And yet that first knowledge was like a dream, and for many years I did not believe it. It was at Ilium, and I was worshiped as a goddess. Even now, it is like a dream; but I remember that at first I thought it all an amusing foolishness, a barbaric and charming foolishness.
I came to see that it was not. . . . That youth I chose that day in the sacred grove could not have been more than nineteen; he was virginal; and he was the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. I can close my eyes, and see his face, and almost feel the firm softness of his body. I believe that when I took him into the cave, I did not intend to fulfill the ritual. I did not have to; I was the Mother Goddess, and my power was absolute. But I did fulfill the ritual, and discovered the power of my body and the power of its needs. It was a power that I had been led to believe did not exist. . . . He was a sweet boy. I wonder what became of him, after he had entered the goddess and lain with her.
I believe that I must have lived in a kind of dream until the death of Marcus Agrippa. I could not believe what I had discovered, and yet its presence was with me always. I was faithful to Marcus Agrippa—I could not feel that the goddess who took her lover then at Ilium was wife to Agrippa; I was not faithful to Tiberius Claudius Nero.
It was after the death of that good man, Marcus Agrippa, that Julia, daughter of Octavius Caesar, the August, discovered the power that had been hidden within her, and discovered the pleasure that she could take. And the pleasure she could take became her power, and it seemed to her that it was a power beyond that of her name and of her father. She became herself.
Yes, it has served me well, this body that is blurred by the water, that I can see as I lie supine in my pelagic bath. It has served me, while seeming to serve others. It has always served me. The hands that roamed upon these thighs roamed there for me, and the lover to whom I gave pleasure was a victim of my own desire.
Sometimes, bathing, I think of those who have given this body pleasure—Sempronius Gracchus, Demosthenes, Appius Pulcher, Cornelius Scipio—I cannot remember their names now, many of them. I think of them, and their faces and their bodies merge together, so that they are as one face and one body. It has been six years since I have known the touch of a man, six years since beneath my hand or my lips I have caressed the flesh of a man. I am forty-four years old; four years ago I entered my old age. And yet still at the thought of that flesh, I can feel my heartbeat quicken; I can almost feel myself to be alive, though I know that I am not.
For a while, I was the goddess to the mystery of all my pleasure; and then I became a priestess, and my lovers were the adepts. I served us well, I think.
And I think at last of the one from whom I had ultimate pleasure, one for whom all the others had been prelude, so that I might be prepared. I knew the taste and heft of his flesh more intimately than I have known anything else. I cannot believe that six years have gone. I think of Jullus. The tide rises gently, and the water moves over my body. If I do not move, I may think of him. I think of Jullus Antonius.
III. Letter: Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso to Tiberius Claudius Nero, in Rhodes (3 B.C.)
I must say at the outset, my friend, that I am filled with apprehension; and I do not know whether it is justified or not. Let me give you a few causes, so that you may judge the soundness of my feeling.
Your wife, so far as I can determine, has been faithful to one man for more than a year. That man is, as you know, Jullus Antonius. She is seen constantly in his company; indeed, the liaison has become so widely recognized that no longer does either of them try to dissemble it. Julia receives guests in his home, and directs the activities of his servants. Her father must know of the affair by now, and yet he remains on friendly terms with his daughter, and with Jullus Antonius. Indeed, it is rumored that Julia intends to divorce you, and to take Jullus as her husband. In this rumor, however, I think we can put very little credence. Octavius Caesar would never allow it. Such an official alliance would simply destroy the delicate balance of power that he maintains, and he knows it. I mention the rumor only to indicate to you the extent to which the affair has grown.
Despite the scandal of his relationship with the Emperor’s daughter—or perhaps because of it, for who can know the mind of the people?—Jullus Antonius’s popularity continues to grow. He is at the moment, I should imagine, the second or third most powerful man in Rome; he has a very large following in the Senate, a following which, I must say, he uses most discreetly. Yet despite this discretion, I do not trust him. He has made no move to court those senators who have some influence with the military; he smiles upon all; he even conciliates his enemies. Yet I suspect that like his father he has ambitions; and unlike his father, he is able successfully to hide them from the world.
And, alas, your popularity among the masses seems to be suffering. It is in part because of your necessary absence; but that is not all. Libels and lampoons about you are being circulated widely; this, of course, is usual. Any distinguished figure is at the mercy of versifiers and hacks. But the distribution of these libels is far greater than any that I can remember in years; and they are particularly vicious. It seems almost that there is a campaign of sorts under way to discredit you. It does not do so, of course; no one who was your friend will become your enemy because of these libels, but it does seem to me symptomatic of something.
And the Emperor, I am sad to say, does not unbend in his dislike of you, despite the entreaties of your mother and your friends. So we can expect no comfort from that quarter.
Despite all this, you are well advised to remain in Rhodes. Let the lampooners invent their salacious poems; so long as you remain abroad, you will not be forced to act. The memories of men are short.
Jullus Antonius has gathered around him a band of poets— nothing so distinguished as those who were friends to the Emperor, of course; and I suspect that some of the libels and lampoons have been coming (anonymously, of course) from their pens. Some write poems in praise of Jullus himself; and he has let it be known that his maternal grandmother was a Julian. The man is ambitious; I am sure of that.
Do not forget that you have friends in Rome; and the absence of your self does not mean that you are not present in all our minds. It is a depressing strategy, but a necessary one, this waiting; do not become too impatient. I shall, as I have done, keep you informed of all that is pertinent here in the city.
IV. The Journal of Julia, Pandateria (A.D. 4)
Before Jullus Antonius and I became lovers, he used to tell me about his early years, and about his father, Marcus Antonius. Jullus had not been a favorite of his father—that distinction had fallen to his elder brother, Antyllus—and he remembered him as if he were almost a stranger. In his early years, Jullus had been raised by my Aunt Octavia, who, though a stepmother, was closer to him than had been his natural mother, Fulvia. Often, as I sat quietly with Jullus Antonius and Marcella and talked, it occurred to me that it was the most amazing thing that once, as small children, we had all played together at my Aunt Octavia’s house. I could not then, and cannot now, recall those days with any precision; and when we tried to talk about childhoods and dredge up memories of them, it was as if we were inventing the characters and the events of a play, out of the conventions and necessities of an occasion in the past.
I remember one late evening, when the three of us lingered after the other few dinner guests had departed. It was a hot night, so we removed ourselves from the dining room and lounged in the courtyard. The stars glimmered through the soft air; the servants had gone; and our music was the mysterious chirp and whisper of the innumerable insects hidden in the darkness. We had been talking quietly, toward no particular end, of the accidents that befall us in our living.
“I have often wondered,” Jullus said, “what would have happened to our country had my father been less impetuous and had managed to prevail over my friend Octavius Caesar.”
“Octavius,” I said, “is my father.”
“Yes,” Jullus said. “And he is my friend.”
&nb
sp; “There are those,” I said, “who would have preferred such a victory over him.”
Jullus turned to me and smiled. In the starlight, I could see the heavy head and the delicate features. He did not resemble the busts of his father that I had seen.
“They are wrong,” he said. “Marcus Antonius had the inherent weakness of trusting too much the mere presence of himself. He would have erred, and he would have fallen, sooner or later. He did not have the tenacity that the Emperor has.”
“You seem to admire my father,” I said.
“I admire him more than I do Marcus Antonius,” he said.
“Even though—” I said, and paused.
He smiled again. “Yes. Even though Octavius had my father and my elder brother put to death. . . . Antyllus was very much like Marcus Antonius. I believe Octavius saw that, and he did what was necessary. I was never fond of Antyllus, you know.”
I believed I shivered, though the night was not cool.
“If you had been a few years older . . .” I said.
“It is quite likely that he would have put me to death also,” Jullus said quietly. “It would have been the necessary thing to do.”
And then Marcella said petulantly and somewhat sleepily, “Oh, let’s not talk of unpleasant things.”
Jullus turned to her. “We are not, my dear wife. We are talking of the world, and of the things that have happened in it.”
Two weeks later, we became lovers.
We became lovers in a way that I could not have foreseen. I believe I determined that evening that we should become lovers, and I foresaw nothing in my conquest of Jullus Antonius that I had not seen before. Though I was fond of his wife, who was also my cousin, I knew her to be a trivial woman, as tiresome as I have found most women to be; and Jullus I took to be a man like all men—as eager for the power of conquest as for the pleasure of love.
To one who has not become adept at the game, the steps of a seduction may appear ludicrous; but they are no more so than the steps of a dance. The dancers dance, and their skill is their pleasure. All is ordained, from the first exchange of glances until the final coupling. And the mutual pretense of both participants is an important part of the elaborate game—each pretends helplessness beneath the weight of passion, and each advance and withdrawal, each consent and refusal, is necessary to the successful consummation of the game. And yet the woman in such a game is always the victor; and I believe she must have a little contempt for her antagonist; for he is conquered and used, as he believes that he is conqueror and user. There have been times in my life when, out of boredom, I have abandoned the game, and have attacked frontally, as a conquering soldier might attack a villager; and always the man, however sophisticated, and however he might dissemble, was extraordinarily shocked. The end was the same, but the victory was, for me, never quite complete; for I had no secret to hide from him and, therefore, no power over his person.
And so I planned the seduction of Jullus Antonius as carefully as a centurion might plan an advance upon the flank of an enemy, though in the ritual of this encounter, I thought, the enemy always wishes to be conquered. I gave him glances, and looked away hurriedly; I brushed against him, and drew away as if in confusion; and at last, one evening, I managed to arrange for us to be alone together at my house.
I languished on my couch; I said words that invited the hearer to offer comfort; I let my dress fall away from my legs a little, as if in distracted carelessness. Jullus Antonius moved across the room and sat beside me. I pretended confusion, and let my breath come a little faster. I waited for the touch, and prepared a little speech about how fond I was of Marcella.
“My dear Julia,” Jullus said, “however attractive I find you, I must tell you at once that I do not intend to become another stallion in your stable of horses.”
I believe that I was so startled that I sat upright on my couch. I must have been startled, for I said the most banal thing I can imagine: “What do you mean?”
Jullus smiled. “Sempronius Gracchus. Quinctius Crispinus. Appius Pulcher. Cornelius Scipio. Your stable.”
“They are my friends,” I said.
“They are my associates,” Jullus said, “and they have been of service to me from time to time. But they are horses I would not run with. And they are unworthy of you.”
“You are as disapproving,” I said, “as my father.”
“Do you hate your father so much, then, that you will not attend him?”
“No,” I said quickly. “No. I do not hate him.”
Then Jullus looked at me intently. His eyes were dark, almost black; my father’s were a pale blue; but Jullus’s eyes had that same intense and searching light, as if something were burning behind them.
He said: “If we become lovers, we shall do so in my own time and at terms more advantageous to us both.”
And he touched me on the cheek, and he rose, and he left my room.
I sat where he left me for a long while, and I did not move.
I cannot remember my emotions at being so refused; it had not happened to me before. I must have been angry; and yet I believe that there must have been a part of me that was relieved, and grateful. I had, I suppose, begun to be bored.
For the next several days, I saw none of my friends. I refused invitations to parties, and once when Sempronius Gracchus called upon me unexpectedly, I had my maidservant, Phoebe, tell him that I was ill, and was receiving no visitors. And I did not see Jullus Antonius—whether out of shame or anger, I did not know.
I did not see him for nearly two weeks. Then, late one afternoon, after a leisurely bath, I called for Phoebe to bring my oils and fresh clothing. She did not answer. I drew a large towel about me, and stepped into the courtyard. It was deserted. I called again. After a moment, I crossed the courtyard and entered my bedroom.
Jullus Antonius stood in the room, his tunic bright in the shaft of late afternoon sunlight that slanted through the window, his face dark in the dimness above that light. For several moments neither of us moved. I shut the door behind me, and came a little into the room. Still Jullus did not speak.
Then, very slowly, he came toward me. He took the large towel that I had wrapped around me and slowly unwound it from my body. Very gently he toweled my body dry, as if he were a slave of the bath. Still I did not move, or speak.
Then he moved back from me, and looked at me where I stood, as if I were a statue. I believe I was trembling. Then he stepped forward, and touched me with his hands.
Before that afternoon, I had not known the pleasures of love, though I thought I had. And in the months that came that pleasure fed upon itself, and multiplied; and I came to know the flesh of Jullus Antonius as I had known nothing else in my life.
Even now, after these many years, I can taste the bitter sweetness of that body, and feel beneath me the firm warmth. It is odd that I can do so, for I know that the flesh of Jullus Antonius now is smoke, and is dispersed into the air. That body is no more, and my body remains upon this earth. It is odd to know that.
No other man has touched me since that afternoon. No man shall touch me for as long as I shall live.
V. Letter: Paullus Fabius Maximus to Octavius Caesar (2 B.C.)
I do not know whether I write you now as a consular of Rome who is your friend, or as your friend who is consular. But write you I must, though we see each other almost daily; for I cannot bring myself to speak to you of this matter, and I cannot put what I have to say in one of the official reports that I give you regularly.
For what I must reveal to you touches upon both your public and your private self, and in such a way that I fear they cannot be separated, one from the other.
When at first you commissioned me to investigate those rumors which you judged to be so persistent as to be disturbing, I must confess that I thought you overly concerned; rumor has become a way of life in Rome, and if one spent his time investigating all that he hears, he would have not a moment for any other business that ought to occupy hi
m.
So, as you know, I began the investigation with a great deal of skepticism. Now I am grieved to tell you that your apprehensions were right, and that my skepticism was mistaken. The matter is even more alarming than you initially suspected, or could imagine.
There is a conspiracy; it is a serious one; and it has gone a long way toward its completion.
I shall report my findings as impersonally as I can, though you must understand that my feelings protest against the coldness of my words.
Some seven or eight years ago—the year that he was consul —I relinquished to the service of Jullus Antonius, as a librarian, a slave whom I had some time earlier freed, one Alexas Athenaeus. Alexas was and is an intelligent man, and he has remained loyal to me through the years; he is, I am sure, a friend. When he learned of the investigation that I was conducting, he came to me in a highly distraught state, bringing with him certain documents removed from the secret files of Jullus Antonius, and a most disturbing series of revelations.
There is, incontrovertibly, a plot against the life of Tiberius. The conspirators have enlisted the support of certain factions around Tiberius in his retirement on Rhodes. He is to be murdered in the manner that Julius Caesar was murdered, and it is to be made to appear that it is an authentic uprising against the authority of Rome. Upon this pretext of danger it is planned that an army will be raised under the auspices of the senator and ex-consul Quinctius Crispinus, an army whose ostensible purpose is to protect Rome, but whose actual purpose is to assume power for that faction of conspirators. If you oppose the raising of this army, you will be made to seem either cowardly or indifferent; if you do not oppose it, your position and your person may be in danger, to say nothing of the orderly future of Rome.
For there is strong evidence that a direct attempt will be made upon your life at the same time that the plan against Tiberius is carried out.
The conspirators are: Sempronius Gracchus, Quinctius Crispinus, Appius Pulcher, Cornelius Scipio—and Jullus Antonius. I know that the last name will cause you particular pain. I thought that Jullus was my friend, and I thought that he was yours. He is not.
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