Augustus

  Toward the end of the evening there was to be a special performance of the musicians and dancers, and the poet Ovid was to read a new poem, composed in my honor. Sempronius Gracchus had constructed for me a special chair of ebony, and secured it on a slight rise of the earth in the garden, so that all the guests could (as Gracchus said, with that irony he always had) pay me homage. . . .

  I sat upon the chair, and saw them beneath me; a breeze came up, and I could hear it rustle among the cypresses and plane trees as it touched my silken tunic like a caress. The dancers danced, and the oiled flesh of the men rippled in the torchlight; and I remembered Ilium and Lesbos, where once I had been more than a mortal. Sempronius reclined beside my throne, on the grass; and for a moment I was as happy as I had been, and was myself.

  But in this happiness, I became aware of someone standing beside me, bowing, attempting to get my attention; I recognized him as a servant from my father’s household, and motioned for him to wait until the dance was over.

  When the dancers had finished, and after the languorous applause of the guests, I allowed the servant to approach me.

  “What does my father require of me?” I asked him.

  “I am Priscus,” he said. “It is your husband. He is ill. Your father leaves within the hour for Puteoli, and asks you to follow.”

  “Is it a serious matter, do you think?”

  Priscus nodded. “Your father leaves this night. He is concerned.”

  I turned away from him, and looked at my friends who lounged in their ease and gaiety on the grassy slopes of Sempronius Gracchus’s garden. The sound of their laughter, more charming and delicate than the music that had moved the dancers, floated up to me on the warm spring breeze. I said to Priscus:

  “Return to my father. Tell him that I shall join my husband. Tell him not to wait for me. Tell him that I will leave here shortly, and will join my husband by my own means.”

  Priscus hesitated. I said:

  “You may speak.”

  “Your father wishes you to return with me.”

  “Tell my father that I have always done my duty to my husband. I cannot leave now. I will see my husband later.”

  Priscus left then, and I started to speak to Sempronius Gracchus about the news I had received; but Ovid had taken his place before me, and had begun to speak the poem that he had written in my honor; I could not interrupt him.

  At one time I knew that poem by memory; now I cannot recall a word of it. It is strange that I cannot, for it was a remarkable poem. I believe he never included it in one of his books; he said that it was my own, and should belong to no one else.

  I did not see my husband again. He was dead by the time my father reached Puteoli; the illness, which the doctors never really discovered, was rapid and, I hope, merciful. He was a good man, and kind to me; I’m afraid he never realized I knew that. And I believe my father never forgave me for not joining him that night.

  . . . It was the truffles. We had a delicacy of truffles that evening at the villa of Sempronius Gracchus. The earthy taste of those truffles was brought back by the earthy taste of this black bread, and that reminded me of the evening when I became a widow for the second time.

  V. Poem to Julia: Attributed to Ovid (circa 13 B.C.)

  Restless, and wandering aimlessly, I pass temples and groves where Gods live—Gods who invite passers to worship as they

  Pause in the ancient groves where no ax has, in our memory’s Mortal endurance, bit hungrily branches or shrubs.

  Where might I pause? Janus watches unmoving as I approach him, And as I pass him by—quicker than any discerns

  Save he. Now: here is Vesta—reliable, nice in her own way, I think; so I call out. She does not answer me, though.

  Vesta is tending her flame—no doubt she is cooking for someone. She waves carelessly, still bending above her hot stove.

  Sadly, I shake my head and move on. And now Jupiter thunders, Eyes crackling light at me. What? Does he insist that I swear

  Something that might change my ways? “Ovid,” he thunders, “is there no End to this love-making life? trivial versing? your vain

  Posturing?” I try answering; no pause comes in the thunder. “Look to the years, poor poet; put on the senator’s robes,

  Think of the state—or at least try to.” Deafened by thunder, I cannot Hear more. Sadly, I pass. Now at the Temple of Mars,

  Weary, I halt; and I see, more fearsome than any—his left hand Sowing a field and his right slashing a sword through the air—

  Ultimate Mars! old father of living and dying! I call him Joyfully, hoping at last I will be welcomed. But no.

  He who protects and gives name to this March, to this month of my own birth, Will not receive me. I sigh; is there no place for me, Gods?

  Now in despair, and ignored by the most ancient Gods of my ancient Country, I wander beyond all of their precincts, and let

  Various breezes carry me where they will. And at last—soft, Distant, and sweet—sounds come: oboe and tambour and flute;

  Music of laughter; the wind; bird songs; leaves rustling in twilight. Now it’s my hearing that leads; I have to follow, so that

  Eyes may glimpse what the music has promised. And suddenly, Open before me, a stream, gushing with springs that invade

  Cavern and grotto, and idly meander through lilies that tremble As if suspended in air; surely, I say to myself,

  Surely there dwells here divinity—one that I haven’t before known. Nymphs in their gossamer gowns celebrate spring and the night;

  Yet, above all, high, radiant in beauty, a Goddess, to whom turn All eyes. Worshiped in joy, prayed to by gaiety, she smiles,

  Brightening the twilight, more gently than does our Aurora; her beauty Outshines that of the high Juno. I think: It’s a new

  Venus come down from her high place; no one has seen her before, yet all Know they must worship her. Hail, Goddess! we leave the old Gods

  Safe in their groves. Let them scowl at the world, let them scold who will listen; Here a new season is born; here a new country is found,

  Deep in the soul of that Rome we loved of old. We must welcome the new, and Live in its joy, and be gay; soon will the night come on; soon,

  Soon we will rest. But for now we are granted this beauty around us, Granted this Goddess who gives life to this sacred grove.

  VI. The Journal of Julia, Pandateria (A.D. 4)

  My husband died on the evening of Sempronius Gracchus’s party; I would not have seen him, even if I had left as my father wanted. My father traveled all night without pausing, and arrived at Puteoli the next day to find his oldest friend dead. It is said that he looked at the body of my husband almost coldly, and did not speak for a long time. And then with that cold efficiency of his he spoke to Marcus Agrippa’s aides, who were putting on their shows of grief. He ordered the body prepared for the procession that would return to Rome; he had word sent back to the Senate to direct the procession; and—still without rest—he accompanied the body of Marcus Agrippa on its slow and solemn journey back to Rome. Those who saw him enter the city said that his face was like stone as he limped at the head of the procession.

  I was, of course, present at the ceremonies in the Forum, where my father delivered the funeral oration; and I can attest to his coldness there. He spoke before the body of Marcus Agrippa as if it were a monument, rather than what remained of a friend.

  But I can also attest to what the world did not know. After the ceremony was over, my father retired to his room in his private house on the Palatine, and he saw no one for three days, during which time he took no food. When he emerged, he appeared to be years older; and he spoke with an indifferent gentleness that he had never had before. With the death of Marcus Agrippa, there was a death within him. He was never quite the same again.

  To the citizens of Rome, my husband left in perpetuity the gardens he had acquired during the years of his power, the baths he had built, and a sufficient amount of capital to maintain them;
in addition, he left to every citizen one hundred pieces of silver; to my father he left the rest of his fortune, with the understanding that it was to be used for the benefit of his countrymen.

  I thought myself cold, for I did not grieve for my husband. Beneath the ritual show of grief demanded by custom, I felt—I felt almost nothing. Marcus Agrippa was a good man; I never disliked him; I was, I suppose, fond of him. But I did not grieve.

  I was in my twenty-seventh year. I had given birth to four children, and was pregnant with a fifth. I was a widow for the second time. I had been a wife, a goddess, and the second woman of Rome.

  If I felt anything upon the occasion of my husband’s death, it was relief.

  Four months after the death of Marcus Agrippa, I gave birth to my fifth child. It was a boy. My father named the child Agrippa, after its father. He would, he said, adopt the child when it came of an age. It was a matter of indifference to me. I was happy to be free of a life that I had found to be a prison.

  I was not to be free. One year and four months after the death of Marcus Agrippa, my father betrothed me to Tiberius Claudius Nero. He was the only one of my husbands whom I ever hated.

  VII. Letter: Livia to Tiberius Claudius Nero, in Pannonia (12 B.C.)

  You are, my dear son, to follow my advice in this matter.

  You are to divorce Vipsania, as my husband has ordered; and you are to marry Julia. It has been arranged, and I have had no small part in the arrangement. If you wish to be angry at any for this turn of events, I must receive a part of that anger.

  It is true that my husband has not honored you by adoption; it is true that he does not like you; it is true that he has sent you to replace Agrippa in Pannonia only because there is no one else readily available whom he can trust with the power; it is true that he has no intention of allowing you to succeed him; it is true that you are, as you have said, being used.

  It does not matter. For if you refuse to allow yourself to be used, you will have no future; and all my years of dreaming of your eventual greatness will have been wasted. You will live out your life obscurely, in disfavor and contempt.

  I know that my husband wishes only for you to act as nominal father to his grandsons, and that he hopes that one or the other of them may be made ready to succeed him, when they are old enough. But my husband’s health has never been robust; one cannot know how much longer the gods will allow him to live. It is possible that you may succeed him, beyond his wishes. You have the name; you are my son; and I shall inevitably inherit some power, in the unhappy event of my husband’s death.

  You dislike Julia; it does not matter. Julia dislikes you; it does not matter. You have a duty to yourself, to your country, and to our name.

  You will know in time that I am correct in this; and in time your anger will abate. Do not put yourself in the danger that your impetuosity might invite. Our futures are more important than our selves.

  5

  I. The Journal of Julia, Pandateria (A.D. 4)

  I knew Livia’s strength, and I knew the necessity of my father’s policy. Livia’s ambition for her son was the most steadfast and remarkable one that I have ever known; I have never understood it, and I suspect that I never shall. She was a Claudian; her husband before my father, whose name Tiberius retained, had been a Claudian. Perhaps it was the pride in that ancient name that persuaded her of Tiberius’s destiny. I have thought, even, that she might have been more fond of her former husband than she pretended, and saw the memory of him in her son. She was a proud woman; and I have suspected from time to time that she felt that in some indefinable way she had been demeaned by taking to her bed my father, whose name at that time certainly was not so distinguished as her own.

  My father had dreamed that Marcellus, his sister’s son, would succeed him; thus, he betrothed me to him. Marcellus died. And then he dreamed that Agrippa would succeed him, or at least would bring one of my sons (whom my father had adopted) to a point of sufficient maturity to adequately carry on his duties. Agrippa died, and my sons were still children. No male of the Octavian line remained, and there was no one else whom he could trust or over whom he had sufficient power. There was only Tiberius, whom he detested, though he was his stepson.

  Shortly after the death of Marcus Agrippa, the inevitability of what I had to do began to work inside me like an infected wound whose existence I would not admit. Livia smiled at me complacently, as if we shared a secret. And it was not until I was near the end of my year of mourning that my father summoned me to tell me what I already knew.

  He met me himself at the door, and dismissed the servants who had accompanied me. I remember the quietness of the house; it was late in the afternoon, but no one seemed about, except my father.

  He led me across the courtyard to the little cubicle off his bedroom that he used as an office. It was very sparsely furnished, with a table and a stool and a single couch. We sat and talked for a while. He asked about the health of my sons, and complained that I did not bring them to visit him often enough. We talked of Marcus Agrippa; he asked me if I still grieved for him. I did not answer. There was a silence. I asked:

  “It is to be Tiberius, isn’t it?”

  He looked at me. He breathed deeply, and let his breath out, and looked at the floor. He nodded.

  “It is to be Tiberius.”

  I knew it was to be, and had known; yet a shock like fear went through me. I said:

  “I have obeyed you in all things since I can remember. It has been my duty. But in this I find myself near to disobedience.”

  My father was silent. I said:

  “You once made me compare Marcus Agrippa to some of my friends of whom you disapproved. I joked, but I did compare; and you must know the outcome of that comparison. I ask you now to compare Tiberius to my late husband, and ask yourself how I might endure such a marriage.”

  He lifted his hands, as if to fend off a blow; still he did not speak. I said:

  “My life has been at the service of your policy, of our family, and of Rome. I do not know what I might have become. Perhaps I might have become nothing. Perhaps I might—” I did not know what to say. “Must I go on? Will you not give me rest? Must I give my life?”

  “Yes,” my father said. He still did not look at me. “You must.”

  “Then it is to be Tiberius.”

  “It is to be Tiberius.”

  “You know his cruelty,” I said.

  “I know,” my father said. “But I know too that you are my daughter, and that Tiberius would not dare to harm you. You will find a life beyond your marriage. In time, you will grow used to it. We all grow used to our lives.”

  “There is no other way?”

  My father rose from the stool upon which he had been seated and paced restlessly across the floor. I noticed that his limp had grown more pronounced.

  “If there was another way,” he said at last, “I would take it. There have been three plots against my life since the death of Marcus Agrippa. They were foolishly conceived and ill managed, and therefore easy to discover and deal with. I have been able to keep them secret. But there will be others.” His clenched fist struck his open palm softly, three times. “There will be others. The old ones will not forget that an upstart rules them. They will forgive neither his name nor his power. And Tiberius—”

  “Tiberius is a Claudian,” I said.

  “Yes. Your marriage will not guarantee the safety of my authority, but it will help it. The nobility will be a little less dangerous if they believe that one of their own, one who has the Claudian blood, might succeed me. At least it will give them the possibility of patience.”

  “Will they believe that you would make Tiberius your successor?”

  “No,” my father said in a low voice. “But they would believe that I might make a Claudian grandson my successor.”

  Until that moment, although I had accepted the idea of the marriage as inevitable, I had not accepted its actuality.

  I said: “So I am once aga
in to be the brood sow for the pleasure of Rome.”

  “If it were only myself,” my father said. He turned his back to me. I could not see his face. “If it were only myself, I would not ask this of you. I would not allow you to marry such a man. But it is not only myself. You have known that from the beginning.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I have known that.”

  My father spoke as if he were talking to himself. “You have your children by a good man. That will comfort you. You will remember your husband through the children that you have.”

  We talked longer that afternoon, but I cannot remember what was said. I believe that a numbness must have come over me, for I remember feeling nothing after the first rush of bitterness. Yet I did not dislike my father for doing what he had to do; I should no doubt have done the same thing, had I been in his position.

  Nevertheless, when the time came for me to leave, I asked my father a question. I did not ask it angrily, or in bitterness, or even in what might have seemed pity for myself.

  “Father,” I asked, “has it been worth it? Your authority, this Rome that you have saved, this Rome that you have built? Has it been worth all that you have had to do?”

  My father looked at me for a long time, and then he looked away. “I must believe that it has,” he said. “We both must believe that it has.”

  I was in my twenty-eighth year when I was married to Tiberius Claudius Nero. Within the year I had performed my duty, and delivered a child that bore the Claudian and Julian blood. It was a duty that both Tiberius and I found difficult to fulfill; and even that difficulty, it turned out, was in vain. For the child, a boy, died within a week after its birth. Thereafter, Tiberius and I lived apart; he was abroad much of the time, and I discovered again a way of life in Rome.