‘I was told to,’ Vespasian said, looking Sejanus in the eye.
‘By whom? Macro?’
‘No, Antonia,’ Vespasian replied, seeing no point in concealing from Sejanus the instigator of his downfall.
Sejanus smiled grimly. ‘That bitch? It was her then, not Macro?’
Vespasian nodded, still staring Sejanus in the eye.
A deeper recognition flashed across Sejanus’ face. ‘I’ve seen you once before, haven’t I?’
‘That’s right.’
‘On Livilla’s wall five years ago; you were part of the group that freed Antonia’s secretary, weren’t you?’
‘I was.’
‘That was bravely done.’
Vespasian continued staring back at Sejanus, giving no sign of acknowledging the compliment.
Sejanus studied him in silence for a while; no one else in the room moved as they sensed the intensity of the look that passed between the two men. Vespasian squared his shoulders back and drew himself up, suddenly no longer afraid.
‘I can recognise something in you, young man,’ Sejanus said eventually, ‘something that I have in myself: an iron will. Antonia must see it too as she is still using you to do her work five years on. She normally discards people after a few months; she must think that you have potential. Antonia’s champion yesterday, Rome’s executioner today, but what tomorrow for you, I wonder? What’s your name?’
‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus.’
‘Well, young son of the house of Flavius, I’ll give you some advice; remember it well, it’s the last that I shall ever give. I am here for one reason and one reason alone: I didn’t take power when it was within my grasp. When I was Consul I should have rebelled. The Guard were mine, the Senate, for the most part, was mine and the people would have been mine — but I hesitated. Why did I hesitate when I’d been chasing that power for so long? Why? When I’ve been trying to manoeuvre myself for years, as I’m sure that Antonia’s told you, into becoming either Tiberius’s heir or regent to his heir, by marrying Livilla and disposing of rivals until the choice left to Tiberius would have been Claudius, Tiberius Gemellus or me?’
‘What about Caligula?’
Sejanus sneered. ‘That warped little scorpion? Why do you think I persuaded Tiberius to summon him to Capreae? I judged that the mad old man would have him thrown off the cliff within a month; I was wrong, although it may still happen. But if it had, no one could’ve accused me of his death; just as no one can accuse me of any of the other potential heirs’ deaths. People may have their suspicions but there is no proof; if there were I would already be dead. I have been very careful not to be seen as the murderer of my rivals because I didn’t want to take the power; I wanted it given to me. I foolishly believed that if I seized power then someone would come and grab it from me in turn; but if it was given to me legitimately then I would be able keep it to pass on to my son.’ He looked proudly at Strabo and, placing a hand on the back of his neck, pulled his head forward and kissed him full on the mouth.
‘So what is your advice, Sejanus?’ Vespasian urged.
‘Advice? Yes,’ Sejanus said slowly, patting his son’s cheek, ‘my advice is when you come within reach of power, don’t hesitate, you must seize it immediately. No one will give it to you, so if you don’t grab it when you can then whoever does will destroy you and your family for coming so close to what they now so jealously guard.’
‘Why tell me this?’
Sejanus gave him a mirthless smile and shook his head. ‘Now put an end to it; come, Strabo, my son, we face the river together.’
‘I do so gladly in your company, Father.’
Sejanus took Strabo’s hand and they knelt on the floor; he pushed his head forward whilst his son remained upright.
‘It’s not the sword, Father.’
‘No, it’s the twister,’ Spurius said, coming forward with one of his mates. Both brandished a garrotte.
‘Lucius Aelius Sejanus and Lucius Aelius Strabo,’ Vespasian said, ‘the Senate has sentenced you both to death by strangulation; do you have anything to say?’
‘I’ve already said it,’ Sejanus said as nooses of rope were placed around his and his son’s necks.
Strabo shook his head.
‘Spurius, do your duty,’ Vespasian commanded.
The two gaolers each placed a short oaken rod into the rope nooses at the back of their victim’s necks and then twisted them around until the slack had been taken out of the ropes and they were tight, biting into their skin.
Spurius looked at his mate and nodded. Slowly and methodically they twisted the rods around, each turn tightening the garrottes. Hand in hand Sejanus and Strabo submitted to this slow death. First their eyes started to bulge and a strained gurgling sound emanated from their throats. Then their tongues protruded, waggling unnaturally far out of their drooling mouths and a pool of urine appeared about their knees. Their faces became almost purple, their heads went back with bulging eyes staring maniacally at the ceiling and lips curled up over their teeth; but they still clasped hands, their knuckles whitening. The gurgling stopped and the smell of fresh faeces filled the air. With a look of straining agony contorting their faces their hands fell away from each other, their heads lolled to one side and their bodies slumped forward, held up by the bloody garrottes now embedded in their throats. The executioners let go of the rods and the bodies fell into the pool of their own waste.
Vespasian looked down at the man who had come so close to breaking the Julio-Claudian grip on power. Their final conversation echoed around his head; why had he told him these things? How would he ever be in a position to sieze power? Then the last line from the prophecy of Amphiaraos came unbidden into his mind: ‘So to gain from the Fourth the west on the morrow.’ Was he the one who would gain? He shook his head and tore his eyes away from the man who had failed to gain the west. ‘Throw the bodies on to the stairs, Spurius,’ He turned and walked to the door.
Outside, the Vigiles, along with Magnus and his mates, were having trouble holding back the crowd from the prison door. Vespasian and the two Praetorians joined the security cordon and helped them push back the surging mob enough for Spurius and his colleagues to drag the bodies of Sejanus and Strabo unceremoniously out of the Tullianum and fling them in a contorted heap on to the Gemonium Stairs before beating a hasty retreat back into their cheerless domain.
At the sight of Sejanus’ and Strabo’s lifeless bodies the citizens of Rome roared out their pleasure and rushed towards them, each eager to be the first to desecrate the corpses. The entrance to the Tullianum was left clear.
‘I think it really is time for dinner now, sir,’ Magnus suggested again.
‘I think that you may be right, Magnus,’ Vespasian replied, breaking into a run.
They made it to the relative safety of the Senate House steps and looked back into the Forum. In amongst the chaos, elements of the ever-growing crowd had now turned their attentions to the cohort of Praetorians, with Macro at their head, who were trying to make their way out of the Forum and back to their camp. Pieces of broken statues, sticks and stones and other improvised missiles were being hurled into their ranks, felling a few of their number as the crowd vented their anger on the men who had maintained Sejanus in power for so long.
At a roared order from Macro the cohort stopped and drew their swords from beneath their togas. Macro bellowed another order and they turned outwards to face the mob on both sides of them.
Then they charged.
Showing no mercy for their fellow citizens, they cut down those nearest to them and stepped over their bodies to get at those behind. The howls of hatred and abuse from the crowd swiftly became screams of terror and pain as the mob turned and fled in all directions, with the pursuing Praetorians pitilessly cutting down those not swift enough to avoid their blades.
On the steps of the Temple of Concordia those senators brave enough to emerge watched helplessly as the massacre progressed, seeping out of the Forum Romanum into the Forum Boarium and on into the surrounding streets.
Vespasian looked over to the Gemonium Stairs, now deserted apart from the two broken bodies and a woman, Apicata, tearing at her hair and rending her clothes in furious mourning.
