CHAPTER 41

Despite my bravado in the public baths, I spent every minute of the next two weeks on edge. I couldn’t sleep, and I had lost my appetite. More maiestas charges were filed, this time against some high-ranking officials in the Praetorian Guard. There were whispers that I would be next. Crispinus and his cohorts were building a case against both Seneca and me, and I feared it was only a matter of time. I met with Seneca about it, but we both knew there was nothing we could do.

“It will help if you stay sober,” he reminded me, as if I could have forgotten about my drunken tirade.

My law practice had picked up again, fueled by the notoriety I had gained. I was even approached by one of the commanders in the Praetorian Guard who had been accused of maiestas, but I decided to sit this one out. I had already made enough enemies to last a lifetime.

I desperately wanted to thank Flavia for what she had done, but I also sensed that I was being watched. By law, the intersection between her and Apronius had to be accidental. If I met with her to thank her, it would fuel suspicions that the whole thing had been orchestrated. I figured Seneca was the one who had convinced Flavia to take the action, but he never admitted it to me. And after my little episode on the Rostra, who could blame him?

With all of Rome already in an uproar, tensions notched even higher when the news arrived during the second week in March. Seventy-eight-year-old Tiberius was coming back to the capital city!

On the sixteenth day of March, I was trying one of many cases in the main hall of the Basilica Julia, an enormous atrium 270 feet long and 60 feet wide. As usual, large curtains had been dropped from the ceiling so the central nave could accommodate four trials simultaneously. There were wooden benches for dozens of spectators in each section, and depending on the case, other observers might stand behind them. In Rome, trials were spectator sports for the intellectually curious.

I was cross-examining a witness who had been lurking on the stairwell outside the basilica earlier, a man obviously willing to sell his testimony to the highest bidder. The crowd was enjoying my dissection of the witness, the exchange punctuated by clapping when I asked certain questions and whistles when they didn’t like his answers.

A commotion arose in the section behind me, followed by enough murmuring that the magistrate called the court to order. I turned and noticed people filing out quickly. Within minutes the court was emptied of spectators. A servant came running down the aisle and waited behind me until he was signaled forward by the magistrate. He whispered to the magistrate, and I watched the man’s face go pale. He stared into space for a moment, and then he stood.

“This court stands adjourned indefinitely,” he announced. He paused as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say.

“Tiberius Julius Caesar Augustus is dead.”

The celebrations began almost immediately. Roman citizens poured into the streets —shouting, dancing, singing. It was as if we were celebrating Saturnalia in March. As the day wore on, they draped garlands on the public buildings and broke out instruments. Wine flowed, and the crowds grew.

I sat on the steps of the Basilica Julia and watched the celebration spin out of control. Rome could breathe again, and the bottled-up passion that had been so carefully constrained during the reign of Tiberius spilled out into a riotous party. The crowd began to chant, “Tiberius to the Tiber,” the same fate that had awaited anyone accused of conspiring against the emperor. I marveled as I watched the predictions of Seneca come true. I could almost feel the shifting of the tide, and I knew that by the time the evening sun disappeared over the hills, the power in the Senate would have changed —those loyal to Tiberius would be the ones looking over their shoulders.

There was talk about how Tiberius had died, all from reliable sources, but the accounts conflicted with each other. The most credible versions claimed that Tiberius had seemed to die peacefully in his sleep. But then, just as his closest aides were preparing to declare Caligula the new emperor, the old man regained consciousness, sat straight up in bed, and asked for food. Macro, who was outside the emperor’s tent, was told about the sudden resuscitation and had everyone except himself and Caligula clear the bedchamber. Macro then smothered the emperor and pledged the support of the Praetorian Guard to Caligula, the adopted grandson of the emperor.

As Rome partied the night away, this much was clear: Tiberius’s reign of terror was over. Caligula, the fabled son of the beloved Roman general Germanicus, was the choice of the military to become the new emperor. It took the Senate less than two days to fall in line and invalidate the last will of Tiberius, a document that would have left half the empire to his natural-born grandson Gemellus.

Caligula rode into Rome ten days later, dressed in the black and tattered garments of mourning, and the populace fell at his feet in worship. They had built altars all along the road to Rome, calling out to him as their “son” and their “star.”

I watched from a distance as my childhood tormentor entered Rome and the crowds along his path exalted him. I hadn’t seen the man in over a decade, but he had barely changed. He still had the unruly red hair, the buggy eyes, and the head that seemed too big for his body. He was still tall and gangly. He had the smooth skin of a sixteen-year-old boy, and I was amazed that the time he’d spent with Tiberius —the man responsible for killing Caligula’s brother and mother —hadn’t aged him more.

As the new emperor slowly made his way through the Forum, I could tell he was trying hard not to enjoy the moment too much. He didn’t allow his face to break into the kind of beaming smile that he must have been feeling inside.

Out of their disdain for Tiberius and love for Germanicus, the Roman mobs were offering Caligula absolute power. Even Augustus had not been deified in his lifetime. But watching the fervor on the faces of those who adored their new “son” —tears streaming down the cheeks of the women, mothers holding their children out toward him for a blessing, men cheering lustily for this new Roman savior —I knew that Caligula could just say the word and become a god.

But I also knew the man in a way that others did not. And the smug look of satisfaction on his face as he waved at the crowd terrified me. If this was Rome’s new savior, may the gods help us.