“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?”