Caligula (16 page)

The roar of frustration that echoed across the Palatine scared the pigeons from the trees and rooftops.

But the one thing Rufus had learned in his years with Fronto's animals was perseverance. He knew he would win in the end, and a day before they were due to lead the parade Bersheba stood before him, a sight to chill the blood, her ceremonial armour firmly in place; a living mountain of glittering golden fragments which sparkled individually in the sunlight.

He sent for Callistus. The palace official narrowed his eyes and studied Bersheba from every angle then nodded with satisfaction.

'Wait,' he ordered.

A few minutes later he returned with the Emperor at his side, followed by Protogenes and a small weasel-like individual Rufus realized must be the Emperor's chamberlain. Rufus was shocked by Caligula's appearance. He had not seen the Emperor since his sister's death and the interval had wrought a dreadful change in the young man. His hair was long and lank, his beard matted, as if he had been neither shaved nor barbered in many months. His eyes were sunk deep in his head and his cheeks had the sallow complexion of candlewax.

Caligula stopped so suddenly when he saw Bersheba that Protogenes almost ran into his back and had to throw himself clumsily sideways to avoid the collision. The Emperor stared wide-eyed at the elephant as if he had never seen her before.

'Truly this animal is worthy of my sister,' he cried. 'If only I had a dozen, no, a hundred, like this, I could do her the honour she deserves.' Rufus could see his eyes were moist. Caligula gave a huge sniff and addressed him directly. 'Do your duties well, slave, and be sure your Emperor will reward you.'

Later, while Rufus sat in the little room behind the elephant house with his stomach twisted by doubts, Livia questioned him.

'If the Emperor offers you a reward, what will you ask?' she said seriously.

He shrugged. 'It is too early to think of such things. If anything goes wrong tomorrow I could be dead by nightfall.'

'But there must be something you wish for more than anything else?' she insisted.

She was right. Rufus knew exactly what he would ask. But to say it out loud seemed to be to risk losing it. The gods liked to have their little jokes with the ambitious and the proud. They enjoyed giving hope and then replacing it with despair; he had had experience of that. But Livia would not give up and eventually he capitulated.

'I suppose I will ask to buy our freedom,' he said casually, as if it was not the most momentous thing in the world. 'Fronto still has the money he was saving for me. It might not be enough on its own, but I think he will advance me what I need. We could make a good living together.'

Livia struggled to hide her disappointment. How could he not understand?

For the first time in her life she had escaped. For the first time in her life she possessed something. It was not a lot. Only a draughty little room that stank continually of elephant dung, with a husband who was more boy than man and was sometimes naïve to the point of foolishness. But it was hers.

She had had her fill of loneliness. Reviled as some kind of monster as soon as it became clear she would grow no taller, she had been sold into slavery by her father. Treated at first as a toy, then as a sexual plaything, by her master, she had been discarded as soon as he tired of her and slipped to his next level of depravity. Other masters and similar experiences followed, but when she was sold into the troop of dwarves she thought she had finally found, at the very least, companionship. She was wrong. For she, young, pretty and with a recognizably human form, was as different from them, with their overdeveloped arms and legs and stunted bodies, as they were from normal adults. They hated her.

Only her aptitude as a performer, one who enhanced their reputation, brought her acceptance. And if she was desired by the men who eyed her greedily as she danced and tumbled, at least they ate the better for it.

Rufus, and the Emperor, had saved her from that life. And now her husband was threatening her security – their security – to follow some impossible dream.

Could he not see that Caligula would never set him free? There was only one Emperor's elephant, and only one man who could control it. He had as much chance of freedom as Bersheba did. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Rufus stared at her. The knock came again, harder this time, full of authority. He got up and cautiously opened the door just a crack.

'A man could get a warmer welcome in Dacia.'

'Cupido!'

Livia glanced up as the German came into the room. He looked very young and impossibly handsome in his gleaming wolf breastplate, his golden hair contrasting with the sinister black of his tunic.

'I came to wish you good fortune, Rufus. Aemilia and I sacrificed a white cockerel to the old gods and the signs were good. My sister threw the sticks for us. They foretell that both you and I will face trials but united we will overcome them and be victorious. The gods will it.'

Rufus felt an involuntary shiver. Something in the way Cupido spoke the word contained a shadow of warning. 'Trials? What kind of trials?'

'It is but a word.' Cupido shrugged, but Rufus could see he was not entirely convinced. Was his friend keeping something back? He knew Aemilia claimed to have the sight, but messages from the gods came in many forms and were not always straightforward.

'What kind of trials?' he repeated.

Cupido glanced towards Livia, but Rufus read the meaning in his eyes.
Do not press me on this. Trust me.

'Know only that I will be at your side when the need is greatest,' the gladiator said, attempting to lighten the mood. 'The Tungrian cohort will provide close escort to the Emperor tomorrow. Make sure Bersheba does not drop anything on my line of march – I have just bought new sandals.'

Rufus stared at him for a few seconds, then smiled. What did it matter? What the gods willed, the gods willed, and nothing mere men could do would change it. The only certainty was that his friend would be only a few feet behind him when Bersheba led the procession to the new temple of Drusilla which Caligula had dedicated on the Capitoline Hill. And that was enough.

Cupido stayed only a little longer. When he had left, Rufus turned to Livia with a smile, but she was concentrating on her sewing and did not look up.

He would make her and the Emperor proud. Trials and a victory.

XXVIII

Rufus opened the barn doors the next morning to be greeted by a sun that seemed to have been created specifically for Drusilla. It shone with an extra lustre, as if the gods had polished it in honour of the newest member of their pantheon. When he led Bersheba out, the plates of her ceremonial armour shimmered like a golden skin, and he knew Drusilla's statue would blind and awe everyone who looked upon it this day.

Bersheba was on her best behaviour and had accepted her awkward accoutrements without any sign of rebellion. When Callistus came to the barn at the fifth hour to pass judgement he tutted disapprovingly and instructed Rufus to polish a joint here, a plate there, but Rufus could see the secretary was almost as proud of the elephant as he was. Rufus too, feeling uncomfortably martial in his guard's uniform, passed Callistus's inspection, and they were ready.

A small escort of Praetorians led them to the foundry where the statue of Drusilla waited, already firmly roped and wedged into a formidably strengthened four-wheeled wagon decorated with the goldleaf motifs of the imperial family. Rufus harnessed Bersheba to the cart, took his seat between her shoulders, and the double doors swung back.

The crowds had been gathering since before dawn and there was not one of them who had not anticipated the day of Drusilla's divinity with the greed of a starving man. It was not that everyone welcomed her accession to the godhead; far from it. Many felt it a violation of every known code, and others feared divine retribution for the insult to the established order. But for what seemed an eternity they had been bound by the draconian codes imposed by the Emperor for his sister's mourning. Since her death, to be found laughing, bathing or even dining in the company of friends had been to face instant execution. Today the bondage would be over and the Empire would celebrate.

The foundry was close to the start of the official procession route, near the junction of the Nova Via and the Via Sacra. Most people were already in their chosen places, but a slow stream of tardier revellers still made their way along the Via Sacra hoping to find vantage points from where they could get a decent view of the Emperor.

Rufus gave Bersheba the signal to walk. She was accustomed to pulling the cart with her hay, and now she leaned forward to take the weight of the wagon with Drusilla's statue at its centre. She was tremendously strong, but still Rufus had expected her to strain when presented with the unexpected weight of the enormous golden figure. Yet it was obvious when she took her first step that the effort was much less than he had anticipated and the wagon rolled smoothly forward, its iron-rimmed wheels rattling over the cobbles.

Puzzled, Rufus looked over his shoulder. The wagon was sturdily constructed, but even so it should be bowed under the weight of precious metal it carried. It did not seem possible that something which looked so heavy could be pulled so easily – unless . . . He almost laughed out loud. It was hollow. The Emperor's tribute to his sister was nothing but an empty shell.

As they made their way through the big double gates on to the Nova Via, Rufus tapped Bersheba on her left shoulder and she turned sharply into the wide street. At first it was the Emperor's elephant in all her armoured magnificence that drew every eye. Then he heard shouts of amazement ringing along both sides of the street as the crowd realized what was in the wagon.

'Divine Drusilla! Look, look, it is the goddess! A goddess of pure gold!'

The crowd surged towards them, those at the rear pushing those in front, but Callistus had taken no chances with his Emperor's divine sister. Two full centuries of Praetorians lined either side of the road, and now they drew their short swords and the mob jostled in confusion just out of reach of the points.

The cries of astonishment grew as Bersheba made her stately way past the ornate columns of the temple of Jupiter Stator, the Praetorians keeping pace on either side, slashing at anyone who threatened to come too close to the priceless cargo. At the intersection of the Nova Via with the Via Sacra, the Emperor waited, invisible behind the curtains of a golden carriage. Behind him, positioned by rank and lineage, the aristocracy of an Empire stretched up the Clivus Palatinus. Consuls and governors, senators and generals, kings and princes. They had travelled from all over the world to be here this day to see Drusilla enter the realm of the immortals.

Cupido was in his place beside the Emperor's carriage along with a dozen others who formed the Emperor's close guard, the wolf emblem on their breastplates gleaming in the sunlight. Beyond the carriage Rufus could see Callistus rushing about like a panic-stricken mouse, jostling, hustling and straightening. Bersheba snorted, and the imperial secretary gaped as if he was surprised to see her, making Rufus wonder if they had arrived early. Arms flapping, the little man manoeuvred Bersheba and the statue into position in the place of honour at the front of the procession. The original Praetorian escort marched off to take their places among their comrades who waited along the route at six-foot intervals.

With one last darting look along the line, Callistus took a deep breath and gave the order to march. With fluttering heart, Rufus set Bersheba in motion.

All Rome seemed to be crammed into the overflowing streets around the forum. The crowds on the Via Sacra could be numbered in their tens of thousands and they perched on every possible vantage point on the temple steps and among the statues. Ahead of Rufus, columns of fluted marble marked the road at intervals, each with its solemn carved figure at its peak. From his elevated position on Bersheba's back, the great thoroughfare stretched out before him all the way to the massive bulk of the records office at the foot of the Capitoline. Close on either side were the great temples and public buildings which made this the most important of all Rome's streets. Already he was approaching the long frontage of the house of the Vestals. Beyond it was the
regia
and the temple of Divine Julius, with its rostrum where the great orators sometimes drew crowds of hundreds, even thousands.

As Bersheba advanced step by patient step, the crowds threw flower petals beneath her massive feet and the scent of them filled Rufus's nostrils. Cheers from a thousand throats rang in his ears. He did not dare look behind him, but he felt the comforting presence of Cupido close by, keeping pace with the imperial carriage where Caligula sat alone and unseen behind the silken curtains. This was Drusilla's day and the Emperor wanted nothing, not even himself, to distract attention from the great golden figure of his sister.

Now they were approaching the Rostrum Julium. Rufus could see the distinctive prow beaks from ships captured at the battle of Actium jutting from the wall on either side of the niche that held the shrine.

Bersheba was directly opposite the rostrum when they struck.

Rufus had been concentrating on the splendours surrounding him and, at first, didn't realize what was happening. Then, above the roars of the crowd, he heard Cupido's shout. 'Guards, to me.'

The sight that met his eyes when he twisted in alarm didn't seem possible. Twenty sinister figures had emerged from the still-cheering crowd and somehow breached the line of alert Praetorians. Each man wore a hooded cloak of brown wool that covered his face and each carried a drawn sword. The professional way they held the weapons marked them as soldiers, or ex-soldiers, and they moved silently towards the gilt carriage with an intensity of purpose that made their intention unmistakable. Assassins! They were trying to kill the Emperor. Rufus watched incredulously as a dozen more followed them, still unmolested.

'Guards, to me.' Cupido's shout was shriller, more desperate. Why were the Praetorians who lined the route not reacting? They stayed frozen in place, as immobile as the statues on their marble plinths.

Three or four of the faceless killers already surrounded each of Cupido's dozen men and still more were working their way between the individual conflicts towards the carriage. The fighting ebbed and flowed but Cupido somehow managed to stay between the assassins and the Emperor. Rufus saw the long sword flash and one man was down, blood fountaining from a gaping wound in his throat. But he was instantly replaced by another of the hooded figures and Rufus realized the attackers were trying to manoeuvre Cupido away from the carriage.

Without thinking, Rufus leapt from Bersheba's flank and sprinted towards his friend. 'Here, Cupido,' he shouted as he ran. Cupido stole a quick glance towards him and Rufus recognized the battle light in his eyes. Overwhelming odds or not, this was the young German's natural element, with a sword in his hand and an enemy at his front. The fallen assassin's weapon lay at his feet and with a flick of his wrist Cupido used his blade to send it, grip first, sailing into Rufus's hand.

'Remember what I taught you,' he shouted, his sword slicing up to parry a slashing blow with a clash that made Rufus's ears ring: 'the eyes, the throat and the balls.' The grim order must have sent fear through the hearts of his opponents, because their attack wavered. It was only for the merest instant but enough to give him his opening. He screamed his war cry and rammed his sword point into the mouth of the stocky figure in the centre, spraying gore as he back-cut it free, leaving the man to drop like a stone.

Rufus managed to work himself into position at Cupido's right side, blocking access to the carriage just as another group of the hooded killers broke through the Praetorian line. His friend's easy confidence helped still the icy panic churning in his stomach, but the truth was he was terrified. He swallowed hard and tried to concentrate as the assassin lying in a pool of blood at his feet twisted and uttered a choking scream before giving a convulsive shudder and going still.

Repeating Cupido's instructions over and over inside his head, Rufus kept his sword low and point up, darting with little jabs towards groin and stomach as the gladiator had shown him. It didn't seem very warlike, but it was enough to keep his nearest opponent at a safe distance. Rufus could see his assailant's eyes beneath the hooded cloak. He seemed very young and very frightened and he gave the jabbing blade more respect than it deserved. At first, Rufus wondered why, then he remembered the uniform he was wearing. The Praetorians were the Emperor's elite and among the best-trained soldiers in the Empire. His opponent must have believed he faced a battle-tested campaigner.

Cupido was fighting hard, but Rufus realized his friend was using his speed and agility to ensure that most of the assassins were forced to face him rather than the clumsy amateur at his side. Another of the killers fell before his sword, and the survivors stepped back, the courage that had brought them through the line quailing before the arena-honed skills of the man who confronted them.

'The carriage! Remember why we are here.' The shouted order had the ring of desperation. The voice came from beneath the hood of the tallest man, and stirred a memory in Rufus, but before his mind could search for it the assassins rushed the two defenders with swords flailing. Cupido speared one of the attackers in the chest, and somehow parried a sweeping sword cut with a dagger that appeared in his hand like a prop in a deadly conjuring trick. Rufus could hear the clash of iron behind them, and realized a similar battle was being fought on the other side of the Emperor's carriage, but it meant nothing to him. He had to concentrate on staying alive. Then there came a strange moment in the desperate battle when his immediate opponent moved away and he found himself in an oasis of calm at the centre of the maelstrom. Fighting for breath, he was able to look about him for the first time in many minutes.

Despite being outnumbered Cupido's wolves were holding their own. Bodies lay thick around the carriage, some still, some writhing in their death agonies, bleeding and groaning. The Emperor's coachman had been dragged from his seat and cut to pieces and one of the milkwhite mares harnessed to the carriage was down in her traces, her hooves thrashing as she fought to regain her feet despite the spear that pierced her belly.

Puzzlingly, the Praetorian line was still holding back the crowd, though several were looking round in alarm and were obviously wondering why they didn't receive the order to join the fight. Surely they could see their comrades were hard pressed and the Emperor was in mortal danger? It was unfair, Rufus felt, that he and Cupido appeared to be doing most of the work.

The glint of a blade broke the spell and he ducked low to allow the scything cut that would have taken his head from his shoulders to pass harmlessly above him. Then the battle closed in again and he was fighting for his life.

Now his hooded opponent was bigger and stronger and had none of the caution of the fearful young man he had faced earlier. He was forced back inch by inch until he stumbled over the legs of an injured man who had crawled between the wheels of the carriage for safety. The world turned upside down as he fell backwards and he had a momentary glimpse of a wide-eyed face behind the carriage window. He grunted as the attacker planted a hobnailed sandal on his chest and used him as a platform to get into position to hack at the gold-leaf pattern on the door of the coach. Rufus felt himself being crushed and instinctively lunged upwards with his sword. He experienced an instant of resistance, then an obscene bucking as the man above him squealed and twisted as he felt the needle point angle upwards into his body. Horrified, Rufus pulled the blade free and was rewarded with a howl of agony. At the same time a flood of warm liquid spattered across his face and chest, and the assassin toppled sideways.

He suddenly felt very tired, but Cupido was still locked in combat a few feet away and he forced himself to his feet, using the carriage wheel as a prop. He could see it was almost over. The Praetorians who had tamely allowed the assassins through their line had finally stirred themselves from their lethargy and six or seven of the killers were struggling to escape their grasp.

Cupido chopped at one of his surviving opponents and the man spun away with blood pouring from his neck. That left only the tall man; the leader who had shouted the order. He fought well, with the skill of an experienced swordsman, but he was no match for a former gladiator. With a twist of his blade, Cupido ripped the man's sword from his hand and sent it spinning into the air. He put his point to the assassin's throat and forced the man to his knees, before flicking back the hood.