Caligula r-1

by Douglas Jackson

He blinked as the cloth was removed. He was in a high-ceilinged windowless room of similar proportions to Bersheba's barn. At first his vision was blurred and all he could make out was the flicker of torches around him and an enormously powerful source of light at the far end of the building. Then the blurring cleared and he was staring at one of the wonders of the world.

  In death, she was even more beautiful than in life. She was taller, more perfectly proportioned, and any physical imperfection had been carefully removed or ignored. Her head was held high, and her hair fell in ringlets to her bare shoulders. She was regal, but not aloof, staring sightlessly into the middle distance. Those who looked upon her might at first have found her cold, but the golden eyes glowed with a warmth their owner had never emanated in life. The surfaces of her body drew in the light of the torches and reflected it a thousand-fold, so that from some angles it was like staring into the centre of a furnace.

  When he had recovered from the first shock, Rufus realized that Drusilla had achieved her ambition. She was immortal.

  Where had they found so much gold? The statue Caligula had commissioned to cement his sister's divinity was eight feet high and set on a plinth of pink marble. The artist had dressed his subject in the vestments of Diana, but had posed her in the manner of an earlier Greek rendering of Venus. For a few moments Rufus looked upon the statue in wonder. Then he was back in the room with the curtained bed and her glistening, sweat-sheened body was beneath him, breasts rising and falling, every shadow a temptation. And the statue was just that: a lifeless piece of metal that could never compare with the living, breathing being that had once inhabited that body.

  Callistus brought him back to reality. 'Can the elephant pull her?'

  Rufus looked at him for a second in confusion before his mind accepted the challenge and he attempted to calculate the enormous weight of the gold and the carriage needed to transport it.

  'She cannot take the statue over the bridge to the Senate,' he said decisively. 'It would never hold. You would risk destroying everything.'

  Callistus's face paled at the thought. 'That will not be required. The route is necessarily secret, but think of a circuit of the forum and perhaps a procession as far as the Circus Maximus.'

  'Then, yes, Bersheba can pull her.'

  The ceremony was timed for the final day of the restrictions imposed by Caligula for her period of mourning, which ensured an outpouring of joy such as Rome had not seen since the day of the Emperor's coronation.

  But Callistus had one last surprise for Rufus.

  A dozen slaves carried the heavy bundles, all carefully wrapped in soft leather, to the elephant house and laid the curiously shaped objects on the grass. The secretary supervised as Rufus unwrapped them, counting each item as it was revealed in front of the barn.

  'But Bersheba can't wear this.' Rufus could hardly believe what he was seeing.

  Callistus winced. 'It must. The Emperor insists.'

  The bundle with the strangest shape contained what Rufus eventually worked out was an elaborate gold-plated chain-mail headdress. It combined eye and trunk protection for the elephant and was fitted with leather straps so it would not slip out of position. From the forehead, just between the shield-boss-sized openings for her eyes, he was horrified to see jutting a dangerous two-foot golden spike.

  Next there emerged a set of four equally extravagant knee protectors, again each with its alarming spike.

  Finally, from the burden which it had taken four of the slaves to carry, was unrolled an enormous mantle of interlocking leaf-shaped segments of gold-plated metal that would have covered the entire floor of Rufus's modest home. It was designed to protect Bersheba's back and flanks.

  'Oh, and there are also these,' the secretary remembered, and reaching beneath the folds of his cloak he pulled out two pointed, hollow golden horns that fitted snugly over the ends of Bersheba's tusks.

  'She will look foolish,' Rufus pleaded.

  'Not foolish, magnificent,' Callistus insisted. 'You will accustom the beast to wearing this ceremonial armour, so that when it pulls the golden statue of the Emperor's sister it will provide a spectacle such as Romans have never witnessed. There is one more thing.'

  Rufus bit his tongue. He knew Callistus would not forget his outburst. The only reason he was not on his way to a whipping post was that no one else could control Bersheba.

  Callistus gestured to one of the slaves, who unrolled a small parcel which had lain forgotten, but now revealed what was plainly the gilt armour and dark tunic of a soldier of the Praetorian Guard.

  'You should be honoured, slave. The Emperor has seen fit to appoint you an honorary soldier of his elite guard. Temporary and unpaid, of course.'

  Of course.

  Bersheba detested her new finery, and she let him know it.

  When he attempted to fit the intricate headdress, she would allow him to reach a point where he was ready to tighten the final strap before giving a shrug of her head that left it hanging untidily from one ear.

  If anything, the plate-armour mantle looked as though it would be even more difficult. Not only was it huge, it was awkward, and he realized immediately he would need more help. Callistus tutted and waved him away, but six slaves arrived at the elephant house within the hour and he put them to work.

  In the event, Bersheba was suddenly a model of cooperation. She did exactly what she was asked and they worked the enormously heavy metal blanket over her back. Even when he ordered her to stand, she did so with such care that the covering stayed exactly where it was, and he was able to get underneath her and, using all his strength, tighten the leather straps to keep it in position.

  He had never felt so satisfied as when he stepped back to survey his achievement, a smile splitting his face. The secretary was right: she did look magnificent.

  He looked into the soulful brown eyes. 'I thank you, Bersheba. You have made me proud.'

  Bersheba looked back. Was there a twinkle there?

  'No!'

  Yes. It began as a twitch of her shoulders and rippled down her massive flanks as an almost imperceptible wriggle, ending in a profound shake of her huge backside and a twitch of her tail. Slowly, infinitely slowly, the golden mantle slipped sideways, until it finished up hanging between her legs.

  The roar of frustration that echoed across the Palatine scared the pigeons from the trees and rooftops.

  But the one thing Rufus had learned in his years with Fronto's animals was perseverance. He knew he would win in the end, and a day before they were due to lead the parade Bersheba stood before him, a sight to chill the blood, her ceremonial armour firmly in place; a living mountain of glittering golden fragments which sparkled individually in the sunlight.

  He sent for Callistus. The palace official narrowed his eyes and studied Bersheba from every angle then nodded with satisfaction.

  'Wait,' he ordered.

  A few minutes later he returned with the Emperor at his side, followed by Protogenes and a small weasel-like individual Rufus realized must be the Emperor's chamberlain. Rufus was shocked by Caligula's appearance. He had not seen the Emperor since his sister's death and the interval had wrought a dreadful change in the young man. His hair was long and lank, his beard matted, as if he had been neither shaved nor barbered in many months. His eyes were sunk deep in his head and his cheeks had the sallow complexion of candlewax.

  Caligula stopped so suddenly when he saw Bersheba that Protogenes almost ran into his back and had to throw himself clumsily sideways to avoid the collision. The Emperor stared wide-eyed at the elephant as if he had never seen her before.

  'Truly this animal is worthy of my sister,' he cried. 'If only I had a dozen, no, a hundred, like this, I could do her the honour she deserves.' Rufus could see his eyes were moist. Caligula gave a huge sniff and addressed him directly. 'Do your duties well, slave, and be sure your Emperor will reward you.'

  Later, while Rufus sat in the little room behind the elephant house with his stomach twisted
by doubts, Livia questioned him.

  'If the Emperor offers you a reward, what will you ask?' she said seriously.

  He shrugged. 'It is too early to think of such things. If anything goes wrong tomorrow I could be dead by nightfall.'

  'But there must be something you wish for more than anything else?' she insisted.

  She was right. Rufus knew exactly what he would ask. But to say it out loud seemed to be to risk losing it. The gods liked to have their little jokes with the ambitious and the proud. They enjoyed giving hope and then replacing it with despair; he had had experience of that. But Livia would not give up and eventually he capitulated.

  'I suppose I will ask to buy our freedom,' he said casually, as if it was not the most momentous thing in the world. 'Fronto still has the money he was saving for me. It might not be enough on its own, but I think he will advance me what I need. We could make a good living together.'

  Livia struggled to hide her disappointment. How could he not understand?

  For the first time in her life she had escaped. For the first time in her life she possessed something. It was not a lot. Only a draughty little room that stank continually of elephant dung, with a husband who was more boy than man and was sometimes naive to the point of foolishness. But it was hers.

  She had had her fill of loneliness. Reviled as some kind of monster as soon as it became clear she would grow no taller, she had been sold into slavery by her father. Treated at first as a toy, then as a sexual plaything, by her master, she had been discarded as soon as he tired of her and slipped to his next level of depravity. Other masters and similar experiences followed, but when she was sold into the troop of dwarves she thought she had finally found, at the very least, companionship. She was wrong. For she, young, pretty and with a recognizably human form, was as different from them, with their overdeveloped arms and legs and stunted bodies, as they were from normal adults. They hated her.

  Only her aptitude as a performer, one who enhanced their reputation, brought her acceptance. And if she was desired by the men who eyed her greedily as she danced and tumbled, at least they ate the better for it.

  Rufus, and the Emperor, had saved her from that life. And now her husband was threatening her security — their security — to follow some impossible dream.

  Could he not see that Caligula would never set him free? There was only one Emperor's elephant, and only one man who could control it. He had as much chance of freedom as Bersheba did. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Rufus stared at her. The knock came again, harder this time, full of authority. He got up and cautiously opened the door just a crack.

  'A man could get a warmer welcome in Dacia.'

  'Cupido!'

  Livia glanced up as the German came into the room. He looked very young and impossibly handsome in his gleaming wolf breastplate, his golden hair contrasting with the sinister black of his tunic.

  'I came to wish you good fortune, Rufus. Aemilia and I sacrificed a white cockerel to the old gods and the signs were good. My sister threw the sticks for us. They foretell that both you and I will face trials but united we will overcome them and be victorious. The gods will it.'

  Rufus felt an involuntary shiver. Something in the way Cupido spoke the word contained a shadow of warning. 'Trials? What kind of trials?'

  'It is but a word.' Cupido shrugged, but Rufus could see he was not entirely convinced. Was his friend keeping something back? He knew Aemilia claimed to have the sight, but messages from the gods came in many forms and were not always straightforward.

  'What kind of trials?' he repeated.

  Cupido glanced towards Livia, but Rufus read the meaning in his eyes. Do not press me on this. Trust me.

  'Know only that I will be at your side when the need is greatest,' the gladiator said, attempting to lighten the mood. 'The Tungrian cohort will provide close escort to the Emperor tomorrow. Make sure Bersheba does not drop anything on my line of march — I have just bought new sandals.'

  Rufus stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled. What did it matter? What the gods willed, the gods willed, and nothing mere men could do would change it. The only certainty was that his friend would be only a few feet behind him when Bersheba led the procession to the new temple of Drusilla which Caligula had dedicated on the Capitoline Hill. And that was enough.

  Cupido stayed only a little longer. When he had left, Rufus turned to Livia with a smile, but she was concentrating on her sewing and did not look up.

  He would make her and the Emperor proud. Trials and a victory.

  XXVIII

  Rufus opened the barn doors the next morning to be greeted by a sun that seemed to have been created specifically for Drusilla. It shone with an extra lustre, as if the gods had polished it in honour of the newest member of their pantheon. When he led Bersheba out, the plates of her ceremonial armour shimmered like a golden skin, and he knew Drusilla's statue would blind and awe everyone who looked upon it this day.

  Bersheba was on her best behaviour and had accepted her awkward accoutrements without any sign of rebellion. When Callistus came to the barn at the fifth hour to pass judgement he tutted disapprovingly and instructed Rufus to polish a joint here, a plate there, but Rufus could see the secretary was almost as proud of the elephant as he was. Rufus too, feeling uncomfortably martial in his guard's uniform, passed Callistus's inspection, and they were ready.

  A small escort of Praetorians led them to the foundry where the statue of Drusilla waited, already firmly roped and wedged into a formidably strengthened four-wheeled wagon decorated with the goldleaf motifs of the imperial family. Rufus harnessed Bersheba to the cart, took his seat between her shoulders, and the double doors swung back.

  The crowds had been gathering since before dawn and there was not one of them who had not anticipated the day of Drusilla's divinity with the greed of a starving man. It was not that everyone welcomed her accession to the godhead; far from it. Many felt it a violation of every known code, and others feared divine retribution for the insult to the established order. But for what seemed an eternity they had been bound by the draconian codes imposed by the Emperor for his sister's mourning. Since her death, to be found laughing, bathing or even dining in the company of friends had been to face instant execution. Today the bondage would be over and the Empire would celebrate.

  The foundry was close to the start of the official procession route, near the junction of the Nova Via and the Via Sacra. Most people were already in their chosen places, but a slow stream of tardier revellers still made their way along the Via Sacra hoping to find vantage points from where they could get a decent view of the Emperor.

  Rufus gave Bersheba the signal to walk. She was accustomed to pulling the cart with her hay, and now she leaned forward to take the weight of the wagon with Drusilla's statue at its centre. She was tremendously strong, but still Rufus had expected her to strain when presented with the unexpected weight of the enormous golden figure. Yet it was obvious when she took her first step that the effort was much less than he had anticipated and the wagon rolled smoothly forward, its iron-rimmed wheels rattling over the cobbles.

  Puzzled, Rufus looked over his shoulder. The wagon was sturdily constructed, but even so it should be bowed under the weight of precious metal it carried. It did not seem possible that something which looked so heavy could be pulled so easily — unless… He almost laughed out loud. It was hollow. The Emperor's tribute to his sister was nothing but an empty shell.

  As they made their way through the big double gates on to the Nova Via, Rufus tapped Bersheba on her left shoulder and she turned sharply into the wide street. At first it was the Emperor's elephant in all her armoured magnificence that drew every eye. Then he heard shouts of amazement ringing along both sides of the street as the crowd realized what was in the wagon.

  'Divine Drusilla! Look, look, it is the goddess! A goddess of pure gold!'

  The crowd surged towards the
m, those at the rear pushing those in front, but Callistus had taken no chances with his Emperor's divine sister. Two full centuries of Praetorians lined either side of the road, and now they drew their short swords and the mob jostled in confusion just out of reach of the points.

  The cries of astonishment grew as Bersheba made her stately way past the ornate columns of the temple of Jupiter Stator, the Praetorians keeping pace on either side, slashing at anyone who threatened to come too close to the priceless cargo. At the intersection of the Nova Via with the Via Sacra, the Emperor waited, invisible behind the curtains of a golden carriage. Behind him, positioned by rank and lineage, the aristocracy of an Empire stretched up the Clivus Palatinus. Consuls and governors, senators and generals, kings and princes. They had travelled from all over the world to be here this day to see Drusilla enter the realm of the immortals.

  Cupido was in his place beside the Emperor's carriage along with a dozen others who formed the Emperor's close guard, the wolf emblem on their breastplates gleaming in the sunlight. Beyond the carriage Rufus could see Callistus rushing about like a panic-stricken mouse, jostling, hustling and straightening. Bersheba snorted, and the imperial secretary gaped as if he was surprised to see her, making Rufus wonder if they had arrived early. Arms flapping, the little man manoeuvred Bersheba and the statue into position in the place of honour at the front of the procession. The original Praetorian escort marched off to take their places among their comrades who waited along the route at six-foot intervals.

  With one last darting look along the line, Callistus took a deep breath and gave the order to march. With fluttering heart, Rufus set Bersheba in motion.

  All Rome seemed to be crammed into the overflowing streets around the forum. The crowds on the Via Sacra could be numbered in their tens of thousands and they perched on every possible vantage point on the temple steps and among the statues. Ahead of Rufus, columns of fluted marble marked the road at intervals, each with its solemn carved figure at its peak. From his elevated position on Bersheba's back, the great thoroughfare stretched out before him all the way to the massive bulk of the records office at the foot of the Capitoline. Close on either side were the great temples and public buildings which made this the most important of all Rome's streets. Already he was approaching the long frontage of the house of the Vestals. Beyond it was the regia and the temple of Divine Julius, with its rostrum where the great orators sometimes drew crowds of hundreds, even thousands.