CHAPTER 64

I sat in the cell for what seemed like an eternity, plenty of time to consider all the options. The best case was that the plan was on track, just taking longer than expected. The worst case —Chaerea had double-crossed both of us, or perhaps the plan had otherwise been exposed and Chaerea and Flavia were now in prison too. There were a thousand other possibilities and nothing I could do about any of them.

And so I waited. The minutes passed like hours. At first, I couldn’t shake the dark thoughts of everything that could go wrong. Yet there was also something about sitting alone in the cold darkness that strengthened my resolve. I fortified myself with vivid images I had stored in the recesses of my mind. Caligula as a teenager, spoiled and arrogant, laughing at me as I hung on the cross. Caligula as Caesar, scorning me while I made my case for Mansuetus and Flavia. A jealous Caligula presiding over the games, causing the deaths of brave men like Mansuetus. The hypocritical emperor shouting from the imperial box that he would have extended mercy to Mansuetus if only given the chance.

And the final image —the inconsolable grief of Flavia.

I convinced myself that we were doing the right thing. The emperor was a madman. Somebody had to stop him.

As the minutes marched slowly by, I replayed each of these images over and over, replacing every vestige of fear with a surge of rage and a steely resolve to exact our revenge.

Chaerea whisked Flavia through the underground tunnels of the Imperial Palace, narrow hallways with pictures of Caligula and other emperors painted on the walls. She passed a painting of the emperor giving his first speech to the Senate and thought about those heady days when it looked like a young Caligula would usher in a new golden age. It was not even four years ago.

Chaerea was already out of breath when he led her into the small alcove at the foot of the steep stone steps that led to the holding cells. He grabbed a hooded brown cloak from the corner of the alcove and tossed it to Flavia. She put it on without speaking. He handed her a dagger.

They would free Theophilus first. Then the three of them would circle back and cross paths with the emperor in the single narrow passageway that led to his chambers. Flavia knew the emperor’s chambers would be guarded by the loyal Germanic troops. The best place for an assassination would be in the passage before he got there.

As they climbed the steps, Chaerea told Flavia to take off her hood so the guards could see her face. He would explain that Caesar had told him to take Flavia back to Caesar’s chambers. The guards would have no problem believing that story. He would also explain that Caesar wanted Theophilus there as well to be threatened in front of Flavia in case she didn’t cooperate. Whether they believed it or not, the guards would obey Chaerea’s orders.

When they reached the cell, Chaerea spoke to the guards in German, and Flavia had no idea what they were saying. A couple of times the guards looked at her, but eventually they handed the keys to Chaerea, and he opened the door.

Chaerea jerked me out of the cell and pushed me down the hallway toward the stairs. He had his sword drawn, and Flavia was with him. I thanked the gods and descended the steps as quickly as I could.

At the bottom, Chaerea looked into the hallway and made sure the way was clear. He unlocked my wrist irons and handed me a brown cloak with a hood. He pulled an extra dagger from his belt and gave it to me.

“We don’t have much time,” Chaerea said. His puffy round face was red with exertion, his eyes narrow. I could see the fury in those eyes and a look that approached panic now that the moment had finally arrived. Once again, I wondered if we had chosen the right ally.

“Put your hoods up and let’s go,” Chaerea said.

We ran down one corridor and then another. Each time we made a turn, Chaerea stepped out into the new passageway and made sure nobody was coming. We moved quickly, hugging the walls. One time, a group of Praetorian Guards came from the opposite direction.

“Hold your wrists together,” Chaerea whispered. I did as I was told, and Chaerea pressed the point of his sword against my back. Flavia followed behind. The guards stopped and asked if Chaerea needed help. He told them he was fine, and they went on their way.

We arrived at the one long tunnel that led directly to Caesar’s chambers, and we waited at a corner of the passageway, where it intersected with some others. We were out of sight of anybody approaching from the theater. The minutes dragged by. There was no sign of the emperor.

“What if he doesn’t come?” I asked.

“Then we kill him in the theater,” Chaerea said. “I’ll put the knife in his back myself. My men will either rally to support me or arrest me. Either way, you can be on your way to the Senate.”

The three of us decided to give it another ten minutes.

From a hallway on our left, a group of young Greek choirboys passed by, their directors trailing behind them. They must have been scheduled to perform in the theater. They were singing a melancholy tragedy as they walked, their song echoing off the walls. I recognized the song from my days at the School of Molon, and I took it as an omen. The gods were smiling on us. It was a funeral dirge for Caligula.

“He’s coming,” Chaerea said. He had peeked around the corner after the Greek choir passed. “Come on.”

We followed Chaerea down the tunnel about fifty yards behind the two dozen choirboys. I could see the heads of Caligula and two of his guardsmen on the other side of the choir. Why didn’t we wait where we were? It seemed to me like Chaerea wanted to make this as dramatic as possible. Perhaps he actually wanted witnesses so there would be no doubt about who had killed Caesar. His name would be praised or cursed, but it would be his name on the lips of every Roman.

The choir stopped and bowed before Caesar. The three of us froze when they did so, but we were far enough down the hallway that Caligula didn’t seem to notice us.

“Let me hear another song,” Caligula said.

The boys broke into an upbeat melody. They sang at the top of their lungs, and the directors joined in. It felt surreal, pressing flat against the wall, hearing this energetic musical tribute while creeping up behind the chorus and ducking into an alcove just out of Caesar’s view. Every nerve in my body was on fire. Within minutes we would make our move.

The choir stopped, and Caligula applauded them. He lavished praise on the boys and their directors. We could hear the boys thank him as they headed toward the theater. We knew that at any moment Caligula would be passing directly in front of us.

“The guard on the left is Sabinus,” Chaerea said. “He’s one of us. The guard on the right is not.”

I had recognized the guard on Caligula’s right. It was Lucian, still one of Caligula’s closest friends. He was fully armed, but we would have the element of surprise.

“Put the dagger right here,” Chaerea said to me, pointing to a spot next to his breastplate on the left side. “I’ll take care of Caesar.”

“Not if I can help it,” Flavia said.

And just like that, the moment arrived. We stepped out of the alcove, directly in front of Caligula and his guards. The Greek choir was nearly fifty yards down the hallway behind them, turning a corner and disappearing.

“What is this?” Caligula asked.

Chaerea had drawn his sword, and he wasted no time. He swung at Caesar with a two-fisted strike, a mighty blow designed to decapitate the emperor.

Time seemed to slow in those pivotal few seconds. I saw the astonished look of the emperor, his mouth forming a small O, his eyes wide with fright. The sword struck his collarbone, opening a huge gash in the skin and cracking the bone.

Lucian leaped at Chaerea, and I delivered an underhanded thrust that buried my dagger in Lucian’s ribs, just under his left arm. He turned on me as I twisted and sliced as hard as I could, feeling the shudder that told me my dagger had pierced his heart. He cried out, but before he could deliver his first blow, he reeled and crumpled to the floor.

Miraculously, Caligula had survived the initial attack, though it had seriously staggered him. Before he could regroup, Flavia lunged forward and plunged her dagger into his heart. The guard named Sabinus got in on the action as well, stabbing the emperor repeatedly from behind. As Caligula fell, Chaerea struck again, this time driving his sword into the back of the emperor’s neck. Blood came gushing out. Caligula gurgled, and his body went limp.

I stared, frozen by the horror of the moment. Rome’s leader was dead at our feet, a pool of blood spreading on the polished stone floor of the tunnel. His childhood friend and my onetime tormentor lay next to him, his eyes staring at the ceiling. I had dreamed many times of exacting revenge on the emperor. But I had never once intended to kill an innocent man along with him.

“It’s done,” I said.

“Not yet,” Chaerea said.

I knew what he meant. He and Sabinus would now enter the palace and arrest Caligula’s wife, daughter, and uncle. Flavia would stay here and let out a scream to alert the world that the emperor had died. She would claim that she was returning from the palace when she stumbled across him in the hallway. I would run through the underground tunnels to an exit that led to the Forum. It would be my job to inform the Senate and rally the people.

“May the gods be with you,” Chaerea said.

Flavia took off her cloak and handed it to me. She took my face in both of her hands, leaned forward, and gave me a kiss.

“Play your part well,” she said. “And be careful.”

With that, I took off after Chaerea and Sabinus down the corridor and up the steps. Behind me, I heard a bloodcurdling scream.

Caesar was dead. The question now was whether the empire would die with him.