Empire (16 page)

Titus had intended to conceal the more humiliating aspects of their audience with the emperor, but soon found himself telling the older man everything.

“It will g-g-give you no comfort,” said Claudius, “but you should know that I myself have been treated almost as shamefully by my nephew. He’s seen fit to kill many of those around him, and not from fear or suspicion, as Tiberius and even Augustus occasionally did; he seems to do it from sheer spite. He’s spared me so far, but he’s made it clear that I could d-d-die at any moment. He keeps me alive solely for the pleasure of making me squirm every now and then. More than once he’s reduced me to tears and
made me b-beg for my life. I speak of this to no one, but I’m telling you, Titus, because you have been so honest with me.”

“But why didn’t you warn us, cousin? We’d heard rumors about his eccentric behavior, but nothing prepared us for what happened.”

Claudius shrugged. “His unpredictable nature is a p-p-part of his madness. Sometimes he behaves with perfect decency. I hoped you might be lucky. I kept my distance for fear of attracting attention to you. And if I had warned you of the danger, would you have refused the audience? That would have invited something even worse—and believe me, as awful as it was, what Caligula did to you was not the most horrible atrocity he’s committed against an unsuspecting innocent.”

Titus shuddered. “He’s like a monstrous child.”

“Caligula was twenty-four when he was made emperor, only a little older than you are now. His youth seemed quite attractive, after enduring Tiberius’s unseemly d-d-decrepitude. Now it seems a curse. Caligula could rule for the rest of our lifetimes. He could still be emperor when your grandchildren are grown.” Claudius shook his head. “Augustus and Tiberius left us no mechanism for the removal of an emperor. They ruled for life, and we must assume Caligula will do the same. In retrospect, perhaps such a young person should never have been made emperor. For someone so young to be given so much power—”

“You’re not talking about me, are you, my dear?” Messalina stepped into the room. Her pregnancy was now in the eighth month. Her sheer gown, more suitable for the bedchamber than the street, showed off not only her round belly but also her greatly enlarged breasts. Titus tried not to stare at her, but she swayed as she circled the room, seeming deliberately to flaunt herself.

“Messalina, you should be in b-bed.”

She sighed. “I can’t spend every hour of every day lying down. And I’m as hungry as a horse. I thought Caligula was hosting some sort of banquet today.”

Claudius nodded and explained to Titus. “My nephew is hosting a private festival. Here, step onto the balcony with me.” Below them was a colonnaded walkway that led to a nearby courtyard surrounded by a portico and high shrubs. “It’s being held in that courtyard over there. You
can see a b-b-bit of the stage that’s been assembled for the occasion. The festivities should commence at any moment. Boys from the best families of Greece and Ionia will be singing a hymn which the emperor composed to his own divinity. You can hear them practicing.” He turned to Messalina. “But, darling, you know why we’re not g-g-going. I was told that the emperor is out of sorts, suffering from indigestion, and wants to be attended only by his wife and daughter. A good thing we’re not going, if you ask me. When Augustus had indigestion, we worried for his health; when Caligula suffers, it’s our own lives we have to worry about! The shame of it, that once-proud Romans should quake in fear when another man passes wind!”

“Who told you the emperor didn’t want us to come?” Messalina put her hands on her hips, causing her breasts to project before her.

“Didn’t I say? It was Cassius Chaerea, the Praetorian t-t-tribune.”

Messalina grinned. “That prude whom the emperor teases so mercilessly?” She looked at Titus archly. “Caligula thinks it’s quite hilarious to give Chaerea naughty pet names, as if he were some old man’s spintria—‘honey-mouth,’ ‘pleasure-bottom,’ that sort of thing.” She laughed. “Well, if you could see iron-jawed, grizzled old Chaerea, you’d understand how absurd it is. And, knowing how Chaerea is so squeamish about words, for the daily password Caligula deliberately comes up with the most obscene phrases he can think of, so Chaerea has to say naughty words over and over, all day long. And funniest of all is when Caligula passes by and offers Chaerea his ring to kiss, and then at the last instant, sticks up his middle finger and makes Chaerea—”

“Messalina, d-d-darling, enough of that!” Claudius shook his head. “The child is so innocent, she has no idea what she’s saying. Now go back to your rooms, my dear, and rest. If you’re hungry, tell Narcissus to send for something.”

Messalina made a show of pouting but did as her husband had told her, flashing a last, lingering look at Titus and brushing her fingertips over her swollen breasts as she departed.

Titus tore his eyes from Messalina and returned his gaze to the view from the balcony. He pricked up his ears and frowned. “Did you hear that, Claudius?”

“My ears are not what they were. I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly. The singing stopped. Someone’s shouting. Are they sacrificing an animal?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I thought I heard the formula that precedes a sacrifice. You know, when one priest says, ‘Shall I do the deed?’ and the other says, ‘Strike now!’ But this sounded odd, somehow, not like priests at all. . . .”

From the distant courtyard they heard a sudden uproar—shouts, the clanging of metal, and then shrill cries. Claudius frowned. “What’s going on over there?”

A servant ran headlong from the courtyard, followed by more servants and then a group of screaming young boys. They rushed past on the walkway beneath the balcony, some of them tripping and falling and getting up again.

Claudius leaned over the balustrade. “What’s g-g-going on?” he shouted.

They all ignored him except a little boy who paused for a moment and looked up. His eyes were wide with terror. Another boy bumped into him, almost knocking him down, and he hurried on.

“What in Hades?” muttered Claudius. He suddenly stiffened.

The servants and boy singers had all vanished. A group of armed men came striding out of the courtyard. Their swords were drawn. Their faces were grim. Leading them was a Praetorian tribune.

“Cassius Chaerea!” whispered Claudius.

Titus sucked in a breath. “Look at his sword.”

The blade was covered with blood. Spatters of blood glistened on Chaerea’s breastplate.

Another tribune appeared, walking quickly to catch up with Chaerea. “Cornelius Sabinus,” whispered Claudius. His voice cracked.

“Carrying another bloody sword,” whispered Titus. He glanced at Claudius, who had gone pale and was gripping the balustrade with white knuckles. Titus’s heart pounded.

Chaerea saw them looking down from the balcony. He came to a halt. Sabinus caught up with him. The tribunes exchanged hushed words, then together looked up at Claudius and raised their bloody swords.

“Today we have a new password!” Chaerea shouted. “The password is
Jupiter
. God of the thunderbolt! God of sudden death!”

More Praetorians emerged from the courtyard. They were in two groups. Each group carried a makeshift litter. At first, Titus could make no sense of the lumpy, shapeless forms on the litters. Then, with a start, he realized that they were corpses. One of the bodies, from the mass of disarranged hair and the elegant stola covered with bloodstains, appeared to be that of a woman. As the men drew nearer, Titus was able to see her face. Caesonia’s eyes were wide open. Her lips were drawn back and her teeth were clenched.

The other body was much smaller. It was a little girl. Her golden hair was clotted with blood. Her face was unrecognizable; her head had been crushed. Even at such a distance, Titus could smell the gore. The sight made him nauseated.

“Caesonia—and l-l-little Julia!” Claudius swayed and steadied himself against the balustrade, then pushed himself back and staggered from the balcony. “By Hercules, they intend to kill us all! Help me, Titus, I b-b-beg you. Hide me!”

“But they saluted you, Claudius. They gave you the password—”

“They brandished their swords and m-m-mocked me! Didn’t you see the look in their eyes? Cold-blooded assassins! Woman-killers! Child-killers! Once upon a time, men like those murdered the Divine Julius, and now they’ve dared to m-m-murder Caligula. If they mean to restore the Republic, they’ll slaughter my whole family. Not just me, but Messalina and the unborn baby! I’m a dead man, Titus!”

Titus did his best to calm him, but Claudius only became more hysterical. He ran back and forth across the room, unable to decide whether to stay or to leave. His head began to twitch uncontrollably and he made no effort to wipe away the drool that ran from the corner of his mouth. At last he ran to the door, determined to flee, then froze at the sound of stamping feet in the hallway. Claudius grabbed Titus by the arm and pulled him back to the balcony. He huddled behind the drapes at one end, pulling Titus close, trying to conceal them both.

The stamping feet reached the doorway. A group of men entered the room.

“He’s not here, sir,” said a deep voice.

“But the tribunes said they saw him in this room, standing on that balcony.”

“Well, he’s not here now.”

“We didn’t pass him in the hallway. . . .”

“Think he jumped from the balcony? Ha! Shirking his duty!”

“Quiet, you fool! Use our eyes. Do you see what I see?”

Claudius and Titus both looked down. Claudius’s feet were protruding beyond the hem of the drapes. He drew them back, but it was too late.

Footsteps approached. The drapes were pulled aside.

Titus braced himself. Next to him, Claudius dropped, quivering, to his knees. He began to babble, unable to speak because of his stutter, then covered his face with his arms and let out a shriek.

The soldiers drew back. If they were amused or startled, their emotionless faces did not show it. Having served Caligula, thought Titus, there was probably not much that could shock or titillate them.

The small company of Praetorians threw back their shoulders and stiffly saluted. “Hail, Dominus!” they shouted in unison.

Claudius slowly lowered his arms. He blinked and wiped the drool from his chin. “What did you c-c-call me?”

Titus helped him to his feet. Claudius was so shaky that he could barely stand. He gave a start when more Praetorians entered the room, but the men kept their distance, drew to attention, and saluted.

“Hail, Dominus!”

Whispering a prayer of relief, Titus reached up to touch the fascinum, but it was not there. At such a moment—a moment he would never forget, a moment he would talk about to his children and their children—he should have been wearing the fascinum of the Pinarii. What a fool he had been to spurn the amulet and give it to Kaeso! What a fool he had been not to trust in the gods and in his own good fortune! One moment he had been plunged in despair, a humiliated subject at the mercy of a mad emperor, and then, in the blink of an eye, he found himself standing next to his late father’s dear cousin, his own friend and confidant, the new emperor of the world.

Titus backed away from Claudius, leaving the emperor alone on the balcony. He joined the soldiers and bowed his head respectfully.

“Hail, Dominus!” he shouted.

“What do you think, father?” whispered Titus Pinarius.

He stood in the vestibule of his house on the Aventine, before the rows of niches that housed the wax effigies of his ancestors. Among them was the death mask of his father, which had been cast in Alexandria. Its placement in the vestibule, along with all the other effigies, had been among their first duties when Titus and Kaeso moved into this house.

Titus was wearing the trabea he had inherited from his father. He held the elegantly carved ivory lituus that had been in the family for generations. At twenty-four—the same young age at which his father had been inducted—Titus had become an augur, thanks to the sponsorship of his cousin, the emperor Claudius. Now, at twenty-nine, Titus was an experienced and highly respected member of the college. Chrysanthe, noting that the saffron-stained wool with its broad purple stripe had begun to fade a bit, had recently suggested that Titus acquire a new trabea, but he would not hear of it. Instead, the best fullers in Roma had thoroughly cleaned it and applied fresh dye so that the garment was as soft and bright as the first day his father wore it.

Titus gazed at the effigy of his father—it was a good likeness, just as Titus remembered him—and he felt that his father approved. “When I wear this trabea, I honor the gods,” Titus said quietly, “but I also honor you, father.”

He felt a twinge of guilt, and it was almost as if his father had spoken aloud:
But where is your brother, Kaeso? He should be here, as well.

Titus could not remember the last time his brother had stood with him in this vestibule and paid homage to their ancestors. As soon as he could after the incident with Caligula—about which no one ever spoke—Kaeso had moved out of the house. He had taken the fascinum with him, despite Titus’s request that they share it again, but he had been happy to leave the wax effigies with Titus; Kaeso seemed to care nothing at all about their ancestors, not even about their father. Kaeso never sought any favors from
Claudius, and spurned Titus’s repeated suggestions that he, too, should become an augur, or secure some other respectable position worthy of his patrician status. Instead, Kaeso sold to Titus his half of their interests in the Alexandrian grain trade, saying he had no desire for possessions. What had become of Kaeso’s share of the family fortune? Apparently he had dispersed it among fellow members of his cult, of whom there were more than Titus would have thought in Roma. Kaeso and Artemisia were living in a squalid apartment in the Subura. Kaeso seemed unconcerned that he had descended into poverty, and his behavior and beliefs had become more bizarre with each passing year.

“You look splendid!” said Chrysanthe, joining Titus in the vestibule to see him off. In her arms she carried their newborn son, Lucius. The boy had a remarkably full head of hair for an infant and bore a striking resemblance to his grandfather.