The Daughters of Palatine Hill: A Novel

by Phyllis T. Smith

  “You must see a physician,” I said.

  “Physicians are idiots.”

  “But there must be remedies. You can’t go on suffering.”

  “Sometimes the only thing to do is suffer. That’s just the way life is.” There was a note of muted anger in his voice. He stopped massaging his foot and gave me cold, level look. “I’ve dismissed Scipio from my staff,” he said. “There’ll be no scandal, no blot on his precious name. He is on his way to Gaul right now, no doubt glad of the opportunity to emulate his dead ancestors. Let’s see if he can wage war like they did, or is only good for screwing other men’s wives.”

  I looked back at him, saying nothing. I felt numb.

  “Is Agrippina mine?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “No doubt in your mind?”

  “I swear by all the gods, she is your daughter.”

  “Well, that’s good to know.”

  I had an impulse to weep. But the tears did not come. And there was nothing to say. I just stood before him, still as stone.

  “You’ve never believed I was good enough for you,” he said.

  “That’s not true.”

  He actually laughed. “Oh, you mean it’s not my low birth? It’s more . . . what? I’m too old? I just don’t suit you?”

  I did not speak. I wanted to undo what had happened, but it was too late. Finally I got out the words, “What now?”

  “We will go on as we were. There is nothing else to do.”

  “Because I am my father’s daughter.” It was not a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you hate me?” The words surprised me even as I spoke them. I felt dread, waiting for the answer.

  He shook his head and almost smiled—as if I had said something silly. “Do you have any idea who I am, what I’ve done and seen in my life? Do you have any notion at all of what it takes to get deep emotion out of me these days?”

  I shook my head.

  “I save hatred for the battlefield. It serves a purpose there. Hating you would serve no purpose at all.” He let out a long breath. “You may be right about my needing to see a physician. My feet have gotten bad.” He drew one of his feet up on the bed and massaged it with both hands, grimacing.

  It felt as if my chest had filled with unshed tears. I knew that I would miss Scipio just as I had missed Gracchus. I even suspected that eventually I would long again for another man’s arms. But at that moment, all I could do was walk over to the bed and say, “Let me.”

  Agrippa raised his head and stared at me. In the glare of the lamplight, his face showed deeply etched lines. I had never seen him look so old and tired.

  “Let me,” I said again.

  He frowned and shrugged.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, massaging his feet.

  Previously, when Agrippa had been well and made love to me, I gritted my teeth. Yet now, with him ill and in pain, I hastened to minister to his bodily needs, doing everything I could to ease his suffering.

  The physician said that the fact that the pain was centered on Agrippa’s big toes meant Agrippa was suffering from the “unwalkable disease,” a sickness that could be brought on by too much rich food or wine. Agrippa thought this was nonsense but grudgingly agreed to a change of diet. I made sure that simple food was prepared for him and that he took his wine diluted with three parts water. Every day I put ointment on Agrippa’s feet and massaged them.

  My maid Phoebe was amazed that I was such a devoted nurse. She, of course, knew the entire tale of Scipio and me. At this point, there was little about my life she did not know.

  “I pity my husband. He is in terrible pain,” I said. “And yes—I feel guilty.”

  “You didn’t cause his illness, my lady.”

  “Who knows? With another wife, perhaps his mind would be easier, and perhaps he would be well.”

  A bitter expression surfaced on her face. I think she came very close to calling me a fool.

  “You think your being with another man has brought this on him? You are not to blame. You’ve given him four fine children and catered to his every need. When has he ever accommodated himself to your wants? It’s not as if he has been so pure in his life—he hasn’t even kept his hands off the slaves in his own house!”

  My mouth must have dropped open.

  “Oh, my lady,” Phoebe said, her eyes glittering, “surely you know. That little dark one, the second cook, he sold to his friend . . . ?”

  It had been a small matter, the sale of a skilled slave three years ago, as a favor to an old acquaintance of Agrippa’s. The slave had seemed happy enough to leave, to be head cook in a great household. The whole business had made little impression on me at the time.

  “She was carrying Lord Agrippa’s child,” Phoebe said. “He wanted her gone. A usual thing for a man of his kind.”

  I shook my head. At this moment, I truly did feel like a fool. Had I really been so blind about the occurrences under my own roof? “Is this true?”

  “He has had his women every place we’ve been.”

  A terrible thought came into my mind. “Have you . . . ?”

  She gave a chuckle. “Me? Oh, no, my lady, he hasn’t approached me. It may be the clubfoot or perhaps something in my eyes . . . I am not fond of men. And Lord Agrippa—I’ll give him this—he does not rape. What need has he? A gold coin or a bauble is all it takes for him to get what he wants. But he has let his own child be born into slavery and left him enslaved.”

  “He has done that?”

  “Oh, yes, my lady, more than once. And you feel guilty about a few tickles in the dark?”

  Several days after this, Statius, Agrippa’s body servant, came running to me. “Mistress, mistress, the master has injured himself. He is in the baths.”

  A large, elaborate bathhouse with hot and cold pools encompassed one entire wing of the house in which we were staying. Accompanied by Statius, I raced to the bathhouse. There I found my husband sitting on a marble bench, his fist jammed against his teeth, as if to hold back moans of agony. His feet were bright red. An overturned basin had spilled liquid on the tile floor. I smelled vinegar. “What happened?” I cried.

  Agrippa shook his head, unable to answer.

  “Oh, mistress,” Statius said, “it is vinegar, heated on the stove. It is supposed to help the foot pain. But I think it was too hot!”

  “Get the physician.” I knelt beside Agrippa. “Why did you do this?”

  “Why do you think?” he muttered. “For the pain.”

  Someone had told him hot vinegar was a remedy for his condition, and the pain had become so great he was willing to try anything.

  The physician arrived and put salve on Agrippa’s blisters.

  When his blisters healed a little, I went to him and stated the obvious. He could not go on traveling incessantly and shouldering the mountain of work he did. “We should go home. There may be better physicians in Rome.”

  For once he listened to me. We went home.

  Are we old?” I asked Tavius one morning.

  “You will never be old,” he said.

  “Flattery still rolls off your tongue very smoothly, I’ll give you that.” I was forty-five; he was fifty.

  “Would you prefer I point out that the mausoleum is ready and waiting?”

  Some years before this, he had constructed a grand family tomb in the Mars Field, big enough to accommodate our ashes and those of all our near relations. Sadly, the tomb’s first occupant had been a mere youth, his nephew Marcellus.

  “I don’t feel ready for the mausoleum yet,” I said. “And I don’t think Rome will ever be ready to dispense with your services. You will just have to go on living.”

  “Do I look as old as Agrippa does?”

  “No,” I said, and this was true. Agrippa had come home from the East, hardly able to hobble on his feet and looking like his own ghost.

  “He has worked too hard and too long. With rest, he’ll be himself again.” Tav
ius sounded as he were making an effort to believe it.

  Agrippa, Julia, and the children had visited briefly with us in Rome. Then they had gone off to stay at his villa in southern Italy, where he could have a long holiday.

  Seeing Agrippa with his glowing children, the two vigorous small boys, the sweet-faced little girls, one thought he ought to have been their grandfather. And Julia—she was at the height of her beauty and also presented a stark contrast. Just the sight of her with Agrippa—he so worn, she so vividly alive—had troubled me.

  They had been away from Rome for more than three years. I wanted to believe Julia had matured in that time and returned home contented to be Agrippa’s wife. But I worried about her.

  “I suppose,” I said, “it is natural at our time of life to be preoccupied with the younger generation.”

  Tavius’s mouth tightened. I wondered if he knew I was thinking of Julia. But he seemed determined to keep the mood light. “Personally, I’m most concerned about Livilla. I predict she’ll be a handful. Just look who she is named after.”

  Drusus’s daughter was barely a month old.

  At that time, both my sons were home. Tiberius had returned from Gaul for brief consultations; Drusus had been appointed urban praetor and, in theory at least, would be in Italy for an entire year. One evening they and their wives dined with me at my villa at Prima Porta. It was as if all the light in the room shone on Drusus. He and his wife, Antonia, shared a dining couch. I could see how glad Antonia was to have him at home. Tavius turned to Drusus and peppered him with questions about how he had left matters in Gaul. Drusus answered volubly, smiling as he spoke of all the army had achieved.

  Tiberius with his wife, Vipsania, was across the table from his younger brother. He too might have spoken knowledgeably of affairs in Gaul. But Tavius continually addressed himself to Drusus.

  Tiberius’s expression showed no jealousy. He looked resigned and even gazed at Drusus with rueful affection. I had to remind myself of the objective fact that Tiberius’s achievements at that point in his life were greater than his brother’s.

  “Tiberius, take more of the lamb. It’s prepared just the way you like it,” I said.

  The look he gave me was almost baleful, as if he suspected I was exerting an effort to act like his doting mother—and remind everyone else of his presence.

  “Yes, dear, have some more of this delicious lamb,” Vipsania said. “It has the most wonderful sweet sauce.”

  “Do me a kindness and don’t badger me about the food,” Tiberius snapped.

  Vipsania looked down, her ears turning pink.

  Marcus Ortho was also at the table. He was the son of a loyal servant of mine who had become my dear friend, and I had raised him as my own after her death. All through their childhood he had been Drusus’s constant shadow; he had lately become his devoted military aide. I saw the look of dislike he shot at Tiberius.

  Memories came back of Tiberius lording it over Marcus when they were growing up. Drusus had treated him as a brother; Tiberius never had.

  Tiberius has reaped what he sowed with Marcus. He turned away Tavius’s warmth, so now it is never offered. And he goes out of his way to browbeat his little mouse of a wife. Gods above, I am his own mother and even I find him hard to love.

  This thought hurt me, for whatever his faults, Tiberius was my child.

  As soon as the dinner was over, Tiberius and Vipsania vanished. This was like them; they never seemed to relish time spent with the rest of the family. For his part, Tavius had work to do in his study. I remained at the table with Drusus, Antonia, and Marcus.

  “I have to find a wife for you,” I told Marcus.

  He smiled at me, shaking his head. “I’m a soldier. A family can wait until I’m old.”

  “But a wife can be a fine thing, even for a soldier,” Drusus said. He and Antonia were reclining close together, and his hand lay on her shoulder.

  “Then you will be happy to be home for a while?” she said, smiling up at him.

  “It’s as if I am two beings—one who always longs to be home with you and another who wants to march into Germania.”

  I knew he wanted to push beyond Gaul, up into the regions still unconquered by us Romans. “I would rather we not speak any more about war this evening,” I said.

  “All right, Mother. But I have to tell you the only way to establish the peace you care so much for is to extend the empire’s boundaries and bring the Germanic tribes to heel. And I will do it—” He smiled. “Well, Tiberius, Marcus, and I will.”

  He was not yet twenty-six and had already made his name as a great general. Who could help but be proud of such a son? But I feared for him. I feared for Tiberius and Marcus too, but most of all for Drusus, for he was the boldest.

  “Germania is a savage place now,” he said, “but it will not always be that way. Wherever we Romans go, we will make men civilized and free.”

  “You think the tribesmen of Germania will be fit to be citizens?” Antonia asked.

  “In time. We are bringing enlightenment and peace to the world, great universal peace. But we must bring liberty too.”

  “Such lofty talk,” I said, and took a sip of wine. “You are an idealist, my son.”

  “When Augustus first claimed power, order was what mattered most. There had to be an end to the civil wars. Now, however, the time has come to shape the future. We must think in terms of extending the rights of citizenship to all the subject peoples—and we must think of liberty at home.”

  Why did I feel a prick of fear?

  Drusus seemed to sense my emotion. He smiled. “Mother, the love of liberty runs in our family.”

  He took after my kin. He had large dark eyes and hair with a hint of red. Moreover there was a greatness of soul about him that brought back memories of my own father—his grandfather who had died for the Republic. “Would you bring the Republic back again, if you could?” I asked in a strained voice.

  “No, Mother,” Drusus said gently. “The Republic failed. I would never bring that chaos back again. I only mean we must move gradually not in the direction of more authoritarian rule but greater liberty. Otherwise, our government might devolve into tyranny. All my friends—well, almost all of them feel this way.”

  “The young, you mean?”

  “We are not all foolish, Mother Livia,” Marcus said.

  I gave him a stiff smile. “Yes . . . I remember feeling very wise indeed when I was young. And then life taught me I was not so wise after all.”

  “But you see,” Antonia said, “Drusus is speaking of a gentle process that may take many decades. Nothing stays the same. We must move in one direction or another. And why not in the direction of greater rights for all?”

  “Rome is no tyranny,” I said.

  “Of course not, Mother,” Drusus said. “And it must not become one. Augustus’s moral legislation was not a good precedent. What right has the state to intrude on people’s private doings? I say none! I told Augustus that just the other day.”

  It was like Drusus not to withhold his thoughts but to speak boldly to his stepfather. “And what did he say?” I asked.

  “He said we should agree to disagree about that. And then he said . . .” Drusus looked abashed and shrugged.

  Antonia smiled proudly. “He said that given the way Drusus conducts his own life, the moral laws were hardly likely to irk him.”

  Informants brought me stories of my sons’ doings, some I wanted to hear and some I could have done without. Tiberius and Marcus both had temporary liaisons while on campaign; it was a usual thing for a soldier. Drusus was the anomaly. He never touched a woman other than his wife.

  “I told him that was hardly the point,” my son said. “The point was that he was treading on people’s liberty and ought not to.”

  “And was he angry at all when you said that?” I asked carefully.

  “Angry? No. Why should he be at a friend who honestly speaks his mind? He just clapped me on the back and to
ld me I was a better general than I was a politician.” Drusus laughed. “Which I suppose is true.”

  Later in bed with Tavius, I whispered, “Drusus’s talk of liberty—does it trouble you?”

  “I brood and gnash my teeth over it from morning to night.”

  “Meaning you don’t?”

  “I know the boy’s heart. The day I don’t trust Drusus, put me out of my misery, please.” After a few moments, he added, “The only real problem we will have is keeping him in Rome for a year. I want to teach him some things, and a term as city praetor is just what he needs. But he is burning to conquer Germania, and a young eagle has to fly.”

  In fact, it was impossible to keep my young eagle in Rome. After a few short months, he was back leading his army. This time, however, Antonia insisted on accompanying him, with her children in a tow, as far as the Roman city of Lugdunum in eastern Gaul, which was reasonably safe for civilians—a place where he could visit his family from time to time. For a wife to go trailing after a husband in this way when he went off to war was frowned upon. But she was Mark Antony’s daughter as well as Octavia’s; and beneath her calm surface she had a passionate heart, and a stubborn streak. I thought my son was wise not to say no to her.

  It was boring on Agrippa’s country estate. There were times I could have screamed. I so wanted to be back in Rome, to see my old friends.

  Yet I kept the bit in my mouth. I played the part of a good wife. I acted as Agrippa’s nurse when his feet pained him and the doctor happened not to be in attendance. I also, of course, allowed him to make love to me when he wished. For many months, he had not wished to. Maybe the thought of a wife who had slept with another man repelled him; maybe it was just a matter of his weariness and the pain in his feet. But gradually, with rest, he began to feel healthier. Our marriage went back to what it had been.