After my victory at Actium, you didn’t even write to congratulate me.
I’m surrounded by idiots here. The stupidity of soldiers is like no other stupidity on earth. Sometimes I think men are physically brave only because they lack imagination and cannot anticipate what a spear in their guts would feel like.
Why do I waste time writing to you? Probably I won’t even send this letter.
You could write and let me know how the children are.
How was I to answer such a letter? How, when in my heart I still cared for the man who wrote it; and when he was the most powerful human being on earth, and only a fool would deliberately provoke his enmity?
I composed a long letter in reply. Some fragments of what I wrote remain in my memory.
My dear Tavius, I was not sure you would welcome a letter from me, so I did not write before, but of course I do congratulate you on your magnificent victory. The children are all in excellent health and send their greetings and their love.
I would not sacrifice you as Cleopatra would Antony, because compared to her I am foolishly sentimental, so much so that nothing will ever alter my love for you.
Nothing matters to me as much as the fact that you are alive and safe. Even your victory pales next to that. No doubt you consider that foolish, but Diana knows it is the truth.
You say I am not compliant. Of course that is so. If I promised to change, I doubt if you would believe me. I doubt if it is in my power to change.
I fully understand your need for a wife who can give you an heir. We should think of each other with kindness and try to remember past happiness. Happiness is rare.
I crafted the letter carefully, to blunt his anger, and yet it contained no lies. I could not bring myself to apologize for any words I had spoken to him, though perhaps a wiser woman would have. The sense of loss I felt was intense, but I had been living with that for some time. As for his need for a male heir, I did understand it. He was a monarch now. A monarch who has established rule over a vast empire needs, above all, a son.
“Now the golden age will come,” Maecenas had said, embracing me when first word came of Actium.
A cynic would say that he looked as overjoyed as any man would after learning he had bet on the right horse. But he would have stuck by Tavius to the death. And he did not hold grudges. My past unkind words had been quickly forgotten. Every day we worked together, shouldering the administrative tasks that needed to be done in Tavius’s absence.
“The golden age, don’t you think that’s aiming a bit high?” I said to him once.
Maecenas laughed. “You can call it a golden age, or just the best possible outcome to an extremely nasty political situation. Rome has survived. The energy that civil war drained now will go to better purposes. And the arts will flourish.”
Yes, I thought, I am sure under Tavius the arts will flourish.
“It will be interesting to see,” I said in a distant voice.
A new era would begin. There would be another woman at Tavius’s side. And me? I began to think about a separate future, a golden age of my own.
News filtered out of Alexandria and eventually reached us in Rome. Cleopatra had massacred those leading citizens whose loyalty she doubted. Caesarion and Antyllus, seventeen and sixteen years old, had, in a public ceremony, been vested with the rights and duties of men, and enrolled in the Egyptian army, to bolster morale in the city.
“What is the point of all that?” Octavia said. “Of putting those boys in the army? Everyone knows Alexandria will soon fall.”
“Cleopatra will hold things together as long as she can,” I said.
At Actium, she had been the first of the enemy to flee. It was not cowardice but clear-eyed ruthlessness. She saw how it was going and sought to save what she could. Antony had followed after her, eventually boarding her vessel. They had abandoned their forces, leaving them to flounder and face defeat leaderless. She was as ruthless as ever now, holding on to power in her besieged city.
“If you were Cleopatra or Antony, would you let those boys come of age or bear arms?” Octavia asked me.
We sat in a box at the chariot races. The air was full of the smell of horses and manure. We both felt an obligation to appear in public in Tavius’s stead, though neither of us took much interest in what happened on the racing track.
I shook my head. If Caesarion and Antyllus had been my sons, I would already have sent them running, to the ends of the earth. Away from Tavius.
“I like to think my brother has a conscience,” Octavia said. “He also has a legalistic turn of mind. I imagine he is relieved that those boys are now of age, bearing arms against him.”
“What’s the use of talking about this?” I said.
“Would you kill him? Caesarion? Would you be able to do it if you were Tavius?”
I watched the teams of horses parade onto the track and listened to the cheers. The race began. “If he lives—another Caesar—there is every chance there will eventually be another civil war. That would mean the undoing of everything Tavius has fought and labored for. The slaughter would not end.”
“And so you would be able to kill him in Tavius’s place?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “And I don’t wish to know.”
I looked at a team of white horses and another team of blacks, racing neck and neck, straining under their charioteer’s whips. They were very close together. Too close. Any moment, they might crash into each other. You would hear screams from the horses, shrieks from the spectators. Drivers might die.
“And Antyllus?” Octavia said. Her voice shook. “What will become of him?”
I said nothing.
“Don’t worry, I won’t weep out here in public.” Octavia let out a slow breath. “I ask myself, can I imagine Antyllus peacefully accepting Tavius’s victory, never lifting a hand to strike him down? Never trying to avenge Antony? If I can’t imagine that, then Tavius surely can’t.”
I saw acceptance mingled with the grief in her face. She had already given up hope for Antyllus, I think, and she talked of Antony as if he were already dead.
I had wanted to be part of the world I had first glimpsed as a girl through my father’s eyes, the world of men who wielded power. But had I known I was asking for a front-seat view of butchery? In some way I supposed I had, but the full emotional meaning had eluded me. No more of this, I thought.
“Inside myself, I weep for Antyllus, Livia, I weep. And I wonder about the little children Antony has by Cleopatra. It is a risk to leave them alive. Who knows, they might turn into enemies one day. I ask myself if my brother is capable of putting children to death because they could one day threaten him. And I don’t know the answer to that question. Do you?”
“No.”
In a low voice, Octavia said, “Sometimes I want to run away and hide where no news will ever reach me. Do you ever want to run away and hide?”
“No,” I said, “but often lately I picture in my mind a different sort of life. Sometimes a poor girl comes to me, desperate, and I give her a dowry so she can marry some decent fellow, and she comes back to show me the first baby. It makes me happy, as if the gods were smiling down at me. I feel that way when I look at Marcus. It is wonderful, isn’t it, that Marcus is an orphan, but he is still safe and loved?”
“Yes,” Octavia said. “That is wonderful.”
“I think I could have a good life with just my children—I never used to feel that way. Perhaps I’ll take in more orphan children. There are so many children left bereft, with no one to care for them. Maybe I will buy special country estates and send them there and have them reared and cared for. And I will visit and be like a mother to them. If I never bear another child, still I could bring up many children—a great many. Don’t you think that would be a pleasant way to live?”
Octavia studied me. “And what would
Tavius think of you taking in more orphan children?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
I saw knowledge in her eyes at that moment. I expected her to say, Your marriage to my brother is over, isn’t it? But instead she said, “Livia, is it that you think Tavius will not come back to you? Or that you don’t want him back?”
I did not answer. I did not know the answer to this myself.
On the racetrack, one chariot crossed the finish line. Everyone cheered.
My dear Livia,
Your congratulations on my victory were not fulsome. Still, they were appreciated. I also appreciated the lack of rancor in your letter.
In return I will do my best to rise above any rancor toward you, and to put our falling-out into perspective. After all, it is only natural for a woman to fear war, and what would be disloyal and cowardly in a man cannot be judged so harshly in a woman. I have never blamed my sister for her tender heart, so why should I blame you? Certainly we will part friends. To think of you as anything other than a friend would spoil so many good memories.
I am sure you are curious about the situation here. You’ll be glad to know I expect Alexandria to capitulate soon without a fight. Meanwhile, Antony writes to me suggesting that he and I fight a single combat to settle matters. What a noble gesture on his part, to suggest we meet personally in battle. After I’ve already won.
Cleopatra’s latest letter is slightly less laughable. She writes that she is willing to abdicate in favor of her children. What she imagines is a pleasant, temporary retirement for herself, and me eventually having to deal with both her and Caesarion.
When I think of Caesarion I feel a heavy weight coming down right on the back of my neck. Is he truly Julius Caesar’s son? I would prefer to think he isn’t, but I suspect he is. He is certainly Cleopatra’s child in every sense. I have spoken to those familiar with this young man’s character. They say he is intelligent and ambitious. Too bad. If he were an amiable fool, I could give him some little vassal kingdom and sleep easy.
I see you flinching as you contemplate the decisions before me. Cleopatra would not flinch. You are, as you say, sentimental. The last thing the ruler of an empire needs is a sentimental wife. Maybe after I divorce you, I should marry Cleopatra. She would not annoy me with her qualms. On the other hand, if I married her I would have to employ a food taster.
I shall be merciful to the people of Alexandria. That at least will please you. You see, I still care about pleasing you. Isn’t that odd?
My dear Tavius,
The children are in good health and doing nicely in their lessons. They send you their respectful greetings and their love. How happy I am to still be able to count you as a friend. Thank you for your kind and comforting words.
At age thirty-nine, Cleopatra seems unlikely to bear you the brace of fine sons you deserve. She is also, as you suggest, untrustworthy. I think a certain degree of sentimentality may all in all be a good quality in even a ruler’s wife. A well-born, virtuous, and sweet-natured Roman girl would be your best choice. It would be ideal if she came from a family line known for fertility. If you wish me to suggest candidates for your hand, you have only to ask, for I want your happiness above all things.
I am glad that you plan to spare the people of Alexandria. I have no right to advise you on great matters, nor do I believe my advice would sway you. I hope you will not take it amiss if I say only this: In all you do, please remember that the gods love mercy.
When I read his letter to me, it struck me that in the midst of all his great concerns he seemed to be trying to find a way to forgive me for what he had deemed my desertion. He could do it only by seeing me as womanish and soft—“sentimental.” And I—I suppose I wished to forgive him too, at the same time that I said farewell to our marriage. I missed him, of course. In the night, I ached with yearning. There were times I would have given my soul to go back in time and be held in his arms, and moments when a memory would make me weep. It was easy to say farewell to the imperator, bitter anguish to give up the man.
For a while, I did not receive any letters from him.
I looked over all my business accounts one day, and then I did a grand tally of my wealth. I would not starve after Tavius divorced me, that was sure. As for my plan to take in little orphans—I had sufficient resources to raise dozens of children.
The news we received from Egypt came slowly and was often unreliable. Inquisitiveness has always been a vice of mine. One day, on impulse, I sent a letter to Tavius with a troop ship that was leaving for Alexandria. Tell me, please, what is happening, I begged. I wondered if he would even write back.
My dear Livia,
Your last letter contained questions, a few stated, some only implied. Why this interest in my affairs? Aren’t we finished? After your kind offer to propose future brides for me, I assume your questions arise not from wifely concern but mere curiosity. Nevertheless, I will show my goodwill by answering them.
Yes, Alexandria surrendered peacefully. I made a reassuring speech to the inhabitants, who hailed me for my great benevolence before returning to the corrupt practices and perversions for which this city is famous. Yes, Antony committed suicide. He botched it, as he botched many things in his life. It took him a long time to die, but he was dead before I could get to him and kill him, which I suppose, from his point of view, was the main thing. His death scene was so protracted that his friends had time to carry him a considerable distance to where Cleopatra was hiding—hiding less from me than from him, afraid he would strangle her in revenge for her betrayal and abandonment. They had a moving reconciliation as he bled to death.
I eventually went to see Cleopatra where she was holed up in a huge fortified tomb, guarded by my troops. Yes, she tried to seduce me. No, I wasn’t tempted. First of all, she was a bit old for me; second, she wasn’t that beautiful by Roman standards; and finally, I will do her the courtesy of saying I didn’t see her when she was at her best. (I can see you protesting that you didn’t actually ask me about a possible seduction. Will you forgive me if I say I read those questions between the lines of your letter?)
She showed me several love letters she had from my father and read aloud her favorite passages, in a most charming and mellifluous voice. “You remind me of your father in so many ways,” she said. “It is an amazing resemblance.” I must have looked doubtful. “Truly,” she said. “I do not refer to a mere physical resemblance but one of the spirit. And what memories that brings alive in my heart.” I took her to mean one Caesar would do as well as another. Who can blame her for wanting to make this one last roll of the dice?
Yes, she killed herself. I let her discover the truth, which was that if she remained alive I would parade her through the streets of Rome in chains. She had a poisonous snake smuggled in and exited the stage gracefully, like the great actress she was. It was exactly what I hoped she would do. She wrote me a last letter in which she asked only that she and Antony be buried in one tomb. This wish I granted.
Antyllus and Caesarion were both speedily executed on my order. Cleopatra had sent Caesarion to hide from me in India. He might have made it there, but he heard a rumor I intended to make him some sort of king and came hotfooting back. Foolish.
I remind you that he and Antyllus had come of age and were grown men by law. If our positions had been reversed I’m sure either of them would have enjoyed eating my heart for dinner. Still, I’m aware of the supreme irony that I began this journey to avenge a man’s murder and now end it by killing his only begotten son.
All my decisions were based on cold logic, a calculation of Rome’s good. That is my defense, and whether it is valid depends on your point of view. If you kill but take no pleasure in killing, do the gods look on you more kindly? It may be that they smile more on mindless predatory beasts than men like me. I have saved Rome from further civil war, and if I roast in Tartarus for it, so be it. I’ll t
ell you this, though. I hope no one is counting on me fighting any glorious wars to expand the empire. I’ve smelled all I want to of the stink of battle, and I would prefer never to look at another corpse.
The question of what to do with Cleopatra’s young children by Antony has preyed on my mind. I’ve decided to send them to my sister, who is so motherly I am sure she will delight in raising them. My dear Livia, if not for your pervasive influence, it is possible I would have drowned all three like unwanted puppies. Certainly most of my friends thought that was the safest course. But all the years of your moralistic mewling in my ear have had an effect. Now I have to live with the thought of Mark Antony, in the lowest pit of Hades, laughing his head off at the image of me and my poor sister saddled with no less than six of his brats. I will play loving Uncle Tavius to all of them, and pray every day that they don’t take after their father.
Would a monster do that?
I hope you will understand why, with the press of affairs, I have given little thought to personal matters. Should we truly divorce? The desirability of begetting a male heir is undeniable. You and I have had no success there, despite our best efforts. A fecund fifteen-year-old is what most men would recommend to address the difficulty. The other reason I give myself in favor of a divorce is the continual moralistic mewling to which I just referred. On the other side of the question is this—it seems unrealistic to imagine you remaining my closest friend and confidante after the end of our marriage. I ask myself, who will I talk to? Agrippa, you will answer. Maecenas. Yes and yes. And others. Everyone and no one.
Well, the world is full of women, after all.
No doubt after reading all this love talk, you’ll want to rush into my arms. I’m afraid you can’t, at least not right away. I will be reorganizing the eastern part of my empire for many months. It would not be seemly if I were so uxorious as to insist on having my wife with me. Besides, you wouldn’t enjoy living in army camps. You are, we can both happily agree, no Fulvia.
I Am Livia Page 33
