‘He’s already king of the other places,’ James son of Zebedee said. ‘Now he says he’s waiting for imperial confirmation of the greater appointment. The Emperor sent the procurator off to Syria. It looks as if Judaea’s going to have a king again. Not for long, though. He takes his choice of being butchered by the Romans or his own people.’
‘We have to speak out,’ Nebat sang. ‘We even have to take the lead in speaking out. We have the responsibility of an Israel fulfilled by the redemption of the anointed one. We are Israel’s true voice.’
‘And,’ Peter said, ‘we have to deny the first of our martyrs. We have to die for the Temple. There’s something wrong somewhere.’
‘It may not come to that,’ Little James said.
But next day, in the glare of noontime, a huge golden smirking effigy was unveiled before the eyes of a sullen people. It still stood on its cart, and it was insolently just outside the Temple precincts. It awaited a further brief and final journey. Troops from Caesarea had raised a forest of spears around it. None of the Zealots dared yet to strike. They only murmured or cursed.
Herod Agrippa, elegantly enrobed, was carried on a litter towards the holy city. At the city gates the senior members of the Sanhedrin awaited him, headed by Caiaphas. A choir sang one of the Lamentations of Jeremiah. The mournful melisma accompanied the slow procession to the palace built by Herod the Great, at present untenanted. Herod Agrippa deigned to mount the exterior marble steps, each step long as a short street, on foot. The throneroom was dusty, but the throne had been dusted. He did not seat himself on the throne. He chose a humbler seat some yards away from it. This seat was dusty. A chamberlain dusted it with the edge of his robe. Herod Agrippa sat. The members of the Sanhedrin remained standing. To Caiaphas Herod Agrippa said:
‘I know the protocol, your eminence. Forgive my speaking Greek, by the way. My Aramaic needs – ah, dusting. I recognise,’ and he twanged off the like terminations with sardonic relish, ‘that my elevation requires imperial confirmation and the ratification of my coronation. You will know that I am king when I sit on that throne. I understand that a ship is just now putting in at Caesarea. It carries a particular document – with the imperial seal. In that document will be the imperial confirmation of Judaea’s restoration, God be praised, to the company of the kingdoms.’
‘A client kingdom,’ Caiaphas said.
‘The whole world acknowledges its clientage. Freedom has always been a relative term. Caesar is Caesar.’
‘As you are not yet quite the king of Judaea,’ Caiaphas said, ‘I can speak without excessive humility. If the statue of Caesar goes inside the Holy Temple of Jerusalem—’
‘The Jewish people will cut their throats. I know.’
‘The Jewish people will cut Roman throats first. And then accept their annihilation.’
‘Your eminence, be reasonable. The Emperor Gaius believes himself to be a god – indeed, to be the one and only god. You and I know that the Emperor is mad, but madmen have to be humoured. Place the statue within, as a gesture of acceptance of Roman rule, and no great harm is done. It can be regarded as a mere decoration.’
‘You must know the answer to that.’
‘I do know the answer. And therefore I temporise. Let the effigy stay where it is for a while. Put it about that it symbolises the deference of Caesar to the God of the Jews. Gaius the god acknowledges the existence of a greater than he. His statue stands at the border of the Temple precincts as a symbol of his fealty to the Lord God of Hosts. Put this around. Your people, my people, will be content to believe it.’
‘Put round a lie, you mean.’
‘What is truth? Let the people grow used to the imperial image. The next step may be deferred.’
‘For how long?’
‘Who knows? The next step will be to move the statue into the Temple precincts themselves. One step at a time. Habituated to its presence, even the Zealots will forget to object. Besides—’
‘Besides what?’
‘Nothing. Nothing for the moment.’
What Herod Agrippa may have been thinking and yet, for superstitious reasons, unwilling to state outright was that Gaius Caligula’s days might well be, as the saying has it, numbered. Caligula’s own dreams were telling him this, but he would pay no heed to them. Some of these recorded phantoms of his sleeping brain have been confused with recorded fact, so that some believe that the statue of Olympian Jupiter, on being removed from its immemorial plinth for transportation to Rome (so that Gaius could have his own grinning head substituted for the grave bearded visage of the father of the gods), burst into giant laughter and shook the scaffolding to collapse, so that the workmen ran away in terror. This was undoubtedly a fantasy of a sleeping and fuddled brain, like the one that woke the Emperor during the night before his assassination: he dreamt that he was standing before Jupiter’s celestial throne and the god kicked him with the great toe of his left foot (not his right, as some would have it) and sent him tumbling screaming back to earth. As for the assassination plot, this was contrived by Cassius Chaerea and Cornelius Sabinus, both military tribunes, and the chosen instrument for the act was none other than Marcus Julius Tranquillus, newly married, and deliriously happy in his bride, who was discovering that no man ever got anything for nothing. The three men had their conspiratorial meeting at the house of Cornelius Sabinus, in his study with its trellis shelves filled with scrolls, for he was a reading man. Cassius Chaerea said bitterly:
‘I could forgive the crimes. The crimes are nothing—’
‘Nothing?’ Sabinus said. ‘Rape, incest, mutilation, confiscation of property, arbitrary executions, buggery. Have you seen the list of them?’
‘You can’t make,’ Chaerea said, ‘a quantitative judgement. Accept the evil of the man and you must accept his killing of the entire world. What I cannot accept is humiliation—’
‘Your own humiliation?’
‘Well, I will say this. I am sick of his taunting me with effeminacy in public, calling me Venus indeed. At my age too. Sticking his middle finger out for me to kiss but keeping that finger always at the level of his crotch. It is sometimes small things, endlessly repeated, that will drive a man to madness. But no, I think of the humiliation inflicted on the military in general—’
‘The Guard or the legions?’
‘Can you separate one from the other? I refer to the pretence of the invasion of Britain that he proposes. A raid or two. A few prisoners. Himself to stay snug in his tent and impose on the army the lie that he led it to battle, to victory in the southern tribal areas. A triumphal procession back to Rome. The gathering of the seashells was bad enough, but this—’
‘And his successor?’
‘Can you doubt who? A good man who drinks his wine in the Praetorian mess like a soldier but never loses the sense of a seemly humility in the presence of his military betters. A safe man given to study. Indeed, the only man.’
Sabinus chewed on that for a moment and then he addressed Marcus Julius Tranquillus. ‘Centurion,’ he said, ‘you know now why I summoned you here.’
‘You propose a terrible thing.’
‘Oh yes, to kill a self-proclaimed god is undoubtedly terrible. Ask that charming bride of yours what she thinks of the lex talionis.’
‘I do not think I—’
‘Come, man, the law of retribution. You’ve told us all about her sister’s being lashed to death. If the enormity of striking Caesar chills you, think of the referred satisfaction of familial revenge. Anyway, you won’t be alone. Who killed the divine Julius your namesake? In effect, a whole perturbed and apprehensive nation. Your hand will not be your own hand. Besides, we shall have our daggers too.’
‘But I,’ Marcus Julius Tranquillus said, ‘will be the only paid assassin. That sum, when I can save it, will be repaid with interest into the Praetorian funds—’
‘Forget that, man. The freeing of a slave of Caesar’s was itself a blow against Caesar.’ He poured some wine for the three
of them. ‘So we drink to it then and bind ourselves with the pledge.’
‘Where and when?’ Chaerea asked.
Before the last banquet of Gaius Caligula a Jew named Caleb who called himself Metellus strode, in Roman tunic and leather wristbands, towards the imperial kitchens. He had at last arrived at the previously unattainable, namely the Palatine, because he was due to appear before the Emperor again, though this time at a private party, in a wrestling bout with a golden Greek of immense strength named Philemon. A whole troupe of imperial entertainers had assembled early in an antechamber to the banqueting hall – Parthian swordswallowers, dancers from the island of Lesbos, Syrian musicians with gongs, shawms and zithers, a small pride of performing lions, a pair of young panthers, one of them a female on heat, which would copulate in public when their well separated cages were opened on the round tiled floor of performance. The human performers had been fed weak wine and kickshawses, and Caleb followed one of the servants back to the kitchens, first having asked him a question he was not well able to answer, having had his larynx removed. So he strode into the great fiery hell where innumerable fantastic dishes were being given their final touches of ornamentation. An undercook accosted Caleb at once and, lifting an iron skillet in threat, said out. ‘You have two slaves here,’ Caleb said. ‘Girls from Palestine.’ This he did not know, but it seemed a fair guess. Get out. Here, Bubo, throw him out. Bubo was a surly boily man who was scraping pans before washing them. He advanced on Caleb with a vast jellymould of copper. Caleb showed his muscle and Bubo growled. An old crone scouring a baking dish showed to Caleb an open mouth with few teeth. She said: Palestine? ‘You know who I mean?’ Caleb asked trembling now. Well, it’s a bitof a long story—
Cassius Chaerea and Cornelius Sabinus were guests at the banquet. When he entered with his freedman Aufidius, who carried a leather bag with the imperial whip undoubtedly in it, Gaius Caesar, who had perhaps seen these two wading in blood in a dream, said: ‘Fear not, gentlemen. I’ll get you before you get me.’ Then he giggled. He reclined without grace and bade the first course be served. It was some fantastic monstrosity – perhaps pastry moulded in the shape of newborn babies with minced lark brain protruding from the anus – and called on his uncle Claudius to recite something. Claudius rose with dignity, pushing his couch back to give standing room, and, with very little stuttering, announced that he would deliver a passage from an unknown philosopher. The passage was as follows.
‘He who is all powerful is free to perform both good and evil acts. And because ggggood is harder to perform than evil, he will best show his ppppower in the enactment of good. He who pppperforms nothing but evil is clearly enslaved to evil and has forfeited his power of choice. The evil ruler is no ruler at all.’
He sat to an uneasy silence. Gaius Caligula said: ‘Who wrote that? The fool Seneca? One of the bleating followers of the slave Chrestus? I hope I do not hear the ring of treason in it.’
Claudius, back on his feet, said calmly: ‘An unknown philosopher, as I said. About fifty years of age with no wealth but a wealth of white hair.’ And, having thus made the identification, he reclined with a certain grace on his couch. Gaius Caligula said:
‘You’ve become quite agile with your tongue, Uncle Claudius. Are you as agile with your body? I’ve a mind to see you strip off and wrestle. I like an occasional bout of – what’s the term? – ah yes, gerontomachia.’
‘Alas, I’m-a slow mover, Caesar,’ Claudius said. ‘I limp, nephew, I claudicate, as my name proclaims. I could afford you little sport.’
‘Anyway,’ Gaius Caligula said, ‘old as you are, you’re not quite old enough. Let’s have the really old. You, sir – and you.’ He addressed two ancient senators, bald, toothless, emaciated.
‘We would rather not, Caesar,’ the less ancient, though there was little in it, said.
‘Dravernotsheezer,’ the Emperor mocked. ‘Come on, reverend sirs. Entertain your master. No prize for the winner. But for the loser an eternal crown. Eternal darkness, I mean. Una nox dormienda. Strip them, Aufidius.’ So the two ancients were rudely rendered totally naked to only imperial laughter. They stood bewildered facing each other. ‘Fight, come on, fight, you gerontomachoi. I demand sport.’ They engaged in a show of earnest. The son of one of them, an importer of wild beasts named Licinius Calvinus, stood to protest but was swiftly dragged back to his couch by his burly wife. ‘Must I get my whip to you?’ called Gaius Caligula. ‘Oh, signs of a misspent youth. Too much gloomy philosophy. Not enough cultivation of the pride of the flesh. Fight.’ They grappled arthritically. The younger was blue at the lips. He fell with both hands on his heart. ‘That looks to me like cheating, reverend sirs. That looks to me like natural death. Oh, take them away,’ he cried petulantly. ‘Bring on the professionals. I wish to see blood.’ He was at least seeing a simulacrum of it, for the second course was an innominate crimson pudding containing heaven knew what. Licinius Calvinus came to drag his father away: he was not dead, merely feigning to be. It was now that the imperial master of ceremonies ordered on the Jew Caleb, somewhat dazed with the news he had heard, and the golden Greek Philemon. They made formal obeisance to the Emperor and then started to grapple. Hot butter squirted, by a quaint device, out of the blood-coloured pudding. Gaius Caligula laughed to see the exquisite Lollia Paulina’s exquisite face embuttered. Then he watched the wrestling with critical care. He was not satisfied; he was seeing no blood. ‘Take that golden giant away,’ he called. ‘Reserve him for my bed. It’s a long time since I’ve been as it were punitively sodomised. Now, you, sir, your Emperor will show you how to fight. Aufidius – puss puss puss, miauuuu.’ Aufidius took out of his leather bag a beautifully made catmask of Sicilian workmanship and a pair of catskin gloves with pointed claws. Gaius Caligula turned himself into an unagile cat, an overfed tom, left his couch and advanced on Caleb. Caleb was disconcerted. He stood and allowed the Emperor to gash his arms. He looked at the catmarks welling blood and wondered what to do. There was a rumble of talk from the couched watchers and he could not guess at its meaning. ‘Come, boy. Miauuuuu. Grrrrr.’ The Emperor struck at Caleb’s left eye, missed, caught his left temple. Caleb saw with astonishment what looked like a falling curtain of blood, and then let his sister Ruth enter his body. He circled, wiping the blood off, and Gaius Caligula, complaining breathily of unfairness, found himself scratching at empty air. He caught Caleb’s cheek with a lucky lunge, squealing in triumph, and then found himself pinioned from behind, flailing in impotence. ‘Unfair,’ he tried to yell. ‘Let me go! Make him let me go! Kill him!’ Caleb had the vainly scratching Caligula off his feet in an easy lift, and the little boots kicked at nothing. Then he dropped him. The Emperor did not resume his catplay. Instead he called for Aufidius to kill, kill. Cornelius Sabinus stood and yelled:
‘No!’
The tone of authority took even Gaius Caligula by surprise. Caleb ran off. The Emperor saw more inimical faces than had ever before dared to unmask. He tore his own mask off and grumbled: ‘Spoilsports. No sense of humour. The banquet is finished.’ He left with unimperial speed, his sycophants after, their hands making apologetic gestures to the statues, pillars with their garlands, uneaten dishes. Claudius looked at Cornelius Sabinus, his mouth open in a nervous rictus, desirous of saying something but his speech organs unable to engage.
Gaius Caligula would have been wise to remove to Antium that night. Masquerading as a cat gave him none of a cat’s instincts. He went to the theatre the following morning to watch a mimed comedy entitled Laureolus, at the end of which the protagonist, a leader of a gang of highway robbers, died while vomiting copious blood. Following the custom of the time, the action was comically exaggerated by the performers in a kind of antimasque, who filled the stage with apparently regurgitated red syrup. Gaius Caligula, having prematurely brought the banquet to an end the previous night, had later declared himself hungry and had gorged on a cold grouse pie with pickled gherkins. The sight of stage blood now made him feel sick though
unable to vomit. Perhaps he needed to settle his stomach with a light luncheon. He could not make up his mind. His uncle Claudius was with him on his orders: some instinct, not quite feline, was warning him not to let Claudius out of his sight for too long. Claudius last night had not behaved like a fool; the nephew had heard like an aureole round the uncle’s voice the hollow echo of the senate chamber. Claudius now said to him: ‘Give your stomach a rest. Come for a little walk.’
‘It’s too cold to walk.’ It was too, a week from the end of the month of January.
‘The ccccovered way.’ Meaning the enclosed passage that led from the auditorium to the actors’ greenroom. They walked – Gaius, Claudius, the actor Mnester, a handful of nameless effeminates. In the passage Gaius Caligula was charmed to see a rehearsal of a Trojan wardance by a group of noble youths who had recently come from one of the Asian provinces. ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Most exquisitely done. We will have a special performance this afternoon.’
‘I’m not at my best, Caesar,’ one of the youths frankly said. ‘I have a bad attack of the rheum. Rome is a cold city.’
‘Sometimes at this season,’ Gaius Caligula said kindly. ‘You will see if you stay with us, and you are most welcome, a glorious spring and a summer whose heat is sometimes insupportable.’ Chaerea and Sabinus now appeared from a passage set at right angles to the covered way, part of the first cohort of the Praetorian Guard behind them. This was led by a senior centurion whose face the Emperor knew well. He trembled, perhaps with ague, as he slapped his chest in salute. It was not cold enough to shiver. Sabinus said with deference:
‘Caesar, what is today’s watchword?’
‘Oh, that. Let us say Jupiter.’
‘By Jupiter, now!’ Chaerea cried. Marcus Julius Tranquillus drew his dagger and struck his Emperor in the ribs. The point seemed to meet resistant bone, but Gaius Caligula staggered and turned. Chaerea struck out and split the imperial jawbone. Sabinus brought two conjoined fists down on the Emperor’s head. The Emperor fell, yelling through blood: ‘You can’t do it! I’m immortal!’ Then the entire cohort drew swords and fought each other to get their thrusts in, thirty all told, the thirtieth in the genitals. The imperial litter bearers struck out in loyalty though feebly with their litter poles. The German bodyguard came in running, slashing whoever was in their way. Cornelius Sabinus was slashed to the wristbone. The Germans, howling from the pits of their throats, were fought off. Caesar lay in his blood. Chaerea pulled away the imperial purple robe, sending the corpse rolling. He looked for Claudius. All looked for Claudius. Claudius had taken shelter behind one of the painted drapes (the one of the rape of Lucrece) that lined the passageway. The Praetorians saw the drape that bulged tremulously and, violent impulses not yet abated, yanked it off its rod. It billowed about Claudius, who went kkkk. Chaerea went up to him with the purple.