It was widely noticed that at the theatrical events and public banquets, Octavius was invariably in attendance on his great-uncle, who treated him as affectionately as if he were his own son. At sacrifices and when entering temples for religious rituals, he kept the young man by his side and he arranged for others taking part in these public occasions to give him precedence.
Increasingly, suppliants approached Octavius and asked him to intercede for them with Caesar in one way or another. His success with Agrippa’s brother and his growing familiarity with the dictator gave him the courage to put forward requests, which seem to have been invariably granted. This was, in large part, because of the tactful approach he adopted. Nicolaus observes: “He took care never to ask a favour at an inopportune moment, nor when it was annoying to Caesar.”
Caesar decided it was time to give the young man some administrative experience. He turned over to him the responsibility for managing the theatrical program of the triumphal celebrations. Keen to show his commitment, Octavius stayed to the end of all the performances, even on the hottest and longest days. This strained his already delicate health and he fell seriously ill.
Caesar was beside himself with anxiety and, to cheer him up, visited the sufferer every day or sent friends in his place. Doctors were in permanent attendance. On one occasion a message came while he was dining that Octavius had suffered a serious relapse and was in danger of dying. The dictator leaped up at once and ran barefooted to the house where Octavius lay. Frantic and deeply upset, he cross-examined the doctors about their patient’s prognosis and then sat down by the boy’s bedside. Gradually Octavius recovered, but he remained weak for some time.
The nature of Octavius’ illness on this occasion is not known; it may have been a severe bout of sunstroke.
The triumphs were quickly followed by Cleopatra’s arrival in Rome as Caesar’s houseguest. Her journey from Egypt was delayed until after the Egyptian triumph. One of the captives in the procession had been her sister Arsinoe, who had been briefly recognized as queen by the Alexandrians before falling into Caesar’s hands, but, although she loathed her, Cleopatra had not wished to witness her sibling led in chains and her kingdom presented as a vanquished power.
The queen was accompanied by the youngest of her brothers, and new husband, the fifteen-year-old Ptolemy XIV, and, it may be assumed, a substantial retinue. Doubtless she was accompanied by her baby son, Caesarion. Caesar lodged them all in his mansion set in lovely gardens (his hortus) on the other side of the Tiber near the southeastern corner of the Janiculum Hill. Here Cleopatra held court and received Rome’s senior politicians. Her airs and graces of royalty did not go down well among Rome’s determinedly republican elite, even when accompanied by lavish presents and cultivated entertainments. Men like the orator Cicero cordially disliked her, for all the queen’s efforts to ingratiate herself.
It may be surmised that Cleopatra returned the compliment, with equal cordiality. Her mind-set was irredeemably autocratic. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the noisy bear pit of Roman politics and for competing aristocrats who refused to acknowledge that anyone was superior to them. Back in Alexandria her response to dissent was to use force and she must have been bewildered by Caesar’s policy of clemency.
Neither Caesar’s wife, Calpurnia, nor the convalescent Octavius has left a recorded opinion of the Egyptian interloper, but neither can have been pleased by the presence of a rival for both his affections and his limited time.
It turned out, maddeningly, that the fighting was not over after all. The two sons of Pompey the Great, Gnaeus and Sextus, aged about thirty and sixteen respectively, had extricated themselves from the African debacle and made their way to Spain, where their father had had a large and faithful clientela.
The client system was a crucial feature of Roman life and politics. A powerful Roman was a patron, or protector, for many hundreds or even thousands of clients, not just in Rome and Italy, but also across the Mediterranean. These networks of mutual aid cut across social classes and linked Romans to people in the provinces.
Clientship was not legally binding, but its rules were almost always obeyed. A patron’s client list lasted from generation to generation and was handed down from father to son.
A patron looked after his clients’ interests. He would help them out by giving them food, money, or small parcels of land, or by standing up for them if they got into trouble with the law. In return, clients were expected to support their patron in any way they could—voting as he wished at assemblies and campaigning on his behalf when he stood for office. In Rome, clients would pay their respects at their patron’s house every morning and walk with him to the Forum.
Gradually Gnaeus raised an army of thirteen legions, although many of these were inexperienced Spaniards. The dictator’s legates in Spain were unable to make headway against the rebels; by the beginning of November 46 B.C., it became clear that Caesar’s personal intervention was required to put out a fire that had reignited and was blazing out of control. At short notice, Caesar set off for yet another campaign. Rome, once again, was left waiting for news.
Caesar had hoped to have Octavius accompany him to Spain; this time, there seems to have been no parental objection. Now in his eighteenth year, he was no longer a child, and for those of his social class the next step in one’s education was a spell of service on a general’s staff. Evasion would have been seen as evidence of cowardice.
Unfortunately, the young man had not yet fully recovered from his illness; his great-uncle told him to follow as soon as he was well enough. Anxious to leave Rome as soon as possible, Octavius gave his full attention to restoring his health. Even before he was perfectly well, he made arrangements for his journey—in his words, “according to my uncle’s instructions,” for that was how he referred to Caesar when he sought prompt compliance with his demands.
Many volunteers wanted to join his expedition, including (to his intense embarrassment, we may guess) his mother. Like many parents of children with a weak constitution, Atia was finding it difficult to let go of her grown-up son. In the event, Octavius selected a very small escort from among his strongest and speediest servants. He was also accompanied by three of his closest companions, among them, it can be assumed, his dear friend Agrippa.
He had a dangerous journey. It is not known exactly when he set out or which route he took. During the winter months, sailing was unsafe, and it is plausible that he left Rome in February or March and followed the land route via southern France. Once Octavius had reached Spain, though, he would have encountered signs of the enemy, who dominated the north, and of brigands, too. He may then have taken his courage in both hands and boarded a ship at Tarraco (today’s Tarragona).
Despite the risky weather it would be safer to sail down the coast to Nova Carthago (Cartageña), which, all being well, would still be in Caesar’s hands and where he would be fairly sure either to find him or at least to establish his whereabouts. This was a sensible decision, but sailing anywhere in the winter months could be dangerous. Boats seldom drew more than three hundred tons and were often struck by sudden Mediterranean squalls; the compass not having been invented, sailors tended to hug the coasts. Presumably a storm did overtake Octavius, for he apparently suffered a shipwreck before reaching his destination.
He and his small party arrived to find the war over and Caesar victorious. Once again he had missed the chance to blood himself in a real battle. He soon briefed himself on the lightning campaign:
After some maneuvering, the two armies had met at Munda (near Osuna in southern Spain) on March 5, 45 B.C. Caesar was a commander of genius; he was decisive, brave, and, even in the heat of battle capable of creative thinking. He understood the importance of luck in war, and he worked hard to earn it. In particular, he prided himself on his celeritas, moving his forces with great speed and turning up where and when the enemy least expected him. His weakness was an occasional overconfidence, but he always managed to extricate himself from problems of his own making. For once, though, there had been no refinements of strategy, no brilliant insights on the battlefield by the commander. Munda had been a blood-soaked slog.