the code? Reprogrammed them?’
‘No, of course not! But — ’
‘Maybe… I dunno, maybe this Caligula fella isn’t Caligula,’ said Liam. All three of them turned to look at him as if he’d belched unpleasantly. He glanced from one face to the next and shrugged.
‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?’
CHAPTER 43
AD 54, Imperial Palace, Rome
He could never sleep during the hot months of summer, even as a child. Caligula recalled the uncomfortable summer nights in his father’s quarters, hearing the noises of an army camp coming through the tent flaps — the legions on their various summer campaigns. He smiled wistfully — half of his childhood spent in innumerable marching camps. Such a different creature he’d been back then. Just a small boy, fascinated by the same things any small boy would be: the soldiers who towered over him, their armour, their swords. In his father Germanicus’s tent he played out the battles Germanicus had fought with an army of small wooden soldiers… carved by those same men. They loved him. The legion’s mascot. Little boot.
He looked out over Rome now, still and dark.
I am something other now. No longer that boy.
The city had once seemed so vast to him, long ago: the centre of the civilized world. Now he saw nothing but an endless tangle of scruffy rooftops, and there, across the city, his magnificent unfinished stairway to the heavens. The only beautiful thing out there.
His eyes were drawn to the night sky, a star-filled night. The ghosts of silver-blue clouds chased each other in front of the moon. These days he spent more and more of his time gazing up at the sky, particularly on overcast days, wondering whether he might catch the slightest glimpse of the heavenly world far above between tumbling anvils of cloud.
My waiting world.
My kingdom.
He stepped away from his window, bored with gazing at the city. Frustrated by the very sight of it. To be God… not just a god, but to be the God, the one and only, and yet have to wait so interminably to visit the kingdom above.
I am God. So why can I not simply wish myself there… and be there?
Caligula shook his head. He had no answers to that. But then his divine baptism was yet to happen. His ‘ascension to Heaven’. Then, when it was done, of course, all those godly powers would come to him. He could simply wish… and things would happen.
And he would wish good things. He would wish wonderful things. He would shower Rome with wealth and treats. He would reward his faithful followers with eunuchs and virgins and fountains of the finest wines. There would be bountiful harvests of wheat and maize. No one would be hungry again. If only those grumbling disbelievers out there could see that.
Yes. He would also punish his enemies. Their fate would be endless torment, endless agony. He would wish on them all the pox, leprosy then hordes of gargoyle-faced demons to poke at their weeping skin with sharpened sticks, flame-hardened and still smouldering.
He shook his head at the stupidity of men.
Why doubt me? They came to me. Down from Heaven… to speak to me.
The doubters were blind. Blind to the obvious truth. That’s why he decided those fools who’d made that attempt on his life so many years ago would not need their eyes any more. How many had there been? Five hundred? Six hundred of them? To be fair, he was certain now that a good few of them had not known anything at all about the plot to kill him. But to be the wife or even the child of a conspirator was, in some way, a form of complicity.
He’d ended up with over a thousand bloody eyeballs staring up at him from where they were piled on his marble floor. And their butchered bodies had covered the palace gardens outside.
Caligula’s bare feet had carried him absently out of his bedroom into the main atrium. There, standing guard outside his bedroom, was one of the few he could fully trust.
‘It is a hot night, is it not… Stern?’
Stern. Such an odd-sounding name. Caligula had tried to rename these guardians of his, but they only responded to the names they came with.
‘Affirmative. One degree centigrade hotter than last night.’
Caligula smiled, nodded. Some of the things Stern and the others said confused him. They used words he didn’t quite understand. He was sure he would understand these words, the strange language he’d heard Stern and the others of his guards use occasionally, when he properly became God.
Not so long now.
‘Will you walk with me?’
Stern nodded. Caligula admired the sculpted contours of the man, the fascinating olive-coloured armour he and his men wore; so light and yet so effective. And their helmets, so odd-looking.
‘Affirmative,’ Stern replied. His Latin perfect. His accent still so very foreign.
Caligula’s restless feet took him across the atrium, down the main passage. Three steps dutifully behind him, the soft clunk of Stern’s boots, the gentle clatter of his armour echoed in the stillness.
‘Do you ever dream, Stern?’
‘Negative.’
‘Have you no wishes? No fantasies? No desires?’
‘Negative. I have mission parameters that need to be fulfilled. That is all.’
Caligula turned and smiled at him curiously. ‘You and your men are such a puzzle to me, Stern. You are not like anyone else. You do not seem to have the weaknesses of other men, other soldiers. I never see you sleep,’ he said, laughing, ‘or get drunk.’
‘It is not a requirement.’
He’d never seen them sleep as such, but every now and then Stern and his men periodically went into a sort of trance, a meditation. He’d looked in a number of times on the palace quarters he’d given them over the years and seen the twelve of them sitting bolt upright on their cots staring into space in perfect, motionless silence. Nothing like the soldiers’ quarters he remembered from his youth: the smell of stale sweat and cheap wine, the raucous noise of men off duty, the clack of dice on a table, raised voices cursing poor fortune. The exchange of crude profanities and vulgar stories.
He rested an affectionate hand on Stern’s firm neck. ‘If only all men were like you. Dutiful, loyal.’
Stern’s grey eyes rested on him. He said nothing.
‘But then you aren’t really normal men, are you?’
‘Correct.’ Stern had explained on several occasions precisely what he and his colleagues were, again using a host of words that Caligula couldn’t begin to understand, but was certain he would one day soon. The language of angels — so cryptic.
‘You’re just like me,’ said Caligula. ‘Not of this world… this ordinary, tedious world. But somewhere far greater, somewhere magnificent. Somewhere beyond.’
‘Affirmative. We are not from this time.’
He squeezed Stern’s neck gently, feeling the cords of muscle there. Stern and the others were incredibly powerful for their size. And remarkably agile. They made superb gladiators.
In fact, perfect gladiators. None of the gladiators in the various commercial ludi based around Rome had ever managed to beat any of Stern’s men. Once, just once, one of the finest fighters from the ludus at Capua — a myrmillo — had managed to slice through the lower arm of one of Stern’s men. But, with just his remaining hand, he had been able to finish the gladiator off. Crushing the man’s neck, despite the man stabbing and stabbing him over and over with his gladius. One of the public displays he put on for the people from time to time: a free fight. Free entertainment. And a reminder to those with ideas in their heads that his guards — his Viri Lapidei, his Stone
