by Simon Turney
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Simon Turney 2019
Map copyright © Neil Gower
Family tree copyright © Sally Felton
Coin image reprinted with permission of wildwinds.com, ex-CNG Triton XIII, lot 324 (Jan. 2010)
Excerpt from Ibis by Ovid, Kline trans., copyright © 2003
Reprinted by kind permission of poetryintranslation.com
The moral right of Simon Turney to be identified as
the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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ISBN 978 1 4746 0739 1
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If you enjoyed Commodus make sure you read the first novel in the Damned Emperors series: Caligula
Everyone knows his name. Everyone thinks they know his story.
Rome 37AD. The emperor is dying. No-one knows how long he has left. The power struggle has begun.
When the ailing Tiberius thrusts Caligula’s family into the imperial succession in a bid to restore order, he will change the fate of the empire and create one of history’s most infamous tyrants, Caligula.
But was Caligula really a monster?
Forget everything you think you know. Let Livilla, Caligula’s youngest sister and confidante, tell you what really happened. How her quiet, caring brother became the most powerful man on earth.
And how, with lies, murder and betrayal, Rome was changed for ever . . .
I
ASHES AND A HOLLOW HEART
My name is Julia Livilla, daughter of Germanicus and sister of the emperor Gaius, who they called Caligula. And if I am to start this story anywhere sensible then it must begin with my first memory of him.
My father, the great conquering general beloved of Rome – if not of his emperor – had spent a year in Syria as its governor before passing rather suddenly from the world through illness. Or by the emperor’s poison as some, such as my mother, would have you believe. I have no memory of that dusty land, of course. I was a mewling baby when my father died and my mother gathered her children and returned to Rome with her husband’s ashes and a hollow heart.
So I came to Rome with the others, nestled in the arms of my mother in the year of the consuls Silanus and Balbus – an entourage of death returning from distant lands to a mourning city with a wicked emperor. We landed at Ostia and transferred to Rome, where we moved through the city at a stately pace, a sombre family amid the wailing crowds that had turned out to see the beloved Germanicus come home for the last time. We were stony silent and dour, Drusilla and Agrippina, Gaius and myself, Mother and the numerous slaves and attendants. I was still a babe of course, yet to form true memories, and one image is all I can claim from that day: my brother gathering our weary sister Drusilla into his arms to save her tired young feet, and carrying her across the forum beneath a glorious rainbow that arced incongruously through a deep blue sky.
A single snatch of early life: a rainbow, noisy crowds, a burial and my brother at his glorious best.
Four years passed then, with us living in Rome as a large, peaceful – if not always harmonious – family. In addition to the wealthy town house we had on the Palatine where my father had grown up, my mother also kept a well-appointed villa with extensive gardens on the far side of the Tiber, within view of the great curve of the theatre of Pompey, and it was this semi-rural location that my mother favoured. I liked to think – probably in the naïve, childish way of a five year old – that this was because she wished to live out the rest of her life in a place that harboured only joyous memories of her husband. Agrippina and Caligula, both of whom were ever more subtle and intuitive than I, maintained that the real reason was that she persisted in the conviction that Tiberius had ordered the death of her husband, and would never countenance even the idea of living on the Palatine alongside him.
At five, I was just grateful for the extensive gardens and the relatively clear air on that side of the river, away from the summer stink of Rome’s huddled streets. As I had grown into a happy girl, playing with the family’s pet hounds that roamed the grounds, absorbed in an endless series of games that resulted in torn and muddied clothes, so too had my brothers and sisters grown. Nero and Drusus had both taken the toga virilis while we were in Rome, becoming men in the eyes of the city, and each roamed the villa’s corridors pensively, impatiently awaiting a posting to the legions as a tribune. Agrippina, now eight, was already exhibiting all the signs of a competitor in the game of power. She played off one slave or servant or former client of our father’s against another constantly, for her own amusement and always for an advantage. Drusilla, a year younger, was just happy to play with a small circle of friends, holding her own court as though she were an empress. The former consul’s son, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, who was often at the villa, had begun to moon around Drusilla as though the very ground upon which she walked might sprout roses. Even at such a tender age, I remember the first flowerings of jealousy over my placid sister. She had to do nothing to attract the attention of everyone, whereas I was often overlooked. Would that I had been closer to Drusilla then, and far more wary of Agrippina.
There was a tense time for a while when Caligula, now a rangy boy of eleven, began to prowl around Lepidus, contending with the handsome visitor for the attention of our sister. Agrippina and I held our breath at every visit, waiting for our youngest brother to launch an assault upon Lepidus in defence of his relationship with Drusilla. Caligula was ever quick-tempered, you see, though that was just part of his nature. He was as avid and forthright with every emotion: quick to anger but expansively loving, exuding sympathy yet tightly, even acerbically humorous. In the end our worries proved unfounded. One morning, as Lepidus entered the house, he brought Caligula a gift – a jewelled knife. It was a small thing, expensive and decorative, intended for use as a handy work blade for all its silvered hilt, but it was given as a gift of friendship and it sealed such with our brother, who was rarely without the blade thereafter. From that day on he shared Drusilla with our friend, and the matter was settled, even if it did little to diminish my occasional pangs of jealousy over the attention my pretty, delicate sister constantly received.
They were happy days, but things began to change in the year of the consuls Pollius and Vetus. While the older boys and our mother kept themselves occupied in the villa, the younger children and some of our friends were busy playing in the Courtyard of the Fountains when the heavy bronze knocker at the gate rapped loudly twice, sharply, announcing visitors. The bow-legged doorkeeper shambled out of his hut, the fingers of his left hand drumming on the stout ash-wood club at his waist, and crossed to the gate, opening it a crack. Moments later, and after a very short, terse exchange, he swung back the gate to admit the soldiers.
It was the first time I had encountered men of the Praetorian Guard – since I’d been old enough to understand, anyway. And they were so clearly soldiers, despite their civil garb. Each man wore his toga like armour, impenetrable and marble-white, his hand hovering near the tell-tale lump that betrayed a sword hilt. Each one had the grim face and square jaw of a hard man, and their feet crunched on the gravel
with the sound of hobnailed soldier’s caligae boots. I knew that sound well. Soldiers did not visit a villa without cause, and soldiers of the Praetorian Guard, no less?
I felt panic thrill through me at the sight. Everything Mother had said about our father’s death suddenly seemed more plausible with the emperor’s own troops in our garden. Perhaps I shrieked, for Caligula reached out and grabbed me, pulling me close and holding me tight in a protective embrace, murmuring calming words with no substance beyond the sounds of his voice. He always had a slightly hypnotic tone – unless he was angry.
We watched, our games forgotten, as the soldiers entered the house, their rough boots clacking across the marble. They were in there for moments only. Mere heartbeats. The message they delivered must have been as forthright and brief as their manner, and no sooner had they exited the grounds to wait impatiently outside, than Mother hurried from the door with our major-domo at her heel, a gaggle of slaves following on. At the rear came Nero and Drusus, both in togas and wearing swords beneath them in a disturbing echo of the Praetorians.
‘Lepidus, Callavia and Tullius, I am afraid you will have to leave. Hipsicles here will see you back to your families.’ Mother turned to us, and her expression was steely. ‘Children, go into the house and change into your best clothes as fast as you can. We are summoned to the emperor.’ Her eyes played across us and settled on me, narrowing. ‘Livilla, how is it possible to acquire such filth in such a short time. Wash your face and comb your hair. And be quick about it, all of you. Emperors do not expect to be kept waiting.’
As we rushed past her into the house to make ourselves presentable as fast as possible, and Hipsicles, our major-domo, gathered up the friends to return to their own houses, Mother seemed to notice our oldest brothers for the first time.
‘What in the name of sacred Venus are you two doing?’
Their blank looks betrayed their puzzlement.
‘The swords?’
Nero frowned. ‘But the Praetorians are wearing swords.’
‘No citizen,’ Mother explained in a strained hiss, ‘bears a weapon of war in the city. It is ancient, inviolable law. The Praetorians are exempt by imperial order, for they must bear a blade to carry out their very duties, but you are just private citizens. Now take those swords off before you get yourselves arrested.’
As our older brothers struggled out of their togas, removed their blades and then rehung the draped garments with the help of the slaves, we hurried to prepare ourselves for the emperor. With surprising alacrity, we assembled out front once more, dressed finely, clean and tidy. Mother marched up and down in front of us like a general inspecting her troops. Was this what my father had been like, I wondered. Her eyebrow rose at the sight of that silvered knife sheathed at Caligula’s belt, but she let it pass without comment – it was not a weapon of war, after all.
We were escorted to the large carriage that had hastily been made ready and moments later we were bouncing off through the gate at a steady pace, escorted by the emperor’s Praetorians, into the city. As we moved onto the Pons Agrippae, the soldiers were obliged either to march ahead or drop behind by the press of the traffic, and the moment they were out of earshot Mother was jabbering at us in hushed tones.
‘Beware everything at the palace, children. The emperor is a dangerous old man and with the passing of his son last month, he is worse than ever. His court is a pit of vipers, each as bad as the next, presided over as much by the dangerous Praetorian officers as by the emperor himself. Say nothing unless you are addressed directly, and then be circumspect with your replies. Be polite but not fawning. Be truthful, but economical with it. Above all, be careful. Remember that this is the man who had your father poisoned.’
She clearly had more to say, but we had crossed the bridge and the soldiers were closing in, so she fell silent and locked her eyes on the distant rise of the Palatine. We travelled in strained silence and by the time the carriage pulled up outside Tiberius’ great palace we were all quite tense. The grand façade, with its false columns and marbled architraves, was interrupted at the centre by a high portico with a grand pediment that showed the emperor himself as a young general butchering Germans.
I have to admit to shaking with nerves as we passed up the steps and into the shade of that portico. The presence of armed and armoured soldiers who could have killed me before I managed a scream unnerved me as a five-year-old girl.
Caligula was there next to me, a soothing hand on my shoulder, trying to take away my fear. It worked, too. I began to calm down and, once the trembling subsided, he moved on and took Drusilla’s hand. I felt a thrill of jealousy again. The closeness the pair shared went beyond what we had, and I envied my sister that, for he was truly the golden boy of our household.
We entered a courtyard where white travertine paths cut across beds of chippings of golden African marble, carefully tended poplars at both ends in neat, orderly rows. Then we were across and inside, letting our eyes adjust to the dim interior. The main building of the extended palace complex, a rectangular domus at its heart, was exquisitely designed, lofty and spacious, sumptuous without descending to the gaudiness of eastern princelings. It was grander than anything I had ever seen and my eyes roved as though they had a life independent of mine.
At some point, unnoticed by me, we passed from the control of the Praetorians to the emperor’s German bodyguard. Though we still had an escort of four Praetorians, their comrades were no longer in evidence around the building. Instead, bristly northerners with red-blond hair and suspicious eyes occupied the various niches and doorways, watching us as though we were the foreigners, and not them. It struck me as darkly humorous that these barbarians guarded the very man who was shown on the building’s pediment cutting their fellow tribesmen to pieces. Caligula’s eyes narrowed as we passed so many armed men and his expression suggested we were walking willingly into the festering maw of a beast.
I was still contemplating the reason for a guard of such brutish barbarians, while our own elite Roman unit were so readily available, when we were ushered into a great room hung with banners of purple, white and gold. Braziers burned in the corners, giving the place a cosy atmosphere, if a little smoky towards the ceiling. At the centre of the room a fountain in the form of a statue of three unrealistically endowed Greek females – the Furies, possibly – poured wine into a catchment area below, whence slaves would periodically scoop a rich cup for the emperor or one of his guests, cutting it with water before handing it over. The extravagance was astounding, though the sheer wastefulness of it was beyond my tender years.
It took me a moment to locate the emperor. I did not know any of the people who were there with him, though I presume they were highly placed, given how freely he spoke in front of them.
Tiberius looked to me like a cadaver. If he had rotted and crumbled away before my eyes it would not have surprised me. And it was not simply his age, though he was far past youth, now – I have known men who were older than he was then. It was a combination of his age, his bitterness, his acidic temper and, I think, a number of chronic ailments that had begun to plague him by that time. He was drawn and grey, with that thin leathery look to his skin that I have always found distasteful. But for all the corpse-like nature of his body, when I caught his eyes, there was a fierce intelligence in them, and a sharp cruelty, too. Again, I began to tremble, and made sure to lose myself behind my taller brothers.
‘The lady Agrippina,’ the emperor said in flat tones, meaning my mother, and not my sister who shared her name.
‘Majesty,’ Mother acknowledged with a rigid politeness that was just a hair’s breadth from being brusque and a bow of the head that stopped short of respect by a fraction. The emperor saw it, and I noted his eyes harden.
‘You are late.’
‘Forgive me, Majesty. Your guards failed to mention a deadline. We came as fast as we could.’
That was the f
irst time I really noticed Sejanus. The emperor, beaten in this verbal contest, flashed an irritated glance at the Praetorian prefect, who stood, armoured, close by, lurking in a shadow. I trembled at the sight of that man in the gloom.
‘You are forgiven,’ the emperor said with a magnanimous swoop of a hand and a smile that barely touched his mouth, let alone any other part of his face. ‘Have your brood relax. There are couches and cushions aplenty. And you, dear Agrippina, please do sit.’
Dear Agrippina? My eyes for some reason slid to my brother Caligula, and I noticed that his fingers were toying with the chape of his knife’s scabbard on his belt. I prayed that none of the German Guard noticed, for it would be very easy to see it as a threat.
We were seated, my sister ’Pina to my left, Caligula to my right, Drusilla beyond, all on one couch. Mother sat stiffly on another, not reclining as expected, and my two eldest brothers sat beside her.
‘You were not at my ceremony of mourning?’ the emperor threw out in an offhand manner, though the bile behind the words was unmistakable. Caligula’s eyes, I noticed, were darting around the room, taking in each expression. While our older brothers sat, respectfully riveted to the emperor’s presence, Caligula was more interested in the reactions of those around him, using them, I know now, to judge the emperor’s own true moods and motivations, without having to peel away the mask the bitter old man wore by nature.
‘Again, my apologies, Majesty,’ Mother said. ‘I was unwell and unfit to travel.’
‘Travel? To the forum? Just how unwell were you, dear lady?’
There was an awkward silence. Mother was not going to collapse under the pressure of the old man’s words. It was plain to all present why she had not been there, but no one dared say anything about it. The emperor sighed.
