by Randy Singer
The choir stopped, and Caligula applauded them. He lavished praise on the boys and their directors. We could hear the boys thank him as they headed toward the theater. We knew that at any moment Caligula would be passing directly in front of us.
“The guard on the left is Sabinus,” Chaerea said. “He’s one of us. The guard on the right is not.”
I had recognized the guard on Caligula’s right. It was Lucian, still one of Caligula’s closest friends. He was fully armed, but we would have the element of surprise.
“Put the dagger right here,” Chaerea said to me, pointing to a spot next to his breastplate on the left side. “I’ll take care of Caesar.”
“Not if I can help it,” Flavia said.
And just like that, the moment arrived. We stepped out of the alcove, directly in front of Caligula and his guards. The Greek choir was nearly fifty yards down the hallway behind them, turning a corner and disappearing.
“What is this?” Caligula asked.
Chaerea had drawn his sword, and he wasted no time. He swung at Caesar with a two-fisted strike, a mighty blow designed to decapitate the emperor.
Time seemed to slow in those pivotal few seconds. I saw the astonished look of the emperor, his mouth forming a small O, his eyes wide with fright. The sword struck his collarbone, opening a huge gash in the skin and cracking the bone.
Lucian leaped at Chaerea, and I delivered an underhanded thrust that buried my dagger in Lucian’s ribs, just under his left arm. He turned on me as I twisted and sliced as hard as I could, feeling the shudder that told me my dagger had pierced his heart. He cried out, but before he could deliver his first blow, he reeled and crumpled to the floor.
Miraculously, Caligula had survived the initial attack, though it had seriously staggered him. Before he could regroup, Flavia lunged forward and plunged her dagger into his heart. The guard named Sabinus got in on the action as well, stabbing the emperor repeatedly from behind. As Caligula fell, Chaerea struck again, this time driving his sword into the back of the emperor’s neck. Blood came gushing out. Caligula gurgled, and his body went limp.
I stared, frozen by the horror of the moment. Rome’s leader was dead at our feet, a pool of blood spreading on the polished stone floor of the tunnel. His childhood friend and my onetime tormentor lay next to him, his eyes staring at the ceiling. I had dreamed many times of exacting revenge on the emperor. But I had never once intended to kill an innocent man along with him.
“It’s done,” I said.
“Not yet,” Chaerea said.
I knew what he meant. He and Sabinus would now enter the palace and arrest Caligula’s wife, daughter, and uncle. Flavia would stay here and let out a scream to alert the world that the emperor had died. She would claim that she was returning from the palace when she stumbled across him in the hallway. I would run through the underground tunnels to an exit that led to the Forum. It would be my job to inform the Senate and rally the people.
“May the gods be with you,” Chaerea said.
Flavia took off her cloak and handed it to me. She took my face in both of her hands, leaned forward, and gave me a kiss.
“Play your part well,” she said. “And be careful.”
With that, I took off after Chaerea and Sabinus down the corridor and up the steps. Behind me, I heard a bloodcurdling scream.
Caesar was dead. The question now was whether the empire would die with him.
CHAPTER 65
Flavia’s scream brought the Greek choir back into the hallway—staring and stunned. A number of Germanic troops sprinted past them to where Flavia knelt over Caligula’s body, covered in blood. She pointed in the other direction, and they took off. Praetorian Guards were not far behind, and soon the corridors underneath the palace were crawling with troops.
Flavia made her way back to the theater, where pandemonium reigned. Caligula’s Germanic guards stood by the exits, swords drawn, forbidding anyone to leave. Flavia took a seat in the imperial box and wept aloud as she explained that Caligula had been stabbed to death. His attackers had apparently fled. Rubria knelt next to her, embraced her, and buried her head in Flavia’s lap.
Some of the senators tried to leave the theater, but the guards held their ground. The senators protested loudly, yet the guardsmen just shook their heads, tensed their muscles, and pointed the senators back to their seats.
Some senators obeyed. Others approached the imperial box.
“I just came upon him in the hallway,” Flavia explained.
“Are you sure he was dead?”
She nodded, started to say something, and broke down again.
Emotions quickly escalated. Some spectators wept openly, while others seemed pleased by the emperor’s demise. A rumor started that Caligula had not actually died and that the whole thing was nothing more than a ruse to see who would celebrate.
When three of the emperor’s closest bodyguards returned from the tunnel, things took a bloody turn. They had decapitated three senators they had discovered in the hallway, and they carried the heads of those senators into the theater. They placed the bloody heads at the front of the stage so that they stared out at the audience. The people shrank back in horror. Some of the freedmen threw themselves at the guards’ feet, pleading their own innocence.
It sickened Flavia to see how quickly the violence had escalated. Apparently the three dead senators had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Another fifty or so senators quickly huddled together near their seats as the Germanic guards surrounded them. Flavia grabbed Rubria’s hand, and the two of them walked between the senators and the bodyguards. They stood there, facing the guards, shielding the senators. Two other Vestals came over and joined them.
“Move,” one of the guards demanded.
“At the very least, these men are entitled to a fair trial,” Flavia said, standing her ground.
The commander of the guards stared at Flavia for a moment, his nostrils flared with rage. “Nobody leaves!” he barked.
I sprinted to the house of Sentius Saturninus, one of Rome’s two consuls, who would now temporarily rule until a new Caesar was selected by the Senate. I breathlessly relayed the news that Caligula was dead. I urged Sentius to convene the Senate or risk throwing all of Rome into chaos.
Sentius, a cagey old survivor, rose to his full height as if he had been expecting this all along. “Thank you for your service, Theophilus. You can rest assured that the Senate will be convened with the greatest possible haste.”
I left Sentius’s house and ran to the doma of Seneca. He was there waiting, along with Apronius.
“Caesar is dead,” I gasped, standing in front of both of them. I bent over to catch my breath.
“How did he die?” Apronius asked.
“With much less pain than he deserved,” I said.
Forty minutes after the death of Caligula, an envoy from the Senate entered the theater. His name was Arruntius Euaristus. He was dressed in black mourning attire, and he strode to the stage, taking a place behind the severed heads of the three senators. Euaristus was an auctioneer and possessed one of the most commanding voices in all of Rome.
He announced that Caligula had been murdered—stabbed to death by unknown assassins. By order of the consuls, the Senate was being convened to elect a new Princeps, and the theater was to be emptied. Mourning for the emperor was to begin immediately. The senators should report to the Capitol.
Though they didn’t look happy, the guards threw open the doors of the theater. People nearly trampled each other in their haste to leave.
Flavia left with them and quickly headed to the House of Vestal, where she tried to scrub the blood from her skin and clothes. She had done her part to free Rome from the reign of a maniacal tyrant. Now it would be up to the Senate to do theirs.
For three hours, I watched the senators debate the future of the empire. Apronius was one of the first to speak. As I knew he would, he presented a compelling case to cast off the chains
of the imperial system and return to a republic. He castigated the senators for their failure to take a stand against Caligula’s abuses. He had prepared a list of insults and atrocities the Senate had suffered at the hands of Caesar, and he went through them now, one by one. “This is what happens when we give up our rights as Roman citizens and kneel to kiss the foot of a man who calls himself a god!” Apronius shouted.
I knew Apronius would be a strong voice for a return to the Republic, but I had no idea he would be this strong. His speech was interrupted by frequent applause, while opposing senators looked furious.
He was followed by Sentius Saturninus himself, the consul I had spoken to earlier, who carried forward the same theme. “The tyranny of Caesar was fostered by nothing more than our own indolence and failure to speak in opposition to his wishes. We succumbed to the seduction of peace and have learned to live like conquered prisoners. We have been afraid to die like brave men and have endured the utmost degradation.”
When he finished, half the Senate was on its feet applauding, and the other half looked like they wanted blood. A member of the opposition leaped to his feet and walked up to Sentius. He pointed to the signet ring on Sentius’s finger, holding up the consul’s hand for everyone to see.
“Do you see what this man has?” the senator asked. “A signet ring with the likeness of Caligula. He upbraids us for being sycophants of the tyrant. But how do you think he got appointed as consul?”
As the debate dragged on, a huge crowd gathered outside the Senate doors. In the Forum, speakers mounted the Rostra and fired up their portions of the crowd. The city’s police force, following strict orders from the consuls, stood guard close by. The Praetorian Guard was nowhere to be seen.
A few of the more outspoken proponents of the Republic came into the Senate chambers and asked me to take my turn outside on the Rostra. “People will listen to you,” they claimed. “This is your chance to turn the tide of history.”
At first I hesitated, wondering whether I should take such a public stand. Though the word was not yet out about my arrest, people would eventually learn that I had been charged with maiestas earlier that morning. But if the Republic was restored, that charge, like similar charges against other individuals, would be dismissed and likely considered a badge of honor. And if the Republic was not restored, the maiestas charge would be just one problem out of many. There was no middle ground.
I followed them outside, and when my turn came, I mounted the Rostra, the same spot where Mark Antony had eulogized Julius Caesar. With that famous eulogy, Mark Antony had demonized Brutus, Caesar’s killer, and the power of the emperor had been solidified. Perhaps today, that same power could be broken.
CHAPTER 66
“There will be a time for us to mourn Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus,” I said. “But that time is not now!”
I looked out at the thousands of people standing before me, at the magnificent temples of Rome, at the police lining the porticoes in the Forum proper.
“There will be a time when we recall fondly his early reign, the days when he disavowed the treason trials and walked among us as a fellow Roman citizen. The days when he treated everyone with decency and respect. But now is not the time for reminiscing.”
My voice carried, and I didn’t feel the least bit nervous. I had been preparing for this moment my entire life. My voice was strong, my gaze steady, my chin high.
“Today is a day for action. Today we must choose. On the one hand, freedom. A nation of laws. A nation where every man, whether born a freedman’s son or a slave or a Roman equestrian, may ascend to the highest heights and achieve the greatest triumphs. If we follow this road, we choose the glory of Rome. The courage of a Roman legionnaire, the authority of a Roman magistrate, the ingenuity of a Roman architect.
“Rome civilized the entire world not because we had superior weapons but because we had a superior will. We are Romans. We bowed to no one. That is one road that lies before us—to recapture that glory.
“The other road is the road of the imperial system. We stumble over each other to kiss the feet of another man. We allow that man to mock our institutions by threatening to appoint his horse to the second-highest position in the land. We stand idly by as this man reaches out, takes the hands of our wives, and whisks them away to his chambers while we watch in shame. Saying nothing. Doing nothing. This is the road of the empire. One man becomes a god, and everyone else becomes his slave!”
A few people broke into applause while others hissed or shouted in protest. I knew I was now on dangerous ground, condemning the legacy of Caesar even before his body was cold.
“What is the cost of a Roman soul? Is it the price of free bread and entertainment at the Circus Maximus? Is that how much we charge to be debased like animals?
“Or does a Roman soul have infinite worth? Is the soul upright, good, and worthy? Should every citizen have a chance to rise to heaven from the very slums? This is what it means to be a republic. This is what it means to recapture the glory of Rome.”
I paused, searching for a way to end.
“The founders of Rome gave birth to the greatest Republic in human history. It’s time for a second birth; it’s our turn to write a new chapter in Roman history—a chapter of dignity and opportunity and freedom.”
People clapped; a few even cheered. But it wasn’t the raucous reaction I had wanted—a crowd mobilized for action.
I walked down the steps of the Rostra disappointed in my own performance. My friends told me that my words were eloquent and moving, yet I knew I had not captured the imagination of the crowd. Perhaps they had been slaves to the emperor for so long that they no longer had a spark of freedom that could be ignited.
Augustus Caesar and his successors had cleverly wooed them, turning defiant citizens into submissive slaves, all in exchange for Roman peace, beautiful roads, free food, and entertainment.
For some strange reason, I thought of my conversation with Nicodemus. He had spoken of new beginnings, a second birth. Perhaps it only happened in Judea. Perhaps in Rome, where cynicism prevailed, the death of a republic could never be reversed.
It was two hours later when Herod Agrippa mounted the Rostra and quieted the crowd. He was a well-known friend of Caligula’s and had been appointed tetrarch over Galilee and Perea. He had come to Rome to celebrate with Caligula in the last few days before the emperor moved to Alexandria.
He was a tall and distinguished man, fifty or so but with a face that looked ten years younger. He had a long, pointed nose and a protruding forehead and always wore a small laurel wreath half-hidden by his curly black hair. He also had that intangible presence that let everyone know he was a man in charge.
“A few hours ago, one of Rome’s top advocates said that this was not a day to mourn Caligula. But I hope you will excuse those of us who loved the emperor if we cannot keep our eyes as dry as this day apparently requires.”
Agrippa looked at me as if I had the power to give him permission to mourn. I stared back, unblinking.
“I also hope our friend Theophilus will forgive us if we shed a tear for the emperor’s wife and baby daughter.”
My breath caught in my throat at this mention of the emperor’s family. Had they died as well? Chaerea was supposed to have arrested them.
An audible gasp went up from the crowd as they heard the news.
“Chaerea and Sabinus, the cowardly traitors who stabbed Caesar in the back, barged into Caesonia’s room and told her to make her peace with the gods,” Agrippa continued. “Caesonia faced the sword courageously and made only one request. She begged them to spare her two-year-old daughter, Drusilla.”
Even before Agrippa finished the story, I knew in my gut that Chaerea had done something unspeakable. I could already sense the crowd’s disgust at the merciless slaying of Caesonia. I braced for what was coming next.
“After killing Caesonia, Chaerea killed little Drusilla by banging her head against the palace wall. These are the
great defenders of the Republic to whom Theophilus referred earlier.”
The crowd was aghast, and so was I. My greatest fears had been realized. Chaerea was a monster, created by incessant ridiculing from Caligula. Now the monster had turned and destroyed every member of Caligula’s family.
“The Praetorian Guard found Claudius secreted behind a curtain in the palace. They carried him from the Palatine Hill to their barracks, where they have crowned him as Rome’s new emperor.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! Claudius, the fifty-year-old uncle of the emperor, had only survived this long because he was widely believed to be wholly incompetent and no threat whatsoever to Caligula. He was clumsy, stuttered when he talked, and kept to himself as a reclusive scholar. Caligula had frequently made fun of him. Nobody considered Claudius to be emperor material.
“Chaerea and Sabinus have been arrested and executed,” Agrippa announced. My heart dropped. Chaerea had told us that the rest of the Praetorian Guard would back him once Caligula was dead. He had grossly miscalculated.
“Men like Theophilus can long for a republic, but we must remember that it was the divine Augustus who found Rome built of stone and left it built of marble. Our greatest years have been our years as an empire! It is therefore right and just that we should mourn those emperors who are slain before they can show the benefits of their rule. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, I will go pay my respects to Caligula and Caesonia and poor little Drusilla.”
Agrippa walked off the Rostra, and the crowd showed its respect by watching in silence.
I knew at that moment we were defeated. The Senate held out for a few more hours, but as the prospects for restoring the Republic became dimmer, senators started fleeing the chamber for fear of reprisal.
Agrippa became the unofficial envoy between the Senate and the Praetorian Guard. By early the next morning, he had negotiated a resolution. The Senate would recognize Claudius as the new Princeps. In exchange, there would be no further prosecution of those who were alleged to have participated in the conspiracy to murder Caligula. Those awaiting trial on maiestas charges were pardoned. My own arrest, orchestrated by Chaerea as part of the assassination conspiracy, would be one of many erased from the record books.