Tiberius by Allan Massie Page A

reflections made me nervous, and my evening with Piso had left me ill at ease. I steadied myself with a jug of wine before the ceremony, and then, to ward off criticism from Livia, and perhaps Julia herself — though hers would rather take the form of mockery — I sweetened my breath with a handful of violet pastilles.
    My mother summoned me to her apartments. I found her alone, which pleased me, for I had feared that my stepfather would be there too. Then I realised that he would be unwilling to confront me till the marriage had been celebrated: in case I dug my heels in. (He has often remarked on my resemblance to a mule: a poor joke in present circumstances, I thought.)
    Livia kissed me on the forehead.
    "This is a solemn moment for you, my son," she said.
    "Mother, there's no need for dissimulation when we are alone. I take it we are alone - no spies concealed in waiting, no informers behind the screens?"
    She snapped her fingers.
    "There's no need to take that tone, Tiberius. I can see you are still displeased. Well, sulk if you must but I'm glad that you have the sense to go through with it. I was going to commend you on your sense of duty. Here, come and sit beside me and listen to what I have to say. What have you been eating? There's a nasty smell on your breath."
    "Violet pastilles, Mother. My doctor recommends them for heartburn."
    "I see. Well, that doesn't matter. You're not making some joke when you mention heartburn, are you?" "No, Mother."
    "I've never liked your jokes. I don't understand them, but there's always been a cruel streak in your idea of humour. However, that's neither here nor there. But I wanted to speak to you before this marriage takes place, since I know you don't like it. Well, I confess I don't like it myself. Julia and I are opposites. That's all there is to it. I can't think of a single matter on which we have ever thought the same. Not even Augustus, for I love him for what he is and she only cares for him on account of what he has to give her. And now he is giving her you, my son, and I am not certain that that is what she wants. So I see trouble ahead . . ."
    "In that case, Mother . . ."
    "No, don't interrupt. You are wondering why in the end I have approved the marriage. I say in the end because whether you believe me or not — and you have never believed anything that ran counter to your ingrained opinions, I know that well — I have to tell you I opposed it as long as I could. I told Augustus Vipsania made you happy. I even admitted that I was jealous of her as mothers often are of their sons' wives. But ... no good. The fact is that you are a sacrifice to reason of state. Your domestic happiness is being sacrificed to necessity. And necessity imposes its own rules. Julia must have a husband, and the boys must have a father, and her nature is such that it must be a man who is thoroughly admirable, honourable and reliable. That is why you have been compelled to act dishonourably towards Vipsania that you may act honourably in the interests of Rome. People like us cannot live by private impulses for we cannot live private lives."
    "I understand that, Mother . . ." and I did. Political imperatives make sense to me. If that hadn't been true, I would have fought harder.
    "I am only sorry," I said, "that it should have to be me . . ." "There was no one else . . ."
    Was the same thought in both our minds? That Drusus could have been chosen? If so, I didn't raise the question. I had always understood that Drusus was different, that he would not be asked to make the same sacrifice of personal interest that was regularly demanded of me. Drusus was different. Everybody liked him. I was devoted to him myself. He was, to use a weak word, nice. But he was nice perhaps because he had never been emotionally challenged. Livia had kept her relationship with him a happy, sunny one. Augustus smiled when he appeared.
    Besides, Drusus was married to Antonia, Octavia's daughter, and, even apart from my