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SEVEN

Octavian was in Rome when the news came from Brundisium that Marcus Antonius, accompanied by two legions, had attempted to enter its harbor, but been rebuffed. The chain had been cranked up, the bastions manned. Brundisium didn’t care what status the monster Antonius enjoyed, the letter said, nor did it care if the Senate ordered it to admit him. Let him enter Italia anywhere he liked: just not through Brundisium. Since the only other port within the area able to land two legions was Tarentum, on the far side of the heel, a foiled and furious Antonius had had to land his men in much smaller ports around Brundisium, thus scattering them.

‘He should have gone to Ancona,’ Octavian said to Agrippa. ‘He’d have been able to link up with Pollio and Ventidius there, and by now would be marching on Rome.’

‘Were he sure of Pollio, he would have,’ Agrippa replied, ‘but he isn’t sure of him.’

‘Then you believe Plancus’s letter tattling of doubts and discontent?’ Octavian waved a single sheet of paper.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘So do I,’ Octavian said, grinning. ‘Plancus is in a cleft stick – he’d prefer Antonius, but he wants to keep an avenue open to me in case the time comes to hop the fence to our side of it.’

‘You have too many legions around Brundisium for Antonius to band his men together again until Pollio arrives, which my scouts say won’t happen for at least a nundinum.’

‘Time enough for us to reach Brundisium, Agrippa. Are our legions placed across the Via Minucia?’

‘Perfectly placed. If Pollio wants to avoid a fight, he’ll have to march to Beneventum and the Via Appia.’

Octavian put his pen in its holder and gathered his papers together in neat piles that comprised correspondence with bodies and persons, drafts of laws, and detailed maps of Italia. He rose. ‘Then it’s off to Brundisium,’ he said. ‘I hope Maecenas and my Nerva are ready? What about the neutral one?’

‘If you didn’t bury yourself under a landslide of papers, Caesar, you’d know,’ Agrippa said in a tone only he dared use to Octavian. ‘They’ve been ready for days. And Maecenas has sweet-talked the neutral Nerva into coming along.’

‘Excellent!’

‘Why is he so important, Caesar?’

‘Well, when one brother elected Antonius and the other me, his neutrality was the only way the Cocceius Nerva faction could continue to exist should Antonius and I come to blows. Antonius’s Nerva died in Syria, which left a vacancy on his side. A vacancy that saw Lucius Nerva in a lather of sweat – did he dare choose to fill it? In the end, he said no, though he would not choose me either.’ Octavian smirked. ‘With his wife wielding the lash, he’s tied to Rome, therefore – neutrality.’

‘I know all that, but it begs the question.’

‘You’ll have an answer if my scheme succeeds.’

What had jerked Mark Antony off his comfortable Athenian couch was a letter from Octavian.

‘My very dear Antonius,’ it said, ‘it grieves me sorely to have to pass on the news I have just received from Further Spain. Your brother Lucius died in Corduba not very long into his tenure as governor. From all the many reports I have read of the matter, he simply dropped dead. No lingering, no pain. The physicians say it was a catastrophe originating in the brain, which autopsy revealed was full of blood around its stem. He was cremated in Corduba, and the ashes were sent to me along with documentation sufficient to satisfy me on all counts. I hold his ashes and the reports against your coming. Please accept my sincere condolences.’ It was sealed with Divus Julius’s sphinx ring.

Of course Antony didn’t believe a word of it beyond the fact that Lucius was dead; within a day he was hurrying to Patrae and orders had gone to western Macedonia to embark two legions from Apollonia immediately. The other eight were put on stand-by for shipment to Brundisium as soon as he summoned them.

Intolerable that Octavian should have the news first! And why had no word come to him ahead of that letter? Antony read the missive as a challenge thrown down: your brother’s ashes are in Rome – come and get them if you dare! Did he dare? By Jupiter Optimus Maximus and all the gods, he dared!

An informative letter from Plancus to Octavian sped off from Patrae, where the enraged Antony was obliged to wait until his two legions were confirmed as sailed. It went (had Antony only known of its contents, it would not have) together with Antony’s curt order to Pollio to get his legions moving down the Via Adriatica; at the moment they were in Fanum Fortunae, where Pollio could move on Rome along the Via Flaminia, or hug the Adriatic coast to Brundisium. A quailing Plancus begged a place on Antony’s ship, judging his chances of slipping through the lines to Octavian easier on Italian soil. By now he was desperately wishing that he hadn’t sent that letter – could he be sure Octavian wouldn’t leak its contents back to Antony?

His guilt made Plancus an edgy, anxious companion on the voyage, so when, in mid-Adriatic, the fleet of Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus hove in sight, Plancus soiled his loincloth and almost fainted.

‘Oh, Antonius, we’re dead men!’ he wailed.

‘At the hands of Ahenobarbus? Never!’ said Antony, nostrils flaring. ‘Plancus, I do believe you shit yourself!’

Plancus fled, leaving Antony to wait for the arrival of a rowboat heading for his ship. His own standard still fluttered from the mast, but Ahenobarbus had lowered his.

Squat, dark and bald, Ahenobarbus clambered neatly up a rope ladder and advanced on Antony, grinning from ear to ear. ‘At last!’ the irascible one cried, hugging Antony. ‘You’re moving on that odious little insect, Octavianus, aren’t you? Please say you are!’

‘I am’ was Antony’s answer. ‘May he choke on his own shit! Plancus just shit himself at sight of you, and I would have put his courage higher than Octavianus’s. Do you know what Octavianus did, Ahenobarbus? He murdered Lucius in Further Spain, then had the gall to write and inform me that he’s the proud owner of Lucius’s ashes! He dares me to collect them! Is he mad?’

‘I’m your man through thick and thin,’ Ahenobarbus said huskily. ‘My fleet is yours.’

‘Good,’ said Antony, extricating himself from a very strong embrace. ‘I may need a big warship with a solid bronze beak to break Brundisium’s harbor chain.’

But not a sixteener with a twenty-talent bronze beak could have broken the chain strung across the harbor mouth; anyway, Ahenobarbus didn’t have a ship half as large as a sixteener. The chain was anchored between two concrete piers reinforced with iron pieces, and each of its bronze links was fashioned from metal six inches thick. Neither Antony nor Ahenobarbus had ever seen a more monstrous barrier, nor a population so jubilant at the sight of their frustrated attempts to snap that barrier. While the women and children cheered and jeered, the men of Brundisium subjected Ahenobarbus’s battle quinquereme to a murderous hail of spears and arrows that finally drove it offshore.

‘I can’t do it!’ Ahenobarbus yelled, weeping in rage. ‘Oh, but when I do, they’re going to suffer! And where did it come from? The old chain was a tenth this one’s size!’

‘That Apulian peasant Agrippa installed this one,’ Plancus was able to say, sure he no longer smelled of shit. ‘When I left to seek refuge with you, Antonius, the Brundisians were quick to explain its genesis. Agrippa has fortified this place better than Ilium was, including on its land sides.’

‘They won’t die quickly,’ Antony snarled. ‘I’ll impale the town magistrates on stakes up their arses and drive them in at the rate of an inch a day.’

‘Ow, ow!’ said Plancus, flinching at the thought. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Wait for my troops and land them wherever we can to north and south,’ said Antony. ‘Once Pollio arrives – he’s taking his sweet time! – we’ll squash this benighted place from its land side, Agrippa’s fortifications or no. After a siege, I suppose. They know I won’t be kind to them – they’ll resist to the end.’

So Antony withdrew to the island off Brundisium’s harbor mouth, there to wait for Pollio and try to discover what had become of Ventidius, curiously silent.

Sextilis had ended and the Nones of September were gone, though the weather was still hot enough to make island living an ordeal. Antony paced; Plancus watched him pace. Antony growled; Plancus pondered. Antony’s thoughts never left the subject of Lucius Antonius; Plancus’s ranged far and wide on one subject too, but a more fascinating one – Marcus Antonius. For Plancus was seeing new facets in Antony, and didn’t like what he saw. Wonderful, glorious Fulvia wove in and out of his mind – so brave and fierce, so … so interesting. How could Antony have beaten a woman, let alone his wife? The granddaughter of Gaius Gracchus!

He’s like a small child with its mother, Plancus thought, brushing at tears. He should be in the East fighting the Parthians – that’s his duty. Instead, he’s here on Italian soil, as if he hasn’t the courage to abandon it. Is it Octavianus who eats at him, or is it insecurity? At his core, does Antonius believe he can win future laurels? Oh, he’s brave, but generaling armies doesn’t demand bravery. It’s more an intellectual exercise, an art, a talent. Divus Julius was a genius at it, Antonius is Divus Julius’s cousin. But, to Antonius, I suspect that fact is more a burden than a delight. He’s so terrified of failing that, like Pompeius Magnus, he won’t move unless he has superior numbers. Which he has here in Italia, between Pollio, Ventidius and his own legions just across a small sea. Sufficient to crush Octavianus, even now Octavianus has Calenus’s eleven from Further Gaul. I gather that they’re still in Further Gaul under the command of Salvidienus, writing to Antonius regularly in an attempt to switch sides. One little item I didn’t tell Octavianus.

What Antonius fears in Octavianus is that genius Divus Julius had in such abundance. Oh, not as a general of armies! As a man of infinite courage, the kind of courage Antonius is beginning to lose. Yes, his fear of failure grows, whereas Octavianus starts to dare all, to gamble on unpredictable outcomes. Antonius is at a disadvantage when dealing with Octavianus, but even more so when dealing with foes as foreign as the Parthians. Will he ever wage that particular war? He rants about lack of money, but is that lack really the sum total of his reluctance to fight the war he should be fighting? If he doesn’t fight it, he’ll lose the confidence of Rome and Romans; he knows that too. So Octavianus is his excuse for lingering in the West. If he drives Octavianus out of the arena, he’ll have so many legions that he could defeat a quarter of a million men. Yet, with sixty thousand men, Divus Julius defeated over three hundred thousand. Because he went about it with genius. Antonius wants to be master of the world and the First Man in Rome, but can’t work out how to go about it.

Pace, pace, pace, up and down, up and down. He’s insecure. Decisions loom, and he’s insecure. Nor can he embark upon one of his famous fits of ‘inimitable living’ – what a joke, to call his cronies in Alexandria the ‘Society of Inimitable Livers’! Now here he is, in a situation where he can’t binge his way to forgetfulness. Haven’t his colleagues realized, as I have, that Antonius debauched is simply demonstrating his innate weakness?

Yes, concluded Plancus, it is time to change sides. But can I do that at the moment? I doubt it, in the same way as I doubt Antonius. Like him, I’m short on steel.

* * *

Octavian knew all this with more conviction than Plancus, yet he couldn’t be sure which way the dice would fall now Antony had arrived outside Brundisium; he had staked everything on the legionaries. Then their representatives came to tell him they would not fight Antony’s troops, be they his own, or Pollio’s, or Ventidius’s. An announcement that saw Octavian limp with relief. It only remained to see if Antony’s troops would fight for him.

Two nundinae later, he had his answer. The soldiers under the command of Pollio and Ventidius had refused to fight their brothers at arms.

He sat down to write Antony a letter.

My dear Antonius, we are at an impasse. My legionaries refuse to fight yours, and yours refuse to fight mine. They belong to Rome, they say, not to any one man, even a Triumvir. The days of massive bonuses, they say, are past. I agree with them. Since Philippi I have known that we can no longer sort out our differences by going to war against each other. Imperium maius we may have but, in order to enforce that, we must have command of willing soldiers. We do not.

I therefore propose, Marcus Antonius, that each of us chooses a single man as his representative to try to find a solution to this impasse. As a neutral participant whom both of us deem fair and impartial, may I nominate Lucius Cocceius Nerva? You are at liberty to dispute my choice and nominate a different man. My delegate will be Gaius Maecenas. Neither you nor I should be present at this meeting. To attend it would mean ruffled tempers.

‘The cunning rat!’ cried Antony, screwing up the letter.

Plancus picked it up, smoothed it out and read it. ‘Marcus, it’s the logical solution to your predicament,’ he faltered. ‘Consider for a moment, please, where you are and what you face. What Octavianus suggests may prove a salve to heal injured feelings on both sides. Truly, it is your best alternative.’

A verdict echoed by Gnaeus Asinius Pollio several hours later when he arrived by pinnace from Barium.

‘My men won’t fight, nor will yours,’ he said flatly. ‘I for one can’t change their minds, nor will yours change theirs; and from all reports Octavianus is in like straits. The legions have decided for us, so it’s up to us to find an honorable way out. I have told my men that I will arrange a truce. Ventidius has done the same. Give in, Marcus, give in! It’s not a defeat.’

‘Anything that enables Octavianus to wriggle out of the jaws of death is a defeat,’ Antony said stubbornly.

‘Nonsense! His troops are as disaffected as ours.’

‘He’s not even game to confront me! It’s all to be done by agents like Maecenas – ruffled tempers? I’ll give him ruffled tempers! And I don’t care what he says, I’m going to his little meeting to represent myself!’

‘He won’t be present, Antonius,’ Pollio said, eyes fixed on Plancus, rolling his eyes skyward. ‘I have a far better scheme. Agree to it, and I’ll go as your representative.’

‘You?’ Antony asked incredulously. ‘You?’

‘Yes, I! Antonius, I’ve been consul for eight-and-a-half months, yet I haven’t been able to go to Rome to don my consular regalia,’ Pollio said, exasperated. ‘As consul, I outrank Gaius Maecenas and a paltry Nerva combined! Do you really think I’d let a weasel like Maecenas dupe me? Do you?’

‘I suppose not,’ Antony said, beginning to yield. ‘All right, I’ll agree to it. With some conditions.’

‘Name them.’

‘That I am free to enter Italia through Brundisium, and that you be permitted to go to Rome to assume your consulship without any impediments put in your way. That I retain my right to recruit troops in Italia. And that the exiles be allowed to go home immediately.’

‘I don’t think any of those conditions will be a problem,’ said Pollio. ‘Sit down and write, Antonius.’

Odd, thought Pollio as he rode down the Via Minucia toward Brundisium, that I always manage to be where the great decisions are made. I was with Caesar – Divus Julius, indeed! – when he crossed the Rubicon, and on that river isle in Italian Gaul when Antonius, Octavianus and Lepidus agreed to divide up the world. Now I’ll be presiding over the next momentous occasion – Maecenas is not a fool, he won’t object to my assuming the chair. What extraordinary luck for a writer of modern history!

Though his family had not been prominent until his advent, Pollio owned an intellect formidable enough to have made him one of Caesar’s favorites. A good soldier and a better commander, he had advanced with Caesar after Caesar became Dictator, and never had had any doubt where his loyalties lay until after Caesar was murdered. Too pragmatic and unromantic to side with Caesar’s heir, he had only one man left to whom to hew – Marcus Antonius. Like many of his peers, he found the eighteen-year-old Gaius Octavius farcical, couldn’t begin to fathom what a peerless man like Caesar could see in such a pretty boy. He believed too that Caesar hadn’t expected to die so soon – he was as tough as an old army boot – and that Octavius had been a temporary heir, just a ploy to exclude Antony until he could judge whether Antony would settle down. Also to see what time would make of the mama’s boy who now denied his mama’s existence. Then Fate and Fortuna had exacted the ultimate penalty from Caesar, allowed a group of embittered, jealous, short-sighted men to murder him. How Pollio rued that, despite his ability to chronicle contemporary events with detachment and impartiality. The trouble was that at the time Pollio had no idea what Caesar Octavianus would make of his unexpected rise to prominence. How could any man foresee the steel and gall inside an inexperienced youth? Caesar, he had long realized, was the only one who had seen what Gaius Octavius was made of. But, even when Pollio had come to understand what lay within Octavian, it was already too late for a man of honor to follow him. Antonius was not the better man, he was simply the alternative pride permitted. Despite his failings – and they were many – at least Antony was a man.

As little as he knew Octavian did Pollio know his principal ambassador, Gaius Maecenas. In all physical respects Pollio was a medium man: height, size, coloring, facial appeal. Like most such, particularly when high intelligence was a part of the package, he mistrusted those who were definitely not medium men in any respect. Had Octavianus not been so vain (boots with three-inch soles, for pity’s sake!) and pretty, he would have fared better in Pollio’s estimation right after Caesar’s assassination. And so it was with Maecenas, plump and plain of face, pop-eyed, rich and spoiled. Maecenas simpered, steepled his fingers, pursed up his lips, looked amused when there was nothing to be amused about. A poseur. Detestable or annoying characteristics. Yet he had volunteered to treat with this poseur because he knew that once Antony simmered down, he would choose Quintus Dellius as his delegate. That could not be allowed to happen; Dellius was too venal and hungry for such delicate negotiations. It was possible that Maecenas was equally venal and hungry but, as far as Pollio could see, Octavianus hadn’t made many mistakes when he selected his inner circle. Salvidienus was a mistake, but his days were numbered. Greed always antagonized Antony, who would feel no compunction at striking him down as soon as his usefulness was at an end. But Maecenas had made no overtures, and he did own one quality Pollio admired: he loved literature and was the enthusiastic patron of several promising poets, including Horace and Virgil, the best versifiers since Catullus. Only that inspired any hope in Pollio that a conclusion satisfying both parties could be reached. But how was he, a plain soldier, going to survive the kind of food and drink a connoisseur like Maecenas was bound to provide?

‘I hope you don’t mind ordinary food and well-watered wine?’ Maecenas asked Pollio the moment he arrived at the surprisingly modest house on Brundisium’s outskirts.

‘Thank you, I prefer it,’ Pollio said.

‘No, thank you, Pollio. May I say before we get down to our real business that I enjoy your prose? I don’t tell you that in a spirit of sycophancy, because I doubt you’re susceptible to the fine art of sucking up; I tell you because it’s the truth.’

Embarrassed, Pollio passed the compliment off tactfully but lightly by turning to greet the third member of the team, Lucius Cocceius Nerva. Neutral? How could such a neutral man be anything else? No wonder his wife ruled him.

Over a dinner of eggs, salads, chicken and crunchy fresh bread, Pollio found himself liking Maecenas, who seemed to have read everybody from Homer to Latin luminaries like Caesar and Fabius Pictor. If there was one thing lacking in any army camp, he reflected, it was an in-depth conversation about literature.

‘Of course Virgil is Hellenistic in style, but then, so was Catullus – oh, what a poet!’ said Maecenas with a sigh. ‘I have a theory, you know.’

‘What?’

‘That the most lyrical exponents of poetry or prose all have some Gallic blood. Either they come from Italian Gaul or their ancestors did. The Celtae are a lyrical people. Musical too.’

‘I agree,’ said Pollio, relieved to find no sweeties on the menu. ‘Leaving aside “Iter” – a remarkable poem! – Caesar is typically unpoetical. Exquisite Latin, yet bald and spare. Aulus Hirtius had been with him long enough to do a fair imitation of his style in the commentaries Caesar didn’t live to write, but they lack the master’s deftness. However, Hirtius does give some things away that Caesar never would have. Like what drove Titus Labienus to defect to Pompeius Magnus after the Rubicon.’

‘Never a boring writer, though.’ Maecenas giggled. ‘Ye gods, what a bore Cato the Censor is! Like being forced to listen to the maiden speech of a political hopeful mounting the rostra.’

They laughed together, at ease with each other, while Nerva the Neuter, as Maecenas had named him, dozed gently.

On the morrow they got down to business, in a rather bleak room furnished with a large table, two wooden chairs with backs but no arms, and an ivory curule chair. Seeing it, Pollio blinked.

‘It’s yours,’ said Maecenas, taking a wooden chair and directing Nerva to the other, which faced it. ‘I know you haven’t assumed it yet, but your rank as junior consul of the year demands that you chair our meetings, and you should sit on ivory.’

A nice and very diplomatic touch, thought Pollio, seating himself at the head of the table.

‘If you want a secretary present to take the minutes, I have a man,’ Maecenas went on.

‘No, no, we’ll do this alone,’ Pollio said. ‘Nerva will act as secretary and take the minutes. Can you do shorthand, Nerva?’

‘Thanks to Cicero, yes.’ Looking pleased at having something to do, Nerva put a stack of blank Fannian paper under his right hand, chose a pen from among a dozen, and discovered that someone had thoughtfully dissolved a cake of ink.

‘I’ll start by summarizing the situation,’ Pollio said crisply. ‘Number one, Marcus Antonius is not satisfied that Caesar Octavianus is fulfilling his duties as a Triumvir. A, he has not ensured that the people of Italia are well-fed. B, he has not suppressed the piratical activities of Sextus Pompeius. C, he has not settled enough retired veterans on their portions of land. D, Italia’s merchants are suffering through hard times for business. E, Italian landowners are angry at the draconian measures he has adopted to separate them from their land in order to settle the veterans. F, more than a dozen towns throughout Italia have been illegally stripped of their public lands, again in order to settle veterans. G, he has raised taxes to an intolerable height. And H, he is filling the Senate with his own minions.

‘Number two, Marcus Antonius is not satisfied at the way Caesar Octavianus has usurped the governance and legions of one of his provinces, Further Gaul. Both governance and legions are at the command of Marcus Antonius, who should have been notified of the death of Quintus Fufius Calenus and allowed to appoint the new governor, as well as dispose of Calenus’s eleven legions as he sees fit.

‘Number three, Marcus Antonius is not satisfied at the waging of a civil war inside Italia. Why, he asks, did not Caesar Octavianus solve his difference of opinion with the late Lucius Antonius in a peaceful way?

‘Number four, Marcus Antonius is not satisfied at being refused entry to Italia through Brundisium, its major Adriatic port, and doubts that Brundisium defied Italia’s resident Triumvir, Caesar Octavianus. Marcus Antonius believes that Caesar Octavianus issued orders to Brundisium to exclude his colleague, who is not only entitled to enter Italia, but also entitled to bring legions with him. How does Caesar Octavianus know that these legions have been imported for the purposes of war? They might as easily be going to retirement.

‘Number five, Marcus Antonius is not satisfied that Caesar Octavianus is willing to allow him to recruit new troops inside Italia and Italian Gaul, as he is lawfully entitled to do.

‘That is all,’ Pollio concluded, having said every word of that without reference to notes.

Maecenas had listened impassively while Nerva scribbled away – to some effect, apparently, since Nerva didn’t ask Pollio to repeat any of what he had said.

‘Caesar Octavianus has faced untold difficulties in Italia,’ Maecenas said in a quiet, pleasant voice. ‘You will forgive me if I do not tabulate and enumerate in your own succinct style, Gnaeus Pollio. I am not governed by such merciless logic – my style inclines toward storytelling.

‘When Caesar Octavianus became the Triumvir of Italia, the Islands and the Spains, he found the Treasury empty. He had to confiscate or buy sufficient land upon which to settle over one hundred thousand retired veteran soldiers. Two million iugera! So he confiscated the public lands of the eighteen municipia that had supported Divus Julius’s killers – a fair and just decision. And whenever he acquired any money, he bought land from the proprietors of latifundia, on the premise that these individuals were behaving exploitatively by grazing vast areas once under the plough for wheat. No grower of grain was approached, for Caesar Octavianus planned to see a great increase in locally grown grain once these latifundia were split up as allotments for veterans.

‘The relentless depradations of Sextus Pompeius had deprived Italia of wheat grown in Africa, Sicilia and Sardinia. The Senate and People of Rome had grown lazy about the grain supply, assuming that Italia could always be fed on grain grown overseas. Whereas Sextus Pompeius has proved that a country relying on the importation of wheat is vulnerable, can be held to ransom. Caesar Octavianus doesn’t have the money or the ships to drive Sextus Pompeius off the high seas, nor to invade Sicilia, his base. For that reason he concluded a pact with Sextus Pompeius, even going as far as marrying Libo’s sister. If he has taxed, it is because he has no alternative. This year’s wheat is costing thirty sesterces the modius from Sextus Pompeius – wheat already bought and paid for by Rome! From somewhere, Caesar Octavianus has to find forty million sesterces every month – imagine it! Nearly five hundred million sesterces a year! Paid to Sextus Pompeius, a common pirate!’ cried Maecenas so earnestly that his face reflected a rare passion.

‘Over eighteen thousand talents,’ said Pollio thoughtfully. ‘And of course the next thing you’re going to say is that the silver mines of the Spains were just beginning to produce when King Bocchus invaded, so now they’re closed again and the Treasury beggared.’

‘Precisely,’ said Maecenas.

‘Taking that as read, what happens next in your story?’

‘Rome has been dividing up land on which to settle first the poor and then the veterans since the time of Tiberius Gracchus—’

‘I’ve always thought,’ Pollio interrupted, ‘that the worst sin of omission the Senate and People committed was to refuse to give Rome’s retiring veterans a pension over and above what’s banked for them out of their pay. When consulars like Catulus and Scaurus denied Gaius Marius’s propertyless Head Count soldiers a pension, Marius rewarded them with land in his name. That was sixty years ago, and ever since the veterans have looked to their commanders for reward, not to Rome herself. A terrible mistake. It gave the generals power they should never have been allowed to have.’

Maecenas smiled. ‘You’re telling my story for me, Pollio.’

‘I beg your pardon, Maecenas. Continue, please.’

‘Caesar Octavianus cannot free Italia from Sextus without help. He has begged that help from Marcus Antonius many times, but Marcus Antonius is either deaf or illiterate, for he doesn’t answer those letters. Then came internal war, a war that was not provoked in any way by Caesar Octavianus! He believes that the true instigator of Lucius Antonius’s rebellion – for so it seemed to those of us in Rome – was a freedman named Manius, in the clientele of Fulvia. Manius convinced Fulvia that Caesar Octavianus was – er – stealing Marcus Antonius’s birthright. A very strange accusation that she believed. In turn, she persuaded Lucius Antonius to use the legions he was recruiting on Marcus Antonius’s behalf and march on Rome. I don’t think it’s necessary to say anymore on the subject, save to assure Marcus Antonius that his brother was not prosecuted, but allowed to assume his proconsular imperium and go to govern Further Spain.’

Fishing through a number of scrolls near him, Maecenas found one, and flourished it. ‘I have here the letter that Quintus Fufius Calenus’s son wrote, not to Marcus Antonius, as he should have, but to Caesar Octavianus.’ He handed it to Pollio, who read it with the ease of a highly literate man. ‘What Caesar Octavianus saw in it was alarming, for it betrayed Calenus Junior’s weakness and lack of decision. As a veteran of Further Gaul, Pollio, I’m sure I do not have to tell you how volatile the long-haired Gauls are, and how quick they are to scent an uncertain governor. For this reason and this reason alone, Caesar Octavianus acted swiftly. He had to act swiftly. Knowing that Marcus Antonius was a thousand miles farther away, he took it upon himself to travel immediately to Narbo, there to install a temporary governor, Quintus Salvidienus. Calenus’s eleven legions are exactly where they were – four in Narbo, four in Agedincum, and three in Glanum. What did Caesar Octavianus do wrong in acting thus? He acted as a friend, a fellow Triumvir, the man on the spot.’

Maecenas sighed, looked rueful. ‘I daresay that the most truthful charge that can be laid against Caesar Octavianus is that he found himself unable to control Brundisium, which was ordered to allow Marcus Antonius to come ashore together with as many legions as he cared to bring to their homeland, be it for a nice vacation or retirement. Brundisium defied the Senate and People of Rome, it is as simple as that. What Caesar Octavianus hopes is that he will be able to persuade Brundisium to cease its defiance. And that is all,’ Maecenas concluded, smiling sweetly.

At which point the arguments began, but not with passion or rancor. Both men knew the truth of every matter raised, but both men also knew that they had to be loyal to their masters, and had decided the best way to do the latter was to argue convincingly. Octavian for one would read Nerva’s minutes closely, and if Mark Antony did not, he would at least pump Nerva about the meeting.

Finally, just before the Nones of October, Pollio decided he had had enough.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s clear to me that the way things were arranged after Philippi was slipshod and ineffective. Marcus Antonius was full of his own importance, and despised Octavianus for his conduct at Philippi.’ He rounded on Nerva, beginning to scribble. ‘Nerva, don’t you dare write down a word of this! It’s time to be frank, and as great men don’t like frankness, it’s best we don’t tell them. That means you can’t let Antonius bully you, hear me? Spill the beans about this, and you’re a dead man – I will kill you myself, understand?’

‘Yes!’ squeaked Nerva, dropping his pen in a hurry.

‘I adore it!’ said Maecenas, grinning. ‘Proceed, Pollio.’

‘The Triumvirate is ridiculous as it stands at the moment. How did Antonius ever think he could be in several places at once? For that’s what happened after Philippi. He wanted the lion’s share of everything, from provinces to legions. So what emerged? Octavianus inherits the grain supply and Sextus Pompeius, but no fleets to put Sextus down, let alone transport an army capable of taking Sicilia. If Octavianus was a military man, which he is not, nor ever claimed to be, he would have known that his freedman Helenus – obviously a persuasive fellow – couldn’t take Sardinia. Mostly because Octavianus doesn’t have enough troop transports. He’s shipless. The provinces were allocated in the most muddle-headed way imaginable. Octavianus gets Italia, Sicilia, Sardinia, Corsica, Further and Nearer Spain. Antonius gets the entire East, but that isn’t enough for him. So he takes all the Gauls as well as Illyricum. Why? Because the Gauls contain so many legions still under the Eagles and not wishful of retiring. I know Marcus Antonius very well, and he’s a good fellow, brave and generous. When he’s at the top of his form, no one is more capable or clever. But he’s also a glutton who can’t curb his appetite, no matter what it is he fancies devouring. The Parthians and Quintus Labienus are running amok all over Asia and a good part of Anatolia. But here we sit, outside Brundisium.’

Pollio stretched, then hunched his shoulders. ‘It’s our duty, Maecenas, to even things up and out. How do we do that? By drawing a line between West and East, and putting Octavianus on one side of it, and Antonius on the other. Lepidus can have Africa, that goes without saying. He’s got ten legions there, he’s safe and secure. You’ll get no arguments from me that Octavianus has by far the harder task because he has Italia: impoverished, worn out and hungry. Neither of our masters has any money. Rome is close to bankruptcy, and the East so exhausted it can’t pay any significant tributes. However, Antonius can’t have things all his way, and he has to be made to see that. I propose that Octavianus be given a better income by governing all the West – Further Spain, Nearer Spain, Further Gaul in all its parts, Italian Gaul, and Illyricum. The Drina River is a natural frontier between Macedonia and Illyricum, so it will become the border between West and East. It goes without saying that Antonius will be as free to recruit troops in Italia and Italian Gaul as Octavianus. Italian Gaul, incidentally, should become a part of Italia in all respects.’

‘Good man, Pollio!’ Maecenas exclaimed, smiling broadly. ‘I couldn’t begin to say it as well as you just have.’ He gave a mock shiver. ‘For one thing, I wouldn’t have dared be so hard on Antonius. Yes, my friend, very well said indeed! Now all we have to do is persuade Antonius to agree. I don’t foresee any arguments from Caesar Octavianus. He’s had a terrible time of it, and of course the journey from Rome brought on his asthma.’

Pollio looked amazed. ‘Asthma?’

‘Yes. He almost dies of it. That’s why he hid in the marshes at Philippi. So much dust and chaff in the air!’

‘I see,’ Pollio said slowly. ‘I see.’

‘It’s his secret, Pollio.’

‘Does Antonius know?’

‘Of course. They’re cousins, he’s always known.’

‘How does Octavianus feel about letting the exiles come home?’

‘He won’t object.’ Maecenas seemed to consider something, then spoke. ‘You ought to know that Octavianus will never go to war against Antonius, though I don’t know whether you can convince Antonius of that. No more civil wars. He’ll hew to it, Pollio. That’s really why we’re here. No matter what the provocation, he won’t go to war against a fellow Roman. His way is diplomacy, the conference table, negotiations.’

‘I didn’t realize he felt so strongly about it.’

‘He does, Pollio, he does.’

Persuading Antony to accept the terms Pollio had outlined to Maecenas took a full nundinum of ranting, punching holes in walls, tears and yells. Then he began to calm down; his rages were so devastating that even a man as strong as Antony couldn’t sustain that level of energy for more than a nundinum. From rage he plummeted to depression and finally to despair. The moment he landed at the bottom of his pit, Pollio struck; it was now or never. A Maecenas couldn’t have dealt with Antony, but a soldier like Pollio, a man Antony respected and loved, knew exactly what to do. He had, besides, the confidence of some stalwarts back in Rome who would, if necessary, reinforce his strictures.

‘All right, all right!’ Antony cried wretchedly, hands in his hair. ‘I’ll do it! You’re sure about the exiles?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I insist on some items you haven’t mentioned.’

‘Mention them now.’

‘I want five of Calenus’s eleven legions shipped to me.’

‘I don’t think that will be a problem.’

‘And I won’t agree to combining my forces with Octavianus’s to sweep Sextus Pompeius from the seas.’

‘That’s not wise, Antonius.’

‘Ask me do I care? I don’t care!’ Antony said savagely. ‘I had to appoint Ahenobarbus governor of Bithynia, he was so furious at the terms you’ve drawn up, and that means I don’t have enough fleets to fall back on without Sextus’s. He stays in case I need him, that has to be made clear.’

‘Octavianus will agree, but he won’t be happy.’

‘Anything that makes Octavianus unhappy makes me happy!’

‘Why did you conceal Octavianus’s asthma?’

‘Pah!’ spat Antony. ‘He’s a girl! Only girls get sick, no matter what the sickness. His asthma is an excuse.’

‘Not conceding Sextus Pompeius may cost you.’

‘Cost me what?’

‘I don’t quite know,’ Pollio said, frowning. ‘It just will.’

Octavian’s response to the terms Maecenas brought him was very different. Interesting, thought Maecenas, how much his face has changed over this last twelve-month. He’s grown out of his prettiness, though he’ll never not be beautiful. The mass of hair is shorter, he doesn’t care about his prominent ears anymore. But the major change is in his eyes, quite the most wonderful I have ever seen, so large, luminous and silvery-grey. They have always been opaque, he has never betrayed what he’s thinking or feeling with them, but now there’s a certain stony hardness behind their brilliance. And the mouth I’ve longed to kiss, knowing I will never be permitted to kiss it, has firmed, straightened. I suppose that means he’s grown up. Grown up? He was never a boy! Nine days before the Kalends of October, he turned a whole twenty-three. While Marcus Antonius is now forty-four. Truly a marvel.

‘If Antonius refuses to aid me in my battle against Sextus Pompeius,’ said Octavian, ‘he must pay a price.’

‘But what? You don’t have the leverage to exact one.’

‘Yes, I do, and Sextus Pompeius gave me my lever.’

‘And that is?’

‘A marriage,’ Octavian said, face tranquil.

‘Octavia!’ Maecenas breathed. ‘Octavia …’

‘Yes, my sister. She’s a widow, there’s no impediment.’

‘Her ten months of mourning aren’t over.’

‘Six of them are, and all of Rome knows she can’t be pregnant: Marcellus suffered a long, agonizing death. It won’t be hard to get a dispensation from the pontifical colleges and the seventeen tribes the lots throw up to vote in the religious comitium.’ Octavian smiled complacently. ‘They’ll be falling all over each other to do anything that might avert a war between Antonius and me. In fact, I predict that no marriage in the annals of Rome will prove so popular.’

‘He won’t agree.’

‘Antonius? He’d copulate with a cow.’

‘Can’t you hear what you’re saying, Caesar? I know how much you love your sister, yet you’d inflict Antonius upon her? He’s a drunkard and a wife beater! I beg you, think again! Octavia is the loveliest, sweetest, nicest woman in Rome. Even the Head Count adore her, just as they did Divus Julius’s daughter.’

‘It sounds as if you want to marry her yourself, Maecenas,’ Octavian said slyly.

Maecenas bridled. ‘How can you joke about something as – as serious as this? I like women, but I also pity them. They lead such uneventful lives, their only political importance lies in marriage – about the most you can say for Roman justice is that the majority of them control their own money. Relegation to the periphery of public affairs may irk the Hortensias and the Fulvias, but it doesn’t irk Octavia. If it did, you wouldn’t be sitting here so smug and certain of her obedience. Isn’t it time she was let wed a man she truly wants to wed?’

‘I won’t force her to it, if that’s what you’re getting at,’ said Octavian, unmoved. ‘I’m not a fool, you know, and I’ve attended enough family dinners since Pharsalus to have realized that Octavia is more than half in love with Antonius. She’ll go to her fate willingly – gladly, even.’

‘I don’t believe it!’

‘It’s the truth. Far be it from me to understand what women see in men but, take my word for it, Octavia is keen on Antonius. That fact and my own union with Scribonia gave me the idea. Nor do I doubt Antonius when it comes to wine and wife beating. He may have attacked Fulvia, but the provocation must have been severe. Under all that bombast he’s sentimental about women. Octavia will suit him. Like the Head Count, he’ll adore her.’

‘There’s the Egyptian queen – he won’t be faithful.’

‘What man on duty abroad is? Octavia won’t hold infidelity against him: she’s too well brought up.’

Throwing his hands in the air, Maecenas departed to stew over the unenviable lot of a diplomat. Did Octavian really expect that he, Maecenas, would conduct these negotiations? Well, he would not! Cast a pearl like Octavia in front of a swine like Antonius? Never! Never, never, never!

Octavian had no intention of depriving himself of these particular negotiations; he was going to enjoy them. By now Antony would have forgotten things like that scene in his tent after Philippi, when Octavian had demanded Brutus’s head – and got it. Antony’s hatred had grown so great it obscured all individual events; it was enough in and of itself. Nor did Octavian expect that a marriage to Octavia would change that hatred. Maybe a poetical kind of fellow like Maecenas would assume such to be Octavian’s motive, but Octavian’s own mind was too sensible to hope for miracles. Once Octavia became Antony’s wife, she would do exactly as Antony wanted; the last thing she would do was to attempt to influence how Antony felt about her brother. No, what he hoped for in achieving this union was to strengthen the hopes of ordinary Romans – and the legionaries’ – that the threat of war had vanished. So when the day came that Antony, in the throes of some new passion for a new woman, rejected his wife, he would go down in the estimation of millions of Roman citizens everywhere. Since Octavian had vowed that he would never engage in civil war, he had to destroy not only Antony’s auctoritas – his official public standing – but also his dignitas, the public standing he possessed due to his personal actions and achievements. When Caesar the God crossed the Rubicon into civil war, he had done it to protect his dignitas, which he had held dearer than his life. To have his deeds stripped from the official histories and records of the Republic and be sent into permanent exile was worse than civil war. Well, Octavian wasn’t made of such stuff; to him, civil war was worse than disgrace and exile. Also, of course, he wasn’t a military genius sure to win. Octavian’s way was to corrode Mark Antony’s dignitas until it reached a nadir wherein he was no threat. From that point on, Octavian’s star would continue to rise until he, not Antony, was the First Man in Rome. It wouldn’t happen overnight; it would take many years. But they were years Octavian could afford to concede; he was twenty-one years younger than Antony. Oh, the prospect of years and years of struggling to feed Italia, find land for the never-ending flood of veterans!

He had Antony’s measure. Caesar the God would have been knocking on King Orodes’s palace door in Seleuceia-on-Tigris by now, but where was Antony? Laying siege to Brundisium, still in his own country. Prate though he might about being there to defend his entitlements as a Triumvir, he was actually there so he couldn’t be in Syria fighting the Parthians. Prate though he might about single-handedly winning Philippi, Antony knew he couldn’t have won without Octavian’s legions, composed of men whose loyalty he couldn’t command, for it belonged to Octavian.

I would give almost anything, Octavian thought after he had written his note to Antony and sent it off by a freedman courier, I would give almost anything to have Fortuna drop something in my lap that would send Antonius crashing down for good. Octavia isn’t it, nor probably would his rejection of her be it, did he decide to reject her once he tired of her goodness. I am aware that Fortuna smiles upon me – I have had so many close shaves that I am always beardless. And every time, it has been luck that yanked me back from the abyss. Like Libo’s hunger to find an illustrious husband for his sister. Like Calenus’s death in Narbo and his idiot son’s petitioning me instead of Antonius. Like the death of Marcellus. Like having Agrippa to general armies for me. Like my escapes from death each time the asthma has squeezed all the breath out of me. Like having my father Divus Julius’s war chest to keep me from bankruptcy. Like Brundisium’s refusing Antonius entry, may Liber Pater, Sol Indiges and Tellus grant Brundisium future peace and great prosperity. I didn’t issue any orders to the city to do what it has, anymore than I provoked the futility of Fulvia’s war against me. Poor Fulvia!

Every day I offer to a dozen gods, Fortuna at their head, to give me the weapon I need to bring Antonius down faster than age will inevitably do it. The weapon exists, I know that as surely as I know I have been chosen to set Rome on her feet permanently, to achieve lasting peace on the frontiers of her empire. I am the Chosen One whom Maecenas’s poet Virgil writes about and all Rome’s prognosticators insist will herald in a golden age. Divus Julius made me his son, and I will not fail his trust in me to finish what he started. Oh, it will not be the same world as Divus Julius would have made, but it will satisfy and please him. Fortuna, bring me more of Caesar’s fabled luck! Bring me the weapon, and open my eyes to recognize it when it comes!

Antony’s reply came by the same courier. Yes, he would see Caesar Octavianus under a flag of truce. But we are not at war! Octavian thought, breath taken away by something other than asthma. How does his mind work, to think that we are?

Next day Octavian set out on the Julian Public Horse – it was a small one, but very handsome with its creamy coat and darker mane and tail. To ride meant he couldn’t wear a toga, but as he didn’t want to appear warlike, he wore a white tunic with the broad purple stripe of a senator down its right shoulder.

Naturally Antony was in full armor, silver-plated, and with Hercules slaying the Nemean lion worked on its contoured cuirass. His tunic was purple, so was the paludamentum flowing from his shoulders, though by rights it should have been scarlet. As ever, he looked fit and well.

‘No built-up boots, Octavianus?’ he asked, grinning.

Though Antony had not, Octavian held out his right hand so obviously that Antony was obliged to take it, wring it so hard he crunched fragile bones. Face expressionless, Octavian endured it.

‘Come inside,’ Antony invited, holding the flap of his tent aside. That he chose to inhabit a tent rather than commandeer a private home was evidence of his confidence that the siege of Brundisium would not be a long business.

The tent’s public room was generous but, with the flap down, very dark. To Octavian, an indication of Antony’s wariness. He didn’t trust his face not to betray his emotions. Which didn’t worry Octavian. Not faces but thought patterns concerned him, for they were what he had to work on.

‘I’m so pleased,’ he said, swallowed by a chair much too big for his slight frame, ‘that we have reached the stage of drafting out an agreement. I felt it best that you and I in person should thrash out those matters on which we haven’t quite reached accord.’

‘Delicately put,’ said Antony, drinking deeply from a goblet of wine he had ostentatiously watered.

‘A beautiful thing,’ Octavian remarked, turning his own vessel in his hands. ‘Where was it made? Not Puteoli, I’d wager.’

‘In some Alexandrian glassworks. I like drinking from glass, it doesn’t absorb the flavor of earlier wines the way even the best ceramic does.’ He grimaced. ‘And metal tastes … metallic.’

Octavian blinked. ‘Edepol! I didn’t realize you’re such a connoisseur of something that merely holds wine.’

‘Sarcasm will get you nowhere,’ Antony said, unoffended. ‘I was told all that by Queen Cleopatra.’

‘Oh, yes, that makes sense. An Alexandrian patriot.’

Antony’s face lit up. ‘And rightly so! Alexandria is the most beautiful city in the world; leaves Pergamum and even Athens shivering in the shade.’

Having sipped, Octavian put his chalice down as if it burned. Here was another fool! Why rave about a city’s beauty when his own city faded to nothing from lack of care? ‘You may have as many of Calenus’s legions as you wish, that goes without saying,’ he lied. ‘In fact, nothing about your conditions fazes me save only your refusal to help me rid the seas of Sextus Pompeius.’

Frowning, Antony got to his feet and pulled the tent flap wide open, apparently deciding it was necessary to see Octavian’s face properly after all. ‘Italia is your province, Octavianus. Have I asked for your help in governing mine?’

‘No, you haven’t, but nor have you sent Rome’s share of the Eastern tributes to the Treasury. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that, even as Triumvir, the Treasury is supposed to gather in the tributes and pay Rome’s provincial governors a stipend, out of which they fund their legions and pay for public works in their provinces,’ Octavian said blandly. ‘Of course I understand that no governor, least of all a Triumvir, simply collects what the Treasury demands – he always asks for more, keeps the surplus for himself. A time-honored tradition I have no quarrel with. I too am a Triumvir. However, you’ve sent nothing to Rome in the two years of your governorship. Had you, I would be able to buy the ships I need to deal with Sextus. It may suit you to use pirate ships as your fleets, since all the admirals who sided with Brutus and Cassius decided to become pirates after Philippi. I’m not above using them myself, were it not that they grow fat picking at my carcass! What they’re busy doing is proving to Rome and all Italia – the source of our best soldiers – that a million soldiers can’t help two ship-less Triumvirs. You should have grain from the Eastern provinces to feed your legions right fatly! It’s not my fault that you’ve let the Parthians overrun everywhere except Bithynia and Asia Province! What’s saved your bacon is Sextus Pompeius – as long as it suits you to stay sweet with him, he sells you Italia’s grain at a modest price – grain, may I remind you, bought and paid for by Rome’s Treasury! Yes, Italia is my province, but my only sources of money are the taxes I must squeeze from all Roman citizens living in Italia. They are not enough to pay for ships as well as buy stolen wheat from Sextus Pompeius for thirty sesterces the modius! So I ask again, where are the Eastern tributes?’

Antony listened in growing ire. ‘The East is bankrupt!’ he shouted. ‘There isn’t any tribute to send!’

‘That’s not true, and even the least Roman from end to end of Italia knows that,’ Octavian countered. ‘Pythodorus of Tralles brought you two thousand silver talents to Tarsus, for instance. Tyre and Sidon paid you a thousand more. And raping Cilicia Pedia yielded you four thousand. A total of one hundred and seventy-five million sesterces! Facts, Antonius! Well-known facts!’

Why had he ever consented to see this despicable little gnat? Antony asked himself, squirming. All he had to do to gain the ascendancy was remind me that whatever I do in the East somehow leaks back to every last Roman citizen in Italia. Without saying it, he’s telling me that my reputation is suffering. That I’m not yet above criticism, that the Senate and People of Rome can strip me of my offices. And yes, I can march on Rome, execute Octavianus and appoint myself Dictator. But I was the one who made a huge fuss out of abolishing the dictatorship! Brundisium has proved that my legionaries won’t fight Octavianus’s. That fact alone is why the little verpa can sit here and defy me; be open about his antagonism.

‘So I’m none too popular in Rome,’ he said sullenly.

‘Candidly, Antonius, you’re not at all popular, especially after laying siege to Brundisium. You’ve felt at liberty to accuse me of putting Brundisium up to refusing you entry, but you’re well aware I didn’t. Why should I? It profits me nothing! All you’ve actually done is throw Rome into a frenzy of fear, expecting you to march on her. Which you cannot do! Your legions won’t let you. If you genuinely want to retrieve your reputation, you have to prove that to Rome, not to me.’

‘I won’t join you against Sextus Pompeius, if that’s what you’re angling for. All I have are a hundred warships in Athens,’ Antony lied. ‘Not enough to do the job, since you have none. As matters stand, Sextus Pompeius prefers me to you, and I’ll not do anything to provoke him. At the moment, he leaves me alone.’

‘I didn’t think you would help me,’ Octavian said calmly. ‘No, I was thinking more of something visible to all Romans from the top of the heap to the very bottom.’

‘What?’

‘Marriage to my sister, Octavia.’

Jaw dropped, Antony stared at his tormentor. ‘Ye gods!’

‘What’s so unusual about it?’ Octavian asked softly, smiling. ‘I’ve just concluded a similar kind of marital alliance myself, as I’m sure you know. Scribonia is very pleasant – a good woman, pretty, fertile … I hope tying myself to her keeps Sextus at bay, for a while at any rate. But she can’t begin to compare with Octavia, can she? I am offering you Divus Julius’s great-niece – known and loved by every stratum in Rome as Julia was, beautiful to look at, enormously kind and thoughtful, an obedient wife, and the mother of three children, including a boy. As Divus Julius expected of his