The Sun of God, page 54
“You speak in riddles,” Livia said coolly. “I only seek your daughter’s best interest.”
“Now that is a lie,” Scribonia said with a smile. “You seek your own best interest, and that of your son. Do you think I did not know you wished Julia for your own Tiberius? But I do not blame you. Oh no, quite the contrary. If I was still in your place, I would fight to the death for my children.”
“What are you saying?”
Scribonia’s blue eyes glittered as though holding some knowledge yet unknown. “You are young, but you will see as you grow older that you have much more influence than you think behind closed doors. Be his wife, be the mother of his children, be the mater of Rome. Let Caesar be Caesar, and let men fight and make laws. It is easier to get what you want when no one is looking.”
“You think I will scheme behind my husband’s back?” Livia asked angrily, though she was only angry because she had already thought the same thing. “Then you do not know much at all, and we are more different than I had thought.”
“Do not come to my house and demand my sympathy,” Scribonia said, her smile turning cold. “I know why you wished to speak with me, and it was not about my daughter. It was never about her. You came to me because I alone know what life you have chosen to live. I alone know whose home you share, and the burdens that come with the rewards of a man who will stop at nothing to get what he desires. You came to me because you wanted my advice as much as my approval. You came to me because I failed in what you wish to achieve.” Scribonia paused. “Tell me I am wrong.”
Livia could hardly speak, her throat closing up, and she stared at the woman Caesar had cast out so carelessly for herself, a woman who knew when to fight and when to retreat, how to demand as much as acquiesce.
She was powerful but powerless, and Livia saw her own doomed fate reflected in every crease on Scribonia’s face, every gray streak in her hair, every mocking smile, as if it were herself ten years in the future, alone save her children, nothing ahead except Death itself, looking at her and saying, Oh, darling, but what did you expect?
“Thank you for the meal,” Livia said quietly. “I must be getting home soon.”
Scribonia sighed. “You are intelligent, Livia, and strong. I see much of myself in you. But never forget that you are alone, and that if you do not fight for yourself and your children, no one else will.”
Livia looked at her one last time before she left. She no longer pitied Scribonia, and though she did not hate her and never had, Livia found herself slightly envious, for Scribonia had lost Caesar, but she had also escaped, and Livia did know which life she herself would rather live.
“Goodbye, Scribonia.”
It was time she chose.
SEPTEMBER 33 BC
Livia walked along the colonnades of her father’s house, the house she had grown up in, the house she had loved, and the house she had lost when she had been married off to Tiberius all those years ago.
The house would have been sold and her mother abandoned had Caesar not bought the house and supported Alfidia as she lived the rest of her days in quiet comfort.
She remembered running along these very columns, lounging in the courtyard with her parents’ guests. Her memories were all tinted by the hot summers, so that she forgot the rougher winters, the endless civil wars, the fights between her mother and father over politics at dinner. It was as if a fog had rolled in her mind, so that when she turned back to look at the past, most was lost before she even thought to remember.
But the long, nearly endless summers, the happy chatter, the walks in the forum, the festivals in the sun, and her father, chasing her across the house until she could not run any longer, remained untouched in her memory, cutting through the fog as clear as day.
“You know, your father would have been proud.”
Her mother appeared from the hall that went to the kitchens, where she was overseeing the large dinner they were to host for some of their oldest acquaintances. Livia was visiting to help oversee the party and to keep her mother company, who was so often alone.
“I wonder what he would think of me now,” Livia said uneasily. For her father had died at Philippi, having committed suicide as Brutus had, at the hands of her husband and Marcus Antonius. “Do you ever miss him?”
“Every day,” Alfidia said, then smiled gently. “But he is still with me. Here.” She placed an aged hand over her heart. “He would have thought you more beautiful than ever.”
“Oh Mother, why was I born a girl?” Livia asked, and she had to close her eyes before the tears came. She refused to cry. “I could have been great. I could have done so much more with my life.”
“You are a mother,” Alfidia said, a hint of reproach in her voice. “Is that not something great?”
Livia’s cheeks burned, and she felt ashamed. She was speaking with her own mother after all. “Of course it is.”
Alfidia walked over to her and took Livia’s hand, kissing her knuckles. “You know, your father never wanted a son.”
“No?”
“No,” her mother said, squeezing her hand. “He always thought boys were too rash, too careless. They went to war, they killed, they hated. No, your father wanted a girl, because he knew any daughter of ours would be worth more than any boy. He knew you would be great because you are Livia Drusilla, and no one else.”
“What if I do it all wrong?” Livia asked, barely more than a whisper. “What if I die and all this will have been for nothing?”
“Then you will die proudly,” her mother said sternly, the most confident Livia had ever heard her speak, and for the first time, Livia saw the strength in Alfidia, which was not as a mother, or a wife, but as a woman, who had the power to give life as Mother Earth herself. “Because life is not about what you have done, but who you have become.”
“War is coming,” Caesar murmured, glancing at Livia as she wove by the water garden, his couch set up near her loom, the morning sun casting their inner courtyard in a hazy glow.
Livia liked when Caesar watched her weave, for she enjoyed his eyes watching her hands move steadily at the loom, hypnotized by her womanly deftness and precision. Julia was still with Scribonia, so they had all the house to themselves, a soft breeze floating through the house, a slight chill in the air that heralded a cold winter.
“Antonius is still living with the Egyptian queen?” Livia asked without breaking her movements.
“In Alexandria, yes.” Her husband paused. “He has not moved any of his army. I suspect they will sail to Athens when the time comes.”
“They will get support from the Greeks, then?”
“That is certainly his plan,” Caesar said. He yawned, as if the slow morning routine were lulling him to sleep. “It does not matter. We are smarter than those Greeks. My only worry is that before war may begin, we will need a reason.”
Livia arched her brow. Caesar had not voiced this worry until now. “Has not Antonius already bequeathed Roman lands to their children? Has he not already claimed Caesarion as the heir of Divus Iulius? What more reason could you need?”
“Those might be reasons enough for me to go to war,” her husband replied wryly, “but not so for the Roman people. I would need some sort of proof of his treason. A document. Even a letter. Something that would truly scandalize every man who calls himself Roman.”
Livia paused, thinking. “And what about a will?”
“A will?”
“It is better than a letter, for whatever is written there will be law. Nothing would terrify the Roman people into action more than if their master sold them into the slavery of Egyptian princelings.”
Caesar’s brow furrowed. “His will would be held secure in Egypt, or else stored with the Vestal Virgins. It is a crime to open such a sealed document.”
Livia smirked. “Not if the contents hold a worse crime.”
“But how can we be sure he has indeed written so damning a will?” Caesar asked pensively.
“We would need someone close to him to confirm our suspicions.” She paused. “Or even fabricate them. Perhaps a witness, or someone who heard from one, so that our accusations are all the more credible.”
“I think I know just the man,” Caesar said with a sly smile. “I shall write to Plancus. If anyone could discover the contents of Antonius’ will, it would be him.”
“Are you so sure he would reveal them to you?” Livia asked cautiously.
Plancus had been the one to betray the Senate as Antonius grew in power, and she did not trust him. But sometimes the most untrustworthy people were more trustworthy by the very fact that one may be sure they were never loyal.
Caesar smirked. “At the right price.” He pondered the plan silently, so that the only sound in the courtyard were the soft creaks of the loom and the distant trickle of water. “If I reveal his will, that might be enough to convince the Roman people of war. But it must not be war with Antonius, at least only as a supporter of Cleopatra. She is the true enemy. That is what Antonius has always mistaken. He may try his best to conquer the East, but there can only be one ruler of those people, and it is a queen.”
Men are only in power because they fear what we could become.
“If Caesarion has been named his heir,” Livia said quietly, “you ought to name yours.”
Caesar glanced at her, and they both knew what she was thinking. But before he could answer, the porter appeared with an urgent message. It was addressed to Caesar, from the household of Tiberius, Livia’s former husband.
He read the note carefully, without speaking, and stared at it for a long time. Then he looked up, his face calm, and he watched her carefully as he spoke. “Tiberius Claudius Nero…is dead.”
Livia stopped weaving. Her heart beat steadily within her chest. The world seemed to be opened for her once more, and the weakness she had always felt since she was a little girl became her greatest strength, the same subtle strength she had seen in Alfidia.
She was no longer a wife or a mother, but the very vessel of the gods above, the author of her own fate, the woman she was always meant to become.
For she was Livia Drusilla, and that was enough.
“Send a message to my sons,” Livia said, rising to her feet. Caesar looked at her warily but did not protest. “Tell them their mother welcomes them to their new home.”
Her fate had just begun.
52
Gaius Octavius
NOVEMBER 33 BC
Octavius loved Rome in autumn. It was when the city eased her choking humidity at last, and rain fell, cooling the evenings. His health suffered in the summer heat and in too much cold, but as the leaves reddened and browned, the stone streets gleaming with a fresh shower, he felt he could endure the city a little longer.
But this year Rome had changed. Long gone were the famines, the poor spilling out into the streets, mobs protesting in the forum, the city slowing to a halt amidst civil war. His recent conquests in Sicily and Illyricum had brought back many spoils, and Agrippa’s work as an aedile curules had breathed life back into Rome.
Grain once more flowed through the ports, and construction of new public baths and basilicas and forums could be heard from everywhere, metal breaking stone, the shouts of workers, the creaking of wooden pulleys. Restorations of the sewers and aqueducts had brought fresh water to every corner of the city as well as clean pipes and streets.
And this was only the beginning. Octavius knew there was much more work to be done if he planned to keep these improvements from crumbling into neglect and ruin as they had done for centuries. There needed new offices to be made, more specialization of tasks, and increased administration of the city’s oversight.
His guidance would be needed, of course, for these new changes to be implemented in an organized manner. Through the Senate, Octavius planned to lead forth the city like a blind man by the arm, until he might hand off his creation to someone he trusted to continue the work he had begun.
He stepped out of the curia, his back aching from the many long hours sitting. Senate meetings tended to drag on more than was necessary, but Octavius understood the importance of appearing as if the old ways had not changed.
Indeed, today they voted to revive countless ancient festivals and rites that have died out or been forgotten in the past generations of civil war. He knew, of course, that many senators secretly considered it useless, and viewed these changes as resuscitating an archaic past that no longer existed. But Octavius merely considered it a reminder of Rome’s divine origins and their right to rule.
His personal armed guard followed him wherever he went. Although some criticized it as a show of military strength, Octavius would not risk his vulnerable position of power to another assassination attempt.
The forum was busy today, with markets and stalls filled with bustling crowds, and senators pouring out of the curia, looking forward to relaxing in the baths.
Octavius himself was transported home, where he had installed his own modest, private baths. He spent much time here, especially since Tiberius and Drusus had moved in after their father passed away. Octavius tried to avoid encountering them, though he still held up his end of the deal, and both boys had been enrolled in the same education as Marcellus.
Once he became adjusted to the heat of the warm bath, Octavius moved from the tepidarium to the caldarium. He stepped into the scalding water of the hot bath and slipped under until the water level was below his chin.
Agrippa and Maecenas had always told him he spent too much time in the baths, but they did not understand the peace it brought him, the shelter from the outside world, where illness and war faded to witty lines of poetry and epic tragedies only found in stories.
His life made sense in the baths, when he closed his eyes, and the heat curled around him like a blanket, like a fog, so that his existence was as weightless as floating in water.
Footsteps at the door roused him.
He wondered who it was, for he had strict rules not to be bothered unless it was an emergency, or if he called for the strigilis. It could not be Livia, for she hated bathing, and never came near them. Besides, she would be occupied with the children or some other task of the house.
A shadowed, quiet figure filled the doorway.
“Hello,” said the voice.
Agrippa.
Octavius felt his heart quicken its pulse immediately, but he forced himself to remain calm. He raised a brow at Agrippa, who watched him from the entryway, leaning against the frame of the door.
“How did you get in?” Octavius asked at last.
Agrippa’s eyes traveled down his face, to the narrow strip of his chest above water, before reluctantly returning to his face. “Livia let me in.”
They both stared at each other until Agrippa blushed. It was no secret why he was here. Something had shifted between them since his return from Illyricum in January, when he had laid aside his pride and gave himself, bit by bit, to Agrippa. Not entirely, but it was enough for them to blush when they caught each other’s eyes, even in a room full of people, and remember the stolen nights and hidden encounters over the past year.
“Do you want to join?” Octavius asked.
Agrippa hesitated, then walked inside, switching his sandals for the wooden ones so that he would not burn his feet. He came to the edge of the bath and stopped, still fully clothed.
Octavius held his breath as he waited, before Agrippa pulled his tunic over his head in a single motion, and his naked body seemed to quiver under Octavius’ gaze, the broad shoulders and the indents of his hips more soft and inviting than ever before.
This was the first time they had ever been in the baths together since long before their first kiss. Octavius remembered bathing in Puteoli, near his stepfather’s villa, when the wars ahead were as distant as stars on the horizon.
Nothing had seemed real then except Agrippa’s hands on his skin, smoothing oil in painful, dizzying sweeps. Somehow, he had convinced himself it all had meant nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Agrippa climbed into the bath and sat down opposite him. His eyes did not quite reach Octavius’, as if between them there were still oceans, as if he did not simply have to touch him and he would unravel beneath him. The thought sent his pulse lifting like the wings of a bird taking flight.
“I wish there was more time,” Octavius murmured as Agrippa settled in the water.
“More time?”
But he seemed to understand what he meant, closing his eyes and leaning back until the water rose up his neck. Agrippa always wanted to hear him say it.
“For us,” Octavius added reluctantly. “Before war with Antonius.”
At the end of the year, the alliance of the Tresviri would legally expire, and there was no doubt that neither of them wished to renew any more dead promises. The time for false friendships had long passed, and now one of them must step up and become master of Rome.
For now, however, an uneasy peace held a spell over them, and Octavius would not dare declare war until he was certain the people would follow him into battle. Antonius, meanwhile, had not stirred his forces in the East, and whether this was on account of his ignorance of Octavius’ growing support in Rome or simple indifference, it mattered not. Octavius would be ready when the time came, and Antonius would have to fight him to the death or surrender.
“You do not think we shall survive,” Agrippa said with a hint of surprise.
Octavius hesitated. “Not exactly. There is always risk in war.”
“Then what is different now?”
He looked away from Agrippa’s keen glance. He saw too much in him, and it was too late to close himself up again. “Everything,” Octavius said.
“Everything?”
“If I defeat Antonius,” he replied, looking at him, “I shall be the savior of the Republic.”
