Caligula (5 page)

Somehow, the helmet found itself in an open-ended barrel. The lions pushed the barrel around the arena in a great circle. The mob cheered the lions.

Somehow, the helmet escaped the barrel and stood its ground, its unwieldy sword drooping impotently. The mob still cheered the lions.

Now was the time for blood. The fool in the helmet was dead.

The lions roared in triumph, but the sound was instantly drowned by a thunder of hooves more powerful than anything the crowd had heard before.

The monster had come.

This was the moment Rufus had spent hundreds of frustrating, muscle-aching hours practising. The rhinoceros was notoriously unpredictable, but he discovered he could judge her moods just enough to trust her for the few fleeting seconds he needed. As the slabsided grey bulk charged past him in a cloud of dust, he threw down the sword and helmet and sprang on to her broad back, somehow managing to keep his balance as the monster bucked and swayed beneath him and chased the lions from the arena.

Her job done, the great beast ambled to a halt in the centre of the arena with Rufus still crouched over her hindquarters. As the dust cleared, he slowly straightened, raised his arms to the skies and bowed low at the waist.

At first, there was a shocked silence. Then a buzz of puzzled conversation. The buzz grew louder as the seconds passed, and turned into an explosion . . . of laughter.

Rufus had won.

Cupido was the first to congratulate his young friend as he walked from the arena, quickly followed by an over-excited Fronto.

'We were wonderful,' the animal trader exulted, his face wreathed in smiles as his mind calculated the possibilities for future profit. 'I will organize the next performance for two weeks today. We will make it an appetizer for the main event. After all, the mob is going to want to see real blood at some point. We will play every arena in Rome, and when everyone in the city has seen us, we'll go on tour. I can just see it –'

'I'm not going out there again.'

Fronto gaped. 'But the crowds, the money, the . . . But . . .' He stuttered to a halt.

Rufus turned to Cupido. 'I can't go out there again.'

Cupido nodded gently. He, of all men, understood what Rufus was saying. For some, the cheers of the crowd were a drug. The waves of acclaim that flowed down from the stands mesmerized them, and when they strutted from the arena they lived only for their next performance, even though they knew it might be their last. But for others, the wall of sound chilled the blood and shattered the nerves. If these men were gladiators they died, reactions slowed by the same power that gave others incredible speed. If, like Rufus, they were given a choice, they never returned. He had used every ounce of his courage to perform before the mob. He had nothing left to give them.

Rufus turned to Fronto, who still stood with his mouth open. 'I won't go back,' he repeated. 'But I can train men who will.'

'What?' The word came out as a strangled croak and Fronto grasped dramatically at his chest. 'Are you trying to kill me, boy?'

'I'll train our animals to work with athletes and clowns who know how to please a crowd better than I ever could. And you're right, we should go on tour. When the Romans think they have seen everything we have to offer we will come back with a bigger and better performance. We can use other animals, other combinations. We cannot fail.'

Tears ran down Fronto's cheeks into his beard. He hugged Rufus to his chest. 'You are like a son to me. I always knew I could put my faith in you. Come, we will discuss this further over some wine.'

They walked away, leaving Cupido in the darkness. What might have been a smile touched his lips.

Rufus was proved right. Their initial celebrity proved a powerful attraction and entertainers flocked to the menagerie asking for work. Rufus trained man and beast hard and anyone who did not make the grade was quickly weeded out. The lions were soon joined in the arena by the other big cats, even bears, but it was the rhinoceros that always drew most cheers. Only the bravest would take to her broad back to escape the teeth and claws of the hunters.

They were successful, but their fame never matched that of Cupido, whose reputation grew with every kill he made. And he made many, particularly in the great games held in memory of the Emperor Tiberius, who died that year, the twenty-third of his reign. The games were sponsored by his joint heirs, his great-nephew Gaius and his grandson and namesake Tiberius Gemellus.

VIII

Gaius Caesar Augustus Germanicus studied the view from the great pillared window overlooking the house of the Vestals. He wondered idly what they did in there apart from keeping the flame. It might be interesting to find out. His eyes moved over the arched frontage of the venerable Basilica Aemilia, the walls of the forum of Augustus and the octagonal dome of the temple of Mars, and onward over the villas and mansions to the terracotta plain of pitched roofs that disguised the slums and cesspits of Subura the way a blanket covered the sores on a leper's legs. How many years was it since Romulus founded this city? He should know, but the date escaped him. Now it was all his. Or almost.

He turned to face the other man in the room. 'Well put, Tiberius; you have the wisdom of your grandfather. We must concentrate on the domestic issues that plague our people before we embark on the great building projects I have planned. The arch to my mother's memory can wait until we have constructed the new aqueduct system we discussed.'

He smiled at his cousin. Tiberius Julius Caesar Nero Gemellus really was a fine-looking young man. Intelligent too, and one of the most eloquent orators to grace the floor of the Senate. They had been friends since his great-uncle, Gemellus's grandfather, the Emperor Tiberius, took them both to his palace at Capri; they played together, fought together and swam together, were taught the skills of oratory and debate together and had been beaten together when they failed to convince. It was the Emperor's genius that he divined the separate talents which, in his joint heirs, would complement each other to create a Rome greater than ever before. They had learned how to govern.

How well it had worked. In six months, they had achieved more than the old Emperor had in the last ten years of his reign. And the
power
. Gaius had always known power, but this was different. The power to do anything. The power to sweep aside the mundane and the ordinary. The power over life and death. So much power he could feel it surging through his veins like an elixir, freeing his mind and filling it full of plans and schemes and ideas.

The brilliance of it all made him smile again.

His cousin smiled back.

A pity he had to die.

In the late spring of the following year Rufus took the troupe on a tour of the south, performing in a series of rude stadiums, before even ruder crowds. But Fronto sent him word of Cupido's progress and successes.

Rufus was pleased to receive the letters, but their contents, though they spoke of victories won, blood spilled and survival against great odds, gave him little pleasure. He remembered the day he had berated his friend for not appreciating his talent, and the mental scars he had exposed.

As the tour progressed there was a worrying trend to the notes. The victories continued, but Fronto, in his guarded way, hinted at hurdles placed before the crowd's favourite. Of displeasure in high places and of danger not only within the arena.

Fronto travelled south at the beginning of July to join Rufus in the thriving city of Pompeii, a prosperous harbour on the Bay of Neapolis. Pompeii lay in the shadow of a large mountain carpeted with vines and olive trees, and had a fine amphitheatre. Rufus had been surprised to discover its citizens were almost as cultured as those of Rome. The wealthiest Pompeiians owned elaborate villas overlooking the city from the lower slopes of the mountain, but Rufus was lodged in a former
hospitium
the city authorities used to billet visiting entertainers. Naturally, Fronto was too grand to stay in such humble surroundings and took himself off to the home of his cousin, Marcus Lucretius Fronto, a compact but rather fine house which fronted a wide alley off one of the main streets.

A house slave led Rufus through wide double doors into the atrium. It was a small, bright area, which opened directly on to the
tablinum
, and he could not take his eyes off the exquisite paintings that covered the walls of the room.

In one, a bronzed god in a toga of the most brilliant azure blue, wearing a golden helmet crested with eagle feathers, stood over a beautiful dark-haired goddess in a dress of shimmering turquoise. Rufus thought it must be a wedding scene, for the pair were surrounded by attendants in equally elaborate costumes. He was still gawking from the atrium when Fronto swept in.

He noticed Rufus studying the painting. 'Not bad, eh? Old Lucretius does well for himself. Who would have thought a backwater like this would be such a gold mine. We could do worse than stay here for a while, don't you think?'

Rufus was surprised; the itinerary had been finalized months before. Fronto's latest letter even suggested they might cut the tour short to return to Rome and cash in on the resurgence in the games under Tiberius's heirs.

'The new sequences are almost ready. The performers are at their peak. It's time they were given the chance to show what they can do on a bigger stage. You said yourself there has never been a better time to be in the entertainment business.'

Fronto sniffed and ran his hand over his beard. 'Yes, I did say that. But things have changed in Rome.'

'What do you mean? I thought Gaius Germanicus and his cousin loved the games?'

'Oh yes, Gaius loves the games. No one loves them more. Rome is one big spectacle day and night and the mob loves him for it. It's the type of games that's the problem. The young Tiberius has disappeared, by the way.'

'Disappeared?'

'It seems his grandfather reckoned on his being able to curb Gaius's wilder enthusiasms. He must have believed he was doing the boy an honour by making him joint heir, but all he did was sign his death warrant.'

Rufus thought for a moment. 'I can't see why that should be a problem. We are just businessmen. What happens to princes and kings doesn't concern us.'

'Don't be so naïve, Rufus. Anything affecting the games affects us. Gaius has changed everything. For the first few months the people loved him. When he arrived in Rome from Misenum they threw flowers at his feet and made sacrifices to him. And he's clever. He called a pay parade of the Praetorian Guard and handed over the money they were owed by Tiberius. A thousand sesterces each, they say. So now no ambitious young legionary commander can come marching in the back door and throw him out without a major battle.'

Rufus frowned. 'So why should any of this change our plans? You say he loves the games? Then let us give him a games such as he's never seen before. You haven't seen Marcus's latest trick. He –'

'Haven't you been listening?' Fronto interrupted. 'The games you knew are gone. With Gaius there is no more play-acting. No more little men running away from a couple of pet lions, being eaten, and appearing again to thunderous applause. With Gaius there is only blood – real blood. He pits cripples and old men against the most famous gladiators in Rome and laughs at the slaughter. He sends Roman knights of the finest families who have never raised a sword in anger against teams of his best fighters and mocks them as they die. The arenas haven't seen carnage like it since the days of Caesar.'

Rufus remembered the letters. 'Cupido? You wrote that Cupido had won many victories. That he was even more famous now than before. But the Cupido I know would never be part of what you describe. He has too much honour.'

'You're a fool, Rufus,' Fronto said, but his tone was kindly. 'Cupido is a slave. Whatever honour he had he left behind in the ashes of his home on the day he was taken. He fights who he is told to fight, but . . .'

'But?'

Fronto shrugged. 'But Cupido too is a fool. He could have been one of the Emperor's favourites. All he had to do was do what he does best: kill, and kill with style. But not Cupido. When they sent the old men against him, he should have played with them as a cat does a mouse, entertaining Gaius and his band of sycophants. Instead, he ignored them. The golden idiot stood around flexing his muscles and doing his exercises and left the killing to the trainees. The mob found it hilarious, but Gaius thought they were laughing at him.

'To punish him, Gaius arranged for Cupido to face half a dozen of the nobles he's had ruined since he came to power. He must have calculated that even aristocratic louts like them would give him a contest worth watching. So what does the boy do? He puts on an exhibition. Went through them like a whirlwind. Cut, thrust, stab. They didn't even have time to parry. It must have lasted all of five minutes. When it was over, Gaius had to stand up and applaud with the rest, or he'd have looked silly. Gaius isn't going to forget Cupido in a hurry, and that's not good.'

Rufus thought of the pain he had seen behind the storm-grey of Cupido's eyes, and the inner demons he had sensed. 'There must be something you can do to help him.'

Fronto shook his head. 'The only person who can help Cupido is Cupido himself. Now, we must get back to business. One thing works in our favour. Gaius has decided the old Taurus is out of fashion. Apparently, he has been telling people he will never go back there. The Emperor isn't the only one who can put on a games. We still have friends in the city to back us. We'll survive.'

So they returned to Rome, where the citizens had begun calling their young Emperor by a new name.

Caligula.

IX

He studied himself carefully in the big, silver gilt mirror. Yes, there was certainly another line on his forehead. And was his hair just a little thinner at the front? He turned his head to examine it from another angle, but it was difficult to tell. He waved the slave away and turned his attention to the two men standing nervously in the centre of the room.

Sweat ran in little rivulets down either side of Nigrinus's face, seeping from his hairline just in front of his fleshy ears. How had the man become so fat? His jowls hung in several overlapping chins on to his chest and even the expensive toga couldn't hide the enormous girth of his belly. Consul of Rome? Hippopotamus of Rome more like.

At least Proculus looked like a Roman. The strong features and long aquiline nose spoke of a lineage going back centuries. What a pity his abilities didn't match his bloodline.

It had all seemed so simple at first. Get rid of his cousin and everything would fall into place. No more obstacles to his grand plan. But it had all gone wrong. It was the Senate, of course.

'I didn't ask you here to tell me what you could not do, Nigrinus, but to show me you are capable of fulfilling your bargain. I backed you both for the consulship because you promised you could deliver the Senate. Now I discover that same Senate is obstructing me yet again.' He tried to keep his voice steady. He knew he had a habit of sounding petulant when he became angry, but it was so difficult to maintain one's temper when dealing with fools.

'But Caesar, it is the cost. If it was only one palace, not a dozen . . . and the arch to commemorate your mother is on a scale unheard of. Your generosity to those made destitute by fire is admirable, but cannot be sustained. The great games you sponsor are becoming ruinous. We cannot squeeze another penny out of the Senate.' Proculus was truculent today. He obviously didn't like being reminded that someone else bought his office for him.

His headache was coming back. Sometimes it felt as if his brain was being split in two. He would have to ask Agrippina for one of her potions – that would do the trick. Though the last one hadn't been quite as effective as usual; indeed it had made him feel a little strange. He rubbed his temples in an attempt to ease the increasing pain.

'So Rome is to believe I don't mourn my mother? That I don't have the will to complete the temple in tribute to Divine Augustus, presently a hole in the ground in which not one brick has been laid upon another? Am I to go down in history as a pauper? No! You will find a way, Proculus, or you will be a consul no longer, for you will no longer have a head. If I need a replacement I will find one in my stables. My stallion Incitatus could do the job as well as either of you. Get out.'

It was so unfair. All this, and the mob was getting restless. The games no longer seemed to satisfy them. The organizers would have to introduce something truly spectacular. Something different. He had so much to do. He needed that money. He had outlawed dozens of aristocrats and confiscated their estates. There were plenty more where they came from, but the jails were already full to overflowing. What if . . .? The idea came like a bolt from Jupiter. Of course – it was perfect. And it solved two problems; he would empty the prisons and entertain the mob at the same time.

Their first performance back at the Taurus was like a homecoming for Rufus. The old stadium was less than half full, but word quickly spread among those who were happy to be amused as well as shocked, and the crowds soon returned.

But Fronto's business could not survive on a single performance. He was an animal trader and, under Caligula, there were never enough animals.

'It is no longer a question of deciding who I sell my stock to,' Fronto complained. 'The Emperor's procurers are everywhere. They come out to the farm with half a dozen guards, say "I want that, that and that" and off they go again without another word. Not that I'm complaining: the Emperor pays top prices. I want you to take the big black-maned lion – not Africanus, the other one – and two leopards and that half-lame cheetah to the new arena out by the Praetorian barracks. They're to be used in some big spectacle the Emperor has planned. You might see your friend Cupido – he's on the same bill.'

When he arrived at the arena, Rufus recognized Sabatis and a few others from Cupido's school preparing weapons and armour, but the gladiator himself was absent, so he decided to return the next day. He approached one of the animal handlers and volunteered his services. Since his single appearance before the crowd Rufus had achieved something close to celebrity status among the keepers and cleaners who fed and cared for the arena animals, and the man was pleased to have his help.

When he reported for duty the following morning he was surprised to find many of the cages filled with a ragged assortment of half-starved and terrified prisoners.

'They are the
noxii
, condemned criminals. The Emperor has decreed that they must be executed in the arena so that their deaths can be witnessed by the populace,' the animal handler explained. 'They are mostly low-bred scum, but I've heard that some of them are knights who plotted against the Emperor. He is coming here to see them die.'

The spectacle would not start for some time, and Rufus sought out Cupido before he began his preparations. The fair-haired young gladiator was sitting with other members of his school, but when he saw Rufus he rose and the pair walked together to the main entrance, where they watched the stands fill.

'Look at them,' Cupido said, his voice thick with scorn. 'They are like sheep. They won't move all day, even to get up for a piss, in case someone steals their precious seat or they miss one bit of bloodletting.'

Rufus studied his friend as they stood in the shade of the doorway. The light streaming from the arena created shadows and hollows in his handsome face that made him seem much older than his years. A dark tinge round his eyes hinted at nights spent staring into the darkness waiting for sleep that never came.

'Fronto tells me you are more famous than ever,' he said lightly, trying to break the mood. 'But he says you are so fat on good living they will soon have to wheel you in on a cart.'

Cupido looked at Rufus and raised one blond eyebrow. 'And he tells me that you are even more famous than I am – but only in those places where they bathe but twice a year and have never been privileged to see a proper performance.'

Rufus laughed. 'Yes, Fronto is as big a liar as he always was.'

Rufus told the gladiator of his travels and the places he had seen, the great triumphs in small arenas and the way the troupe had been honed into a spectacle worthy of Rome's finest amphitheatres.

'But now it appears we are not wanted. The Emperor, it seems, is interested in blood, but not in entertainment.'

'Did Fronto say that?'

'Yes. He wanted us to stay in Pompeii. He fears the trained beasts will be forced to fight to the death again.'

'I think he is wrong. It is true there will never be enough blood spilled to satisfy the Emperor, but Caligula devours art and spectacle of every form. He surrounds himself with actors and singers, as well as the gladiators who please him, and he spends as much time at the theatre as he does at the arena. To give a performance in front of him would be a risk, but the Emperor's favour can be a very valuable commodity.'

'And you, Cupido, have you won the Emperor's favour?'

Cupido shrugged. 'He can find someone else to kill the greybeards and the boys barely ready for the toga. There are plenty of people willing to do it for him.'

'Fronto says you are a fool to play games with this Emperor.'

'What does a fat swindler who stinks like a buffalo know of the arena?' Cupido replied evenly. 'I, and every one of my kind, face death each time we go through these doors. Those of us who survive do so on our own merit. Does he think anyone but the gods can make the arena a more dangerous place than it is now?'

'Perhaps you are right and he is wrong, Cupido,' Rufus admitted. 'But have you not always told me the best way to survive is to keep risk to a minimum wherever you can control that risk? Pleasing the Emperor is within your power, so at least consider it.'

The gladiator shook his head. 'Sometimes a man's pride, even a slave's pride, must decide between what he should do and what he must do. In the past, I had to fight to survive, because the men I faced were all capable of killing me. Since the passing of Tiberius I have become less a fighter and more an executioner. When I enter the arena today I will have a choice, and I will only make that choice when I see my opponents. I will live with that decision and so must the Emperor.'

As he checked the ramps and gateways later, Rufus became aware of movement in the pens holding the captive criminals. Guards separated five or six prisoners at a time and sent them in batches towards the arena floor. The shackled men prayed or pleaded for mercy. Rufus watched an overseer lash out with a spiked club, drawing a howl of agony from his wounded charge. Many of the prisoners were already injured, with blood flowing from open wounds. As the first batch of men were marched away, the order came to release the lions.

The screams were unbearable, even deep in the bowels of the arena.

Rufus had seen and heard men die, but the sound that reached him now was like nothing that had ever emerged from a human throat. It was not just the volume, which spoke of unbearable pain and unimaginable horror, but the duration of that agony which clutched like an iron fist at his heart. It seemed impossible that anyone could maintain such a sound for so long.

An hour later, his senses stunned, the piercing shrieks of men dying in unspeakable agony still rang in his ears. The selection from the cages continued, but now there was no more weeping. No more pleading. These were men without hope. They knew what awaited them, but they made no move to escape. It was as if their numbed minds could not come to terms with what lay ahead and had shut them off from the world.

But there was no sanctuary for Rufus. His mind would not shut out the screams and he truly believed he would go mad if he did not get out of the darkness. He could take no more of it. He stumbled up the stairs and the passageways to the doorway where he had earlier stood with Cupido. The sight that met his eyes was one he would never forget.

The arena resembled an abattoir.

A dozen lions, leopards and cheetah feasted on the carcasses of their prey, but Rufus could see that they were close to being sated by their human banquet. Their movements were lethargic and they chewed at the flesh and bones mechanically, as if more by habit than desire.

He turned away while the last of the terrified prisoners were led towards their fate, but his eyes were drawn to the purple-clad figure lounging on a throne surrounded by his guards in the stands. Even from the opposite side of the arena Rufus recognized that Caligula was an imposing figure, taller by half a head than anyone in the throng surrounding him. He also sensed something that astonished him: this man, who had watched a hundred condemned captives being torn apart by wild animals at his whim, was bored. There was no mistaking it. The young Emperor yawned. He looked at his manicured fingers. He made small talk to the senator seated to his left. Even when the screams resumed he barely glanced up to see what was happening.

But the entertainment had the opposite effect on the crowds surrounding him. They gasped as bones cracked. Howled in delight as flesh tore. Laughed as screams reached a greater pitch than before. In Tiberius's time these enthusiasts had seen dozens die in the arena, in single combat, or even in great battles. But this Emperor had given them something even they had never witnessed: human sacrifice on a grand scale.

Finally, the screaming stopped. The beasts were herded from the arena and, white-faced, Rufus joined the other workers in the gruesome task of clearing the arena of its human carrion. He breathed through his mouth in an attempt to avoid the sewer stink of a hundred eviscerated bowels, but his throat filled with burning liquid as he imagined he could taste the foulness that filled the air around him. He averted his eyes from the scattered remains, but his unwilling mind identified every piece of inanimate flesh that defiled his fingers.

When the job was completed, fresh sand was thrown across the blood pooled in the dirt, not to disguise what had taken place, but to ensure that the next actors in the gory drama which had been devised for the Emperor had firm footing to show all their deadly skills.

The gladiators.

Rufus listed the men of Cupido's school as they trotted into the arena. Buffalo-shouldered Sabatis with his distinctive mesh body guard, face hidden behind a
murmillo
's fishtail-crested helmet; Flamma, the Syrian spearman, veteran of a score of contests, who fought in an unvisored bronze helmet of a style which had gone out of fashion a decade before; little Niger, the
retiarius
, net in one hand and trident in the other; and finally the golden one himself.

Cupido was magnificent. If he felt the weight of expectation, it was hidden behind the golden mask and no trace of weariness showed as he loped across the heavily sanded floor. He fought without armour, but the harsh sunlight reflecting from his oiled muscles gave him a more martial appearance than any of the others in their brightly polished metalwork. He halted in the centre of the arena, head held erect behind the golden mask, the long sword steady in his left hand. He looked what he was. A killing machine.

But, Rufus wondered, would he kill today?