Douglas Jackson: Caligula

He turned to face the other man in the room. 'Well put, Tiberius; you have the wisdom of your grandfather. We must concentrate on the domestic issues that plague our people before we embark on the great building projects I have planned. The arch to my mother's memory can wait until we have constructed the new aqueduct system we discussed.'

He smiled at his cousin. Tiberius Julius Caesar Nero Gemellus really was a fine-looking young man. Intelligent too, and one of the most eloquent orators to grace the floor of the Senate. They had been friends since his great-uncle, Gemellus's grandfather, the Emperor Tiberius, took them both to his palace at Capri; they played together, fought together and swam together, were taught the skills of oratory and debate together and had been beaten together when they failed to convince. It was the Emperor's genius that he divined the separate talents which, in his joint heirs, would complement each other to create a Rome greater than ever before. They had learned how to govern.

How well it had worked. In six months, they had achieved more than the old Emperor had in the last ten years of his reign. And the power. Gaius had always known power, but this was different. The power to do anything. The power to sweep aside the mundane and the ordinary. The power over life and death. So much power he could feel it surging through his veins like an elixir, freeing his mind and filling it full of plans and schemes and ideas.

The brilliance of it all made him smile again.

His cousin smiled back.

A pity he had to die.

In the late spring of the following year Rufus took the troupe on a tour of the south, performing in a series of rude stadiums, before even ruder crowds. But Fronto sent him word of Cupido's progress and successes.

Rufus was pleased to receive the letters, but their contents, though they spoke of victories won, blood spilled and survival against great odds, gave him little pleasure. He remembered the day he had berated his friend for not appreciating his talent, and the mental scars he had exposed.

As the tour progressed there was a worrying trend to the notes. The victories continued, but Fronto, in his guarded way, hinted at hurdles placed before the crowd's favourite. Of displeasure in high places and of danger not only within the arena.

Fronto travelled south at the beginning of July to join Rufus in the thriving city of Pompeii, a prosperous harbour on the Bay of Neapolis. Pompeii lay in the shadow of a large mountain carpeted with vines and olive trees, and had a fine amphitheatre. Rufus had been surprised to discover its citizens were almost as cultured as those of Rome. The wealthiest Pompeiians owned elaborate villas overlooking the city from the lower slopes of the mountain, but Rufus was lodged in a former hospitium the city authorities used to billet visiting entertainers. Naturally, Fronto was too grand to stay in such humble surroundings and took himself off to the home of his cousin, Marcus Lucretius Fronto, a compact but rather fine house which fronted a wide alley off one of the main streets.

A house slave led Rufus through wide double doors into the atrium. It was a small, bright area, which opened directly on to the tablinum, and he could not take his eyes off the exquisite paintings that covered the walls of the room.

In one, a bronzed god in a toga of the most brilliant azure blue, wearing a golden helmet crested with eagle feathers, stood over a beautiful dark-haired goddess in a dress of shimmering turquoise. Rufus thought it must be a wedding scene, for the pair were surrounded by attendants in equally elaborate costumes. He was still gawking from the atrium when Fronto swept in.

He noticed Rufus studying the painting. 'Not bad, eh? Old Lucretius does well for himself. Who would have thought a backwater like this would be such a gold mine. We could do worse than stay here for a while, don't you think?'

Rufus was surprised; the itinerary had been finalized months before. Fronto's latest letter even suggested they might cut the tour short to return to Rome and cash in on the resurgence in the games under Tiberius's heirs.

'The new sequences are almost ready. The performers are at their peak. It's time they were given the chance to show what they can do on a bigger stage. You said yourself there has never been a better time to be in the entertainment business.'

Fronto sniffed and ran his hand over his beard. 'Yes, I did say that. But things have changed in Rome.'

'What do you mean? I thought Gaius Germanicus and his cousin loved the games?'

'Oh yes, Gaius loves the games. No one loves them more. Rome is one big spectacle day and night and the mob loves him for it. It's the type of games that's the problem. The young Tiberius has disappeared, by the way.'

'Disappeared?'

'It seems his grandfather reckoned on his being able to curb Gaius's wilder enthusiasms. He must have believed he was doing the boy an honour by making him joint heir, but all he did was sign his death warrant.'

Rufus thought for a moment. 'I can't see why that should be a problem. We are just businessmen. What happens to princes and kings doesn't concern us.'

'Don't be so naive, Rufus. Anything affecting the games affects us. Gaius has changed everything. For the first few months the people loved him. When he arrived in Rome from Misenum they threw flowers at his feet and made sacrifices to him. And he's clever. He called a pay parade of the Praetorian Guard and handed over the money they were owed by Tiberius. A thousand sesterces each, they say. So now no ambitious young legionary commander can come marching in the back door and throw him out without a major battle.'

Rufus frowned. 'So why should any of this change our plans? You say he loves the games? Then let us give him a games such as he's never seen before. You haven't seen Marcus's latest trick. He — '

'Haven't you been listening?' Fronto interrupted. 'The games you knew are gone. With Gaius there is no more play-acting. No more little men running away from a couple of pet lions, being eaten, and appearing again to thunderous applause. With Gaius there is only blood — real blood. He pits cripples and old men against the most famous gladiators in Rome and laughs at the slaughter. He sends Roman knights of the finest families who have never raised a sword in anger against teams of his best fighters and mocks them as they die. The arenas haven't seen carnage like it since the days of Caesar.'

Rufus remembered the letters. 'Cupido? You wrote that Cupido had won many victories. That he was even more famous now than before. But the Cupido I know would never be part of what you describe. He has too much honour.'

'You're a fool, Rufus,' Fronto said, but his tone was kindly. 'Cupido is a slave. Whatever honour he had he left behind in the ashes of his home on the day he was taken. He fights who he is told to fight, but…'

'But?'

Fronto shrugged. 'But Cupido too is a fool. He could have been one of the Emperor's favourites. All he had to do was do what he does best: kill, and kill with style. But not Cupido. When they sent the old men against him, he should have played with them as a cat does a mouse, entertaining Gaius and his band of sycophants. Instead, he ignored them. The golden idiot stood around flexing his muscles and doing his exercises and left the killing to the trainees. The mob found it hilarious, but Gaius thought they were laughing at him.

'To punish him, Gaius arranged for Cupido to face half a dozen of the nobles he's had ruined since he came to power. He must have calculated that even aristocratic louts like them would give him a contest worth watching. So what does the boy do? He puts on an exhibition. Went through them like a whirlwind. Cut, thrust, stab. They didn't even have time to parry. It must have lasted all of five minutes. When it was over, Gaius had to stand up and applaud with the rest, or he'd have looked silly. Gaius isn't going to forget Cupido in a hurry, and that's not good.'