My Name

Story By StormDancer

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It’s been a long time since anyone called me by my name.

I am called a God, and placed in shrines around the empire. They worship me. My uncle was but a demi-God, naught so little for me. I am a great God, a patron of the Empire. Or so they say. In truth, I am no God. Gods are all-powerful; they do not need to cajole the Senate to give them what they want. The gods want and need worship; I would pay to take them away. I am not immortal. I will die and this infernal yoke will pass to another victim.

My sycophants call me Caesar, but that was my Uncle, not me. It’s not even my true name. I was born of a Caesarian mother, it is true, but I was not called a Caesar in my first years of life. My uncle adopted me, it is true, and I loved him and was loyal to him, I am not him. I have not the courage to rebel against what I thought was wrong. I hide behind the Senate, manipulating them, but I do not truly stand up for what I think is right. I do not deserve to be called a Caesar. I am not Julius.

My wife and friends speak of me as Augustus. The name I took because my true name was not grand enough for the first citizen, for the one the people took as their emperor. That is the name of the man who remade Rome, who took it from its corruption and made it great. That is the name of political maneuvering, one that hints of dominance but does not speak. I remade Rome out of loyalty, to my country and to my family, but never for myself. I work day in and out, and as payment I am surrounded by those who do not like me but want something from me. Out of power comes oppression, and not just for the ruler. Even my friends and wife, to whom I should be closest, are never far from their ambitions. To them, I am Augustus, the emperor who grants them favors when they are good. I have no friend. I have trained dogs, whom I reward when they are good, and punish when they are bad.

No one calls me by me name, now. I would be surprised if it were to be remembered anymore. Octavian. The name of the boy who laughed with his mother, the boy who smiled at Cleopatra. Who had no burdens that a mother’s kiss could not take away, who did not need to worry about the state of Rome. Even when I was adopted, I knew my Uncle would take care of everything. Octavian is a boy who could love his mother, and hug his grandmother, with an open heart. He could gaze in awe upon a wonder, not pretend it was seen before. An omen was to be gaped at, not to be interpreted. It is the name of the boy who never craved power, who only wanted fun. It was my name, once.

That which is forgotten dies quickly. I have been called Augustus, and Caesar, and God for so long that my true name comes slowly to my lips. I no longer react if it is yelled in the streets. None know of it, or at least profess to, except for the historians with their musty books, busy coming up with new ways to glorify my name. Augustus Caesar. I saw my grand-nephew there today. Claudius, I think his name is. He sat content among his books, one of my few relations who did not want power. I was him once, dancing along the shore with sand between my toes. No one remembers my name any longer. Except for me. I will hold it close, to remember who I once was. I was Octavian, and I still am.

But it has been so long since someone has called me by my name!