Augustus (50 page)

'You know I have never been on easy terms with my former stepfather, but I am disquieted by the animosity he arouses. The other day at my own table somebody cried out, "Just give the word, Gaius, and I'll sail off to Rhodes and bring back the Exile's head". I think there is danger in such sentiments and of course reproved the man. Lollius believes that Tiberius should stay where he is, but I must tell you, sir, that I have been disappointed in Lollius and suspect him of taking bribes; nor has his advice always been good. On the other hand there are rumours that Tiberius himself has been nursing treasonable projects. The matter is therefore difficult. He came, at his own request, to see me on Samos. You would think having done so he would make an effort to be agreeable, but he was as chilly, sardonic and difficult as ever. He told me I should insist that my staff-officers addressed me with more respect. In fact of course he simply doesn't understand modern manners. It always amazes me that he should be so much more out of touch with my generation than you are, considering that he is at least twenty years younger . . .'

I at once acquainted Tiberius with the rumours that attached themselves to his name. He replied requesting me to attach 'some reputable and responsible person' to his household that I might receive detailed reports of his words and actions. There was a disagreeable note of false humility in the tone of this letter, but it was certainly a request calculated to disarm suspicion. Not that I held any myself. I knew my Tiberius too well. He would never demean himself by conspiracy. However, having decided that Gaius should properly determine his former stepfather's fate, I relayed this request to him. He at once concluded that Tiberius should be permitted to return to Rome 'before he chokes on his own dignity', but he asked that he be excluded from any political activity. In the circumstances, no decision could have been wiser; I marvelled at the boy's acumen and maturity of judgement, for no decision could have been better calculated either to serve Tiberius' own interest. Tiberius him-self acknowledged the wisdom of Gaius'
judgement by the speed with which he acted on it, and by the circumspection he showed on his return. In fact, it was not difficult for him to abstain from politics. They had never been to his taste, and he despised politicians too much. Livia was warmed by his return; it was touching to see mother and son together, both too reticent fully to display their feelings, yet giving off a glow of contentment. Yet here was pain for me too; they sharpened my own sense of what Julia's conduct had deprived me.

Deprivation. . . Julia, and her own daughter Julia who turned whore too and had likewise to be consigned to an island. (The immoral poet Ovid was involved
in her escapade. I sent him to
Tomi on the Black Sea, from where he wearies me with self-pitying epistles.) But these were mere personal pains; the daggers touched only me.

Lucius died suddenly, without warning, of a fever at Marseilles on his way to Spain. He had never had the chance to justify his life or display his merits. Only I knew what Rome lost when this flower was cut in its May morning. Gentler than Gaius, more loving than Marcellus, as honourable as Agrippa, he was a boy of infinite capacity.

His death devolved as great a weight on Gaius, as that of Drusus had on Tiberius. Greater indeed, for Gaius was destined to an authority I had never envisaged for my stepsons, and he was also younger and therefore less able to bear the weight imposed on him.

At the time of Lucius' death, he was embroiled in the endlessly recurrent ferment of Armenian politics. Phraates of Parthia had been murdered as a result of a conspiracy encouraged by his son Phraataces; the parricide had succeeded to the throne and promptly instigated a revolution in Armenia, where the slimy, and, as it had turned out, utterly untrustworthy Tigranes was installed as King. It looked as if Armenia would slip out of the Roman sphere of influence, but my dear Gaius acted with exemplary decision and celerity. First, he came to an agreement with Phraataces. It was not ideal but it served the immediate purpose, for the threat of Roman might which Gaius displayed persuaded the Oriental King to abandon his Armenian puppet. Gaius then marched against Tigranes who was killed fleeing from a lost battle, and established Artabazanes of Media on the throne. In a few weeks he had restored the situation and salvaged our interests. No one could have done better, and fired by his success he proposed an expedition into Arabia. Alas, in a frontier skirmish he received a wound. I begged him to return to
Italy and rest. He died at Lim
rya in Lycia.

There is nothing to say, nothing to add to the stark fact. I have only wept once since that day, when I heard of Varus' folly.

Only Livia brought me any comfort in my grief. But what comfort could there be? In the East they worship me as a God; it is folly.

But what have my prayers to Apollo or Jupiter been but like folly, that they should requite me in this manner?

I have lost interest in religious speculation since Gaius' death. The other day I even thought: perhaps Virgil is merely the poet of our vain and noble dreams? Perhaps it is the trivial and meretricious Ovid who really tells the truth about life?

In such moods I approach despair. Why struggle, as I have always struggled, if the end is stale bread and foetid water?

I have caught myself saying, time and again, 'I found Rome of sun-baked bricks, and leave it of marble.' No doubt the marble will endure; it is something to boast of. I have heard that Antony facing defeat cried out for 'one other gaudy night', called 'all his sad captains
...
to mock the midnight bell'. I envy him; I cannot swagger in like manner to the Shades . . .

I was sixty-six when they brought me news of Gaius' death. Ten years ago. Ten years of labour that has seemed ever more necessary, ever more meaningless. But of course that is only one mood. I cannot in the end deny my life's work, the restoration of Rome to stability. When I look round the Empire . . . well, for example, last week when I was sailing through the gulf of Puteoli, we came on a corn-ship from Alexandria. On learning of my presence, its crew decked themselves in white with garlands, and burned incense, explaining that they did so, and wished me enduring fortune, because they owed me their lives and their freedom to sail the seas. Without my efforts, they said, they would certainly have fallen prey to pirates. I was so touched by their gratitude that I gave each member of my own crew and all my attendants forty gold pieces to spend on Alexandrian ware.

The moment recalled the proudest of my life, sixteen years ago, when the Senate hailed me as 'Father of our Country', the motion to do so being proposed by an old enemy Messella Corvinus, who had fought against me at Philippi. His speech ran as follows:

'Good fortune and the favour of the Gods attend thee and thy house, Caesar Augustus; for thus we feel that we are praying for a lasting prosperity for our country and happiness for our beloved City. The Senate and the people of Rome hail thee Father of thy Country . . .' To which I replied:

'Conscript Fathers, I have attained my highest hopes. What more have I to ask of the immortal Gods than that I may retain this, your unanimous approval, till the last day of my life . . . ?'

I have done so, even in the dark days when news came of Varus' folly, but the mocking Gods took me at my word and withdrew their favour from me.

I could not abstain from public business in mourning Gaius. It was necessary to make new plans for the succession, for the transmission of power and authority in orderly fashion, that my life's work be not destroyed in a renewal of civil strife. I therefore announced my intention of adopting Tiberius and also my surviving grandson Agrippa Postumus, whose unsuitability was not yet manifest.

Tiberius hesitated. His disinclination for an official role had hardly, he said, abated. Moreover, in accepting adoption, he would have to surrender his position as head of the Claudian family and all the privileges that went with this position.

'And for what?' he said. 'Will I be cast aside again in a few years, when you have determined to promote the interest of your grandson?'

'Tiberius,' I said, and then paused. At that moment I felt his wounded pride for the first time, not as an expression of a jealous and self-regarding nature, but rather as something honest. It came to me that in my treatment of Tiberius I had been less than just. Perhaps it was because I had never been easy with him; only now did I see his fundamental goodness and realize that his resentment was not unreasonable. On the other hand -and this is the last harsh criticism of Tiberius that these memoirs will contain - I had been right in thinking him less than ideal as the master of the Empire. He l
acks the geniality and conversa
bility that the role of princeps demands, for he cannot speak to the senators as if they were equals. Only a few months ago, I found myself muttering, 'Poor Rome, to be chewed between those slow jaws . . .'

But now, I met his objections head-on. I did what was necessary and turned his mind to practical matters. I spread out before him a map of the northern frontier.

'Look,' I said, 'your brother Drusus advanced here. His glory is imperishable' - this was the sort of noble language Tiberius warmed to, and I knew anyway that he had always found praise of his brother irresistible - 'but his achievement is less secure. Our armies are being pressed by your old enemy Marboduus, chief of the Marcomanni, and though last year our general, L. Domitius Ahenobarbus, advanced as far as the fabled Elbe, this summer he is embroiled with the Cherusci, and our line is shaken. I want you, as Rome's greatest general, refreshed by your period of rest, to take command of all our northern armies. There is no one else I can ask to do so, first because we have no general of your ability, second because there is no other general whose success, if great, might not persuade him to undermine the stability of the Empire. In short there is no one but you that I can trust, Tiberius.'

Faced with this appeal, what could he do but accept?

The adoption went through. I am told that Tiberius resented my form of words: 'Cruel fate,' I said, 'having robbed me of my sons Gaius and Lucius, for the sake of the Republic I now proclaim the adoption of my stepson Tiberius Claudius Nero and my surviving grandson, Agrippa Postumus . . .' But what else could I say? I would have insulted Tiberius had I not lamented the occasion of his adoption. And he knew how the boys' death had pained me. To my surprise it had hurt him too, for he had composed an elegy on Lucius himself. (The verse was stilted and old-fashioned, but redeemed by sincerity.)

Tiberius proceeded north and his long absence on campaign cemented our relationship. I have never found him conversable; indeed I don't mind confessing that I have found his company inhibiting. Livia once asked me why I always broke off my conversation when Tiberius came into the room. I hadn't been aware of it and said so. She said,

'Well you do, and Tiberius of course thinks you have been criticizing him . . .'

'Nothing of the sort,' I said. 'As I say, I wasn't aware of it, but since you tell me so, it must be true, and the only explanation I can offer is that I always expect Tiberius to find my conversation frivolous and so feel it necessary to change the subject when he comes in. The truth is, my dear, that your son is a bit forbidding.'

But at a distance our friendship and the trust between us have grown stronger. And, though his letters often make me laugh with their pedantic phraseology, I have grown to value his advice. Indeed I wrote to him saying, 'If any business comes up that demands unusually careful consideration, or that is irritating, then I swear by the Mouth of Truth that I miss you, my dear Tiberius, more than I can say. And then Homer's lines run in my mind:

'If he came with me, such is his wisdom

That we should escape the fury of the fire.'

I might also quote two other letters because I wish once and for all to disprove the suggestion that I have not valued Tiberius:

'When people tell me, or I read, that this constant campaigning is wearing you out, I tell you I get gooseflesh in sympathy. Do please take things more easily. If you were to fall ill the news would kill your mother and me, and the whole country would shiver from doubts about the succession. Bear this in mind, my most valued Tiberius . . .

'My state of health is now of little importance compared to yours. May the Gods keep you safe and in good health, for if they do not, I shall fear that they have taken an utter aversion to our beloved city . . .'

I can't, in an odd phrase I have picked up from Moragh, say fairer than that. . .

I have revised my will again. The bulk of my estate is divided between Tiberius and Livia in the proportion of two to one. I have directed that he take the name Augustus, and she Augusta. My estate is not large. Indeed it amounts to no more than 1,500,000 gold pieces. From this I ask them to pay 400,000 to the Roman commons and ten pieces to each member of the Praetorian Guard and three to each legionary. Of course my properties are considerable. The shortage of ready cash may surprise some, for it is known that I have received some 14,000,000 gold pieces in legacies over the last twenty years. But nearly all this sum, as well as what I inherited from my father, my adoptive father and others, has been used to support the national economy. As I have recorded in my statement of my deeds, the Res Gestae, no man has given more of his personal fortune to Rome than I. . .