False God of Rome (33 page)

The senators began to talk animatedly about any subject other than Antonia as they too saw, through the open windows looking out over the city, the sign that her funeral pyre had been lit. No
one wished to be seen appearing displeased at their inability to add their weight to the mourning of the most powerful woman in Rome should their master be secretly watching and listening.

The red and black lacquered, panelled double doors at the far end of the room suddenly opened and all conversations stopped; Caligula entered flanked by Macro and a Praetorian tribune whom
Vespasian did not recognise.

Theatrically feigning surprise, Caligula stopped in his tracks and looked past the gathering through one of the windows. ‘There seems to be a fire on the Campus Martius,’ he cried in
mock alarm, ‘has anyone called for the Vigiles to put it out?’

The senators rocked with sycophantic laughter led by Macro and the tribune.

Spotting Claudius among the group, bravely laughing with the rest, Caligula added insult to injury. ‘Uncle, you’re the fastest among us, run and alert the Vigiles at once and then
report back to me once the fire is out.’

‘At once, P-P-Princeps,’ Claudius replied, breaking into a chaotic series of lurches that passed for running.

Caligula led the raucous laughter as his uncle shambled out of the room. ‘It will have burned itself out by the time that cripple has even managed to stumble down the Palatine,’ he
shouted through his mirth.

The sycophancy increased and the laughter rose as if this were the funniest thing anyone had ever said. Caligula’s face was puce and the veins in his neck and temples bulged; genuinely
enjoying the joke, he kept laughing uncontrollably for what seemed like an age as the senators’ attempts to keep pace with him grew more and more hollow. Eventually he tired, much to
everyone’s relief, and drew himself up.

‘Gentlemen, I have an announcement to make concerning my beloved sisters.’ He stopped and beamed at his audience, evidently relishing what he was going to say. His head twitched
violently and he suddenly put his hands up to his temples. Macro went to support him as the gathering drew its collective breath.

‘Get away from me,’ Caligula snapped, regaining his composure and pushing Macro off. ‘Now, where was I? Ah yes, my sisters. From now on they are to be included when an oath of
loyalty is…’ With a cry he collapsed to the floor, scrabbling at his head with his hands as if he were trying to pull something out of it.

The senators gasped; Macro immediately knelt down beside him. ‘Chaerea, fetch the doctor,’ he shouted at the Praetorian tribune after a brief look at his master. ‘Get out, all
of you, now!’ he shouted.

The sight of the Emperor so physically compromised sent a shiver of fear through the senators and they fled.

‘It looks as if the gods may have listened to Antonia,’ Vespasian mumbled in Gaius’ ear as they crushed through the door.

Whether or not the gods had acted upon Antonia’s curse was debatable, but one thing was certain: they were the main beneficiaries of Caligula’s illness as over the
following days the people of Rome sacrificed victims in their tens of thousands for the return to health of the young Emperor. The poor did so out of genuine love, remembering the largesse that he
had distributed among them and the lavish games that he had held for their entertainment. The senators and the equestrian order, however, did so out of the fear that all those who had not been seen
making sacrifices and offering up prayers would be cruelly dealt with should Caligula recover; so they vied with each other to be the most generous with their offerings, sacrificing their finest
bulls, race horses and rams, while the more rash vowed to fight as gladiators if the Emperor recovered. One eques, in a case of reckless sycophancy topping all others, even promised Jupiter to
exchange his life for Caligula’s.

Vespasian spent much of the time in the afternoons and evenings with Caenis, enjoying playing man and wife in the new privacy that they had together. In the mornings he attended the Senate,
joining in the prayers and sacrifices and sharing with the rest of the House the same outward fervour that Caligula should recover and the same inner desire that he should die and this ghastly
episode in Rome’s history could be put behind them. After this daily ritual – no other business being possible through fear of it being construed as being insensible to the
Emperor’s wellbeing – the whole Senate, along with the equestrian order, then processed up to the Palatine, past crowds of sombre citizens, to present themselves at Augustus’
House where they received the daily bulletin on the Emperor’s health. Every day the Praetorian tribune, Chaerea, delivered the same message in his unfortunately high and squeaky voice: no
change, the Emperor remained drifting in and out of consciousness.

The city was at a standstill; the law courts, theatres and markets were all closed, business transactions suspended and festivals ignored. The only thing still running was the blood that flowed
from Rome’s many altars.

‘This is getting ridiculous,’ Vespasian muttered to Gaius as the Senate and the equites gathered outside the Curia for their daily trudge up the Palatine, for the
thirtieth day in a row, in a steady, November drizzle. ‘What’s going to happen if he stays ill for another month? The city will start collapsing around us.’

‘It’s the same for everyone, dear boy, nothing’s getting done. A lot of people are losing a lot of money but they would rather that than be seen as someone who made a profit
while Caligula lay at death’s door.’

‘Well, I wish that it would open.’

‘Don’t say that too loudly,’ Gaius hissed, ‘especially around this group of unscrupulous sycophants.’

‘Of which we are guilty members.’

‘Hypocrisy, dear boy, can be a life-saving fault.’

Vespasian grunted.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Magnus called, easing his way through the crowd towards them wearing his citizen’s plain white toga.

Vespasian smiled and gripped his friend’s forearm. ‘Are you joining us for our daily ritual?’

‘Bollocks I am. There’s a meeting of the Quirnal and Viminal Brotherhood leaders; we dress up smart to threaten each other. You lot and everyone else may have stopped working but our
business carries on.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it; extortion and protection should stop for no man, not even an emperor.’

‘Now, sir, that ain’t fair, we all have to make a living. By the way, aren’t you the road aedile this year?’

‘You know I am.’

Magnus pointed to his feet, covered in mud and ordure with pieces of rotting vegetation sticking to them. ‘I call that a fucking disgrace; some parts of the city are ankle deep in shit
– which makes you look stupid.’

Vespasian gestured helplessly. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it. My foremen won’t supervise the public slaves cleaning the streets; they all claim to be too busy making
sacrifices to Jupiter and Juno and praying for the Emperor.’

‘Well, while they’re about it perhaps they could sacrifice to the god of arseholes and pray for man and beast to stop shitting as well.’

‘Shhh,’ Gaius hissed with a pained expression on his face, putting a hand up to his mouth and moving away from treasonous talk.

Vespasian grinned. ‘Have you come here just to give me advice on the religious practices of my staff?’

‘No, it’s a bit more serious than that,’ Magnus said, looking around and lowering his voice. ‘There was someone snooping around Caenis’ house this morning for an
hour or so, and then he buggered off. One of my lads watching the place followed him to the Aventine; he went into a nice new house on the same street as Sabinus.’ Magnus raised his
eyebrows.

‘And?’

‘And after making some enquiries he found out that it belongs to your good friend, Corvinus.’

Vespasian felt a chill crawl through his body. ‘How did he find out about her?’

‘Probably by having you followed, what does it matter? But being as I know that he ain’t too keen on you and yours, I’ve doubled the guard in the street.’

‘Thank you, Magnus.’

‘I wouldn’t worry too much; he just knows that you go there, he won’t know who’s inside. She should be safe enough if she doesn’t go out.’

‘She doesn’t, except to visit my uncle a few score paces away.’

‘If she wants to do that, I suggest that she sends a slave to my lads and they can escort her in a covered litter.’

‘I’ll tell her; thanks.’

‘Yeah, well, it looks like you’re all moving off; I’d best be going. I’ve got more lucrative ways to pass the time rather than worry about the sick, if you take my
meaning?’

‘What was that all about?’ Gaius asked, rejoining Vespasian as they began to shuffle out of the Forum.

‘Nothing, Uncle,’ Vespasian mumbled, lost in his thoughts, ‘Magnus has it covered.’

The procession of more than two thousand of the most prestigious men in Rome arrived in front of Augustus’ House. Cassius Chaerea was already waiting under the portico to
address them; the smile on his face was enough to tell Vespasian that death had indeed kept its door firmly closed to Caligula.

‘There is at last good news,’ Chaerea announced in his falsetto voice, ‘one hour ago the Emperor made a miraculous recovery; I have just come from his room where he is sitting
up in bed and eating. The crisis is over!’

A roar of cheers erupted from the rain-dampened crowd, carrying on until they were almost hoarse. The noise of the celebrations and the news of its cause filtered down from the Palatine and on
throughout Rome, and by the time Chaerea was able to speak again the sound of joyous cheering echoed back up the hill from the city below.

‘The Emperor thanks you all for your prayers and sacrifices and bids you to…’ The doors behind him opened and the crowd gasped as Caligula walked out unsteadily but unaided.
Unshaven for a month and palpably thinner with his eyes sunk even further in their sockets, he still looked ill and yet there was strength in the way that he held his head. He lifted his arms in
the air to the raucous cries of ‘Hail Caesar!’ that greeted him.

Eventually he signalled for silence. ‘It is not your fault,’ he declaimed in a surprisingly loud voice, ‘that you hail me only as your Caesar. You do not know what has happened
to me in this past month.’ He indicated to his emaciated body. ‘This body, this weak human body, nearly died as I ravaged it with the agony of transformation. Had it died I would still
be here but not as you see me now, because, my flock, I am not only your Emperor, I have now become your god. Worship me!’

At this stunning piece of news and outrageous order a few of the more quick-thinking senators immediately pulled folds of their togas over their heads, as if officiating at a religious ceremony.
The rest of the gathering quickly followed their example and Caligula burst out laughing as he surveyed the crowd that was now swathed from head to toe in wool.

‘You are truly my sheep; what a shearing we shall have. I believe one of you was good enough to offer his life to my brother Jupiter in return for mine; who was this noble
sheep?’

‘It was I, Princeps,’ a voice oozing with pride came from behind Vespasian, who turned to see a well-built young eques smiling smugly at those around him, pleased to be the object of
the Emperor’s attention.

‘What is your name, good sheep?’

‘Publius Afranius Potitus, Princeps.’

‘What are you doing here, Potitus? Don’t keep Jupiter waiting; we gods expect promptness.’

Potitus’ face fell as the hope of reward was replaced by the hideous realisation that Caligula was in earnest. He looked around at his companions for aid, but how could they countermand an
order from their new god? They moved away, leaving him isolated in their midst. His shoulders sagged and he turned without a word.

‘What a good sheep he was,’ Caligula said, grinning approvingly as Potitus trudged away to his unnecessary death. ‘Now that I’m back among you the business of the city
shall resume and the Plebeian Games, which should have begun five days ago, will commence immediately; all those of you who swore to fight as gladiators in return for my health will get the chance
to fulfil your oath in the arena tomorrow.’

‘Save him, Caesar! Save him, Caesar!’ the twenty-thousand-strong crowd filling the stone-built Statilius Taurus Amphitheatre on the Campus Martius chanted in
unison. An all-pervading stench of urine filled the atmosphere from where people – for fear of losing their seat should they go outside – had relieved themselves where they sat, so that
it trickled down to be soaked up by the tunic of the person sitting below them on the stepped-stone seating.

The victorious
retiarius
, the last man standing in what had been a six-man free-for-all, kept the points of his trident firmly pressed on the throat of his last defeated opponent, a
secutor
entangled in a net, and looked up at the Emperor. Vespasian glanced over at Caligula, sitting next to Drusilla, in the imperial box adjacent to the senators’ seats, and
wondered if he would grant the crowd’s wish; he had on every other occasion during the long four days of combat, but they had always been demands for death.

Caligula removed his fingers from the anus of a youth kneeling between him and his sister and extended it forward, still clenched in the signal for mercy, tilting his head against his shoulder.
The crowd’s applause at their Emperor’s clemency turned to jeers as his thumb suddenly jutted up in mimicry of an unsheathed sword: the sign for death.

The
summa rudis
– the referee – withdrew his long staff from across the retiarius’s chest, who then pulled back to allow his opponent the dignity of a gladiator’s
death, kneeling on one knee before his vanquisher rather than lying like a wounded stag on the reddened arena sand.

The crowd’s fury at their wish to spare a gladiator who had put up a brave fight escalated as the secutor, once free of the net, grasped his opponent’s thigh in preparation for the
killing stroke. The retiarius dropped the trident and unsheathed his long, thin knife and placed it, point down, on the secutor’s throat just above his collar bone. With a nod of his head,
completely encased in a smooth bronze rimless helmet with two small eye-holes in the face mask, the doomed man consented to the knife. As the two men tensed for the ritual killing the staff of the
summa rudis abruptly slammed across the retiarius’s chest, stopping him.