Tiberius (7 page)

"Time's up, darling," he said. "Fetch us wine."

He unfolded himself and rose to his feet.

"You're earlier than I expected, my lord," he said.

"I'm punctual."

"Oh dear, you are stiff."

He spoke with a lisp; a Greek a few years older than myself with scented ringleted hair and an effeminate manner. He was sweating, and smoothed his tunic and then busied himself sitting me at the table. The boy brought in some wine and departed with a saucy look over his shoulder. I felt a little sick.

"My name's Timotheus," the man said. "I do a lot of work for the Princeps, though you won't have heard of me, and
I
have a problem which I would like to discuss with you. It concerns the case with which you are occupied."

He smirked and wriggled his shoulders.

"I asked you here because I wanted to keep things dark. I'm in a quandary. I'm the Princeps' own agent and the information I have is such as I frankly don't dare to give him. Do you begin to see?"

"No, I don't. Perhaps you should begin at the beginning and stop talking in riddles."

"Riddles are often all it's safe to talk in these days."

"Listen," I said, "I am prosecuting in the case you refer to. If you have information then I can compel you — painfully — to divulge it."

He sipped his wine and pushed the jug across the table to me. I was surprised to see that I had already drunk my first cup. It was a sweet wine with a touch of resin, the sort of thing Greeks prefer.

"That wouldn't be wise," he said. "The Princeps would like that even less. He wouldn't want it to be known he employs types like me. Besides, I must tell you, if only to secure my position, that we began our connection in circumstances he wouldn't want to be recalled. Frankly, my dear, I know too much. So why don't you come off your high horse, and listen like a good boy? I'll begin at the beginning as you suggest."

His manner disgusted me. I longed to have him whipped; and yet I was curious. I raised my cup to my lips and nodded.

He told his story in an affected manner, with many digressions. But its essence was simple. He was a spy whose especial talent was what he described as provocation. "When I get a whiff of disaffection, I fan it. . ." The Princeps had been suspicious of his colleague, Murena, and had conveyed his suspicions to Timotheus, commanding an inv
estigation. Timotheus had there
fore introduced his agent into the consul's house, as a servant, "A regular Ganymede,
you
understand" - he fluttered his eyelashes at me. "But of course servants, however sweet, can't find out everything, though I let the Princeps think that all my information came from the boy." It didn't. He had also recruited a young nobleman called Fannius Cotta, a cousin of Caepio's. From his manner of talking
I
had no doubt that this Cotta was the wretch's lover. Cotta — who must, I thought, be practically half-witted to have fallen in with Timotheus' suggestion - had encouraged his cousin and the consul in their treason, all the while reporting every detail to the Greek. But now Cotta had been arrested with the other conspirators; I knew that of course, for I had arranged to examine him. "So?" I said.

The Greek dabbed at his eyes, as though his narration had moved him. He wanted Cotta set free; that was obvious.

"I have only your word for the part he played," I said. "And in view of what you say about your relations with him, I see no reason why I should believe you."

"But I think I can persuade you," he said. "I have a letter written by a certain gentleman not unconnected with the Princeps. It is addressed to Cotta and unkind men might interpret it as offering encouragement to the conspirators."

"I see."

And I did. I had no doubt to whom he referred.

"Why don't you offer it to the Princeps?"

"Don't be silly, my dear. I wouldn't dare. For one thing, he would think it a forgery. For another, that wouldn't help my friend. And for a third, I'm a Greek, a poor freedman, and . . . well, we Greeks have always had dealings with the Persians, and you know the Persian way of treating the bearer of bad news. It would be as much as my life is worth. But it seemed to me, regarding the relationships within the imperial family, that it might be of some use to you . . ."

"I disapprove of the term, 'the imperial family'. Such a thing doesn't exist, and is offensive even as an idea."

"As you like."

"Do you have the letter here?" "Don't be silly. I have a copy . . ."

"You speak confidently for a man in your circumstances."

He smiled. "That's your interpretation," and thrust his hand down into his tunic and produced the letter.

"This could be interpreted in more than one way," I said.

"Either way would be damning, wouldn't it? But you see my dilemma, which I'm now sharing with you. I want to save my friend, but I can't possibly pass on that letter to the Princeps."

"Isn't it your fault for having concealed that he was working on your behalf to provoke the conspiracy?"

"Perhaps, but there it is."

I was naive of course. I saw that at once. Cotta was clearly a genuine conspirator, and perhaps his relations with the Greek had developed out of the conspiracy. Nevertheless I couldn't but admire the adroitness of the Greek's plan. And the letter was certainly — if indeed in Marcellus' own hand — damning. I would be pleased to have it. Arrangements, satisfactory to all parties, could therefore be made. I indicated as much.

"But I must still interrogate Cotta," I said. "You understand that? Nevertheless . . ."

Fannius Cotta was a tall, well-built young man with big eyes and a loose mouth. Terror had unmanned him, rendering him alternately sulky and abject. Twice during our conversation he threw himself down on his pallet bed sobbing. He wore a short tunic and the sweat sparkled on the back of his thighs as his shoulders heaved. He promised that he could incriminate Marcellus still further, if that was what I wanted.

"You mistake me," I said. "I want to bring this thing to an end. One means of doing so would be for you to meet with an unfortunate accident."

He threw himself on the ground before me, grabbing my ankles and begging for mercy.

"Get up," I said. "Have you no dignity?"

It went against my inclination, but I made arrangements for his release. I knew that Timotheus would destroy the letter rather than produce it if I broke our agreement. Loathsome though he was, I also realised that he had sufficient intelligence to have prepared for himself a defence against any action I might take to incriminate him. But I made two conditions: Cotta must leave Italy for a space of five years. He must never communicate with Marcellus. I issued threats, though I knew I would soon have no means of enforcing them. But I was certain that Cotta was such a coward that he would not dare to defy me.

I kept the letter secret. There might come a time in the future when it could be of more service to me than at the present. Timotheus' manner when he delivered it to me was disturbing: I saw that.

He had outwitted me. He had made me his accomplice in deception. Nevertheless he had put a weapon in my hand. I owed that to him.

Marcellus' death robbed me of the weapon, made it obsolete. I was still, however, in the Greek's debt.

One other thing: the doctor who treated Marcellus was one Antonius Musa, the same who had cured Augustus. He had been introduced to his household by Timotheus. A few years later he retired on account of ill-health and lived in a villa with Timotheus. Their conduct scandalised the local farmers, but Augustus protected them.

It was a pleasant irony to think how Timotheus had worked to destroy the Princeps' favourite, and how Musa may well have murdered him.

6

T
here are those who believe that character is constant. We
become, they would insist, only what we already are; we can never escape our inherent nature. Any change that may seem to take place only reveals traits which the person has previously thought it prudent to conceal; conversely, it may result from the assumption of a hypocritical virtue. This is an argument which must perplex philosophers, and one to which there can be no certain answer. For example, Augustus showed himself ruthless in the pursuit of power; he shrank from no cruelty that seemed to him necessary for the achievement of his aims. So he sacrificed his mentor, Marcus Tullius Cice
ro, at the time of the proscrip
tions. Though he knew that he owed him much, he judged it more necessary to conciliate Mark Antony by bowing to the hatred Antony entertained for the veteran orator than to insist that clemency be extended to the man whom even Julius had described as "an ornament of the Republic". Likewise, Augustus loved his sister Octavia with a warmth such as he offered to few. (Had she been less ostentatiously virtuous, I have no doubt that the scandalmongers would have had much to suggest as to the nature of their relationship.) Yet he sacrificed her happiness to the demands of his alliance with Antony, forcing her to accept that brutal drunkard as her husband. Those who adhere to the opinion that character is constant must ask whether Augustus forced himself to practise a cruelty that his nature abhors or has since assumed a virtue which is no more than a manifestation of his innate hypocrisy.

For my part, I find this view of human nature false and inadequate. It seems to me that on the one hand there are depths of our character which we do not understand, which perhaps we fear,
and which sometimes surface to take us by surprise; and that on the other hand, we are in a condition of perpetual creation. Heraclitus, you will remember, posed the question whether a man could ever bathe twice in the same river. His disciples assert this is impossible; everything is in a state of flux, the river is changing before our eyes. Others however, whom I will term the Common Sense school of philosophers, think this mere casuistry. They say that though the water changes the river remains; the enduring is more real than the changes which they term superficial.

It seems to me however that it is possible to grant justice to both arguments: to say that while everything changes, much that is contained in it remains the same. A man is always himself, but he is not necessarily the same man.

I am drawn into these reflections by memories of my marriage to Vipsania. I entered the marriage in obedience to my mother's wishes, understanding that her choice of my wife was politically astute. But I felt neither warmth nor enthusiasm. Moreover, in other respects, we were an awkward pair; Vipsania's chaste modesty made her as shy as my own reserve made me. Though we had known each other all our lives, we did not know how to converse. Perhaps we had never exchanged more than a few sentences over the years, and those of an insignificant sort. Now we were alone together as we had never been. Vipsania's submissiveness irritated me. She lay stiff in bed, the covers drawn up around her neck. I thought - how could I fail to? - of Julia caressing her thighs and drawing my gaze to her body. Vipsania received me as one having his will. Her sense of duty compelled her to yield to me, but as a victim, not a woman. For weeks we seemed frozen in immobility. I knew that she was unhappy and, being unhappy myself, resented her unhappiness. When I found her in tears, I was unable to take her in my arms.

I had no one to consult. The intensity of my relationship with Livia has always precluded discussion of emotional affairs. My brother Drusus, whom I loved for his spontaneity and virtue, would have been incapable of understanding my dilemma. Vipsania and I were locked in incomprehension of each other, both fearful to try to turn the key which anyway we did not perhaps recognise.

Yet now, more than twenty years later, I look back on the early days of our marriage with similar uncomprehending wonder. For everything changed. She became the medicine of my soul, the light towards which I turned. And I cannot say why or how. There was no single moment when the barriers yielded, no single moment when our personalities disarmed themselves. It was rather as if acquaintance made the ramparts crumble. Without my knowing it was happening, I was softened by her tenderness and virtue. The time came when the turn of her head, the cool touch of her flesh, her low voice, could appease any anxieties.

No doubt the birth of our son, young Drusus, contributed to this development. To see her with the baby in her arms, or leaning over his cradle lulling him to sleep with an old song, was to experience everything that over the centuries, it seems to me, men have come to desire; it was to feel myself enfolded in a love that was total.

Something else contributed to our developing intimacy: she respected my wish for secrecy. I have always felt uncomfortable with the expression of emotion, either by words or actions. She did not try to force my confidence, and in this way gradually won it.

Meanwhile Julia presented a problem. She believed she had a claim on me. She knew she could arouse me, and for that reason regarded me as her possession. My marriage meant nothing to her. "It's convenience, isn't it?" she would say; then, looking at me through her veil of eyelashes and touching her breast or stroking her thighs, "Of course, if you are going to take it seriously, it's an inconvenience. But only a trifling one. You couldn't prefer that insipid girl to me, could you?"