“Not based on what I have heard tonight.”
“Antonia wouldn’t believe Secundus, even if there was proof. She was a staunch supporter of that historian that Secundus turned in to Sejanus for treason years ago. What was his name? Cordus? At any rate, I doubt Antonia would even take an audience with Secundus. He was the one who got her friend killed. You need something else—no, someone else—to back it up.”
Then it hit me. “I think I know who.”
And I told them.
? ? ?
When I shared the idea with Apicius, he was wary but agreed. He would take any chance he could to end Sejanus’s power. The next day I had Tycho trail Secundus and alert me when he went to the baths so I could “run into” him. After some skepticism (and anger that Piso had betrayed him) he agreed to let me buy him a cup of wine. I explained my plan and the burly man agreed.
Then Apicius and I met with the linchpin to my plan: Apicata, who had come to Rome for a friend’s wedding. She agreed without hesitation and Apicius sent a messenger to Antonia.
And so it was that Apicius, Sotas, Apicata, Secundus, and I found ourselves at Antonia’s door on the last morning of September. Antonia, daughter of the famous Marc Antony, was one of the most respected matrons in Rome, and even more so since Livia’s death. My heart pounded as the door creaked inward and the slaves admitted us. Sotas immediately took up a post by the door.
While I saw Antonia often at state affairs or at the Imperial villa, I had spoken with the revered matron only once, briefly, at Aelia’s funeral. She had been close with Aelia’s mother and knew her as a child. I remembered Antonia had been very gracious, kissing my cheeks and telling me how Aelia once told her how much she loved the honey fritters I would make her for breakfast. She had made me cry.
Seven years had passed since that day and age had not marred her visage. Her hair was a bit grayer and it was tied back conservatively as was befitting her stature. Her skin was remarkably smooth and only a few lines framed her striking green eyes. The blue stola she wore gave her face a vibrant glow, making her seem far younger than the sixty-seven summers she had seen. I wondered what magic she must have employed to maintain such a youthful appearance.
She had been friendly to me at the funeral, but this time she had no kind words of greeting.
“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.”