Augustus

  But this is not the end of my report.

  Alexas Athenaeus also informs me that, unknown to Jullus Antonius, there has been insinuated into his household a slave who is in actuality an agent of Tiberius. This agent is privy to the conspiracy; indeed, it was something that Tiberius’s agent let drop that first aroused Alexas’s suspicions. And the agent has been reporting directly to Tiberius about this affair. And from all that I can gather, Tiberius has a plan, too.

  He apparently has as much proof of the conspiracy as I have; and he intends to use that proof. He intends to expose the plot in the Senate, using as his spokesman the senator and his former co-consul, Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso. Calpurnius will insist upon a trial for high treason; the Senate will be forced to accede; and Tiberius will then raise an army in Rhodes and return to Rome, ostensibly to protect you and the Republic. He will be a popular hero; and you will be made to seem a fool. Your power will be lessened; Tiberius’s will be increased.

  And there is yet one other thing—and this is the most painful—that I must report.

  I am sure that for the past several years, since the absence of Tiberius Claudius Nero, you have not been wholly unaware of the activities of your daughter. I am sure that, out of pity for her condition and affection for her person, you have, as it were, looked the other way—as have most of your friends and even some of your enemies. But it becomes clear from the documents that I have in my possession that Julia has been intimate with each of the conspirators; and her lover of the past year has been Jullus Antonius.

  If this matter becomes public, it will almost certainly be made to seem that Julia herself is a part of the conspiracy; and Tiberius may well have in his possession papers more damaging even than we imagine.

  In any public disclosure of the plot, she will inevitably be implicated; and she is likely to be implicated so deeply that she will be found as guilty of treason as any of the conspirators. It is no secret that she hates Tiberius, and it is no secret that she loves Jullus Antonius.

  The documents to which I have referred are safe in my possession. No eyes have seen them save mine and Alexas Athenaeus (and, of course, the conspirators), and no other eyes shall. They remain for you to use, however you may judge best.

  Alexas Athenaeus is in hiding; the documents that he has taken from the household of Jullus Antonius are sure to be missed, and he is in fear of his life. He is a most remarkable man; I trust him. He has assured me that, despite his loyalty to Jullus Antonius, he reveres the Emperor and Rome more. He will testify, if need be. But I make a personal plea. If it is necessary to put him to torture to validate his testimony, please arrange it so that it is a ritual torture rather than an actual one. I trust the man implicitly, and he has lost nearly everything by his revelation.

  My dear friend, I should have preferred to take my life than to be the one to impart this information. But I could not do so. The safety of your person and the safety of Rome must take precedence over what now seems would be the comfort of my own death.

  I await whatever orders you may give me.

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

  It is autumn in Pandateria. Soon the winds from the north will sweep down upon this bare place. They will whistle and moan among the rocks, and the house in which I live, though of this native stone, will tremble a little in the blast; and the sea will beat with a seasonal violence against the shores. . . . Nothing changes here except the seasons. My mother still shouts at our servant and directs her indefatigably—though it seems to me that in the last month or so she has become a bit more feeble. I wonder if she, too, will die upon this island. If so, it will be her choice; I have none.

  I have not written in this journal for nearly two months; I had thought that I had no more to tell myself. But today I was allowed to receive another letter from Rome, and it contained news that reawakened memories of the days when I lived; and so I speak once more to the wind, which will carry my words away in the mindless force of its blowing.

  When I wrote of Jullus Antonius, it occurred to me that it was an appropriate moment to cease these entries into a journal that sprawls itself out to no end. For if for a year or so Jullus Antonius brought me alive into the world, he also thrust me into this slow death of Pandateria, where I may observe my own decay. I wonder if he foresaw what might happen. It does not matter. I cannot hate him.

  Even at the moment when I knew that he had destroyed us both, I could not hate him.

  And so I must write of one more thing.

  In the consulships of Octavius Caesar, the August, and Marcus Plautius Silvanus, I, Julia, daughter of the Emperor, was accused before the Senate convening in Rome of adultery, and hence of the abrogation of the marriage and adultery laws that my father had passed by edict some fifteen years before. My accuser was my father. He went into great detail about my transgressions; he named my lovers, my places of assignation, the dates. In the main, the details were correct, though there were a few unimportant names that he omitted. He named Sempronius Gracchus, Quinctius Crispinus, Appius Pulcher, Cornelius Scipio, and Jullus Antonius. He described drunken revels in the Forum and debaucheries upon the very rostrum from which he had first delivered his laws; he spoke of my frequentation of various houses of prostitution, implying that out of perversity I sold myself to anyone who would have me; and he described my visits to those unsavory bath establishments which permitted mixed bathing and encouraged all manner of licentiousness. These were exaggerated, but there was enough truth in them to make them persuasive. And at last he demanded that, in accordance with his Julian Laws, I be exiled forever from the precincts of Rome, and requested the Senate to order me placed on this Island of Pandateria, to live out the rest of my life in contemplation of my vices.

  If history remembers me at all, history will remember me so.

  But history will not know the truth, if history ever can.

  My father knew of my affairs. They may have pained him, but he knew of them, and understood the reasons, and did not upbraid me unduly. He knew of my love for Jullus Antonius; and I think, almost, he was happy for me.

  In the consulships of Gaius Octavius Caesar and Marcus Plautius Silvanus, I was condemned to exile so that I would not be executed for high treason to the state of Rome.

  It is autumn in Pandateria, and it was autumn that afternoon in Rome, six years ago, when my life ended. I had not heard from Jullus Antonius in three days. Messages that I sent to his house were returned unopened; servants that I sent were refused admittance, and came back to me puzzled. I tried to imagine those things that one in love is wont to imagine, but I could not; I knew that something else was amiss, something more serious than what a jealous lover can raise to beguile and torture one’s lover.

  But I swear I did not know what it was. I did not suspect; or perhaps I refused to suspect. I did not even suspect when, on the afternoon of the third day of silence, a messenger and four guards appeared at my door to take me to my father. I did not even recognize the significance of the guards; I imagined that they were there as a ritual protection of my safety.

  I was carried by litter through the Forum and up the Via Sacra and past the Imperial Palace and up the little hill to my father’s house on the Palatine. The house was almost deserted, and when the guards escorted me across the courtyard toward my father’s study, the few servants who were around turned away from me, as if in fear. It was only then, I believe, that I began to suspect the seriousness of the matter.

  When I was led into the room, my father was standing, as if awaiting me. He motioned the guards to leave; and he looked at me for a long while before speaking.

  For some reason, I observed him very closely for those moments. Perhaps, after all, I did know. His face was lined, and there were wrinkles of weariness around those pale eyes; but in the dimness of the room, the face might have been that of him whom I remembered from my childhood. At last I said:

  “What strangeness is this? Why have you brought me here?”

&nbs
p; Then he came forward and very gently kissed me on the cheek.

  “You must remember,” he said, “that you are my daughter and that I have loved you.”

  I did not speak.

  My father went to the little desk in the corner of the room and leaned on it for a moment, his back toward me. Then he straightened, and without turning said to me:

  “You know one Sempronius Gracchus.”

  “You know that I do,” I said. “You know him also.”

  “You have been intimate with him?”

  “Father—” I said.

  Then he turned to me. In his face there was such pain that I could not bear to look. He said: “You must answer me. Please, you must answer.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And Appius Pulcher.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Quinctius Crispinus and Cornelius Scipio?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And Jullus Antonius.”

  “And Jullus Antonius,” I said. “The others—” I said, “the others do not matter. That was a foolishness. But you know that I love Jullus Antonius.”

  My father sighed. “My child,” he said, “this is a matter that has nothing to do with love.” He turned away from me once again and picked up some papers from his desk. He handed them to me. I looked at them. My hands were shaking. I had not seen the papers before—some letters, some diagrams, some that appeared to be timetables—but now I saw names that I knew. My own. Tiberius’s. Jullus Antonius’s. Sempronius, Cornelius, Appius. And I knew then why I had been summoned before my father.

  “Had you read those documents carefully,” my father said, “you would know that there is a conspiracy against the government of Rome, and that the first step of that conspiracy is the murder of your husband, Tiberius Claudius Nero.”

  I did not speak.

  “Did you know of this conspiracy?”

  “Not a conspiracy,” I said. “No. There was no conspiracy.”

  “Did you speak to any of these—friends of yours about Tiberius?”

  “No,” I said. “Perhaps in passing. It was no secret that—”

  “That you hated him?”

  I was silent for a moment. “That I hated him,” I said.

  “Did you speak of his death?”

  “No,” I said. “Not in the way you mean. Perhaps I said—”

  “To Jullus Antonius?” my father asked. “What did you say to Jullus Antonius?”

  I heard my voice tremble. I stiffened my body, and said as clearly as I could: “Jullus Antonius and I wish to marry. We have talked of marriage. It is possible that in talking of that I spoke wishfully of Tiberius’s death. You would not have given your consent for a divorce.”

  “No,” he said sadly, “I would not.”

  “Only that,” I said. “I said only that.”

  “You are the Emperor’s daughter,” my father said; and he was silent for a moment. Then he said: “Sit down, my child,” and motioned me toward the couch beside his desk.

  “There is a conspiracy,” he said. “There is no doubt of that. Your friends, whom I have named; and others. And you are involved. I do not know the extent and nature of your guilt, but you are involved.”

  “Jullus Antonius,” I said. “Where is Jullus Antonius?”

  “That will wait,” he said. And then he said: “Did you know that there was also an attempt to be made on my life, after the death of Tiberius?”

  “No,” I said. “That cannot be true. It cannot be.”

  “It is true,” my father said. “I should hope that they would not have let you know, that they would have made it appear an accident, or illness, or something of that sort. But it would have happened.”

  “I did not know,” I said. “You must believe that I did not know.”

  He touched my hand. “I hope you never knew of that. You are my daughter.”

  “Jullus—” I said.

  He raised his hand. “Wait. . . . If I were the only one who had this knowledge, the matter would be simple. I could suppress it, and take my own measures. But I am not the only one. Your husband—” He said the word as if it were an obscenity. “Your husband knows as much as I do—perhaps more. He has had a spy in the household of Jullus Antonius, and he has been kept informed. It is Tiberius’s plan to expose the plot in the Senate, and to have his representatives there press for a trial. It will be a trial for high treason. And he plans to raise an army and return to Rome, to protect my person and the Roman government against its enemies. And you know what that would mean.”

  “It would mean the danger of your losing your authority,” I said. “It would mean civil war again.”

  “Yes,” my father said. “And it would mean more than that. It would mean your death. Almost certainly, it would mean your death. And I am not sure that even I would have the power to prevent that. It would be a matter for the Senate, and I could not interfere.”

  “Then I am lost,” I said.

  “Yes,” my father said, “but you are not dead. I could not endure knowing that I had allowed you to die before your time. You will not be tried for treason. I have composed a letter which I shall read to the Senate. You will be charged under my law of the crime of adultery, and you will be exiled from the city and provinces of Rome. It is the only way. It is the only way to save you and Rome.” He smiled a little, though I could see that his eyes were moist. “Do you remember, I used to call you my Little Rome?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And now it seems that I was right. The fate of one may be the fate of the other.”

  “Jullus Antonius,” I said. “What will become of Jullus Antonius?”

  He touched my hand again. “My child,” he said, “Jullus Antonius is dead. He took his life this morning, when he learned beyond doubt that the plot was discovered.”

  I could not speak. At last I said, “I had hoped . . . I had hoped . . .”

  “I shall not see you again,” my father said. “I shall not see you again.”

  “It does not matter,” I said.

  He looked at me once more. Tears came into his eyes, and he turned away. In a few moments the guards entered the room and took me away.

  I have not seen my father since. I understand that he will not speak my name.

  In the news that I received from Rome this morning was the information that after all these years Tiberius has returned from Rhodes and is now in Rome. He has been adopted by my father. If he does not die, he will succeed my father, and become the Emperor.

  Tiberius has won.

  I shall write no more.

  BOOK THREE

  Letter: Octavius Caesar to Nicolaus of Damascus (A.D. 14)

  August 9

  My dear Nicolaus, I send you affectionate greetings and my thanks for the recent shipment of those dates of which I am so fond, and which you have been kind enough to furnish me over the years. They have become one of the most important of the Palestinian imports, and they are known throughout Rome and the Italian provinces by your name, which I have given them. The nicolai, I call them; and the designation has persisted among those who can afford their cost. I hope it amuses you to learn that your name is known better to the world through this affectionate eponym than through your many books. We both must have reached the age when we can take some ironic pleasure in the knowledge of the triviality into which our lives have finally descended.

  I write you from aboard my yacht, the one upon which so many years ago you and I used to float leisurely among the little islands that dot our western coastline. I sit where we used to sit —slightly forward of midship upon that canopied platform which is raised so that the constant and slow movement of the sea might be observed without hindrance. We set sail from Ostia this morning, in an unseasonably chill hour before dawn; and now we are drifting southward toward the Campanian coast. I have determined that this shall be a leisurely journey. We shall depend upon the wind to carry us; and if the wind refuses, we shall wait upon it, suspended by the vast
buoyancy of the sea.

  Our destination is Capri. Some months ago one of my Greek neighbors there asked me to be guest of honor at the yearly gymnastic competitions of the island youths; I demurred at the time, pleading the burden of my duties. But a short while ago, it became necessary for me to travel southward upon another mission, and I determined to give myself the pleasure of this holiday.

  Last week my wife approached me with that rather stiff formality she has never lost, and requested that I accompany her and her son on a journey to Benevento, where Tiberius had to go on some business connected with his new authority. Livia explained to me what I already knew—that the people are not persuaded that I am fond of my adopted son, and that any display of affection or concern I might show will make more secure Tiberius’s eventual succession to my power.

  Livia did not put the matter so directly as she might have; despite her strength of character, she has always been a diplomatic woman. Like one of those Asian diplomats with whom I have dealt for much of my life, she wished to suggest to me without brutally stating the case that the days of my life are limited in number, and that I must prepare the world for that moment of chaos which will inevitably follow my death.

  Of course Livia was in this matter, as she has been in most, quite reasonable and correct. I am in my seventy-sixth year; I have lived longer than I have wished to do, and such mortal boredom does not augment longevity. My teeth are nearly gone; my hand shakes with an occasional palsy that always surprises me; and the lassitude of age pulls at my limbs. When I walk I sometimes have the odd sensation that the earth is shifting under my feet, that the stone or brick or patch of earth upon which I step may suddenly move beneath me, and that I shall fall free of the earth to wherever one goes when time has done with one.

  And so I acceded to her request, upon the condition that my accompaniment be a ceremonial one. I suggested that since sea travel makes Tiberius ill, he and his mother take the land route to Benevento, while I traveled in the same direction by sea; and that if either of them wished to make public the news that the husband or adoptive father traveled with them, I would not dispute it. It is a satisfactory arrangement, and I imagine that we all are more pleased by this subterfuge than we would have been by public honesty.