Meanwhile, the son of Pompey the Great celebrated his great victory. Since his arrival in Sicily, he had identified the god of the sea, Neptune, with his father on coins that he had issued. Now he proclaimed himself the son of Neptune, took to wearing a dark blue cloak (instead of a commander’s regulation purple), and sacrificed some horses (and, it was rumored, men) to the god by driving them into the sea.
With a heavy heart, Octavian journeyed north to Campania, brooding on what he should do next. He needed many new ships, but had neither money nor time to build them.
Embarrassing though it was, he realized that he would have to humble himself and ask again for assistance from his fellow triumvirs—Lepidus, half forgotten in Africa; Mark Antony, whom he had snubbed only months before. Without their support, he could make no progress; also, left to their own devices, his colleagues might well open discussions with Sextus. He sent them an urgent appeal.
Almost at once, though, Octavian wished he had not done so, for he was given new heart by the return from Gaul of his friend Agrippa. The twenty-four-year-old commander had great achievements to his credit, having secured the frontier on the Rhine and founded a new city, Colonia Agrippinensis (or, as it became, Cologne). He was offered a triumph, but, sensitive to his friend’s distress, declined.
Now the victorious young general turned his attention to a style of warfare with which he was almost completely unfamiliar: fighting at sea. He decided exactly what he needed—a sufficient stretch of water, with large supplies of wood in the vicinity, where he could build a new fleet, then train both it and himself, safe from the maraudings of Sextus Pompeius, safe even from Sextus’ knowledge.
Agrippa knew the very place. According to Homer, the lake of Avernus was the gateway into Hades, where the dead led shadowy and enfeebled existences. Not far from Cumae, Avernus was a huge water-filled crater, with a diameter of nearly five miles and a depth of thirty-seven yards. Except for one narrow entrance, it was completely surrounded by densely wooded hills, giving it a somber, oppressive atmosphere. Here and there on the slopes, volcanic springs spewed a mixture of water and flames, steam and smoke.
A short way south was the Lucrine lake, separated from the sea by a low thin strip of land (“as broad as a wagon road,” wrote the contemporary geographer Strabo).
No sentimentalist, Agrippa was undaunted by the gloomy spirit of the place. He had the brilliantly simple, highly ambitious idea of cutting a canal south from Avernus to the Lucrine lake and thence to the sea. This was quickly done, while a tunnel was also driven northward to the seaside town of Cumae, so creating a second means of access. In this way, a huge, new, completely secure, secret harbor was created, which was named Portus Julius.
The trees on the slopes of Avernus were cut down; keels were laid and galleys built. Twenty thousand freed slaves were recruited as oarsmen, and learned their craft in safety and secrecy. Among other things, they were able to practice using a lethal refinement of the corvus that Agrippa had invented: this was the harpax, a grapnel fired from a ship-borne catapult.
This vast enterprise called for substantial resources. Wealthy supporters of Octavian financed ships, and a message came from Antony offering military help. It is likely that Agrippa brought funds with him from Gaul, and money was raised from the empire’s provinces.
In response to Octavian’s plea, transmitted by the emollient Maecenas, Antony, who had spent the winter at Athens, agreed to return to Italy in the spring or early summer of 37 B.C.; it was in his interest to ensure that the west was quiet before he set off against Parthia and also he needed (as was allowed by the Treaty of Brundisium) to recruit troops in Italy.
He sailed with a large fleet to Brundisium, but once again found its port closed to him. Irritated by this evidence of Octavian’s renewed fickleness, he sailed round to Tarentum, where he invited Octavian to join him. He was now not at all sure that he would support his fellow triumvir against Sextus. Octavia was accompanying Antony and was very upset at the prospect of another quarrel breaking out between her brother and her husband. “If the worst should happen,” she wrote to her brother, according to Plutarch, “and war break out between you, no one can say which of you is fated to conquer the other, but what is quite certain is that my fate will be miserable.”
Octavian took the point; indeed, he had probably done so even before his sister approached him. His refusal to meet his colleague had been as much of a blunder as his original cry for help. He was certainly not ready for war with Antony and had no excuse even for wishing it. There were matters that the triumvirs needed to discuss—for example, an extension of the Triumvirate, which was on the point of expiry. A meeting was evidently in order. The only eventuality Octavian wanted to avoid was Antony joining him in the war against Sextus. To ensure his future as co-ruler of the empire, he must win his own battles.
So it was agreed that a conference be held at Tarentum. Maecenas traveled down from Rome to make the arrangements and plan the agenda. He was also an unofficial minister of culture, who recognized the importance of the arts to the promotion of a political regime. He had a sharp eye for literary talent, and was always on the lookout for it. He gathered a group of poets around him, to whom he gave the freedom of his house at Rome. Chief of these was Virgil, now in his early thirties.
Another member of the inner circle was Horace, twenty-seven years old and Maecenas’ favorite. A lover of the peaceful life, Horace agreed with the Greek philosopher Epicurus that pleasure was the only good. Completely without vanity, he has left thumbnail descriptions of his rotund appearance:
Come and see me when you want a laugh. I’m fat and sleek,
In prime condition, a porker from Epicurus’ herd.
And
Of small build, prematurely grey, and fond of the sun,
He was quick to lose his temper, but not hard to appease.
His eminent patron was portly too, and wrote him an epigram in verse: “If I don’t love you, Horace, more than my life, may your friend look skinnier than a rag-doll.”
It was typical of the man that Maecenas assembled some poets to accompany him on the journey, probably for the fun of it and for good conversation, though these literary personalities may have been dragooned into providing secretarial services.
Horace wrote a lighthearted poem describing the trip. After two days’ leisurely travel from Rome he and a companion, a professor of rhetoric, arrived at a great malarial swamp, the Pomptine Marshes (before his death, Julius Caesar had planned to drain them, but this was not accomplished until Benito Mussolini did it in the 1930s). They left the road for a night and were hauled through wet wasteland in a barge.
Horace was then joined by Maecenas, and the following day by Virgil and two other poets. The company stopped at Capua (today’s Santa Maria Capua Vetere), where they took an afternoon off from travel. Capua was one of the richest cities in Italy; Cicero had called it a “second Rome.” A great center for gladiatorial combats, it boasted a fine amphitheater (the ruins that can be seen today are of a later building), where Spartacus once fought.
However, no one was interested in seeing the sights; Maecenas went off to take some exercise, while Horace, who had an eye infection, and the delicate Virgil took a siesta, “for ball-games are bad for inflamed eyes and dyspeptic stomachs.”
Some days later, when the arid hills of Apulia (today’s Puglia), Horace’s homeland, came into view, the travelers took refuge from the heat in a villa at Trivicum (Trevico). Horace’s sore eyes were irritated by a smoky stove, but his spirits were lifted by the prospect of an amorous encounter.