The first time I went to Gracchus’s house, my heart pounded so I hard I could feel the blood pulsing in my temples and my throat. I rode my own litter to a backstreet off the marketplace, got out, and entered another, inconspicuous litter Gracchus had waiting for me there. My eyes darted around to see if anyone might be peeking out of the alleyways or the windows of the shabby three-story buildings. Would they recognize Caesar Augustus’s daughter? My mouth was dry. I ought to have hated the sensation—the terror. But I did not. Not entirely.
There were moments at the chariot races when two chariots raced neck and neck, and the team I bet on was close to victory and yet also close to crashing at the finish line. My breath would come in gasps. It was awful—but I never felt more truly alive than at such times. That was how I felt when I rapped on Sempronius Gracchus’s door.
He had been waiting for me, at the entranceway; it was he rather than a slave who opened the door. “Quickly, come inside,” he said. When I was in, he embraced me. I clung to him.
His house was small but exquisitely furnished. There were couches with ivory fittings and red silk cushions in the dining room. We lay on one couch together and ate a simple meal of sliced chicken and dates, drinking wine out of a fine crystal cup we shared. From time to time, we would pause and kiss and caress each other.
When dinner was over, Gracchus asked, “Do you like being here with me?”
“Yes, I like it.”
He stood up and extended his hand to me. “Come.”
We walked hand in hand into a bedchamber, very bare-looking, with only a sleeping couch, a stool, and a small table holding a lit candle in a gold holder. He undressed me, slowly removing each item of clothing and depositing it on the stool, first my stola, then my under tunic, finally the linen cloth that covered my loins. We lay on the bed, and he proceeded to instruct me. With his hands, with his mouth. To touch me in ways no one had before.
“You see I do have certain talents,” he whispered. “Would you care to learn about a man’s body? I can teach you the things great hetaeras know.”
I laughed. “Yes, make me into a great hetaera. My father would love that.”
I felt bathed in a sea of pleasure. And yet later, deep in the night, I suddenly began to be afraid, to imagine eyes of judgment looking at me. I pulled away from Gracchus. “This way of coupling . . . might it be forbidden?”
“Who is here to forbid us? I delight in every part of you, every inch of your body.”
I did not answer.
“I would never want to make love to you in a way you dislike.”
“I do like it. I like all of it . . . It’s as if I don’t know myself anymore.”
He nuzzled my neck. “You mean to say you’re not your father’s obedient daughter? Doesn’t it feel good to defy him?”
“Yes,” I said. “It does feel good.” A thought occurred to me, a thought I did not like. “You’re defying him too, aren’t you, by making love to his daughter? Is that why you want me?”
“I would want you no matter whose daughter you were.” I saw the glint of Gracchus’s teeth—his smile barely visible in the candlelight. But after a few moments, he said in a different voice, “This is not an act of courage. The time for political courage is past.”
“Poor Gracchus. Do you long to be a dead hero? Do you really?”
“Julia, right now I’m exactly who I want to be. The man who holds you in his arms.”
Part II
For the most part, my life did not change. I watched my children grow. I exchanged polite letters with my absent husband, who was successfully subduing recalcitrant Gallic tribes and covering his name with ever more glory. I appeared with Father at public events whenever he wished me to.
And I had my own separate life. Gracchus and I were cautious about being seen together and would often meet not at his home but that of his most trusted women friends. Still, our love affair flourished.
I believed our bond transcended the physical. Gracchus was interested in what I thought. As time passed, he took to introducing me to the people who comprised his circle—poets, artists, philosophers with democratic leanings, people who walked on the edge of what was acceptable in Rome. I think some of them were intimidated by the fact that I was Augustus’s daughter, but most seemed glad to spend time in my company. Maybe they suspected that Gracchus and I were lovers, but they pretended not to know. They were by and large disinclined to take life too seriously. Augustus’s daughter in the arms of a man whose name was synonymous with Rome’s lost democratic hopes—they were people who liked being amused, and if they did realize the extent of our involvement, it probably delighted them.
In the bedchamber, Gracchus was a skilled teacher, and I will say I was an apt pupil. I learned ways of performing the act of love that I had never before imagined, ways of prolonging ecstasy. How to make him quiver with desire and then come slowly, slowly to culmination. He took pleasure in bringing me again and again to a point of utter rapture. And as he promised, we did nothing together, ever, that could possibly have resulted in the birth of a child.
“This is freedom,” he said once. “There is less and less freedom in Rome. But here in this bedchamber, we are free.”
I laughed, snuggling up against him. “You mean what we just did was a political act?”
“Maybe it is,” he said seriously. “Maybe all freedom is connected in some way. I’m not sure.”
“Would your great-grandfather be cheering us on?”
“No, he would not. He was an exemplar of old-fashioned virtue. But that’s gone, you know. That’s a lost age.”
“I will not bring up your great-grandfather again.”
“Why?”
“Because when I do, it makes you sad.”
He stroked my hair affectionately. “I’ll tell you a secret. I wish it were possible to go back in time. To when it was possible to stand for something.”
“Before my father came along.”
“Yes, before your father.”
“He ended all the civil strife. All that killing . . .”
“Yes. And most people value safety over freedom.”
“Still, you think he is a tyrant?”
“Oh, yes, but I admit he is quite virtuous as tyrants go. He works like a galley slave to make the empire peaceful and prosperous. He does not seem to relish violence. But tyranny even at its best demeans us.”
“Do you know I could go to my father—I would not do it, but imagine I did—I could tell him all of your opinions. And he would not care. So long as you did not actually whet swords for his overthrow, he would do nothing at all. Because he wants Rome’s citizens to be free.”
“He would not care what I think, because I am no threat. If I were, believe me, he would bring down a great booted foot and crush me like an insect. As it is, he’d consider it beneath him to squash a worm like me. But I think the man who succeeds him—whoever that turns out to be—will be less confident than your father is and therefore less benevolent.”
“The man who succeeds him will likely be my son.”
“You think so? You think your father will live that long—to see your son a man?”
I stretched and yawned. “I think my father will outlive his whole generation. There is not a disease deadly enough or a sword sharp enough to kill him. He is frail and sickly but somehow also strong. You can’t imagine how strong he is.”
“Then I consider myself put on notice—the next man we grovel to will be your son.”
“You speak as if my father has enslaved his fellow Romans.”
“My sweet, so long as one man governs us, and we can’t rid ourselves of him by a free vote of the citizens, we are all slaves.”
These political conversations, which often ended by disturbing me and putting Gracchus in a melancholy mood, at the same time fed our passion. I believe Gracchus felt brave as he uttered words he would never say in my father’s presence—saying them to his daughter. And I—I felt as if I were defying my fat
her just by listening. We were excited by our sense of peril. But really it was not the talk that was perilous—it was the lovemaking itself.
Our liaison becoming public knowledge was a constant danger. Gracchus and I never discussed what might happen, but I did consider the consequences of being discovered. I feared Father’s rage and disgust more even than the anger of my husband. I tried to put thought of this out of my mind, but a chill would work its way down my spine when I imagined Father’s reaction if he knew what I was doing. And yet when I considered ending the affair with Gracchus before disaster struck, I foresaw a descent into despair. What would there be for me but emptiness, a gray existence, nothing to look forward to but a dreary round of duty? I did not imagine myself in love with Gracchus, but I cared for him, and I felt so happy when I was with him. I owed him a great debt. He had shown me my own capacity for joy. I could not bring myself to give him up.
Five years in Mauretania passed quickly. There was a time of great sorrow—our little Alexander died before he could walk. There was also great joy when our second son was born. He was given a royal Egyptian name, Ptolemy.
Livia and I corresponded during this time. For the most part, her letters to me were the kind I might have expected to receive from a favorite aunt. She was adept in the use of medicinal plants and happy to share her knowledge. When I told her the hot summer sun sometimes seared my skin, she sent me a recipe for a lotion that would help shield it. She also advised me to rub a certain ointment on my son’s gums to ease his pain when he was teething. But mixed with this womanly counsel, I would find hints about statecraft: “Assume that none of your servants ever tell you the whole truth.” “Everyone tends to think first of his own interests. In all your dealings, keep this fact in mind, and use it as a lever.” “Nothing in government is perfect. All we can do is choose between imperfections.”
She addressed me as an equal—or at least as if she were only my superior in experience and age—and she counseled me, as one female ruler might another. This was fitting. She was her husband’s partner in government, and so was I.
Juba had the soul of a philosopher king. A great deal of his time was taken up by natural philosophy, his study of plants and animals. He published learned books that received wide praise. He also sent out surveying expeditions, for geography was another of his interests. His men mapped some small corners of the world for the very first time, even discovered islands no one had previously known existed.
Meanwhile at home, we encouraged the work of scholars of all kinds, and of artists as well. We also built roads and other public works; we strove to provide employment for free men in all our projects and limit the use of slaves. Augustus had made the city of Rome beautiful. We did the same with our capital city of Caesarea.
In governing Mauretania, Juba liked to set the broad direction. But he was so busy with writing his books that much of the mundane work of administering the country fell to me. I did not mind this. Porcius, our first “minder,” eventually went home. But another, hardly more agreeable Roman came in his place. Controversy over how our tax moneys should be spent—what portion should go into Roman coffers, what part we could retain—constantly embroiled us. So in addition to my personal correspondence with Livia, we sent a stream of cajoling letters to Augustus. We tried our best to obtain favorable treatment for our country.
We had done only necessary renovations to our palace, except for the library. A huge room, far bigger than the atrium of a Roman house, it now had a colorful mosaic floor, and the walls and shelves for books were made of the finest cedar wood. We had indulged ourselves when it came to books—importing them from Italy, Greece, and other places. We used the library for official work as well as for reading and research. One afternoon I sat there with Juba and our chief accountant, discussing allocations for building in the coming year.
“Obviously,” I said, “we cannot make any definite plans until we know if Rome will remit some of our taxes this year.”
Juba nodded. The three of us talked about small economies we might make if Rome insisted on receiving all the money we theoretically owed. Then a servant came rushing in. “Forgive me for interrupting you, my king,” he said to Juba. “A messenger has arrived from Rome and brought this.” He held out a leather case.
The seal showed the imprint of Alexander the Great’s portrait. We had been expecting a letter from Augustus, which we hoped would grant us some remission of taxes. Yet my heart gave a jump when I saw the seal. I felt angry for myself then, for taking fright at nothing—angry that just the sight of Augustus’s seal could inspire fear in me.
Juba took the letter and dismissed the servant. He slid a rolled papyrus out of the case and read it hastily.
“Will our taxes be remitted, sire?” the accountant asked eagerly.
“I’m afraid that’s not clear. Would you leave the queen and me now, Corba? We have matters to discuss.”
Juba spoke in an even, courteous voice. The accountant bowed his way out of the library; he plainly sensed nothing amiss. But I did.
“What is in the letter?” I asked as soon as Corba was gone.
“Augustus would like us to pay him a visit in Rome.”
“A visit?”
“Here, read it,” Juba said, and handed me the letter.
The wording was courteous, even friendly. Augustus and Livia would like to see us in Rome—perhaps within the next month? And they hoped we would bring little Ptolemy too, so they could meet him.
It was a summons of course. I read the letter and felt a wave of nausea, very much as I had when I first met Augustus.
Juba patted me on the knee. “This is the best thing that could have happened. All these little annoyances we complain of, taxes and other things, can easily be resolved face-to-face when I see Augustus.”
“He is reminding us that we are in his power. Surely you see that?”
“Of course I do,” Juba said. “It’s a kind of loyalty test. Will we come when he calls? I’ve actually expected that this would happen. We’ve become rather grand, you know.”
Mauretania had acquired a new reputation throughout the Mediterranean world.
Our people had become more prosperous. Our capital was a desirable destination for scholars of renown. Juba was fast becoming a renowned scholar in his own right.
I thought of the people who cheered us whenever we appeared, the people of Mauretania, our people now. We must not fail them. Our actions could determine our kingdom’s future.
Would we come when Augustus called? Walk back into the lion’s mouth, baby and all?
I took a breath. I would not be a frightened child again. I reminded myself of who I was and what I was, Cleopatra’s daughter, a queen.
“You’re right,” I told Juba. “We have much to be proud of. It will be a pleasure to tell Augustus and Livia about all we have achieved.”
A galley, its sails decorated with the image of a bull elephant, which Juba had made his royal symbol, entered the Roman port of Ostia. We had been at sea for six days. Now Juba and I stood on deck, clothed in flowing purple robes, the garb of royalty. I wore diamond earrings and gold bangles. My hair was carefully arranged in crimped curls, my eyes made up in the Egyptian manner. My eyes sought Juba. He looked serious but unafraid. Just the sight of him bolstered my courage. I held two-year-old Ptolemy by the hand.
What was in store for us? A state visit, during which we would be felted as royalty? Or something else . . . an ugly fate I did not even wish to think of? Had we flown too high? Was this the end of our freedom?
I knew the answer to these questions as soon as our ship docked. For there, waiting for us, was a delegation of official greeters—all distinguished senators. They were exactly who one would expect to be sent to do honor to allied rulers who had come to pay a friendly call. And among them, smiling broadly, stood a newly inaugurated senator, distinguished in his purple-trimmed toga—my brother Jullus.
Once my husband and I had been brought to Italy to be para
ded through the streets as captives. Juba had been a slave. Now we were greeted with honor, offered wine in great golden cups the moment we set our feet on shore.
After Juba and I had taken our sips from the ceremonial cups, my brother caught me in his arms and whispered, “You have done very well for yourself, little moon.”
We went to stay with Augustus and Livia at their nearby Prima Porta villa—the very place where we had fallen in love. There we were treated less as visiting dignitaries and more as grown children returning to the parental home. Augustus had decided we had reflected great credit upon him—applying his principles of government to ruling Mauretania. There was no point in asking what view he would have taken if we had failed his test, not come running back at his first whistle. As things stood, we were granted a one-year remission of taxes. Little problems we had been having with the Roman administrator were swept away. Matters would not stay resolved forever, that we knew. But we could expect some special consideration for a time at least, a fine thing for our people.
We were told to make ourselves at home, stay as long as we wished. It was a great relief to know we could go back to Mauretania whenever we wanted to. That freed us to enjoy a holiday. Juba made full use of the cultural riches of Rome, spent time with scholars of many stripes. I was content to get reacquainted with the imperial family. It would be a stretch to say I felt these people constituted my own family—but what other kin did I have? And some indeed were related to me by blood. Antonia, Octavia’s child by my father, Mark Antony, had recently become betrothed to Livia’s son Drusus. We had never been close before—she was four years my junior—but now she seemed to regard me as her glamorous older sister. One day she asked me quite gravely, “What is it like to be a queen?” I told her about the weight of responsibility a ruler bore, and she seemed to grasp my meaning.
Octavia was unwell and had taken to her bed, but when I visited, she made an effort to welcome me, and was truly most kind. In general, people were cordial to me, who had never taken the trouble to be so before—even Jullus’s wife, Marcella. When we had lived in the same household, she addressed me as you would a servant. Now she introduced her two little sons to me almost with a flourish, crying, “Here are your nephews!”
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