II. Letter: Publius Ovidius Naso to Sextus Propertius (10 B.C.)
Why do I write you the news of this place to which, you have made clear, you intend never to return? In which, you assure me, you no longer have the slightest interest? Is it that I distrust your resolve? Or do I hope merely (and in vain, no doubt) to shake it? In the five or six years that you have absented yourself from our city, you have written exactly nothing; and though you profess to be content with the rural charms of Assisi, and with your books, I cannot easily believe that you have forsaken the Muse whom once you served so well. She waits for you in Rome, I am sure; and I hope that you will return to her.
It has been a quiet season. A lovely lady (whose name you know, but which I shall not mention) has been absent from our circles for more than a year now, which absence has diminished our joy and our humanity. Widowed young, she was persuaded to remarry; and we all know that her new marriage has caused her great unhappiness. Though an important man, her husband is the dourest and least affable man you can imagine; he has no taste for happiness, and cannot endure it in another. He is relatively young—perhaps thirty-two or three—yet except for his appearance, one might take him for a graybeard, he is so irascible and disapproving. He is, I suppose, the kind of man that was common in Rome some fifty or sixty years ago; and he is admired by many of the “older families” simply because of that. No doubt he is a man of principle; yet I have observed that strong principle, coupled with a sour disposition, can be a cruel and inhuman virtue. For with that one can justify nearly anything to which the disposition leads him.
But we hope for the future. The lady of whom I have spoken, recently gave birth to a son who died within the week of his birth; the husband, it is understood, will absent himself from Rome on some business on the northern frontiers; and perhaps once again we shall have in our midst her whose wit, gaiety, and humanity may lead Rome out of the dull hypocrisy of its past.
I shall not subject you, my dear Sextus, to one of my disquisitions; but it seems to me more nearly true, as the years pass, that those old “virtues,” of which the Roman professes himself to be so proud, and upon which, he insists, the greatness of the Empire is founded—it seems to me more and more that those “virtues” of rank, prestige, honor, duty, and piety have simply denuded man of his humanity. Through the labors of the great Octavius Caesar, Rome is now the most beautiful city in the world. May not its citizens now have the leisure to indulge their souls, and thus lead themselves, like the city in which they live, toward a kind of beauty and grace they have not known before?
III. Letter: Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso to Tiberius Claudius Nero, in Pannonia (9 B.C.)
My dear friend, I include herewith those reports you have asked me to gather. They come from a variety of sources, which for the time being I shall not name, in the unlikely event that eyes other than your own might see this. In some cases I have transcribed the reports verbatim; in others I have summarized. But the pertinent information is here; and you may be assured that the original documents are safe in my possession, in the event that you might, at a later time, wish to use them.
These reports cover the period of one month, November.
On the third day of this month, between the tenth and eleventh hours of the day, a litter borne by the slaves of Sempronius Gracchus arrived at the lady’s residence. The litter was evidently expected, for the lady emerged quickly from her house, and was borne across the city to the villa of Sempronius Gracchus, where a large party was assembled. During the banquet, the lady shared Gracchus’s couch; they were observed to carry on a long and intimate conversation. No report of the substance of this conversation is available. A good deal of wine was consumed, so that by the end of the banquet many of the guests were inordinately gay. The poet Ovid read for their entertainment a poem of his that fit the occasion, which is to say one that was suggestive and improper. After this reading, a troupe of mimes performed The Adulterous Wife, but more brazenly than is usual. There was music afterward. At some time during the musical performance, people began to drift out of the hall; among these were the lady in question and Sempronius Gracchus. The lady was not seen again until near dawn, when she was observed entering the litter that had waited for her outside Sempronius Gracchus’s residence. Thence she was transported to her home.
Two days before the Ides of this month, the lady entertained a group of her friends on her own responsibility. Among the male visitors were Sempronius Gracchus, Quinctius Crispinus, Appius Claudius Pulcher, and Cornelius Scipio; among the lesser guests were the poet Ovid and the Greek Demosthenes, the son of the actor and recently a citizen of Rome. The drinking of wine began early, shortly before the tenth hour, and continued late into the night. Though some of the guests left after the first watch, a larger number remained; and these late stayers, led by the lady, quit the rooms and the gardens, and made their way into the city, coming to a halt in their litters among the walks and buildings of the Forum. Though the Forum was nearly deserted at that hour, yet a small number of townspeople and tradesmen and police observed the party, and may be persuaded to testify, if the need arises. The drinking of wine continued, and that Demosthenes, the son of the actor, for the entertainment of the partygoers, delivered a mock oration from the rostrum beside the Senate House. It was extempore, and no copy could be made; but it seemed to burlesque the kind of speech that the Emperor has often delivered from the same spot. After the speech, the party disbanded; and the lady returned to her home, accompanied by Sempronius Gracchus. It was nearing dawn.
For the next six days nothing untoward occurred in the lady’s activities. She attended an official banquet at the home of her parents; with her mother, she sat with the four elder Vestal Virgins at the theater; she attended the Plebeian Games, and remained circumspectly in the box with her father and his friends, among whom were the consul of the year, Quinctius Crispinus, and the proconsul Jullus Antonius.
On the fourth day after the Ides, she was guest of honor at the villa of Quinctius Crispinus at Tivoli. She was accompanied on her journey to Tivoli by Sempronius Gracchus and Appius Claudius Pulcher and a retinue of servants. The weather being mild, the entertainment was held out-of-doors; and it continued far into the night. There was much wine, there were male and female dancers (who did not confine their performances to the theater on the grounds, but danced, nearly naked, among the guests, who wandered about the grounds), and musicians who played Greek and Eastern music. At one time, a number of guests (the lady in question among them), both male and female, plunged into the swimming pool; and though the torchlight was dim, it could be seen that they had divested themselves of their clothing, and were swimming freely together. After the swimming, the lady was seen to retreat into the wooded part of the garden with the Greekling Demosthenes; they did not return for several hours. The lady stayed at the villa of Quinctius Crispinus for three days, and each evening was much the same as the other.
I trust, my dear Tiberius, that these reports will be of use to you. I shall continue to gather the information that you require, in as discreet a manner as I can. And you may depend upon me in any eventuality.
IV. Letter: Livia to Tiberius Claudius Nero, in Pannonia (9 B.C.)
You are to obey me in this, and you are to obey me at once. You are to destroy all the “evidence” that you have so painstakingly gathered, and you are to inform your friend Calpurnius that he is to do nothing more of this nature in your behalf.
What, may I ask, did you propose to do with this “evidence” you think you have? Do you propose to use it for a divorce? And if so, is the cause that your “honor” has been sullied? or do you dream that you will advance our cause by means of this divorce? In any of these fancies you are in error, and seriously so. Your “honor” will not be sullied as long as you remain abroad, for it will be clear to everyone that your wife is not under your control in such a circumstance, especially since you are serving your country and your Emperor; if on the other hand it comes to light that you have b
een gathering “evidence” and withholding it until a propitious time, then you will seem a fool, and all the honor that you may have gained shall have been lost. And if you dream that you advance yourself by insisting upon a divorce, you shall be mistaken again. Once such a step is taken, you will have no connection to that power we both have dreamed of; your wife may be “disgraced,” but you will have gained nothing from that; you shall have lost the beginning that we have made.
It is true that at the moment it seems you have no chance to fulfill our mutual ambition; at the moment, even Jullus Antonius, the son of my husband’s old enemy, has been advanced beyond you, and is as close to the accession of power as you are. Except for your name. My husband is old, and we cannot be sure of what the future will bring. Our weapon must be patience.
I know that your wife is adulterous; it is likely that my husband knows it also. Yet if you invoke those laws which he has made, and force him to punish his daughter by them, he will never forgive you; you might as well never have sacrificed your personal life in the first place.
We must bide our time. If Julia is to bring disgrace upon herself, she must do it herself; you must not be involved in any way, and you will be able to remain uninvolved only if you are careful to stay abroad. I urge you to lengthen your business in Pannonia as long as you reasonably can. So long as you remain away from your household, and away from Rome, our cause remains alive.
V. Letter: Marcella to Julia (8 B.C.)
Julia, dear, please come to our house next Wednesday for dinner, and a simple entertainment afterward. Some of your friends (who are also our friends, I might add) will be there—certainly Quinctius Crispinus, perhaps others. And of course you are to bring anyone you wish.
I’m so glad that we’ve become friends again, after all these years. I often remember our childhoods, with such fondness— all those children! And the games we played! You, and poor Marcellus, and Drusus, and Tiberius (sorry!) and my sisters—I can’t even remember them all now. . . . Do you remember that even Jullus Antonius lived with us for a while, after his father’s death? My mother cared for him when he was little, even though he was not her own. And now Jullus is my husband. It’s a strange world. We have so many things to reminisce about.
Oh, my dear, I know it was I who caused the estrangement between us. But I did feel awkward when my uncle (your father!) forced Marcus Agrippa to divorce me so that he could marry you. I know you had nothing to do with it—but I was young, and felt that never would I have a husband so important as Marcus was. And I did resent you, though I knew that you were not at fault. But things work out for the best, I’ve always believed; and perhaps Uncle Octavius is wiser than we know. I am well pleased with Jullus. Oh, to tell the truth, Julia, I am more pleased with him than I was with Marcus Agrippa. He is younger and more handsome, and nearly as important as Marcus was. Or he will be, I’m sure. My uncle seems very fond of him.
Oh, I do chatter on, don’t I? I’m still the chatterbox. We don’t change very much, do we, over the years? I do hope I haven’t offended you by anything I’ve said. I may not be any wiser than I used to be, but I’m older; and I have learned that it’s foolish for women to hold their marriages against each other. They have nothing to do with us, really, have they? At least, so it seems to me.
Oh, you must come to our party. Everyone will be devastated if you do not. Shall I have some of my servants call for you? Or had you rather come by your own means? Do let me know.
And bring whomever you like—though there will be some very interesting people here. We understand your situation perfectly.
VI. Letter: Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso to Tiberius Claudius Nero, in Germany (8 B.C.)
I hasten to write you, my friend, before you get the news elsewhere and move without the knowledge that ought to determine any action. I have spoken to your mother; and despite our recent disagreement about the “reports” I have been sending you, we are, I believe, in full agreement about what you should do now. You must understand that she cannot speak directly; she will in no way betray the trust of her husband, nor will she recommend in secret what she could not do openly.
Within a few days you will receive a message from your stepfather in which you will be offered the consulship for next year. You may be pleased to know that I will be offered the co-consulship. In ordinary times, and under ordinary circumstances, this might have been thought of as a triumph; but neither the times nor the circumstances are ordinary, and it is essential that you act with the utmost caution.
You must, of course, accept the consulship; it would be unthinkable to refuse it, and disastrous to any future ambition you might have.
But you must not stay in Rome. Your stepfather’s aim, of course, is to see that you do. But you must not. Before you leave Germany for the inauguration here, you must arrange your affairs so that it will become absolutely necessary for you to return there as soon as you possibly can. If you have no one you can trust, you must deliberately put your armies in a dangerous position, so that you must return to remedy the danger. I am sure you will be able to arrange something.
I shall now attempt to explain the reasons to justify this seemingly strange course that you must take.
Your wife continues to live as she has done for more than a year. She is openly contemptuous of your marriage contract, and careless of your reputation. Her father must know something of her conduct, yet he does nothing to prevent it—whether out of policy, or affection, or blindness, I do not know. Despite the marriage laws (or perhaps because the Emperor himself inaugurated them), no one quite dares to be the public informer. Everyone knows that the laws are not enforced, and knows it would be inexpedient to insist upon their enforcement now, especially when they would be enforced against one so powerful and popular as your wife.
For she is powerful; and she is popular. Whether by design or accident (and I suspect the former), she has gathered into her circle some of the most powerful younger people in Rome. And it is here that the danger lies.
Those with whom she now regularly and most intimately consorts are your most dangerous enemies, and that they may also oppose the Emperor does not diminish the threat to your position. It does, in fact, enhance that threat.
As you well know, the power that you have is in your following, which is largely made up of families such as mine, who are (in your stepfather’s words) the “old Republicans.” We are rich, we are ancient, and we are closely knit; but it has been the policy for nearly thirty years to see to it that our public power is limited.
I fear that the Emperor wants you to return as a kind of buffer between the factions—his own, and that of the younger people, of whom Julia is an especial favorite.
If you return and allow yourself to be placed between them, you will, quite simply, be chewed up. And then you will be spit out. And your stepfather will have eliminated a dangerous rival, without having appeared to have lifted a hand. More importantly, he will have discredited an entire faction, without having elevated another. For as long as the faction of the young is fond of his daughter, he trusts that the danger that confronts him is negligible.
But you will be destroyed.
Consider the possibilities.
First: The Claudians and their followers may, under our leadership, gain enough power to turn the Empire back to the course it once followed, and to reinstitute the values and ideals of the old days. This is highly unlikely, but I grant that it is possible. But even if we are able to do so, then we will in all likelihood have united against us both the New People of your stepfather, and the New Young. I think we both would shudder at the consequences of such a unification.
Second: If you remain in Rome, your wife will continue to work against your interests—whether out of design or whim does not matter. She will do so. It is clear that she considers that her power comes from the Emperor, not from your name or station. She is the Emperor’s daughter. You would be powerless against her will, and would be made to seem foolish if you set yourself against tha
t will and did not prevail.
Third: Her continued life of dissipation and self-indulgence will, among both your friends and your enemies, offer continued occasion for gossip. Were you to act against this life of hers and insist upon a divorce, it would bring a scandal upon the Octavian house, it is true; it would also gain you the eternal despite of the Emperor and those who support him. If you do not act against her behavior, you will seem a weakling; you may even be accused of complicity in her law-breaking.
No, my dear Tiberius, you must not return to Rome with any intention of remaining here, while things are as they are. It is fortunate that I have been made co-consul with you. While you are away, you may be sure that I will protect your interests. It is ironic that I, unworthy as I am, shall be able to do so with more safety and more effectiveness than you might be able to do. It is a most depressing commentary upon the course that our lives have taken us.
Your mother sends her love to you. She will not write until you have received the message from the Emperor. Though she does not say so, I have good reason to believe that she supports me in this most urgent advice that I have given you.
VII. Letter: Nicolaus of Damascus to Strabo of Amasia (7 B.C.)
For the past fourteen years, I have been content to live in Rome, first in the service of Herod and Octavius Caesar, and then in the service and friendship of Octavius Caesar alone; as you may have inferred from my letters, I had begun to think of this city as my home. I have broken most of my ties abroad; and since the deaths of my parents, I have felt no desire or necessity to return to the land of my birth.
But in a few days I shall be entering my fifty-seventh year; and during the last few months—perhaps it is longer—I have come to feel less and less that this is my homeland. I have come to feel that I am a stranger in this city that has been so kind to me, and in which I have been on the most intimate terms with some of the greatest men of our time.
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