Cornelia- the First Woman of Rome

by Dan Armstrong

  “I am seven times eight.”

  “Then this is the predicted year of your death.”

  “And will be the ultimate test of my dream, Quintus—if this is, in fact, the year I die.”

  “But are you not afraid?” asked Laelius.

  “Why should I be? If the dream reveals a truth, then death will take me to a greater place to be. And if I’m only deluding myself by such beliefs, then the dream is false and the prophecy of my death is also.”

  I remember hearing these words and wishing I were so confident in the meaning of my life. Aemilianus was a great but haughty man. And his dream, whether made up or something that really occurred, portrayed my grandfather, Africanus, as making a negative judgment upon Tiberius, which in my heart I knew could not be true. Should Publius Nasica ever be judged at the gates of this wonderful heaven, he would be summarily rejected.

  CHAPTER 47

  Aemilianus came home in a foul mood one evening a few days after revealing his dream to his friends. The lack of movement on the land reform settlements had caused a lot of tension in the populace, and it was directed at him. He knew he needed to address the problem and was planning to deliver a speech from the rostra the next day. I went up to my bedroom to get off my feet and stay out of his way. He came upstairs a little while later to change his clothes. In passing my room he noticed me lying on the bed. My ankle was propped up on a pillow. My crutch was lying on the floor beside the bed. Aemilianus stood in the doorway, little more than a shadow. I could not see his eyes, but I could see his head turn to stare at my ankle, and then the crutch.

  He shook his head, then said it again. “Thank the gods you were made barren.” He turned and continued on to his room.

  The continuing insults were more than I could take. The words of the old woman selling herbs repeated in my head—You’re planning to kill your husband aren’t you? Suddenly I found myself wondering if the hemlock I had bought was not meant for me. Cornelia had hoped my education would give me sanctuary from the shackles of my marriage. And maybe it would. But not in the way she thought. I had a mind of my own. I was capable of difficult and extended logic. I could poison Aemilianus, who had already been targeted by plebeian threats, and cover my tracks in such a way that no one would ever know. He would be gone. I would own his house, his library, his land, and all his wealth. I would be like Cornelia, wealthy enough to live alone in my own home and pursue my education within the circle of women I enjoyed so much. My ankle would never heal but my heart might.

  I did not go down for dinner that night. I told Aemilianus I could not manage the stairs. After he had eaten, Nadia brought me a tray containing sliced apples, a piece of rye bread, a dollop of honey, a wedge of goat cheese, and a cup of mulsum. I could see down to the ground floor of the atrium from my bed. Light projected from the library doorway. Aemilianus had a difficult speech to prepare. I knew him. He would stay up late to finish it. He would nurse a cup of mulsum and at intervals go out to the peristyle and practice his speech beneath the stars.

  Nadia and two of the other slaves had seen my ankle. So had Aemilianus. No one expected me to go downstairs that night. I doubt anyone even believed that I could. What could be better?

  I stirred some honey and half the parcel of hemlock into my cup of mulsum. I left the rest of the hemlock for myself in case my plan went awry. I rewrapped my ankle as tightly as I could and lay in bed watching the doorway to the library. After a while I saw Aemilianus leave the library and go to the back of the house. He was a man of strict routine. He would be in the garden reciting his speech for at least a quarter hour. I gathered up my strength, and trying not to spill what was in the cup, limped to the stairs using my crutch. I crept down the stairs backwards on my hands and knees then slid down the wall to the library doorway. Only one of the oil lamps was lit. A cup of mulsum sat beside Aemilianus’ wax pad. A bronze stylus lay beside that. I crept into the library and emptied my potion into his cup.

  I had to hurry, but I also had to be as quiet as possible. I slipped down the wall to the stairway. Just as I knelt on the first stair to climb upward on my hands and knees, I heard Aemilianus coming from the peristyle. The only light came from the library doorway and a quarter moon. I was in the shadows, visible, but only upon close inspection. Aemilianus did not even look at the stairs and strode into the library.

  The house was completely silent. There was no way I could get up the stairs and into my room quietly enough not to be heard. I decided to stay as still as I could and wait until he took another break in the garden or drank the mulsum. If he tasted the poison and did not drink it, he would find me helpless on the stairs when he went to bed. Why I was there would be impossible to explain. If he drank all of it, he would die and I could return to my room with no hurry.

  I was very close to the library doorway. I could hear everything he did. I heard his chair scoot across the floor when he sat down. I heard him slide the wax pad on the table to begin writing. I heard him pick up his cup and take a drink. I waited to hear if he would spit it out. I held my breath. He replaced the cup on the table. More time passed. He took another drink, then two more. I’m not sure how long it was before I heard him struggling to breathe. I hoped the sounds would not wake the slaves in their quarters at the back of the house. I heard him fall out of his chair, but he was still sucking and snorting trying to breathe. He choked out a few indistinguishable words. It was horrible. I pushed myself up on my hands and knees, and as quietly as I could, crawled up the stairs to my room. I collapsed on the bed thinking the awful deed was done.

  As I lay in bed wide awake, I realized I could still hear him struggling to breath and issuing weak chirps for help. I began to wonder if I had given him enough hemlock. I had no idea what to do. I could not go back down the stairs, finish the job, and climb back up to my room again. I simply did not have the strength. Instead I lay in bed thinking what a failure I was. Not only could I not bring new life into the world, but I was also incapable of assisting existing life out.

  It seemed impossible that the slaves could not hear Aemilianus as he continued to fight for his life, but no one came to his aid. Some amount of time passed during which I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. I suddenly became aware of a great silence. I could not see far enough into the library from my bed to see Aemilianus, but I was certain he had finally died.

  I tossed and turned the rest of the night, wavering between relief that he was dead and fear of being found out. I thought about taking the remaining dose of hemlock, now hidden beneath my bed. Only a crazy woman would kill her husband repeated in my head until I did not know if I were dreaming or awake.

  CHAPTER 48

  Shortly after the sun came up, someone knocked heavily on the front door. Nadia answered it. I heard Polybius’ voice. Apparently Aemilianus had asked him to come over to review his speech. Nadia said she had not seen her master yet that morning and told Polybius to wait in the library while she looked for him. I held my breath knowing what Polybius would find.

  Nadia came up the stairs and passed down the hall to look for Aemilianus in his bedroom. She peeked into my room before going back down the stairs. I pretended to be asleep.

  I heard her say, “I can’t find my master, sir.”

  “His body is in the library,” answered Polybius. “He appears to have died last night.”

  Nadia gasped.

  “Please get Sempronia,” said Polybius calmly.

  Nadia ran up the stairs to my room. She knelt beside the bed. “Please wake up, my lady.”

  I blinked my eyes and sat up slowly, as though I had been asleep and had no idea what had happened.

  “Aemilianus died during the night,” she whispered tensely.

  “What?” I mumbled loud enough for Polybius to hear.

  “Polybius found his body in the library. Can you go downstairs? He’s requested to see you.”

  “Yes, yes, how could Aemilianus be dead? He was fine last night.” I swung my legs off the bed. “Gi
ve me a hand. I’m not sure if I can stand.”

  Nadia retrieved my robe and helped me slip it over my gown. With me leaning heavily on Nadia, the two of us crept down the hall to the stairs. Polybius watched us descend one stair at a time. My ankle was not wrapped and was visible at the hem of my gown.

  “Sempronia, what have you done to your ankle?” asked Polybius, giving us a hand at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I turned it badly yesterday. But what about Aemilianus?” I am no actress, but I put as much dismay in my voice as possible. “How could he be dead?”

  The aged historian sighed as he shook his head. “It must have happened while he was writing his speech. I found him lying on the floor.”

  Polybius and Nadia helped me into the library. The oil lamp had burnt out. The morning sun illuminated the room with long bright streaks of light. Aemilianus’ body was sprawled on the floor beside his chair. I fell to the floor beside him and touched his face in a way that I never had while he was alive. I embraced his corpse and sobbed and wailed until Nadia lifted me off his body and into a chair.

  Polybius looked around the room suspiciously. He knew that Aemilianus had fallen from his high standing and had many enemies among the plebeians. While I watched, he knelt down to inspect Aemilianus’ corpse.

  Polybius was a man of great experience both in war and politics. He had been a Greek cavalry officer when he was young and had seen plenty of dead men. During Rome’s war with King Perseus of Macedonia, he was taken as a hostage and held in Rome for seventeen years. During that time he gained a reputation as a brilliant man with an extensive education. Aemilianus’ natural father, Aemilius Paullus, befriended Polybius and paid him to tutor his two sons, thus spawning my husband’s friendship with Polybius. Polybius had accompanied Aemilianus during parts of all of his campaigns. He was there when Carthage was burned to the ground. He witnessed the successful siege of Numantia. And now he was there to pronounce his friend dead.

  Polybius looked closely into Aemilianus’ eyes, then closed the eyelids. He put his nose up to Aemilianus’ mouth to smell what was exhausted when he pushed down on the corpse’s chest. He turned Aemilianus’ head from side to side inspecting his neck.

  Polybius looked up at me. “Sempronia, would you ask your slave to leave the room?”

  Nadia was more upset than I pretended to be. She hurried out of the room to tell the rest of the slaves.

  Polybius turned Aemilianus’ head. “Look here. There are marks on his neck as though he’s been strangled.”

  I leaned over to get a closer look. And yes, there was bruising in the shape of fingers on both sides of his neck. I no longer needed to pretend surprise.

  “He’s been murdered, Sempronia. This happened sometime last night.” He stood up. “I smelled something bitter on his breath. It could be poison.” He lifted the empty cup off the table and sniffed the rim. “Did you hear anything last night?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. Aemilianus often paces through the house when he’s working on a speech.”

  I could see the gears turning in Polybius’ head. Mine were turning as well. Someone had come in after I had poisoned Aemilianus and finished him off while I dozed. I felt myself beginning to sweat.

  Polybius took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. Aemilianus had been one of his closest friends. Although he contained his emotions, I could see the sadness in his eyes. “I want to keep this secret, Sempronia,” he said softly, just above a whisper. “The way a man dies or the way history says a man dies is critical to the way he is remembered. Being murdered like this is a strong mark against a man’s legacy. Aemilianus doesn’t deserve this. Have your slaves lay his body out on his bed covered with a sheet. I’m not sure what happened, but any kind of official investigation will lead to ugly gossip about this great man.”

  I nodded. “What will we say?”

  “We found him dead on the floor. He died during the night of natural causes. I know he wasn’t ill. I saw him yesterday. But in the long run this will be better for all.”

  “But someone will get away with murder?”

  He looked at me. “I will conduct my own investigation and keep it to myself.”

  “And if you find the murderer?”

  “I’m not sure. It depends who it is. If it’s an angry pleb or several of them, maybe I’ll say nothing. If it’s someone of note—like Papirius Carbo or,” his eyes met mine, “your brother, I’ll demand that they exile themselves—with no mention of the crime to the public. The man will simply have to leave Rome.”

  “You think Gaius had something to do with this?”

  Polybius frowned. “He and Carbo had a motive. Fulvius, too. There was widespread belief that Aemilianus wanted to break up the commission. I never heard him say that, but the people had begun to distrust him. He was going to address that today in his speech. It’s sad. He stood up for the common man his whole life and now this.” He looked down on Aemilianus’ corpse and shook his head.

  “How can you possibly find out who it was?”

  “Maybe I can’t, but I’d like to talk to your slaves. I won’t let on that I’m looking for a murderer. I’ll say it’s something I need for my histories. I’ll be subtle. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. Do what you must. Just let me know if you stumble onto something.”

  “Of course. But no mention of what I’ve said or what I plan to do. Aemilianus died of natural causes. That’s all we know.”

  “Yes, certainly. I understand.”

  After Polybius left I asked Tarus to wrap Aemilianus’ body in a sheet. Tarus who had admired Aemilianus showed no grief at all. The hit on the head he had received to protect his master had taken a huge toll on him. He carried the corpse up to Aemilianus’ bedroom where Nadia would prepare the body for cremation.

  I sat in the library a long time after Tarus took the body away. I tried to imagine someone finding Aemilianus on the floor and then strangling him. I could not imagine my brother doing it. What about Carbo? Or our slaves? Could one of them have done it as an act of mercy?

  As I stood up to leave, I saw a piece of thread caught by a splinter on the edge of the table. I did not think much about it, but I did slip it off the splinter. I took it into the atrium and looked at it in the sunlight. It was three very fine strands—red, yellow, and green—wound together, surely something pulled off a piece of clothing. I wound it into a ball and put it in my jewelry box as a curiosity.

  CHAPTER 49

  By the end of the day all of Rome knew that Aemilianus had died. As Polybius had requested, the cause was reported as natural. This did not stop the rumors. By standing up for the Italians and non-citizen Latins, Aemilianus had made himself a target. There was good reason to assume foul play, especially in the wake of Tiberius’ murder and the new wave of thuggery that had invaded Roman politics. Papirius Carbo, Fulvius Flaccus, and my brother were mentioned as suspects.

  As the truest measure of Aemilianus’ fall from grace, he was not given a public funeral. Even I, the perpetrator, felt this insult against my husband. He had served as a consul twice. He had commandeered the destruction of Carthage. He had righted Roman standing in Numantia. He had spent twenty years in the Senate as the most outspoken proponent of the populares. He had been the leading advocate of Greek literature and art in Rome. His character was considered the highest example of the Roman ideal. He lived for the state and served with strength and courage. But it had all run out on him at the end. Such was the fickle nature of the Roman populace. One day a hero, the next day forgotten.

  I knew deep in my heart that what I had done was simply an act of survival. I did not second-guess myself on that. But someone else had strangled him. There had been an accomplice and I wanted to know who that was. But how could I find out without also raising questions about Aemilianus’ death? And more importantly, did this other person know about the poison or me?

  I was not a natural-born killer. I was not prepared for the emotional aftermath. I suffe
red with bouts of guilt and vulnerability. On top of that, Polybius, one of the smartest men I had ever met, with uncommon understanding of logic and human frailty, was set on finding the murderer—or murderers. This was unsettling to say the least. I did not think he suspected me. He saw my ankle that morning. I was incapable of going up and down the stairs alone without a superhuman effort, of which no one felt I was capable. But the inclusion of another murderer was deeply unsettling. Maybe Polybius would discover who that was. Would that person then give me away? I thought about this constantly. I struggled to sleep at night. When I gazed into the eyes of anyone I encountered, I wondered what they might be seeing in mine.

  We held a private funeral for Aemilianus. The whole family took part. Cornelia came up from Misenum with Claudia and her children. Polybius was there, as were other circle members, Lucilius and Panaetius. We walked in a procession four miles east on Via Tusculana to the Scipionic tomb, one of the most impressive tombs along a road lined by hundreds of memorial sepulchers and mausoleums. I rode in a two-wheel carriage pulled by a mule. I deposited Aemilianus’ ashes in the tomb. Because the public had so shunned Aemilianus at the end, the funeral was an especially sad and somber event, one of almost suffocating guilt for me.

  There was a sacrifice and a feast. Then we reformed our procession for the walk back to Rome. Once inside the city walls, Gaius rode with me in the carriage back to my house. He was not aware of the oppression I felt in my marriage, but he knew that Aemilianus had been extremely critical of Tiberius and that some of that had bled onto him when he had spoken in favor of consecutive terms for a tribune.

  “There are rumors that I had something to do with Aemilianus’ death, Sempronia. Quintus Tubero confronted me in the street the other day. He said Aemilianus had worried that his relatives—meaning me—were plotting against him. I nearly knocked him down.” We sat side by side on the carriage seat. Gaius held the reins. “I want to assure you that there’s nothing to this gossip.”