I absolutely adore how Massie handled Antony and Octavian. To me it is the discovery of the horrible, beautiful sublime, the point where love and death, sea-roaring enmity and the lover's sigh, cease to be contradictions, as Augustan propaganda would have wished. To be disillusioned with propaganda, with the grand narratives that the authors of our world provide, we need a transvaluation of all values, a reality where everything becomes manifest in themselves rather than in their distinctions with the others. What Massie has accomplished, in a work whose prosaic and psychic brilliance remains criminally clandestine, is bringing to life an old myth (eyeing Antony’s narrator, Critias; could we be hearing about Atlantis?) where Eros remains another path across from statecraft, but destruction and desire at all times exchange their masks, and War, that glorious god, strips off its armor in the bedchamber of its ancient opposite.
Let the Emperor speak; one cannot fail to appreciate Massie’s humor in his introductory notes. It remains to this day the only historical novel on Augustus (and I’ve more or less scanned them all) in which I truly feel I am witnessing the human soul erupt, resoundingly, in all its magnificent pain. Something is to be said about the inability of people today to accept the untruth, the myth, the made-up as delicacies among the staple of what is known for certain to have happened. But without these, what would become of the first novel, the very art form that from the start pretends to tell a true story experienced by the narrator, despite being a fabrication? How could fiction bring about a higher degree of reality and self-realization if not by being in love with its own lies?
Given how little we know about the ancient world, I loathe historical fiction that brands itself as striving to be authentic and remain true to historical facts—how boring! What a shabby excuse for a lack of imagination and courage! Browsing early modern plays on the events leading up to Actium, I have seen many instances where known facts were foregone for dramatic tension, even between Antony and Octavian—and what fine theatre they are. Massie is but doing a similar thing. If dramas, shows, and games can invent entirely new female characters to romance Augustus or Antony, what makes people so squeamish or silent about a relationship born out of the complicated feelings and history between the two men themselves? It is not such a big leap.
When I first skimmed Massie’s books four years ago, I thought I saw but a fever dream. Yet, returning to re-read them with the eyes of a lover, I see now how artfully Massie has reopened a wound in the body of history to reveal human hearts that bleed, grafting a marvelous and aching reality onto the known. It is, moreover, isomorphic with the very tremors of Rome’s soul as it shattered itself on the eve of an empire.
I am glad to have enjoyed a tragedy whose aesthetic depths vibrate with the nocturnal storm on Brontë's moors, the exquisite cruelty of Nabokov, and the slow, magnificent decay of Mann. Its enduring beauty, I think, triumphs over that of the so-called great lovers of history, who in actuality were but two people seeking worldly pleasures and their own destruction at convenience.
The priest of a new nation officiating over the exquisite corpse. The prince of Eternal Rome and the phantom limb on which the new empire learned to walk. A dualism from which I believe many themes and much beauty would spring.
Let many such perspectives hemorrhage into the desiccated veins of official history. This is written as an act of fealty to the Great Goddess Aphrodite, a tribute to her conquering manifestation as Love, in equal degrees peace and war. In the entrails and across the verses, militia amoris.