He was lying on the bed and was already breathing hard, a linen sheet of simple craftsmanship draped over his withered form. He looked around him and smiled, showing his wife the few small and irregular teeth that old age had left him.
“Isn’t all this unusual?” he sighed with some effort.
“What, my lord?” asked Livia Drusilla, coming over to apply a damp sponge to his face, which had by now taken on a whitish cast.
“My father Octavius also died in this same room.”
“Also?” echoed the woman. “But you’re not dying,” she lied.
A slave arrived with a copper basin full of hot water and without making a sound put it down on a wooden stool that stood next to the bed. Livia gave the man a grateful look and then went back to scrutinising her husband’s face. Although he was nearly seventy-seven years of age, his eyes were still lively and bright, and few knew that he had not been able to see out of the left one for some time.
His height had never been one of the factors which contributed to his charisma, nor had his care for his body, which he had always neglected. Even as a young man he had entrusted himself to whichever barber was convenient and had often let his beard grow in a disorderly fashion, but his face had always emanated the same calm and serenity that it showed at that moment. All had recognised him as Augustus not because of the way he had cared for his person but for the way he had cared for his people.
“What’s going on out there?” he asked, turning with difficulty toward the open window. A pair of slaves lifted him up to allow him to see the light of day. From outside came the sound of excited voices.
“They are all very worried about your health, my lord,” said Livia. “There is much agitation in the city.”
“Who is here in the room?” he asked, unable to make out the faces of the many people standing silently at the foot of the bed.
“Our slaves. But I have your closest friends waiting in the garden so that they may pay you homage when you feel better.”
Augustus’s face broke into a smile that looked rather like a grimace.
“Then I must tidy myself up,” he said sarcastically. “Give me a mirror.”
A slave promptly handed him a sheet of quartz set in an ovoid-shaped ivory frame. Augustus took it in his weak and trembling fingers. He looked first at the way the mirror was made and then at the face reflected in it.
“I… I never could bear Egyptian things.”
Livia shot the slave an angry look and hurried over to the bed to take the mirror from him, but Augustus pulled his hand away to stop her.
“No, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “The truth won’t change even if you change the mirror.”
The quartz plate reflected back at him the image of an old man, worn out by disease, but the slightly wavy ash-blond hair, the thick eyebrows and the curved and the protruding nose brought back through the mists of time images of swords raised to the skies, flaming shields, crowds delirious with joy and an immense golden eagle that had extended its shadow over much of western and eastern Europe and the depths of the African continent.
“If you have enjoyed our show, offer the players your applause,” recited Augustus suddenly, “and together display your joy.”
Livia gave him a questioning look.
“Send everyone away,” said Augustus, remembering the authoritative tone an emperor must use.
His wife did not need to repeat the request as an order because all the slaves hurriedly left the room of their own accord. Livia accompanied them to the door and was about to close it when, with extreme gentleness, a hand stopped its movement.
“May I see him?” asked a hoarse voice with a faintly Gallic accent.
Livia looked at the man without answering. He was old, and might have been the same age as her husband. He wore a sober brown tunic and a grey cloak that glistened blue in the light. His clothing had known better days but his face was clean-shaven and his eyes, as green as a morning lawn, shone with an unusual light.
“Well I…” The woman seemed more surprised than annoyed. “There are so many other people who would like to visit him, but he sent everyone away.”
“He will not send me away,” replied the man with a calm but firm smile.
“Who… who is it?” asked Augustus from his couch in a faint voice.
“I don’t…”
Livia looked back at the stranger, who hadn’t dared to take a step forward but kept his grip on the door.
“Just tell him… Actually, my lady, please have the kindness to show him this.”
The man fiddled with the fibula of his cloak, removed the garment and, after carefully folding it, handed it to the emperor’s wife.
“Please,” he repeated, bowing slightly.
Livia returned to her husband’s bedside, keeping an eye on the man who was peering in through the open door.
“There is an old man who wants to see you. I don’t know who he is but he says to show you this.” She held the cloak close to his eyes.
Augustus waved a hand and ran withered, trembling fingers over the worn cloth as though wishing to test its quality. His eyes seemed to light up again.
“My… my lucky boy,” he said, trying to sit up. “Let him in straightaway.”
Very well,” said Livia, putting her hand on his shoulder, “but on one condition. That you lie down and do not tire yourself out.”
Augustus nodded, but without obeying. The woman sighed and walked away again.
“You can come in,” she said, handing the cloak back to its owner, “but let it be a brief interview.”
“I would ask you for one last courtesy,” said the visitor, putting his hands together. “Please let us speak alone.”
The woman looked toward the bed and then reluctantly nodded. She gestured to the remaining slaves to leave with her while the man who had been waiting on the threshold walked slowly across the room. When he heard the door close, the guest sought the dying old man’s eyes, and looked into them for a long moment, then gave a faint smile. Putting his few remaining teeth on display again, Augustus returned it,
“I imagine this is a rather pathetic scene,” he said with a cough. His eyes, unable to focus on anything, wandered the room.
“Don’t worry,” said the man. “We’re alone. And in any case, it won’t be one who has elicited scornful laughter his whole life who makes you uncomfortable.”
“But I always defended you with all my strength.”
“Yes. Even though it cost you some friends.”
“Some that I thought were my friends.”
The standing man nodded as though absorbed in a flood of memories.
“What had to be done was done,” said Augustus, pursing his lips. “I don’t regret any of it.”
“I know. But now…”
The man at the bedside suddenly turned serious. The hint of a smile had disappeared from his lips.
“Sit down, please,” said Augustus, narrowed eyes which were wet with effort. “What about my young ones?”
“Those who have been lucky enough to stay alive are fine.”
“That they would sacrifice their lives was an eventuality they all took into account. From the very first day.”
“And in fact, none of them ever held back.”
Augustus sighed. “I wish they were here.”
“They are here,” replied the man. “I can assure you of it.”
He raised his hand to a chain hanging from his neck. The dense twine of silver which glittered between the folds of his tunic ended in a small dark sphere.
The moribund old man moved his head.
“Yes,” he replied. “And you? Why are you here?”
“You offend me, Gaius Octavius.”
“Answer me.”
“To pay tribute to my emperor. And…” he paused. “And to receive his orders.”
“Orders? What orders can you expect to receive from an old man who can already smell the perfumes of the Elysian fields?”
“An old man who helped me cross the threshold.”
“Ah, yes. The forbidden place,” said Augustus as though he were talking to someone else. “My uncle was right.”
The emperor tried to sit up. “Give me a hand. But don’t tell my wife,” he said, with an attempt at a laugh. “It might cost you your head.”
The man approached, grasped him under his armpits and raised him up. The emperor had never been robust but now he was no heavier than a bundle of branches.
“Don’t worry,” the man replied, playing along. “Everybody already knows that it is she who commands in the family.”
“I’m going to die, you know?” said Augustus, serious again.
“Yes, I know,” admitted the other.
“I have heard that lightning struck one of my bronze statues and knocked the ‘c’ off my name.”
“I heard that too, but I did not interpret it as a negative omen, considering what it left behind.”
“Aesar… the Etruscan name for god.” The emperor raised his head. “They will make me more statues, they will honour me with games and feasts. But none of that will save me from the death that I feel so close I can almost touch her hand.”
The old guest’s mouth twisted into a grimace.
“When death comes calling for me, I believe I will feel the same way. And my body tells me that it won’t be too long coming.”
“And what will you remember then, lucky boy? What do you think you will take with you to the Elysian fields in memory of what we have shared?”
“Everything,” the visitor replied in a low voice. “All of it, from the beginning. Since that terrible night.”