The Julia Monologues
JULIA THE ELDER
(Augustus’s daughter; married for the first time at 14 and married two more times before being banished to a rocky island for adultery.)
I didn’t actually do anything wrong.
And besides that, I am the daughter of a god, am I not? He brought me up – had me brought up – to be worthy of his lineage. Though I tend to feel that divorcing my mother the very day I was born somewhat detracts from a sense of pride in my heritage. Hey ho. He’s returned her to me now that I’m not fit to be his daughter. Farewell divinity, hello disgrace.
What they say I did was nothing more or less than they all do, all those pious morality upholders and dignity bearers. Sex.
Do you know how many women my divine father has fucked? Nor do I. The mathematics I studied doesn’t allow for computations at such a scale. Not one slave was left untouched. He deflowered the wildflower meadows of Antium. He plucked cherries by the bushel-load
Does that shock you? Ah, I wouldn’t entirely trust my version of history.
He’s a god and an emperor and he sets the standards for an empire and his reputation remains unimpeached.
As for me: well, they’ll tell you that I was found on my back, legs splayed, with Iullus Antonius in flagrante delicto. And on the rostrum, no less! Oh that wonderful ironic twist. Is this tragedy or comedy? Or are the two woven together, irreducible, in the tapestries of the Fates?
The rostrum, you’ll recall, from which he – my father – not Iullus Antonius - spouts his new, updated moral codes. Version 5.8 was the latest, I believe. Download it, why don’t you. I may be out of date. It’s some time now since I left Rome.
So, let me ask you: would I do that? And if so, why? And if not, why would that tale be told?
JULIA THE YOUNGER
(Daughter of Julia the Elder and her second husband, Agrippa. She died in exile.)
Some metamorphosis. Princess to prisoner. By Jupiter, I hate this bare rock. My lover – yes, I admit I have a lover. Of course I do – have you seen my husband? Craggy, cold and coarse. But not credulous, of no, not credulous enough. He saw that swelling in my stomach on his last trip back to Rome. A visit to my grandfather and, hey presto, here I am.
The child though. That sweet squalling squirming bundle of redness torn from my womb and left to die on the mountainside. This rock has bloodlust. This rock kills. The tool of the all powerful emperor. His hands reach across Italy, across the sea, and his will is done.
I sound bitter, do I?
My mother too was exiled. And let me tell you this, although I will die here on this crag, unforgiven, she will return to the shores of her homeland. But never back to Rome. She will be kept in a remote villa where she will starve, fade from famine, far from the capital. SPQR revoked for us both. But she – to wither from hunger and disease… This edict not from Grandfather the God, but from Tiberius. My father in law, my stepfather, my almost brother. Oh gods. How could the Fates sit and watch all this unfold? What message and meaning in this?
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