Aelius Sejanus, commander of the Praetorians, was a tall and robust
man, with a fine commanding head, set upon a coarse thick neck. He
had a bold, hard, and evil face, which could at times appear weak,
gentle, and friendly. His light-gray eyes were commanding and yet kind;
his large mouth was voluptuous, yet firm. In fact, his nature was so
complex and deceptive that he could instantly change from love to hate,
from proud authority to fawning servility, from dignified sincerity to
unctuous flattery. He was a man and yet a beast; an honest friend, a
brave soldier, and a detestable villain. He was a living lie.
Years before, the Divine Augustus had been satisfied to distribute his
guards among the surrounding towns of Rome; but the cowardly Tiberius
had built a huge camp of bricks and marble, and in it he placed his
soldiers, so that he could mobilize them more quickly in case of need.
Over the soldiers he stationed his faithful minister, Sejanus, whom he
trusted as he did no other man. Money had been so lavishly expended
upon the building that it resembled a palace more than a guard-house.
Its spacious rooms, polished-marble corridors, grand, imposing
stairways, and courtyards surrounded by beautiful columns with finely
wrought capitals, were elaborately adorned with carved candelabra,
tables of variegated marbles, statues, and fountains. At one end of
a spacious corridor stood the statue of Tiberius. At the other end,
by the emperor’s order, one of Sejanus had recently been erected. A
soldier, commenting upon this arrangement, said, “Sejanus watches the
emperor day and night.”
Though of low origin, Sejanus had succeeded in attaching himself, some
years before, to Caius Caesar, the grandson of the Divine Augustus.
When Livia, the mother of Tiberius, had accomplished the death of that
heir, Sejanus sold himself to the greatest epicure and spendthrift
of the time, Apicius. In order that the flame of literature might
not become extinct during the inglorious reign of Tiberius, Apicius
composed a cook-book! His wealth was enormous; yet, fearing that
he might some day die penniless, he committed suicide. With money
dishonorably obtained by pandering to the low tastes of Apicius,
Sejanus bought the friendship of the dissolute men who circled around
Tiberius. At this time the emperor was beginning to cast his evil
shadow over the city. With infernal ingenuity Sejanus so endeared
himself to Tiberius that the emperor withdrew his favor from the other
satellites and made Sejanus his adviser and minister.
Like a serpent, Sejanus would coil himself around his victim, and if
the victim proved too strong to crush, he would use his poisoned fangs.
Like a panther, he would crouch in the vilest holes; and when he saw
his prey unguarded, he would steal upon it with padded feet, spring
upon it, and strike it down. Like a huge tarantula, he would suck the
life-blood of some wealthy man; but, less merciful than the tarantula,
he allowed his victim to live on and suffer.
At present he was captain of the guards, chief officer of the most
important military body in the empire. Moreover, he was the associate
and particular friend of the emperor. He was yet more,--the confidant
and principal adviser of the emperor. In all the emperor’s shameless
pleasures, fiendish intrigues, and atrocious villanies, Sejanus was an
abettor and a panderer. Step by step he had risen; and although these
steps were stained with vice, robbery, and murder, he had reached the
eminence of being the second man in Rome. In this rise to power Sejanus
had not abandoned his old associates; but as he mounted higher, he drew
them with him. Neither did he allow the halo of influence to dazzle and
bewilder him. On the contrary, like the eagle, the higher he soared,
the better view he took of his surroundings. He was always easy of
access, and by his servility to the emperor and by his graciousness to
those below him he had gathered about him a cordon of friends, so that
whenever he walked through the streets he was greeted with cheers.
Such was his versatile nature that he was equally at ease in the
palaces of the most refined and in the camp with his soldiers over
their cups. He could talk the airy nothings of social gossip to
the flippant ladies of the city, and then join the noble matrons
and converse on serious subjects. He was the friend of virtuous
senators and of vicious profligates, of pure aristocrats and learned
philosophers, of foul vermin of the under strata and of vulgar
voluptuaries. Cruelty was another trait of his character. When he beat
his little son so hard that he broke a limb, he watched the sufferings
of the child without raising a helping hand. He could look at one of
his slaves--punished for some trivial offence--writhing under the
lash, and smile even when the welts were sweating blood. Without a
gleam of pity he would torture a man to swear to a lie until the
flame of his victim’s life was nearly extinct. As he found that his
wife and children weighed heavily upon him and prevented him from
progressing, he abandoned them. With all his servility, graciousness,
and dissimulation, there was only one idea that ruled him,--ambition.
He had made Livilla, the wife of Drusus, believe that he loved her,
and had even penetrated to her chamber and so compromised her that an
exposure of her indiscretion would have meant death or exile to them
both. The letter that Gannon had carried from Livilla contained her
acquiescence to a foul and terrible deed. Sejanus believed that Gannon
had not read the letter; but doubt on a question so important made
him ill at ease. After having sent Gannon to his room, he went to see
Livilla.
Livilla and her little twin sons were playing with some gold-fish in a
fountain when Sejanus was announced. She left the little boys in charge
of their nurse and retired to her room.
Sejanus greeted her like an ardent lover; she received him with a
nervous reserve. She trembled slightly when he asked, “Where is Drusus?”
“He has gone to Bovilla.”
“When will he return?”
“At sundown.”
“Shall we, then, be alone until sundown, O my Livilla?”
“Ay, my Sejanus. But I wish to talk with thee concerning Lygdus.”
“The eunuch will be here to-morrow morning,” replied Sejanus.
“Art thou sure of him?” she asked anxiously.
“He is like the second half of my heart, my Livilla.”
“But is he trustworthy and silent?” she persisted.
“In important transactions his lips are as silent as those of the dead.”
“I sometimes fear--” she began.
“What!” he interrupted. “Art thou beginning to fear at this time?”
“Ay, my Sejanus.”
“Hearken unto me, O daughter of Antonia. The plans that Sejanus makes
never miscarry.”
“But I hesitate at this last step,” she faltered.
“Ah, Livilla,” said Sejanus, fervently, “thou rulest my life, my heart,
my very soul, but I cannot now defer action. A plan may be well formed,
but hesitation brings disaster.”
“But is there no other way?” she pleaded.
“There is no other way,” he replied impressively. “But why fearest
thou? Be strong. Be brave. Trust in me. Tullia took this course to
find happiness with Tarquinius. Clytemnestra gave up Agamemnon for
Aegisthus. Art thou weaker than they were? In thy veins flows the blood
of the mighty Marc Antony. Did thy noble ancestor tremble at the death
of his enemies? Tullia and Clytemnestra were dissolute. Thou art an
outraged woman.”
“Not so loud, O my love,” she whispered cautiously. “We may be
overheard.”
“Where is thy servant Marcia?” he asked.
“She is within calling distance. Have a care,” she warned him.
He softened his tone as he poured out his passion. “I can no longer
live apart from thee, O my love,” he exclaimed. “I love thee! oh, how
I love thee! The gods alone understand a love that cannot be told. If
all the openings in this room were ears, if all the sparkling objects
were eyes, they would hear and see that I love thee. A dangerous love,
sayest thou? Ay; but if death be the ultimate reward, I will be content
if I have obtained thy love.”
As a sleeping child is wooed by the whisper of a mother’s voice, so
Livilla succumbed to the loving words of Sejanus. They affected her
like a narcotic. Her objections gave way, her nervousness disappeared,
and her fear completely vanished. Her face, which at first was
overspread with an unnatural pallor, gradually became flushed. Her eyes
lost their frightened stare, and grew soft and dreamy. Her quivering
mouth became firm and composed. Observing the change that was passing
over her, Sejanus approached and took her in his arms.
“I love thee, O Sejanus!” exclaimed Livilla, abandoning herself to his
caresses. Suddenly, as if struck by a happy inspiration, she asked,
“Could we not leave Rome and live together in a foreign country?”
“Ah, but what corner of the empire could long hide the daughter of
Antonia and the minister of Tiberius?” he asked.
“But, O my love, I cannot here in Rome become thy wife,” she cried.
“Thy love is impotent if so thy feelings are ruled. That is not like
the love I bear thee. O my Livilla, I have sacrificed wife, children,
friends, for thee. Ay, for thee I would even sacrifice my power. What
more can a man do?”
His passionate words overcame her fear. She yielded and said, “I
consent.” Then she whispered: “Send Lygdus to me. Complete thy plans. I
will share everything with thee, bear everything with thee.”
“Of a truth, thou canst not desire to live longer with the man who
abuses thee worse than his slaves,” said Sejanus. “Gamblers, drunkards,
unscrupulous and dissolute men and women, are his friends. He loves
the mute statues on these walls more than he loves thee. He would not
sacrifice a cup of wine to make thee happy.”
Sejanus again placed his arms around her, and with his lips near hers
he continued: “I love thee, O my Livilla, with all the strength of my
nature. In the very marrow of my bones I long for thee always. True
love is no crime. The gods have so loved. Forsake Drusus, who insults
thee. Come to the arms of one who adores thee.”
“May the gods forgive me if it be a sin; but I love thee, O my Sejanus,
I love thee!”
As Livilla spoke these words, he covered her mouth with kisses. He led
her to a couch, and seating himself beside her, said: “I have never
seen thee more beautiful than thou art now. This struggle has made
thy lovely face more radiant than that of Eos. Be not gloomy! A bird
sings louder and more joyously when freed from its cage. Love’s flame
burns brighter when fed by pure oil. Thy beautiful hands will never be
stained with my crimes. Let me kiss thy fingers! Let me kiss thy mouth!
Let me love thee now.”
The splash of the water in the fountain, the happy voices of the
little twins at play, a joyful song from the lips of Julia, Livilla’s
daughter, were the only sounds that entered through the curtained
door while the wicked lovers sat locked in each other’s arms. Livilla
started when she thought of the time, and said, “The day is fleeting, O
my love; thou must now depart.”
“Tell me, before I go,” asked Sejanus, loosening his embrace, “was the
letter sealed which thou didst send me this morning?”
“Ay, my Sejanus. Never do I send a letter without a seal.”
“Gannon gave it me unsealed.”
“I like not thy Gannon,” she said, frowning. “He is impertinent. He
angered me this morning. I wrote the letter hastily, but I am sure I
did not forget the seal.”
“Have I been so mistaken in the boy?” questioned Sejanus. “He told me
he did not read the reply.”
“Hast thou such faith in him?” she asked. Then in a warning tone she
said: “Beware, O Sejanus! Trust him not. But go! Send Lygdus to-morrow
morning! Come to me after the dinner to-morrow night!”
The shameless lovers then embraced and separated.
Sejanus, with his few followers, had hardly left the entrance to the
palace, when Drusus, highly indignant, arrived there with a crowd of
clients, freedmen, and slaves. The cause of his indignation was that
the guards had refused to obey an order which he had given them, basing
their refusal upon the ground of a contrary order from Sejanus. This
exhibition of effrontery was very humiliating to Drusus, especially
since it had taken place before his followers. But such clashing
of authority had become of frequent occurrence of late. These daily
conflicts kept the jealous Drusus continually in a state of ill-humor.
He dismissed his friends and walked up the path that led to the palace,
cursing the author of his troubles.
Drusus had inherited the vices of his father, Tiberius, and none of
the virtues of his mother, Vipsania. He had a bloated, sullen face,
with a large Roman nose and bloodshot eyes, overshadowed by a brow that
always frowned. His mouth was large, with thick, voluptuous lips. He
looked upon life gloomily, and seldom found anything worth a smile.
His drinking was excessive, his behavior dissolute. His impressionable
nature bore the imprints of his wicked associates, who, believing that
he was to be their next emperor, pandered to all his vicious passions.
But he had not always been sullen and profligate. His star of good
fortune once shone brightly. He had successfully waged war against the
Illyrians and Pannonians. However, on his return to Rome after his
brilliant campaigns, although he was the son of an emperor, he had
little authority. The empty, high-sounding titles bestowed upon him by
his father humiliated more than they elated him. He was disappointed,
enraged, to see favors, wealth, and honors showered upon Sejanus and
his friends, while he, the emperor’s son, and his retainers, received
no substantial recognition. The insults he daily experienced, the
opposition, and the ridicule,--all these things had so embittered
his nature that he had become indifferent to everything except the
gratification of his desires and pleasures.
The visits of Sejanus, and the knowledge that letters passed between
his wife and Sejanus, excited him to violent anger. He doubted
Livilla’s fidelity, but sufficient proofs of her wrongdoing were
lacking. Being informed by a servant that Sejanus had just left the
palace, he broke into a towering passion and sent for Livilla.
“Sejanus has been here again!” he bellowed, when she appeared.
“He has, my lord,” she replied. “On his way to the Palatine Hill he
called to pay his respects.”
“His respects,” sneered Drusus. “Let him be more respectful to his
family; ay, more respectful to me!”
“He came to say that he would not be at dinner to-morrow night,” she
ventured, with forced composure.
“Thou liest, O wicked woman!” he shrieked. “’Tis not true! He came to
insult me, to tell thee that I am a brute, to try to turn thee against
me!”
“Nay, my lord; he--”
“Have done with thy deceit!” he interrupted. “Has he written thee also
to-day?”
“He has, my lord,” she fearlessly replied.
“What mean these meetings, O deceitful woman? What is in these letters
he sends thee? Where didst thou see him?”
“In my room--”
“Alone?” he bawled. “In thy room with that villain! Thou hast the
insolence to tell _me_ that?”
“We were not alone. My servants were with me.”
“Thou liest!” he shrieked. “There is no truth in thee. Thy face is
fair, thy heart evil!” cried the infuriated man, pacing up and down the
room.
Neither spoke for some time. Suddenly Drusus stopped walking, and
roared a command that the servant Marcia should be brought before him.
When the trembling maid appeared, he asked her, “Where wert thou when
Sejanus was here?”
The poor woman knew not how to reply. She looked beseechingly at
Livilla.
“Strip her and lash her until her tongue is loosened,” ordered Drusus,
breathing heavily.
At the sight of her favorite maid being brutally handled by the
servants of Drusus, Livilla became infuriated. Rushing between them,
her eyes flashing fire, she cried: “Canst thou not believe a truthful
wife, O son of Tiberius, without questioning her servants? I have told
thee that Sejanus came here to say that he would not be at the dinner
to-morrow evening.”
Taking this cue from her mistress, the woman now easily answered the
questions of Drusus.
When the ordeal was over and Drusus and Livilla were left alone, he
said: “Marcia must be dismissed. One of _my_ selection will take her
place. And now, O Livilla, never again must that man see thee in thy
room. I hate him. No hatred can be more intense. He hates me too. He
would have preferred to see my father without an heir, for then there
would have been one obstacle less between him and his coveted goal. He
is a thorn in my side. So continually does he torment me that my only
solace is in the cup.”
He clapped his hands, and a servant appeared.
“Thou shalt remain with me, O Livilla,” he commanded.
“Nay, my lord. I wish to be alone,” she replied, as she proudly walked
from the room.
“I will not be alone!” he cried to his servant. “Go! Seek some friends!
Tell them that Drusus will drink to-night. Tell them that Bacchus will
rule on the Esquiline. Go, boy!”
* * * * *
On a sumptuous couch in a gorgeously furnished apartment of the
Praetorian Camp Sejanus proudly reclines. It is midnight. The room
is lighted by a bronze lamp, shaped like a satyr’s face. It rests on
a slender bronze pedestal with a base of three cloven feet. Carved
figures of fauns, sylphs, and nereids in graceful poses come out of the
shadows like dancing sprites. Red and yellow oriental silks, carelessly
thrown over the chairs, look in the sallow light like tongues of flame.
In a bronze tripod, ornamented with naked sylphs and satyrs, burns
perfumed charcoal. An odor of incense pervades the room. The light
seems to be a reflection from the lower world. Everything suggests an
incantation.
Sejanus is happy. His face, in the yellow light, looks like that of
a leering demon. As he reclines there, he is building huge and lofty
castles in the air. He looks into the future. He sees a man seated on
a curule chair, imperiously making laws and rendering decisions. That
man is Sejanus. Again he sees a man clad in triumphal robes of purple
adorned with gold. He is standing in a chariot of silver, drawn by four
white horses abreast. In his right hand he carries a laurel branch; in
his left, an ivory sceptre. Behind him a slave holds a golden crown
over his head. The Forum is thronged with people, dressed in soft white
togas and crowned with shining leaves or bright flowers. Songs of boys
and girls, chants of priests and priestesses, war songs of the legions,
joyful notes poured from long golden trumpets, and acclamations of
the people, all rend the air. The glad tumult echoes from pillar to
pillar of the pure white temples garlanded with flowers, as the Victor
rides along the Via Sacra towards the Capitoline Hill. That Victor is
Sejanus. Again he sees, seated on a throne, a man before whom senators,
ambassadors, and kings of nations prostrate themselves, all anxiously,
breathlessly, waiting to hear the words that fall from his lips. That
emperor is Sejanus. Once more he looks into the future, and he sees a
statue of a man placed amongst those of the gods. He sees the people
falling down and worshipping it, as they do those of the Divine Julius
and the Divine Augustus. He sees a body of priests and priestesses
chanting litanies and making sacrifices to this new god. That new god
is SEJANUS.
However, these dreams of self-advancement and self-glorification are
far from being assured facts; for between him and the consummation of
his dreams are many obstacles. There is Drusus, the son of Tiberius;
there are the twins, sons of Drusus and Livilla; there are the sons of
Germanicus,--Drusus, Nero, and Caligula,--these last being real princes
of the blood of the Divine Augustus; there is the emperor himself.
But to this man, who can compass seeming impossibilities, nothing is
too difficult. With such immense odds against him, he does not falter.
Murder, the infamous tool that Livia and Tiberius had wielded to cement
their power, is understood equally well by him. The five atrocious
murders in the family of the Divine Augustus had sown in the heart of
Sejanus seeds that have matured into deadly fruit.
He had recently executed a murder for the emperor in a peculiarly
skilful and satisfactory manner. In gratitude for this service the
emperor decreed that wherever one of his own statues stood, a statue
of Sejanus should be erected beside that of his royal master. With
this supreme honor conferred upon him, with the flattery of senate,
soldiers, and common people, and with the conquest of Livilla’s heart,
and her consent to his ambitious and murderous schemes, he feels well
content with himself as he lies there. He is an emperor in everything
except the name. But one thing must be done before he can feel
absolutely secure. He calls a soldier, and gives an order, after which
he takes up a silver cup and with an evil smile slowly sips his wine.
While Sejanus lies there dreaming, Gannon is pondering over his
troubles. The poor lad patiently awaits some sign that can be construed
as a hope of pardon. He has seen no one except a servant, who carried
him some supper. The time passes slowly, and the monotony of silence is
broken only by the soldiers as they call out the hours for changing the
watch. He is sleepy, and decides to go to bed. Just then he is startled
by hearing footsteps in the corridor. He hears his name called, and
receives an order to appear on the roof. Joyfully he springs from his
couch, for he thinks he is now pardoned. Yet the command is an unusual
one. What can it mean? With his young heart bounding with hope, he
mounts the steps lightly, taking care not to stumble in the darkness.
When he reaches the last step, the soldier, who had shortly before
received an order from Sejanus, catches him by the throat, another
seizes his body, and before the poor boy can collect his thoughts, he
is carried to the railing that borders the edge of the roof, and is
thrown into the street below.
As he strikes the ground, a pitiful groan is heard. A spasmodic tremor
passes through his body, and then all is still.