Robert Fabbri - False God of Rome

The brothers turned, both smiling at the truth of the statement.

‘Pallas,’ Vespasian said with genuine pleasure, ‘how are you? Sabinus tells me that you live here now.’

Pallas looked grave. ‘I think that you’ve answered your own question, Vespasian: I live here.’

‘It’s as bad as that, is it?’

Pallas pointed down into the garden to where some guests were laughing with evidently feigned hilarity at a man in their midst. He stood with his hands outstretched, except he had no hands, just cauterised blackened stumps; his hands were tied to a piece of rope and hung around his neck along with a sign.

‘The sign says: “I stole from the Emperor”,’ Pallas informed them.

‘And did he?’ Sabinus asked.

‘A small strip of decorative silver had fallen off a couch and he was taking it to the steward to be mended when Caligula saw him with it; life here has become very arbitrary.’

‘Life has always been arbitrary.’

‘Granted, but generally within the parameters of the law; our new god seems to have forgotten about the law. My patron, Claudius, however, loves the law; think about that, gentlemen.’ Pallas patted them both on the shoulder and walked away.

‘Don’t get involved,’ Vespasian warned Sabinus as they descended the steps.

‘I’ve no intention of doing so,’ Sabinus replied, taking two cups of wine from a slave and handing one to his brother, ‘I intend to stay alive. However, it’s comforting to know that we have a good friend close to the only obvious heir to the Purple.’

A fanfare of bucinae blared over the garden and all conversation stopped as everyone looked with sycophantic longing towards the main doors of the house at the top of the steps. A horse trotted out and looked around in a semi-curious equine fashion. From behind it came a shout of ‘Hail Incitatus’.

The dinner guests responded immediately. ‘Hail Incitatus! Hail Incitatus!’

Having never paid homage to a horse before, Vespasian found it a struggle to keep a straight face as he joined in with an enthusiasm fired more by the absurdity of the situation rather than any great respect for the beast being lauded.

The chant quickly turned into ‘Hail Divine Caesar!’ as Caligula, flanked by Clemens and Chaerea, appeared next to his favourite subject, dressed soberly — Vespasian thought, considering some of the costumes that he had seen him wearing — in a purple toga edged in gold and crowned with a golden laurel wreath.

‘This evening,’ Caligula declaimed, ‘we are here to honour not only me but also my good friend, my trusted ally, my comrade, the man who brought the breastplate of Alexander back from Egypt to me: Titus Flavius Vespasianus. Tomorrow at noon we can begin our progress down to the Bay of Neapolis where I shall ride in triumph across my greatest creation. Come forward, Vespasian, and receive my thanks — you shall be a praetor next year.’

Vespasian walked slowly back up the steps to a beaming Caligula, who held his arms open to him. As he reached the penultimate step he was enfolded in a purple embrace and kissed on each cheek to the applause of the people below.

‘Only a man like this,’ Caligula declared, turning Vespasian around to face the audience and putting a hand on each shoulder, ‘could I trust to go to Egypt, the source of so much of Rome’s wealth. No senator has visited it for four years, not since Tiberius’ astrologer, Thrasyllus, warned him of the imminent return of the Phoenix, heralding a great change and made a prophecy about it. Did you see the Phoenix while you were in Alexandria, Vespasian?’

‘No, Divine Gaius,’ Vespasian replied truthfully.

Caligula looked triumphant. ‘Of course not, because it has flown. Last year, three years after its rebirth, it was seen leaving Egypt flying east; Thrasyllus’ prophecy was not fulfilled. You are blessed, my sheep, because the change heralded by the Phoenix is that Rome is ruled by an immortal god; I will rule for another five hundred years until the Phoenix is sighted again. Until then I open Egypt back up to any member of the Senate who has good reason to travel there.’

This was greeted with a loud cheer from the many senators who had dealings with the Emperor’s private province.

‘And now we shall eat; Vespasian shall have the great honour of reclining on my right.’ He moved past Vespasian and began to descend the steps.

‘Divine Gaius,’ Chaerea said in his high-pitched voice, following him down, ‘what is the watchword for the night?’

Caligula stopped and laughed. ‘I love his sweet voice!’ He turned and put his middle finger to Chaerea’s lips, parting them slightly and then wiggling them provocatively. ‘Such a sweet voice deserves a sweet watchword, does it not?’

Sycophantic cries of agreement compounded the Praetorian tribune’s humiliation.

‘In which case the watchword is Venus; the sweetest of gods for the sweetest of men.’

Caligula turned and skipped daintily down the steps to the raucous laughter of his guests. Vespasian saw the anger burning in Chaerea’s eyes but otherwise his face remained impassive. Clemens’ hand went to his sword hilt as he watched his junior colleague control himself. Finally Chaerea saluted and matched stiffly away.

Magnus would not have lost his bet, Vespasian reflected as he tried to swallow a mouthful of perch while watching yet another beheading on one of the stages below. In a strange juxtaposition the other stage contained a group of dancers performing to the soft melody of two flutes.

‘Something for everyone,’ Caligula enthused, feeding an apple to Incitatus whose head nuzzled between him and Vespasian. ‘Art or death, take your pick and enjoy.’

‘P-p-personally I’ll t-t-take death, Divine and Supreme G-G-Gaius,’ Claudius stammered, watching the blood spurt from the severed neck with relish; his arousal was plain for all to see and the pretty, fair-skinned girl reclining next to him had edged as far away from him as good manners would allow. ‘I could never understand the p-p-point of dancing.’

‘That’s because there’s no point in you dancing, cripple,’ Caligula observed, ‘your legs would buckle underneath you.’ He fell about laughing far more uproariously than the observation deserved; his dinner companions had no option but to join in.

‘Your d-divine insight is faultless,’ Claudius said through his own laughter.

‘So let’s prove the point; go and dance with them, Uncle.’

Claudius’ slack-lipped mouth fell open and his bloodshot eyes flicked around the table appealing for help; it was not forthcoming, not even from his pretty companion, who looked away with a faint smile of regret edging her moist, pale lips.

‘Go!’ Caligula hissed with quiet menace; malice played in his eyes.

Realising that he had no choice but to humiliate himself in front of the whole company, Claudius got to his unsteady feet and lurched off down the steps to the lower garden.

‘This will be highly amusing,’ Caligula affirmed. ‘I’ve made him run, skip, jump and crawl but I’ve never made him dance.’ He turned to Claudius’ attractive companion. ‘Can you make him fuck, Messalina, or are you putting that horror off until your wedding night?’

Messalina joined in the communal laughter but the mirth did not reach her cold, dark eyes, which Vespasian felt glare at him as he pretended to wipe a tear from his eye.

Claudius shambled onto the stage and began a series of jerky jigs and pirouettes, waving his arms in an ungainly manner while the confused dancers carried on their graceful routine around him. On the stage next to them four chained lions began to devour the corpse of the decapitated criminal. Behind them the sun sank below the Circus Maximus.