us to this risk. I shouted such instructions as I could, but this was not so much a battle as a countless number of individual fights going on at the same time. Only historians, secure in their studies, can make sense of such warfare. For those involved in it there is no comprehensive structure, merely a succession of encounters, one man against one, two against three and so on. It is a story of stabbing spears, swinging or jabbing swords, the clang of metal on armour, cries of anger and howls of pain. There is no possible coherence, no narrative even which can render the whole. Our men first gave way as they were pushed towards the cliff, then, here and there, the surge was checked. All at once I found empty space before me and ran forward to occupy it, shouting commands that no one heard. I thrust at a huge yellow-bearded figure and then almost fell over as I stumbled against his falling body and struggled to extract my sword. A blow on my shoulder sent me sprawling on top of him and I rolled over to see a figure swing an axe above his head and there was a smile of glee on the axeman's face. I struggled to get out of line, and heard a yell and then a shape thrust itself between me and the axe, and axeman and his assailant fell to the ground and rolled over and over. Axeman came uppermost, heaved himself to his knees, his arms rigid as he began to choke the life out of his attacker. I stabbed him in the neck. He toppled forward with a groan. His grip loosened. I put my boot against him and thrust him over, and the boy Segestes struggled out from under him. I held out my hand and raised him to his feet. There was, for a moment, a space around us, and then we were behind our legionaries who were now pursuing the suddenly fleeing enemy towards the wood. I saw worse disaster beckon, grabbed a nearby trumpeter and ordered him to sound the retreat. Legionaries hesitated at the trumpet's note, drew themselves up, drew together and, in almost orderly fashion, still facing the fleeing enemy, halted. Centurions held them in line till order was restored and we could resume the march.
'It seems,' I said, to young Segestes, 'that there is a new bond between us…' I have been in so many battles, and yet in my solitude it is that little skirmish – and it was no more – that comes to mind. I cannot forget it. When the youth leapt like a wild-cat at my attacker, it was in one sense no more than the sort of selfless action, performed without any reflection, which soldiers commit in every battle. And yet for me it was more than that. Other men have saved my life in other battles, and I have forgotten them. There is an anonymity in the comradeship of war. But this was different. The boy could have been honoured among his own race if he had stood by and cheered, if he had helped kill me and then run with his fellow barbarians. I could not have blamed him. He understood the ruthlessness with which I had been ready to use him, to compel his father's fidelity.
He wept that night and trembled, as I have known others do, when it comes to them that they have felt death's icy fingers. He shook with delayed terror and relief, and his legs and feet were as cold as the river below us. Then we reaffirmed life and he laughed with pleasure, as full of vigour as a young colt or pony. He slept and I stroked his dirty hair and drew sunshine back into my life.
It was tempting to keep him with me, to let myself be sustained and enlivened by his youth and strength and his ready acceptance of things as they are. But that simplicity – the simplicity of the Homeric world – has been corrupted. I could not let him grow to realise that he would become an object of scorn. He saw nothing wrong in it himself of course. Many of the German warriors have their boy-lovers and are said to fight the more bravely by their side. The Gauls too were accustomed to choose their charioteers for their beauty and courage. But, though we tolerate the love of boys, men who indulge in it are despised by others and come properly to despise themselves. Consequently the boys develop effeminate manners and become contemptible. Yet I looked at young Segestes sleeping in the crook of my arm with a smile on his face and thought that life would be better and simpler if we were indeed Achilles and Patroclus, and knew my thought to be absurd. This is not how it is now in our world.
He could not return to his own people, and I did not care to entrust him to his father who might, it occurred to me, have learned to find a use for him of which I would not approve. I told the elder Segestes of the debt of gratitude I owed his son, and of my intention to repay it by advancing the boy to a career within the auxiliary forces of our empire. He was, I said, to regard me henceforth as his patron, and in that role it seemed expedient to me that the boy should go to Rome to study Latin and then Roman Law, which would together fit him for a career either in the army or the civil service. The father was properly appreciative of my intentions and so it was arranged.
Young Segestes was loth to leave me, but I insisted. He told me, to my considerable embarrassment, that he had 'fallen in love with his master as a German boy should'. I made the break as tenderly as I could, supported by my knowledge that I was acting for his own good. He wept when he took leave of me, and my own eyes were not altogether dry. Unfortunately things did not work out quite as I hoped. Though he studied well, he soon fell into the habit of deep drinking to which Germans are all addicted. Soon after my arrival here, 1 heard that he had been knifed to death in a tavern brawl. It was sad; he was a boy of promise and virtue. But it would not have done for me to have acted otherwise. I still think of him with pleasure and regret.
11
My last campaign in Germany met with unprecedented success. I took 40,000 prisoners, whom I carried across the Rhine and established in colonies in Gaul. The German tribes were themselves thoroughly demoralised and, for the moment at least, subdued. When I returned to Rome, which I had hardly visited for six years, I was greeted as a hero. I was accorded a triumph and granted triumphal regalia. My mother, whose hair had turned white during my years of absence, called me 'worthy of my most illustrious ancestors'. Augustus embraced me without shrinking and assured me that no man had done more for Rome than I. Clients flocked to my house every morning to do me honour and seek preferment at my hand. Even the common people with whom I had never been popular, since I scorned to court their favour, hailed me with cheers when I appeared in public. I should have been the happiest man in Rome, justified and recognised at last.
I should have been, but things are rarely as they should be, and never for long. I found much to perturb me, in both public and private affairs. When I visited the Senate, I was disgusted to see how the habit of servility had developed in my few years of absence. The assembly of free notables now fawned upon Augustus. Few dared to express an opinion on any matter of importance till they knew his. Complaints reached me, indirectly, in mutterings and whisperings, of how the descendants of great Republican houses were being squeezed from all positions of honour and influence to be replaced by members of the Princeps' family and by those referred to as his 'creatures'. As a member of his family I might have been satisfied to benefit myself, but I had had no need of Augustus to rise. My position as the head of the Claudian gens would have assured me of superiority at any time in Rome's history. I had therefore some sympathy with those who grumbled at the turn things had taken. 'For the senator,' they murmured, 'no hope of glory remains, no hope of a monument to a fame he is no longer permitted to win. No roads or provincial cities may now bear the names of noble families.' They complained that no senator might depart from Italy and visit a province without obtaining leave from the Princeps. 'We experience a monopoly of power, a concentration of honour and opportunity,' men said.
I was aware of these mutterings. Old friends saw to that. They were quick too to point to the honours being showered upon my stepsons Gaius and Lucius.
Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso had been nominated as my colleague in the consulship. He is a man of the utmost integrity and nobility of soul, whom I have long loved dearly. Soon after my return he invited me to supper.
'A serious meal,' he said, 'not like those dinners given by that old lecher Cestius Gallus – whom, by the way, Augustus has had removed from the Senate – you know the sort of dinners he gives, don't you, served by naked waitresses? They say there's one black girl from the south of Egypt, but never mind. That's not the sort of occasion to which I am inviting you. I want a chance to talk.'
He dismissed the slaves when we had eaten and pushed the wine-flask towards me.
'My own wine,' he said, 'from the hills above Siena where I have a little estate. It is the best wine in Italy, you won't find anything finer.' Everything of Piso's is always 'the best'. He plucked at the hairs which grew from a wart on his chin.
'So we are consuls. Very nice, if it meant anything. Of course you have held the office before, so you know how meaningless it has become.'
'It carries respect still, and bestows authority on the man who attains it, at least subsequently.'
'Precisely. So how would you feel if I told you it was about to be rigged even more shamefully than we have grown accustomed to its being done?' 'What do you mean?'
