Tiberius (35 page)

"You hesitate," he said, "because you are unwilling to believe Agrippina could desire your death, though you have evidence enough that she has long wanted that more than anything in the world. You have never accepted that she really believes Piso murdered Germanicus, and that you instigated the crime. She has been mad for revenge ever since . . ."

I did not answer. I felt the power of his stare. I had made Sejanus by my own choice and now it seemed to me that he had escaped my influence, achieved an autonomous force. I felt my age, and the weakness and irresolution of age. I looked down at the sea. The sun sparkled on the water and there were children playing, with happy cries, in the shallows. Sejanus followed the direction of my gaze.

"I can see it is a temptation," he said, "to pretend in this island paradise that you have escaped the world."

He sat on the terrace wall and crumbled fragments of rubble between his fingers. A cat brushed against my legs and I bent down to run my hand along the soft fur. Sejanus dropped pebbles over the wall, and seemed to listen for a sound that never came.

"I'm not out of the world," he said. "I am right in the centre of the horrible gory mess. You rescued that German boy from the arena but you left me to fight your battles there. Well, I've a confession to make. I'm afraid. There, you never thought to hear me admit to that. I'm as fearful as that German boy was when he lay on the sand while the world hurtled away from him and left him face to face with death. You may be indifferent to death, Tiberius, and I would be indifferent to death in battle, but this fear is different. It's the terror that stalks by night. Whenever any petitioner approaches me, I wonder if he is the murderer they have despatched. I try to reassure myself: 'He's been searched by my guards' I say. 'He can't possibly have a weapon'. And then I wonder if my guards have perhaps been suborned. It is to such imaginings unworthy of a man that my devotion to your person and your interests has condemned me."

"Very well," I said, "but I do not wish them put to death . . . I shall write in suitable terms to the Senate." "Now," he said.

I watched his boat shrink into invisibility. There were pink roses on my terrace, I called for wine. I waited.

The Senate, now certain of my intentions, was only too happy to order the arrest of Agrippina and Nero. A vote of thanks for my deliverance from vile conspiracy was passed. Some ardent spirits, hoping to please me, called for the death penalty. This time no mob swirled around the Senate House. Rome was quiet as the grave. Agrippina was sent to the island of Pandateria to be confined in the villa where her mother, my poor Julia, had been lodged. Nero was imprisoned on the island of Pontia, where several of Julia's lovers had dragged out existence. I thanked the Senate for their vigilance on my behalf, and commended Sejanus to them as "the partner of my labours". When he wrote renewing his request to be allowed to marry my daughter-in-law, Julia Livilla, I made no objection. Let him please himself, if it still pleased the lady. I asked him only to maintain his care for the children he had had by Apicata.

A few weeks after his mother's arrest, Drusus visited me on Capri. I had not invited him for I detested the thought that this young man, who had been so zealous in the destruction of his brother Nero, should be seen by so many as my ostensible heir. He demanded praise for his loyalty and eagerly begged a reward. It was time he was granted command of an army, he said. I replied that I entrusted military commands to experienced and trusted soldiers, not to ignorant boys. He flushed.

"Furthermore," I said, "I find your expressions of loyalty to me less striking than your indifference to your mother's fate. Where natural affections wither, it is hard to trust noble sentiments."

"You have made an enemy of that young man," Sejanus wrote. "He returned to Rome inspired by malice directed at your person."

I could not help that. I saw in Drusus the fierce and cunning servility which has been the bane of Rome. It is the Ides of March today, the anniversary of Caesar's murder. Of course the corruption of virtue long preceded that, which was indeed a vain attempt at its purification. Marcus Brutus at least, a man who won the admiration of almost all those opposed to his actions, certainly saw that murder as a necessary cleansing deed. I am told he looked down on Caesar's mangled corpse, and muttered, "Cruel imperative". There was one exception to the general approval of Brutus: my stepfather always described him as a prig, fool and ingrate; he called the conspiracy against Caesar "a mad dream of disappointed careerists given a spurious respectability by Brutus who lacked any understanding of how the Republic had changed since the Punic Wars".

Augustus was right. Yet I have often wondered whether I would not myself have been among the self-styled Liberators. I am sure at some moments that I would have been, for I would have found the rule of a single person — a rule then in its infancy — as repugnant as
...
as I find it now when I am myself that person. And yet, if I have any consistent virtue, clarity of mind must be granted me. Would I not then have looked around the Senate as I do now and have found a generation fit for slavery, no longer capable of exercising the restraint of the passions on which the enjoyment of true liberty depends?

It is not only a question of morality, though ultimately all political questions must be seen as that. It is a question of consistent authority. Rome has been destroyed by its empire; the doom of the Republic was written in the conquest of Greece, Asia, Africa, Gaul and Spain. My whole life, animated by Republican sentiments, has yet been devoted to making the re-establishment of the Republic impossible. And it is thanks to Brutus and his friends that the inevitable principate had its origins in murder and civil war.

These thoughts have been with me a long time. I looked around and saw no man but Sejanus capable of governing the empire. Drusus was a scoundrel. I doubted the mental balance of his younger brother, Gaius Caligula. My own grandson Tiberius Gemellus was a sweet child, but nothing in his nature promised that he would be a man of chara
cter. Perhaps the best security
for him was indeed that Sejanus should marry his mother and be entrusted with his care, as Augustus had entrusted me with the rearing of Gaius and Lucius. Surely, I thought, I could trust Sejanus? The nobility, jealous of his comparatively humble birth, would rebel if he was openly elevated to the position which Augustus had enjoyed, and I had endured; but he could be the power, as it were, behind the throne, my grandson's throne. I announced that as he had long been the partner of my labours, I would honour him by making him my partner in the consulship for the following year.

That announcement proved to Drusus that he had gained nothing by his betrayal of his mother and brother. He collected about him a group of giddy-minded, dissipated and discontented nobles. Their dinner-table talk was rank sedition. This was reported to me; I relayed it to the Senate, who ordered Drusus' arrest. Pending full investigation, he was held under house arrest. I ordered that he be strictly guarded, and forbidden company.

Agrippina, hearing the news, embarked on a hunger strike. Orders were given that she be forcibly fed. She resisted the attempt. Struggling with her guards, she received a blow which cost her the sight of her left eye.

9

D
oes chance govern all? I had a letter from Antonia, my brother's widow, Germanicus' mother, saying she hoped to visit me, perhaps for a few days while she was holidaying at her villa on the Bay of Naples. I was minded to refuse, though I have always liked and admired Antonia. I was afraid that she would plead for her grandsons Nero and Drusus; not for her daughter-in-law Agrippina, I was sure of that, for she had never cared for her. It would have been embarrassing to endure her intercession on their behalf. So I wrote a letter saying I was unwell and unable to receive visitors.

But I did not send it. I was distracted by another letter I had received. This was from Sejanus. He requested that I accord him the tribunician power, that Republican status which Augustus had employed as a device to enable him to initiate and veto legislation and to ensure that his person was sacrosanct, which I had, of course, been granted by him. In fact I had been considering whether this should not be accorded Sejanus; I had hesitated because I knew how much a grant would stimulate discontent and envy. Yet the matter was on my mind. Now, on the other hand, there was something in the tone of Sejanus' letter which was displeasing, a peremptory note, as if he had only to ask to be given what he demanded. There was an underlying suggestion that with this power he would be free of my authority. It was not stated. Perhaps Sejanus himself did not know that it was there, but I caught a whiff of arrogance and impatience and this disquieted me.

In my perturbation, nostalgia invaded me. When I thought of Antonia, I set aside my fears as to what she would request. I was able to forget the sink of political Rome, with its private bureaux

of espionage, its stench of conspiracy, its atmosphere infected by suspicion and fear; instead the memory came to me of conversations under chestnut trees, conversations that stretched towards the setting sun, and covered in the most friendly and sincere manner the whole range of human experience. In talking with Antonia, I reflected, I would share again some species of communion with my long-dead brother. And I remembered that in those distant days Antonia and I had been bound together by the purest sort of affection, that between a man and a woman, into which is breathed only the lightest breeze of sexual desire -a desire which, for imperative reasons, will never be translated into action; an affection which floats like a raft on a lake in the sunshine of a summer afternoon that can never end.

There was to be a happy day before she arrived. Sigmund had fallen in love with a local girl, a Greek called Euphrosyne, whose father practised as a doctor in Naples, but owned a little villa on Capri, given to him by Augustus in return for some service he had rendered. It would have been a quite unsuitable marriage but for my patronage. Miltiades (the father) would never have consented that his adored daughter should marry anyone so unsuitable as a German freedman, who had, moreover, been a gladiator, if that freedman had not also been my favourite. For my part I was delighted by the match. Euphrosyne was an enchanting girl, with black eyes and a mass of dark curls, a creature made for pleasure, yet tender-hearted and witty. To see them together was a justification of empire, for what but Rome could have brought these two perfect, but contrasting, physical types together? Their happiness and the delight they took in each other enfolded us all. I blessed the marriage, asking only that both remained in my household.

Antonia arrived early, while we were still celebrating. Her hair was white but she retained that serene beauty which she had inherited from her mother, Octavia.

"You must forgive me," she said, "I never keep to my plans exactly, for reasons I shall later explain. Meanwhile, Tiberius, how delightful it is to see you again, looking so well and happy."

"You have come in the middle of a happy occasion," I said, "and your arrival, Antonia, adds to the pleasure."

"Ah," she said, "if Rome could see you now, so innocently engaged as a sort of godfather, people would be ashamed of the scurrilous stories they are so fond of retailing."

"You risk spoiling my pleasure by mentioning that place."

"That's the last thing I want to do," she replied, but her face clouded.

"It's strange," she said, "how we have remained friends."

"We have our dear Drusus and many memories in common."

"And yet I cannot turn anywhere without being told that you are the enemy of my family."

"We could never be enemies, Antonia. I remember with the greatest gratitude how you refused to heed the vile rumours about Germanicus' death."

"I knew they were all lies. I knew you could never have a hand in the death of your brother's son. Now two of his grandsons have been imprisoned by your command."

"By order of the Senate."

"At your request. . ."

"If you had seen the evidence . . ."

She looked away, her grey eyes filled with tears. A little wind blew whispers of the ocean towards us. The blue-veined marble of the terrace shone like a dull shield in the noon sun. We sat in the shade under an arbour of trailing roses.

"I came a day early," she said, "because I no longer choose to advertise my movements exactly. More than that, I do not dare. And I brought Gaius Caligula with me because . . ." she paused, and looked me in the eyes with a candid gaze which I was reluctant to meet but from which I could not turn away, "because I am afraid of what may happen to him if he is not with you."

She then spoke of Gaius. He was an unsatisfactory youth, moody, disorganised, given to apparently unprovoked outbursts of cackling laughter and fits of temper. He had, she was afraid, a streak of cruelty. (I pictured the boy, his tow-coloured hair wild as a slum-child's, leaping from his seat in the theatre and shrieking, "Kill him, kill him!" as Sigmund lay helpless and terrified on the sand.) Nevertheless, and perhaps precisely because he was difficult, awkward, and given to nervous terrors at night, Antonia loved him; Agrippina, who, having once spoiled him, had come to detest him, had long ago consigned his upbringing to her care, and she felt the special responsibility for him that good women so often feel for their most unsatisfactory child. Now she was afraid on his account.