Augustus (44 page)

Maecenas could never tell the truth about people. The disability had grown more acute with the years. He was a slave of gossip and innuendo. You could discount most of what he said. You could never discount the core. I sat there, neglecting the too sweet wine, oppressed by the cloying perfumes blown through the room, and waited for what I had after all invited.

'Love,' he said, and let it hang in the air. 'You know, old dear, till Bathyllus came along I fought shy of love. Oh yes, I have never been without my loves, none knows that better than yourself. But I avoided, except in one case, love's degradation. You know the case of course. What do I mean by degradation? Enslavement, what else? Knowing you can never please, knowing you can never possess, longing to possess fully, utterly, and yet at the same time longing for your beloved to trample on you. Isn't it strange, after all these years, to be saying this to you, and you still can't understand. You still have to be in control. You find my association - that's the word you use, isn't it? - my association with Bathyllus degrading. It's abject, isn't it, my surrender to him? You've never surrendered to anyone, not even Livia. I'll go further. You chose a wife who would be embarrassed by surrender. Oh yes, you're subject to her in little things and everyone laughs at it because it makes you seem human. But not in big things, eh? All your life everyone's had to yield to your monstrous will. Monstrous.'

He broke off in a fit of coughing. His skin shone yellow. I couldn't move, in fact I waited for him to continue. I felt nothing but impatience. There was absolute silence when he finished coughing. Nothing moved in the house. Whatever fan had been blowing the perfume through the room must have been stopped. We were held there, like prisoners, in the room's cloying stillness.

'What is this world, 0 soldiers? It is I. That's what you've come to, Augustus. Poor lovely lost Julia, victim of your will. You couldn't allow yourself to do what you wanted with Marcellus, bugger and be buggered, so poor Julia was your surrogate.

Then she fell victim to Reason of State, to keep Agrippa in line. Oh yes, I advised it myself, you're going to say. I told you what you wanted to hear. I've always known how to do that, haven't I? Now I'm pleading with you. Let the girl be. Let her marry if she wants to. If she does it will be a pretty boy like Iullus Antonius. Oh I admit that, and he's the grandson of Antony and Fulvia, but he's not dangerous, he's a pretty playboy. She'll have fun with him. Don't sacrifice her again to Reasons of State.' He paused and held up his hand. 'I know what you're going to say. You're going to talk of Gaius and Lucius. You want a husband who'll ensure their succession. Oh yes, I know you don't like the word, succession, but be honest, old dear, that's what it is, disguised monarchy. Do you remember that conversation we had with old Agrippa, when he wanted a return to the old Republic - really, you know, he was no brighter than Pompey - and I said what we needed was a ruler. Well, that's what you are, dress it up how you like. And you want to ensure the succession for your grandsons
...
So to get it, you'll sacrifice Julia again. And you won't feel a thing, certainly not guilt. Still nothing to say . . . ?'

I shrugged my shoulder. 'It's easy to talk,' I said, 'I've done my duty as I see it. And of course I'm trying to provide for the future . . .'

'I'm sorry for you, you know,' he said. 'My hands are free of the responsibility of crime, even moral crime. Virgil knew what was happening to you, and pitied you. Yes, you've achieved great things, and in a way we're all in your debt, but what has it done to you? It's killed your imagination, your sympathy. All that's left is the will. Virgil loved you, as I have done, and yet you filled him, as you do me, with a sort of horror . . .'

'If I were what you say, you would not speak to me in this way. You would not dare.'

'Dare? See the words you choose.'

'Oh,' I said, 'Maecenas, there's truth in what you say. Of course. I recognize that. Parts of me are dead. They don't feel a thing. A moral numbness. Yes, sometimes, I've had to cultivate that. But we all kill part of ourselves. Don't pretend, old friend, you haven't done that yourself. You have deliberately excised a

sense of decency, for one thing. And in not falling in love . . .' 'But I have,' he said.

'And in rejecting family ties, you have denied and smothered much that was good in you. But I haven't rejected love. I want what's best for those I love . . .'

'You want what you choose is best. . .'

'Every man must use his own judgement. . .'

'If you loved Julia, you would let her be, let her marry her pretty playboy . . .'

'Loving Julia, I cannot encourage a match that will diminish her . . .'

'Diminish? Am I diminished?'

'You are diminished, Maecenas, by your infatuation with that actor. I'm sorry to say this, but who respects you now?'

'And yet you come to me for advice . . .'

'I always have. But I'm told you can't now appear in the theatre without suffering mockery and cat-calls . . .'

He smiled.

'Let us not quarrel,' he said. 'Perhaps we are both diminished. Perhaps on the other hand one can put it differently. Perhaps life consists of a stripping away of whatever are the inessentials of each soul. The shy and pretty boy I loved has been eaten up by the man of will; and I, yes, you are right, I am now a slave to the emotions, to beauty and to pleasure. My dignity has been ripped from me. I am a laughing-stock, an old queen, quite absurd. In becoming what we have become, in shedding much that was good, we are revealed in our true selves. So, my dear, you can't follow my advice, can you? You can't set Julia free, without betraying your will, and that's impossible. What we have done, I suppose, is work out our destiny, and we end as prisoners of our own character. Is that too metaphysical for you, too fanciful? Put it down to the ramblings of a degenerate Etruscan if you like. But one who still loves you. Besides, I know what you'll do. You'll compel Tiberius to divorce Vipsania - she's no value, has she, now that her father is dead? and it doesn't matter that they have been happy together - and marry him off to Julia. He's a strong man after all, and a man of honour (if you'll allow me to use the word, since you know I don't have the thing - by your standards anyway), and so will do the right thing by the boys. Isn't that what you came here to hear?'

Tiberius?' I said. 'Of course. Julia had a passion for him when they were younger. Livia used to complain that she would never leave him alone.'

'Of course not,' he said. 'He represented a challenge, a strong silent challenge. But. . . anyway, that's not my advice. It's a forecast. You see how I know you. Well,' he picked up his wine, 'I'm glad we've had this talk. I doubt if there will be many more, will there? Not now we've said all this we've been waiting to say so long. There won't after all be much left to talk about. One final thing: you know you asked Horace to be your secretary - of course I know, he consulted me as to how to refuse - what I was going to say is do you know why he refused?'

'He didn't want to leave his Sabine farm . . .'

'Oh yes, he's fond of the place. Still, that wouldn't have been enough in itself. No, he said, "I admire the princeps from a distance, and am proud of my admiration. But to assist him would corrupt me and disgust my Muse . . ."'

I made no reply. Horace was obviously right. The Philosopher-King, the Poet-Prince, could not long survive the exercise of power. Authority's servants are stained with the responsibility of action . . .

'Now,' Maecenas said, 'do run along, there's a dear. Bathyllus will be back soon. He won't be pleased to hear that you have been here, but he would be furious to find us still together. And he's a bore when he sulks.'

'Ah, yes . . .

'Don't try to look wise and knowing. Of course the slave will tell him you've been here.'

'Of course they will. Slaves always do,' I said.

NINE

As usual Maecenas had exercised his great gift: he had told me what I wanted to hear, even though I didn't realize that in advance. A counsellor resembles an orator who reveals to the crowd he addresses their unconscious desires and passions. I had shied away from the Tiberius solution to my problem without even examining it, because, I suppose, Livia had rejected it after Marcellus' death. But things were different now, I told myself. Tiberius was no longer a gauche youth, but a great general and a man of wide experience who had met with nothing but success in his career. His public spirit was unquestioned; likewise his sturdy morality and devotion to duty. Who better to protect the boys when I was gone?

Of course, even apart from any objections that Livia might raise, there were other matters to be dealt with. Julia herself might not be delighted; there had been little sign of her old childish passion for Tiberius in recent years. He wasn't exactly the sort of young man with whom she happily consorted. Then again there was the problem of Vipsania. Tiberius was admittedly a man of tepid emotions, but it was clear he felt a considerable affection for his wife. He would not willingly consent to divorce her. (On the other hand it might amuse Julia to supplant her late husband's daughter.) Moreover, Tiberius and Vipsania had a son, called Drusus after his uncle. Could I be certain that Tiberius would not prefer his own-born son to Gaius and Lucius? Yes, I could, I thought; not only was Gaius the oldest of the next generation - and I must assume that Julia would protect his interests - but Tiberius' inflexible sense of duty would not permit him to over-ride my wishes. That left only one reservation. Tiberius was averse to the theoretical discussion of politics; he liked to concentrate on what must be done. Yet I knew that in his heart Tiberius was a rigid aristocratic conservative. His father - that shifty fellow for whose memory Tiberius nevertheless maintained a stubborn reverence - had adhered to Brutus and Cassius. I suspected that the cause they proclaimed still attracted his approval. He knew in his heart that the days of Republican licence were over, never to return without dire consequences for Rome. Yet his adherence to the New Order was never more than intellectual. It did not appeal to his heart. He despised the Senate and its members - 'oh generation fit for slavery', I had heard him murmur; but he yet retained an ideal conception of senatorial government. He knew it was impossible and longed for it not to be so.

All the same it was Livia I had to convince. If she decided Tiberius should marry Julia, he would obey, however reluctantly. I could not be sure however of my ability to persuade her.

I said to her, 'I am afraid you are right. Julia is going to disgrace us. It hurt me wh
en you reminded me she was Scri
bonia's daughter but you were right. I have talked to her about a possible marriage, and she says she rather fancies being free. What's to be done? That surely can't be permitted.'

'I have already explained to you that it can't. For one thing her behaviour in such circumstances would be likely to make a mockery of your laws on morality.'

I felt myself flushing; it was disagreeable to have to listen to such an observation on my daughter, and to know that I could not contradict it.

I said, 'It is clear she must be married, as you yourself have insisted. It is clear that all members of the group she frequents are unsuitable. She requires a husband who will command her respect as Agrippa did' - Maecenas' words flitted across my mind, but I ploughed on - 'he must therefore be like Agrippa a great public servant, a great general too.'

Livia smiled. 'Are you so sure she respected Agrippa? Are you so sure she did not deceive him?'

'Have you any reason to think that?'

She smiled again but did not answer.

I paused, hoping she might herself bring forward her son's name, but she continued to sew, the very image of a demure and submissive Roman matron except for that enigmatic smile which played at the corner of her lips.

'Come, Livia,' I said, 'it's not right for us to play cat and mouse.' The smile was unwavering. 'You know what I have in mind and you know that I have been hoping you would introduce the possibility yourself.'

'Tiberius loves Vipsania,' she said.

'I don't deny it.'

'He's always been a difficult withdrawn boy. You could call him secretive, a dutiful son but never one who has confided in me as Drusus does.'

'Oh yes, Drusus is different.'

'And Vipsania has been good for him. I believe he may talk to her as to no one else.'

'And that doesn't make you jealous?'

'Of course it does. Show me the mother who isn't jealous of her son's wife. But I subdue that emotion. I repeat, Vipsania is good for Tiberius.'

'I don't deny it, but let me put forward another argument, or rather shift the argument to different ground. We are not private persons.'

'Are you saying we are a royal family? I could never approve of that.'

'Of course not. Why will you put words in my mouth? No such thing. But we are a great family. We have obligations to something beyond our private happiness. We have obligations to Rome. Tiberius as a Claudian, a double Claudian, as you have often reminded us, must realize this . . .'