'How long I was in his thrall I don't know. I felt dizzy with hunger, or perhaps the water they gave me was drugged. Eventually he returned to his throne and ordered his guards to bathe and clothe me. The clothes were these clothes, the uniform of the Praetorian Guard. When I stood before him in them, he returned to me my long sword and asked me for my oath. I gave him it.' His head dropped and he whispered the words again, as if he could barely believe their meaning. 'I gave him it.'
Rufus listened first with horror, then with disbelief. 'It cannot be. The Cupido I know could not pledge his loyalty to that man. He is a monster. I have witnessed it.'
Cupido snorted. 'Witnessed it? You have seen nothing. In this place and among these people you are a child, and you should pray it stays so. You don't know what he is capable of and if you did it would eat your mind and chill your guts. That is what I came here to tell you. You must find a way back to Fronto. It is not as unlikely as it seems. The Emperor's moods are fickle. He will soon tire of you and your elephant.'
Rufus shook his head. 'No. I will not leave you. Teach me to fight as you do and together we can survive. You are right, you must have been drugged. You owe Caligula nothing. An oath administered without honour is an oath in name only.'
Cupido laughed gently. 'The way I fight cannot be taught, Rufus, though I will train you to a standard where you will at least be able to defend yourself when the time comes. But you are wrong: an oath is an oath as long as the oath-sayer believes it. In any case, I owe him more than my loyalty.'
'What?'
'My sister.'
Hours later Rufus sat in the darkness, still stunned by the gladiator's revelation.
Cupido had told of a day of fire and blood when the auxiliary cavalrymen of a Roman army cut down his fellow tribesmen like rows of summer corn and the booted feet of the legions smashed them into the mud of the fields where they made their futile last stand.
'My father was the last to fall. He fought them to his final breath and when the swords chopped him down, he died still shouting his war cry. I was young and had been left behind to defend our village and the women and children. My father said it was an honour, but I think he understood what would happen. When the Romans came I wanted to take my men out to fight, but the village elders knew the Roman way. If we resisted they would have killed everything. Man, woman and child. Horse, dog and pig. Nothing would have been left to mark the passing of my tribe save dry bones and old stories. Still,' his voice grew thick with pride, 'my sister Ilde, only twelve years old, stood on the walls and screamed her defiance until I carried her to our mother.'
He smiled his sad smile. 'The old men would have been better to let me fight. Those who were not fit for the mines and the quarries were put to the sword where they stood. The rest were taken as slaves. I can still feel the weight of the chains on my wrists and smell the woodsmoke from the burning huts. The last I saw of Ilde was in the slave market. I tried to talk to her — to explain — but she would not meet my eyes. I knew she despised me for not having the courage to die with my people.'
Then, three months after his last fight in the arena, and four long years since he had been taken into captivity, Caligula had called him to an audience.
'He told me: 'I have a gift for my most faithful servant, Cupido of the Guard, who holds my life in his hands.' A girl walked into the room, a tall girl with hair the colour of spun gold and the proud bearing of a princess. At first I thought his gift was a concubine to share my bed — he has rewarded others in this way — but then I looked into the girl's eyes and I knew it was Ilde. My lost sister.'
Rufus could not say when it happened, but there came a moment in Cupido's story when the realization struck him like a blow from Bersheba's trunk. He knew.
'Now she is an honoured member of the palace staff. She is maid to the lady Milonia, the Emperor's wife, and charged with the safekeeping of his daughter. You would know her as Aemilia.'
Aemilia.
XVIII
He lay back in the great golden throne that dominated the Receiving Room and wondered why he didn't feel happy. Was it too much to ask? After all, he was the leader of the most powerful Empire the world had ever known. He looked over the throng of appellants gathered at the far end of the room. Did they realize how difficult it was?
His surveyors were at work planning the canal across the Ionian isthmus which would be his gift to Greece. He had rebuilt the walls and the temples of Syracuse. Soon there would be a new city among the high peaks that would become the economic driving force of Cisalpine Gaul.
But it was not enough. It was never enough.
They were all waiting for him, but this was important. He was beginning to understand.
How could he have all he had and do what he did and still feel empty?
Limits. It was all about limits.
Everything had a limit. You could have all the pleasure in the world, but unless someone was sharing your pleasure it was never enough. You could eat the most exotic foods the Empire had to offer and drink the finest wines, but eventually they all began to taste the same. Men had their limits. There was a limit to how fast they could run in the games, or how high they could jump. There was a limit to how much pain a man could suffer before he died; he had tested that limit often.
Even love had its limits. Drusilla loved him, he knew, and Milonia had proved her love a thousand times, but was their love everlasting? He doubted it. He had thought of testing the limits of their love in his torture chamber, but he knew that if he did he'd lose them. And who else could he trust?
None of the men in this room. Look at them, every one wearing a mask, trying to hide their fear or their hatred or their greed. Any one of them could be part of the plots against him. Perhaps he should have them all killed? It would make life so much simpler. Clearer.
He looked towards the centurion in charge of the Guard. It was the Germans today. He liked the Germans because they hated the Italians.
The soldier came at his call.
'If I wished it, would you kill every man in this room?' he said quietly.
For an instant, the centurion's eyes went wide, but the discipline that had helped him survive a hundred combats quickly took over. His hand went to his sword.
'Of course, Caesar. At your order!'
Should he? He looked over the faces. Senators and knights. Praetors and tribunes. Men who called themselves his friends and others who did not try to hide their scorn. The Judaean who had been boring him for a week about the problems of his benighted province. It would cause complications. He had another thought.
'If I ordered it, would you kill me?'
The soldier froze. What answer would he give to this unanswerable question?
He watched the man's face grow paler as the seconds passed. Tiny beads of sweat broke out upon his brow as he wrestled with the terrible implications of his next words. His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish, which was amusing.
Eventually, he became bored. 'You are dismissed. We will discuss this further another time.'
He picked at the platter of food by the side of the throne. Really, it was all so tedious. Had he tasted everything there was to taste? He let the long list slide through his mind. But there was a gap. Yes, there was one type of flesh he had never tasted. The forbidden flesh. He looked up. It would be interesting, exciting even. Who would it be? The fat one at the back? The athlete fidgeting by the wall? No shortage of choice.
He pondered the question for a full minute.
No, he thought, not today.
He smiled as he learned a new truth. Even he had a limit. He wasn't sure whether to be pleased or disappointed.
For a short time Rufus became an occasional guest at the Emperor's table. If he was not fouled or dirty enough when they came for him, the Praetorians would order him to rub himself down with dung gathered from the
