Augustus was from the first, by nature, a dynast. The word is Greek and means a man of power. It was on account of his single-minded pursuit of power that he triumphed in the civil wars; it was that pursuit which forced the war against Antony and Cleopatra on the Roman people. Yet he was never even a competent soldier. He owed his victories to Marcus Agrippa, and to the goddess Fortune.
I didn't appreciate Agrippa till he became my father-in-law. I can't reproach myself for failing to do so. It would have been more remarkable if I had understood his genius, for he was everything I distrusted by nature: rough, uncouth, with a strong provincial accent, and given to laughing loudly at his own (poor) jokes. He had that taste for bawdy stories which is such a useful means of creating good-feeling between men; it is my ill-fortune that I am fastidious and detest such ribaldry.
Augustus relied on him utterly. They were complementary. Neither would have been capable of the other's achievement. Nevertheless, as children, we used to mock him, Julia especially. I didn't realise then that Augustus had already arranged that I should marry Agrippa's daughter, Vipsania. I would have been extremely offended, for I found her insipid. Certain scenes of youth stand out with the clarity of wall-paintings. A summer evening in the gardens of a villa overlooking the sea, Naples some twenty miles distant. I am reading Homer and listening to a nightingale, for it is almost too dark to read the words. A hand is slipped across my eyes from the rear. I have heard no one approaching. The hand is cool and dry.
"Julia," I say, without moving, and feel the fingers move down to stroke my cheek.
"I wish you weren't always reading. I don't know what you see in books." "They tell us," I say, "how life…" "Now, darling," she says, "don't be pompous…"
Even at that age – what, thirteen? – when most of us are shy and awkwardly aware of ourselves, Julia could employ the word "darling" as naturally as a child or a lover. But she was perturbed that summer, that evening. "Put your book away," she said. "I want to speak to you." "Well, it's too dark to read…" "Please be serious." "What is this? You ask me to be serious?" "I've got some news. Daddy says he wants me to marry The Hyacinth." "Congratulations." "Don't be silly."
"I'm serious. Marcellus is going to win great glory. Your father will see to that…"
"That's what I mean. I should prefer my husband to be a man who will win glory for himself. Or perhaps not? What is glory after all?"
"But Marcellus is charming also," I said. "Everyone agrees on that." "Oh yes," she said, "but I don't want him…" She leaned forward, kissed me on the lips, and ran away, laughing.
She would laugh – at intervals – all through her marriage to Marcellus, and he took it as a tribute to his charms. But laughter in Julia was not necessarily a sign of happiness. As it happened, my mother also was opposed to the marriage. She made her view clear, but this was one of the few battles with Augustus which she lost.
"He was besotted with the boy," she told me later. "It blinded his judgment and made him obstinate as a pig."
Curiously, Marcellus' own mother, Augustus' sister, Octavia, also disapproved of the marriage. She feared that it would expose her son to the jealousy of more capable and more ruthless men. She knew he was a lightweight, even if she adored him. Indeed it is quite possible that Marcellus commanded the adoration of his mother and uncle precisely for that reason.
Nevertheless the marriage went ahead. Augustus was silly with joy. Marcellus preened himself. Julia sulked. She soon found however that there was something to be said for her new state. As a married woman she had privileges denied a virgin. She had her own household and discovered that she enjoyed the freedom and the opportunities to command which this afforded her.
But she was not happy and she had reason for discontent. One evening she invited me to supper. I was surprised to discover that we were alone together.
"Don't be silly, my old bear," she said. "After all we're practically brother and sister."
She toyed with her food, nibbling a little dried fish and some green grapes, a slice of smoked ham and two purple figs, which she held up between thumb and forefinger before putting them whole into her mouth. She drank two or three goblets of wine, and urged me on. Then she dismissed the slaves and we were alone.
She stretched out on her couch, holding up her arm to admire the shape of her hand, and let me have a glimpse of her breasts. She pulled up the skirts of her gown to display her legs.
"They're improving, aren't they?" she said. "Only a few weeks ago they were still fat. What do you think of them, old bear?" "Stop it," I said. "Why?" "Because it's not right…"
"It's not my fault if I fancy you and not my husband. Is it now?" She stroked her thighs and smiled. "Cat," I said; but didn't move. "Old bear. Are you a virgin, old bear?" I'm sure I blushed. "As a matter of fact, no," I said.
"Oh good. The Hyacinth can't do it," she said, "not with me anyway. I think he needs people to tell him how pretty he is, and I won't do that. Do you know where he is tonight, actually…?"
I shook my head. I couldn't take my eyes off her legs and the movement of her hands… "He's having supper with Maecenas," she said.
"Won't the conversation be rather over his head?" I asked, for Augustus' Etruscan minister was celebrated as the patron of poets and artists. Julia giggled.
"Maecenas gives other kinds of parties, you know. With dancers and painted chorus-boys. That's the kind he invites Marcellus to. He's been doing it for years and nobody dares tell my father, not even his paid spies." She sat up.
"Look at me. I'm a beautiful girl, the daughter of the most powerful man in the world, and the husband my father has forced on me would rather have any Phrygian boy who wiggles his bum at him."
She threw herself down sobbing. I watched her shoulders rise and fall, and felt my mouth dry. I touched cracked lips with my tongue. I moved to comfort her. In a trice her arms were round my neck, her tongue seeking mine. I tasted tears, wine and warm, eager, scented flesh; she was soft as rose petals and firm as a galloping horse. She cried aloud with joy-filled pain, and I sank into unimaginable delight… "Old bear, old bear, hairy beast…" "Lascivious cat…" It was like that then. The night dies over the ocean. The moon swells behind the mountains of Asia which roll back, wave upon wave, to the confines of empire. I pour myself more wine and gulp it, seeking fierce oblivion that will not come.