We went to the funeral along with almost all of Rome. The procession was magnificent. First, the trumpets playing dark dirges, then the slaves freed in Caesar’s will, sporting their new freedman caps.
The body was laid out in a golden coffin on a bier of ivory and gold, covered in the deep Imperial purple. Slaves carried gold statues of Caesar and his ancestors. The family walked behind, led by Livia in a long black stola and shawl, with a sash of purple. All the senators followed and then the Praetorian Guard, led by Sejanus on a lone, ink-black horse.
Tiberius and his son Drusus gave the eulogy, a stirring speech proclaiming Augustus’s place among the pantheon of Roman gods. Their words left Aelia in a mess of tears. Helene had to wipe her eyes lest the kohl run onto her pale cheeks.
The procession wound through the streets to the Campus Martius, where, years earlier, Caesar had built a magnificent mausoleum for his ashes to rest. They lit the funeral pyre in the field before the entrance. The pyre, like the mausoleum and as befitting the deified Augustus, was larger than any I had ever seen or imagined. The flames rose toward the skies and perfumes were thrown onto the pyre. An eagle flew up when the flames were at their peak and the entire crowd murmured that they could see the spirit of our dead leader follow.
A team of gladiators fought alongside the flames. Their blood would feed the ghosts hungering for tribute. “It’s beautiful, and terrible,” Aelia said through the shawl held over her nose to mask the smell of fire and flesh. Apicius pulled her close.
“It is far more beautiful than terrible, I think.” Apicius seemed to glow in the light, the flames dancing in his eyes. “His death marks a new beginning.”
“I find it sad that Apicius revels in the death of one who will become a god,” Passia whispered to me.
“I too. But if he becomes a god, won’t he know?” Even I knew better than to anger the gods with the blasphemy Apicius courted with his delight that Caesar had passed this life.
“What harms Apicius may harm us.” She linked her arm around my waist and I clasped her tight.
“I know, dear one. I know.”
The wind began to blow and ashes kissed my skin. At home that night we would wash them out of our hair.
PART VIII
18 C.E. to 20 C.E.
DORMICE
Stuff the dormice with pork forcemeat and also with all the flesh from all the parts of the dormouse, pounded with pepper, pine nuts, silphium, and liquamen. Sew them up and arrange them on a tile and put them into the oven or cook them, stuffed, in a covered pot.
—Book 8.9, Quadrupeds On Cookery, Apicius
CHAPTER 22
“Glycon says that it’s time Sejanus fulfilled his promise. Good thing, because I’m tired of waiting,” Apicius said to me as he climbed into his litter. In the years that followed Glycon’s prediction of Caesar’s death, Apicius had become more and more concerned about signs and prophecies, much to my chagrin. I was very much his most trusted adviser, and as a result, I spent far less time in the kitchen and teaching. I missed the feel of knives in my hands and dough under my fingernails. Instead I was both sounding board and verbal punching bag for my former master. Apicius expected me to follow him everywhere, in the event he wanted council.
That day it was to Sejanus’s villa on the other side of the Palatine, a short distance from Tiberius’s Imperial domus.
The “promise” he spoke of was that of Apicius becoming Caesar’s gastronomic adviser. When Augustus died, Apicius continued to ask Sejanus to work his wiles on Tiberius Caesar, including sidestepping any of Livia’s concerns. Sejanus had ever-growing favor with Caesar and it galled my former master to no end that he was not using his politics to benefit Apicius.
Apicius didn’t invite me to ride with him in the litter as he was often wont to do. I was glad. It was a short walk and Sotas was always better company.
“I fear he may do something rash,” I said to Sotas.
Sotas chuckled. “And that would be unusual, how?”
“I know. But if it angers Sejanus, it may be bad for Apicata.”
“What recourse does Dominus have if Sejanus can’t make him gastronomic adviser?”
I shrugged. “I imagine Apicius will stop funneling money to him. Apicata’s dowry will likely shrink.”
“Is that wise? To cross the new prefect?”
It was my turn to laugh, though it was bitter. “I thought we already established that Apicius was apt to do something rash.”
? ? ?
I had sent a messenger ahead about our arrival, and when we reached Sejanus’s villa, Apicata, flanked by a Thracian body-slave, was at the door waiting for us. She held her son, Aelius Strabo, who was nearly three, by the hand. She was pregnant again and her belly rounded the folds of her stola.
Apicata gave the child to her slave, threw her arms around her father, then me, and, despite what decorum dictated, even Sotas. “I’m delighted to see you. Please come in.”
It had been months since we talked. Aelia visited with Apicata often but she rarely came to our villa anymore, despite the proximity. There were dark circles under her eyes. She seemed far older than twenty-one, with barely any trace of the child I had once known visible in the features of her face.
“Sejanus is waiting for you in the library. Be warned, he’s in a foul temper.”
Her father’s smile only widened. “What I have to say may sweeten his demeanor.”
Apicata’s eyes narrowed. She looked at me and I shrugged. Rash indeed!
She left the babe with the slave and led us through the corridors of the villa. We didn’t speak much along the way; Apicata seemed nervous and Apicius was never good at small talk. The house was smaller than Apicius’s abode but as sumptuously decorated, with brightly colored, highly detailed frescoes on every wall. At the doors to the library two guards prevented anyone from disturbing the occupant within. “Announce to Sejanus that his guest has arrived,” Apicata said to the taller of the guards. He knocked and ducked inside.
“I must go. I’ll wait for you in the atrium to see you before you depart.” Apicata kissed her father on the cheek and left.
In a moment the guard returned and ushered us in. Sejanus’s library looked like a war room. Maps covered the tables, some littered with colored soldiers carved of wood. Imperial banners decorated the walls. The only scrolls in sight appeared to be letters, not books. Sejanus’s body-slave sat on a stool near the door. He was a thin, bald man. His bronze slave plaque gleamed around his neck. Sotas and I took standing positions to one side of him.
Sejanus reclined in a chair in the corner of the room. A small jug of wine was propped up on the table next to him. He wore a red tunic belted with a finely woven white cord and his sandals looked shabby in comparison. It was the first time I had seen him dressed in anything other than his guard uniform. All of our previous meetings had been at state affairs and at formal parties.