Robert Fabbri - False God of Rome

‘And Paulus?’

‘Our only condition will be that Flaccus at least expels him but preferably executes him, then we will be prepared to go back to how things were before. We’ve realised that we are not strong enough in the city to make demands, we should be content even if that means being second-class citizens and having a mad emperor’s statue in our temples.’

Guided by the blazing light of the Pharos the ship glided out of the harbour under sail and oars as the first glow of dawn broke in the eastern sky.

Once clear of the mole it heaved to for the Jews to disembark into the boat. The flayed corpses were lowered in and the survivors quickly followed.

‘Thank you, Vespasian,’ Tiberius said as he prepared to go over the side. His torso was heavily bandaged and blood stained his back. ‘I owe you more than my life, I owe you my hide too. I will always be in your debt.’

‘One day I will call it in,’ Vespasian said, helping him over the side.

Alexander was last to go. ‘We overheard your conversations with Flaccus and then with the priest; tell me, did you get the breastplate?’

Vespasian slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Alexander, my friend, let me put it this way: if you had to choose between giving the man who has the power of life and death over you what he asked for or a replica of the thing, which would you choose?’

Alexander nodded. ‘It makes me feel better to know that the Greeks have lost something precious to them, even if they aren’t aware of it.’

Vespasian looked over Alexander’s shoulder at the scores of fires still burning in the Jewish Quarter and shook his head at the wanton destruction. ‘For my part, Alexander, I’d rather it stayed here with them. Now that I’ve got it, I’m loath to take it back to Caligula. Who knows what new madness possessing it will push him to?’

The docks at Ostia were strangely quiet; gone was the frenetic bustle of activity, to be replaced by a languid indolence that was not at all in keeping with a busy port at the height of the sailing season. Apart from a couple of gangs of dockworkers unloading two small traders, the quays were almost empty with only the occasional food vendor or whore attempting to sell their wares to sporadic, uninterested passers-by. Even the seagulls seemed to have lost motivation, and instead of cawing overhead or diving for scraps they sat in long lines on the warehouse roofs looking down balefully at the inactivity below that brought with it, for them as well as the citizens of Rome, a shortage of food.

‘Do you think that the plague could have broken out again?’ Magnus asked as the trireme came to rest alongside one of the many deserted jetties.

‘They wouldn’t have let us dock if it had,’ the triarchus informed him as the gangplank was lowered.

‘We’ll soon find out what’s happening,’ Vespasian said, watching the anxious-looking port aedile walking briskly towards them accompanied by a scurrying clerk.

‘Is the senator Titus Flavius Vespasianus aboard?’ the aedile called out as he mounted the gangway.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Thank the gods, senator, I am so pleased to see you; now perhaps we can get this madness over with and get back to normal.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The Emperor’s bridge, of course. Trade has come to a standstill and the people are getting hungry; he’s requisitioned every ship that’s arrived in the waters around Italia and sent them down to the Bay of Neapolis. There’re thousands of them down there all chained together and he won’t let them leave until he’s ridden across them and he won’t ride across them until he’s got whatever you’re bringing for him. I hope for everyone’s sake, especially yours, that you have it because he’s getting very impatient. He sends messengers two or three times a day to see if you’ve arrived.’

‘Well, I do have it.’ Vespasian lifted the leather bag in confirmation.

‘It’s as well for you that you do; I’ve orders to have you sent to Rome in chains if you come back empty-handed. As it is, you’re to ride to the Emperor immediately; I have a fast horse waiting for you.’

‘I’m accompanying a lady.’

‘She’ll have to follow behind in a carriage — I’ll organise one. And triarchus, as soon as those two merchantmen are offloaded you’re to sail with them down to the bay to become an integral part of that fucking bridge.’ With that he gave a harassed look, shook his head disbelievingly and quickly disembarked.

‘What was that, my dear?’ Flavia asked, appearing from the cabin.

‘I’m to present myself to the Emperor at once. Magnus and Ziri will accompany you back to my uncle’s house. With luck I’ll already be there when you arrive.’

‘I don’t think that it will have anything to do with luck,’ Magnus observed darkly. ‘It’ll be more to do with an insane man’s whim, if you take my meaning?’

Vespasian scowled at Magnus and then briskly walked down the gangway.

‘He refused to let you have it?’ Caligula was outraged and shook his trident threateningly at Vespasian. Behind him a long line of Rome’s urban poor shuffled incongruously through the grand atrium of Augustus’ House watched over by Praetorian Guards. ‘Why didn’t you just take it?’

‘I did, Divine God of the Sea,’ Vespasian replied, using the form of address that Clemens had recommended on account of the Emperor’s recently stated ambition of usurping Neptune’s place in the Roman pantheon. ‘But I had to break into the mausoleum, steal it and replace it with a replica without it being noticed.’

‘Ooh, that sounds like fun.’ Caligula emerged, with some difficulty, from the impluvium and struggled to walk in the tight skirt of scaly fish skin that adorned his lower body. ‘Was it a jolly caper?’

‘It had its moments.’

‘I should have come too; I could do with some distraction from all the demands made upon me, both by gods and men.’

‘I’m sure that it would have gone much more smoothly had you been with us, Divine God of the Sea.’

‘What?’ Caligula looked momentarily confused and then glanced down at his dripping fish-skirt. ‘Oh yes, of course, it must be confusing for you; I’m no longer in the water so I’m back to being the Divine Gaius. Now show me the breastplate.’

Vespasian reached into his bag.

‘Clemens!’ Caligula screamed, suddenly forcing the points of his trident hard against Vespasian’s chest, piercing his toga.

Vespasian froze as Clemens came pushing through the ragged queue that had come to an abrupt halt at the Emperor’s scream.

‘Is he trying to kill me?’ Caligula blurted out, glaring at Vespasian with his dark-rimmed sunken eyes. A stain of blood surrounded each trident point.

‘No, Divine Gaius,’ Clemens assured him as he took the bag, ‘I checked it for weapons myself; it only contains the breastplate.’

‘Show me!’

Clemens slowly put his hand into the bag; Caligula jerked his trident from Vespasian’s chest to Clemens’ throat. Keeping his chin high and looking down the trident’s shaft at his Emperor, Clemens gradually pulled out the breastplate.

‘You’re right.’ Caligula breathed deeply. ‘It’s just the breastplate; hold this.’ He handed the trident to Clemens, oblivious to the fact that he had just given him the means to murder him, and took the breastplate. He rubbed a hand over it and looked up at Vespasian, smiling wildly. ‘That’s it, my friend, you haven’t tried to cheat me, this really is it, I remember the stain. I remember asking my father why the priests hadn’t been crucified for allowing something to soil Alexander.’ He held it to his chest. ‘How do I look?’