Augustus (31 page)

This abundance of water made possible one of Rome’s most popular pastimes, going to the public baths. These received their own supply and were much like modern Turkish baths or hammams. The price of entry was so small that everyone except the poorest could afford it. Many Romans would go to the baths every day, often in the early afternoon, after work and before the evening meal. Here they could meet friends and exchange gossip.

In 33, Octavian and Agrippa were back in Rome from Illyricum. How could they give the regime legitimacy, they asked themselves, how persuade public opinion that, after the long years of division, bloodshed, and power politics, Octavian meant to govern in the people’s interest, not just his own?

They found an answer in their run-down megalopolis. Investment in public buildings and services would achieve three useful purposes. First, it would improve the city’s grandeur, making its appearance worthy of its role as the capital of the known world. Second, the quality of life of Rome’s volatile citizenry would be enhanced. Third, the refurbishment of the city’s architectural heritage would be the first concrete illustration of Octavian’s commitment to restoring Rome’s antique values. An appeal to the old ways was a powerful means of sweetening the revolutionary nature of the Triumvirate.

Octavian called on his generals to signal their successes in the field by restoring one or another Roman landmark at their personal expense. They embellished temples and basilicas, and on the Campus Martius the extremely competent commander Titus Statilius Taurus built Rome’s first stone amphitheater.

But a diet of visually splendid
grands projets
was not enough. The average inhabitant of Rome must feel some personal benefit from these public works.

In 33
B.C.,
Agrippa took up the post of aedile—an unusual step, even a self-demotion, for he had already served as consul, the state’s highest post.

One of an aedile’s duties was to look after the city’s water supply, street cleaning, and drains; Agrippa reorganized and refurbished the aqueduct system. He also commissioned a new aqueduct, the Aqua Julia (some years later he added the Aqua Virgo, so called because a young girl pointed out springs to the soldiers who were hunting for water). He had five hundred fountains built as well as magnificent public baths, the Thermae Agrippae. The reservoirs and the fountains, or
nymphaea,
were elaborately decorated, with many bronze and marble statues and pillars. Agrippa also repaired and cleansed Rome’s underground drainage system.

The regime’s bid for popularity was unrelenting. During his aedileship, Agrippa distributed olive oil and salt and arranged for the city’s 170 baths to open free of charge throughout the year. He presented many festivals, and because those attending were expected to look smart he subsidized barbers to offer their services gratis. At public entertainments, tickets good for money and clothes were thrown to the crowds. Also, massive displays of many kinds of goods were set up and made available free on a first come, first served basis. All these measures were paid for from the fortune Agrippa had amassed (from war booty, legacies, and grants of land and money) during his ten years of working and fighting for Octavian.

Agrippa’s aedileship signaled in the most attractive and practical way that prosperous times were back. Agrippa’s investments in Rome’s infrastructure (to say nothing of the public buildings constructed or restored by other leading members of the regime) greatly enhanced its appearance. The construction work also provided welcome jobs in a city with a high rate of unemployment. While the other, long-absent triumvir was squandering time in the east, everyone could see the concrete advantages that Octavian’s regime was bringing to the ordinary citizen.

Octavian was ready for a showdown with Antony. His career since his acceptance of his legacy from Julius Caesar makes complete sense only if it is understood as a careful and undeviating pursuit of absolute power. A typically competitive and ambitious Roman, he wanted that power for himself; he was the heir of Rome’s greatest sole ruler since the expulsion of King Tarquin the Proud in the sixth century
B.C.
, and it was only what he deserved. But Octavian also despised the incompetent and unruly selfishness of the ruling class, epitomized by the destructive and pointless policies of Fulvia and Lucius Antonius, that had led to the Perusian war; Sextus Pompeius’ absence of policy; and Mark Antony’s loss of discipline and focus. With respect to the latter, one senses a dismissive scorn for an older colleague who ought to have known better, and who had, in Octavian’s view, “failed to conduct himself as befitted a Roman citizen.”

Step by step, Octavian had built up his strength over the years, seizing every chance that came his way. The Illyrian campaign was the last piece of the puzzle: it gave him the military status he had so conspicuously lacked. Agrippa’s rebuilding of Rome was a sign that he and his supporters were planning a long-term strategy for the empire’s governance. However, if matters were not brought to a head now, the initiative might well pass back to Antony, especially if he finally scored a substantive victory over the Parthians and covered himself in glory.

The Triumvirate’s second term was due to end in December 33
B.C.
, and it would be in Octavian’s interest to avoid any risk of an amicable renewal, for that would freeze a status quo he wanted to terminate. He was in as strong a position as he would ever be.

In 33
B.C.,
Octavian was consul for the second time. Early in the year he delivered a blistering speech against his fellow triumvir. He criticized Antony’s activities in the east: Antony had had no right to kill Sextus Pompeius, whom
he
would willingly have spared, and Antony had been wrong to trick the Armenian king into captivity. This behavior had damaged Rome’s good name.

Octavian also attacked Antony’s cruel treatment of Octavia and his relationship with Cleopatra. The Donations of Alexandria were unacceptable. Even more offensive, seeing that it was clearly aimed at undermining Octavian’s position as Julius Caesar’s heir, was Antony’s promotion of young Ptolemy Caesar, or Caesarion, as the great dictator’s natural son.

Little of this was very convincing in itself. It strains credulity that Octavian had a soft spot for Sextus or cared a sesterce for the fate of a far-off country of which most people knew nothing. And as for Antony’s sexual life, it had always been colorful.

Pamphlets and letters were published, and envoys traveled assiduously between Rome and Alexandria making claim and counterclaim. Antony huffily stood his ground. He complained that he had been prevented from raising troops in Italy, as had been freely agreed; that his veterans had not received their fair share of lands on demobilization; that, after defeating Sextus Pompeius, Octavian had taken over Sicily without consulting him; and that Lepidus had been arbitrarily deposed.

Antony’s case was stronger than that of Octavian, who had consistently been an untrustworthy partner. Whenever compromise or concessions were needed, it was always the older and more reasonable triumvir who had given way. But some of the issues he raised were no more than debating points; for example, Sicily was in the western half of the empire, and once captured would naturally have fallen to Octavian.

The accusations grew more and more personal. Octavian castigated his colleague’s drunkenness. He also made fun of Antony’s high-flown and overelaborate use of Latin; he was “a madman, for writing to be admired rather than understood,” who introduced into “our tongue the verbose and unmeaning fluency of the Asiatic orators.”

Antony gave as good as he got. He ridiculed Octavian’s provincial ancestry and accused him of lustfulness, cruelty, and cowardice (for instance, the scandalous fancy-dress party that Octavian had attended as the god Apollo, and his curious behavior when he hid in the marshes at Philippi, were unkindly exhumed). Antony also made an angry charge, very probably with good reason, of sexual hypocrisy:

What’s come over you? Is it that I am screwing the Queen? But she isn’t my wife, is she? It isn’t as if it’s something new, is it? Or has it actually been going on for nine years now? What about you then? Is Livia the only woman you shag? Good luck to you if, when you read this letter, you haven’t also shagged Tertulla or Terentilla or Rufilla or Salvia Titisenia, or all of them. Does it really matter where and in whom you insert your stiff prick?

What truths lie behind these quarrelsome exchanges? Personal insults were the stock-in-trade of debate. Distinguished Romans often expressed political disagreements in slanderously personal terms and seized on their opponents’ sexual misdemeanors with lip-smacking enthusiasm. But while disputants’ allegations may have been exaggerated, they needed to embody at least a poetic truth if anyone who knew the principals was to take them seriously.

Each triumvir claimed that he stood for a restoration of the Republic, and the other for tyranny by one man. Neither was telling the truth. Ten years after the murder of Cicero, the Republic was a thing of the past, irretrievable. The choice was simply between two kinds of autocracy—tidy and efficient, or laid-back and rowdy.

Octavian was approaching a very dangerous moment. He was trying to precipitate a war without receiving the blame for it. For the present, he set himself limited objectives. First of all, he had to make his public position crystal clear, announce the inevitability of a showdown, and force the political world to choose which triumvir to back in the coming struggle. At the same time, he had to mobilize maximum support throughout Italy, which Antony might very well invade.

Octavian’s final letter in the war of words reached Antony in October 33, when he was at the Armenian border with Media, preparing to renew his Parthian war. When he read what his brother-in-law had to say, Antony realized that once again Parthia would have to wait. Having rejected every charge leveled against him, Octavian concluded, with biting derision: “Your soldiers have no claim upon any lands in Italy. Their rewards lie in Media and Parthia which they have added to the Roman empire by their gallant campaigns under their
imperator
.”

Accepting that relations with Octavian had irretrievably broken down and that consequently war was inevitable, Antony set off with a small advance force on the long journey back to the Aegean, ordering one of his generals, Publius Canidius Crassus, a loyal and able supporter who had campaigned successfully in Armenia, to follow with an army of sixteen legions. He summoned Cleopatra, who joined him en route, bringing with her an ample war chest of twenty thousand talents (about 480 million sesterces), and the pair made the port of Ephesus (near the modern town of Selçuk in southern Turkey) their headquarters.

At the end of December, the Triumvirate came to an end. Octavian’s purpose now was to maintain his new public image as a strict observer of the constitution. He had no governmental status of any kind and in theory was taking a very dangerous risk by politically disarming himself this way. However, after more than ten years at the head of affairs he had built up a formidable
auctoritas,
the power that came from his record and his proven ability. Furthermore, by now he was the master of a multitudinous
clientela;
many thousands of people had obligations to him. Perhaps most important of all, the legions in the west remained his to command. Tactfully, he withdrew from Rome to await events.

In January 32, two new consuls took office. In the days when the triumviral machine was still more or less in working order, consuls had been named for years ahead, drawn on a roughly equal basis from supporters of the two triumvirs. It so happened that those for the new year were partisans of Antony.

The senior consul was Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus (the cognomen means “Bronze Beard”), the aristocrat who had proved to be a good admiral for Brutus and Cassius. His colleague was the able and determined Gaius Sosius, a new man. As was typical of the time, he was a provincial, perhaps from Picenum in northern Italy.

The consuls had an important commission from Antony to execute. Late in the previous autumn, the triumvir had sent them a letter which they were to read out to the Senate once they had taken office. His aim was to set out his case fully, authoritatively, and persuasively; he probably restated his eastern settlement, his various
acta,
and in particular his welcome Armenian victory.

However, the consuls made a curious decision, as Dio writes: “Domitius and Sosius…being extremely devoted to [Antony], refused to publish [the dispatch] to all the people, even though Caesar urged it on them.” This can only mean that in the consuls’ view its impact on public, or at least senatorial, opinion would be the opposite of that intended by its author. The problem must have lain with a proud, or at least a complacent, description of the Donations of Alexandria. Antony would have been unaware that Octavian’s anti-Cleopatra propaganda had been all too effective and that his references to the Donations would merely add fuel to the flames.