bode well.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’ Vespasian got to his feet with a sigh. ‘Well, if I’ve got to do this then I might as well do it properly; I’ve just got to fetch something from my room before we go, Clemens.’
Caligula’s new theatre was not built on as grand a scale as he would have liked but this was for practical reasons; the semicircular structure filled the area between the Rostrum and the Temple of Saturn with its stage set hard against the steps of the Temple of Concordia, almost prohibiting access. However, it did hold over two thousand spectators who were thoroughly enjoying the show, much to the bemusement and disgust of Vespasian and the others of the senatorial order who had been forced to attend. In a humiliation of the Senate Caligula had dispensed with their reserved seating and they were forced to sit among the urban rabble. They had cheered as Caligula, dressed as Hercules in a golden lion-skin and brandishing a golden club, had slowly disrobed his sister. They had cheered louder as he had put her through a series of gymnastic poses, each designed to explicitly show off the female form. And then they had cheered even louder as he began to take her through a succession of sexual acts on the enormous, purple-sheeted bed, while she howled like a harpy.
‘Bring me my gladiators,’ Caligula shouted, pulling himself out of Drusilla, who knelt on the bed before him and then fell onto her belly, breathing deeply.
Vespasian was relieved to see four oiled, naked gladiators, an Ethiopian and three Celts, all at the peak of physical condition, striding onto the stage. He had been dreading a summons to join in the obscenity being acted out before him and now felt confident that his services would not be required.
‘This is going to be worse than you think,’ Clemens whispered in his ear as Drusilla turned her attention to the new arrivals clustered round her with an urgency and greed born out of uninhibited and shameless lust.
‘How can it be worse?’
‘You’ll see. I’ve got archers stationed around the theatre to make sure that nothing happens to Caligula — he was concerned about letting one of the gladiators have a sword so close to him in the finale.’
Hardly able to believe his eyes, Vespasian watched in mounting horror as the siblings created a scene with three of the gladiators of such carnality that it made Caligula’s behaviour in the circus with the catamite seem almost acceptable. The tangle of bodies began to writhe with escalating fervour, matched by the increasing clamour of the crowd, until reaching such a pinnacle of ecstasy that they were no longer aware of their surroundings. At this point a Praetorian walked onto the stage and handed a sword to the unoccupied fourth gladiator and then gave a signal towards the back of the theatre. Vespasian looked around and saw that archers were now standing at intervals behind the spectators; all had their bows drawn and were aiming at the newly armed man as he approached, from behind, the Ethiopian gladiator servicing Caligula. Sensing imminent blood the roar of the crowd, already deafening, swelled to ear-splitting proportions. Down on the stage, Caligula raised his fists to his shoulders and flapped his arms in imitation of a cockerel’s wings and then slumped down onto his sister’s back. Grasping Caligula’s hips, the Ethiopian threw his head back and let out a roar, unheard over the din of the crowd, of satisfaction; it was the last sound he ever made. With a lightning flash the fourth gladiator swept his head from his shoulders, sending it spinning into the audience, and releasing a powerful jet of crimson blood, shooting from his torso, high up into the air to splatter down on Caligula and Drusilla. Once the blood had stopped raining down on them Caligula reached back and pushed the decapitated corpse out of him; it crumpled to the floor. The executioner raised his sword in a gladiator’s salute to the crowd and was instantaneously struck by a dozen well-aimed arrows that hurled him back as if he had been yanked by an invisible rope. Seemingly oblivious of this development, Caligula and Drusilla were staring lovingly into each other’s eyes as they rubbed blood over one another. The two surviving gladiators rose warily to their feet, looking anxiously at the archers who had reloaded and were now aiming at them.
‘He was stupid,’ Clemens shouted in Vespasian’s ear, ‘he had been warned to drop the sword as soon as he’d cut off the other man’s head; if he’d listened he wouldn’t be dead. The other two will be fine so long as they don’t go near the sword.’
Vespasian could not think of anything to say and just stared dumbfounded between the Emperor and his sister smearing blood over their bodies and the crowd who had started to play catch with the decapitated gladiator’s head. Where was the honour? What had happened to dignitas? Was this to be the tone of the new age, filth and degradation until the Phoenix returned in five hundred years? And yet this was the Rome that he had worked for in his support for Antonia; this was the Rome that she had unwittingly preserved while keeping her family in power. He had seen it in its infancy on Capreae in the court of Tiberius. He had seen the debauched Emperor’s ‘fishies’ — dwarves and children copulating freely in the water — and had heard Caligula describe them as fun. He had witnessed Caligula’s behaviour with his sisters and knew that incest was committed regularly; he had watched Caligula enjoy his troupe of dwarves and seen him service whore after whore in a public tavern. He had hoped that these were the heights of his excesses; but no, they had just been eclipsed. Vespasian feared then that the height had not yet been achieved.
Eventually the siblings came out of their private world; Caligula rose to his feet and signalled for silence. ‘Who has the head?’
A young man dressed in a threadbare tunic and worn cloak held up the grisly item by an ear. ‘I do, Caesar.’
‘Then you win the game and one thousand aurei when you bring it to me.’
The young man’s neighbours immediately set upon him, each desperate for such a sum that would raise them out of poverty for life. Caligula laughed and the fight quickly spread as more and more people tried to get close to the prize; he turned on his heel and offered his hand to his sister. Naked and red with blood, the two siblings walked from the stage, with heads held high, at a sedate pace as if they were a newlywed couple from an old and dignified patrician family making their way to the bridal feast. Behind them they left escalating chaos and death.
‘We had better present ourselves to him now,’ Clemens said, ‘he was most insistent that we come and see him immediately after the…the…’ He left the last word hanging and waved his hand vaguely towards the stage as if he could not find the right way to describe what they had just witnessed.
Vespasian understood his difficulty perfectly.
‘Wasn’t she wonderful?’ Caligula enthused, licking blood from Drusilla’s face as Vespasian and Clemens were ushered into his presence. They were standing in the centre of a pavilion of soft, purple fabric that let the sun’s rays gently through. ‘And was I not more potent than that mere demi-god Hercules?’
Looking at Caligula, Vespasian found it hard to find any similarities between the spindly legged Emperor and the immensely strong Hero. He tried to banish from his mind everything that he had seen and concentrated on keeping his face neutral. ‘You outshone every one of the gods with your prowess, Princeps,’ he lied blatantly in his most reverential voice, ‘we mere mortals can only dream of stamina and vigour like you possess.’
‘Yes,’ Caligula agreed with a sympathetic look, ‘your women must be very disappointed; it’s no wonder that Caenis has spent so much time in Egypt. When’s she due back?’
‘I don’t know, Princeps. I believe that you require a service of me?’ Vespasian replied, anxious to change the subject.
Caligula cocked his head, looking momentarily confused; he ran a hand through his matted hair. ‘A service? I always require service.’ He snapped his fingers and Callistus brought forward a scroll that he handed, with much bowing, to his master. ‘Macro and that slut wife of his, Ennia, are due to leave for Ostia at midday. I want you and Clemens to be at the port waiting for them to give them this; they should find it fairly self-explanatory.’ He handed the scroll to Vespasian and looked at him thoughtfully for a few moments. ‘I think that you should be a praetor next year; I like my friends to do well.’
‘If you believe me to be worthy of it, thank you, Princeps,’ Vespasian replied, hiding his unease at the thought of not being able to leave Rome for a whole year with Caligula out of control.
Caligula slapped him on the back and started to lead him from the pavilion. ‘Of course you’re worthy, your god and Emperor deems you so.’
A roar from the crowd gathered at the entrance greeted them as they emerged into the sun-lit Forum. Caligula — still naked, still sticky with gore — spread his arms and acknowledged them before taking Vespasian’s hand and raising it. ‘This man is about to do a great service for me and for Rome,’ he called out. The crowd quietened to hear his words better. ‘His name is Titus Flavius Vespasianus and despite being a senator he is favoured by me.’
Vespasian tensed his face into a strained smile and managed to hold himself with dignity as the crowd
