Caligula r-1

by Douglas Jackson

  'If you are busy, I will not disturb you,' she said in an accented Latin which reminded him of Cupido's. Her voice was not the only similarity. The way she stood, tall and straight, with the balance of an athlete and the awareness of a warrior, was evidence of her lineage. This was no pliant slave girl, bonded from birth and cowed by the powerlessness of her position.

  'No, please.' He straightened to face her. 'Bersheba is not needed today.'

  She was holding little Drusilla in her arms. The child must have been close to a year old, with a mop of dark curls and a face that permanently mirrored her mother's petulance.

  Aemilia saw his look. 'She is growing heavier every day. Soon I won't be able to carry her any distance. She should be walking by now, but she is spoiled, I think, and if she prefers to crawl, then crawl she will.' She turned to look over her shoulder where Milonia and Agrippina sat on cushions on the grass, in the shade of a canopy held by two Nubian slaves.

  Bersheba appeared at the door of the barn, sniffing the air with her trunk.

  'She is a magnificent animal, but I would wish her back in the wild places of her childhood and not chained in the darkness to await one man's pleasure.' There was a hint of sadness in Aemilia's voice, and Rufus understood that she was linking Bersheba's position to her own. 'What would she do if you unchained her, do you think? Would she wander far and wide until she came to some stream she once knew, or some hill she looked out from? No, I am being foolish. Of course she would be hunted down and killed before she ever came close to the thing she once knew as freedom.'

  'I think it more likely that she would stand where she was until the handler who had been so carelessly neglectful decided to feed her, for Bersheba's moods are ruled by her stomach, are they not, girl?' he said, trying to lighten the mood.

  'Yes, you are right.' Aemilia smiled sadly. 'We must be thankful for the small gifts our captivity brings.'

  Drusilla squirmed, almost dislodging herself, and Aemilia placed the little girl carefully on the grass. The child immediately began to explore her surroundings.

  'Better here than near her cousin,' Aemilia said. 'Poor Nero, she scratches his face until he cries. I fear for the boy once all her teeth grow in.'

  A cloud covered the sun for a moment, and Aemilia shivered, growing serious again. 'I thank you for being my brother's friend. I hope we too can be friends,' she said, and Rufus struggled to cover his disappointment. He wanted more than this girl's — this woman's — friendship. 'I came here to warn you that you may be in danger. Milonia Caesonia talks openly of a slave she calls Drusilla's puppy dog. She does so in the crudest terms and in the wrong company. I urge you to beware. Whatever your feelings for Drusilla, stay away from her. If the Emperor became aware of your relationship she could not save you.'

  Rufus opened his mouth to deny he had any feelings for Drusilla. Who did this haughty German girl think she was, to come here and throw his shame in his face? Did she believe she was the only slave who still had pride? But before he could say anything, Aemilia gave a stifled scream.

  Rufus looked round to see what had startled her.

  Inside the barn Drusilla was playing in the hay directly between Bersheba's enormous legs. The elephant had only to shuffle her feet and Caligula's daughter would be crushed.

  But Bersheba was Bersheba. She bowed her head to look at the interloper beneath her, and with the tip of her trunk gently pushed the laughing infant through the hay to safety.

  Rufus picked up the wriggling bundle and plucked the straw from her tangled hair, while Drusilla hissed at him and demanded in childish gurgles to be allowed to return to her huge playmate. Aemilia, pale as a ghost, took the child from him.

  'This is a dangerous place, Aemilia, and we must always be wary, but sometimes the fates contrive to undo even the most careful. I am a slave, and if the Emperor's sister demands it, I must attend her. But do not shame me by believing my attendance means anything more.' He turned to walk away.

  'Rufus?' The note of apology in Aemilia's voice stopped him.

  When he turned back she looked at him as if she was seeing him for the first time. What was he to her, this tall, fresh-faced young man with the untidy, russet-bronze mop of hair and the gentle, almost emerald eyes? She had noticed the way he looked at her; how could she not when he made it so obvious. He desired her, but then so did a lot of men. He was undoubtedly handsome, in a wholesome, rustic sort of way, and she liked him, but there were many people she liked. Sometimes, if they met by accident, she experienced an inner confusion and a fluttering in her breast she couldn't explain. Was that love? She knew of love; the palace ladies talked of little else. She was curious about the act but was in no rush to experience it. In any case, what could he offer her? He was a slave. Yes, she too was a slave, but Milonia had promised that when the time was right she would be freed, and that she would be found a suitable husband. So they could not be more than friends. But would that be enough for him?

  'My words were ill-chosen and I beg your forgiveness. I meant what I said when I offered you my friendship, and I offer it again. Show me your hands.'

  Puzzled, Rufus put out his hands, palms up. He was conscious of the roughness of his skin as she took his right hand in hers, still holding Drusilla in the crook of her left arm.

  'When I was young, the women of my tribe believed I had the gift. I don't know if that's true, but I can read men's thoughts, sometimes, and see things I don't understand, and when I place my hand over another's, like this, I can sometimes feel the future.'

  She closed her eyes, and Rufus felt an energy pulsing in his right arm that had not been there before. Maybe it was the warmth of her hand on his that caused the effect, but it was there, and as the seconds passed he felt its power flow through his shoulder and into his chest.

  She opened her eyes, and he was drawn into their fathomless depths. When she spoke it was in the measured tones of an oracle.

  'You are strong, Rufus, stronger than you will ever know. You will survive this place while others will not, and you will travel far, over land and sea, to a place where you will witness the last stand of the tyrants.'

  Rufus shuddered. He didn't understand why — or how — it would happen. But he felt in his heart it was true. 'Will Cupido be at my side? And you?'

  She smiled distractedly. 'Perhaps. But our story is already written and our fate decided. If the gods will it, we will be there with you.'

  XXII

  From the highest to the lowest, the inhabitants of the Palatine went about their business in silence and in fear. The abortive invasion and the reaction in Rome had driven Caligula's always unpredictable moods to even greater extremes. House slaves whispered of the Emperor's screaming rages and his favourites cowering for their lives at his feet. The two serving consuls took themselves on a tour of the provinces and sacrificed to the gods in the hope that he would not send for them.

  Rufus was fortunately untouched by it all. He saw little of Aemilia, who still confused him, except from afar, and nothing of Drusilla, who, he now realized, had seen him as a compliant novelty. Once experienced, the novelty was gone for ever. He did not know whether to be grateful or insulted.

  He was organizing Bersheba's feed on a cool morning that promised a perfect day a week after the festival of the Parilia, when he heard the clamour of voices and the sound of hammers. It came from the far side of the park, but hard as he tried he could not see what caused it. The massive marble-clad shoulder of Caligula's palace hid whatever was happening from his view.

  As the day wore on his curiosity grew. He saw figures moving purposefully back and forth, but they were too far away to hail, or even for their actions to give him a clue as to what they were doing.

  At the sixth hour, when he knew most of the Palatine would be at their midday meal, he harnessed Bersheba. 'Come on, girl,' he said. 'We'll go a little further than normal today.'

  He directed her out into the park, but not towards the palace. Instead, he turned her right, so his r
oute would take him across the face of the building, but would also allow him a clear view of what was going on beyond it by the time he reached the far end of the park where the trees were thin.

  At first, it was difficult to make sense of what he was seeing, but gradually the chaotic scene in front of him took order in his mind. At the far end of the palace, where the Palatine Hill fell away towards the forum, was an ants' nest of activity. Hundreds of enormous baulks of timber were stacked in piles twice as high as Bersheba and some form of construction was already going on close to the palace walls. He could see teams of workers digging and others carrying the larger timbers, which needed a dozen men each to take their weight. He assumed the workers were slaves, but he was surprised to see men in the uniform of legionary officers scurrying among them, organizing and harrying.

  He was about to turn away when a voice from behind almost made him fall from Bersheba's back.

  'Impressive, isn't it?'

  Narcissus.

  'Don't you have anything to do but spy on people?' Rufus didn't bother to hide his annoyance.

  'I might ask you the same. The Emperor's elephant seems to have remarkably few duties these days. Perhaps I could suggest something?'

  Rufus flushed. Why did the Greek always get the better of him? He waited for Narcissus to bring up the question of trust, which had seemed to be so important to him during their last conversation, but apparently he was in no hurry to return to the subject.

  'What you see is but a fraction of the Emperor's grand plan,' he said, shaking his head. 'Beyond the wall, the best part of a full legion is sweating and cursing to turn a dream into reality.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'Do you see the small fat man on the left? He is talking to a person who, unless I miss my guess, is a tribune of the Fourteenth Gemina. I imagine he sacrificed a large white bull at the temple of Jupiter this morning and prayed for an auspicious day. If he did not, he is a fool, or he has already mixed the hemlock in readiness for his failure.'

  'He does seem troubled.' Even at this distance Rufus could sense the fat man's agitation.

  'So he should be. One week ago the Emperor dreamed vividly he was the subject of an assassination attempt on the way from the Palatine to the Senate House. They say he felt the daggers entering his body and woke to find himself covered in blood. It was merely a nose bleed, but emperors tend to take such signs literally. He called a conference of his advisers, of whom, of course, my master, Senator Claudius, is one. He is a sensible man, and has a benign influence on the Emperor, and left to himself would have calmed the situation. But that dangerous fool Protogenes convinced Caligula the dream was a portent and that he must protect himself. This,' he waved a hand towards the builders, 'was the result. A million sesterces so one man can be carried four hundred paces from his table to the steps of the Senate without soiling his nostrils with the stink of the mob. It is a bridge,' Narcissus explained, 'probably the longest land bridge in the world. It will take the Fourteenth one month to build and that little fat man is responsible for ensuring it does not fall down with the Emperor upon it. Now do you understand why he is so agitated?'

  Rufus grinned. 'I wouldn't be in his boots for all the gold in the Empire.'

  Narcissus became serious. 'Now, to the question of trust we talked of, Rufus. I wish you would put aside your antagonism and place your faith in me. For better or worse, our lives are entwined, and if we slaves cannot work together we will all be like the little man building the Emperor's bridge: living in constant fear.'

  Rufus thought for a moment, considering his response. 'Don't we live in fear in any case, Narcissus? I have lost friends who were blameless. If Drusilla convinces the Emperor you are plotting against him, your trust in your master will mean nothing. The only thing that will save you is to betray every person who ever put his faith in you.'

  Surprisingly, mention of the Emperor's sister brought a smile to the Greek's face, a rather sly smile.

  'Oh, I don't think Drusilla will harm anyone again. I thought you would be the first to know. She has taken to her bed. Some minor ailment, I understand.'

  XXIII

  Rufus returned the next day to see the bridge taking shape, and, as it grew, he became bolder and ventured closer. On the far side of the wall the largest timbers, massive baulks split from mature tree trunks and reaching six times the height of a tall man, were being buried deep in the ground to provide the foundations. Between each main timber, the legionaries jointed others, smaller, but still substantial, which Rufus could see would be the frame for the bridge deck. Finally, a double layer of thick planks was laid on the frame and nailed firm.

  He marvelled at its progress as it snaked out from the Palatine towards the forum, forty feet above the ground. Across the intersection of Clivus Victoriae and the Via Nova; between the infant foundations of the temple of Augustus and the pillared frontage of the house of the Vestals; over the fountain of Juturna and past the temple of Castor and Pollux, until it turned to follow the path of the Sacred Way.

  One thing struck him as strange. It had to be strong, because it was to carry the Emperor, but the little architect was certainly taking no chances. The scale of the wooden bridge was immense. The planking was so thick and the weight-bearing pillars so enormous, Rufus guessed the bridge could have taken the weight of two or three legions together. Perhaps, he thought, that was its true purpose: to provide swift passage for relieving troops if the populace rioted, as they had done so often during the bread shortages of Tiberius's reign.

  Once the construction was completed, three days ahead of Narcissus's predicted date, carpenters appeared to turn their attention to the fine work. They smoothed the boards and the handrails with planes and erected carved pillars etched with gladiatorial scenes as gateways at each end. When their work was done, the painters replaced them, turning the entire length of the bridge a lustrous gold that hurt the eyes in the low autumn sunshine.

  As the project proceeded, hundreds of onlookers gathered, curious to see the Emperor's latest wonder. On the evening the painters completed their work a rumour was born somewhere out in the suburbs beyond the Campus Martius that Caligula would make his first crossing the next day. Before he bedded Bersheba down, Rufus watched the first of the crowds stream in towards the forum, eager to secure the best viewpoints for the next day's spectacle. By the time he composed himself for sleep there were hundreds, but he anticipated that by the next day they would be in their thousands.

  He intended to rise early, because he was as interested as any Roman to see the Emperor take his first steps on the marvel he had created, but he was still in his cot when a loud hammering on the barn door woke him, bleary-eyed and complaining, to find it was still full dark. He dressed as swiftly as he could, but the urgent hammering continued and Bersheba snorted with concern, shuffling in her chains.

  'Don't knock the door down,' he shouted, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 'I'm coming.'

  He pushed up the beam barring the doors and pushed them open. Staring at him in the light of a dozen torches was a grizzled Praetorian centurion. For a second, Rufus wondered if he was finally being arrested and his eyes flicked among them, hoping the next face he set eyes upon would be Cupido's, but the gladiator was nowhere to be seen.

  The centurion's barked order made him blink. 'Don't just stand there gaping, man. The Emperor requires his elephant to be at its most presentable by the second hour. Get to work, and if you need any help we've been ordered to provide it.'

  With two of the soldiers holding lamps for him and another two lending a hand, Rufus prepared Bersheba's harness, polished her brass and buffed her tusks. He even managed to give her a manicure before the job was completed at first light. With a final flourish he threw the tasselled blanket of gold cloth she wore on ceremonial outings across her back. When he was done, he nervously asked the centurion where they would be needed.

  'Just have the elephant outside and ready when the Emperor arrives. He will give you your
instructions.'

  As the hour approached, the centurion brusquely ordered his men into parade formation in front of the barn. Rufus unchained Bersheba and led her into the flat light of the early morning and wondered for the hundredth time what was going on.

  The jingle of armour, and Bersheba's inquisitive 'sniff ', gave warning of Caligula's approach. The centurion used his stick to straighten the line of Praetorians and Rufus fiddled uneasily with the elephant's harness, peering beneath her to get a good view of the imperial party.

  The Emperor strode purposefully at their head, magnificent in a purple toga and with a wreath of laurel leaves fixed in his thinning hair. Behind him, almost cantering to keep up, was a short, barrel-like figure Rufus vaguely recognized, and a long-striding legionary officer wearing the badges of an engineer on his chest. To both sides of the mismatched couple marched a file of Praetorians, making the little group look suspiciously like an arrest party.

  It wasn't until they were closer that the smaller man's nervous manner reminded Rufus who it was. Narcissus's architect. The man who had turned the Emperor's dream into a reality.

  But why were they coming here?

  Caligula stopped in front of Bersheba and ran an approving eye over her. The Emperor looked healthier than at any time since Rufus had known him. His skin had lost the sickly sheen that marked him as either a dissolute or an invalid, and the eyes, which Rufus remembered as being almost opaque, were a clear bright blue. He was hardly dressed for the part, but he had the ready look of an athlete on the morning of a games.

  'Magnificent, isn't she?' Caligula said, to no one in particular. He motioned the two men who accompanied him forward. 'Coriolanus, Sulpicius, I warned you this day would come. Do you believe me now?'

  The smaller man hopped from one foot to the other, as if he was doing some sort of barbarian dance. 'W-we never doubted you, great Caesar,' he croaked.