landed without injury upon the floor. And perhaps, if Calliope had stayed loyal to her mistress, she could have seen this and informed Apicata where it pointed.
A rat brushed the stone digit as it scurried to its nest, flipping a fallen curse tablet. Scratched words now faced the god again and anyone who had the eyes to read them:
I curse Apicata, that she will never know what I have taken from her until it is too late.
Sejanus left the dank, stinking Tullianum with the screams of those awaiting trial in his ears. He gave the appearance of being deaf to them as Macro followed behind him. The wardens slammed the heavy iron door in their wake, cutting off the prisoners' sounds, and in the brief silence of this respite Macro smirked, pleased with the afternoon's work.
'You find pleasure in what we do, Macro?'
The Tribune just raised his eyebrows, smiling. But the look Sejanus gave him was cold. 'What pleasure is there in finding evil inside Rome? Evil in women? Evil in little children? How can you enjoy it when you know how greatly the Emperor is betrayed?'
Macro recomposed himself. 'My pleasure comes from knowing that the Emperor is avenged by what we uncover, Prefect.'
'We're soiled by this work, but it's the means to an end.'
The two men wrapped their cloaks tightly around their bodies as the bitter winter wind blew hard from the north along the flagstones.
'Will we ever find the last of traitors, Prefect?' Macro asked. 'Will we reach an end of this?'
Sejanus considered. 'I believe that we will. I believe it's inevitable. Then Rome will be clean.'
Macro nodded, but when he glanced into his superior's eyes he saw they had the faraway look that, he believed, they had more often than befitted a prefect. Sejanus looked like an acolyte lost in the worship of an idol. For his part Macro didn't believe in any gods. To him they were clay-footed, just like men. All Macro had faith in was wealth. Serving as a Praetorian was the most lucrative job a man could attain for himself in Rome if he was unencumbered, as Macro was, by birth, tradition and class.
The Forum was nearly empty. The courts were closed and the Senate had finished its business for the day. Only beggars huddled in the alcoves that offered protection from the wind. The guards brought horses, preparing an escort back to the Viminal Gate, as Sejanus glanced behind him up the long Gemonian Stairs. In contrast they were choked with people: men, women and children lying blank-faced and idle on the rough stone steps, underdressed for the weather, as though it were a summer's day. Some were even naked. They sat demurely, many of them, their arms upon their knees or across their chests. Others sprawled in obscene poses, their breasts and genitals lolling in front of them. Every one of them was dead. It was too cold even for the dogs to feast on them. Sejanus felt soiled by this work.
Macro caught his attention, nodding towards a woman in a long grey palla, her feet incongruously shod in bath slippers. 'Prefect…'
Sejanus looked. It was his wife. She could see him, yet could not see him; she knew where he was and knew that he could see her fully. She said nothing, wanting only to be seen.
'Has she been told yet?' Macro asked.
Apicata had borne two children for Sejanus, a daughter and a son; she had kept his house and shared his dreams. She had shown him nothing but loyalty, yet still it wasn't love Sejanus felt for her — and this made what needed to be done all the easier.
'It was my order that she be told,' said Sejanus. His horse was ready for him.
'Upon her return from the baths?'
'That was my order.'
Man and wife stood still as the statues of the gods that loomed high above them.
'Perhaps she hasn't returned to your home then, Prefect? Perhaps she is still to hear it?'
Sejanus looked at his wife for the last time. 'She has heard.'
He mounted his horse and joined the Praetorian escort to the Viminal Gate.
Apicata waited until the sound of the retreating hooves was lost in the icy wind. Then she waited until the night birds started their cries and she knew that the thin sun had set, ending the day. She had no plan, no idea of what to do or where to go, so she continued waiting. At least there was a certainty of action in this, if not any goal.
Apicata waited exactly where she knew Sejanus had taken his final look at her, burning her image into his mind. She remained where he had seen her and she did not move. She continued to wait as Rome's most desperate and destitute crept around her in the darkness, as fragile as winter leaves in the wind. She waited as she heard the transactions they made with the low and brutal men who purchased them and used them and then discarded them again. She waited as a man asked her if she was for sale. She said nothing in reply, continuing to stand, continuing to wait. When he felt her breasts, she allowed him to — what did it matter now? But when he offered her money, she didn't raise her hands, keeping them balled up tight inside her palla until he finally moved on.
She waited as the rain began to fall lightly around her, turning heavier after a time, before ending in hailstones that struck and bruised her face. She waited as the snow followed later, gathering in small drifts at her feet. She waited as the sentries announced watch after watch: Prima fax, Concubia, Intempesta, Inclinatio. She waited as she slipped to the ground, the snow cushioning her fall, her limbs weighing heavier than stone. Finally, she waited as a kind woman cradled her head in her lap, singing to her softly, until Apicata could find the strength to speak.
'I am destroyed,' Apicata whispered.
'It happens to all of us in time.'
'I never felt it come. I never even sensed its approach.'
The woman clicked her tongue. 'There was something of that in my own fall, too,' she said. 'Such is Rome.'
Apicata felt comforted and reached for the woman's hands, seeking her touch, her warmth, her humanity. But the hands that found her, that brushed against her palms and fingers were not hands at all, but stumps. The hands were gone.
Apicata had no emotion left when she recognised the woman's voice and realised to whom it belonged. She felt only release. She had completed a cycle. Apicata had once blackmailed this woman into committing murder, and now her own life was ready to be taken in turn. It was justice.
'Finish me,' Apicata whispered. 'Take your revenge — finish me.'
'Don't be foolish,' Plancina answered with a laugh. 'I want to hear what happened first.'
Carmentalia
January, AD 26
One week later: Gaius Poppaeus Sabinus thwarts an attack upon his strongholds by the rebellious Thracians but suffers the destruction of a legion of Thracian auxiliaries loyal to Rome
Then a torn, soiled and barely readable curl of papyrus was handed to me by a young maid, my first impulse was to dismiss it. But the girl Calliope pointed out the remnants of the wax seal on the back of the message, saying that it warranted some kind of attention. I stared at what she showed me then and waved at Lygdus to open one of my domina 's chests. I told the girl to pick out whatever she liked. She chose a jewelled brooch, although she seemed to find little joy in it. She could have taken the lot, for all I cared — for I had realised the letter's worth. I had recognised the handwriting.
I asked Calliope to tell me how she found this letter. She said there was little to tell. Her master Sejanus had received it many months ago, and whatever was written upon it had angered him because he screwed it up and threw it away in the garden. The girl's mistress, Apicata, had searched for the letter without success but had then been exiled from the house. Calliope had later found the letter hidden in the leaves of some ivy. She had now decided to show it to another's eyes — my own. She did not know what was written on it. I thanked her for bringing it to me ahead of any other person in Rome, and I asked her why she had done this.
'I admire you,' she whispered. 'You give hope to other slaves.'
I looked at Lygdus and I imagined that he shared this sentiment — it seemed to me that his eyes were shining. I was moved for only a moment before I felt unease. 'But how do you even know of me?'
