Caligula

'Is your business going so badly?' Rufus's voice betrayed his concern. 'I was certain you would be a rich man by now.'

'Oh, I am rich enough,' Fronto replied airily. 'But success has brought burdens as well as rewards. Burdens I could never have imagined.'

'Is that why you must be followed everywhere by a pair of beatenup old gladiators? Look at that one. Cupido would squash him as Bersheba would a butterfly.'

'Yes, I suppose he would at that. But even Cupido, with his great talent, was eventually undone by that man.'

'That man?'

'The Emperor. I fear he has turned against me, or more precisely been turned against me. Protogenes has spies everywhere. Everything I touch, every bargain I conclude, is recorded in those two ledgers he always carries around with him.'

Rufus shook his head. 'But that should not concern you. You have always been honest in your dealings.'

'Perhaps, who knows? Did I occasionally take more than a lion was worth, or sell an antelope I knew was injured? Yes, I probably did. But so did everyone else and we all laughed about it together over some wine. But now…'

'Now?'

Fronto's voice dropped and Rufus could see he was struggling to avoid looking behind him like a bad actor in one of the interminable dramas at Pompey's theatre.

'Now I am dealing with Caligula's creatures, Protogenes and his like. They stink of corruption as a bull buffalo stinks in the heat and the smell lingers, Rufus. Whenever I am near them I return home and scrub myself until my body bleeds, but I can still smell that stink in my nostrils. I can smell it now and it sickens me.

'The Emperor has an insatiable appetite for the games. He can watch a hundred — no, five hundred — animals die, and he is still not satisfied. And who must replace those animals, and more like them? Fronto.' He slapped his hand to his chest.

'You understand how difficult it is to find good stock these days? But I, Fronto, always manage to find a source, and, because I have the Emperor's sanction, the suppliers have no choice but to sell them to me. It is a power I have never known before. If I had had it ten years ago I would be the richest man in Rome.'

'But now?' Rufus repeated.

'Now every bargain I make must be guaranteed by Protogenes, or one of his slaves. The money goes direct from the Emperor's coffers to the seller and I get my cut later.'

'So Protogenes is cheating you?'

'Surprisingly, no,' Fronto admitted. 'I receive what I am owed and sometimes a little more, a bonus perhaps, or more likely to buy my silence, although nothing is ever said. But suddenly people avoid me. Old friends will not look me in the eye. I hear whispers. Fronto is a thief. Fronto is a cheat. I have even been threatened, Rufus, threatened for my life, which is why I always have my companions with me these days. I think Protogenes and his gang are cheating the suppliers at one end, and the Emperor at the other. With all the stock that comes across from Africa they must be making a fortune at the expense of my honour.'

Rufus pondered this for a moment. 'But you are the key to their supply; it is in their interests to protect you. They would not threaten you?'

'No, the threats come from the suppliers they have cheated out of hundreds of thousands of sesterces, and who believe I am to blame. But protect me? I don't know. Maybe I have said too much in the wrong company. Complaints. Accusations.'

Oh, what have you done, my old friend, Rufus thought, and how can we get you out of this cesspit?

'The Emperor must know,' he said.

Fronto's eyes opened wide in terror. 'No. No. It cannot be. If Protogenes had the merest hint of suspicion that I was going to denounce him I would be dead before I could catch another breath. Have you not heard how he destroyed Proculus? And Proculus was a senator, not a mere businessman. Protogenes condemned him as a traitor within the very walls of the Curia and the poor man was torn apart by his fellows.'

'Then the denunciation must not come from you,' Rufus said. The statement hung in the air for a moment between them before Fronto realized its true significance.

'I will not allow you to do it,' he said. This was the old Fronto speaking and the command was back in his voice. 'Do you think I would ask you to endanger yourself for me? You were like a son to me, Rufus. I only wish that I had been more like a father to you. But this father's duty I will accept. My son will not die before me, if it is within my power to prevent it.'

Rufus struggled with his emotions, and they stood in silence for a while. At last Fronto said: 'But I forget. It was you who summoned me here. What did you want of me? I would deny you nothing. Your inheritance is still safe.'

Rufus smiled at him. How could he add another burden to the load already carried by this man? 'Oh, it wasn't important. I only wanted to see you again.'

XXXI

Rufus waited for the summons that would bring him the reward he dreaded for his part in the Emperor's deliverance. But if Caligula had noted his presence during the defence of the golden carriage he gave no sign of it or, more likely, regarded it as nothing more than his due. In the meantime, the Emperor filled the cells below the palace to overflowing and the taint of death hanging over the Palatine grew stronger with every passing day.

Rufus and Livia settled into a domestic rhythm which had the child growing in her belly at its centre and irritated her to distraction. He followed her around the house as she cleaned and cooked, offering to do this task or help with that chore, until she screamed at him in frustration. The tension between them in their narrow bed meant Rufus increasingly spent his nights beside Bersheba.

One night he was lying awake, buried in the straw at the rear of the barn, when he heard the rattle of chains. Bersheba gave a sniff that Rufus recognized as a welcome for someone she knew. At first, he feared it was Cupido, whose experience of Caligula's justice at the temple of Julius had created conflicts between duty and honour which made him more and more unpredictable. But the steady voice that reached him from the darkness was not in the German-accented Latin of the gladiator.

Claudius was back.

Rufus lay still as death as the Emperor's uncle addressed his uncritical audience. He was being dangerously indiscreet.

'What has Rome done, that it must destroy itself in this way? Our brightest and our best sent to the axeman and the impaler while the Emperor's jackals compete among themselves to discover who can be the cruellest or the most foul.' He gave a long sigh. 'Everything I have put in place, every stratagem and scheme, threatened by the impetuosity of youth. How many times did I tell them that one opportunity and one only would be granted to bring about that which is so imperative? Yet they throw everything into a hopeless gamble the Emperor has hysterically drowned in blood. Why? Lucius was no fool; he would not have acted without guarantees. But who could have given them? Bassus might have had the means, but would he have been so foolish? Guilty or innocent, it made no difference to his fate, since he died in front of his father's eyes. Asiaticus? No. Our aspirations run paralleclass="underline" the return of the Republic by peaceful means; rule by democracy, not dictat. Pomponius had the means, but not the motive. Narcissus? Surely not. Yet can even I truly trust Narcissus, who is privy to my most inner thoughts, when he takes those thoughts and uses them to his own advantage at every opportunity? If not Narcissus, who?'

He paused for a moment and Rufus could almost feel the power of his mind picking the conundrum apart a piece at a time.

'Chaerea,' he announced, pleased with his own cleverness. 'Yes, Cassius Chaerea, or more likely someone acting on his behalf. Perhaps his signature on the order to hold back the Praetorians when the assassins attacked was not forged after all. He has become so warped by the Emperor's jibes he has been driven beyond rage to blind hatred. It was he who persuaded Lucius he could attack without fear of retribution. And when the deed was done, who would rise beyond his intelligence and his powers, beyond blood and ability? Who would take the mantle of Caesar and sully it beyond redemption, if it is not sullied beyond it already? Why, Cassius Chaerea, loyal commander of the Guard. And where is he now? Up to his elbows in blood in the place where he is most visible and of most use to his Emperor. Yet even as he performs his duty, he is quaking inside lest the next name screamed from the rack be his own. For he too was betrayed, or why did the German guards fight when they were meant to flee? Only one man was in a position to ensure that outcome, and only one man will profit from it.'