He looked mollified. “It’s all long past and best forgotten. I’m sure I was obnoxious. Small boys generally are.” He gave me a smile that contained more warmth than I had seen from him so far. It was appealing, this sudden thaw. I smiled back.
I had never expected to feel in any way drawn to Tiberius, my stepbrother, who all through my childhood had repelled me. We were grown up now of course, and he had become not only an accomplished man but an attractive one. And something else drew me to him. He seemed so cut off from the people around us, even his own mother. He impressed me as being reserved rather than shy, and I supposed it was his choice to keep his distance. Yet he somehow struck me as lonely. I often felt alone too.
“You’ll have a wife soon, and a family of your own before too long,” I said gently.
He grimaced. “Yes, I’m fortune’s darling. How would you describe Vipsania? It’s ridiculous but I can’t remember a thing about what she looks like. I saw her once at the betrothal ceremony. She didn’t make much impression on me one way or another.”
“Vipsania is . . . very sweet.”
He leaned across the couches, so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Is that what you think I want? A wife who is sweet?”
I drew back a little and glanced at my father and Livia, who were both at the table. They seemed to have noticed nothing improper. But I had flushed.
We were both quiet for a while. Then Tiberius spoke again. “You’ve changed—you’re much more agreeable than I remember. Prettier too. It never occurred to me you’d grow up to be a beauty. You are, you know. Those eyes of yours . . .”
I looked away.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I’m not a smooth talker . . . The only thing I’m good at is being a soldier. I am very good at that.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Oh, but even there . . . there are men who have their doubts. I’m Augustus’s stepson—it means every one of my subordinates is convinced I only outrank him because of nepotism. And now I’ll be Agrippa’s son-in-law too. So I’d better be perfect in all I do, or I’ll get no real respect. It is a burden no one understands.”
“I understand it only too well.”
“You get tired of keeping up a public facade?”
“Yes,” I said. “Oh, yes.”
“Maybe now that we’re grown up, we can understand each other better.”
“And be friends?”
He looked at me for a long moment. “Why not?”
“Exactly my thought. Why not?”
I took a sip of wine. Tiberius was watching me, too intently, with an odd little smile playing around his mouth. My words—Why not?—echoed strangely in my ears. I had been speaking about a perfectly proper friendship with my stepbrother. Surely he understood that? Surely I had not meant something else?
Later, much later, I stood alone at the edge of the garden. My father, Livia, and most of the household had gone to bed. There was no moon but enough light from the oil lamp inside the house that I recognized the man walking toward me.
“Still awake?” Tiberius said.
I did not speak. I felt tension in the pit of my stomach, and yet also a pleasanter kind of excitement, as if I were on the brink of an adventure.
“We could be the last people on earth right now,” he said, his voice husky.
“We’re not.”
“You didn’t feel like sleeping, and neither did I. Would you call that a coincidence?”
“I don’t know.”
“I used to have a tutor who taught that coincidences don’t exist. He believed in destiny.”
“And do you?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t thought much about that question. Still, it seems like more than a lucky chance that we both came out here tonight. What did you want to do—look at the moon?”
“There isn’t any moon tonight.”
“That’s true. Lots of stars, though. Reminds me of how it was in Armenia. Beautiful starry nights.”
“You enjoyed your time there?”
“Well, everything just fell into our hands. It’s nice when that happens.”
“You don’t like war?”
“Actually, I do like it. But it’s wasteful to fight when you don’t have to.”
“That’s a reasonable viewpoint.”
“I’m a reasonable man.” He was quiet for a few moments, then said, “It’s obvious we want each other. Let me come to your bedchamber.”
The touch of arrogance in his voice reminded me of the cruel little boy he had been. I suppose I had been half expecting such an overture, but not for it to come so quickly and be so blunt. “No,” I said.
“I’ve always desired you. All that hostility when we were younger—you do understand it was never . . . unmixed?”
I just stared at him. I could almost feel his big hands twisting my fingers.
“I’m not good at saying the right words. But I feel . . . as if this was bound to happen between us sooner or later. We have this chance now. Do you really want to let it pass?”
I imagined myself in his strong arms, and I felt a prickling in my skin. Some part of my mind said that Tiberius was right, that this was bound to happen, that in the end I would give myself to him. There was something between us, whose nature I was not sure of. A pull. It was powerful. Could it have been there since we were children, underneath all the squabbling? Hadn’t we deliberately provoked each other when it would have been easier to walk away? Nipped at each other like two hound puppies who would grow up to mate?
He moved closer to me. I shook my head. But not because I thought our making love would be wrong. According to all I had been taught, it would be. That, though, was not stopping me. It was rather something about him—Tiberius. He attracted me very much, but at the same time, he made me feel I did not want to get too close; I had both feelings at the same time. “Forgive me—no. I hope you and my stepdaughter find great happiness together,” I said and walked away.
When historians—all men—write their accounts of our times, I have no doubt they will emphasize the wars fought and won. For them, the battles are the fateful events. You could just as well say, however, that a series of marriages shaped our destinies. At least that is how it appears to me.
When my son Tiberius wed Vipsania, I had the feeling that this might be the last time our entire family circle would be together. Seeing Octavia brought this possibility home to me. Since the loss of Marcellus, she had become an invalid, keeping mostly to her bed. None of the expert physicians Tavius insisted she see could help her. She could barely walk and came tottering into Agrippa’s house, leaning on the arm of her young daughter Antonia.
Tavius greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. “How are you feeling, Sister?”
“Oh, better,” she said and glanced away.
In contrast to Octavia, there was Julia, dazzling, effervescent. Married to the bride’s father, she acted the part of a hostess, instructing the servants on the final arrangements and welcoming guests. She did all this with grace and efficiency. At twenty, she was like a rose just coming into full bloom. She resembled Tavius more now than she had before—not so much the care-laden man in his forties as the boy I once had fallen in love with. I could see echoes of that boy in her fair coloring, her charm, her smile. I noticed the boldness, the challenge in her eyes, when she talked to this man or that. She seemed to be daring each one to amuse her. There had been a challenge in Tavius’s eyes too.
I had noticed at the chariot races how much she enjoyed betting—just as Tavius did. They both liked giving themselves in to the hand of chance, confident that they would emerge victorious. I suspected that even after the sad loss of her first husband, Julia thought herself fortune’s darling. I had never felt that way, even when I was young. I made no bet without calculating the odds.
Julia resembled Tavius—but she was different too. There was a touch of the exotic about the planes of her face, the tilt of her eyes. Especially now, as her bea
uty came into full flower, I saw a hint of some unknown ancestor hailing from a land far outside our ken. She had a lovely face, very changeable as emotion played on it, but always exquisite. Yet as I gazed at her, something gave me pause. Her very looks seemed to say, Don’t think you completely know me.
Her husband, Agrippa, was present, though only sometimes at her side as he circulated, greeting guests. He had come home with the aim of conferring with Tavius, as well as to give his daughter away. No doubt he also had another purpose, which it would have been indelicate to mention. One little heir was not enough for the dynasty he and Tavius wanted to create. So before he went off again to tend to the empire’s borders, he would do his best to get Julia with child.
Julia always treated Agrippa with the respect due a husband. He, for his part, used more courtesy with her than many men showed their wives. But I never noticed any particular rapport between the two of them. Agrippa seemed unmoved by her beauty, as if, soldier to his core, he was armored against her. There seemed to be only one way she mattered to him: to bear him sons.
The world is unfair to women. Only fools do not know this. And only fools beat their fists against stone, expecting it to yield like clay.
I had taken my son Tiberius aside before the wedding ceremony. “I hope you find joy in your marriage. A great deal depends on how you treat your wife. Remember that Vipsania deserves your affection and care. She is to be your partner in life.”
Tiberius just nodded, as he usually did when I gave him advice. I had the feeling not a word penetrated.
“It’s a question of your own happiness,” I said urgently. “If she isn’t content, you’ll have an unhappy home.”
“Gods above, Mother,” he said. “Do you think I’m embarking on marriage intending to make my wife miserable?”
“Men generally don’t intend to—but many of them seem to manage it just the same. I expect better of you.”
On his wedding day, Tiberius did not seem a particularly happy bridegroom. But when did he ever openly display joy? Any young man whose heart was set on a military career ought to welcome a match with Agrippa’s daughter, I thought. And other than Julia, he could not have looked higher.
The girl herself struck me as a placid little creature, neither pretty nor ugly, someone who would cause no trouble.
Her demeanor during the ceremony did not change my opinion of her. When Agrippa placed her hand in Tiberius’s, I could view her face well enough through the diaphanous red veil she wore to see that she kept her eyes downcast. Proper, I supposed—but perhaps excessively so? Then she said, “Where thou art Gaius, I am Gaia,” in so soft a voice I could barely hear her.
At the feast, Vipsania sat perched on the very edge of Tiberius’s dining couch, her veil pushed back from her face so she could eat, but still modestly covering her hair. She avoided looking at Tiberius—exceedingly correct behavior for a bride. I began to wish I could glimpse some sign of spirit.
I approached and said, “May the gods bless your marriage.” My son and Vipsania both rose, and I embraced them each in turn. The girl felt very slight and small in my arms. She stumbled over the words, “Thank you, Mother-in-Law.” But when we moved apart, for one moment, Vipsania looked at Tiberius, and her whole face was transformed. Her lips parted; her eyes glowed.
Plainly, my son’s little bride was ready to fall in love with him. And he—he did not glance at her.
I hoped that would change.
Jullus Antony and his wife, Tavius’s niece Marcella, were at the wedding of course. Marcella had already borne Jullus a son and was visibly pregnant again. This only served to emphasize how Jullus had been absorbed into our family. His physical resemblance to his father could still jar me at times. But he was an appealing young man. It was as if Mark Antony had come back to life, still with his head of thick, curly black hair, muscular shoulders, and powerful stride, but temperate and thoughtful, with a touch of self-deprecatory wit. Jullus was the man his father might have been if the gods had removed all his faults—his impulsiveness, his cruelty, his crude manner of speech—refined and perfected him, and returned to us a being not even his worst enemy, Tavius, could dislike.
He and Tavius stood together talking, and I happened to overhear some of their conversation. It concerned troubles in Gaul, where Agrippa would soon be dispatched.
“Every time I think we’ve established peace, I turn out to be bitterly mistaken,” Tavius said. “My grandchildren will be fighting there—worse, so will yours.”
Tavius went on in this vein and Jullus nodded, commiserated, nodded some more. Then he said, “When Agrippa goes to Gaul, I’d like to go with him.”
A moment of silence passed. Tavius had become very still.
“I believe I can serve you best in a military post,” Jullus said. He sounded so young at that moment—and so ardent. “I promise you, sir, I’ll acquit myself well.”
And I will be loyal. These words were not said, and yet they were conveyed by Jullus’s whole manner.
“Your eagerness does you credit,” Tavius said in an expressionless voice. “But here we are at a wedding feast. You understand, it’s not the best time for this kind of discussion.”
“When can we talk?”
“I’ll send for you.” Tavius smiled and patted Jullus on the shoulder. “We’ll have a long talk about your future.”
Jullus studied Tavius’s face and said nothing. The young man suddenly looked like someone who had just been given news of a death and was trying to hold in his grief, so as not to make an unseemly display. In that moment, I deeply pitied him.
“Soon. I promise you,” Tavius said, and quickly turned away.
“I saw your little boy the other day,” I said to Jullus. “He is very handsome—and so big for his age.”
“Yes, everyone says so,” Jullus said. He smiled.
It was like watching an actor don a mask. I think he had just realized there would be no military posting for him ever, and the knowledge crushed him. But he would not show it—at least not to me. So he spoke about his son, even told me an amusing story about the boy. He could not have been more delightful company. But I had seen his reaction when Tavius said no to him, the brief moment when he let his mask slip.
Later, after all the ceremonies and feasting were done and Tavius and I were alone in our bedchamber, the talk with Jullus preyed on his mind. “Did you hear him? He’d like a military posting.”
“Yes,” I said. “I heard.”
“Mark Antony’s son. I’ve given him my niece—and he has the wealth that goes with her. Now he would like me to hand him an army too?”
“He asked to serve you. He didn’t ask for an army, but a posting. His father was a great general. Jullus might make a capable officer.”
“And you enjoy the idea of Antony’s son capably leading soldiers? Oh, you sweet, trusting soul.”
“No one but you would ever call me a sweet, trusting soul.” Why had I been speaking as if I were Jullus’s advocate? Amazing, I thought, amazing that I had let myself be carried away by something as simple as human sympathy. I had forgotten for a moment who I was.
“You like the boy,” Tavius said. “Strangely enough, I do too. But not enough to bare my chest and hand him a dagger. Do you think even if I could forget who his father was, Jullus ever could?” He let out a breath. “I understand his position much better than you do, Livia. It’s not that I don’t sympathize. I remember what it was like for me, when I had to pretend I would forgo vengeance for my own father.” By his father, he meant Julius Caesar, who had adopted him. For many months, Tavius had acted as if he were reconciled with the assassins. “I had to bear the contemptuous looks of other men, and that rubbed me raw. The sense of being dishonored, of being viewed as coward—all that worked its way under my skin. If you think Jullus doesn’t feel besmirched every day of his life, you’re wrong.”
“You believe he is only pretending to be loyal?” I said.
“No, he is loyal at this momen
t. I even think in some sense he loves me—I’m the man who raised him. But here are the facts. I killed that young man’s father and his brother. It was necessary. Mark Antony set the whole chain of events in motion. He was at fault, not me. But blood is blood. You rear a wolf cub, you feed it by hand when it’s small, you coddle it—it’s still a wolf, not a dog, and one fine day it’s liable to rip your throat out. You are a fool if you become so fond that you forget that. I am not a fool, Livia.”
I could not argue with his reasoning. “And yet, the best way to make Jullus an enemy may be to treat him as if he is already one. To show distrust, and keep him idle, and make it impossible for him to fulfill any worthwhile ambition.”
“I know that,” Tavius said impatiently. He always became snappish when I implied I saw aspects of a situation he did not. “Of course it would be stupid to keep him idle. If he wants governmental posts, he can have them. I’m prepared to load him up with offices and honors. But a military command is out of the question.”
Soon after we had this conversation, Tavius saw to it Jullus was chosen as a city aedile. He let him learn the ropes of governmental administration, took him under his wing, and even spent many hours personally instructing him. Despite all he had said about dogs and wolves, he had genuine affection for this young man.
Jullus threw himself into the administrative work he was given, and did it well. Tavius was pleased.
In the little time that Agrippa was at home, I did my best to be a true wife to him. I longed for a man’s love—and Agrippa was my husband.
I tried, and afterward, it embarrassed me to remember my own efforts. In bed I fondled him in a way Marcellus had found pleasing. And I took his hand and tried to show him how I wished to be touched. He moved away from me. This seasoned, gruff soldier—I truly think he was shocked. I do not know what his life with his previous wives had been like, but it seemed he believed that a good woman did not to feel much desire for a man or experience much pleasure in bed. Sometimes with a few muttered words, sometimes with no words at all, he made it clear what he expected. “Here, this way,” he might say, positioning my limbs as if I were a poppet. I was to lie still, and he would use my body as he wished, with only the briefest of preliminaries, so as to get me with child again.
The Daughters of Palatine Hill: A Novel Page 14
