Julia, the childish gold of her hair already darkening to that colour for which I have never found the right epithet, her blue eyes set rather far apart and moist at the edges, her lips always a little open. (Livia used to say she had breathing difficulties but I have always thought that the habit indicated her greed for experience.) And myself? When I try to envisage myself a shadow falls, and my face withdraws into the dark.
So we argued the matter and I have forgotten what we said, but the impression of that evening remains warm. We could hear the din and bustle rise from the forum below. Julia was eating a peach, and the juice trickled down her chin, to be retrieved by that quick, pointed tongue. Marcellus strove to convince us of Augustus' nobility and generosity in handing the Republic back to the Roman people, and Julia laughed and said,
'Daddy's not noble, he's clever, he's much too clever to do that. I'm only a girl and my interest in these political affairs is strictly limited, but I know perfectly well that you don't fight civil wars for fifteen years in order to give the dice back to your enemies and tell them to play the game again in their own way. If you take things at face value, Marcellus, you're a fool. Of course, you are a fool. I'd forgotten that.' She was quite right. Marcellus was a fool, a beautiful fool certainly, but all the more fool for that, because he was eaten up with self-love. 'He's just like Narcissus, or Hyacinthus, isn't he?' Julia once said to me. 'One of these silly Greek boys who fell in love with their own beauty.' So from that day we called him The Hyacinth.
'You're different,' she said to me, and put her arms round my neck. 'You sit there like a wise man and say nothing. Nobody knows what you think, do they, Tiberius? I think that's clever.'
And she kissed me. It wasn't a child's kiss. Or a sister's. It lingered on my lips.
But Augustus did not think Marcellus a fool. He thought him a golden youth and adored him. I believe Livia tried to warn him that he was in danger of making an ass of himself, but he was infatuated with the boy. Of course Marcellus was the son of his sister Octavia, whom he had always thought perfect and who now aroused feelings of guilt in him because he had compelled her to marry Mark Antony for political reasons; and the boy's father, C. Claudius Marcellus, had been one of his earliest supporters. (The Claudii Marcelli were, of course, cousins of mine.) But this wasn't the real reason for the enthralment in which Augustus was held by his nephew; and, despite the sneers of Roman gossip, it wasn't a vicious attachment either. The truth is that in Marcellus Augustus saw what he longed to be, and knew, of course, that he couldn't: a natural aristocrat, spontaneous, generous, idealistic; impulsive, a being born to be adored. His stupid love for Marcellus represented his surrender to a suppressed part of his character; it represented the wish that life is not what it is but an idyll.
He took us on campaign in Gaul when we were both very young. By this time – though I wasn't yet aware of it – he had already decided that Marcellus and Julia should marry. In that way he would, he fondly thought, continue to possess the two people the immature side of his nature most adored. (It was a different, and more worthy, side that loved Livia.) He was asking for the impossible of course, forgetting that neither could remain eighteen.
He loved to question us in the evening, to extract our views on life, and then try to correct them; he has always been a natural teacher. He told us that the business of government was service. 'The only satisfaction,' he said, 'is the work itself. The only reward, the ability to continue the work. It is our task to bring law and civilisation to the barbarians. The true heroes of our empire are the countless administrators whom history will never know…'
I was fascinated. This was a different Augustus I was seeing. I realised for the first time how my mother diminished him; in her presence he would never have dared speak as if he had authority. Men, I said to myself, become fully themselves when they are away from women: in the camp, at their office, feeling responsible for action, for decisions which determine life and death. But Marcellus was bored. He interrupted: 'Caesar invaded the island of Britain, didn't he?' If I had interrupted in such a manner which showed that I had paid no attention to what he had been saying, he would have reproved me. But he beamed at Marcellus and laughed:
'You know he did. You've read his memoirs, haven't you..?' Marcellus groaned. 'Not much of them. He's awfully dull, you know.'
'I can see how you might think so,' he stretched over and umpled my cousin's hair. 'Is that your opinion too?' he asked.
'He's admirably lucid,' I said, 'and I've no experience of zourse, but I find his descriptions of battles very convincing, except for one thing. He's always the hero. Was he really like that, sir?'
He smiled at us, as if thinking. I nibbled a radish. Marcellus took a swig of wine. Then, before Augustus could speak, he said:
'I do like the sound of Britain, there are pearls there and the warriors paint themselves blue. They must look funny, but despite that, it seems they can fight a bit. Why don't we carry on Caesar's work and conquer the island?' 'What do you think, Tiberius…?'
I hesitated, to show that my opinion was well considered. But I had no doubt:
'It seems to me that we have enough trouble with the empire as it is. I think it may be big enough. Wouldn't we be best to consolidate before we bite off any more…?' And what was Marcellus' reaction to this good sense?
He called me an old woman. If we'd been alone I might have said that it was better to talk like an old woman than a silly girl, but in the circumstances I only smiled. To my surprise, Augustus agreed with me.
'Caesar was an adventurer,' he said. 'I'm not. The conquest of Britain would be worthless, for the island is covered in fog and there's little evidence that the pearl fisheries are of much value…'
Marcellus sighed. 'It would be such an adventure,' and Augustus laughed and rumpled his hair again.
2
Augustus was from the first, by nature, a dynast. The word is Greek and means a man of power. It was on account of his single-minded pursuit of power that he triumphed in the civil wars; it was that pursuit which forced the war against Antony and Cleopatra on the Roman people. Yet he was never even a competent soldier. He owed his victories to Marcus Agrippa, and to the goddess Fortune.
I didn't appreciate Agrippa till he became my father-in-law. I can't reproach myself for failing to do so. It would have been more remarkable if I had understood his genius, for he was everything I distrusted by nature: rough, uncouth, with a strong provincial accent, and given to laughing loudly at his own (poor) jokes. He had that taste for bawdy stories which is such a useful means of creating good-feeling between men; it is my ill-fortune that I am fastidious and detest such ribaldry.
Augustus relied on him utterly. They were complementary. Neither would have been capable of the other's achievement. Nevertheless, as children, we used to mock him, Julia especially. I didn't realise then that Augustus had already arranged that I should marry Agrippa's daughter, Vipsania. I would have been extremely offended, for I found her insipid. Certain scenes of youth stand out with the clarity of wall-paintings. A summer evening in the gardens of a villa overlooking the sea, Naples some twenty miles distant. I am reading Homer and listening to a nightingale, for it is almost too dark to read the words. A hand is slipped across my eyes from the rear. I have heard no one approaching. The hand is cool and dry.
'Julia,' I say, without moving, and feel the fingers move down to stroke my cheek.
'I wish you weren't always reading. I don't know what you see in books.' 'They tell us,' I say, 'how life…' 'Now, darling,' she says, 'don't be pompous…'
Even at that age – what, thirteen? – when most of us are shy and awkwardly aware of ourselves, Julia could employ the word 'darling' as naturally as a child or a lover. But she was perturbed that summer, that evening. 'Put your book away,' she said. 'I want to speak to you.' 'Well, it's too dark to read…' 'Please be serious.' 'What is this? You ask me to be serious?' 'I've got some news. Daddy says he wants me to marry The Hyacinth.' 'Congratulations.' 'Don't be silly.'
'I'm serious. Marcellus is going to win great glory. Your father will see to that…'
'That's what I mean. I should prefer my husband to be a man who will win glory for himself. Or perhaps not? What is glory after all?'
'But Marcellus is charming also,' I said. 'Everyone agrees on that.' 'Oh yes,' she said, 'but I don't want him…' She leaned forward, kissed me on the lips, and ran away, laughing.
She would laugh – at intervals – all through her marriage to Marcellus, and he took it as a tribute to his charms. But laughter in Julia was not necessarily a sign of happiness. As it happened, my mother also was
