Caenis giggled and, taking his face in her hands, kissed him long and passionately. The Nubian politely stepped back and, still kissing, Vespasian carried her into the vestibule and then through to the atrium. A clearing of the throat interrupted them. Vespasian looked up and immediately let go of Caenis’ legs.
‘Good evening, mistress,’ a tall, elderly Egyptian said, bowing low. ‘My name is Menes, I am your steward, and this,’ he indicated to the fifteen slaves in a row behind him, ‘is your household.’
Blushing furiously, Vespasian and Caenis stared at the line of slaves, then at each other and burst out laughing.
Vespasian watched the pillar of grey smoke begin to rise from the Campus Martius, just over a mile away, as he waited in the audience chamber of Augustus’ House along with all the elected magistrates and many of the most senior senators. Caligula had already kept them waiting for more than an hour; on purpose, Vespasian guessed. Gaius shuffled uneasily beside him, trying not to show the vexation that he felt at the sight of the smoke. They had all received a summons, first thing that morning, to attend the Emperor at the third hour and they all knew that it was no coincidence that Antonia’s funeral was due to begin at that time. In causing the most senior men in Rome to be absent from the ceremony Caligula had radically diminished the dignity of the occasion in a final insult to his grandmother; not even her son Claudius had been spared his spite.
The senators began to talk animatedly about any subject other than Antonia as they too saw, through the open windows looking out over the city, the sign that her funeral pyre had been lit. No one wished to be seen appearing displeased at their inability to add their weight to the mourning of the most powerful woman in Rome should their master be secretly watching and listening.
The red and black lacquered, panelled double doors at the far end of the room suddenly opened and all conversations stopped; Caligula entered flanked by Macro and a Praetorian tribune whom Vespasian did not recognise.
Theatrically feigning surprise, Caligula stopped in his tracks and looked past the gathering through one of the windows. ‘There seems to be a fire on the Campus Martius,’ he cried in mock alarm, ‘has anyone called for the Vigiles to put it out?’
The senators rocked with sycophantic laughter led by Macro and the tribune.
Spotting Claudius among the group, bravely laughing with the rest, Caligula added insult to injury. ‘Uncle, you’re the fastest among us, run and alert the Vigiles at once and then report back to me once the fire is out.’
‘At once, P-P-Princeps,’ Claudius replied, breaking into a chaotic series of lurches that passed for running.
Caligula led the raucous laughter as his uncle shambled out of the room. ‘It will have burned itself out by the time that cripple has even managed to stumble down the Palatine,’ he shouted through his mirth.
The sycophancy increased and the laughter rose as if this were the funniest thing anyone had ever said. Caligula’s face was puce and the veins in his neck and temples bulged; genuinely enjoying the joke, he kept laughing uncontrollably for what seemed like an age as the senators’ attempts to keep pace with him grew more and more hollow. Eventually he tired, much to everyone’s relief, and drew himself up.
‘Gentlemen, I have an announcement to make concerning my beloved sisters.’ He stopped and beamed at his audience, evidently relishing what he was going to say. His head twitched violently and he suddenly put his hands up to his temples. Macro went to support him as the gathering drew its collective breath.
‘Get away from me,’ Caligula snapped, regaining his composure and pushing Macro off. ‘Now, where was I? Ah yes, my sisters. From now on they are to be included when an oath of loyalty is…’ With a cry he collapsed to the floor, scrabbling at his head with his hands as if he were trying to pull something out of it.
The senators gasped; Macro immediately knelt down beside him. ‘Chaerea, fetch the doctor,’ he shouted at the Praetorian tribune after a brief look at his master. ‘Get out, all of you, now!’ he shouted.
The sight of the Emperor so physically compromised sent a shiver of fear through the senators and they fled.
‘It looks as if the gods may have listened to Antonia,’ Vespasian mumbled in Gaius’ ear as they crushed through the door.
Whether or not the gods had acted upon Antonia’s curse was debatable, but one thing was certain: they were the main beneficiaries of Caligula’s illness as over the following days the people of Rome sacrificed victims in their tens of thousands for the return to health of the young Emperor. The poor did so out of genuine love, remembering the largesse that he had distributed among them and the lavish games that he had held for their entertainment. The senators and the equestrian order, however, did so out of the fear that all those who had not been seen making sacrifices and offering up prayers would be cruelly dealt with should Caligula recover; so they vied with each other to be the most generous with their offerings, sacrificing their finest bulls, race horses and rams, while the more rash vowed to fight as gladiators if the Emperor recovered. One eques, in a case of reckless sycophancy topping all others, even promised Jupiter to exchange his life for Caligula’s.
Vespasian spent much of the time in the afternoons and evenings with Caenis, enjoying playing man and wife in the new privacy that they had together. In the mornings he attended the Senate, joining in the prayers and sacrifices and sharing with the rest of the House the same outward fervour that Caligula should recover and the same inner desire that he should die and this ghastly episode in Rome’s history could be put behind them. After this daily ritual — no other business being possible through fear of it being construed as being insensible to the Emperor’s wellbeing — the whole Senate, along with the equestrian order, then processed up to the Palatine, past crowds of sombre citizens, to present themselves at Augustus’ House where they received the daily bulletin on the Emperor’s health. Every day the Praetorian tribune, Chaerea, delivered the same message in his unfortunately high and squeaky voice: no change, the Emperor remained drifting in and out of consciousness.
The city was at a standstill; the law courts, theatres and markets were all closed, business transactions suspended and festivals ignored. The only thing still running was the blood that flowed from Rome’s many altars.
‘This is getting ridiculous,’ Vespasian muttered to Gaius as the Senate and the equites gathered outside the Curia for their daily trudge up the Palatine, for the thirtieth day in a row, in a steady, November drizzle. ‘What’s going to happen if he stays ill for another month? The city will start collapsing around us.’
‘It’s the same for everyone, dear boy, nothing’s getting done. A lot of people are losing a lot of money but they would rather that than be seen as someone who made a profit while Caligula lay at death’s door.’
‘Well, I wish that it would open.’
‘Don’t say that too loudly,’ Gaius hissed, ‘especially around this group of unscrupulous sycophants.’
‘Of which we are guilty members.’
‘Hypocrisy, dear boy, can be a life-saving fault.’
Vespasian grunted.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ Magnus called, easing his way through the crowd towards them wearing his citizen’s plain white toga.
Vespasian smiled and gripped his friend’s forearm. ‘Are you joining us for our daily ritual?’
‘Bollocks I am. There’s a meeting of the Quirnal and Viminal Brotherhood leaders; we dress up smart to threaten each other. You lot and everyone else may have stopped working but our business carries on.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it; extortion and protection should stop for no man, not even an emperor.’