I Am Livia

by Phyllis T. Smith

  “What is it?” I asked again.

  He laughed. It struck me that he looked extraordinarily well fed, and that there was something brutal about his features. “Rat,” he said.

  My stomach turned, though I knew people were trapping rats and eating them. Then another thought came into my mind. Perhaps an old slave of his had begun to seem useless, a burden to feed, and perhaps…Or was this just a sick fancy, the product of my hunger?

  I did no more shopping that day, and all but ran home. But the next day I was back in the marketplace, searching again for meat.

  One becomes numb to many things when one is continually hungry. But I was never too numb to feel afraid. My greatest fear was that privation would cause my little boy to sicken, that he would die as a result of this siege. Or that when the enemy came over the walls, an arrow or spear would find his little heart.

  I remember once clutching him to me, near despair. “Oh, my son, what is going to happen to you?”

  A soft voice said, “Don’t worry, Mistress. We will keep him safe.” Rubria had appeared beside me.

  “Will we?” I said.

  “Oh, yes. We are both strong, and we will keep him safe together.”

  Rubria rarely spoke unless she was spoken to. She had told me only a little about her life. I knew she had lost both her husband and her son in a tenement fire in Rome, and she had turned to selling the one thing she had—her milk—to survive. Though she was quiet and inexpressive, she was a person I could rely on.

  As winter wore on, we all grew hungrier. And still Mark Antony did not come.

  It was spring and the fifth month of the siege. Tiberius Nero told me that Fulvia and her sons had left Perusia. “She used an old passageway that goes under the city wall,” he said. “Almost no one knows about it.”

  We stood in our bedchamber. I knew we had been utterly abandoned, that Mark Antony would never come now, that Perusia would fall. “Let’s leave too,” I said.

  “I can’t. I’m not a deserter.”

  The resolute set of his jaw infuriated me. “My son is not going to be here suffering as the food runs out,” I said. “When Caesar and his army come climbing over the walls to sack and burn this town, my son won’t be here, do you understand me?”

  Tiberius Nero touched my shoulder. “I’ll do all I can to get you and the boy away from here safely. But as for me—no.”

  Tears came to my eyes. I had been his wife for more than three years. Still, my soul was not knit to his soul, as my mother’s had been to my father’s. And yet I could not leave Tiberius Nero to die for Perusia.

  “If you were fighting for Rome, I would never ask you to walk away,” I said. “But this is not for Rome. Tiberius, I cannot bear—I truly cannot bear to see you die for such a ridiculous cause, for no cause at all. I don’t want my son to be without a father. I won’t leave without you.”

  Tiberius Nero shook his head. “You’ll leave with the boy. I’ll arrange it.”

  “No.” I looked deep into his eyes for a long moment. “You have to find a way to save us all,” I said.

  In the end he went to Lucius Antony, and Lucius gave him permission to leave, on one condition. After he escaped, he must try to raise an army to relieve Perusia, by offering freedom to any slaves who would fight against Caesar. It was an absurd idea. But if Tiberius Nero had told me that in order to get Lucius’s permission to go—without which he would not leave Perusia—he must agree to try to construct a great machine to carry Lucius up to the heavenly vault, I would have said, Certainly, agree.

  We made preparations for our escape. Rubria and Buteo would accompany us. We would take my jewelry and what money we had, nothing else. Tiberius Nero told me that after we emerged from the underground tunnel, we would have to walk about five miles down a path that took us close to Caesar’s camp, near where his lookouts were. To keep the baby from crying and giving us away, he would obtain a sleeping draught for him from one of the army physicians.

  The tunnel that led under the city wall of Perusia stretched for nearly a mile and was so narrow that the four of us had to walk single file. Moisture clung to the walls, and the air had a dank smell. Buteo, who knew the way, walked first, holding a torch. He wore breastplate, helm, and a sword. Slung over his back, tied on so his hands could be free, was a heavy sack that contained some of our valuables. I walked next. I had put on first one tunica then another till I ended up with four, one over the other. I also wore a cloak. A pouch that contained my jewelry dangled from my waist. I carried my baby in my arms. Fearful of harming him, I had given little Tiberius only half the draught the physician recommended. But he had quickly dozed off.

  My breathing began to labor. I seemed not to be able to get enough air in my lungs. I told myself this was only a silly imagining. There was enough air in the tunnel. I touched my son’s chest. He breathed normally.

  On and on we walked. Something slithered over my foot. I bit my lip. There was no point in screaming.

  We knew the tunnel ended in a place deep in the woods. Our ultimate destination was the city of Neapolis, many miles away, where Tiberius Nero had a good friend who was a supporter of Mark Antony. We hoped the friend would not be afraid to give us shelter.

  We would be fugitives. Caesar now ruled all of the Italian mainland. I told myself I must not think of the uncertainties ahead. It was hard enough to live through these moments, to keep on walking, to try to get enough air, laden down as I was with jewelry and with my baby.

  Finally, Buteo muttered, “Here.”

  I saw stone steps. They seemed to be leading up not into any aperture in the tunnel but into a pile of tree branches. But then Buteo pushed the branches aside, and we saw light. He extinguished his torch. I followed him up the steps. Rubria and Tiberius Nero came after us. I stood blinking, half-blinded by the sun. Tiberius Nero and Buteo piled the branches back over the hole in the ground that led to the tunnel. If Caesar’s troops found that hole and used the tunnel to attack the city, defending Perusia would be impossible.

  When my eyes grew accustomed to the light, I saw that we were in a forest, trees on all sides of us. The air smelled of rotting leaves. Ahead was a dirt trail. Buteo pressed his finger to his lips. He did not have to tell me we must be absolutely silent. Caesar’s soldiers patrolled these woods.

  Buteo—who had reconnoitered the area—led the way down a narrow dirt trail, the rest of us following in single file. Then suddenly he paused and raised a hand.

  I heard voices. Two men—not close enough for me to make out what they were saying.

  I glanced back at my husband. Tiberius Nero had his hand on his sword hilt.

  In a flash, I imagined a scene of horror. A fight, Caesar’s soldiers shouting, many more soldiers coming to their aid. My husband and Buteo killed. Rubria, me, and the baby defenseless. What would the enemy do to us?

  The voices faded. We walked forward again. We had gone perhaps a hundred yards when the baby woke and started crying. I pressed my hand over his mouth. But then I was terrified. Could he breathe?

  “Hush, hush, my little lamb, my little dumpling, my son, my son,” I whispered. I took my hand away. He howled.

  In an instant, Buteo snatched my son away from me. His hands were underneath the baby’s armpits, as he held him up high in the air. I knew he meant to dash him against a tree trunk or the hard ground to kill him. I reached up to grab the baby from him, to fight for the life of my child.

  Little Tiberius stopped crying.

  I seized the baby and backed away from Buteo. Looking down at little Tiberius, all I could see were his eyes, great staring eyes in his small, pale face. My mouth was dry with fear. But he was safe in my arms.

  Later, Tiberius Nero would try to convince me that nothing dreadful had happened. Seeing I was unable to quiet the child, Buteo did his best to distract the baby by swinging him up in his arms, he said. Lu
ckily it worked.

  But I knew what Buteo’s intentions had been. And I believe little Tiberius knew too. For the rest of our journey on foot, I held him tightly wrapped in my arms, and he never made another sound.

  We made it to a farmhouse at the edge of the forest, where horses could be obtained. It was necessary for us all to ride astride down paths where a wagon could not pass, and so I mounted a horse for the first time in my life. My heart thudded. I was up so high. I kept thinking how far I was from the ground, and that I would fall. And yet I was young and this was adventure: to ride a great powerful beast, with my tunica hiked up above my knees, cold air filling my lungs. Rubria rode beside me. I don’t think she found any pleasure in the experience. But there were moments when I truly felt like Hippolita riding out to battle.

  Eventually we were able to exchange our mounts for a horse and cart. For four days we traveled by little-used roads, and ultimately we reached the city of Neapolis, where Tiberius Nero’s friend gave us shelter.

  Rubria stayed with us, but I insisted that my husband dismiss Buteo. I could not stand to look at the man and would not tolerate him around my son.

  The next days run together in my mind. I waited in the friend’s house while every morning my husband went off to try to raise a slave army. I knew he would fail, and feared he might get himself killed trying to carry out Lucius’s mandate. But I thanked Diana that at least my baby and I were no longer in Perusia.

  And then, we heard that the city had fallen. The memory of what happened there is one to make all Romans weep. The defenders were slaughtered in their thousands, the city itself sacked and burned to the ground. When men tried to surrender, Caesar by and large refused to show them mercy. He spared Lucius Antony, though—not wishing to provoke all-out war with Mark Antony.

  There was now no reason for Tiberius Nero to continue his fruitless efforts to rouse the slaves.

  Shortly after Perusia’s fall, we learned that Caesar’s soldiers were on their way to take charge of Neapolis. Tiberius Nero and I fled with our child. Rubria, who deeply loved little Tiberius, begged to be allowed to come.

  Tiberius Nero brought our horse and cart to a stop when we were miles away from Neapolis, in a forest glade. His cheek was twitching with nerves. I told him we had to decide on a destination, but without a word he jumped off the wagon seat and went walking off to disappear among the trees.

  Rubria stared at me. I saw the question in her eyes, the same one I had asked: Where were we going?

  We waited for a time for Tiberius Nero to come back. When he did not return, I put the baby in Rubria’s arms and went into the woods to search for my husband. I found him leaning against a tree, one hand pressed to his eyes. “Tiberius?” I said softly.

  He straightened and looked at me. I was relieved to see that at least he was not weeping. But he seemed absolutely spent. “It may be I’ve come to the end of my road,” he said. “Maybe rather than running away and being hunted down like a wild beast, I ought to think of dying like a soldier of Rome.”

  Perhaps he was just succumbing to momentary despair. He had walked off to be alone and collect himself, and I had come after him and found him at his lowest ebb. But with the deaths of my father and mother still so fresh in my memory, I did not take his words as a mere expression of wretchedness.

  “Do it then,” I said. “But don’t expect me to honor your memory or to teach your son to honor it. I assure you, we will remember you as a coward. And be very certain, we will not die with you. My son and I will survive.”

  He stared at me in disbelief.

  “Coward.” I spat the word at him.

  “How dare you call me that?”

  “Are you angry, Tiberius? Good. Perhaps you’re a man after all.”

  He struck me across the mouth with the back of his hand. I went reeling from the blow and tasted blood in my mouth.

  He had never hit me before. I had not expected that. And yet I had wanted to rouse his anger, and even this rage seemed better than talk of suicide.

  His hands were knotted into fists. I could tell he was fighting to keep himself from hitting me again. I wiped blood from my lips. “The time may come to die with honor,” I said. “But it has not come yet.”

  “Do you understand my position? I must flee, but I don’t even know where to flee to. Anywhere in Italy, Caesar’s men will hunt me down like a rat.”

  “Mark Antony—”

  “If I wanted to go to him, where would I go? I don’t even know where he is. In Egypt still? Egypt is far away.”

  I thought for a few moments. Then I said, “Sicily is closer than Egypt.” Sicily was governed by Sextus Pompey, who had lately forged an alliance with Caesar. But the bond between the Claudians and Sextus’s family was ancient; there had been friendships and marriages going back many generations. “From what I hear, Sextus Pompey is a man who honors old ties.”

  Tiberius saw where I was leading him. “I doubt Sextus would kill me or turn me over to Caesar. Whether he would offer me any real help is another question.”

  “He would shelter us, at least for a time, and he would not kill you,” I said.

  My husband gazed at me with compunction. “Look at your lip. Why in the world did you insult me that way?”

  To rouse you, I thought. Because my son needs the protection of a father. I would have taken many more blows if it would have helped us survive. “I was overwrought. Forgive me,” I said. “Shall we go to Sicily?”

  He knotted his brow for a few moments. Then he let out a deep sigh and said, “Yes.”

  It was not easy to get us aboard a ship bound for Sicily without being caught by Caesar’s forces. But Tiberius Nero managed it with the efficiency one would expect of a former praetor of Rome. We arrived on the island and stayed in an inn so primitive it had dirt floors and a thatched roof. Sextus Pompey had no eagerness to see us, but after a month finally sent for us.

  At the age of thirteen, Sextus had seen his father killed before his eyes. His family estate had been seized by his father’s enemies. Now in his mid-twenties, he had lived a brigand’s life for years. Yet with fellow Roman aristocrats, he behaved with honor.

  “I would truly like to help you,” he said, seeming to speak more to me than to Tiberius Nero. “But allied as I am with Caesar, that’s rather awkward.” He told us, though, that he was willing to help us get to Mark Antony, who was now in Greece. Since this was the best offer Sextus was likely to make, Tiberius Nero accepted it.

  Sextus had the sea, as well as Sicily, for his domain. Men called him the favorite of the god Neptune. He had made himself feared, but to me he looked sorrowful and lost. Maybe I looked lost to him too. On parting, he gave me a bleak, oddly tender smile, and bent and kissed my cheek.

  My mother had said that Mark Antony had little eyes like a pig. Meeting him, I saw the aptness of her description. But despite that, his fleshy, florid face, dominated by a jutting chin, was handsome. He gave off a musky smell—sweat and wine and some strong masculine essence. Sprawled on a dining couch, wearing not a toga but a Greek chiton made of red silk, sipping from a gold wine cup decorated with rubies, he eyed my breasts. When a serving girl came to refill his wine cup, he fondled her buttocks.

  “How are you enjoying Athens, Drusilla?” he asked me.

  I felt a burst of irritation, which I was careful to hide. Antony had kept Tiberius Nero and me waiting here in Athens for an audience with him—that was what this dinner was, an audience—for an incredible four months. And from the moment I met him, he insisted on calling me not “Livia” or “Livia Drusilla” but “Drusilla.” It was a completely pointless affront. No one ever called a woman by just her second name.

  “Athens is just as beautiful as I expected it to be,” I said.

  “Yes, we’ve been seeing the sights and having a pleasant time.” Tiberius Nero managed to sound as if he had
not spent the last months consumed with anguish, in dread about his future. I never knew before that he was such a good actor.

  “Any city would seem a fine place after Perusia,” Antony said, looking at me. “You were there during most of the siege, weren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “You look as if you’ve recovered from the privations you suffered. My poor Fulvia never did.”

  I had heard his wife had died of a fever not long after she and her children joined him in Greece. “I am so sorry—” I began.

  “I know she meant well. But what a debacle that whole business was. How foolish, to stir up all that conflict with Caesar over the latifundia.” Antony shook his head. “It’s a shame no one informed me of what was happening in Italy.” His gaze shifted to Tiberius Nero. “I’ve often asked myself why you didn’t restrain Fulvia and Lucius. A prudent fellow like you, a praetor—how could you have gone along with that lunacy?”

  “To be honest, I never doubted for a moment that they were taking orders from you,” Tiberius Nero said.

  “Taking orders from me?” Antony roared. “Are you insane?”

  My stomach jumped. “My husband is only saying that this was the impression we got from Fulvia and Lucius,” I stammered.

  Antony gave a contemptuous snort.

  I did not believe he had not known about Fulvia and Lucius’s actions. Even if they had wanted to keep him in the dark, surely Caesar would have sent him messages of protest. No, Antony had let them try their luck against Caesar, and then left them both—and even his two small sons!—undefended in a city under siege.

  What had kept him from relieving us in Perusia? I wondered. Prudence? The tentacles of his mistress, Cleopatra, the Egyptian queen, tying him to her side? Some other, unfathomable thing—perhaps pure sloth?

  “Well, past is past.” Antony took a stuffed mushroom from his plate, studied it as if it might tell him something, then popped it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “What are your plans now, Nero?”