‘He’s making the point that this time the Guard has chosen the Emperor,’ Gaius whispered to Vespasian over the muttering of their unhappy colleagues, ‘and we have to ratify it or face their swords.’
Gnaeus Acerronius Proculus, the Senior Consul, remained seated on his curule chair as the small party clattered up the centre of the House. ‘The Senate calls upon Quintus Naevius Cordus Sutorius Macro to brief it on the health of our beloved Emperor, Tiberius. Is the rumour true?’ Proculus called, taking the initiative in an attempt to reassert senatorial authority.
‘Of course it’s true, as you well know, Consul,’ Macro growled, ‘and I’m here to tell-’
‘Conscript Fathers,’ Proculus cut in, ‘the Praetorian prefect has brought us the most grievous news: confirmation that our Emperor is dead.’ He began to wail theatrically.
The whole Senate followed his lead; cries of woe and anguish filled the House, drowning out Macro’s attempts to make himself heard until, humiliated, he was forced to wait impotently to be allowed to speak.
Vespasian and Gaius joined in the protestations of grief, wholeheartedly enjoying the look on Macro’s face. ‘I don’t know how wise a move that was,’ Vespasian shouted in Gaius’ ear, ‘but it was well done and most amusing.’
‘In as much as goading a lion is amusing,’ Gaius replied. ‘But if he was trying to wrest some authority back from the Guard to the Senate then it was certainly a good start.’
As the expressions of grief continued a pair of dark eyes locked with Vespasian’s from the other side of the House; with a jolt he realised that Corvinus was back in Rome and had taken his seat in the Senate.
‘I propose a ten-day period of mourning to start from this moment,’ Proculus eventually called out above the din. ‘All trials will be suspended, no sentences will be carried out and all public business, including that of this House, will cease. After that time we will ratify Tiberius’ will and vote Gaius Caesar Germanicus all honours according to his station. The House will divide.’
‘The House will listen to me!’ Macro bellowed.
‘The House will divide, prefect. You wouldn’t want it said that you stopped the House voting a suitable period of mourning for an emperor, would you?’
‘Fuck the period of mourning, Consul, I will be heard. The Emperor Gaius has sent me to give you Tiberius’ will and tell you to nullify it.’
Proculus looked suddenly unsure. ‘But surely it names him as Tiberius’ heir?’
‘It names him as the co-heir along with Tiberius Gemellus; it cannot be left like that, it’s a recipe for civil war.’
‘On what grounds can we change an emperor’s will?’
‘On the grounds that he was mentally incapable when he made it; and if that’s not enough for you, do you hear that?’ Macro gesticulated towards the noise coming through the door; there was now a violent ring to it. ‘That is the sound of the people wanting to be ruled over by one man, not by one man and a boy. My men have been circulating among the crowd telling them the terms of the will and they don’t like it; I can guarantee that none of you will get out of here alive until you change it. And while you’re about it I suggest that you vote the Emperor all the titles and honours that you feel will please him; after that you can vote on what the fuck you like.’ Macro threw the scroll-case at the Senior Consul, turned and marched smartly out with his escort.
Proculus’ shoulders sagged; his attempt to reassert the Senate’s authority as the legitimate power in Rome had come to a humiliating end. He knew that none of his colleagues would risk the wrath of the mob. He got wearily to his feet. ‘I propose that this House nullifies Tiberius’ will and votes Gaius Caesar Germanicus as his sole heir and therefore the only Emperor.’
Tears streamed down Caligula’s face; his voice was high with emotion, straining with grief. ‘In his modesty he refused the title of “Father of the Country”; he refused to be worshipped as a god, preferring instead to take his reward for his selfless service in the love that his people bore him for his just and benign rule.’
‘I can’t help but wonder if he is really talking about Tiberius,’ Gaius muttered to Vespasian out of the corner of his mouth.
‘If he is, it makes a nice change,’ Vespasian replied, ‘that’s almost the first time that he’s mentioned him.’
They had already stood through nearly two hours of Caligula praising his father Germanicus as well as his great-uncle Augustus and thereby reminding the people of Rome of the stock that he came from and securing in their minds his right to be emperor. Now it seemed that he had finally got on to the subject that he was meant to be eulogising, although, judging by the looks on the faces of the other senators standing with them on the steps of Pompey’s Theatre in the Campus Martius, Vespasian could see that his uncle was not the only person having difficulty in trying to equate the new Emperor’s words with the character of his predecessor.
Standing on a high dais, Caligula carried on his emotional eulogy, surrounded by actors wearing the funeral masks of Tiberius’ ancestors. Next to the dais stood the unlit pyre upon which was set the bier that supported the corpse; it had been smuggled into the city under cover of night, partly to protect it from the mob but mainly so that nothing distracted attention from the political aim of the day: that the citizens of Rome accept Caligula as their Emperor.
The Campus Martius was heaving with people come not to hear the palpable nonsense that Caligula was spouting but to see the dazzling young Emperor himself, resplendent in purple laced with gold embroidery and crowned with a wreath of gilded laurels. When he had entered the city earlier that day they had hailed him as their saviour and shouted out affectionate greetings and called him their star, their pet and beloved son of the great Germanicus come to usher in the new golden age of Rome. The phrase had resonated in Vespasian’s mind as he had looked on with a growing sense of dread mixed with a vague hope that perhaps this adulation would spur Caligula on to rule with temperance and prudence, keeping his vices private and his affability public.
After another quarter of an hour of unrestrained drivel about Tiberius’ virtue, sobriety and sense of justice — with a brief foray into the truth by way of praise for his scholarship — Caligula finally drew to a close with a prayer of thanks to the gods for granting Tiberius such longevity, and regret — shared by no one else in the vast crowd — that his time had now come to meet the Ferryman. As his final words died away the pyre was lit and the professional mourners renewed their wailing and rending of garments with a fervour that amused the mob that had only a few days previously been calling for the hated Emperor’s body to be cast without ceremony into the Tiber.
Flames quickly consumed the dry wood, coaxed on by bags of oil within the pyre, sending a heat shimmer and trails of smoke up into the crisp, early spring air. Priests and augurs scanned the sky for bird-signs, hoping to see an eagle do something auspicious that they would interpret, after careful consultation with the young Emperor, in a way that best suited the politics of the transition of power. But none came and nor could they fabricate one, since the event was being witnessed by such a large crowd, all of whom were also searching for omens.
As the bier caught light and the corpse began to sizzle, Caligula descended from the dais and, flanked by the Consuls and praetors and preceded by twelve lictors, made his way towards Pompey’s Theatre, through the crowd who now cheered their new hero with an enthusiasm fuelled by the final consumption of the old Emperor’s body. Caligula basked in their adoration, dispensing largesse and tickets for the funeral games to be held after the mourning period was ended.