The conspirators chose their place well. A makeshift amphitheatre had been erected in the Emperor’s palace, served by narrow galleries and passageways. The conspirators took oaths to either kill Caligula there or, if they failed, kill themselves. I became their shadow. The only person Agrippina had told me to take care of was Progeones, I had only glimpsed that awful little creature from afar. Progeones was now hated by everyone. He was regarded as Caligula’s dagger man and constantly carried a list of those the Emperor wished to condemn.
On the morning of the twenty-fourth, Cassius arranged that I join the Emperor in the imperial box at the games. Caligula was in good form, shouting, gesticulating, throwing coins at the mob. He espied me, called me over and clapped me on the shoulder.
‘I’ve had enough of your miserable face, Parmenon. It’s back to Pontia for you. Tell my bitch of a sister that I have been thinking about her more often than I should.’
I kissed the Emperor’s hand and withdrew. I glanced quickly at Progeones. He seemed nervous and ill at ease, and I wondered if he had a spy amongst the conspirators. Caligula then went to a makeshift altar and sacrificed a flamingo for good luck. When some of the blood splashed on his toga, he wiped it off and licked his fingers. He resumed his seat, now and again calling over a senator to kiss his slippered foot.
I glanced around. Chaerea, in full dress armour, tense as a bow string, stood next to the door clutching his sword. The strike had been planned for the end of the day, but the tension was already palpable. I left my seat and crossed to Chaerea.
‘It must be done now,’ I urged. ‘Progeones suspects something.’
Chaerea shook his head, his pallid face soaked in sweat. I glanced down the tier of seats. Castor and Pollux and other members of the German bodyguard now ringed the Emperor. The morning drew on. The fighters in the amphitheatre were lacklustre. Caligula, bored, climbed over the balustrade and into the arena, accompanied by Castor and Pollux. The Emperor grabbed a sword and showed one gladiator how to fight. His opponent, overcome with fear, fell to his knees and begged for mercy. The Emperor neighed with laughter and drove his sword deep into the man’s throat. Helped by his bodyguards, Caligula climbed back into the imperial box.
‘I am hungry!’ he shouted. ‘I want something to eat!’
He turned round and his eyes met mine, a cool, sane look. I’ve always wondered if Caligula knew he was going to die that day.
‘Parmenon!’ he shouted. ‘Join me. I have fresh messages for my sister.’
He shoved his guards aside and climbed the steps towards me. Castor and Pollux followed. For a while confusion reigned, as senators leapt up and wondered whether they should accompany the Emperor or not. Caligula took me by the arm and pushed me out. Chaerea and the others clustered by the doorway. There were a number of underground entrances, some for the crowd, others for the Emperor and his important guests. Caligula went towards one of the latter, and I seized my opportunity.
‘No, your Excellency, it is safer down here.’
Caligula didn’t object. He turned quickly and we went down a narrow passageway towards a pool of light. Footsteps echoed behind us. The Emperor thought it was his bodyguard: in fact it was Chaerea and the rest.
I heard shouts in German. The Emperor, alarmed, peered back through the gloom.
‘What is this?’ he exclaimed.
Chaerea’s sword was already drawn. I pushed the Emperor away from me. Caligula staggered back, his eyes rounded with terror. He lifted his hand to fend off the blow but Chaerea was too swift, and he sliced the Emperor between neck and shoulder. As the Emperor collapsed to his knees, a second blow slashed his jaw. Caligula gave a cry and collapsed on one side. The rest joined in, a melee of screams and shouts, daggers and swords rising and falling. The alarm had been raised, and the German bodyguard, led by Thracian officers, thronged down the passageway, shields up, swords out. In the confusion they had first chosen the wrong way. I glanced down. Caligula was dead, his corpse saturated in blood. Some of the conspirators chose to defend themselves as the Germans closed in. I decided to flee and was soon out in the sunlight, running back towards the city.
Rumours of the attack and the Emperor’s death had gone before me. The Palatine was all confusion, some people running towards the scene of the murder, others, with more sense, trying to put as much distance between them and the murder as possible. I stopped in the shadow of a statue to catch my breath. I wiped off the sweat and made sure there were no bloodstains on my clothing. If Agrippina was correct there would now be a bloodbath but the coup had been successful. Today Caligula learnt, too late, that he wasn’t a God.
Of course, the expected blood-letting followed. The German guards and their Thracian officers went on a senseless rampage. They took the heads of some of the conspirators and placed them as victory trophies on the altar of Augustus. They, in turn, were cut down by the Praetorians who hurried in from the camp. Chaerea escaped, though he spent time desecrating Caligula’s corpse, ripping his dagger through Caligula’s genitals.
Caligula’s friend, the Jewish king Herod Agrippa, intervened as the bloody fray drifted away from the Emperor’s corpse. Herod took the corpse to the Lamia Gardens on the Esquiline where he tried to arrange a funeral pyre. The confusion was so great that he gave up and interred the half-burnt corpse in a shallow grave. No one was able to protect Caligula’s wife, who threw herself on the outstretched sword of one of the tribunes, who had come for her. They then took her child Priscilla by the heel and dashed her brains against the wall.
Meanwhile the Senate, that group of old hypocrites, clustered like a gaggle of frightened geese, not in the Senate house but in the temple of Jupiter, to which they had also brought the city treasure. Protected by guards, they started the usual debate about restoring the Republic. It was a vain hope: both the army and the mob had far more to gain from supporting whoever was to be the next Emperor.
I had bribed certain guards to look after the young Nero and now went searching for Claudius, who, in the general chaos everyone had ignored. Looting had broken out in the palace, where slaves, soldiers and servants were helping themselves. I searched the library but found it empty. I then recalled where his mother’s chamber had been and discovered Claudius hiding behind a curtain.
‘Everything is going to plan,’ I assured him. ‘Agrippina’s son is safe but you have to assert yourself.’
Claudius was almost wetting himself with fright. It took two cups of wine before he stopped shaking. I grabbed him by the hand and bundled him down the steps.
A group of Praetorian officers were waiting, and greeted the old man as if he was a God incarnate. Claudius was immediately put into a litter and, protected by soldiers, taken down to the Praetorian camp outside the city gates. Once he was there, Claudius started to regain his nerve. In a clash of gleaming swords, their cloaks billowing out, the Praetorian Guard hailed Claudius as Emperor and Caesar. He stood shaking on the purple-draped rostrum but accepted their salutes and oaths of fealty. Slowly but surely the word spread. Clerks, secretaries, civil servants, and even a few senators joined Claudius. The Senate tried to negotiate, whilst Claudius prevaricated, dodging and swerving like an old fox. He pointed out that the army had already hailed him as Emperor. He had promised them a donative and he hoped the Senate would see sense and recognise him. They had no choice: Rome accepted him as Emperor. Two weeks later Claudius invited my mistress back to Rome. He treated her honourably, restored her possessions and, after executing those who had murdered Caligula, studiously ignored any reference to her or me.