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469 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1934
To a fawning fellowship
He shall stammer, cluck and trip,
Dribbling always with his lip.
But when he’s dumb and no more here,
Nineteen hundred years or near,
Clau-Clau-Claudius shall speak clear.
I was a very sickly child – ‘a very battleground of diseases,’ the doctors said – and perhaps only lived because the diseases could not agree as to which should have the honour of carrying me off. To begin with, I was born prematurely, at only seven months, and then my foster-nurse’s milk disagreed with me, so that my skin broke out in an ugly rash, and then I had malaria, and measles, which left me slightly deaf in one ear, and erysipelas, and colitis, and finally infantile paralysis, which shortened my left leg so that I was condemned to a permanent limp.
We slept together at first because that seemed expected of us, and even occasionally had sexual relations – my first experience of sex – because that too seemed part of marriage, and not from either lust or affection. I was always as considerate and courteous to her as possible and she rewarded me by indifference, which was the best that I could hope from a woman of her character.
One man was condemned to death for having gone into a privy with a gold coin of Augustus’s in his hand. Another was accused of having included a statue of Augustus in a list of furniture for sale in a country villa.
‘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.’
‘He has you there, Livy, on your weakest spot. You credit the Romans of seven centuries ago with impossibly modern motives and habits and speeches. Yes, it’s readable all right, but it’s not history.’
‘But there’s also a serious matter in question and that is, the proper writing of history. It may be that I have made mistakes. What historian is free from them? I have not, at least, told deliberate falsehoods: you’ll not accuse me of that. Any legendary episode from early historical writings which bears on my theme of the ancient greatness of Rome I gladly incorporate in the story: though it may not be true in factual detail, it is true in spirit. If I come across two versions of the same episode I choose the one nearest my theme, and you won’t find me grubbing around Etruscan cemeteries in search of any third account which may flatly contradict both — what good would that do?”
“It would serve the cause of the truth,” said Pollio gently. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
“And if by serving the cause of truth we admit our revered ancestors to have been cowards, liars and traitors? What then?”
I’ll leave this boy to answer the question. He’s just starting in life. Come on, boy, answer it!”