At times, I wonder how history will remember me. Will they honor me as the mother of my country, as men so often call me to my face? Or will they whisper of me as a monster? I know the unspoken rumors. Some believe I have blood on my hands many times over. They resent me. They fear the power I hold. In Rome, even a carefully veiled power in the hands of a woman is enough to stir disgust.
Every death within my family has somehow found its way to my name. They say I am skilled in the art of poisons. Yes, I have crossed lines. But not the ones they imagine. When I look back, it is not the public judgments that haunt me, it is the private memories. Do I regret loving him, my dearest? No. But loving him came at a cost, one paid with pieces of my soul.
Old age is a strange illusion. My knees groan with every step, yet when I am still, I can almost believe I have not changed. I tell myself I am the same girl. Then I look at my hands resting on the saffron folds of my stola, the skin so thin, the veins so vivid, and I can't deny the truth of the body's decline. Still, at my core, I believe I am who I was at fifteen, or twenty. They now call me Julia Augusta, but within me lives Lavia Drusilla, the girl whose choices shaped the woman I have become.
The time is near when I must step aside, making space for others at life's banquet. I must be ready to stand before the gods and answer for myself, most of all, for the girl I once was.
My beloved composed a record of his life for others to read. He softened the harsh truths. I will write of my youth in a code only I understand, and I will be honest. There is no deception among the gods.
To look back on my years as Lavia Drusilla will demand courage. I do not know if I can face it without flinching.
And the murder, the one that shook Rome to its foundations, I knew of it days before it happened.
I watched as three men slipped silently into my father's study. They vanished behind the thick, carved door as if swallowed by the very shadows of the house. Then, nothing. Not a murmur, not the faintest hum of conversation. Not even the buzzing of a fly disturbed the silence. What could they be doing in there, if not talking?
I was pulled forward, not by childish mischief, but by a hunger that burned hotter than any passing curiosity. I was fourteen, no longer a little girl but not yet a woman, and already, I longed to understand the world of men, the world where power lived and decisions that shaped nations were made. I knew it was a world barred to me by birth and by custom, yet I couldn't stop myself from reaching for it, as instinctively as a fledgling rises toward the open sky.
My father's study was separated from the atrium by nothing more than a heavy wool curtain, thick and deeply dyed, the color of crushed raspberries. I moved toward it on quiet feet, my breath shallow, careful not to stir the air. I stopped so close that the rough weave of the fabric brushed against my cheek. I stood motionless, listening, expecting, perhaps, to catch the familiar rise and fall of my father's voice, or the laughter and jostling of men at ease. Instead, I heard only the silence of a sealed tomb.
This was strange. My father's study was usually a place of loud opinions and hearty disagreement, not hushed voices. Why such secrecy now? Whispering was something my sister and I did late at night, curled beneath our covers. It was the language of girls and slaves, not of Roman senators and seasoned generals. And yet, behind that curtain, the men were whispering.
I leaned closer, ears straining. For a moment, there was only silence. Then, finally, a voice, low and tense, cutting through the stillness:
"Not just him."
Another voice followed, harder, more biting.
"How many deaths would satisfy you, Terentius Noro?"
Then the first voice again, firmer now:
"As many as it takes to make us safe. I have no love of blood, but this is no game. We stake our lives on this. Let us not pretend otherwise."
A third voice, cooler, with the weight of disapproval:
"Proscriptions again?"
Proscriptions. The word sent a cold ripple down my spine. I had heard of them, how, in Sulla's time, names had been posted on the public walls: names of those who stood in opposition, who had angered the wrong man, or simply owned enough wealth to tempt greedy fingers. Once a name was inscribed, the man was as good as dead. Hunted. Executed. His property seized, his family disgraced. A civilized slaughter dressed in legal robes.
Suddenly, my father's voice rose above the others, sharp and unguarded, charged with emotion.
"I won't have it. And Brutus won't have it either. One death is already too many, and without a trial. That alone weighs heavily."
Then, as if remembering where he was, he fell quiet again.
I shivered. For I understood now. Not every detail, not every plan, but enough. There was going to be an assassination. A man would die. And my father, my own father, was part of the conspiracy.
He had no sons. I was his eldest child. Though the world saw me as merely a daughter, he had long spoken to me as something more. He shared things with me that no man should have told a girl, and certainly not a girl of my age. He spoke to me of distant provinces, of strategies, of alliances and betrayals. He showed me the empire through his eyes, the vast machinery of Rome, where honor and ambition clashed like swords.
When I was small, I think he spoke simply to release his burdens. My childish silence was as good as solitude. But as I grew, and began to ask him questions, serious questions, he stopped being surprised. In time, he came to expect my curiosity. He even welcomed it.
He had been born into one noble house and adopted into another, and had always believed himself destined for public life. He had worn the cloak of military command, held offices of high responsibility. But under Julius Caesar's rule, he found himself exiled from the world he knew. He could not serve Rome without betraying his principles, and so he chose silence, until now.
Now, I realized, silence was no longer enough for him. And I, standing alone behind the curtain, knew more than I should. Much more than any girl was ever meant to know.
My father often spoke of liberty, of the Republic, of the dignity of Roman government, how it had once been, and how it ought to be again. He believed passionately in the rule of law, in the balance of power between consul and Senate, in the traditions handed down from our ancestors. To him, dictatorship was not inherently dishonorable; in the old days, it was a temporary, legal solution in times of great crisis. But Julius Caesar, he said, had transformed that once-noble office into something monstrous.
Caesar was not a lawful dictator, he was a tyrant.
Five years earlier, he had crossed the Rubicon and ignited a civil war. He had returned not as a servant of the state, but as its master. Since then, he had trampled every restraint. He ruled without consent. He bypassed the Senate, dismissed dissent, and fashioned Rome into an empire of one man. His arrogance knew no bounds. He had even gone so far as to rename the most radiant month of the summer, Quintilis, after himself. Julius.
And now, more dangerously still, whispers were turning into chants. His supporters, emboldened by his ambitions and encouraged by Caesar himself, had begun calling for a crown. "King," they murmured. "Rex." A title no Roman of the Republic would hear without shuddering.
I had known my father loathed this man, that he believed Caesar's grip on Rome would strangle the Republic. But he had never told me what he and his allies intended to do.
Now, as I stood frozen behind the wool curtain, my breath caught in my chest, I saw myself clearly, saw the girl I had been. Slender, red-haired, my dark eyes wide and startled, set in a face suddenly pale as marble. I looked as though the blood had drained from my very soul. But it wasn't horror at Caesar's fate that shook me. I had never met him. I had seen him only from a distance, parading down the Sacred Way in his gilded chariot, an ironic half-smile playing on his lips as the crowds roared his name. No, I felt no pity for him. I had been raised to see him as the enemy of everything my father believed in.
What terrified me was what might happen after.
If Caesar was to die, if the knife was truly drawn, Rome would erupt. And Caesar, if he survived the attempt, would not forgive.
Maybe I shifted without knowing it. Perhaps my foot scraped the floor or the edge of the curtain stirred against the light. Whatever it was, someone inside sensed me.
A hand yanked the curtain aside.
For an instant, I stood caught in the full glare of their alarm. Three pairs of eyes turned on me, sharp with fear and disbelief.
My father's face registered a flicker of shock, then embarrassment. He spoke quickly, too quickly. "Don't be concerned about the child. She will tell no one."
Terentius Noro, the youngest among them, let out a sharp curse. "Gods above! We're talking too freely. First your slaves, now your daughter? This is madness."
An older man, a senator with silver hair and the purple trim of high rank, fixed me with a solemn, searching gaze. His voice was calm, but cold. "Child, what did you hear?"
His tone made my throat close. I couldn't breathe, let alone answer. Somehow I managed to whisper, "I think… you're going to kill Caesar."
His face hardened at once. For a heartbeat, I truly believed he would strike me down, right there, to protect the secret.
But my father intervened, firm and steady. "Be at ease. She won't speak of it. Will you, Lavia Drusilla?"
He said my full name, not in anger but as a summons. It gave me strength. I straightened my back, swallowed my fear. "I will say nothing," I said.
Terentius Noro wasn't so easily convinced. His eyes narrowed. "And if she does?"
"She won't," Father said. "She's given her word. My daughter is neither a fool nor a liar."
Terentius Noro turned to study me, his expression hard and calculating, the way men study a slave brought to market, measuring, assessing, judging.
"Is this, ?" he asked.
"Yes," Father replied. "My firstborn."
"Ah."
That one syllable told me everything. He had made a note of me, not as a child, but as a girl who might one day be useful. Or dangerous. I did not like the way he looked at me. His gaze was too cool, too knowing.
I raised my chin and met his eyes. After a moment, he looked away.
He was tall, narrow-faced, with a hooked nose and pale, watery eyes. Thirty-eight years old, I would learn later. I had never seen him before. The other two men were familiar, longtime friends of my father. They, too, looked at me now, not as the daughter they'd once smiled at, but as a potential liability.
When at last they took their leave, their faces were tense with unease.
As the door closed behind them, my father turned to me. He laid an arm gently around my shoulders. "Lavia," he said, not unkindly, "you know it's wrong to listen at doors. Haven't your mother and I taught you better?"
I turned toward him, my throat tight, my eyes brimming. His rebukes, even the softest, always wounded me deeply.
"Oh, Father, " I whispered, and pressed my face into the fold of his tunic.
"Shhh," he whispered.
I lowered my voice instinctively. "I'm afraid for you."
"You needn't be," Father murmured, his tone calm but firm. "I won't lift a weapon myself. Only members of the Senate will take direct action. I'm not one of them. My role, like that of several others, is simply to be prepared to step into a position of authority once the path has been cleared. That's hardly dangerous or heroic, is it?"
I leaned closer. "But you're part of a conspiracy to kill the most powerful man in Rome. Even if your hands remain clean, your name will not. If the plan fails, what do you think Caesar will do? He won't simply pardon you. He'll come for you. All of you."
My imagination ran wild, terrible visions flashed before my eyes: Caesar issuing an execution order, or worse, sending my father a dagger and a parchment with only two words written: Salvage your honor. A nobleman's death sentence, veiled as a choice.
"The plan will not fail," Father said with quiet certainty.
"But even if it succeeds…" I hesitated. "You've always said the people love Caesar. They cheer him in the streets. Don't you think someone will try to avenge him? Someone loyal?"
He placed a firm hand on my shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Your only task is to say nothing. Speak not a word of this to anyone, and everything will be well."
There was a pause. Then, his voice softened further.
"Terentius Noro…"
"Yes, Father?"
"He once served under Caesar. But now, he's joined our cause. He is a man of good family and steady character. In fact, he's my second cousin."
I said nothing. I waited, a cold weight forming in my stomach. I already knew what was coming.
"You will marry him."
The words didn't surprise me. At fourteen, I understood that I would soon be married off, perhaps within the next year or two. A girl of my station did not choose her own path. Still, the suddenness of it, the bluntness, struck me like a blow. I blurted out the thought that had come instantly to mind.
"You're giving me to him to secure his betrayal of Caesar, aren't you?"
Father stiffened. "Of course not. Don't say such things." He avoided my eyes as he spoke.
But I saw the truth in the space between his words. Perhaps I wasn't the bribe, but I was part of it. My dowry. Our family name. The prestige of marrying into our bloodline. All of it sweetened the offer. He might deny it, but deep down, we both knew what this arrangement truly was.
Still, I regretted the way I'd said it. To speak so plainly of politics and marriage as a transaction, so coarsely, felt wrong, even if it was accurate. It was something my mother had often scolded me for. "You speak too freely," she would say, and sometimes follow her warning with the sting of a birch rod. Father was more indulgent. He would smile at my boldness, sometimes even laugh, though he often urged me to reflect more before I spoke.
Even so, there were times when my frankness clearly unsettled him.
The study had always been a special place for us, a kind of sanctuary. It smelled of oiled parchment and ink, of wood polish and dust. Two walls were lined with shelves full of scrolls and bound books: histories, treatises on governance, biographies of the Republic's great defenders. On one wall, a grand mural depicted the Battle of Zama in all its terrible glory. In a nearby niche stood a marble bust of Cincinnatus, Rome's ideal citizen-soldier, who had saved the Republic and then quietly returned to his farm. Here, in this room, I always felt seen, not as a child, but as someone whose thoughts mattered.
That made it all the harder when I displeased him.
My stomach knotted. I wanted to please him more than anyone in the world. And now I'd earned a rebuke.
"Are you angry with me?" I asked softly.
In response, he leaned down and kissed my forehead. "Run along, child."
I turned to go, my steps reluctant. But something stopped me. A thought, or maybe just fear, called me back. I looked over my shoulder.
He was leaning over his desk now, examining a document by the flickering lamplight. Broad-shouldered, with silver streaks in his dark hair, he looked like a man carved from stone, immovable and unshakable. The very center of our household.
I knew I should hold my tongue. I had already spoken too much. But a question burned inside me, and I longed for reassurance.
I walked back to him and whispered, "Father… when Caesar is gone, who will govern Rome?"