Tiberius Nero and I were able to reclaim our home and get most of our house slaves back from their new owners; this included the ones I most cared for, Pelia and the twins, Talos and Antitalos. The familiarity of our surroundings—even the familiar faces of our servants—comforted us, but we knew that comfort could only be temporary. Tiberius Nero’s fortune was so greatly reduced that we would have been fools to try to sustain such a lavish way of life. Soon, we knew, we would have to sell the house and buy a smaller one, and even resort to selling some of the slaves—always a miserable business when it comes to house servants one has known well. Tiberius Nero put off making hard decisions for the time being, and I did not blame him.
The one servant I would never, ever consider parting with was Rubria. Her hands healed—though scars remained—and she continued to live with us and take care of little Tiberius, whom she loved as her own child. We would sit in the garden together sometimes, watching my son at play, quiet but both remembering, I think, the dangers that little boy had gone through. Rubria oversaw his meals and his bath, but usually I was the one to put him to bed in the evenings, and in the mornings I would wake him with a kiss. My husband, too, doted on our little son.
All in all, Tiberius Nero and I had to be thankful for our present circumstances. I suppose we would have been unreservedly happy, if only our situation had been secure. But we felt it was not. The reason: Caesar Octavianus.
The Senate, like every other instrument of government in the city of Rome, was firmly under Caesar’s thumb. Though Tiberius Nero regained his Senate seat, he was aware of holding it at Caesar’s sufferance. Caesar often attended Senate sessions. He spoke courteous enough words when he and Tiberius Nero met. And yet Tiberius Nero said he noticed something disturbing about Caesar’s gaze.
“Maybe you’re imagining it,” I said.
“No, I’m not. I think he recognized me when I threw that spear at him outside Perusia. I was close enough that he certainly could have seen me clearly. I’m convinced every time he meets me, he remembers ducking my spear. That is not exactly the sort of memory that makes for warm feelings between two men.”
It did not ease Tiberius Nero’s mind that the first important matter brought before the Senate after his return to Rome was the execution of a fellow senator, Salvidianus. This man, who had commanded an army in Gaul, had tried to go over to Antony, taking Caesar’s Gallic legions with him. When Caesar and Antony reinstituted their alliance, Antony revealed Salvidianus’s disloyalty to Caesar. He was recalled to Rome on a pretext, and the Senate unanimously voted to accede to Caesar’s wishes and put him to death.
We had an additional cause for apprehension. The treaty between Caesar and Mark Antony, cemented by Antony’s marriage to Caesar’s sister, held up well. But the peace between Sextus Pompey and Caesar broke down almost as soon as it was sealed. One heard varying stories about whether Sextus was mainly to blame, or Caesar. Their forces had clashed at sea, and now Sextus’s navy was raiding the Italian coast and even preventing the arrival of needed grain shipments to Rome. Tiberius Nero, of course, had been claimed by Sextus as a supporter.
When one feels uncertain and on edge, it is natural to try to think of a course of action to bolster one’s position. Tiberius Nero came home from the Senate one day and said, “Livia, here is what I must do—invite Caesar to dinner.”
This idea struck me as bizarre. My face must have shown it.
“No, listen to me. I have to reach some kind of personal accommodation with him. All the leading senators are inviting Caesar and his wife out socially. I’m a former praetor—and a former enemy. If I don’t invite Caesar when everyone of my rank is doing it, that in itself is a pointed gesture. It’s a declaration of enmity, don’t you see?”
I shook my head, feeling almost dazed. The idea of the two of us, after all that had passed, inviting Caesar to our home for a friendly dinner seemed grotesque. Then I thought: How will it feel to see him again?
“There’s no need to upset yourself about it,” Tiberius Nero said. “First of all, once I invite him, he won’t come that soon. He is very busy; he is always putting off invitations. It may be months before we actually have to entertain him, but the important thing is that I will have tendered the invitation. Then I will invite other couples, senators and their wives, negligible sorts he can’t object to. We’ll have a regular dinner party when he comes, so you won’t have to talk to him that much. From what I understand, he is always the last guest to arrive, and the first one to leave. Half the time he doesn’t even bring his wife—she’s pregnant right now and prefers to stay home. So he will come for a couple of hours, eat dinner, and leave—and Livia, he likes very plain food. It’s not as if we even have to serve him an elaborate meal.”
I remembered a beautiful boy smiling at me at the chariot races. I saw him looking at me after he lit his mother’s funeral pyre. Then I thought of what had taken place since, the proscriptions, the deaths of my parents, the siege of Perusia. “Surely you realize feeding him a fancy dinner is not what I’m objecting to. After all that has happened, how can we have that man in our home?”
“We can do it because we must,” Tiberius Nero said. “Dear, all I want is a peaceful life now. I don’t want to have to go wandering all over the earth with my wife and child—soon two children. I’ve gone through enough—we have both gone through enough.”
I noticed how tired he seemed. He was not quite forty-three years old now, but the deep lines in his forehead and the gray streaks in his hair made him look older. As for me, in three months my second child would be born. The thought of our having to flee again was unbearable.
“We can spend a couple of hours entertaining Caesar, if it helps secure our future,” Tiberius Nero said.
What would happen when Caesar and I came face-to-face? Would I hate him? Or feel something else? Surely not attraction. No.
Perhaps I did not wish to know what I would feel when I saw him, and that was the true reason why I balked at the idea of inviting him to dinner.
“Livia, this is necessary.”
I straightened my spine. “All right. Invite him.”
The next day, Tiberius Nero came home nonplussed. “Well, I invited him, and he said yes. And—here’s the surprising part—he didn’t put me off.”
“You mean he’s coming soon? When did you invite him for?”
“Three evenings from now. He said he was delighted by the invitation and was definitely coming.”
Caesar did not arrive late. I heard the slave admitting him when I was in the dining room with the first two guests who had arrived, a senator, Rullus, and his wife, Nepia. Tiberius Nero gave me a meaningful glance. We excused ourselves and went to the atrium. Twelve lictors stood there, Caesar’s official escort, bearing the rods and axes that signified high office. There were also four bodyguards armed with swords. In front of this crowd of men, Caesar waited to be greeted. He wore the purple-trimmed toga of a proconsul and had a closely clipped golden beard.
A beard has unpleasant associations for most Romans. Men stop shaving when they are in mourning, after all. And I have always connected beards with uncivilized peoples. So I recoiled a little at the sight of Caesar’s beard. Despite that, and despite all that had transpired since I had last set eyes on Caesar, I felt a pull looking at him. Oh, I felt it, immediately and intensely. Even with that repulsive beard, he was as beautiful to me as any statue I had ever seen of the god Apollo.
“Caesar,” my husband said, “how wonderful it is to welcome you to my home.”
“I hope I’m not inconveniently early,” Caesar said. “I have something of a name for always being the last guest to arrive. I’m trying to reform.”
“You’re right on time,” Tiberius Nero said. “Two other guests are already at the table.”
“Oh? Good.” Caesar smiled at me. “Livia Drusilla, it’s been a long time. You were practically a littl
e girl when I saw you last.”
“No I wasn’t,” I said. I suppose I wished to contradict him in order to discomfort him a bit. I was remembering what I had felt when I first met him. My feelings had not been those of a child.
Tiberius Nero turned his head to look at me.
“You were a new bride,” Caesar said.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’ve heard you have a son.”
I nodded and smoothed my stola down over my pregnant belly.
“I’m afraid my wife is unable to attend this evening,” Caesar said, addressing both Tiberius Nero and me. “She sends her apologies.”
“What a pity she couldn’t come,” Tiberius Nero said. “Shall we go into the dining room?”
Inside, Rullus and Nepia greeted Caesar with great enthusiasm. Tiberius Nero gave him the place of honor on his right.
Our other guests, another senator and his wife, Fannius and Valeria, soon arrived. They all but ignored Tiberius Nero and me, their hosts. “It’s a privilege to be able to spend some time with you this way, informally,” Fannius said to Caesar.
“I can’t tell you how we have been looking forward to this dinner,” Valeria said, clutching Caesar’s hand.
Caesar’s lips twitched, and he gave me a look. It was the briefest of looks really, and yet strangely intimate. Aren’t some people silly?
I glanced away and motioned to a slave to serve the first course. “I hope everyone likes goat cheese,” I said.
Everyone agreed they liked goat cheese.
“I’ve heard you eat only the simplest food,” Nepia said to Caesar. “Is that true?”
He nodded, munching his cheese.
“And is it true you drink only two cups of wine, mixed half and half with water, per day?”
He nodded again. I imagined her sharing this fascinating information with all her friends: Caesar eats only simple food, and he severely limits his wine. I remembered Caesar’s health problems and felt certain some high-priced physician had advised his austere regimen.
The conversation turned to the chariot races. Caesar said he liked the Reds this season. Everyone agreed the Reds were a good team.
“Even five years ago, you preferred the Reds,” I said.
Caesar’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you remember that?”
“The first time we met, you said the Reds would win, and they did.” I drank some wine.
Tiberius Nero said, “That was at Julius Caesar’s funeral games, wasn’t it?” I could tell he was speaking only because he was the host and thought he ought to contribute something to the conversation.
“Yes, his funeral games,” Caesar said. His eyes seemed to go a little cold.
Everyone else at the table froze.
Caesar glanced down at his plate, picked up a piece of cheese, and nibbled it. He looked up and seemed surprised by the silence. “This cheese is delicious,” he offered. He looked at me—it seemed in appeal. Say something.
“Does anyone want more cheese?” I asked. “If not, I think it’s time for the second course.”
We began the second course—baked mullet fillets with no sauce at all, since we had been told by people who had previously entertained Caesar that he liked plain, unseasoned fish. I tried to avoid gazing at him. My eyes kept straying in his direction, without my volition. I looked at him—I looked at him more closely than I usually looked at anyone. I noticed the tilt of his head as he talked, and how his fair hair tumbled over his forehead. The fine gold hairs on the backs of his forearms. His hands—the long, tapered fingers.
Nepia started talking about the Temple of Minerva near the Forum. It had lately been renovated, much of the brick replaced by marble. “It’s one of the most beautiful temples in the city now,” Nepia said.
“You think so?” Caesar sounded gratified. Repairing the temple was one of the public works projects he had recently undertaken; I was certain Nepia had known that before she spoke.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “I go inside and feel so reverent. And Minerva is my favorite deity.”
“Really?” Caesar grinned at her. “I would have guessed Venus.”
She giggled.
Caesar looked at me. “Who is your favorite deity, Livia Drusilla?”
“Diana,” I said.
Rullus, Nepia’s husband, gave a mock shiver. “The goddess of chastity.”
“Why do you choose Diana?” Caesar asked me.
“She is the protector of the Roman people.”
Everyone began to say who his or her favorite deity was. Tiberius Nero said, “Mars.”
“Given your military record, that is the perfect choice,” Caesar said.
Tiberius Nero smiled at the compliment.
“Mars isn’t your choice?” Valeria said to Caesar.
He shook his head. “Who do you guess it would be?” His eyes were on me.
“Apollo,” I said.
Caesar laughed, delighted as a child. “You’re absolutely right. How did you know that?”
Because you are beautiful, just as he is. I shrugged and noticed I had begun to feel uncomfortably warm. No more wine. I motioned for a slave to pour some water to dilute the wine already in my cup.
“Why do you pick Apollo?” Nepia asked him.
“He is the god of knowledge and of light.” Then, eyes back on me, Caesar said, “Do you remember how Apollo and Diana are linked?”
“They’re surely not lovers?” Rullus said.
“Not exactly,” Caesar said, still looking at me.
“They are twins,” I said.
Caesar nodded.
I raised my chin. “Diana was the elder of the two, the firstborn.”
“Absolutely true,” Caesar said, “but there’s more to the story. Diana emerged from the womb and then became her mother’s midwife. She helped Apollo to be born.”
“Imagine a baby acting as a midwife,” Fannius said. “These old stories are so strange. But you go out in the countryside, or even into the city slums, and you’ll find people who believe them. Amazing how credulous the common people are.”
“There’s another kind of truth, besides what is literal,” Caesar said. His eyes met mine. “Don’t you think so?”
“There is also poetic truth,” I said. “The stories about the gods are true, in the same sense great poems are.” I glanced away. “My father always used to say so.”
“And the stories about the gods are beautiful, like the most magnificent poetry,” Caesar said.
When I looked back at him, I saw that he was leaning forward and his eyes had not strayed from my face. I could feel color coming into my cheeks. Caesar saw; I was sure he did, because of the way he smiled at me. And yet, no one else at the table seemed to notice. We were having a staid conversation about religion and poetry.
I imagined the two of us alone. I imagined him making love to me.
He no longer smiled. His lips were parted, and his gaze had an intensity it had not held before. I felt he had read my mind.
“Do you enjoy poetry, Caesar?” Valeria asked him.
“Yes, very much.” Caesar settled back on the couch. “There was a time when I thought I would be a poet and write tragic plays.”
Nepia laughed. “Oh, no. A tragic poet? You?”
He smiled at her. “It was a serious ambition. I even had one play all plotted out. Not, mind you, that I ever wrote a single line of it.”
“What was the subject?” Valeria asked.
“Ajax.”
“Oh, in the Iliad,” Valeria said. “The Greek warrior.”
“Why him?” Tiberius Nero asked. “Is he interesting? I thought he always came in second to Achilles.”
“That’s true, he did,” Caesar said. “But I thought Achilles as a subject was overworked. And Ajax—” He looked at me. “Can you gues
s what I like best about Ajax?”
“His prayer,” I said.
Caesar nodded.
“What prayer is that?” Tiberius Nero asked.
“On the battlefield of Troy, Ajax was the one who prayed for light,” I said.
“That’s it,” Caesar said. “Can you visualize it? The battlefield is full of fog and darkness, and Ajax lifts his arms up to Zeus and prays. You remember the prayer, don’t you, Livia Drusilla?”
If someone had asked me that at another time, I am not sure I would have remembered it, though when I was a child my tutor had insisted I commit vast segments of the Iliad to memory. But just then, the words came into my mind, effortlessly. I raised my arms as a priestess would and declaimed in Greek,
“Lord of earth and air!
O King! O Father! Hear my humble prayer!
Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;
Give me to see and Ajax asks no more;
If Greece must perish we thy will obey,
But let us perish in the face of day.”
I lowered my arms. For several moments, there was silence. Caesar lay motionless, a look of longing on his face. Then he began to clap his hands.
Everyone joined in the applause, and cried, “Bravo!” I gave a little bow.
When the applause had died down, Caesar said, “Ajax uttered those words, and the darkness lifted. There was light, and Greece did not perish. Greece prevailed.”
“Yes, it’s quite beautiful,” Valeria said.
“I see—it’s symbolic, of course,” Tiberius Nero said, smiling. “It’s not just literal sunlight the poet is talking about, but enlightenment. The light comes, and Greece prevails.” I knew he was thinking that the dinner was turning out well; certainly it was less unpleasant and strained than he had feared. And Caesar seemed to be having a good time, which was the main thing.
“You’re exactly right,” Caesar said, eyes shining.
Gods above, I thought, looking at Caesar, I believe I know why, even now, that prayer means so much to you. You think Rome is Greece, and you are the light bringer. You actually think that, don’t you?
I Am Livia Page 12
