“Gods, all I want is a little space to breathe! I am harming no one.”
We were both silent for a time.
“No doubt you’re bored,” I said finally. “It is a pity that you and Agrippa have been separated so much.”
Her face was empty and blank.
“Before long, Agrippa will be in Greece. The eastern part of the empire cannot be left too long without a strong hand. You could hardly be with him while he was waging war in Gaul, but I see no reason you could not join on his new assignment.”
She said nothing.
“Some travel . . . seeing new places, in company with your husband . . . it will be enjoyable, I hope. You will have some . . . fresh air to breathe. No doubt you will like that.”
Julia still did not speak.
“I will arrange it,” I said. I stood up and left the room.
I would not have admitted it to Livia, but I was relieved to be leaving Rome at this time. For I was afraid—afraid of my father. I took his legislation for the warning it was. It was hard now for us to be in each other’s presence.
I pretended to others, and sometimes even to myself, that the prospect of joining my husband filled me with joy. I would take the children with me. For the first time in our marriage, we might all be together for more than a few months.
“Greece,” I said to Phoebe. “Your own country. Will you be happy to see it again?”
She gave me a doleful look. “I will be happy as long as I can serve you, my lady,” she said.
I took leave of Gracchus a few days before my expected departure. I wept a little, but those were light, easy tears. Sometimes I had tried to imagine we had a great love as Catullus had for his Lesbia. But I had always known something was lacking. In truth, we were good friends using each other’s body for pleasure.
“Our friendship will always endure,” I told him. The unspoken meaning of my words was that we had that and nothing more.
The parting that rent my soul came later, at Prima Porta. There I said farewell to my father, knowing I might not see him again for years.
My father and Livia escorted me and the children out to the gate of the villa, where a coach waited to take us to the port at Ostia, where we would depart by ship. The children clung to Father. He kissed and embraced them. They climbed into the coach.
“Have a safe journey,” Father said to me. There was an emptiness in his eyes.
I nodded. Then suddenly, I cried out, “Father!” All at once, I was sobbing.
He took me in his arms, held me tight. “It’s not forever, Julia. You’ll be back. We’ll be together again.”
I looked up at his face. It was like stepping back in time. The father I had always loved and worshipped, the loving father of my childhood—he was there, he had returned to me.
“You’ll have a wonderful time in the East,” he said, speaking as one might to a child to soothe it. “You can’t imagine what beautiful sights you will see. You must write me regular letters. I want to see it all again through your eyes.”
“Yes, Father,” I said. “Yes, I’ll write to you.”
He helped me into the coach. I trembled, gripping his hand, not wanting to let go. He kissed my cheek, then pulled away. And then the coach began to move, and we were separated. I hugged my children to me and continued to shed a flood of cleansing tears.
Our trip to join Agrippa was uneventful except for the last leg. We were to meet him in the city of Ilium, once the site of the city of Troy. We had to cross the Scamander River and were assured it was safe to cross it at night. It was not safe. There was a storm. The boat almost capsized as we—the children, Phoebe, and I—floundered in the dark, water up to our ankles. I tasted terror—more for my children than myself. But the boat finally made it to shore.
We all stood on the bank, with no idea of what to do next. Nobody was there to welcome us. I sent a messenger to find my husband. Until he came, all we could do was wait in the dark and the rain.
Finally, I heard a clatter of hoofbeats, and Agrippa was there, surrounded by mounted legionaries. He threw himself off his horse and pulled me to him. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“The children . . .” He looked down at them, then glanced at me questioningly.
“They are fine,” I said.
“I hardly know them, it’s been so long,” he said. Then, “I might have lost all four of you.” In the light of sputtering torches, I saw his face contort with fury. “Lysis!” he barked.
A wizened man, some local official, came threading his way through the press of soldiers. “Lord Agrippa . . . ,” he mumbled.
Agrippa began to berate him. Why weren’t watchmen set to look for the boat in the storm? Why hadn’t small rescue boats been sent out to meet us and guide us into port, for safety’s sake? And why, in the first place, had our boat ever been permitted to sail at night while it was raining? On and on. I had never heard my husband shout in such a way, never seen him so beside himself. Before his rant was done, he seemed to be blaming the little man, and with him the whole city of Ilium, for the fact that the storm had happened at all.
Finally, he caught himself up short and remembered the children and me standing there drenched. At his order, a cart was brought up to take us to our lodgings. I climbed aboard, and then he lifted the children in beside me. A strand of Julilla’s wet hair hung down across her forehead. He brushed it back, smiling at her. “You’ll be in a dry house soon, little one.”
I thought, In his way, he cares for us—for me and the children.
“Are you glad that we are to be with you now?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said, as if that were a foolish question. I waited for him to ask me if I was glad too or to speak words of welcome. But instead he growled, “I will levy a fine on the entire city for this.”
I looked blankly at him.
“Gods above, Julia, don’t you realize their negligence almost got you all killed?” Then he added in a low voice, “Imagine bringing that news to your father. He would have gone insane.”
I fought against the notion that the worst of it for him, if the children and I had drowned, would have been being held accountable by my father. Perhaps I was unfair to even consider if this was so—surely it was natural for him to think of having to tell my father such terrible news.
Agrippa did levy a fine on the city, a huge fine of one hundred thousand sesterces. Eventually, though, he was persuaded to remit it.
All the praise my husband received for his work in the East was surely warranted. He reorganized the governmental administration of Greece and Asia Minor, paying special attention to bringing a new order and efficiency to the collection of taxes. He rooted out corruption and allocated funds for useful public works. He worked ceaselessly, and as he did I traveled with him from place to place. I saw the Acropolis in Athens. I saw the sunrise in the Judean hills. I gave birth to our second daughter, Agrippina.
Everywhere we went, I was honored, as Augustus’s daughter as well as Agrippa’s wife. In Ephesus a special bronze coin was minted with my portrait as well as Agrippa’s on it. Statues of me, standing beside my husband, were speedily erected in many cities and towns. I was feted, treated almost as a goddess.
In the core of me, I felt a darkness, an emptiness that only grew. I remembered Gracchus with yearning, remembered how it was to be touched by him. It was as if my skin itself could feel hunger.
Making love was like fighting a battle to Agrippa, a battle to be quickly won. When I had the courage to speak my desires to my husband, I expected him to be shocked—and he was shocked.
“I’m surprised you know of such things,” he said to me. “Is it in that poetry you read?”
“Yes, the poets speak of love.”
“I think those books are a waste of your time.”
Nothing changed between us.
He was a good man. But it was impossible for him to be other than he was. And I . . . could I be other than I was?
&
nbsp; There was a young officer serving on Agrippa’s staff in Cyrene. Like Gracchus, he had a great name. Cornelius Scipio was a collateral descendant of those Scipios who brought down Rome’s great enemy, Carthage. He sometimes dined with us, and I would find myself admiring his profile—he had a stern, pure look. At first he was too shy to even smile at me. But that changed. A word was spoken, out of Agrippa’s hearing. Then another and another. Questions were asked, and answered, not only with words—the oldest questions on earth.
I would meet him in a small spare bedchamber, tucked away in a corner. Always, this took place after Agrippa slept. The shutters would be open—the night in Cyrene was hot. Some little insect, foreign to Rome, made music in the bushes outside, chirping almost like a bird.
Scipio’s body was lean and hard. He was just my age. He was eager and ardent, and yet in bed I was teacher, he the pupil. Gracchus had taught me things Scipio did not know. I found it a delight to instruct him. I would never let him spend inside me. But I gave him pleasure and took pleasure from him.
I felt it would be doing Agrippa a great wrong if I bore a child who was not his. It would be such a violation of his dignity if I had tricked him into unknowingly giving his name to a child he had not fathered. I could not have done that to him. I could forgive myself for everything else I did as long as I was faithful in that one way.
Scipio and I never spoke of the right or wrong or the danger of what we were doing. The closest we ever came to that was when I said, “We ought to stop.”
“But you don’t want to, do you?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
I did not love him. I realized, as with Gracchus, that an element of love was missing from our passion. There was a yearning in me that he did not answer—and I had begun to suspect no man ever would. But the desire that I felt for him overwhelmed me just the same. When I imagined life without him, I saw a world drained of all color.
I was fond of him. Our time together would not be long—I knew that. I wanted in the moments we had to give him all the tenderness I was capable of—to give him that, in return for the gift he gave me. I had felt so barren, but he made me feel alive.
Meanwhile, at my husband’s table, entertaining his guests, I exerted myself to be a good hostess, to say light, amusing things. Agrippa was proud of me, I think. I am sure I looked happy. Inside myself I puzzled over the nature of my own being. I would stand at Agrippa’s side, welcoming guests, presenting a perfect surface, and know that very night I would steal away from our bedchamber for a blissful hour in Scipio’s arms. I asked myself what sort of woman I was that I should do such a thing. I thought of stories of women sent mad by the gods—of Medea who slew her children, of Phaedra driven mad by Venus, unhinged by lawless desire—and in my darkest moments I wondered if such a curse could have descended on me.
“Do you think I’m mad like Phaedra?” I whispered to Scipio one night.
“Phaedra was cruel,” he answered. “You are kind.”
“Only too kind where you are concerned,” I said.
He laughed.
Phaedra—she was the one who haunted me. Phaedra taking her own life. Phaedra willingly bringing down destruction on the man she loved.
I wanted to live. I wanted to hurt no one. I was not like her.
Julia’s absence from Rome eased my mind. I had feared gossip about her and Gracchus, and also people whispering that Tavius’s moral legislation was meant to control his own daughter. In fact, there was little such talk. Julia’s friendship with Gracchus had not become common knowledge in Rome.
Tavius seemed happier with Julia gone. She wrote to him about her visits to cities in the eastern empire. He showed some of her letters to me, and they were delightful—full of witty and colorful descriptions of people and places. He wrote her affectionate letters in return. At this point in their lives, he and his daughter loved each other best from a distance.
Meanwhile Tiberius was once more serving in Gaul. I wrote him just the sort of letters to be expected of a loving mother concerned for her firstborn who was at war, and he sent me kind messages of reassurance. Like Tavius and Julia, we seemed to get along better out of each other’s sight.
Of course, my irritation with my son had never affected public policy. I hoped that now, with Julia gone and apparently happy, Tavius would ease off in his attempt to reform Roman morals. But he gave several long public speeches, reproaching noblemen who chose not to take wives. There were many such men who wished to avoid the burden of marriage and children. The thinning of the ranks of Rome’s elite as a result did not bode well for the future. Still, the vehemence with which Tavius decried hedonists surprised people, and stirred up real anger.
He brought mockery on himself and me. People who for twenty years had been willing to forget the circumstances of our marriage—our shedding our respective mates—now joked about it. They talked about the love affairs Tavius had indulged in both before and after our marriage. A disgusting story started to circulate that had me selecting virgin slave girls for his bed.
In truth, his moralizing did no good at all. But he never abandoned it for long. And he would not consider dispensing with his taxes on those who were unmarried or childless. His rigidity about these matters was unlike him. I was left groping, trying to understand the man I had married, who I had believed I understood as well as my own soul.
One day he received a letter from Julia announcing the birth of her second daughter, Agrippina. “Another granddaughter, and Julia is well,” he said with a rather subdued smile. He added, “I am sure the baby will look like Agrippa. All Julia’s children do.”
I said, without thinking, “Gaius looks more like you.”
“Oh, come, anyone can tell that boy is Agrippa’s son.”
“Yes, but—”
“But?” he said sharply.
“I only mean Gaius has your coloring.”
“My coloring but Agrippa’s features,” he said, as if this were a matter of the greatest importance.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “He is very much like his father.”
I had imagined that if Julia were really sleeping with Gracchus and the affair came to light, it might lead to a disastrous fissure with Agrippa. I had not given much thought to the shadow it would cast on the legitimacy of all Julia’s children, including the boys who were Tavius’s heirs. The two did resemble their father after all. But I realized that the slur even if false could taint them. Was a reputed bastard likely to become First Citizen of Rome?
I believe this aspect of things troubled Tavius deeply, though he would not speak of it. And it fueled his anger at Gracchus, and all men like Gracchus, who were the objects of his punitive laws.
The estrangement that occurred between Tavius and Maecenas at this time was sad but perhaps inevitable. No outright break occurred; Maecenas continued to be invited to our dinner parties and sometimes even came. But the old closeness between him and Tavius was gone.
“Do you know what I keep remembering?” Maecenas asked me once when we were alone. “How the three of us painted a kind of picture together, to augment Augustus’s legend—a picture of old-fashioned virtue.”
I could remember our painting that picture too. I was the faultless wife—devoted, chaste, and compliant. Tavius the ideal paterfamilias—all iron rectitude. And Julia—she was the perfect, obedient daughter, shyly waving at the applauding crowds when she wasn’t home spinning wool. This was the politically useful portrait we sought to present to the world.
“We painted a picture,” Maecenas went on, “and somehow Augustus took it for real and decided he ought to live in it. And to insist that everyone else live in it too. But I can’t even pretend I fit in that painting. So if he feels he must dispose of me, so be it.”
“He has no desire to dispose of you,” I said. “He still desires your friendship. Be clear about it. He is not angry at you. You are angry at him.”
Maecenas shrugged, as if to dismiss my words. “He s
ays it won’t kill me to pay his tax, and that much is true. I am disgustingly rich. But all the poets and artists I’ve induced to support and revere him are not so fortunate. There is an icy wind coming in their direction, where there ought to be a warm breeze. And they do feel it.”
We sat in a garden. Larks sang overhead. I tried to think of comforting words to say, but they escaped me. I said in a low voice, “I have spoken to him about this matter. He is obdurate.”
Maecenas nodded. “I ask myself—how can it be he doesn’t know that the whole of humanity can’t be like legionaries marching in lockstep? The poets, the playwrights, and sculptors, they have made the time of Caesar Augustus the golden age of Rome’s rebirth . . . so many of them live lives that don’t fit into his scheme for living any more than mine does. Augustus is the most intelligent man I know. Why has he become so blind to reality?”
I let out a deep, long breath. “He is not a tyrant. He will not actually harm any of the poets and artists you worry about. Oh, maybe their purses but—”
“He’ll leave their heads attached to their necks? How kind of him.”
“He has turned the world upside down, remade Rome for good and all. And I sometimes think the fact frightens him. So he harkens back to the world when he was young—how it was when you were boys growing up in that provincial town, before he ever walked the streets of Rome.”
“Now his ideal is how it was in Velitrae? Then he’s worse off than I thought.”
Velitrae—where men took their pleasure where they would, but wives could be relied on to be chaste, where daughters obeyed fathers and accepted their choice of husband without a murmur. Where the world was unchanging for century after century. “I don’t think either one of us can truly understand the burdens Tavius carries, or what that has done to him. There are so few people he can trust. He still needs your friendship.”
“I doubt that,” Maecenas said. “I doubt that very much.”
We were staying in a villa on the Aegean coast. I had not seen my husband all day. When I entered our bedchamber that night, I found him sitting on the bed in the glow of the oil lamp, leaning down to rub one of his feet. He had been having pain in his feet for several months—sharp pain, though he tried to hide how bad it was.
The Daughters of Palatine Hill: A Novel Page 19
