The Daughters of Palatine Hill: A Novel

by Phyllis T. Smith

  Of course.

  He asked in a low, hesitant voice, “Would you marry me if you could?”

  “You need to ask me that question?”

  “You are Augustus’s daughter, and I’m who I am. Not much of a prize for you.”

  I embraced him. “But you are . . . you are a prize. You are everything. Of course I would marry you. Of all the men in the world, I would marry you.”

  “If that were possible,” he said in a leaden voice.

  “If only it were.”

  Tavius and I both had our deep unspoken griefs at this time, related to our offspring. I mourned—I would always mourn—my son Drusus. And his youngest child, little Claudius, had developed a palsy in his limbs. He learned to speak later than his brother and sister had, and when he did talk, he stammered, which made it hard to understand him. Antonia’s older boy, called Germanicus, resembled his father at a similar age—a handsome, promising boy. My granddaughter, Livilla, was pretty and playful. But Claudius’s sad condition was a great sorrow to Antonia and me.

  Tavius’s grandsons Gaius and Lucius continued to thrive, and he had great hopes for them. They lived in our household, and he made a point of spending time with them every day. The boys worshipped him. Their younger sisters and small brother who remained in Julia’s care seemed to be doing well. It was Julia herself who was the great weight on Tavius’s heart.

  His dealings with his daughter were extremely cool and distant. I don’t think he ever saw her alone at this time. He spoke of her only when necessary; he preferred not to hear her mentioned.

  I heard rumors that Julia had taken up with Jullus Antony. They were both married to other people—and Julia was my son Tiberius’s wife. Certainly I did not celebrate. But I felt relief—an indication of how much I feared imprudent actions on Julia’s part. A quiet love affair with a man known for caution, who all his life had carefully cultivated Tavius’s good opinion . . . well, it could have been worse. Better this, I thought, than a stream of lovers, or the kind of entanglement that would result in public scandal.

  The people of Rome gossiped about our family, and I suppose they even laughed at us. Maybe they would have done so whatever we did, but the gods know we gave them reason. Vipsania, still in Rhodes and married to Gallus, bore a son. Malicious tongues dubbed Tiberius the father. Tiberius and Gallus got into a public quarrel, and Gallus went about telling people that not only was Vipsania’s last child his, but her first son, Tiberius’s boy, Drusus, was also. This was an utter absurdity. But Tavius told me flatly that he had been informed that Tiberius and Vipsania had become lovers. I did not probe for details. It seemed likely that both of Vipsania’s boys were actually my grandsons.

  “Matters are far from ideal,” I said to Tavius one day. “But I think our best course is to live with what we cannot alter.”

  He gave me a sour look and did not answer. Still, he did not contradict me. I don’t think he had drawn the same conclusions from recent events that I had, though. Our children were the people they were. We could not reshape them to suit our convenience. I accepted this. But I doubt Tavius ever accepted this bitter lesson. Rather he had thrown up his hands in disgust. It was hard and painful for the man who ruled the Roman Empire to feel unable to govern his own family.

  For a long time, it was enough for Jullus and me to have our times together. Many months passed before we dared speak of having more, and then we did it only wistfully.

  “If I were married to you . . . ,” I would say.

  “If you were my wife . . . ,” he would whisper.

  He broke with his wife, Marcella, and took lodgings in a quiet district of the city, distant from the Palatine. A humble place, but we could meet there—though not without risking gossip. But where could we be safe from wagging tongues?

  I dreaded to think about the future, but I had to. I had to think not only of myself and the man I loved, but of my children and especially my two older sons.

  “If my father were to die . . . what would happen?” I asked Jullus one night.

  “I think we ought to offer sacrifices for your father’s long life and good health.”

  “But if something did happen to him now . . . ?”

  “Tiberius would come back to Rome and assume power,” Jullus said. “He has great credit with the army. And he is your husband.”

  “My husband . . .” I gave a little rueful chuckle.

  “There’s been no divorce,” Jullus said.

  “It sickens me to still be bound to him.” For a while we were silent. Then I said, “My father is supposed to be so wise and all knowing. But he imagines that if he dies tomorrow, Tiberius would be content to hold authority as a kind of placeholder and then turn power over to my sons when they are old enough. Do you think Tiberius is capable of such generosity of spirit?”

  Jullus did not need to answer. He just pulled me closer to him.

  I imagined Tiberius as ruler of Rome. It was a terrifying thought. What would he do to me? What would he do to my children? I knew him in a way no one else did, and I felt he was capable of great cruelty.

  The shutters were half open, and outside I saw the waning crescent moon. I turned my head, pressed my face against Jullus’s shoulder. If only this moment could last forever.

  “Tell me truthfully,” Jullus said, “would you trust me to look out for your boys’ interests, if I were in Tiberius’s place?”

  “You are the only man I would trust.”

  If only I were married to Jullus. If only he were my husband and Tiberius were not.

  I actually want to go. Isn’t that strange?” I said to Juba.

  “Times have changed,” he said.

  There had been a flurry of letters between Livia and me, touching on the possibility of our visiting Rome again. Several matters of public policy could best be settled by meeting in person. Also, Livia had yet to see Drusilla, the child named in her honor. Two years ago, I had finally fulfilled my hopes, bringing my bright-eyed little girl into the world. “I’m sure it will warm Livia’s heart to meet our daughter.”

  “And what warms Livia’s heart has a way of translating into . . . advantage for Mauretania.”

  “Oh, you cynical man.” I kissed him. “Tell me the truth, though. You don’t have any craving to visit Rome, do you?”

  He shrugged. But I knew him. He was happiest either engrossed in scholarly work in our library or off exploring unknown territories. “Poor Cleopatra Selene,” he said. “You have a lazy husband who finds the whole business of kingship a terrible chore.”

  “Poor Juba,” I said. “You have a wife who delights in being queen and would rule the entire world if she could.”

  He smiled, a bit ruefully. “Do you remember how after our first child was born, I swore I would always protect you? It seems you don’t need any protection from me. In fact, the person who has been protecting this kingdom is you.”

  “That is a wild exaggeration,” I said. “But we have . . . taken unexpected paths in our marriage. Does that trouble you?”

  “I married exactly the right wife for me. I know better than to complain about good luck.”

  “What if I go to Rome myself—just take the children? Would you prefer that?”

  “Deal with the Romans without me there? How will you ever manage?”

  “It will be a struggle.” I raised my chin. “But I actually have some slight skill at dealing with the Romans.”

  We laughed.

  Jullus and I began to speak as if taking action were possible. But at first, I drew back, as if from flame. It was momentous, this thing we wished to do. To push Tiberius aside, not only as my husband, but as a future guardian of my sons and of the empire. For Jullus to replace him. For Jullus to divorce Marcella and marry me.

  As we spoke about it again and again, it began to seem less like a fever dream and more like something that could actually come to pass.

  Jullus was a former consul and provincial governor. He had given great thought to politic
s and government; he could weigh his own strengths and weaknesses against Tiberius’s. “I am popular in the Senate, while Tiberius has made more than his share of enemies there. If Tiberius had stayed in Rome, it would probably be impossible to undercut his position. But he is far away and has thrown over his responsibilities. He still has great standing with the army that I lack. But the people love you, Julia. If the people rally to us and I muster enough support in the Senate, we might bring enough pressure on your father for him to let us marry. And then I would be the natural choice to assume leadership after your father dies.”

  We went away together, to my country house, the one Father gave me after Lucius’s birth. Our staying there together would fuel the talk about us, but I was beyond caring. We sat in the garden one morning. Jullus talked on and on about the politics of our situation—whether this senator and that one ought to be considered a friend or an enemy. I glanced away from him and watched a bee circle a flower.

  “I wish we could just be a man and a woman,” I said, “just two people who love each other and long to wed. But you wouldn’t wish that, would you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I looked back at him. “You’re ambitious, aren’t you?”

  His mouth tightened.

  Whenever he talked at length about the politics of our situation, I felt an inner uneasiness. Was our relationship a means to an end for him? “Is it power that you want? Or do you want me?” It was the first time I voiced my doubts.

  His face froze for the space of a heartbeat. Then he smiled faintly. “I want both.”

  A breeze from the garden blew a strand of hair over my face. I brushed it away.

  “Would you rather I lied, Julia?”

  I shook my head, but did not speak.

  “I would love you if you were a peasant woman. I love you—you alone. You call to my soul.”

  “Oh. Your soul.” I was on the verge of bitter laughter, or perhaps tears.

  “Julia . . . I want to leave my mark on this world. Is that wrong?”

  “No.” My voice was flat.

  We sat at a small oak table. He reached across it, grasped my hand. “If you wish us to go on just as we are, we will. You call the tune, Julia.”

  “I would like for once in my life for someone to look at me and actually see me, myself, not a means to get something else. I thought with you . . .”

  “But I do see you. Of course I do.”

  “You can’t. And I have no right to blame you, do I? No one ever manages that trick. I can’t escape being my father’s daughter.”

  “Julia, you can have me any way you want. As just your lover. Or as your husband. You are my queen, and I am your servant when it comes down to it.”

  “What a nonsensical thing to say. You are no servant.”

  “Can’t you understand?” His voice was rough with feeling. “I have no way of defending myself when it comes to you. I wish I felt less, but that’s impossible for me. I have never loved another woman. In all my life, I will never love another. I will take you on any terms. Just tell me how it is going to be.”

  “That’s a very pretty speech,” I said.

  His face hardened. “We won’t speak of marriage, then. We’ll forget all this business, all the politics. We’ll go on as we are. Do you want that, Julia? Just tell me what you want.”

  “I am not a fool,” I said. “I understand that you want to make use of me, Jullus, to have a place in Rome that is worthy of you. And I want to make use of you too—to prevent Tiberius ever ruling over me and my boys. I am so frightened when I think of my children falling into his hands. So it’s mutual, isn’t it? But I wish it were different. I wish we were different people—pure people. Because I love you—I love you—”

  “I am in love with you, Julia.”

  He was not made of flawless white marble, and neither was I. But I took him as he was, as he took me. That night, I whispered in his ear the same pledge he had made to me. “In all my life, I will never love another.”

  “And you do trust me?”

  “Yes,” I answered, and it was true.

  A life with the man I loved suddenly seemed possible. I could almost taste it. And for the first time I felt I might shape my own fate. All the follies of the past seemed just that now . . . follies. Almost the actions of another woman.

  What Jullus and I wanted was right, not just for us, but for my sons and for Rome. And we had friends, supporters, among them senators from some of Rome’s most illustrious families.

  A circle of men in the Senate believed Tiberius had the makings of a tyrant and feared the destruction of Rome’s ancient liberties. Scipio was now a senator and prominent among these men. There were several other young senators who, like him, came from leading aristocratic families, had at one time or another been intimate with me, and were ready to back me and Jullus. “You are an unusual woman, Julia,” Gracchus said to me one evening over dinner. “Rather than nursing old wounds, most of the men you have been with like you and wish you well.”

  I smiled at him. “Actually, this has been my aim all along—to form a faction in the Senate composed entirely of . . . oh, I can’t say it. It’s too silly.”

  “A political faction led by men with kind memories of you,” Gracchus said.

  We both laughed.

  If my father could only be made to understand how matters stood, he might acquiesce to my marrying Jullus. Mightn’t he?

  A part of my mind told me that Father would never agree to our marriage. But I remembered that he had never been fond of Tiberius. There had been a coolness even when Tiberius was a boy; Drusus was the stepson Father loved. Later he came to respect Tiberius’s ability but without ever much liking him personally. He had advanced him as far as he had mainly because he was Livia’s son. Now Tiberius had abandoned all his public duties. That had shaken what regard Father had for him. Could I make him see Tiberius as I saw him? If I found the right words, could I persuade him to put Jullus in his place?

  “I will speak to Father,” I told Jullus. “I will tell him I wish to marry you.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No,” I said. The bedchamber was lit only by a single candle. As I sat beside him on the bed, I could barely see Jullus’s face. “I want to do this on my own. I feel strong. And I think it is better that I speak to him alone, that I remind him . . .”

  “Remind him of what?”

  “Sometimes I wonder if he cares for me at all. But when I was a child, he could be so affectionate. Some of that must remain, mustn’t it? Don’t you think so? Could you ever stop caring for one of your children?”

  “No.”

  “I couldn’t either. I’ve disappointed Father, and he’s disappointed me. Still . . . I am his child—his only child—and he is my father. I have to remind him of that.”

  Father had no affection at all for Tiberius. That mattered; it mattered terribly. But what mattered most was that I was his daughter. All my happiness depended on my being freed to marry Jullus. Surely that would carry weight with him. It must.

  I sent Father a note by messenger. May I please talk to you soon, alone and in private? I wish to discuss a matter that means everything to me. I soon received a brief note back. Tomorrow, at the fourth hour. Come to the house.

  The next day, I dressed carefully, in the traditional style Father preferred. My stola was perfectly draped, and I wore the simplest of jewelry. When I set out to see Father, my heart hammered. So much depended on the words that would soon be said.

  When the slave at the door indicated I was to go up to Father’s private study, I felt pleased that Father would see me there. We would be totally alone and undisturbed.

  I hoped to somehow reach the man I had seen little of in recent years—the father I used to laugh with, who was so human and approachable. I remembered being ten or eleven years old and standing next to Father at some ceremony. An official went on and on at pompous length about Father’s greatness, practically call
ing him a god. I recognized the speech’s utter absurdity even at that young age—and I glanced up at Father to see if he took it seriously. The moment our eyes met, it was as if we read each other’s thoughts. I knew he was exerting all his effort to keep from laughing, and an instant later I was biting the inside of my mouth, fighting to keep from laughing too. After the ceremony was over and the official took his leave, Father hugged me, and we laughed so hard in each other’s arms that it brought tears to my eyes. Surely the man I had felt so close to then still existed?

  I found Father sitting at his long oak writing table. Neat piles of writing tablets—sealed letters from every part of the empire—covered most of the table’s surface.

  I went to Father and without a word bent and kissed him on the cheek.

  He looked like what he was—a man past his sixtieth year who worked from dawn to dusk every day of his life and was beset by a thousand cares. He had saved Rome, united the empire. He was a human, he made errors, but even his enemies had to admit he had governed us well. He was Caesar Augustus. He was my father. How could I not love and revere him?

  “Sit down, Julia,” Father said, indicating a chair next to his. “Now what is this grave matter you wish to discuss with me?”

  In my mind I see—I will always see—a conversation between a father and daughter who love each other deeply. I tell Father I love Jullus and wish to marry him. That my marriage to Tiberius has been a mistake from the start, and now it is a painful sham. That I feel I can trust only Jullus with my sons’ futures. Father hears me out, not without discomfort, but with compassion. He expresses understanding—there were false starts in his own life before he married the woman he adored. He is glad I have finally found love. Of course he will allow me to divorce Tiberius and marry Jullus. I weep in Father’s arms—weep tears of gratitude.

  This phantasm lingers in my mind, a bitter mockery. The reality was quite different.

  I said, “Father, you know Tiberius and I live apart and have no marriage. I have found the man I wish to marry—the man I will love all the rest of my life.”