Page 4 of Agrippa

A few days later, I received a message from Octavius asking me to join him. I left immediately on foot, without telling my father where I was going.

Caesar’s country property lay along the Via Campana, about a mile beyond the city walls. I remember how nervous I was, and how my anxiety mounted with every step.

The villa was heavily guarded. I handed Octavius’s letter to one of the sentries at the gate and was told to wait while he went inside to make sure it was genuine. He returned accompanied by Octavius, who greeted me with an embrace and led me along the drive towards the largest of the several houses that lay scattered throughout the gardens. On the terrace of one of these, a curious collection of figures stood motionless in the sun, like a frieze on some ancient temple – men in pleated skirts, bronzed and naked from the waist up; women in flowing blue robes and elaborate golden headdresses.

I asked who they were.

– The King and Queen of Egypt, Ptolemy and Cleopatra, and their household.

– What are they doing here?

– My uncle’s fucking her, of course. Didn’t you know?

The exchange sticks in my mind because until then I had never heard Octavius use a crude expression.

– And what does his wife think of this arrangement?

He winked, and leered at me.

– His wife isn’t here, is she?

– And the King of Egypt?

– He’s Cleopatra’s brother as well as her husband. He’s only thirteen. He doesn’t care what she does. They are a strange race.

We walked on through the villa and out into a courtyard where a fountain played. Beside it, a man in a straw hat and a loose white tunic was seated on a comfortable chair, his feet stretched out on a stool exposing hairless sunburned legs, his head bent, reading. Two other men, holding documents – secretaries, I assumed – were standing nearby. Octavius nodded towards the reclining reader and pushed me forward.

– Caesar would like to speak to you.

I had half expected I might encounter him, but as we approached, my carefully prepared speech went out of my head, and I found myself gaping down at the dictator while Octavius introduced me.

Caesar looked up at me from beneath the wide brim of his hat. His face was half in shade. I could not see his eyes, but I could sense he was examining me. When he spoke at last, his voice was hard and rasping.

– So, you are Agrippa?

I stammered out some vaguely remembered lines that I was honoured to meet him.

– You petitioned us about your brother?

I cannot remember what I answered, or if I answered. Perhaps I simply nodded.

Caesar waited. At length, he ended the silence.

– It is customary to ask for mercy on one’s knees.

I felt Octavius’s hand on my shoulder again, gently pressing me down. But I could not do it. Looking back, it was foolish, adolescent, disrespectful – even so, I could not kneel. I suppose it had been bred into me in the schoolyard, to stand my ground whatever the consequences, even in the presence of the dictator.

Caesar removed his hat and scrutinised me. For the first time I felt the force of his gaze. He fanned his face. Finally he beckoned to one of his secretaries, said something to him, and the man hurried off. He got to his feet.

– Tell your father Caesar sends his compliments.

And then he walked away, followed by his other secretary.

I stood alone with Octavius in the courtyard. It seemed to me I could not have made a worse impression. I started to apologise, but he cut me off.

– No need. I believe he likes you.

– How do you know that?