I Am Livia

by Phyllis T. Smith

  Antony had officially allied himself with Tavius against Sextus, and given him 120 war galleys. Yet the two parted worse friends than they had been before. Still, here stood Octavia, carrying Antony’s child, Tavius’s nephew or niece. She was the unbreakable link that held our world together.

  Tavius took her in his arms. He and his sister did not seem able to let go of each other.

  Antony gave Octavia a clumsy pat on the shoulder. “Look, honey-girl, you don’t need to be parted from your brother for too long a time. Soon I’ll go to war. Why should you wait for me in Greece all alone? You can go to Rome then, for a good long visit. I still have a house there; you’ll be comfortable. Take your children and my sons with you—the whole tribe. I don’t want Antyllus and Jullus to forget they’re Romans. Do you like the idea?”

  I had never seen Antony be kind to anyone before. It surprised me that he had it in him to be kind.

  Octavia let go of Tavius and threw her arms around Antony. “You are so good to me. Oh, yes, I like the idea. And can I really take the boys? I just wish you could come to Rome with me too when I visit.”

  I truly think Tavius felt warmed by this exchange. I saw his face soften. Octavia embraced him again and said, “I’ll see you soon then.”

  “I’m grateful,” Tavius said, looking at Antony. He kissed his sister. “To have you back in Rome, even for a while—”

  And then, Antony, being Antony, had to ruin things. “All right, boy,” he said. Boy. He gave a great, roaring laugh. “In the meantime, just make sure you don’t sink my boats like you did your own.”

  Those were the final words Antony said to Tavius in parting. They were the last words either would ever say to the other, face-to-face.

  Maybe some malicious spirit heard those words, Don’t sink my boats. Maybe Neptune himself did, when he was in a wrathful mood.

  Tavius and Agrippa prepared a two-pronged attack on Sicily. They each headed a huge fleet. By some magic diplomacy, Maecenas induced Lepidus to come from North Africa to assist them; he succeeded in landing twelve legions of his own on Sicily’s shore. Then an enormous storm struck. The fleet under Agrippa’s command managed to ride it out. Tavius ordered his own ships into a bay on Italy’s coast that should have been well-protected. As if directed by some evil intelligence, the storm headed for that bay. It was impossible for the ships to escape by going out to sea; they were pinned.

  On the day I heard the news, all Rome heard it too. Another fleet had been lost. Tavius, half drowned, made it to shore and shouted into the wind, “I will win this war even if Neptune doesn’t want me to!” Then he stood for a long time looking into the bay, which was filled with the bodies of his dead soldiers.

  I could not go out this time and smile and pretend nothing dreadful had happened. On many Roman streets one could hear the sounds of mothers wailing for their dead sons. The loss of life dwarfed the first defeat, and now it was disaster piled on disaster. This was a horror, and everyone knew it. I could not even say, as I could have the first time ships were lost, that this resulted from Tavius receiving bad advice. In turning into the bay he had followed his own instincts.

  Some street poet, aware of Tavius’s fondness for gambling, made up a ditty for the occasion. I never saw the wit in it but knew it was repeated everywhere.

  He took a beating twice at sea,

  And threw two fleets away.

  And now to achieve one victory,

  He tosses dice all day.

  Tavius came home, pale and exhausted, and muttered barely a word of greeting to me. He went into his study. I sat beside him while he stared at the wall. I asked him nothing. I feared he would shut me out entirely, tell me to go away. I could imagine him doing this out of shame. Two fleets, gods above, he had lost two fleets. Who, in all of Roman history, in such a little space of time, had ever lost two fleets?

  Why did he have to turn into the bay? And why had he ever chosen to wage aggressive war on Sextus? Might there not have been an accommodation?

  I did not feel honey sweet sitting there beside my husband. No, when I thought of the decisions he had made that had brought us to this pass, I could have slapped him. I imagined him sinking, and me going down with him. To say he had been weakened did not begin to tell it.

  It was too late to sue for peace with Sextus. Tavius had to somehow garner a victory after this debacle. Only victory could justify the losses his forces had suffered. I knew enough of recent history to foresee the pattern events might take otherwise. Another defeat, and the army would begin to abandon him. I was certain if he were deposed from power, he would not survive it. He would be hunted down and either murdered by his enemies or given no honorable alternative but to take his own life. And I would leave my children to their father’s care and do what Portia had done, what my mother had done. I, who had called Tiberius Nero a coward when he spoke of suicide.

  I sat there filled with fear. Then Tavius gave a deep, hollow cough. Strangely, the sound of that cough was all I needed to remember how desperately I loved him. I studied his face. He looked as I had never seen him look before—empty, inconsolable. His pain was mine. He could have lost a hundred fleets and I would have loved him.

  No, I thought, we will not die. Neither of us will die. Whatever happens, we will both live. Somehow. I will not allow him to be destroyed. I will not.

  I said, “This is only a testing time. It befalls heroes on the path to their destiny. The gods want to see what you are made of.”

  When he spoke his voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Do you truly believe that?”

  “I’m sure of it. Watch. The war is about to turn in your favor. Lepidus has landed in Sicily, hasn’t he? And Agrippa’s fleet wasn’t touched by the storm. You will be victorious. You’ve only to keep faith.” I thought of the hen that had dropped from the sky with a laurel twig in its mouth. Surely the gods had promised us victory. “Only a few days ago I heard from the steward at that wonderful villa of yours. Do you know, the laurel cutting has taken root? And the hen hatched a brood of chicks. Remember, I wondered if she would even live?”

  “But that omen was for you, not me.”

  I shook my head. “My fate is not separate from yours. I want no separate fate. I do not want it, and I will not allow it.”

  People commonly assumed that I had left Tiberius Nero for Caesar Octavianus out of opportunistic motives. Maybe Tavius himself believed I adored him in good part for his shining success. If so, he began at this moment to see that my love for him was different from what he had imagined it was—fathoms deeper.

  I had sensed up until then that he would not want me to touch him. He seemed walled off. Now the barrier between us dissolved. In a perfectly natural and easy way I took his hand. “You will win,” I said. “Don’t you see? Nothing else is possible.”

  He said in a low voice, “You can’t imagine what that storm was like. The screaming men, the sinking ships. The water. There was so much water—coming from the sky, from the sea. I don’t know how anyone survived.”

  “Remember you told me once we would both be hard to drown? That’s the truth,” I said. “And you didn’t drown, did you?”

  “No. It’s Sextus—the one who calls himself the son of Neptune—who’s going to drown.” There was something forced and tentative about Tavius’s voice. But still, he sounded more alive.

  My role in our unhappy circumstance was to be that hen with the victory laurel in her beak, fluttering down from the sky. “Of course the war will continue?”

  “What else? Unless I take Sicily before winter sets in, it’s over for us.”

  There was a gladiatorial exhibition a few days later in the amphitheater at Rome. We went because we nearly always attended these events, and did not want it to look as if we were hiding.

  Tavius and I had our own private box at the amphitheater, which saved me from sitting with the
other women in the back where I could see nothing. I enjoyed the bouts, but I preferred it when no one died. So did Tavius. And particularly at this moment in our lives, with our own existence so precarious, neither of us wanted to look at killing.

  The first match was exciting. The defeated gladiator fought reasonably well, and at the end, with a sword to his throat, raised his hand to appeal for mercy. Tavius made the downward gesture with his thumb that indicated the sword was to be lowered. So both fighters survived.

  The second fight was tedious, repetitive thrust and parry, on and on. People went to buy refreshments; they nibbled their lunches. I could smell sausages and cheap wine. My mind wandered miles away. Then a shout rose in the amphitheater and brought my attention back to the sands beneath us. The contest was over. The wounded fighter dropped his sword and sank to his knees—injured, but probably not mortally. He raised his hand toward Tavius in the box.

  Half the arena crowd shouted for death and half for life. A senator named Corvus was sitting with us. “Death this time, I think,” he murmured to Tavius. “Really, the fight was dreadful.” Maybe Tavius was feeling squeamish, and that was why he lowered his thumb again. A mutter rose from those in the crowd who had wanted death.

  Next, a gladiator with a dagger and shield and another with a trident and net walked out onto the sand. The muttering turned to shouts of “Neptune, Neptune!” I felt a chill up the length of my spine. Of course, Neptune is often depicted holding a trident. But everyone knew Neptune was the patron deity of Sextus Pompey.

  Buoyed by the cheering, the trident man caught his opponent in his net and skewered him like a sardine. Those who wanted death got it. The victor pulled his weapon away, with the fallen gladiator’s guts on it. Blood stained the sand. The victor waved his trident, guts flying in the air. A roar rose from the amphitheater. Tavius and I dutifully clapped. And then a good part of the crowd began to chant, “Neptune, Neptune, Neptune!” The chanting had a menacing sound, like distant thunder. It was not a tribute to the victorious gladiator.

  Romans liked victors. They didn’t like commanders who lost fleets. If the people of Rome had been offered a free choice between Sextus and Tavius at that moment, they would have taken Neptune’s son.

  The chanting grew louder. Anger and scorn darkened the faces turned toward us. I sat still and looked straight ahead. Any other action could be read as weakness. My heart raced. I half expected people to rush us in our box. In that event, would Tavius’s bodyguards, who were standing by, be enough to protect us? Or would we be torn limb from limb?

  Corvus spoke in a low voice, addressing Tavius. “My advice is to send some soldiers over there—see on the right where they’re doing the most yelling? You have to shut them up.”

  I was terrified that Tavius would do what this fool suggested, and that would be just the thing to provoke a riot. Before I could say a word, Tavius managed a laugh. “My friend, I wouldn’t dream of it. They’re free Romans. Who am I to tell them not to chant for Neptune?”

  Two new gladiators walked out on the sand, distracting the crowd. When they began to fight, the chanting stopped.

  “Can we go?” I whispered to Tavius.

  “No, dear,” he said. “Not quite yet.” He smiled at me. Anybody looking at him would have thought we were talking about the most pleasant subject imaginable. “If we run like prey, some of them may follow like a wolf pack,” he whispered. “We are going to sit here and watch this contest. Then, if everything is peaceful, we will leave—very slowly.”

  “Of course, you’re right,” I said.

  “Keep smiling, my love.”

  I watched the next contest without seeing it. The defeated gladiator must have fought well, because when he lay on his back raising his hand for mercy, almost all the crowd wanted him spared. Tavius acceded, and while the amphitheater roared its approval and the two gladiators went staggering off the sand, he and I rose. My mouth was dry. We exited the box with slow, deliberate steps, bodyguards on all sides of us, both of us smiling until we were out of there.

  As we rode back home in our litter, my terror subsided, replaced by anger. A part of me was screaming at Tavius, I keep telling you, you don’t pay enough attention to your popularity with the people. Look what comes of it. “Neptune, Neptune, Neptune!” What have you done for Rome? Repaired a few temples. Why aren’t there more public improvements for citizens to point at and admire? If you had followed my counsel, at least set up fire brigades, the people would love you, and maybe they’d stand by you now. Maybe they wouldn’t be chanting for that miserable pirate Sextus!

  I bit my tongue. It was not the time for us to have an argument. And the Roman people had at times abandoned even the leaders who had done the most for them, when their stars fell. Nothing but victory could offset a double defeat. Yet it seemed to me Tavius had done little to win the people’s love, and it was worth having. In a crucial moment it might serve as some protection.

  The next day, in soft and gentle tones I told Tavius more or less what I thought. He looked at me blankly and said, “Worry about fire brigades now? I am fighting a war.”

  You are losing a war. I took a breath. “I want the people to love you, as I love you.”

  “Sometimes you’re wearying to be with,” Tavius said. “All my resources—all my resources—are going into cobbling together another fleet for Sicily.”

  We were in Tavius’s study. He picked up a tablet from the stack of correspondence that lay on his writing table and began reading it. To my annoyance, he would do that sometimes, start reading while I stood there. It was his way of telling me I was dismissed.

  I ruffled his hair, as I might have with one of my sons. When he looked up, I smiled at him and caressed his neck, then ran my hand under his tunic and stroked his shoulder. He put down the tablet he was reading. I could feel his hand wandering under my stola, caressing my knee, moving up my thigh. A shiver went through me.

  Shortly after this, I finally got my public fire brigades, or I should say, Rome got them. And not long afterward, Tavius addressed the Senate about a vast new program of public works he had in mind, designed to benefit Rome’s citizenry—though it was as yet only in the planning stage, to be carried out once Sicily was taken. This was in line with my thinking and pleased me greatly.

  Soon he took leave of me again. On a doleful morning, I stood just inside our entranceway, again about to see Tavius go off to fight Sextus, feeling in the depths of my heart that another defeat would doom us both. I was determined not to let my courage waver. Come home victorious, I intended to say with confidence, just as the wives of Roman generals had said it from time immemorial.

  But I said something else. “Beloved, if it is possible for you to show mercy in this fight, please show it. Even to Sextus—if you can spare his life, I beg you to do it.”

  Given the situation, the last thing Tavius expected was to be asked to show mercy to Sextus. At first he looked disconcerted and amazed. Then his eyes lit up. “Well, I see you truly have faith in my victory.”

  “I do,” I said. “And I believe the gods love mercy. They will favor you if you are merciful.”

  A small, lopsided smile played around his mouth. “You truly believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  Tavius looked at me the way loving husbands look at wives when they talk foolishness. He embraced and kissed me, and once again, he left.

  I saved the letters Tavius wrote me when he was away. Frequently they were no more than scrawls on waxed tablets. The writing eventually faded into the wax. But sometimes he would write me a longer letter, on papyrus. He was not writing for history, only for me; the letters employed bits of cipher and private code, and they were frank—even more candid, sometimes, than he might have been if we were face-to-face. When I read his letters I imagined him in some miserable army tent, after a day of maintaining a posture of might and infallibility. He longed
to drop the mask, and he could do that with me.

  My love, I trust this finds you well and also the children. By the time you read this, you will have heard the final outcome of the Sicilian campaign. But knowing you, you want the entire story. You would certainly worm it all out of me if I were there beside you, as I wish I were.

  I’ve often wanted you here so I could make love to you. But how much time can even the most ardent lover spend in conjugal embrace? And how many hours when I’m home do we spend talking? Here I’m surrounded by friends and supporters, but it still feels as if I have no one to talk to. Right now more than anything I wish you were here just so I could talk to you.

  I imagine you saying, “The war, Tavius. I want to hear about the war.” All right, but don’t expect a heroic tale.

  We had an excellent plan, and everything did begin well. I gave the command of most of my warships to Agrippa so he could keep Sextus busy and distracted. I filled other vessels with troops, planning to land them in Sicily and join Lepidus’s forces there. Agrippa engaged the enemy at sea and won a victory. However, Sextus’s forces withdrew in good order, and when I started to cross from Scolacium in Italy to Sicily, they were ready to pounce.

  We fought two engagements. My ill luck at sea is one constant in a world in flux. Many of my galleys were captured; others were burned. My own ship sank. I climbed into a small, barely seaworthy craft and, with this boat taking in water and Sextus’s forces giving chase, managed to make it back to the shore of Italy.

  I had only my armor bearer, Gnaeus, with me, and distant shouts told me I was being hunted by many men. I had resolved at all costs not to be taken alive and while we were still at sea had induced Gnaeus to swear a sacred oath to kill me if I were at the point of being captured. I suspected my fate was now at hand. Gnaeus and I darted along the beach, crouching in the forlorn hope of not being seen. Incredibly, a couple of friendly peasants came sprinting onto the beach out of nowhere and offered me help. They said they knew who I was and were admirers of my father. I had my doubts, but all I could do was trust them.