feeling; but her withdrawal grieved me. My body and senses could find easy comfort, such as a man needs (or thinks he needs) but I felt a cold emptiness in my heart.
I was over thirty, and my youth died in that winter as we prepared for war with Cleopatra.
TWELVE
Had the virtue departed from Antony? I asked myself that question as we lay in our camp at Mikilitsi in the hills on the north side of the Bay of Actium. He had already made so many mistakes that I could not but wonder if his heart was in the war. He should never have permitted us to cross to Greece unmolested. He had then allowed us to take up our strong position on the hills. At first I feared a trap, but, when he crossed the narrows and encamped his army two miles south of mine and despatched his cavalry to the north of us to try to cut our supply of water, his movements, formerly so sure and often surprising, were now so hesitant and lethargic, that I realized there was no such trap. Antony had lost confidence in his own genius.
Agrippa now captured Patrae and Leucas, and as a result was able to place his fleet across Antony's communications. He would have to fight his way back to Egypt and we could meanwhile intercept his supplies.
I had only to wait. We had got ourselves in a position which we could only lose by making a false stroke. I was determined to sit tight and compel Antony to move.
There were only two clouds. First, my health was poor all that summer, though no doubt I suffered less on the heights than Antony's wretched army beset by flies, fever and on famine rations, in the plain below. Every day we could see fatigue parties sent beyond the lines to dig mass graves for the fever-victims. But I myself suffered from a persistent sore throat. My skin was dry and hot. I slept ill at nights. My digestion was poor and already I was a slave to the kidney-disease which, as you know, has compelled me to follow a strict diet.
And then there was Livia. She had stayed behind in Rome (where I had left Maecenas in charge) to look after the children. I missed her for she had been my companion on my happiest campaigns. Worse, though, were her letters. She could neither forgive nor forget the affair of the will. She wrote coldly and brusquely about the children's health. Here is a specimen: We leave to-morrow first for your villa at Velletri, then for the house my father left us on the Bay of Naples. I shall be glad to be out of the city which is now disagreeably hot. The children are well and send you respectful greetings. Drusus, I am glad to say, shows sign of developing his athletic abilities. He really rides very well now. Tiberius has been in a silent and withdrawn state. I would pray that he does not fall a victim to the congenital malady of low spirits which so easily affects Claudians. I cannot but remember how his father would sink into supine depression. It is too often the fate of proud and sensitive natures which lack that capacity for self-approbation that enables many much less well-born to achieve more, since their equanimity permits them to do even what they know to be wrong without self-reproach. Tiberius is not like that. When he errs (as all children do) and has to suffer merited reproof, his self-esteem is sorely wounded, and he is then very likely to refrain from any further effort. It is the dark side of that Claudian pride which has on the other hand spurred so many of his family to do great service to the Republic. Julia, of course, has no such inhibitions. She dislikes being reproved (as I am sorry to say she frequently has to be), but it is not pride that is wounded in her case. She has, I am afraid, little natural sense of morality, which is to be regretted even if it hardly surprises me now. Her dislike of reproof is rather an expression of injured vanity – something quite different from pride, as different indeed as the true buffalo-milk cheese of Campania is from the cheap imitations sold in Rome. It offends her that anyone should dare not to think her perfect – I am afraid she is very spoiled – but instead of considering whether the reproof be deserved, and examining her own conscience – which indeed she could hardly do, for Octavia agrees with me that she possesses no such thing – she takes umbrage and is ready to reproach whoever has corrected her; usually, I am sorry to say, myself. Yet, I must say too that she and Tiberius are very close to each other. He is very loving and patient though she teases him endlessly and it may be therefore that his noble character will have some influence over hers, and do something to mitigate the selfishness, waywardness, conceit and capriciousness that are her chief faults. Still I must confess myself doubtful. Julia is so convinced of her own perfections that it is hard to believe her susceptible to any influence. I am sorry to hear that you are in poor health; still, your constitution is such that you cannot expect ever to be free of ailments or infirmities. Moreover, I understand that the Greek climate is too frequently enervating. I am well myself, though as I say, I shall be glad to be out of the city. Your obedient wife, Livia. Ouch, you might say, what a letter; not a word of love and a sting in every sentence. Everything she said about poor little Julia was clearly intended for me. When I replied I tried to mollify her: Livia, I know you think you have cause to write to me in the cold and unloving tone of your letters. Believe me when I say that though your voice and words pain me, they only add to the love and respect I feel for you. I know the cause and respect it. Do you wish me to defend my actions? Perhaps I should do so. Perhaps I can only do so when the sea is between us, and I am poised here on the mountains overlooking Antony's camp and waiting, with a touch of fever in soul as well as body, for the battle that will determine whether my life will be of service to Rome, or will only be remembered as a bitter comedy of trivial ambition. You see, my dear and only girl, the state I find myself in. Do not, pray, be offended that, despite your coldness and your anger that throbs below that coldness and inspires it, I address you in this way. You are the only woman I have ever loved, fully as a man can love a woman, that is to say utterly, and if you withdraw that love from me then there is very little in my private life that could comfort me, that could protect me from the ravages that public life very surely inflicts on a man. You are my strength and my refuge. Do not deny me. You are not only the one woman I have loved in this way, but I know in my bones there will never be another.
I can write these words, though I could not say them to you. And this is perhaps the one flaw in our marriage, and the rock that could break the fragile little raft on which we sail down life's river. In one sense – perhaps more than one, but certainly this one – We are too alike. We are both reticent. We both find difficulty in talking about what we feel. We both retreat when we find ourselves in disagreement into a silence that grows more and more bitter and unforgiving the longer it lasts. And it is this silence which could corrupt and kill our love. Not a single action, but a long brooding in which resentment festers. I do not know if I could survive that. You are in many ways stronger than I am, but, if that happened, if the love we have developed for each other, a love which has matured over the years of our marriage, should be poisoned, something would die in you too. You would, I think, be confined in the bonds of a narrow and unforgiving rectitude. You have, if you will allow me to say so (and try to remember that I speak out of love), a certain timidity which expresses itself in an unwillingness to contemplate the way others live and think. Perhaps this is the form that the Claudian pride takes in you. Indeed I am sure it is. What I can give you is true confidence and gaiety. Do not cut yourself off from what I can provide.
To come to the point at issue, that action of mine of which you so strongly disapprove and which fills you indeed with disgust and even hatred. What can I say? I have a great respect for what is sacrosanct, and would never, in my private life as a citizen, violate a sacred place or sacred obligations. Yet in my capacity as a public man I must sometimes see things differently. A man holding public office must sometimes be conscious of necessity. He must be prepared to do wrong himself if it is in the public interest. Such a recognition informed my actions as Triumvir. Do you think that in my private capacity I could ever have consented to measures so appalling to the moral sense as the Proscriptions? Yet Rome required them. So also with the case of Antony's will. I asked the Vestals to deliver it to me, having carefully explained why I deemed it necessary. They rejected my request. Alas. What could I do? Should I say Rome requires that the will be made public so that Rome and all Italy should understand the peril in which we stand, but, notwithstanding this necessity, I shall refrain from action because I must not do what I know as a private citizen to be wrong? That would indeed have been dereliction of duty. I cannot put my private conscience above my duty to Rome.
I told you what Virgil said about Cincinnatus and the priest at Nemi. I beg you to brood on his words, and try to understand my position.
Thank you for all you have told me about the children. Julia of course has such charm and beauty that she thinks all should be forgiven her. You are right to reprove her, but she is young and will, I am sure, come to hand. I hope our dear Tiberius, whose intelligence and character have already won my respect, will not fall into melancholy. You are right to be wary of his inheritance. Your ever loving husband, Octavianus. The last paragraph was perhaps injudicious, but I had to show I had read her letter. Her reply was swift and unrelenting: That letter was absolutely typical. I don't know why you think I'm afraid or reluctant to say what I feel, but this time I shall
