The Daughters of Palatine Hill: A Novel

by Phyllis T. Smith

  “You won’t die for a long time,” I said.

  “Truly, wonderful seer? Well, one can hope.” He munched on a fig. “I’m glad these games were a success. That’s important for Marcellus’s standing. The people love the games.”

  I dared say, “Father isn’t it up to you—as their leader—to show the people something better?”

  “You have an exaggerated idea of my power. We—our family—are the people’s rulers but also their captives. The day they want us gone, we’ll vanish like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “The army would protect you.”

  “The army is made up of common men—the people, in other words.” Father paused for a moment, then went on. “You kept a good countenance all through the games. Really, you did well for the first time. But in the future, try to look as if you are enjoying yourself. The face we show in public matters a great deal—never forget it.”

  Marcella’s wedding day came. Father gave her away. I could see he took no pleasure in it. Nobody seemed overjoyed by this marriage, not even the bridegroom. Watching Agrippa when he looked at Marcella, I guessed that he understood perfectly well that she hated the idea of marrying him. Covered with honors—the greatest general alive—he was also physically imposing and rugged-looking; surely many women would have found him quite attractive. But Marcella did not want him, and she carried herself so as to make that plain to the world. I thought I saw a look of injured pride on his face as she spoke the ceremonial words, “Where thou art Gaius, I am Gaia.” Her tone was grudging. After that, the bride withdrew into sullen silence, hardly speaking to her new husband or anyone else at the wedding feast.

  It troubled me. If, as Octavia said, the peace of Rome depended on this marriage, surely there was cause for unease.

  When Livia decided I ought to lose my Greek accent, I applied myself to the task with all the zeal I could command. She was startled by how quickly I learned to speak like a Roman. The tutor told her I had a knack for languages. I almost said that my mother had spoken seven tongues flawlessly, and so perhaps I inherited her gift. But I caught myself. I wanted Livia to believe I was nothing like my mother.

  I wore the mask that I thought would be most acceptable to Livia and to Augustus—and since I almost never removed it, I am not sure I could have said who I was apart from the mask. Was I truly who my tutors reported me to be—a mild little wren, eager to please, respectful, even bookish?

  When my lessons were over, I spent hours alone in the household library. Sometimes a slave would come in asking for a book that a member of the family or even Augustus himself wanted, and the library clerk would hasten to find the papyrus scroll that had been called for. But except for these interruptions, the library was usually quiet and all but deserted, and I felt very safe.

  Now that we were living in the same house, I had gotten used to seeing Augustus in passing and exchanging brief greetings and pleasantries with him. I did not become sick or tongue-tied when I found myself in his presence; my terror had subsided. But I never forgot who he was and that I was in his power.

  One day my library sanctuary was invaded. I heard footsteps and looked up to find Augustus standing there.

  At the sight of him, the clerk, Brumeo, leaped to his feet, all atremble in his eagerness to serve. Augustus gave a dismissing wave of his hand; the slave sank into his chair and went back to repairing a book.

  I sat holding an open scroll.

  “So this is where you spend your time,” Augustus said. “What are you reading?”

  “Callisthenes’s history,” I said. “About Alexander the Great.”

  “I’ve read that book. Callisthenes lied. But then, historians usually do.”

  I was silent. My mouth was dry.

  “You have his blood in your veins,” Augustus observed.

  I knew he did not mean Callisthenes’s blood but Alexander’s. I felt a prick of fear, and hastened to deny all claim to greatness. “Oh, I doubt that story is true. My ancestor, the first of Ptolemy . . . who can say who he was? He was not born in wedlock.”

  Augustus shook his head. “He was the illegitimate half brother of Alexander. That’s well known.”

  I said nothing. The last thing I wished to do was get into a debate with him about my long-dead forebears.

  “Alexander died too young,” Augustus said.

  “Yes. He was only thirty-three.”

  Augustus nodded. “If Alexander the Great had lived longer, his empire would not have fallen apart. He might have brought about an age of universal peace. Then, I think, even his enemies would have forgiven him for all the blood he shed. Don’t you think so?”

  I doubted it. But I nodded my head up and down.

  “When he died, everything devolved into chaos, and he left behind nothing. All that warfare was wasted.”

  “He left behind a glorious name.” As my mother did. As my father did.

  “True. For what it was worth, there was that.” Augustus went to a bookshelf, removed a scroll. He started to leave with it but then turned. “Don’t believe what Callisthenes says about Alexander’s madness. That book is full of slanders. Some people hate the great.” His eyes probed my face, as if he were asking a question.

  I kept my eyes on his and said in a steady voice, “But greatness should be revered.”

  He smiled slightly. “You’re right, it should be.” With that, he walked out of the library.

  Aristocratic Roman girls usually married when they were about my age, but there was no talk of a marriage for me. I tried not to envision a husband, children, the kind of life other young women had. I imagined Livia and Augustus thinking: Why let me breed? Wasn’t it enough that I had been allowed to live?

  No doubt by their lights, I was well treated, even indulged. I even had my own maid, who helped me bathe and dressed my hair.

  A Greek woman named Chares, she was plump and white-haired, advanced in years, but energetic. She was also a chatterer. Sometimes I would have liked to have shushed her, but I was careful to accommodate everyone in that household. I wanted no enemies, even among the slaves.

  Lowering her voice, she would tell me all the servants’ gossip about Augustus’s family. Marcella and Agrippa were miserable together. Livia’s son Tiberius was none too happy about being betrothed to Agrippa’s little daughter by his previous wife. Marcellus and Julia, however, had fallen in love. That was an unexpected, lucky circumstance since their marriage was a political arrangement. Not like Augustus and Livia’s marriage, which had grown out of a scandalous love affair.

  “They say Augustus and Livia are wild about each other,” she whispered in my ear. “He can’t keep his hands off her. Not that he’s always been faithful, of course.”

  “No?” I said curiously.

  “No, indeed, mistress. He likes women. Or at least he used to, when he was younger. He always came running home to Livia, though. She has him in a talon grip. I give her credit.” She piled my hair on top of my head in ringlets. “Now, this style becomes you. Would you like to try it?”

  “It will make me look older.”

  “But not too old,” Chares said. She stuck a copper mirror in my hand. “Pretty, see? It’s too bad you can’t wear kohl on your eyes. You have beautiful eyes, and the kohl would draw attention to them.”

  I shrugged. “I can’t wear it.”

  “Not until you marry, I know. It wouldn’t be proper. But just imagine how fine you’ll look, made up on your wedding day.”

  There will be no wedding day for me.

  “Ah, mistress, you are getting to be a beauty. Just like your mother must have been, I think.”

  I was startled for a moment; no one ever mentioned my mother to me. But I could see Chares meant no harm. “My mother was far more beautiful than I could ever hope to be,” I told her. My voice sounded unduly solemn in my own ears. I forced a smile. “You see, she was lucky—she didn’t have my jaw.”

  “It’s a strong jaw, mistress,” Chares said. “I think it give
s you distinction.”

  I felt rather touched. It was good to think someone in this household actually liked me.

  I gazed at my reflection, not entirely displeased by my appearance. I did not have the soft, pretty features Romans favored. My jaw was too angular. But I did have my mother’s eyes.

  Then Chares spoke words that disturbed me. “I see Augustus looking at you sometimes. I don’t think he sees anything wrong with your jaw.”

  “You look older,” Augustus said a few days later. “Now why is that?”

  He had stopped me in the atrium to ask this. He looked truly puzzled.

  “My hair. My maid arranged it differently.”

  “Oh,” he said. Then he smiled.

  It was so important that he smile at me, so important that he not want me dead. I gave him a little smile back, and his smile broadened.

  “I like your hair that way.”

  “I’m glad. I want to please you.” As soon as I spoke, I felt myself blushing, as if there were a double meaning to my words.

  He chuckled and walked away.

  At a dangerous moment in her life, my mother enticed Julius Caesar into her bed. It allowed her to keep her throne and to save Egypt—for a while at least—from Roman rule. Why did I think of this? Why did such a revolting thought come into my head?

  I had no throne to save. Only my life.

  A few days later, I sat in the library, reading. Augustus appeared suddenly, held his hand under my nose, and said, “Look.”

  I raised my eyes to his, puzzled.

  “My new signet ring,” he said.

  It was gold and surely very costly—graced by a small, perfect engraving of the head of Alexander the Great.

  “My sign used to be the sphinx. But I thought—what message is there in that? That I’m a riddle? This is a better symbol. Tell me the truth . . . do you think it’s presumptuous?”

  “No.” What else could I say?

  “I mean it as a gesture of admiration. I have great respect for Alexander.”

  He stood close to me, so close I could feel the warmth of his body. And he was talking to me almost as if we were equals, almost as if we were friends. Don’t presume on it, a voice in my mind warned. Be careful.

  “It is only right that you should wear that ring. You are in a true sense his heir. Like him, you govern an empire,” I told him.

  “But you’re his kin,” Augustus said, his eyes sparkling.

  I suddenly saw him as a man who wanted the admiration of a young woman—of a young woman who was royal as he was not, related to Alexander the Great. He held my life in his hands, but I would never feel completely helpless again in his presence. I had something to give him, didn’t I? Something he wanted?

  It was late. Oil lamps illumined the library. Augustus sat with an open scroll on his lap, reading what looked like a history volume. I walked in quietly. Several days had passed since we had last spoken.

  “Selene, I’m surprised you’re still awake.”

  “It’s so warm these evenings. It is hard to sleep.”

  “We’ll go to Prima Porta soon. It’s cooler there.”

  “I’ve never come when you’ve gone to the villa, but I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”

  “We’ll take you along this time. Would you like that?”

  “Oh, yes, that would be wonderful.”

  I walked closer to his chair. I felt strange—not myself. As if these moments existed in a dream. He looked at me, smiling faintly, a question in his eyes.

  “I wonder if anyone else in the house is awake,” I whispered.

  They say my mother had herself delivered to Caesar rolled up in a rug. A gift. She made him a gift of herself and he gave her Egypt.

  “What are you reading?” I asked. “About Alexander?”

  “Nothing so interesting.”

  My soul seemed to split into three parts. A part knew what I was doing was mad and revolting—and told me that I should flee. I hated this man. I wanted him dead. He had injured me and mine in a way that was past all forgiveness. Another part of my soul cried out that what I did was right, that this could be the path to safety and more than safety. A life worth living. The third sliver of my soul—in that I felt a pull. An unfamiliar sensation, one of yearning. Every nerve in my body seemed alive. My heart pounded. I am Cleopatra, you are Caesar. I leaned closer to him, so that my breast touched his shoulder. He turned toward me, raised his head. In another moment, our lips would meet.

  Then everything stopped.

  “Selene.”

  Livia had entered the library. She did not look at her husband, only at me. I went hot and cold.

  “Come with me, Selene. I have something to show you.”

  I followed her down shadowy corridors. My spine felt brittle. We entered her private suite where I had never been before—I saw we were in her dressing room. A slave woman sat sewing a garment and rose as we came in. “Leave us,” Livia ordered. A note in her voice made the slave’s eyes widen; she hastily put down her sewing and scurried away.

  Livia turned to me. “Stupid child,” she said, and then she slapped me. The blow to my cheek was hard but controlled. This was no wild striking out but a coolly administered punishment.

  My legs felt as if they had turned to liquid. I almost sank to my knees.

  “Even at your age, I would have been wiser. How could you be such a fool?”

  Her distain seared me. “I did nothing wrong,” I said. “Augustus and I were only talking . . . about books.”

  “If you want to make me angrier than I am already, go on in that vein. Tell me you two were chatting about philosophy. Go ahead. I’m waiting.”

  I knew I could tell no lie she would believe. “Since I was eight years old, I have lived always with the taste of death in my mouth. Do you know what that is?”

  “Actually, I do know that taste,” Livia said. “I tasted it in Perusia when it was under siege. We starved. We waited for the end. We waited for my future husband to come and burn the city to the ground. But the taste of death never made me stupid.” She shook her head. “My husband is a strong man, but he is not proof against all temptations. It has been a great sorrow to me, but it would be foolish to see it as more than it is. We are joined. He can’t get loose, and neither can I. You might be able to seduce him—who knows? But afterward he would still be mine, and you would have me as an enemy. Do you want that?”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Of course you don’t,” Livia said almost kindly. “Understand, I would not destroy you. Not in any active way. But there might come a day when a word from me in Augustus’s ear would be life or death to you—and I would simply remain silent.” She tilted her head and smiled faintly. “Believe me, sometimes silence can kill.”

  I shivered.

  “Why were you acting like a trollop in there? Was it fear? Mostly fear?”

  “Yes,” I said. I was not certain if this was true, but it was all the defense I had.

  “Poor child.”

  I did not know if she was mocking me. I could not tell from her voice.

  “I will tell you something about my husband. He is an old-fashioned man. Very proper. Underneath his facade, I mean. Another thing about him—he is perceptive. He can see right into people’s souls. If you give yourself to him, he might take what you offer. He has done it before. But if you did that—especially if you did it out of fear or ambition—do you know what he would feel for you? Contempt.”

  I could feel the blood rush to my face.

  “Now aren’t you better off with my friendship?”

  “But I’ve lost that, haven’t I?”

  She shook her head. Her eyes looked into mine. “Just behave yourself.” She touched the place on my cheek where her blow had fallen. “You’re going to have a bruise, I’m afraid.” She clapped her hands. A female servant came running. She had her fetch some face cream, good, she said, for covering blotches. “Use it for a few days,” she advised me in a brisk voice. Her mout
h quirked. “We can’t have you going about looking like a beaten slave.”

  A fifteen-year-old virgin? My ward? Please. You ought to have more trust.” Tavius put his arms around me. We stood in our bedchamber, and the guttering candle flickered, casting dark shadows across his face. “Nothing would have happened.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, ice in my voice.

  “Livia, Livia . . .” He pulled me close and buried his face in the crook of my neck.

  Cleopatra’s daughter, I thought. Gods above. How had it ever seemed a good idea to me to have her in my house?

  I moved away from Tavius. “The girl needs a husband.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly. “The question is who. A loyal eligible man we would trust with Antony and Cleopatra’s daughter . . . Off the top of my head, I can’t think of anyone who fits that description. Can you?”

  “No, but I will certainly give it more thought.” After a moment, I added in an acerbic tone, “The only problem is finding a safe marriage for her? You have no objection to her leaving this house?”

  “Livia . . . every other woman in the world is shadow and mist to me. You’re the only one who is real. Don’t you understand that yet?”

  I said nothing.

  He changed the subject. “Tomorrow I’ll talk to Tiberius.”

  “Good.” I had been wanting him to speak to him about his future. “I would appreciate that.”

  “Don’t I always do my best to make you happy?”

  I gave him a long, cool look.

  The next day, as we prepared for a dinner party, Tavius told me how his talk with my son had gone. “He wasn’t the least bit grateful. Do you know what he said? ‘As you wish.’ Anyone would think he were doing me the favor.”

  I grimaced. “But he seemed content?”

  “Oh, yes, he was content. Content! Do you realize what I’m offering him? He can be a praetor by the time he’s twenty-two.”

  Tavius intended to immediately make Tiberius a quaestor. Quaestors administered financial affairs in Rome and in the provinces and often served as a general’s second in command. If Tiberius did well, the praetorship would be next—praetors acted as judges and also led armies. A path of enormous opportunity was being spread out before my son.