I Am Livia

by Phyllis T. Smith

In Rome, a woman’s power, however circumspectly exercised, arouses revulsion.

Old age can be a deceiver. My knees ache when I walk, but if I sit still, I do not feel so different from the girl I was.

“I have often thought,” she said, “that women are the only true adults in the world, and men are a species of children.

Call me ‘my love.’ ” Afterward, that was what I called him, when we lay together. And that, more than anything, did something to my soul.

I looked into young Caesar’s eyes and felt a tightness in my chest. Surely every woman carries an image in her mind of what perfect masculine beauty is. For me, this boy epitomized it. And yet I had seen other handsome men and felt little. Now there was a prickling in my skin. I was aware of the sun beating down, of how the fabric of my stola clung to my body, of how my hair felt, warm on the back of my neck. I wanted to reach out and stroke young Caesar’s cheek, very gently, to see if it felt as smooth as it looked. I wished I had an amusing story to tell him, so I could watch him laugh.

Day after day I brimmed over with energy for which no one had any use.

And then, I saw my fate. I would not be fifteen forever, but I always would be a woman. I imagined spending all my years having my words discounted.

“My mother was so kind,” he said. “I’ve been feeling today as if most of the kindness has gone out of the world.

Despite his keen intellect, he had followed Brutus’s lead and then Cicero’s, even when they acted foolishly. He was a loyal man who had put too much faith in the judgment of others. I could have wept for him.

Young as I was, I did not know that mourning passes, and was as defenseless before grief as the young usually are.

I believed women were unquestionably less bloodthirsty than men. Then I met Fulvia. She was Mark Antony’s wife.