September 23, 63 B.C.:  Happy Birthday Octavius.

The Emperor Augustus commands our respect.  His teenage self was more deserving of a good slap.  You could imagine this short, puny, overbearing 18 year-old at the University of Chicago but not the inheritor of the Roman Empire.  Yet, that was exactly what the teenager demanded when he showed up, unannounced, at the home of Marc Antony in May, 44 B.C.

In the two months since the murder of Julius Caesar, Antony had demonstrated genuine brilliance as a politician.  The very fact that he was alive is proof.  On the Ides of March,  Caesar’s family, friends and partisans were also at the mercy of the conspirators–the self-proclaimed Liberatores.   Any resistance or the least misstep would have led to a purge, with Antony’s name on the top of the list.

The majority in the Roman Senate had not been involved in the assassination, but it certainly seemed acquiescent.  The august patricians were a pliant lot, as obliging to the Liberatores as they had been to Caesar.  The Liberatores demanded that Caesar be declared a tyrant whose murder was a patriotic and justifiable act.  Most of Caesar’s senatorial allies were understandably absent from the Senate, but Marc Antony had not fled or was even quiet.  He did not question the justification for Caesar’s death but he did raise the most interesting technical objection to declaring Caesar a tyrant.

If Caesar were indeed a tyrant, then all his laws and his actions were invalid.  That would include every appointment which Caesar had made.  Unfortunately, Antony noted, many of the Senators and their relatives were filling those posts as of that moment.  It would be a administrative nightmare and a personal tragedy if so many people were immediately stripped of their honorable and often very lucrative posts.

Now the question before the Senators was not liberty versus tyranny, but liberty versus their families’ net worth.  Yet, the Senate hoped to avert a civil war and so, until he was ready, did Marc Antony.  He offered this compromise:  Caesar was no tyrant but his murderers were fully pardoned.  Furthermore, their leaders were to be appointed to important posts far from Rome.  Brutus and Cassius may have realized that they were tactfully exiled, but in control of the rich provinces of the East they could raise an army to challenge their enemies in Rome.  Antony knew that as well, but he was playing for time.  With friends in Gallia and Iberia and being in Italia, he could raise an army, too.

As the executor of Caesar’s will, he began spending large sums on the recruitment of friendly legions.  Unfortunately, the chief heir to that will, Caesar’s great-nephew Octavius did not appreciate the expenditures.  Furthermore, he objected to the compromises with Caesar’s murderers.  Octavian, now styling himself as Caesar, showed up at Antony’s home and demanded an explanation.  The obnoxious youngster was kept waiting, but Antony eventually saw him.

According to the historian Appian, Antony offered two answers to young Caesar’s objections.   The first was a detailed account of the political situation that faced Antony and Caesar’s family and friends, and how his compromises and expenses were protecting them until the day that they could exact their revenge.  Antony’s second explanation was more personal: he really didn’t need to explain his actions to a presumptuous brat, so Octavius should never bother him again.

Well, as we know, Octavius did.  But if Antony dismissed the annoying kid, the Roman Senate adopted him.  The Senators saw in him a rival claimant to the Caesar faction, someone to undermine the growing power of Marc Antony.  Young Caesar was a senator at 19, and a general with consular powers when he was 20. Of course, the Senators just knew that they could control him.  As Cicero said of Octavius, “He is an admirable youth who should be praised and ignored.”

After all, he was just a short, puny, overbearing kid.

First, my tantrum

I thought that I was a satirist.  It turns out that I was a prophet.  Here is my recent musing on the new opportunities in historical fiction:  histortions. 

Since ”Spartacus” has proved a success, it no doubt will inspire other historical prequels.  I am going to suggest a series on Napoleon, but focused on his sophomore year at the Brienne military academy.  Of course, the dorm chambermaid will be a nymphomaniac, as well as his geometry teacher, music teacher, fencing coach, career counselor and the headmistress.  If HBO produces this series, we can arrange for Napoleon to have an affair with Abigail Adams, too.

“Fast Times at Brienne High” has yet to be picked up–although I imagine some Hollywood producers are discussing it now over lox burritos.  However, get ready for “Teen Caesar”:

Could Zac Efron be set to play Caesar?

No word yet if Zac Efron is set to star, but 17 Again director Burr Steers has been hired to direct a new historical teen drama entitled Emperor: Young Caesar.

The director will helm the adaptation of the first two novels in Conn Iggulden’s historical (and fictional) book series. The series follows the rise of Roman emperor Gaius Julius Caesar.

William Jarhead Broyles and Stephen Cleopatra Harrigan have scribbled the script, which apparently centres on Julius and Brutus as they join the Roman military. 

Says Steers:

“I’ve always had an interest in Julius Caesar and his formative years and am thrilled to have the opportunity to be part of this project.

“There has never been a film that focuses on Caesar as a young man, and Conn Iggulden, Bill Broyles and Stephen Harrigan have a completely fresh, timely, and exciting take on one of the greatest historical figures of all time.”

Yes, the world has been waiting for a teen buddy movie about Caesar and Brutus.  Imagine the boys surfing down the Tiber. (It would be a lovely nostalgic gesture to have Frankie Avalon play Cicero.)  But there is a slight discrepancy in the age of the two kids.  When Caesar was 14 years old, Brutus was minus 1.  However, there is no reason not to portray Brutus as a wisecracking ovum.  Remember the success of “Look Who’s Talking”.  Fallopian sounds Latin to me, and the tubes might have good acoustics.

But now we resume our regularly scheduled pedantics:

May 27, 1541:  Beheading Behavior

In Tudor England beheading was considered a privilege. It was performed before a select audience in a upper class setting. In return, the victims were expected to behave with stoic dignity. Most did.  Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, definitely was the exception. The frail 67 year-old woman did not want to be executed and would not cooperate. She had to be dragged to the scaffold and would not passively place her head on the block. The executioner required assistance to hold down the struggling lady. She writhed and wiggled so effectively that the axeman missed her neck, slashing instead her shoulder. In the confusion, the Countess tried to make a run for it. She only managed to dodge around the scaffold and she was just one wounded old lady against an armed killer and his staff. The outcome was inevitable but she gave an unprecedented resistance.

Born in 1473, the poor woman had a miserable sense of timing from the start.  By the time she was four, she had been declared a traitor by her uncle King Edward IV–who executed his own brother and stripped the ensuing orphans of their property.  Her nicer uncle was Richard III, who restored young Margaret’s and her brother’s legitimacy and estates.   Margaret’s luck lasted two years–the same length as Richard’s reign.  Being a Yorkist heiress and a legitimate Plantagenet did not improve her prospects with the new king  Henry VII–who was not a legitimate anything.  Her brother Edward would spend the rest of his short life in prison; although mentally-retarded, that was a minor handicap for royalty and his pedigree made him a threat to the Tudors.  Edward was executed in 1499 at the age of 24.  Margaret was kept under a more comfortable confinement until Henry decided her fate–specifically which of his lackeys deserved a rich, young wife. 

The lucky–and unctuously loyal–groom was Henry’s cousin Richard Pole.  Pole married Margaret in 1494, and apparently he did not mind at all.  There were five children within ten years, and I would like to tell you that the Pole family lived happily ever after.  Well, Richard did; he had the prudence to die in 1505.  But Margaret and her children did not.  They  lived on into the reign of Henry VIII.

He was Margaret’s first cousin, once removed, and he took the removal quite seriously.  The Poles were staunch Catholics, and they would be providing executioners with steady work for the next two generations.  Margaret was never implicated in any plots, but her decapitation on May 27, 1541 was Henry’s way of congratulating her son Reginald for becoming a Cardinal. 

The Church beatified her in 1886.  Given her surprising dexterity, you’d think that a Catholic school would have named a gym for her.

Imagine yourself a tourist in ancient Rome and you wanted to buy 15 postcards (the ones using mosaics were impressive but the postage was exorbitant). Of course, you would tell the shopkeeper, “I’d like Ides, please.”  If he were obliging, he would lift his tunic. Otherwise, he would think you a babbling idiot.

You see, Ides does not mean 15. It rather refers to the full moon by which the old Roman calendar divided the month. The similarity between month and moon is not a coincidence.

Ancient Rome was built on seven hills and an absurd lunar calendar. The Roman year had ten months as well another sixty days in winter that didn’t count. Be fair: if you were stuck using Roman numerals, you’d resort to any short cut, too. Such a slovenly, lackadaisical calendar might suit a small Tiber village or modern Italy, but not a growing empire. The government decided to organize the dead time into two new months: Ianuarius and Februarius.

That improved the bookkeeping but not the accuracy of the calendar. The Roman year was 355 days. As Rome expanded, it was coming into contact with more sophisticated systems. The Greeks had realized that a sun-based calendar was more accurate. Yet, out of self-reverence, for six centuries Rome adhered to its ridiculous calendar.

But that outdated calendar was just one tradition that Julius Caesar intended to end. While in Alexandria, Caesar was seduced by more than just Cleopatra. The city was the think tank of the ancient world. Greek science and Babylonian mathematics had produced a calendar of unequaled precision. Caesar was so impressed that he decided to impose it on the Roman world. And for some reason, people called it the Julian calendar.

(Alexandria’s scientific community also successfully promoted a chronological concept called the “week.” The seven-day period once had been dismissed as just another Jewish idiosyncrasy. But when Alexandria adopted the idea, everyone loved it.)

The Julian calendar went into effect on January 1, 45 B.C. If the Roman traditionalists had any objections, they certainly expressed them on March 15, 44 B.C.

Imagine yourself a tourist in ancient Rome and you wanted to buy 15 postcards (the ones using mosaics were impressive but the postage was exorbitant). Of course, you would tell the shopkeeper, I’d like Ides, please. If he were obliging, he would lift his tunic. Otherwise, he would think you a babbling idiot.

You see, Ides does not mean 15. It rather refers to the full moon by which the old Roman calendar divided the month. The similarity between month and moon is not a coincidence.

Ancient Rome was built on seven hills and an absurd lunar calendar. The Roman year had ten months as well another sixty days in winter that didn’t count. Be fair: if you were stuck using Roman numerals, you’d resort to any short cut, too. Such a slovenly, lackadaisical calendar might suit a small Tiber village or modern Italy, but not a growing empire. The government decided to organize the dead time into two new months: Ianuarius and Februarius.

That improved the bookkeeping but not the accuracy of the calendar. The Roman year was 355 days. As Rome expanded, it was coming into contact with more sophisticated systems. The Greeks had realized that a sun-based calendar was more accurate. Yet, out of self-reverence, for six centuries Rome adhered to its ridiculous calendar.

But that outdated calendar was just one tradition that Julius Caesar intended to end. While in Alexandria, Caesar was seduced by more than just Cleopatra. The city was the think tank of the ancient world. Greek science and Babylonian mathematics had produced a calendar of unequaled precision. Caesar was so impressed that he decided to impose it on the Roman world. And for some reason, people called it the Julian calendar.

(Alexandria’s scientific community also successfully promoted a chronological concept called the “week.” The seven-day period once had been dismissed as just another Jewish idiosyncrasy. But when Alexandria adopted the idea, everyone loved it.)

The Julian calendar went into effect on January 1, 45 B.C. If the Roman traditionalists had any objections, they certainly expressed them on March 15, 44 B.C.