I Am Livia (37 page)

I smiled into the darkness. “Why
do you
put up with me?”

“Well, you
are
beautiful. But you also have such an interesting mind.”

I felt a thrill of pleasure. Nothing delighted me more than when he praised my mind. “It’s a good plan, isn’t i
t
?”

“The more I build up my sister as Cornelia reborn,”
Tavius said, “the more people will despise Antony for mistreating her by flaunting his relationship with his Egyptian whore.”

“Yes. Here you are, her loyal, devoted brother, and there he is, having children with a foreign queen.”

“A foreign queen,”
Tavius repeated, and all his dislike for Antony was there in his voice. In a different tone, light, knowing, he asked, “What do you get out of this?”

“What do you think?”

“You’re her equal in rank. No one will much notice while I speechify about my sister that the law will give you the rights of a Vestal Virgin too.”

Including freedom from financial guardianship. “That would only be fair,” I said. “And I want that. But Tavius—the people will love you for honoring your sister. For honoring Cornelia, who lives in their hearts and their memory. And that’s what I desire most.” Popularity with Rome’s citizens was one of the pillars of his rule, a guarantee of his security. I saw it as absolutely necessary that he be loved—certainly loved more than Antony.

Not long after this, Tavius made a well-received speech in which he praised his sister as if she were the goddess of peace. The implicit question—how could any decent man prefer an alien like Cleopatra to this pearl of Roman womanhood?—did not even have to be stated. No one quibbled when Octavia got the sacrosanct status of a Vestal or seemed to care that I received it too.

Tavius took my suggestions and went further with them than I would have thought of doing. The chance to make Antony look bad was honey to him. Julius Caesar, while in the grip of passion for Cleopatra, had placed a statue of her in the Temple of Venus. Decked out in Egyptian finery, with her beaked nose, and her full, sensuous lips curved in a hint of a smile, she looked like what she was—an exotic foreigner. Tavius disliked the statue intensely, but did not remove it. However, on either side of the statue of Cornelia that he moved to Octavia’s portico, he put up two more statues—one of his sister and one of me. Because Cornelia’s statue showed her seated, we sat too.
We held our backs rigidly straight and our chins high, just as she did. Octavia and I both found posing for the sculptor wearying, but the result was worth it.
We were depicted in extremely modest Roman dress, shawls covering most of our hair, our expressions like Cornelia’s, grave and noble. The sculptures were flattering, but what mattered was the political message.
We were Cornelia’s spiritual daughters, as no Egyptian queen could ever be.
This is what a good Roman woman looks like
—that was the message.

How strange it felt to be portrayed in a public statue. Little boys in Rome dream of being important enough that a statue will be raised to them. No girl has such dreams. The first time I looked at my statue it made me feel odd, as if it were only a figment of my mind, or as if it were not made of marble but of vapor and might dissolve at any moment. But I got used to people telling me it was a wonderful likeness, so true to life
.
A
nd I was touched that Tavius had set up a statue in my honor.

I found that the right to handle my own finances gave me new confidence. The properties I would acquire in the future would be truly mine. No man could tell me what I could or could not do with them. My knack for business fully flowered only after I was freed from guardianship.

I remembered with distaste the self-righteousness in my sister-in-law’s voice when she said,
I would never want a law passed to set me above other women.
In fact, the statues and the public reverence Tavius accorded Octavia and me enhanced the respect paid to women generally. Some years later, in order to increase the number of little citizens born, Rome offered freedom from financial guardianship to all mothers of four or more children. I doubt that would have been done if I hadn’t led the way. I can say before the gods that the privileges granted to me certainly never did other women any harm.

Of course I knew that however much liberty I grasped at, however high I flew, everything rested on my bond with one man.

I
must not become too lost in my memories. Some of the younger members of my family have come to my villa to visit me during the Saturnalia. I feel almost startled to see them, as if their presence is an intrusion. The people from the past seem more real than these youthful men and women who murmur solicitous words in my ear, always speaking in the respectful tones one uses to an ancient. I notice how my young relatives resemble the people I am writing about, though the bloodlines are so convoluted and intertwined, it is sometimes an effort to remember who is related to whom.

My grandson Claudius arrived here yesterday. He is of course Mark Antony’s grandson too, as well as Octavia’s. My love naturally goes out to all my grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but Claudius has never been a favorite of mine.

I do not dislike him for his crippled leg or his twitching or his stammering, whatever some people may think. He cannot help all that, poor boy. But his loud, raucous laugh grates on me. I see Antony in him, especially when he drinks. And he drinks a great deal.

He rarely visits me without a special reason. “G-Grandmother,” he said to me this morning. “I h-have a g-great favor to ask of you.”

I cocked my head, waiting.

“There are b-books. In your l-library.”

It turned out he meant certain books in the Etruscan language, which hardly anybody knows anymore. But Claudius has taught himself this language and plans to write a multi-volume history of the Etruscans. He desperately wanted those books of mine, which it seems concern certain obscure Etruscan kings. I let him have them.
Why no
t
? Army service has been impossible for him, and he has stayed clear of politics. He barely gets around, dragging his leg as he does.
Writing about the long-dead past is a harmless activity for him.

“Oh, thank you, G-Grandmother,” he said, when I told him he could have the volumes to keep. He looked overjoyed. “If I can ever do something for you, you can r-rely on me.”

Historian that he aspires to be, I wonder what he would think of this account of the past I am writing.

Another parting came. I ought to have been used to it. But I never was. “Please,” I said to Tavius, before he left to make war on the Illyrians, “don’t take any extraordinary physical risks this time.”

Tavius smiled, but I saw a clouded look in his eyes. “Many people would find it amusing that you say that to me.”

I gazed at him questioningly.

“Philippi. The final battle for Sicily. There are people who say I specialize in not taking physical risks. You do know, don’t you, what my enemies whisper about me?”

They whispered that he had been absent from those battles because he was a coward. “You walked into Lepidus’s camp barehanded. You are the bravest man I know.” I saw a tiny smudge on his bronze breastplate and rubbed it with my finger until it disappeared.

“Sweet Livia,” he said. “I wish I could see myself through your eyes. It would be pleasant, I think, but I wonder if I would even recognize myself.” He tipped up my chin so he could kiss me.

I wound my arms around his neck and kissed him hungrily, as though for the last time. He drew away a little, as if my passionate kisses perturbed him. But then he put his arms around me, and stood holding me as gently as one would a child.

“Tell me,” I said, “why is Maecenas going with you? And that gaggle of poets?”

“They wanted a change from their usual dull lives.”

“That sounds likely.” I knew that the war would have two aims. To pacify the Illyrian savages, and to fortify what Maecenas persisted in cal
ling Tavius’s “legend.” “Oh, Tavius, I want you to be careful.”

Tavius nuzzled my cheek. “Usually I can talk to you the way I would another man. And then you turn all womanish on me. It’s always a surprise.”

“What are you planning?”

“Well…it would be a novelty if when we go into battle, I actually make an appearance.”

He laughed as he took leave of me. As if war were a lark.

“Why do men love warfare so much?” I asked this question of Tiberius Nero not long after Tavius left for Illyria.

“It allows us to test our mettle,” he said.

He had come to pay me a visit at my villa at Prima Porta. He thought he might buy a villa in the vicinity, and wanted to see how I had laid out the grounds. As we went strolling through the gardens, he remarked on the beauty of the marble fountains and the variety of flowers. It is always enjoyable to impress an old friend.

“That is quite lovely,” he said, nodding at a statue of Diana, wielding her bow. “You still give her worship above all other deities?”

“I’ve always believed she was the one who saved me from the forest fire,” I said.

“Oh, yes, the forest fire.” He shook his head, remembering. “That almost seems like another lifetime.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him:
Are you happy? And do you forgive me for leaving you?
But there were things we did not say to each other.

We needed to discuss our son. “Little Tiberius—well, speaking of loving warfare, all he wants to do is practice with weapons.”

Tiberius Nero grinned. “He’s a natural soldier, isn’t he?”

I gritted my teeth. “Yes. But the other day he hit one of my house slaves with his javelin.”

“No one has perfect aim.”

“He has excellent aim for a boy his age. And I have a feeling he did it on purpose.”

“He didn’t kill the fellow, did he?”

“No, but he wounded him
.
A
nd he didn’t seem sorry, even after I smacked him.”

“Well, if I see him aiming at any of my slaves, I’ll give him a whipping.”
Tiberius Nero smiled. “You have to admit he certainly has the makings of a soldier.”

“I want him to be more than just a soldier,” I said. “He needs softening and refinement. Next November, he will be seven years old.
Will you let me engage a tutor for him? It has to be the right sort of person—someone who can open his eyes to philosophy, art, and poetry.”

“Go ahead. But I don’t think you’ll soften him up much.” Tiberius Nero’s eyes glowed. “That’s
my
boy.”

My beloved Livia, I would chortle except it hurts so much. Everything hurts. But I am happy. We besieged the Illyrian capital, Metulum, raised wooden gangways, and readied our assault. I stood on a temporary tower, supervising from above as a general ought. But did I stay up there? No. At the critical moment of the assault, overcome by fierce martial spirit, I rushed down from the tower and grabbed a shield from one of my soldiers, who held back, hesitating. I yelled, “Follow me!” and climbed up the gangway.

Did we plan it, you ask? Of course we did. Ten members of my bodyguard flanked me. Still, I personally led the assault. And what supreme commander has ever led an assault on a besieged town? Practically no one. Well, Alexander the Great did it, but he was Alexander.

You’ll say: “Tavius, the risk!” My love, it was a risk worth taking. And for once I didn’t have some ridiculous ailment putting me out of commission.

Up the gangway I went. My troops were inspired by my heroism—too inspired. An enormous body of men rushed the gangway, which promptly collapsed. I was just about crushed, but I emerged from the rubble in time to see our army win a great victory. Metulum is ours. The whole province is ours.

My cracked ribs are mending well, the doctors say, and Maecenas has his band of poets composing odes to my valor. My sweet love, it was necessary for me to lead that charge. For my credit with other men, for my own pride.

My cup is full to overflowing. I have won, and do you know who has lost? Antony. His Parthian campaign has come to an inglorious end. He overreached. It was a debacle. I genuinely pity his poor soldiers and wrote him a polite letter offering to send him supplies for them—food, clothes, blankets, and whatever else can aid them in their sad condition. He wrote me back saying I could keep my supplies. He will try to conquer Armenia now. If I were just a shade less of a patriot, I’d root for the Armenians.

You, love, have consoled me when fortune frowned. Now please enjoy my good fortune. Celebrate. Don’t shudder and say I was reckless. Be happy I threw the dice and won. So what if I’m a little bit battered? At this moment, the only thing on earth I lack is you in my arms.

Battered? The word did not begin to tell it. He nearly died at Metulum, flattened and mangled under a weight of men and wood and metal.