Caligula (18 page)

XXXI

Rufus waited for the summons that would bring him the reward he dreaded for his part in the Emperor's deliverance. But if Caligula had noted his presence during the defence of the golden carriage he gave no sign of it or, more likely, regarded it as nothing more than his due. In the meantime, the Emperor filled the cells below the palace to overflowing and the taint of death hanging over the Palatine grew stronger with every passing day.

Rufus and Livia settled into a domestic rhythm which had the child growing in her belly at its centre and irritated her to distraction. He followed her around the house as she cleaned and cooked, offering to do this task or help with that chore, until she screamed at him in frustration. The tension between them in their narrow bed meant Rufus increasingly spent his nights beside Bersheba.

One night he was lying awake, buried in the straw at the rear of the barn, when he heard the rattle of chains. Bersheba gave a sniff that Rufus recognized as a welcome for someone she knew. At first, he feared it was Cupido, whose experience of Caligula's justice at the temple of Julius had created conflicts between duty and honour which made him more and more unpredictable. But the steady voice that reached him from the darkness was not in the German-accented Latin of the gladiator.

Claudius was back.

Rufus lay still as death as the Emperor's uncle addressed his uncritical audience. He was being dangerously indiscreet.

'What has Rome done, that it must destroy itself in this way? Our brightest and our best sent to the axeman and the impaler while the Emperor's jackals compete among themselves to discover who can be the cruellest or the most foul.' He gave a long sigh. 'Everything I have put in place, every stratagem and scheme, threatened by the impetuosity of youth. How many times did I tell them that one opportunity and one only would be granted to bring about that which is so imperative? Yet they throw everything into a hopeless gamble the Emperor has hysterically drowned in blood. Why? Lucius was no fool; he would not have acted without guarantees. But who could have given them? Bassus might have had the means, but would he have been so foolish? Guilty or innocent, it made no difference to his fate, since he died in front of his father's eyes. Asiaticus? No. Our aspirations run parallel: the return of the Republic by peaceful means; rule by democracy, not dictat. Pomponius had the means, but not the motive. Narcissus? Surely not. Yet can even I truly trust Narcissus, who is privy to my most inner thoughts, when he takes those thoughts and uses them to his own advantage at every opportunity? If not Narcissus, who?'

He paused for a moment and Rufus could almost feel the power of his mind picking the conundrum apart a piece at a time.

'Chaerea,' he announced, pleased with his own cleverness. 'Yes, Cassius Chaerea, or more likely someone acting on his behalf. Perhaps his signature on the order to hold back the Praetorians when the assassins attacked was not forged after all. He has become so warped by the Emperor's jibes he has been driven beyond rage to blind hatred. It was he who persuaded Lucius he could attack without fear of retribution. And when the deed was done, who would rise beyond his intelligence and his powers, beyond blood and ability? Who would take the mantle of Caesar and sully it beyond redemption, if it is not sullied beyond it already? Why, Cassius Chaerea, loyal commander of the Guard. And where is he now? Up to his elbows in blood in the place where he is most visible and of most use to his Emperor. Yet even as he performs his duty, he is quaking inside lest the next name screamed from the rack be his own. For he too was betrayed, or why did the German guards fight when they were meant to flee? Only one man was in a position to ensure that outcome, and only one man will profit from it.'

He paused again, and when he resumed it was clear from the change in his voice that he was talking directly now to Bersheba.

'All the unruly strength of your kind lies within you. Yet for all that strength, what are you but an ornament to reflect your master's power? But in times past you were a proven weapon of war, a champion of the battlefield. Be thankful your master has not used you so, or used you worse. He has not bent his mind in that direction thus far, but it may come to it. Unless? What if, by some accident, your might was employed not for but against him? Could even Caesar survive the strength of your caress, or the weight of your body upon his? Think upon this, mighty one: an Empire may depend on it.'

By the time the door closed behind Claudius, Rufus was in a cold sweat. The names he had heard were among the most influential and powerful in Rome. And here was proof of their treason. Proof of Claudius's treason. He wanted to unhear what he had just heard, but no matter how hard he tried it gnawed at his brain. So he did the only thing possible. He put it away in a compartment inside his head where it would stay until it could be used as a bargaining chip – or he felt the bite of the executioner's blade.

With few official duties and a wife who wanted little to do with him, Rufus spent each waking moment of the coming weeks pondering how he could help Fronto. He knew there was only one person he could go to, but could he trust him when even his master did not? There was only one way to find out. He put a white rag on Bersheba's door and the next day set off for the little fountain.

Narcissus was still in the benign mood he had affected since Drusilla's death and it was clear he felt Claudius's patronage placed him above harm from the purges.

'We really must find somewhere else to meet. It stinks here.' He sniffed at Rufus. 'It's not you, so it must be the drains. Have you something for me?'

Rufus mentioned a few things he had heard among the servants, but nothing seemed to interest the Greek. Then he said hesitantly, 'I would like to ask your advice. A friend is in trouble. Fronto. I thought you might be able to help.'

'Mmmmm.' Narcissus let the syllable linger, and stared at Rufus as if seeing him for the first time. 'Fronto is an acquaintance,' he conceded. 'But I have so many acquaintances. Advice? Yes, I can probably provide advice. But help you? Why should I help a slave?'

Rufus thought the answer was self-evident: 'Because I tell you things.'

Narcissus actually laughed. Did Rufus really think the palace gossip he provided was of the least importance? Did he not understand he was merely a minute part of a larger whole? A tiny worker ant who could be crushed underfoot in an instant and not even be remembered, never mind missed.

'I don't believe you have told me anything that would warrant . . . help.' The final word emerged slowly, as if it was something distasteful, and he turned to walk away.

Rufus let him get halfway along the path.

'I can tell you what Claudius says to Bersheba,' he said.

Narcissus stopped, hesitated for a second, and turned back with a broad smile. 'Yes?'

Rufus gave him the information one titbit at a time and watched the Greek's eyes light up. Only one thing did he hold back; the knowledge that Claudius did not trust his faithful servant Narcissus would be useful in future. When he finished, he explained Fronto's dilemma.

The Greek shook his head in mock sorrow. 'You really are terribly innocent. And Fronto. Of course Protogenes is corrupt. Everyone in Rome from Caligula down is corrupt. The Emperor squeezes the aristocracy to fund his lunatic schemes, so the aristocracy squeezes the middle class, and the middle class squeezes the plebeians. The only people who don't get squeezed are the slaves, because they have nothing to give.'

'But surely you can help?'

'I may drop a word here, or a hint there, if I am certain it will do me no harm,' Narcissus said dismissively, indicating the interview was at an end.

XXXII

Now they feared him. All of them. He could see it in their eyes when he attended the Senate. The baldheads would not meet his gaze and their bodies cringed as they wondered what Nestor might have in store for them. He could see it in the streets when the mob bowed so low their noses touched the earth. Even his generals did not dare oppose him.

He was above them all. Drusilla had confirmed it.

The voices began when the headaches stopped, in the weeks after they tried to kill him. After she joined the gods in their heavenly paradise, she had come to him in the night when he was in dire need of her reassurance. The attack had shaken him more than he would ever admit. It was all very well to see violence from afar, or to see it inflicted on others at your command, but when you could smell the blood and the torn vitals, and at the same time were aware that the heart the blades sought was beating inside your chest, it was different.

But it did not matter now.

Drusilla had spoken. He was the match of any member of the pantheon, even Jupiter himself. It was time to have done with earthly things. To claim his place among them.

He would become a living god.

They came for Rufus in the deepest hour of the night, and without warning. A hand across his mouth and a sword at his throat ensured his silence and he was dragged from the room naked and shaking with fear. Livia lay with her face to the wall, apparently sleeping, but he knew she was awake, and terrified.

Outside in the moonlight, one of the men put his tunic in his hands, but they didn't stop to let him dress and he had to do his best as he was hustled along. The questions raced through his head. Who were they? Where were they taking him? He expected to be escorted to the palace and the unspeakable place in its depths from which no one returned, so he was surprised when his captors took pains to stay among the trees and guided him to a little-used path which led them down the hill and into the city. They weren't gentle: the sword never left his back and, if he slowed or stumbled, they hastened his progress with kicks and punches. Each man was heavily cloaked and they took care to stay just behind him so he didn't have the chance to dwell on their faces, but a glimpse of armour beneath a flapping cloak gave them away.

Scorpions.

Now he understood where he was going, but not why.

The Castra Praetorium was more fortress than barracks; the massive main doors would have stopped an army. But there was another, lesser known entrance on the northern face, and it was to this that Rufus was taken. Once inside, they pushed him along endless empty corridors and finally down a set of steep steps to a single door which led to a tiny windowless room. His captors threw him inside and the door clanged shut behind him, leaving him in impenetrable darkness, blacker and more frightening than any night.

He sat for a few moments allowing the panic to recede and listening to the sound of his own breathing. Only the beating of his heart gave him an indication of the passing of time, but he knew that the strength of his fear made his incarceration seem a dozen times longer than the reality. It was difficult to say what scared him more, the thought of being locked in this airless dungeon for ever, or what awaited him when the door finally opened again.

He tried to think of anything but where he was. Fronto and the rhinoceros. The day of his triumph with Africanus in the arena. Livia and the child that was to come. But he found that when he tried to conjure up Livia's face it was always confused with Aemilia's. Could it be true that he did not want what he had and could not have what he wanted? It was all too confusing, so he gave up and allowed the misery to wrap itself around him like a shroud.

Eventually he must have fallen asleep, because he missed the sound of footsteps and the rattle of the deadbolts shocked him awake. He looked up to find Cassius Chaerea standing over him with a gently flickering torch in his hand.

'Not too uncomfortable, I hope?' The Praetorian commander smiled and the words were solicitous, but Rufus took no comfort from them. He knew this man would have his throat cut and his body thrown in the Tiber if he uttered a single wrong word.

At close quarters Chaerea was a curious amalgam of strength and softness. He wore his grey hair cut short and he had the blunt face and stocky build that characterized so many hardened military campaigners. He was well into his fifties now, having been a young man when he fought in the German frontier battles where he had made his fearsome reputation. Yet he had a curiously high voice and a light, dancing walk that made him a figure of fun among Caligula and his favourites.

'I am sorry to have brought you here like this, but it is safer this way. Better to be able to tell your little wife of a wrongful arrest and a night in a cold cell than to be forced to lie. And if another should ask, why, you would only be telling the truth.' The voice was the essence of reason, but it was belied by Chaerea's granite-chip eyes.

'You were very heroic that day on the Via Sacra. At first I could not fix you when you ran to the German's side and placed yourself between your Emperor and his killers. I am an old soldier and I pride myself on knowing every man who wears the uniform of my unit. Then I saw you fight and knew you were no soldier. Brave, yes, but no swordsman. No tactical understanding, or you would never have stayed to face such odds. You see, a soldier must know not only when to stand, but also when to retreat. What made you do it, by the way? As I say, you were heroic, but I think you are not naturally of heroic mould.' He smiled as he saw Rufus bridle. 'No, do not be insulted, I meant no slight. To place oneself in danger when one has no training in arms is brave indeed. But tell me, why did you do it? I am genuinely interested.'

Rufus gave himself time to think. 'The Emperor was in danger and I did what any loyal servant would do.' A lie, but only a little lie. 'I didn't know the odds when I ran to the carriage. All I saw were a few cloaked figures breaking the line. Once the fight was on, all I did was save myself.' Which was the plain truth. Rufus closed his eyes and his head was filled with slashing swords and falling bodies, gaping wounds which exposed things that should never be exposed.

'A good answer. A soldier's answer,' Chaerea said appreciatively. 'Not I think the whole answer, but let us consider the day from another angle. Do you agree?'

He waited until Rufus nodded.

'You and your friends saved the Emperor, we are in no doubt about that. Without your intervention, the assassins who attacked him would have cut him to pieces. Yes?' Rufus was not so sure. The mob may not have loved Caligula, but once they realized what was happening they would not have stood back and let him be butchered. But that was not the answer Chaerea wanted, so he nodded again and the Praetorian continued: 'What would that have meant to Rome?'

'Havoc. Ruin. A republic.' They were all words Claudius had used. 'What would Rome be without an Emperor?'

'No. What would Rome be without
this
Emperor?' Chaerea's voice was as hard as his eyes now, each word hammered out as if it was a nail into a cross. 'What if the assassins had succeeded and another Emperor was raised in his place by those with the best interests of the Empire at heart? An Emperor who would rule with strength, but also compassion. An Emperor who would use his power for the good of all. An Emperor who would build, but not bankrupt.' Rufus listened carefully for any hint of irony. Surely even Chaerea could not create this image of himself as Caesar. 'An Emperor like Senator Claudius.' Chaerea stared at him, and Rufus realized his mouth had dropped open.

'Do not underestimate him. He may look a kindly old man, but there is iron in him. Where others saw a drooling imbecile, I discerned genius. Tiberius saw it too. Under Claudius there would be no more killings, no more madness.' All of this sounded familiar, and Rufus remembered hearing similar words from the mouth of Narcissus. Was it coincidence, or was the Greek being spied upon more closely than he knew? Whatever the truth, it made him all the more wary of Chaerea. He remembered Claudius's words to Bersheba. The old senator was certain Chaerea planned to take the throne for himself. And, despite the Praetorian's carefully chosen words, Rufus's instinct told him Claudius was right. But Chaerea had not finished his wooing.

'With the Praetorians at his back Claudius would not have to concern himself with his enemies in the Senate. He could govern with strength and Rome and Romans would benefit. But you made it impossible, you and your German friend. He is your friend, is he not, the gladiator Cupido, whom the Emperor holds in such high esteem?'

Rufus nodded. 'He is . . .'
But he holds the Emperor in no higher
esteem than you do.
He almost said it, the words touched his lips, but a warning bell in his head stopped him.

Chaerea's patience was plainly wearing thin. 'Then you must be my messenger to him. As a friend it is your duty. You will tell him that the next time – and there will be a next time – he should stay his hand, like the rest. Make no move to stop what is happening. For Rome.'

'Why should Cupido listen to me? He is his own man and the Emperor's. If his honour dictates he stand and fight, that is what he will do. You would do well not to underestimate him.'

Chaerea reached out and touched Rufus's cheek. The fingers were cold and clammy and Rufus shivered with disgust.

'But I don't underestimate him,' the Praetorian said softly. 'That is why you are here and he is not. What price the gladiator's honour? What would it cost to make him allow what must happen to happen – or better yet, what would it take to make him strike the fatal blow? Threats?' He shook his head. 'I don't think a man like Cupido would respond well to threats. I could have him killed for a thousand sesterces, but what would be the point? The Emperor would only appoint another like him in his place, and the place matters as much as the man. Money? Caligula pays him more than he can spend. Freedom? Once he completes his service he is free already.

'No. Nothing I can do to him or offer to him would convince him to do my bidding. But there is one thing he loves more than any other, is there not? His mother is dead. His father is dead. His sister . . . is not. Surely he would do anything for her. Anything at all.'

Rufus felt a sudden urge to take Chaerea by the throat. Aemilia's face filled his mind. The solemn eyes and the perfect mouth. The smile that melted his heart. He thought of her at the Praetorian's mercy, and knew he would kill Chaerea first.

'His sister means nothing to him. They were apart for years after their capture. She despises him for allowing her to be taken,' he said.

'How very loyal. But there is really no point in lying to me. My friends and I know everything, you see. But perhaps it is not your friend you are protecting; perhaps the German bitch means more to Rufus, the elephant man, than she does to her brother? What would your pretty wife think if she knew the way you mooned over her?

'But come, I did not bring you here so we could disagree. Narcissus trusts you with his intimacies, so we are not altogether on different sides. I ask only that you repeat what has been said here to your German friend. He is in a position to do the Empire a great service. A single blow from him could have the impact of an entire army. He has only to strike it and he will be the most honoured man in Rome. Will you do this for me?'

'And if I don't?'

Chaerea shook his head sadly. 'Your wife carries the continuation of your line inside her. It would be unfortunate if that line were to be . . . cut.'

It was after dawn when the escorts returned Rufus to the barn on the Palatine, by the same narrow stairway which was so fortuitously unguarded.

Wearily, he opened the double doors, to find Bersheba looking miserable and shuffling in her chains.

'An hour late with your breakfast, girl. No wonder you're pining.'

He spent fifteen minutes filling her hay bags and managed to find some of the bruised apples she liked so much. Satisfied she had everything she needed, he slapped her on one enormous buttock and quietly opened the door of his home. To find another man in his bed.