Feast of Sorrow

by Crystal King

  “What is he doing here?” She pulled back after kissing Apicata’s cheeks and seeing Secundus standing beyond. “He killed my friend and is not welcome in my home.”

  “My lady”—Apicata put her hand on Antonia’s shoulder—“he has information I think you should hear.”

  She sniffed. “Apicata, Thrasius, welcome. And you, Secundus,” she said, pointing a long finger at him, “better have a good reason to be standing here, or my guards will throw you out and loose the dogs.”

  • • •

  “I think you will find his news of great import,” I said as we seated ourselves on the benches she indicated. Antonia’s house was decorated more sparsely than most, with few plants lining the impluvium pool in the center. The paintings on the wall were of a style forty years past, with dark paint and small scenes of country life framed by thin columns painted on the wall.

  “Antonia, please know I would not ask you this question if it weren’t of the utmost importance, but do you trust your slaves?” Apicata cocked her head in the direction of the line of slaves along the nearby wall who awaited Antonia’s command.

  “I repeat, I hope this information is worth my time.” She paused for a moment, considering. “Irene, you stay. The rest of you are dismissed.”

  The slaves, save for a young dark-haired woman, filed out of the room.

  “Now tell me why you have brought this evil man into my midst.”

  I felt Secundus tense beside me. “He’s here to make right the actions of his past,” Apicius said, nudging him.

  Secundus didn’t strike me as the type of man who would be nervous, but his thick hands shook and he would raise his eyes to Antonia only for a moment before turning them back toward the atrium tiles.

  “I cannot take back Cordus’s death, although I wish I could,” he said, already swerving from the script we had discussed. I looked at Apicata. Her body was as tense as a runner in the blocks at the games. Secundus continued, “I doubt all the deaths of recent years—that any of the men Sejanus has put to death were traitors. Or if they were, I know now that they had only the best interests of Rome in mind. Sejanus is a poison to us all and I am living proof of such rot.”

  To my surprise, Secundus sounded truly contrite. And by the gods, there were tears in his eyes. Antonia’s mouth had opened a little, as though she wanted to counter him but couldn’t.

  “Livilla, she has moved from the Palatine to the Caelian into a new villa, yes?” Secundus asked.

  Antonia nodded.

  Secundus drew a thin stack of papers from the pouch he carried. “Sejanus asked several of his men to help her move. I was one of them. It was late in the day and we got caught in a downpour. The wagon hit a bump and one of her chests went flying and landed in a puddle. It broke open, ruined some of her clothes, and we lost some jewelry in the mud. This packet of letters also fell out. I was able to snatch it up before the rain ruined it.”

  He handed the packet to Antonia, who took it gingerly, as though she were afraid there was poison on the pages.

  Secundus’s voice quavered. “When we reached the villa and placed the furniture, I remembered the packet. It was wrong, but I could not keep my curiosity at bay. I read the letters and knew I couldn’t return them. When we gave Livilla her clothing and the muddy contents of the chest, I told her that her papers had been ruined in the rain. I muddied a few pages to satisfy her, letting the ink run so she would believe me.”

  Antonia thumbed through the letters in her lap. Her eyes widened and one hand flew to her breast, her fingers pushing into the skin as though it might hold in the horror. “Oh, Juno, my dear lady Juno,” she breathed.

  She read a few more pages, her eyes filling with tears. “My wicked, wicked daughter.”

  Apicata got up and sat down next to her on the couch and put a comforting arm around the matron. “There is more, I’m afraid.”

  Antonia choked on a sob. “What could be worse than knowing my grandchildren might be bastards and my daughter is a treasonous whore?”

  Apicata had started to cry herself. “Sejanus . . . one night at a party, he, he became intoxicated on opium and wormwood wine. He . . . he took advantage of me and told me, oh gods . . .” She gulped, struggling to say the words.

  Apicius finished for her. “He confessed to murder.” He leaned in and touched Antonia’s hand, hoping to give her comfort. “Sejanus and Livilla killed Drusus. They planned it and had her eunuch do it.”

  “Oh, Juno!” Antonia buried her face in Apicata’s stola. “Drusus! That precious man, he did not deserve to die at their hands!”

  She sobbed for a while and we sat uncomfortably while Apicata comforted her. Antonia’s tears left streaks in her leaden makeup, erasing the illusion of her youth. At last, she sat up and wiped her eyes.

  “What do I need to do?” She looked at us.

  I seized the moment, thanking the gods she had been swayed. “Write to Tiberius. Send him some of these pages. We know yours are some of the only letters Caesar is allowed to read without censor.”

  “I believe that to be true. If it’s not . . .”

  “We have to try.” Apicata dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her shawl. “Sejanus is tearing the fabric of Rome apart. He shames the Aelii and the Antonii families with every move he makes. He’s accused fifty-two people of treason, Antonia. Fifty-two! He must be stopped!”

  As one of the elders in the Antonii gens, Antonia would be very keen to protect her reputation. I smiled inwardly, proud of my little bird for knowing the right words to say.

  “You are right. I cannot let my daughter drag us all through the mud.” She turned her attention to the slave who leaned against the wall. The girl straightened when she saw Antonia’s eyes fall upon her. “Irene, fetch my scribe. Speak to no one on your way there and back. Not one word, girl, or I’ll cut your tongue out!”

  Irene bowed her head, her long dark curls falling into her eyes, turned on her heel, and slipped down the dark corridor.

  Antonia wiped at her face, smoothing her makeup into place. “I will tell Tiberius of the treachery contained in these letters. I cannot tell him of Drusus.” She looked at Apicata. “That is for you to tell. Were you alone when he confessed this?”

  “No. Thrasius’s wife, Passia, was hiding in the room. She will testify,” Apicius said.

  Antonia sighed. “Is Passia a slave? She will have to be tortured for the evidence. I offer to do it . . . I will be kind.”

  A shiver of relief passed through me, raising goose bumps on my arms. “No, thank the gods. She has been manumitted.” By law the only way a slave’s testimony would hold true in court was if it had been obtained by torture. I could not imagine Passia undergoing the trials of torture—burning, removing fingernails or whole digits of the hand.

  “That is fortunate. I will leave it to you to inform Tiberius of Passia’s account. I recommend you wait until we find out the reaction to my letter first—in case we need more fuel for this fire.”

  Apicata exhaled. I don’t think she had planned to bear the news of Drusus’s murder to Tiberius herself. We had one small hope—if Antonia’s letter was enough to condemn Sejanus, perhaps she wouldn’t have to.

  Irene returned with the scribe, a striking woman with pale skin and chestnut hair who looked to be Iberian. I stifled a smile, which would have been inappropriate given the gravity of the situation. If the slave was Rúan’s bedding partner, he was a fortunate man.

  “I will write this letter,” Antonia continued. “But I must request one thing.” She looked to Secundus. He shifted his bulk nervously on the couch. “You remain here. Let Rome think you went missing. I cannot trust you not to change your mind. And believe me, I like it no better than you.”

  “Am I to sit in your dungeon?”

  “As much as I think you deserve it, no. You will stay in my guesthouse. You will have two slaves to attend you and I will make sure you have as many books as you want. But you will not leave. My guards will see to that. Once
Tiberius responds to my letter, you will be free to go. This protects both me and you. Sejanus would not be kind if he found out you have betrayed him.”

  “I will stay.” He sounded like a child who had been told to go to bed early. Sad but resigned.

  “Good. I will send a messenger to you as soon as I hear anything.” She kissed us good-bye and we left, our hearts full of hope.

  • • •

  It was twenty-four endless days before we knew the outcome of Antonia’s missive to Tiberius. The word came at dawn one morning when we were preparing cakes for the salutatio. One of the slave boys rushed into the kitchen, his lips trembling with the news.

  “Soldiers! There are soldiers surrounding the Senate!” He stopped in front of me, panting. It was one of Timon’s prodigies, a lanky boy with hair so blond it was nearly white. A barbarian from Germania, I surmised.

  “How do you know?” Timon asked, angry.

  The boy, momentarily excited, lowered his eyes to the ground, chastised. It seemed he had been caught dallying on an errand.

  And thank the gods he had. “Speak!” I said, taking the boy by the shoulders. “What do you know? Tell me! I swear, there will be no punishment for you for telling me the truth.”

  In fact, I had already fished a golden aureus from the pouch at my waist. I slipped the coin—more money than the boy had likely ever imagined owning—into the boy’s dirty hand. “Speak!”

  The child’s eyes grew large. “Soldiers are at the Forum! They came to take Sejanus away! A letter from Tiberius, they say, is being read to him and the Senate. But the soldiers wait outside to take him away!”

  I pushed past him and ran for the door.

  “Tycho!” I yelled on my way through the house. Soon I could hear his sandals slapping behind me.

  We passed Apicius on the way to the atrium, where the salutatio was about to begin. “What . . . ?” Apicius began.

  I didn’t slow. “Sejanus! I think they are arresting Sejanus!”

  As I ran off, I heard Apicius tell Sotas to let the guards know the salutatio was canceled and to send for Apicata.

  Minutes later Tycho and I were running down the path across the Palatine Hill toward the Forum. We emerged near the temple of Castor and Pollux and ran across the stones of the Forum, pushing past merchants, beggars, and children. We ran until we reached the crowd forming around the Curia Julia, the Senate meetinghouse where I had earned my freedom twenty-two years before.

  The crowd milled about, talking in hushed tones, as though not wanting to spoil whatever surprise was waiting for Sejanus when he emerged. A ring of Praetorian Guard circled the Curia, mixed with dozens of vigiles. The head of the vigiles, a hardened man named Gracinius Laco who had once dined on Apicius’s couch, stood at the base of the stairs, waiting.

  “What’s happening?” I asked the elderly equestrian next to me as I struggled to catch my breath.

  He squinted in the morning sun, which was shining off the massive bronze doors of the Curia. “They’re reading a letter from Tiberius. Sejanus thought it would be more accolades. He was bragging when he went in. But if the letter was accolades, why would there be soldiers waiting for him?”

  “How long have they been reading the letter?”

  “Nearly twenty minutes—”

  He was cut off by the sound of shouts inside the Curia. The doors swung open. A cluster of soldiers led Sejanus down the Curia’s short flight of stairs. I recognized the soldier in front, a man previously always by Tiberius’s side, a general named Macro who was even larger than Sotas. He towered over Sejanus and the other guards.

  Then I couldn’t see over the screaming mob. All manner of items were thrown at the traitor. The Praetorian Guard lifted their shields to protect themselves from the flight of rocks and rotting fruit. The vigiles pushed the crowd back to let the soldiers pass.

  “Back off!” one of the soldiers yelled. “You’ll get your turn in time. Let them by!”

  The soldiers swept past us, moving Sejanus through the Forum, the crowd in tow, joined by the throngs of senators leaving the Curia.

  I caught sight of Trio in the crowd. He had recently been elected senator and would have seen all the proceedings. I dragged Tycho through the throngs. “Trio!” I shouted, hoping he would hear me and stop.

  “Thrasius! Good to see you.” He slapped me on the back, as friendly as ever, almost as though we weren’t in the center of a mob of people.

  “Where are they taking him?”

  “The temple of Concord. We’ll try him at dusk. I suspect it will be a short trial after the letter we just heard.”

  “What did it say?”

  Trio took me by the elbow and pulled me off to the side to escape the rush of people. “It was a strange letter, praising Sejanus at first and talking about some of the laws we are trying to enact. Then the letter turned and Tiberius appointed Macro as Praetorian prefect! He accused Sejanus of treason, stating that he had evidence that he was plotting to overthrow Caesar. It was magnificent! We couldn’t have wished for a better end to that bastard.”

  “Truly,” I agreed, elated.

  “We must celebrate. Tell Apicius I expect a grand cena tomorrow after Sejanus’s body lies broken on the Gemonian stairs!”

  “I will!”

  • • •

  We stopped at the temple of Hecate on the way to the villa to arrange for the sacrifice of a bull in thanks for her help in bringing Sejanus to his knees. Later I planned to do the same for Nemesis, Averna, and Mercury for fulfilling the curse, be it years after it was made.

  They were sacrifices I would never make.

  When I reached the villa, Apicius was sitting in the peristylium with Apicata.

  Apicius seemed to be in shock. When I approached he only said, “I can’t believe it, finally I will be rid of that bastard.” Then he looked downward to the tiles again, his hands wringing the edges of his toga.

  Apicata sat next to him, her arm around his shoulders. Her eyes were swollen from crying.

  “Apicata, are you all right?” I thought she would be elated that Sejanus was getting his due.

  “They have Capito and Strabo.”

  Horror overtook me, crushing the breath out of my lungs. How had I not foreseen this? Of course. If they killed Sejanus, they would kill his children and eradicate his bloodline. Oh, dear gods, what had we done?

  I had no words to say. After standing there for a space of time, empty, watching Apicata sob against her father’s dazed body, I left, unable to bear their heartache.

  When I returned a bit later, after meeting with the kitchen slaves and dismissing them for the night, Apicata was still crying. Apicius was holding her with a tenderness I had not seen for many years—years before Aelia had passed.

  “Why did we go to Antonia? Why? Why?” she sobbed. The kohl lining her eyes had been reduced to smudges. “My boys! What will they do to my boys? Oh, they will kill them! I know it!”

  “Do not fear, daughter. I’m sure all will be well.” Apicius stroked her hair but it did not calm her.

  “Send another messenger,” he said to me when he noticed my presence.

  I had already tried. I touched Apicata on the shoulder. “Macro has given orders that no one is to leave or enter the villa. But do not worry, I’m sure that as soon as the trial is over they will be released. By this time tomorrow you will have them in your arms.”

  Apicata looked up. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, I do,” I lied to her. Apicius gave me a knowing look. We were only prolonging the inevitable, but what were we to do?

  She sat up and wiped her eyes. “I hope you are right.”

  Apicius helped her straighten her shawl. “It will do you no good to cry, daughter. We won’t know anything until the morrow. I’m sure they are safe. They have locked the doors as a precaution to make sure there are no traitors in Sejanus’s house.”

  Apicata seemed to accept this. Her eyes, now dry, hardened. “I want to watch.”

 
; Apicius looked at me. “I think we all do.”

  I saw Sotas bob his head from his place along the wall. So many years later, our curse had taken effect. Oh, Minerva! And with consequences we could not have foreseen.

  Tycho entered with a small scroll in his hand. “Master,” he said, bowing as he handed it to Apicius.

  Apicius unrolled it. “It’s from Trio. They expect that Sejanus will be found guilty. People are already lining up to hear the verdict. He has reserved a place for us to watch at the top of the stairs.” His eyes flickered across the scroll and he smiled. “What great news!”

  I knew him too well. There was something else on that scroll. His sudden cheer was unnatural. The scroll must have said something about Apicata’s children, but I didn’t ask. I did not want to know.

  • • •

  Late in the afternoon we headed to the Gemonian stairs, a massive staircase of marble rising from the streets of the Forum up between the Arx—the highest point of the Capitoline Hill—and the temple of Concord and the Tabularium behind it. Traitors to Rome were strangled, then thrown down the stairs, where they would lie for days, usually until the stench became unbearable in the nearby temples. After, they would toss the body into the depths of the Tiber. Sejanus would be thrown down the stairs if convicted, but no one had any doubt of his guilt.

  We traveled along the ridge of the Capitoline Hill rather than through the throngs in the Forum, then sent the slaves and sedan chairs back while our guards led us through the crowd on foot. Apicius showed the scroll’s seal to the vigiles guarding the coveted spaces at the top of the stairs. They parted ranks and one of the younger guards led us to the top few stairs, where we were told we could wait.

  When we arrived there were already hundreds of people lining the sides of the stairs. The top stairs were reserved for senators and their families, and the middle and bottom stairs for wealthy patricians and equestrians. Common plebeians were not allowed on the stairs and gathered at the base and filled the streets of the Forum below. Vendors sold fruit and sips from wine flasks to the milling crowd. The noise filled my ears: the sounds of barking dogs waiting for the body to be thrown, men debating how Tiberius found out about Sejanus’s treason, and children yelling as they played tag up and down and across the stairs.