Augustus

'No,' I said. 'Perhaps in passing. It was no secret that-'

'That you hated him?'

I was silent for a moment. 'That I hated him,' I said.

'Did you speak of his death?'

'No,' I said. 'Not in the way you mean. Perhaps I said-'

'To Julius Antonius?' my father asked. 'What did you say to Julius Antonius?'

I heard my voice tremble. I stiffened my body, and said as clearly as I could: 'Julius Antonius and I wish to marry. We have talked of marriage. It is possible that in talking ofthat I spoke wishfully of Tiberius's death. You would not have given your consent for a divorce.'

'No,' he said sadly, 'I would not.'

'Only that,' I said. 'I said only that.'

'You are the Emperor's daughter,' my father said; and he was silent for a moment. Then he said: 'Sit down, my child,' and motioned me toward the couch beside his desk.

'There is a conspiracy,' he said. 'There is no doubt ofthat. Your friends, whom I have named; and others. And you are involved. I do not know the extent and nature of your guilt, but you are involved.'

'Julius Antonius,' I said. 'Where is Julius Antonius?'

'That will wait,' he said. And then he said: 'Did you know that there was also an attempt to be made on my life, after the death of Tiberius?'

'No,' I said. 'That cannot be true. It cannot be.'

'It is true,' my father said. 'I should hope that they would not have let you know, that they would have made it appear an accident, or illness, or something ofthat sort. But it would have happened.'

'I did not know,' I said. 'You must believe that I did not know.'

He touched my hand. 'I hope you never knew ofthat. You are my daughter.'

'Julius-' I said.

He raised his hand. 'Wait… If I were the only one who had this knowledge, the matter would be simple. I could suppress it, and take my own measures. But I am not the only one. Your husband-' He said the word as if it were an obscenity. 'Your husband knows as much as I do-perhaps more. He has had a spy in the household of Julius Antonius, and he has been kept informed. It is Tiberius's plan to expose the plot in the Senate, and to have his representatives there press for a trial. It will be a trial for high treason. And he plans to raise an army and return to Rome, to protect my person and the Roman government against its enemies. And you know what that would mean.'

'It would mean the danger of your losing your authority,' I said. 'It would mean civil war again.'

'Yes,' my father said. 'And it would mean more than that. It would mean your death. Almost certainly, it would mean your death. And I am not sure that even I would have the power to prevent that. It would be a matter for the Senate, and I could not interfere.'

'Then I am lost,' I said.

'Yes,' my father said, 'but you are not dead. I could not endure knowing that I had allowed you to die before your time. You will not be tried for treason. I have composed a letter which I shall read to the Senate. You will be charged under my law of the crime of adultery, and you will be exiled from the city and provinces of Rome. It is the only way. It is the only way to save you and Rome.' He smiled a little, though I could see that his eyes were moist. 'Do you remember, I used to call you my Little Rome?'

'Yes,' I said.

'And now it seems that I was right. The fate of one may be the fate of the other.'

'Julius Antonius,' I said. 'What will become of Julius Antonius?'

He touched my hand again. 'My child,' he said, 'Julius Antonius is dead. He took his life this morning, when he learned beyond doubt that the plot was discovered.'

I could not speak. At last I said, 'I had hoped… I had hoped…'

'I shall not see you again,' my father said. 'I shall not see you again.'

'It does not matter,' I said.

He looked at me once more. Tears came into his eyes, and he turned away. In a few moments the guards entered the room and took me away.

I have not seen my father since. I understand that he will not speak my name.

In the news that I received from Rome this morning was the information that after all these years Tiberius has returned from Rhodes and is now in Rome. He has been adopted by my father. If he does not die, he will succeed my father, and become the Emperor.

Tiberius has won.

I shall write no more.

BOOK III

Letter: Octavius Caesar to Nicolaus of Damascus (A.D. 14)

August 9

My dear Nicolaus, I send you affectionate greetings and my thanks for the recent shipment of those dates of which I am so fond, and which you have been kind enough to furnish me over the years. They have become one of the most important of the Palestinian imports, and they are known throughout Rome and the Italian provinces by your name, which I have given them. The nicolai, I call them; and the designation has persisted among those who can afford their cost. I hope it amuses you to learn that your name is known better to the world through this affectionate eponym than through your many books. We both must have reached the age when we can take some ironic pleasure in the knowledge of the triviality into which our lives have finally descended.

I write you from aboard my yacht, the one upon which so many years ago you and I used to float leisurely among the little islands that dot our western coastline. I sit where we used to sit-slightly forward of midship upon that canopied platform which is raised so that the constant and slow movement of the sea might be observed without hindrance. We set sail from Ostia this morning, in an unseasonably chill hour before dawn; and now we are drifting southward toward the Campanian coast. I have determined that this shall be a leisurely journey. We shall depend upon the wind to carry us; and if the wind refuses, we shall wait upon it, suspended by the vast buoyancy of the sea.

Our destination is Capri. Some months ago one of my Greek neighbors there asked me to be guest of honor at the yearly gymnastic competitions of the island youths; I demurred at the time, pleading the burden of my duties. But a short while ago, it became necessary for me to travel southward upon another mission, and I determined to give myself the pleasure of this holiday.

Last week my wife approached me with that rather stiff formality she has never lost, and requested that I accompany her and her son on a journey to Benevento, where Tiberius had to go on some business connected with his new authority. Livia explained to me what I already knew-that the people are not persuaded that I am fond of my adopted son, and that any display of affection or concern I might show will make more secure Tiberius's eventual succession to my power.

Livia did not put the matter so directly as she might have; despite her strength of character, she has always been a diplomatic woman. Like one of those Asian diplomats with whom I have dealt for much of my life, she wished to suggest to me without brutally stating the case that the days of my life are limited in number, and that I must prepare the world for that moment of chaos which will inevitably follow my death.

Of course Livia was in this matter, as she has been in most, quite reasonable and correct. I am in my seventy-sixth year; I have lived longer than I have wished to do, and such mortal boredom does not augment longevity. My teeth are nearly gone; my hand shakes with an occasional palsy that always surprises me; and the lassitude of age pulls at my limbs. When I walk I sometimes have the odd sensation that the earth is shifting under my feet, that the stone or brick or patch of earth upon which I step may suddenly move beneath me, and that I shall fall free of the earth to wherever one goes when time has done with one.

And so I acceded to her request, upon the condition that my accompaniment be a ceremonial one. I suggested that since sea travel makes Tiberius ill, he and his mother take the land route to Benevento, while I