False God of Rome

by Robert Fabbri

  Their success in avoiding Caligula’s notice and invitations, perversely, gave rise to another worry: why had he not invited them? The Emperor counted Vespasian and Sabinus among his closest friends and, by the time they were just one day away from their destination, not to have been asked to share one of his lavish dinners, however distasteful the entertainment, had started to play on Sabinus’ mind.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, dear boy,’ Gaius boomed from the relative comfort of his cushion-infested carriage, ‘he seemed pleased enough with you the last time you saw him outside Rome.’

  ‘But that’s just it, Uncle,’ Sabinus replied, riding alongside. ‘He knows that we’re here, he’s under the unfortunate misapprehension that we’re his friends and yet he’s ignored us for fifteen days now; what have we done to offend him?’

  ‘You’ll get a summons to join him for the final day later this evening, as he promised.’

  ‘But why has he waited this long?’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t want to ruin the surprise that he has waiting for you,’ Vespasian ventured, enjoying a gust of cooling wind blowing in off the calm Tyrrhenian Sea just a hundred paces to their right.

  ‘Very funny, you little shit.’

  ‘I thought so,’ Magnus agreed.

  Sabinus scowled at him and then turned back to his brother. ‘The point is: I would rather have the dubious security of knowing that I’m in Caligula’s favour rather than worrying that I’ve done something to displease him and live in fear of being executed at any moment.’

  Vespasian grinned. ‘At least that might get me a dinner invitation.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Clemens told me that a couple of months ago Caligula ordered a father to attend his son’s execution; the father naturally tried to get out of it by claiming ill-health so he sent a litter for him. Afterwards he invited the poor man to dinner and spent the evening trying to cheer him up by telling jokes. Perhaps he’ll extend the same courtesy to a brother.’

  ‘If he does, I’m sure that you’d have no problems laughing at his jokes having watched my blood flow.’

  A long rumble of Praetorian cornu signalled the end of the penultimate day’s march, the column halted and the business of making camp commenced. As the Flavian party waited in the shade of their carriage a horseman made his way down the crowded road towards them. In just a tunic and wearing the wide-brimmed floppy sunhat that the cavalry auxiliaries had favoured in Cyrenaica he was evidently not a Praetorian. As he passed he glanced in the brothers’ direction and suddenly pulled his horse around.

  ‘Sabinus, the Emperor sent me to find you,’ the rider announced, taking off his hat. ‘He wishes for you and your party to present yourselves to him in the morning.’

  Vespasian stared at the rider in shocked recognition.

  ‘Thank you, Corvinus,’ Sabinus replied, stepping forward to grasp the proffered forearm. ‘We’ll be there at dawn. I haven’t seen you on the progress, where have you been hiding?’

  ‘I’ve only just caught up with it; I had some business to attend to.’

  Sabinus turned and indicated to Vespasian. ‘Do you know my brother, Titus Flavius Vespasianus?’

  Corvinus’ eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘Oh yes, we’ve met. Until tomorrow, then.’ He turned his horse and sped away.

  Vespasian looked at his brother in apprehension. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘Corvinus? We live on the same street on the Aventine and have often found ourselves walking home together from the Senate since I got back. We’ve become quite friendly in a short time. But I’m surprised that he’s never mentioned knowing you; he’s asked about the family and I mentioned your name.’

  ‘What else have you told him?’

  ‘Oh, nothing that I wouldn’t mention to any senator who makes a polite enquiry: where we come from, who our parents are, who my wife’s family are; that sort of thing.’

  ‘Did you tell him about Caenis?’

  ‘I don’t think so; why?’

  ‘He has no cause to like me; in fact, he’s threatened me.’

  ‘Why would that be, dear boy?’ Gaius asked, looking concernedly in Corvinus’ direction.

  ‘He was a cavalry prefect while I was in Cyrenaica, I made a couple of decisions that he didn’t like – and perhaps he was right. Do you know him?’

  ‘Marcus Valerius Messala Corvinus? Of course I know of him. It would seem that you’ve made yourself an enemy who has the potential to be rather influential. Provided his future brother-in-law manages to stay alive, his sister could well end up as empress.’

  ‘How could—’ Vespasian stopped suddenly and sucked in his breath as he remembered a pair of dark eyes glaring at him as he laughed at one of Caligula’s jokes.

  Gaius nodded gravely. ‘Yes, dear boy, his sister is Claudius’ future wife: Valeria Messalina.’

  It was with a certain amount of trepidation that the brothers approached Caligula’s pavilion the following morning in the pale dawn. All around them the business of dismantling the camp was progressing apace and smoke and steam from freshly doused cooking fires swirled on the warm sea breeze.

  Caligula’s close entourage were already gathering to greet him and stood around the entrance murmuring in small groups.

  The brothers dismounted and handed their horses to a couple of slaves; from over by the pavilion entrance they saw a familiar face detaching himself from a group consisting of Claudius, Asiaticus, Pallas and, much to Vespasian’s unease, Narcissus.

  ‘I wondered if I would see you two here,’ Corbulo said, walking over to them.

  ‘Corbulo, you’re well, I trust,’ Vespasian replied, grasping his forearm.

  ‘As well as can be expected for a man who has had to build a three-and-a-half mile-extension of the Via Appia over more than two thousand ships in less than two months.’ He gripped Sabinus’ arm. ‘That’s the last time that I make a speech in the Senate complaining about the state of the roads.’

  Vespasian had to suppress a grin. ‘Is that why he gave you the task?’

  Corbulo’s long, aristocratic face looked downcast. ‘Yes, he said if I didn’t like the roads as they were then I could build him a nice new one. Now my family will be associated with the biggest waste of money ever, and to compound our dishonour my whore of a half-sister has been disgracing herself by cavorting in public with the Emperor at any and every opportunity; she’s even got herself pregnant by him, or at least she claims it’s by him.’

  ‘We hadn’t heard,’ Sabinus said sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry for your shame.’

  ‘Well, you’ve both been away and I’d rather that you heard it from me. Anyway, she’s been down here for the last few days. Caligula sent her to me to ensure that she rests during the pregnancy because if it goes its full term he plans to marry her. Although judging by the tired looks of the turma of Praetorian cavalry that escorted her here I don’t think that she had much rest on the way down.’

  ‘So is the road ready?’ Vespasian asked, anxious to change the subject before the grin managed to overcome his self-control.

  ‘Of course it’s ready,’ Corbulo snapped, ‘I’m a Domitius, we complete our tasks, however ludicrous.’

  ‘Yes of course, that’s why the Emperor chose you.’

  ‘I can’t say that it was made any easier by being forced to work with that jumped-up freedman, Narcissus. The man’s intolerably addicted to power; he even tried to give me an order once, can you imagine it?’

  ‘I’m sure Caligula will reward you well for your pains.’

  Corbulo puffed up with pride. ‘He’s nominating me as his colleague in the consulship next year; that will go some way to restoring the family’s honour.’

  Vespasian thought it best not to tell Corbulo that Caligula was also thinking of nominating his horse. ‘He’s nominated me a praetor.’

  Corbulo looked down his highborn nose at Vespasian. ‘It’s most unusual for a New Man to be given that honour in the first year that
he’s eligible for it. What have you done to deserve that?’

  ‘Oh, the same sort of ludicrous things as you; just obeying Caligula’s will.’

  The crowd around the pavilion suddenly went silent as Clemens appeared from within. ‘Senators and People of Rome,’ he called out, ‘I give you your Emperor, the Divine Gaius, Lord of land and sea.’

  ‘Hail Divine Gaius, Lord of land and sea!’ the crowd began to obediently chant.

  After a few choruses the pavilion flaps opened and Caligula appeared wearing Alexander’s breastplate over which a cloak-like chlamys of purple silk, pinned on the right shoulder, fluttered in the breeze; his head was adorned with a crown of oak leaves and he held a gilded sword and a shield of the argyraspides with the sixteen-pointed star of Macedon inlaid upon it. At the sight of him the intensity of the chant grew for he did indeed look like a young god.

  Caligula raised his sword and shield to the heavens and held his head back soaking up the laudatory chant. ‘Today,’ he called out eventually, ‘I complete my greatest achievement so far. I will ride my chariot across the water in fellowship with my brother Neptune; our feud is at an end!’

  Despite being uncertain as to the nature of the feud the crowd cheered in relief.

  ‘Once this day is completed we will return to Rome to prepare for a year of conquest to start next spring. To show the world that I am the true Lord of land and sea I will lead our armies into Germania and exorcise the shame that still sullies Roman honour by retrieving the one remaining lost eagle from the Teutoburg Forest disaster: that of the Seventeenth Legion. When that is done we shall proceed north to the edge of the known world and, in concert with my brother Neptune, I will lead our armies across the sea and conquer, for me and for Rome, Britannia.’

  Even Vespasian found himself getting carried away by the magnitude of the idea along with the rest of the crowd: here at last was an enterprise that would not be a vast exercise in squandering money, it would be for the greater glory and profit of Rome. Perhaps, just perhaps, the young Emperor had found a way to satisfy at the same time his desire for the grandiose statement – no matter what the cost in lives and coin – and his subjects’ desire for conquest and renown.

  ‘Follow me, my friends,’ Caligula shouted, ‘follow me to the bridge and we shall ride across to the victory and the glory that awaits us on the other side.’

  For the first time in many years Vespasian followed Caligula willingly.

  CHAPTER XXIIII

  VESPASIAN COULD NOT contain a gasp of surprise as the head of the column, led by Caligula in his quadriga, crested the western slope of Mount Nuova at the most northerly point of the Bay of Neapolis.

  Caligula turned in his chariot and shouted triumphantly at the sea of faces, all with the same expression of astonishment written upon them. ‘What did I tell you, my friends? Is it not truly amazing, the work of a god?’

  It was undeniably truly amazing. Below them, stretching from Baiae, just north of the humped Promontory of Misenum, right across to Puteoli, three and a half miles away across the glittering azure water, stretched a double line of ships, chained together side by side, undulating gently on the calm swell of the sea. Across them had been laid a road, straight as the Via Appia, but wider, much wider. However, the bridge was not just a straight line; at intervals along its length single lines of ships curved out like tentacles to end up in peninsulas of round clusters of vessels that had been completely covered over to form solid platforms upon which stood, unbelievably, buildings. Beyond it the Portus Julius, home of the western fleet, stood empty.

  Cracking his whip over his team’s withers and shouting a prayer to his own Genius, Caligula accelerated away down the hill; sparks from his iron-shod wheels grating against the stone road flew up behind him. Fired with enthusiasm at the sight of such a magnificent creation, Vespasian and the rest of the younger senators on horseback sped after him, whooping and shouting like juveniles and vying with each other to be the first onto the bridge after their Emperor. The Praetorian cavalry followed close behind them, leaving the infantry and the wagons to make the half-mile journey at their own slow speed.

  With Caligula just ahead, Vespasian clattered down the main street of the small fishing port of Baiae with a wide grin on his face. As it opened out onto the harbour the bridge stood ahead of him, fading into the distance. Its true scale only became apparent close to: the road that Corbulo had engineered across it was over thirty paces wide. It was not constructed just out of planks of wood nailed haphazardly over each vessel; it had been laid as if on land because, indeed, it was on land. The deck of each ship had been filled with earth, from the mast to the stern, to the height of the rail. To compensate for the weight, great boulders had been placed in each bow, levelling the vessels, which had been chained together, hull to hull, in two lines. Then, with all the steering oars removed, the lines had been attached stern to stern. The small gaps between the ships had been boarded over with thick planks secured with foot-long nails driven through the decks. The earth had then been pounded down, levelling it to make one three-and-a-half-mile-long smooth, unbroken surface. But as if this were not extraordinary enough, it had been paved with foot-square stones laid a thumb’s breadth apart so that they would not concertina with the undulation on the ships.

  Caligula drove his quadriga straight onto his creation and brought it to a halt next to a collection of thirty or so chariots of strange appearance, pulled by pairs of short, sturdy-looking ponies with shaggy coats.

  He turned to address his followers. ‘These are replicas of the chariots used by the British tribes, but the ponies are properly trained chariot-ponies imported from Britannia itself. Come, my friends, take a chariot and ride it across the water. When the rumour that we can not only drive their chariots but also ride them over the sea reaches the ears of the savages of Britannia they will fall before me and beg for mercy from your god. Come, my friends, come!’

  Vespasian leapt off his horse and joined the headlong rush to get to a chariot, there being more willing drivers than vehicles. Grabbing a set of reins from one of the Celtic-looking slaves in charge of each chariot, he clambered aboard the nearest one. It was a simple design: a rectangular wooden base set on iron-rimmed wheels, two feet in diameter, with a semicircular wicker frame on either side and left open at the front and rear. The ponies were attached to the up-curved central pole by a yoke and controlled by reins running from their bits.

  ‘Can you drive one of these things?’ Sabinus called, grinning wildly as he leapt onto the chariot next to him.

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Vespasian shouted back, flicking the reins as the slave jumped in behind him.

  ‘Kneel, master,’ the slave said as the chariot moved forward, ‘like this. That way the reins are not high.’

  Vespasian glanced back to see his companion kneeling low on one knee and immediately copied his position so that the reins flowed along the ponies’ backs. He pulled slightly to the right and the little beasts responded, edging the chariot out into the centre of the road. All around, the other drivers were getting the same lesson from their instructors with varying degrees of success.

  Once all the chariots were occupied and in position behind him, Caligula waited no longer and, with his gilded sword raised in the air, set off at a walk towards Puteoli, shimmering in the morning sun and crowned by dun-brown hills climbing up behind it. Those senators who had been unable or unwilling to get a chariot followed on horseback along with the near thousand-strong contingent of Praetorian cavalry. Just under a half-mile further back up the hill the dark mass of the Praetorian infantry, followed by hundreds of carriages, could be seen approaching Baiae.

  Vespasian pulled his chariot closer to that of Corbulo. ‘How did you do this, Corbulo? It feels so stable.’

  Corbulo glanced over with an expression that looked remarkably close to enjoyment on his normally rigid face. ‘A lot of slaves; I commandeered every healthy male slave within fifty miles. There are mo
re than a few fat merchants who’ve had to go without their massages or a decent fish stew for the last two months.’ He snorted a few times in what Vespasian assumed was a valiant attempt at a laugh.

  As they passed the first of the peninsulas, a third of the way across, Caligula increased the pace to a trot. The extra speed meant that Vespasian was more aware of the gentle roll of the bridge as he moved from ship to ship more rapidly and their slight difference in pitch registered quicker. To his right the curve of the causeway leading to the peninsula made a harbour in which were moored leisure boats, too small to be of use in the bridge, but plentiful enough to provide everyone with some aquatic amusement later on.

  Behind them the carriages rolled onto the bridge followed by the infantry.

  Just over the halfway point, marked by a causeway extending out on either side, Caligula cracked his team into a canter. The exhilaration among the charioteers began to grow as, looking left and right over the wicker sides of their vehicles, they were too low to see the bows of the ships supporting them and could only see water; apart from the masts flicking by they had the sensation that they really were riding over a vast expanse of sea.

  A quarter of a mile from the end of the bridge Caligula let his horses loose into an outright gallop; the hardy Celtic ponies followed suit and behind them the cavalry thundered on. The pounding of thousands of hoofs echoed strangely through the hollow hulls of the ships below, amplifying the sound fivefold into a deafening drumming, drowning out the cries and hollers of the charioteers and troopers. Oblivious to all else but the sensation of great speed, the tumult in his ears and the wind in his face blowing his cares from his mind, Vespasian followed Caligula blindly, screaming at the top of his voice.

  As the bridge came to an end Caligula did not stop.

  On he went; on towards the mass of citizens of Puteoli who had turned out to watch the extravaganza. Brandishing his gilded sword he swept his team into the unbelieving crowd, skittling over and trampling under hoof those too slow to move out of his way. An instant later, unable to pull up short because of the cavalry pressing them from behind, the rest of the chariots hit the fragile wall of unprotected flesh and bone. Screams and wails rent the air, louder even than the drumming of the hoofs still pounding the bridge behind, as the momentum of the stocky ponies, with the weight of their burdens behind them, drove ragged gashes through the throng that only moments earlier had been in a holiday mood.