Augustus (27 page)

PREFACE

The reader will, I trust, now find himself in full agreement with my judgement that the first Book of these Memoirs, from its happy and impudent denunciation of Caesar's
De Bello Gallico
to its painful Egyptian finale, is written with a brio rare in Ancient, or, at least, Latin literature. He will, I trust, share my pleasure in the delight with which the Emperor so evidently wrote, and it seems to me that it would be but a mean spirit which did not respond joyfully, while hardly managing to restrain a certain envy for the fortunate young princes for whom this record was unrolled.

Alas, the second Book is a different, and grimmer, matter. All is now oppressed with a sad sense of waste and desolation
. . . 'Eheu, eheu, fugaces, Postume . . .'
Alternatively one may recall those noble lines which Dryden gave to Aurungzebe: 'When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat. Yet fool'd by hope, men favour the deceit.' This is a book made grey by the Emperor's knowledge of whither it was tending. It echoes Virgil's
'lacrimae rerum',
or, as Matthew Arnold put it, with felicitous gloom, 'the sense of tears in mortal things'.

Who shall deny that Augustus had cause for grief? The hopes he had rested in his grandsons were destroyed by their untimely death; he could do no more for them than strew the garlands of his loving praise on their sad tomb! Moreover the book opens at the moment of receiving news of the greatest military disaster of his life, when Quintilius Varus, heedless of Augustus' warnings, rashly led three legions to utter destruction in the German forests.

Here the Book starts and it covers a wide swathe of time as the restless Emperor moves forward and back in memory, forever seeking to account to himself for the afflictions that have befallen his latter years, that withdrawal of the favour of the Gods which brought his 'grey hairs in sorrow to the grave'.

That this Book is harsher reading than the First goes without saying. It is in the first place less compact. It ignores strict sequence of events. Its mood is dark, only occasionally lightened by sunlit passages of domestic happiness or public achievement. There are also passages of an intense yearning which find no equal in the earlier Book or indeed in Latin literature outside Virgil himself. There are fewer vivid descriptions of public conflict, for Augustus had established his superiority, and there are - it must be said - some passages which modern readers may find pedestrian, in which he describes his constitutional settlement or recounts his handling of foreign affairs. Yet without such stuff the book would be incomplete. It is clear that Augustus intended to leave posterity a rounded picture of his work and his achievement; he could not do so if he eschewed the arid pastures of politics. Yet one has only to read these pages, and set them beside those in which he treats of his personal life, and then make a comparison with even the liveliest of modern political memoirs, to see how sparing Augustus has been of the pomposity and verbiage in which such records are generally cloaked; and if one does so, one will appreciate his forbearance and humanity.

That a note of self-justification runs through these memoirs, it were vain to deny. Augustus committed great crimes, and knew it. It was natural that he should seek to explain them to himself and to whomsoever should read his book. There is truth in the old adage,
qui s'excuse, s'accuse,
and yet again one has only to read memoirs of modern political sinners such as ex-President Nixon or ex-Premier Wilson, whose confessions never rise beyond
their own justification, to ad
mire the flinty dignity with which Augustus refuses to deny the truth. In this context, one must add that this second Book is indeed more truthful than the first. In particular it affords us an understanding of the relationship between the young Augustus and Mark Antony which he could not bring himself to offer to his grandsons.

It appears that the second Book was written intermittently over a period of five years, the last entries being made on the eve of his death. There are discrepancies: for instance, Chapter I treats with admirable honesty of his
Res Gestae,
that record of his Acts which he caused to be published throughout the Empire, and in this he states that he was then in his seventy-sixth year. Yet, at the beginning of the chapter, he has just received news of Varus' disaster. It would seem either that a preliminary version of the
Res Gestae
was in fact made earlier, and that a contemporary editor then corrected the Emperor's statement of his age to fit the published version, or that the passage relating to the
Res Gestae
was indeed written later than subsequent chapters and inserted here, for dramatic effect, by the same editor. Such questions are not likely however to disturb the common reader.

It must be said that this is an old man's book. The style is sometimes loose, sometimes relapses into a weary formality; it lacks the vivacity of the earlier essay in autobiography. Myself, I find this appealing. Some readers will not agree, and will regret Gaius' and Lucius' deaths all the more for the literary loss it entailed. Clearly this Book was never revised, and sometimes the Emperor's memory is faulty: so, for instance, in Chapter IV he confuses the order of Agrippa's wives. It was not Caecilia Attica whom Agrippa divorced in order to marry Augustus' daughter Julia, but Augustus' own niece Marcella, the daughter of his sister Octavia and C. Claudius Marcellus. One wonders what caused this lapse of memory. Was it perhaps an unwillingness to recall that Marcella then married Iullus Antonius, himself later Julia's most notorious lover, the agent of her disgrace and victim of Augustus' anger, who was executed for treason as recounted in Chapter XI? One cannot tell. There may be no such deep reason. Augustus was clearly distressed while he wrote this fourth chapter for there is interpolated in it, almost at random, a letter from Tiberius written on the Rhine in which he describes the arrival in camp of a miserable remnant of Varus' legionaries - a truly horrible story which brought intense pain, grief and shame to Augustus. Such questions are perhaps for the psychologist rather than the classical scholar to ponder. Let it suffice to say here that the reader must be ever alert to follow the wanderings of the imperial mind through the years transversed in this second Book, and I would urge him (or her) to be ready to forgive the occasional mistakes and self-deception. That the man laboured heroically to be honest I have no doubt!

It is hardly the duty of the editor to play the critic, but there are two beauties in the work to which I should like to draw the reader's attention. The first is the manner in which the Emperor treats of his relationship with Virgil. It is moving (to me at least) to see the humility with which the man of action regards the poet, and the awe in which he holds him. The second is his treatment of his marriage. The distinguished British novelist, Mr Anthony Powell, has remarked on the difficulty, even perhaps impossibility, of treating marriage, particularly a happy marriage, in a work of fiction. Unhampered by fictional demands as he was, it seems to me that the Emperor made a fair attempt! At the very least his sober and loving portrayal of Livia, though never hiding her faults or their disagreements, should rescue that great lady from the vile calumnies fathered on her grandson Claudius by the fecund imagination of the late Robert Graves, itself infected by the most scurrilous rumour-mongers of Ancient Rome.

I may state in my capacity as Chairman of the Editorial Committee that Mr Massie has happily approached the task of translating this second Book with more sobriety than he showed in his version of the first. He shows greater respect for the Latin text (sometimes, it has been objected, even excessive respect), and engages in fewer colloquialisms of the type to which he was attracted by a misplaced desire for liveliness -surely one of the innumerable banes of modem life!

Finally, I cannot resist adding an expression of my gratification at having been associated with this great work, however much I may deplore the commercialism that taints this particular edition, and, on a purely personal note, in which even the indulgent reader may detect a yet pardonable vanity, express my hitherto secret joy at the coincidence of my own first name with that of the hero who was father of the Roman People, the subject of Virgil's Epic, the Emperor's exemplar, and, as one might say, prototype: AENEAS.

Aeneas Fraser-Graham,

Quondam Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge,

Director of the Institute of Classical Strategies,

Chairman of the International Editorial Committee

established to superintend and guide

THE AUGUSTUS PROJECT.

ONE

I reviewed these troops before they left Aries for the frontier. They were prime legionaries from the lands north-east of Mantua, from the Abruzzi, from Calabria and Apulia, and there was one legion recruited in Transalpine Gaul itself. Many of the women and children of the Gallic legionaries crowded into Aries to weep, or wave, farewell to their sons, lovers, husbands and fathers. I looked on all with pride, and a love in which even then I felt the tender and ready tears of old age prick my eyes. I warned Varus of the dangers which brood in the mirk recesses of the German forests. I said to him: 'Advance carefully, behind a fringe of scouts; guard your flanks and rear; remember always, do not for a moment forget, that the most valuable and necessary members of your army in such an expedition are the scouts; it is on the quality of your intelligence that the safety of our soldiers depends.' I repeated the warning again and again till he sighed (I am sure) to be so oppressed by the timid alarms of an old man. This is the curse of age: to find experience discounted, set at naught. I took the auspices, which were good, and assured the troops of my love and confidence.

Tonight there is curfew in the city. I have ordered that the Praetorians patrol the streets till dawn, that they post guards by the Senate House to forbid entry and by the Temple of Capitoline Jupiter, and that the Field of Mars be occupied by at least a cohort. Guards at the gates have been doubled.

I cannot sleep. I sleep little now, rarely more than two hours at a stretch, and am accustomed to require slaves to be on hand to read to me through the black silence of night. But there is no solace in words now, however well-arranged.

Should I send an order to Tiberius to return to Rome? Or send him straight to the Rhine? Decisions, which used to be prompted by instinct, intuition, guided by the counsel of those I trusted, now perturb me. Only Livia remains . . . and she . . . enough of this vein.

I have a cold in the head, and have coughed, sneezed and spluttered my way through the darkness. My legs are leaden and my shoulders ache. I am troubled by the sharp-stabbing pains of gout, and my stomach is disordered. If I close my eyes, I am assailed by nightmare images of slaughter: I hear Roman voices shriek in terror and despair through the limitless forests; I smell sweat and fear and the reek of horse-flesh, blood, sour marsh vapours and the ordure of panic. I am an old man, nearing my end, trapped in a corner between the walls of achievement and death . . . and what, I ask, does it signify? In some cities of Asia, in defiance of my expressed wishes, they worship me as a God. Who ever heard of a God with gout and a cold in the head?

This disaster, the gravest I have known, leads me to question what I have achieved. There was a little yellow-haired girl, about six or seven, who ran beside the marching legions for some fifty paces, trying to grab hold of her father's hand, and crying 'Daddy, Daddy'; he, not daring to break step, looked down on her with a countenance into which I read love, anguish and embarrassment. But if I were to send for that little girl, what could I do for her that would heal the wound cut open by my policies and by Varus' criminal carelessness? Deprived by cruel fate of my own children I grow ever more tender towards other people's; old man's tears again.

It was Livia who brought me the news. No one else dared. That thought also distresses me. It makes me feel like a monarch, even a tyrant, whereas I call the Gods, in whom my faith tremblingly rests, to bear witness that I have never sought to be more than the First Citizen of Rome, the Father of my Country - that title the Senate was pleased to grant me, in which I had delighted. But now only Livia would approach me with the news that Varus had led the legions into a trap and that they had all been swallowed up and destroyed. They were lured into the forest, obstructed by felled trees, swamps and undergrowth, cut down in a rain-storm. Varus, the reports said, killed himself - that Roman death that is no better than an abandonment of faith, the last resort of cold egoists like Brutus; (and I am not forgetting that I was once tempted to it myself). Captured legionaries were crucified, or beheaded and eviscerated as offerings to the savage and unknown gods of these northern forests. I looked into the familiar landscape of Livia's face, and could read nothing there, as, sparing me nothing, she spat out the facts to me in short brutal sentences. Her very laconicism made it impossible for me to find any refuge from the truth. But when I began to lament my legions, she stopped me.

'There may be time for tears later. But now we must be vigilant. Military disaster can be the seedbed of revolution. You can't doubt, my dear, that those who hate your regime will even now be rejoicing at what has befallen Rome. They will be saying that their hour has come. If you take my advice, which I know you are loth to do nowadays, ever since I first gave you advice that tasted like bitter medicine, you will at once round up fellows like Lucius Arruntius, Asinius Gallus and Marcus Lepidus, and clap them under house arrest - at the very least. . .'