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.’
PART IIII
ALEXANDRIA, JULY AD 38
CHAPTER XVII
‘THAT HAS TO be the tallest building that I’ll ever see,’ Vespasian muttered under his breath as he looked up, his eyes wide with astonishment, at the lighthouse that soared above him to over four hundred feet into the sky. He calculated that if an insula, or apartment block, back in Rome had been that tall it would have almost fifty floors and then wondered what chance Caligula’s proposed bridge had of outstripping it. He gripped the side-rail of the imperial trireme to steady himself as the ship was buffeted again by another large wave repelled by the huge mole that protected the Great Harbour of Alexandria. Fine spray flew on the salt-tanged breeze, dampening his toga and cooling his skin from the sun’s intense heat. The stroke-master’s piped beats slowed and the mainsail was furled; the voyage was nearing its end.
‘That must be the biggest fucking thing in the whole fucking world,’ Ziri said; his proficiency in Latin now matched that of his swearing. ‘I’d say that it would look big even next to the biggest mountain in the middle of the fucking desert.’
‘It must have taken some building,’ Magnus commented beside him.
Vespasian nodded. ‘Seventeen years. It was finished just over three hundred years ago. The first Ptolemy commissioned it and his son completed it. I suppose if you want to be remembered then that’s the way to do it: build something magnificent.’
‘Like Caligula’s bridge?’ Magnus asked with a smile.
‘That’ll just be remembered as a folly. I mean build something that’s of practical use to the people, then they’ll remember your name.’
‘Who built the Circus Maximus?’
Vespasian frowned and thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know.’
‘There you go, you see, it don’t always work.’
Vespasian looked up again at the Pharos of Alexandria, which had been growing in size all day since, while more than fifty miles out to sea, they had first spotted its light – the rays of the sun during the day or a mighty fire at night, both reflected off a huge, polished bronze mirror. It was truly magnificent: set at the eastern tip of the long, thin Island of Pharos it was built on a base, ninety feet high and three hundred and fifty feet square, constructed of granite blocks fused together by molten lead to resist the impact of the sea. The tower itself had three different sections: the first was square and just over half of the whole tower’s height, the next was octagonal, and the topmost part, in which were housed the mirror and fire, circular. The whole edifice was crowned with a giant statue of Poseidon and ornamented by four statues of Triton at each corner of the base. He could not imagine any building ever surpassing it.
‘Stop gawping, Ziri, and go and pack up our stuff,’ Magnus ordered after a few more moments of admiration. ‘We’ll be docking soon.’
‘Yes, master.’ The little Marmarides scuttled off towards their cabin in the stern of the ship.
Vespasian shouted after him: ‘And don’t forget—’
‘No, I won’t forget Sir’s fucking box,’ Ziri shouted back, cutting him off.
Vespasian looked at Magnus. ‘Do I have to put up with that sort of cheek?’
Magnus shrugged. ‘You don’t have to, you could always ask me to keep him away from you, but then, seeing as you didn’t bring a slave of your own, who would look after your needs?’
‘I can see that it’s high time that I invested in my own slaves,’ Vespasian said. Hitherto he had always relied on his parents’ or Gaius’ slaves and it had never occurred to him to purchase his own; even when he had been in Cyrenaica he had been looked after by the official slaves in the Governor’s Residence. ‘The trouble is they’re so expensive to buy and then feed.’
‘Once you’ve cashed that bankers’ draft with Thales you’ll be able to afford plenty; until then stop moaning when I lend you mine for free.’
The ship slipped through the harbour mouth and all thoughts that Vespasian had about the hideous expense of slaves were put to one side. The Great Harbour of Alexandria was built on a scale that matched the Pharos: almost two miles across and a mile and a half deep. To his right was the Heptastadion, a huge mole, seven stadia or one thousand four hundred paces long and two hundred paces wide, that joined the Island of Pharos to the mainland; beyond this, in the commercial port that was almost as vast as the Great Harbour itself, Vespasian could see the massive hulks of the grain fleet docked next to large silos. To his left was the Diabathra, a dog-legged mole, equally as long, that ran from the harbour mouth to the Temple of Artemis next to the Royal Palace of the Ptolemys on the natural shoreline. Between these two mammoth man-made sea defences the waterfront was lined with buildings that rivalled in grandeur even those of Rome. At the waterfront’s central point, on the tip of a small promontory, stood the colonnaded Timonium, built by Marcus Antonius after his defeat at Actium by Augustus. West of this, extending to the Heptastadion, were the jetties and quays of the military port. Here the massed triremes, quadremes and quinqueremes of the Alexandrian fleet bobbed at their moorings, looking clean and pristine after their recent winter refits. The sun glinted off their half-submerged bronze-plated rams and picked out the innumerable tiny figures toiling on their decks. Speckled around the three square miles of the harbour were a plethora of other, smaller craft, with bulging triangular sails and escorts of cawing seagulls, going about their daily routine, whether as lighters, ferries or fishermen, and adding to Vespasian’s impression that he was entering the busiest and grandest port in the world.
Vespasian marvelled at the vision of the man who had caused all this to be built out of nothing: Alexander the Great, whose breastplate he had come to take back to Rome for the Emperor who thought he had surpassed him. Looking at this majestic city, just one of the many that Alexander had founded in the huge Empire that he had conquered, he realised the depths of Caligula’s delusion: the greatest feat to be achieved by man had already been realised. No one would ever surpass Alexander – not even Julius Caesar or Augustus had come close to what he had accomplished in his short life. The best that anyone could hope for now was to be a pale shadow of the man whose legacy, or at least part of it, lay in front of Vespasian, bathing in the hot summer sun where, before Alexander’s coming, there had been only a small fishing village perched on baking sands.
The trireme glided towards the dock; an order was bellowed and the larboard oars were shipped. The starboard oars backed water gently and with a soft thud and much shouting of sailors and dockers the ship’s side came to rest against the thick wooden poles protecting the stone jetty. Lines were made fast, the foresail was furled and the gangplank lowered; the voyage was at an end.
Having confirmed with the triarchus the arrangement that the ship should wait for however long it took to complete the Emperor’s business, Vespasian led Magnus and Ziri down the gangplank towards the port aedile waiting with sixteen legionaries and an optio of the Legio XXII Deiotariana on the jetty. The solid construction seemed to rock under Vespasian’s feet after ten days at sea; he swayed slightly and felt Magnus’ hand support his elbow.
‘Easy, sir; we can’t have a senator falling flat on his back in public like a vestal the moment she’s completed her thirty-year vow.’
‘Yes, thank you for reminding me, Magnus,’ Vespasian replied testily, steadying himself for a few moments before handing his imperial warrant to the aedile. ‘Senator Titus Flavius Vespasian
us here on the Emperor’s authority.’
The aedile read the document carefully then glanced up at the imperial banner fluttering on the masthead and raised his eyebrows. ‘That seems to be in order, senator. It’s four years since we’ve had a member of your order here; the previous Emperor banned you on the advice of his astrologer.’ He paused for a wry chuckle. ‘And arriving on one of the Emperor’s personal ships no less; what can I do for you?’
‘I wish to see the prefect immediately on imperial business.’
The aedile nodded and turned to the optio. ‘Hortensius, escort the senator to the Royal Palace and then stay with him for the duration of his visit to provide him with any assistance that he needs.’
Vespasian muttered his thanks while suspecting that he had just been put under military guard.
‘That is completely out of the question,’ Prefect Aulus Avilius Flaccus informed Vespasian, having been apprised of Caligula’s wishes. ‘If the breastplate were to be removed, the whole of the city’s Greek population, which is by far the largest section, would rise up in outrage. They worship Alexander and any sacrilege by us to his mausoleum would be seen as a declaration of war. Caligula’s edict about putting his statue into all temples has already got the Jews up in arms, and I can’t give the Jews a short, sharp shock and deal with the Greeks at the same time.’ His firm-jawed, suntanned face set rigid and his dark eyes stared at Vespasian from underneath silvering brows, defying him to argue. Through the window behind him the expanse of the Great Harbour glistened in the late afternoon light. A gentle sea breeze blew in, cooling the chamber that Cleopatra, Julius Caesar and Marcus Antonius had all held audiences in.
‘But it’s Caligula’s wish.’
‘Then the little shit should wish for something else.’
False God of Rome Page 29
