They spent the fifth night at the town of Volturnum, situated on the river of the same name, and had a pleasant meal on a vine-shaded terrace watching the fishermen offloading their catch after the day’s fishing at sea, just two miles downstream. Leaving early in the morning, they travelled the last few miles at a decent pace and, as the sun began to sink towards the sea, they passed the Portus Julius — home to the western fleet — and approached the rocky promontory of Misenum, which rose from the sea like the arching back of a mythical sea monster.
‘They seemed to be expecting us,’ Magnus commented as the gate to the imperial cliff-top estate was swung closed behind them by two uniformed Praetorians.
‘Macro must have sent a message in advance of us,’ Vespasian replied as they rode up the paved path to the villa at the tip of the promontory. ‘He said that his men guarded Misenum.’
‘I don’t know whether being guarded by Macro’s men should make me feel safe or not.’
Vespasian grinned at his friend. ‘I know the feeling; but I can assure you that it’s a lot safer than being guarded by Sejanus’.’
‘Let’s hope that it never comes to that,’ Magnus muttered.
They came to the whitewashed wall surrounding the villa and rode through an arch. Vespasian, along with all of his companions, gasped at the beauty of the place: set almost at the cliff’s edge, the single-storey, pink- marble-walled villa with its terracotta-tiled roof overlooked the glittering bay of Neapolis, which was speckled with ships and dominated by the humped-back mass of Mount Vesuvius rising over four thousand feet from the coastal plain. In front of the villa was a circular pool, fifty feet in diameter, surrounded by a colonnade studded with statues pillaged from Greece and Asia. At its centre was a marble fountain depicting the sea god, Triton; his human torso blended into a fish tail as he seemed to leap from the depths of the pool spurting a gush of water skywards from his upturned mouth whilst brandishing a conch shell in his left hand and, like his father Poseidon, a trident in his right.
Around the pool the gardens were laid out with a pleasing symmetry. Eight wide, shrub-lined paths emanated at regular intervals from the colonnade and terminated in the circular path, upon which they now stood, that encompassed the whole garden. The path was rimmed with acacias and cypresses with low, stone benches at their feet to provide a shady place to sit and read or just to contemplate the beauty of the setting whilst enjoying the soft sea breeze on your face.
A girlish scream brought the party out of their silent admiration for the place. Vespasian looked towards the direction of the noise and saw Caligula, on the other side of the pool, running down one of the paths, chased by two young girls; all three were naked.
As he reached the pool he jumped in and started to wade across; the girls followed him, cupping their hands and splashing water over his back. On reaching the edge he made a show of not being able to climb out and the girls caught him and, jumping all over him, pulled him under. There was a playful thrashing of lithe limbs breaking the surface of the pool until eventually Caligula surfaced and rose to his feet with the youngest girl draped around his neck. He looked towards where Vespasian and his friends sat on their horses and, instantly recognising them, waved.
‘At last,’ he called. ‘I’ve been so looking forward to this. Come over.’
With a degree of trepidation Vespasian led the party to the pool’s edge whilst the girls, with much giggling and squealing, hauled Caligula under again. Vespasian dismounted and approached his friend, who had managed to get to his feet again. Caligula divested himself of the young girls to reveal the most prodigious erection, almost as big as the false phalluses worn by actors in satyr plays: nearly a foot long and with a girth and scrotum to match.
‘Vespasian,’ Caligula cried, stepping out of the pool and grasping Vespasian’s forearm; his sunken eyes beamed with delight. ‘It’s good to see you. Look, I’m still alive — how about that? Tiberius hasn’t decided to kill me; in fact quite the opposite, he’s going to make me his heir.’ He gave a short, semi-hysterical laugh. ‘When I’m Emperor I’ll be able to play with my sisters all the time. Drusilla, Livilla, this is my friend Vespasian and his brother Sabinus; you must both be very friendly to them.’
‘Drusilla,’ the elder of the two said, holding out her hand; she could not have been more than fifteen. She had a small but not unattractive mouth and slightly chubby cheeks. Her ivory skin glistened with water and her thick black hair hung in damp clumps and stuck to her shoulders. She made no attempt to cover her nakedness and Vespasian was unable to help his eyes drifting over her firm adolescent breasts and down to other points further south. She looked at him with appraising brown eyes as he took her hand.
‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ he managed to say, tearing his eyes away from her nubile body and meeting hers.
‘And I’m Julia Livilla,’ the younger sister said, stepping out of the pool. ‘I enjoy making new friends, especially if they’re friends of dear Gaius.’
‘This is a nice Livilla, not like that gruesome aunt of mine,’ Caligula said, stroking her cheek; she clasped her arms around Caligula’s neck and gave him an affectionate kiss on the lips whilst pressing her belly against his persistent erection. She was about two years younger than her sister; she shared Drusilla’s small mouth but had higher, more pronounced cheekbones and a longer, sharper nose. Her breasts had just started to bud on her skinny ribcage.
Caligula disentangled himself from his sister and greeted Pallas, who managed to act as if there was absolutely nothing amiss, nodded briefly at Magnus and then approached Corbulo, who was standing with his mouth open, goggle-eyed and positively brimming with aristocratic outrage.
‘This is Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo,’ Vespasian told Caligula by way of an introduction.
‘Hello,’ Caligula exclaimed, and then leapt back into the pool, leaving Corbulo even more speechless than before.
‘We shall have dinner soon,’ Caligula said, resurfacing. ‘Back to the house now, my sweets.’
His sisters giggled, and then, each with a hand grasping his magnificent penis, led their brother back to the villa.
‘I’ll find the house steward,’ Pallas said, climbing back up on to the wagon, ‘and get him to organise our rooms and horses.’
He flicked the reins and the wagon moved off around the pool. Vespasian followed, leading his horse and hoping that Caligula and his sisters would dress for dinner.
Vespasian stepped out of his room into the courtyard garden to find Clemens sitting with Sabinus on a stone bench under a fig tree. The garden was enclosed only on three sides, the southern end being left open to afford a stunning view over the Bay of Neapolis; in the distance, with its sheer cliffs glowing red in the last rays of the sun, lay Capreae.
‘It’s madness over there,’ Clemens said as he clasped Vespasian’s forearm. ‘The old man’s gone quite mad. He’s obsessed by sex, death and astrology to the extent that he thinks about nothing else, apart from the construction of the new villa that he’s building: the Villa Iovis. It’s only half finished but he’s moved into the completed part and has filled it with pornographic mosaics and frescoes. I sometimes wonder whether it might not be a good idea for Sejanus to become Emperor. At least he has Roman values. There’s nothing Greek about him; you wouldn’t find him sodomising the young sons of his supposed friends. And he’d keep death where it belongs: in the arena or on the battlefield.’
‘Or in the law courts,’ Vespasian added.
‘Yes, well, there’s always going to be an element of that no matter who’s Emperor; but Tiberius goes too far. Our Republican ancestors would fall on their swords for shame if they saw some of the things that I’ve seen in the last few months. One time he got over a thousand slaves and had one of them gutted in front of the rest, who were told that any man who didn’t do as he was ordered would die in the same painful fashion. He then lined them all up and made them masturbate until they were all erect — his young catamites went along the line helping any of them who was having a problem — and then forced them into a long line of buggery; over a thousand of them in a row, can you imagine it?’
Vespasian, much to his consternation, found himself able to.
‘Then,’ Clemens continued, ‘he had a century of Praetorians — infantry, not my cavalry boys — go up and down the line strangling the slaves as they orgasmed and reminding those who hadn’t what would happen to them if they stopped, even if they were pumping a dead man’s arse.’
‘That’s not really the action of a Scipio or a Julius Caesar,’ Vespasian agreed.
