False God of Rome

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.’

PART IIII

ALEXANDRIA, JULY AD 38

CHAPTER XVII

‘That 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,