‘I have done what I can.’ Charicles spoke through the darkness. ‘I can do no more.’
He left. Caligula lit an oil lamp, hands shaking.
‘It must be tonight.’ Macro stood on the far side of the Emperor’s bed. ‘Tiberius must never leave for Capri.’
The Emperor moaned and groaned, his head thrashing from side to side. Macro ordered me to bring a lamp across. He pulled back Tiberius’s eyelids and felt the pulse in his throat.
‘Weak,’ he muttered. ‘He’ll never last the night.’
Caligula was breathing heavily like an athlete who’d run far and fast, a hoarse, rasping sound which jarred the nerves and prickled the hair on the nape of my neck.
‘If he leaves for Capri,’ Macro repeated, ‘we’ll all be in danger!’ He brought a sheet up and tossed it across the Emperor’s chest. ‘We will all stand guard.’
We left the chamber and waited outside. The night wore on, until, just before dawn, Charicles returned. Macro led him into the bedroom, and I heard a shout of triumph. Charicles came out followed by a grinning Macro.
‘The Emperor is dead!’ Macro grasped Caligula’s right arm and raised it. ‘Long live the Emperor!’
It was as if the clouds had lifted and the very walls had ears. Within a short space of time the news had swept through the villa. Macro and Agrippina had organised everything well. The Praetorian Guard assembled outside the main entrance, joined by the household as well as visiting senators, as Macro led Caligula out, with me trailing behind. In the presence of all, Macro placed Tiberius’s great seal ring on Caligula’s finger. The guards drew their swords and clashed their shields, proclaiming Caligula as Emperor. His elevation to the purple was greeted by a roar of approval. I could already see small clouds of dust round the gate as horsemen left for Rome. Charicles crept up beside me, pale, sweaty and shaking.
‘What’s the matter, man?’
‘Tiberius!’ The word croaked from the back of his throat. ‘He’s alive!’
The word spread like a ripple. Macro spun round, his swarthy face pale. Caligula became like a little boy lost, shoulders hunched, he stared open-mouthed then gibbered with fright. Somehow the whisper reached the men below, and the Praetorian Guard became restless. The crowd began to break up and drift away.
‘It can’t be! It mustn’t be!’ The words slipped out of my mouth.
All I could think of was Agrippina’s face. If Tiberius lived another day, Caligula would go into the dark, his sister with him. I doubted if I’d survive long either.
I ran back into the building and down the passageway. The patter of footsteps behind told me that Macro and Caligula were following. I burst into the bedchamber. Tiberius was standing in his night shift, those hideous eyes glaring at me. He brought his hand up, fingers splayed.
‘Where is my ring?’ The voice was strong. ‘Parmenon, that’s your name, isn’t it?’ He pointed a bony finger. ‘You were sent by that bitch in Rome.’
Macro and Caligula followed me into the bedchamber . . .
‘Where is my ring?’ The voice rang out as if from beyond the grave.
‘I have your ring.’ I walked towards the Emperor. ‘You are dead, Tiberius.’
He blinked. Macro kicked the door shut. I pushed Tiberius back onto the bed. Macro and Caligula came over to help. The Emperor tried to resist but was overcome by weakness once more. Macro pulled the sheet up as Caligula grabbed a bolster. He held his hand out before Tiberius’s eyes, so the old Emperor could see the seal ring on his finger. The bolster was placed over Tiberius’s face, as Caligula giggled. ‘Go to sleep! Go to sleep!’ he crooned. ‘Go to sleep and leave us alone!’
There was a hammering on the door but Macro had pulled the bolts across. Tiberius was kicking out frantically as Caligula pressed down harder.
‘Go to sleep, sweetest Uncle! You are dead, stay dead!’
At last Tiberius’s body lay still. Caligula took the bolster away, and Tiberius’s sightless eyes stared up at the ceiling. Macro opened the door and Charicles burst in and went across to the bed.
‘You were wrong,’ Caligula declared. ‘Uncle is dead, isn’t he?’
Charicles felt the pulse in the neck. Caligula grabbed Tiberius’s wrist and, from beneath his toga he drew a small dagger and sliced the dead man’s wrist.
‘Watch the blood seep out and let it fall!’
He rushed out into the passageway.
‘False alarm!’ he shouted like a child playing a game. ‘A mistake! He is dead! The Emperor Tiberius is dead, his soul is with the Gods!’
He paused and spoke over his shoulder to that mysterious person none of us could see. He lapsed into the doggerel Latin of the slums but I caught the word, ‘
Debet
,
debet
, it has to be, it has to be!’ He ran back into the bed chamber and grasped me by the shoulder. He’d changed once more into the powerful, new Emperor, eyes searching, lips pursed as if on the brink of an important decision.
‘You have a cool nerve, Parmenon, and courage! I shall not forget!’ He glanced round me. ‘Oh, put a sheet over that dirty, old man. He’s disgusting!’
Tiberius’s face was now livid, the ulcers and carbuncles oozing pus.
‘Come on!’ Caligula declared. ‘I want the treasure chest brought out, so that I can give donatives to the guards. Let’s burn the old goat and take his ashes back to Rome!’
Within an hour, thanks to Macro’s careful work, the surprise and shock caused by Tiberius’s recovery disappeared. It was politic not even to mention it. The Emperor had died in his sleep; that was the end of the matter. Fresh couriers were despatched to Rome and the generals on the frontier. Tiberius was dead: Caligula was the new Emperor. Nobody mentioned the co-heir, Gemellus, although Caligula immediately despatched guards to place him under house arrest. Macro looked at me and shrugged.
‘It’s Agrippina’s wish,’ he declared. ‘Gemellus won’t see the year out.’
Agrippina arrived the next day, accompanied by her two sisters Julia and Drusilla. Caligula met them in the main garden. He was dressed in his toga but insisted on wearing the sandals of a dancer, and a floral wreath on his balding head. Macro was trying to school him on how to act appropriately in public, but as soon as he saw his family, all pretence was forgotten. A small banquet was served of stuffed dates, a patina full of elderberries, succulent pig, boiled partridge and stuffed hare, white and red wines. Only his sisters and private entourage were invited. The rest were kept out by the Praetorians who ringed the garden in a circle of steel. Caligula hugged and kissed his sisters. He treated Drusilla as if she was his wife, embracing her, kissing her face, throat and breast, holding her closely, curling his fingers through her black, perfume-drenched hair.
After the banquet, Caligula insisted on giving us a dance of triumph. I sat at the foot of Agrippina’s couch and watched that madman, dressed like a cadaverous Bacchus, cavort and leap about, whilst we all pretended he was the best dancer and singer in the world, excelling even the most professional artiste from Syracuse. He also sang a coarse song about his uncle, which undoubtedly contained very funny lines, and the wine we’d all drank helped us laugh. I glanced across at Agrippina. My mistress wasn’t amused. Her face looked fuller with more sheen and colour than I’d seen for many a month. She wasn’t looking at Caligula but at Macro, and her eyes had a hard, imperious glare, as if she held the new Praetorian Prefect responsible for this nonsense. Once the Emperor had calmed down, he returned to his feasting, insisting that Drusilla share his couch. Agrippina took me away to the coolness of a cypress grove, where she questioned me closely about Tiberius’s death.
‘And what do you think of our new Emperor, Parmenon?’
She gestured across to where Caligula, now he’d rested, was busy berating the small gaggle of musicians on what tune they should play for his second dance.
‘If the guards see such behaviour,’ I replied. ‘Rome could have three Emperors in one year.’
‘You mean Gemellus?’ she demanded. Agrippina followed my gaze sorrowfully. ‘Tiberius corrupted him but he can be managed, at least for a while.’
‘How?’ I demanded.
‘You’ll see.’ Agrippina was gnawing at her lips and patting her stomach.
‘You are going to have to keep Caligula alive for quite a while, aren’t you?’ I asked.
‘We will have to ensure that no wife ever bears him a child,’ Agrippina acknowledged.
‘And your child?’ I asked.
‘My son,’ she declared haughtily, ‘will one day be Emperor. Remember my words, Parmenon. Now, let’s get my idiot brother off to bed!’
She walked back across the grass and had words with Macro. She urged the almost collapsing Caligula to retire for the night and, half-carrying him, helped by Drusilla, left the party.
Agrippina didn’t reappear that night. The next morning I was in the kitchen, listening to a cook describe how to serve milk-fed snails and what sauce to use for young tunny fish, when Agrippina appeared. She looked pale-faced and red-eyed. She imperiously ordered the cook away and told me to follow her out into the garden. She took me over to a small grotto, a stone arch covered by a rambling rose bush.
‘We leave for Rome this evening. Our Emperor,’ she referred meaningfully to Caligula, ‘has now recovered.’ She looked at me narrow-eyed. ‘He thinks very highly of you, Parmenon, and says he’ll never forget your services. You’re not thinking of changing horses mid-stream, are you?’
I glowered at her.
‘I thought as much.’ She smiled and glanced up. Caligula was walking across the lawn towards us, one arm round Drusilla’s shoulder.
‘Good morning, Parmenon.’ He stopped and stared down at me.
I was dumbfounded. Was this the same Caligula as the night before? The prancing madman? The drunkard pawing at his sister? He was now clean-shaven and clear-eyed. His toga, and the tunic beneath, were spotlessly white. He had sandals, displaying the imperial seal, on his feet, and his hands were scrubbed, with neatly manicured fingernails. Drusilla, on the other hand, despite her olive-skinned beauty, looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink the night before.
‘Well, Parmenon, is that the way to greet your Emperor?’
I slipped to my knees. He patted me on the head.
‘I was only joking. None of that here!’
I re-took my seat, as he hugged Drusilla.
‘We leave for Rome. Have you heard the news?’ He laughed, a short, barking sound unlike his usual high-pitched giggle. ‘The mob are mad with delight. Crowds roam the streets shouting, “Tiberius for the Tiber! Tiberius for the Tiber!” I think it’s best if we burnt the raddled goat’s corpse here and take the ashes to Augustus’s mausoleum.’
He continued with other plans. I was astonished. Caligula spoke lucidly, clearly mapping out the days ahead, and the changes he would bring about in Rome. He deeply regretted that he had not immediately issued pardons: Tiberius’s victims were still being strangled in the prisons of Rome. He said he wished to send envoys to Parthia to seek assurances that Rome’s borders would be secure. He declared sorrowfully that one of his first duties must be to recover the ashes of his mother and two brothers and give them honourable burial in Rome. Satisfied at his plans, Caligula nodded cheerfully at me and Agrippina and walked back across the grass.
‘He’s sleeping with her, isn’t he?’
‘I didn’t hear that!’ Agrippina sat as immobile as a statue.
‘Domina,’ I replied. ‘If you don’t hear it from me, you’ll hear it from others. The Emperor is sleeping with his own sister. Is that the price you paid?’
‘I had no choice,’ Agrippina replied softly. ‘He needs Drusilla.’ She glanced at me. ‘We are all demons, Parmenon. And can you blame us, brought up in the shadow of Tiberius’s bloody hand? You never met Livia, Tiberius’s mother! One day with her would chill your soul.’
‘Did you encourage him?’ I asked.
‘Encourage him! Encourage him!’ She glared at me. ‘Do you think I like this, Parmenon?’ she whispered. ‘Did I ask to be born into the purple? Did I ask to be raised by someone like Livia? To depend, for every breath of my life, on men like Tiberius and Sejanus? To be given to that drunken oaf Domitius in marriage! To be terrified,’ – she touched her belly – ‘of becoming pregnant lest a demon like Tiberius whip the child away from me! To have a brother like Caligula? To have my mother starved to death, and my brother reduced to eating the straw out of his mattress?’ She sprang to her feet, rubbing her arms as if cold. ‘Caligula has been sleeping with Drusilla since they were children. They used to clutch each other at night like terrified little rabbits. I tried to stop them, and so did my aunt. Mother suspected but . . .’ She shook her head. ‘If Drusilla can keep him sane, then let him have what he wants. After all, the Pharaohs of Egypt married their half-sisters.’ She glanced over her shoulder at me. ‘Anyway, what do you advise, Parmenon?’ she asked sardonically. ‘That I give him a lecture on morality? Find him a new wife? What?’ She stamped her foot. ‘What can I do? Separate them? Caligula would take my head. What have you become, Parmenon? A stoic? A philosopher? Weren’t you there when Tiberius died?’
She held out her hand which I grasped. She squeezed mine and let go.
‘Who advises him?’ I asked.
‘Macro and myself.’
‘And Drusilla?’
‘Drusilla has a pretty face and an empty head. She’s as vacuous as she’s beautiful.’
‘Are you giving Caligula drugs?’ I asked.
‘You know I am: valerian seed to soothe the nerves and help him sleep.’
I stared across the garden. The morning mist was lifting. I heard the clink of metal, the rumble of carts as they were brought out onto the cobbles for the luggage to be stowed. I felt sorry for attacking Agrippina. The imperial court was not a place for morality, just for power and survival.
‘If the Senate find out,’ I replied slowly, ‘the Emperor’s relationship with his sister could be fanned into a scandal by that gaggle of hypocrites in Rome. They’ll start accusing him of being degenerate. He has the blood of Mark Anthony in him. They’ll gossip about his ancestor’s love for Egyptian ways . . .’