Dictator

And so began two days of unexpectedly friendly exchanges. It turned out that Octavian was staying next door with his mother Atia and his stepfather Philippus, and he wandered back and forth quite freely between the two houses. Often he appeared on his own, even though he had brought an entourage of friends and soldiers over with him from Illyricum, and more had joined him at Naples. He and Cicero would talk in the villa or walk along the seashore together in the intervals between showers. Watching them, I was reminded of a line in Cicero’s treatise on old age: just as I approve of the young man in whom there is a touch of age, so I approve of the old man in whom there is some flavour of youth … Oddly enough, it was Octavian who sometimes seemed the older of the two: serious, polite, deferential, shrewd; it was Cicero who made the jokes and skimmed the stones across the sea. He told me that Octavian had no small talk. All he wanted was political advice. The fact that Cicero was publicly aligned with his adopted father’s killers appeared to be neither here nor there as far as he was concerned. How soon should he go to Rome? How should he handle Antony? What should he say to Caesar’s veterans, many of whom were hanging around the house? How was civil war to be avoided?

Cicero was impressed: ‘I can understand entirely what Caesar saw in him – he has a certain coolness rare in one of his years. He might make a great statesman one day, if only he can survive long enough.’ The men around him were a different matter. These included a couple of Caesar’s old army commanders, with the hard, dead eyes of professional killers; and some arrogant young companions, two in particular: Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, not yet twenty but already bloodied by war, taciturn and faintly menacing even in repose; and Gaius Cilnius Maecenas, a little older, effeminate, giggling, cynical. ‘Those,’ said Cicero, ‘I do not care for at all.’

On only one occasion did I have an opportunity to observe Octavian closely for any length of time. That was on the final day of his stay, when he came to dinner with his mother and stepfather, along with Agrippa and Maecenas; Cicero also invited Hirtius and Pansa; I made up the nine. I noticed how the young man never touched his wine, how quiet he was, how his pale grey eyes flicked from one speaker to another and how intently he listened, as if he was trying to commit everything they said to memory. Atia, who looked as if she might have been the model for a statue commemorating the ideal Roman matron, was far too proper to voice a political opinion in public. Philippus, however, who certainly did drink, became increasingly voluble, and towards the end of the evening announced, ‘Well if anyone wants to know my opinion, I think Octavian should renounce this inheritance.’

Maecenas whispered to me, ‘Does anyone want to know his opinion?’ and he bit on his napkin to stifle his laughter.

Octavian said mildly, ‘And what leads you to that opinion, Father?’

‘Well, if I may speak frankly, my boy, you can call yourself Caesar all you like but that doesn’t make you Caesar, and the closer you get to Rome the greater the danger will be. Do you really think Antony is just going to hand over all these millions? And why would Caesar’s veterans follow you rather than Antony, who commanded a wing at Pharsalus? Caesar’s name is just a target on your back. You’ll be killed before you’ve gone fifty miles.’

Hirtius and Pansa nodded in agreement.

Agrippa said quietly, ‘No, we can get him to Rome safely enough.’

Octavian turned to Cicero. ‘And what do you think?’

Cicero dabbed carefully at his mouth with his napkin before replying. ‘Just four months ago your adopted father was dining precisely where you are now and assuring me he had no fear of death. The truth is, all our lives hang by a thread. There is no safety anywhere, and no one can predict what will happen. When I was your age, I dreamed only of glory. What I wouldn’t have given to be in your place now!’

‘So you would go to Rome?’

‘I would.’

‘And do what?’

‘Stand for election.’

Philippus said, ‘But he’s only eighteen. He’s not even old enough to vote.’

Cicero continued: ‘As it happens, there’s a vacancy for a tribune: Cinna was killed by the mob at Caesar’s funeral – they got the wrong man, poor devil. You should propose yourself to fill his place.’

Octavian said, ‘But surely Antony would never allow it?’

Cicero replied, ‘That doesn’t matter. Such a move would show your determination to continue Caesar’s policy of championing the people: the plebs will love it. And when Antony opposes you – as he must – he’ll be seen as opposing them.’

Octavian nodded slowly. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Perhaps you should come with me?’

Cicero laughed. ‘No, I’m retiring to Greece to study philosophy.’

‘That’s a pity.’