I Am Livia
Page 35
“There is nothing—except your word—that would ever make me give you up,” he said. “So put that in the balance. Also put in the balance what you owe Rome.”
“Rome,” I repeated.
“I will be a better ruler with you than without you. When you think about it you will find you don’t doubt that for a moment. Do you?”
I raised my chin. “No.”
“See?” He smiled at me. His smile had a practiced charm. I could imagine him using that smile to seduce other women. Oh, I saw him clearly. And if I loved him, it was with knowledge, not with a girl’s heart fluttering. “Stay with me, and a hundred years from now, historians will ask this question—how could a man who fought like such a savage for preeminence, in the end become such a great, just, and merciful ruler? And the historians, being men, will never credit you. But who cares about them? What do historians ever accomplish? It will be a wonderful joke. We’ll laugh about it together.” For just an instant, a stricken look, almost fear, flickered across his face. “We will,” he insisted. “We’ll laugh.” He rose and held out his hand to me.
And so finally, and for always, I chose. Why did I make the choice I did? Because I loved once in my life and forever? Because I desired him still? Or maybe compassion governed me. I imagined him as he would be, alone on that pinnacle. What would loneliness do to him? Yes, perhaps it was compassion. Or perhaps I heard the call of my own destiny.
I think it was all those things.
I rose. I did not take his hand. I kissed him on the lips. He gripped me in his arms and buried his face in the crook of my neck and heaved a sigh like a spent runner. I felt he might fall, and I was propping him up. But only for a moment. He straightened and smiled at me. I win again, his eyes said. He kissed me hungrily.
He took a step back and held out his hand again. I laid my hand on his. Then, together, we went to greet the Senate of Rome.
He never wore a crown, but for the rest of his life he governed Rome. There was peace at home and by and large in the empire, the Pax Romana—peace such as the world had never seen before. Commerce flourished, and so did poetry. People called it the Golden Age. It wasn’t that. It was not even that just Republic of which my father and other good men had dreamed. But it was far better than what had gone before, better than reasonable people even dared hope for, after the decades of blood.
In time, the Senate gave him a new name, Augustus, the revered one. They called him Father of His Country too, and named a month of the year Augustus in his honor.
I was the voice whispering in his ear that mercy could be strength. He more than once pardoned men who had sought to undo him, because I asked him to. I saw to it that no one could ever justly call him a bloody-handed tyrant.
I never bore him a child who lived. His daughter—we do not speak of her; it hurts too much to remember how she broke her father’s heart. His grandsons died young. Some whispered that I poisoned them, out of ambition for my own progeny. I shrugged off these tales. People like to tell lies about the great.
There was both happiness and pain in the years Tavius and I shared, but we were married in the fullest sense, and our tie was unbreakable. He had told me that where he grew up people married for life, and so it was with us. I do not look back without regrets. But I have never regretted the choice I made to remain Tavius’s wife.
Tiberius and Drusus became the leading generals of their generation. They did not fight other Romans, but battled foreign enemies on our empire’s borders. My Marcus, too, had an exemplary if less glorious military career.
Drusus died in Gaul, after a riding accident. It was the greatest sorrow of my life.
In the end, Tiberius was the only man qualified to follow after, take up the reins of government, and hold the empire together. Tavius adopted him, and in due time he inherited all. He rules Rome now—not as gently as I would like.
And that glorious Republic in which my father believed? Even the idea of it recedes. It recedes in memory; it recedes into some unimaginable future time. We were not worthy of it. We lost our way. The gods must judge us.
I began writing down my memories, thinking to sit in judgment on the young woman I was. I find I cannot do it. I am still Livia Drusilla.
The gods must judge me.
My beloved, Rome’s revered one, died shortly before what would have been his seventy-seventh birthday. He died in the month of Augustus, peacefully in his bed. During his illness, I was always with him, and as the light waned, I held him in my arms. His last act was to kiss me. His final words were spoken to me. “Keep the memory of our marriage alive,” he whispered. I have done that. I hope to do it for eternity.
Livia passed away at the age of eighty-six…The Senate…voted an arch in her honor—a distinction conferred on no other woman—because she had saved the lives of not a few of them, reared the children of many citizens, and paid the dowries for many girls, in consequence of which some were calling her Mother of Her Country. She was buried in the mausoleum of Augustus.
—Cassius Dio
Author’s Note
Livia Drusilla (58 B.C.–29 A.D.) was not only the wife of Caesar Augustus but his political advisor. She is thought to have been the most powerful woman in the history of ancient Rome. Though Augustus himself used the humbler title First Citizen, historians have dubbed him Rome’s first emperor. His marriage to Livia lasted fifty-one years, and he was succeeded as emperor by Livia’s son Tiberius.
Many of the incidents in this book are based on the historical record. For example, Livia actually survived getting caught in a forest fire, though her hair and clothing were singed; her first husband, Tiberius Nero, gave her away at her wedding to Caesar; and she, along with her sister-in-law, Octavia, received the unusual right (for a woman) to manage her own finances.
Livia has gotten bad press. Rumor has a way even now of attaching to women who break the conventional mold, and it certainly did in ancient Rome. People told stories about her poisoning her husband’s potential heirs one by one—and finally him—so that her son Tiberius, at age fifty-five, could assume supreme power. “Poisoner” was not an uncommon charge to be leveled at prominent Roman women. (Even the supremely virtuous Cornelia was accused of poisoning her son-in-law.) Livia’s interest in medicinal herbs gave the charges verisimilitude. In recent years, several biographers have argued convincingly that Livia never murdered anyone. Personally, I find the idea laughable that the astute and canny Caesar Augustus misread her character for five decades, stood by while she disposed of his relatives, and then let himself be poisoned by her.
Livia induced her husband to show mercy to at least some of his political opponents. She cared for orphans and, like a good modern First Lady, succored victims of disasters such as fires and earthquakes. If this makes her no saint, it at least does not cast her as a villain.
Her relationship in old age with her son Tiberius was strained, and he saw to it that the arch the Senate wanted constructed in her honor was never built. However, she eventually received a greater distinction. Like Augustus, she was deified—in her case, through the efforts of her grandson, the emperor Claudius. She and her husband were worshipped as gods, and Roman women took oaths by invoking the name of Livia.
The novel’s unromantic view of Antony and Cleopatra is, like the portrait of Livia, consistent with facts. The blunt terminology in chapter 16 is taken from a letter Antony actually wrote, preserved by Suetonius in The Twelve Caesars.
I’ve used the familiar anglicized versions of Mark Antony’s and Sextus Pompey’s names (rather than calling them Marcus Antonius and Sextus Pompeius). In the case of Caesar Octavianus, later Augustus, I’ve followed a different course. He never used the name Octavian, and neither have I in this book. In keeping with my desire to take a fresh look at him through Livia’s eyes, I’ve referred to him by his actual Roman name and allowed Livia to call him by a nickname.
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sp; Acknowledgments
This book would never have existed without the generous help of extraordinary people. My thanks to:
The friends and fellow writers who were the novel’s first readers. Camden McDaris Black, Bruce Bowman, Gina Caulfield, Susan Coventry, Mark Dane, Cynthia Dunn, Mary Hoffman, Barbara Morgan, Vicky Oliver, and Norm Scott all gave me encouragement and support as well as perceptive feedback.
My brilliant literary agent, Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein. Her wise counsel and faith in the book have earned my everlasting gratitude.
The editorial dream team at Amazon Publishing. Terry Goodman has provided a sure guiding hand every step of the way. He, Charlotte Herscher, and Phyllis DeBlanche offered creative insights and expertise that made this a better novel. I’m grateful to all the people at Amazon for their innovative vision and hard work.
About the Author
© Photo by Rachel Elkind, 2013
Phyllis T. Smith was born and currently lives in Brooklyn, New York. After obtaining a bachelor’s degree from Brooklyn College and a master’s degree from New York University, Phyllis pursued a practical career in computer applications training, yet found herself drawn to literature and art of the ancient world. I Am Livia is her first novel. She has another novel set in ancient Rome in the works.