Augustus

CHAPTER FOUR

I. Letter: Nicolaus of Damascus to Gaius Cilnius Maecenas, from Jerusalem (14 B. c.)

For the past three years, I have, in my letters to you, wondered why our friend Octavius Caesar insisted that I accompany Marcus Agrippa and his wife on this long Eastern tour; for it is clear that my connection with Herod is, in itself, not sufficient to justify my long absence from Rome. I now begin to understand his reasons; and before you know them, you shall wonder at my writing to you, in your retirement, rather than to Octavius Caesar himself. But if you will attend me, you will gradually begin to understand.

I write you from Jerusalem, where a few months ago Marcus Agrippa and Julia came with me, upon the invitation of Herod, who offered us a rest from our travels. Agrippa's stay in Jerusalem was limited, however; for no sooner had he arrived than word came of serious disturbances in the Bosporus. The old King, faithful to Rome, is dead; and his young wife, Dynamis, imagining herself no doubt a northern Cleopatra, but perhaps unmindful ofthat unhappy lady's fate, has allied herself with a barbarian named Scribonius; and in defiance of Roman policy, has declared herself, with her lover, to be the ruler of her husband's kingdom. Indeed, it is rumored that she, at the instigation of her lover, had a hand in her own husband's death. In any event, Marcus Agrippa, knowing that this kingdom is the last bulwark against the northern barbarians, determined to go there and put down the revolt; this he is now in the process of doing, with ships and men provided by Herod.

It was, of course, impossible for Julia to accompany him. She showed no real desire to do so; but neither would she accept Herod's plea that she remain in Jerusalem until her husband rejoined her, nor did she show any inclination to return to Rome. Rather, despite our entreaties, she gathered her retinue, and upon departure of her husband northward, she herself departed for Greece, and for those islands to the north from which she and her husband were recently returned. I have received some alarming news from that part of the world, where she now is; and that news, my dear Maecenas, is the occasion for this letter.

For the past two years, during their leisurely journey southward among the Aegean islands and the coastal cities of Greece and Asia, both Marcus Agrippa and Julia have been received with the honors due the representatives of the Emperor Octavius Caesar and Rome. But in especial Julia, since she is the daughter of the Emperor, has been the recipient ofthat sort of adulation of which only the island and Eastern Greeks are capable.

The adulation began in an ordinary enough way. At Andros, in honor of her visit, a statue in her likeness was erected; the inhabitants of Mytilene, on the Island of Lesbos, hearing of the homage given by the inhabitants of Andros, constructed a larger statue, in the twin likeness of Julia and the goddess Aphrodite; and thereafter, as island and city learned of the approach of Julia and Agrippa, the ceremonies became more and more extravagant, until at last Julia came to be regarded as the goddess Aphrodite herself, returned to earth, and came to be worshiped (at least ritually) by the people.

I am sure that you will agree that in all this extravagancy, ludicrous as it may appear to civilized men, there is nothing really very harmful; for in these public demonstrations, the Greeks were witty enough to have modified these odd ceremonies so that they might offend no one, and so that they might appear almost Romanized.

But in the midst of all this, something rather extraordinary has begun to happen to the person of Julia, of whom I have been (as you know) rather fond. It is almost as if she has begun to take on some of the attributes of that personage to whom she has been ritually likened; she has become imperious and indifferently arrogant, as if she indeed were not truly mortal.

This has for some time been my impression of her character; but I have just received news from Asia which sadly confirms what had been uncertain.

The report is that Julia, having spent the day in Ilium wandering among the ruins of the ancient site of Troy, attempted to cross the Scamander River by night. By some circumstance that is not clear, the raft bearing Julia and her attendants was overturned, and all were swept downstream. It was, no doubt, a near thing for all of them. In any event, she was finally rescued (by whom, it is not clear); but in her anger at the villagers who, she charges, did not attempt to rescue her, and in the name of her husband, Marcus Agrippa, she imposed upon the village a fine of one hundred thousand drachmas, which would amount to nearly a thousand drachmas for each of them. It is a heavy fine, indeed, for poor people, many of whom would not see a thousand drachmas in a lifetime of labor.

It is said that these villagers, though they heard the cries for help, came to the bank of the river, and watched, and would not attempt the rescue. I believe that this is probably a true account of the incident. Nevertheless, despite what might seem the obvious guilt of the villagers, I shall intercede. I shall ask a favor of Herod (who owes me several), and request that he persuade Marcus Agrippa to remit the fine. I shall do so, not out of pity for the villagers, but out of apprehension for the safety of the house of Octavius Caesar.

For Julia had not spent the day as an innocent tourist at Ilium; and her crossing the Scamander was not an innocent return to her quarters.

I spoke earlier of those public ceremonies-part religious, part political, and part social-in which Julia was elevated upon the throne of Aphrodite. By dwelling upon them, I suppose I have been putting off speaking of another kind of ceremony that is not public, but which is secret and unknown and somewhat frightening to this age of enlightenment.

There is a secret cult among these island and Eastern Greeks which worships a goddess whose name (at least to all those who are not initiates) is unknown. She is said to be the goddess of all gods and goddesses; her power is beyond the power of all the other gods conceived by mankind. Upon certain occasions, the power of this goddess is celebrated by rituals-though what they are no one knows, since the cult is shrouded in the secrecy of its fervor or its shame. But no secret is absolute; and in my travels I have heard enough of this cult to fill me with a revulsion at its nature and an apprehension of its consequences.

It is a female cult; and though there are priests, they are castrates who at one time allowed themselves to be used as sacrificial victims to the goddess. These victims are chosen by the priestesses-it is said that sometimes the priestesses choose their own sons as victims, since within their peculiar doctrine such a victim is the most honored and fortunate of men. He must be under the age of twenty; he must be virginal; and he must be a willing victim.

I do not know the precise nature of the rite; but I have heard, myself, from afar, the flute music and the chants in the sacred groves where the rites are performed. It is said that for three days the initiates and the members of the cult "purify" themselves by abstinence from all fleshly things; it is said, further, that when the rites begin the celebrants intoxicate themselves by dancing, by singing, and the drinking of certain libations- whether of wine or some more mysterious substance, no one knows. Then, when the celebrants are in a frenzy induced by their music and dancing and strange drink, the ceremony begins. One of several sacrificial victims is brought before the woman who has been chosen as the ritual incarnation of the Great Goddess. Save for the fur of some wild animal tied loosely about his waist, he is naked; he is bound to a cross made of some sacred wood from the trees by the grove, by wrist and foot, with lengths of laurel wreath. After he has been placed before the goddess, the celebrants dance about him; it is said that they fling their own clothing from their bodies in their frenzy as they dance. Then the goddess approaches the boy and with the sacred knife loosens the fur that hides his nakedness; and when she finds a victim that pleases her, she cuts the laurel that constrains him, and leads him to a cave in the sacred grove, which has been prepared for the "marriage" of the goddess and the mortal.

The marriage is supposed to be a ritual marriage; but it is a female cult, and secret, and sanctioned neither by law nor public custom. The goddess and her victim remain unseen in the cave for three days; it is said that the goddess uses her victim in whatever way pleases her; food and drink are put at the entrance of the cave, and those celebrants on the outside indulge in whatever lust or perversity that their frenzy leads them to.

After three days, the goddess and her mortal lover emerge from the cave, and cross a body of water to another sacred grove, which becomes the Island of the Blessed; and there the mortal lover becomes immortal, at least in the barbaric minds of the celebrants.

It is known to all that from Ilium to Lesbos this cult prevails, and that it numbers among its members those who belong to the richest and most cultivated families in that part of the world. When Julia's raft was upset, she was returning from such a rite as I have described, completing the prescribed ritual, crossing to the Island of the Blessed. She had been the incarnation of the goddess. And the villagers, in their abhorrence of such dark practices, could not overcome their fear of these strange beings, who (they thought) lived in a world beyond their comprehension and experience. I cannot allow the fine levied upon them to stand; for if I do, the secrecy (which now protects Julia, the unknowing Marcus Agrippa, Octavius Caesar, and even Rome itself) may be broken.

And beyond the vile practices which are rumored, there is another that is even more serious; the members of the cult are required to abjure all authority beyond the dictates of their own desires, and have no allegiance to any man, or law, or mortal custom. Thus, not only is the license of immorality encouraged-but murder, treason, and all other conceivable unlawful acts.

My dear Maecenas, I trust that now you understand why I could not write the Emperor; why I cannot speak to Marcus Agrippa; why I must burden you with this problem, even in your retirement from public affairs. You must find a way to persuade your friend and master to force Julia to return to Rome. If she is not now corrupted beyond retrieval, she will be soon, if she remains in this strange land that she has discovered.

II. The Journal of Julici, Pandateria (A.D. 4)

I have never known why my father ordered me, in terms that I could not disobey, to return to Rome. He never gave me a reason sufficient to justify the strength of his command; he merely said that it was unseemly that the wife of the Second Citizen be so long absent from the people who loved her, and that there were certain social and religious duties that only I and Livia could perform. I did not believe that that was the true reason for my recall, but he did not allow me to question him further. But he could not fail to know that I had resented my return; it seemed to me then that I was being exiled from the only life in which I had ever been myself, and that I was to spend my days performing a kind of duty in which I no longer could see any meaning.

In any event, it was Nicolaus-that odd little Syrian Jew, of whom my father was unaccountably fond and whom he trusted-who delivered the message to me, traveling all the way from Jerusalem to find me at Mytilene on Lesbos.

I was angry, and I said to him: "I will not go. He cannot force me to return."

Nicolaus shrugged. "He is your father," he said.

"My husband," I said. "I am with my husband."

"Your husband," Nicolaus said; "your husband is in the Bosporus. Your husband is your father's friend. Your father is the Emperor. He misses you, I suspect. And Rome-it will be spring when we return."

And so we set sail from Lesbos, and I watched the islands slip by, like clouds in a dream. It was my life, I thought, that slipped behind me; it was the life in which I had been a queen, and more than a queen. And as the days passed, and as we drew nearer to Rome, I knew that she who returned was not the same woman who had left, three years before.

And I knew that the life to which I returned would be different. I did not know how it would be so, but I knew that it would be. Not even Rome could awe me now, I thought. And I remember that I wondered if I would still feel like a child when I saw my father.

I returned to Rome in the year of the consulship of Tiberius Claudius Nero, the son of Livia and the husband of my husband's daughter, Vipsania. I was twenty-five years of age. Who had been a goddess returned to Rome a mere woman, and in bitterness.

III. Letter: Publius Ovidius Naso to Sextus Propertius, in Assisi (13 B. c.)

Dear Sextus, my friend and my master-how do you thrive in that melancholy exile you have imposed upon yourself) Your Ovid beseeches you to return to Rome, where you are sorely missed. Things here are not nearly so gloomy as you may have been led to believe; a new star is in the Roman sky, and once again those who have the wit to do so may live in gaiety and pleasure. Indeed, during the past few months, I have concluded that I would be in no other time and in no other place.

You are the master of my art, and older than I-yet can you be sure that you are wiser? Your melancholy may be of your own constitution, rather than Rome's making. Do return to us; there is pleasure yet, before the night comes down upon us.

But forgive me; you know that I am not suited for weighty talk, and once having begun cannot sustain it. I intended at the outset of this letter merely to tell you of a delightful day, hoping that I could persuade you by that to return to us.

Yesterday was the anniversary of the Emperor Octavius Caesar's birth, and thus a Roman holiday; yet it began for me unpropitiously enough. I was in my office disgracefully early- at the first hour, no less, just as the sun was beginning to struggle up from the east through the forest of buildings that is Rome, bringing the city to its feet-for though one may not plead a case on such a holiday as this, one may have to do so the next day; and I had a particularly difficult brief to prepare. It seems that Cornelius Apronius, who has retained me, is suing Fabius Creticus for nonpayment for some lands, while Creticus is countersuing, claiming that the title to the lands is faulty. Both are thieves; neither has a case; thus the skill of the brief and the persuasion of the pleading are most important-as, of course, is the chance of magistrate.

In any event, I had been working all morning; marvelous lines kept popping into my head, as they always do when I am laboring at something that bores me; my secretary was particularly slow and fumbling; and the noise that came from the Forum grated against my ears much more fiercely than it should have done. I was becoming increasingly irritable, and for the hundredth time swore that I should give up this foolish career that in the long run will only give me riches I do not need and the dull distinction of senatorial office.

Then, in the midst of my boredom, a remarkable thing happened. I heard a clatter outside my door, and laughter; and though I heard no knock, my door burst open, and there stood before me the most remarkable eunuch I have ever seen- coiffed and perfumed, dressed in elegant silks, with emeralds and rubies on his fingers, he stood before me as if he were better than a freedman, better even than a citizen.

"This is not the Saturnalia," I said angrily. "Who has given you leave to burst in upon me?"

"My mistress," he said in a shrill, effeminate voice; "my mistress bids you attend me."

"Your mistress," I said, "may rot, for all I care… Who is she?"

He smiled as if I were a slug at his feet. "My mistress is Julia, daughter of Octavius Caesar, the August, Emperor of Rome and First Citizen. Do you wish to know more, lawyer?"

I suppose I gaped at him; I did not speak.

"You will attend me, I presume?" he said haughtily.

In an instant my irritation was gone. I laughed, and tossed the sheaf of papers I had been clutching toward my secretary. "Do the best you can with these," I said. Then I turned to the slave who waited for me. "I will attend you," I said, "wherever your mistress would have you lead me." And I followed him out the door.

As is my wont, dear Sextus, I shall digress for a moment. In a casual way, I had met the lady in question a few weeks before, at a huge party given by that Sempronius Gracchus whom we both know. The Emperor's daughter had returned only a month or so before from a long journey in the East, where she had accompanied her husband, Marcus Agrippa, on some business of his, and where Agrippa remains yet. I was anxious to meet her, of course; since her return, the fashionable people of Rome have been talking of nothing else. So when Gracchus, who seems to be on rather friendly terms with her, invited me, I of course quickly accepted.

There were literally hundreds of people at the party at Sempronius Gracchus's villa-really too large a gathering to be very amusing, I suppose, but it was pleasurable in its own way. Despite the numbers of people, I had the chance to meet Julia, and we bantered for a few moments. She is an utterly charming woman, exquisitely beautiful, and really quite intelligent and well-read. She was kind enough to indicate that she had read some of my poems. Knowing her father's reputation for rectitude (as do you, my poor Sextus), I tried to make a sort of rueful apology for the "naughtiness" of my verse. But she smiled at me in that devastating way she has, and said: "My dear Ovid, if you try to convince me that though your verse is naughty, your life is chaste, I shall not speak to you again."

And I said, "My dear lady, if that is the condition, I shall attempt to convince you otherwise."

And she laughed and moved away from me. Though it was a pleasant interlude, it did not occur to me that she would give me another thought, let alone remember my existence for two whole weeks. And yet she did; and yesterday I found myself in her company once more, following the circumstance which I have described.

Outside my door, attended by bearers, there were perhaps half a dozen litters, canopied with silk of purple and gold; they teemed with the movements of their occupants, and laughter shook the street. I stood, not knowing where to turn; my castrate chaperon had wandered away and was haranguing some of the lesser slaves. Then someone stepped from a litter, and I saw at once that it was she, the Julia who had so kindly interrupted my tedious morning. Then another stepped from the litter and joined her. It was Sempronius Gracchus. He smiled at me. I went toward them.

"You have saved me from a death by boredom," I said to Julia. "What now will you do with that life which belongs to you?"

"I shall use it frivolously," she said. "Today is my father's birthday, and he has given me permission to invite some of my friends to sit with him in his box at the Circus. We shall watch the games, and gamble away our money."

"The games," I said. "How charming." I intended my remark to be neutral, but Julia took it as irony. She laughed.

"One does not have that much concern for the games," she said. "One goes to see, and to be seen, and to discover less common amusements." She glanced at Sempronius. "You will learn, perhaps." She turned from me then, and called to the others, some of whom had stepped out of their litters to stretch their legs. "Who would share his seat with Ovid, the poet of love, who writes of those things to which you have dedicated your lives?"

Arms waved from litters, my name was shouted: "Here, Ovid, ride with us-my girl needs your advice!" "No, I need your advice!" And there was much laughter. I finally chose a litter in which there was room for me, the bearers hoisted their burdens, and we made our way slowly through the crowded streets toward the Circus Maximus.

We arrived at noon, just as the hordes of people were streaming out of the stands for a hasty lunch before the resumption of the games. I must say, it gave me an odd feeling to see those masses, recognizing the colors of our litters, part before our advance, as the earth parts before the advance of a plow. Yet they were gay, and waved to us and shouted in the most friendly manner.

We debarked from our litters; and with Julia, Sempronius Gracchus, and another whom I did not know leading our band, we made our way among those arcades that honeycomb the Circus toward the stairs. Occasionally from the doorway of one of these arcades, an astrologer would beckon and call to us, whereupon someone in our party would shout: "We know our future, old man!" and throw him a coin. Or a prostitute would show herself and beckon enticingly to one who seemed unattached, whereupon one of the ladies might call to her in mock terror, "Oh, no! Don't steal him from us. He might never return!"

We mounted the stairs; and as we approached the Imperial box there were shushings and calls for quiet, out of deference for the presence of Octavius Caesar. But he was not in the box when we arrived; and I must say that, despite the pleasure I was having in the company of this most delightful troop, I found myself a little disappointed.

For as you know, Sextus, unlike you-not being an intimate of Maecenas, as you are, nor needing that intimacy-I have never met Octavius Caesar. I have seen him from afar, of course, as has everyone in Rome: but I know of him only that which you have told me.

"The Emperor is not here?" I asked.

Julia said, "There are certain kinds of bloodshed that my father does not enjoy." She pointed down at the open space of the course. "He usually comes late, after the animal hunt is over."

I looked to where she was pointing; the attendants were dragging away the slain animals and raking over the earth that was spotted with blood. I saw several tigers, a lion, and even an elephant being dragged across the ground. I had attended one of these hunts before, when I first came to Rome, and had found it extremely dull and common. I suggested as much to Julia.

She smiled, "My father says that either a fool is killed, or a dumb beast, and he cannot bring himself to care which. And besides, there are no wagers to be made on these contests between hunters and beasts. My father enjoys the wagering."

"It's late," I said. "He will be here, won't he?"

"He must," she said. "The games honor his birthday; and he would not be discourteous to anyone who so honors him."

I nodded, and recalled that the games were being presented to him by one of the new praetors, Julius Antonius. I started to say something to Julia; but I remembered who Julius Antonius was, and I checked my speech.

But Julia must have noticed my intention, for she smiled. "Yes," she said. "In particular, my father would not be discourteous to the son of an old enemy, whom he has forgiven, and whose son he has preferred to some who are his own kin."

Wisely (I think), I nodded, and did not speak more of the matter. But I wondered about this son of Marcus Antonius, whose name, even these many years after his death, still is honored by many of the citizens of Rome.

Yet there is little time to wonder about things ofthat sort in such gay company. The servants brought tidbits of food on golden plates, and poured wine into golden cups; and we ate, and drank, and chattered as we watched the crowd straggle back to their seats for the afternoon races.

By the sixth hour, the stands were filled, and it seemed to me overflowing with a good part of the population of Rome. Then suddenly, above the natural noise of the crowd, a great roar went up; many of the populace were standing, and were pointing toward the box where we reclined. I turned around, glancing over my shoulder. At the rear of the box, in the shadows, stood two figures, one rather tall, the other short. The tall one was dressed in the richly embroidered tunic and the purple-bordered toga of a consul; the shorter wore the plain white tunic and toga of the common citizen.

The taller of the two was Tiberius, stepson of the Emperor and consul of Rome; and the shorter was, of course, the Emperor Octavius Caesar himself.

They came into the box; we rose; the Emperor smiled and nodded to us, and indicated that we should seat ourselves. He sat beside his daughter, while Tiberius (a dour-faced young man, who seemed not to want to be where he was) found a seat somewhat removed from the rest of the party, and spoke to no one. For several moments the Emperor and Julia talked together, their heads close; the Emperor glanced at me, and said something to Julia, who smiled, nodded, and then beckoned me to join them.

I approached, and Julia presented me to her father.

"I am pleased to meet you," the Emperor said; his face was lined and weary, his light hair shot with white-but his eyes were bright and piercing and alert. "My friend Horace has spoken of your work."

"I hope kindly," I said, "but I cannot pretend to compete with him. My Muse is smaller and more trivial, I fear."

He nodded. "We all obey whatever Muse chooses us… Do you have any favorites today?"

"What?" I said blankly.

"The races," he said. "Do you have any favorite drivers?"

"Sir," I said, "I must confess that I come to the races more nearly for the society than for the horses. I really know very little about them."

"Then you don't wager," he said. He seemed a little disappointed.

"On everything but the races," I said. He nodded and smiled a little, and turned to someone behind him.

"Which do you pick in the first?"

But whoever it was to whom he spoke did not have time to answer. At the far end of the race course, gates opened, trumpets sounded, and the procession entered. It was led by Julius Antonius, the praetor who had financed the games; he was dressed in a scarlet tunic, over which he wore the purple-bordered toga, and carried in his right hand the golden eagle, which seemed almost ready to take flight from the ivory rod which supported it; and upon his head was the golden wreath of laurel. In his chariot drawn by his magnificent white horse, I must say he was an impressive figure, even at the distance from which I saw him.

Slowly the procession went round the track. Behind Julius Antonius walked the priests of the rites, who attended the statues, thought by the ignorant to be the literal embodiments of the gods; then came the drivers who were to race, resplendent in their whites and reds, and greens and blues; and at last a crew of dancers and mimes and clowns, who cavorted and tumbled upon the track while the priests relinquished their effigies to the platform around which the racers would drive their chariots.

And then the procession made its way to the Emperor's box. Julius Antonius halted, saluted the Emperor, and gave him the games in dedication of his birthday. I must say, I looked at Julius with some curiosity. He is an extraordinarily handsome man- his muscular arms brown from the sun, his face dark and slightly heavy, with very white teeth and curling black hair. It is said that he closely resembles his father, though he is less inclined to fat.

The dedication over, Julius Antonius came closer to the box and called up to the Emperor:

"I'll join you later, when I get them started."

The Emperor nodded; he seemed pleased. He turned to me. "Antonius knows the horses, and the riders. Listen to him. You'll learn a bit about racing."

I must confess, Sextus, that the ways of the great are beyond me. The Emperor Octavius Caesar, master of the world, seemed concerned only with the impending races; to the son of a father whom he had defeated in battle and whom he forced to commit suicide, he was warm and friendly and natural; and he spoke to me as if we both were the most common of citizens. I remember that I thought briefly of the possibility of a poem upon the subject; but just as quickly I rejected the idea. I am sure that Horace could have done one, but that is not my (or our) sort ofthing.

Julius Antonius disappeared into a gate at the far end of the course, and a few moments later reappeared in his enclosure above the starting gate. A roar went up from the crowd; Julius Antonius waved, and looked down at the racers lined up beneath him. Then he threw down the white flag, the barriers dropped, and in a cloud of dust the chariots set off.

I stole a glance at the Emperor, and was surprised to see that he seemed hardly interested in the race, now that it had begun. He discerned my glance, and said to me: "One does not bet on the first race, if one is wise. The horses are made so nervous by the procession that they seldom run according to their natures."

I nodded, as if what he said made sense to me.

Before the chariots had completed four of their seven laps, Julius Antonius joined us. He seemed to know most of the people in the box, for he nodded to them in a friendly manner, and spoke a few of their names. He sat between the Emperor and Julia, and soon the three of them were exchanging wagers and laughing among themselves.

And so the afternoon went. Servants came with more food and wine, and with damp towels so that we could wipe the dust of the track from our faces. The Emperor wagered on every race, sometimes betting with several persons at once; he lost carelessly, and won with great glee. Just before the beginning of the last race, Julius Antonius rose to leave, saying that he had some last duties at the starting gate. He bade me good-by, and expressed the hope that we might meet again; he bade good-by to the Emperor; and then bowed with what I took to be an elaborate and private irony to Julia, who threw back her head and laughed.

The Emperor frowned, but said nothing. Shortly thereafter, when the crowd had streamed out of the Circus, we took our leave. A few of us gathered at Sempronius Gracchus's home for a while in the evening; and I learned what may have been the source of the little byplay between Julius Antonius and the Emperor's daughter. It was Julia herself who told me.

Julia's husband, Marcus Agrippa, had once been married to the younger Marcella, daughter of the Emperor's sister, Octavia; early in Julia's widowhood, he had been persuaded by the Emperor to divorce Marcella and marry Julia. And only recently had Julius Antonius married that Marcella who had been Agrippa's wife.

"It's rather confusing," I said lamely.

"Not really," said Julia. And then she laughed. "My father has it all written down, so that one might always know to whom one is married."

And that, my dear Sextus, was my afternoon and evening. I saw the new, and I saw the old; and Rome is again becoming a place where one can live.

IV. The Journal of Julia, Pandateria (A.D. 4)

I am allowed no wine, and my food is the coarse fare of the peasant-black bread, dried vegetables, and pickled fish. I have even taken on the habits of the poor; at the end of my day, I bathe and take a frugal meal. Sometimes I take this meal with my mother, but I prefer to dine alone at the table before my window, where I can watch the sea roll in on the evening tide.

I have learned to savor the simple taste of this coarse bread, indifferently baked by my mute servant. There is a grainy taste of earth to it, enhanced by the cold spring water that serves as my wine. Eating it, I think of the hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of the poor and the enslaved who have lived before me-did they learn to savor their simple fare, as I have? Or was the taste of their food spoiled in their mouths by their dreams of the foods they might have eaten? Perhaps one must come to taste as I have done-from the richest and most exotic viands to those of the utmost simplicity. Yesterday evening, sitting at this table where I now write these words, I tried to recall the taste and texture of those foods, and I could not. And in that general effort to recall what I shall never experience again, I remembered an evening at the villa of Sempronius Gracchus.

I do not know why I remembered that particular evening; but suddenly, in this Pandaterian twilight, the scene sprang before me, as if it were being re-enacted upon the stage of a theater, and the remembering caught me before I could fend it off.

Marcus Agrippa had returned from the East and joined me in Rome, where he stayed for three months; and I became pregnant with my fourth child. Shortly thereafter, at the beginning of the year, my father sent Agrippa north to Pannonia, where the barbarian tribes were again threatening the Danube frontier. And Sempronius Gracchus, to celebrate my freedom and to herald the arrival of spring, gave a party, the like of which (he promised everyone) Rome had not seen before; all of my friends, from whom I had been separated while my husband was in Rome, would be there.

Despite the libels that were circulated later, Sempronius Gracchus was not my lover then. He was a libertine, and he treated me (as he treated many women) with an easy familiarity that might give rise to rumors, however false. At that time I was still conscious of the position which my father imagined I ought to occupy; and the time that I had been a goddess at Ilium was like a dream that waited to be fulfilled. I had, for a while, become someone other than myself.

Early in March, my father assumed the office of pontifex maximus, which had been vacated by the death of Lepidus; and he decreed a day of games to celebrate the event. Sempronius Gracchus said that if the old Rome must have a high priest, the new Rome demanded a high priestess; so Sempronius had his party at the end of March, and the city chattered with reports of what the guests were to expect. Some said that the guests would be transported from place to place on tamed elephants; some said that a thousand musicians had been brought from the East, and as many dancers; fancy fed upon expectation, and expectation nourished fancy.

But a week before the date of the party, news reached Rome that Agrippa, having more quickly settled the border uprising than anyone expected, had returned to Italy by way of Brindisi. He proposed to travel across country to our villa near Puteoli, where I was to meet him.

I did not meet him. Despite the annoyance of my father, I proposed that I join my husband the following week, after he had rested from his journey.

When I made this proposal, my father looked at me coldly. "I take it that you wish instead to attend that party which Gracchus is giving."

"Yes," I said. "I am to be the guest of honor. It would be rude to refuse, so late."

"Your duty is to your husband," he said.

"And to you, and to your cause, and to Rome," I said.

"These young people that you spend your time with," he said. "Has it occurred to you to compare their behavior with that of your husband and his friends?"

"These young people," I said, "are friends of mine. You may be assured that when I grow old, they will be old, too."

He smiled a little then. "You are right," he said. "One forgets. We all grow old, and we once were young. hellip;. I will explain to your husband that you have duties that keep you in Rome. But you will join him the week after."

"Yes," I said. "I will join him then."

Thus it was that I did not join my husband in the South, and thus it was that I attended Sempronius Gracchus's party. It became, indeed, the most famous party in Rome for many years, but for reasons that no one could have foreseen.

There were no tame elephants to transport the guests from place to place, or any of the other wonders that had been rumored; it was simply a gathering of a few more than a hundred guests, attended by nearly as many servants and musicians and dancers. We ate, we drank, we laughed. We watched the dancers dance, and joined them, to their delight and confusion; and to the sound of tambourines and harps and oboes we wandered through the gardens where fountains augmented the music and the torchlight played upon the water in another dance beyond the skill of human bodies.

Toward the end of the evening there was to be a special performance of the musicians and dancers, and the poet Ovid was to read a new poem, composed in my honor. Sempronius Gracchus had constructed for me a special chair of ebony, and secured it on a slight rise of the earth in the garden, so that all the guests could (as Gracchus said, with that irony he always had) pay me homage…

I sat upon the chair, and saw them beneath me; a breeze came up, and I could hear it rustle among the cypresses and plane trees as it touched my silken tunic like a caress. The dancers danced, and the oiled flesh of the men rippled in the torchlight; and I remembered Ilium and Lesbos, where once I had been more than a mortal. Sempronius reclined beside my throne, on the grass; and for a moment I was as happy as I had been, and was myself.

But in this happiness, I became aware of someone standing beside me, bowing, attempting to get my attention; I recognized him as a servant from my father's household, and motioned for him to wait until the dance was over.

When the dancers had finished, and after the languorous applause of the guests, I allowed the servant to approach me.

"What does my father require of me? " I asked him.

"I am Priscus," he said. "It is your husband. He is ill. Your father leaves within the hour for Puteoli, and asks you to follow."

"Is it a serious matter, do you think?"

Priscus nodded. "Your father leaves this night. He is concerned."

I turned away from him, and looked at my friends who lounged in their ease and gaiety on the grassy slopes of Sempronius Gracchus's garden. The sound of their laughter, more charming and delicate than the music that had moved the dancers, floated up to me on the warm spring breeze. I said to Priscus:

"Return to my father. Tell him that I shall join my husband. Tell him not to wait for me. Tell him that I will leave here shortly, and will join my husband by my own means."

Priscus hesitated. I said:

"You may speak."

"Your father wishes you to return with me."

"Tell my father that I have always done my duty to my husband. I cannot leave now. I will see my husband later."

Priscus left then, and I started to speak to Sempronius Gracchus about the news I had received; but Ovid had taken his place before me, and had begun to speak the poem that he had written in my honor; I could not interrupt him.

At one time I knew that poem by memory; now I cannot recall a word of it. It is strange that I cannot, for it was a remarkable poem. I believe he never included it in one of his books; he said that it was my own, and should belong to no one else.

I did not see my husband again. He was dead by the time my father reached Puteoli; the illness, which the doctors never really discovered, was rapid and, I hope, merciful. He was a good man, and kind to me; I'm afraid he never realized I knew that. And I believe my father never forgave me for not joining him that night.

… It was the truffles. We had a delicacy of truffles that evening at the villa of Sempronius Gracchus. The earthy taste of those truffles was brought back by the earthy taste of this black bread, and that reminded me of the evening when I became a widow for the second time.

V. Poem to Julia: Attributed to Ovid (circa 13 B. c.)

Restless, and wandering aimlessly, I pass temples and groves where

Gods live-Gods who invite passers to worship as they

Pause in the ancient groves where no ax has, in our memory's

Mortal endurance, bit hungrily branches or shrubs.

Where might I pause? Janus watches unmoving as I approach him,

And as I pass him by-quicker than any discerns

Save he. Now: here is Vesta-reliable, nice in her own way,

I think; so I call out. She does not answer me, though.

Vesta is tending her flame-no doubt she is cooking for someone.

She waves carelessly, still bending above her hot stove.

Sadly, I shake my head and move on. And now Jupiter thunders,

Eyes crackling light at me. What? Does he insist that I swear

Something that might change my ways? "Ovid," he thunders, "is there no

End to this love-making life? trivial versing? your vain

Posturing?" I try answering; no pause comes in the thunder.

"Look to the years, poor poet; put on the senator's robes,

Think of the state-or at least try to." Deafened by thunder, I cannot

Hear more. Sadly, I pass. Now at the Temple of Mars,

Weary, I halt; and I see, more fearsome than any-his left hand

Sowing a field and his right slashing a sword through the air-

Ultimate Mars! old father of living and dying! I call him

Joyfully, hoping at last I will be welcomed. But no.

He who protects and gives name to this March, to this month of my own birth,

Will not receive me. I sigh; is there no place for me, Gods?

Now in despair, and ignored by the most ancient Gods of my ancient

Country, I wander beyond all of their precincts, and let

Various breezes carry me where they will. And at last-soft,

Distant, and sweet-sounds come: oboe and tambour and flute;

Music of laughter; the wind; bird songs; leaves rustling in twilight.

Now it's my hearing that leads; I have to follow, so that

Eyes may glimpse what the music has promised. And suddenly,

Open before me, a stream, gushing with springs that invade

Cavern and grotto, and idly meander through lilies that tremble

As if suspended in air; surely, I say to myself,

Surely there dwells here divinity-one that I haven't before known.

Nymphs in their gossamer gowns celebrate spring and the night;

Yet, above all, high, radiant in beauty, a Goddess, to whom turn

All eyes. Worshiped in joy, prayed to by gaiety, she smiles,

Brightening the twilight, more gently than does our Aurora; her beauty

Outshines that of the high Juno. I think: It's a new

Venus come down from her high place; no one has seen her before, yet all

Know they must worship her. Hail, Goddess! we leave the old Gods

Safe in their groves. Let them scowl at the world, let them scold who will listen;

Here a new season is born; here a new country is found,

Deep in the soul ofthat Rome we loved of old. We must welcome the new, and

Live in its joy, and be gay; soon will the night come on; soon,

Soon we will rest. But for now we are granted this beauty around us,

Granted this Goddess who gives life to this sacred grove.

VI. The Journal of Julia, Pandateria (A.D. 4)

My husband died on the evening of Sempronius Gracchus's party; I would not have seen him, even if I had left as my father wanted. My father traveled all night without pausing, and arrived at Puteoli the next day to find his oldest friend dead. It is said that he looked at the body of my husband almost coldly, and did not speak for a long time. And then with that cold efficiency of his he spoke to Marcus Agrippa's aides, who were putting on their shows of grief. He ordered the body prepared for the procession that would return to Rome; he had word sent back to the Senate to direct the procession; and-still without rest-he accompanied the body of Marcus Agrippa on its slow and solemn journey back to Rome. Those who saw him enter the city said that his face was like stone as he limped at the head of the procession.

I was, of course, present at the ceremonies in the Forum, where my father delivered the funeral oration; and I can attest to his coldness there. He spoke before the body of Marcus Agrippa as if it were a monument, rather than what remained of a friend.

But I can also attest to what the world did not know. After the ceremony was over, my father retired to his room in his private house on the Palatine, and he saw no one for three days, during which time he took no food. When he emerged, he appeared to be years older; and he spoke with an indifferent gentleness that he had never had before. With the death of Marcus Agrippa, there was a death within him. He was never quite the same again.

To the citizens of Rome, my husband left in perpetuity the gardens he had acquired during the years of his power, the baths he had built, and a sufficient amount of capital to maintain them; in addition, he left to every citizen one hundred pieces of silver; to my father he left the rest of his fortune, with the understanding that it was to be used for the benefit of his countrymen.

I thought myself cold, for I did not grieve for my husband. Beneath the ritual show of grief demanded by custom, I felt- I felt almost nothing. Marcus Agrippa was a good man; I never disliked him; I was, I suppose, fond of him. But I did not grieve.

I was in my twenty-seventh year. I had given birth to four children, and was pregnant with a fifth. I was a widow for the second time. I had been a wife, a goddess, and the second woman of Rome.

If I felt anything upon the occasion of my husband's death, it was relief.

Four months after the death of Marcus Agrippa, I gave birth to my fifth child. It was a boy. My father named the child Agrippa, after its father. He would, he said, adopt the child when it came of an age. It was a matter of indifference to me. I was happy to be free of a life that I had found to be a prison.

I was not to be free. One year and four months after the death of Marcus Agrippa, my father betrothed me to Tiberius Claudius Nero. He was the only one of my husbands whom I ever hated.

VII. Letter: Livia to Tiberius Claudius Nero, in Pannonia (12 B. c.)

You are, my dear son, to follow my advice in this matter. You are to divorce Vipsania, as my husband has ordered; and you are to marry Julia. It has been arranged, and I have had no small part in the arrangement. If you wish to be angry at any for this turn of events, I must receive a part ofthat anger.

It is true that my husband has not honored you by adoption; it is true that he does not like you; it is true that he has sent you to replace Agrippa in Pannonia only because there is no one else readily available whom he can trust with the power; it is true that he has no intention of allowing you to succeed him; it is true that you are, as you have said, being used.

It does not matter. For if you refuse to allow yourself to be used, you will have no future; and all my years of dreaming of your eventual greatness will have been wasted. You will live out your life obscurely, in disfavor and contempt.

I know that my husband wishes only for you to act as nominal father to his grandsons, and that he hopes that one or the other of them may be made ready to succeed him, when they are old enough. But my husband's health has never been robust; one cannot know how much longer the gods will allow him to live. It is possible that you may succeed him, beyond his wishes. You have the name; you are my son; and I shall inevitably inherit some power, in the unhappy event of my husband's death.

You dislike Julia; it does not matter. Julia dislikes you; it does not matter. You have a duty to yourself, to your country, and to our name.

You will know in time that I am correct in this; and in time your anger will abate. Do not put yourself in the danger that your impetuosity might invite. Our futures are more important than our selves.