I Am Livia (17 page)

“Does anyone want more cheese?” I asked. “If not, I think it’s time for the second course.”

We began the second course—baked mullet fillets with no sauce at all, since we had been told by people who had previously entertained Caesar that he liked plain, unseasoned fish. I tried to avoid gazing at him. My eyes kept straying in his direction, without my volition. I looked at him—I looked at him more closely than I usually looked at anyone. I noticed the tilt of his head as he talked, and how his fair hair tumbled over his forehead. The fine gold hairs on the backs of his forearms. His hands—the long, tapered fingers.

Nepia started talking about the Temple of Minerva near the Forum. It had lately been renovated, much of the brick replaced by marble. “It’s one of the most beautiful temples in the city now,” Nepia said.

“You think so?” Caesar sounded gratified. Repairing the temple was one of the public works projects he had recently undertaken; I was certain Nepia had known that before she spoke.

“It’s perfect,” she said. “I go inside and feel so reverent. And Minerva is my favorite deity.”

“Really?” Caesar grinned at her. “I would have guessed Venus.”

She giggled.

Caesar looked at me. “Who is your favorite deity, Livia Drusilla?”

“Diana,” I said.

Rullus, Nepia’s husband, gave a mock shiver. “The goddess of chastity.”

“Why do you choose Diana?” Caesar asked me.

“She is the protector of the Roman people.”

Everyone began to say who his or her favorite deity was. Tiberius Nero said, “Mars.”

“Given your military record, that is the perfect choice,” Caesar said.

Tiberius Nero smiled at the compliment.

“Mars isn’t your choice?”
Valeria said to Caesar.

He shook his head. “Who do you guess it would be?” His eyes were on me.

“Apollo,” I said.

Caesar laughed, delighted as a child. “You’re absolutely right. How did you know tha
t
?”

Because you are beautiful, just as he is
. I shrugged and noticed I had begun to feel uncomfortably warm.
No more wine
. I motioned for a slave to pour some water to dilute the wine already in my cup.

“Why do you pick Apollo?” Nepia asked him.

“He is the god of knowledge and of light.”
Then, eyes back on me, Caesar said, “Do you remember how Apollo and Diana are linked?”

“They’re surely not lovers?” Rullus said.

“Not exactly,” Caesar said, still looking at me.

“They are twins,” I said.

Caesar nodded.

I raised my chin. “Diana was the elder of the two, the firstborn.”

“Absolutely true,” Caesar said, “but there’s more to the story. Diana emerged from the womb and then became her mother’s midwife. She helped Apollo to be born.”

“Imagine a baby acting as a midwife,” Fannius said. “These old stories are so strange. But you go out in the countryside, or even into the city slums, and you’ll find people who believe them. Amazing how credulous the common people are.”

“There’s another kind of truth, besides what is literal,” Caesar said. His eyes met mine. “Don’t you think so?”

“There is also poetic truth,” I said. “The stories about the gods are true, in the same sense great poems are.” I glanced away. “My father always used to say so.”

“And the stories about the gods are beautiful, like the most magnificent poetry,” Caesar said.

When I looked back at him, I saw that he was leaning forward and his eyes had not strayed from my face. I could feel color coming into my cheeks. Caesar saw; I was sure he did, because of the way he smiled at me. And yet, no one else at the table seemed to notice
.
W
e were having a staid conversation about religion and poetry.

I imagined the two of us alone. I imagined him making love to me.

He no longer smiled. His lips were parted, and his gaze had an intensity it had not held before. I felt he had read my mind.

“Do you enjoy poetry, Caesar?”
Valeria asked him.

“Yes, very much.” Caesar settled back on the couch. “There was a time when I thought I would be a poet and write tragic plays.”

Nepia laughed. “Oh, no. A tragic poe
t
? You?”

He smiled at her. “It was a serious ambition. I even had one play all plotted out. Not, mind you, that I ever wrote a single line of it.”

“What was the subjec
t
?”
Valeria asked.

“Ajax.”

“Oh, in the
Iliad,
”
Valeria said. “The Greek warrior.”

“Why him?”
Tiberius Nero asked. “Is he interesting? I thought he always came in second to Achilles.”

“That’s true, he did,” Caesar said. “But I thought Achilles as a subject was overworked. And Ajax—” He looked at me. “Can you guess what I like best about Ajax?”

“His prayer,” I said.

Caesar nodded.

“What prayer is tha
t
?”
Tiberius Nero asked.

“On the battlefield of
Troy, Ajax was the one who prayed for light,” I said.

“That’s it,” Caesar said. “Can you visualize i
t
? The battlefield is full of fog and darkness, and Ajax lifts his arms up to Zeus and prays. You remember the prayer, don’t you, Livia Drusilla?”

If someone had asked me that at another time, I am not sure I would have remembered it, though when I was a child my tutor had insisted I commit vast segments of the
Iliad
to memory. But just then, the words came into my mind, effortlessly. I raised my arms as a priestess would and declaimed in Greek,

“Lord of earth and air!

O King! O Father! Hear my humble prayer!

Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;

Give me to see and Ajax asks no more;

If Greece must perish we thy will obey,

But let us perish in the face of day.”

I
lowered my arms. For several moments, there was silence. Caesar lay motionless, a look of longing on his face. Then he began to clap his hands.

Everyone joined in the applause, and cried, “Bravo!” I gave a little bow.

When the applause had died down, Caesar said, “Ajax uttered those words, and the darkness lifted. There was light, and Greece did not perish. Greece prevailed.”

“Yes, it’s quite beautiful,”
Valeria said.

“I see—it’s symbolic, of course,
”
T
iberius Nero said, smiling. “It’s not just literal sunlight the poet is talking about, but enlightenment. The light comes, and Greece prevails.” I knew he was thinking that the dinner was turning out well; certainly it was less unpleasant and strained than he had feared. And Caesar seemed to be having a good time, which was the main thing.

“You’re exactly right,” Caesar said, eyes shining.

Gods above,
I thought, looking at Caesar,
I believe I know why, even now, that prayer means so much to you. You think Rome is Greece, and you are the light bringer. You actually think that, don’t you?

“If I’d written the play, that prayer would have been the centerpiece,” Caesar said. “And I wanted to actually shroud the stage in fog and darkness. Ajax would speak his prayer for light, and then all of a sudden sunlight would flood the stage. I’m sure a really good theater director could figure out a way to do that.”

“It would be wonderful,” Nepia said.

But let us perish in the face of day.

At that moment, I thought of my father and mother. As soon as I did, the sight of Caesar, happy and at ease at my table, seemed more than I could bear. The desire I felt for him revolted me.

“But what would you do about the end of the story?” I asked.

“The end?” Caesar said.

“When Ajax runs amok and kills the Greek leaders who have slighted him?”

“I’d just show him covered with blood,” Caesar said. “And he doesn’t actually kill anyone.”

“That’s right,” I said. “He only kills sheep, doesn’t he? He
thinks
they’re the Greek leaders, because he’s insane. So your play would be about a man who prays for light, but ends up raving and covered with blood?”

“It would be a tragedy, remember,” Caesar said.

“You can’t have a tragedy without blood and insanity,” Fannius said.

“It sounds as if it could be very good,”
Valeria said. She looked at Caesar. “You should go ahead and write it.”

“I don’t have the time,” Caesar said. “And the truth is I probably don’t have the talent either.”

My eyes met Caesar’s. “I think you could write a very good tragedy.” I spoke gravely, even gently.

Caesar shrugged, expressionless. “Maybe I’ll write it one of these days. As I said, right now I haven’t the time.”

Fannius laughed. “Yes, I could see how you might be too busy.”

The atmosphere at the table had changed. Tiberius Nero, with a trace of anxiety in his voice, led Rullus and Fannius into a discussion of recent boxing matches they had seen
.
V
aleria and Nepia listened, looking bored. I lay toying with my food. Caesar lay toying with his food too, every once in a while contributing a succinct assessment of one boxer or another.

When I glanced up from my plate, I found him gazing in my direction. He looked like someone who was wounded but prepared to forgive the wound. For a while, I tried avoiding his eyes. Then, because I did not want to be a coward, I met his gaze. He gave me a small, rueful smile.

Suddenly, Nepia said in a high, bright voice, “Caesar, are you planning on keeping your beard? I hope you’re not about to shave it off.”

“I haven’t given it much thought.”

“You should keep it,”
Valeria said. “I think all Roman men should start wearing beards again, as they did in olden times.”

“Yes, beards are very manly,” Nepia said. “A man with a beard really looks like a man.”

“You could set a new fashion,”
Valeria said.

“If you keep your beard, every man in Rome will eventually grow one,” Nepia said. “Oh, please say you won’t shave off your beard.”

Caesar looked at me. “Livia Drusilla, don’t you have an opinion?”

I heard a slight barb in his voice, as if he were daring me to say something disagreeable. “Since you’ve asked me, I feel obliged to be honest,” I said. “My opinion is that you should shave it off. I think it makes you look like a savage.”

Beside me, I heard Tiberius Nero sharply inhale.

Caesar rubbed his chin. “Really? Is it as bad as tha
t
?”

I nodded.

He smiled, a little stiffly. “My sister said exactly the same thing, the last time I saw her.”

There was a silence
.
V
aleria hastened to fill it. “Oh, well, if your
sister
doesn’t think you should have a beard—”

It felt unbearably hot and close in the dining room. “Excuse me,” I murmured. I got up, exited, and walked through the atrium, past Caesar’s lictors and guards, out to the garden.

I can’t stand any more
. It all crowded in on me. Caesar’s presence, having to treat him as an honored guest. Memories of my father and mother, stab after stab of grief. The knowledge that I ought to wish to destroy Caesar, that I should feel a rage at him as pure as flame. And the realization that there was no purity in me. I was sinking in the muck. Because I could not look at him without desiring him.

A pregnant woman, full of lust for her husband’s guest. An undignified spectacle in any circumstances. In the present circumstances, utterly repellent.

What am I?