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 a
s 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,’ Cl
emens 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.
False God of Rome Page 28
