by Crystal King
At dusk, a roar broke out from the crowd as the Praetorian Guard—who had been Sejanus’s own men up until the day before—led the prisoner up the stairs to the temple of Concord, where the trial would be held. People screamed epithets at him, but the most common cry was “Traitor! Traitor!”
When Sejanus neared the top of the stairs he spied Apicius. He jerked his chains in our direction. “You are calling me a traitor?” he screamed to the crowd. They weren’t listening but he kept shouting. “Marcus Gavius Apicius is a traitor! And a murderer! He murdered a friend of Tiberius! You should be trying him and not me! I have proof! I have proof that Apicius is a murderer!”
Sejanus yanked at his shackles and with his bound hands pointed toward Apicius, who stood stock-still. Waves of fear radiated from Apicius. He gripped my arm and I could feel him trembling.
One of the guards kicked Sejanus in the back of the knees and he went down, banging his chin against the marble stairs. Another guard hauled him up and pulled him up the last few stairs. He was still screaming Apicius’s name when they rounded the corner of the temple.
Apicius still held my arm and his grip had tightened. No one seemed to have paid any attention to Sejanus’s words. Even Apicata did not seem to have registered the import of what her ex-husband had been saying. The crowd likely thought that Sejanus’s screams were only the desperate cries of a man about to die and therefore carried no import. At least, that’s what I hoped.
With Sejanus gone the crowd quieted. We sat down on the marble and waited, something Apicius would normally never have done, but, of course, it was an extenuating circumstance. All along the stairs patricians sat like commoners, waiting for the spectacle of Sejanus’s death to begin. Apicius said little. The pallor of his skin told me everything.
Before long, dusk descended and lamps were lit all along the stairway. Hundreds of torches and lanterns bobbed up and down the streets of the Forum like sparks in the night.
I heard the clatter of swords slapping the thighs of the Praetorian Guard before I saw Macro and his soldiers leading forth the condemned. Sejanus slumped between them, pushed along as though he could barely walk. Then three hundred senators flooded my vision, a wide swath of togas with red stripes filing past to stand with their waiting families on the stairs.
When we could see the top of the stairs again, a mere fifty feet away, Sejanus sat on a rough stool. Two of the largest men I’ve ever seen stood behind the prisoner, flanked by Macro and the Praetorian Guard.
Trio came to stand next to us. “Can you believe it,” he said, leaning in so we could hear, “during his trial he tried to tell the Senate that you murdered a friend of Tiberius.”
Apicius made a strangled sound and his eyes went wide.
Trio laughed. “It was like watching a bad play. He was rambling like a madman, accusing everyone he knew of being a traitor, a murderer, an adulterer. He named all of our friends as someone against Caesar. It made it all that much easier to convict him—his lies helped him rise to power, and we were only too glad to make his lies end him.”
Apicius gave a deep sigh of relief.
Trio smiled. “Yes, it will be good to end this monster, won’t it?”
Senator Pontius Castus came forth to stand at the top of the stairs, a few feet in front of Sejanus. A jolly man with a round belly and speckled beard, Castus had been expected to win the position of consul until the Senate, under great pressure from Tiberius, appointed Sejanus instead. I wondered what ran through his mind as he prepared to read the words on the papyrus he held.
Apicata grasped my hand. She gripped Apicius tightly with her other hand. I looked at Sotas and Tycho, and for a brief moment I knew a solidarity I had never before had. We were equal in one thing, despite all else: our hatred for Sejanus.
Castus began to speak, his voice ringing out like a clap of thunder, hard and sudden.
“Romans! I stand before you today to read the sentence of the prisoner Lucius Aelius Sejanus.”
The crowd went wild. A chant went up. “Kill him! Kill him!”
The senator let the chant continue for a moment. Sejanus lifted his head and surveyed the crowd. Even in the face of death he appeared arrogant.
As the chant began to die down so Castus could read the sentence, Sejanus began to yell at the top of his lungs.
“I would have been your god! I would have saved Rome! You say I was a tyrant? Hear me, Rome, I curse you! The next Caesar Rome will know will show you people what a tyrant really is! I curse you, Rome!”
Most of the crowd missed his words over the noise but I would never forget them. They would come back to me often when Caligula took reign.
Castus motioned to the Praetorians who held Sejanus to his chair. One of them shoved a rag into Sejanus’s mouth to silence him.
Castus shouted out the sentence, likely knowing his words would be lost just as Sejanus’s curse had dissipated in the din of the crowd. “The Senate and people of Rome find Sejanus guilty of treason against Caesar and against all Rome. He is sentenced to death by strangulation and his body to be thrown down the stairs before us.”
The voices grew louder. “Kill him! Kill him!”
Castus continued, “In the days to come all whose blood runs on the same side as Sejanus, be it his children, his slaves, or his loyal friends, they too will meet their death.”
“No!” Apicata howled. Apicius pulled her back before she could rush up the stairs and pummel Castus with her fists.
“Daughter! Take hold of yourself!” He turned her around and shook her by the shoulders. She struggled to get away, screaming about her children. Apicius glanced around at the crowd, some of whom were starting to look in our direction. He slapped her. “Daughter! You will be quiet!”
She slumped against him, sobbing. He held her tenderly but there was no surprise in Apicius’s eyes and it was as I had guessed—the scroll must have read that Apicata’s children would be sentenced when Sejanus was sentenced. The traitor’s bloodline would not be allowed to continue. My stomach roiled.
The guards pushed Sejanus and the stool forward. He stared at a point above the crowd and across the Forum, not a trace of fear in his face. A hush fell over the crowd as the largest Praetorian pulled out the gag, wrapped a rope around Sejanus’s neck, and pulled the two ends tight, slowly strangling him. Sejanus’s face grew red, then purple, then his eyes began to bulge and his tongue stuck out as though trying to reach air. A guard handed a large metal hook with a very sharp point on its end to the other vigile, who slammed it into Sejanus’s chest with great force, hooking it into him. Blood spurted and the patricians at the top of the stairs scooted backward. The crowd roared its approval.
When Sejanus had ceased thrashing around, the guards unwrapped the rope at his neck and tied it to the hook. A donkey was brought forth from the guards at the top of the stairs. They tied the rope to its saddle and, with a loud yell, the Praetorian slapped the donkey on the ass, causing it to rush forward down the stairs, Sejanus’s body in tow. The noise of the crowd was deafening. The dogs held at the bottom of the stairs were loosed and they rushed to meet the falling body. I recognized them. They were Sejanus’s own dogs, the same dogs with which he had often sentenced men to their deaths.
The body fell off its hook halfway down the stairs. The dogs bit into Sejanus’s flesh and men rushed forward to kick at the body. I felt nothing, only a deep numbness as the blood ran across the marble stairs, so slick that dogs and men alike slipped in the pooling red.
It was done. Sejanus was dead. And yet there was no satisfaction. I watched the body tumble, pieces of flesh separating and flying.
• • •
Fifteen-year-old Strabo met the stairs the next afternoon, and thirteen-year-old Capito’s strangulation took place the following day. Junilla was next. Beautiful Junilla, who would never know true love, who would never see the crown of her own newborn’s head, who would never grow into a young woman. First they raped her—it was illegal to condemn virgins—the
n they strangled her and threw her down the stairs to rest among the remains of her father and brothers.
Apicius forbade Apicata from going to the executions, knowing that they would not let her near her children, nor their broken bodies once they were dead. She railed against him, slamming her fists into his chest, tearing at his clothes and screaming her rage until Sotas and I had to pull her off her father. I resorted to drugging her wine with opium. Apicius instructed Sotas to guard her and not let her out of his sight.
After the execution of her daughter, Apicata sat on a bench in the atrium, quiet, rocking herself back and forth, her eyes staring at the door. She ignored anyone who sat with her or tried to talk to her. For hours she sat like that, until Apicius pulled up a chair to sit in front of her. He said nothing, only took her hands in his and kissed them, then sat with her, face-to-face, holding her hands, for nearly a quarter of an hour. Eventually, she stood, gave her father a long kiss on the top of his head, then retreated to her room, motioning with a jerk of her chin that I should follow.
She had me sit with her while she penned her missive to Tiberius. She said nothing to me, and I had no words of my own to say. I watched her make each letter with the stylus, intricate and careful but with a flourish that made my heart ache. Her note to Caesar was scathing and sad, about how her only comfort in the deaths of her children was that Caesar’s own child, Drusus, had also died at the hands of others—Livilla and her lover, Sejanus. She cursed Caesar, willing him to die in the same way as her sons and daughter, by his very breath being taken from him, forcefully, when he least expected it.
Apicata handed me the note to read, seal, and send to Caesar. She kissed me on both cheeks, held me tightly, and turned away from me, a clear gesture that I should go.
When I had closed the door behind me, I slid to the ground and stared at her door. The world seemed to spin around me. Never could I have imagined that we would find ourselves thus—empty, spiraling into darkness.
• • •
We found her the next morning, dead by poison, the tiny pink vial still in her hand. Apicius locked himself in her room and wept over her body, refusing to come out for a night and a day.
When he emerged, his eyes were red but dry. I had waited with Sotas outside in the hall all night. He stared at me for a moment, almost as though he did not know who I was. Finally, he spoke, his voice hard. “Take her from me. I want no funeral. I want never to hear the names of my daughter, my grandchildren, or my wife again. You are to inform my clients and my friends of this request.” He swept past me toward the baths.
We spoke of his family only once more during his life, right before he died.
I moved through all this in a daze. Everything around me was gray and empty. My heart ached for my wife and child, tucked safely away in Herculaneum, away from the horrors we had just been through. For that I was grateful.
• • •
When Tiberius received Apicata’s letter, he sentenced Livilla to death. Antonia requested the right to be the one to punish her daughter and, strangely, Caesar agreed. She locked Livilla in a room in her house and starved her to death. I thought back to the day when Livilla was married, and Apicius had gifted her with the pumpkin fritters and she said it would be the last meal she would ever desire to have. I did not give her that kindness.
In the weeks that followed, Tiberius had Macro hunt down those loyal to Sejanus. The wealthy were quick to accuse one another and many more bodies piled high on the stairs.
It had taken twenty-five years for our curse against Sejanus to take effect. That curse turned out to be the biggest regret of my life. How much of the blood was my fault? It is a weight that presses upon my heart to this very day.
CHAPTER 29
If there was one thing all of Rome had come to know in the last three decades, it was that Marcus Gavius Apicius knew how to throw a dinner party. A month after Sejanus fell, the parties began to happen almost every night. Unlike when Aelia died, Apicius did not appear to mourn. To most it seemed he had hardened his heart, or perhaps his joy at Sejanus’s death overshadowed the anguish he felt at the death of his daughter. Many may have assumed he had been ashamed of her connection to Rome’s greatest tyrant and that he approved of her suicide.
I knew different. Apicius was pouring his grief into entertaining all of Rome. I poured my grief into helping him.
He became reckless, drinking more than he had before, saying things he was once too reserved to say, and giving more and more lavish gifts to his guests. He also began to refuse my advice when I tried to curb his spending or if I gave suggestions on anything, even something as small as the color of napkins or the number of clients to invite to balance out a party.
Strangely, it was a little boy who set his mind to worrying about his money, or rather, his reputation in relation to money.
It happened on the night that a patrician friend, Gaius Plinius Celer, his wife, Marcella, and their twelve-year-old son came to dine with us. “My son is going to be a historian,” Celer said, motioning toward his young son, Gaius Plinius Secundus, whom they called Pliny. The boy had come as a shadow for his first adult meal outside the house. “He’s recording events for posterity’s sake.”
“I’m writing a history of the world and everything important,” the boy said solemnly. He was a wiry boy, as thin as a reed.
“Apicius is one of the most important men in Rome!” Marcella gushed. “He’s written dozens of cookbooks! You will have to include him in your history.”
The boy only nodded but the look on his face was thoughtful. I was surprised to see Apicius frown, as though he were worried what the child might think of him.
“Pliny, you must try the flamingo tongues—they are the most superb flavor! Here,” Apicius suddenly said to the boy, pointing at the platter of the pan-fried delicacies. “Once you have tasted them, you will feel as though Venus is smiling down on you from her throne of stars.”
A young boy nearly the same age, dressed like a cherub, held the tray in both hands out to Celer and to Pliny. The father closed his eyes as he savored the offered tidbit. “Quite delicious,” he agreed, sinking back against the couch. “Please, leave me some more.” He gestured for the slave to deposit a few of the crunchy tongues on his plate.
“Make sure you leave some room in your belly,” I said to the boy. “There is more to come.” He didn’t hear me. He had extracted a wax tablet from a pouch hanging from his tunic and was writing. I saw the words Apicius says flamingo tongues are of the most superb flavor. I had to smile. Pliny was off to a fine start recording the events around him. After the diners reduced the contents of the plates to crumbs and shells, I signaled for the slaves to remove the appetizers and bring in tray after tray of meats and vegetables. The first dish to arrive was a platter of mullet cooked in its own juice, followed by boiled partridge; chicken in fennel sauce; honeyed mushrooms; roasted wood pigeons; crane in a celery and mustard sauce; lentils with chestnuts; suckling pigs in pastry; and even a beautiful stuffed hare complete with wings I had taken from a dove, a tribute to the magnificent Pegasus.
Pliny continued writing on his tablet as the food arrived. While the scissor slave cut up the meat, the boy spoke up, his voice still high like a girl’s. “You spend a lot of money.”
It was directed at Apicius but it wasn’t a question, just an astute statement. Pliny’s father reddened and opened his mouth to say something, but Apicius spoke first.
He was smiling but I could tell he was irritated. He spoke to Pliny in the same voice he often used with his poorer clients—polite but with a hint of disdain. “Because I spend a lot of money you were able to have those flamingo tongues. You liked those, did you not?”
“Not really.” I barely choked back a laugh. Only a child could be so blunt. “Someday you might run out of money.”
A couple of the other guests gasped and this time Celer kicked Pliny hard in the leg. “No more talk from you. You have been disrespectful and we will discuss this late
r.”
A lilting voice lifted over the crowd, distracting our attention. “Apicius!”
Claudia, one of the other guests, reclined next to Marcella. Apicius turned his attention away from the boy and toward the women.
“I must inquire where you found these exquisite goblets! Certainly you did not find them at any local market. I have never seen such stone.”
“Nor would you,” Apicius said. It had been difficult to acquire the goblets and he loved to tell the story. “Early last year I ventured to Sicily, where I heard tale of a stone worker who had a talent for crafting the finest items out of opaque stone. I purchased all he had available, which included these goblets and the basin you saw in the entryway. It took the stone worker ten years to make them!”
It took a lot to keep from rolling my eyes. It had taken only ten weeks to make the set but Apicius was forever embellishing his stories. He had become worse in the last few months.
She fluttered her eyes at Apicius. “What a shame. I had hoped to flatter you with a copy on my own table.”
“Claudia, you flatter me merely by asking!”
The conversation turned to other things. Apicius leaned over to me. “Have the basin sent as a gift to Claudia on the morrow, will you?”
I squinted at him, puzzled, but Apicius had already looked back toward the other diners. I saw, with some measure of amusement, that Pliny had heard our exchange and that Apicius was watching the boy write furiously on his tablet.
• • •
After the diners had left he pulled me into the library. “Have you seen the books lately? Where do we stand?”
I was shocked. For years I had been trying to get my former master to pay attention to the amount of money he spent and now he was asking me because he was worried about what a boy was writing on a wax tablet?
“Why are you concerning yourself about money now, Apicius? You have never cared before.”