I, Claudius (Claudius, #1)

by Robert Graves

After it was over the two of us were summoned into the presence of Livia and Urgulania. When the door was shut and we stood there facing them—myself nervous and fidgety, Urgulanilla massive and expressionless and clenching and unclenching her great fists—the solemnity of these two evil old grandmothers gave way, and they burst into uncontrolled laughter. I had never heard either of them laugh like that before and the effect was frightening. It was not decent healthy laughter but a hellish sobbing and screeching, like that of two old drunken prostitutes watching a torture or crucifixion. “Oh, you two beauties!” sobbed Livia at last, wiping her eyes, “What wouldn’t I give to see you in bed together on your wedding night! It would be the funniest scene since Deucalion’s Flood!”

Boy, did you ever hear about the old man from Cádiz? No, it’s not dirty. In fact, it’s rather sad. He came on foot to Rome, what to see? Not the temples or the theatres or the statues or the crowds or the ships or the Senate House. But a Man. What man? The man whose head is on the coins? No, no. A greater than he. He came to see none other than our friend Livy, whose works, it seems, he knew by heart. He saw him and saluted him and went straight back to Cádiz—where he immediately died; the disillusion and the long walk had been too much for him.”

“It’s not disillusion, sir. I see now, though I hadn’t considered the matter before, that there are two different ways of writing history: one is to persuade men to virtue and the other is to compel men to truth. The first is Livy’s way and the other is yours: and perhaps they are not irreconcilable.”

“By the way, I’ll tell you something, Claudius. I’m a very old man and though I look brisk enough I have reached the end. In three days I shall be dead; and I know it. Just before one dies there comes a strange lucidity. One speaks prophetically. Now listen! Do you want to live a long busy life, with honour at the end of it?” “Yes.” “Then exaggerate your limp, stammer deliberately, sham sickness frequently, let your wits wander, jerk your head and twitch with your hands on all public or semi-public occasions. If you could see as much as I can see, you would know that this was your only hope of safety and eventual glory.”

Although it had been clear that Augustus’s powers were failing and that he had not many more years to live, Rome could not accustom itself to the idea of his death. It is not an idle comparison to say that the City felt much as a boy feels when he loses his father. Whether the father has been a brave man or a coward, just or unjust, generous or mean, signifies little: he has been that boy’s father, and no uncle or elder brother can ever take his place.

“Claudius, do you bear me any ill-will?” What could I say to that? Tears came to my eyes and I muttered that I reverenced him and that he had never done anything to deserve my ill-will. He said with a sigh: “No, but on the other hand little to earn your love. Wait a few months longer, Claudius, and I hope to be able to earn both your love and your gratitude. Germanicus has told me about you. He says that you are loyal to three things—to your friends, to Rome, and to the truth. I would be very proud if Germanicus thought the same of me.”

But this has been a very ill-judged digression, leaving Germanicus, as it were, waiting anxiously for his money while I write a book about dice. Old Athenodorus would criticize me pretty severely, I think, if he were alive now.

I smiled. “That’s a funny dream, Briseis. But he was still as lame as ever and all that wealth could not buy his father and family back to life again, could it?” “No, my dear, but perhaps he married and had a family of his own. So choose a good tree, Master Claudius, and don’t come down till the last of the thieves are dead. That’s what my dream said.” “I’ll not come down even then, if I can help it, Briseis. I don’t want to be a receiver of stolen goods.” “You can always give them back, Master Claudius.” This was all very remarkable in the light of what happened later.

At Rome the news of his death had brought such grief that it was as though every single household in the City had lost its most beloved member. Three whole days, though there was no decree of the Senate or order of the magistrates for it, were consecrated to public sorrow: shops shut, law-courts were deserted, no business of any sort was transacted, everyone wore mourning. I heard a man in the street say that it was as though the sun had set, and would never rise again. Of my own sorrow I cannot trust myself to write.

Well, Tiberius let my name be included in the vote of thanks; but that meant little to me compared with the thanks that Agrippina gave me: she said that she understood now what Germanicus had meant when he told her, just before his death, that the truest friend he had ever had was his poor brother Claudius.

All copies of his book were called in and burned except for two or three which his daughter hid away somewhere and republished many years later when Tiberius was dead. It was not very good writing; it got more fame than it really deserved.

To use the majesty of law for revenging any petty act of private spite is to make a public confession of weakness, cowardice and an ignoble spirit.”

Once you give way to a metaphor, Claudius, which is rare, you pursue it too far. Surely you remember Athenodorus’s injunctions against this sort of thing? Well, call Sejanus the maggot and get it done with; then return to your usual homely style!

Caligula said: “Is it safe for Uncle Claudius to be told things? Or are you going to poison him?” She answered: “Oh, he’s quite safe, without any poison. I want you two to know each other better than you do. That’s one reason for this dinner. Listen, Caligula. Your uncle Claudius is a phenomenon. He’s so old-fashioned that because he’s sworn an oath to love and protect his brother’s children you can always impose on him—as long as you live. Listen, Claudius. Your nephew Caligula is a phenomenon. He’s treacherous, cowardly, lustful, vain, deceitful, and he’ll play some very dirty tricks on you before he’s done: but remember one thing, he’ll never kill you.”

This republicanism is a persistent taint in the family. Your grandfather had it.” “I have it.” “Still? That’s amusing. Nero has it too, I understand. It won’t bring him much luck. And it’s no use arguing with you republicans. You refuse to see that one can no more reintroduce republican government at this stage than one can reimpose primitive feelings of chastity on modern wives and husbands. It’s like trying to turn the shadow back on a sundial: it can’t be done.”

“And to think that I ever called you a fool,” she said. “I’m going now, Claudius. Close my eyes and put the coin in my mouth that you’ll find under the pillow. The Ferryman will recognize it. He’ll pay proper respect…

Macro gave orders that, to avoid the ill-luck that would befall the City if they executed her while still a virgin, the public executioner should outrage her. As soon as I heard of this, I said to myself: “Rome, you are ruined; there can be no expiation for a crime so horrible,” and I called the Gods to witness that though a relative of the Emperor I had taken no part in the government of my country and that I detested the crime as much as they did, though powerless to avenge it.

Thrasyllus died. His death was announced by a lizard. It was a very small lizard and ran across the stone table where Thrasyllus was at breakfast with Tiberius in the sun and straddled across his forefinger. Thrasyllus asked, “You have come to summon me, brother? I expected you at this very hour.” Then turning to Tiberius he said: “My life is at an end, Cæsar, so farewell! I never told you a lie. You told me many. But beware when your lizard gives you a warning.” He closed his eyes and a few moments later was dead.