I, Virgil, page 23
The fissure was a shallow one, and even without a torch he could see the animal crouching against the far wall. With her were three cubs. Simon knew then that he had made a foolish mistake, but he had no time to rectify it. The lioness sprang, straight onto the point of his spear. Being designed for boar, it had a crosspiece a quarter of the way down the shaft. Somehow she managed to reach past this with her claws and lay open Simon's arm like a fishmonger filleting a sturgeon.
Simon's friends, hearing his screams and realising what had happened, dragged him back. The lioness was already dead, pressed hard against the crossbar. She had forced the spearhead right through her body and out at the back half way down her spine. Its iron blade protruded a full hand-span clear of the pelt.
Simon said he had been lucky not to have died himself. His friends had tied the arm above the big vein tightly with rope and got him home safely; but although the wound healed in time the tendons had been severed and his left arm was useless.
The two situations are not exactly parallel: Octavian was far too clever a huntsman to get himself mauled. Yet in other respects the metaphor holds good. Cleopatra was brought to bay in her own land. For herself, she had little hope: Octavian could not allow her to keep the throne, even if he spared her life. Her children were another matter, and she was ready to go to any lengths to defend them. Having transferred the royal treasure to her own mausoleum and piled about it dry kindling and jars of oil, she barricaded herself in. Unless Octavian gave the Egyptian crown to one of her children, she said, she would throw down a lighted torch.
Octavian was in a quandary. He could not afford to lose the treasure; he had made too many promises to too many people that depended on it. But neither could he leave Antony's or Caesar's son on the Egyptian throne. Somehow, Cleopatra had to be got out.
Meanwhile, Antony was already dead. When he and Cleopatra had reached Egypt he had stayed behind to resist Octavian's advance. Now, deserted by his few remaining troops, and thinking that Cleopatra herself was dead, he had fallen on his sword. Octavian gave permission for him to be taken to the mausoleum, and he died in Cleopatra's arms. She mourned him like a true wife; and her grief was more sincere, I suspect, than any Octavian was capable of.
The stalemate was resolved by a member of Octavian's staff, Proculeius, together with my friend Gallus, who was rapidly becoming one of his most trusted lieutenants. While Gallus talked to Cleopatra through an iron grille in the wall, Proculeius and two others slipped through a window and overpowered her. She was led away and kept under house arrest in her own palace.
For what happened next I have only Gallus as an authority, and that when he was drunk: wild horses, I suspect, would not have dragged the story out of him otherwise.
We were at Rome, a few months after Cleopatra's death. Gallus had just been appointed Prefect of Egypt, and we were celebrating before he left. I, of course, was quite sober, but Gallus had accounted for at least two full jugs of wine and had reached the talkative stage.
We were discussing Cleopatra's death.
'Caesar couldn't kill her, see?' Gallus stared at me with owl-eyes over his twentieth wine-cup. 'He wanted her dead. The army wanted her dead. 'grippa wanted her dead. The whole of sodding Rome wanted her dead. But he couldn't do it. Couldn't kill last Queen of Egypt.'
'Why not?' I said.
Gallus rolled slightly on his couch, belched.
'He thought she'd curse him,' he said. 'Curse of the Pharaohs. Thass why he let her be buried like she wanted, with Antony. Shit-scared of her death-curse, the poor bugger.'
It sounds incredible, I know; yet the more you think about it the more possible – even probable –it becomes. Octavian is very superstitious. He is always careful, for example, to place his shoes on the floor correctly before going to bed, and will never conduct important business on the ninth day of the month or set out on a journey immediately after a market day. He believes totally in precognitive dreams and omens, and in the power of magic. And Egyptians are very skilled over things like curses.
'Still, she had to die,' Gallus went on, 'so he had a private talk with her an' they came to an agreement.'
'What was that?' I asked. Gallus simply stared, his eyes goggling. 'Gallus! What was the agreement?'
'Carrot 'n' stick,' he said. 'Caesar'd spare the kids if she killed herself 'n' let her be buried beside Antony. If not, they'd all walk in his triumph 'n' be strangled afterwards.'
'But he did kill them. The boys, anyway,' I said.
Gallus shrugged, roused himself, poured more wine. It slopped over the rim of his cup and ran like blood across the table.
'Dead by then, wasn’t she?' he said. 'No problem. 'Sides, they were old Julius's 'n' Antony's. He couldn't let them live, whatever he told her.'
'So what happened?'
Gallus drank slowly, set his cup down and wiped his mouth.
'We were tol’ to keep clear of her,' he said. 'No Roman guards, jus' Egyptians. Sat there twiddlin’ our thumbs, waitin’ for her to get it over with, but she wouldn't. Finally Caesar got fed up, told her they'd be leaving for Rome in three days. God knows what he'd've done if she'd called his bluff, but she didn'. Got someone to smuggle in that damn snake in a basket of figs.' He grinned. ''n' that was that. Good riddance.'
'Why the snake? I mean, a dagger would've been easier, surely?'
Gallus looked blank for a moment. Then he laughed.
'Not jus' any snake,' he said. 'Not jus' any snake. Asp. Egyptians believe 's messenger of thingummy...sun-god. Get bit by an asp 'n' you're a god.' He tried to snap his fingers, but he was too drunk. 'Jus' like that.'
'Did Octavian know?'
''Course he knew! Whole thing was a setup, I told you. Only slip he made was he got cold feet at the las' moment. Decided she'd probably curse him after all, thought he'd better keep her alive’s long’s he could. So he sent for a snake-priest to suck the poison out. Too late, of course, an' he wasn't supposed to know anything 'bout it. But where superstition's concerned Caesar’s not rational.' He grinned at me, raised his cup. 'Don’ tell him I tol’ you, will you?'
So there you are. Believe it or not as you please. It fits the facts, certainly, and more important it chimes with Octavian's character. But I have no proof, beyond what Gallus said; and, were he alive today, I have no doubt that he would deny everything.
55.
By the late spring of the year following Cleopatra's death, the Georgics were largely finished. I had planned them in close consultation with Maecenas, and both he and I were pleased with the result.
They were in four books, covering the various aspects of farming: crops, trees, animals and bee-keeping. As far as the content was concerned, some of it came from my father and memories of my own childhood, but the larger part, I confess, I took from Varro's Countryside Book. Despite his abrupt manner, he himself helped me considerably, and I was glad that he lived long enough to see the work finally published.
As for the poetic side, my obvious model was Hesiod; yet from the start I could not bring myself to use him. He was both too great to bear imitation and too dark for my purposes. I thought for a long time before choosing Lucretius.
My reasons were not altogether straightforward, as you might expect: writers on agriculture do not normally choose philosophers as their models. Yet before he was a philosopher, Lucretius was a poet; and not only that, but an inspired poet who could breathe fire into your belly and tighten the muscles of your throat as you read him. He was what I needed. If I could do for Octavian what Lucretius had done for Epicurus, and put fire into the bellies of others, I could rest content.
The second reason was personal. I chose Lucretius as a kind of exorcism.
I do not know which attracted me first to Epicureanism: the doctrine itself or Lucretius's poetry. Both came together, bright and clean as a single sword-flash. Then I met Siro, wisest and kindest of men. If Epicureanism was good enough for him, and for my other teacher Parthenius, I decided, then it was good enough for me, and I thought no more about the matter. If this sounds too simplistic, then I am sorry. As far as I am concerned it is the truth.
Since Siro's death, I had come to examine my beliefs more critically. First there was my love of poetry. That was not strictly against the Epicurean canon; witness Parthenius, and Lucretius himself. My growing involvement with politics was more serious, and completely against Epicurean strictures: Siro, I know, would have been horrified. Yet again this was a venial sin: many Epicureans managed to combine politics with philosophy.
The main charge against me, however, was my changing attitude to the gods, and the fate of the human soul. Here I had no defence. The gods exist for Epicureans, but they have no interest in mankind. They inhabit the pure air between the worlds, and are busy with their own concerns. This I could no longer accept. What I believed exactly, I am not quite sure; but recent events had convinced me that the gods – particularly Jupiter – had not totally abandoned us, and were at work through Octavian.
As for the soul, I no longer had a firm opinion. Perhaps it was that last conversation with my father; but I felt that I wanted to believe in its survival. That, too, was heresy to an Epicurean.
And so I chose Lucretius. In using him I was retracing my steps, sloughing off the philosophical skin that I had, not outgrown (to think that would be arrogance), but found no longer fitted.
I was putting the final touches to the Georgics, as I said, the year that Octavian returned to Italy after settling matters in the east. He arrived at Brindisi in the early summer; and almost immediately fell ill. Too weak to proceed straight to Rome, he spent some time at Atella in Campania. Towards the end of June I received a message asking me to join him, and to bring along a copy of the poem.
Octavian was staying at one of Maecenas's country villas. I was relieved to find that Maecenas was also there: the thought of a private reading to the ruler of the Roman world unnerved me completely. On the other hand, I discovered that I was to be part of his cure, and expected to read the whole work–- the whole work – to him over the next few days. A great honour, no doubt, but one I could have gladly foregone. Either my voice would give out, I thought grimly, or my nerve would break and they would take me home raving in a closed carriage.
Seven years had passed since our last (and only) meeting. Octavian had not changed much physically, although he showed clear signs of his recent illness: his face had a gaunt, yellow look and his wrists were thin. I noticed, too, that he wore woollen leggings despite the summer temperatures – he was sensitive to cold – and, on the rare occasions he ventured outside, a heavy military cloak.
The reading went well. Fortunately, Octavian preferred his medicine in small doses, and in any case we were continually interrupted by official business. It was not until the last book that things went terribly wrong.
I had decided (without telling anyone) to close the work with a short tribute to Gallus; and I had just begun reading this part when I felt the atmosphere change. I looked up. Octavian was sitting tight-lipped, staring at Maecenas, who was frowning.
'That,' Octavian said, 'will have to go.'
'I'm sorry, Caesar?' I thought perhaps I had misheard.
'There will be no mention of Cornelius Gallus.'
That came out flat. I simply stared at him. Maecenas started to say something, but Octavian silenced him with a look. He was not angry -–Octavian was rarely angry, or at least rarely showed his anger – but coldness seeped from him as from a glacier.
'Could I ask why, Caesar?' I was ashamed to find myself trembling. 'Gallus is my friend. I thought he was your friend, too.'
'Some things go beyond friendship.'
'I'm sorry, I still don't understand.'
'Gallus has...overstepped himself, Publius,' Maecenas put in smoothly. 'Become' – he tried a smile which did not work – 'a little too large for his boots.'
'In what way?' I said. I was genuinely puzzled. Gallus was no traitor; and treachery was the only explanation I could see for this reaction.
'He's been acting...well, rather foolishly recently.' Maecenas glanced at Octavian, whose expression was set like chiselled marble. 'On that last campaign of his. There was some nonsense about an inscription and some statues. As if the victory was all his doing.'
'And wasn't it?' I asked.
'That's not the point. Gallus is a subordinate, after all. And the whole thing was extremely...self-congratulatory.'
I was beginning to see.
'You mean he should have given the credit to Caesar?' I said. 'Although Caesar was nowhere near Egypt at the time?'
How I dared, I cannot tell you. It was a combination of outrage on Gallus's behalf and on my own, as a poet.
'That is exactly what he should have done,' Octavian said. 'For the good of the state.'
The anger must have shown on my face, because Maecenas held up a placating hand.
'You must understand, Publius, that generals can no longer be allowed to take too much glory to themselves. Self-aggrandisement was the ruination of the Republic.'
'So they must give the credit to those who don't deserve it?' I snapped.
I had gone too far. Octavian's face was chalk-white.
'You've been told the reasons, Virgil,' he said. 'That should be enough for you. Whether you accept them or not is your own concern, but what I say goes. You will take that passage out.'
I sat absolutely still. The book slipped from my lap and rolled across the tiled floor. Maecenas was looking at me in mute appeal, Octavian merely...looking. I drew a deep breath.
'Yes, Caesar,' I said quietly. I think I could have killed him then.
'Listen, Publius,' Maecenas laid a hand on my arm. 'It's nothing personal. But we can't have this spirit of glory-seeking any longer among the army commanders. It's too dangerous nowadays.'
'Dangerous to whom?' I was trying not to look at Octavian, but it was he who answered.
'You know your history, Virgil. Generals become successful. They build up a mystique among their soldiers. Soon they're more important to the men than the state itself, and then they start elbowing for power. Before you know it, Rome's in the middle of another civil war. Better not to allow the process to start in the first place.'
This made perfect sense, of course, especially delivered in Octavian's flat, measured tones. I had known it for years. But somehow, coming from him, it rang false.
'Gallus is not a traitor,' I said. 'You can reprimand him officially if you like, but with all respect, Caesar, you have no right to tell me that I cannot pay my friend a private compliment in my poem.'
'But it's not a private poem,' Maecenas said gently. 'It's a public statement of official policy. You can't get away from that, Publius.'
I noticed my hands were gripping the arms of my chair so tightly that the knuckles were white. Consciously, I relaxed them, and flexed my fingers.
'Very well,' I said. 'You can write your own public statements from now on.'
Octavian became very still.
'Come now, Virgil,' he said. 'Don't be a beetroot. It's too small a thing to quarrel over. After all, the passage is only a dozen lines.'
'Let it stand, then.'
'I can't do that.'
I said nothing. Maecenas, I noticed, had a look of alarm on his face.
Octavian got up and walked over to the far wall, which was painted with a picture of Perseus holding aloft the Gorgon's head. I noticed, in my detached mood, that our lord and master limped: an old wound, perhaps, or a congenital weakness. He stood for a long time in silence, staring at the picture.
'I need you, Virgil,' Octavian's back was still turned towards me. 'I have the present, but I need you to give me the future. Help me. Not for my own sake, but for the sake of Rome.'
There it was. The appeal that I had hoped he would not make, phrased in terms I had hoped he would not use. It was unanswerable.
'Very well, Caesar,' I said. Only that; but I hoped he would not press me further.
Octavian nodded. He was still looking at the picture. Beside me, I heard Maecenas let out his breath.
'Good.' Octavian turned round at last and tried a smile. Again I was struck by the thinness and unevenness of his teeth. 'You do understand, don't you?'
'Oh, I understand, Caesar,' I said. 'I understand perfectly.
'I hope so. I really do hope so.' He hesitated, then went on in a stronger voice: 'In any case, I wanted to discuss another project with you.'
'And that is?'
Octavian's eyes rested on me for a moment, then shifted away.
'I want you to write an epic.'
'The story of Aeneas.' Maecenas was watching me much as one will watch a skittish horse for signs that it will bolt.
I turned to him.
'Another public statement?' I asked sarcastically.
Octavian made a curious motion with his hand; as though he were warding off a blow. He still refused to look at me.
'I told you,' he said. 'I need you to give me the future. You're a great poet, perhaps the greatest Rome has ever produced. We – you and I together – have the chance to build a perfect world. I can control men's bodies, even their minds, but only you can give me their hearts.'
I sat still and said nothing. Even Maecenas was looking discomfited at the unmistakable pleading in Octavian's voice.
'I won't live forever.' Again, his back was to me. 'I'm not strong, I may not last even another ten years. I want my work to live after me for others to take up. You can write a poem that men unborn will listen to and say, ‘Yes, that's right, that's how things should be. That's how we want to live.’ Will you do it, Virgil? Please?'
'What about your past?' I heard myself saying. 'The killings. The back-stabbings, the lies. Your own shortcomings. You want me to justify those?'
