Caligula

by Douglas Jackson

  A few weeks later – at the end of the three-day festival of the Compitalia – when he thought the wound might have begun to heal, he asked Cupido if he had spoken to her. The gladiator's face turned bleak. 'I have no sister,' he said.

  Whether it was the weather, which was making its heartless jump from autumn's end to full winter, or something in the air, Rufus came down with an indefinable sickness. It never quite laid him low, but it was always there, a cold, clammy ball deep in his stomach, which made him lethargic and miserable. He struggled to cope with tasks that, a week earlier, were quite routine, and found himself sighing for no reason. Livia noted the change in him, and, being a woman, soon worked out the cause. At first she was angry, but then anger turned to a sort of disconnected, pragmatic acceptance. Aemilia was not her rival. Rufus was still her man. Until either of those situations changed she had more important things to concern her.

  Rufus was talking quietly to her as they lay on the straw pallet late one evening, ready to give her the latest piece in one of Narcissus's puzzles, when she told him her time was near.

  She had tried to prepare him, and he had believed himself prepared, but he found the change hurtling towards him as terrifying as a mountain avalanche. He hid away in his work with Bersheba as Livia gathered the necessities required for the birth. When she spoke of the baby as a living being, it was as if she talked a language he could not understand. He did not think he could ever be a father.

  He tried to change the subject, to pass on Narcissus's instructions, but she placed a child's finger tenderly over his mouth.

  'Enough of that. We have other things to concern us. Now, you will know when the baby is coming when my waters break – from here.' She took his hand and placed it deep between her legs beneath the overhang of her belly. 'Don't grimace like that.' She laughed. 'It is what happens to every woman.'

  She was still giving him instructions – how to contact Galla, the palace slave who had advised her through her pregnancy – when he drifted off to sleep. Smiling, she shook her head and kissed him on the lips. He was still such a boy, really.

  The screams took time to penetrate his sleeping mind. He never discovered whether the meeting had been prearranged or whether Chaerea had somehow managed to circumvent Bersheba's vigilance. But when he stumbled, blinking, past the grey bulk of the elephant and into the night, the Praetorian commander was visible fifty yards away in the moonlight, kicking purposefully at a screaming white bundle that squirmed at his feet. Livia.

  Rufus launched himself in a hate-blinded charge as Chaerea completed his assault with one final, carefully aimed boot into Livia's exposed belly, and turned from his victim. He had covered less than ten paces when Rufus caught him in a flying tackle around the shoulders. But Chaerea, the legionary veteran, was not going to be taken so easily. It was laughable. Had he become so old that this beardless slave believed he could surprise him?

  He pivoted his body so the younger man's momentum sent him flying over his shoulder to land with a sickening thud six feet away. Rufus was stunned and winded, but even if he hadn't been, Chaerea would have been on him before he could move. He felt the razor edge of a curved dagger across his throat.

  'I should kill you now, elephant boy, you and your midget whore, but somehow you have acquired friends I can't afford to annoy at the moment,' he grunted, filling Rufus's nostrils with the stink of his breath. 'You think you can sink old Cassius with a few whispers and a piece of junk, eh? You think you're clever? Well, at least I can give you something to remember me by.'

  Rufus's mind filled with a white light and a lance of pain scored his forehead before his vision vanished behind a sea of red. For a second he thought Chaerea had blinded him.

  The Praetorian laughed and his weight shifted, allowing Rufus to breathe. Rufus explored his face to discover how much damage had been done. His tentative fingers found a thin, four-inch slash.

  'You'll live. Not that I care. Tell the gladiator he's not in my class. Tell him he has until the ninth day before the Kalends of February to strike the blow or his sister will die. She's safe for the moment, but she won't be for long. If he doesn't do what I ask I'll kill her, slowly, and enjoy it. If he tries to get to her, I'll roast him alive over an open fire and make her watch while my men have her. And I want a meeting with the old cripple.'

  Rufus felt a calloused hand grip his chin and raise his face, while another wiped away the blood that had masked his eyes.

  'Did you hear me? A meeting.'

  Rufus nodded.

  'Ruuuufuuuuss.' The shriek was filled with a naked terror that chilled his heart.

  Chaerea laughed again. 'Looks like you're going to need a midwife.'

  Rufus pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to where Livia lay on the grass, writhing in agony.

  'Galla,' he said.

  But Livia gasped: 'No. No time. Help me. Such pain.'

  Another scream froze him where he stood, helpless, lost, searching for aid he knew would not come.

  Think.

  Livia's dress, now stained with grass and blood, rode up above her thighs, exposing her splayed legs. The tiny crevice that had given him such joy was now distended and opening further before his eyes, a blue-veined dome forcing its way from deep within her body. This was impossible. It could not happen. She was too small.

  Livia moaned and her breath came in short desperate explosions. Her eyes bulged as she shook her head from side to side.

  He must do something.

  He knelt between her legs and frantically tore a piece of cloth from his tunic and wiped hopelessly between her thighs. She screamed again. And again. He stopped the wiping as a mucus-covered head slipped from the opening.

  'Please,' she begged.

  He manoeuvred in front of her tortured body and tried to take the head between his hands, but it was too slippery.

  With all his being he wanted to run. Anywhere. But he could not leave her. He tried again, with just as little success. If he could only get a purchase on the head, he might be able to pull it with enough force to help her move it.

  But that might kill the child. His child.

  It took an hour.

  In the end, nature and his Livia provided the force. First the baby's shoulders, then the waist and finally its legs squirmed through the narrow gap of her pelvis and on to the grass between her legs. And with it came the blood. More blood than Rufus had ever seen. Even in the arena.

  Of course, he tried. He pushed the torn cloth from his tunic deep inside her, ripped another, and another, until he stood naked. But the blood kept coming.

  Throughout it all, he spoke to her; an unending litany of love and hope and lies. She could no longer reply. But the reproach in her eyes told him she knew she was dying, and that it was his fault, but that she forgave him.

  Her golden skin turned first grey, then marble white. Her breathing grew gradually shallower, until, with one last exhalation, she was gone.

  He wanted to scream his hatred to the world. He wanted it to know how worthless it was. He wanted revenge. But he could only stand over her, brain refusing to acknowledge his loss, even though she lay lifeless before him.

  The baby cried; a long annoyed wail that cut the morning silence like a knife.

  It was a boy. A tiny, ugly, wizened thing with a shock of dark hair and a penis the size of his little finger from which there arched a curve of golden liquid. Rufus picked up his son and carried him to the elephant house.

  Bersheba moved uneasily as he entered the barn, shying away and pulling at her shackle. It was only then that he realized he was covered in blood from head to foot. He laid the baby carefully by the cistern and washed himself down with the icy water, shaking spastically from the cold and delayed shock.

  But there was one more thing. He knew what he must do.

  He had no choice.

  He fetched a piece of cloth from the dusty room he and Livia had called home and soaked it in the cistern. Bending down over the baby, he carefully
wiped away the dry mucus and blood from its face. It grizzled in irritation and glared at him with piercing blue eyes, then it twitched its tiny flat nose and the glare transformed into something akin to a toothless smile. Yes, a smile. Today, my son, my son, smiled at me for the first time.

  His head spun, a palpitation hammered his chest and he collapsed on the mud floor. He curled up in a foetal ball by the tiny wriggling body of his son, lost in a maze of contradiction.

  But he had no choice. He had no way to care for the boy.

  Steeling himself, he forced himself up, made certain the cloth was well soaked, then very gently placed it over the baby's face.

  It wriggled and struggled for breath, tiny limbs jerking as it fought for life.

  He almost gave in. His hand moved to within an inch of the cloth before he willed it back.

  It had to be done.

  'No.'

  The voice came from behind him and he turned to find the Emperor standing in the doorway flanked by two of his guards.

  'Let the child live.'

  Rufus looked at him, dazed.

  'Let the child live.' The words were a command.

  One of the guards moved towards the baby, but before he could reach it Rufus removed the cloth to reveal a tiny face mottled blue and red and gasping for air.

  'Find a nursemaid,' Caligula ordered the guard. 'There must be plenty of them in the palace. If not, seize one from elsewhere.' He turned back to Rufus. 'I have heard of your loss and I am sorry for it.'

  Rufus stared at the Emperor. He was confused. Was this a joke? Some kind of trick? He looked around. If it was, where was the audience?

  'You are surprised?' Caligula asked, but he was no longer the Caligula who inspired terror. 'You should not be. Today, I am a god, but once I was a man, with all the frailties that make a man weak. I too had a wife. Her name was Junia Claudilla. She was beautiful and kind and she died giving birth to my son. Perhaps, if she had lived . . . if my son had lived . . . things would be different. I would be different.' The voice became sharper again. 'You will receive help to look after the child. If you are not given enough, send word to me. Here, a gift to celebrate his birth. You will call the boy Gaius, of course.'

  The remaining Praetorian handed Rufus two large gold coins. Rufus stammered his thanks, but the Emperor waved a hand in dismissal and turned to leave.

  'Chaerea.' The word hung in the air between them like wood smoke on a still autumn afternoon. The Emperor turned and looked directly into Rufus's eyes. Caligula the predator was back. Was this insolence? Was it worthy of punishment? It seemed not.

  'Cassius Chaerea has overstepped himself,' he said. 'I gave him my friendship, but he has not repaid it with faith.'

  'Let me face him in the arena.'

  Caligula looked at him quizzically. Should he allow it? It might be interesting. But in the end he shook his head. 'I think not. Who would look after my elephant when he killed you?'

  With Cupido's help, Rufus dug a child's grave for Livia beside the mound beneath which Fronto rested, while the boy, Gaius, gurgled in the arms of his new nursemaid, a plump, mousy girl, who said little and expected less from life. She had lost her own baby to red throat disease and was satisfied to have another to hold in its stead.

  When they had placed the last sod on Livia's grave he told the gladiator what Chaerea had said about Aemilia, and watched his face set hard as granite.

  'We are agreed. Chaerea will die. At my hands or yours, it does not matter which, but he will die and his death will not be quick. I swear it by the old gods. First we must find Aemilia before they kill her.' And there the gladiator halted, because they had no idea where Chaerea held Aemilia. She could be in the Castra Praetorium, but Cupido doubted it. The presence of a female captive would not be a secret for long in a barracks holding five thousand men. But if she was not there, where was she? Chaerea was a rich man, with a dozen houses in the city. She could be in any one. He also had plenty of wealthy friends who would give him the use of an out of the way place where a meeting of like-minded individuals would not attract the wrong kind of attention.

  Rufus's mind was still numb, and he struggled to focus on the living rather than the dead. Livia was gone, he understood that, but he knew the full impact had still to come, along with the loneliness it would bring. He would mourn her in his own time. First he had to help Cupido save Aemilia's life. His chest filled to bursting with a cold rage and he vowed he would find her, and avenge Livia at the same time.

  But how to find her?

  'I think I know someone who might be able to help us.'

  Cupido stared at his friend. Could it be that simple?

  'You were unwise to involve Claudius in your plans. I would have counselled against it.' Callistus sat behind his desk looking down his long nose at the two men standing side by side in front of it. 'Chaerea may act like a fool, but he does not lack intelligence, or support. He has spies among the opposition faction in the Guard. He was bound to discover any conspiracy against him involving someone so senior, and once he did he was bound to act. His fear of the information I passed to you was overcome by his fear of this greater threat. He blamed your wife,' he nodded to Rufus, then looked at Cupido, 'and he took your sister as a hostage to ensure your cooperation in the other matter he believes is so secret.'

  'You know so much about Chaerea's affairs it is difficult to believe you are not part of them,' Cupido said harshly. 'If so, you know where Aemilia is being held.'

  Callistus gave a tight smile. 'That is possible, but why should I tell a broken-down gladiator and a rancid animal handler? What have I to gain?'

  'Your life.' Cupido's sword appeared a hair's breadth from Callistus's throat. The imperial secretary frowned, but didn't flinch from the blade.

  'You owe me a life,' Rufus said, gently pushing the sword to one side. 'I am here to collect it.'

  Callistus swallowed and rubbed his throat. 'It is always a pleasure to deal with a reasonable man.'

  He described a large white villa, close to the temple of Minerva.

  Cupido's brow creased as his mind dissected the information. 'I know that house,' he cried. 'It is on the Argiletum out by Augustus's forum. It belongs to Chaerea's lieutenant, Sabinus. It will be difficult to approach by stealth, but not impossible.'

  'No, not impossible,' Callistus agreed. 'But dangerous, for you and your sister. Chaerea has placed six of his men there to guard her – or to kill her, if that should become necessary.'

  'Then we have no time to waste here.' Cupido turned to Rufus. 'Meet me in my quarters. Wear your Praetorian uniform – it will disguise you and give us greater authority. We can be there within the hour.'

  'Wait!' Callistus said. 'If you go uncloaked you will not get off the Palatine. Chaerea has issued a warrant for your arrest. He has guards on every corner. The only way you will reach the villa is to fly like a bird or burrow underground like a mole.'

  Underground? The thought came to both of them simultaneously. Rufus could see it forming in Cupido's eyes, even as the image of the map filled his head. The green line and the red. The one leading from the Palatine to the Velabrum below the Vicus Tuscus, and the other slicing north under the forum and out past the Senate House towards the Argiletum and the white villa.

  He felt a thrill of fear. 'The Cloaca.'

  Cupido's voice was brittle with excitement. 'Even if it does not take us all the way, it will get us close enough to ensure we reach the villa unmolested. We will need torches and . . .'

  Rufus heard his voice, but the words faded away. He couldn't rid himself of a vision of crazy old Varrus and the horror etched on his face.

  They would save Aemilia – but only if they survived the river of the dead.

  XLI

  Was he losing his mind?

  Only yesterday he had demanded that Julius Canus, the Stoic philosopher, be brought before him so they could continue their discussion of the previous week, only to be reminded that Canus was already dead, executed a
t his order. He had liked Canus. The man had a sense of humour. Too many people laughed only because he, Caesar, laughed. Canus laughed because he thought something was funny.

  Had he become such a monster he could kill a man and not even remember it?

  He felt like crying. He despised self-pity, but he had often felt like crying since Drusilla died. More so since she had abandoned him – for she had abandoned him. They had all abandoned him. The reassuring voices had stopped on the very day he declared himself a god. Had he been wrong? Had he gone too far? And if he had, what would be the gods' revenge?

  He winced as a fiery streak of pain scored its way across his brain. Agrippina's medicines no longer helped him. Was this their doing?

  What could he do to appease them? Surely there must be something? But he had tried, tried so hard, and they had rejected him. When he had sacrificed a white bull to Mars, the fool of a priest had botched the stroke and blood had spattered his cloak of imperial purple. The augurs had stared at each other and whispered that it was an omen of ill fortune. He had laughed at their fears, but inside he knew they were right.

  Then the answer came to him and it was so simple he wondered why he hadn't recognized it earlier.

  He had lost his way. Been blinded by the plots and the tragedies, and goaded into the terrible retribution that inevitably followed. He must find it again, find that magical thing that had made Rome love him in those few short months after he and Gemellus had been crowned. He sighed. If only he could bring Gemellus back.

  But there was a way. The old way. He would hold a games, such a games as the world had never seen. The crowd would not witness a few duels, or even a battle. They would see a war. And not gladiators. Soldiers. The Emperor's own Praetorian Guard. The Wolves against the Scorpions. To the death. He would fill the Circus Maximus to overflowing, not once, nor twice, but a dozen times. Every Roman, rich or poor, would attend, and when it was done they would love their Emperor as never before.