Caligula

XXXI

Rufus waited for the summons that would bring him the reward he dreaded for his part in the Emperor's deliverance. But if Caligula had noted his presence during the defence of the golden carriage he gave no sign of it or, more likely, regarded it as nothing more than his due. In the meantime, the Emperor filled the cells below the palace to overflowing and the taint of death hanging over the Palatine grew stronger with every passing day.

Rufus and Livia settled into a domestic rhythm which had the child growing in her belly at its centre and irritated her to distraction. He followed her around the house as she cleaned and cooked, offering to do this task or help with that chore, until she screamed at him in frustration. The tension between them in their narrow bed meant Rufus increasingly spent his nights beside Bersheba.

One night he was lying awake, buried in the straw at the rear of the barn, when he heard the rattle of chains. Bersheba gave a sniff that Rufus recognized as a welcome for someone she knew. At first, he feared it was Cupido, whose experience of Caligula's justice at the temple of Julius had created conflicts between duty and honour which made him more and more unpredictable. But the steady voice that reached him from the darkness was not in the German-accented Latin of the gladiator.

Claudius was back.

Rufus lay still as death as the Emperor's uncle addressed his uncritical audience. He was being dangerously indiscreet.

'What has Rome done, that it must destroy itself in this way? Our brightest and our best sent to the axeman and the impaler while the Emperor's jackals compete among themselves to discover who can be the cruellest or the most foul.' He gave a long sigh. 'Everything I have put in place, every stratagem and scheme, threatened by the impetuosity of youth. How many times did I tell them that one opportunity and one only would be granted to bring about that which is so imperative? Yet they throw everything into a hopeless gamble the Emperor has hysterically drowned in blood. Why? Lucius was no fool; he would not have acted without guarantees. But who could have given them? Bassus might have had the means, but would he have been so foolish? Guilty or innocent, it made no difference to his fate, since he died in front of his father's eyes. Asiaticus? No. Our aspirations run parallel: the return of the Republic by peaceful means; rule by democracy, not dictat. Pomponius had the means, but not the motive. Narcissus? Surely not. Yet can even I truly trust Narcissus, who is privy to my most inner thoughts, when he takes those thoughts and uses them to his own advantage at every opportunity? If not Narcissus, who?'

He paused for a moment and Rufus could almost feel the power of his mind picking the conundrum apart a piece at a time.

'Chaerea,' he announced, pleased with his own cleverness. 'Yes, Cassius Chaerea, or more likely someone acting on his behalf. Perhaps his signature on the order to hold back the Praetorians when the assassins attacked was not forged after all. He has become so warped by the Emperor's jibes he has been driven beyond rage to blind hatred. It was he who persuaded Lucius he could attack without fear of retribution. And when the deed was done, who would rise beyond his intelligence and his powers, beyond blood and ability? Who would take the mantle of Caesar and sully it beyond redemption, if it is not sullied beyond it already? Why, Cassius Chaerea, loyal commander of the Guard. And where is he now? Up to his elbows in blood in the place where he is most visible and of most use to his Emperor. Yet even as he performs his duty, he is quaking inside lest the next name screamed from the rack be his own. For he too was betrayed, or why did the German guards fight when they were meant to flee? Only one man was in a position to ensure that outcome, and only one man will profit from it.'

He paused again, and when he resumed it was clear from the change in his voice that he was talking directly now to Bersheba.

'All the unruly strength of your kind lies within you. Yet for all that strength, what are you but an ornament to reflect your master's power? But in times past you were a proven weapon of war, a champion of the battlefield. Be thankful your master has not used you so, or used you worse. He has not bent his mind in that direction thus far, but it may come to it. Unless? What if, by some accident, your might was employed not for but against him? Could even Caesar survive the strength of your caress, or the weight of your body upon his? Think upon this, mighty one: an Empire may depend on it.'

By the time the door closed behind Claudius, Rufus was in a cold sweat. The names he had heard were among the most influential and powerful in Rome. And here was proof of their treason. Proof of Claudius's treason. He wanted to unhear what he had just heard, but no matter how hard he tried it gnawed at his brain. So he did the only thing possible. He put it away in a compartment inside his head where it would stay until it could be used as a bargaining chip — or he felt the bite of the executioner's blade.

With few official duties and a wife who wanted little to do with him, Rufus spent each waking moment of the coming weeks pondering how he could help Fronto. He knew there was only one person he could go to, but could he trust him when even his master did not? There was only one way to find out. He put a white rag on Bersheba's door and the next day set off for the little fountain.

Narcissus was still in the benign mood he had affected since Drusilla's death and it was clear he felt Claudius's patronage placed him above harm from the purges.

'We really must find somewhere else to meet. It stinks here.' He sniffed at Rufus. 'It's not you, so it must be the drains. Have you something for me?'

Rufus mentioned a few things he had heard among the servants, but nothing seemed to interest the Greek. Then he said hesitantly, 'I would like to ask your advice. A friend is in trouble. Fronto. I thought you might be able to help.'

'Mmmmm.' Narcissus let the syllable linger, and stared at Rufus as if seeing him for the first time. 'Fronto is an acquaintance,' he conceded. 'But I have so many acquaintances. Advice? Yes, I can probably provide advice. But help you? Why should I help a slave?'

Rufus thought the answer was self-evident: 'Because I tell you things.'

Narcissus actually laughed. Did Rufus really think the palace gossip he provided was of the least importance? Did he not understand he was merely a minute part of a larger whole? A tiny worker ant who could be crushed underfoot in an instant and not even be remembered, never mind missed.

'I don't believe you have told me anything that would warrant.. help.' The final word emerged slowly, as if it was something distasteful, and he turned to walk away.

Rufus let him get halfway along the path.

'I can tell you what Claudius says to Bersheba,' he said.

Narcissus stopped, hesitated for a second, and turned back with a broad smile. 'Yes?'

Rufus gave him the information one titbit at a time and watched the Greek's eyes light up. Only one thing did he hold back; the knowledge that Claudius did not trust his faithful servant Narcissus would be useful in future. When he finished, he explained Fronto's dilemma.

The Greek shook his head in mock sorrow. 'You really are terribly innocent. And Fronto. Of course Protogenes is corrupt. Everyone in Rome from Caligula down is corrupt. The Emperor squeezes the aristocracy to fund his lunatic schemes, so the aristocracy squeezes the middle class, and the middle class squeezes the plebeians. The only people who don't get squeezed are the slaves, because they have nothing to give.'

'But surely you can help?'

'I may drop a word here, or a hint there, if I am certain it will do me no harm,' Narcissus said dismissively, indicating the interview was at an end.