Relations between Caligula and the Roman senate suddenly became strained. While the emperor executed a number of senators for treason, he made others wait on him, or run beside his chariot until they collapsed, in order to make an example of them.
From this point, Caligula’s mental health took a nosedive. He not only made his horse, Incitatus, a priest but he also acquired delusions of grandeur, appearing in public dressed as various gods and demigods, such as Hercules, Mercury, Venus and Apollo. In AD 40, Caligula even announced to the senate that he planned to leave Rome permanently and move to Alexandria in Egypt, where he hoped to be worshipped as a living god. It was now clear to many senators that a new emperor had to be installed on the throne. Caligula was now a marked man, with many queuing up to do the deed.
The Praetorian Guard were soon inundated with potential plots against the emperor. While Anicus Ceralis and Sextus Papinius were executed for planning to assassinate Caligula, Aemilius Regulus was also known to be making a move. Another who wanted Caligula dead was Annius Minucianus, whose close friend, Lepidus, a man with few equals in Rome, had been killed by Caligula. It seemed that every day that Caligula ruled, the list of likely assassins was getting longer and longer.
But, as Caligula sat on his throne, such thoughts were far from his mind. Believing himself to be a god he failed to see how his subjects could not cherish and adore him, even in the face of all evidence to the contrary. Yet the games and dramatics were too dreary to amuse a budding god. Bored and restless, Caligula rose from his seat, grunted at Chaerea, and made to leave the palace, with the eyes of the nervous crowd upon him.
With Caligula heading to an underground corridor, Chaerea and his fellow Praetorian Guards followed procedure and flanked him on either side. They all knew the drill by now and had learnt to ignore their leader’s unpredictable behaviour, which saw him curse at the time he had just wasted, while also lashing out at anyone who dared cross his path. As the exit loomed up ahead, some of the men glanced at their leader, Cassius Chaerea. He nodded back, placing his hand on his sword as he did so.
Suddenly, Chaerea quickened his pace. As he reached Caligula’s side, the emperor turned and unleashed a torrent of insults but, before he could finish, the very man who was meant to protect his life had stabbed him in the back. Sickened by Caligula’s appalling behaviour, Chaerea had agreed to kill him, with the support of the senate. With Caligula’s eyes widening in shock, the rest of his guards descended on him like locusts, stabbing again and again, leaving no room for error. They were all well aware that, if the emperor should survive this assassination attempt, then their executions would not be quick or painless. But it soon turned out that killing the emperor was the easy part.
Upon hearing of Caligula’s death, the military was dismayed. Not only had they been well paid under his rule, but they were also aware that the senate had arranged his death as an opportunity to restore the republic and regain power. For the military, but especially for some elements of the Praetorian Guard, this was inconceivable. If the republic should return, then the Guard itself might cease to exist. As such, many key military figures refused to support Chaerea’s coup, which left him with just one option: to hunt down and kill any heirs to the throne.
Over the coming days, Chaerea and his fellow guards embarked on a murderous spree. If they could survive, while eliminating all successors to Caligula, then there would be no option but to return to a republic. Perhaps of more importance was that, with none of Caligula’s heirs surviving, they also would not be held responsible for his death. They tracked down Caligula’s wife, Caesonia, and murdered her, as well as her young daughter, Julia Drusilla, by smashing her head against a wall. Anyone with a claim to the throne, no matter how slight, was to receive similar treatment.
However, as a rival faction of the Praetorian Guard looted the imperial palace, fearing that their days, and their high pay, would soon be numbered, they discovered Caligula’s uncle, Claudius, hiding behind the curtains. Despite the fact that Claudius was said to suffer from cerebral palsy, and his stammer and limp had seen some regard him as an idiot, the Guard realised he was the key to their survival. Proclaiming Claudius as emperor, the Praetorian Guard rounded up Chaerea, and any other known conspirators, and had them executed. But, while Chaerea’s plot had failed, over the coming years the Guard continued to be involved in further scandals and conspiracies, most notably in AD 193.
According to Cassius Dio, after murdering Emperor Pertinax, the Praetorian Guard tried to cash in on the power vacuum by putting the Roman throne up for auction to the highest bidder. Eventually selling control of the empire to former consul, Didius Julianus, for the enormous sum of 25,000 Roman sesterces per man, a civil war erupted, known as the Year of the Five Emperors. Less than three months after buying the throne, Julianus was executed.
With scandals such as this, the structure of the spoilt, privileged and traitorous Praetorian Guard was permanently altered in the late second century AD, when Emperor Septimius Severus dismissed its members and began recruiting bodyguards directly from the legions. Still, their run as the guardians of the Roman throne didn’t officially end until the fourth century, when, in AD 306, the Praetorians tried to play the role of kingmaker one last time.
Installing Maxentius as the western emperor in Rome set off a dizzying chain of civil wars and rival claims to the throne before Maxentius and his Praetorians were confronted by Emperor Constantine at the Battle of Milvian Bridge. While the Praetorians supposedly made a valiant last stand along the Tiber River, they were soundly defeated, and Maxentius killed. Convinced that the Praetorians could no longer be trusted, Constantine disbanded the unit once and for all, reassigned its members to the outskirts of the empire, and oversaw the destruction of their barracks at the Castra Praetoria. Not many wept at their demise. By this time, they had developed a reputation as privileged bullies, who felt they were above the law.
I must confess that I once came very close to being inadvertently involved in a coup myself. During my time serving in Oman, my friend and predecessor, Captain Tim Landon, had built a special relationship with the sultan’s son, Qaboos bin Said, having attended Sandhurst together. However, due to a high number of attempted coups and murders, the sultan decided to keep Qaboos under house arrest for his own safety. He was, though, allowed to receive a weekly visit from Tim.
At the time, Oman was a very poor country, with most Omanis living in squalor. Oil had recently been discovered but very little of the wealth it provided trickled down. As such, the country had hardly moved on from medieval times. While there were vague plans for electricity, water and a few hospitals, nothing seemed to materialise. There were just three hospitals and a dozen schools in all of Oman. Moreover, when sitting with my men in the mess hall I was horrified to learn that Dhofaris could not legally leave the country to work abroad. If they were caught having done so, they were banished from their homeland for ever. All the while, the old sultan cut himself off from the world, happy to leave his people living in the Dark Ages. It is no wonder that so many of his citizens looked to the supposed allure of the Marxists if this was all he had to offer.
I certainly found myself conflicted at this. While I could see the abject poverty all around, I was also in Oman protecting the man who was said to be responsible for it, albeit on the orders of the British government. At one point, I was so dismayed I threatened to return home. However, when I discussed this with one of my men, whom I had christened Mohammed of the Beard, he said, ‘It is said that Prince Qaboos will rule in a while and, with the oil that will soon bring money, he will, thanks be to God, give us all that the communists now promise, but without changing our religion. If you British leave before that can happen, then the communists will take over without a doubt. They will force us to leave Islam or they will kill us.’ With this in mind, and remembering I was a British soldier who was employed to protect the sultan, I decided to stay.
I was further persuaded when I actually met the sultan
a short time afterwards at his Salalah Palace. Small in stature, he had a gentle face and voice, and above his white beard he also had warm brown eyes that twinkled. He was far from the tyrant I had envisaged. In fact, he reminded me a little of Santa Claus in his looks and demeanour. Since I had already decided that my job was to fight, and possibly die, for him, I was pleased that I found myself instinctively liking him, despite all my concerns.
Yet, unbeknown to me, Tim Landon and the sultan’s son were planning a coup. Just weeks after my time in Oman had come to an end, they struck. While the sultan rested, a group of ten Omanis entered the palace compound unopposed. After a shootout with the sultan’s bodyguard, the sultan himself was wounded and forced to sign a letter of abdication in favour of his son, Qaboos. At this, the sultan was allowed to leave the palace and board an RAF plane to London, where he spent the rest of his days living in the Dorchester Hotel in exile. He died in 1972, having eventually made peace with his son.
In three short years, Qaboos saw off the communist threat and heaved Oman out of the Middle Ages. With oil income booming, he made a series of huge investments in infrastructure, which included digging water wells in villages, building sixty hospitals with free medical care for all, and enrolling 34,000 people, of both sexes, into education. Unsurprisingly, he became a very popular leader, and continues to be to this day. I had certainly been aware that the sultan’s power in Oman was waning during my time there, but I am not entirely sure I would have wanted any involvement in the subsequent coup, so it’s a good thing I left when I did. My job had been merely to help protect the country from the communists and that is what I had focused on. Thankfully, it seems the country has thrived since I left and the coup was a force for good. I am now proud of the part that my men played, along with my platoon, in seeing off the Marxist threat, so that, in time, Qaboos could take over.
In ancient Rome, the life of the emperor continued to be under threat, with the demise of the Praetorian Guard. Soon they began to look elsewhere for protection, and, incredibly, one emperor turned to a bloodthirsty band of mercenaries from Norway, led by an exiled king . . .
6
THE VARANGIAN GUARD
AD 988
Since AD 700, the Vikings of Scandinavia had become notorious in northern and western Europe for chasing wealth, along with displaying an insatiable appetite for violence. With their thick beards, horned helmets and ring-mail armour, they struck fear into anyone who crossed their path. Known to take drugs before a raid in order to increase their ferocity, they carried with them a deadly array of weapons. This included a long axe, which resembled a meat cleaver, as well as the Dane axe, whose sharp blade could sever a man’s head in a single blow. It was, however, their double-edged sword for which they were renowned. Unlike a fencer, a Viking did not thrust with his sword, but instead hacked it down, hoping to split his enemy’s skull or cut off an arm or leg.
They terrorised Europe with a series of raids, yet it is a mystery as to how they found their way there. They had no magnetic compass to guide them, nor has evidence been uncovered that proved they used a crude form of sun compass to navigate their way through the long periods of fog and choppy waters. In the early 1980s, when I completed the first open-boat voyage through the Northwest Passage from Inuvik to Ellesmere Island, I had great trouble navigating because the proximity of the magnetic pole rendered my compass useless. Moreover, I could barely see the sun due to relentless sea fog. It was only after a sponsor helpfully invented an infrared, hand-held device that I could detect the approximate position of the sun, and that was merely within 15 degrees of accuracy. In any event, somehow the Vikings found their way to these shores and their raids made them very rich men.
However, while some Vikings raped and pillaged Europe with abandon, others chose to head east, to Russia in particular, where they could sell their warrior skills to the warlords of the region. The very best of these men became highly sought-after, and were offered huge incentives, becoming enormously wealthy in the process. In time, this group of men earned the name the ‘Varangians’, which many scholars believe translates as ‘vow of fidelity’. While this name no doubt referenced their incredible loyalty to each other, it was also their loyalty to their master that made them so valuable. This was certainly true for Basil II, then ruler of the Byzantine Empire, who was regarded as the most powerful man in the world.
By this stage, the Roman Empire was divided. Rome was the capital of the western half, while Constantinople, named after the Roman emperor Constantine, was the cosmopolitan capital of the eastern half. This became known as Byzantium, and its empire stretched across Italy, Greece, the Balkans and Asia Minor in the east. But, by AD 988, Basil’s rule had been threatened by a series of internal and external revolts, not least by the rebel Vardhas Phokas. Already betrayed by his elite Greek bodyguards, Basil desperately sought loyal warriors who could help defeat his enemies and secure his empire. Rather than look within the Byzantine Empire, he decided he needed to recruit foreigners who lacked any political allegiances.
Many of the best Varangians were in the service of the Grand Prince of Kiev, Vladimir the Great, who was descended from Swedish Vikings and had recently taken power thanks to his army of Varangian warriors. This had earned them quite a reputation and news of them had certainly reached Basil’s ears. Looking to strike a deal, he agreed to sell Vladimir his sister, Anna, in exchange for 6,000 Varangians. It was clear that Basil meant business.
The Varangians subsequently entered the emperor’s service as his elite protection unit, with their quarters situated at the Great Palace in Constantinople. According to Alf Henrikson in his book History of Sweden, they were immediately recognisable by their long hair, a red ruby shimmering from their left ear and ornamented dragons sewn on their chain-mail shirts. But, more than that, they were soon acknowledged to be the best guards money could buy in antiquity, particularly when in AD 989 they swiftly crushed the revolt led by Vardhas Phokas. Such was the ferocious nature of their assault that not only did Phokas suffer a deadly stroke, but as his troops turned and fled the Varangians gave chase and mercilessly hacked them to pieces.
With Phokas out of the way, Basil turned his attention to quashing all potential revolts in the Byzantine capital, Constantinople. Acting as Basil’s secret police, the Varangians ruthlessly cracked down on plots against him. Trawling the cosmopolitan city’s back streets and taverns, they dragged any supposed traitors to the notorious Noumera prison, where the Varangians revelled in making an example of them. Their favourite methods included cutting off their nose or ears, rubbing their faces in human excrement, blinding them with acid, or even going so far as to castrate them with shears.
With the streets of Constantinople kept safe, and traitors severely dealt with, Basil now looked to expand his empire. Incorporating some of the Varangian Guard into his main Byzantine army he divided them into companies of 500, with each company put under the command of a regular officer. It meant the Varangians, unlike typical Vikings, now had to learn discipline, and this made them very dangerous indeed.
However, that is not to say their untamed ferocity was completely neutered. While most Vikings were used to charging headfirst into battle, the emperor used his Varangians in a different way. Holding them in reserve, he utilised them as shock troops, only sending them charging into battle when the fighting reached boiling point. Banging their shields in unison they would unleash a bloodthirsty cry as they launched themselves at their foe with barbarous intensity.
Indeed, when the Byzantine forces faced a seemingly indestructible defence, they looked to the Varangians to blast it away with their infamous ‘Boar Snout’ manoeuvre. Much like the Spartan phalanx, they packed tightly together, interlocking their shields for protection, while placing their heaviest, most aggressive warriors front and centre. However, rather than use the phalanx in a defensive formation, the Varangians would then charge into their enemy. The power and momentum thus generated frequently saw them burst through the en
emy’s line and spread panic in their ranks, as they unleashed a frenzy of bloodshed.
The addition of the Varangian Guard to Basil’s regular forces saw them achieve a string of famous victories in Syria, Georgia, Armenia, Bulgaria, Greece and southern Italy. Such endeavours, and loyalty, saw the Varangians richly rewarded for their work. Earning between £17,000 and £32,000 per year, they also received bonuses as well as a third of all battle spoils, which could be very lucrative indeed. However, they made the bulk of their fortune whenever their emperor died. Upon this, they had the right to raid the imperial treasury and take as much gold as they could carry, a procedure known in Old Norse as polutasvarf (‘palace pillaging’). And there were even more perks. With food, weapons and uniforms also provided, all of which were the very best that money could buy, they didn’t have to spend a penny of their own on such items.
This wealth and prestige allowed the Varangian Guard to live the good life, especially in a bustling metropolis such as Constantinople. Home to an estimated 1 million people, hailing from all over the globe, the city was a far cry from the bitter cold of Scandinavia. Boasting street lighting, drainage and sanitation, it also had hospitals, palaces with treasures from all over the world, public baths, churches filled with sacred relics, libraries and luxury shops, such as the ‘House of the Lanterns’, where luxury silks were sold, and which was lit up at night. Such splendours and marvels, all in a warm climate, were the daily background for the Varangians as they guarded the emperor wherever he should go. With their pockets bursting, they frequently headed to the chariot racing or bought virgin slave girls in the market for their pleasure. But nothing matched their love for alcohol. Indeed, such was their penchant for overindulging in Greek wine that the locals called them the ‘emperor’s wineskins’. Their drunken behaviour not only caused outrage in the taverns of Constantinople but also occasionally caused problems at work, where inebriated guardsmen were reported to have assaulted their own emperor.
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