‘All that in two months!’ Vespasian exclaimed as they entered the atrium with its ragged queue of urban poor.
‘The industry of Rome has worked on nothing else, I’m told.’ Sabinus leant closer to Vespasian and whispered in his ear. ‘It’s a phenomenal waste of money but I’m really looking forward to seeing it.’
‘You’re going to travel down there just to have a look?’
‘You will as well; Caligula’s ordered every senator to escort him down to the bay and witness his triumph.’
The gardens to the rear of Augustus’ House were stepped on two levels, clinging to the edge of the Palatine and overlooking the arched facade of the Circus Maximus. Along the low balustrade of the upper level, dining tables had been arranged in such a way that all those reclining at them would have a good view down to the second level where two stages had been set. Although it was still at least three hours until the late, summer dusk, torches, in tall brass holders, burned beside each stage and all around the gardens’ perimeter as well as at intervals among the tables. Brightly coloured linen canopies littered the lawn of the upper garden under which the Emperor’s dinner guests stood or sat drinking chilled wine and talking in the animated manner of people ill at ease but trying to conceal it.
Vespasian and Sabinus stood at the top of the steps leading down from the house and admired the beauty of the scene before them: the colour, the elegance, the soft evening light.
‘It would be a pleasure to be here if one knew for certain that one would leave alive, would it not, gentlemen?’ a voice behind them commented quietly.
The brothers turned, both smiling at the truth of the statement.
‘Pallas,’ Vespasian said with genuine pleasure, ‘how are you? Sabinus tells me that you live here now.’
Pallas looked grave. ‘I think that you’ve answered your own question, Vespasian: I live here.’
‘It’s as bad as that, is it?’
Pallas pointed down into the garden to where some guests were laughing with evidently feigned hilarity at a man in their midst. He stood with his hands outstretched, except he had no hands, just cauterised blackened stumps; his hands were tied to a piece of rope and hung around his neck along with a sign.
‘The sign says: “I stole from the Emperor”,’ Pallas informed them.
‘And did he?’ Sabinus asked.
‘A small strip of decorative silver had fallen off a couch and he was taking it to the steward to be mended when Caligula saw him with it; life here has become very arbitrary.’
‘Life has always been arbitrary.’
‘Granted, but generally within the parameters of the law; our new god seems to have forgotten about the law. My patron, Claudius, however, loves the law; think about that, gentlemen.’ Pallas patted them both on the shoulder and walked away.
‘Don’t get involved,’ Vespasian warned Sabinus as they descended the steps.
‘I’ve no intention of doing so,’ Sabinus replied, taking two cups of wine from a slave and handing one to his brother, ‘I intend to stay alive. However, it’s comforting to know that we have a good friend close to the only obvious heir to the Purple.’
A fanfare of bucinae blared over the garden and all conversation stopped as everyone looked with sycophantic longing towards the main doors of the house at the top of the steps. A horse trotted out and looked around in a semi-curious equine fashion. From behind it came a shout of ‘Hail Incitatus’.
The dinner guests responded immediately. ‘Hail Incitatus! Hail Incitatus!’
Having never paid homage to a horse before, Vespasian found it a struggle to keep a straight face as he joined in with an enthusiasm fired more by the absurdity of the situation rather than any great respect for the beast being lauded.
The chant quickly turned into ‘Hail Divine Caesar!’ as Caligula, flanked by Clemens and Chaerea, appeared next to his favourite subject, dressed soberly — Vespasian thought, considering some of the costumes that he had seen him wearing — in a purple toga edged in gold and crowned with a golden laurel wreath.
‘This evening,’ Caligula declaimed, ‘we are here to honour not only me but also my good friend, my trusted ally, my comrade, the man who brought the breastplate of Alexander back from Egypt to me: Titus Flavius Vespasianus. Tomorrow at noon we can begin our progress down to the Bay of Neapolis where I shall ride in triumph across my greatest creation. Come forward, Vespasian, and receive my thanks — you shall be a praetor next year.’
Vespasian walked slowly back up the steps to a beaming Caligula, who held his arms open to him. As he reached the penultimate step he was enfolded in a purple embrace and kissed on each cheek to the applause of the people below.
‘Only a man like this,’ Caligula declared, turning Vespasian around to face the audience and putting a hand on each shoulder, ‘could I trust to go to Egypt, the source of so much of Rome’s wealth. No senator has visited it for four years, not since Tiberius’ astrologer, Thrasyllus, warned him of the imminent return of the Phoenix, heralding a great change and made a prophecy about it. Did you see the Phoenix while you were in Alexandria, Vespasian?’
‘No, Divine Gaius,’ Vespasian replied truthfully.
Caligula looked triumphant. ‘Of course not, because it has flown. Last year, three years after its rebirth, it was seen leaving Egypt flying east; Thrasyllus’ prophecy was not fulfilled. You are blessed, my sheep, because the change heralded by the Phoenix is that Rome is ruled by an immortal god; I will rule for another five hundred years until the Phoenix is sighted again. Until then I open Egypt back up to any member of the Senate who has good reason to travel there.’
This was greeted with a loud cheer from the many senators who had dealings with the Emperor’s private province.
‘And now we shall eat; Vespasian shall have the great honour of reclining on my right.’ He moved past Vespasian and began to descend the steps.
‘Divine Gaius,’ Chaerea said in his high-pitched voice, following him down, ‘what is the watchword for the night?’
Caligula stopped and laughed. ‘I love his sweet voice!’ He turned and put his middle finger to Chaerea’s lips, parting them slightly and then wiggling them provocatively. ‘Such a sweet voice deserves a sweet watchword, does it not?’
Sycophantic cries of agreement compounded the Praetorian tribune’s humiliation.
‘In which case the watchword is Venus; the sweetest of gods for the sweetest of men.’
Caligula turned and skipped daintily down the steps to the raucous laughter of his guests. Vespasian saw the anger burning in Chaerea’s eyes but otherwise his face remained impassive. Clemens’ hand went to his sword hilt as he watched his junior colleague control himself. Finally Chaerea saluted and matched stiffly away.
Magnus would not have lost his bet, Vespasian reflected as he tried to swallow a mouthful of perch while watching yet another beheading on one of the stages below. In a strange juxtaposition the other stage contained a group of dancers performing to the soft melody of two flutes.
‘Something for everyone,’ Caligula enthused, feeding an apple to Incitatus whose head nuzzled between him and Vespasian. ‘Art or death, take your pick and enjoy.’
‘P-p-personally I’ll t-t-take death, Divine and Supreme G-G-Gaius,’ Claudius stammered, watching the blood spurt from the severed neck with relish; his arousal was plain for all to see and the pretty, fair-skinned girl reclining next to him had edged as far away from him as good manners would allow. ‘I could never understand the p-p-point of dancing.’
‘That’s because there’s no point in you dancing, cripple,’ Caligula observed, ‘your legs would buckle underneath you.’ He fell about laughing far more uproariously than the observation deserved; his dinner companions had no option but to join in.
‘Your d-divine insight is faultless,’ Claudius said through his own laughter.
‘So let’s prove the point; go and dance with them, Uncle.’