Rome’s Fallen Eagle (2 page)

The tipping point had come the previous year after Caligula had returned from a half-hearted punitive expedition to Germania and an aborted invasion of Britannia where the legions had refused to embark on the ships. He had humiliated them for their insubordination by making them collect seashells, which he paraded through the streets of Rome in a mock triumph. Having alienated the army he had then proceeded to do the same to the Senate and the Praetorian Guard, making himself absolutely friendless, by announcing his intention to move the Empire’s capital from Rome to Alexandria. This had caused consternation amongst both the officers and the nine thousand rank and file of the Guard: they feared that they would either be forced to relocate to the unpleasantly hot province of Egypt or, worse, be left behind to rot into irrelevancy so far from the Emperor who gave purpose to their existence.

United in their fears for their future, the officers had hesitantly begun to share their unease with one another. Clemens had soon been able to recruit the tribune Cassius Chaerea, whom he had long suspected of harbouring murderous intent towards the Emperor who constantly mocked his high voice. Chaerea had brought his close friend and fellow tribune Cornelius Sabinus into the plot as well as two disaffected centurions. With the conspirators finally in place, Clemens had kept his promise to
Sabinus that he would be the one to strike the first blow and had written informing him that all was ready and he should return to Rome in secret; Sabinus had arrived two days earlier. Since then he had remained hidden in Clemens’ house; not even his brother, Vespasian, nor his uncle, Senator Gaius Pollo, whom he could see seated next to each other near the imperial box, knew of his presence in the city. Once the deed was accomplished he would return to his posting. He was confident that he could leave unnoticed and that the alibi he had given the junior officers he had left in command of his legion in winter quarters was secure: that he had been visiting his wife and two children, who were staying, out of Caligula’s reach, with his parents in Aventicum in the south of Germania Superior. This way, Clemens had reasoned, if there were to be any vengeance meted out to the conspirators by the incoming regime, Clementina would just lose her brother and not her husband as well.

On the stage below the plot had resolved to a happy conclusion and the characters were exiting to a wedding feast through a door in the
scaenae frons
, the two-storey scenery fronted with columns, windows, doors and arches. Sabinus pulled his hood further over his face as the final player turned to address the audience.

‘To all our friends here, we would gladly extend an invitation to join us; but though enough is as good as a feast, what is enough for six would be poor fare for so many thousands. So let us wish you good feasting at home and ask, in return, your thanks.’

As the audience burst into applause the German Bodyguards parted to allow a tall man, shrouded in a purple robe and sporting a gold diadem around his head, into the imperial box. He bowed to Caligula in an eastern fashion, putting both hands to his chest.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Sabinus asked Clemens in surprise.

‘Herod Agrippa? He’s been here for the last three months, petitioning the Emperor to extend his kingdom. Caligula’s been toying with him, making him suffer for his greed. He treats him almost as badly as he does Claudius.’

Sabinus watched the Judean King take a seat next to Claudius and exchange a few words with him.

‘Caligula will leave to take his bath soon,’ Clemens said as the applause started to die down. ‘On the way there he wants to hear a rehearsal of a group of Aitolian youths who are due to perform tomorrow. Callistus has had them wait above us in front of Augustus’ House just by the entrance to the passage that leads directly to those steps by the imperial box. You can get to there through that exit.’ He pointed to the extreme left of the gates that ran along the rear of the theatre; it was shut. ‘Knock on it three times, then wait a beat and repeat the signal. It’s guarded by two of my men, both centurions; they’re expecting you and will let you through. The password is “liberty”. Put your neckerchief over your face; the fewer people who can identify you the better if the worst comes to the worst. Chaerea, Cornelius and I will escort Caligula out of the box and then up the steps. As soon as you see us leave, make for the passage and walk down it; we should meet about halfway. I’ll delay his German Bodyguards by ordering them to prevent anyone following us up, so we’ll have a little time but not much; strike him as soon as you can.’ Clemens held out his right arm.

‘I will, my friend,’ Sabinus replied grasping it. ‘It’ll be a blow straight to the neck.’

They held each other’s gaze for a moment – the grips on one another’s forearms firmer than they had ever been – then nodded and parted without another word, both aware that this day may be their last.

Sabinus watched Clemens enter the imperial box and felt calm spread through him. He cared not whether he lived or had died by the close of the day; his one concern was to avenge the brutal and repeated rape of Clementina by the man who had set himself up as an immortal god over all men. Today that false god would taste the limits of his immortality. Clementina’s face, as she pleaded with him to save her from her fate, burned in his mind. He had failed her then; he would not do so now. He gripped his sword hilt again; this time his hand was dry. He breathed deeply and felt his heart beating slowly and steadily.

A troupe of acrobats took to the stage and began hurling
themselves around, spinning, tumbling and cartwheeling, only to be met by a disinterested rumble of conversation from the audience, no matter how high or far they leapt. All eyes were on the Emperor as he prepared to leave.

Sabinus saw the Germans salute Clemens as he barked an order at them. Cassius Chaerea and Cornelius Sabinus moved from their positions and came to stand behind the Emperor’s chair. The Senior Consul showered one last passionate fall of kisses on the beautiful red slippers, only to be kicked aside by the objects of his adoration as Caligula stood up.

The crowd cheered, hailing Caligula as their god and Emperor; but their god and Emperor did not acknowledge them. Instead, he looked down at Claudius and lifted his chin to examine his throat, passing his finger across it like a knife; terrified, Claudius twitched and drooled over his nephew’s hand. With a look of disgust, Caligula wiped off the saliva on Claudius’ grey hair and shouted something, unheard over the din, into his uncle’s face. Claudius immediately got to his feet and lurched out of the box; the Germans parted for him, and he disappeared as fast as his weak legs could take him. Sabinus stayed focused on Caligula, who then turned his attention to Herod Agrippa and with a couple of bellows sent him, bowing obsequiously, from the box. Caligula threw back his head, laughing, and then mimicked Herod Agrippa’s fawning exit, much to the amusement of the crowd. Having milked the comedy value from the situation he swept from the box, slapping Chaerea’s arse on the way. Sabinus watched the tribune tense and his hand begin to go for his sword; it stopped mid-movement when Clemens caught his eye, and fell back to his side with fingers flexing as he and Cornelius followed Caligula to the steps. Just before Clemens left the box his eyes flicked up to Sabinus and widened slightly; he strode past the German Bodyguards, half of whom followed him to block the steps to the public whilst the imperial party climbed them, leaving the Consul, nursing his bruised face, watched over by the eight remaining Germans left guarding the imperial box.

All was set.

Sabinus turned and made his way along the rear of the last row of seating to the gate that Clemens had indicated. Pulling up his neckerchief, he put his knuckles to the wood and gave the signal; within an instant a bolt slid back, the gate opened a fraction and he was staring into the dark, hard eyes of a Praetorian centurion.

‘Liberty,’ Sabinus whispered.

With a slight inclination of the head the centurion stepped back, opening the gate; Sabinus walked through.

‘This way, sir,’ a second centurion, his back already turned, said as the first closed and bolted the gate.

Sabinus followed the man along a paved path climbing gently up the last few feet of the Palatine; from above a close-harmony dirge drifted down. Behind him he heard the rhythmic clacking of the first centurion’s hobnailed sandals as he followed.

After thirty paces they came to the summit. To his left Sabinus could see two Praetorian centuries, clad in tunics and togas, standing at ease next to the Aitolian youths rehearsing their melancholy hymn in front of what remained of the imposing facade of Augustus’ House. Once an architectural study in elegance combined with power, it was now disfigured by the series of extensions that Caligula had added. They snaked their way forward, each more vulgar and ill-conceived than the one before, and cascaded down the hill to the Temple of Castor and Pollux at the foot of the Palatine, which now – sacrilegiously in the secret part of many people’s minds – served as a vestibule to the whole palace complex. It was to the closest of these extensions, just ahead of him, that the centurion led Sabinus.

Taking a key from his belt, the centurion unlocked a heavy, oaken door and pulled it open, noiselessly on goose-fatted hinges, to reveal a wide passageway. ‘To the right, sir,’ he said, stepping aside to allow Sabinus past. ‘We’ll stay here to prevent anyone following you down.’

Sabinus nodded and passed through; sunlight washed in from regularly spaced windows on either side. He swept his sword from its scabbard beneath his cloak, pulled a dagger from his belt and strode forward; the hard slapping of his footsteps reverberated around him off the whitewashed plaster walls.

After a few dozen paces he heard voices from around a bend to the left; he quickened his pace. From the theatre below came another burst of laughter followed by applause. Sabinus approached the corner; the voices were close. He raised his sword and readied himself to strike as soon as he made the turn. Swinging sharply left he pounced forward. He felt his heart leap in his chest as a shrill shriek greeted him and he stared into two terrified eyes set in a long, down-turned face; mucus oozed from a pronounced nose. Claudius’ cry died in his throat as he gaped at the sword pointing directly at him and then back at Sabinus. Herod Agrippa stood stock still, his face frozen in fear, next to him.

Sabinus pulled himself back; he had given Clemens his word not to kill Claudius. ‘Get out of here, both of you!’ he shouted.

After a moment’s dumbfounded delay Claudius lumbered off, twitching and muttering, leaving a pool of urine behind him. Herod Agrippa, breathing deeply, stooped and stared up, under the hood, at Sabinus’ concealed face. For a moment their eyes met; Herod’s widened slightly. Sabinus made a threatening gesture with his sword and the Judaean pelted off after Claudius.

Sabinus cursed and prayed to Mithras that it was not recognition that he had seen in the King’s eyes. Voices from further down the corridor drove the worry from his mind; one of them was most definitely that of Caligula. He retreated around the corner and waited as the voices grew closer.

‘If those Aitolian boys are sweet-looking I might take a couple to the baths with me,’ Caligula was saying. ‘Would you like a couple, Clemens?’

‘If they’re sweet-looking, Divine Gaius.’

‘But if they’re not then we can always have Chaerea; I’d love to hear that sweet voice moan with ecstasy.’ Caligula giggled; his companions did not join in.

Sabinus surged around the corner, sword raised.

Caligula’s mirth faltered; his sunken eyes went wide with fright. He leapt backwards; Chaerea’s strong hands clamped onto his upper arms, pinioning him.

Sabinus swept his sword through the air; it sliced into Caligula’s flesh at the base of his neck. Caligula shrieked; a gobbet of blood
slopped onto Chaerea’s face. Sabinus’ sword arm jarred and he lost his grip as the blade wedged, abruptly, into the collarbone.

There was a moment of shocked silence.

Caligula stared down, eyes gaping, at the sword embedded in him and then suddenly burst into manic laughter. ‘You can’t kill me! I’m still alive; I am a g …’ He juddered violently; his mouth froze open, mid-laugh, and his eyes bulged.

‘This is the last time you’ll ever hear my
sweet
voice,’ Chaerea whispered into his ear. His left hand was still grasping Caligula but the other was now hidden. Chaerea jerked his body, forcing his right side forward, and the tip of a
gladius
burst through Caligula’s chest; his head jolted back and he exhaled violently, spraying a fine crimson mist into the air. Sabinus tugged his weapon free and pulled down his neckerchief; the false god would know who ended his life and why.

‘Sabinus!’ Caligula croaked, blood trickling down his chin. ‘You’re my friend!’

‘No, Caligula, I’m your sheep, remember?’ He thrust his weapon, sharply, low into Caligula’s groin as Clemens and Cornelius both drew their swords and plunged them into the stricken Emperor from either side.

With the bitter joy of vengeance, Sabinus smiled as he rolled his wrist, twisting the blade left and right, shredding the lower intestines, and then forcing the point forward until he felt it break through the flesh between the base of the buttocks.

All four assassins wrenched back their swords simultaneously; Caligula stood unsupported for a moment before crumpling, without a sound, to the floor into Claudius’ pool of urine.

Sabinus stared down at his erstwhile friend, hawked and spat a globule of phlegm at his face and then pulled his neckerchief back up. Chaerea aimed a shuddering kick at Caligula’s bloodseeping groin.

‘We must finish it,’ Clemens said quietly, turning to leave. ‘Hurry; the Germans will find the body soon, I told them to wait for a count of five hundred to stop anyone following us up the steps.’

The four assassins walked briskly back up the corridor. The two centurions were waiting by the door.

‘Lupus, bring your century into the palace,’ Clemens ordered as he passed them. ‘Aetius, keep yours outside and don’t let anyone in. And get rid of those caterwauling Aitolians.’