Caligula (14 page)

XXV

Lucius, the officer who had delivered Rufus to Drusilla's bedroom, sat on the damp grass a dozen paces up the slope towards the palace. He seemed in no hurry to rise, but lay back, staring at the sky with a contented look. Rufus walked over to him, stood for a while, until he realized how foolish he must appear and took his place on the ground beside the young soldier.

'Everything is so clean and pure on mornings like this, don't you think? Whatever happened yesterday is gone for ever and the day ahead holds nothing but promise. It reminds me of the hour before a battle when one sees everything much more vividly and each breath is precious because it might be among the last you take.' The words were directed at Rufus, but Lucius's eyes never left the solid blue dome above them.

'Have you fought in many battles then?' Rufus didn't try to hide his scepticism. Lucius had the kind of face that would always look boyish. It was impossible to imagine him in combat.

'You mean have I always been a princess's lapdog? Then the answer is no. I have locked shields with my brothers and felt the power of the barbarian horde as they broke upon them. I have tasted barbarian blood on my lips, heard the screams of the dying and smelled the shit from bowels ripped by a blade.' He shrugged as if it was of no consequence, but Rufus heard the pride in his voice. 'But that was a long time ago in another place, in another life. I enjoyed campaigning. All you had to do was follow orders and look heroic even when your guts felt like ice.' He laughed and picked himself up, dusting the grass from his back. 'Perhaps it is not so different here after all. My orders now are to take you to a certain lady.'

Rufus followed him along the covered walkway connecting the Emperor's palace to that of his predecessor, Tiberius, but soon they turned north and into a small enclosed garden near the Palatine library. Broad-canopied trees of a type Rufus didn't recognize threw wide circles of shade on the manicured grass, where a peacock, its brilliant rainbow-fan tail thrown proudly wide, shrieked its displeasure, and a herd of tiny deer grazed peacefully. Life-sized statues lined the paths, their stony gaze still focused on some epoch-making event a hundred years before. They were perfect, these toga-clad patricians; each face an individual, each marble cloak styled slightly differently from the others. Rufus quailed beneath their stern gaze, and wondered why he was here. What could she want from him she had not already taken?

She was waiting for him by a fountain in the centre of the garden. Lucius waved him forward and walked off to stand out of earshot beneath one of the trees.

Drusilla was cloaked and hooded, and stood with her back towards him. She seemed smaller than he remembered, somehow diminished. But perhaps that was a trick of the early-morning light.

'Walk with me.' The words were the merest whisper. She set off slowly towards the far end of the garden where he could see the redtiled roof of the temple of Apollo rising above the trees. He kept pace just by her left shoulder.

'Do you fear me, puppy dog?' The words sent a shiver through him. Her voice was stronger, but he had to lean forward because it was muffled by the thick cloak which still hid her face from him. 'You should fear me. A single word from me would bring a dozen guards to cut you down and they would not stop to question why.'

She walked a little further before she spoke again. 'But the real question is, puppy dog, whether I should fear you. When I had you brought to me you were just another handsome morsel to be tasted. A tender piece of flesh to be enjoyed then discarded. How could it be otherwise? You are a slave and I am destined to be a goddess. You should be nothing to me.' She shook her head under the hood. 'Yet, since our meeting, my mind has been filled with your face and your body and your touch. I have pined for the sound of your voice and the feel of your hard flesh under my hands. At first, I believed it was weakness on my part, and I fought it, but in the fighting I have become weaker still. Then I understood. You had bewitched me. And now,' she swept the hood back from her face and turned towards him, making him step away in fear, 'I must decide whether to accept my bewitchment or to break the spell by having you killed.'

Rufus heard the words and understood their significance, but what she said was overwhelmed by the horror confronting him.

It was as if her beauty had been sucked from her like the moisture from an overwintered apple. The skin of her face was deeply wrinkled and the colour and texture of parchment, blotched with patches of darker, more lifeless flesh. Her yellowing eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. It was the face of death.

She laughed at his confusion, and he gasped at the ruin that was her mouth. The lips he had kissed were covered with weeping ulcerous boils and she had lost several teeth, while others dangled loose in her gums. And she was bald, or almost so. Only tufts of the silky auburn mane remained, standing out like sparse stalks missed by a careless harvester.

'Am I not beautiful?' she rasped, echoing the question that had greeted him in the room with the discus thrower. 'Am I not the treasure you always desired?' Then, more harshly still, 'Is this your gift to Drusilla, slave? Did you betray me?'

'No, mistress,' Rufus pleaded, hoping it was true, but remembering his words to Narcissus. Was this some sorcery of the Greek's? What was it he had said? 'I don't think Drusilla will harm anyone again.' Was there a terrible certainty there he had missed? His mind raced. He understood he was fighting for his life and he groped desperately for the words that would save him.

He found himself babbling, a near-incoherent jumble of inanity which, for some reason, appeared to please her.

'You gave me your love and I was grateful for it. For a few short hours you placed me among the gods and I was blinded by the glories I discovered there. When it was past, you left me in a shadow world where the darkness comes from within. I waited in vain for your call. I thought I had failed you in some way and that knowledge made my life worthless. I would give anything for this not to be. Kill me if you must, but know you have bewitched me as much as you say I have bewitched you.'

He dropped to his knees, not daring to look into her face. He knew he risked everything by offering her his life, but something in the memory of the time they spent together made him believe she wanted it to be so. He didn't see the single tear that ran down her ravaged cheek.

'You were the last of my lovers, Rufus of the elephant. Some would say you were the last of a vast legion, but believe me when I tell you it is not so. Drusilla was discerning in her choice of puppy dogs, at least give her that. And you did please her.' There was an infinite sadness in her words and the way she spoke them. She was talking of herself in the past tense, as if she were already dead, and even in his fear for his own life, Rufus could not help being moved. 'But Drusilla must ask herself if that is enough to save you? Would it not be fitting if you were to join her on her funeral pyre, in the manner of some terrible Babylonian queen in the texts of Herodotus, taking her most coveted possessions with her into the next world? I will think on that.'

Rufus felt the touch of her chilled fingers, and he rose awkwardly to find the sunken eyes piercing him.

'Would you burn for your Drusilla? A final fiery coupling before we join the gods in their endless dance?' She laughed, like dry twigs crackling underfoot on a forest floor, and drew his face to hers until their lips touched and he felt her tongue enter his mouth and tasted the vileness of her affliction. Despite himself he recoiled from her, giving her the answer she sought. 'No? I thought not. For you are but a slave and will always be a slave while Drusilla
will
be a goddess. Her brother does not understand the true nature of her sickness, but she has made him promise it.'

The strength seemed to drain away from her and she swayed drunkenly. Instinctively, he placed a hand on her arm to steady her and felt brittle bone beneath the thick cloth of the cloak, but she shrugged him off, staring at him as if surprised he was still there.

'Not the slave then, but who? The soldier? Surely his method would be more violent, less subtle. The spy? The very opposite. Milonia would not have the courage. Livilla does not have the hate. Agrippina has the skills, but she would not risk her brother's wrath. Uncle Claudius . . .'

Rufus listened to the rambling litany of names and backed away to where Lucius waited in the shade.

'You survived then?' the young soldier greeted him. 'I'm pleased.'

Rufus stared at him, puzzled.

'No, truly, I am pleased. All she had to do was raise her hand and I was to cut your throat, with this.' He pulled a curved dagger from his belt. 'I took it from a Parthian warrior, but I've never used it. When you were on your knees I thought she was about to give the signal.'

Rufus flinched at the sight of the knife. 'But why? I have done nothing. I am no danger to Drusilla or anyone else.'

Lucius shrugged. 'She believes she has been poisoned. Her physician told her she has a sickness, a cancer, but she would not listen to him. When the old fool insisted he was correct, she had him sent to her brother's executioners. She said she would know when she looked in your eyes if you had betrayed her. That was when I would strike. But you must have convinced her otherwise, because you are still here. As I say, I'm glad. It is too nice a morning to spoil by killing someone you hardly know. Here, take it.' He held out the short dagger and pressed it into Rufus's hand. 'I have no more need of it. You might find it useful some day.'

He turned to leave, but Rufus hesitated, his eyes drawn back to the slight figure in the shadows at the end of the garden.

'How long . . .?'

Lucius stopped and followed his gaze. 'She has been sick for more than a month. I have watched her wither as a flower does after a spring frost. First her beauty dulled; then it faded away. Her flesh fell from her bones and her hair from her head. I can scarce bear to look at her, yet she sends for me every night.' He shuddered at the memory and Rufus saw his eyes harden. 'I would rather endure the hot iron of her brother's torturers than the anticipation of another summons.'

'I loved her, I think.'

Lucius stared at him and Rufus feared the young tribune might strike him for his insolence. Then the look was gone. It seemed their similar ages and shared experience gave them a bond that bridged the void between slave and soldier.

'I didn't know it at the time, and it still confuses me, but Drusilla lit a fire in my heart even this cannot extinguish. At first I resented what she was taking from me; then I realized that in the taking she was also giving, if you can understand that. I began as her slave, but by the end she said she was mine.'

'Then you are a greater fool than you appear. It is not a slave's place to love, but to obey.' Lucius snorted his disgust. 'Do you not understand she corrupts everything she touches? The ugliness you saw today was always there, but it was inside, and more disgusting still. The words that drip like honey from her lips are all lies, the kisses she bestows more poisonous than any viper. She is like her brother, a foul thing whose caresses are merely preparing your flesh for the blade or the pincers.'

The final words were forced through clenched teeth and Rufus realized with shock that Drusilla's was not the only bed the handsome tribune was forced to share.

'I am sorry. I did not realize –'

Lucius cut him off. 'Do not waste your pity on me,' he said. 'This sickness which afflicts Drusilla is a sign that the time of reckoning is close. I . . .' His voice tailed off as he realized what he had said. 'Forgive me, I talk too much. Forget Drusilla. She will be dead within the week.'

He was wrong. It was two more weeks before the announcement came and the Palatine held its collective breath and waited for the inevitable retribution.

XXVI

Rufus waited with the rest. Every hour of every day he anticipated the tread of Praetorian boots and the knock on the door, the grip on his shoulder and the bite of cold iron on his wrists. The fear ate at his spirit and chewed away his courage. Livia noticed the change in him, and tried without success to understand it. He did not give her any help. If he revealed what had occurred between himself and Drusilla he would drag her into the Emperor's net. At least if she knew nothing, her ignorance might save her, even if he fell. He knew it was unfair, but he had retreated so far inside himself he found it difficult to communicate with anyone. He spent more time with Bersheba than with his wife, but often could not bring himself to meet even the elephant's unruffled eye.

Narcissus kept him informed of events inside the palace. Claudius's freedman seemed unperturbed by the upheaval, even to be enjoying it. Clearly he believed himself above suspicion, and he revelled in the tribulations of his rivals.

'The Emperor uses Drusilla's death to rid himself of a dozen senators who oppose him. They have the choice of taking their own lives or enduring the glowing iron, with the knowledge that if they choose the second, their family will suffer with them. Of course,' he added complacently, 'their final decision is of little interest to Caligula. He knows they have nothing to do with his sister's demise. To solve that puzzle, he has tasked his chamberlain, who sees this as an opportunity to bring his own enemies low, but has neither the intellect nor the capacity to bring it about.' He shook his head in wonder at the man's bumbling. 'The old fool pinned his hopes on questioning the two eastern sisters who attended Drusilla's bedroom and kept her many secrets. As if he could force anything but screams from two mouths that had been silent from birth. Fortunately, someone else saved him the trouble. They were found in their quarters this morning with their throats cut. Convenient, is it not?'

Rufus had a curious dizzy-making instant when his brain was divided between relief that two potential witnesses to his midnight tryst with Drusilla were no longer a threat and guilt that his survival should be at the expense of the innocent dark-eyed twins who cooed over his body. 'My little doves.'

'I am sorry. They were harmless enough creatures. Their only crime was to serve their mistress.'

Narcissus skewered him with a look of disbelief. 'Harmless? Their crime was not to serve their mistress, but to know too much. Many people have died for lesser crimes. If they had been sensible they would have entrusted the fruits of their knowledge to someone who had the power to protect them. What a pity they did not.' His tone made it plain who should have been trusted, although Rufus doubted it would have saved them. He knew by now that Narcissus would never risk his position, never mind his life, for anyone. He looked carefully at the Greek: handsome despite his baldness, in a cultured, even decadent way. Educated and intelligent; cunning, certainly, or he would never have survived for so long. Claudius's spy, who also, to his certain knowledge, spied on Claudius. Ruthless? He recalled his momentary suspicion that Narcissus might have poisoned Drusilla, or at least manoeuvred it.

'If they knew so much about so many, then there must be any number of suspects?' he suggested hopefully.

Narcissus gave a knowing smile. 'That might appear likely, but apparently there is only one. He would have been swept up with the rest, so he very sensibly disappeared. But it does not matter where he hides, even if his aristocratic relatives are foolish enough to provide a refuge. Half of Rome seeks the Emperor's favour by providing his head, and the other half will betray him because they are too frightened not to.'

Rufus knew without asking who the suspect was. Only one link remained who could tie him to Drusilla; only one tongue could be persuaded to speak his name.

'It is only a matter of time,' Narcissus predicted. 'The life of the tribune Lucius Sulpicius Galba can be counted in days.'

But Lucius was not arrested that week, nor the next. Narcissus speculated that the young aristocrat might have vanished into the seething rabbit warren of lesser streets and dangerous, evil-smelling alleys of the Subura out towards the Esquiline Gate. 'He has done surprisingly well to survive for so long in a place where every man's hand is against him. Pray that he dies there and your secret dies with him.'

In the meantime, Narcissus watched, taking in every nuance, tasting every mood and studying every changing dynamic in the intricate web of hatreds and alliances that were the lifeblood of the palace.

'Drusilla was a friend and trusted adviser as much as a sister. Of all Caligula's passions, she was the greatest. He does not eat and seldom drinks. He keeps to his apartments during daylight and at night he barely sleeps. Callistus cannot get near him, and mistrusts anyone who can. He fears Protogenes, who fears no one, and in the background Chaerea smiles his scorpion's smile and waits.'

He reported that the Emperor was too distraught to attend his sister's funeral, but stayed in Rome until the Senate voted Drusilla the honours she was due, including a marble arch which he vowed would be the greatest the Empire had ever seen. This duty done, he left for Campania, with Milonia and his daughter and his closest advisers. Aemilia – who, despite his newly wedded state, sometimes invaded Rufus's dreams in the most disturbing of fashions – accompanied them.

When the imperial retinue returned to Rome in September, it was Cupido's sister who brought Rufus the news.

'He has declared Drusilla divine,' she said. 'She is to be worshipped as a goddess.'

It was unheard of – sacrilege, even. The wives and mothers of emperors had been voted great honours in the past, but this was different. Drusilla was to stand beside Venus in the pantheon. Only an Emperor strong enough or feared enough could have achieved it. Caligula's opponents in the Senate were outraged. The priests warned of terrible retribution from the slighted deities. But the Emperor was unmoved. Drusilla would receive her divinity at the end of the lengthy formal period of mourning, in May, three days before the festival dedicated to Mercury.

Rufus's fears over his fleeting relationship with the new goddess subsided as the weeks passed. Lucius had not been sighted since the discovery of the murdered twins. There was still no body, which was vaguely worrying, but he breathed more easily and stopped looking over his shoulder every day.

'You are to appear before the Emperor's secretary at the seventh hour.'

Rufus almost dropped with fright. But the voice was wrong. Too polite. He turned and where he expected to find a squad of swordbearing Praetorians stood a gilded youth in a fine-spun tunic held tight at the waist with a thin silver belt.

He must have been gaping, because the boy repeated his message, louder and more slowly, as if he was speaking to an old man or an idiot.

'You . . . are . . . to . . . appear . . . before . . . the . . . Emperor's . . . secretary . . . at . . . the . . . seventh . . . hour.'

'I'm not deaf.' Rufus decided the young peacock before him presented no danger, and therefore insolence was not only required, but expected. 'Am I to . . . attend . . . the . . . secretary . . . like . . . this?'

The boy looked him over carefully, taking in the stained tunic and dung-spattered legs, and frowned. 'Perhaps you might like to change?'

'I don't have anything to change into.' It was a lie, he still had the tunic he wore for his wedding, but Rufus sensed there might be profit here, and sport. A slave was granted little opportunity for sport and he felt an intense desire to take advantage of this one.

The frown deepened. 'I . . . I could possibly find something for you.'

Rufus grinned. 'That might be wise.'

The boy sighed, and was about to turn away.

'I stink.'

'What?' The messenger blinked.

'I stink . . . of shit.'

'You could wash while I'm fetching you a new tunic,' the boy suggested.

'I would still stink. I always stink. It's from working with the elephant.' Rufus pointed to Bersheba, who was munching hay contentedly in the barn.

The boy bit his lip. This was a problem he hadn't considered. Secretary Callistus had famously sensitive nostrils.

'You could bring me some perfumed oil. A lot of it. I could smother myself in it, then the secretary wouldn't have to smell my stink. Or I could stand outside the door when he speaks to me,' Rufus suggested helpfully.

The messenger grabbed the solution as if he was a drowning man and it was the last plank from a burning galley. 'Yes, perfume,' he said, hurrying off before Rufus could come up with some new suggestion.

'Lots of it,' Rufus shouted to his retreating back. He would give the perfume to Livia, he thought; then, with a guilty shiver,
And if there is
really a lot I might even keep some for Aemilia
. Callistus would just have to put up with his stink.