The Sun of God, page 51
Attica had already arrived, very pregnant with her second child. Vipsania Agrippina was asleep in the arms of her handmaiden, already a year old. Soon after Livia arrived, Tiberius and Drusus burst out into the garden, finding Iullus—Antonius’ second son by Fulvia—and Marcellus, who dragged his stepbrother and two cousins into a game of playing pretend, which usually involved much battle and multiple deaths and revivals.
Julia, now four years old, was holding Livia’s hand, and she tried to run after the boys. Although Livia protested, Attica and Octavia convinced her that there really was no harm, and with a happy cry Julia joined the boys in their adventures.
Octavia asked her own daughters if they wished to join as well, but only Claudia Marcella Major, who was already in her eighth year, shyly walked over to Iullus and Drusus, who were looking under a bush, probably searching for strange bugs.
Her other daughters, Claudia Marcella Minor and Antonia Major, were content to play near their mother, braiding each other’s hair and playing hand games. Octavia’s youngest daughter, Antonia Minor, was hardly a year old, and remained on her mother’s lap, more interested in undoing her mother’s intricate braids than anything else.
“Very soon, my dear,” Attica said to Agrippina, who was wide awake at the sounds of children playing and wished to join them, yearning towards Tiberius and Marcellus. They were pretending to be generals at war, while Iullus and Drusus were now examining a small caterpillar they had found crawling on a leaf. “But you are too young.”
Agrippina, who seemed to understand, screamed angrily and caught the attention of Tiberius, who looked up at the noise worriedly. Tiberius said something quietly to Marcellus before he marched over to Agrippina.
“We were in the middle of our game!” Marcellus protested, but Tiberius did not seem to hear him, speaking with Attica and holding Agrippina’s hand tenderly.
They would not know they were to be betrothed for many years, but it was already a good match. Livia, however, looked at them with a slight frown. While Agrippina might be a good match for her son, it was still an insult. For Julia was the more illustrious choice as Octavius’ daughter, and she had been promised to Antyllus, Antonius’ eldest son, instead of Tiberius.
“I can take his spot,” Julia said, standing in front of Marcellus.
“But you’re a girl!” Marcellus protested, a bit of wonder in his voice, perhaps surprised Julia had even thought to suggest it.
“Then I may play your wife,” Julia suggested shyly. “And you have to save me from pirates.”
Marcellus looked frightened at the thought and turned to Octavia in alarm. She could not help but laugh, and Julia’s lip quivered as if she were about to cry or shout angrily.
“Come here, darling,” Livia called to Julia, who was now quite embarrassed and willing to run back to her stepmother. “No need to bother the boys.”
Tiberius then returned to Marcellus, and they pretended to be pirates and sailed across wild seas filled with monsters and sirens and explored strange isles of witches and one-eyed giants. Julia watched sullenly from beside Livia, but eventually she was put in charge of playing with Agrippina and Antonia Minor, who were so in awe of the older girl that all jealousy of the boys was forgotten.
“It is a lovely day, is it not?” Attica said suddenly, sighing. She bit her lip and then there were tears welling up in her gray eyes, though she wiped them away furiously.
“Oh, my love, what’s wrong?” Livia asked, looking at Attica sadly, for they all knew what ailed her. Agrippa had been gone for nearly six months now fighting in Illyricum, and she was about to have another baby.
“Do not cry, my dear Attica,” Octavia said. “They will return.”
“I cannot,” she said quietly. “I cannot have this child without him.”
Livia shared an uneasy glance with Octavia. She knew as well as Octavia that Agrippa was loyal to Octavius first and foremost. “You have us. We shall take care of you.”
This seemed to calm Attica for the most part, and they returned to amusing the children and watching as the boys played. Eventually, Marcellus felt pity for Julia and asked her to play in their games again, and she eagerly joined in the battles and sea voyages around the gardens.
A few hours later her porter appeared, bearing a message from her brother. She saw Attica and Livia turn to her anxiously. Octavia nodded at the porter, and he began to read the letter aloud.
“Gaius Julius Caesar sends his greetings to Octavia Minor. The war goes well. We laid siege to Metulum and were successful. I sustained injuries to my right leg and arm after we rushed over a drawbridge and it collapsed, but the doctor is confident in a full recovery. Many have died, many more are injured, but our supplies are well protected. We shall march to Segesta in the following weeks. Send my love to Marcellus, I do miss that little donkey. I shall see him again by the end of the year if he should ask. Vale.”
Octavia sighed in relief. “They are alive.”
“But Agrippa?” Attica asked worriedly. “He said nothing of Agrippa.”
“Then nothing happened,” Octavia said with a confidence she did not feel. “My brother would have mentioned it otherwise.”
Livia was quiet, staring at the ground lost in thought. She was evidently not worried about her husband’s injuries. Octavia knew she was thinking of his affection towards her son, Marcellus, which he had never once shown to Tiberius. It was an unspoken tension between them, for it was not in doubt whom Octavius favored—Marcellus or Tiberius—but why, for neither boy was his true son. However, it seemed her brother harbored a special love for Marcellus and a special hatred for Tiberius. While the former could be explained by Marcellus’ relation by blood, the latter was a mystery.
After all, Octavia and Livia had both been given the same special honors this year. They were both granted sacrosanctitas, an honor previously reserved only for tribunes, which made it illegal to insult them. They were both excused from tutela, the customary male guardianship required for all women besides the Vestal Virgins, which also allowed them to manage their own finances. And they both had countless statues of themselves erected in public squares and buildings across Rome.
Octavia wished things were different, but she could not pretend she was not grateful that Marcellus was favored. For the alternative was dangerous, and she did not know what lengths she would go to protect her son, even against her own brother.
“The war is temporary,” Octavia said finally, forcing a smile, glad the news was good at least. “It is only a precautionary measure. My brother would not risk his life for so little.”
But Attica did not smile, and there was a darkness in her eyes that startled Octavia. “No, not his life.”
Octavia had no answer to that.
NOVEMBER 35 BC
Octavia never thought she would return here.
As she wandered the empty, dark halls of her husband’s villa in Athens, now coated in dust from disuse, Octavia could not help but reflect on how much her life had changed in only a few years.
She had been sent as an envoy to her husband by her brother, who had returned alone from Illyricum to attend to some affairs in Rome, leaving Agrippa in command of his legions while he was away. Her brother had decided to send only two thousand soldiers to Antonius, despite the fact that he had promised twenty thousand.
Antonius, meanwhile, currently resided in Alexandria, or at least he claimed to be using the Egyptian city as his base of operations while he campaigned in Armenia. That was the last Octavia had heard of him.
She knew she had become a pawn in the political game between her husband and her brother. The two thousand soldiers were nothing more than an insult, a test of Antonius’ faith to the Roman people more so than to his wife.
Octavia had left her children in Rome, in case she never returned. Who knew what would become of her in Egypt? Octavius had assured her that he would allow no harm to befall her, but his reassurances fell flat as she looked at the dimly lit halls where she had spent most of her marriage with Antonius.
There had been a time of bliss, or at least, of willful ignorance. She had never been in love with Antonius, but the hatred that they seemed to mutually share, the kind of hatred that arose from an innate understanding, almost a similarity, between them, from the moment she had seen him at her mother’s funeral, rapidly heated into a passion she had never felt before.
Antonius was, after all, only a man, solid and demanding, but surprisingly gentle and loving in a way only men could be.
She remembered one of the few real conversations they had together, before she knew she was pregnant with their first child. They had gone to sleep in the same bed, and Octavia had been warm at heart, for here she was, finally, a woman, and if she closed her eyes, here was her man, and that was all there was to the world.
But then she had opened them, and Antonius had looked at her silently, troubled.
“What?” she had asked.
He had shaken his head. “Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
“It is nothing, really.” Antonius had paused, leaning back. “You women always terrify me.”
“Oh really?” Octavia had laughed. He could be amusing when he tried.
“I thought your mother could read every thought I had,” he had murmured. “Your brother has those same eyes. And so do you.”
“You truly knew my mother?”
“Well, yes,” Antonius had answered uneasily. He had rarely liked to speak of their families. Though distant the connection, a connection there still was, and he seemed to despise it. “I remember the first time I met you.”
“As do I,” Octavia had said honestly.
And she had, though the memory had faded. It had been at her father’s funeral. Antonius had been young, and ever so handsome. She had blushed at his voice alone. But she had been nothing more than a child, and soon she would come to hate him, if only because she had blushed all those years ago.
Antonius had looked at her in surprise, then frowned. “I was a scoundrel back then. Atia knew it. They all did.”
“And now you are not?” Octavia had asked, raising a brow.
Instead of becoming angry, as she had expected, Antonius had grinned wickedly and rolled on top of her. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Octavia sat down on what was once their bed, pushing the memory away. She secretly dreaded seeing him again, knowing he had returned to the Egyptian queen and made love to her. Though she knew it was not her fault, the small child in her wondered if somehow it had been. But that was a false logic, for Antonius would have had to abandon her regardless. Her brother would have made sure of it.
By the gods, to be a woman!
What a blessing, what a curse it was! Octavia knew she was a better person than Antonius, even a better man. As a woman, she longed for him, for his touch, but at the same time, she recoiled from it, from the touch of any man. Since the day she had lost the love of her life, her dear Marcellus, all men were cut off from her, their plights were false to her, their love and hate a mere shadow to the grief that had moved like mountains in her heart.
How she missed his smile, and those soft blue eyes! How she wished to return to that night when they first made love, those days of bliss and beginnings, of life and laughter!
Octavia knew her life was a mere footnote in the grand scheme of history. Men worshiped history and feared that it would forget them. But women knew there was no one to remember them, not even their children, who realized only too late to whom they owed their lives. History was a man’s word, reserved for great deeds, conquests and triumphs, not marriage and children.
But what of it? She never cared for history. Let men believe their lives were worth something more than death. Octavia knew only herself, her love, and the children whom she bore, even if they did not bear her name. And she would never stop loving, for that was how life was made, and how life went on, whether men called it history or not.
“My lady.”
Octavia whirled around, her heart beating frantically at the voice, wondering fearfully if her husband had come to meet her there. But it was only one of her servants. She had thought no one would interrupt her, so it had to be bad news.
“What is it?”
“A letter arrived.” A pause. “From Tresvir Antonius.”
Octavius’ breath caught. “What does it say?”
“Only that he has accepted the two thousand soldiers, but demands that you do not go farther than Athens, and return home. He shall not welcome you in Egypt.”
For a moment, all stood still, and the world was wide and filled with evil, and she was alone. Then the moment passed, and from one breath to the next Octavia felt relief flood through her body, and her head was lighter upon her shoulders, as if each step closer to her husband had been a weight upon her, dragging her down to earth when she had always been free to fly.
“Then I will return to Rome,” Octavia said firmly, standing up. “Pack my things. I do not intend to stay the night.”
She left their bedroom, the past settling in her soul like the dust in the house, and when her ship sailed away from the rocky Greek coastline, Octavia did not look back.
49
Gaius Octavius
JANUARY 34 BC
“Please, come again soon!” Livia called out the door as their decorated guests waved and descended the walkway to their carriages, their faces flushed from the wine, all careless smiles and easy laughter.
It was Livia’s birthday, and as Octavius was luckily still in town, he had thrown a party for her. Most of the guests were senators, others wealthy private citizens, Balbus and Oppius among them. There were artists and poets, like Vergilius and Rufus, as well as sons of illustrious fathers, and daughters of the most well-respected matrons. Octavia and Attica had been present earlier, but both of them retired after dinner to care for the younger children, who were fussy by the late evening.
Octavius stood beside Livia as she closed the door and sighed, her smile falling into a slight frown.
“Finally,” she said. “I was beginning to have trouble keeping my eyes open.” It was nearing the early hours of the morning after all.
“Did you enjoy your birthday?” Octavius asked, taking her hand and reeling her into his arms.
She was now in her twenty-sixth year, while he was soon to be approaching his thirtieth. It seemed only yesterday they had met, when he was only nineteen, and the entire world felt like one war away.
Now they understood that the world was far larger and far more hostile than they had thought, and that accomplishing their dreams would take a lifetime, if not more.
“Yes, it was lovely,” Livia said, kissing him briefly.
While time and distance certainly cooled whatever passion they had found in the early years after their hasty marriage, the love they felt for each other, sprung from a deep loyalty and understanding that Octavius had not expected to find, never wavered, and indeed, grew stronger with each passing year, as did the laurel tree in their garden, a symbol of the past as much as the future.
Octavius kissed her forehead. “I shall return to Illyricum in a few weeks.”
“Very well,” she said, though her brown eyes, usually so warm and kind, were troubled and did not meet his gaze.
“What is on your mind?” Octavius asked, touching her chin. “Tell me.”
“Oh, it is nothing.” She paused, eyeing him carefully. For a moment, Octavius did not know if she would tell him, but then she said, “I have only been thinking, ought not Julia be wed to Tiberius?”
The question was not exactly a surprise, but he went very still, for he had not thought she would ever ask it. “Julia is promised to Antyllus. And I have already arranged Tiberius’ marriage to Agrippina. I thought you approved.”
“Oh yes,” Livia said carelessly, though her smile was tense. “When you needed to save your alliance with Antonius, I approved. But now we both know your alliance with Antonius will not last. Besides, Antyllus is living with him in Alexandria. He would be a bad influence on Julia.”
“It is not worthwhile thinking of these things,” Octavius said, turning away from her. “I cannot afford to break off my alliance with Antonius at such a delicate time. The public must be sure of peace.”
“But when the time comes?” Livia challenged, and he knew she would not let him off so easily. “Shall you promise Julia to Tiberius?”
“They are too young to decide,” Octavius said reluctantly. “They might die any day.”
“Then you have chosen Marcellus,” Livia said, raising her chin defiantly. “You wish Julia would wed him, and not Tiberius.” When Octavius did not respond, she shook her head in disbelief. “Are not Tiberius and Drusus like your sons? Am I not their mother as I am your wife?”
“If they were my sons, they would bear my name.”
Livia’s eyes flashed angrily. “Then change their name. When their father dies, they will answer to you alone. What more could you ask of a son?”
Octavius stared at her, and when he realized she would not relent, he forced the words out. “Marcellus shares my blood. He is the only one who may inherit what I have built.”
“So then you are a king now?” Livia asked, arching a brow. “Do you think the Senate shall ever approve it? Do you think the people will stand for it?”
Octavius bared a smile. “Those are two very different questions.” He paused. “But I am no king. And you are no queen. We are Romans, and that is all.”
“We both know that is not true,” Livia murmured. “Not anymore. We may never be crowned, but when the wars are over, the people will look to us as the mother and father of all Romans and beyond.”
“A father whose son is not even his?” Octavius asked, his voice rising. “I would be ridiculed! I would be humiliated. No, it cannot be.”
“You are a liar,” Livia said softly, but not with any spite, only pity, and somehow that was worse. “It is not because of blood that you favor Marcellus. It is because you hate Tiberius. You hate my son. I have known it since the day you met him. Perhaps you will not admit it. But it is the truth, whether you believe it or not.”
