I Am Livia

by Phyllis T. Smith

  Did we plan it, you ask? Of course we did. Ten members of my bodyguard flanked me. Still, I personally led the assault. And what supreme commander has ever led an assault on a besieged town? Practically no one. Well, Alexander the Great did it, but he was Alexander.

  You’ll say: “Tavius, the risk!” My love, it was a risk worth taking. And for once I didn’t have some ridiculous ailment putting me out of commission.

  Up the gangway I went. My troops were inspired by my heroism—too inspired. An enormous body of men rushed the gangway, which promptly collapsed. I was just about crushed, but I emerged from the rubble in time to see our army win a great victory. Metulum is ours. The whole province is ours.

  My cracked ribs are mending well, the doctors say, and Maecenas has his band of poets composing odes to my valor. My sweet love, it was necessary for me to lead that charge. For my credit with other men, for my own pride.

  My cup is full to overflowing. I have won, and do you know who has lost? Antony. His Parthian campaign has come to an inglorious end. He overreached. It was a debacle. I genuinely pity his poor soldiers and wrote him a polite letter offering to send him supplies for them—food, clothes, blankets, and whatever else can aid them in their sad condition. He wrote me back saying I could keep my supplies. He will try to conquer Armenia now. If I were just a shade less of a patriot, I’d root for the Armenians.

  You, love, have consoled me when fortune frowned. Now please enjoy my good fortune. Celebrate. Don’t shudder and say I was reckless. Be happy I threw the dice and won. So what if I’m a little bit battered? At this moment, the only thing on earth I lack is you in my arms.

  Battered? The word did not begin to tell it. He nearly died at Metulum, flattened and mangled under a weight of men and wood and metal.

  At the head of his victorious army, he came home to me. He limped. He coughed. He looked exhausted. It was a hot autumn, and the day after he returned he was fit for nothing but to lay naked on the bed we shared, fresh red scars marking his torso, his arms, and his legs.

  I kissed each of his scars. “Everyone is talking about your heroism,” I said. This was only a slight exaggeration. He had certainly impressed the people of Rome. “But please never do anything like this again.”

  Tavius chuckled. The chuckle turned into a cough.

  “Let’s hope there will be no more wars for a while,” I said. “Surely we are due for some years of peace. But if there are more wars, let someone else fight them for you.”

  “Oh, but Livia, I’ve gotten a taste for being a military hero. Maybe I’ll go and conquer Britannia next.”

  Tavius meant this only for banter. But I thought of all he had suffered and might yet suffer to fulfill his destiny. At eighteen, he had determined on a course, and he would see it through. Danger and pain would never impede him. At that moment, looking at his scars, I wanted to weep for him. But I did not. He would not have liked it. I said only, “I would rather you let someone else conquer Britannia.”

  The limp had always gone away before. Not after the Illyrian campaign. Though usually only barely noticeable, it was permanent, like the scars. He soon stopped coughing, though, and was out of bed and driving himself as hard as he ever had.

  Rubria became pregnant at this time. I was happy for her, of course; no one deserved my good wishes more than she did. But it was getting so I felt a clutch in my heart every time I heard of a pregnancy or a birth. Tavius and I had been married for four years, and there was no sign of a child.

  I prayed at temples. I wore sacred amulets to bed. I drank foul-tasting concoctions prepared by Rome’s finest physicians. On the Lupercalia, I stood in the street as other barren wives did.

  The festival—which honored the she-wolf who had suckled Romulus and Remus—always brought fresh hope to women who wished in vain to bear a child. Priests sacrificed two male goats and a dog. They smeared the forehead of two young men with blood from the sacrificed animals and dressed them in the skins of the dead goats. These youths ran around the perimeter of the Palatine Hill, striking all the women they met on the hand with a leather thong. A lash from one of their whips was intended to ensure fertility.

  As I had seen other women do, I held out my hand as the sacred runner approached. He was a husky young man who grinned like a satyr and looked like one, clad as he was in a loincloth and cape made of goatskin strips. He struck my hand hard with his thong as he ran past. The blow stung and left a welt. But I did not become pregnant.

  Now that there was no war, Tavius lavished all his energy on building. Rome got a new aqueduct and new sewers, newly paved roads, and shining marble temples and public buildings. Agrippa had day-to-day authority over all these projects, but when it came to the planning, my opinion also carried weight. It was a great joy to know we were remaking Rome. All this building provided badly needed work for poor citizens; and Tavius’s popularity with the common people had never soared so high. Politically speaking, he ought to have been content. But the situation with Mark Antony bothered him like a sore tooth.

  He said to me one day, “I think Octavia should go back to Antony before he leaves for war in Armenia.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Either she is his wife or she isn’t,” he said.

  And if she wasn’t? What good could come of making that clear to the whole world? Maintaining the status quo might be best for all of us. “Why not just leave matters alone?”

  Tavius gave me an annoyed look. “I’ll leave it up to her,” he said.

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’ll leave it up to her,” he repeated.

  A few days later, the three of us—Tavius, Octavia, and I—sat in the sunlit courtyard of Antony’s house in Rome. “Let me bring him the nineteen thousand soldiers you owe him,” Octavia said.

  “Two thousand,” Tavius said. “And seventy warships, and provisions for his army.”

  “Why not nineteen thousand soldiers? Why not keep your promise?”

  “Because I need my soldiers.” Tavius tapped on the side of the stone bench on which he was sitting.

  “He’ll think you don’t trust him,” she said.

  “Well, he’ll be right.”

  “You think he’s going to send me away, don’t you? You think he wants to divorce me?”

  “Look at the facts. He is openly cohabiting with another woman.” Tavius spoke coldly. It was not that he lacked sympathy for his sister, but in the present circumstances her continued loyalty to Antony often filled him with an anger he could barely contain.

  “I feel sometimes that I don’t know you anymore,” Octavia said. She turned an accusing gaze on me. “Livia, whose idea was it to have me join my husband in Alexandria?”

  “You said you wanted to go,” Tavius said.

  “Yes. I’ve been away from him too long. I ought to have insisted on going before this. But you suggest I go to him now. Why?”

  “It’s only normal, isn’t it, for a wife to be with her husband?”

  “I think you assume that my presence in Alexandria will embarrass him. And if he rejects me, that will put him in the wrong with all Rome, because you’ve built me up into a painted clay statue of virtue.” She looked at me. “I know whose idea it was to inflate me in the public mind. I never asked for that treatment, but no one consulted me. Of course not. Why consult me?”

  I said nothing.

  “This plan to suddenly dispatch me to Antony is so sly. It was you who came up with it, wasn’t it, Livia?”

  “No.”

  She tilted her head. “Truly? It was Tavius’s idea? Well, sometimes it’s hard to tell the two of you apart. Even the way you speak—you sound so alike sometimes it makes my skin crawl.”

  Somewhere in the house a baby wailed. Octavia’s little daughter, Antony’s child.

  “Enough of this,” Tavius said, biting off the words.

/>   When Octavia spoke again, her voice shook. “If it ever comes to war between you and Antony, no one can predict who will be the victor. But I will be the most miserable woman alive either way. Don’t you see that?”

  Tavius’s expression was flinty. “I have no more time for this. I have work to do.” Without another word, he rose and walked out of the house.

  For a long moment, Octavia looked after him, her expression desolate. Finally she turned to me. “Why didn’t you leave with him?”

  “I didn’t suggest sending you to Antony,” I said. “And I don’t want him to refuse to welcome you. That’s the last thing I want.”

  “It’s what Tavius wants,” she said.

  I shifted my shoulders. “I don’t know if that’s true.”

  “Why, I thought you knew every thought in my brother’s head,” she said, acid in her voice.

  I suddenly felt deeply weary and rubbed my eyes. “He hates this in-between state. He wants matters resolved, one way or the other.”

  She examined my face, distaste but also curiosity in her own expression. “And what do you want?”

  “I’m afraid of a breach with Antony. I hate war, and I fear it.”

  “You believe if Antony rejects me there will be war?”

  “That’s what I feel in my bones—it will come sooner or later, if your marriage ends. Another civil war.” I looked into Octavia’s eyes. “When I imagine Romans killing each other again, my soul cries out. I remember the deaths of my father and mother, and Perusia, that agony and destruction. I can’t bear the thought of such things happening again. And you’re right—no one can say who would win.”

  She let out a long sigh. “So we are allies, in this. How strange.”

  I reached across the space that divided us and grabbed her hand. “Don’t go to Antony. Leave matters as they are. Wait until he sends for you.”

  Octavia gently withdrew her hand from mine, stood, and turned away. We were both silent. The only sound came from the garish fountain at the courtyard’s center. Rose-scented, gold-colored water gushed out of the mouths of three golden cherubs. Everywhere you glanced in Antony’s house you saw this sort of opulence. Octavia, with her simplicity in dress and manner, always seemed out of place here.

  I wondered if she wanted me to leave, but after a few moments she spoke. “Whatever Tavius’s reasons are for sending me to Antony, I have my own purpose for agreeing to go.” She turned toward me again. “Antony and I—well, we have lain in each other’s arms. If I were there, I could talk to him. I know I could never make him give up Cleopatra. But—oh, let her be his mistress, so long as I’m his wife! I could get him to understand how much rests on our marriage. If I stay away, I doubt he’ll ever send for me. But if I’m there, at least there is a chance that he won’t scorn me.”

  In that moment, I truly looked at her, as perhaps I had not for a long while. She had delicate features, a graceful form. She was not without beauty. Maybe, sated with Cleopatra, Antony would turn to her. Maybe he would even prefer Octavia, once he saw her again.

  “I will not take the children with me, though,” she said. “Much as I’d like to. The boys miss Antony so much, and he has never even seen the baby. But it’s best they stay in Rome for now. I will send for them, if all is well. Livia, can you understand why I won’t take them with me?”

  I nodded, realizing how little confidence she had that Antony would welcome her as his wife. If he divorced her there in his domain, and the children were present, he could take them from her. If they remained in Rome, I could imagine Tavius saying: Certainly, Antony has his rights as a father. Let him come and enforce them.

  She feared not only the loss of her daughters but of Antony’s two sons by Fulvia. She had grown greatly attached to those boys.

  “I have never in my life done anything brave,” she said. “All those virtues Tavius has publicly praised me for—do you notice he left out courage? What does a woman need courage for, he probably thinks.” She gave a dry laugh. “It will take courage for me to go to my husband—to see if he is still my husband. I imagine the look in his eyes when we meet. I imagine him comparing me to her. Well, be that as it may, I am hoping—I am so hoping—I’ll be able to have the children come later, and we will all have a wonderful reunion.”

  I was moved by Octavia’s confiding in me as she did. And I thought there was at least some chance her hope would be realized. Antony was unpredictable, but he had seemed genuinely fond of her. Their marriage might be salvaged, the family ties restored. “May the gods make it so,” I said.

  The two thousand soldiers Tavius chose to give Antony were among the cream of the legions. He had them outfitted with magnificent new armor and weaponry. The seventy warships he dispatched, he packed with clothing and foodstuffs, including live cattle, for the provisioning of Antony’s army. He also sent sumptuous personal gifts for Antony and his leading officers. Nothing was meanly done. Tavius certainly did not intend his sister to return to Antony with empty hands. Octavia, seeing Tavius lay out generous sums, embraced him gratefully, and they parted on warm terms.

  I hoped Antony would accept what had been sent as a token of friendly feeling and restore Octavia to her rightful place as his wife. No doubt he would expect more military support in time, and likely Tavius would be unable to refuse it. Such an outcome, conducive to future harmony, certainly seemed possible.

  I was with Tavius when he received a letter from his sister, telling him how she, and all her bounty, had been received. We sat in his study, discussing a small governmental matter. When the travel-stained messenger entered, I could read disaster just in how he carried himself.

  He said to Tavius, “Sir, my mistress is returning to Rome by easy stages, for she is rather tired. But she sent me on with this.” He handed over a sealed tablet.

  My heart pounded. Tavius ripped the letter’s seal away, read it, and turned white. He dismissed the messenger in a voice of barely controlled fury.

  I did not dare ask him what news the letter held. His whole body shook with rage. Those who would later say—as many did—that he was capable of dealing coldly with the matter of his sister’s marriage, using it as an excuse for doing what he wished to do anyway, ought to have seen him at that moment.

  He could not bring himself to speak but just handed me the letter. As I read it, I saw in every line Octavia’s effort to make what had occurred seem less awful than it was, and to soothe her brother.

  I arrived in Athens and wrote to Antony in Alexandria, asking if he wished me to continue on and join him there, or to stay in our house in Athens and wait for him to come and join me. I told him of course about all the gifts you had generously sent and asked where he wished them delivered. He wrote me back that I should send the gifts to Alexandria, but I should return to his house in Rome.

  Tavius, dear, I know this will upset you. But the wording of his letter was not harsh, but entirely courteous, and he did say I was to return to his house. I am still, of course, his wife. One of his soldiers whispered to me that Cleopatra said she would commit suicide if he received me, as he, at first, had every intention of doing. I think his passion for her is a kind of sickness, which will run its course, if I just wait it out. That is what I intend to do.

  Naturally I will comply with my husband’s wishes. I am sending the gifts on, and I will soon be back in Rome. My sweet Tavius, please do not make more of this rather absurd matter than it is.

  I raised my eyes from the tablet, a sinking feeling in my guts.

  “He would not even see her.” Tavius spoke as if he were trying to make himself believe it. “He just told her to send on the gifts.”

  I did not think Antony was brain-sick with passion for Cleopatra. The two of them had come together before, had twin children, and then parted for over three years when Antony found it convenient. If he was now swept away by love, it was a late development in their
long acquaintance. The queen of Egypt was the richest and most powerful woman in the world. She had personally funded Antony’s Parthian debacle. However love and lust figured in the mix, Antony’s actions surely reflected political calculation too. He would not receive his wife if it caused him problems with Cleopatra.

  And yet he would not divorce Octavia either. He would keep her in his house in Rome, bound to him, dangling. How could he expect Tavius to acquiesce to this treatment of his sister?

  Still, I thought, there must not be civil war again.

  I knew it was not the moment to tell Tavius to put away his rage. I must tread carefully. “Beloved, I share your anger,” I said. “All I ask is that you not act precipitously. You are not a creature to be unmanned by passion, as Antony is.”

  He said in a smothered voice, “Am I not?”

  “The only god he worships is Dionysus, but you are the son of Apollo. Reason, knowledge, and light guide your actions.”

  “If he spat in my face before the whole world, it would be less of an insult than what he’s done. This affront to Octavia—no one can expect me to simply bear it.”

  I could find no words to say that were not likely to exacerbate his anger. Antony’s treatment of Octavia was cruel by any standard. Beyond that, it was dishonoring to her family. Tavius could see it only as an expression of Antony’s contempt for him as a man—contempt that had always been there, underlying their relations with each other. That all the world must know of it made it doubly shaming.

  Tavius let out a long, shuddering breath. “I won’t do anything foolish.”

  Perhaps Octavia preferred a slow journey home because, as her messenger said, she felt weary. Perhaps she needed time to prepare herself to speak of what had happened. She would have had to have been made of steel not to take Antony’s rejection as a personal humiliation.

  She finally arrived in Rome, and when she had rested, we—she, Tavius, and I—met in the garden of Antony’s house on the Palatine. The beautiful summer weather, the exquisitely landscaped garden, the sweet wine, the figs and nuts Octavia had served to us—these would have well suited a pleasant family occasion. But of course, we were all, in our different ways, profoundly upset. Tavius was livid at Antony’s actions, Octavia looked deeply sad, and I was filled with dread of what would happen next.