BROTHERS
A
Short Story by
Lewis
Smith
Caesar
was dying! The word quickly spread
across the streets of Rome, flying from one of the seven hills to the next, so
that by afternoon the lowest slave and the highest patricians were whispering
with dread what might come next. Would
Tiberius take the place of his adopted father?
Would the Senate try to re-assert itself and take up the power it had
surrendered fifty years before? Would there be another civil war, like the one
that had shaken Rome for the better part of a decade after the death of the Divus Julius? The fact that the Emperor was not in Rome
made the tensions even worse. Riders
from the South were bombarded with questions as they came up the Via Appia, to
see if they bore further news.
The known
facts were sketchy: the aging Emperor, whose health had been in decline for
some time, had gone to visit Nola, to the very same villa where his father had
died many years before. While there, his
health had taken a turn for the worse, and no one knew at the moment if he was
alive or dead. The mighty Roman Empire
which Augustus had created and sustained over the last half century ground to a
halt as the sons of Rome waited for word on the fate of their political father.
No
one noticed, in the hush that came over the great city, as one old man made his
way from the poorest stews of the Subura towards the stables at the entrance of
the Appian Way. He was elderly, at least
seventy summers or more, but strode along the street with a vigor and purpose
that compelled men to get out of his path.
He carried a staff, and his face was partly concealed by a hood, unusual
in the August heat – but those who caught a glimpse of his sharp features and
keen eyes often paused, as if reminded of something that they could not quite
recall.
Arriving
at the stables, the old man rented a horse and mounted up with a quickness that
belied his years, spurring his steed south.
The groom stared after him for a long time, trying to place the old
man’s face. Who did that old fellow
remind him of? He thought long and hard,
but the only name that popped to mind was so wildly inappropriate that he
laughed at the thought and went looking for the stable boy, who had left the
nightly deposits of manure unshoveled.
It
was some fifty miles or more from the gates of Rome to Nola, but the old man
was accustomed to long journeys. As he
rode southward, he prayed to all the gods he would not be too late. He had waited years for this moment, and the
thought that it might slip away because Augustus had chosen to leave Rome
before entering his final crisis was galling.
His joints ached slightly as he spurred the horse along, but he had no
time for the infirmities of age.
His
mind stretched back, across the years, to the last time he had seen Augustus,
some forty-five years before. They had
been so young, and the future Emperor was still called Octavian by many,
although he was already styling himself as Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus. He wondered how the old man would react to
seeing him again after all these years.
The thought brought a grim smile to his lips.
It
was hours since he had ridden out from the gates of Rome, but the sun had not
yet set, when he finally arrived at the town of Nola, some miles to the north
of Neapolis. Everyone knew about the
villa that had been built over eighty years before by Gaius Octavius, the
Emperor’s long-dead natural father; it was a matter of local pride that the
great Augustus returned there from time to time to rest from his labors in
Rome. The old man stabled his horse at
the local inn, and asked the stable boy how the Emperor fared.
“They
say he’s barely hanging on,” the pimply-faced boy said. “Me papa is first cousins with the steward of
the villa, so we gets the news quicker than most. Old Augustus is still awake and aware, they
say, but his breath grows shorter and shorter.
His wife is in there with him, and they’ve sent for Tiberius. Who knows if the gloomy old cuss will bother
to come or not, though, d’ye know?”
The
old man tipped the boy a silver denarius for the information, and slowly walked
up the path towards the hill where the villa was situated. The Emperor had enlarged it slightly since he
took possession of it, years before, but overall, it still reflected the simple
Republican values of the man who had brought the Republic to an end. Augustus wielded great power, but never
flaunted that power, living in simple dwellings, dressing modestly, and
avoiding extravagant displays of wealth. For this, his subjects had come to
love and revere their old Emperor, and the looks of grief the old man saw on
the faces of the villagers were not feigned.
They knew that the death of Augustus was the end of an era; and who
could say what the new era would be like?
Torches
were lit all around the villa, and members of the Emperor’s personal bodyguard,
the Praetorians, as they were now called, stood watch at the gates in front of
the garden. They snapped to attention as
the old man approached.
“Best
be on your way, old timer,” one of them said.
“The villa is closed to all visitors.”
For
the first time since he left Rome, the old man let his hood fall back all the
way. His thinning white hair was
plastered to his head with sweat from his long ride, but his features were
sharp and his attitude of command unmistakable.
“I
need to see the Emperor while he remains in this world,” he said.
The
guard was staring intently at the face before him, trying to figure out where
he knew the old man from. He was certain
he had seen the face before! But after a
moment, he remembered his orders.
“The
Emperor is seeing no one!” he said.
“Only his wife and physician are allowed at his bedside. Begone, old fool!”
“He
will see me,” the old man replied, “if you show him this. And believe me, if he finds out you sent me
away, it will go ill for you. Simply
show this to him, and see what he says.”
He
had reached into his coin purse as he spoke, and pulled out a heavy golden
ring. He dropped it into the hands of the guard, who stared at it for a moment,
then stared again at the old man. A
dawning look of horror came over his face.
“It
can’t be!” he said. “You . . . this . .
. you aren’t -”
The
old man grinned, and then suddenly cast aside his staff and drew himself up
sharply.
“You
will convey that ring to the Emperor, Praetorian, or I will see you flogged!”
he snapped.
The
centurion turned pale and fled inside, leaving his much younger companion
staring in wonder at their elderly visitor.
The old man turned his gaze upon the other Praetorian, who met his gaze
for a moment, then slowly lowered his eyes.
The visitor smiled grimly and waited in silence.
Ten
minutes had passed when the centurion returned.
“He
will see you,” he said simply, and gestured for the old man to follow.
They
entered the villa, which was furnished comfortably but not lavishly. They passed the atrium and the guest room, skirted
around the kitchen, and made their way to the rear of the building, where the
bedchambers were located, overlooking a green knoll that sloped down to the
river. The old man could hear the
furtive whispers of servants as they scurried about, and from one bedchamber he
heard gentle sobs. Clearly, Augustus had
not long to live.
Finally,
they came to the Imperial bedchamber.
Lamps burned bright from every niche, and the room was warm, even for a
summer night. Ironic, thought the old
man - that the Emperor’s life would end in the month he had named after
himself. The sweet smell of incense,
however, could not completely mask the faint odor of death that filled the
room.
The
Emperor of Rome was propped up on pillows, his face pale except for bright
hectic spots on each cheek. His
breathing was labored, but his eyes were clear, and his wife Livia – still a
handsome woman, despite her seventy summers – sat by his side, holding his
hand, and wiping his brow with a damp cloth.
Her eyes flashed as the old man entered the room.
“I
don’t know who you are,” she said, “but were it not for my husband’s personal
order, I would have you flogged for intruding on us at such an hour!”
“Silence,
wife,” Augustus said faintly. “This man
has earned the right to stand before me.
He is, after all, my brother.”
Livia
Drusilla froze in astonishment, her wide eyes looking from her husband to the
stranger – and then widening further as she took in his features for the first
time. She had seen those features
before, long ago, when she was just a little girl – regal, even then, with a dignitas that the kings of the east
could only aspire to. Her astonishment
was so transparent that the old man smiled in amusement.
“I am
Ptolemy Philopater Caesar,” the old man said, “although most people called me
Caesarion in my youth.”
Augustus
slowly nodded, then coughed. He wiped
his chin with a white cloth, which came away stained with blood. In one hand he held the scarab ring that the
guard had brought him, the sealing ring of the House of Ptolemy.
“So
tell me, brother of mine,” he said, “if you will – how is it that you are still
alive? The last time I saw you, you were
being led out of my tent, bound and hooded, to be executed and buried outside
my camp.”
“You
shouldn’t have chosen a veteran of the Tenth Legion to carry out the sentence,”
Caesarion said. “I waited till we were
clear of the camp’s walls, and asked the man to remove my hood, so that I could
look on the moon and stars one last time ere I died. It was a simple request, and even though you
had told him to keep my face hidden, he couldn’t see any reason to do so once
we were clear of the legions. So he
pulled my hood off, and saw my face.”
Augustus
smiled, displaying his teeth, which were crooked and yellow with age.
“Well
played, my brother!” he said. “You
always did bear a striking resemblance to our divine father. That was why I could not let you live – after
all, Caesar could only have one son!”
Caesarion
nodded. “So you told me at the time. But
as soon as he saw me, the legionary began to tremble. He asked who I was, and I told him. He said that he had fought all through Gaul
and Greece under the command of the Divus
Julius, and he could never harm Caesar’s son – not even when Young Caesar
ordered it.”
“What
shall I do then, young master? he asked me.
‘If I kill you, I would have to fall on my own sword to atone for such a
sin. But if I let you go, my master will
have my head and send legions of mercenaries after you. What can I do to save us both?’”
“I
pulled off my tunic and asked him for his dagger. I sliced open my arm and soaked the front of
the tunic in my blood, then ran a hole through it with the dagger. The old soldier gave me an extra tunic from
his pack, and I donned it quickly. I hid
among the date palms while he went to tell you that the job was done,” the old
man explained.
“I
kept that tunic for years,” Augustus said.
“I told myself that I did the only thing I could to spare Rome another
civil war. Let the masses catch one
glimpse of you, Julius Caesar reborn, and my father’s will and all my labors
for Rome would be forgotten in an instant.
Chaos would have broken out! But I will tell you, my brother, that my
conscience tortured me in my dreams for many years for what I had done to
you. I relived that scene in my tent
many times, sometimes as myself, and sometimes as you, bound hand and foot by
my guards, facing my own judgment.”
“I,
too, have often relived that moment,” Caesarion replied. “That was the day that both our lives changed
forever. I knew you were ruthless –
Marcus Antonius told me how you insisted that Cicero be the first Senator to
perish in the purges, and then told all of Rome that it was he who insisted the
great orator must die! But I also
thought you had a heart. I went to you
to spare my mother from the indignity of marching in your triumph. I thought if I offered to rule Egypt as your exclusive
client, and pledged never to set foot in Rome, that it would be enough. And, I
will tell you then as I told you now – Egypt was all I wanted! I had no desire to come to Rome, to set
myself up as your rival.”
“I’m
sure you meant it at the time,” Augustus said.
“But men change, my brother, men change.
What I did to you was morally wrong – I know that, and have known it for
years. But politically, it was the only
choice I could have made.”
His
frail body shook with coughs again, and the linen cloth came away from his
mouth stained with more blood. Livia
said not a word, but tears streamed down her cheeks. Augustus looked up at her kindly, and patted
her cheek with a trembling hand.
“But
I am glad to see you, Caesarion,” he said.
“I am dying, and it gladdens me to know that I will not go to stand
before our great father with his only true son’s blood on my hands.”
Caesar
Augustus turned to his wife.
“Livia,”
he said, “I want you to leave me alone with my brother.”
“Are
you sure, husband?” she said. “What if
he - ?”
The
Emperor of Rome laughed, then coughed feebly into the linen cloth again.
“What
if he kills me?” Augustus said. “The
sands of my life are running out regardless.
Listen to me, dear wife – if I have left this mortal life when you
return to this room, under no circumstances do I want you to pursue any type of
vengeance against my brother. He has
suffered enough at my hands. Am I
clear?”
She
sighed deeply. “Yes, my dear husband,”
she said, and kissed his brow. As she
passed Caesarion, she looked at his aquiline feature – identical to those of
his long-dead father, whom she had seen at his last great triumph when she was
a girl. She spoke to the son of Julius
Caesar.
“I
know he wronged you,” she said, “but my husband is a great man who has done
much for Rome. Pardon him, I beg you!”
The
old man looked at her, and his face was not unkind.
“I
pardoned him long ago,” he said. “I
understand his motives better than you think, for I too am a son of
Caesar. I did not come here for
vengeance.”
Livia
smiled back at him, and from the death bed, Augustus spoke once more.
“Livia,
tell the Senate something for me,” he said.
“Whatever
you wish, my dear,” she replied.
“Tell
them if I have played my role well, then to applaud at my departure,” the
Emperor of Rome told his wife. She
smiled through her tears, and left the room.
After her departure, Augustus regarded Caesarion with a cool, appraising
glance. Despite his obvious pain and the
burden of seventy-five years, his gaze was one of command.
“So,
brother, why have you come?” he said.
Caesarion
stepped forward and sat down on the edge of the Emperor’s bed.
“I
wanted you to see my face before you died,” he told Augustus. “For years, I simply wanted you to know that
I had won. That I had thwarted your
will, and survived, thanks to the kindness of Fortuna and the loyalty of a
legionary named Titus Severus. He bore me far away, to the wilderness of
Numidia, where I lived as a simple shepherd for over a decade. For
years I thought of killing you, to avenge my mother’s death, and that of
Antonius, whom I loved as a father. But
as time went on, and as I watched from a distance what you had done, I
understood your reasons more and more.
What you did, you did for Rome.
You took a Republic torn by war and dissension for a century and turned
it into a peaceful and well run Empire.
You took a city of wood and mud and turned it into a city of marble. You gave your people a better life than their
fathers and grandfathers had lived before them.
But all that time, you carried the burden of my death on your
shoulders. I could see it in the way you
carried yourself, and in your eyes when you were weary.”
“You
. . . watched?” Augustus asked, his eyebrows arching.
“I
have lived in Rome for the last twenty years,” said Caesarion. “Residing in the worst stews of the Aventine
and the Subura, posing as a penniless beggar, a wounded veteran, or a simple
tradesman. You have walked right past me
on the streets a dozen times in the last decade, brother. But a hood and an eyepatch are not a bad
disguise.”
Augustus
nodded. “Well done indeed,” he said
weakly. “Go on, I fear my time is
running out.”
“I
decided that I wanted to show myself to you before you died,” Caesarion said. “I thought the one noblest thing I could do
for my adopted brother was relieve him of the burden of fratricide.”
The
Emperor of Rome wept softly, wetting his cheeks with tears.
“Then
you are a better man than I,” he said.
“Our father was renowned for his clemency. I thought that to be his greatest
weakness. He forgave his enemies,
restored them to honor and high stations, and they killed him for it. I made up my mind not to be so weak – to get
rid of all those who might pose a danger to me. But in the end, that was my
weakness. I rid Rome of all of those who
might have challenged me – and in the end, I was left with no one to test
myself against. I destroyed my own competition, and in doing so, I ultimately
weakened myself. You are the true son of
Gaius Julius Caesar, my brother – more so than I could ever have been.”
“You did not share his
unique greatness,” Caesarion said, “but that did not stop you from forging your
own. History will remember you as long
as it remembers him, Octavian.”
“It is a long time
since any man called me that,” Augustus said.
“But I do not take it ill, coming from you. Caesarion, my brother, I have imposed on you
for your entire life. May I do so one
more time?”
Caesarion arched an
eyebrow, an expression that reminded Augustus painfully of his adoptive father,
the man he had adored and sought to emulate for so many years. But when his brother spoke, his voice was
purely his own – softer and kinder than the great Caesar’s.
“What does the Emperor
ask of his brother?” he said.
“I am dying,
Caesarion,” said Augustus. “I am dying,
and it hurts. Every breath is like a
dagger through my lungs, and the faces of my ancestors dance before me every
time I close my eyes. I know my time
draws short, but I am weary of waiting.
I am weary of the pain of this life, and ready to stand before my father
again. Would you end it for me? I tried to end your life long ago, when we
were both young. I have regretted that
for years, but perhaps if you hasten my end, it will tip the scales of justice
back in my favor. Finish me, I beg you!”
Caesarion was surprised
to find tears in his own eyes. For years
he had fantasized about plunging a dagger into the man before him, or
displaying Caesar’s severed head in the great Forum of Rome. But now that the man he had once hated was
begging him for the release of death, he found he did not want to kill him.
“Do not think of it as
vengeance, if that is not what you desire,” Augustus said. “Think of it as one last gift from Egypt to
Rome. Or perhaps as a simple favor, from one brother to another.”
Caesarion leaned
forward and kissed the fevered brow of his adoptive brother.
“Rest well, Emperor of
Rome,” he said. “You have earned it.”
An hour passed before
Livia returned to her husband’s bedchamber.
Augustus was propped up on his pillows, his features calm and peaceful, his
body as still as a statue, his breath gone.
Tears streamed down her face as she kissed her husband’s lips one last
time, the warmth of his life already fading from his noble and beloved
face. Then she stepped to the door and
called one of the Praetorians.
“Go and find my son
Tiberius,” she told him. “Tell him to
come quickly. Tell him that his father .
. .”
Her voice trailed off,
as she struggled for words.
“What should I tell
him, domina?” the soldier asked
gently.
“Tell him Caesar died
of natural causes,” she finally said.
Early the next morning,
a ship left the harbor at Naples, bound for Alexandria, Egypt. No one paid much attention to the old man who
stood in the bow, his gaze set to the south.
He did not pay much attention to them, either. Caesarion was going home.
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