False God of Rome (37 page)

For his part, Vespasian had managed to keep a low profile since Macro’s death. Holding no magistracy now in the city, he was able to remain uninvolved with the organisation of
Caligula’s extravaganzas other than attending them and feigning pleasure as he watched the treasury’s already depleted coffers being swiftly cleared. His life revolved around Caenis and
meetings of the Senate, which would slavishly agree to all Caligula’s demands. He very rarely saw the Emperor in private and, apart from the occasional dinner at the palace, which he now
dreaded as Caligula had taken to having criminals executed between courses for the amusement of his guests, he was able to live a quiet, unnoticed life.

On the morning of the viaduct’s completion the whole city turned out to watch Caligula progress, with divine dignity dressed as Jupiter and brandishing a thunderbolt, along its length.

Vespasian watched with Gaius and the rest of the senators from the Senate House steps as Caligula completed the journey and entered the most sacred temple in Rome to commune with his fellow god.
After a short while he reappeared and announced to the vast crowd, via heralds, that Jupiter had conceded that he was now his equal.

‘Furthermore,’ the herald nearest the Senate House declaimed, reading Caligula’s words from a scroll, ‘I declare my sister, Drusilla, to be divine and I will show you
proof of her divinity in the Forum Theatre.’

This announcement caused a near stampede as those in the mob closest to the theatre rushed to get the best seats.

‘If I have to watch him tupping Drusilla again I think I’ll go into voluntary exile,’ Vespasian commented under his breath to Gaius.

‘I think that we’re excused today,’ Gaius replied equally sotto voce. ‘Caligula has another demand that he wants us to pass as soon as possible. Now he’s finished
his viaduct he’s come up with a new way to waste money, so we’ll have to forgo the pleasure of Drusilla’s howls of ecstasy.’

‘We’ll probably still hear them from inside,’ Vespasian observed, turning to enter the building.

‘I’m sure you’re right, dear boy,’ Gaius replied. ‘She has such stamina, hasn’t she?’

Vespasian’s fears were proved correct and the solemn opening prayers and taking of the auspices before the meeting could be declared open were conducted to the
accompaniment of Drusilla’s voice, rising to a crescendo of pleasure, as the Senior Consul, Marcus Aquila Iulianus, declared the day auspicious for the Senate to sit.

‘The motion before the House today,’ he announced once they were all seated, ‘is to provide the finance for our divine Emperor to build two two-hundred-and-thirty-foot-long
pleasure ships on Lake Nemorensis for him and his divine sister to relax in and to enable them to converse more easily with nymphs of the lake.’

This was greeted with sage nodding of heads and murmurs of agreement as if it were perfectly reasonable to want to have closer contact with water nymphs. As the debate proceeded with
Drusilla’s baying voice, punctuated by roars from the spectators, floating in from the theatre outside, Vespasian speculated that if just one of their number broke ranks and failed to keep a
straight face, then the whole Senate would collapse to the floor in paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter. The image obliged Vespasian to suppress a snigger behind his hand and, as the Senior Consul
listed the Emperor’s requirements for the vessels – hot and cold running water, a suite of baths, marble floors and other ridiculous luxuries – he became increasingly concerned
that he would be the first to drop the facade and give vent to his true feelings. He felt his uncle’s hand rest on his shaking shoulder and managed to get himself back under control, wiping a
tear from the corner of his eye.

Another shriller and even more prolonged screech caused the Senior Consul to pause as it transcended anything that could be construed as pleasure and entered the unmistakeable realms of agony.
Abruptly it ceased, only to be replaced by a short gasp of horror from the audience; then silence.

A long, long silence.

All the senators turned their heads to look through the open doors towards the wooden theatre.

The silence endured; no one moved.

A wail of darkest grief, long and wavering, split the stillness, growing and growing until it filled the whole Forum. Every senator recognised the voice: Caligula’s.

The crowd started to flood out of the theatre and away across the Forum, hurrying from their grieving, insane Emperor before he decided to wreak havoc on them in his despair. The senators left
their stools and rushed for the door.

‘I think Drusilla’s stamina has just given out,’ Gaius concluded as he and Vespasian squeezed through the crush and out into the sunlight.

‘What do we do?’ Vespasian asked. ‘Go home and lay low until things calm down?’

‘I think, dear boy, that anyone who is not seen to be sharing Caligula’s grief would soon be a cause of grief for their own families. The best chance of surviving this is to go and
face him, whatever the consequences.’

Vespasian drew a deep breath and followed Gaius and many of the senators who had reached the same conclusion down the steps and towards the theatre.

Caligula stood, now silent, in the middle of the stage holding Drusilla in his arms; blood dripped from her ruptured innards into a puddle that surrounded his feet. Lying dead
around them were the bodies of the men who had had the misfortune to be involved in her fatal, last appearance. Clemens and half a dozen Praetorians stood to one side with bloodied swords.

The Senior Consul led the senators down through the deserted seating towards the stage. Caligula stared at them with uncomprehending eyes; Drusilla’s head lolled from side to side over his
left arm as he shook with grief.

‘Where do I go for comfort and consolation?’ Caligula suddenly shouted. ‘Where? A child may turn to its mother, a wife may turn to her husband and a man may turn to his gods;
but to whom does a god turn? Answer me that, you wise and learned men of the Senate.’ He fell to his knees, splashing into the ever growing pool of blood, and broke down into sobs as he
greedily kissed his dead sister’s mouth and neck.

No one in the auditorium said a word as Caligula’s ardour rose and he petted the corpse, murmuring into its unhearing ears. The shocked silence lengthened as he rolled the limp body over
onto its knees. All knew he was capable of breaking any taboo – but this…this was abhorrent.

‘I command you to live,’ Caligula cried, driving himself into his lifeless sibling. ‘Live!’ Tears streamed down his face, creating flesh-coloured lines through the red
stains left by his sister’s blood, as he desperately attempted to pump life back into Drusilla’s body. ‘Live! Live! Live! Live!’

With a final, desolate wail enjoining his sister to return from the shades he climaxed and collapsed forward onto the floor to lie as motionless as her corpse.

No one moved as they stared at the Emperor, who showed no sign of breathing. Vespasian felt a thrill of hope, thinking that perhaps Caligula had committed one outrage too many and the gods had
tired of his existence.

But that was not to be; with a sudden violent intake of breath Caligula seemingly came back from the dead, but alone. He got to his knees and looked around blankly at his audience. After a few
moments his bloodshot, sunken eyes rested on Vespasian; he smiled wildly and slowly gestured to him to step forward.

With a sinking heart Vespasian approached the stage.

Caligula slithered forward and, putting his hand on the back of Vespasian’s head, drew his face up close to his so that their foreheads touched. ‘I have nothing to console me but my
own greatness, my friend,’ he hissed. ‘Do you remember how I said I would build, Vespasian?’

‘Yes, Princeps,’ Vespasian replied, standing rigid with fear, ‘you said you would build magnificently as you’ve already proved with your bridge.’

‘Indeed, but that’s just a trifling bridge. Now, in Drusilla’s memory, I shall surpass the greatest achievement ever; I shall make the bridges that both Darius and Xerxes built
from Asia to Europe seem like children’s toys.’

‘I’m sure that you could, but how?’

‘I’m going to build a bridge worthy of a god. I will build one across the Bay of Neapolis, and then to show my fellow gods and all humanity that I’m the greatest leader that
ever lived, I’m going to ride across it wearing the breastplate of the man I’ve surpassed: Alexander.’

‘But that’s in his mausoleum in Alexandria.’

Caligula grinned maniacally. ‘Exactly, and you want to go there, so I give you my permission, on condition that you go to the mausoleum and take Alexander’s breastplate from him.
Bring it back to Rome for me.’

A
LEXANDRIA
, J
ULY
AD 38

‘T
HAT HAS TO
be the tallest building that I’ll ever see,’ Vespasian muttered under his breath as he
looked up, his eyes wide with astonishment, at the lighthouse that soared above him to over four hundred feet into the sky. He calculated that if an
insula
, or apartment block, back in Rome
had been that tall it would have almost fifty floors and then wondered what chance Caligula’s proposed bridge had of outstripping it. He gripped the side-rail of the imperial trireme to
steady himself as the ship was buffeted again by another large wave repelled by the huge mole that protected the Great Harbour of Alexandria. Fine spray flew on the salt-tanged breeze, dampening
his toga and cooling his skin from the sun’s intense heat. The stroke-master’s piped beats slowed and the mainsail was furled; the voyage was nearing its end.

‘That must be the biggest fucking thing in the whole fucking world,’ Ziri said; his proficiency in Latin now matched that of his swearing. ‘I’d say that it would look big
even next to the biggest mountain in the middle of the fucking desert.’

‘It must have taken some building,’ Magnus commented beside him.

Vespasian nodded. ‘Seventeen years. It was finished just over three hundred years ago. The first Ptolemy commissioned it and his son completed it. I suppose if you want to be remembered
then that’s the way to do it: build something magnificent.’

‘Like Caligula’s bridge?’ Magnus asked with a smile.

‘That’ll just be remembered as a folly. I mean build something that’s of practical use to the people, then they’ll remember your name.’

‘Who built the Circus Maximus?’

Vespasian frowned and thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know.’

‘There you go, you see, it don’t always work.’

Vespasian looked up again at the Pharos of Alexandria, which had been growing in size all day since, while more than fifty miles out to sea, they had first spotted its light – the rays of
the sun during the day or a mighty fire at night, both reflected off a huge, polished bronze mirror. It was truly magnificent: set at the eastern tip of the long, thin Island of Pharos it was built
on a base, ninety feet high and three hundred and fifty feet square, constructed of granite blocks fused together by molten lead to resist the impact of the sea. The tower itself had three
different sections: the first was square and just over half of the whole tower’s height, the next was octagonal, and the topmost part, in which were housed the mirror and fire, circular. The
whole edifice was crowned with a giant statue of Poseidon and ornamented by four statues of Triton at each corner of the base. He could not imagine any building ever surpassing it.

‘Stop gawping, Ziri, and go and pack up our stuff,’ Magnus ordered after a few more moments of admiration. ‘We’ll be docking soon.’

‘Yes, master.’ The little Marmarides scuttled off towards their cabin in the stern of the ship.

Vespasian shouted after him: ‘And don’t forget—’

‘No, I won’t forget Sir’s fucking box,’ Ziri shouted back, cutting him off.

Vespasian looked at Magnus. ‘Do I have to put up with that sort of cheek?’

Magnus shrugged. ‘You don’t have to, you could always ask me to keep him away from you, but then, seeing as you didn’t bring a slave of your own, who would look after your
needs?’

‘I can see that it’s high time that I invested in my own slaves,’ Vespasian said. Hitherto he had always relied on his parents’ or Gaius’ slaves and it had never
occurred to him to purchase his own; even when he had been in Cyrenaica he had been looked after by the official slaves in the Governor’s Residence. ‘The trouble is they’re so
expensive to buy and then feed.’

‘Once you’ve cashed that bankers’ draft with Thales you’ll be able to afford plenty; until then stop moaning when I lend you mine for free.’

The ship slipped through the harbour mouth and all thoughts that Vespasian had about the hideous expense of slaves were put to one side. The Great Harbour of Alexandria was built on a scale that
matched the Pharos: almost two miles across and a mile and a half deep. To his right was the Heptastadion, a huge mole, seven stadia or one thousand four hundred paces long and two hundred paces
wide, that joined the Island of Pharos to the mainland; beyond this, in the commercial port that was almost as vast as the Great Harbour itself, Vespasian could see the massive hulks of the grain
fleet docked next to large silos. To his left was the Diabathra, a dog-legged mole, equally as long, that ran from the harbour mouth to the Temple of Artemis next to the Royal Palace of the
Ptolemys on the natural shoreline. Between these two mammoth man-made sea defences the waterfront was lined with buildings that rivalled in grandeur even those of Rome. At the waterfront’s
central point, on the tip of a small promontory, stood the colonnaded Timonium, built by Marcus Antonius after his defeat at Actium by Augustus. West of this, extending to the Heptastadion, were
the jetties and quays of the military port. Here the massed triremes, quadremes and quinqueremes of the Alexandrian fleet bobbed at their moorings, looking clean and pristine after their recent
winter refits. The sun glinted off their half-submerged bronze-plated rams and picked out the innumerable tiny figures toiling on their decks. Speckled around the three square miles of the harbour
were a plethora of other, smaller craft, with bulging triangular sails and escorts of cawing seagulls, going about their daily routine, whether as lighters, ferries or fishermen, and adding to
Vespasian’s impression that he was entering the busiest and grandest port in the world.