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31_days2006-02-20 10:28 pm
alyxbradford.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-02-20 10:28 pm
[20 Feb] [I, Claudius] The Omen
Title: The Omen
Day/Theme: 20 Feb - the blood that drips from heaven
Series: I, Claudius
Characters: Agrippina, mention of many others
Rating: PG-13
I remember the day that wolf dropped from the sky. We had all been tormenting each other, as usual. Cousins. What a word. In this family, used to cover all manner of lies and alleigences. We were only children, but we knew it even then.
I was eight. Germanicus had been tormenting me -- oh, very well, to be fair I suppose I must confess to having encouraged it at first. Part of me quite liked squealing in indignation when he pinched me. But then he threw the sand, at which I grew angry. That wasn't fair play, after all, and my retaliating move was just as low: I ran to my mother.
She was entertaining the Lady Antonia, which is of course why Germanicus was there at all, and Livia, and Claudius, and Postumus. My memory of my mother will always be clouded by the ignominy of her ultimate fate -- to say nothing of the ironic mirror presented by my own. I think she may still have been beautiful at this point, though surely she was already beginning to grow heavy. Plump and round, my mother, always so pink and fleshy. Like her father. I am glad to have taken after my sire rather than my dame -- and in more ways than that.
Mother kissed and comforted me, and the Lady Antonia thoroughly scolded her son, and we went back to play. Germanicus, chagrined, I think, was almost nice to me for the rest of the day. He even went and plucked some flowers, for me to put in my hair. (Mother asked me later where they had come from, and I, all innocent, told her. She looked pleased. I think they decided to marry us that day).
Livilla was teasing Postumus. Such a beast, that girl, even then. And she only grew worse with age. So many rotten fruits on our family tree. I thank heaven I married the best of Antonia's children -- for all the good it has done mine. Hellspawn of this wretched womb of mine -- I should have taken the white veil and lived a virgin for thirty years rather than bring forth such monsters. And Agrippinilla will outdo all her forebears for wickedness and vice, I can see that already.
You may think I digress, and I could simply tell you it is an old woman's prerogative, a doomed woman's prerogative, but that is not my only excuse: there were such portends that day. That afternoon patterned our whole lives. Germanicus and myself, the leaders, the noble, intended for each other. Livilla, conniving, cruel, small-sighted, concerned only with her own selfish wishes. Unlucky Castor, destined for unhappiness. Tormented Postumus, netted in the machinations of others. And Claudius. Poor, stupid Claudius, for so we thought then, blundering his way through everything, always, stumbling his way to his fate.
Germanicus saw the eagle first, and though no one ever listened to me, I always thought that as much a harbinger as the rest. My dear Germanicus, who saw Rome's troubles, who saw the corruption, the fighting, the vile treacheries, who could point at them, and yet never solve them, never fully ease our nation's pain. And he showed me first -- and there's my own part in it all.
It was quite ghastly, really. One eagle had the helpless wolf pup in its talons, and another eagle was trying to snatch it away. The poor thing was howling to shudder the heavens, and the eagles shrieked at each other, such a terrible din. Bits of fur, feathers, and flecks of blood rained down from the sky. Livilla and I tried to catch some of the feathers, for they were quite handsome, but in the effort, we became spattered with the blood drizzling from the poor wolf pup. Somehow the boys escaped most of that, and if you will permit me to speculate, I think this rather an omen as well, or at least a statement on life in general. Women, I think, are always the ones covered in blood. We bear the life of the nation, and when it fails, it is we who suffer most. Men only die. Women live, and hurt, and remember, forever stained by what they see.
Forgive me; I grow maudlin. I think it is the sky doing it to me -- how grey and dismal it grows. You understand, I think, these morose notions of mine. Tiberius will not kill me, no, not do me that justice, to make a martyr of me, nor that kindness, to send me to my husband. No, I must live, a blood-stained example to his opponents. Cross Caesar, my image says, and end like this: beaten, bloodied, torn -- and utterly alone.
Ha. He doesn't know what I leave behind. He was not there that day, to see the sign, and so he does not know what will come of him, and of Rome.
When the wolf pup fell, Livilla shrieked quite horribly, Germanicus dove to catch it, but could not grow near enough -- the future! -- and the poor wounded thing landed in Claudius' lap. Claudius! Stammering, stupid Claudius -- well, of course he's brighter than we ever thought, a clever man, keeping always out of sight, beneath notice, brighter than any of us for that.
Mother and the Lady Antonia, having heard the commotion, came rushing to see, and brought with them some visitor of Mother's, who by luck or fate happened to be an Augur. Quite a sight it must have made -- Livilla and myself spattered sanguine, standing beside kneeling Claudius, blood-soaked, with a tiny, shivering wolf cradled to his breast. He was so surprised, but when he recovered, he did not speak to us, but to the wolf! He wanted to comfort it, poor terrified thing, and paid our yelling and questions no mind at all. Dear Claudius -- we did him such wrongs all those years, thinking so little of him. I am glad I may say I did not always hold him to that image we saddled him with in childhood.
Livilla, that wretch, tried to snatch the pup away from Claudius. Her mother smacked her round for that, and I confess I was quite glad to see that. The Lady Antonia knew this was important, and looked to the Augur to explain.
He would not say it in front of all of us. Why he thought we should not know, I can't quite say. The omen was clear enough, once you knew what to look for -- but then they all are -- it may not have occurred to us then, so young, but I'm sure it would have on reflection, later in life. Indeed, Germanicus and I spoke of it, when we were in Egypt. Oh, those fateful days, the days that killed him. But we spoke of it then, of what it meant, for all of us. It mattered little that we were sent away: Livilla crept back to eavesdrop, and though she had her ears boxed when she got caught (she always did -- Livilla lacked the subtlety of her namesake), she did tell the rest of us what she had heard.
Claudius, Emperor.
She laughed, but the rest of us were all too stunned. I believe we could all feel the truth of it, deep in our children's hearts. Livilla never could. Livilla never had any sense of the gravity of the future.
It has not yet come to pass, and I think now I will die before it ever does. But it will. I'm sure of that. Tiberius has to die someday, and those after him. And Claudius -- simple, unnoticeable Claudius -- he will be Emperor, somehow.
Day/Theme: 20 Feb - the blood that drips from heaven
Series: I, Claudius
Characters: Agrippina, mention of many others
Rating: PG-13
I remember the day that wolf dropped from the sky. We had all been tormenting each other, as usual. Cousins. What a word. In this family, used to cover all manner of lies and alleigences. We were only children, but we knew it even then.
I was eight. Germanicus had been tormenting me -- oh, very well, to be fair I suppose I must confess to having encouraged it at first. Part of me quite liked squealing in indignation when he pinched me. But then he threw the sand, at which I grew angry. That wasn't fair play, after all, and my retaliating move was just as low: I ran to my mother.
She was entertaining the Lady Antonia, which is of course why Germanicus was there at all, and Livia, and Claudius, and Postumus. My memory of my mother will always be clouded by the ignominy of her ultimate fate -- to say nothing of the ironic mirror presented by my own. I think she may still have been beautiful at this point, though surely she was already beginning to grow heavy. Plump and round, my mother, always so pink and fleshy. Like her father. I am glad to have taken after my sire rather than my dame -- and in more ways than that.
Mother kissed and comforted me, and the Lady Antonia thoroughly scolded her son, and we went back to play. Germanicus, chagrined, I think, was almost nice to me for the rest of the day. He even went and plucked some flowers, for me to put in my hair. (Mother asked me later where they had come from, and I, all innocent, told her. She looked pleased. I think they decided to marry us that day).
Livilla was teasing Postumus. Such a beast, that girl, even then. And she only grew worse with age. So many rotten fruits on our family tree. I thank heaven I married the best of Antonia's children -- for all the good it has done mine. Hellspawn of this wretched womb of mine -- I should have taken the white veil and lived a virgin for thirty years rather than bring forth such monsters. And Agrippinilla will outdo all her forebears for wickedness and vice, I can see that already.
You may think I digress, and I could simply tell you it is an old woman's prerogative, a doomed woman's prerogative, but that is not my only excuse: there were such portends that day. That afternoon patterned our whole lives. Germanicus and myself, the leaders, the noble, intended for each other. Livilla, conniving, cruel, small-sighted, concerned only with her own selfish wishes. Unlucky Castor, destined for unhappiness. Tormented Postumus, netted in the machinations of others. And Claudius. Poor, stupid Claudius, for so we thought then, blundering his way through everything, always, stumbling his way to his fate.
Germanicus saw the eagle first, and though no one ever listened to me, I always thought that as much a harbinger as the rest. My dear Germanicus, who saw Rome's troubles, who saw the corruption, the fighting, the vile treacheries, who could point at them, and yet never solve them, never fully ease our nation's pain. And he showed me first -- and there's my own part in it all.
It was quite ghastly, really. One eagle had the helpless wolf pup in its talons, and another eagle was trying to snatch it away. The poor thing was howling to shudder the heavens, and the eagles shrieked at each other, such a terrible din. Bits of fur, feathers, and flecks of blood rained down from the sky. Livilla and I tried to catch some of the feathers, for they were quite handsome, but in the effort, we became spattered with the blood drizzling from the poor wolf pup. Somehow the boys escaped most of that, and if you will permit me to speculate, I think this rather an omen as well, or at least a statement on life in general. Women, I think, are always the ones covered in blood. We bear the life of the nation, and when it fails, it is we who suffer most. Men only die. Women live, and hurt, and remember, forever stained by what they see.
Forgive me; I grow maudlin. I think it is the sky doing it to me -- how grey and dismal it grows. You understand, I think, these morose notions of mine. Tiberius will not kill me, no, not do me that justice, to make a martyr of me, nor that kindness, to send me to my husband. No, I must live, a blood-stained example to his opponents. Cross Caesar, my image says, and end like this: beaten, bloodied, torn -- and utterly alone.
Ha. He doesn't know what I leave behind. He was not there that day, to see the sign, and so he does not know what will come of him, and of Rome.
When the wolf pup fell, Livilla shrieked quite horribly, Germanicus dove to catch it, but could not grow near enough -- the future! -- and the poor wounded thing landed in Claudius' lap. Claudius! Stammering, stupid Claudius -- well, of course he's brighter than we ever thought, a clever man, keeping always out of sight, beneath notice, brighter than any of us for that.
Mother and the Lady Antonia, having heard the commotion, came rushing to see, and brought with them some visitor of Mother's, who by luck or fate happened to be an Augur. Quite a sight it must have made -- Livilla and myself spattered sanguine, standing beside kneeling Claudius, blood-soaked, with a tiny, shivering wolf cradled to his breast. He was so surprised, but when he recovered, he did not speak to us, but to the wolf! He wanted to comfort it, poor terrified thing, and paid our yelling and questions no mind at all. Dear Claudius -- we did him such wrongs all those years, thinking so little of him. I am glad I may say I did not always hold him to that image we saddled him with in childhood.
Livilla, that wretch, tried to snatch the pup away from Claudius. Her mother smacked her round for that, and I confess I was quite glad to see that. The Lady Antonia knew this was important, and looked to the Augur to explain.
He would not say it in front of all of us. Why he thought we should not know, I can't quite say. The omen was clear enough, once you knew what to look for -- but then they all are -- it may not have occurred to us then, so young, but I'm sure it would have on reflection, later in life. Indeed, Germanicus and I spoke of it, when we were in Egypt. Oh, those fateful days, the days that killed him. But we spoke of it then, of what it meant, for all of us. It mattered little that we were sent away: Livilla crept back to eavesdrop, and though she had her ears boxed when she got caught (she always did -- Livilla lacked the subtlety of her namesake), she did tell the rest of us what she had heard.
Claudius, Emperor.
She laughed, but the rest of us were all too stunned. I believe we could all feel the truth of it, deep in our children's hearts. Livilla never could. Livilla never had any sense of the gravity of the future.
It has not yet come to pass, and I think now I will die before it ever does. But it will. I'm sure of that. Tiberius has to die someday, and those after him. And Claudius -- simple, unnoticeable Claudius -- he will be Emperor, somehow.