The papyrus, son of the Nile, rustled on my knees. It had been a plant, and was now a scroll. It had endured floods and droughts, the splash of oars and the flapping of sails, and also the shouts of birds, in its short life. But it would encompass all of my life too. 
The sun had reached the lion's mark. The shadow of the maples fell upon the stone slabs of the Forum, forming intricate designs reminiscent of old Chaldean writings. I saw a long-since forgotten world. Roman legions had not yet come there, and the predatory shadow of our eagles had not yet fallen on the tombs of ancient kings. 
Then I heard my name. It was spoken to someone sitting in a litter. The silk screen was drawn aside. A young woman looked out at me. Her eyes were daring, but there was sorrow upon her lips. How to combine this challenge and this sad smile?
 "Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus," you said melodiously, and raised your brows in wonder. "A Gracchus in our time!"
 My name! It has always been my curse. But it is not given us to choose our names. I am Sempronius. You are Julia. My great-grandfather had been a famous tribune of the people, yours an unknown municipal equestrian. My father died a plain equestrian, yours was a life-long tribune and emperor. More, he had been deified. He is worshipped in temples. The Greeks call this metamorphosis. By the will of the gods enamoured young men turn into flowers, proud matrons into stone, a lock of hair into a constellation, and people's rule into tyranny. 
But, oh, how often do names fail to keep up with the transformation! We call a tyranny a republic, we call tyrants lathers of the country, we call usurers Roman equestrians, and beggars quirites. . . 
My mother Antistia left my father for a rich libertine. Occupied with his land deals, Father entrusted my education to servants. My first tutor was a Greek slave from Alexandria. There was no trace about him of the noble Blossius who had brough t up the Gracchus brothers. My tutor did not care about the fate of ruined fanners. He loved mimes and actors, and gladly endured a flogging rather than miss a theatrical performance. And he took me, an infeeling, witless child, along. One day, I imitated an actor's indecent gesture in my father's presence. So my tutor was sent to the village to turn the millstone. His place was taken by a dried-up, hunch-backed Syrian who had been copying scrolls all his life. His bald head was as full of parables as a sack was of peas. Oh, the wisdom born in the vestibules and slave quarters! Oh, those hares who extolled the king of beasts! Oh, the stupid asses flogged for wanting to change their master! 
Then came the school of rhetoric. I had to don a toga of outworn words that had lost all meaning. I was a mere puppet, and lived in an artificial world among other puppets. This bothered no one. You may not believe what you say, but you make others believe it make them weep over the stoicism of the long-suffering Andromache! Oh, the Andromaches in your family! Who saw their tears? Who cared about their grief? Rhetoric! 1 was told it was the greatest of all arts essential to anyone who wished to regain his clan s past glory. But my speech was halting, and my words colourless.
 "You are no Gracchus," the rhetor wailed. "Where is the depth of Tiberius? Where is the booming voice of Gaius?" 
Did they think a void could give birth to thunder? I ask you: Where is the Fo- rum of the Graeehuses? Where are the thousands of eyes fixed on the orator? Where are the hands yearning for the soil? Where, finally, is the vicious hiss of ill-wishers? You who settle the fate of the world in bedchambers and studies, you who mourn the death of eloquence meant for the Forum! 
Aye, what would I say from the rostrum? Would I speak of the peace that Au- gustus has enforced? Speeches -we are tired of them. Or should I speak of the granting of land to plebeians? Land! Let barbarians work it. Better tell me who will win the games in the amphitheatre. The Samnite or the Gaul? Kill, kill!
 I wanted the office of magistrate. But the divine Augustus struck my name off ihe list. You must know your father. No, I was not involved in anything wrong. I never broke the law. I avoided carousals where the wine loosened tongues. But Augustus feared that dangerous thoughts were hidden beneath my sham obedience; Hi« name ol Gracchus could well be the banner of revolt... 
What made you leave the litter and offer me vour hand? My appearance? But women never showed me predilection. They preferred bolder men, men more dar ing. Was it my bravery? Oh, no! You were fed up with your husband's victories in Illyria and Germany. You were attracted by my mutinous name. Later, you were pleased when people exclaimed on seeing us together: "Julia and Sempronius Gracchus." There was something unnatural in that combination of names, just as in a centaur or chimera. 
Yes, you were attracted by the glory of my forebears. I was surprised that you knew more about them than I. Remember, we roamed among the green-stained bronze statues in the Forum. They came alive in your stories. It was as though you had not simply read Titus Livius, but had lived among ancient kings and bearded consuls.1 But most of all you were attracted by tribunes of the people. We climbed the Capitolium, and you showed me the place where Tiberius Gracchus had fallen under a hail of stones. And when we came to the place where Gaius died, you put your hands on my shoulders, and said: "Wake up, Gracchus!" 
My first impression had been correct. You came to Rome from another world. You should have been born a warlike Amazon racing across the Scythian steppe, hugging your horse's mane or negotiating the rapids of the Danaprius in a little boat on a dark night. 
You were denied the freedom of choice extolled by our exiled Ovid. A morose and suspicious husband, your father's adopted son and heir. All Rome hated him. Yet you had to obey. You were sacrificed to the most tyrannical of all newly-fledged deities, the needs of the state. A husband had been appointed for you. Friends and companions were chosen for you. All your life was modelled in days and hours. But you tore up the tenets! You, Julia, were born a rebel. 
You who trod along the edge of the abyss, liked to test fate. Remember, we once went to see the red-bearded Chaldean? He gazed at the sky of Rome in the night and found a lonely star on its very edge. "You will have no love and no friends," the Chaldean had said through his nose, "Your father will repulse you, only your mother will follow you." 
Your bright lips were twisted in a bitter smile. 
"You see, my Sempronius," you said, "the stars say I shall be alone, yet you swear eternal love..." 
The Chaldean was right. The fury of Augustus was horrifying. He loved him- self in you, and hated you when he learned you were with me. Oh, rocky island. The endless noise of the waves. For you. And a similar place for me. Banishment. Fourteen years of aloneness — without books, without hope. One could well become a beast and forget how to think. 
But this bare rock was my rostrum, and the sea all round it my Forum. I let it judge my life. Whose fault was it, Julia, that you and I were born so late? I accused the hypocritical age of crimes against humanity, of dishonour, of concealing the a storm. It was my salvation. Then I saw the boat from afar. I knew it would come. Your father Augustus has died. Your former husband has become emperor, and he would never forgive. 
The dolphins circled the boat in alarm. It seemed they wanted to block its way. The wind held its breath. The sails were lifeless. But, urged on by an evil will, the oars moved up and down inexorably. 
I have filled the papyrus. One does not lie on the edge of the abyss. I am not sorry, Julia. You gave me back my name and the dignity of a Gracchus. 

Alexander Nemirovsky, "Tales Of The Ancient World"

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