The Daughters of Palatine Hill: A Novel
Page 1
Praise for I Am Livia
“It humanizes historical figures that had, for me, just been names on a timeline. I can’t recommend it highly enough.”
—Susan Coventry, author of The Queen’s Daughter
“I Am Livia is a wonderful journey to ancient Rome . . . The historical backdrop of Rome becomes more accessible, less academic, when seen through the lives of Smith’s characters.”
—Historical Novels Review
“[A] highly polished and compelling story of ancient Rome . . . Seamlessly written, this novel will appeal mightily to fans of historical fiction.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Readers who seek out fiction about intelligent, powerful women of the past will find a great deal to enjoy here—I definitely did!”
—Sarah L. Johnson, author of Historical Fiction: A Guide to the Genre
Also by Phyllis T. Smith
I Am Livia
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Phyllis T. Smith
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503952485 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1503952487 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781503952478 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1503952479 (paperback)
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
First edition
To Sheila Levine
Contents
Leading Characters
Part I
Julia
Livia
Cleopatra Selene
Julia
Livia
Julia
Cleopatra Selene
Julia
Cleopatra Selene
Livia
Cleopatra Selene
Livia
Julia
Livia
Cleopatra Selene
Livia
Cleopatra Selene
Julia
Livia
Julia
Livia
Julia
Cleopatra Selene
Livia
Julia
Livia
Julia
Part II
Julia
Cleopatra Selene
Livia
Julia
Livia
Julia
Livia
Julia
Livia
Julia
Cleopatra Selene
Julia
Livia
Julia
Livia
Julia
Livia
Julia
Livia
Julia
Livia
Part III
Julia
Livia
Julia
Cleopatra Selene
Julia
Livia
Julia
Livia
Julia
Livia
Julia
Cleopatra Selene
Livia
Julia
Livia
Julia
Cleopatra Selene
Livia
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Questions for Discussion
About the Author
Leading Characters
Julia
Livia Drusilla, Julia’s stepmother
Caesar Augustus (called Tavius by intimates), Julia’s father, ruler of Rome, adopted son of Julius Caesar
Cleopatra Selene, Mark Antony and Cleopatra’s daughter
Scribonia, Julia’s mother, briefly married to Caesar Augustus, then divorced
Tiberius, Livia’s older son by her first marriage
Drusus, Livia’s younger son by her first marriage
Marcus Agrippa, Rome’s foremost general, Caesar Augustus’s friend since boyhood
Gaius Maecenas, another boyhood friend of Caesar Augustus, now a political advisor and patron of the arts
Octavia, Caesar Augustus’s sister, once wife of Mark Antony
Marcellus, Octavia’s son by her first husband who died before she married Antony
Marcella, Marcellus’s sister
Antonia, Octavia’s daughter by Mark Antony
Jullus Antony, Mark Antony’s son by an earlier wife, raised by Octavia
Juba, prince of Numidia
Vipsania, Agrippa’s daughter
Phoebe, Julia’s maid
Sempronius Gracchus, senator of democratic views
Mark Antony and Cleopatra, Caesar Augustus’s great rivals for empire, now defeated and dead
Part I
My father, Caesar Augustus, celebrated his victory over Mark Antony and Cleopatra when I was nine years old. By defeating them in a great sea battle, he had become ruler of the Roman Empire. I watched the triumphal procession from a stand built for the occasion on the Sacred Way in Rome. My stepmother, Livia, sat beside me, wearing her red hair in a severe, old-fashioned style, a stola of plain yellow wool draping and obscuring her body. She did nothing that day to emphasize her beauty but exuded dignity and propriety.
She had told me I must be careful how I behaved, for many eyes would be on me. And indeed, the people who packed the other side of the roadway gawked at my stepmother and me. So I sat up tall in my cushioned chair and tried to look dignified.
My aunt Octavia also had a seat on the stand. Her mouth turned down at the corners, and she had an empty look in her eyes. I wondered if this was because Mark Antony had once been her husband.
The air smelled of roast meat and spices. A great outdoor feast awaited us, not far from where we sat. Some people in the crowd drank from wineskins, and many joked and laughed. It was a holiday, and even slaves had been released from their work.
Trumpeters led the procession. They did not play the martial tune I expected, but a cheerful air. Just behind them came hundreds of men in purple-edged senatorial togas. My tutor had told me who would be marching, and I realized this could only be the whole Senate, here to do my father honor. A row of fat oxen, led by priests, came next. When the procession ended at the Temple of Jupiter Capitoline, they would be sacrificed to the god.
My heart hammered because I thought I would soon see my father riding his triumphator’s chariot. But I was wrong. I had forgotten that war prisoners came next.
The street filled up with Egyptian soldiers, row after row of them, chained together. They had on identical gray tunics, and their faces all looked the same to me—grim and dark. I understood why they were so somber. Prisoners were put to death at every triumph, strangled in the dungeons under the temple. I had not been allowed yet to attend the gladiatorial games, so this was the first time I ever looked upon men about to die. A few of them stumbled because of their chains, but for the most part, their strides did not falter, which made them admirable in my eyes. I hoped my father would spare some of them, as was his right. I looked up at my stepmother to ask if she thought he would. But the moment I opened my mouth, she shook her head, indicating I was to remain silent.
My tutor had prepared me so well that none of what had transpired so far truly surprised me. But what came next—no one had prepared me for that. A gilded cart app
eared, pulled by a single black horse. The sides were cut out so you could see the occupants, a girl and boy about my age and another boy a few years younger. They all had curly dark hair and pale faces, and they were bound in chains, their wrists manacled, the chains draped across their small bodies. But the chains were not iron like those of the captive soldiers. They were made of gold.
People on the roadside roared their approval at the sight of the chained children. My eyes went to the little girl because I was a little girl too. She had begun to shake like a willow in the wind. I knew that the spectators’ shouts filled her with terror.
“Who are they?” I asked my stepmother. I could not hold back the question.
“The children of Antony and Cleopatra.”
As soon as she uttered those words, she touched her lips, a sign to me to be quiet. So I did not ask the other questions already formed in my mind: What will happen to the little girl? Are they going to kill her?
The cart proceeded down the road, and next came the sight I had been waiting for, my father in his chariot. The crowd of spectators gave one great shout, like a thunderclap. Father rode in a chariot pulled by four white horses. Red dye stained his face—this was tradition. He wore a long robe, purple like a king might wear. A laurel wreath adorned his golden hair. He was Rome’s First Citizen; the offer of a monarch’s crown would have filled him with disdain. He looked neither left nor right, but forward, always forward—toward the temple of the god. To me he might have been a god himself. I did not shout like the people in the crowd. I just gazed at him in adoration.
Two boys rode on the trace horses of his chariot—my father’s nephew Marcellus and Livia’s son Tiberius. They were fourteen and twelve years old, respectively, and with all my soul, I envied them. It seemed so unfair that I must sit and watch them ride by in glory and could not ride one of my father’s chariot horses too. I never wished I had been born a boy more than I did at that moment.
It was only later, as I watched the soldiers of Father’s army marching past, singing a song of victory, that I remembered the children in the gilded cart. The thought came back to me: Will they kill the little girl? I almost whispered the question to my stepmother, but I was afraid she would say yes, and that answer would have been unbearable.
For months, long after I learned the fates of the three children, the image of a small girl in chains recurred again and again in my dreams. In these nightmares I somehow became the girl. I felt what she had felt; I quaked in fear. I was not the daughter of Rome’s First Citizen but a helpless captive, bound with chains of gold.
My childhood could be split into two parts—the times lit by the sun of Father’s presence and the months and years of missing him. I thought of him as my only true parent and, as a small child, even pretended to myself that I had been born like the goddess Athena, who sprang fully formed from Jupiter’s forehead.
Athena and I—we were motherless beings. Of course my mother, Scribonia, was alive, and I even saw her from time to time. My stepmother, Livia, had married my father soon after my birth, and she oversaw my upbringing. But I never thought of her as my mother.
I can’t say for sure when the path of my life was set. But the year I was fourteen looms large in my memory. Father was away then, fighting a war, and because he was gone, the world around me looked colorless. That autumn the war in Spain filled my thoughts. As powerful and invulnerable as Father always seemed to me, I still feared he would meet injury or death on a battlefield. I wanted the war finished, and him home. And my wedding day was approaching. I hoped against hope he would be there to give me away.
One morning, as I sat at my books, I heard the household steward in the next room talking to a messenger. The word Spain was mentioned. “Oh, I must see what it is,” I said to my tutor and, without even waiting for his permission, went rushing into the steward’s office. An official-looking leather case lay on his writing table. It went without saying that it was for my stepmother, and only she would open it. “Where is she? Where is Lady Livia?” I demanded of the steward.
“Why, she went out—I don’t know where—”
I whirled and raced into the atrium. I had to speak to the messenger before he left. I caught him in the entranceway—a legionary in full military regalia, a white plume on his helmet.
“Soldier, wait! Please—do you have news from Spain?”
He was young and olive-skinned. “I just delivered a letter from there,” he said, almost warily.
“But my stepmother isn’t here to open the letter. If you would only tell me what is happening in Spain. My father . . . is all well with him?”
The soldier was silent. Lines of exhaustion were etched in his face, and I sensed how tired he was. He must have rushed all the way here from Spain, I thought. Carrying what news?
Fear clutched at me. “There hasn’t been a disaster, has there? No terrible defeat? My father—”
“Are you the First Citizen’s daughter?”
“Yes,” I said, and watched the soldier’s face change as he took in the fact that he was talking to the child of the ruler of Rome.
“My lady, please understand, we messengers are supposed to keep silent no matter who we speak to, just deliver the letters and dispatches, not talk about what’s in them. Those are strict orders.”
A part of me could have wept. I so wanted news of the war. But I was the daughter of an imperator. I nodded.
“Orders are orders,” the soldier said.
I nodded again. “I’ll wait for my stepmother, then. I just wish she were home.”
The soldier let out a weary sigh. He looked about to drop. I imagined him bravely fighting the enemy, then riding days and days to bring us news.
I said, “Please sit down and rest here for a while before you go. I’ll have food and drink brought to you.”
“I can’t do that. I have dispatches to the Senate to deliver. Thanks for the kind thought just the same.” For a moment, the soldier seemed to be studying me. Then he said, his voice low, “You spoke of disaster? There’s no disaster. The barbarians who set their filthy paws on our territory are in full flight like the pieces of—the miserable cowards they are, and we’ve won new ground for Rome. When we met them in battle, it was like the gods themselves fought on our side. Oh, my lady, it was like . . .” He paused for a moment, then added, “But don’t let on that I told you, or I’m liable to be flogged.”
“I won’t,” I promised, my heart leaping with joy. A victory. Father was alive and safe, and soon he would be home for my wedding. “Thank you—thank you so much for telling me.”
The soldier thumped his clenched fist on his chest, and he was out the door. I went back to my tutor, Krito, who gave me a reproachful look for deserting him—and also twenty more lines of arcane Greek philosophy to translate.
Later, in the afternoon, my stepmother arrived home, and soon after that she summoned me into her study. To be sent for in this way by Livia was quite usual. She was always busy with Father’s business, Rome’s business, and she had little time to converse casually. Every so often she would call me to her study at an opportune moment so we could talk and she could be sure that all was well with me. But I knew today she wished to share the news she had received from Spain.
She rose when I came into the room. I smelled her faint perfume and felt her soft cheek brush against mine as she embraced me.
Documents on shelves or sorted into wooden cubbyholes threatened to overflow the study. Looking at it all, I had a sense of just how busy my stepmother was. The study was functional, much like a man’s.
I noticed a tension in her shoulders as, unsmiling, she invited me to seat myself on the one couch, then sat down beside me. It puzzled me, in light of what the soldier had said, that she did not look happier. “Your father has written from Spain,” she said.
“Yes? Is the war over?”
“For the most part, yes, and your father has won a great victory. But the situation is not completely resolved. And he has a sl
ight indisposition.”
I stared at her. “He’s ill?”
“It’s a slight illness, he says.” From Livia’s level voice, it was impossible to know if she was worried about Father.
“But what is wrong with him?”
“He didn’t elaborate.”
“If he is ill, we should go to him.”
She shook her head impatiently. “He does not wish us to do that. Now, listen to me—”
“What if he is dangerously ill?”
“He will recover,” she said flatly. “Your father always recovers.” She was looking into my eyes, her face taut. “He always recovers. You understand?” She took a breath. “His health has never been robust, you know that. He falls ill from time to time. But then he gets better. It has been that way since he was a boy. It is worrisome, but we all live with it.”
For a moment, I had imagined I saw something beyond her cool and flawless surface, that she fully shared my concern for Father. But now that moment had passed.
She said in a controlled voice, “Your father has written that he wishes us to go ahead with your wedding next month as we planned.”
For four years, I had been betrothed to my first cousin Marcellus. “Why can’t we wait a little longer—wait until Father is home? I don’t want to marry until Father is here to give me away.”
Livia shook her head. “I’m sorry. No.”
“But—”
“No, Julia.”
Tears sprang to my eyes. I could not help it. A feeling of being abandoned engulfed me like an ocean tide. To not be given in marriage by my father would mean being truly alone on that day, no matter who else was there. “I want Father here on my wedding day! Is that so much to ask?”
Without a word, she handed me a piece of papyrus. Unrolling it, I saw Father’s handwriting.
My precious Julia,
I am so sorry that it will not be possible for me to be present at your wedding. What Rome asks of me is to remain at my post here until my work is finished. What it asks of you is to nobly bear the sacrifice of your father’s absence and make me proud by your good comportment. I do not wish to delay you on this next step in your life’s journey, especially when I cannot say at this moment how long you would have to wait for me. I will be there with you in spirit when Agrippa gives you in marriage in my stead. And be sure I will offer prayers to the gods on that day for your future happiness, which, my sweet child, I desire far more than my own.