I Am Livia

by Phyllis T. Smith

  I read the letter at my writing table. I put it down. The table was piled high with correspondence from all over the empire. I looked at it and thought numbly, Let Tavius divorce me. I will say farewell to all of this. I will not miss it.

  I was no Fulvia. I would never strap on a sword, as she had. Compared to her I was soft and womanish. I pressed my hands to my eyes, as if to shut out the images in my mind. I could see the serpent, coiling to strike. But where had it bitten Cleopatra? On the neck, on the arm? How long had it taken her to die? I found myself imagining the details of her death, and also the deaths of two boys on the cusp of manhood.

  Out of this would come…what? The golden age Maecenas spoke of? Or a curse on our children and our children’s children?

  After all the anger, all the betrayal, Antony had exchanged forgiveness with Cleopatra, as he lay bloody in her arms. I visualized her weeping over him. How flawed those two were, how cruel and capable of turning their cruelty even on each other. And yet…and yet…Did it not mean something that they loved each other, insofar as they were capable of loving? Was that not at least some defense, that, dying, he’d had himself carried through the streets to her? And that she had not turned him away?

  I saw myself in Cleopatra’s place. The man I held, who bled from a self-inflicted wound, was not Antony but Tavius.

  I wept.

  Tavius complained that he had no one to talk to. I felt alone too. I had friends, but how could I confide the secrets of my heart when my personal life and matters of state were so intermeshed? If I had had a true confidante I would have told her this: He misses me. He would not write to me if he did not. If I only say the correct warm and loving words I can perhaps remain his wife. But something in me pulls back. I imagine another life. I imagine no longer being complicit.

  At times I foresaw the future we might have together. How would it be, married to the lord of the empire, and never able to bear him a child? Failing, always failing in what mattered most, even if I succeeded in all else. Seeing the disappointment in his eyes.

  I was twenty-eight years old, young enough that I still might have a son who lived. But after all our years of marriage, what were the odds? No. I sensed I had lost the capacity to bring new life into the world.

  In the end, with the same calculation of Rome’s good that had governed his other decisions, Tavius would cast me off. Or even if he didn’t, I would always be waiting for that. Why would I choose that path?

  If he knew how to act on the basis of cold logic, so did I. I would choose differently.

  Because I was wealthy in my own right, I could be free as almost no woman on earth was free. I would never become Tavius’s enemy. That would be unwise. I would maintain a friendship with him, just as I had with Tiberius Nero. A friendship, just cordial enough for safety’s sake. Just distant enough that I would never have to hear again about whom he had executed.

  I would soar like a bird, solitary, unmated, but untrammeled.

  “They are like any other children,” Octavia said.

  Antony and Cleopatra’s three youngsters were in the garden with Octavia’s little daughters, their half sisters. They were darker in coloring than Antonia and Antonilla, but one could see a resemblance; every one of Antony’s children had his jutting chin. His children by Cleopatra also had their mother’s aquiline nose. All the children ran about, shouting and playing, under the eye of a weary-looking nursemaid.

  Octavia and I sat on a bench at the edge of the garden, drinking cider out of silver goblets and munching on figs and nuts. “Tavius wrote me that the three of them will have to be exhibited to the people of Rome when he returns in triumph,” Octavia said. “I suppose they will ride down the Sacred Way in a wagon, in front of his chariot. But he has promised he will return them to me, right afterward. I wonder if they will have to wear chains.”

  “Little gold chains, perhaps,” I said.

  Octavia’s face filled with distaste.

  “They could have been killed,” I said. “They could have been enslaved. Who would dare to object, or would even be surprised, if Tavius chose to destroy those children? Instead, they will wear play chains for an hour and then be kindly reared by you as Roman citizens.”

  “How quick you are to defend my brother,” Octavia said.

  I said nothing. I watched Cleopatra’s children tossing a ball back and forth with their half sisters, and listened to her little daughter’s giggle.

  “Whenever I see you, I notice how subdued you are,” Octavia said. “You used to have a shine about you. Your eyes were like lanterns, lit from within. Now, even when you talk about your plans, all the orphan children you will save, you seem lifeless to me.”

  “You are too kind. Please, no more compliments.”

  Octavia smiled faintly. “A quiet life of good works would suit me. But you?”

  “I have devoted a great deal of time to good works already,” I said, almost snapping out the words.

  “I know you have. Why, that has been one of the props of my brother’s rule, hasn’t it—you and your good works?”

  I tossed my head and did not answer her.

  “I know what will happen.” Octavia spoke in a low, confidential tone. “When Tavius comes home to you, even covered in all this blood, on that day you’ll come alive. You’ll mix up remedies for any ache he has, and bathe him in your love, and make him feel he is the son of Apollo. And you’ll be his goddess and his queen, won’t you?”

  I shook my head. How wrong Octavia was. Tavius and I had not written to each other for months. And the thought of washing and kissing his bloody hands repelled me. I saw another shape to my future. A free woman. And if I suffered lifelong loneliness, that might balance the scale in the gods’ eyes, for my transgressions. “You needn’t speak to me with such scorn,” I told Octavia.

  “But I wasn’t speaking to you with scorn,” Octavia said. “You misunderstand me. I am telling you what I hope for. I still love my brother, and I want you to sit in the belly of the leviathan with him. If you don’t, who could do it? The gods know it would be beyond me. And if he’s there alone, I fear for him. Truly, I fear for his sanity with such great and absolute power, if he must carry his burden alone. If you two part, I pity Rome, and I pity Tavius. Most of all, I pity Tavius.”

  I was silent. Her words surprised me.

  “When I search for my brother, the brother I remember, do you know where I see him? With you. In your presence, he becomes human. If he ever were to betray you—”

  “Betray me?” I said. “You assume he has not?”

  “Oh, the women? You know how little they matter to him. But if he were to abandon you—then I would know that there’s nothing left of my brother, that Rome has finally devoured him whole. I swear to you on that day I would rend my garments.”

  He was gone for two years. Two years can feel like a century, in certain circumstances.

  Before he returned, he wrote me a brief letter. He would not enter Rome proper until it was time to ride through the streets in triumphant parade. That was tradition. It would be most convenient for me to come to the villa at Prima Porta, since it is just outside of Rome, and a comfortable place to conduct official business. I will stay there until my triumph is organized, if you don’t mind. I imagined his lip curling as he wrote those words: if you don’t mind.

  My response was polite. Certainly, it makes good sense for you to stay at Prima Porta. Of course I do not mind.

  Runners came with the news, as soon as his ships could be seen off the coast of Italy. I went to my villa, to wait for him. Almost at once houseguests came and filled every available bedchamber. With desperate eagerness, leading senators begged invitations. They must be present to welcome Caesar. As the time for his arrival approached, other senators came, completely uninvited but smiling at me with frantic sycophancy. Soon a good part of the Senate camped in my cou
rtyard. I welcomed them, I gave them food and wine. I wished they would go away.

  Everyone seemed to have one or two friends or relatives who—against all advice, for completely incomprehensible reasons—had sided with Antony. Now they wandered like lost sheep on Egyptian sands, or they hid on their relatives’ country estates. “Lady Livia, I’m sure Caesar would be moved to mercy, if a plea came from you. My poor nephew is just a harmless idiot. If Caesar would only spare him…let him come home…”

  “This will be part of your role, you know, in the new order,” an elderly senator said. “A state is somewhat like a family, when you think of it. A family needs both a father and a mother. Now when I was a boy, my brothers and I constantly got into trouble. My father always wanted to beat us. But in fact we got very few beatings that I remember.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Yes. Because our mother was always begging us off.” He smiled at me. “You will soften Caesar’s heart. And you will help us to love him.”

  How could I tell this gentle, good man, “I think Caesar will take another wife”?

  “Papa!” Julia’s voice rose in a joyous shriek. “Papa!”

  I sat reading mail. I got up, smoothed my hair, then walked down a corridor, now filled with Tavius’s bodyguard. I found Tavius and the children in the little family sitting room that adjoined the garden.

  He stood, wearing a plain soldier’s tunic, but no armor, no sword. His hair was clipped short, his face clean-shaven and sunburned. There were lines in the corners of his mouth that I did not remember.

  Julia clung to him, her cheek pressed to his chest. He stroked her hair. Drusus and Marcus quivered with excitement. Tiberius stood a little apart, but he was the one Tavius addressed. “I’m not sure the smaller galleys made a difference. Antony’s crews all came down with some fever or other. They were easy pickings. There are lucky accidents like that in war.”

  “But the smaller galleys are better?” Tiberius said.

  “If the crews are trained to take advantage of their maneuverability,” Tavius replied. Then he saw me. Our eyes met and held. For just a moment by some trick of the light or of my mind, I saw another being, not an imperator but an eighteen-year-old boy. “Tiberius asks very intelligent questions,” he said.

  “He might have waited for you to sit down before he began asking them,” I said. “Welcome home.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I avoided the courtyard, coming in. It seems packed with people.”

  “I’m afraid so. Senators. They keep coming. Almost the whole Senate is already here. I’m sure you want peace and quiet, but I couldn’t tell them to go away.”

  “No,” he said. “Of course you couldn’t.” He gently detached himself from Julia and sat down on a couch. I could see he was glad to get off his feet. He looked at me. I saw something in his expression I did not expect to see. Tenderness? Longing?

  “You can greet them tomorrow, after you’ve rested,” I said.

  He shook his head. “No. That would be discourteous after they’ve come all the way from Rome. I’ll speak to them in a little while.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I was seasick through the whole voyage. The thought of food…” He grimaced.

  “You must be thirsty, though.” I clapped my hands to summon a slave, and ordered him to bring water and wine.

  “Later I’ll tell you stories about Alexandria,” Tavius said to Julia. “But run along now. Weren’t you having your lessons?”

  She did not want to leave and remained motionless.

  “Your father is tired,” I said. “All of you—go back to your tutor.”

  Julia shot me an aggrieved look before she and the boys left the room.

  I sat beside Tavius. The slave returned. I told him to set down his tray and dismissed him, then poured wine into the goblet. I added water, watched the rich purple of the wine fade to some indeterminate shade. As I did this, I was aware of Tavius watching me. I knew just how he liked his wine mixed. The slave was new and would not have known.

  I handed Tavius the goblet. I thought, A man returns home from making himself master of the Roman empire, and he is tired and thirsty, just like any other man.

  He seemed older. It was not a matter of lines etched into his face, but a subtle alteration in his manner. He raised his goblet to his lips and studied me over the rim as he drank. He paused and said, “The children all look taller and…different. It’s disconcerting how much they’ve changed. At least you look the same.” He drank some more, and then put down the cup.

  The wine left a stain on his lips. I had the impulse to reach out with a finger and wipe it away, as I might have once. I thought of the two trees painted on the walls of the summer dining room, the ones with branches intertwined. Trees that had grown up so close together you could not disentangle them without chopping them to pieces.

  How little I knew myself, really. How could I have failed to anticipate what I would feel?

  And yet I still believed I could be separate. I had the strength to walk away.

  For moments, we looked into each other’s eyes. We were very grave. I thought of the burden he carried now. A burden like Atlas’s. He had sought it, and now he must endure the unrelenting weight of it. He guessed my thoughts and gave me a wintry smile. “Did you know that after Actium Cleopatra sent me a gold crown and a throne?”

  “Did she send you a poisonous snake too?”

  He laughed. “I knew you’d say that. The day I get tired of life, I’ll put on that crown.” His face sobered. “I won’t be a king, but I need some kind of title.”

  I longed to touch him. I seemed to feel that longing in every pore of my skin. “Call yourself First Citizen.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “The leading member of the Senate used to have that title. First among equals. Everyone will be pleased.”

  “First Citizen.” He considered. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “You’ve had other things to think of.”

  “Yes. And the truth is, traveling doesn’t agree with me. It fogs my brain.”

  Lie down, I thought. Put your head in my lap. I see how tired you are. I want to watch you sleep. “You must have seen many interesting sights,” I said.

  “I saw Alexander the Great’s mummy. But that didn’t go so well. I touched his nose and it fell off.”

  I smiled uncertainly, unsure if he was joking.

  “His hair was almost the same color as mine, but he wore it long. He was about my height too. No one told me not to touch him.”

  “The poor Alexandrians were probably too afraid of you to tell you.”

  “Poor Alexandrians? Poor Alexander, with no nose.” Then: “I won it all, Livia. I always knew I would. And I’m going to hold it.”

  I nodded.

  “I won’t be satisfied unless I give Rome the best government the world has ever seen. There will be peace, justice, and prosperity. I’ll work for those things as long as I have breath in my body.”

  Yes, I believed that. I also knew how much blood he had shed for the sake of power. There was a fissure at the core of him, a split that ran right through his soul.

  “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to our marriage,” he said.

  “Oh? I’m surprised.” I felt a tightening in the pit of my stomach.

  “You know better than to be surprised.” He looked away from me for the first time, got up and took a walk around the room, pacing. His limp was more pronounced than it had been before he left. “I like things settled one way or another. Win or lose.”

  “Not everything comes down to winning or losing,” I said.

  “Being in some in-between state eats my guts out. Do you know why I stopped writing to you? Because I couldn’t make head or tail of the letters you wrote me back. Were you deliberately toying with me?”
<
br />   “What do you think?”

  “I think you couldn’t decide if you still wanted to be my wife or not.” He shook his head. “You’re so contrary. But you wrote that you still loved me.”

  When I was a girl, I imagined love was a kind of prize for virtuous behavior. That was how the philosophers described it. Love was a tribute that flowed naturally only to those with undivided spirits and pure hearts. It occurred to me now that it was something else, wilder and less comprehensible. An affinity of the soul? Even that did not encompass it.

  Stop talking. Come here. I want to hold you. I almost said those words, but I forced myself to keep silent. I imagined myself a free woman with clean hands.

  “Well, you’ll have to decide now. I want no death of a thousand cuts to our marriage. Either come with me, and greet our guests, and we will begin again.” His voice hardened. “Or say no, and I will inform them that you and I have decided on an amicable divorce.”

  “Amicable,” I said. I imagined being his friend and no more than that, and felt a tightening in my throat.

  “I pay my debts. But think what you would be throwing away.”

  “I am thinking of it,” I said.

  He came and sat beside me again. He said in a low voice, as if he were telling me a secret, “You might want to consider this: I love you. I will love you until the end of my life. If you never bear me a child who lives, I will accept it. I will leave this empire to some other man’s son, rather than marry elsewhere and give you up.”

  I drew in a sharp breath at that. These were words I had not expected to hear. I had thought him unwilling to sacrifice for me. I will leave this empire to some other man’s son. By his reckoning, he could make no greater sacrifice. I could see in his face how much it would cost him, and also that he was fully resolved to pay the price.