Caligula

XVI

How could anyone be so beautiful? He breathed in the musky scent of her dark hair and couldn't stifle a tiny sob. Her hand reached up to gently stroke his brow. 'Hush, brother. You are home now.'

Home? Yes, this was home, this comfortable blood-warm, silken cocoon within Drusilla's arms where no one could ever hurt him. He had always felt safe here, even in the darkest times on Capri. Those were the times when Tiberius, rot his corrupt soul, had roamed the corridors of the palace like some scab-ridden hunting dog seeking new depths of depravity to plumb. The nights he knew that only by being invisible would he be safe. He remembered how he would wait until Gemellus was asleep in the room they shared then creep past the guards to his sister. Did they really not see him? Or did they retain some spark of decency despite all they witnessed on that debauched cesspit of an isle? At first, all he sought was comfort and the security of her presence. He would hold her hand through the dark hours and she would whisper her tales of their father; tales of honour and courage, of a goodness that seemed to belong to a different world from the one they inhabited. In their childish eyes, Germanicus, most noble of Romans, shone like a beacon in the stygian gloom of their existence. Later it was different.

Something stirred deep within him as his mind took him back to the night everything changed. Was he the instigator, or she? No, it was they, together, and at once innocent and knowing, a fusion of mind and body that neither could nor wished to deny.

She felt it too and purred like a cat at his side. 'So soon?'

Deep in the night he woke to find her silhouetted in the wide window that looked out over the Velabrum towards the Capitoline, her naked body cloaked in the warm glow of a harvest moon. She stood motionless, allowing its light to paint her flawless skin so it appeared she had just emerged from a bath of molten gold. Yes, she was a golden statue. Perfect. He didn't breathe. He didn't want her to move. When she finally did, turning back towards the satin-covered bed, his head filled with a sudden unbidden rage. How could she cheat him?

'You shouldn't have moved.' He tried to keep his voice level, but she recognized the edge to it.

'Tell me again about Baiae,' she said, slipping into bed and wrapping her body around him, so his flesh burned to the feel of hers. 'On the day you rode with the gods and defied Neptune.'

His mood changed as she knew it would. 'Was Alexander ever so fortunate, or Xerxes? I outdid them both. Two hundred ships bought or built, strung bow to stern in twin lines across the bay from the port at Baiae to the mole at Puteoli.' His heart soared with the memory of it. He had ordered a thousand carpenters to build a wooden pathway two chariots wide over the ships, and when it was complete five thousand slaves carried the earth that turned it into a road. A road across the sea. Two miles, at least; some men said three. Three, then. 'On the first day I donned the breastplate Alexander wore at Granicus, and my bejewelled cloak of purple, and I bade my Praetorians follow me as I galloped the length of the sea-bridge. On the second, I held a great spectacle and the two legions who escorted my chariot loved me for it. The people too. It was as if the whole world watched from the shore. Has any man been so fortunate?'

Drusilla stared at him, bright-eyed. 'You are no man, brother, but a god, an earth-bound god.'

He nodded. He knew she was right. She was always right.

'Yet the Senate would have thwarted me. The fools did not understand my purpose or that my glory is Rome's glory. Spend your own gold, they said, not Rome's. So I did. My inheritance is gone, but this I swear by Jupiter's lightning bolt. They will pay. They will pay a thousand-fold.'

As he spoke, he felt his face grow grim, and saw the fear in Drusilla's eyes as his hands caressed her neck. The fear pleased him.

'They hate me. Do you hate me, Drusilla?' He allowed his fingers to tighten on her throat. Saw her mouth open and her eyes bulge. 'Do you hate me?'

She tried to shake her head, but his hands were compressing her windpipe and cutting off the air to her lungs. Her vision faded and turned first pink, then red with a halo of black. She knew that when the black halo filled, she would be dead. But there was no more fear, only exhilaration. To die at this man's hands was to be immortal!

Slowly, the grip on her throat slackened. The black faded to red, then to pink, and when she opened her eyes he was there above her, his eyes shining with desire.

'Yes,' she cried. 'Yes, Gaius. Please. Now.'

Aemilia's smile haunted Rufus. She followed him into his dreams, where her beauty tantalized him and he was tempted to places he had never imagined. But always she would be just beyond his reach, so he would feel the warmth radiating from her, but never the touch of her velvet flesh. See the glinting golden highlights of her hair, but never stroke its silken strands.

Even in daylight her presence seemed to be all around him. Every female voice he heard was hers. Every glimpse of a red dress through the trees or in the far distances made his heart race and his stomach churn. He imagined what they would do together, and what he would say to her. Even the simplest things would be a pleasure with Aemilia. Just to be with her would be enough.

Yet on those infrequent occasions when the red dress was hers he was left with a sense of failure. Yes, she would smile at him, but she seemed to smile at everyone. Her greeting was warm, but was it special? She was never alone, so he couldn't ask her the things he longed to ask, or tell her the things she needed to be told. He thought he was making his feelings for her plain, but since she never responded or made her feelings known, how could he be sure? The merest hint would have been enough, yet the closest thing to a signal had been the faint suspicion of puzzlement in her eyes on a day when he had held his smile a few seconds longer than normal and she had asked him if he was unwell.

As the weeks passed, he realized he was being a fool and prayed for the feelings to go, but they never did. The only thing that drove her from his mind was the uncertain reality of life in Caligula's court.

The young Emperor exerted a baleful influence far beyond his immediate physical presence. Those closest to him lived, if not in fear, then certainly in a state of constant confusion as they attempted to preempt his ever-changing moods. This uncertainty filtered down from consul to senator, from freedman to clerk, and finally from palace servant to slave. Mistakes, even small ones, could be lethal. There was always room for one more sacrifice at Caligula's never-ending spectacles. People disappeared.

One day it was Varro.

Rufus discovered later that the little man had come to an agreement with a palace official to supply the farms that still studded Rome's suburbs with Bersheba's rich manure. Unfortunately, the little black man made the mistake of becoming too close to the wife of one of the farmers who was the recipient of the elephant's bounty. When she foolishly confessed to the liaison, her husband approached the overseer and threatened to end their productive relationship. A word to the palace guards had been enough.

Varro's fate shocked Rufus, but he had little time to mourn his friend. Now he had twice the work to do. And something much more dangerous to worry about.

He was mucking out the elephant's quarters as the autumn shadows lengthened early one evening when two Praetorian guardsmen approached the barn.

'You are to come with us,' the senior ordered.

Rufus froze. Was he to follow Varro to the arena? But he couldn't refuse. He turned towards the cistern, intending to wash the hardcaked elephant dung from his body.

'You've no time for that.'

The guards escorted him up the slope to the palace and through a series of lavish corridors to a room where a group of exquisitely dressed aristocrats stared at the new arrival as if he had just arrived from the wrong side of the River Styx.

'At last, the elephant boy. Our final guest has arrived; now we can begin.' The Emperor was seated on a couch at the far end of the room. The pale eyes studied Rufus for a few seconds that sent a shiver of fear through him, before a languid hand motioned towards an empty couch that was one of more than a dozen surrounding a long table which appeared to be crafted of solid silver. The Praetorian at his back gave Rufus a gentle push and left to take his place among twenty of his fellows positioned at intervals around the walls. Rufus noticed that each of them had his right hand on his sword hilt.

Was he dreaming? Anything seemed more likely than the reality. He walked slowly towards the table and sat bolt upright on the padded couch Caligula had designated.

'No, no,' Caligula said almost soothingly. 'Relax. Slave, bring my friend some wine.'

Rufus realized that everyone else in the room was lounging on one elbow on the couches, which were placed within easy reach of the main table so that their occupants could help themselves to the banquet. Awkwardly, he attempted to copy the nonchalant posture of the others, while a slave approached the table and placed a large drinking cup in front of him.

The Emperor raised his own goblet in a silent toast directed at Rufus, the cold eyes daring him to drink. Rufus reached out a shaking hand to lift the cup, which was filled with blood-red wine that had a strong fruity odour. The others supped deeply, but he ensured that not a drop passed his lips.

Caligula was now chatting animatedly with a sickly looking man of similar age who had the couch to his right, and Rufus was able to snatch a covert glance around the room, although he was careful not to meet the eye of any of his dining companions.

There appeared to be two distinct groups round the table. One was made up of men who hung on the Emperor's every word, laughed uproariously at his jokes and matched him drink for drink. The other group was quieter, drank less, and picked at their food. These were all couples of the equestrian class, seated in pairs. They were not all young, but the women had a well-cultivated beauty regardless of age. Rufus noted that their faces wore the same hopeless expression he had last observed on the condemned prisoners he had seen beneath the arena.

Then his eyes locked on those of Claudius.

The Emperor's uncle lay on a couch at the far end of the table. He looked back at Rufus from beneath hooded lids as a dribble of wine escaped the corner of his mouth and ran lazily down the contours of his chin to stain an already unredeemable toga. He appeared quite drunk, but a gleam in an eye that should have been dull indicated he was probably less so than he seemed. Rufus was surprised when the old man raised his goblet in a mock salute.

The food that was served would have fed a family of the poorer sort for a month. First came the small fare: exotic concoctions of the inner parts of birds and beasts, including their livers, tongues and brains; sea urchins, mussels of three distinct varieties, two kinds of sea snails, oysters and other sorts of shellfish; and a plate of roasted thrushes on asparagus. Then the greater: birds of all sizes, including chickens and pigeons, cooked golden brown (he also recognized a swan and a peacock because they had been decorated with their natural livery); meats of various shades and textures, which certainly included a sow's udder and the entire head of a wild boar; and an array of small bowls which held delicately sliced and chopped vegetables.

With every course, the wine flowed faster and the noise grew louder at the end of the table where Caligula held court. Rufus caught snatches of conversation from the Emperor, who was still engaged in an intense discussion with the man on the couch at his right side.

'Scribonius Proculus and his brother are becoming more than irritants, Protogenes, they are dangerous. I want them dealt with. Put them on the little list in your book.'

Protogenes, thin to the point of emaciation, with a sallow, pockmarked complexion, nodded agreement. He had hooded eyes that reminded Rufus of a snake and he felt a thrill of fear as they turned to focus on him. He knew instantly that Protogenes was aware the Emperor's words had been overheard and was equally certain that the man was deciding whether he was worth killing. The unblinking stare held his for a second before moving on. It seemed not.

By now, Rufus had recognized that he was as much part of the entertainment as the Illyrian dancing girls and the fire-eating jugglers who performed after the main courses. A pungently scented diversion to keep Caligula's guests the way he wanted them — off balance and nervous.

As much a part of the entertainment as Uncle Claudius.

During the early part of the banquet the Emperor had ignored the old senator, happy to trade conversation and banter with the sycophants who lounged close by him. But as the evening continued, Caligula began to taunt his uncle about his stutter and his appearance. When he tired of this verbal barrage, the Emperor began to throw pieces of food at the reclining figure, who could only blink as he was hit by slices of meat and half-eaten legs of chicken and, at one point, only just missed by a plate of fricasseed flamingo tongues. Still not satisfied, the Emperor encouraged his guests to follow his example, and, even though the attack was somewhat half-hearted, Claudius could eventually take no more. With a vacant smile he slowly closed his eyes and slipped back on the couch feigning stupor.

Caligula and his friends were by now finding that the fluency and ingenuity of their earlier conversation had deserted them. The Emperor, his face wreathed in a lazy grin, let his gaze range over his guests until it fell on a striking, raven-haired young woman who reclined, never raising her glance above table height, next to a crophaired knight who was a little older than she, who Rufus assumed must be her husband. From that moment, Caligula's eyes never left her.

As the last of the food was cleared away, the Emperor rose from his couch. Rufus felt the guests around him tense and the guards along the wall seemed to stand a little straighter. Caligula swayed slightly, then walked carefully round the table until he was directly behind the dark girl, who, feeling his presence, began to whimper quietly behind the curtain of her long hair. At her side, her husband was deathly still.

'You will please me tonight, Cornelia,' Caligula said softly, his hand reaching out to caress the white skin of the woman's shoulder.

The young aristocrat beside her jerked violently and made as if to rise.

'You may join us if you wish, Calpurnius,' the Emperor offered. 'No? Perhaps I should insist. Never mind, I shall decide later. Come, Cornelia.'

The last words were an unmistakable command. Still weeping, the dark-haired woman stood up on shaking legs and, with Caligula's hand on her shoulder, walked with him from the room.

The mood of the remaining guests changed in an instant from unbearable tension to ecstatic release. A grey-faced young senator vomited on the marble floor, while nearby another aristocrat appeared to be having a seizure. The women at the table reacted in different ways. One or two seemed to be frozen where they lay, eyes fixed on something only they could see. The blonde matron who occupied the couch next to Rufus ran wailing from the room, pursued by her husband. From the corner of his eye, Rufus noticed Claudius, forgotten by all, raise his head warily.

A tap on the shoulder made Rufus jump and he looked up into a familiar grave face beneath a Praetorian helmet. Cupido.