False God of Rome

CHAPTER XVI

The small flame sputtered into life illuminating five bronze statuettes, standing on the lararium, representing Caenis’ household gods; the reflected glow played on their polished forms giving them the ethereal quality of the deities they symbolised. Vespasian placed a fold of his toga over his head as Caenis set the oil lamp down onto the altar and took her place beside him; behind them stood the household slaves faintly lit by a small fire in the hearth next to the lararium — the only other light in the atrium.

Vespasian poured a wine libation onto the altar and sprinkled a handful of salt into the puddle before spreading his arms and turning his palms upwards. ‘I call upon the lares domestici — or whatever name by which you would like to be called — to ensure that I and my household enjoy what we already have in good health, just as you have done for me before; and that you preserve us and this day safe from all dangers, if there are or shall be any on this day. If you grant a favourable outcome in the matter that we deem that we are speaking of and you preserve us in this present condition or better — and may you so do these things — then I vow that you shall have, in the name of this household, the tokens of our gratitude after the setting of the sun. Nothing more do I ask.’

Caenis then turned to the fire and completed the female part of the morning ritual by offering up a prayer to Vesta, goddess of the hearth, and throwing sweet-smelling incense into the flames. Vespasian watched her, as he had done every morning for the past six months, with an ache in his heart as she performed the duties of the wife that she could never be to him.

The morning prayers complete, the household slaves dispersed to their various duties as pale light seeped in through the windows looking out to the peristylium announcing the beginning of another cold, early April day.

Vespasian pulled the fold of his toga from his head and adjusted it around his shoulders. ‘Our household gods will have another busy day ahead of them,’ he observed with a wry smile. ‘Caligula’s due to inaugurate the theatre that he’s had built in the Forum to display Drusilla to the mob and he wants me and a few others of his “friends” to be present; he said that he might want us to lend a hand. If the large bed with purple sheets in the middle of the stage is anything to go by, then I believe that it’ll be more than just a hand we’ll be having to lend.’

‘Then don’t go, my love.’

Vespasian looked at her with raised eyebrows. ‘You know that he can’t be refused, so don’t make unhelpful suggestions.’

Caenis smiled sorrowfully. ‘I’m sorry, I should know better; it’s because he can’t be refused that apart from a couple of visits to your uncle’s house I’ve not set foot out of here since you carried me over the threshold.’

Vespasian looked deep into her sad eyes, beautifully set off by a necklace of clear, blue-glass cylindrical beads that shimmered softly around her throat in the pale light. He sympathised with her frustration at her virtual captivity, but, although Caligula believed her to be in Egypt and Magnus’ brothers had not reported any more sightings of Corvinus’ man or any other suspicious goings on, he still felt it best to keep her inside. He kissed her.

A loud knock at the door cut through the moment; the huge Nubian opened up and Aenor came nervously through the vestibule into the atrium and stood waiting to be spoken to.

‘What does my uncle want, Aenor?’

‘He has asked that you should come to his house at once, master,’ the young German slave boy replied in his guttural accent.

‘Did he give a reason?’

‘He said to tell you that there was an important person waiting to see you there.’

‘Who?’

Aenor scrunched up his face in an effort to remember the exact title that he had been told to pass on. ‘The prefect of the Praetorian Guard.’

It was with great trepidation that Vespasian entered his uncle’s house, passing through the cluster of clients, with their breath steaming in the cold, dawn air, waiting outside to greet their patron. He had allayed Caenis’ fears that he was to be arrested with the logical argument that it would be beneath the prefect’s dignitas to come in person to apprehend a junior senator. Nevertheless he felt a sense of foreboding as he stepped through the vestibule and into the atrium.

‘Ah, there you are, dear boy,’ Gaius boomed in a cheerful voice that betrayed no concern. He was sitting by the hearth with Clemens; both were munching on wrinkled winter apples. ‘Have you breakfasted?’

‘Yes, thank you, Uncle. Good morning, Clemens.’

‘Good morning, Vespasian; the Emperor has sent me.’

Vespasian looked around the room, confused. ‘Where’s Macro?’

Gaius burst out laughing. ‘What did I tell you, Clemens? He spends too much time in that nest of honey and delight; he hasn’t heard.’

‘Heard what?’ Vespasian asked testily.

‘I’m sorry, dear boy, that was my idea of a joke getting you here thinking that Macro was waiting. The Emperor formally relieved Macro of his position yesterday evening, and he’s due to sail for Egypt today to take up his post as prefect there.’

Vespasian glanced at Clemens; a look of understanding spread across his face and he smiled. ‘And you’re the new prefect of the Guard?’

‘One of them,’ Clemens confirmed. ‘However, the Emperor has decided to go back to Augustus’ principle of having two prefects, so I share the position with Lucius Arruntius Stella.’

‘It would appear that our Emperor is not as mad as he seems,’ Gaius said, having got his mirth under control, ‘he’s appointed two prefects who hate each other. That should weaken the Guard, eh, Clemens?’

‘It will certainly create two factions.’

‘And make it twice as likely that a prefect will move against him,’ Vespasian observed. ‘Not that I would suspect you of disloyalty, Clemens — yet.’

Clemens looked worried. ‘With Clementina due back in Rome with Sabinus this summer who knows what cause for disloyalty I may have if Caligula puts his mind to having her?’

‘Then Sabinus should keep her safe out at Aquae Cutillae, as you do your wife at Pisaurum.’

‘Not any more; Caligula ordered me to call her back and bring her to dinner at the palace. There was his new wife, Lolia Paulina, plus twelve other women present, all wives of his guests. He arrived dressed as Apollo and went round feeling each one and then chose two — not Julia, thankfully — and took them to bed while their husbands had to carry on eating as if nothing were happening. When he reappeared with them he started to compare and contrast with the unfortunate husbands the strengths and weaknesses in their wives’ sexual performances. It was excruciating; the two women were obliged to recline there as if the conversation was the most natural thing in the world. Then he ordered Lolia to strip naked so that he could give everyone a practical demonstration of some of the finer points of his arguments.’

‘I’d not heard about that,’ Gaius said, looking horrified.

‘You wouldn’t have; it was last night at the banquet to celebrate Macro’s new position, which was ironic in itself considering what Caligula has sent me here for.’

Vespasian groaned. ‘Oh, I’d hoped that he’d forgotten about that.’

‘If you mean about your offer to be the man who orders Macro to commit suicide as he gets on the ship today, then no he hasn’t.’

‘I didn’t offer, I just suggested that if he wanted to get rid of Macro then that would be the best time, place and way to do it.’

‘Well, however it came about that’s what he wants you to do, and I’ve got to escort you with a turma of my cavalry to make sure that Macro obeys the order.’

‘You do get yourself into some unpleasant situations, dear boy.’

‘That’s not a helpful observation, Uncle,’ Vespasian replied tersely.

‘No, but it’s a pertinent one.’

‘Have you got the warrant?’ Vespasian asked Clemens, ignoring Gaius’ remark.

‘No; we’re to go to his Drusilla theatre; he said he’d see us there, after the show, as he put it, which doesn’t bode well.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’ Vespasian got to his feet with a sigh. ‘Well, if I’ve got to do this then I might as well do it properly; I’ve just got to fetch something from my room before we go, Clemens.’

Caligula’s new theatre was not built on as grand a scale as he would have liked but this was for practical reasons; the semicircular structure filled the area between the Rostrum and the Temple of Saturn with its stage set hard against the steps of the Temple of Concordia, almost prohibiting access. However, it did hold over two thousand spectators who were thoroughly enjoying the show, much to the bemusement and disgust of Vespasian and the others of the senatorial order who had been forced to attend. In a humiliation of the Senate Caligula had dispensed with their reserved seating and they were forced to sit among the urban rabble. They had cheered as Caligula, dressed as Hercules in a golden lion-skin and brandishing a golden club, had slowly disrobed his sister. They had cheered louder as he had put her through a series of gymnastic poses, each designed to explicitly show off the female form. And then they had cheered even louder as he began to take her through a succession of sexual acts on the enormous, purple-sheeted bed, while she howled like a harpy.

‘Bring me my gladiators,’ Caligula shouted, pulling himself out of Drusilla, who knelt on the bed before him and then fell onto her belly, breathing deeply.

Vespasian was relieved to see four oiled, naked gladiators, an Ethiopian and three Celts, all at the peak of physical condition, striding onto the stage. He had been dreading a summons to join in the obscenity being acted out before him and now felt confident that his services would not be required.

‘This is going to be worse than you think,’ Clemens whispered in his ear as Drusilla turned her attention to the new arrivals clustered round her with an urgency and greed born out of uninhibited and shameless lust.

‘How can it be worse?’

‘You’ll see. I’ve got archers stationed around the theatre to make sure that nothing happens to Caligula — he was concerned about letting one of the gladiators have a sword so close to him in the finale.’

Hardly able to believe his eyes, Vespasian watched in mounting horror as the siblings created a scene with three of the gladiators of such carnality that it made Caligula’s behaviour in the circus with the catamite seem almost acceptable. The tangle of bodies began to writhe with escalating fervour, matched by the increasing clamour of the crowd, until reaching such a pinnacle of ecstasy that they were no longer aware of their surroundings. At this point a Praetorian walked onto the stage and handed a sword to the unoccupied fourth gladiator and then gave a signal towards the back of the theatre. Vespasian looked around and saw that archers were now standing at intervals behind the spectators; all had their bows drawn and were aiming at the newly armed man as he approached, from behind, the Ethiopian gladiator servicing Caligula. Sensing imminent blood the roar of the crowd, already deafening, swelled to ear-splitting proportions. Down on the stage, Caligula raised his fists to his shoulders and flapped his arms in imitation of a cockerel’s wings and then slumped down onto his sister’s back. Grasping Caligula’s hips, the Ethiopian threw his head back and let out a roar, unheard over the din of the crowd, of satisfaction; it was the last sound he ever made. With a lightning flash the fourth gladiator swept his head from his shoulders, sending it spinning into the audience, and releasing a powerful jet of crimson blood, shooting from his torso, high up into the air to splatter down on Caligula and Drusilla. Once the blood had stopped raining down on them Caligula reached back and pushed the decapitated corpse out of him; it crumpled to the floor. The executioner raised his sword in a gladiator’s salute to the crowd and was instantaneously struck by a dozen well-aimed arrows that hurled him back as if he had been yanked by an invisible rope. Seemingly oblivious of this development, Caligula and Drusilla were staring lovingly into each other’s eyes as they rubbed blood over one another. The two surviving gladiators rose warily to their feet, looking anxiously at the archers who had reloaded and were now aiming at them.

‘He was stupid,’ Clemens shouted in Vespasian’s ear, ‘he had been warned to drop the sword as soon as he’d cut off the other man’s head; if he’d listened he wouldn’t be dead. The other two will be fine so long as they don’t go near the sword.’

Vespasian could not think of anything to say and just stared dumbfounded between the Emperor and his sister smearing blood over their bodies and the crowd who had started to play catch with the decapitated gladiator’s head. Where was the honour? What had happened to dignitas? Was this to be the tone of the new age, filth and degradation until the Phoenix returned in five hundred years? And yet this was the Rome that he had worked for in his support for Antonia; this was the Rome that she had unwittingly preserved while keeping her family in power. He had seen it in its infancy on Capreae in the court of Tiberius. He had seen the debauched Emperor’s ‘fishies’ — dwarves and children copulating freely in the water — and had heard Caligula describe them as fun. He had witnessed Caligula’s behaviour with his sisters and knew that incest was committed regularly; he had watched Caligula enjoy his troupe of dwarves and seen him service whore after whore in a public tavern. He had hoped that these were the heights of his excesses; but no, they had just been eclipsed. Vespasian feared then that the height had not yet been achieved.

Eventually the siblings came out of their private world; Caligula rose to his feet and signalled for silence. ‘Who has the head?’

A young man dressed in a threadbare tunic and worn cloak held up the grisly item by an ear. ‘I do, Caesar.’

‘Then you win the game and one thousand aurei when you bring it to me.’

The young man’s neighbours immediately set upon him, each desperate for such a sum that would raise them out of poverty for life. Caligula laughed and the fight quickly spread as more and more people tried to get close to the prize; he turned on his heel and offered his hand to his sister. Naked and red with blood, the two siblings walked from the stage, with heads held high, at a sedate pace as if they were a newlywed couple from an old and dignified patrician family making their way to the bridal feast. Behind them they left escalating chaos and death.

‘We had better present ourselves to him now,’ Clemens said, ‘he was most insistent that we come and see him immediately after the…the…’ He left the last word hanging and waved his hand vaguely towards the stage as if he could not find the right way to describe what they had just witnessed.

Vespasian understood his difficulty perfectly.

‘Wasn’t she wonderful?’ Caligula enthused, licking blood from Drusilla’s face as Vespasian and Clemens were ushered into his presence. They were standing in the centre of a pavilion of soft, purple fabric that let the sun’s rays gently through. ‘And was I not more potent than that mere demi-god Hercules?’

Looking at Caligula, Vespasian found it hard to find any similarities between the spindly legged Emperor and the immensely strong Hero. He tried to banish from his mind everything that he had seen and concentrated on keeping his face neutral. ‘You outshone every one of the gods with your prowess, Princeps,’ he lied blatantly in his most reverential voice, ‘we mere mortals can only dream of stamina and vigour like you possess.’

‘Yes,’ Caligula agreed with a sympathetic look, ‘your women must be very disappointed; it’s no wonder that Caenis has spent so much time in Egypt. When’s she due back?’

‘I don’t know, Princeps. I believe that you require a service of me?’ Vespasian replied, anxious to change the subject.

Caligula cocked his head, looking momentarily confused; he ran a hand through his matted hair. ‘A service? I always require service.’ He snapped his fingers and Callistus brought forward a scroll that he handed, with much bowing, to his master. ‘Macro and that slut wife of his, Ennia, are due to leave for Ostia at midday. I want you and Clemens to be at the port waiting for them to give them this; they should find it fairly self-explanatory.’ He handed the scroll to Vespasian and looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments. ‘I think that you should be a praetor next year; I like my friends to do well.’

‘If you believe me to be worthy of it, thank you, Princeps,’ Vespasian replied, hiding his unease at the thought of not being able to leave Rome for a whole year with Caligula out of control.

Caligula slapped him on the back and started to lead him from the pavilion. ‘Of course you’re worthy, your god and Emperor deems you so.’

A roar from the crowd gathered at the entrance greeted them as they emerged into the sun-lit Forum. Caligula — still naked, still sticky with gore — spread his arms and acknowledged them before taking Vespasian’s hand and raising it. ‘This man is about to do a great service for me and for Rome,’ he called out. The crowd quietened to hear his words better. ‘His name is Titus Flavius Vespasianus and despite being a senator he is favoured by me.’

Vespasian tensed his face into a strained smile and managed to hold himself with dignity as the crowd cheered.

‘That’s enough,’ Caligula shouted; he turned to Vespasian as the noise died down and looked suddenly surprised. ‘What are you still doing here? Go on, get on with it.’

‘Yes, Princeps.’

‘What about an afternoon’s racing, Caesar?’ a voice from the crowd called out as Vespasian and Clemens turned to leave.

‘What an excellent idea,’ Caligula replied enthusiastically. ‘I shall summon the racing factions to the circus immediately, the racing will start in two hours and we shall see my new horse, Incitatus, race for the first time, so make sure that you bet on the Greens in the first race.’

Vespasian looked at Clemens as they tried to battle their way through the horde of people surging across the Forum to get the best seats in the Circus Maximus. ‘Now he’s going to spend even more money on a day’s racing because of a whim. After what we’ve seen today, Clemens, how’s your loyalty?’

‘Under strain,’ Clemens admitted.

Gulls quarrelled with each other as they soared overhead on a warm breeze blowing in from the gently swelling sea; it thrummed stays and sheets and caused the timbers of the large assortment of bobbing trading ships, straining on their moorings at busy stone quays and wooden jetties, to groan and creak.

Vespasian and Clemens sat on a couple of barrels eating a meal of dried fruit and meat in the shade of a flapping awning. Neither spoke, both being busy with their own thoughts. A few paces away a tubby merchant inspected his newly arrived cargo of Egyptian enamelled-glass bowls and drinking vessels that had been recently offloaded from the large trader due to sail back to Egypt, with Macro aboard, later that day. Evidently unhappy about the state of some of his shipment, the merchant began a tirade of abuse at the ship’s master that was met with a great deal of shrugging and waving of hands until the port aedile arrived to adjudicate. Just behind the arguing group the business of reprovisioning the vessel and loading the freight destined for Egypt carried on apace; a quick turnaround being vital to maximise the profits from the voyage. In the low-margin business of merchant shipping, time, as ever, was money and a prolonged stay in Ostia with its high port tax would not be something that the ship’s owner would thank the master for upon his return to Alexandria.

‘I’m amazed that anything made of glass can survive a voyage from Egypt, no matter how much straw it’s packed in,’ Clemens observed, breaking the long silence. Taking a generous swig at a goatskin of well-watered wine, he passed it to Vespasian.

‘It does look to be very delicate,’ Vespasian agreed, looking at the chipped ewer with a colourful depiction of Dionysus enamelled on its side that the merchant was showing the aedile as evidence of his case.

The arrival of the decurion of the Praetorian cavalry turma that had accompanied them to Ostia put an end to their idle chatter and their meal.

‘Macro’s carriage has just entered the town gates, prefect,’ the young man reported with a salute.

‘Thank you, decurion,’ Clemens replied, getting to his feet. ‘Have your men seal off this quay once it gets here.’

With another salute the decurion turned on his heels and made his way back to his turma, which was stationed out of sight behind the warehouses at the end of the quay.

Vespasian stood and adjusted his toga; the contents of the bag that he had retrieved from his room clinked in its fold as he withdrew Caligula’s warrant. ‘I hope Caligula isn’t playing a nasty joke on us and this contains orders for Macro to execute the bearers,’ he said with a grin.

Clemens scowled. ‘That’s not funny.’

‘No, sorry,’ Vespasian apologised, realising that it was exactly the sort of thing that Caligula would find hilarious.

Macro’s carriage rumbled into view at the far end of the quay preceded not by lictors, as he was only of equestrian rank, but by ten fellow members of his order in recognition that one of the most powerful posts in the Empire was open only to them and not to the Senate. The equites cleared the way along the crowded quay forcing a few of the unfortunate dock slaves — some laden with goods — to overbalance into the fetid water. Cries of indignation from the owners of the lost merchandise were met with uncaring looks as the cortege cleaved its way to the waiting trader. Behind them the Praetorian turma appeared and sealed off their retreat.

Clemens smiled coldly and stepped forward as the carriage door opened and the bull-like frame of Quintus Naevius Cordus Sutorius Macro appeared followed by the voluptuous figure of his wife, Ennia.

‘Clemens, how good of you to come and see me off,’ Macro said upon seeing his successor. ‘If, for any reason, you ever feel that you need a change of, how should I put it, commitment, then men like you would be welcomed by me in the East.’ He proffered his forearm; Clemens did not take it.

‘Going to the East wouldn’t change my commitment to Rome; how could it?’

‘Things change, Clemens, all things change,’ Macro replied, still holding out his arm and staring meaningfully into Clemens’ eyes.

‘Indeed they do, prefect,’ Vespasian agreed, appearing from behind the aedile’s group who had now stopped their argument to listen to the conversation.

‘You! What are you doing here?’ Macro drawled.

Vespasian held out the warrant. ‘I’ve come to give you an order from your Emperor and also to present you with a gift.’

Macro stared at it; uncertainty clouded his face; his eyes flicked up to Vespasian’s. ‘Why does the Emperor feel it necessary to give me new orders?’

‘You’ll have to read it for yourself, Macro.’

Macro took the scroll and, breaking the imperial seal, unrolled it; after a few moments his face paled. ‘I see,’ he said without looking up. ‘And what if I refuse this order?’

‘Then I will have a turma of my cavalry escort you back to Rome so that you can explain to the Emperor in person why you decided to disobey him,’ Clemens said, pointing towards the waiting troopers.

Macro turned and saw that his escape was blocked. He gave a wry smile. ‘It would seem that you have the better of me. I won’t give you the pleasure of watching me humiliate myself by jumping into the water and swimming away; I will do as the Emperor commands.’ He turned to his wife who waited a respectful distance away by the carriage. ‘Ennia, your ex-lover has ordered us to take our lives.’

‘That comes as no surprise to me, husband,’ she said, walking forward to join Macro. ‘I knew when he went back on his oath to me that he would also renege on his promise to you; you were never destined to see Egypt.’

Vespasian got his first close look at the woman whom Caligula had sworn to make his empress; she was indeed beautiful. Greek by birth, the daughter of Tiberius’ astrologer, Thrasyllus, she had the fair skin and clear blue eyes of the more ancient part of her race; her blonde hair, partly covered by a saffron palla, was arranged Roman style: piled high on her head in intricate weaves and secured with jewelled pins. There was no distress on her face, just a world-weary resignation as she took her husband’s hand.

‘I have failed you, Quintus,’ she said, ‘I could not keep him ensnared in my bed for long enough, forgive me.’

‘There is nothing to forgive, Ennia; you did all that a loyal wife could.’

‘And you would have rewarded that loyalty with a betrayal.’

Macro looked shocked. ‘You knew?’

‘Of course I knew. You could never have achieved your ultimate ambition with me still alive; that was obvious.’

‘Then why…?’

‘Because I love you, Quintus, and I wanted to help. What crime has he charged us with?’

‘You, with adultery with him; me, with pandering you to him.’

Ennia snorted. ‘Is that all he could be bothered to come up with after everything that you’ve planned, adultery with him? What irony.’

Macro turned back to Vespasian. ‘You said that you also have a gift for me, senator, but I’m struggling to see what would be of use with my life now over.’

Vespasian brought out a leather bag from the fold of his toga, opened it and pulled out two daggers. ‘These are both yours, Macro. This one you left in my leg on the Aemilian Bridge twelve years ago and the other one you dropped in the Lady Antonia’s house; you told me to keep it and promised to give me a third to make up the set. As you obviously are now unable to keep that promise I shall forgo completing the set and return them to you.’ He handed the daggers to Macro, who smiled with genuine amusement.

‘It seems that my need is greater than yours; I appreciate the consideration, Vespasian, most thoughtful.’ All trace of humour suddenly left his face and his eyes bored into Vespasian’s. ‘Let me tell you why you never received the third; it was for one reason alone: Caligula. He knew that I wanted you dead but, as a part of the deal in which I ensured that he became emperor and in return I became prefect of Egypt, I had to swear to keep you alive just because he likes you.’

‘Why?’

‘I asked him that and he told me that it goes back to the night that you rescued Caenis from Livilla. The two guards in the tunnel had been killed out of his view; but then, to get the key to release her, you had her start screaming to attract the attention of the guard on the stairs. As he came through the door you stabbed him in the throat; you were the first person whom Caligula ever saw kill a man outside of the arena and he’s always respected you for that.’

Vespasian digested this for a few moments, playing the scene back in his mind. ‘I was; but why is that so important to him?’

‘Because nothing happened to you for doing so and he realised that one could kill with impunity; it was a joyful moment for him.’

Vespasian’s eyes widened in horror, thinking of the blood that Caligula had caused to be spilled since. ‘I started him on his path?’

Macro shook his head, slowly smiling without his eyes. ‘He would have found it with or without you; it just means that you are the lucky one who will never suffer at his hands. I swore to him that I would forgo my vengeance and I kept that oath. Now he rewards me by throwing it back in my face and sending you, of all people, to order my death; I suppose that’s his idea of a joke.’

‘Perhaps it is, or perhaps I’m just here because this was my idea. I knew what you were planning to do in Egypt, the Lady Antonia had worked it out, and I assumed that even though she removed Poppaeus you would have found some other source of finance to help you become emperor of the East.’

‘Poppaeus died naturally, everybody knows that.’

‘No, Macro, he was murdered; I should know, I helped to do it.’

Macro looked at Vespasian appraisingly. ‘You are more dangerous than I thought; perhaps I should have broken my oath and had you killed. But you’re right, I did find another source of money but it’s of no use now that my life is over.’

‘If you want some privacy I suggest that you go to the master’s cabin,’ Vespasian said, bringing the conversation to a close.

‘For that, at least, I thank you.’ Macro handed one of the daggers to Ennia. ‘Come, my dear, I have eternity to beg for your forgiveness.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive, Quintus,’ Ennia replied, taking Macro’s arm as they walked up the gangplank to their deaths.

Vespasian watched them go and then, after brushing off the master’s vehement complaints that he had been deprived of two fare-paying passengers, he turned to Macro’s escort of equites. ‘Once they have carried out the Emperor’s command take them for burial, but do it here immediately, not in Rome.’

‘We had better check that they have indeed gone through with it,’ Clemens said quietly as the equites nodded their sombre agreement.

‘I suppose so,’ Vespasian replied, feeling a strange lack of desire to see Macro’s corpse. The way that Macro and Ennia had accepted their fate with a dignity worthy of any Roman had impressed him and, despite the fact that Macro would have revelled in Vespasian’s death, he felt reluctant to intrude on that of his old enemy.

They made their way to the master’s cabin at the stern of the ship and looked down through the hatchway. Below in the dim light Macro and Ennia lay slumped together on the floor, each with their left arm around the other and with their right hands still clutching the daggers that they had forced into each other’s hearts.

‘That was one of the few sensible decisions that Caligula has made,’ Clemens observed, staring at the couple entwined in death.

‘Yes,’ Vespasian agreed, turning to go. ‘We’d better be getting back to Rome to see what madness he has planned next.’

The madness, as it turned out, had a very practical function to Caligula’s way of thinking. Feeling the need to commune on a daily basis with his brother Jupiter but not wishing always to be soiling himself by mixing with mere mortals, he decided to commission a huge wooden viaduct, five hundred paces long, which would connect his palace on the Palatine with the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline. This, he reasoned, would enable him to travel as a god should: high above the heads of the masses that he had come down to earth to rule.

The people watched in wonder over the following months as the monstrosity snaked its way between the two hills, scarring its skyline and disrupting trade and business as the resources of Rome were poured into the divine Emperor’s latest whim. Oblivious to the inconvenience that he was causing, Caligula carried on his programme of compulsory fun for everyone. Every day there was either racing or gladiatorial shows, wild-beast hunts, plays or, of course, exhibitions of Drusilla, which were becoming more extravagant, not only in the amount of participants but also in their duration, inventiveness and abuse.

For his part, Vespasian had managed to keep a low profile since Macro’s death. Holding no magistracy now in the city, he was able to remain uninvolved with the organisation of Caligula’s extravaganzas other than attending them and feigning pleasure as he watched the treasury’s already depleted coffers being swiftly cleared. His life revolved around Caenis and meetings of the Senate, which would slavishly agree to all Caligula’s demands. He very rarely saw the Emperor in private and, apart from the occasional dinner at the palace, which he now dreaded as Caligula had taken to having criminals executed between courses for the amusement of his guests, he was able to live a quiet, unnoticed life.

On the morning of the viaduct’s completion the whole city turned out to watch Caligula progress, with divine dignity dressed as Jupiter and brandishing a thunderbolt, along its length.

Vespasian watched with Gaius and the rest of the senators from the Senate House steps as Caligula completed the journey and entered the most sacred temple in Rome to commune with his fellow god. After a short while he reappeared and announced to the vast crowd, via heralds, that Jupiter had conceded that he was now his equal.

‘Furthermore,’ the herald nearest the Senate House declaimed, reading Caligula’s words from a scroll, ‘I declare my sister, Drusilla, to be divine and I will show you proof of her divinity in the Forum Theatre.’

This announcement caused a near stampede as those in the mob closest to the theatre rushed to get the best seats.

‘If I have to watch him tupping Drusilla again I think I’ll go into voluntary exile,’ Vespasian commented under his breath to Gaius.

‘I think that we’re excused today,’ Gaius replied equally sotto voce. ‘Caligula has another demand that he wants us to pass as soon as possible. Now he’s finished his viaduct he’s come up with a new way to waste money, so we’ll have to forgo the pleasure of Drusilla’s howls of ecstasy.’

‘We’ll probably still hear them from inside,’ Vespasian observed, turning to enter the building.

‘I’m sure you’re right, dear boy,’ Gaius replied. ‘She has such stamina, hasn’t she?’

Vespasian’s fears were proved correct and the solemn opening prayers and taking of the auspices before the meeting could be declared open were conducted to the accompaniment of Drusilla’s voice, rising to a crescendo of pleasure, as the Senior Consul, Marcus Aquila Iulianus, declared the day auspicious for the Senate to sit.

‘The motion before the House today,’ he announced once they were all seated, ‘is to provide the finance for our divine Emperor to build two two-hundred-and-thirty-foot-long pleasure ships on Lake Nemorensis for him and his divine sister to relax in and to enable them to converse more easily with nymphs of the lake.’

This was greeted with sage nodding of heads and murmurs of agreement as if it were perfectly reasonable to want to have closer contact with water nymphs. As the debate proceeded with Drusilla’s baying voice, punctuated by roars from the spectators, floating in from the theatre outside, Vespasian speculated that if just one of their number broke ranks and failed to keep a straight face, then the whole Senate would collapse to the floor in paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter. The image obliged Vespasian to suppress a snigger behind his hand and, as the Senior Consul listed the Emperor’s requirements for the vessels — hot and cold running water, a suite of baths, marble floors and other ridiculous luxuries — he became increasingly concerned that he would be the first to drop the facade and give vent to his true feelings. He felt his uncle’s hand rest on his shaking shoulder and managed to get himself back under control, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

Another shriller and even more prolonged screech caused the Senior Consul to pause as it transcended anything that could be construed as pleasure and entered the unmistakeable realms of agony. Abruptly it ceased, only to be replaced by a short gasp of horror from the audience; then silence.

A long, long silence.

All the senators turned their heads to look through the open doors towards the wooden theatre.

The silence endured; no one moved.

A wail of darkest grief, long and wavering, split the stillness, growing and growing until it filled the whole Forum. Every senator recognised the voice: Caligula’s.

The crowd started to flood out of the theatre and away across the Forum, hurrying from their grieving, insane Emperor before he decided to wreak havoc on them in his despair. The senators left their stools and rushed for the door.

‘I think Drusilla’s stamina has just given out,’ Gaius concluded as he and Vespasian squeezed through the crush and out into the sunlight.

‘What do we do?’ Vespasian asked. ‘Go home and lay low until things calm down?’

‘I think, dear boy, that anyone who is not seen to be sharing Caligula’s grief would soon be a cause of grief for their own families. The best chance of surviving this is to go and face him, whatever the consequences.’

Vespasian drew a deep breath and followed Gaius and many of the senators who had reached the same conclusion down the steps and towards the theatre.

Caligula stood, now silent, in the middle of the stage holding Drusilla in his arms; blood dripped from her ruptured innards into a puddle that surrounded his feet. Lying dead around them were the bodies of the men who had had the misfortune to be involved in her fatal, last appearance. Clemens and half a dozen Praetorians stood to one side with bloodied swords.

The Senior Consul led the senators down through the deserted seating towards the stage. Caligula stared at them with uncomprehending eyes; Drusilla’s head lolled from side to side over his left arm as he shook with grief.

‘Where do I go for comfort and consolation?’ Caligula suddenly shouted. ‘Where? A child may turn to its mother, a wife may turn to her husband and a man may turn to his gods; but to whom does a god turn? Answer me that, you wise and learned men of the Senate.’ He fell to his knees, splashing into the ever growing pool of blood, and broke down into sobs as he greedily kissed his dead sister’s mouth and neck.

No one in the auditorium said a word as Caligula’s ardour rose and he petted the corpse, murmuring into its unhearing ears. The shocked silence lengthened as he rolled the limp body over onto its knees. All knew he was capable of breaking any taboo — but this…this was abhorrent.

‘I command you to live,’ Caligula cried, driving himself into his lifeless sibling. ‘Live!’ Tears streamed down his face, creating flesh-coloured lines through the red stains left by his sister’s blood, as he desperately attempted to pump life back into Drusilla’s body. ‘Live! Live! Live! Live!’

With a final, desolate wail enjoining his sister to return from the shades he climaxed and collapsed forward onto the floor to lie as motionless as her corpse.

No one moved as they stared at the Emperor, who showed no sign of breathing. Vespasian felt a thrill of hope, thinking that perhaps Caligula had committed one outrage too many and the gods had tired of his existence.

But that was not to be; with a sudden violent intake of breath Caligula seemingly came back from the dead, but alone. He got to his knees and looked around blankly at his audience. After a few moments his bloodshot, sunken eyes rested on Vespasian; he smiled wildly and slowly gestured to him to step forward.

With a sinking heart Vespasian approached the stage.

Caligula slithered forward and, putting his hand on the back of Vespasian’s head, drew his face up close to his so that their foreheads touched. ‘I have nothing to console me but my own greatness, my friend,’ he hissed. ‘Do you remember how I said I would build, Vespasian?’

‘Yes, Princeps,’ Vespasian replied, standing rigid with fear, ‘you said you would build magnificently as you’ve already proved with your bridge.’

‘Indeed, but that’s just a trifling bridge. Now, in Drusilla’s memory, I shall surpass the greatest achievement ever; I shall make the bridges that both Darius and Xerxes built from Asia to Europe seem like children’s toys.’

‘I’m sure that you could, but how?’

‘I’m going to build a bridge worthy of a god. I will build one across the Bay of Neapolis, and then to show my fellow gods and all humanity that I’m the greatest leader that ever lived, I’m going to ride across it wearing the breastplate of the man I’ve surpassed: Alexander.’

‘But that’s in his mausoleum in Alexandria.’

Caligula grinned maniacally. ‘Exactly, and you want to go there, so I give you my permission, on condition that you go to the mausoleum and take Alexander’s breastplate from him. Bring it back to Rome for me.’