I Am Livia (47 page)

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 tell 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.