anything else. I cannot believe that six years have gone. I think of Julius. The tide rises gently, and the water moves over my body. If I do not move, I may think of him. I think of Julius Antonius.
III Letter: Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso to Tiberius Claudius Nero, in Rhodes (3 B.C.)
I must say at the outset, my friend, that I am filled with apprehension; and I do not know whether it is justified or not. Let me give you a few causes, so that you may judge the soundness of my feeling.
Your wife, so far as I can determine, has been faithful to one man for more than a year. That man is, as you know, Julius Antonius. She is seen constantly in his company; indeed, the liaison has become so widely recognized that no longer does either of them try to dissemble it. Julia receives guests in his home, and directs the activities of his servants. Her father must know of the affair by now, and yet he remains on friendly terms with his daughter, and with Julius Antonius. Indeed, it is rumored that Julia intends to divorce you, and to take Julius as her husband. In this rumor, however, I think we can put very little credence. Octavius Caesar would never allow it. Such an official alliance would simply destroy the delicate balance of power that he maintains, and he knows it. I mention the rumor only to indicate to you the extent to which the affair has grown.
Despite the scandal of his relationship with the Emperor's daughter-or perhaps because of it, for who can know the mind of the people?-Julius Antonius ‘s popularity continues to grow. He is at the moment, I should imagine, the second or third most powerful man in Rome; he has a very large following in the Senate, a following which, I must say, he uses most discreetly. Yet despite this discretion, I do not trust him. He has made no move to court those senators who have some influence with the military; he smiles upon all; he even conciliates his enemies. Yet I suspect that like his father he has ambitions; and unlike his father, he is able successfully to hide them from the world.
And, alas, your popularity among the masses seems to be suffering. It is in part because of your necessary absence; but that is not all. Libels and lampoons about you are being circulated widely; this, of course, is usual. Any distinguished figure is at the mercy of versifiers and hacks. But the distribution of these libels is far greater than any that I can remember in years; and they are particularly vicious. It seems almost that there is a campaign of sorts under way to discredit you. It does not do so, of course; no one who was your friend will become your enemy because of these libels, but it does seem to me symptomatic of something.
And the Emperor, I am sad to say, does not unbend in his dislike of you, despite the entreaties of your mother and your friends. So we can expect no comfort from that quarter.
Despite all this, you are well advised to remain in Rhodes. Let the lampooners invent their salacious poems; so long as you remain abroad, you will not be forced to act. The memories of men are short.
Julius Antonius has gathered around him a band of poets- nothing so distinguished as those who were friends to the Emperor, of course; and I suspect that some of the libels and lampoons have been coming (anonymously, of course) from their pens. Some write poems in praise of Julius himself; and he has let it be known that his maternal grandmother was a Julian. The man is ambitious; I am sure ofthat.
Do not forget that you have friends in Rome; and the absence of your self does not mean that you are not present in all our minds. It is a depressing strategy, but a necessary one, this waiting; do not become too impatient. I shall, as I have done, keep you informed of all that is pertinent here in the city.
IV. The Journal of Julia, Pandateria (A.D. 4)
Before Julius Antonius and I became lovers, he used to tell me about his early years, and about his father, Marcus Antonius. Julius had not been a favorite of his father-that distinction had fallen to his elder brother, Antyllus-and he remembered him as if he were almost a stranger. In his early years, Julius had been raised by my Aunt Octavia, who, though a stepmother, was closer to him than had been his natural mother, Fulvia. Often, as I sat quieriy with Julius Antonius and Marcella and talked, it occurred to me that it was the most amazing thing that once, as small children, we had all played together at my Aunt Octavia's house. I could not then, and cannot now, recall those days with any precision; and when we tried to talk about childhoods and dredge up memories of them, it was as if we were inventing the characters and the events of a play, out of the conventions and necessities of an occasion in the past.
I remember one late evening, when the three of us lingered after the other few dinner guests had departed. It was a hot night, so we removed ourselves from the dining room and lounged in the courtyard. The stars glimmered through the soft air; the servants had gone; and our music was the mysterious chirp and whisper of the innumerable insects hidden in the darkness. We had been talking quietly, toward no particular end, of the accidents that befall us in our living.
'I have often wondered,' Julius said, 'what would have happened to our country had my father been less impetuous and had managed to prevail over my friend Octavius Caesar.'
'Octavius,' I said, 'is my father.'
'Yes,' Julius said. 'And he is my friend.'
'There are those,' I said, 'who would have preferred such a victory over him.'
Julius turned to me and smiled. In the starlight, I could see the heavy head and the delicate features. He did not resemble the busts of his father that I had seen.
'They are wrong,' he said. 'Marcus Antonius had the inherent weakness of trusting too much the mere presence of himself. He would have erred, and he would have fallen, sooner or later. He did not have the tenacity that the Emperor has.'
'You seem to admire my father,' I said.
'I admire him more than I do Marcus Antonius,' he said.
'Even though-' I said, and paused.
He smiled again. 'Yes. Even though Octavius had my father and my elder brother put to death… Antyllus was very much like Marcus Antonius. I believe Octavius saw that, and he did what was necessary. I was never fond of Antyllus, you know.'
I believed I shivered, though the night was not cool.
'If you had been a few years older…'I said.
'It is quite likely that he would have put me to death also,' Julius said quietly. 'It would have been the necessary thing to do.'
And then Marcella said petulantly and somewhat sleepily, 'Oh, let's not talk of unpleasant things.'
Julius turned to her. 'We are not, my dear wife. We are talking of the world, and of the things that have happened in it.'
Two weeks later^ we became lovers.
We became lovers in a way that I could not have foreseen. I believe I determined that evening that we should become lovers, and I foresaw nothing in my conquest of Julius Antonius that I had not seen before. Though I was fond of his wife, who was also my cousin, I knew her to be a trivial woman, as tiresome as I have found most women to be; and Julius I took to be a man like all men-as eager for the power of conquest as for the pleasure of love.
To one who has not become adept at the game, the steps of a seduction may appear ludicrous; but they are no more so than the steps of a dance. The dancers dance, and their skill is their pleasure. All is ordained, from the first exchange of glances until the final coupling. And the mutual pretense of both participants is an important part of the elaborate game-each pretends helplessness beneath the weight of passion, and each advance and withdrawal, each consent and refusal, is necessary to the successful consummation of the game. And yet the woman in such a game is always the victor; and I believe she must have a little contempt for her antagonist; for he is conquered and used, as he believes that he is conqueror and user. There have been times in my life when, out of boredom, I have abandoned the game, and have attacked frontally, as a conquering soldier might attack a villager; and always the man, however sophisticated, and however he might dissemble, was extraordinarily shocked. The end was the same, but the victory was, for me, never quite complete; for I had no secret to hide from him and, therefore, no power over his person.
And so I planned the seduction of Julius Antonius as carefully as a centurion might plan an advance upon the flank of an enemy, though in the ritual of this encounter, I thought, the enemy always wishes to be conquered. I gave him glances, and looked away hurriedly; I brushed against him, and drew away as if in confusion; and at last, one evening, I managed to arrange for us to be alone together at my house.
I languished on my couch; I said words that invited the hearer to offer comfort; I let my dress fall away from
