The crowd fell suddenly silent. All eyes turned to Caligula, who sat laughing hysterically, his thumb now pressed down on his clenched fingers representing a sheathed sword: the sign of mercy. ‘I fooled you all!’ he shouted through his mirth. ‘Did you really think that I, I who have the wellbeing of all of you in my heart, wouldn’t grant your wish? Of course I would.’
The crowd burst into laughter, enjoying the joke that their Emperor had played on them. The retiarius withdrew the knife and the secutor started to hyperventilate in relief.
Vespasian glanced again in Caligula’s direction and saw his face suddenly change into a contorted mask of anger. He leapt to his feet and screamed for silence.
‘But you jeered at me,’ he shrieked, ‘as if you didn’t love me. Me! Your god and Emperor jeered at by you. How dare you! I wish you had one communal throat then I would slit it. You must be taught that from now on you will worship me and love me; I will have my statue placed in every temple to remind you of that, not only here in Rome but also around the Empire.’ He paused and looked mournfully about him. ‘I can give but I can also take away; I will no longer grant your wish.’ He punched his clenched fist out with his thumb extended.
The crowd remained silent as the two gladiators took up the killing stance once more. The thrust of the knife down into the heart and the resulting spray of blood were not greeted with cheers and multiple ejaculations but, rather, a deflated sullenness. The retiarius saluted the imperial box and walked towards the gates leading down to the gladiators’ cells with his trident and net raised in the air; no one acknowledged his victory.
Caligula beckoned Macro, seated behind him, to come closer. He whispered something in the prefect’s ear while pointing to an area of the crowd. A brief argument ensued before Macro, visibly angry, left his seat and spoke to Chaerea who stood by the entrance to the imperial box. Caligula reinserted his fingers petulantly into the catamite and turned his attention back to the arena while Drusilla fondly stroked the lad’s hair as if he were a pet. Chaerea left the box.
Down on the sand the carrion-man, dressed as Charon the Ferryman, bald-headed and robed in black, stalked around the dead checking for signs of life by pressing a red-hot poker to their genitals; once satisfied that a man was dead he removed his helmet and, with a heavy mallet cracked open his skull to release his spirit. This ritual complete, the bodies were dragged off for burial and the sand was raked and replaced in areas to get rid of the blood.
The crowd’s mood began to lighten as they started to look forward to the next part of the spectacle, which had been advertised as four of the equites who had been rash enough to promise to fight in the arena on Caligula’s return to health all pitched together in a fight to the death. A murmur of interest went around the amphitheatre as the gates opened and, instead of seeing four gladiators, the crowd heard the roar of beasts; a dozen hungry-looking lions tore into the arena goaded on by slaves waving flaming torches behind them. The gates closed leaving the lions alone on the sand. The crowd, knowing that lions would not fight each other and that their convict-victims or the bestiarii who would fight them were always in the arena first, began to wonder just who or what the lions were meant to kill.
The clatter of hobnailed sandals on the stone steps of two of the entrances to the seating area soon provided the answer. A half-century of sword-brandishing Praetorian Guardsmen stormed in, causing panic in the crowd nearby. Within a few heartbeats they had surrounded twenty spectators in the front row of the section to which Caligula had pointed. Behind them the crush of people desperate to escape the same fate that they guessed was in store for their hapless fellows caused many to be trampled underfoot amid a cacophony of screaming. The lions’ roars tore over the screams as the first two of the victims were hurled, begging for their lives, into the arena. The men had not even hit the ground before great claws ripped at their flesh, knocking them sideways, spinning through the air as if they were dolls, towards open jaws with bared teeth that were soon stained with their blood.
The Praetorians made short work of throwing the rest of their prisoners to the lions; most were set upon immediately, throats torn out or limbs dismembered or disembowelled, but half a dozen or so managed to run from the carnage — except there was nowhere to hide. To Vespasian’s amazement the sections of the crowd unaffected by the Praetorians’ actions began to laugh and cheer as the escapees were pursued around the oval arena by lions more intent on the thrill of the chase than of feasting on the mangled carcasses. He turned again to look at Caligula, who sat with a grim smile of satisfaction on his face, working his fingers in and out of the catamite while masturbating vigorously. As the last of the victims was torn apart, the crowd roared their approval; they loved him again.
Vespasian sat through the rest of the day knowing that to try to leave, which used to annoy Caligula before his illness, could well prove fatal now that he seemed to have completely lost his sanity. Eventually the final life ebbed into the blood-soaked sand and Caligula stood to depart, accepting the adulation of the mob as he did so. Vespasian hurried out with the rest of the senators, none of them wanting to catch each other’s eye for fear of having to pass comment on what they had witnessed.
He emerged into the street and turned to walk briskly home.
‘There he is!’ he heard Caligula shout from close by. ‘Macro, have him brought to me.’
Vespasian turned to see Chaerea and two Praetorians pushing through the crowd; with a sickening feeling in his stomach he realised that they were heading towards him. To run would have been pointless, so he allowed the Guards to escort him to Caligula, who was almost in tears.
‘I thought that you were my friend,’ he sobbed, shaking his head as if he could not believe how the situation had changed. Drusilla held a consoling arm around him.
‘I am, Princeps,’ Vespasian replied, wondering just what he had done.
Caligula pointed to the ground. ‘Then how do you explain this?’
Vespasian looked down; the street was covered with filth from where it had not been cleaned for the month-long duration of Caligula’s illness.
‘This is my city,’ Caligula stated in a pitiful voice, ‘and my friend is in charge of keeping the streets clean. Oh Drusilla, he’s let me down.’
Drusilla wiped a tear from the corner of her brother’s eye and licked it off her finger.
‘I’m sorry, Princeps; it was just while you were…’
‘Oh, it’s my fault, is it?’
‘No, no, it’s completely mine.’
‘You should have him prosecuted,’ Macro said venomously, ‘it’s almost treason to be so negligent in one’s duties.’
‘Stop presuming to tell me what to do, prefect. Chaerea, have your men scoop up some of this filth and pile it into the aedile’s toga.’
Vespasian stood still as handful after handful of the foul-smelling muck was slopped into the fold of his toga. ‘I will have it remedied tomorrow, Princeps.’
‘No, you will not, you’re quite evidently not up to it, I’ll find someone else to do it.’ He glared at Vespasian and then suddenly smiled. ‘Besides, my friend, I’ve got something for you to do for me.’ His train of thought abruptly changed and he turned to Macro. ‘Where was my cousin Gemellus today? Why wasn’t he celebrating my transformation?’
‘I’ve heard that he has a bad cough, Princeps.’
‘A cough, eh? Or perhaps he just wishes that I wasn’t here any more and doesn’t want to see me in my glory. What do you think, Vespasian?’
‘It must be a cough, no one would wish for your death.’
‘Hmm, I suppose you’re right. Nevertheless I think we should cure him of his cough, don’t you?’
Vespasian did his best to hide his thoughts, mindful of Antonia’s last piece of advice, knowing that to disagree could be fatal for him but to agree would be fatal for Gemellus. ‘Perhaps it will go with time, Princeps.’