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“Your dalliance with those soft-kneed actors in the east is costing us wheat we don't have,” said the young Caesar. Slowly, he turned around to address his colleague, the hard, grey stare like a wood owl’s. “I may out of the duty to my father’s friend accept the settlement you proposed, of you treating me—I, for whose sake you had not been chased across the Alps and died unceremoniously a tyrant—as the junior half of our friendship, but I would not have you starve Rome for words of praise.”
He made his way to the couch, moving—always with such caution, thought Antony, to make up for the gravitas the bare-faced, swift-stepped boy did not yet possess. Had more poison ever been spilt from the mouth of a creature whose hair shined with such rich, honey-and-cinnamon lustre?
And yet, Octavian was a poet, a rhapsode. He wove up and recited the words that lost their credibility even to himself, once they left his mouth. His bones were fragile like a bird’s, bearing a similar tenuousness to dice, and his Fortuna-loved face would morph many times, grave one moment and sunny the next. Antony knew him like that, and that was why he remained at leisure, and smiled with contained malice.
“And here I thought, my boy, I could live a day without you raving at me for ever turning my sails slightly east,” he drawled, and grabbed the cup from the table, taking a sip (it was too early to drink, but never for Mark Antony; it was also satisfying to see Octavian’s brows crease in disgust), “Have my gifts made you jealous of my station, little bronze-dealer? Look, I’d indulge your hunger to make you its captive. You may cry about it to the Senate next, how Marcus Antonius tried—and tried—to corrupt Rome’s most hopeful son.”
“It is a virtue to have a reasonable appreciation for fine things,” said Octavian, very seriously, “while your taste is gaudy and borrowed, like your person.”
“And yet I have not borrowed names from the dead, or sons from women.” Antony laughed. “Come closer, kid. You haven’t been eating properly again, have you?”
At his behest Octavian did move again, as if drawn by a string. His eyes were fixed on Antony, glancing down with easy elegance, like descending sunlight, disarming, defying any sovereign other than his own.
“Your spies are incompetent,” Octavian protested as Antony reached around his waist and pressed a finger into the hollow of his stomach, “I couldn’t number the slices of sour apples I’ve had today, when I think of it. Your friends have been tireless in lamenting to me about our disagreements. Now that we are together, there is some peace at last. My heart feels lighter, and I ate well.”
He sat at the edge of the couch, slapping away Antony’s hand, which earned a rumble of laughter from the latter.
“Kore has had more in Dis,” Antony picked up another cup, and pressed it to Octavian’s lips, coaxing with force. “Stay for dinner, Thurinus. I’d feel guilty pinning the ruin of the Republic’s freedom on a starving little bird.”
For the sake of the newly established good will between them, Octavian tilted his chin and felt the Falerian attack his throat. His stomach had burnt from the beginning, but the wine always burnt the worst.
Dinner was an ordeal. Every plate overflowed with spice and grease, and by the third bite Octavian thought he might vomit. Yet, Antony had kept him at the table by luring him into a game of dice—Antony, who liked to wager tens and thousands, just as Octavian did, to his own faint disappointment.
If you lose, Antony had said, you eat.
And if I win? Octavian asked. He always won.
Then we’ll have your triumph in your mouth.
Octavian didn’t mind. He was in for the game. The bones rolled too quickly and soon he had stopped complaining altogether.
“I don’t understand you,” Octavian said at last, after his first loss of the evening. “You’ve always kept good terms with Sextus, whose father’s house you seized, no less. And I want his head, lest that pirate ask for Sicily next. We never agree. You know I was buried in mutinies all through October. You could have brought your armies into Italy. ”
“I entered into an oath with you before the gods,” Antony waved a hand. “And Antonius doesn’t break his oaths. Don’t change the subject, boy. You lost. That was forty hundred sesterces.”
“Will you call me by my rightful name, now?” Octavian ignored him and rolled again. “Or would you rather rule the world with a boy than with a Caesar?”
“If only you would mature.” Antony rolled a Venus. He lifted his eyes half-lidded, smiled at Octavian, and Octavian wanted to strike that smug mouth. “Would a Caesar fault the East for unrest in Italy? No. He would have taken everything on the map for himself, and I would still govern gladly in his name. But alas, I am left with you—and may the gods forgive me, my illustrious ancestor will not begrudge me if I save this Hylas once more as I saved him at Philippi.”
“You saved yourself, fighting for my revenge,” Octavian pointed out curtly, “I had Brutus’s head cut off and bid the rest to be fed to the dogs.”
“As I’ve heard. We’ve been issuing edicts together for quite some years now, little Caesar. The way history remembers it, your actions might as well be mine.” Antony said, not without sarcasm. “You’ve emptied my pockets. Name some other price.”
Octavian rose, swayed for a moment, nearly stumbling. Only then did all the food he had mindlessly swallowed at dinner assert itself. Half a dormouse, perhaps a quarter of a platter of eel, oysters besides—they crowded his stomach, pressed on him like shades, worried him like Furies.
There was something he had to do, he thought.
He found himself staring again at Antony’s smile; how badly he wanted to strike it from his face…How was this man enjoying himself as always, while he was left to sink in the mires of Italy, never once allowed to breathe his youth? How did Antony shoulder power the way actors take up their lines, delivering them as if born to the role, while Octavian carried the burden of every emergency, every scarcity and public dissent?
“Kiss me,” Octavian said.
What he meant was: I will lead you to ruin, tear you apart, and scatter your remains.
Surprise flickered across Antony’s face, but only for a moment; it was as though he welcomed every turn of fate, expecting it to appear, often. Another thing Octavian found intolerable about him.
“If so you wish,” Antony caught him by the shoulder, drew him closer, and brushed his cheek with his thumb. He leaned in, grinning. Octavian closed his eyes, anticipating contact. There was none.
“You asked for it, Thurinus,” Antony murmured a breath away from his mouth. “I’m not doing the work for you.”
Octavian bit him.