I Am Livia (33 page)

Soon he took leave of me again. On a doleful morning, I stood just inside our entranceway, again about to see Tavius go off to fight Sextus, feeling in the depths of my heart that another defeat would doom us both. I was determined not to let my courage waver.
Come home victorious,
I intended to say with confidence, just as the wives of Roman generals had said it from time immemorial.

But I said something else. “Beloved, if it is possible for you to show mercy in this fight, please show it. Even to Sextus—if you can spare his life, I beg you to do it.”

Given the situation, the last thing Tavius expected was to be asked to show mercy to Sextus. At first he looked disconcerted and amazed. Then his eyes lit up. “Well, I see you truly have faith in my victory.”

“I do,” I said. “And I believe the gods love mercy. They will favor you if you are merciful.”

A small, lopsided smile played around his mouth. “You truly believe tha
t
?”

“Yes.”

Tavius looked at me the way loving husbands look at wives when they talk foolishness. He embraced and kissed me, and once again, he left.

I saved the letters Tavius wrote me when he was away. Frequently they were no more than scrawls on waxed tablets. The writing eventually faded into the wax. But sometimes he would write me a longer letter, on papyrus. He was not writing for history, only for me; the letters employed bits of cipher and private code, and they were frank—even more candid, sometimes, than he might have been if we were face-to-face
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hen I read his letters I imagined him in some miserable army tent, after a day of maintaining a posture of might and infallibility. He longed to drop the mask, and he could do that with me.

My love, I trust this finds you well and also the children. By the time you read this, you will have heard the final outcome of the Sicilian campaign. But knowing you, you want the entire story. You would certainly worm it all out of me if I were there beside you, as I wish I were.

I’ve often wanted you here so I could make love to you. But how much time can even the most ardent lover spend in conjugal embrace? And how many hours when I’m home do we spend talking? Here I’m surrounded by friends and supporters, but it still feels as if I have no one to talk to. Right now more than anything I wish you were here just so I could talk to you.

I imagine you saying, “The war, Tavius. I want to hear about the war.” All right, but don’t expect a heroic tale.

We had an excellent plan, and everything did begin well. I gave the command of most of my warships to Agrippa so he could keep Sextus busy and distracted. I filled other vessels with troops, planning to land them in Sicily and join Lepidus’s forces there. Agrippa engaged the enemy at sea and won a victory. However, Sextus’s forces withdrew in good order, and when I started to cross from Scolacium in Italy to Sicily, they were ready to pounce.

We fought two engagements. My ill luck at sea is one constant in a world in flux. Many of my galleys were captured; others were burned. My own ship sank. I climbed into a small, barely seaworthy craft and, with this boat taking in water and Sextus’s forces giving chase, managed to make it back to the shore of Italy.

I had only my armor bearer, Gnaeus, with me, and distant shouts told me I was being hunted by many men. I had resolved at all costs not to be taken alive and while we were still at sea had induced Gnaeus to swear a sacred oath to kill me if I were at the point of being captured. I suspected my fate was now at hand. Gnaeus and I darted along the beach, crouching in the forlorn hope of not being seen. Incredibly, a couple of friendly peasants came sprinting onto the beach out of nowhere and offered me help. They said they knew who I was and were admirers of my father. I had my doubts, but all I could do was trust them.

They led me to their little fishing boat. Gnaeus and I scrambled aboard, and they took us to a point on shore where some of my own troops were gathered. So there I was, amazed to be among friends and even more amazed to be alive. I was able to launch a ship and finally got across to Sicily. Agrippa’s and Lepidus’s forces had been victorious. By the time I arrived, they were in possession of most of the island.

Livia, my love, I confide in you as I would in my own soul. Let me briefly tell the rest. Sextus, with only the north tip of Sicily in his hands, decided to stake everything on a great sea battle. I was arming, about to go out and lead my forces, when…I don’t know what happened. I found myself sprawled on my cot. Gnaeus stood over me, wringing his hands, and informed me that I had passed out.

My strength had all drained away, at a most crucial moment. Every time I tried to rise, I got dizzy and collapsed. I finally just lay there in a daze. Even the memory of this is absolutely awful.

Agrippa came running into the tent, wondering where I was. He has always been a kind friend, and when he saw my condition, he said, “You probably have a fever, so don’t strain yourself. All you have to do is give me your command to commence hostilities.”

I told him he had my command.

People will tell all kinds of stories about why I didn’t take part in the final battle for Sicily. If you can think of something better to say than that I got sick, I would be grateful.

Agrippa sailed off to confront Sextus without me. Fortune favored him in a remarkable way. Early on, one—only one—of Sextus’s many ships got rammed and surrendered. Some of our men raised a paean of victory, and it spread to our other ships and finally to our troops watching from the shore. This song—that was all it was—shook the confidence of Sextus’s whole navy, and a rout began. One of Sextus’s two admirals fell on his sword; the other surrendered.

The commander of Sextus’s ground troops promptly surrendered too. Agrippa granted quarter to the common soldiers, which I’m sure will please you. He informed the officers that they would have to apply to me for pardon. I had their heads chopped off. No, dearest, I didn’t. I emerged from my stupor long enough to wave a benevolent hand and pardon all of them. Now aren’t you happy?

What, you wonder, happened to Neptune’s son? He packed his close friends on a small boat, and according to our best intelligence, he is going east. I think he will fall into Antony’s hands, and that will be it for him. I’m sorry if that makes you sad.

When I recovered from my fever, or whatever it was—the camp physicians scratched their heads—I leaped off my cot assuming I owned Sicily. I quickly discovered, however, that Lepidus had no intention of honoring his agreement to cede Sicily to me. We prepared for yet another battle. I sent out some spies, though, and got welcome reports about the mood of Lepidus’s army. Suffice to say, his troops did not love him.

There are times when you have to throw the dice. I suspected they would desert him for me, if I made the right gesture. So I recruited some volunteers from my cavalry and rode to Lepidus’s camp. We left the horses at the fringe of the encampment and with a half dozen companions I went walking through the lines, smiling amiably. I was recognized, and soldiers saluted me.

Unfortunately, someone told Lepidus what was happening. He sent a squad of loyal officers to repel this invasion of his camp. My men and I went running out of Lepidus’s camp. I could hear the ring of mocking laughter behind me, but no one gave chase. Back in my own camp, I sat in my tent on my cot with my head in my hands. I thought a battle would have to be fought. Then Agrippa came in smiling and said, “They’re all deserting and coming over to us.”

A while later, Lepidus surrendered. When he entered my tent and began to fall down to clasp my knees, I grabbed him and told him that was unnecessary. I gave him some wine because he looked about to faint. “I have Sicily now, and expect you to cede North Africa too,” I told him. He gave me his pledge to retire from public life, and I shipped him home to his villa on the Italian coast.

My darling Livia, I imagine you reading this and thinking, “What a malleable husband I have. I ask him to be merciful, and all of a sudden he is sparing a viper like Lepidus.” But you know the truth is more complicated than that, don’t you?

Do the gods really favor the merciful? My reading of history does not uphold that point of view, though it’s an appealing belief that reflects well on you. I don’t have your gentle spirit. But I feel as you feel—as all Rome feels, by now—that all this mutual slaughter has got to end. I’m sick of it. We’re all sick of it.

My niece’s birth delighted me mainly because it made Octavia happy. But politically speaking, it’s good Antony and I have become linked by blood, through little Antonia. Remember that map I once drew you? Sextus was on it, and so was Lepidus, and coming in from the west, marauding Gauls. It’s a simpler map now. Antony and I are the only ones left.

Tavius took a month settling affairs in Sicily, and then he came home. I could not let him out of my arms. He said the tale of the Sicilian war was not heroic. To me it was. Tavius had won a war necessary to our survival. In addition, he had spared every life it was possible to spare. The people of Rome, especially the nobility, would now see him in a wholly different light—that of a restrained and judicious ruler. To prevent the spilling of more Roman blood, he had gone bare-handed into the camp of an opposing army. What act, in all our history, surpassed that in courage?

The Senate fell over itself voting him honors. They even commissioned a gold-plated public statue of him.

His fainting spell in Sicily worried me, though he told me there had been no recurrence. One day his trusted physician, Fustinius, happened to visit our home to attend a sick servant while Tavius was out. I seized the chance to invite him into my study and question him about Tavius’s health. In particular, I demanded to know why he had passed out in Sicily.

The physician equivocated and rubbed his chin but finally said, “Well, Caesar was born with a sensitive constitution. Rich foods, any uncleanness—what you or I might easily tolerate has an adverse effect. Exposure to heat and cold worsens his condition. And of course worry, apprehension, and mental burdens…” He made a vague gesture with his hands.

I stared at him.
Was he saying Tavius had fainted in Sicily because of mental burdens? “You know who my husband is. You do realize he bears enormous mental burdens every day of his life?”

“Yes. It’s not what I would recommend.”

I could not change the circumstances of Tavius’s life. At this time, my interest in brewing curative potions increased, for what else could I do but try to minister to him as best I could? Malicious people would later read a sinister meaning into my study of medicinal plants. But I intended only to help my husband.

On a glorious day in late autumn, he stood on the Rostra, the stone speakers’ platform from which our foremost leaders addressed the citizenry. People filled the Forum to overflowing. Cheering throngs stretched out on all sides of him, a sea of adulation, waiting to hear him report the victorious outcome of the Sicilian war. There was no place for a wife at such a gathering. But I had a runner stationed on the fringe of the square, to come back at once and tell me how he was received. No one chanted “Neptune, Neptune!” “Caesar!” was the name the multitude shouted. And “Imperator!”—a title reserved for our greatest military commanders
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hen the crowd quieted, Tavius spoke the words that made all Rome delirious with joy. He said, “The civil wars are over.”