Father stared at me. “Where are the coins for the ferryman?”
“There has been no time yet to think of that.”
He took coins out of the purse tied to his belt, pressed two on Agrippa’s closed eyelids, and slipped another between his lips. “Leave us alone, please.”
In more usual circumstances, it would have fallen to him to comfort me, the new widow. But instead, dry-eyed, I reached out to Father and stroked his shoulder, trying ineffectually to ease his hurt.
He hardly noticed me. “Leave us. Close the door.”
I stood outside the door. Inside the room came my father’s voice choked with grief. “I am here,” he said. Over and over, the same words. “I am here, I am here, I am here.”
I did not discover I was with child until after the funeral. It made me sad to think that Agrippa would never set eyes on his last child, for he was fond of his children and took pleasure in them.
I was sorry Agrippa was dead, so sorry for him. He had deserved to spend some pleasant years at leisure, watching our little ones grow up. But I did not feel any great sense of personal loss. I tried not to think too much of the future, beyond giving birth to my child. I knew my father would expect me to marry again, and my husband would be determined by the needs of the empire.
The only thing that makes sense is for Tiberius to marry Julia,” Tavius said.
Eight months had passed since Agrippa’s death. Julia would soon give birth. Tiberius had come home from Gaul to confer with Tavius. Drusus meanwhile was winning battle after battle as he carried forward the conquest of Germania.
“My son is married,” I said. “He and his wife have a little boy.”
“My older grandson is only eight,” Tavius said. “If I were to die tomorrow—”
“You won’t.”
“I’m not young, Livia.”
“You keep picking successors and they keep on dying, beloved. While you go on living. Have you noticed that?”
“That won’t be the case forever.” He reached across the couch, took my hand. “Oh, Livia . . .”
“What was I thinking of, when I married you? I must have been mad. One thing is sure—I had no earthly idea of what I was bargaining for.”
“Look,” he said. “Gaius is a boy. If I die in the next decade, there has to be a man to act on his behalf and hold the empire together. The only one who can do that is Tiberius. Drusus has a wife too, and besides that he is too young—a great soldier but naive when it comes to politics. Tiberius is not naive.”
“No,” I said. “He never has been that.”
“So it has to be Tiberius. He must marry Julia. Otherwise, if I die, the moon and the stars will fall from the heavens and people will eat each other. You do see that?”
“Tiberius can’t be forced. He must be allowed to make a choice.”
“Of course,” Tavius said.
Many would say later that the idea of Tiberius and Julia marrying came from me, that the impetus was my ambition for my son. This was a lie—and yet, like many false tales, it contained a grain of truth. For in fact I was ambitious for Tiberius, and I knew that the man who married Julia would be, after Tavius, the greatest man in Rome. Why, I thought, should that place of prominence not be filled by my son? While one part of me recoiled from the idea of Tiberius divorcing his wife and wedding Julia, another part did not recoil at all. This I admit before the gods.
Tavius had a conversation with Tiberius, put the proposal to him, and advised him not to answer immediately but to give the matter thought. Later that same day, I talked to my son alone.
“You are facing a decision that is bound to shape your future.”
“I know that, Mother.”
Sitting across from Tiberius, I felt confused about my own emotions, which was unlike me. “Vipsania is so quiet and self-effacing I hardly know her. But it seems to me that she suits you.”
Tiberius’s face took on a guarded look. “She has been a satisfactory wife.”
“That is all? Satisfactory?”
“Mother, this conversation is not necessary. You can be sure I will do my duty.”
His duty—what did that mean? That he would divorce Vipsania, marry Julia, and so discharge his duty to Rome? Or was he speaking of another duty, to his wife and son?
It struck me forcibly that my son was being asked to make an inhuman choice. And that I had placed him in this situation. On the day I decided to leave his father and marry Tavius, I had determined my son’s path in life.
He sat before me now a grown man, a former consul, a general. Yet I still saw the three-year-old looking at me through his eyes, the child who had stood by helpless as I tore our family apart.
“I want you to be happy,” I said.
He smiled faintly as if I had uttered an absurdity.
“Tiberius, do you know that Julia . . . ?” I groped for words, and finally said, “She has had unsuitable friends.”
“Mother, I’m no fool. I know how Agrippa allowed her to behave.”
“Then—”
“I really don’t want to discuss all this with you, Mother.”
I felt a prickling along the back of my neck. It was as if I saw a catastrophe taking shape and wanted to avert my eyes but could not. Suddenly, someone else seemed to be speaking with my voice. “Don’t marry her. I am afraid of what marriage to Julia will do to your soul.”
Tiberius looked startled and taken aback. He collected himself, then he almost snarled, “Well, thank you for your advice, Mother,” and walked out the room.
That night in a dream, I saw a beautiful bird with bright purple plumage. It was in the sort of cage one often sees used for pet birds, tapered at the top. But this cage was made of pure gold. Flapping its wings, uttering loud, piercing cries, the bird threw itself at the bars of the cage. It did this again and again, until it was covered with blood.
I awoke in a sweat and lay in bed, shuddering.
The gods often send us dreams that carry messages. Was this a divine dream? I did not know. When I rose from my bed, the images from the dream faded in my mind. Strangely, since the dream had frightened me so much, I found it easy to put it out of my thoughts.
Later that day, Tavius informed me that Tiberius had agreed to marry Julia. “Perhaps eventually you and I will share a grandchild,” he said lightly.
“Yes,” I said, feeling a sudden fierce desire to hold that baby in my arms. I had not been able to give Tavius a child. But Tiberius and Julia’s child would be like the fruit of our own love.
I was lost in the woods, pulled this way and that.
I had heard talk that Julia had been unfaithful to Agrippa. But I had seen her look at my handsome son with admiration. He was close to her in age, and in that respect a more suitable husband for her than Agrippa had been. It did not seem impossible that Tiberius and Julia would find contentment together. I prayed to the gods to make it so.
Another wedding. The scarlet veil, the sharing of the sacred cake, the shouts of “Feliciter!”
My father gave me away, the first time he was ever there to see me wed. A lucky omen? I hoped so.
Father at my side, holding my hand, whispering in my ear how beautiful I looked. The way it might have been, should have been when I was fourteen.
A new start? I imagined myself washed clean of all the troubles of the past as I began life with my new husband.
I saw the logical necessity of this marriage. If Father passed away, I would need a strong man to protect me and my children. Who could fill that role but Tiberius?
I had to think first of the welfare of my children—of Gaius and Lucius especially but also the little ones, including the baby Postumus Agrippa, who had been born a few months before. If Father died and they were left without a trustworthy protector, they would all be like defenseless lambs surrounded by power-hungry predators.
I admit I thought of myself too. When I looked at Tiberius I felt a physical attraction that was primal and raw, but undeniable.
&n
bsp; What gave me most pause was the thought of Vipsania, who had been my stepdaughter. My father said she would be generously provided for, kindly treated, even allowed to keep her son with her while he was small. “She is Agrippa’s daughter—do you think I would let her be abused? Believe me, she won’t lose by doing her duty and gracefully stepping to one side.” Father gave me a look that brooked no opposition. “We must all do our duty, every one of us.”
At the celebratory feast, my wedding veil thrown back, I studied Tiberius as he accepted congratulations. I saw his assurance. I heard the deference in other men’s voices when they spoke to him. I knew he was the only man I could have married.
“Do you think we will be happy?” I asked him when we were alone for our wedding night.
He considered the question as if it were completely new to him, as if he had not given a moment’s thought to it before. “I doubt it’s in me to be happy,” he said finally.
“Why?”
“It’s my nature.”
“Perhaps that can change.”
“People never change.”
“At least we can come to understand each other, you and I. We grew up in the same household, the household of the First Citizen. Few people can know the burdens it placed on us.”
He did not speak but was listening intently.
“Maybe this marriage can be a blessing to both of us. I’ll try so hard. Can’t we at least finally become friends?”
“Friends?” He rolled the word off his tongue as if the concept amused him. But then he said, “I could use a friend, a true friend, that is. Most of my life, I’ve been surrounded by sycophants using me to get to your father. I despise all the honeyed words, the lying flattery.”
“I won’t lie to you, Tiberius.”
“Good. See you don’t.”
“If we—”
“Enough talk.” He untied the knot of Hercules around my waist with a few hard tugs, threw the rope of wool onto the floor. Then he was pulling at my muslin tunica.
“Wait,” I said, not wanting him to rip it.
“Take it off.”
I obeyed him. When I stood naked, he grabbed me. His kisses were hungry and fierce. I pulled away from him, wanting to catch my breath. “Don’t do that,” he said, and pressed me to him.
There was a savagery in the way he took me. He never said my name. He never gave a thought to my comfort or to pleasing me. And yet I responded to him. I did desire him—perhaps I had desired him without knowing it since we were children. I wanted to cry out, feeling his rough hands on me, kneading my flesh, cry out at his hard thrusts. But there was pleasure in the end. A piercing pleasure, more intense because it was mixed with pain.
So it began between us.
“I want to make something clear to you,” he said to me on the morning after our wedding.
I was still in bed, and he was standing over me. “Oh, what is that?”
“Gracchus and all that pack . . . you will stay away from them.”
“Will I?” I got out of bed, stretched, and yawned.
“You will.” He pulled me into his arms.
I twined my arms around his neck, studied his face. He was intent on what he was saying, almost angry. I could feel his heat, along the whole length of my body. We were both naked.
“You’re my wife now. You’ll act the way my wife is supposed to act.” He gave a harsh laugh. “You won’t need outside . . . recreation. I’ll keep you busy.”
Will you? Will you really?
“I’m not Agrippa,” he said. “I’m someone else. You understand?”
“You’re someone else,” I said, smiling.
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not laughing. Truly, I’m not.”
He was not gentle. And yet a mighty god smiled on our union. The name of that god was Eros. To be held in Tiberius’s arms was to feel small and helpless, swept away by the mighty flood of a strong man’s passion. He wanted me so much. But he used me as if I did not possess a mind or a soul.
After our lovemaking I would feel battered, cast aside like a damaged toy. Yet there was pleasure, dark pleasure, sweetness never overwhelmed by the bitter under-taste. During the hours of the day when we had to be apart, I longed for him. I wanted to feel that bitter sweetness again.
Phoebe would see the bruises and shallow bite marks on my body and stare.
“My lady, look how he has hurt you,” she said once. “How can you—”
I laughed. “How can I? Do you truly want me to explain?”
“My lady . . .”
I felt a surge of annoyance. “If you wish to please me, you will not speak of this again.”
When Tiberius and I were together, even in company, I would notice him watching me. Not with any obvious affection, but as if he could not tear his eyes away. When we were alone, he would unexpectedly touch me, fondle my leg, my breast. It was if he did this despite himself, as if he could not keep his hands off. I would smile at him. He would not smile back. I wondered if he disliked the fact that he desired me.
Once as we lay together, I asked, foolishly, “Was it like this with Vipsania?”
“Don’t speak of her,” he said, and pinched my arm.
“Tiberius, how dare you? Did you intend to punish me, as if I were a dumb animal? I am not one, and I resent it.”
“Keep your tongue off her. She is a good woman.”
What did he mean? That I was not?
He went on in a low voice, “She did not speak a word of reproach when I said I wanted to divorce her. She wished me good fortune, and she meant it. No one else has ever cared for me so unselfishly.”
“Do you actually expect me to lie here and listen while you sing the praises of your former wife?”
“You were the one who brought up her name.”
“Believe me, I will not do it again.”
“Good.” For a while he was silent as if thinking. Then he said, “I have always kept a check on my passions. I am not someone to let this business loom too large. Just lately, with you—oh, it has been pleasure, but . . .”
I laughed deep in my throat. “I think about you constantly during the day. Do you think about me?”
“Sometimes,” he muttered.
“More than you would like?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, do I obsess you?”
“I did not say that,” he snapped. But in a moment, he whispered, “Yes, yes, I am obsessed.”
“How lovely.”
“You think it’s a lovely thing, for a man like me to be always thinking of a woman? Believe me, it is not.”
“Poor Tiberius,” I said and kissed him. “Poor, poor man.”
He gave me instructions about how to dress and wear my hair. I obeyed him. Why not? I adorned myself mainly for his eyes anyway. His taste was old-fashioned like my father’s. He did not like to see much of my skin uncovered before the eyes of others. Nor did he like it when I wore much jewelry. “Simplicity is the mark of a lady,” he said.
“Are you planning on turning me into your mother?”
He scowled. “What an idiotic thing to say.”
What troubled me most about Tiberius, early in our marriage, was the harsh, commanding tone he took with my two older sons. Agrippa had been a kind father. Now in his place my children had a stepfather who ignored my little girls and the baby but barked military commands at Gaius and Lucius.
Once, after I came home from my dressmaker, I heard sobs coming from Gaius’s bedchamber. I found my son lying facedown across his bed, weeping. As I approached, I saw a small red stain on the shoulder of his tunic.
“What happened?” I asked. Though of course I knew.
My son turned a red, furious face on me. “Your husband, Mother.”
“Sit up. Take off your tunic. Let me see.”
I gave a little cry when he bared his back. From shoulder to waist it was crisscrossed with welts.
“What did he beat you with?”
“A birch
rod.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing!”
“Gaius, love, you must have done something.”
“He said I was impertinent. I don’t know who he thinks he is.”
“He thinks he is your stepfather, Gaius.” And you are Augustus’s heir, and well you know it.
“Mother, I hate him. Send him away, will you? I was playing in the courtyard, and he said not to do it there. All I did was ask him why. He said I shouldn’t ask questions, just obey. Then he beat me.”
I was sure Gaius’s tone of voice when he asked the question had been less than respectful, that Tiberius had beaten him for disrespect. I realized most people would highly approve of such an action on the part of a father or even a stepfather. Boys needed the rod if they were going to amount to anything. Still I hated seeing my son’s back covered with welts. I applied a soothing balm, my feelings in turmoil.
“Mother, he whipped Lucius too the other day. Lucius didn’t want to tell you.”
“What did he whip him for?”
“For nothing!”
“Gaius, you want to be a soldier, don’t you? Well, soldiers must obey their superior officers. You have to learn to be obedient, darling. Obedient and respectful.” I finished putting the balm on his welts. “Does that feel better?”
He shrugged.
“Watch what you say to your stepfather, and how you say it.”
I could not keep myself from remonstrating with Tiberius, telling him he was too harsh with Gaius. He told me I was a fool. “The boy needs discipline,” he said. “In fact, I’m very much afraid your coddling has already ruined him.”
“Ruined him? There is nothing wrong with my boy.”
“Julia, open your eyes. You’ve made him a weakling. Him and his brother both.”
Over the next few days, I paid close attention to how Tiberius spoke to my sons, the expression on his face when he looked at them. It was clear to me that he disliked them both, disliked two children.
After Agrippa’s death, my father had said that the two boys must come to live with him. He wanted to take personal charge of their education. I had resisted this. I did not relish the idea of them living under another roof from me, at ages nine and six, and had been postponing the move. But now I acquiesced to my father’s wishes. Father might sometimes be stern with the boys and demand too much of them, but he loved them.
The Daughters of Palatine Hill: A Novel Page 22
