'If they knew so much about so many, then there must be any number of suspects?' he suggested hopefully.
Narcissus gave a knowing smile. 'That might appear likely, but apparently there is only one. He would have been swept up with the rest, so he very sensibly disappeared. But it does not matter where he hides, even if his aristocratic relatives are foolish enough to provide a refuge. Half of Rome seeks the Emperor's favour by providing his head, and the other half will betray him because they are too frightened not to.'
Rufus knew without asking who the suspect was. Only one link remained who could tie him to Drusilla; only one tongue could be persuaded to speak his name.
'It is only a matter of time,' Narcissus predicted. 'The life of the tribune Lucius Sulpicius Galba can be counted in days.'
But Lucius was not arrested that week, nor the next. Narcissus speculated that the young aristocrat might have vanished into the seething rabbit warren of lesser streets and dangerous, evil-smelling alleys of the Subura out towards the Esquiline Gate. 'He has done surprisingly well to survive for so long in a place where every man's hand is against him. Pray that he dies there and your secret dies with him.'
In the meantime, Narcissus watched, taking in every nuance, tasting every mood and studying every changing dynamic in the intricate web of hatreds and alliances that were the lifeblood of the palace.
'Drusilla was a friend and trusted adviser as much as a sister. Of all Caligula's passions, she was the greatest. He does not eat and seldom drinks. He keeps to his apartments during daylight and at night he barely sleeps. Callistus cannot get near him, and mistrusts anyone who can. He fears Protogenes, who fears no one, and in the background Chaerea smiles his scorpion's smile and waits.'
He reported that the Emperor was too distraught to attend his sister's funeral, but stayed in Rome until the Senate voted Drusilla the honours she was due, including a marble arch which he vowed would be the greatest the Empire had ever seen. This duty done, he left for Campania, with Milonia and his daughter and his closest advisers. Aemilia — who, despite his newly wedded state, sometimes invaded Rufus's dreams in the most disturbing of fashions — accompanied them.
When the imperial retinue returned to Rome in September, it was Cupido's sister who brought Rufus the news.
'He has declared Drusilla divine,' she said. 'She is to be worshipped as a goddess.'
It was unheard of — sacrilege, even. The wives and mothers of emperors had been voted great honours in the past, but this was different. Drusilla was to stand beside Venus in the pantheon. Only an Emperor strong enough or feared enough could have achieved it. Caligula's opponents in the Senate were outraged. The priests warned of terrible retribution from the slighted deities. But the Emperor was unmoved. Drusilla would receive her divinity at the end of the lengthy formal period of mourning, in May, three days before the festival dedicated to Mercury.
Rufus's fears over his fleeting relationship with the new goddess subsided as the weeks passed. Lucius had not been sighted since the discovery of the murdered twins. There was still no body, which was vaguely worrying, but he breathed more easily and stopped looking over his shoulder every day.
'You are to appear before the Emperor's secretary at the seventh hour.'
Rufus almost dropped with fright. But the voice was wrong. Too polite. He turned and where he expected to find a squad of swordbearing Praetorians stood a gilded youth in a fine-spun tunic held tight at the waist with a thin silver belt.
He must have been gaping, because the boy repeated his message, louder and more slowly, as if he was speaking to an old man or an idiot.
'You… are… to… appear… before… the… Emperor's… secretary… at… the… seventh… hour.'
'I'm not deaf.' Rufus decided the young peacock before him presented no danger, and therefore insolence was not only required, but expected. 'Am I to… attend… the… secretary… like… this?'
The boy looked him over carefully, taking in the stained tunic and dung-spattered legs, and frowned. 'Perhaps you might like to change?'
'I don't have anything to change into.' It was a lie, he still had the tunic he wore for his wedding, but Rufus sensed there might be profit here, and sport. A slave was granted little opportunity for sport and he felt an intense desire to take advantage of this one.
The frown deepened. 'I… I could possibly find something for you.'
Rufus grinned. 'That might be wise.'
The boy sighed, and was about to turn away.
'I stink.'
'What?' The messenger blinked.
'I stink… of shit.'
'You could wash while I'm fetching you a new tunic,' the boy suggested.
'I would still stink. I always stink. It's from working with the elephant.' Rufus pointed to Bersheba, who was munching hay contentedly in the barn.
The boy bit his lip. This was a problem he hadn't considered. Secretary Callistus had famously sensitive nostrils.
'You could bring me some perfumed oil. A lot of it. I could smother myself in it, then the secretary wouldn't have to smell my stink. Or I could stand outside the door when he speaks to me,' Rufus suggested helpfully.
The messenger grabbed the solution as if he was a drowning man and it was the last plank from a burning galley. 'Yes, perfume,' he said, hurrying off before Rufus could come up with some new suggestion.
'Lots of it,' Rufus shouted to his retreating back. He would give the perfume to Livia, he thought; then, with a guilty shiver, And if there is really a lot I might even keep some for Aemilia. Callistus would just have to put up with his stink.
XXVII
Had anyone ever suffered as he did? Had anyone ever been more alone? Drusilla was gone. His only friend. His sister. The only one he had ever really trusted. How could she have left him?
He sniffed, blinking away a tear. He stank, but he did not care. His hair was slick with grease and undressed, but it was nothing. He hadn't shaved for three months and would not until her murderers were found, or he had given her the divinity she had craved when she was alive. She, above all, deserved immortality.
How he wished he could have accompanied her to that other life. There was nothing for him in this one but grief and pain, and he wanted neither. What were his accomplishments now, when there was no one with whom he could savour them? Every one a monument to vainglory. What was the point of the battles that were inevitably to come, when each victory would taste of ashes? It was she who had made all the effort worthwhile. In her, he could see the reflection of his greatness. But no more.
Who could he trust now?
As he recognized the answer, an unfamiliar sensation developed deep inside his body, and swarmed upwards into his brain. He felt the first breathlessness of panic.
It was a long time since he had felt fear.
When the seventh hour arrived Rufus was standing outside the door to the secretary's offices enjoying the feel of a silky cloth tunic finer than anything he had ever owned. His dark hair was damp and his nostrils were filled with the scent of some flowery perfume from the east that the boy had insisted on dousing him with. It didn't matter too much; there was plenty left for Livia… and Aemilia.
'Enter.'
The voice was strong, the tone full of natural authority, and it had an edge that made Rufus stand a little straighter. He pushed the door, which swung back easily on its single wooden hinge.
Of all the great men who ruled Rome from the Palatine Hill and attempted to square the circle of the Emperor's chaotic brilliance, ever-changing moods and overwhelming ambition, Callistus, the imperial secretary, held the position of strength. No man crossed the threshold to Caligula's outer apartments without first being interviewed by the secretary. It was a privilege that had brought him immense wealth as well as power. But power did not come without a price, and the price was clear on the strained face of the man who sat across the scroll-filled desk from where Rufus stood.