Caesar (22 page)

(I torture myself with these memories, of her warmth, her presence, of which I dream in my nights which are ever more empty of all but despair
...
not fear, for I shall not admit that
...
but despair, of ever again . . . Artixes, with whom I try to amuse myself; in whose being I seek to recover something of sunshine
...
is nothing of comfort, when
I recall, as I nightly do, Long
ina's embraces . . . lost . . . sacrificed
...
on account of . . . what? Duty? Ambition?)

"Husband" . . . hours later, in bed, warm, together, sticky with passion and happiness. "Husband, Caesar has had too many women, you know, too many, to feel anything for them. They are a convenience. He used me, as you might use, I don't know what, I have no gift for words, but there was a contempt in his treatment of me
...
do you think the Queen of Egypt feels that too. . .?"

"I think the Queen of Egypt is a girl who is in full charge of her own life, whose ambition is boundless, and who can out-Caesar . . ."

"Well, I couldn't. Whenever he left my bed, I felt diminished. Not because he had gone but because of the way he had finished with me. And the day came when he returned and I said 'no'. And do you know how he responded? He laughed . . . He laughed. Why do you think he did so?"

"You tell me."

"Because that is how Caesar has to treat any rebuff. Another man would be angry, but Caesar will not stoop to anger. He has to maintain his superiority. So he laughed. And the glance he gave me . . . horrible. Then he threw a jewel into my lap and left. Husband, Mouse-husband, I love you, do you know that. . . ? There, I've said it. I swore I never would. To tell someone you love them puts you in their power. But, please, please, please . . ."

Please what? What did she mean? I knew even then, and I knew' even then that she was asking what was beyond me, and what, if I had acceded, would have caused her in time to despise me.

For this is something I have learned: that we love most what is denied us. That winter I adored Longina, I adore her memory still; and it is because I could not do as she wished. I could not give her what she asked for, my submission to her will; and if I had done so, she would have turned away from me. She loved me, had come to love me, for my virtue. And my virtue would have fled if I had submitted to the indulgence of uxoriousness.

There is only one character who is wholly contemptible in Homer, and that is Paris, who allowed his passion for Helen to unman him. And I think Helen came to despise Paris, as all who read the
Iliad
despise him.

Wasn't the intensity of those days in December all the greater, all the more invigorating, all the more delightful because we both knew that the gods decree that men and women must demand of each other what the other cannot in honour give?

Our idyll was broken. It was broken first by a letter I received from Octavius in Greece.

Mouse:

Rumours reach me which are disturbing. You will understand that I must speak carefully for it is foolish to give credence to rumour. Nevertheless certain rumours, which are persistent, threaten my future career, in which I know you continue to take a lively and affectionate interest. Maecenas, whom you dislike, is a wise counsellor as well as a fruitful source of gossip, and the word that reaches him is that the paternity of a certain child may be acknowledged. Very evidently, if this were done, which naturally appears improbable, my own position would be impaired. My uncle is of course the most honourable of men, and would not, I am certain, contemplate such an acknowledgment which has, I am certain, no basis in truth. Yet these rumours persist. Since your counsel is properly so highly valued by all parties concerned, I cannot believe that any action would be taken without prior seeking of your advice. Therefore, I write to you, not in any trepidation, but rather because rumour is insidious; it can lead to unpredictable consequences, which, however unpredictable, could nevertheless be to some extent anticipated as being to my (and perhaps even your) disadvantage. I can well understand that the lady in the case has powerful reasons for urging the course of action which is rumoured. Can I beg you to make any enquiries that may prudently and sagaciously be undertaken? Would it, I wonder, be wise for me to abandon, my studies, delightful and stimulating as they are, and return forthwith to Rome to protect my interests? Naturally of course I shall acquiesce in whatever is determined, and if I have to seek another route to fortune, then I shall do so with all the resolution and intelligence at my command. But I wish to take no action now which you, as my valued friend and adviser, would deem precipitate, unwise or unnecessary.

I send you warm greetings and the assurance of my affection.

Octavius

I wondered, of course, who had been kind enough to pass on the rumour that Caesar contemplated the acknowledgment of Caesarion as his son. Despite the suggestion that it came via Maecenas, I couldn't help but suspect Calpurnia. I could see that she might consider it in her interest to stir up trouble between Caesar and his nephew and presumptive heir. It could only help her campaign to bring the rumours about Caesarion into public notice, for the more discussion there was, the more Caesar would realise how offensive the Roman nobility would find it if he even hinted that he might make a half-foreign bastard his heir.

So, I replied soothingly:

My dear Octavius:

There would seem to be something fretful about the air of Greece. It stimulates the imagination and disturbs the judgment. The rumours you have heard are only rumours. What you fear will not come to pass. You say you trust my judgment: very well, rest assured that the influences you fear are exaggerated.

On the other hand, I hear that your friend Maecenas enjoys three new catamites a day. Can this rumour be true?

I remain your dear friend than whom you have none warmer.

D. Iunius Brutus

There was nothing, I thought, compromising in my letter, which would certainly be intercepted at some point, and a copy sent to Caesar. If he learned in this way that Maecenas was a disreputable associate for young Octavius, so much the better.

But he must have known that already. That thought made me wonder if there was truth in Mark Antony's claim that Octavius himself had been enjoyed by Caesar.

All the same my gibe was a mistake. I would have been wiser to cultivate Maecenas, however I despised him. I am sure that he poisoned Octavius' ear against me. Certainly that was the last letter I ever had from Octavius which spoke to me in terms of trust and affection. I should have realised that Maecenas had taken my place as the principal influence over the boy — he had the advantage of being with him, and of being addicted to every vice, something always attractive, even glamorous to the young. Had I realised this, I should have set myself to flatter Maecenas (who, like all effeminates, is peculiarly susceptible to flattery). In the manner of his type, he is also jealous, malicious and vengeful. He made it impossible later for me to effect a reconciliation with Octavius. But for his malice, I might not find myself in my present unhappy state.

And another thing: it occurred to me that if Calpurnia was right, and Caesar was indeed now sterile, then Caesarion might be my son, not his, the fruit of my one luscious and lustful encounter with the Queen. The dates would have fitted just as well in either case. The thought amused me, but it was one which I considered wiser not to share with Longina: or indeed with Caesar.

Chapter 15

D
uring the Festival of the Saturnalia, in the dark afternoon of the shortest day of the year, Mark Antony arrived at my house, half-cut and still crapulous from the previous night's debauch. He demanded wine and leered at Longina, who properly retired to her own chamber.

Antony stretched himself on a couch, drank the wine the slave had brought in one gulp and held out the goblet to be refilled.

"You're a lucky bugger, Mouse, always were," he said, and leaned over sideways and vomited on the marble.

He watched with a smile curling his lips - a smile that contradicted the bleariness of his gaze - while the slave cleaned up the mess.

"Sorry about that. More wine's the answer. Keep bunging the stuff down till some of it sticks, I always say."

"Well, Antony, you are always welcome to my hospitality, within reason."

"Cagey bugger, aren't you, always were. Tell you what I've been trying to decide. Am I celebrating or am I not?"

He gulped more wine, steadied himself on his elbow.

"That's better. Send this little brat away. We don't want slaves to hear what we have to say. Bloody gossips, every man jack of them. Fuck off, do you hear, and leave the sodding wine. That's better."

He poured himself another measure with a trembling hand that made the jug rattle against the goblet.

"D'you understand what I said? Am I celebrating or am I not?"

"You tell me, Antony. You ought to know after all."

"Ah, crafty . . . crafty . . . but that's the point, I don't know.

So I come to you, little Mous
e, to find out. And when I say ‘I’
, I include you. Are we celebrating, or are we not? Here, you're not drinking. Bloody drink, will you. It's uncivilised to leave a man to drink on his own. Uncivilised and ungenerous. But I'm. generous, so I'm offering you one."

"Very well. And let me answer your question. You appear to be celebrating, but not perhaps very happily."

"Got it in one. I knew I was right. Said to myself, bloody Mouse'll see the bloody point. I am celebrating, been celebrating for two, three days, maybe four, but not happy. Good. So next question, next question . . . Very diffy one. Why? Got everything to be happy about, don't I. Antony starts his consulship in ten days, maybe a fortnight, lost count's a matter of fact. But not happy. Why?"

"I can't answer that. You ought to be happy. You'll make a fine consul."

(As long as you can contrive to be at least half-sober at the necessary official ceremonies, I thought.)

"Mouse, you've let me down. Little Mouse, let old Antony down. Never would have thought it. . . Tell you why, give you the answer myself. We won the bloody civil war, didn't we? Yes, can't deny that. But we're losing the peace, that's why. All those buggers on the other side, like your esteemed father-in-law, like that prig of a cousin of yours, Marcus Brutus, are slipping back into power. By Hercules, there was a fucking Augean stable to be cleansed, and nothing has been done. There are plots against Caesar, Antony, loyal old Antony, goes and tells the General, and he laughs, says, go and sleep it off, there's a good chap. So: answer. I'm not celebrating. . ."

And then he fell asleep.

I am aware that throughout this memoir I have presented Antony in an unfavourable light: as uncouth, boorish, impetuous, wrong-headed. He was all these things. But he was also more, and different, something which many who had not served alongside him failed to realise. His charm was formidable. When he chose to exert it, the radiance of his smile, the eagerness with which he charged at life, lit up the existence of those around him. And he was no fool. He said many foolish things, but he was also capable of flashes of unexpected intelligence. And strangest of all, this man who appeared so heedless of the impression he made, who even at times seemed to delight in presenting himself as disreputably as possible, was also possessed of a rare sensitivity: a sensitivity that quivered, sunbeamlike, in response to the moods of others. This was one reason why his soldiers adored him. There is no general men will follow so eagerly as one who has an intuitive understanding of how they feel at any moment. And Antony had that quality. Even in drunkenness, he was never cut off — as I have seen other drunkards separated — from the way others felt. He was an utterly social being, one who could not be imagined in isolation. And because he was this, he understood far more than those who are wrapped up in their own concerns ever do. Now he opened one eye.

"Fuck the Queen of Egypt, I say. But when I tried, she said, fuck yourself, old boy."

He closed the eye again and began to snore.

If Antony believed that men like my father-in-law and Marcus Brutus were plotting against Caesar, he was almost certainly correct.

This left me in an alarming position. As Caesar's closest adherent, known to be the favourite among his surviving generals, was I the object of such a plot also? Was it possible to plot against Caesar alone, and leave the Caesarian party unmolested?

The next afternoon I encountered Antony in the Forum. He had just emerged from a barber's shop, spruced, shaved, pomaded and sober.

"Afraid I was a bit of a bore yesterday, old boy. Sorry and all that. Hope I didn't say anything I shouldn't, specially to your lovely wife."

"Not at all. You indicated you hadn't got far with the Queen of Egypt, that's all."