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They had spent the day trudging through mud.
Slick, deep mud which had been churned to the point it was nearly the consistency of water and rose to their knees.
Apollonia was, suffice to say, the worst place on earth.
The only thing that made it even worse was the sloppy grin Agrippa had on his face as Octavius was living out perhaps the worst experience of his life. But, alas, it was night now and they were having a scrumptious dinner of next to nothing (which, to Octavius' vindication, bothered Agrippa and Rufus more than him) before going to sleep and waking up to another day of trudging through even more mud.
This must be how Sisyphus feels, Octavius thought to himself as he lugged himself back to his small tent that was somehow supposed to fit two people, no man could be happy living like this.
What was worse than the mud, the food, and Agrippa's snoring (though the last did not irk him per se) was the cold. By Jupiter, it must have been the coldest place on Earth! And, when it wasn't cold, it was so hot one could boil in their own sweat if they did not drown in it first!
But it was the price one had to pay. When (and if) he survived, Octavius would have cemented the approval of one of the most powerful men in Rome. Caesar had sent him here, Caesar who was his key to the world. After all, his father had barely done enough to pull the Octavii's heads above the waters of obscurity. But his father had been weak; his father hadn't wanted it enough; his father had died. And all Octavius had was a useless name, and the constant reminder that he, too, was doomed to be weak.
"You're shivering," Agrippa said suddenly, a few minutes after Octavius had slipped under his blanket.
"I am not," he whispered back a tad petulantly, silently admonishing himself for not noticing his friend wasn't asleep.
For someone so broad, Agrippa had a habit of sneaking up on people. Octavius hated it because it meant he was simply always there. Wherever he turned, he was right there. Always listening, watching. And even when Agrippa wasn't there he was lingering in Octavian's thoughts: "I should tell Agrippa," "Where is Agrippa?," "I wonder what Agrippa's doing right now…".
"You're a shit liar."
"Shut up. Besides, how can anyone be cold in here when you release more heat than the sun? You'd burn me if you came any closer!"
There was a shuffling of blankets, an arm wrapped around a body, no words, no other sounds. The shivering stopped. The same thing happened every night, and tomorrow they would go about their day as if it never happened.
That was the way it would stay.
__
As soon as they'd returned to the main camp, where Maecenas had been happy to stay, lazing about while they had been trudging through mud, Octavius was quickly ushered aside by a messenger. Rufus had gone to talk to the soldiers candidly, and Agrippa just stood by the border and watched the horizon. The sun was setting; the day, ending. He'd never been one to put time aside for such frivolities as admiring sunsets but he could not help but watch as the sun sank.
Lower.
Lower.
Lower.
Something was ending, he could feel it in his gut. Agrippa had always been able to feel when things were ending and he only now realised what it was. They'd head back to Italy soon. A few more months until they'd be setting off with Caesar or Antonius or one of that bunch on some campaign with the hopes of glory all men their age had. But that wasn't what made Agrippa feel so… strange. Octavius would change again. He'd seen Octavius in front of Caesar and he was, well, different. Together, they were almost the younger and elder versions of the same man: bright eyes, perfect smiles, pleasing wit. But Octavius wasn't Caesar and Agrippa could never figure out why Octavius couldn't allow himself the ability to do something but reflect his grand-uncle.
"What do you not understand?" Octavius had replied the last time he asked, "this is who I am."
His reply rang in his ears now: "It's not! Can you not see that?"
"We all become who we have to be, Marcus."
Sometimes Agrippa wanted to wring his friend's neck, to feel the layer of light muscle which had developed, albeit slowly, after months of harsh work, to let his fingers linger there, to draw them up to trace the way his cheekbone curved toward his nose, and his nose moved down to his lips. But he didn't— he feared to know how Octavius would react to such an action. He'd never been forgiving in such matters, and Agrippa couldn't help but think Octavius saw any outward sign of emotion as weakness. But Agrippa thought it was okay to be weak, sometimes. There was a certain strength in overcoming weakness which Octavius seemed oblivious to. It was as if Octavius saw himself as worthless just because he wasn't the best swordsman or military strategist and that, even if he was the best speaker, the best writer, the most determined, anything he'd ever struggled with amounted to complete and utter failure.
What Octavius didn't know— and Agrippa wasn't sure if it would make him feel any better— was that Agrippa would do what Octavius couldn't. Dammit, he would carry him from one edge of the empire to the other if Octavius even hinted that his legs were too weak.
"Caesar's dead," an empty voice murmured behind him.
"What?"
Octavius swallowed and held Agrippa's stare as he turned around. His grey eyes were dry but they held slight redness, suggesting he had cried for at least a moment.
"They killed him. Stabbed him to death in the Theatre of Pompey"
"And his will?"
Octavius shrugged.
"It's over."
"No it isn't."
"It is in every way that matters."
Agrippa shook his head. Octavius sniffled. It couldn't be over, even just for the fact that Octavius hadn't had the ability to truly begin. The sun was now almost set and the first stars had started to poke through the atmosphere. It was practically night now, and Octavius always let his guard slip when it was dark.
Perhaps Agrippa did too, he realised as he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He wrapped his smallest finger around Octavius', pulling his friend's stare up to his. Octavius was short, though he never felt it from any other perspective, only when they were standing like this, which they so rarely did. He sighed.
"It isn't over until you say it is," he whispered, though he'd be surprised if Octavius could hear what he said over the pounding of Agrippa's heart which he was sure the whole world could hear.
"I am not a god, Marcus," he laughed hoarsely.
"Then I'll make you one."
__
Dinner was a solemn affair, ending with a procession back to their tent. Octavius lead Maecenas, Rufus, and Agrippa back, and they all prepared to sleep in silence.
Agrippa blew the torch out before anyone spoke again.
"So what's the plan?" Rufus asked just as Agrippa sat on his bed.
"What plan?" Agrippa asked.
"Well there has to be a plan!" Rufus explained, "Caius always has a plan!"
Rufus was the only one who dared call Octavius by his name so casually, but he never got told off.
"Caesar just died, Rufus, we have no plan," Maecenas replied, though he was usually the strategist of the group beside Octavius. Octavius realised that this reply was probably because Maecenas didn't have a plan, either.
"Mother wants me to relinquish any claim to Caesar's name if it comes to that," Octavius sighed, staring up at the tent ceiling.
"Who will be his heir, anyway?" Rufus continued.
Octavius supposed Rufus had a point. Calpurnia, as far as Octavius was aware, had yet to give Caesar a son. Thus, it would be down to Antonius, or, Decimus Brutus, or some distant relative (he didn't dare allow himself to consider the possibility he was named in the will).
"We're going to start journeying back to Rome in the morning," Octavius finally decided.
"Why?"
"To pay our respects."
__
Agrippa had been reminiscing recently. It was never good when he started reminiscing— he always ended up somewhere he didn't want to be.
Now, it wasn't because he didn't want to be in the places that he wandered to when he did reminisce, it was more the fact, in thinking about these places and possibilities, he realised that they would only just be memories or hopes or dreams. In thinking about what he could have had, he was forced to face the revelation the thing— the person— he wanted most was drifting further and further away.
It wasn't that Octavian was getting married— he'd been married twice before— it was that this marriage somehow seemed more important than the first two. And he liked Livia, sure. She was pretty, smart, and she was no doubt much, much stronger than Agrippa; she was everything Octavian dreamed of (Octavian had told him so although anyone with eyes could see how completely he loved her). By Juno, Octavian was willing to risk his reputation for her! Maybe that's what irked Agrippa about it all— that Octavian was suddenly so willing to toss aside something he'd always been so obstinate about maintaining.
But they were getting married.
Actually, they were married now. Agrippa was getting obnoxiously drunk at their wedding feast and dodging Octavian's glare which no doubt was commanding him to slow down on the wine, or at least mix it weaker. So, Agrippa pretended not to feel those grey eyes on his back because he knew, if he caught them, he'd obey the command and listening to Octavian wasn't something he wanted to do at this moment.
Some days he still couldn't believe how far they'd come only a few years after leaving Apollonia. Octavian had become Caesar's heir, and, eventually, amongst the most powerful men in Rome, Maecenas was working with great writers, fuck, even he was a celebrated general! But Rufus…
Rufus was gone.
No one really knew what happened, but Agrippa remembered the night it had all happened— Octavian coming to see him, Octavian crying, his body wracking with sobs as Agrippa pulled him into a close embrace. It had been dark then, too, and Octavian's skin was warm.
"Promise to never leave me," he'd whispered into Agrippa's shoulder.
"I wasn't planning on it."
Octavian had pulled back to meet his gaze; "I need you to promise me."
"I promise."
Agrippa thought of that night often, about what could have happened if he had let himself be brave for once. At the end of the day, Agrippa had many flaws and cowardice was the worst. Sure, he had fought battles, and did all those things usually considered "brave" but he wasn't brave. Those things did not scare him, they never had. All his fears had always centred around Octavian, all of his nightmares were about Octavian dying or leaving him or saying he didn't need him any more.
Agrippa sighed, and had another sip of wine.
___
Some days Octavian— Augustus now— could not quite believe the fact he had actually done it. Antonius was dead, Rome was his, he had gotten everything he'd ever wished for. The people loved him, there was peace, he had done what neither his father nor Caesar had done. He could be a just leader now, quiet, all while holding the world in his hand— he simply had to avoid the traps that Caesar had fallen into so carelessly.
Currently, Augustus sat in his offices, waiting on Agrippa to arrive.
"Augustus," a familiar voice rang from the entryway. Calm, steady.
"Marcus," he grinned.
Agrippa had changed over the years, as they all had. He'd become more controlled. A faint scar ran down the front of his left forearm from Philippi. A larger one spread across his chest from years of fighting in Cantabria. He remembered receiving the news, a week after he had returned to Rome from the front lines, that Agrippa had been struck down, that he was at risk of dying. Though he was still alive and well (quite obviously) the thought had always, for whatever reason, sent a shiver down Augustus' spine. He'd seen the scar every time they'd gone to the baths together. (He'd felt it, too, one night in this very room which Augustus had made a habit of not thinking about, in case the world somehow found out about it).
"What have you summoned me to discuss?"
"Can friends not sit and speak together anymore? Speak of the glory of years past?"
He relaxed slightly, and sighed, "You have never been one to reminisce."
"Perhaps I have had a change of heart in my advancing age."
"You have always changed too easily," he replied, though his tone removed any of the humour that might have been meant by the statement.
Augustus' brow furrowed. "You seem unhappy."
"We never talked about it."
Had he thought he could have managed to plead ignorance, Augustus would have pretended to not know about what his friend was talking. But he knew. They both knew. It was all either of them could think of! Being pressed down into the wood of this desk, the silver lines that crisscrossed Agrippa's body, his hot hands running their way through Augustus' hair.
"You can't hide everything all the time, you do realise that, do you not?" Agrippa continued, "You aren't 'Octavius' anymore, for Olympus' sake you're barely even 'Octavian' anymore. The world will forgive you for not being whoever you think it wants you to be."
"This is who I am."
Agrippa swallowed, and met his eye, "No it isn't, Caius."
"Caius" had been his father's name, it had been Caesar's. He was not Caius, not anymore. "Augustus," "the Revered One," that's who he was now. It's who he wanted to be. After all, who wouldn't want to be the most powerful person in the world?
"Leave," Augustus swallowed, trying to mask the way his voice cracked slightly as he said it, trying to understand why the exchange had caused such a wave of emotion to crash on him as he was quickly being dragged into the sea, "I shall call on you later."
"Caius—"
"Please just go."
__
"Dominus."
"What?" Augustus said, head whipping up from the letter he had been reading.
The messenger shuffled in nervously. It was nothing new that Augustus always got antsy in the days leading up to Agrippa returning from the provinces but this messenger seemed more nervous than usual.
He swallowed.
"I am sorry to announce—"
"Oh just get on with it, I have better things to do than to listen to—"
"—Marcus Agrippa is dead."
For the very first time in many years, Augustus felt as if he couldn't breathe.
Time stopped.
Hours, days, weeks might have passed before they laid his body in the atrium. It was strange to seem him like that— it was like he was sleeping but he wasn't snoring so he couldn't be asleep. Agrippa always snored when he was asleep. Augustus found himself avoiding the atrium whenever he could because any time he saw him lying there he stopped and turned to stone.
He couldn't sleep anymore. So, one night, he slipped from his bed and wandered to the atrium. He didn't know why he walked to the place he wished to be least in the world, but he now realised he knew so little about the world around him.
He remembered a few years prior, in Baiae, they'd been walking and their hands had brushed.
"Your hands are so cold," Agrippa had said.
"They have always been cold."
Agrippa had shaken his head; "No, they used to always be warm, even when you were shivering your arse off in Apollonia."
Now Augustus found himself in front of his friend's corpse. Maecenas had drifted away to the sidelines of the court a few years prior and Augustus suddenly realised he was the only one left of the four of them.
He approached his friend.
Then he kissed him.
His lips were so, so cold, colder than those nights in Apollonia, than those nights where they were fighting about something or another, than the realisation he had lost all of his closest friends.
Agrippa, who had once produced enough heat to replace the sun, had now gone cold.
And all Augustus could say, under his breath as his lips hovered above his friend's was:
"I'm sorry."