by Crystal King
“I hope the two of them will be compatible,” Apicius said politely.
“Why don’t we go see Albus and Junilla?” Apicata said in an attempt to alleviate the tension. “They are in the back playing hide-and-seek with Capito and Strabo.”
“I would love to see them,” I said, seizing the opportunity. I knew Apicata was happiest watching her children.
“Yes, let us go to the garden.” Sejanus moved in that direction. “Claudius will be joining us presently as well.”
We walked through the villa, making petty chat about how beautiful Junilla was becoming and what a fine wife she would make young Albus.
Suddenly a child’s scream rose from the garden in front of us. We all broke into a run, bursting from the darkness of the corridor into the bright sunlight of the garden. At the other end of the garden, I caught a glimpse of Livia’s bodyguard leaving through the opposite doorway.
Junilla and Capito stood over an unmoving form on the tiles alongside the central garden pool. As we neared, we could see it was the boy Albus. His face was a terrifying purple-red and his eyes were unmoving and open, lined with broken blood vessels. His mouth was stretched wide as though gasping for air. In his hand he held a pear with a large bite taken from it.
Apicata was the first to reach the children, with Livia right behind. “What happened?” She picked up the boy and cradled him in her arms.
Junilla began crying. “We were hiding and waiting for him to find us.” Her voice caught on the edge of a sob. “When Albus didn’t come, I came out and he was dead!” She turned away, tears staining the front of her tunica.
A young slave woman, dark with long braided hair and green eyes, appeared with Strabo. “Where were you?” Apicata asked, her voice frantic. “Weren’t you watching the children?”
“I was hiding with Strabo,” she started to say.
“Get the children out of here!” Sejanus spat at her. She jumped, then hurriedly ushered Junilla, Capito, and Strabo away.
“Give him to me!” He tore Albus from Apicata. “He’s choking!” Sejanus pulled the boy close and pushed on his chest hard, over and over, until a huge chunk of pear flew out of his mouth. It was splattered with blood.
Still the boy did not move or gasp for breath. “Breathe!” Sejanus screamed at the boy. “By Jove, breathe!” He pounded on the child’s chest. I thought I heard a rib crack.
“Sejanus, stop,” Livia said calmly. She bore no tears for her great-grandson. She put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s gone.”
“No!” He continued to pummel the boy with his fists. “He can’t die! He can’t!”
Apicius stood next to me, with Sotas and Tycho standing behind. We watched, aghast. No longer was this about the death of a child. It was about Sejanus—what madness had overtaken him?
“Sejanus, stop! I command you!” Livia’s voice cut through his haze and his hands fell to his sides. Tears flowed freely across his cheeks, something I had not thought him capable of. “Pick him up,” Livia said, her voice firm and still without emotion.
Sejanus did not move to pick up the boy. Instead, he stood and backed away a few paces, continuing to mutter, “No, no, this can’t happen,” not quite under his breath.
Livia indicated to her body-slave to pick up the child and bring him to her. Then, with two fingers she closed his eyes. She pulled her shawl from her shoulders and had the slave wrap it around Albus, covering the purple of his face.
“What happened?” A man’s thin voice broke our silence. It was Claudius, flanked by a door slave who had likely intended to announce his arrival. Claudius limped over to us as quickly as his clubfoot would allow.
I expected Sejanus to respond as he should have, being the man of the house. Yet when I looked for him, he was gone.
Apicata collected herself and rose from the grass. She started toward Claudius, who was closing the distance between them. He struggled with the effort to run.
Apicius stepped in front of her. “Let me,” I heard him say. She moved aside as Claudius shuffled to a stop.
Apicius held out his hand to touch Claudius on the shoulder. “There has been a terrible accident.”
I watched Claudius’s mouth work to find the words. “Wh . . . wh . . . wh . . . wh . . . wh . . . wh . . . what is going on?”
It was well known that Claudius had a stutter but I had never been close enough to hear him talk until now. No wonder he was the laughingstock of the palace.
“It’s your son,” Apicius started to say.
Claudius pushed past him, nearly falling with the effort. “Albus?” His voice cracked.
He collapsed on the ground next to Livia. His clubfoot stuck out beyond the folds of his toga, twisted unnaturally.
“Oh, m . . . mm . . . my boy!” He took his son from Livia’s arms. “Wh . . . wh . . . wh . . . what happened?” he asked his grandmother.
“He choked on a pear, Claudius. I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t sound sorry at all.
• • •
Sejanus recovered from his frenzy quickly, insisting on footing the bill for the small funeral to be held. No one had seen the bodyguard leave the atrium but me. No one saw Albus eat the pear—they were all hiding. The body-slave was watching the other children hide and saw nothing. When I asked Livia about the bodyguard, she told me pleasantly but firmly that I was mistaken. I didn’t miss the warning tone in her voice. Three years ago Tiberius had passed a law that speaking against Livia would be an act of treason. I had no doubt she would have been delighted if I had decided to do so.
Claudius’s son was the first Imperial noble named Drusus to die that year.
We had seen the other Drusus, Tiberius’s son and only heir, only a handful of times since the banquet at the school. He had been off campaigning in distant lands as a leader in Caesar’s army. Drusus was likely one of the few who hated Sejanus more than I or Apicius did.
Drusus’s dislike of Sejanus was well known among most of Rome’s elite but I had yet to witness his sentiments firsthand. At least not until the hot June eve of Vestalia, honoring the goddess Vesta and the everlasting flame of Rome. Sejanus had decided to host an elaborate banquet in celebration.
During the meal, Apicius had asked me to fetch Apicata from the garden, where she had escaped alone for a breath of fresh air. I found her on a bench admiring the view of Rome sprawled out beneath the Palatine Hill.
On our return we came upon Sejanus and Drusus in heated conversation in the hallway beyond the triclinium. Apicata and I stopped when we reached the knot of Praetorian Guard that stood behind Sejanus. We arrived in time to see Drusus slam his fist into Sejanus’s chin. Sejanus staggered backward into his guards, who seemed conflicted about what to do. They were sworn to protect the Imperial family but I knew they were loyal to Sejanus.
“You deserve more than that, you filthy louse. Jupiter and all the gods damn you! I’m not sure what magic you are employing on my father that he has chosen to invite a stranger to assist in the government while his son is still alive, but I promise you, Sejanus, I will find out.”
Sejanus regained his footing. He stood in the face of Drusus’s rant and said nothing.
“One more thing, Sejanus. If I find that you are sleeping around with my wife,” he snarled, “I will personally make sure that my father has you crucified.” Drusus spat at Sejanus’s feet, a long, wet gob that splattered against the Praetorian’s toes. Then he turned and walked off.
Sejanus pointed to his feet and one of the slaves who stood nearby rushed to wipe off his toes with the hem of his tunic.
“He will rue this day. The gods will find favor with me, not him,” Sejanus muttered. He turned away and pushed past the guards, stopping when he caught a glimpse of Apicata behind his men.
“Sejanus!” Apicata, schooled as she was to be the perfect Roman matron, and always trying to stay in his good graces, rushed to her husband. She reached her hand to his bruised face.
“Do not touch me!” He pushed her h
and away in a rough gesture, throwing her off balance. “What in Tartarus are you doing here, woman?” The look on his face was dark. I was sure he was going to strike her but then he saw me. His visage changed and softened.
“Aren’t they expecting you at the banquet? I was on my way to see if you were all right,” he said to Apicata with a smile.
My chest tightened and I fought to control my anger. What would he have done to her if I had not been there?
Apicata seemed to realize the danger. She took me by the arm. “We were on our way there, husband. My father sent Thrasius to fetch me. Will you return with us?”
“I have other matters to attend to.” He brushed past us, guards in tow.
When they were gone I turned to Apicata. “Is he always like this? He was ready to strike you!”
She began to cry.
I pulled her close. “Oh, my little bird.” I ran my fingers through her hair, my heart breaking for her.
“I fear he may divorce me soon,” she choked.
“Why would you think that?”
“I just do.” She pulled away. “I would welcome it, but . . .”
“He will have the children,” I finished. I knew they were her true joy.
Her fingers dabbed at the corners of her eyes in an attempt to keep from crying. I reached my hand to her face to smooth out the smeared kohl around her eyes.
Sejanus had married Apicata to vex Apicius and for the vast wealth that came with her dowry. Now he had power and the favor of Caesar. He didn’t need her anymore. I understood her worry about the children, but I knew that my heart would feel great relief when she was no longer under his roof.
“Be strong, little bird. That’s all you can do. Hold your head up high and never let him know how much he hurts you.”
She nodded and together we returned to the party, our hearts heavy.
• • •
That summer Apicius and I began work on a new book, this time about breads and fritters. During his travels Apicius had fallen in love with some of the sweet delicacies of far-off lands and he wanted to share these new possibilities with the cooks for all the best Roman families. One of my favorite treats was bread soaked in milk and egg, fried, and slathered with honey before serving.
I made up a batch of this sweet eggy bread for Apicata and Junilla during one of their rare morning visits to Caesar’s kitchen. Junius was there as well. He had inherited my and Apicius’s love of food and was there helping me test out some of the new recipes.
“Thrasius, this is my favorite thing in the world!” Junilla declared. She licked honey off her fingers.
“I thought that fried dates were your favorite thing in the world!” Junius teased her.
“No, no, this bread is! When I am old enough to have my own cook, I’m going to have him make this for me every single day!” She put her hands on her hips and jutted out her chin at him. Her green eyes shone with determination.
“I think you might get tired of having this bread every day,” Apicata suggested as I served up another batch.
“When can I get married? And not to someone who is going to die before we have a wedding?”
I had just put a piece of the sweet bread into my mouth and almost choked at her words. Children could be so blunt. Apicata closed her eyes, seemingly to keep her composure.
“What happened to Albus was an accident, Junilla,” Junius reassured her. “Don’t worry. You’ll be married in due time. And it will be to someone rich enough to buy you a cook who will make you sweet bread every day.”
“You’ll be a beautiful bride, Junilla, but you don’t need to grow up so fast. I’ll make you sweet bread whenever you come to visit. Will that do for now?” I said. Apicata mouthed her silent thanks to me.
“It will have to do,” Junilla said in a childish huff. Junius laughed and ruffled her hair.
• • •
In September two pivotal things happened. As Apicata had predicted, Sejanus divorced her.
The day Apicata came home was bittersweet. She arrived in the middle of the night, alone and without her children. At her behest the door slave woke me and not her father. Passia and I met her in the atrium and walked her to the room we still kept for her.
“They tore the boys out of my arms,” she sobbed. “Junilla kept screaming for me. Oh, dear gods! Why? I was a good wife! Why did he take my children away from me?” She had shredded the front of her stola with her hands and the skin on her breast was wet with tears. Passia brought her a robe to cover herself but she flung it off. “It’s that whore Livilla, I tell you! She has bewitched him and cursed me!”
“Shhhh.” Passia smoothed down her hair. “You’ll wake your father.”
She quieted and cried against my wife’s shoulder for a long time until, finally, she fell asleep in Passia’s arms.
“I’ll stay with her tonight.” Passia waved at me to go. I did but I did not sleep much, so full of concerns was I about the implications of Apicata’s divorce.
The implications became clear enough in the morning. At first light a messenger arrived with a note from Sejanus, addressed to Apicius. Apicius, who did not yet know Apicata was home, accepted it when he arrived in the atrium to receive his clients at salutatio. I joined him as he finished reading the letter.
“What did you do?” He threw the scroll at me.
I picked it up off the ground, confused. I rolled it open and read the official decree. Apicius was no longer cultural and gastronomic adviser. There was no explanation, only a thank-you for his service and a statement that he would no longer be required to attend Sejanus or Tiberius at future banquets and dinners.
“What did you do?” he screamed at me again, then charged me without warning, his bulk slamming into me and throwing me to the ground. His fists hit my face before I could stop him.
“Nothing!” I held up my arms to protect myself. “Sotas, get him off me!”
“Don’t you dare!” Apicius screeched at Sotas as the big man came near. “I’ll have you lashed if you disobey me.”
Between the blows I saw Sotas hesitate. I pushed myself upward, trying to heave Apicius off me. His weight made it difficult.
“Father!”
Apicata’s voice rang out across the atrium. “Sotas, get him off Thrasius. This has nothing to do with him.”
Sotas pulled Apicius off me, holding his master at arm’s length. “I’ll have your hide for this,” he spluttered at the body-slave.
“No you won’t!” Apicata nodded for Sotas to let Apicius go.
“Wait, Apicata, what are you doing here?” Apicius said, suddenly realizing his daughter stood before him in her morning robe.
“Sejanus has divorced me.”
“He what?”
“He divorced her.” I allowed Passia to help me up. I tasted blood at the corner of my mouth. “That’s why your services are no longer required.”
Apicius stared at his daughter, his mouth ajar. Disbelief shone in his eyes.
“Divorced?” he managed after a spell.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Apicata cried.
He looked at me, his face a mixture of emotion. “I’m sorry, Thrasius.”
“I know.”
He took a deep breath. “I hated the bastard anyway.”
His words did not disguise his true feelings. Every part of his body seemed to radiate defeat. “No salutatio today. We will resume on the morrow.”
We watched him leave the atrium. Apicata fell to her knees and began to sob.
• • •
It was two weeks after the divorce and we were listening to a new harpist in the garden when Tycho brought us the news about Drusus. He’d died in his cups the night before. Few thought it strange; he was known for his heavy drinking. His death left Tiberius without an heir and many assumed Sejanus would be chosen to succeed him.
“Now he can have Livilla,” Apicata said when she heard the news. “How convenient.”
“You’ve seen how much Drusus can drink. He
just had more than he could handle,” I said, trying to ease the emotion of the situation.
“No he didn’t. Sejanus had someone poison him.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” I said halfheartedly.
“Yes I can.”
“It is too much coincidence,” Apicius agreed. “I am coming to believe it will be good we are no longer in his sights. I think he is a very dangerous man to cross.”
Apicata fingered the edge of her shawl. I knew that no one understood that fact better than she did. “You are right, Father, he is.”
Apicius said what I had been thinking since the divorce. “I think if it were not for your children, Apicata, he would have me killed.”
Apicata stared off into the cluster of trees lining the garden walls, her face a mask devoid of emotion. But her head bobbed up and down, a nearly imperceptible movement that said everything words could not say.
I looked across the garden where her eyes were fixed. A crow sat on the wall, tearing apart a mouse. It pecked one last time at the carcass, then tossed it away. It wiped its beak on a wing and then took flight, its black feathers a momentary ink against the sky.
CHAPTER 27
Apicius’s paranoia about Sejanus was strong. With nothing to hold the Praetorian prefect in check, he feared for his life. To stay out of Sejanus’s sight in the following year, Apicius avoided Rome, instead staying at his various homes in the countryside. I traveled with him, sometimes with Passia and Junius. I continued to write, and together, Apicius and I published another cookbook. The latest had been such a success I’d rented a space in a small shop on the Aventine and employed three scribes full-time to make copies. The book was a massive compendium of recipes to complement any kitchen. It had taken two years to write, and while many of the recipes came from our other books, there were scores of new dishes for the accomplished cook to try.
We made little money on the cookbook, however, because Apicius loved to give it away for free to his friends and to people he met. I tried many times to counsel Apicius about his money—my son’s inheritance—which he spent at an alarming rate, but he refused to listen. I was comforted by the fact that he was entertaining less, but also worried about the money that we spent traveling from villa to villa. His latest project was renovating a new villa in Herculaneum.