False God of Rome

by Robert Fabbri

  Caligula smiled knowingly at Vespasian. ‘Because I’m the only one who can afford to be. The Senate have lived for so long with Augustus’ conceit that they and the Princeps share power, whereas in reality they slavishly proposed and voted for what they deemed to be his and then Tiberius’ will, in the hopes of gaining favour. They’ve forgotten what honesty is; you might just as well have a flock of sheep sitting in the Curia. Well, I’m going to teach the sheep honesty.’

  Vespasian thought about giving an honest reply but decided against it. ‘I’m sure you will be a great teacher.’

  ‘You’re right, old friend, I will be,’ Caligula affirmed, turning his attention back to the dwarf column where the lead female dwarf had now, quite literally, mounted the top while her fellow climbers worked their hand-holds vigorously.

  ‘Princeps, I have a favour to ask of you,’ Vespasian said, hoping that the approaching climax – in many ways – of Caligula’s favourite act would put him in the mood for granting requests.

  ‘Vespasian, my good friend, name it.’

  ‘I have some family business that needs to be taken care of in Egypt. Would you grant me permission to go?’

  ‘And lose my companion for four or five months? What would I do without you? Get someone else to do it for you, but not a senator as it’s still not safe; apparently the Phoenix has been reborn but hasn’t yet flown east.’

  ‘I have to go in person, and besides I couldn’t go until my term as aedile has expired at the end of this year,’ Vespasian pointed out, wondering what the Phoenix flying east had to do with senators travelling to Egypt in safety.

  ‘Well, we shall see, perhaps I’ll have tired of you by then and the Phoenix will have gone. Callistus!’ Caligula’s short and wiry steward, whom Vespasian recognised from his visit to Misenum, came scurrying in. ‘Once my dwarves have finished, call for Clemens and get us some dirty tunics and hooded cloaks.’ Caligula turned back to watch the inevitable, rather messy, finale. ‘I want to go drinking and whoring in the city. We could get Magnus to show us some interesting places; I want to hear what the common people, the honest people, are saying about me.’

  ‘It won’t be the best you’ve ever drunk here, Magnus,’ the portly tavern-keeper said, thumping down a full jug of wine onto the grimy, wine-stained table, ‘but neither will it be the worst.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be up to your normal standard of gut-rotter, Balbus,’ Magnus replied with a grin as he filled the chipped cups of his three companions.

  ‘Who’re yer mates? I don’t think I’ve seen them before; not that I can really see their faces.’

  ‘Associates from out of the city come to see the new Emperor.’

  Balbus kissed his thumbnail. ‘Jupiter hold his hands over our shining star, he’s the new hope of Rome. I saw him today and he looked like a young god.’

  ‘Perhaps he is,’ Caligula suggested from beneath his hood.

  ‘He may well be, Augustus was…is. Well, you’re welcome, lads, but we prefer hoods to be down in here, if it’s all the same to you.’

  Vespasian and Clemens both pulled back their hoods but Caligula made no attempt to remove his; instead he pulled a gold aureus from his purse and handed it to Balbus. ‘This should see us supplied with wine and women for a while.’

  Balbus bit the coin; his eyes lit up as he realised that it was genuine. ‘Anything you want, lads, you can even have me for that and I wouldn’t care that I couldn’t see your faces and the love in your eyes.’

  The rumour of gold flew around the large, low-ceilinged tavern fogged with the fumes from a cooking fire behind the amphorae-lined bar; within moments all four of them had a plump, stale-sweat-fragranced whore sitting on their lap while others hovered close by hoping to be next in line should one of the lucky first-arrivals be rejected. All around the dimly lit room there were mutterings and dark looks from men on other tables who had been deprived of their female company as they gravitated across the wine-sticky flagstone floor towards the table with money.

  ‘I’m not sure that flashing gold in here was a good thing, Gaius,’ Magnus observed, struggling to take a sip of wine amid the enthusiastic attentions of his new companion. They were all under strict instructions to use Caligula’s first name.

  Caligula adjusted his position to allow his partner access up his tunic. ‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it, Magnus.’

  ‘And you’ve certainly got it, my lovely,’ the woman said, working her hand up his leg. ‘And in more ways than one,’ she added in surprise and admiration. ‘Venus help me! Sisters have a feel of this one; I’ve never come across the like of it.’

  Caligula sat revelling in the attention that his huge erection was receiving as the women took it in turns to stroke its almost one-foot length and grasp its impressive girth, simpering at its magnitude.

  ‘That’s worthy of Jupiter himself,’ Vespasian’s whore exclaimed as she took her turn, ‘I can’t even close my fingers around it.’

  Vespasian took the opportunity to ease the woman off his lap and look around the room; many of the already angry customers were leaving their seats and gathering in a knot, looking with malicious intent towards their table. ‘I’m not too sure that we’re going to be very welcome here for much longer,’ he muttered to Clemens next to him, nodding his head towards the menace.

  Clemens looked around and then leant over to whisper in Caligula’s ear while loosening in its scabbard the gladius concealed under his cloak. Brushing away a collection of groping female hands, Caligula stood up, keeping his hood still covering his head. ‘Balbus,’ he shouted, not bothering to adjust his hitched-up tunic, ‘wine and food for everyone in the tavern.’ He reached into his purse and pulled out another couple of gold coins. ‘We will drink to the health of our new Emperor.’

  A ragged cheer went up as a beaming Balbus took the coins and signalled to his slaves, who took amphorae from their holders behind the bar and began filling jugs of wine, which they placed, along with plates of bread and cooked pork, on the counter. All but a hard core of the threatening group made to help themselves, mollified, for the present, by the offer of free victuals and drink.

  ‘Fill my cup, Magnus,’ Caligula said, stroking the hair of a couple of the cluster of women now kneeling at his feet.

  With his cup refilled, Caligula waded through the women before him and addressed the room. ‘The son of Germanicus and descendant of the god Augustus has returned to Rome as emperor! Praise him!’ Caligula downed his wine in one as cries of ‘Caligula! Our shining star!’ filled the room.

  Vespasian stood and joined in the acclamation with an outward enthusiasm that concealed his inner anxiety: if Caligula remained beloved of the mob then he would be free to do whatever he pleased, and Vespasian knew only too well what pleased him.

  ‘You see, my friend,’ Caligula said, turning to him, his eyes, just visible under his hood, burning with pride, ‘honest people love me.’

  Caligula’s gold had kept the wine flowing and Vespasian felt bleary. The tavern was now full to bursting as news of free drink filtered through the neighbourhood and scuffles had broken out as petty arguments, fuelled by excessive alcohol, ballooned into matters of great import. Knives had been drawn on a couple of occasions and bloodied victims had been thrown out into the street to fend for themselves as best they could.

  Caligula had spent the time drinking steadily but that had not affected his prowess and he had satisfied numerous women as they took it in turns to ride up and down in his lap. His stamina had been impressive and Vespasian, who had allowed himself to be pleasured a couple of times, could but marvel at his ability to keep going.

  Clemens had stayed alert, drinking little and refusing women, but Magnus had drunk and whored himself to a snoring heap, head slumped in a plate of cold pork with wine-stained saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth and the contents of an overturned cup dripping into his lap.

  ‘We should go,’ Caligula announced as another whore pulled herself off him pan
ting deeply, ‘I’m tiring of this place.’

  Relieved that the evening was finally over, Vespasian leant over the table and shook Magnus from his slumber.

  ‘Are we off home, then?’ Magnus asked sleepily, peeling off a slice of pork that had stuck to his cheek and taking a bite.

  ‘No, I’m just tired of this place,’ Caligula said, ‘take me somewhere else.’

  Magnus got wearily to his feet. ‘Somewhere with a little more variety, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘Variety? Yes, that’s what I need.’ Caligula pushed his way into the crowd.

  ‘Hey lads, our goldmine’s leaving,’ an unpleasantly drunk, thuggish-looking man slurred, ‘let’s make sure he leaves us his money.’ His two mates jumped at Caligula, grabbing his arms and knocking back his hood while the drunk went for his purse.

  With a flash of burnished iron, Clemens whipped out his sword and forced it between the ribs of the assailant nearest to him. With a scream and a violent jerk the man let go of Caligula’s arm and fell to the floor as Clemens pulled his weapon free in a slop of blood. Vespasian and Magnus both drew their knives from the sheaths in the smalls of their backs and pounced towards the other two men, upturning nearby tables with a crash of earthenware. Women screamed and knives flashed in the lamplight around the room as men immediately decided whether to protect their erstwhile benefactor or join the attempted robbery.

  Vespasian slammed into the drunk, knocking him to the floor away from Caligula, but still grasping the purse, as Magnus, now suddenly fully awake, wrenched the hair of the third man and sliced his knife across his exposed throat. Blood sprayed over Caligula’s face and cloak as Clemens put a protective arm around him, pulling him back towards the relative safety of a huddle of frightened women clustered around their table, while keeping his sword pointed at the free-for-all knife fight that had erupted in front of them.

  Leaping towards the floored drunk, and narrowly missing a hurled earthenware jug spraying wine, Vespasian crunched a hard-sandalled foot between the man’s legs; his body convulsed in a rapid ripple of sheer agony that sent his arms flying up and catapulting the purse across the chaotic room. Vespasian watched its trajectory towards the bar and tried to follow it but became entangled with Magnus grappling with a new opponent intent upon strangling him. All three crashed onto a table, which collapsed to the floor with Vespasian on top. Recovering first, Vespasian grabbed the man’s ear, jerked his head up and pounded it down onto the flagstone, shattering his skull as the tavern door burst open and a new force swarmed in: the club-wielding Vigiles.

  Made up mainly of ex-slaves, the night-watch had no cause to be overfond of the citizens of Rome and they set about breaking up the fight with a severity that eclipsed the violence they had come to halt. Without waiting to find out who was in the right or wrong they swept their clubs down indiscriminately onto heads, backs and outstretched arms, cracking bones, breaking teeth and splitting skin. Vespasian and Magnus just had time to pick themselves up off the floor and retreat to the far side of the room where Caligula, covered in blood and now laughing hysterically, was guarded by Clemens. They stood shoulder to shoulder in front of their Emperor and waited, weapons at the ready.

  The Vigiles gradually subdued the remaining fights, with the loss of only one of their number, rounding up any miscreants still conscious and pushing them back across the room. Their optio, a stocky, bald man with forearms like mossy tree branches, suddenly noticed Vespasian and his comrades, through his crowd of prisoners, standing in the shadows.

  ‘And you lot,’ he growled, walking towards them, ‘put down your weapons.’ Then seeing Clemens’ sword he stepped back. Knowing that the carrying of swords within the city was the prerogative of only the Urban Cohorts or the Praetorian Guard and then only when on duty, he made the reasonable assumption that this was a dangerous criminal whom he was faced with.

  ‘I’d let us go if I were you, optio,’ Clemens warned, keeping between Caligula and the Vigiles commander.

  ‘Lads, on me,’ he called to his men, ‘these are going to have to go down hard.’

  Corralling the disarmed prisoners towards the bar, the Vigiles lined up and faced Vespasian, Magnus and Clemens.

  ‘You have served your Emperor well, optio,’ Caligula said, pushing past Clemens.

  ‘What would you know about that, you spindly rat?’

  ‘Because I am your Emperor, and one more remark like that and you’ll be serving me well in the arena.’ Caligula stepped forward into the light and held his blood-stained head high. There was a brief silence in the room and then a communal gasp as most people recognised the man whom they had crowded into the city to see only that morning; even covered in blood he was unmistakeable.

  ‘Princeps,’ the optio spluttered, bowing his head, ‘forgive me.’

  ‘Our star!’ someone shouted.

  Others took up the shout and Caligula raised his arms and bathed for a while in their worship, and then pointed to his original attacker, still clutching his groin on the floor. ‘That man’s testicles seem to be troubling him,’ he shouted over the din, ‘relieve him of them, optio.’

  The noise stopped as the optio looked down at the injured man and then back at Caligula and realised that he was in earnest. Fearing for his life, having insulted his Emperor, he had no choice. He drew his knife and bent down.

  A shrill shriek announced the completion of the deed; Caligula smiled. ‘Thank you, optio, I have forgiven you. You may release everyone else; they love me and will follow me as a flock follows its shepherd, trusting him to do them no harm.’

  ‘Princeps, this is yours,’ Balbus said, holding out the purse.

  ‘Keep it, Balbus, but give some coins to the women.’ Caligula moved towards the door, followed by Vespasian, Clemens and Magnus; the crowd parted for them.

  ‘Thank you, Lord,’ one of the whores cried out, ‘we will remember your generosity and the pleasure you gave us; it was as if being satisfied by a god.’

  ‘Satisfied by a god?’ Caligula ruminated as they stepped out into the street. ‘Perhaps they were; perhaps I am. After all, the shepherd rules over the sheep not because he’s a superior sheep but because he is a superior being. It follows therefore that if I am the shepherd of the Roman flock sitting in the Senate House, it must be because I too am a superior being.’

  Vespasian did not like the way Caligula’s mind was working. ‘That may be logical, Princeps, but remember that to live the shepherd regularly has to eat one of his sheep.’

  The look on Caligula’s face as he turned towards him made Vespasian instantly regret his line of argument.

  ‘Exactly, my friend; the shepherd must remain fed and healthy for the good of his flock, so he chooses the sheep that will best satisfy his hunger.’

  CHAPTER XV

  VESPASIAN LOOKED AROUND the newly decorated atrium of Sabinus’ rebuilt house as the last of the artisans collected up the tools of their trades. They had done a fine job, he reflected, with the limited amount of money, gleaned from his province, which his brother had been able to send back to Rome over the summer. Although it was not furbished to the most luxurious of standards he felt that Sabinus would have few complaints from Clementina when they eventually took up residence.

  Vespasian had enjoyed overseeing the work; it had, along with his duties as the aedile responsible for Rome’s streets, helped him to take his mind off the profligacy that had characterised the first seven months of Caligula’s reign.

  Anxious to secure the love of the mob, Caligula had not stinted them in his celebrations, nor had the Senate or priesthoods been ungenerous in their flattering support for their new Emperor, as Caligula had predicted. Over the first ninety days of his reign the temple altars flowed with the blood of sheep, bulls, fowl, horses and swine; one hundred and sixty thousand victims were publicly sacrificed to every god imaginable in thanks for the coming of the golden age. And to the common people of Rome it did indeed seem to be so; they feasted on the flesh of the sac
rifices, they watched endless spectacles in the Circus Maximus and the other smaller arenas around the city and they had money to spend, Caligula having given them three gold aurei each – more than the annual wage for a legionary. To secure his position further he had paid another three aurei each to every legionary and auxiliary in the Empire as well as to the Vigiles; five apiece to the Urban Cohorts and ten apiece to the Praetorian Guard.

  With all this ready money in circulation business had boomed as shopkeepers, tavern owners and merchants raked in the cash that their fellow citizens, anxious to emulate their beloved Emperor, spent freely under the misapprehension that the supply would never cease.

  To neutralise the Senate’s objections to this colossal outlay of coin he had recalled those of their number banished by the previous regime and had pardoned those still awaiting sentence, placing the House in his debt. He had then insulted them by refusing to accept the honours that they had voted for him in gratitude and ordered that they should never try and honour him again, thus demonstrating that he was not a creation of the Senate and did not rule by their favour.

  To make the same point to what remained of his family he had freed Herod Agrippa, against the express wishes of Antonia, and had made him king of the Jewish tetrarchies of Batanaea and Trachonitius, east of the Jordan River; he had also given him a chain of solid gold to replace the one of iron with which he had been chained to his cell’s wall.

  To counter the effect of these attacks on the aristocracy he added to his popularity with the common people, milking the affection that they bore him, by personally bringing back the bones of his mother and two brothers from their island graves and interring them in the Mausoleum of Augustus in a ceremony so charged with emotion that no one in the vast crowd was left unmoved. Tears streamed down their faces as they watched their darling mourning, with sombre dignity, the family that had been so cruelly wrenched from him by the two people whom they hated most: Tiberius and Sejanus. The Senate had watched on, stony-faced, as he pulled this theatrical coup, knowing that, because of the guilt that they bore from their complicity with the murders of the imperial family, they had once again been sidelined. In a final insult to Antonia he had forbidden her to attend.