Caligula

by Douglas Jackson

  Why had he done nothing? He would have given his life for Fronto, yet he had watched him die without lifting a finger in his defence. The answer seemed simple: he was a coward.

  He walked on, head down and unseeing, his shame weighing on his shoulders like an iron yoke, until he bumped into a slight figure and the force of the collision knocked the other man flat. With a thrill of fear he recognized the Emperor's uncle.

  Claudius lay on his back in the grass, arms and legs moving in uncoordinated jerks that reminded Rufus of an upended tortoise. He reached down to help the crippled senator to his feet. The old man shrugged him away, managing to turn awkwardly on to his hands and knees and push himself upright. His clothing was streaked with grass stains and stuck with leaves and twigs, but when Rufus tried to brush them off he flailed at him.

  'G-get away f-f-from m-me,' he stuttered furiously, spittle dripping from the drooping side of his lip. 'I-I-I-I . . .'

  'Forgive me, sir. I did not see you . . . I was clumsy . . . I . . .'

  Claudius focused on his assailant for the first time. 'You again? You have a t-talent f-f-for abusing an old m-m-man.'

  'No, sir,' Rufus said anxiously, before he remembered the drenching Bersheba had given the old senator. 'I mean . . . yes, sir.'

  For the first time, Rufus thought he saw a flicker of humour in the old man's eyes; then it was gone as quickly as it had come.

  'You have b-b-been dining at the E-E-Emperor's table?'

  For a moment the change of subject confused Rufus. 'Yes, sir.'

  Claudius looked thoughtful, as if weighing up a decision. 'Narcissus will c-call on y-you. L-listen t-to him. You m-may hear something t-to y-your advantage.' He waved a hand in dismissal and limped off, muttering to himself.

  Rufus frowned as he watched him go.

  It was two full days before Narcissus fulfilled his master's prediction. Rufus realized it was no coincidence the tall Greek arrived only a few minutes after Livia had left the house.

  Pleading an unlikely indisposition because of the heat, Narcissus asked if they might talk in the shelter of the barn.

  'It was unfortunate about your friend,' he said once they were safely hidden in the cool darkness. 'I did what I could for him, of course, but his fate was already sealed. Protogenes presented his evidence to the Emperor some weeks ago. Caligula trusts him as no other.'

  Rufus did not hide his disbelief, but Narcissus pretended not to notice the cold stare.

  'Truly, nothing could have changed what happened. Such a death,' he added, watching Rufus's face carefully for any kind of reaction. 'How could anyone not hate the man who did this to a friend?'

  Rufus saw the trap and could smell the bait. What had old Claudius said? 'Listen to him' – this was a time to listen, not to bark like an angry dog.

  Narcissus took his silence as assent to continue.

  'Of course, forgive me. You are asking yourself which "man" I mean? Could it be Protogenes, who designed it? Or Chaerea, who ordered it? Or even the two Tungrian oafs who wielded the chains? I understand your confusion and I acknowledge that each is culpable in his own way. And that it would give me great satisfaction if Protogenes, in particular, were to pay for Fronto's death and certain other crimes I could list. But what is the sword without the hand that wields it? Protogenes will be taken care of in good time. Our discussion – our debate – must concern his master.'

  He waited for a response, but continued when none came.

  'Protogenes's master, then. You have suffered in small ways at his hands. Many have suffered more, and I don't just mean your friend Fronto. The number of those who have suffered, and watched their loved ones suffer, at his hands is countless, Rufus. You are not alone in your hate, never believe that.'

  Rufus noticed that it was permissible in the game Narcissus played to reveal any name but that of the subject of the conversation. He was so deep in his own thoughts he didn't realize that Narcissus had stopped talking and was standing patiently, watching him.

  'You and I should have no secrets, Rufus,' the Greek said reasonably. Rufus shook his head. He did not want to hear any secrets. 'We are everywhere. Senators and soldiers, freedmen and philosophers, in the streets and in the palaces. If you need names, I will give you names.'

  'No names,' Rufus said firmly. 'If you have the support of so many, why do you need one more? Senators and soldiers, you say, but no slaves. Why do you now need a lowly slave?'

  Narcissus considered the question. He knew the answer: a lowly slave could reach places and do things, unnoticed, that a senator or a soldier could not. A lowly slave was expendable, where a senator was not.

  But there was another reason.

  'Perhaps I was too subtle. It is one of my faults. Did we not once talk of a weapon, an unstoppable weapon that can crush a man with a single blow? There is only one person here who has the knowledge and the power to wield that weapon. Only one who can say when the time is right to use it. Do we understand each other?'

  Rufus's throat was suddenly desert-dry. A voice in his head screamed at him to walk away. Even to speak of this was death.

  'What if . . .?'

  Narcissus waved away his question. 'We will ensure an opportunity arises. It will be your decision whether to take it. He will visit you, as he did with my master that first day. No guards, just you, the elephant and him. Think on it, Rufus. The man who killed Fronto. Not many are granted the opportunity to change history. To save Rome. You should be proud.'

  Rufus stared at him, this arrogant courtier who so blithely dispensed life and death. Did Narcissus really think he was such a fool? The fate of Caligula's assassin was as certain as the next day's sunrise. The man who laid a hand on the Emperor was already as good as dead. And he knew something the Greek did not. Bersheba was as incapable of delivering the fatal blow as he was of manoeuvring it.

  He stood deep in thought for several minutes after Narcissus left, but he could find no way of escape. The Greek had caged him as securely as any big cat held in the bowels of the arena. When the cage door opened it could lead only one way. To death.

  XXXVII

  Cupido laughed incredulously when Rufus told him about Narcissus's fantastic scheme.

  'Is there no one in this place who is not involved in a plot? He wants Bersheba to kill Caligula? I have never heard anything so insane. If the Emperor knew how many hands were raised against him the streets of Rome would run with blood.

  'I have thought of what you said. About Chaerea. You are right. He is a foul creature with flint for a heart and the morals of a jackal. He would set himself up as the new Caligula and deem it a challenge to outdo his cruelty. But Claudius? He is an old man with an old man's weaknesses. Chaerea would swat him like a fly and his spy Narcissus would be screaming on a cross before the purple touched his shoulders.'

  Rufus remembered the Claudius who talked with Bersheba, and shook his head. 'I think you may be wrong about him. It seems to me he is like an actor who changes character between scenes. He has one guise for his friends and another for his enemies. The crippled drooling fool is a cloak that covers the true Claudius, and I believe that that Claudius may well be capable of ruling.'

  He told Cupido of the old senator's nocturnal visits to the barn. The gladiator looked thoughtful.

  'That is useful to know. If you are correct, he covers his true self well. Yet there are contradictions in what you report. He appears to oppose Chaerea, but he was well informed of his intentions. Well enough informed to know that Lucius was the intended assassin. Does that mean he is part of Chaerea's plot, but does not trust him? Or is there someone in Chaerea's inner circle who informs him of his rival's intentions? And where does Narcissus stand, if Claudius doubts him, but Chaerea speaks of him as an ally? Is this one plot with many strands, or many plots intertwined?'

  'What do we do?'

  'Do? What can we do, but what Aemilia suggested? We wait, we sacrifice to the old gods and we pray that time is on our side.'

  He pi
cked up his long sword and began to sharpen it, the whetstone singing its way up and down the blade.

  'Chaerea believes he owns me, Narcissus believes he owns you. It appears to be a trap from which there is no escape, but it contains certain elements that might yet be in our favour. They each see half a picture, while between us we have the whole image. There may come a time when we can turn the one against the other.'

  'Maybe we should just run?'

  Cupido gave his sad smile. 'And where would you run to, Rufus? For myself, I have nowhere to go. Grass grows tall above the ashes of my home and I have no wish to see the bones of my father in the field where they lie scattered. If I am to die, I would rather die here with a sword in my hand and a friend at my side than cornered in some stinking alley. No. We stay and, if need be, we fight.'

  Rufus envied him his certainty. How was it that one man could contain so many contradictions and endure what he had endured, yet emerge not only sane but even noble? He turned to leave, then remembered the documents.

  'Did Aemilia bring you the parchments?'

  'She did, and I told her you were fools for taking them. What did you think you were doing? They are imperial property and the penalty for having them without permission is death. We must get them back where they belong.'

  'But did you look at them? She thought you might be able to decipher their meaning.'

  Cupido nodded, and went to a small cabinet, where he retrieved the two scrolls. 'Remember I told you Varrus had something to do with the water supply? The smaller of the documents is based on an old map of the Palatine. See. Here is the palace of Augustus. And here? These are the old houses where Caligula built his palace that outdoes all the others. The thin straight lines are all pipes or conduits that feed every house on the hill with water. Varrus is the overseer of the work gang which maintains them.'

  Rufus studied the map carefully. He could see it now. The faint outlines of the buildings. The pipes that were all connected to the great aqueduct system which had served Rome for centuries. Even the little fountain where he met Narcissus. But one thing still puzzled him.

  'What is the green line? It is much larger than the rest. It appears important. Look, it joins this red line on the main map.'

  'I don't know. But you can ask Decimus when you give them to him.'

  'Who?'

  'Decimus is one of the men who work with Varrus. Arminus, who fought with us at the Rostrum Julium, is friendly with him. He is coming to collect the old man from you later. Tell him Varrus was carrying the parchments when Livia found him.'

  Decimus turned out to be a slightly built youth with a face that might have been handsome had it not been pitted with the evidence of some kind of childhood pox. At first he was more interested in Bersheba than in recovering his overseer, but once he had stood beside her in awed silence and been given leave to touch the wrinkled skin of her trunk, Rufus reminded him of the purpose of his visit.

  Varrus appeared to have recovered physically, but his mind was still in a place only he could go. Decimus shook his head sadly.

  'He's been like this for weeks,' he said. 'Ever since the last inspection.'

  'He was carrying these when we found him.' Rufus handed over the two parchments, and received a sharp look from Livia. 'We wondered what they are.'

  'This one's the map we use to check the pipes around the hill. If the water pressure goes down in one of the houses or fountains, we can trace it back until we find the leak. Then we replace it with a new section of lead pipe. You'd be surprised how often it happens. Some of the plumbing up here hasn't been replaced since Romulus.'

  'And the red and green lines? They must be the main water supply?'

  Decimus shook his head. 'Nah, not water. Shit. That red line there is the big one, the Cloaca Maxima,' he said proudly. 'Every sewer between the Capitoline and the Palatine, and the Argiletum and the Forum Boarium, empties into her.' He noticed Rufus's look of bewilderment. 'The Cloaca is the main sewer. A man could walk from one end of Rome to the other and never come above ground – if he could stand the smell. You've seen the shrine to Venus Cloacina up on the forum? Well, Cloacina is our protector when we're down there. Only she didn't protect old Varrus.'

  'What happened to him?'

  'He was inspecting the Palatine spur, that's the green line, what we call the Cloaca Palatina. You can tell where it goes from above by the drain covers – they're marked by these little symbols. Well, Varrus went down one day sane and came back up like this. Keeps talking about a river of dead. Nobody will go near the place now. It's frightening enough down there on your own in the dark, but the lads reckon he encountered some monster and the sight drove him mad. Me, I think it's more likely to be the fumes. Sometimes the combination of stinks can make you dizzy. Whatever it was, you won't get me down there again.'

  Rufus thanked him and told him he was welcome to visit Bersheba whenever he wished. They could still hear Varrus raving as Decimus led him off towards his quarters.

  Fronto's death created a barrier between Rufus and Livia which at first appeared insurmountable. They occupied the same space in the way animals of different species inhabit the same territory, eyeing each other warily and seldom communicating. But the child growing in Livia's womb could not be ignored. Slowly, the wounds that scarred their relationship healed, at least partially. They became friends who slept together, and, when the mood took them, they made love with a passion and inventiveness that surprised them both.

  He did not know when he became aware Livia was watching him. It was not something he saw or heard, nothing solid or tangible; somehow he just knew. He could feel her eyes on him. When he was with Bersheba in the bright sunshine of the exercise yard. When he talked with the noble visitors the Emperor graciously allowed to watch the great beast put through its paces. Whenever she thought he might have the opportunity to contact someone?

  When he was certain it was true, he took Bersheba away from her normal exercise area to a position among the trees across the park where, although he had an angled view of the barn, they were outside the line of Livia's vision. He waited patiently and was rewarded by movement in the shadow just inside the barn doors. As he watched he saw Livia looking around distractedly, wondering where he had vanished.

  The game became a regular feature of his day. Was it cruel? Perhaps. But it was how he discovered the identity of her true master.

  It did not happen until two weeks later. That morning, he spotted a palace servant approaching from the opposite side of the park. Rufus did not recognize the man, but it was obvious from his manner that he too did not want to be seen. He entered the barn by the side door and disappeared from view. After a few minutes he reappeared, accompanied by Livia. Rufus could sense her fear. Moments later, another furtive character took the stage.

  Chaerea.

  As Rufus watched, the Praetorian commander began an animated discussion with Livia, who shook her head emphatically in reply. Chaerea's frustration visibly grew until, with the speed of a striking snake, he twisted a hand in Livia's hair and pulled her into the shadow of the barn. As Livia struggled in his grasp, the Roman commander twitched aside his tunic and pushed the struggling woman's head into his groin.

  A red veil descended over Rufus's eyes. He began to move into the open, his only thought to kill the man defiling his wife. But he stumbled to a halt just before he broke from the cover of the trees. This was not one of the pampered princes who rose to command a legion because of his aristocratic connections. This was Cassius Chaerea, survivor of a dozen combats; a man who had killed with his bare hands. To act now would be to sign both their death warrants.

  By the time Chaerea had completed his assault, wiped himself clean on Livia's hair and thrown her limp body to the ground, the murderous rage which had surged through Rufus had turned to a ball of cold stone. He would kill this man. If it was the last thing he did on this earth, he would kill him.

  He watched Livia struggle to her feet, her bulging belly making it di
fficult for her to balance. He wanted to run to her, to hold her and comfort her. But there was still a chance Chaerea might be watching.

  Instead, he continued to exercise Bersheba, marching her mechanically back and forth across the bone-hard ground. He was becoming the accomplished conspirator, and he despised himself for it.

  When he returned much later to the cramped room behind the barn, she greeted him with a smile that would have deceived him entirely had he not seen what he had seen. Only the damp of her recently washed hair and a slight reddening in the corners of her eyes betrayed her.

  He returned her smile with one of his own. And, just for a moment, he did truly love her; Livia, his wife and companion, bearer of his child, his lover and betrayer. And he knew she loved him. The façade of normality she had somehow created was not to protect her from him. It was to protect him from them.

  As she turned her back he stole a glance at her, marvelling at the perfect proportions of her body even in pregnancy, and the sharp intelligence of her mind. How often must she have cursed the fates that halted her growth? How often did she lie awake in the night and wonder again and again, what if? What if? Who would she have been and what would she have done?

  For the first time he truly understood her frustration at being trapped in that tiny body and he vowed he would do everything in his power to help her escape, if not from it, at least from the life to which it had condemned her. Fronto had promised him the money to buy his freedom. He did not know how much, but he knew his friend would never cheat him. He would have left it with someone he could trust or somewhere only Rufus could find it. Somehow he would track it down and would make it free them both.

  But first he must prise her from the clutches of Chaerea.

  Narcissus owed him.

  The Greek's eyes narrowed when he heard of Chaerea's bungling attempts to gather intelligence.

  'So the simple soldier has decided to dirty his hands,' Narcissus said. 'But why would he choose your wife? No doubt he too has heard of my master's visits. He wonders what was said, and to whom, and how he can profit from it. If he knew Senator Claudius had been having conversation with an elephant he would die laughing instead of on an impaler's spike as he deserves. You have done well, Rufus. This could have been fatal to us. Now we know where the danger lies we can protect ourselves against it. Perhaps we can even use the knowledge to our benefit.'