"Yes," I said.
"I have behaved toward you as if you were my daughter," Livia said. "Insofar as it has been possible, I have not acted against your interests."
I waited.
She said slowly, "Do you find my son at all to your liking?"
I still did not understand. "Your son?"
She made a little impatient gesture. "Tiberius, of course."
I did not find Tiberius to my liking, and I never had; I did not know why. Later I came to understand that it was because he discovered in all others those vices he would not recognize in himself. I said: "He has never been fond of me. He thinks me flighty and unstable."
"That is no matter, even if it is true," Livia said.
"And he is betrothed to Vipsania," I said. Vipsania was the daughter of Marcus Agrippa; and though younger than I, she was almost my friend.
"Nor does that matter," Livia said, still impatiently. "You understand such things."
"Yes," I said, and did not speak further. I did not know what to say.
"You know that your father is fond of you," Livia said. "Some have thought him too fond of you, but that is of no substance here. At issue is the fact, which you know, that he will listen to you more attentively than most fathers will listen to their daughters, and that he would hesitate to go against your wishes. Your wishes carry great weight with him. Therefore, if you find the idea of marriage to Tiberius not disagreeable to you, it would be appropriate for you to let your father know that."
I did not speak.
"On the other hand," Livia said, "if you find the idea wholly disagreeable, you would do me a service now to let me know. I have never dissembled with you."
My head was whirling. I did not know what to say. I said: "I must obey my father. I do not wish to displease you. I do not know."
Livia nodded. "I understand your position. I am grateful to you. I shall not trouble you more with this."
… Poor Livia. I believe that she thought then that everything was arranged, and that her will would prevail. But it did not, on that occasion. It was perhaps the bitterest blow of her life.
II Letter: Livia to Octavius Caesar, at Samos (21 B.C.)
I have been in all things obedient to your will. I have been your wife, and faithful to my duty; I have been your friend, and faithful to your interests. So far as I can determine, I have failed you in only one regard, and I grant that that is an important one: I have not been able to give you a son, or even a child. If that is a fault, it is one which is beyond my control; I have offered divorce, which, out of what I believed to be affection for my person, you have often refused. Now I cannot be sure of that affection, and I am bitterly troubled.
Though I had reasonable cause to believe that you should have thought my Tiberius to be more nearly your own son than was Marcellus, who was only your nephew, I forgave your choice upon the grounds of your illness and upon the grounds of your plea that Marcellus carried the blood of the Claudian, the Octavian, and the Julian lines, while Tiberius carried only the Claudian. I even forgave what I must see now as your insults to my son; if in the extreme youth in which you judged him he displayed what appeared to be some instability of character and excess of behavior, I might suggest that the character of a boy is not the character of a man.
But now your course is clear, and I cannot conceal from you my bitterness. You have refused my son, and thus you have refused a part of me. And you have given your daughter a father rather than a husband.
Marcus Agrippa is a good man, and I know that he has been your friend; I bear no ill will for his person. But he bears no name, and whatever virtues he may possess are merely his own. It may have been amusing to the world that a man with such a lack of breeding might hold so much power as a subordinate of the Emperor; it will not be amusing to the world that now he is the designated successor, and thus nearly equal to the Emperor himself.
I trust you understand that my position has become nearly impossible; all Rome expected that Tiberius should become betrothed to your daughter, and that in the normal course of affairs he should have had some part in your life. Now you have refused him that.
And you remain abroad upon the occasion of this marriage of your daughter, as you did upon the first-whether out of necessity or choice, I do not know. And I do not care.
I shall continue in my duty toward you. My house will remain your house, and open to you and your friends. We have been too close in our common endeavors for it to be otherwise. I shall, indeed, attempt to continue to remain your friend; I have not been false to you, in thought or word or deed; and I shall not be in the future. But you must know the distance that this has put between us; it is farther than even the Samos where you now sojourn. It shall remain so.
Your daughter is married to Marcus Agrippa, and has removed herself to his house; she is now mother to that Vipsania Agrippa, who once was her playmate. Your niece, Marcella, bereft of a husband, is with your sister at Velletri. Your daughter seems content with her marriage. I trust that you are the same.
III. Broadsheet: Tima?enes of Athens (21 B. c.)
Now who is mightier in the house of Caesar- the one whom all call Emperor and the August, or that one who, by all custom, should have been his loving helpmate, dutiful to both bed and banquet hall? See now how ruler is ruled: the torches flicker, the company is gay, and laughter flows more quickly than wine. He speaks to his Livia, and will not be heard by her; he speaks again, and is frozen by a smile.
It is said that he refused her a bauble; you'd think the Tiberwas agrip in winter ice!
But, ruled or ruler, it is no great matter.
There, from a corner, some Lesbia gives a glance that darkens the torches; bright Delias languish on couches, their shoulders bare in the dim light; but he disdains them all. For boldly there comes to him the wife of a friend (who does not see, his eyes being filled with the vision of a boy dancing to the torchlight). Why not? he thinks, this ruler of men. Of his time, Maecenas has given freely; this other little thing he never uses, surely he'd not begrudge.
IV. Letter: Quintus Homtius Flaccus to Gains Cilnius Maecenas, at Arezzo (21 B.C.)
The author of the libel is, indeed, as you suspected, that same Timagenes whom you have encouraged and aided, to whom you unwisely gave your friendship, and whom you introduced into the household of our friend. Besides being an ungrateful guest and uncertain in his meter, he is most foolishly indiscreet; he has bragged about his accomplishment to those who he imagines will admire him, while attempting secrecy among those who will not. He would have at once the responsibility of fame and the pleasure of anonymity, a condition which is clearly impossible.
Octavius knows his identity. He will take no action, though (needless to say) Timagenes is no longer welcome in his house. He has asked me to assure you that he holds you in no way responsible for the betrayal; indeed, he is as much concerned for your feelings in the matter as he is for his own, and hopes that you have not suffered an undue embarrassment. His regard for you is as warm as ever; he regrets your absence from Rome, and is affectionately jealous of the time you have decided to spend at the feet of the Muses.
I, too, regret not seeing you more often; but I believe that I understand even more fully than our friend the contentment you must feel in the quiet and beauty of your Arezzo, away from the bustle and stench of this most extraordinary city. Tomorrow I return to my little place above the Digentia, whose murmur will soothe my ears and at length return me from noise to language. How trivial all these matters will seem there, as they must seem to you in your retreat.
V. Letter: Nico laus of Damascus to Strabo of