Praetor's insignia he gave you, Sejanus, and take comfort from these things. They're all that will ever comfort you. You can be his partner, after all, but not his son, and never his heir.'
Sejanus stiffened, but he wouldn't open his eyes. He wouldn't acknowledge Castor's voice as the phantom that it was. It suited Sejanus at times like this to think of the phantom's whisperings as real.
'What a blow the boy's death must have been to your hopes of marrying into my family,' Castor's voice went on. 'It's best if you give up that dream now.' Sejanus imagined the sound of Castor breathing deeply through the nose, then stopping abruptly, as if detecting a thing he disliked. 'No matter how many Claudian princes you marry your brats to, you'll never scrub the stink of the kitchens from your hair.'
Sejanus opened his eyelids only once he had imagined the phantom leaving the hall. In his mind's eye he saw his enemy's retreating wedding tunica, still stained by grapes and fruit. Then his thoughts wandered to the things that Castor didn't see, and didn't know, and would never know until it was all too late.
These were a comfort to him, even if nothing else was.
Apicata could tell who it was at the other end of the corridor by perfume alone. Livilla reeked like a whore's funeral, drenched in more gladiolus oil than anyone else at Oxheads. Apicata paused in her progress for a moment and waited, assuming a respectful expression. When Livilla drew near, headed in the opposite direction, Apicata made a little show of waiting for her to say something. But Livilla said nothing, as Apicata well knew she would, so she stepped into her path.
'Lady Livilla, didn't you see me here in the dark?' Apicata said. She could feel the look of contempt on the patrician woman's face — not that she cared.
'I saw you clearly enough,' said Livilla.
'Do you look well tonight? I would be so pleased to know.'
There was an odour to Livilla that lay somewhere beneath the cloy gladiolus. A raw, salty smell. Fetid. Apicata's nose wrinkled as she tried to determine it.
'I look very well indeed,' said Livilla. 'My husband tells me I am glowing like the sun.'
'Does he? How nice for you,' said Apicata, smiling. She decided that this was where their discourse should end and she made to move on.
But she had unleashed something within Livilla. 'Don't you want to know why?'
With such an invitation Apicata wasn't sure how she could resist. 'Has something happened?'
'I am with child.'
Apicata was taken aback. 'What a wonderful thing,' she said, 'and after so many barren years since the birth of Tiberia. Your husband must have given up hope of ever getting a son.'
Livilla remained silent, but Apicata knew she was sneering. The buried stink of her grew, as if Livilla's heartbeat was racing. The smell was sour in Apicata's nostrils. 'How many months have passed?' she asked.
'Nearly eight,' said Livilla.
Apicata failed to stop the look of shock that took her.
'I'm quite advanced,' said Livilla, with pleasure in her voice at Apicata's expression. 'The augur promises me that the skies indicate a boy.'
It was Apicata's turn for silence. If Livilla was so visibly with child, then why had no one told her of it before now? Why had her own husband, Sejanus, not bothered to report it?
'Do you wish to feel my son?' Livilla whispered into Apicata's darkness. Before Apicata could decline, Livilla snatched at her hand and placed it on her full, taut belly. 'The augur is right, isn't he? You can tell I'm carrying a boy.'
Apicata smelled the fecund stink of sex. Livilla was moist in her loins — an obscenity in a woman carrying child. The foul, rank odour of Livilla squeezed Apicata by the throat. She murmured the words of a curse in her mind. This child would never see adulthood and its father would fall, taking the bitch Livilla with him, she vowed. Apicata used this inner malice as a shield, a source of quiet strength. 'I believe you are right,' she said at last. 'It is the feel of a boy. I wish an easy birth for you.'
'Thank you,' said Livilla.
Apicata removed her hand, nodded and smiled, then made to continue her passage down the corridor. Livilla said nothing more. After several steps Apicata sensed that Livilla hadn't moved from where they had stood together — she could hear no movement in the opposite direction. Apicata continued a little further before she stopped again. She could hear nothing at all of Livilla behind her. Apicata slowly turned around. She knew that Livilla must still be standing there — and she knew that Livilla would be looking right at her.
'You think you're untouchable?' Apicata whispered low under her breath.
'I don't think it — I know it,' Livilla said.
Apicata gasped at the patrician woman's blind arrogance. Then she laughed. 'Only my husband, Sejanus, is untouchable,' she whispered, 'because only my husband strives to rid Rome of traitors. Only my husband has dedicated his life to this task in his undying love for the Emperor. And only my husband can say that the hands of vile ambition can never, ever bring him down.' She waited for any sound at all to come from Livilla's direction.
'I don't doubt your words,' Livilla said.
Apicata remained where she was for what seemed like an eternity. Then, when Livilla's retreating footsteps told her the conversation was done, Apicata used her nose to return to the place where Livilla had stood. She dropped and held her face an inch from the floor. The juice of Livilla's sex had run down her legs, falling to the floor like raindrops.
'She is a slut,' Apicata whispered to herself, 'the lowest and filthiest of sluts. She's on heat like a she-wolf while she carries an innocent in her belly.'
Apicata stayed where she was for some minutes, crouched low and inhaling, willing her hatred to empower her.
Livilla felt in darkness for the crack in the wall and found it — then gently pushed forward. At once the sounds and scents of the Emperor's night-time garden caressed her as the hidden door invited her outside. The air was warm and tinged with honey, but she was not there to admire the flowers. The garden was her thoroughfare, the secret path she took to her secret devotions. Livilla intended worshipping her god tonight.
She felt the thrill of anticipation and the longing for pleasure. Her god would need his comforts, she told herself. His spirits had been brought very low, and she, his most loyal acolyte, would be assiduous in her ministrations. The libations she would make would heal her god, replenish and inspire.
Livilla entered the little grotto that lay behind the secret door, throwing a backward glance into the corridor as she went to pull the door closed behind her. She thought she heard a footfall and listened. But there was nothing. The scented breeze lured her into the garden.
Her shoes in her hand, she tripped lightly along the path, which led to a gate opening onto the street. Her god's attendants were already waiting patiently as Livilla's thighs rubbed together, slick and pungent. She had been suffering in an unbearable state of arousal all day, all through the wedding and the calamity that followed. Her senses had been addled by it. She had spoken like an automaton to Claudius and Sejanus of her sorrow at what had happened, but her emotion had been false. All she could think about was her god and the pleasures she would gift to him. She brushed her sex with her fingers, as if by accident. Her bead was hard and full.
The attendants nodded a greeting to Livilla while they held the heavy gate open just enough for her to glide through to the litter. She thought she heard another footfall and a shiver shot along her spine. She threw a glance behind her but the only noise to be heard was from the velvet wings of a bat.
'There is no one there, Lady,' one of the attendants whispered, knowing what she feared.
She smiled at him, thankful, but she had a recollection of a moment like this before, when she had passed through the same gate and looked over her shoulder to see the face of her little daughter, Tiberia, staring back. The girl had vanished like a ghost on that occasion and Livilla had later wondered what she had really seen. Had it been her own guilt?
She dismissed all notions of shame and remorse from her mind. Why should there be guilt in worshipping a god?
'Hurry, Lady,' the slave whispered.
Livilla stepped forward and the gate clicked closed behind her. The garden was gone. She reclined upon the litter cushions and felt the hard, swollen bead in her sex again as the curtains were drawn around her, protecting her from Rome. Still she sensed the eyes that remained hidden behind the wall — eyes that knew her and knew her secrets. Knew what she really was.
