Sejanus thrust his face at the other man. 'Do you even realise what is happening inside here today?'
'Yes, Prefect,' said the superior. 'You are receiving the tribunitia potestas from the Senate, which holds an extraordinary session in this Temple on the same day every year. It is a day of honour for us — we're posted here to guard the Senators — and it is a day of honour for you, Prefect, to be so highly awarded. As I said, allow us to offer our — '
'Stand aside and let me and my men enter the Senate meeting,' Sejanus demanded.
The officer stood aside but his men grasped their swords. 'Please enter with our best wishes and congratulations, Prefect. But your Praetorians may not follow you. This is our turf and they must leave it now.'
It was only Sejanus's keen anticipation of the high honour within that stopped him from arresting the man as a traitor, and all the vigiles with him. He turned to his own junior officer. 'Secure my horse, but take yourselves back to the barracks.'
There were groans of disappointment but Sejanus raised his hand. 'I will return in time. Pour some wine for me in readiness.' The guards grumbled until the junior officer initiated a cheer. Sejanus saluted them off before looking the vigiles ' superior officer hard in the eye. 'I will remember this,' he said.
'I don't doubt it,' said the officer, once the Temple door had closed securely behind Sejanus.
Inside, escorted by four vigiles to an anteroom, Sejanus learned that Senate protocol dictated he must wait until called. Sejanus bridled at this, too, but the men were sympathetic. In the bestowing of great honours, they told him, Senators traditionally strived to make the glory reflect upon themselves. Sejanus could well be waiting for some time while his achievements were lauded by the august body. When he was eventually called, Sejanus could be sure that the Senators would have worked themselves up into such a congratulatory frenzy that the applause would bring him near to deafness and the backslapping would likely cripple him. Sejanus laughed at their humour — a rare thing — accepted a cup of wine and sat down in the anteroom alone.
He could half-hear the proceedings being conducted — dull administrative matters. But when his ears pricked at the first mention of his name, Sejanus found himself struck by nerves. For his entire life his Achilles heel had been the mystery of his birth. That he was Roman was not doubted but his parentage was a mystery. His earliest memories were of the Greek physician he had been apprenticed to from the time he could walk. He knew no birth father. When he was a child, some people had called him slave for this, but he had never been treated as one.
When Sejanus was twelve, the physician's downfall had caused him to be thrust before Tiberius. He had seen then what his life could be. The grieving general and future Emperor had a need for him, a need that Sejanus could ensure did not go away. It never had. Tiberius's need had led his loyal 'son' to the very cusp of true greatness. Everything Sejanus had strived for — all he deserved — was so close.
Yet with the august body of highborn men now lauding his name, Sejanus felt the familiar twinge of doubt. When he stepped out to receive his honour, would the congratulations be real? Or would he look behind the Senators' eyes and see them calling him slave in their hearts?
Sejanus removed a little vial from beneath his cuirass and loosened its stopper, sipping the contents. The effects of the Eastern flower were instant. He took another sip, letting the wave of pleasure wash over him, before downing the rest. His nerves vanished, and with them his doubt. He felt invincible once again. His imminent tribunitia potestas felt truly earned.
A pleasant buzzing filled Sejanus's ears, as though the anteroom had grown into a garden and bees now flitted among the flowers. The Senators' words floated in the air like specks of pollen, some reaching him, some not. He heard a letter from Tiberius being read out by the leader of the house. Sejanus stood. The Emperor's words reached him, but not their meaning.
'… my former friend… murderous plotting… family of Germanicus…'
The great temple fell into silence. Sejanus guessed his cue. He stepped from the anteroom and into the midst of the Senators, saluting and smiling.
Emboldened by the lack of Praetorians, the highborn men surged forward to order the vigiles to arrest him.
The ugly lavatory slave shook with terror. He covered his ears, which, although deformed, still heard the shrieks of violence clearly. The screams in the Forum dulled, replaced by a worse sound: the voice of the long-dead Senator.
' If the German revolt had spread to my brigades, Tiberius would never have kept his throne…'
He heard his own response — ' Really, domine?' — and remembered the malicious intent he had hidden.
' It would have tipped the balance — too many against him. But I kept my lot loyal and he kept his crown. So you're right, boy, Tiberius really does owe me one…'
'It's not fair!' the ugly slave cried out. 'It's not fair! I hardly got anything for it. Just a few silver coins. That doesn't make me one of them!'
He tried to shut his eyes to squeeze the voice from his head, but it intensified his guilt. He ripped his hands from his ears, only to hear the Forum screams louder than before. Every person who had profited from accusations of treason was being dragged across the flagstones to their deaths. Men or women, it made no difference; freeborn or slave. Children would see no mercy either. Hundreds of Sejanus's clients had already been beheaded, and they were the lucky ones, having been caught and dispatched by the vigiles in the very first wave of reprisals.
But those who had hidden or fled were less fortunate, having to face the rage of the mob, which now flung them into fires or ran them through with spears before their heads were lopped off. A list of any and all persons remembered by victims of Sejanus as having prospered from accusations of treason was being compiled. Years of court records were being raked for every trial witness. How long, the ugly little lavatory slave wept to himself, would it be before they got to his name and read his lowly occupation?
He flew down the flight of steps into the toilet room, slamming the iron gate behind him while fumbling for the key. He tried to stretch through the bars and lock the gate behind him, but the key would only turn from the outside, the need never having been foreseen to lock it from within. He couldn't reach. The key slipped from his sweat-dripping fingers, clattering on the steps. 'No!' He had to throw open the gate again to retrieve it.
How long until they remembered him? How long until his name joined the list? 'Hurry!' he screamed at himself. 'Hurry!' He had the key at the lock once more but still it would not turn. He nearly pissed in his fear. Then he thought of another way to save himself. If they found the building locked, they would guess he was cowering inside anyway. But if he left the gate wide open, just as it always was, the mob would find the lavatory empty. They would never guess where a skinny slave could hide.
He stumbled into the room and saw the very seat the long-dead Senator had taken. It had the widest of all the openings, and the one best suited to a man of broad stance. It was the best hole to slip through. The ugly slave mounted the foot rests and slipped his legs into the gap, ready to drop to the sewer. But shooting flames suddenly burned the hair from his legs. He shouted with pain. A little papyrus boat was in the water below him, loaded with burning leaves. The slave dropped, crushing the burning vessel in the water beneath him.
'You fucking cunt, Duro!' he screamed into the blackness of the cloaca maxima. 'It's the last time you do it to me, hear? The last fucking time!'
'You're right about that.'
The lavatory slave span around. Duro, the slave from the lavatory at the Forum's opposite end, was holding a knife.