With a flash of burnished iron, Clemens whipped out his sword and forced it between the ribs of the assailant nearest to him. With a scream and a violent jerk the man let go of Caligula’s arm and fell to the floor as Clemens pulled his weapon free in a slop of blood. Vespasian and Magnus both drew their knives from the sheaths in the smalls of their backs and pounced towards the other two men, upturning nearby tables with a crash of earthenware. Women screamed and knives flashed in the lamplight around the room as men immediately decided whether to protect their erstwhile benefactor or join the attempted robbery.
Vespasian slammed into the drunk, knocking him to the floor away from Caligula, but still grasping the purse, as Magnus, now suddenly fully awake, wrenched the hair of the third man and sliced his knife across his exposed throat. Blood sprayed over Caligula’s face and cloak as Clemens put a protective arm around him, pulling him back towards the relative safety of a huddle of frightened women clustered around their table, while keeping his sword pointed at the free-for-all knife fight that had erupted in front of them.
Leaping towards the floored drunk, and narrowly missing a hurled earthenware jug spraying wine, Vespasian crunched a hard-sandalled foot between the man’s legs; his body convulsed in a rapid ripple of sheer agony that sent his arms flying up and catapulting the purse across the chaotic room. Vespasian watched its trajectory towards the bar and tried to follow it but became entangled with Magnus grappling with a new opponent intent upon strangling him. All three crashed onto a table, which collapsed to the floor with Vespasian on top. Recovering first, Vespasian grabbed the man’s ear, jerked his head up and pounded it down onto the flagstone, shattering his skull as the tavern door burst open and a new force swarmed in: the club-wielding Vigiles.
Made up mainly of ex-slaves, the night-watch had no cause to be overfond of the citizens of Rome and they set about breaking up the fight with a severity that eclipsed the violence they had come to halt. Without waiting to find out who was in the right or wrong they swept their clubs down indiscriminately onto heads, backs and outstretched arms, cracking bones, breaking teeth and splitting skin. Vespasian and Magnus just had time to pick themselves up off the floor and retreat to the far side of the room where Caligula, covered in blood and now laughing hysterically, was guarded by Clemens. They stood shoulder to shoulder in front of their Emperor and waited, weapons at the ready.
The Vigiles gradually subdued the remaining fights, with the loss of only one of their number, rounding up any miscreants still conscious and pushing them back across the room. Their optio, a stocky, bald man with forearms like mossy tree branches, suddenly noticed Vespasian and his comrades, through his crowd of prisoners, standing in the shadows.
‘And you lot,’ he growled, walking towards them, ‘put down your weapons.’ Then seeing Clemens’ sword he stepped back. Knowing that the carrying of swords within the city was the prerogative of only the Urban Cohorts or the Praetorian Guard and then only when on duty, he made the reasonable assumption that this was a dangerous criminal whom he was faced with.
‘I’d let us go if I were you, optio,’ Clemens warned, keeping between Caligula and the Vigiles commander.
‘Lads, on me,’ he called to his men, ‘these are going to have to go down hard.’
Corralling the disarmed prisoners towards the bar, the Vigiles lined up and faced Vespasian, Magnus and Clemens.
‘You have served your Emperor well, optio,’ Caligula said, pushing past Clemens.
‘What would you know about that, you spindly rat?’
‘Because I am your Emperor, and one more remark like that and you’ll be serving me well in the arena.’ Caligula stepped forward into the light and held his blood-stained head high. There was a brief silence in the room and then a communal gasp as most people recognised the man whom they had crowded into the city to see only that morning; even covered in blood he was unmistakeable.
‘Princeps,’ the optio spluttered, bowing his head, ‘forgive me.’
‘Our star!’ someone shouted.
Others took up the shout and Caligula raised his arms and bathed for a while in their worship, and then pointed to his original attacker, still clutching his groin on the floor. ‘That man’s testicles seem to be troubling him,’ he shouted over the din, ‘relieve him of them, optio.’
The noise stopped as the optio looked down at the injured man and then back at Caligula and realised that he was in earnest. Fearing for his life, having insulted his Emperor, he had no choice. He drew his knife and bent down.
A shrill shriek announced the completion of the deed; Caligula smiled. ‘Thank you, optio, I have forgiven you. You may release everyone else; they love me and will follow me as a flock follows its shepherd, trusting him to do them no harm.’
‘Princeps, this is yours,’ Balbus said, holding out the purse.
‘Keep it, Balbus, but give some coins to the women.’ Caligula moved towards the door, followed by Vespasian, Clemens and Magnus; the crowd parted for them.
‘Thank you, Lord,’ one of the whores cried out, ‘we will remember your generosity and the pleasure you gave us; it was as if being satisfied by a god.’
‘Satisfied by a god?’ Caligula ruminated as they stepped out into the street. ‘Perhaps they were; perhaps I am. After all, the shepherd rules over the sheep not because he’s a superior sheep but because he is a superior being. It follows therefore that if I am the shepherd of the Roman flock sitting in the Senate House, it must be because I too am a superior being.’
Vespasian did not like the way Caligula’s mind was working. ‘That may be logical, Princeps, but remember that to live the shepherd regularly has to eat one of his sheep.’
The look on Caligula’s face as he turned towards him made Vespasian instantly regret his line of argument.
‘Exactly, my friend; the shepherd must remain fed and healthy for the good of his flock, so he chooses the sheep that will best satisfy his hunger.’
CHAPTER XV
Vespasian looked around the newly decorated atrium of Sabinus’ rebuilt house as the last of the artisans collected up the tools of their trades. They had done a fine job, he reflected, with the limited amount of money, gleaned from his province, which his brother had been able to send back to Rome over the summer. Although it was not furbished to the most luxurious of standards he felt that Sabinus would have few complaints from Clementina when they eventually took up residence.
Vespasian had enjoyed overseeing the work; it had, along with his duties as the aedile responsible for Rome’s streets, helped him to take his mind off the profligacy that had characterised the first seven months of Caligula’s reign.
Anxious to secure the love of the mob, Caligula had not stinted them in his celebrations, nor had the Senate or priesthoods been ungenerous in their flattering support for their new Emperor, as Caligula had predicted. Over the first ninety days of his reign the temple altars flowed with the blood of sheep, bulls, fowl, horses and swine; one hundred and sixty thousand victims were publicly sacrificed to every god imaginable in thanks for the coming of the golden age. And to the common people of Rome it did indeed seem to be so; they feasted on the flesh of the sacrifices, they watched endless spectacles in the Circus Maximus and the other smaller arenas around the city and they had money to spend, Caligula having given them three gold aurei each — more than the annual wage for a legionary. To secure his position further he had paid another three aurei each to every legionary and auxiliary in the Empire as well as to the Vigiles; five apiece to the Urban Cohorts and ten apiece to the Praetorian Guard.