False God of Rome

by Robert Fabbri

  Gaius rubbed the back of his neck and inhaled through his teeth. ‘I fear that assessment is unfortunately correct. So you want me to negotiate a way out of this for you with Antonia.’

  Sabinus nodded unhappily.

  ‘We’d better get going, then.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vespasian agreed, looking at his brother disapprovingly, ‘let’s get this day over with.’

  Claudius was in a high state of agitation as Narcissus showed Vespasian, Corbulo and Pallas into his study. The fact that they were half an hour late, owing to Antonia detaining Pallas once she had been apprised of what Sabinus wanted to tell her, had not helped his nerves.

  ‘H-H-Herod was very susp-p-picious. I don’t think he b-b-believed me.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Pallas asked, placing Capella’s chest down on the desk.

  ‘That you were here on legal business of Antonia’s,’ Narcissus replied, saving them all a stammering explanation. ‘He accepted the reason far too easily for my liking. I know he knew it was a lie; being an inveterate liar himself, he can spot them easily. I think that we should abort this.’

  ‘We can’t,’ Vespasian insisted. ‘Poppaeus will be here soon expecting to do the deal; if he goes away with nothing he’ll become suspicious and if he leaves with the deeds we won’t be able to stop him giving them to Macro.’

  ‘I could just g-g-go out, as if I’ve forg-g-gotten,’ Claudius suggested.

  Vespasian, Corbulo and Pallas glanced at each other and then at Narcissus who lowered his eyes, embarrassed by his master’s pathetic idea.

  Claudius pressed on, unaware of what a fool he was making of himself. ‘And then I could write t-to him to apologise, and sug-g-gest that we do it next month, when Herod has forg-gotten all about it.’ He gave a triumphant look as if he had just solved the most difficult problem with a solution of stunning brilliance and finesse.

  There was a brief, awkward silence.

  ‘That is worthy of consideration, master,’ Narcissus responded with such a degree of respect that Vespasian almost believed him.

  ‘But unnecessary, noble Claudius,’ Pallas assured him. ‘Your mother is at the moment taking steps to, how should I put it? Isolate Herod for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘That is no concern of ours at the present, only Herod’s. Now I suggest that we go about our business. Narcissus, my friend, you show Magnus and Ziri to the other room and we’ll wait in the triclinium as planned while the noble Claudius greets his clients.’

  An hour later they were sitting in silence in the spacious triclinium. The plates of bread, olives, ham and boiled eggs on the table in the middle of the dining room lay untouched.

  ‘This is starting to play on my nerves,’ Corbulo said, getting up to look through the wooden grille in the door that opened onto the garden. ‘Claudius must have finished with his clients by now.’

  Vespasian joined him and looked out to where two chairs had been set either side of a wooden table ready for the meeting with Poppaeus. A slave scuttled into the garden, placed a jug and two silver cups on the table and then disappeared off towards the gate that led to the stable yard at the back of the house.

  As the slave closed the gate behind him Narcissus came into the garden with Capella’s chest and placed it on the table. Claudius followed, clutching an armful of scrolls. He sat down and, unwinding a scroll, started to read. His constant twitching and the shaking of his hands added credence to Narcissus’ earlier assertion that his master was less than adept at subterfuge.

  ‘That idiot is going to ruin this,’ Corbulo hissed as Narcissus went back into the house.

  ‘Let’s hope that Narcissus will do the talking,’ Vespasian replied, thinking that Corbulo had a point. Then the blood drained from his face as he realised that they had all overlooked a possibility. ‘Shit! What if Poppaeus doesn’t bring his secretary?’ He spun round and looked at Pallas.

  ‘The illusion can still be maintained so long as everybody does exactly what I say.’

  Vespasian’s nerves were starting to fray but he steadied himself with the belief that Pallas and Narcissus knew what they were doing; all he had to do was to help Corbulo kill Poppaeus. He would keep his mind focused on that.

  Footsteps coming from the atrium diverted his attention back through the grille.

  ‘My master awaits you out here, proconsul.’ Narcissus’ voice oozed with deference as he led Poppaeus and a tall, wiry man with a sharp face and lank, greasy hair into the garden.

  Vespasian had not seen Poppaeus up close for more than nine years and was amazed by how the little man had aged. His spine had rounded and he leant on his stick, making him even more diminutive. The skin on his face was thin and slack so that it hung in loose folds. His hair was gone. He was no longer the general who had shown such bravery on the wall in Thracia under a hail of arrows and slingshot; he was a frail old man.

  ‘This is going to be disgusting murder,’ Corbulo muttered.

  Vespasian did not need to be told; he was feeling wretched. He turned back to the garden.

  ‘My dear Pop-p-p-’

  ‘Poppaeus, C-C-Claudius!’ Poppaeus snapped, hobbling towards the table. ‘Let’s get this over quickly; I’d better do the talking.’

  ‘Of c-c-course.’ Claudius’ eyes narrowed briefly and for the first time Vespasian caught a glimpse of the hatred that he harboured for people who mocked him.

  ‘Kosmas, the marker,’ Poppaeus ordered, sitting without invitation with his back to the grille, just five paces away.

  The wiry secretary unslung a leather bag from his shoulder and gave it to his master as Narcissus produced the two keys to unlock Capella’s chest.

  ‘This is the debt marker for the fourteen and a half million denarii you borrowed from me,’ Poppaeus said, pulling a scroll from the bag and handing it to Claudius. ‘Show me the deeds.’

  Narcissus pushed the chest towards him and Poppaeus began to examine each of the seven scrolls within, one by one.

  Pallas joined Vespasian and Corbulo at the grille. ‘As soon as the deal is signed we move into the atrium,’ he whispered.

  Poppaeus read the last scroll and then put it back in the chest. ‘They’re all in order.’

  Narcissus handed the two keys to Kosmas who closed the lid and locked it. He placed the keys in his bag and took out a stylus and a pot of ink.

  ‘Your signature, P-Poppaeus,’ Claudius requested, handing the marker to Narcissus.

  Vespasian’s heart was thumping.

  Narcissus spread the scroll on the table; Kosmas dipped the stylus in the ink and offered it to his master. Poppaeus signed with the diligence of a man whose eyesight was failing and then passed the scroll and stylus over to Claudius who signed it with a surprisingly steady hand. The two secretaries then witnessed the signatures making the document legal.

  ‘Follow me,’ Pallas said to Vespasian and Corbulo, leading them out into the atrium.

  ‘That’s our business concluded,’ Vespasian heard Poppaeus say, ‘I’ll bid you good day.’

  ‘There’s another matter that I would like to discuss with you, concerning the upcoming elections,’ Claudius replied with remarkable fluency. ‘It’ll take no longer than a cup of wine.’

  There was a pause; Vespasian heard the sound of wine being poured and the jug set back down on the table.

  ‘Alone,’ Claudius insisted.

  ‘Very well, but be quick. Kosmas, take the chest and wait for me outside.’

  ‘A cup of wine in my study perhaps, my dear Kosmas?’ Narcissus purred.

  Pallas, Vespasian and Corbulo stood waiting by the far end of the impluvium as Narcissus ushered Kosmas, clutching the chest, in from the garden. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘my master will not keep you long, he is with the proconsul Poppaeus.’

  ‘It will be an honour to offer the proconsul our greetings as he leaves,’ Pallas replied as Narcissus led Kosmas away with barely a glance towards the waiting group.

  Pa
llas moved forward as the footsteps retreated. Vespasian followed with Corbulo; his mouth was dry and his stomach knotted. From the far end of the atrium they heard the door to Narcissus’ study open and then shut.

  ‘Whatever happens, don’t let him cry out and don’t bruise him,’ Pallas whispered as they stepped into the garden.

  Corbulo leapt forward and had one hand over Poppaeus’ mouth and the other under his arm before the old man was aware of a threat from behind him. Vespasian stooped down to grab his ankles and they lifted him from his chair, knocking the table; Pallas caught the wine jug just before it toppled off.

  ‘This way,’ Claudius said, rising quickly to his unsteady feet and leading them to a door at the rear of the garden.

  They manhandled their struggling captive into the room; Pallas closed the door behind them. Magnus and Ziri stood in one corner by a full barrel of water; a rope on a pulley hung from a hook in the ceiling in front of a blazing fire that provided the only light in the room. The air was fuggy and the windows shuttered. They immediately began to sweat.

  ‘What is the meaning of this outrage, Claudius?’ Poppaeus demanded as he was dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.

  ‘This is what happens to people who try to make a fool out of me.’

  ‘Then you have a long list to deal with,’ Poppaeus spat contemptuously, rising to his feet and looking around. ‘Corbulo!’ he exclaimed as his weak eyes got used to the gloom; then his gaze rested on Vespasian. ‘And you, I know you; you’re Asinius’ protégé who disappeared after that bloodbath in his tent. Vespasian, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Poppaeus.’

  ‘This is about more than just buying land deeds off an idiot—’ A sharp slap cracked across his face.

  ‘Don’t mark him, master,’ Pallas shouted, grabbing Claudius’ wrist to prevent the reverse swipe.

  ‘I will not tolerate being called an idiot,’ Claudius fumed, struggling to release his hand.

  Poppaeus wiped a drop of blood from his lip, ignoring Claudius’ outburst. ‘What can I offer you, gentlemen? Or is this personal and beyond money?’

  ‘It’s way beyond money, Poppaeus,’ Corbulo replied. ‘You tried to have us killed along with two cohorts of your recruits in the most dishonourable manner.’

  Poppaeus smiled; a drip of sweat rolled down his reddened cheek. ‘So that has come back to haunt me, has it? I don’t suppose telling you that it wasn’t personal and that what we were doing was for the greater good would make any difference?’

  ‘How can that have been for the greater good?’ Vespasian exploded.

  ‘Because, young man, Rome must have strong, clear government. If you accept that we can never go back to the pure Republic without risking civil war every generation then we must have an emperor. But just look at what we have now; Rome needs to rid herself of this remote, mad Emperor and his ridiculous family. Who’s going to be emperor after Tiberius? Him?’ Poppaeus asked, not even bothering to look at Claudius.

  ‘You were supporting my claim at one time,’ Claudius insisted.

  ‘Only because you would have been the easiest heir to get rid of and replace with Sejanus.’

  ‘But now he’s dead you’re supporting Caligula so that Macro can use his wife to buy Egypt, take over the East and split the Empire in two; how is that strong, clear government?’ Vespasian demanded.

  Poppaeus stared at him for a few moments. ‘I can only imagine that an intellect far greater than yours has seen through what we had planned. I detect Antonia behind this; if that is so then I am dead, no matter how much I try to convince you that I was right. So if I am to be murdered I shall act with dignity, if only to shame you; although I’m curious to know how you plan to get my body away from here when there are so many witnesses.’

  ‘Tell me first why splitting the Empire would be good for Rome.’

  ‘Do you really think that it would remain divided? Of course not. Whoever holds Egypt holds Rome. Caligula and Ennia would have been dead within months and Macro would have been emperor with my daughter, Poppaea Sabina, as his empress at the cost to him of merely a wife.’

  ‘And a new dynasty would have been founded,’ Claudius pointed out with a sneer.

  Poppaeus shook his head. ‘No, that was the beauty of it. Had Sejanus succeeded then that would have become a problem, but with Macro it would have been different: he has no children and my daughter cannot have any more after the complications she had giving birth to the young Poppaea. There would be no male heir so Macro would have to choose the best man for the job and adopt him as his son, thereby creating a precedent that I hoped would last for the benefit of Rome. That’s why I agreed to help him although he was my enemy. Yes, I admit that I wanted the honour for my family to be able to boast an empress, but more than that I wanted to free ourselves from this hereditary Kingship in all but name; we rid ourselves of the Kings five hundred years ago and now we have them again and it doesn’t work. However, if Antonia is determined to keep her family in power despite its obvious unsuitability I want no part of it, so let’s get this over with.’ Poppaeus removed his toga and knelt on the floor. ‘Give me the sword and I’ll die like a Roman should.’

  ‘It’s not going to be done like that,’ Vespasian said quietly, feeling a huge sympathy for his old enemy’s views; if Rome was to be ruled in honour by an emperor, was it not best to select a suitable man rather than leave it to the vagaries of blood? He had expressed the same sentiments to Sabinus, Corbulo and Pallas in Tiberius’ unfinished bedroom on Capreae as they had waited for the crazed old Emperor to read Antonia’s letter damning Sejanus.

  ‘How is it to be done, then?’ Poppaeus asked, looking up.

  ‘We are to drown you, sir,’ Pallas informed him.

  ‘I see, I wondered what that barrel was for. You’re going to try and make it look like a natural death. Well, I suppose that suits Antonia’s purposes better. So be it.’ He got to his feet and walked over to the barrel. Magnus and Ziri moved away to give him room. ‘I would appreciate it if you’d allow me the courtesy to do this myself; I think we would all feel a lot better that way. If I need help towards the end use one hand lightly; you won’t need force, my strength is gone.’ He plunged his head under the water and held the sides of the barrel firmly; the muscles under the loose, pale flesh on his forearms tautened with the strain of keeping his head submerged. A sudden reflex as his lungs filled with water caused his body to convulse and his head sprang back. Choking and spluttering, Poppaeus forced it back under. Corbulo cast a regretful look at Vespasian and walked over to the barrel. Another spasm from the dying man brought his head back out of the water again, his eyes bulged and his mouth was drawn back in a bare-toothed, silent scream; water spewed from his convulsing lungs. With a monumental effort of will he plunged back under; Corbulo rested his right hand on his head. Poppaeus’ feet started to kick and his arms flailed but he remained submerged. His thrashing limbs gradually lost their force until, apart from the odd twitch as the nervous system shut down, they became still.

  Poppaeus was dead.

  There was silence in the room as they stared at the lifeless body slumped over the barrel. Corbulo withdrew his hand.

  ‘Fuck me, that took some guts,’ Magnus mumbled eventually, breaking the spell.

  ‘He was a dis-dis-gusting traitor who planned to usurp power from its rightful place,’ Claudius affirmed. ‘He doesn’t d-d-deserve respect.’

  Vespasian, Corbulo and Pallas looked at the stuttering, slobbering potential heir to the Julio-Claudian line.

  Claudius’ eyes narrowed, perhaps reading their minds. ‘G-get on with it,’ he ordered, ‘Narcissus can’t keep Kosmas talking for too long.’

  Magnus moved towards the body. ‘Come on, Ziri, help me get his tunic off and string him up.’

  Poppaeus’ body swung upside down, naked on the rope in front of the blazing fire. Water was collecting in the roof of his mouth; it overflowed in trickles through his loose lips onto his face, filling his nostrils,
and then dripped from his bald pate into a large puddle beneath him.

  ‘Right, that should be enough time; you hold him firm, sir,’ Magnus said to Vespasian.

  Vespasian knelt and unwillingly placed his hands on Poppaeus’ clammy, skinny back.

  ‘Hold his mouth open, Ziri,’ Magnus ordered as he placed his hands on either side of the ribcage. He began to pump with hard, regular squeezes. A gush of water suddenly erupted from Poppaeus’ mouth, spraying over Magnus’ face and tunic; he kept pumping as the flow lessened until it stopped completely. ‘That should do it. Now we take him down and turn him onto his belly.’

  Carefully they lowered the body face down on to the floor and undid the rope, removing the linen towels protecting his ankles. Magnus gave the back a few more squeezes to remove any residue still stuck in the windpipe.

  ‘Now we dry him and dress him,’ Pallas said once Magnus was satisfied that all the water was out.

  Replacing the tunic and belt was easy but no one had foreseen the difficulty involved in draping a toga onto a dead body. Eventually, with Magnus and Ziri holding the lifeless mannequin upright, Vespasian and Corbulo managed to set the toga to Pallas’ satisfaction as Claudius lurched to and fro reminding everyone, unnecessarily, that time was pressing.

  ‘Get his arms over your shoulders and follow me,’ Pallas ordered Magnus and Ziri as he opened the door.

  ‘I never seen such madness,’ Ziri told Magnus as he hefted the body up, ‘not even at circus yesterday when you all started—’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right, Ziri,’ Magnus said, manoeuvring the body through the door.

  Vespasian and Corbulo took a quick look around the room to make sure that none of Poppaeus’ possessions remained and then followed out into the garden.

  ‘I’ll w-w-wait for you here,’ Claudius said. ‘It’s the next bit that I’m looking f-forward to.’

  ‘I think that the crippled bastard is enjoying this,’ Corbulo complained as he and Vespasian slipped through the garden gate into a stable yard overshadowed by the huge bulk of the brick-built Servian wall of Rome at its far end.