthians and of his own subjects was such that he agreed willingly to the establishment of a legion in his capital. Meanwhile the position in Parthia itself was almost equally confused, for the coup d'etat in Armenia had inspired an attempt there also. It so happened that the emperor's son had been sent to Rome as a hostage some years previously. I now called for him, and entered into negotiations with his father. They were prolonged, as negotiations with Orientals always are.
My purpose was adamant, and my understanding had been clarified in my journey through Syria. I saw how this rich and populous province depended utterly on the security provided by the legions. We had a garrison of four legions, more than twenty thousand men, held on standing watch, besides auxiliary troops scattered about the peel-towers which protected the crossings of the great river, Euphrates. Behind us lay Antioch, the sweetest city in the world, men said, with its flowered palaces, its streets lit even by night, its perpetual fountains, its marts and emporia. No one who has stood gazing over the black waters of the Euphrates, seeing the moon sink behind distant mountain ranges, can avoid feeling the majesty and benevolence of Rome.
My purpose was one of reparation. There was an old stain to be expunged. When the Parthian diplomats prevaricated, I swept the documents from the table before me and insisted. Phraates' son would not be restored. Instead, using Armenia as a base, which would enable me to avoid the desert route, I would strike deep down the river valleys into the heart of Parthia: unless I had my way.
My demands were simple. First, my settlement of Armenia would be recognised, and, as an earnest of their good intentions, new hostages would be delivered to me. Second, and more important, the standards taken at Carrhae would be restored.
Some may wonder why this was more important. Such questioners do not understand the Oriental mind, which is even more profoundly moved by symbols. These standards were the mark of Rome's failure, disgrace, inferiority on a particular historical occasion. By receiving them back, that memory would be wiped out, that emblem overthrown. I am not ashamed to confess that Augustus himself had insisted on the importance of my demand, had enlightened me as to the manner in which Orientals think.
At last, alarmed, they gave way. Having done so, they revealed something of which we were ignorant.
This is a curious trait of Orientals: when their obstinacy crumbles and they determine to let you have your way, their submission is complete, they go beyond what is necessary to do, believing that they thereby recover what they call 'face' by laying you under an obligation. So their ambassador, a lean fellow whose name I forget, though I remember his oiled ringlets and the odour of mint which was diffused about him, said with a leer: 'There are certain human trophies to be returned also.'
I did not understand him immediately, but he clapped his hands, and a slave-boy departed to return after a few minutes leading a group of old men, several of whom at the sight of the Parthian lord fell to their knees.
'They have learned who their masters are,' the ambassador said, 'but now that there is peace and tranquillity between our two great empires, it is time that they should go home.'
They looked up as if expecting a trick. They were soldiers from Crassus' army, men who had spent almost forty years in slavery. They crowded round me, babbling. I later discovered that three of them had forgotten the use of Latin. They hailed me as their benefactor, and this embarrassed me. I did not feel like a benefactor. On the contrary, in an obscure fashion, I felt guilty, and that guilt has remained with me ever since. We initiate great campaigns, and call mighty armies into being for a public purpose that even we who initiate it barely understand. Our own soldiers are our victims. These men had been deprived of life, even more surely than if they had been killed, for they had retained through the years a consciousness of what they had lost, and the principal cause of this robbery was Marcus Crassus' determination to show that he was as great a man as his colleagues Caesar and Pompey… So I made arrangements for them to be returned home and to be settled on land in a veterans' colony in Basilicata. But I have never forgotten them, nor forgotten that war is a terrible necessity. Its triumphs, which I have enjoyed as proper to one of my station and achievements, are illusory. Its disasters are real. There is almost
