Domina

Chapter 7

Early in the spring of Tiberius’s last year, just after a Roman force had been ambushed and cut to pieces by the Frisians on the empire’s northern border and the survivors cruelly tortured, Agrippina dropped her mask.

At first I thought it was the break in the weather: a sudden, glorious spring had transformed Rome in bursts of golden sunlight, fresh flowers, and sweetness in the air. The blood bath had begun to abate; the list of proscriptions appearing less often in the Forum as Tiberius became more engrossed with the security of Rome’s frontiers. The change in Agrippina began almost imperceptibly, but once I had noticed it, I realised that her spirit had revived. She met me early one afternoon, in one of those flowery grottoes so lovingly designed by imperial gardeners. She’d been reading poetry again and talked about visiting the theatre. She looked round like a young girl ready for mischief, placed her reading tray on the turf seat beside her, got up and put her arms round my neck.

‘Parmenon, I am pregnant!’

She seemed so excited, so full of life. I tried to hide my jealousy. ‘Which means,’ I replied sourly, ‘Tiberius must be dying.’

This was one of those bitter remarks which slip from your tongue before you can think. It was also highly dangerous. On any other occasion Agrippina would have been angry but today she drew me closer, those dark eyes bubbling with laughter.

‘Parmenon, you should be an astrologer. The monster is dying!’

Now I was nervous. I pulled away and went to the edge of the arbour and stared round the garden. Agrippina was always cunning: there was no one about.

‘You don’t believe me do you?’ she asked. ‘Parmenon, the old cadaver is dying at last. I doubt if he’ll last till summer.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Oh I do. But you have fresh orders: you’re to visit Tiberius.’

‘Orders?’ I demanded. ‘Is that what I am now, Domina, your lackey?’

‘Parmenon, Parmenon.’ She held her stomach. ‘Believe me, if I thought Tiberius would live, I would never have conceived.’

‘How?’ I whispered.

‘Oh the usual way,’ she laughed. ‘Domitius got into my bed and I gave him free rein.’

‘No,’ I contradicted. ‘Tiberius?’

‘The queen of all poisons, Parmenon. Aconite.’

I stared in disbelief. Agrippina, even then, had an interest in the collection and mixing of poisons. Aconite, ground from herbs grown in the Alps, was rare, powerful and went under many names: wolf’s-bane, woman’s-bane. Its effects were very much like dropsy: alternating bouts of heat and chill, numbness of the limbs, tingling in the mouth and throat, giddiness, loss of feeling.

‘Caligula?’ I asked.

‘He’s quite the gardener.’ Agrippina could hardly stop laughing. ‘You know how Tiberius likes his vegetables? Well, he encouraged Gaius to be a gardener and my darling brother faithfully followed the Emperor’s orders. “Little Boots” has got more poisons than I have in my cupboard. Remember the message you took to Caligula about his salvation being on Capri? It was a reference to Aconite specially grown there. Gaius has been killing Tiberius drop by drop, mixing it with his snails and cream, and a little with his wine.’ She giggled behind her fingers. ‘Sometimes it was even mixed in with dishes of horseradish and we all know how much Tiberius likes his radishes!’

‘He might be caught?’

‘Caught? Someone else will take the blame.’

‘I thought Tiberius took antidotes to all poisons?’

‘He does. He’s a regular medicine chest. You’ve heard the phrase, “creaking doors hang longer”. Tiberius has so many ailments he doesn’t really know what’s happening.’ She stepped closer. ‘Aconite, if fed long enough, will overcome any antidote. Gaius has simply increased the usual dosage.’

‘And why now?’ I asked, looking furtively over my shoulder.

‘Oh, don’t be so nervous, Parmenon. Macro knows everything, and this garden is guarded by his best men.’

‘Why now?’ I repeated.

Her face became grave. ‘If Tiberius lives, Parmenon, he’ll take all our necks. Can’t you see that? In the years that have passed since Sejanus’s death, Tiberius has started to reflect and regret, wondering whether Macro was part of a more sinister plot. With my mother and two of my brothers dead only my two sisters and I are left, apart from Gaius. Tiberius might decide to make a clean sweep.’

She plucked a parchment from beneath her robe and handed it to me. I undid it carefully: the writing was scrawled like that of a child.

‘Tiberius was never good with a pen,’ Agrippina declared.

The very first word chilled me: Proscripti — the Proscribed. Tiberius spent his time drawing up lists of those he would like to see strangled. The ink on this list was faded.

‘It was written some months ago,’ Agrippina explained.

The list was long. Some of the men and women on it had already died. After a gap, some new names appeared: Agrippina, her two sisters, Drusilla and Julia, Macro, and Parmenon. I thrust the parchment back.

‘When do I leave?’ I demanded.

‘As soon as possible. At the moment Tiberius is in Campania, roaming up and down the countryside, too frightened to enter Rome, but he intends to sail for Capri very soon. Once he gets back there, he’ll return to his death lists. Macro has prepared well for this. He’s already been in touch with the generals on the frontiers and their loyalty is assured.’

She went and sat on the seat, crossed her legs and leaned back, eyes half closed, gently rubbing her stomach.

‘Tiberius must not return to Capri. He already thinks he’s going to die, he’s been having visions. A new statue of Apollo, which is to be erected in the Senate library, apparently appeared to him in a dream and said: “Tiberius, you will never dedicate me.” There have been fires that are suddenly extinguished or abruptly flare up. Tiberius’s pet snake, which he fed with his own hands and was the only creature which would come anywhere near him, abruptly died and was eaten by a swarm of ants.’ She leaned forward. ‘Caligula would have enjoyed arranging that. I must ask him how he did it. Tiberius is agitated; he left Capri and came up the Tiber in a trireme, posting troops along both banks so that no one could see him. He’s presently at Misenum: Caligula and Macro are there with him.’

‘What am I to do?’

‘Make sure that Tiberius does die,’ she whispered. ‘And when he does, return immediately to Rome.’

I reached Misenum late the following evening, and it was apparent how grave matters had become. Cavalry units and squads of Praetorians patrolled every path to and from the imperial villa. The house itself was like a mausoleum with everyone tiptoeing around. Macro and Caligula met me in the gardens. The soldier was the same as ever, cynical and mocking, but Caligula had changed. He was now taller, but more stooped, his head balding, his eyes deep-set, a cynical sneer twisted the cruel mouth, and his arms were covered in thick, black hair. He reminded me of an ape I’d once seen in the arena. He was drinking deeply and couldn’t sit still, walking up and down the path, staring up at the dark-blue sky. Occasionally, he’d turn away, muttering and talking to someone we couldn’t see.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ I whispered.

Macro put a finger to his lips and led me away.

‘He’s talking to his Daemon, which you must never ask him about. He’s drunk, tired and agitated. He still believes Tiberius will order his execution!’

‘What’s that? What’s that?’ Caligula came striding back up the path. ‘I want to go to Rome, Macro!’

‘Very soon, Excellency.’

‘I want to see my sister, Drusilla. Have you seen Drusilla, Parmenon?’ Tears glistened in his eyes. ‘She’s beautiful. She’s got breasts.’ He pointed to a statue of Venus. ‘And her bottom; I always said she had the sweetest bottom in Rome. Have you seen her, Parmenon? I am going to make her Empress.’

I had seen Drusilla on one occasion, a lithe, olive-skinned girl. I’d also heard rumours of how Caligula’s aunt had found brother and sister in bed together.

‘You can’t have ever seen my sister,’ Caligula continued, tapping me on the shoulder. ‘If you had, you would be full of her praises.’ He slurped from the wine cup. ‘So, when is the old goat going to die, Macro? And why are you here, Parmenon?’

He turned away and talked over his shoulder. ‘Where’s Gemellus?’

‘Your Excellency,’ Macro soothed. ‘Parmenon brings messages from your sister Agrippina.’

‘Oh, the sly one, the sly one!’ Caligula’s fingers went to his mouth, deep in thought.

Darkness was falling. The breeze from the sea had turned cold. It brought a smell of olives, figs and salt. The sky was filling with cloud, dark blotches hiding the stars. The trees rustled and shook. I felt frightened. This truly was a place of demons. I wished I was back in Rome.

Caligula took a deep breath.

‘It’s good to see you, Parmenon.’ His tone had changed. He linked his arm through mine as if we were the best of friends. ‘Have you ever been to Misenum before? You should come more often: the mussels are marvellous. You are going to have supper with us, aren’t you? The old goat thinks if he keeps eating he’ll keep living.’ He sniggered beneath his breath, stopped and looked at my head. ‘You’ve got a full head of hair, Parmenon. Isn’t it a pity we can’t exchange heads?’

His face came forward as if expecting an answer. Agrippina had told me to take care over this, never to stare at Caligula’s hair or mention his increasing baldness. He tapped his forehead.

‘A wasted dome,’ he muttered. ‘Isn’t it, Parmenon?’

I looked over his shoulder. Macro’s eyes were watchful.

‘Excellency,’ I replied. ‘You have the face and head of an Emperor. You have the face and head of a God. You are not like us mere mortals.’

Caligula threw his head back in a raucous laugh. He seized my face between his hands and kissed me full on the lips. ‘When you first came to Capri, Parmenon, I knew you were touched. He has visions, Macro! I’ll never forget what you said.’

Then the lunatic was off, striding up the path, arms swinging, chuckling loudly to himself.

By the time the guards allowed us into the Emperor’s supper room, Caligula was transformed, quietly composed. Macro introduced me but all I could see was a figure sitting in the darkness.

‘Come here!’ The voice was full and strong.

I stepped into the pool of light before the couch and dropped quickly to my knees.

‘Who are you? Look at me!’

Tiberius’s face was ghastly: it was a dirty white, with the lines round his mouth more pronounced and the cheeks sunken. The sores had got worse, so that now it was a suppurating mess, from which the slanted eyes gleamed frenetically. I didn’t know whether it was due to the fever, the poison or the light from the oil lamps. Tiberius scratched one of the ulcers on his face and touched my cheek.

‘Parmenon! Have you brought news?’

‘Excellency,’ Macro replied. ‘He comes from Rome, where all is well.’

‘Now that’s a lie. Rome is never well. Sit down, sit down!’

I took my place on the couch provided. The table was laid simply, with bread, figs, some apples, cherries, stuffed dates and an amphora of wine. The meal was eaten in silence. Afterwards the Emperor’s physician Charicles came in and sat on the edge of the Emperor’s couch. The Emperor greeted him, hand extended. Charicles’s fingers rested on the Emperor’s wrist as if taking his pulse: Tiberius didn’t seem to be aware of this. Charicles looked at Macro and nodded. Caligula got up and brought across his own cup of wine, and Tiberius drank from it. Macro started some innocuous conversation but I was hardly listening. It was one of the strangest supper parties I had ever attended. Tiberius began to groan and moan, gesturing with his fingers for Macro to keep quiet, and the cup Caligula had given him fell from his hand. Charicles, assisted by Macro, helped Tiberius to his feet, and Caligula came to help. I was instructed to follow as they half carried the Emperor from the dining-room along a marble passageway to his private bedchamber. No guards challenged us, no one interfered. The bed chamber smelt stale and musty. Once the door was closed, all protocol was dropped. Tiberius was tipped on the bed, his head made comfortable on the bolsters.

‘I have done what I can.’ Charicles spoke through the darkness. ‘I can do no more.’

He left. Caligula lit an oil lamp, hands shaking.

‘It must be tonight.’ Macro stood on the far side of the Emperor’s bed. ‘Tiberius must never leave for Capri.’

The Emperor moaned and groaned, his head thrashing from side to side. Macro ordered me to bring a lamp across. He pulled back Tiberius’s eyelids and felt the pulse in his throat.

‘Weak,’ he muttered. ‘He’ll never last the night.’

Caligula was breathing heavily like an athlete who’d run far and fast, a hoarse, rasping sound which jarred the nerves and prickled the hair on the nape of my neck.

‘If he leaves for Capri,’ Macro repeated, ‘we’ll all be in danger!’ He brought a sheet up and tossed it across the Emperor’s chest. ‘We will all stand guard.’

We left the chamber and waited outside. The night wore on, until, just before dawn, Charicles returned. Macro led him into the bedroom, and I heard a shout of triumph. Charicles came out followed by a grinning Macro.

‘The Emperor is dead!’ Macro grasped Caligula’s right arm and raised it. ‘Long live the Emperor!’

It was as if the clouds had lifted and the very walls had ears. Within a short space of time the news had swept through the villa. Macro and Agrippina had organised everything well. The Praetorian Guard assembled outside the main entrance, joined by the household as well as visiting senators, as Macro led Caligula out, with me trailing behind. In the presence of all, Macro placed Tiberius’s great seal ring on Caligula’s finger. The guards drew their swords and clashed their shields, proclaiming Caligula as Emperor. His elevation to the purple was greeted by a roar of approval. I could already see small clouds of dust round the gate as horsemen left for Rome. Charicles crept up beside me, pale, sweaty and shaking.

‘What’s the matter, man?’

‘Tiberius!’ The word croaked from the back of his throat. ‘He’s alive!’

The word spread like a ripple. Macro spun round, his swarthy face pale. Caligula became like a little boy lost, shoulders hunched, he stared open-mouthed then gibbered with fright. Somehow the whisper reached the men below, and the Praetorian Guard became restless. The crowd began to break up and drift away.

‘It can’t be! It mustn’t be!’ The words slipped out of my mouth.

All I could think of was Agrippina’s face. If Tiberius lived another day, Caligula would go into the dark, his sister with him. I doubted if I’d survive long either.

I ran back into the building and down the passageway. The patter of footsteps behind told me that Macro and Caligula were following. I burst into the bedchamber. Tiberius was standing in his night shift, those hideous eyes glaring at me. He brought his hand up, fingers splayed.

‘Where is my ring?’ The voice was strong. ‘Parmenon, that’s your name, isn’t it?’ He pointed a bony finger. ‘You were sent by that bitch in Rome.’

Macro and Caligula followed me into the bedchamber. .

‘Where is my ring?’ The voice rang out as if from beyond the grave.

‘I have your ring.’ I walked towards the Emperor. ‘You are dead, Tiberius.’

He blinked. Macro kicked the door shut. I pushed Tiberius back onto the bed. Macro and Caligula came over to help. The Emperor tried to resist but was overcome by weakness once more. Macro pulled the sheet up as Caligula grabbed a bolster. He held his hand out before Tiberius’s eyes, so the old Emperor could see the seal ring on his finger. The bolster was placed over Tiberius’s face, as Caligula giggled. ‘Go to sleep! Go to sleep!’ he crooned. ‘Go to sleep and leave us alone!’

There was a hammering on the door but Macro had pulled the bolts across. Tiberius was kicking out frantically as Caligula pressed down harder.

‘Go to sleep, sweetest Uncle! You are dead, stay dead!’

At last Tiberius’s body lay still. Caligula took the bolster away, and Tiberius’s sightless eyes stared up at the ceiling. Macro opened the door and Charicles burst in and went across to the bed.

‘You were wrong,’ Caligula declared. ‘Uncle is dead, isn’t he?’

Charicles felt the pulse in the neck. Caligula grabbed Tiberius’s wrist and, from beneath his toga he drew a small dagger and sliced the dead man’s wrist.

‘Watch the blood seep out and let it fall!’

He rushed out into the passageway.

‘False alarm!’ he shouted like a child playing a game. ‘A mistake! He is dead! The Emperor Tiberius is dead, his soul is with the Gods!’

He paused and spoke over his shoulder to that mysterious person none of us could see. He lapsed into the doggerel Latin of the slums but I caught the word, ‘Debet, debet, it has to be, it has to be!’ He ran back into the bed chamber and grasped me by the shoulder. He’d changed once more into the powerful, new Emperor, eyes searching, lips pursed as if on the brink of an important decision.

‘You have a cool nerve, Parmenon, and courage! I shall not forget!’ He glanced round me. ‘Oh, put a sheet over that dirty, old man. He’s disgusting!’

Tiberius’s face was now livid, the ulcers and carbuncles oozing pus.

‘Come on!’ Caligula declared. ‘I want the treasure chest brought out, so that I can give donatives to the guards. Let’s burn the old goat and take his ashes back to Rome!’

Within an hour, thanks to Macro’s careful work, the surprise and shock caused by Tiberius’s recovery disappeared. It was politic not even to mention it. The Emperor had died in his sleep; that was the end of the matter. Fresh couriers were despatched to Rome and the generals on the frontier. Tiberius was dead: Caligula was the new Emperor. Nobody mentioned the co-heir, Gemellus, although Caligula immediately despatched guards to place him under house arrest. Macro looked at me and shrugged.

‘It’s Agrippina’s wish,’ he declared. ‘Gemellus won’t see the year out.’

Agrippina arrived the next day, accompanied by her two sisters Julia and Drusilla. Caligula met them in the main garden. He was dressed in his toga but insisted on wearing the sandals of a dancer, and a floral wreath on his balding head. Macro was trying to school him on how to act appropriately in public, but as soon as he saw his family, all pretence was forgotten. A small banquet was served of stuffed dates, a patina full of elderberries, succulent pig, boiled partridge and stuffed hare, white and red wines. Only his sisters and private entourage were invited. The rest were kept out by the Praetorians who ringed the garden in a circle of steel. Caligula hugged and kissed his sisters. He treated Drusilla as if she was his wife, embracing her, kissing her face, throat and breast, holding her closely, curling his fingers through her black, perfume-drenched hair.

After the banquet, Caligula insisted on giving us a dance of triumph. I sat at the foot of Agrippina’s couch and watched that madman, dressed like a cadaverous Bacchus, cavort and leap about, whilst we all pretended he was the best dancer and singer in the world, excelling even the most professional artiste from Syracuse. He also sang a coarse song about his uncle, which undoubtedly contained very funny lines, and the wine we’d all drank helped us laugh. I glanced across at Agrippina. My mistress wasn’t amused. Her face looked fuller with more sheen and colour than I’d seen for many a month. She wasn’t looking at Caligula but at Macro, and her eyes had a hard, imperious glare, as if she held the new Praetorian Prefect responsible for this nonsense. Once the Emperor had calmed down, he returned to his feasting, insisting that Drusilla share his couch. Agrippina took me away to the coolness of a cypress grove, where she questioned me closely about Tiberius’s death.

‘And what do you think of our new Emperor, Parmenon?’

She gestured across to where Caligula, now he’d rested, was busy berating the small gaggle of musicians on what tune they should play for his second dance.

‘If the guards see such behaviour,’ I replied. ‘Rome could have three Emperors in one year.’

‘You mean Gemellus?’ she demanded. Agrippina followed my gaze sorrowfully. ‘Tiberius corrupted him but he can be managed, at least for a while.’

‘How?’ I demanded.

‘You’ll see.’ Agrippina was gnawing at her lips and patting her stomach.

‘You are going to have to keep Caligula alive for quite a while, aren’t you?’ I asked.

‘We will have to ensure that no wife ever bears him a child,’ Agrippina acknowledged.

‘And your child?’ I asked.

‘My son,’ she declared haughtily, ‘will one day be Emperor. Remember my words, Parmenon. Now, let’s get my idiot brother off to bed!’

She walked back across the grass and had words with Macro. She urged the almost collapsing Caligula to retire for the night and, half-carrying him, helped by Drusilla, left the party.

Agrippina didn’t reappear that night. The next morning I was in the kitchen, listening to a cook describe how to serve milk-fed snails and what sauce to use for young tunny fish, when Agrippina appeared. She looked pale-faced and red-eyed. She imperiously ordered the cook away and told me to follow her out into the garden. She took me over to a small grotto, a stone arch covered by a rambling rose bush.

‘We leave for Rome this evening. Our Emperor,’ she referred meaningfully to Caligula, ‘has now recovered.’ She looked at me narrow-eyed. ‘He thinks very highly of you, Parmenon, and says he’ll never forget your services. You’re not thinking of changing horses mid-stream, are you?’

I glowered at her.

‘I thought as much.’ She smiled and glanced up. Caligula was walking across the lawn towards us, one arm round Drusilla’s shoulder.

‘Good morning, Parmenon.’ He stopped and stared down at me.

I was dumbfounded. Was this the same Caligula as the night before? The prancing madman? The drunkard pawing at his sister? He was now clean-shaven and clear-eyed. His toga, and the tunic beneath, were spotlessly white. He had sandals, displaying the imperial seal, on his feet, and his hands were scrubbed, with neatly manicured fingernails. Drusilla, on the other hand, despite her olive-skinned beauty, looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink the night before.

‘Well, Parmenon, is that the way to greet your Emperor?’

I slipped to my knees. He patted me on the head.

‘I was only joking. None of that here!’

I re-took my seat, as he hugged Drusilla.

‘We leave for Rome. Have you heard the news?’ He laughed, a short, barking sound unlike his usual high-pitched giggle. ‘The mob are mad with delight. Crowds roam the streets shouting, “Tiberius for the Tiber! Tiberius for the Tiber!” I think it’s best if we burnt the raddled goat’s corpse here and take the ashes to Augustus’s mausoleum.’

He continued with other plans. I was astonished. Caligula spoke lucidly, clearly mapping out the days ahead, and the changes he would bring about in Rome. He deeply regretted that he had not immediately issued pardons: Tiberius’s victims were still being strangled in the prisons of Rome. He said he wished to send envoys to Parthia to seek assurances that Rome’s borders would be secure. He declared sorrowfully that one of his first duties must be to recover the ashes of his mother and two brothers and give them honourable burial in Rome. Satisfied at his plans, Caligula nodded cheerfully at me and Agrippina and walked back across the grass.

‘He’s sleeping with her, isn’t he?’

‘I didn’t hear that!’ Agrippina sat as immobile as a statue.

‘Domina,’ I replied. ‘If you don’t hear it from me, you’ll hear it from others. The Emperor is sleeping with his own sister. Is that the price you paid?’

‘I had no choice,’ Agrippina replied softly. ‘He needs Drusilla.’ She glanced at me. ‘We are all demons, Parmenon. And can you blame us, brought up in the shadow of Tiberius’s bloody hand? You never met Livia, Tiberius’s mother! One day with her would chill your soul.’

‘Did you encourage him?’ I asked.

‘Encourage him! Encourage him!’ She glared at me. ‘Do you think I like this, Parmenon?’ she whispered. ‘Did I ask to be born into the purple? Did I ask to be raised by someone like Livia? To depend, for every breath of my life, on men like Tiberius and Sejanus? To be given to that drunken oaf Domitius in marriage! To be terrified,’ — she touched her belly — ‘of becoming pregnant lest a demon like Tiberius whip the child away from me! To have a brother like Caligula? To have my mother starved to death, and my brother reduced to eating the straw out of his mattress?’ She sprang to her feet, rubbing her arms as if cold. ‘Caligula has been sleeping with Drusilla since they were children. They used to clutch each other at night like terrified little rabbits. I tried to stop them, and so did my aunt. Mother suspected but. .’ She shook her head. ‘If Drusilla can keep him sane, then let him have what he wants. After all, the Pharaohs of Egypt married their half-sisters.’ She glanced over her shoulder at me. ‘Anyway, what do you advise, Parmenon?’ she asked sardonically. ‘That I give him a lecture on morality? Find him a new wife? What?’ She stamped her foot. ‘What can I do? Separate them? Caligula would take my head. What have you become, Parmenon? A stoic? A philosopher? Weren’t you there when Tiberius died?’

She held out her hand which I grasped. She squeezed mine and let go.

‘Who advises him?’ I asked.

‘Macro and myself.’

‘And Drusilla?’

‘Drusilla has a pretty face and an empty head. She’s as vacuous as she’s beautiful.’

‘Are you giving Caligula drugs?’ I asked.

‘You know I am: valerian seed to soothe the nerves and help him sleep.’

I stared across the garden. The morning mist was lifting. I heard the clink of metal, the rumble of carts as they were brought out onto the cobbles for the luggage to be stowed. I felt sorry for attacking Agrippina. The imperial court was not a place for morality, just for power and survival.

‘If the Senate find out,’ I replied slowly, ‘the Emperor’s relationship with his sister could be fanned into a scandal by that gaggle of hypocrites in Rome. They’ll start accusing him of being degenerate. He has the blood of Mark Anthony in him. They’ll gossip about his ancestor’s love for Egyptian ways. .’

‘So?’ Agrippina demanded.

‘If he is to honour one sister,’ I continued, ‘then let him publicly honour all three.’ I laughed. ‘You’d like that anyway. Let there be no distinction between his love for all his sisters. It will cloud people’s minds, blunt suspicion.’

Agrippina seized my hand again, gripped it and walked away.

Whatever Agrippina had done with Macro’s help, it certainly worked. If anything, Caligula appeared saner than any of them. He entered Rome with the approbation of both Senate and people. He was greeted by the College of Priests and the Vestal Virgins. Glory and honours were bestowed on him. Caligula acted with all the gravitas of Augustus. He refused to have the dead Tiberius criticised and had his ashes solemnly interred in the imperial mausoleum. He stood at the rostrum of the Senate and said he needed their help in ruling. He decreed an end to the treason laws, issued pardons and had the secret police records burnt in the Forum. He brought the ashes of his dead relatives back for honourable burial and promised a period of reconciliation. I was dumb-founded, but everybody was pleased. Caligula had spent the last few years on Capri, and very few people really knew the true nature of the monster they had taken to their bosom. He opened the treasury and lavished rewards on the Praetorian Guard and the legions. Informers and spies were driven from Rome. At banquets and festivals he acted with the utmost propriety.

It was all a charade, of course. I sometimes caught him watching himself in the mirror, practising gestures and still talking to that mysterious, invisible presence behind him.