If history remembers me at all, history will remember me so.
But history will not know the truth, if history ever can.
My father knew of my affairs. They may have pained him, but he knew of them, and understood the reasons, and did not upbraid me unduly. He knew of my love for Julius Antonius; and I think, almost, he was happy for me.
In the consulships of Gaius Octavius Caesar and Marcus Plautius Silvanus, I was condemned to exile so that I would not be executed for high treason to the state of Rome.
It is autumn in Pandateria, and it was autumn that afternoon in Rome, six years ago, when my life ended. I had not heard from Julius Antonius in three days. Messages that I sent to his house were returned unopened; servants that I sent were refused admittance, and came back to me puzzled. I tried to imagine those things that one in love is wont to imagine, but I could not; I knew that something else was amiss, something more serious than what a jealous lover can raise to beguile and torture one's lover.
But I swear I did not know what it was. I did not suspect; or perhaps I refused to suspect. I did not even suspect when, on the afternoon of the third day of silence, a messenger and four guards appeared at my door to take me to my father. I did not even recognize the significance of the guards; I imagined that they were there as a ritual protection of my safety.
I was carried by litter through the Forum and up the Via Sacra and past the Imperial Palace and up the litde hill to my father's house on the Palatine. The house was almost deserted, and when the guards escorted me across the courtyard toward my father's study, the few servants who were around turned away from me, as if in fear. It was only then, I believe, that I began to suspect the seriousness of the matter.
When I was led into the room, my father was standing, as if awaiting me. He motioned the guards to leave; and he looked at me for a long while before speaking.
For some reason, I observed him very closely for those moments. Perhaps, after all, I did know. His face was lined, and there were wrinkles of weariness around those pale eyes; but in the dimness of the room, the face might have been that of him whom I remembered from my childhood. At last I said:
"What strangeness is this? Why have you brought me here?"
Then he came forward and very gentiy kissed me on the cheek.
"You must remember," he said, "that you are my daughter and that I have loved you."
I did not speak.
My father went to the little desk in the corner of the room and leaned on it for a moment, his back toward me. Then he straightened, and without turning said to me:
"You know one Sempronius Gracchus."
"You know that I do," I said. "You know him also."
"You have been intimate with him?"
"Father-" I said.
Then he turned to me. In his face there was such pain that I could not bear to look. He said: "You must answer me. Please, you must answer."
"Yes," I said.
"And Appius Pulcher."
"Yes."
"And Quinctius Crispinus and Cornelius Scipio?"
"Yes," I said.
"And Julius Antonius."
"And Julius Antonius," I said. "The others-" I said, "the others do not matter. That was a foolishness. But you know that I love Julius Antonius."
My father sighed. "My child," he said, "this is a matter that has nothing to do with love." He turned away from me once again and picked up some papers from his desk. He handed them to me. I looked at them. My hands were shaking. I had not seen the papers before-some letters, some diagrams, some that appeared to be timetables-but now I saw names that I knew. My own. Tiberius's. Julius Antonius's. Sempronius, Cornelius, Appius. And I knew then why I had been summoned before my father.
"Had you read those documents carefully," my father said, "you would know that there is a conspiracy against the government of Rome, and that the first step ofthat conspiracy is the murder of your husband, Tiberius Claudius Nero." I did not speak.
"Did you know of this conspiracy?"
"Not a conspiracy," I said. "No. There was no conspiracy."
"Did you speak to any of these-friends of yours about Tiberius?"
"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.