In any event, it was Nicolaus-that odd little Syrian Jew, of whom my father was unaccountably fond and whom he trusted-who delivered the message to me, traveling all the way from Jerusalem to find me at Mytilene on Lesbos.
I was angry, and I said to him: "I will not go. He cannot force me to return."
Nicolaus shrugged. "He is your father," he said.
"My husband," I said. "I am with my husband."
"Your husband," Nicolaus said; "your husband is in the Bosporus. Your husband is your father's friend. Your father is the Emperor. He misses you, I suspect. And Rome-it will be spring when we return."
And so we set sail from Lesbos, and I watched the islands slip by, like clouds in a dream. It was my life, I thought, that slipped behind me; it was the life in which I had been a queen, and more than a queen. And as the days passed, and as we drew nearer to Rome, I knew that she who returned was not the same woman who had left, three years before.
And I knew that the life to which I returned would be different. I did not know how it would be so, but I knew that it would be. Not even Rome could awe me now, I thought. And I remember that I wondered if I would still feel like a child when I saw my father.
I returned to Rome in the year of the consulship of Tiberius Claudius Nero, the son of Livia and the husband of my husband's daughter, Vipsania. I was twenty-five years of age. Who had been a goddess returned to Rome a mere woman, and in bitterness.
III. Letter: Publius Ovidius Naso to Sextus Propertius, in Assisi (13 B. c.)
Dear Sextus, my friend and my master-how do you thrive in that melancholy exile you have imposed upon yourself) Your Ovid beseeches you to return to Rome, where you are sorely missed. Things here are not nearly so gloomy as you may have been led to believe; a new star is in the Roman sky, and once again those who have the wit to do so may live in gaiety and pleasure. Indeed, during the past few months, I have concluded that I would be in no other time and in no other place.
You are the master of my art, and older than I-yet can you be sure that you are wiser? Your melancholy may be of your own constitution, rather than Rome's making. Do return to us; there is pleasure yet, before the night comes down upon us.
But forgive me; you know that I am not suited for weighty talk, and once having begun cannot sustain it. I intended at the outset of this letter merely to tell you of a delightful day, hoping that I could persuade you by that to return to us.
Yesterday was the anniversary of the Emperor Octavius Caesar's birth, and thus a Roman holiday; yet it began for me unpropitiously enough. I was in my office disgracefully early- at the first hour, no less, just as the sun was beginning to struggle up from the east through the forest of buildings that is Rome, bringing the city to its feet-for though one may not plead a case on such a holiday as this, one may have to do so the next day; and I had a particularly difficult brief to prepare. It seems that Cornelius Apronius, who has retained me, is suing Fabius Creticus for nonpayment for some lands, while Creticus is countersuing, claiming that the title to the lands is faulty. Both are thieves; neither has a case; thus the skill of the brief and the persuasion of the pleading are most important-as, of course, is the chance of magistrate.
In any event, I had been working all morning; marvelous lines kept popping into my head, as they always do when I am laboring at something that bores me; my secretary was particularly slow and fumbling; and the noise that came from the Forum grated against my ears much more fiercely than it should have done. I was becoming increasingly irritable, and for the hundredth time swore that I should give up this foolish career that in the long run will only give me riches I do not need and the dull distinction of senatorial office.
Then, in the midst of my boredom, a remarkable thing happened. I heard a clatter outside my door, and laughter; and though I heard no knock, my door burst open, and there stood before me the most remarkable eunuch I have ever seen- coiffed and perfumed, dressed in elegant silks, with emeralds and rubies on his fingers, he stood before me as if he were better than a freedman, better even than a citizen.
"This is not the Saturnalia," I said angrily. "Who has given you leave to burst in upon me?"
"My mistress," he said in a shrill, effeminate voice; "my mistress bids you attend me."
"Your mistress," I said, "may rot, for all I care… Who is she?"
He smiled as if I were a slug at his feet. "My mistress is Julia, daughter of Octavius Caesar, the August, Emperor of Rome and First Citizen. Do you wish to know more, lawyer?"
I suppose I gaped at him; I did not speak.
"You will attend me, I presume?" he said haughtily.
In an instant my irritation was gone. I laughed, and tossed the sheaf of papers I had been clutching toward my secretary. "Do the best you can with these," I said. Then I turned to the slave who waited for me. "I will attend you," I said, "wherever your mistress would have you lead me." And I followed him out the door.
As is my wont, dear Sextus, I shall digress for a moment. In a casual way, I had met the lady in question a few weeks before, at a huge party given by that Sempronius Gracchus whom we both know. The Emperor's daughter had returned only a month or so before from a long journey in the East, where she had accompanied her husband, Marcus Agrippa, on some business of his, and where Agrippa remains yet. I was anxious to meet her, of course; since her return, the fashionable people of Rome have been talking of nothing else. So when Gracchus, who seems to be on rather friendly terms with her, invited me, I of course quickly accepted.
There were literally hundreds of people at the party at Sempronius Gracchus's villa-really too large a gathering to be very amusing, I suppose, but it was pleasurable in its own way. Despite the numbers of people, I had the chance to meet Julia, and we bantered for a few moments. She is an utterly charming woman, exquisitely beautiful, and really quite intelligent and well-read. She was kind enough to indicate that she had read some of my poems. Knowing her father's reputation for rectitude (as do you, my poor Sextus), I tried to make a sort of rueful apology for the "naughtiness" of my verse. But she smiled at me in that devastating way she has, and said: "My dear Ovid, if you try to convince me that though your verse is naughty, your life is chaste, I shall not speak to you again."
And I said, "My dear lady, if that is the condition, I shall attempt to convince you otherwise."
And she laughed and moved away from me. Though it was a pleasant interlude, it did not occur to me that she would give me another thought, let alone remember my existence for two whole weeks. And yet she did; and yesterday I found myself in her company once more, following the circumstance which I have described.
Outside my door, attended by bearers, there were perhaps half a dozen litters, canopied with silk of purple and gold; they teemed with the movements of their occupants, and laughter shook the street. I stood, not knowing where to turn; my castrate chaperon had wandered away and was haranguing some of the lesser slaves. Then someone stepped from a litter, and I saw at once that it was she, the Julia who had so kindly interrupted my tedious morning. Then another stepped from the litter and joined her. It was Sempronius Gracchus. He smiled at me. I went toward them.
"You have saved me from a death by boredom," I said to Julia. "What now will you do with that life which belongs to you?"
"I shall use it frivolously," she said. "Today is my father's birthday, and he has given me permission to invite some of my friends to sit with him in his box at the Circus. We shall watch the games, and gamble away our money."