Caligula slept for an hour. When he woke, he was paler, and more composed, taking more interest in Drusilla than in the tally of mounting corpses for the rest of the afternoon. The games finished and he returned to the imperial house on the Palatine, where he had ordered a banquet that was to cost the treasury millions of sesterces. Caligula demanded that Drusilla share his couch, where he lolled, drinking incessantly, whilst every possible dish was served: young kid, pheasant and goose, lamprey and turbot, sow’s udders. All the best chefs in Rome had been hired for the occasion, and Caligula led many of the guests on a tour of the kitchens, where they flocked like starving, screeching peacocks, standing on tiptoe, biting their fingernails as they watched each chef prepare a dish. The Emperor had insisted on inviting the ‘Victor Ludorum’ from the amphitheatre, a burly Thracian with the nickname of ‘Lord of the Dolls’ because of his sexual prowess amongst the women of Rome.
Caligula was beside himself with pleasure at the consequent revelry and chaos. Musicians and jugglers noisily thronged about and, despite Agrippina’s efforts, Caligula joined them. He insisted that the jugglers explain how objects thrown into the air seemed to fly back into their hands. Agrippina ate and drank nothing. She tried to distract her brother with comedians and actors who performed a bedroom farce, ‘Love Locked Out’, which Caligula watched intently. After the first act, he kissed Drusilla full on the lips and staggered to his feet, before stopping convulsively as if poisoned, staring at an actor wearing a bright red mask. Caligula thrust a hand out towards him.
‘So, you are back!’ he bellowed. ‘Has Tiberius sent you up from Hell? Who invited you here?’
Agrippina half rose from her couch. The Emperor’s screams stilled all the clamour.
‘What are you doing here?’ Caligula demanded.
The actor wearing the mask stood rooted to the spot. Caligula’s hand flew up in the air, he gave a loud scream and collapsed to the floor. Agrippina and Macro immediately took charge: the banqueting hall was cleared and the Emperor was hastily carried to his bedchamber, to which physicians, including Charicles, were summoned. As Agrippina supervised their ministrations, I heard her whisper, ‘He can’t die, not yet!’
Caligula was as white as a sheet, his breath coming in short dying gasps. Indeed, at one point Agrippina had to hold a mirror to his mouth to see if he was still breathing. Charicles examined his mouth and eyes and took his pulse before coming in to the antechamber, where Agrippina, Macro and I had gathered, together with that sly-eyed Greek, Progeones. The inclusion of Progeones was Agrippina’s idea. He was one of those hybrid creatures, who seemed neither truly male nor female. Oh, he had a man’s face and testicles, but the way he talked and moved, especially the flutter of his eyelids, the turn of his mouth and his high-pitched tone, were more suggestive of a woman. He walked with a better wiggle than some of the best courtesans in Rome. Agrippina had hired him to keep an eye on Caligula when he went visiting in the pleasure houses and brothels of Rome. She trusted him completely, claiming to have enough proof of that creature’s execrable habits to have him crucified or strangled a hundred times. I hated him, with his curling eyelashes, dewy glances and affected lisp. I should have killed him that night.
Agrippina led the meeting, as Macro’s men guarded the door.
‘Well,’ she demanded of Charicles. ‘Is he dying?’
‘I don’t believe so, Domina, it’s just a fit.’ Charicles tapped his forehead. ‘More of the mind than the body.’
‘Has he been poisoned?’ Progeones lisped.
Charicles stared at Agrippina. The valerian was a secret: I begged Agrippina with my eyes not to mention it.
‘He’s not been poisoned,’ Charicles confirmed, ‘but he’s in a deep sleep. He may die or. .’ He shrugged.
‘What can we do?’ Agrippina asked.
‘If he dies,’ Macro broke in, ‘Gemellus still lies under house arrest, a possible heir to the throne.’
Agrippina clutched her belly. During those few tense moments I discovered the full extent of Agrippina’s secret ambition: she would have a son, who would ascend to the purple, and when he was Emperor, she would be the one to control him. Anyone else — whoever they were — would simply wear the purple until she and her son were ready.
‘No!’ She shook her head. ‘Macro, send messages to the legion commanders!’
‘Oh, they’ll be loyal enough,’ Macro laughed. ‘And the Praetorian Guard take their orders from me.’
Agrippina sat, sucking on her lips.
‘Let it be. Let it be,’ she murmured.
Agrippina stayed on in the palace where she and Macro managed everything. The news of Caligula’s illness spread through Rome, and people grew hysterical, or pretended to, with grief. The Palatine was besieged by mobs eager for news. Five days after that infamous banquet, Caligula awoke. He pulled himself up in bed and stared around, smacking his lips. His eyes were clear with a mischievous, malicious look, as if it had all been a game. As Agrippina carefully explained his illness. Caligula heard her out, nodding wisely, before demanding to be washed and fed and have Drusilla sent to him.
Caligula kept glancing at Agrippina out of the corner of his eyes, and now and again he would wink at me as if we were sharing a joke. I’ll be honest, the look on that man’s face made me shiver. Whatever soul Caligula possessed before, had died during those five absent days, and thereafter the king of demons controlled his mind.
‘So, he said he’d sacrifice himself, did he?’ he declared, tapping his chin and referring to a Roman citizen Afraneus. ‘Promised to commit suicide if I recovered? Well I have, haven’t I, Parmenon?’ He grinned and winked, clapping his hands. ‘The Gods have blessed me. So, Afraneus must fulfil the vow!’
It was the beginning of the terror.
The following day Afraneus was arrested. Naked, except for a loin cloth, he was paraded through Rome and tossed off the Tarpeian rock. Another official had reputedly offered to fight as a gladiator if Caligula recovered. The Emperor kept him to his promise and made the unfortunate man battle it out in the amphitheatre. Drusilla and Agrippina were in no danger, but the atmosphere at court became tense and watchful. Caligula showed little overt hostility to anyone in particular until one night, at a banquet, he abruptly turned on Macro who had been offering advice on some petty matter.
‘How dare you lecture me?’ Caligula roared. ‘How dare you set yourself up as my superior?’
‘That is not true,’ Agrippina intervened.
‘Isn’t it?’ Caligula yelled.
The Praetorian Prefect leapt to his feet and made ready to leave.
‘You won’t get far!’ Caligula shouted.
Two German auxiliaries, favourites of the Emperor, appeared in the doorway. Tall and blond-haired, they looked like twins and were nicknamed Castor and Pollux. Macro spun round, and glanced beseechingly at Agrippina. She could only stare sorrowfully back. We’d been invited to these banquets for days following the Emperor’s recovery and until now nothing had happened. Caligula had lulled our suspicions until springing like a hunting panther.
‘We should kill him now,’ Agrippina whispered to me.
She moved further up the couch to elicit support from Drusilla but that empty-head was drunk and half asleep, her face pressed against the headrest.
Macro tried reasoning with Caligula. ‘I have only ever wanted to help. .’
‘Assassin!’ Caligula screamed. ‘You are under arrest! The charge is treason!’