She had been seen — of course she had — by eyes that would say nothing of what they saw for now. They were not her daughter's eyes, nor the sightless orbs of Apicata. These were the eyes of another. Eyes that loved her like a child. Eyes that loathed her like coming death.
When the castrated slave Lygdus returned to the great house, he clutched his domina 's secret to his heart, with no inkling of how he might use it. He had seen her slip from her bedroom and had not intended to trail her as far as the Emperor's garden. But when she failed to notice him and he followed further, Lygdus became intoxicated by the tiny amount of power this gave him. She did not know he was there. She did not know he knew. He had stealth.
But the castrated boy failed to see the other set of eyes that watched from the banks of flowers. So absorbed was Lygdus in his little victory over his mistress that he missed the soothsayer. The aged Thrasyllus still sat where he had been since the wedding, half-hidden by leaves and shadows.
The old man found his mouth filling up with words just as the slave slipped away. The soothsayer wanted to call out and stop him — some of the words concerned Lygdus, after all. But he let him go. Lygdus was not the goddess's intended recipient. The words the Great Mother, Cybele, gave Thrasyllus to impart were meant for another: she who was so long asleep. Thrasyllus closed his eyes and let the words come.
The son with blood, by water's done, the truth is never seen.
The third is hooked by a harpy's look — the rarest of all birds.
The course is cooked by a slave-boy's stroke; the fruit is lost with babes.
The matron's words alone are heard, the addled heart is ringed.
The one near sea falls by a lie that comes from the gelding's tongue.
The doctor's lad will take the stairs, from darkness comes the wronged,
No eyes, no hands and vengeance done, but worthless is the prize.
One would-be queen knows hunger's pangs when Cerberus conducts her.
One brother's crime sees him dine at leisure of his bed.
One would-be queen is one-eyed too until the truth gives comforts.
When tiny shoes a cushion brings, the cuckoo's king rewarded.
Your work is done, it's time to leave — the sword is yours to pass.
Your mother lives within this queen: she who rules beyond you.
The end, the end, your mother says — to deception now depend.
So long asleep, now sleep once more, your Attis is Veiovis.
When Sejanus came to their bed, Apicata had already arranged herself upon the linen, lying on her chest with her arms resting beside her, two cushions placed beneath her loins so that her rump was raised and displayed for him. She said nothing, knowing how deep his despair at the destruction of their plans had been, and she intended saying nothing when he took her — her silence aroused him most. Afterwards, she would begin to soothe him with words, coaxing him back to confidence and hope.
But Sejanus made no move to enter her, and Apicata realised that sodomy would not please him tonight. Leaving the bed, she sank to her knees in front of him, pressing her lips to his thighs. The smell of him was sour — he had not washed — but there was nothing about this man that could repulse her. She took him in her mouth, tasting his dirt and sweat, but his sex wouldn't grow. He lifted her away. Apicata sat next to him at the edge of the bed, and was heartened that when she placed her hand in his he did not let go.
After a time he said, 'They don't deserve my father's love.'
'Who don't?'
'His family. Any of them. They don't love him back. They pretend to love him, but it's false.'
'Only your love is true, husband.'
'It breaks my heart for him.' He wept a little then and Apicata knew simple joy when he placed his head at her breast while the tears flowed. She stroked his hair, placing her lips in the curls. He had a hero's hair, her husband — the hair of Hercules.
When he stopped, she said, 'You will think of a new plan, Sejanus, and I will help you in it.'
He lay back on the cushions.
'My ears are always open. I hear the things no one else can hear.'
He closed his eyes and his breathing grew fainter. Apicata placed her mouth to his thighs and took him again, for her own contentment if not for his. She lost herself in the motion. Her mind was freed from her body, from the shackle of her blindness, as it always was in this pleasure. She remembered what she'd heard in the garden before the banquet hall doors had opened — the conversation between the soothsayer and the noble matron. Apicata played it over in her mind until inspiration came.
Then she said, 'I have a plan of my own, husband. Would you like to hear it?'
But Sejanus was asleep.
'No matter,' she whispered. 'I will enact it on my own account and then delight you with what occurs.'
She nestled into his loins and allowed sleep to claim her too.
Veiovia
May, AD 20
One week later:
Emperor Tiberius Julius Augustus rejects the Senate's proposal that a golden statue of Mars the Avenger be erected in memory of Germanicus
The shocked cry that came from the beautifully dressed patrician was every bit as satisfying as Apicata had imagined it would be. It cut through the air, as polished and sharp as a blade.
'I know everything,' Apicata smiled. 'And, what's more, the festival of Veiovis begins today.'
The noble Aemilia went wide-eyed, clasping her hand across her mouth.
'Isn't that appropriate?' Apicata continued.
'Veiovis?'
'Our god of deceivers. It is the right of all Romans to call upon Veiovis to protect just causes and give pain and deception to our enemies. But you already know that, don't you, Aemilia? And what cause is more just than protecting the Emperor from treason? You, who are so accomplished in deception, must surely appreciate that? Yet perhaps you're not quite as accomplished as you would like to be? You were overheard in your treason by a blind woman, after all.'
'Oh gods…' Aemilia stammered.
Apicata laughed. Overwhelmed, Aemilia flew from her chair and ran uselessly around the room, sobbing into her balled-up veil. The look on the patrician matron's face, had Apicata been able see it, matched exactly the image Apicata had conjured in her mind. Aemilia's beautiful face was creased with fear.
One of her maids came running to the receiving room to see what had upset her mistress, but Aemilia begged the girl to get out. When the slave had pulled the door closed, Aemilia sank to her knees. 'Please. Not this!'
Apicata sipped the cup of watered wine she had been given. 'How dreadful,' she said. 'And yet I can tell how ashamed you are of your crimes, Aemilia.'
The patrician matron bit her lips.
'It must be a relief for you, though, now that your guilt is unburdened. You can face your fate with a lighter heart.'
'You low bitch!' Apicata pretended the insult had not been said. 'How did you know?'
'About the witchcraft you've been practising? It wasn't very hard. My husband and I enjoy the loyalty of informers. Your mistake was in being so good at all those spells and curses you do, Aemilia. People love success — they talk about it.'
Perspiration ran down Aemilia's high cheekbones. 'Please believe me… I don't practise magic with any seriousness — it's just for my amusement.'
'Don't offend me with lies,' said Apicata, sipping her wine. 'It's within my power to have you thrown from the Tarpeian Rock for the magic alone, but you've also consulted with a soothsayer. Such a thing is banned across the
