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of
a long, rambling monologue in which the emperor had extolled
Paulus’ virtues as a soldier and administrator. Caligula had been
little more than a youth when he witnessed Paulus saving Tiberius
from an assassin, but obviously had been so impressed by the
incident that his interest was rapidly becoming an obsession.
    Flavius had also heard and observed other
things…a whisper here, a nod there, a look, a gesture. Certain
members of the Praetorian Guard were not happy with Caligula, nor
were certain senators. Especially the ones who bore the brunt of
his anger for forgetting his birthday a year or two ago, and who
were forced to run alongside his chariot one day, for miles, in
their togas. It made him wonder if there was a plot afoot.
    He was aware that Cassius Chaerea, a tribune
in the Praetorian Guard, especially hated the emperor—who, for some
reason, often made disparaging and obscene remarks about the
tribune’s sexuality, and gave him humiliating watchwords to pass to
the guards. He also forced Chaerea, with a few chosen others, to
kiss his foot instead of his hand in greeting. It was very unwise,
Flavius often reflected, to antagonize the Guard. And what should he do, as a believer, if an attempt were made to assassinate
Caligula?
    He walked out into the hallway of the
imperial residence, and in a moment Caligula floated out of his
bedchamber in a dazzling white robe studded with jewels. Well, at
least he wasn’t dressed as Jupiter this time, in a bushy wig and
pasted-on beard.
    “Come, Flavius, you are the only one to
accompany me tonight. I shall stand on the steps of the temple, and
congratulate the rabble that they are in the presence of not a man,
but a god.” And that was what he did, scampering barefoot across
the walkway he had built between the palace and the Temple of
Castor and Pollux. He ascended the marble staircase of the broad,
columned temple and removed his dark cloak to reveal the
splendorous robe beneath.
    Obviously it had been pre-arranged, for the
temple was brightly lit, and a small group of young boys came out
to sing hymns to the emperor. Those hundreds who roamed the streets
at night cheered and shouted praises. They might have a few doubts
as to whether he was a god or not, but he did supply them with food
and free admittance to the games. The boys stopped singing, and
music from someone playing a cithara drifted out to the crowd.
Caligula began to dance across the platform, with much whirling and
pointing of toes.
    Flavius shuddered and tried to think of other
things. How had Rome come to this? He must pray more
fervently; how these people needed a Savior! And it wasn’t, as they
obviously believed, Caligula…
    * * *
    In the more exclusive part of town, Paulus
entered the shop full of musical instruments of every description.
Its owner, Horatius, was a believer and one of his most trusted
friends…and for that reason he had arranged this as a meeting place
with Omari, his mother’s servant, whom he also trusted with his
life. Horatius knew of the arrangement; in fact, he had insisted
upon it when he learned that Paulus needed to be in communication
with Omari on a regular basis. They met on the ides of every month,
if there was a need…if not, Omari simply did not come. It was
always a risk, for both the servant and Horatius.
    He could see the shop-owner at the far back
of the room, talking to a patron. Paulus began to walk around,
looking at the instruments…the flutes and reed pipes, the brass
horns, lyres and lutes, citharas, cymbals and harps, drums large
and small, even a water organ. They were all shining and polished,
of the finest quality, made and shipped here from all over the
Empire. Romans enjoyed listening to music, whether it was composed
in Greece, or Egypt, or Persia, or even by the barbarian Celts;
Caligula especially loved being announced by a fanfare of horns and
drums.
    Horatius’ trade had made him a wealthy man.
The well-dressed slaves who aided him in the