No wise man risks incurring the anger of the gods by neglect of religious duties and observances which are properly binding on us. It is well known that the great Scipio was wont to have the shrine of Jupiter Capitolinus unlocked before dawn so that he might enter and commune in solitude – in holy solitude as he would say himself – with the god about affairs of state. The guard-dogs, which barked at other visitors, always treated him with respect. We know also that certain places are in the charge of particular gods; that certain hours of day are propitious for particular actions; and that the wise man invariably consults the gods in order to discover whether they approve a given course of action.
Nevertheless I also recognise that it is impossible for any man to overcome by prayers and sacrifice what is fixed from the beginning and to alter it to his taste or advantage; what has been assigned to us will happen without praying for it; what is not fated will not occur, pray as we may.
Is it possible to reconcile these two beliefs? This is a question I have frequently heard debated by philosophers, and though I have found much of profound interest in the debates – and have indeed, on occasion, ventured to offer contributions of my own, which, I am happy to say, have not been ill-received – I confess that the matters appear to me fundamentally incompatible. The fact is that in this shadowy life, we are incapable of receiving or understanding the full truth about the nature of things in the same way as we are unable to know our own natures thoroughly. What is clear is that on the one hand everyone wishes to know his fortune, while on the other we derive profound satisfaction from performing harmonious and time-hallowed actions with the utmost punctiliousness. We all have a desire, an innate desire, to do what is right, and at the same time we are alert for signs which will assure us as to the future. When I first commanded an army, and was marching through Macedonia on my way to Syria, the altars consecrated by the victorious Caesareans at Philippi burst spontaneously into flames; was this not a sign that my fortune would be glorious?
That thought perplexes me still, for I have abandoned ambition. Is it possible, I wonder, that the gods remain ambitious for me? Once at Padua, for instance, I visited Geryon's oracle: I was advised to throw golden dice into the fountain of Aponus, and, in fact, made the highest possible cast. Then, the day after I arrived in Rhodes, an eagle – a bird never before seen on this island – alighted on the roof of my house, remaining there seven nights. Was its arrival witness of a magnificent future, or did its departure suggest that glory had deserted me?
Such questionings are foolish since only experience proves or disproves signs of this nature. Yet, on sleepless nights, I cannot help brooding on them.
I brood on other matters too: on my few years of happiness for instance, which lasted from the date of Agrippa's marriage to Julia to the hour of my father-in-law's death. I felt secure then, my star in the ascendant. Vipsania grew ever dearer to me, we conversed about everything. I saw in the alliance of Augustus and Agrippa, who had been joined with my stepfather in the tribunician power, so that authority in the state was shared between them, a guarantee for the continuing peace and prosperity of Rome, a guarantee strengthened still more by Augustus' love for his grandchildren, Agrippa and Julia's sons and daughters. My own career blossomed. Together with my beloved brother Drusus, I pushed the frontier of the empire north of the Alps: forty-six tribes submitted to the rule of Rome. Augustus erected a trophy commemorating our achievement. In these happy years my son Drusus was born. Call no man happy till he is dead. The gods are jealous of our felicity. While I was in winter quarters on the Danube I received an anguished letter from my wife. She told me her father had died in his villa in Campania. He had been preparing to join the armies; it had been my pride and concern to see that they were in a state of readiness which he would approve. Vipsania had been with him when he passed into the shades. "He spoke of you near the end," she said. " 'Tiberius,' he said, 'will continue my work. He is a rock'… so you see, my dear, that my father respected you as much as I love you, my dear husband…"
I wept when I read those words; I am near to tears now as I remember them.
Immersed in an arduous campaign, I had little time to appreciate the personal significance of Agrippa's death. Not even a letter from Vipsania some two months later alarmed me. "Everyone is worried about Julia," she wrote. "It is generally agreed that she must have a husband – and little Gaius and Lucius a father – but it is very difficult to think of anyone who might be suitable. Who can, after all, replace my father? Yet dear Julia's nature is such that she cannot remain single. Your mother is very anxious." I returned to Rome at the end of the campaigning season, though not before I had ensured that my men were well established in their winter quarters, and that sufficient stores had been accumulated to provision them throughout those months when transport is often difficult in the frontier regions. I had also laid down a training programme, for nothing is so demoralising for soldiers as idleness, and I had instructed my staff-officers to prepare for the next summer's campaign. I did not think of Agrippa while doing all this, but it was he who had taught me that nine-tenths of the science of war rests in adequate preparation. Nor did I give any thought to the problem Vipsania had adumbrated. Why should I have? It was no concern of mine. Rain was falling heavily as I came within sight of the city, and the steep road that leads from the Forum to the Palatine was awash with running water. It was late afternoon and the wind blew in my face. I made my way to my mother's house, for Vipsania and our son were still lodged in our villa on the coast. I knelt before Livia and she laid her fingers on my forehead. I rose and we embraced. We exchanged the awkward courtesies of reunion. "The Princeps is pleased with your achievement, my son." "Good. He should be. It has been a difficult summer."
"You know," she said, "that he finds it difficult to converse with you…" "My genius rebukes him?"
"Don't scoff. If you want to know, it's your bitter humour that he finds disconcerting. He likes…" "Yes, I know, he likes everything to be comfortable."
"There's no need to be disrespectful. It's been a difficult summer here too. Agrippa's death…"
There had been a time, as I knew, when my mother had despised Agrippa. For all her subtle intelligence, she was not altogether free of the prejudices of her class. But she had come to understand his value. They had learned to work together, aware that they pursued the same end: the creation of my stepfather's legend. Moreover, they had understood that while each of them was in important respects far superior to Augustus, and the pair together generally a match for him, nevertheless Augustus emerged, in some fashion which neither could have accounted for, as their master. There are always many observers who put it about that Livia controlled her husband, and she was not unhappy to have this believed, even while she strove to magnify his reputation. Yet she knew that in the last resort, it was not the case. Augustus kept within him a dour capacity for domination. Ultimately he was stubborn, inflexible, adamant; yes, even he, the great politician who twisted and compromised and cajoled and accommodated, yet contrived to impress his will on events. It has always been the paradox of their loving and quarrelsome marriage: that each feared the other. But, despite appearances, Augustus has always been the stronger.
Livia would not talk that evening of Agrippa's death and of its consequences for the state, and I sensed something was wrong, for she had always been eager to engage in political speculation. When I met Augustus the next morning, he praised me, and was embarrassed to praise me. I declared my intention of hurrying to my wife and child, and he begged me to delay a few days in Rome. There were matters that had to be discussed when he could spare the hours from the myriad tasks of unavoidable administration, and he wished me to hold myself in readiness. I wrote to Vipsania explaining the situation and apologising for my tardiness. I told her I longed to hold her in my arms. Those were my exact words, I know, though I have no copy of that letter. It was at the baths a few days later that Iullus Antonius accosted me. I have not mentioned Iullus Antonius hitherto in these scraps of memory, and he deserves a paragraph to himself, as I approach the worst moments of my life.
I had known him since I was a child – indeed we had done lessons together. He was, as his name indicates, the son of Mark Antony, by his first marriage to Fulvia, who had so terrified my own poor father in the long months of the dreadful siege of Perugia. When Antony married Augustus' sister Octavia, that noble and generous woman assumed responsibility for his children by his first marriage, and she continued to care for them even after he deserted her for Cleopatra. There were four, two of whom I came to know well: Iullus and his sister Antonia, who was now married to my brother Drusus. I have always had a warm affection for Antonia, but I never cared for Iullus. Despite my dislike, I felt some sympathy for him. He had been brought up with us, but Augustus never trusted him: he was always mindful of his heredity, and he knew that many of Antony's old adherents, and their connections, regarded Iullus as the natural leader of their party. He therefore permitted him civil office, but declined to allow him any military experience. In an attempt to bind him to the family's interests, he had commanded Iullus to marry Octavia's daughter by her first marriage, Marcella, when she was divorced by Agrippa in order that my father-in-law might marry Julia. No doubt Augustus was wise: Iullus much resembled his father in appearance and in his intemperate character. He was indeed a little drunk when he approached me that afternoon at the baths; he was often a little drunk by that time of day…
"So the great general has returned," he said, laying his hand on my shoulder. I brushed it off; I have always detested such manifestations of male camaraderie – all the more so when I know them to be insincere.
"I was surprised that you didn't attend your father-in-law's funeral." "Marcus Agrippa would have understood my absence." "And you imply I cannot, because of my ignorance of military affairs. Well, that's not my fault. I think the worse of myself for not being a soldier, and" – he raised his voice – "the worse of the man who has deprived me of that experience, which is properly speaking my birthright."
He stretched himself on the bench beside me and called for a slave to massage him. He ran his hands over his tight curly hair and sighed as the boy's hands worked over his flesh. He must have been almost thirty, but there was still something boyish about his own appearance. His thighs had the smoothness of the athlete who has never sat a horse on campaign in foul climates, and the skin on his face was soft, as a man's is when he is never exposed to wind and rain. The boy worked oil into his legs and I watched his pleasure increase. Then he flopped over on to his belly, inclined his head towards me, and told the boy to go and fetch wine.
"I have been wanting to speak to you," he said. "Now's as good a time as any. We were friends as children, weren't we? I always admired the way you handled my dear late brother-in-law Marcellus. I could see you thought him as great a ninny as I did. But, unlike me, you were clever enough not to let everyone realise this, for you knew how your stepfather doted on him. I couldn't do that, but I admired your… reserve, shall we say…?"
I didn't reply. Where there's nothing useful to be said, it is best to remain silent. I may have grunted, for I was interested to see how far he would reveal himself, and it is always foolish to choke off confidences at an early stage, even if the wise man realises that in certain circumstances to receive a confidence may be almost as dangerous as to impart one. These things have to be balanced.
"And then I was married off to his sister, for what that's worth. You did better in that line, though I didn't realise it at the time. There was something to be said for being Agrippa's son-in-law. But there might be more to be said for being his successor again…" "And the father of his sons?" I prompted.
The boy came back with wine. Iullus told him to hand me a cup too. It was sweet and resinous. Iullus rose to his feet, hugging his cup to his breast. "I have ambitions in that direction," he said. "Julia and I have always been chums… if you put in a word for me, I'll not forget it…"
He lay down again, called on the curly-headed boy to resume his massage. He sighed with pleasure. I watched his flesh move as the boy's fingers eased themselves to and fro. I thought of his father dying of stupid ambition in the Egyptian sands. I thought of mine fondling the wine-flask on the terrace of his Alban villa while the tears coursed down his fat cheeks. Then I turned on my front, and longed for Vipsania, and dreamed of my own son's future… Augustus was at his most affable when I met him in the next weeks. He treated me to magisterial surveys of the political situation in Rome. I marvelled, as I always did, at his acute evaluation of the political influence exerted by families, individuals and alliances. I admired the judgment with which he balanced this faction against that, showing me how he would sweeten this man's ambition with office or the promotion of some dependant, stifle that man's hopes by the timely detachment of some supporter, how he would keep some dangling in greedy expectation, and drench others with hints of disloyalty and unreliability. I was both entranced and disgusted, for I realised that he used men as counters and that his relish in doing so had in it something of the cruelty of a child.
Then he talked of Agrippa with a tenderness that was affecting. "The best of friends" he called him. "When we were young," he said, "people used to laugh at his accent, and I remember Mark Antony telling me that people took my fondness for Agrippa as a sign that I was myself second-rate. He laughed as he said that, but Antony learned himself how wrong that judgment was. We would never have triumphed but for Agrippa. I loved him, you know. He never doubted that our improbable adventure would end happily. Of course he was deficient in imagination, but that gave me confidence too. And now he is gone. It's like having my leg or my right arm cut off. But our life goes on, that's the terrible thing."
I couldn't imagine Augustus ever thinking that a terrible thing. I have never known a man who so revelled in existence, or one who took such pleasure in unravelling problems… "And we who are left," he said, "have to fill the vacancy he has left behind. I'm happy with the condition of the armies, thanks to you and to our dear Drusus, I know everything there is in safe hands. Of course I don't expect either of you to replace Agrippa in the management of the Republic, that's a task I shall have to shoulder alone, it would be putting far too much weight on your young, if capable, shoulders. But there's our darling Julia. Of course she's overcome with a very proper grief now but when that subsides, well, it'll be a matter of finding her a husband. Who shall we choose? And then there are the boys, my two darlings Gaius and Lucius. Whoever marries Julia must be a man I trust absolutely, you know, for he will have to act as their guardian too. Naturally, as long as I am spared, I will secure their interests, but I'm not immortal, and my health has never been good. I nearly died ten years ago, you remember, and my doctor says he couldn't call me a good life. I take care of myself of course, exercise, and frugality in eating and drinking, but who knows when the gods will call me? So, you see, my dear Tiberius, the question is worrying. It keeps me awake at nights, and that's not good for me. Your dear mother shares my worries, that's a great comfort, but even she can't think of an ideal solution. We can neither of us think of any solution which won't hurt somebody. That's the shame of it. I hate hurting people I am fond of, you know, and yet I don't see how it can be done otherwise. Have you any suggestions, dear boy?"
Was I expected to answer? I was a blind fool. I did not see the way his thoughts were tending. But even if I had, I do not see how I could have been other than impotent. Augustus has inserted himself into the state in such a manner that his will is always pregnant of the future.
I was kept dangling in Rome. When I announced my intention of leaving the city to join Vipsania, urgent reasons for postponement were produced. Then I was invited to supper by Maecenas. I had always disliked and distrusted my stepfather's Etruscan counsellor; his effeminacy disgusted me, and I could not forget that Agrippa had described him to me as being as "wily as a Spanish banker and vicious as a Corinthian brothel-keeper". My instinct was to refuse the invitation, but the slave who brought it to me coughed to attract my attention and said:
"My master ordered me to add in speech what he chose not to commit in writing: that your future happiness depends on your acceptance. He said you would not immediately believe this, but commanded me to assure you that he has only your best interests at heart, and to say also that the matter concerns your wife." The great house on the Esquiline was a mixture of gross luxury and dirt. There was furniture of the utmost extravagance and rich wall-paintings and vases, and a profusion of flowers, but a small dog was lifting its leg against a carved ivory couch as I entered. No one reproved it, and the number of little dogs and cats that swarmed over the palace suggested to me that the action was common. The air was oversweet and perfumed, as if to mask the stench of urine. I knew Maecenas to be in poor health himself. He had retired, as I believed, from public life. His wife Terentia had long abandoned him, and he cohabited with the actor Bathyllus whose behaviour even on the public stage had become a byword for indecency. Maecenas himself had lost whatever reputation he had possessed, and few people mentioned his name without a snigger or an expression of disgust; yet I knew that Augustus still consulted him, and even valued his advice above all others; except my late father-in-law's.
I was ushered into a little dining-room. The table was already spread and Maecenas, in an improbable gown of gold and purple silks, reclined on a couch. He was gazing at a blond boy, who posed, nude, on a stool; his right ankle rested on his left knee and his face was concealed as he leaned forward to examine the sole of his raised foot. An artist across the room was sketching the boy.
Maecenas neither rose when I entered, nor took his eyes from the boy. Instead he stretched out his long bony hand and squeezed the boy's leg. Understanding this to be a command, the boy rose, and, without a backward glance, strolled from the room, trailing a tunic behind him. The artist collected his materials and slipped away. We were left alone, and Maecenas rose and extended both hands in a gesture of greeting. His face was drawn and wasted by disease, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse and seemed to come from a distance. During the meal he conversed merely of trivialities and plied me with Falernian wine. He ate only some smoked fish and a peach himself. Then he dismissed the slaves.
"I rarely entertain now," he said. "My health does not permit it. You see before you, dear boy, the wreck of a man who has all but exhausted pleasure." (I thought of the blond model, and dissented tacitly.)
"And yet," he said, fingering a fat purple fig, letting its juice trickle over his fingers which he then licked before dipping them in water and wiping them with a linen cloth, "you are the second supper guest I have had this week. Remarkable. The first was your stepfather…"
"Your messenger hinted," I said, "that you had something to say concerning my wife. That is why I came."
"Tiberius, I pray you to allow a sick old man to approach the matter gradually. Display to me, dear boy, the patience with which you are so splendidly equipped, which you practise with such admirable skill in war. It is my affliction that what was once affectation has become so much a part of my nature that I cannot now approach a subject except circuitously. What I have to say would endanger me if I spoke to any man other than yourself. That I choose to ignore the danger is the measure of the respect in which I hold you. Remember that. I have watched you, and watched over you, all your life, and believe me, dear boy, I have your best interests at heart. Yet you despise me, don't you?" I made no reply. He smiled.
"All my life," he said, "I have made it my business to know men. It is in that knowledge that all my skill lies, and I possess it because I have never neglected the gods' advice: 'Know thyself. You will know, for all Rome knows it, that I am helpless before the actor Bathyllus. My passion for him has made me an object of mockery. I cannot appear in the street now without enduring insult. What was once pleasant self-indulgence has become addiction. I need Bathyllus and his like – yes, and more, boys like that child you saw here tonight – as a drunkard needs wine. It is what my life has become. Once, I loved my wife, in a manner of speaking. But…" he extended his hands, the rings flashed in the light of the lamps, and he laughed, "… but they have all been substitutes. There is only one person I have truly loved, and I made it my business to secure him what he most ardently desired: which was Rome. His accession to power, aided by my advice on innumerable occasions, has saved the state, and perhaps the world. I helped to make him a great man for the benefit of all and, in doing so, collaborated with time and the world in the destruction of the boy I loved. I adored Octavius and I still love the boy who survives behind the mask of Augustus. Yet in giving him the world, I lost him. In saving Rome, I taught him to place reasons of state above the claims of ordinary human love. I am proud of what I accomplished, and disgusted by its consequences. My disgust expresses itself in my own enslavement to lust, and it is for me small consolation that the enjoyment of embraces is less damaging to the psyche and the character than the enjoyment of power… "Are you still listening, Tiberius?"
"Yes," I said, "I am listening to your words and to the sound of the gathering night." "I believe you love Vipsania?" "I do." "And she loves you?" "I believe so." "And you are happy together."
"We have grown in love, and that love is at least a shield against the realities of the world."
"An insubstantial shield, I fear. Can love armour you against destiny?" "As to destiny, I have moments of scepticism."
"All wise men are sceptics. I myself am even sceptical of scepticism…" He sighed, and leant back on his cushions.
"Pass me that phial, dear boy. My medicine. And have patience. We approach the point. Forgive my procrastination. I had to be sure things were as I had thought them to be."
He was silent a long time. The sand slipped down the hourglass and moths fluttered round the lamps. A little dog crawled out from under the couch where it had been sleeping and jumped on to his lap. He fondled its ears.
"When Augustus was here the other night, I said to him: if you really loved your daughter, you would let her marry a pretty playboy like Iullus Antonius, and be happy. He replied that he could not let her marry a man who would diminish her. Do you believe he was honest?"
"I believe he would never let her marry Antonius, if not for that exact reason."
"No, you are quite right. He would not trust him as the guardian of Gaius and Lucius. That will be his first concern. But you see, dear boy, for Augustus, people have become objects to be shifted for his advantage which he equates with the advantage of the state. And the terrible thing is he is right to do so. I said to him the other night: everyone has to yield to your monstrous will. It has come to dominate Rome, all of us; it dominates you yourself, it has killed your capacity for imagination and for ordinary human warmth. You, I said, are as much prisoner of your vice as I am of mine. And then, Tiberius, I told him what would happen. This is by way of being a confession. We need more wine."
He picked up a little bell and tinkled it twice. A painted slave in a short tunic brought in a jug of wine and poured a cup for both of us. I drank mine in a gulp and he filled it again. Maecenas held the rim of his own cup to his lips and watched the boy leave us alone.
"I said to him: we end as prisoners of our own character. Shall I tell you what you'll do? You will compel Tiberius to divorce Vipsania…"
When he spoke these words it was as if a fear which I had been denying stood erect before me with drawn sword.
"Yes, dear boy… after all, I said, Vipsania is no longer of any value since her father is dead. It doesn't matter that she and Tiberius have been happy together, for that happiness has become only an obstacle to your greater intent. You will throw it aside, and force him to marry Julia. He's a strong man, I said, and a man of honour – I do not say this to flatter you now, dear boy, but because I have always found it necessary to explain to Augustus how he makes his will appear reasonable. He will do the right thing by your grandsons, I said… As I spoke I could see the clouds slip away from him. He gave me the loving smile I remember from our youth, which he would accord me whenever I resolved a difficulty. For a moment it was as if our old intimacy had been rekindled. I was happy. But later, when he had gone, I was sad to think that this revival of intimacy had been made possible only by my ability to show him what he wanted to do, though he had not yet brought himself to the point of admitting it…" "You know my stepfather very well," I said.
"I think I know him even better than Livia does. You see, unlike her, I remember the boy with whom I laughed and loved before the proscriptions, before he combined with Mark Antony and that imbecile Lepidus to mark down the names of those who must be killed because they had become inconvenient. When once a man has done that, Tiberius, he can excuse himself anything."
"Why do you tell me this? Is it to warn me, so that I can resist?"
"Tiberius, Tiberius, I had thought better of you." He closed his eyes, and, when he spoke again, his voice seemed to me to come from a great distance, across windy deserts of experience. "I had thought better of you. Surely you understand the world Augustus has made, with my help and Agrippa's? The time for effective resistance is over. An act of resistance now is no more than a piece of petulance, like telling the wind to cease blowing." "I could kill myself rather than submit…"
"Tiberius, remember: 'Know thyself is the command of the gods. Your nature is to serve. You will obey. And you will praise yourself for your obedience." "Never…"
"Then let us say you will console yourself with the thought that you obey in the public interest. And let me add something else: when Augustus unfolds his plan to you, he will assure you that he has consulted me, and that my advice has ever proved to be for the public good. Your submission will then become an act of virtue, just as defiance would be understood as the expression of your selfish and individual will. How, Tiberius, can you put your little marriage above the majesty of the interest of Rome? Together," he sniffed his wine, "we restored the Republic and created a despotism, a world fit for power, ruled by power, a world in which gentle values have become obsolete, a world where one commands and all others serve, a vision of the future in which a hard frost grips men's hearts, and generous sentiments are annulled by the habit of fearful subjection…" I left him and entered into black night, choking with smoke, from which, it sometimes seems, I have never emerged. As I descended the slippery steps of his palace, I was accosted by a whore. I took her, in anger, like a goat, against a wall. I paid her ten times the fee she demanded.
"You must raise your price," I said to her, "for, since all value is destroyed, no measure of worth can survive and you may ask what you choose."
"Oh thank you, sir, I wish all my clients were gentlemen like yourself." I did not leave my chamber for two days, but lay in sullen torpor, drowning myself in wine. When I received a message summoning me to the Princeps, I sent word that I was sick, and turned my face to the wall. On the third day a letter came from my wife. I have it here now. It has never been parted from me, all these years… Husband,
It is with a heavy heart that I write that word for the last time. Henceforth it must remain locked up in my grieving heart. I do not blame you, for I understand that you too are a victim, and that you too will suffer. I believe this because I am confident of the virtue of your love for me. And I do not even reproach you, my dear Tiberius, for having lacked the courage to break the news to me yourself. Why, I can imagine you protesting, should I be compelled to do the deed when it is not of my desiring? It is the certainty that you do not desire it which makes it possible for me to bear my sorrow.
My own life is, I now feel, well nigh ended, and I exist only for our son. Yet I cannot quite convince myself that even this is true, for it has been hinted that – of course – I shall be compensated with a new and respectable marriage. I do not want it, but since I do not want what is about to befall me either, what has indeed befallen me, I have no doubt I shall submit. I was brought up to do my duty, and this new departure will be presented to me as duty. I hesitate to write more, lest my feelings betray me. I would wish also to warn you. I shall not do so, because my judgment may be mistaken, because I am certain you will share my doubts, and because it would be both improper and unwise to say what I think. I will merely add that my father once remarked that to make Julia happy was work for a god, not a man.
You will, I know, continue to care lovingly for our son, though you will naturally be aware also of the new, and very great, responsibilities you have assumed…
Believe me, my dear Tiberius, ever your loving and devoted – but I no longer know how to sign myself… I do not know why I have kept this letter, for I knew it by heart almost from the first. I turn it over in my mind, in self-laceration and for reassurance. It is both a dagger and a talisman.
Perhaps the most remarkable feature of this unholy episode was that I never discussed it with Augustus. He behaved to me in the weeks that followed with benevolence, respect and that evasiveness of which he was the supreme master. There were countless moments when it seemed as if he was about to broach the subject, others when it appeared that I had been granted an opening which would allow me to do so myself; yet nothing was said between us, till the eve of my wedding to Julia when he embraced me – almost without the involuntary shrinking which I had always sensed when he took me in his arms – and assured me of his love and confidence, assurance sweetened by his gift of a villa and estate at Ravello. "At last," he said, "I can face the future without Agrippa."
But I had raged to my mother, stormed and pleaded. I had howled at the malignity of fortune which deprived me of what I chiefly valued. I had protested that if deprived of Vipsania I would be rendered unfit to prosecute my career. I swore that Livia's connivance in this brutality would destroy my love and respect for her herself. And, in the privacy of my mother's chamber, I cursed my stepfather who had made the world in which I was compelled to live.
She accused me of behaving like a spoiled child; and I was indeed spoiled, I was damaged.
She, my mother, had damaged me. I saw her at that moment, a lean woman with fading hair and a face that grew more chiselled every year, as if preparing itself to be preserved only in stone, and I saw her as one who had failed me, her son, by her subservience to her husband, by the subordination of her duty to me to his devouring ambition, and her ambition for him. Resentment filled me, tasting of bile. Even as I let bitterness fill my mouth, I knew my reaction was absurd. I knew that every man carries his own destiny with him, and that to blame my mother for my present predicament was as ridiculous as to blame winter for bringing snow to the mountains. I knew too that for a man of my age, for one who had achieved what I had, who had commanded armies and consigned men to death, to experience such resentment was contemptible. Indeed my resentment was as contemptible as my submission; yet I could not resist it.
I soon learned also not to despise myself for submitting. What else could I have done? I had already seen lives wither when men set themselves against Augustus. I have since seen how no considerations of affection, loyalty or decency can deflect him from a course which he has judged expedient or necessary. All men, yes, and all women too, exist for him ultimately as malleable objects: creatures whose lives may be deformed or cut off at his command. I told myself that if I had resisted, if I had opposed my will to his, it would have profited me nothing: I would have been cast into exile, Vipsania would still have been denied me, and my son Drusus' future would have been darkened. My acquiescence was my only means of protecting him.
I told myself this, and knew it to be true; yet still despised my weakness. To appease my troubled mind I transferred my self-contempt to a pervasive scorn for the degeneracy of our times, when, with the loss of our antique Republican virtue, even the nobility of Rome have become the despot's playthings. "O generation fit for slavery," I growled; and those who heard me, and shrank from my harsh speech, did not understand that I included myself among the slaves.