John Williams - Augustus

My hand is shaking so that I cannot read what is written. I steady myself. My voice is strange to me. I read aloud: "On this Ides of March Julius Caesar is murdered by his enemies in the Senate House. There are no details. The people run wildly through the streets. No one can know what will happen next. You may be in great danger. I can write no more. Your mother beseeches you to care for your person." The letter has been written in great haste; there are blots of ink, and the letters are ill-formed.

I look around me, not knowing what I feel. An emptiness? The officers stand around us in a ring; I look into the eyes of one; his face crumples, I hear a sob: and I remember that this is one of Caesar's prime legions, and that the veterans look upon him as a father.

After a long time Octavius moves; he walks to the messenger who remains seated on the ground, his face slack with exhaustion. Octavius kneels beside him; his voice is gentle. "Do you know anything that is not in this letter?"

The messenger says, "No, sir," and starts to get up but Octavius puts his hand on his shoulder and says, "Rest;” and he rises and speaks to one of the officers. "See that this man is cared for and given comfortable quarters." Then he turns to the three of us, who have moved closer together. "We will talk later. Now I must think of what this will mean." He reaches his hand out toward me, and I understand that he wants the letter. I hand it to him, and he turns away from us. The ring of officers breaks for him, and he walks down the hill. For a long time we watch him, a slight boyish figure walking on the deserted field, moving slowly, this way and that, as if trying to discover a way to go.

Later. Great consternation in camp as word of Caesar's death spreads. Rumors so wild that one can believe none of them. Arguments arise, subside; a few fist fights, quickly broken up. Some of the old professionals, whose lives have been spent in fighting from legion to legion, sometimes against the men who are now their comrades, look with contempt upon the fuss, and go about their business. Still Octavius has not returned from his lonely watch upon the field. The day darkens.

Night. A guard has been placed around our tents by Lugdunius himself, commander of the legion; for no one knows what enemies we have, or what may ensue. The four of us together in Octavius's tent; we sit or recline on pallets around the lanterns flickering in the center of the floor. Sometimes Octavius rises and sits on a campstool, away from the light, so that his face is in shadow. Many have come in from Apollonia, asking for more news, giving advice, offering aid; Lugdunius has put the legion at our disposal, should we want it. Now Octavius has asked that we not be disturbed, and speaks of those who have come to him.

"They know even less than we, and they speak only to their own fortunes. Yesterday-" he pauses and looks at something in the darkness-"yesterday, it seemed they were my friends. Now I may not trust them." He pauses again, comes close to us, and puts his hand on my shoulder. "I shall speak of these matters only with you three, who are truly my friends."

Maecenas speaks; his voice has deepened, and no longer shrills with the effeminacy that he sometimes affects: "Do not trust even us, who love you. From this moment on, put only that faith in us that you have to."

Octavius turns abruptly away from us, his back to the light, and says in a strangled voice: "I know. I know even that."

And so we talk of what we must do.

Agrippa says that we must do nothing, since we know nothing upon which we can reasonably act. In the unsteady light of the lanterns, he might be an old man, with his voice and his gravity. "We are safe here, at least for the time being; this legion will be loyal to us-Lugdunius has given his word. For all we know, this may be a general rebellion, and armies may already have been dispatched for our capture, as Sulla sent troops for the descendants of Marius-among whom was Julius Caesar himself. We may not be as lucky now as he was then. We have behind us the mountains of Macedonia, where they will not follow against this legion. In any event, we shall have time to receive more news; and we shall have made no move to compromise our position, one way or the other. We must wait in the safety of the moment."

Octavius, softly: "My uncle once told me that too much caution may lead to death as certainly as too much rashness."

I suddenly find myself on my feet; a power has come upon me; I speak in a voice that seems not my own: "I call you Caesar, for I know that he would have had you as his son."

Octavius looks at me; the thought had not occurred to him, I believe. "It is too early for that," he says slowly, "but I will remember that it was Salvidienus who first called me by that name."

I say: "And if he would have you as his son, he would have you act as he would have done. Agrippa has said that we have the loyalty of one legion here; the other five in Macedonia will respond as Lugdunius has, if we do not delay in asking their allegiance. For if we know nothing of what will ensue, they know even less. I say that we march on Rome with the legions we have and assume the power that lies there."

Octavius: "And then? We do not know what that power is; we do not know who will oppose us. We do not even know who murdered him."

Myself: "The power shall become what we make it to be. As for who will oppose us, we cannot know. But if Antonius's legions will join with ours, then-"

Octavius, slowly: "We do not even know who murdered him. We do not know his enemies, thus we cannot know our own."

Maecenas sighs, rises, shakes his head. "We have spoken of action, of what we shall do; but we have not spoken of the end to which that action is aimed." He gazes at Octavius. "My friend, what is it that you wish to accomplish, by whatever action we take?"

For a moment Octavius does not speak. Then he looks at each of us in turn, intently. "I swear to you all now, and to the gods, that if it is my destiny to live, I shall have vengeance upon the murderers of my uncle, whoever they may be."

Maecenas, nodding: "Then our first purpose is to ensure that destiny, so that you may fulfill the vow. We must stay alive. To that end we must move with caution-but we must move." He is walking about the room, addressing us as if we were schoolchildren. "Our friend Agrippa recommends that we remain here safely until we can know which way to move. But to remain here is to remain in ignorance. News will come from Rome- but it will be rumor confounded with fact, fact confounded with self-interest, until self-interest and faction become the source of all we shall know." He turns to me. "Our impetuous friend Salvidienus advises that we strike at once, finding advantage in the confusion that the world may now be in. To run in the dark against a timid opponent may win you the race; but it is as likely to plunge you over a cliff you cannot see, or lead you to a mark you do not wish to find. No… All of Rome will know that Octavius has received word of his uncle's death. He shall return quietly, with his friends and his grief-but without the soldiers that both his friends and enemies might welcome. No army will attack four boys and a few servants, who return to grieve a relative; and no force will gather around them to warn and stiffen the will of the enemy. And if it is to be murder, four can run more swiftly than a legion."

We have had our say; Octavius is silent; and it occurs to me how odd it is that we will so suddenly defer to his decision, as we have not done before. Is it a power in him we sense and have not known earlier? Is it the moment? Is it some lack in ourselves? I will consider this later.

At last Octavius speaks: "We shall do as Maecenas says. We'll leave most of our possessions here, as if we intend to return; and tomorrow we make as much haste as we can to cross to Italy. But not to Brindisi-there's a legion there, and we cannot know its disposition."