False God of Rome

CHAPTER XV

Vespasian looked around the newly decorated atrium of Sabinus’ rebuilt house as the last of the artisans collected up the tools of their trades. They had done a fine job, he reflected, with the limited amount of money, gleaned from his province, which his brother had been able to send back to Rome over the summer. Although it was not furbished to the most luxurious of standards he felt that Sabinus would have few complaints from Clementina when they eventually took up residence.

Vespasian had enjoyed overseeing the work; it had, along with his duties as the aedile responsible for Rome’s streets, helped him to take his mind off the profligacy that had characterised the first seven months of Caligula’s reign.

Anxious to secure the love of the mob, Caligula had not stinted them in his celebrations, nor had the Senate or priesthoods been ungenerous in their flattering support for their new Emperor, as Caligula had predicted. Over the first ninety days of his reign the temple altars flowed with the blood of sheep, bulls, fowl, horses and swine; one hundred and sixty thousand victims were publicly sacrificed to every god imaginable in thanks for the coming of the golden age. And to the common people of Rome it did indeed seem to be so; they feasted on the flesh of the sacrifices, they watched endless spectacles in the Circus Maximus and the other smaller arenas around the city and they had money to spend, Caligula having given them three gold aurei each — more than the annual wage for a legionary. To secure his position further he had paid another three aurei each to every legionary and auxiliary in the Empire as well as to the Vigiles; five apiece to the Urban Cohorts and ten apiece to the Praetorian Guard.

With all this ready money in circulation business had boomed as shopkeepers, tavern owners and merchants raked in the cash that their fellow citizens, anxious to emulate their beloved Emperor, spent freely under the misapprehension that the supply would never cease.

To neutralise the Senate’s objections to this colossal outlay of coin he had recalled those of their number banished by the previous regime and had pardoned those still awaiting sentence, placing the House in his debt. He had then insulted them by refusing to accept the honours that they had voted for him in gratitude and ordered that they should never try and honour him again, thus demonstrating that he was not a creation of the Senate and did not rule by their favour.

To make the same point to what remained of his family he had freed Herod Agrippa, against the express wishes of Antonia, and had made him king of the Jewish tetrarchies of Batanaea and Trachonitius, east of the Jordan River; he had also given him a chain of solid gold to replace the one of iron with which he had been chained to his cell’s wall.

To counter the effect of these attacks on the aristocracy he added to his popularity with the common people, milking the affection that they bore him, by personally bringing back the bones of his mother and two brothers from their island graves and interring them in the Mausoleum of Augustus in a ceremony so charged with emotion that no one in the vast crowd was left unmoved. Tears streamed down their faces as they watched their darling mourning, with sombre dignity, the family that had been so cruelly wrenched from him by the two people whom they hated most: Tiberius and Sejanus. The Senate had watched on, stony-faced, as he pulled this theatrical coup, knowing that, because of the guilt that they bore from their complicity with the murders of the imperial family, they had once again been sidelined. In a final insult to Antonia he had forbidden her to attend.

Not satisfied with the adulation he received from the people when he appeared at the circus or in the Forum, Caligula had taken to being carried around the city in an open litter throwing coinage left and right while displaying to the crowd, at their behest, his huge penis — rumour of which had quickly travelled around Rome after its first public display at Balbus’ tavern.

Vespasian had been obliged to participate in many of the extravaganzas in his capacity as a middle-ranking Roman magistrate and friend of the Emperor and had been sickened by their extravagance. He had shared in a banquet for hundreds of senators, equites and their wives where each man had been given a new toga, each woman a new palla, and the gustatio had been of solid gold shaped as food, which the guests had been allowed to keep; he had watched with disgust — but had also taken part in — the fawning thanks that the guests had given their host. He had sat in the circus all day as four hundred bears and another four hundred assorted wild beasts were slaughtered in a spectacle that was, even by Rome’s standards, excessive. Forced to endure it, thanks to Caligula’s new policy of punishing severely anyone of importance who either left early or failed to turn up, Vespasian had watched pretending, with self-preserving sycophancy, to enjoy it, while the crowd cheered their benefactor who officiated over the blood-bath in the imperial enclosure surrounded by the priests of Augustus and being masturbated by his sisters and the most skilful courtesans in Rome.

Vespasian had had enough but there was nothing that he could do; he was trapped, as was everyone in Rome, and was obliged to share in this compulsory fun forced upon him by a seemingly deranged emperor supported by the blades of a loyal, well-rewarded Praetorian Guard.

A soft voice from behind him disturbed his grim thoughts. ‘I thought that I’d find you here.’

He turned to see Caenis in the doorway; her eyes were red and rimmed with tears.

‘Caenis, what’s wrong?’ he asked, walking over to her.

‘My mistress sent me to find you, you must come at once.’

‘Of course. What’s happening?’

‘She wants to say goodbye.’

‘Goodbye? Where’s she going?’

Caenis burst into tears and flung her arms around his neck sobbing. ‘To meet the Ferryman.’

‘I’ve had a succession of people, far more prestigious than you, Vespasian, trying to dissuade me,’ Antonia said, ‘so don’t waste my time or yours; my mind is made up.’

‘But why, domina?’ Vespasian sat opposite Antonia, across her oaken desk in her private room. The lowering sun filtered through the bay window, a shaft hit her face and he could see lines of care and trouble etched around her eyes and mouth; for the first time she looked very old.

‘Because I will not sit by and watch impotently while that fool of a grandson of mine bankrupts the Empire and throws away my family’s hold over it. He ignores my advice and humiliates me in public; I was not even allowed to attend my other grandsons’ interment. I have no control any more. The money is already starting to run out and if he’s to keep buying the love of the mob then he’ll have to find a new supply; the treason trials will start again and the rich and once-powerful will lose their estates so that the poor can be kept in bread and circuses. The Senate will tear itself apart as individuals denounce each other in an effort to stay alive, until what’s left of it will realise that unless something changes they will all die; which is, of course, what Gaius wants. Within three or four years he will be assassinated, and what then? The Guard will choose its own emperor, but who?’

‘Claudius or Tiberius Gemellus, perhaps.’

‘Tiberius Gemellus will be dead before the year is out, Gaius will see to that, but that will be no loss; he has too much of his mother, Livilla, in him. And Claudius, well, who knows? I’ve left this house and as much of my estate to him as possible — the larger part I have left to Gaius to squander — perhaps the money will help Claudius if he is allowed to live, and that is part of the reason why I’m taking my own life. Claudius surprised everybody while he was Consul; he knew all the procedures, prayers and forms of words and very rarely stuttered over them or brought shame on the House; people are looking upon him in a new light. With me alive to support him, Gaius will see him as a threat and will most certainly have him killed, but with me dead there is a chance that he will carry on regarding him as an object of fun and worth keeping alive just for the amusement of it.

‘My freedmen and — women will naturally transfer their allegiance to Claudius so Caenis will have a patron not a master, as I’ve freed her in my will.’

Vespasian’s eyes widened, the moment for which he had longed for eleven years had finally arrived; yet it had come in such bleak circumstances.

‘This is one reason why I have called you here, Vespasian; Caenis is like a daughter to me and I need to know that she will be safe, you must look after her for me.’

‘Of course, domina, but how can I do that if she’s living under Claudius’ roof?’

‘She won’t be; Claudius isn’t strong enough to resist Caligula if he should send the Guard to fetch her for him. If Caligula asks you about her, tell him that she has gone to Egypt with Felix to help him with my affairs there. I offered that she should do just that but she wanted to remain here, so I have bought her a house on the Quirinal very close to your uncle’s; take her there tonight once I am gone. She will be safe enough if she stays inside; only you, Pallas and I know of it.’

‘I will, domina, and thank you, you’re most generous.’

Antonia smiled. ‘It is a gift for Caenis, not for you, although I assume that you will benefit from it. For you I have something else, but first I have a request.’

‘Anything you ask, domina.’

Antonia chuckled wryly, accentuating her care-lines. ‘I would never say that again if I were you, Vespasian, you may find yourself unable to keep your word.’

Vespasian flushed.

The chuckle turned into a laugh. ‘And letting your feelings play on your face like that is something that you need to start controlling. But no more advice, time is short.

‘Gaius has kept his word to Macro and has promised him Egypt but not until next year, once he feels completely secure in Rome. This comes as no surprise as he still seems to be bedding Ennia as part of his busy sexual schedule. However, even though his new wife died in childbirth in January he’s showing no sign of wanting to make Ennia his empress as he had promised. I believe that this is because he has become frightened of Macro; he’s realised that just as Macro made him emperor he could easily take it away. You must exploit this fear; play on it anytime that you can. I have asked Clemens to do the same thing; he has always been loyal to Gaius and I think that Gaius may soon come to realise that he would be much safer with his friend Clemens as his Praetorian prefect rather than his potential rival Macro. If that could come about, then it would be just a question of convincing Clemens that Gaius is unfit to rule and the Guard should kill him.’

‘You’re asking me to help bring about your grandson’s death?’

‘Someone’s got to before he goes completely mad and brings down Rome. When that comes to pass Claudius must be made emperor; I have charged Pallas with keeping him out of trouble and to make sure that he doesn’t dabble in politics and continues playing the fool.’

‘And if he’s not successful, what then?’

‘There will be another civil war.’ Antonia pulled open a drawer and withdrew a sheathed sword, which she looked at fondly. ‘This belonged to my father, Marcus Antonius. Just before he used it to commit suicide in Alexandria he wrote a letter to Augustus asking that he should return it to me so that I could pass it on to my future son. Augustus granted his erstwhile brother-in-law and friend’s dying wish and brought it back to Rome for me. When Germanicus came of age I gave it to him and he used it to subdue the Germanic tribes and to push back the Parthians. After he too died his wife, Agrippina, wanted to pass it onto her eldest son, Nero Caesar. I refused her, saying that I would decide which of my grandsons most deserved it — it would be the one that I considered would make the best Emperor. For a while I thought that I would give it to Gaius but then as his brothers were killed off I began to see his true nature, so I withheld it and I’m pleased that I did; he dishonours his great-grandfather’s memory.

‘In a short time I will use this sword to open my veins; when I am dead Caenis will bring it to you. It will be yours. Remember that it was borne by two of the greatest men of our age — use it well and perhaps you will live up to them.’

‘Thank you, domina.’

‘Now go and wait in the atrium for Caenis while she helps me to leave this world. Pallas will then show you both to her new house; take Magnus with you so that he knows where it is and after that it’s up to you and him as to whether she lives in safety or in fear. Goodbye, Vespasian, and bear my father’s sword in a manner worthy of him.’

Vespasian took one last look at the most powerful woman in Rome, in awe at the way that she could still try to order matters from even beyond the grave. Yet for all her political adroitness in life she had been unable to ensure that she went to that grave naturally. The power that she had sought for her family had been concentrated into the one person over whom she had no control: her grandson Caligula. This sudden departure from life — although, Vespasian reflected, it was no more sudden than any death — was her only chance to wrest that power back and place it into the hands of the son she had always despised: Claudius. The irony was bitter and Vespasian could tell from her saddened, green eyes that it was not lost on Antonia.

‘Goodbye, domina, and thank you for the favour that you’ve shown me.’ With a nod of his head he turned and left the room.

The day was fading and Vespasian had been waiting for more than an hour when Caenis, Pallas and Felix finally appeared. Tears rolled down their cheeks as they walked towards him through the atrium whose very air seemed heavy with grief; the whole household had come to a standstill as the mistress had bled to death in her bath.

‘She’s gone,’ Caenis sobbed, offering Vespasian Marcus Antonius’ sword with both hands. ‘This is now yours, my love.’

Vespasian took the sword by its tightly bound red-leather hilt and drew it from its scabbard; the weight was perfect and the balance exact. A blue shimmer ran down the length of the burnished steeled-iron blade — engraved with its original owner’s name — to the unadorned bronze, oval guard that bore the scars of long-ago parried strokes. The pommel too was of plain bronze and the scabbard was simple tan buck-leather glued onto the wooden case and strengthened by four evenly spaced bronze bands. Despite his grief at the knowledge that it had recently been used to open Antonia’s wrists, Vespasian smiled; this was not a parade-ground soldier’s weapon, this belonged to a fighting man and he understood why Antonia had used it to end her life.

He re-sheathed it with a soft rasp. ‘How did she die?’

‘Nobly,’ Pallas replied, ‘and without fear. She signed her will and Caenis’ and Felix’s documents of manumission and then dictated a couple of letters; she went to her bedroom and prepared herself and then got into the warm pool and…and did it, without hesitation. She lay back with her eyes closed as she bled and then, before she grew too weak to speak, she cursed Caligula before all the gods and the spirits of her ancestors, calling on them to bring him down and to ease Rome’s suffering.’

‘If they would listen to anyone they would listen to her.’ He looked at Caenis and lifted her chin; tears still glistened around her eyes. ‘Stop crying now, Antonia Caenis, you are finally freed.’

Caenis smiled through her tears. ‘Yes, I shall always bear her name to remember her by, she who was a mother to me.’

Vespasian pulled her close and kissed her perfumed hair. The sound of footsteps drew his eyes; they widened in surprise as Magnus walked into the room.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, and then realised that he could guess the answer. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Magnus mumbled, looking bashful.

‘We should go, Vespasian,’ Pallas said, not wishing to dwell on the reason for Magnus’ presence for the sake of his late mistress’s dignity.

‘Yes, we should,’ Vespasian agreed, pleased also to change the subject. He turned to leave.

‘Vespasian, before you go,’ Felix said.

Vespasian looked back at Felix. ‘Congratulations on your liberty, Marcus Antonius Felix.’

Felix smiled at being addressed by his new name. ‘My thanks, Vespasian. My mistress has instructed me to go back to Egypt immediately to wind up her affairs there; it’ll take me a year or so. She also told me that you were trying to get permission to visit; if you’re successful and I can be of service please contact me. The Alabarch will always know where to find me.’

Vespasian nodded his thanks and, putting a protective arm around Caenis, walked towards the door.

Set in a quiet street just three hundred paces from Gaius’ house, Caenis’ new home was small and unobtrusive. Antonia had chosen well, Vespasian reflected as they approached the front door, Caenis would be safe from Caligula here.

‘I shall leave you now,’ Pallas said, pulling the bell chain, ‘I have my mistress’s funeral to attend to.’

Caenis kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Pallas.’

‘Most of your things are already here, the rest I’ll have sent over tomorrow.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Magnus said with a grin, ‘I imagine that I’ll be in the way if I stay. I’ll make arrangements to have one of my lads always watching the street, making sure no one unpleasant is snooping round if you take my meaning?’

The door opened as Magnus and Pallas walked off to reveal the largest Nubian Vespasian had ever seen. ‘Antonia was evidently keen that your door should be well guarded,’ he said, bending down and putting one arm under her knees and the other under her arms to lift her up. ‘This is the nearest that we’ll ever get to me being able to carry you over the threshold.’

Caenis giggled and, taking his face in her hands, kissed him long and passionately. The Nubian politely stepped back and, still kissing, Vespasian carried her into the vestibule and then through to the atrium. A clearing of the throat interrupted them. Vespasian looked up and immediately let go of Caenis’ legs.

‘Good evening, mistress,’ a tall, elderly Egyptian said, bowing low. ‘My name is Menes, I am your steward, and this,’ he indicated to the fifteen slaves in a row behind him, ‘is your household.’

Blushing furiously, Vespasian and Caenis stared at the line of slaves, then at each other and burst out laughing.

Vespasian watched the pillar of grey smoke begin to rise from the Campus Martius, just over a mile away, as he waited in the audience chamber of Augustus’ House along with all the elected magistrates and many of the most senior senators. Caligula had already kept them waiting for more than an hour; on purpose, Vespasian guessed. Gaius shuffled uneasily beside him, trying not to show the vexation that he felt at the sight of the smoke. They had all received a summons, first thing that morning, to attend the Emperor at the third hour and they all knew that it was no coincidence that Antonia’s funeral was due to begin at that time. In causing the most senior men in Rome to be absent from the ceremony Caligula had radically diminished the dignity of the occasion in a final insult to his grandmother; not even her son Claudius had been spared his spite.

The senators began to talk animatedly about any subject other than Antonia as they too saw, through the open windows looking out over the city, the sign that her funeral pyre had been lit. No one wished to be seen appearing displeased at their inability to add their weight to the mourning of the most powerful woman in Rome should their master be secretly watching and listening.

The red and black lacquered, panelled double doors at the far end of the room suddenly opened and all conversations stopped; Caligula entered flanked by Macro and a Praetorian tribune whom Vespasian did not recognise.

Theatrically feigning surprise, Caligula stopped in his tracks and looked past the gathering through one of the windows. ‘There seems to be a fire on the Campus Martius,’ he cried in mock alarm, ‘has anyone called for the Vigiles to put it out?’

The senators rocked with sycophantic laughter led by Macro and the tribune.

Spotting Claudius among the group, bravely laughing with the rest, Caligula added insult to injury. ‘Uncle, you’re the fastest among us, run and alert the Vigiles at once and then report back to me once the fire is out.’

‘At once, P-P-Princeps,’ Claudius replied, breaking into a chaotic series of lurches that passed for running.

Caligula led the raucous laughter as his uncle shambled out of the room. ‘It will have burned itself out by the time that cripple has even managed to stumble down the Palatine,’ he shouted through his mirth.

The sycophancy increased and the laughter rose as if this were the funniest thing anyone had ever said. Caligula’s face was puce and the veins in his neck and temples bulged; genuinely enjoying the joke, he kept laughing uncontrollably for what seemed like an age as the senators’ attempts to keep pace with him grew more and more hollow. Eventually he tired, much to everyone’s relief, and drew himself up.

‘Gentlemen, I have an announcement to make concerning my beloved sisters.’ He stopped and beamed at his audience, evidently relishing what he was going to say. His head twitched violently and he suddenly put his hands up to his temples. Macro went to support him as the gathering drew its collective breath.

‘Get away from me,’ Caligula snapped, regaining his composure and pushing Macro off. ‘Now, where was I? Ah yes, my sisters. From now on they are to be included when an oath of loyalty is…’ With a cry he collapsed to the floor, scrabbling at his head with his hands as if he were trying to pull something out of it.

The senators gasped; Macro immediately knelt down beside him. ‘Chaerea, fetch the doctor,’ he shouted at the Praetorian tribune after a brief look at his master. ‘Get out, all of you, now!’ he shouted.

The sight of the Emperor so physically compromised sent a shiver of fear through the senators and they fled.

‘It looks as if the gods may have listened to Antonia,’ Vespasian mumbled in Gaius’ ear as they crushed through the door.

Whether or not the gods had acted upon Antonia’s curse was debatable, but one thing was certain: they were the main beneficiaries of Caligula’s illness as over the following days the people of Rome sacrificed victims in their tens of thousands for the return to health of the young Emperor. The poor did so out of genuine love, remembering the largesse that he had distributed among them and the lavish games that he had held for their entertainment. The senators and the equestrian order, however, did so out of the fear that all those who had not been seen making sacrifices and offering up prayers would be cruelly dealt with should Caligula recover; so they vied with each other to be the most generous with their offerings, sacrificing their finest bulls, race horses and rams, while the more rash vowed to fight as gladiators if the Emperor recovered. One eques, in a case of reckless sycophancy topping all others, even promised Jupiter to exchange his life for Caligula’s.

Vespasian spent much of the time in the afternoons and evenings with Caenis, enjoying playing man and wife in the new privacy that they had together. In the mornings he attended the Senate, joining in the prayers and sacrifices and sharing with the rest of the House the same outward fervour that Caligula should recover and the same inner desire that he should die and this ghastly episode in Rome’s history could be put behind them. After this daily ritual — no other business being possible through fear of it being construed as being insensible to the Emperor’s wellbeing — the whole Senate, along with the equestrian order, then processed up to the Palatine, past crowds of sombre citizens, to present themselves at Augustus’ House where they received the daily bulletin on the Emperor’s health. Every day the Praetorian tribune, Chaerea, delivered the same message in his unfortunately high and squeaky voice: no change, the Emperor remained drifting in and out of consciousness.

The city was at a standstill; the law courts, theatres and markets were all closed, business transactions suspended and festivals ignored. The only thing still running was the blood that flowed from Rome’s many altars.

‘This is getting ridiculous,’ Vespasian muttered to Gaius as the Senate and the equites gathered outside the Curia for their daily trudge up the Palatine, for the thirtieth day in a row, in a steady, November drizzle. ‘What’s going to happen if he stays ill for another month? The city will start collapsing around us.’

‘It’s the same for everyone, dear boy, nothing’s getting done. A lot of people are losing a lot of money but they would rather that than be seen as someone who made a profit while Caligula lay at death’s door.’

‘Well, I wish that it would open.’

‘Don’t say that too loudly,’ Gaius hissed, ‘especially around this group of unscrupulous sycophants.’

‘Of which we are guilty members.’

‘Hypocrisy, dear boy, can be a life-saving fault.’

Vespasian grunted.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Magnus called, easing his way through the crowd towards them wearing his citizen’s plain white toga.

Vespasian smiled and gripped his friend’s forearm. ‘Are you joining us for our daily ritual?’

‘Bollocks I am. There’s a meeting of the Quirnal and Viminal Brotherhood leaders; we dress up smart to threaten each other. You lot and everyone else may have stopped working but our business carries on.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it; extortion and protection should stop for no man, not even an emperor.’

‘Now, sir, that ain’t fair, we all have to make a living. By the way, aren’t you the road aedile this year?’

‘You know I am.’

Magnus pointed to his feet, covered in mud and ordure with pieces of rotting vegetation sticking to them. ‘I call that a fucking disgrace; some parts of the city are ankle deep in shit — which makes you look stupid.’

Vespasian gestured helplessly. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it. My foremen won’t supervise the public slaves cleaning the streets; they all claim to be too busy making sacrifices to Jupiter and Juno and praying for the Emperor.’

‘Well, while they’re about it perhaps they could sacrifice to the god of arseholes and pray for man and beast to stop shitting as well.’

‘Shhh,’ Gaius hissed with a pained expression on his face, putting a hand up to his mouth and moving away from treasonous talk.

Vespasian grinned. ‘Have you come here just to give me advice on the religious practices of my staff?’

‘No, it’s a bit more serious than that,’ Magnus said, looking around and lowering his voice. ‘There was someone snooping around Caenis’ house this morning for an hour or so, and then he buggered off. One of my lads watching the place followed him to the Aventine; he went into a nice new house on the same street as Sabinus.’ Magnus raised his eyebrows.

‘And?’

‘And after making some enquiries he found out that it belongs to your good friend, Corvinus.’

Vespasian felt a chill crawl through his body. ‘How did he find out about her?’

‘Probably by having you followed, what does it matter? But being as I know that he ain’t too keen on you and yours, I’ve doubled the guard in the street.’

‘Thank you, Magnus.’

‘I wouldn’t worry too much; he just knows that you go there, he won’t know who’s inside. She should be safe enough if she doesn’t go out.’

‘She doesn’t, except to visit my uncle a few score paces away.’

‘If she wants to do that, I suggest that she sends a slave to my lads and they can escort her in a covered litter.’

‘I’ll tell her; thanks.’

‘Yeah, well, it looks like you’re all moving off; I’d best be going. I’ve got more lucrative ways to pass the time rather than worry about the sick, if you take my meaning?’

‘What was that all about?’ Gaius asked, rejoining Vespasian as they began to shuffle out of the Forum.

‘Nothing, Uncle,’ Vespasian mumbled, lost in his thoughts, ‘Magnus has it covered.’

The procession of more than two thousand of the most prestigious men in Rome arrived in front of Augustus’ House. Cassius Chaerea was already waiting under the portico to address them; the smile on his face was enough to tell Vespasian that death had indeed kept its door firmly closed to Caligula.

‘There is at last good news,’ Chaerea announced in his falsetto voice, ‘one hour ago the Emperor made a miraculous recovery; I have just come from his room where he is sitting up in bed and eating. The crisis is over!’

A roar of cheers erupted from the rain-dampened crowd, carrying on until they were almost hoarse. The noise of the celebrations and the news of its cause filtered down from the Palatine and on throughout Rome, and by the time Chaerea was able to speak again the sound of joyous cheering echoed back up the hill from the city below.

‘The Emperor thanks you all for your prayers and sacrifices and bids you to…’ The doors behind him opened and the crowd gasped as Caligula walked out unsteadily but unaided. Unshaven for a month and palpably thinner with his eyes sunk even further in their sockets, he still looked ill and yet there was strength in the way that he held his head. He lifted his arms in the air to the raucous cries of ‘Hail Caesar!’ that greeted him.

Eventually he signalled for silence. ‘It is not your fault,’ he declaimed in a surprisingly loud voice, ‘that you hail me only as your Caesar. You do not know what has happened to me in this past month.’ He indicated to his emaciated body. ‘This body, this weak human body, nearly died as I ravaged it with the agony of transformation. Had it died I would still be here but not as you see me now, because, my flock, I am not only your Emperor, I have now become your god. Worship me!’

At this stunning piece of news and outrageous order a few of the more quick-thinking senators immediately pulled folds of their togas over their heads, as if officiating at a religious ceremony. The rest of the gathering quickly followed their example and Caligula burst out laughing as he surveyed the crowd that was now swathed from head to toe in wool.

‘You are truly my sheep; what a shearing we shall have. I believe one of you was good enough to offer his life to my brother Jupiter in return for mine; who was this noble sheep?’

‘It was I, Princeps,’ a voice oozing with pride came from behind Vespasian, who turned to see a well-built young eques smiling smugly at those around him, pleased to be the object of the Emperor’s attention.

‘What is your name, good sheep?’

‘Publius Afranius Potitus, Princeps.’

‘What are you doing here, Potitus? Don’t keep Jupiter waiting; we gods expect promptness.’

Potitus’ face fell as the hope of reward was replaced by the hideous realisation that Caligula was in earnest. He looked around at his companions for aid, but how could they countermand an order from their new god? They moved away, leaving him isolated in their midst. His shoulders sagged and he turned without a word.

‘What a good sheep he was,’ Caligula said, grinning approvingly as Potitus trudged away to his unnecessary death. ‘Now that I’m back among you the business of the city shall resume and the Plebeian Games, which should have begun five days ago, will commence immediately; all those of you who swore to fight as gladiators in return for my health will get the chance to fulfil your oath in the arena tomorrow.’

‘Save him, Caesar! Save him, Caesar!’ the twenty-thousand-strong crowd filling the stone-built Statilius Taurus Amphitheatre on the Campus Martius chanted in unison. An all-pervading stench of urine filled the atmosphere from where people — for fear of losing their seat should they go outside — had relieved themselves where they sat, so that it trickled down to be soaked up by the tunic of the person sitting below them on the stepped-stone seating.

The victorious retiarius, the last man standing in what had been a six-man free-for-all, kept the points of his trident firmly pressed on the throat of his last defeated opponent, a secutor entangled in a net, and looked up at the Emperor. Vespasian glanced over at Caligula, sitting next to Drusilla, in the imperial box adjacent to the senators’ seats, and wondered if he would grant the crowd’s wish; he had on every other occasion during the long four days of combat, but they had always been demands for death.

Caligula removed his fingers from the anus of a youth kneeling between him and his sister and extended it forward, still clenched in the signal for mercy, tilting his head against his shoulder. The crowd’s applause at their Emperor’s clemency turned to jeers as his thumb suddenly jutted up in mimicry of an unsheathed sword: the sign for death.

The summa rudis — the referee — withdrew his long staff from across the retiarius’s chest, who then pulled back to allow his opponent the dignity of a gladiator’s death, kneeling on one knee before his vanquisher rather than lying like a wounded stag on the reddened arena sand.

The crowd’s fury at their wish to spare a gladiator who had put up a brave fight escalated as the secutor, once free of the net, grasped his opponent’s thigh in preparation for the killing stroke. The retiarius dropped the trident and unsheathed his long, thin knife and placed it, point down, on the secutor’s throat just above his collar bone. With a nod of his head, completely encased in a smooth bronze rimless helmet with two small eye-holes in the face mask, the doomed man consented to the knife. As the two men tensed for the ritual killing the staff of the summa rudis abruptly slammed across the retiarius’s chest, stopping him.

The crowd fell suddenly silent. All eyes turned to Caligula, who sat laughing hysterically, his thumb now pressed down on his clenched fingers representing a sheathed sword: the sign of mercy. ‘I fooled you all!’ he shouted through his mirth. ‘Did you really think that I, I who have the wellbeing of all of you in my heart, wouldn’t grant your wish? Of course I would.’

The crowd burst into laughter, enjoying the joke that their Emperor had played on them. The retiarius withdrew the knife and the secutor started to hyperventilate in relief.

Vespasian glanced again in Caligula’s direction and saw his face suddenly change into a contorted mask of anger. He leapt to his feet and screamed for silence.

‘But you jeered at me,’ he shrieked, ‘as if you didn’t love me. Me! Your god and Emperor jeered at by you. How dare you! I wish you had one communal throat then I would slit it. You must be taught that from now on you will worship me and love me; I will have my statue placed in every temple to remind you of that, not only here in Rome but also around the Empire.’ He paused and looked mournfully about him. ‘I can give but I can also take away; I will no longer grant your wish.’ He punched his clenched fist out with his thumb extended.

The crowd remained silent as the two gladiators took up the killing stance once more. The thrust of the knife down into the heart and the resulting spray of blood were not greeted with cheers and multiple ejaculations but, rather, a deflated sullenness. The retiarius saluted the imperial box and walked towards the gates leading down to the gladiators’ cells with his trident and net raised in the air; no one acknowledged his victory.

Caligula beckoned Macro, seated behind him, to come closer. He whispered something in the prefect’s ear while pointing to an area of the crowd. A brief argument ensued before Macro, visibly angry, left his seat and spoke to Chaerea who stood by the entrance to the imperial box. Caligula reinserted his fingers petulantly into the catamite and turned his attention back to the arena while Drusilla fondly stroked the lad’s hair as if he were a pet. Chaerea left the box.

Down on the sand the carrion-man, dressed as Charon the Ferryman, bald-headed and robed in black, stalked around the dead checking for signs of life by pressing a red-hot poker to their genitals; once satisfied that a man was dead he removed his helmet and, with a heavy mallet cracked open his skull to release his spirit. This ritual complete, the bodies were dragged off for burial and the sand was raked and replaced in areas to get rid of the blood.

The crowd’s mood began to lighten as they started to look forward to the next part of the spectacle, which had been advertised as four of the equites who had been rash enough to promise to fight in the arena on Caligula’s return to health all pitched together in a fight to the death. A murmur of interest went around the amphitheatre as the gates opened and, instead of seeing four gladiators, the crowd heard the roar of beasts; a dozen hungry-looking lions tore into the arena goaded on by slaves waving flaming torches behind them. The gates closed leaving the lions alone on the sand. The crowd, knowing that lions would not fight each other and that their convict-victims or the bestiarii who would fight them were always in the arena first, began to wonder just who or what the lions were meant to kill.

The clatter of hobnailed sandals on the stone steps of two of the entrances to the seating area soon provided the answer. A half-century of sword-brandishing Praetorian Guardsmen stormed in, causing panic in the crowd nearby. Within a few heartbeats they had surrounded twenty spectators in the front row of the section to which Caligula had pointed. Behind them the crush of people desperate to escape the same fate that they guessed was in store for their hapless fellows caused many to be trampled underfoot amid a cacophony of screaming. The lions’ roars tore over the screams as the first two of the victims were hurled, begging for their lives, into the arena. The men had not even hit the ground before great claws ripped at their flesh, knocking them sideways, spinning through the air as if they were dolls, towards open jaws with bared teeth that were soon stained with their blood.

The Praetorians made short work of throwing the rest of their prisoners to the lions; most were set upon immediately, throats torn out or limbs dismembered or disembowelled, but half a dozen or so managed to run from the carnage — except there was nowhere to hide. To Vespasian’s amazement the sections of the crowd unaffected by the Praetorians’ actions began to laugh and cheer as the escapees were pursued around the oval arena by lions more intent on the thrill of the chase than of feasting on the mangled carcasses. He turned again to look at Caligula, who sat with a grim smile of satisfaction on his face, working his fingers in and out of the catamite while masturbating vigorously. As the last of the victims was torn apart, the crowd roared their approval; they loved him again.

Vespasian sat through the rest of the day knowing that to try to leave, which used to annoy Caligula before his illness, could well prove fatal now that he seemed to have completely lost his sanity. Eventually the final life ebbed into the blood-soaked sand and Caligula stood to depart, accepting the adulation of the mob as he did so. Vespasian hurried out with the rest of the senators, none of them wanting to catch each other’s eye for fear of having to pass comment on what they had witnessed.

He emerged into the street and turned to walk briskly home.

‘There he is!’ he heard Caligula shout from close by. ‘Macro, have him brought to me.’

Vespasian turned to see Chaerea and two Praetorians pushing through the crowd; with a sickening feeling in his stomach he realised that they were heading towards him. To run would have been pointless, so he allowed the Guards to escort him to Caligula, who was almost in tears.

‘I thought that you were my friend,’ he sobbed, shaking his head as if he could not believe how the situation had changed. Drusilla held a consoling arm around him.

‘I am, Princeps,’ Vespasian replied, wondering just what he had done.

Caligula pointed to the ground. ‘Then how do you explain this?’

Vespasian looked down; the street was covered with filth from where it had not been cleaned for the month-long duration of Caligula’s illness.

‘This is my city,’ Caligula stated in a pitiful voice, ‘and my friend is in charge of keeping the streets clean. Oh Drusilla, he’s let me down.’

Drusilla wiped a tear from the corner of her brother’s eye and licked it off her finger.

‘I’m sorry, Princeps; it was just while you were…’

‘Oh, it’s my fault, is it?’

‘No, no, it’s completely mine.’

‘You should have him prosecuted,’ Macro said venomously, ‘it’s almost treason to be so negligent in one’s duties.’

‘Stop presuming to tell me what to do, prefect. Chaerea, have your men scoop up some of this filth and pile it into the aedile’s toga.’

Vespasian stood still as handful after handful of the foul-smelling muck was slopped into the fold of his toga. ‘I will have it remedied tomorrow, Princeps.’

‘No, you will not, you’re quite evidently not up to it, I’ll find someone else to do it.’ He glared at Vespasian and then suddenly smiled. ‘Besides, my friend, I’ve got something for you to do for me.’ His train of thought abruptly changed and he turned to Macro. ‘Where was my cousin Gemellus today? Why wasn’t he celebrating my transformation?’

‘I’ve heard that he has a bad cough, Princeps.’

‘A cough, eh? Or perhaps he just wishes that I wasn’t here any more and doesn’t want to see me in my glory. What do you think, Vespasian?’

‘It must be a cough, no one would wish for your death.’

‘Hmm, I suppose you’re right. Nevertheless I think we should cure him of his cough, don’t you?’

Vespasian did his best to hide his thoughts, mindful of Antonia’s last piece of advice, knowing that to disagree could be fatal for him but to agree would be fatal for Gemellus. ‘Perhaps it will go with time, Princeps.’

Caligula stared at Vespasian uncomprehendingly. ‘Time? Time? No, time goes too slowly. Chaerea, go and cure my cousin of his cough; permanently.’

‘Is that wise, Princeps?’ Macro asked. ‘Gemellus is very popular with the youth.’

‘Then his funeral will be well attended,’ Caligula snapped. ‘That’s the second time today that you’ve questioned me, Macro, don’t let there be a third. Now get out of my sight.’

Macro opened his mouth to argue, then, thinking better of it, bowed his head and walked away.

‘What are you still doing here, Chaerea?’ Caligula shouted. ‘Didn’t I give you an order?’

Chaerea snapped a salute and, keeping his face neutral, turned and led his men off.

Caligula closed his eyes slowly, drew a luxurious breath and kissed Drusilla on the mouth. ‘Isn’t she beautiful, Vespasian? I will have a theatre built in the Forum so that I can display her properly. Would you like to be displayed, my sweet?’

‘If it pleases you, dearest Gaius,’ Drusilla simpered, tracing the outline of his lips with her finger.

Caligula looked lovingly at her and stroked her throat. ‘Just think, Drusilla, I could have this pretty throat slit any time I want.’

Drusilla sighed with ecstasy. ‘Any time you want, dearest Gaius.’

Caligula licked her throat and then put his arm around Vespasian’s shoulder in a friendly fashion and began to walk him away, much to Vespasian’s relief. ‘I have a problem, my friend, it’s like a persistent itch but if I scratch it I know that it’ll get worse, but I must rid myself of it.’

‘Surely you can do anything you want,’ Vespasian replied, adjusting his arm to take the weight of the filth piled in his toga’s fold.

‘I can, but sometimes there might be a consequence that not even I can control.’

‘What consequences?’

‘I’ve tired of Macro’s wife and I’ve tired of him, he’s started to give me advice. Before my transformation he actually told me that it was not fitting for an emperor to laugh loudly at a joke in a play; it was Plautus, how can you not laugh at Plautus?’

‘Impossible.’

‘Precisely. And now today he questioned me; so he must go.’

‘But the consequence would be upsetting the Guard.’

‘Oh my friend, how well you understand me, that is the consequence; if only I could kill them all. What do you advise me to do?’

Vespasian thought for a few moments, wondering if giving Caligula advice would prove as fatal for him as it was going to be for Macro. ‘If he’s not the Praetorian prefect, then the Guard won’t feel threatened.’

Caligula turned to him with a pained expression on his face as if he were dealing with a retarded child. ‘But he is the Praetorian prefect, you idiot, and if I try and remove him it would have the same consequence.’

‘You don’t have to remove him, he’s already asked to be removed and you, in your wisdom, have already granted it.’

‘Have I? Oh good. When?’

‘The moment the sailing season opens up again in the spring.’

Caligula frowned. ‘Stop talking in riddles.’

‘Princeps, you have very cleverly promised Macro the province of Egypt. The moment he sets foot on the ship in Ostia he will be prefect of Egypt, not prefect of the Praetorian Guard.’

Caligula beamed with understanding and slapped Vespasian on the shoulder. ‘And I could have him killed then without fear of the consequence.’

‘You could, but wouldn’t it be better if you ordered him to commit suicide? That way there could be no possibility of anyone being accused of murder.’

‘Oh, how fortunate I am to have a friend like you, Vespasian. You will tell me what the expression was like on his face after you’ve told him, won’t you?’