Alone Against the Mob
Any curious sightseer who wished for a majestic view of the city of Rome had one destination: the Palatine Hill. The richest and most exclusive of all the city’s addresses, the Palatine was home to senators and knights, the elite of the First Class. The draftiest house on the Palatine was worth more than hundreds of acres of prime real estate anywhere else.
The Palatine loomed over the Forum, the center of Rome. In the same way, the First Class towered over the other social classes and dominated the governance of Rome. But Rome was not just a city; it was an empire that ruled the Known World. The world turned on the fulcrum of Rome, Forum, and Palatine. Decisions made here by the Senate and People of Rome reverberated everywhere from the Pillars of Hercules to the Euphrates, from the swampland of Belgica to the First Cataract of the Nile. It was unfortunate that the Senate and People of Rome failed to grasp that decisions taken outside of Rome could also have a great impact on the Eternal City.
Gaius Julius Caesar Octavian maintained no such illusions. He stood on the northwestern slope of the Palatine so he could survey the scene below. His slight form leaned against a plinth that supported a statue of his divine father. Both he and father's effigy stared down at a Forum obscured by a smoky haze.
He was not the great Julius Caesar’s biological son. Octavian had been adopted by his Uncle Caesar to carry on the family name, to ensure that the great patrician family Julius would live on, that the honor earned over seven hundred years would not be lost. It was a great privilege and a great burden that he had shouldered for six years. By the calendar, he was twenty-four years old; by experience, he reckoned he was at least a hundred.
Octavian looked away from the Forum, and looked up at his Uncle Caesar’s statue. They shared similar traits, fair-haired and light-eyed men, but Octavian was slight where his uncle had been muscular, of middling height when his uncle had been tall, sickly when Caesar had been vigorous. Even so, he had been close to his uncle, the son of Caesar's soul, the inheritor of his spirit. The adoption had been a surprise, one amongst many concealed in Caesar’s will.
Caesar’s will. Octavian closed his eyes, remembering his great uncle’s smile. The petty men of the Senate, led by that drunkard Cato, had attempted to strip Caesar of the honors and glory he had reaped subduing the barbarians of Gaul. Caesar had refused to allow it and had crossed the Rubicon, precipitating civil war. Octavian’s cousin, Mark Antony, had been there, and had told him Caesar’s words at that famous crossing: Aneristho kubos: Let the dice fly high!
The civil war had ended with Caesar’s victory. How could it not have? Julius Caesar had been the greatest general in all the history of Rome. And how it hurt to say “had been”!
Uncle Caesar had been assassinated by the heirs of Cato, Brutus and Cassius. Twenty-three men had ambushed Julius Caesar in the Senate House and stabbed him to death. These had been men who had received Caesar’s mercy during the civil war and men who had been trusted friends, yet both had joined hands to murder Uncle Caesar. With Caesar’s death, Rome had been plunged into civil war once again, Assassin against Caesarean.
Would Caesar have approved of all the things Octavian had done? He had marched on Rome, seized the consulship, formed the Triumvirate with Mark Antony and Lepidus, proscribed his enemies, and participated in the Battle of Philippi. A lifetime’s worth of achievements packed into half of one. And despite it all, it was on the verge of being undone.
Octavian finally returned his gaze to the Forum, looked down upon the rioting rabble. Things had not been going well for him. Philippi had been a mess. His health had always been poor, a side-effect of his asthma. The battle had produced so much dust that he had suffered a brutal asthma attack that forced him to seek the marshes just to breathe.
Unfortunately, Mark Antony's rude health precluded anything resembling understanding for the weaker constitutions of others. The moment they had returned to Rome, Antony had condemned him for a coward and had disseminated the distorted tale far and wide. And then he had had the gall to drop on his shoulders the miserable task of regulating Italy and the grain supply, with the added trouble of finding land for the veteran soldiers to settle on and money for their bonuses when Rome was bankrupt.
His fists clenched, the only sign his togate form revealed of his rage. Antony tormented him in the East, withholding money, fleets, and support. The grain supply was in the hands of his nemesis, Sextus Pompey, son of the legendary Pompey the Great. That piratical heir to a great man controlled the stomachs of Rome and Italy, long unable to feed themselves.
Every year the price for grain grew ever dearer. Every year, Octavian had to raise taxes from highest to lowest to pay for the grain. Every year, Octavian would try to come to a deal with Sextus, to get the pirate off his back so he could deal with Antony. Every year, Sextus would break their agreements and make Octavian's burden greater. Every year, Octavian was more reviled and loathed.
This year had been the last straw. With grain ever more expensive, he had expected the People to support him in refusing to once again come to an agreement with that pirate. Instead, they had been demanding that he reach an understanding with Sextus, that he bring about peace at long last. He had very publicly refused even as he grimly raised taxes to continue to pay his legions.
For many, that had been the last straw. Ever since his decision had been announced, all of Rome from the Quirinal to the Aventine had been rioting. Shops and temples had been set ablaze, mansions and banks had been looted. Graffiti scrawled on every wall slandered his name and threatened him with death. That reprobate Antony had been no help at all, too busy wallowing in his recent marriage to Octavian's sister. Just as well he had sent the Seventh, Eighth, and Eleventh Legions to defend the granaries, else they'd all be in the sty.
“Caesar?”
Octavian looked up from the urban battlefield that had been the Forum, then looked further up as his tall German bodyguard frowned down. He was the captain of his bodyguard of Ubii tribesmen, fierce cavalry troopers he had inherited from his Uncle Caesar. They had fought for Caesar from Alesia to Zela, and had a well-deserved reputation for ferocity that made even Roman legionaries tremble in their boots. Tall, blonde and blue-eyed, they did not wear armor, trusting to their spears, long swords, and shields for defense.
“Yes, Herman?” Octavian replied in German.
Herman looked pleased; it had flattered his bodyguard when Octavian had begun to learn their language. These men, far from their misty forests, were absolutely loyal to him, just as they had been absolutely loyal to Caesar. They would die for him if he asked.
“Caesar, are you really going to walk in there?”
Octavian, aware that his dozen Germans were listening, smiled Caesar’s devil-may-care smile. “Of course. Are you saying you have something more pressing to do?”
Herman snorted, hefted his shield and spear. Even though he was a foot taller than Octavian, there was no doubt who commanded. “You lead us, Caesar, and we shall follow you to Tartarus.”
Still smiling, Octavian turned on his heel, and began to walk down the Palatine Hill. His trusty Germans surrounded him as they marched into the rioting thousands. Gaius Julius Caesar Octavian was no coward, and it was time Antony, and all of Rome, knew it.
This work by Ronald Mina is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
