I Am Livia

by Phyllis T. Smith

  But the next day Tiberius Nero came home from the Senate smiling. “Caesar has invited us to celebrate the shaving of his beard!” he announced.

  “He has invited the whole city,” I said.

  “He asked us to the private party he is giving at his home. Livia, we are part of a very select group!”

  I felt sad, seeing how happy my husband was. It seemed a bit pathetic. I remembered how brave he had been at Perusia. Truly, he had always shown exemplary valor in war. But he had no more taste for playing the bloody game of Roman politics. All he wanted was to live quietly in Rome, enjoy what was left of his possessions, and feel safe. The invitation delighted him because he considered it a sign of Caesar’s goodwill. I don’t think there was anything he desired more at this point than to be regarded with benevolent eyes by Caesar Octavianus.

  I dressed with care for Caesar’s celebration. But if anyone had dared ask if I wished to make myself beautiful for him, I would have said no. After all, I felt obliged to dress well; I was a senator’s wife, and this was the social event of the year. I wore a pale green stola, green being becoming to me with my red hair. I disliked the look of women weighted down with gold and jewels, and I wore only an emerald necklace and plain gold earrings, no bracelets or brooches. The locks of my hair that had been singed in the woods outside of Sparta had, of course, long since been cut away. My hair was still shorter than usual, but Pelia, who had developed into a skilled ornatrix, arranged it becomingly in soft curls around my face. She applied rouge to my lips and touched my eyelids with kohl.

  Pelia held up a silver mirror, and I studied myself for a moment. Fortunately, pregnancy did not cause my face to become puffy, as it did with some women. I had prominent cheekbones, my complexion was clear, and my cheeks had a natural blush. I was nineteen years old, and except for my swollen figure, I was as beautiful as I would ever be at any time in my life.

  As I rode down the Palatine Hill to Caesar’s house, Tiberius Nero, who felt like stretching his legs, walked beside my litter. We heard singing and laughter on every street we passed. The air was full of the odors of spiced wine and sweet cakes. The celebration Caesar had sponsored already engulfed the whole city.

  It struck me as odd that someone as rich as Caesar did not live on the Palatine Hill but in the commercial district near the Forum. Was he trying to pose as a man of the people? His house stood at the end of a lane of shops selling signet rings. A throng of Caesar’s supporters had gathered outside. Half of them were drunk, but their mood was amiable. My bearers had no difficulty getting through the crowd and carrying me right up to Caesar’s threshold.

  Tiberius Nero helped me from the litter, and we approached the solid oak door. As soon as we knocked, the door was opened by an extremely well-dressed slave. We stepped inside, and Caesar and his wife, Scribonia, came forward to welcome us. Caesar was clean-shaven. Scribonia looked old enough to be his mother and was heavily pregnant.

  Tiberius Nero congratulated Caesar on his first shave and on his birthday.

  “I’m so glad to meet you, my dear,” Scribonia said to me. She seemed to be looking over my shoulder, as if someone more interesting had come in behind me. But there was no one there.

  I assured her that I was glad to meet her too. As the four of us exchanged pleasantries, I was struck by how young Caesar looked without his beard. A certain boyishness softened his features. I gazed at his smooth skin, blue eyes, and golden hair and could almost imagine people saying, What a pretty young man. But I doubted they ever said it—not if they noticed the tense energy that animated his whole being and the way he seemed to be probing your defenses even when he smiled.

  Other guests were arriving, and we were shown to a dining couch inside. The atrium was crowded with couches on which guests already reclined—distinguished men in purple-trimmed togas, with their bejeweled wives. From what I could see of it, the house was nothing special, no larger than most senators’ dwellings. But the harpist, who played during the first course of the meal, was first rate. The food and wine were abundant and very good—Caesar had not imposed his health regimen on his guests. We ate thrushes on asparagus, roast peacock, mussels and eels in a delicate onion sauce, and ham boiled in honey. Caesar, I noticed, did not recline and enjoy his meal but kept circulating among his many guests, talking to them and making them feel important, as a public man should.

  Shortly after the second course was served, Tiberius Nero caught sight of an old friend, an officer he had served with in Gaul, across the room. “I haven’t seen Vitellus for ten years,” he said. “Excuse me, Livia. I must greet him.”

  As soon as he walked away, Caesar—so quickly that I almost gave a start—came and sat down on the couch on which I was reclining.

  The dining couch was narrow. If I had moved my leg a few inches, we would have been touching. “What do you think?” he asked, rubbing his chin.

  “I approve,” I said.

  He leaned closer and whispered in my ear, “I did it for you, you know.”

  “No you didn’t,” I said.

  He laughed. “I didn’t?”

  We were both now talking in low voices not meant to be overheard by the other guests. “Why would you shave off your beard for me?”

  “That’s a good question. What do you think the answer is?”

  I did not say a word.

  “Tell me to do something else,” Caesar said. “I’ll do it. What else would you like me to do?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “All right, I won’t be silly. The truth is I was probably going to shave off my beard eventually, but I wasn’t in any hurry. I didn’t want to look like a savage to you. Is it really an improvement?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” He looked into my eyes. “Now what?”

  “There is no ‘now what.’ I’m a married woman, and you’re a married man.”

  “I’ll soon be divorced. I told you that already.”

  “I’m a married woman.”

  “Shall I tell you how it has been for you? You were fourteen, fifteen years old, and your father said, ‘Marry this man.’ So of course you did, and ever since then you’ve been trying to feel more for your husband than what—tolerance? Friendship? Maybe you are friends. You don’t want to injure him; he’s the father of your son. That’s admirable. But are you planning to pass the rest of your life without ever experiencing passion?”

  This conversation was taking place in the middle of a party attended by the most prominent members of the city’s elite, with people reclining across the table from me and surrounding me on all sides. My husband stood in my line of vision, across the room sharing a toast with his friend from the Gallic war.

  “I’m pregnant,” I said.

  “You won’t be forever.”

  “I don’t indulge in adulterous affairs.”

  “Of course not,” Caesar said.

  My eyes darted around the crowded atrium. Everywhere I saw people on couches, laughing and talking. My mouth felt dry. I took a sip of wine. I put down the wine cup, and smoothed back a lock of my hair.

  “Your hair is fine,” Caesar said.

  “Everyone is watching us.”

  “No one is paying attention.”

  “Yes they are.” I felt as if my body, every inch of skin, were stripped bare.

  “No one hears us,” Caesar said. “I’m having a perfectly proper conversation with one of my honored guests. There’s not a thing in the world wrong with that.”

  “There will be gossip,” I said. “There is gossip already.”

  How could I feel what I did for him? It would have been easy to tell myself I simply experienced physical desire for a handsome man. That would make it almost impersonal, as if I looked at Caesar as I might have gazed at a statue by Phidias, approved the symmetry of his features, and decided that yes, he was beaut
iful. But when I was in his presence, I felt an emotion deeper than lust. That was what was most awful—that I felt inexplicable tenderness for a man who had helped to kill my father.

  Caesar went on talking in a voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been married twice, but I feel as if I’ve never been married at all. It’s because my marriages have been nothing more than political arrangements, which could be ended whenever the wind shifted. The way most of the Roman nobility marries these days—the countless divorces—has never seemed natural or right to me. Because out in Velitrae, where I grew up, people marry for life.”

  “Maybe when your baby is born,” I said, “you ought to stay with its mother, and not divorce her after all, since you have such proper views about marriage.”

  He recoiled a little, as if he had been lightly slapped. “No, I can’t stay with her. You see, I don’t like her.”

  You liked her enough to beget a child on her. I imagine that if I said that, he would look puzzled. He would say, What does that have to do with liking her?

  He went on talking. “And I’m in love with another woman. I think I’ve been in love with her for—what is it?—close to five years.”

  My heart pounded. For one moment, I melted, and he saw me melt. All I felt for him was surely in my expression. But then I became fearful and said, “You must take me for a fool.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

  “You’ve been in love with me for five years, and you married twice in the interim—and you just discovered this great love you’ve been nurturing in your heart for me?”

  “You make it sound absurd. But I’ve been focused on survival—and still, I always remembered you. It’s only lately that I’ve been able to breathe, let alone give any thought to personal happiness or love.”

  “I suppose you expect me to believe any nonsense you tell me,” I said.

  “Evidently a love affair with me has no attraction for you,” he said.

  “That’s right. It has none.” For that was not what I wanted—something quick and tawdry. To be used and discarded. I wanted more than that.

  His eyes went cold. “You could at least have said that a little more kindly.”

  It struck me then that I was talking to the absolute ruler of Rome. I thought, What have I just done?

  What words could I speak, to make it right? To ensure that I had at least not done some terrible injury to myself, to my family? Yes, I will have a love affair with you. As soon as my husband’s child is born, I will run straight to your arms.

  What I said was ridiculous. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “Oh, thank you for that,” he said. “I profess love for you, and you mock me and then you say, ‘I never meant to hurt your feelings.’ ” He shook his head and looked so comical suddenly, so disappointed and amazed, that the trepidation I felt disappeared. “Livia, are you telling me you don’t feel anything for me? Was I so wrong to think…?”

  Of course his approach had not come uninvited. I had desired him from the first moment I saw him, nearly five years ago. And he had known it from the first. He had to have known it. And when he had come to my house for dinner I had not been able to take my eyes off him.

  My face flamed. I wanted to run away and hide.

  “What do you feel for me?” he asked.

  “All your guests are looking at us.” The truth is I was beyond focusing on other people’s faces. I could not tell if we were being watched.

  “If you care nothing for me, say you care nothing, and I’ll leave you alone. But you must spell things out for me, just as if I were some provincial boy from Velitrae. Because that’s actually who I am in these matters, and I have to know.”

  “I will spell this out for you: I remember who my father was and who my mother was. And you should remember it too. I can’t help what I feel. But I’m not to be had cheaply.” My gaze traveled around the room. I could see more clearly now. On the opposite couch, two women stared in my direction. I whispered, “And by sitting here, talking to me in this way, you are making me an object of gossip and disgrace.”

  He stiffened. “I’m sorry I’ve given you offense,” he said. Then he got up and walked away.

  I stared after him. Of all emotions, what I felt was this—longing. Because he was gone.

  I became aware of Tiberius Nero sitting down beside me. “In the name of all that’s sacred,” he said in a low hiss, “what is going on between the two of you?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.” My voice sounded far off, remote. I felt almost disembodied, as if my husband’s presence had no reality for me.

  “He looked put out or insulted when he walked away.”

  “Yes, perhaps he felt put out or insulted.”

  “If he suggested something improper—”

  “No, he didn’t. He didn’t suggest anything.”

  “Then what—? Was he flirting with you? Couldn’t you just be pleasant to him?”

  “No, I really couldn’t,” I said.

  Tiberius Nero said, “I think you’ve lost your mind.”

  I knew what I had done. I had not done it with forethought. Still, I had done it.

  Caesar had said, If you care nothing for me, say it, and I’ll leave you alone. But I had not said that, had I? No, for all my indignation, I had not. I had told him that I was not to be had cheaply. Those words—it seemed to me my usual self had not chosen them. Yet they had not come to my lips accidentally. They had been honed by a part of me with which I was barely acquainted.

  I imagined Caesar examining my words, holding them up in the sunlight, so to speak, slowly taking in their meaning. And then deciding how he would respond.

  Four days later, Caesar’s wife gave birth to a daughter, and that day the new parents divorced. People said Caesar had ended his marriage for love of another woman, and they knew the other woman’s name, Livia Drusilla. Meanwhile, we hadn’t even kissed. But I had become a public figure, of a certain kind. My sister came to me almost weeping because she had seen a picture, supposed to be me, drawn on a fence—a grotesque charcoal sketch of a lewd, naked woman with a pregnant stomach. And scrawled beneath the drawing was a dirty joke about Caesar’s whore. “What is happening?” she demanded. “What are you doing?” When I told her there was nothing—nothing!—between Caesar and me, I knew she didn’t believe me.

  It was impossible that Tiberius Nero, by this point, did not know about the talk. But he did not confront me. I think he was in a state of stunned disbelief. He was out most of the day or else behind the closed door of his study. We hardly spoke to each other.

  Then, early one morning, a message came from Caesar, not for me but for my husband. Would Tiberius Nero please call upon him that day? There was a matter they needed to discuss.

  Tiberius Nero sent the messenger back to Caesar. “Say I will visit him within the hour.” He looked at me when the man had gone. “Livia, do you know what this is about?”

  I did not say, How would I know? I just shook my head.

  You would have had to have been acquainted very well with Tiberius Nero to notice the tight set of his mouth and recognize it as a sign of fear. My husband had a grievance against Caesar, not the other way around. Caesar was rumored to have seduced his wife. Just a few generations before, it would have been considered an outrage for a public figure to have carnal relations with a married woman. Divorces were rare and viewed as an affront to the gods. Roman women were expected to be chaste, and did not even recline at dinner parties but sat upright like well-behaved children. It was not even considered proper for us to drink wine. A man could kill an adulterer—however prominent that adulterer happened to be—and everyone would applaud him for it. Under the Republic, it would have been Caesar who had cause to be afraid of my husband. But the Republic was dead.

  Tiberius Nero went and donned his toga. I watche
d him leave, and then I walked out to the garden. It was late September. I could smell autumn in the air. Sometime after the new year, I would bear my husband’s child.

  What would happen between these two men? I could imagine, like scenes in a play, two benign possibilities. In one—which I did not for a moment believe was even possible—Caesar had perfectly valid and mundane senatorial business to discuss with Tiberius Nero; it turned out this summons had nothing to do with me at all. In another, more likely scene, he acknowledged the unfortunate talk about us, assured Tiberius Nero it was groundless, offered him some office or honor as a sop, and sent him on his way.

  Other possibilities, I refused to allow myself to envision.

  As I sat on a garden bench, waiting for Tiberius Nero to return from seeing Caesar, the baby inside me began to kick frantically. I caressed my belly and murmured reassuring words to my unborn child.

  I asked myself what I wanted. What I should want was obvious. For my husband to come home to me, for our life together to continue unchanged. To remain a faithful wife to the man to whom my noble father had given me.

  What did I actually want? Two contradictory things. I wanted to be a worthy child of my parents, not to be defiled by passion for a man who had helped destroy them, to keep my wholeness and integrity. And I wanted Caesar’s arms around me, his lips on my lips, to be pressed to him, body to body, soul to soul, in excruciating and unending bliss.

  When Tiberius Nero came home from his encounter with Caesar, he walked silently past me into his study and sagged into a chair. He called for a slave to bring him wine, though he rarely drank it so early in the day.