The Anachronism of the Marmoset

They sat on a low wall, night closing around them. Herod faced out, while Claudius at his shoulder faced in, towards the garden at Capri. When they first sat down, Herod hopped the wall, still nimble in middle age, but Claudius was more careful, and didn’t even swing his legs over one at a time to sit pointing the same way. Caution suited him; it was its own type of grace. With their respective positions, the shadows covered Claudius’s face almost completely, but the civil twilight and the red glow in the west still caught at the white of Herod’s eyes. Torchlight flickered off in the palace distance, blotted out by men passing by on occasion. Their voices were too low to hear clearly, even if they shouted something bawdy at one another— only the tone carried. It gave Herod and Claudius a moment to speak freely. No one could hear them, either. 

“Let’s make a bet, Caesar,” Herod said. He leaned on Claudius’s shoulder.

“D-d-don’t call me that— it’s just us,” Claudius said. “And I wouldn’t make a b-bet with you. Somehow, you always win.”

“Caesar, haven’t I always given you the tools to win bets?” Herod asked, his tone light, almost indulgent. He wondered, just for a moment, what had come of his loaded dice. Claudius once told him the story of the day of Caligula’s murder, but where the dice went after being loaned to a dead man, Herod didn’t know. Maybe Claudius scooped them up where they fell, or maybe some unlucky passerby picked them up and tucked them in his pockets. Crooked dice weren’t a lucky thing to own, just a certain one. Certainty was better than luck, but it was a rarer thing, if it existed at all.

Herod continued: “I would even be at a disadvantage. It would be a bet you could easily win.” He spread his hands, like he was gathering the night up into them. But Claudius couldn’t see the gesture, looking the other way. Claudius instead sighed and took off the gilded laurel circlet.

“Just t-t-tell me what you want. Gold? Here.” He dangled the circlet over his shoulder and Herod’s, and Herod took it from him, tossing it up in the air and catching it again. The ground sloped steeply downhill beneath Herod’s dangling feet— if he dropped the crown, it would be lost in the tangle of thorns and rocks below.

“Caligula started his reign by giving everyone gifts, too,” Herod said. “Or at least me. You’re behind schedule, better make up time.”

“Isn’t it what you’re supposed to do as a ruler? I hear you’re as generous as the G-greeks, over in Judea. I can’t picture it.”

“You wound me, Caesar. Sometimes it just happens that I borrow enough money that I can afford to give some of it away.”

Claudius laughed. “I’m glad you’re here to advise me on that,” he said. “Now that I’ve looked into it, I sometimes feel like there’s not a single denarius left. My nephew was a p-p-prodigious spender.”

“Raise the levies, but not so high that people hate you for being greedy. Reduce your spending, but not so much that people call you stingy. Don’t send out an army unless you know you can afford it, and you almost certainly can’t afford it. There— it’s as sound of a policy as anyone could ever need.”

“If it was as simple as that, no one would ever be b-broke.”

This made Herod laugh. “Perhaps.” He rested the gilded wreath on his lap, then leaned back on his hands so that he could look at Claudius. “But I still want to bet with you.”

“On what?” Claudius asked, exhausted.

“I’ve been thinking about how you asked the Senate to make your grandmother a goddess.”

“I p-p-promised her I would,” Claudius said. “But it’s up to the Senate to decide.”

“Well, it’s only fair. Her husband was one,” Herod said, as if he was being magnanimous. “It is funny that your gods are put to a vote.”

“What does that have to do with your b-bet?”

“I bet,” Herod began, leaning far back to try to catch Claudius’s eyes. “I bet they’ll vote to make you a god, someday.”

Claudius stood up from the wall. “I don’t w-want to be a god!”

Herod reached idly back and tugged on his toga, which Claudius clutched at to stop it from slipping down and falling off completely. “Sit down, Clau-clau.”

The old, childish nickname relaxed him, enough that he gathered his clothing with as much dignity as he could muster, and sat back down beside Herod.  “I didn’t want to be emperor, and I certainly don’t want to be a g-god,” he muttered.

“Did Augustus want to be a god? Or just Livia?”

Claudius looked down at his feet. “I don’t know. He liked b-being loved, but I think he would have preferred to l-l-live.”

“Well,” Herod said. “Don’t we all?”

Claudius frowned and said nothing, which made Herod laugh and lean forward again, looking out into the fading twilight. “Don’t be depressing, Clau-clau.”

“I told you, you would always win bets against me,” Claudius said. “Or I wouldn’t be there to collect on what you owed me. They wouldn’t make me a god until after I’m d-d-dead.”

Herod laughed loudly. “Caligula jumped the line.”

“Oh, yes, and look where it got him.”

“Venerated as a god while he was alive, it seems to me. It’s the best anyone could ever want, isn’t it?”

“Some veneration!”

“Better than none.”

“I don’t think people say that when they’re dying,” Claudius pointed out.

“Well, no, they don’t,” Herod said. He thought, briefly, of that trouble Pontius Pilate mentioned a few years back. It was notable enough for people to recite a story at dinners. Joshua, son of Joseph, even he cried out when they killed him, and he had been— almost. Almost what, Herod couldn’t say. “And I’m told what they do say with their dying breath tends to curdle the blood to hear. They all say something like, ‘ Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani? ’”

The unfamiliar words rang out in the cool of the evening, startling a nearby dove who had already settled down for the night. The words felt out of place, and Herod regretted saying them, and regretted his theatrical cry. He was used to speaking Latin or Greek as a guest, and he could pretend that this was the only reason he felt like he had overstepped, suddenly aware of the steep drop over which his feet dangled. It was poor taste to mock the dead.

“I’m afraid I don’t speak very much H-hebrew,” Claudius said at last.

“It’s Aramaic.” He neglected to provide the translation.

The silence stretched on as the dove returned to its roost. “Why do you want to bet on a thing like that?” Claudius finally asked. “I thought you J-jews didn’t like to bet on a man’s life.”

Herod recovered some of his verve, and nudged Claudius’s shoulder with his own. “Ah, but it wouldn’t be a man’s life— it would be a god’s.”

“Which you don’t believe in, yes.”

“Of course!” He tipped his head, hushed his voice, and said, “But for you, Clau-clau, an exception.”

The joke was close enough to blasphemy that even Claudius said, “Don’t let your G-god hear you say that. You’ll be out of His favor.”

“He’ll do me the favor of not listening,” Herod said.

“I hope you’re right. But I don’t want to be a g-g-god. If you want one of ours, you can have V-vulcan. Caligula thought he would do for me, anyway.”

Herod laughed and looked up at the sky. “He wouldn’t do. Besides, I don’t believe in him.”

With the sun down, Mars was visible towards the southwest, flitting out from behind clouds. The moon was a crescent like a blinking eye, almost nothing, directly on the western horizon.

“What is all this about, Herod?” Claudius asked.

“Nothing.” He looked back up at the moon. “You just brought it to my mind, with your grandmother.”

Claudius shook his head. “There is nobody who would want to make me one, even if I wanted it.”

“No one?” When he left an empty space for Claudius to say something, it remained empty, and Herod hurriedly said, “I’m sure the Senate will do it spontaneously. You’re certainly the best emperor they’ve had since Augustus. If not even better.”

“Would be b-better if they had none.”

“Well, we take what we can get. Gods, emperors, fathers, children.”

“Yes,” Claudius said. After some time: “Would you want to be a g-god?” 

“Me? Are you offering to make me one?” Herod laughed. “It would be a funny thing, for the Romans to have a Jewish god.”

“You didn’t answer my q-question.”

Herod squinted at the moon. “Why would I want something impossible?” he asked. Why bet against loaded dice? “I’m sure your astrologers haven’t prophesied it for me, and I wouldn’t believe them if they did. Have they prophesied it for you?”

“N-not that I’ve heard. There was an omen that I would be emperor, but not a god.”

“You’re safe, then,” Herod said. “You can remain happy and content to be a mere mortal.”

“Safe, yes.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“And happy,” Herod repeated. 

“You don’t believe in our prophecies? They’ve all come t-t-true.”

“You made them come true,” Herod said. When Claudius began to object, Herod put his elbow on his shoulder and stopped him. Claudius met his eyes, turned towards each other, nose to nose, though their legs pointed different directions. “The Sibyl said you were to avenge Caligula’s death, well, so you did.”

“I h-had to.”

“Not because it was prophesied. Because it would save your life.”

“And what about the omen for me to become emperor? I didn’t want it.”

“But you wanted to survive,” Herod said, pointing. “Dead men can’t fulfil prophecy. You had to make that happen.”

Claudius’s mouth twisted, but he said nothing.

“And,” Herod continued, “you yourself told me the story of Germanicus, watching all his death signs before being poisoned! When you want to kill someone, what’s the difference between a prophecy and a plan? Action— that’s all.”

“You’re very c-c-confident.”

“Well, it’s easy for me to say,” Herod said, dropping his elbow from Claudius’s shoulder. “I don’t believe in your gods who whisper in the ears of astrologers, or send down signs. I suppose it’s different for you.”

“Does your God send prophesies?”

“Oh, some,” Herod said. “But I haven’t seen one come true yet.”

“Maybe it’s a m-matter of t-t-time.”

“Maybe.”

“Or a matter of will, as you s-say.”

“Maybe.”

“I see— it is easy for you to talk about our p-p-prophecies, but not yours.”

Herod laughed. “Do you want to hear one?”

“No. I’m tired of p-p-prophecy. And you say if I hear it, I’ll have to act on it.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to? It’s about you.”

“There’s a Jewish p-prophecy about me?” Claudius’s voice was genuinely alarmed. It was charming, how guileless he appeared in moments like this. For his sake, Herod hoped that it was an act that Claudius could never figure out quite how to drop— safer to keep it up even among friends. His eyes were wide, though the large blackness of the pupils was just an effect of the darkness closing in around him, but his lips were parted, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Herod studied him. 

At last, Herod relented and smiled. “Well, I’m a Jew, and I’m saying it.”

“Oh, go on, then,” Claudius said with a sigh. Hastily, he tacked on, “But don’t let it be anything about me becoming a g-god.”

“No, of course not,” Herod said, and tried to think of something especially funny to say. He hadn’t planned his prophecy in advance, just saying something for the sake of it. He leaned close to Claudius, conspiratorially. He could smell the wine on Claudius’s breath. “I prophesy, someday— you know the monkeys of India?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Well I prophesy, further east than India, if you keep going, if you go so far east that it becomes west again and you start heading back to Rome from the opposite way you came, I bet—”

“I thought this was a prophesy, not a b-bet.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Oh, go on.”

“I prophesy that someone will find a monkey, an ugly little monkey, and they’ll name it after you.”

“They’ll name it Claudius?”

Herod stroked his beard in faux contemplation. “No— they’ll name it little mumbler. Marmoset.”

“That’s not being n-named after me at all. P-plenty of people mumble.”

“It is. It will look just like you. But it won’t mumble.”

Claudius sighed. “As ugly as a m-m-monkey. I believe you, you know. I think you’re very p-p-prophetic. I’ll have you read my horoscope next.”

“Well,” Herod said, stretching out the word. He had chosen the wrong joke, like all prophesies and bets, jokes seemed to be easiest to find at Claudius’s expense. “It won’t really be ugly. It would be the kind of charming little thing that your wife would want to keep as a pet.”

Claudius chuckled. “Yes, p-perhaps she would.”

“You know, I would keep one too,” Herod said. Mentioning his wife had been the wrong thing to say, too. The way Claudius spoke of her, the rare indulgent tone in his voice, put Herod on guard. “I would have him on my shoulder as I strolled through the market.” He fumbled on his lap for the gilded wreath he was still holding, and picked it up. Blindly, he reached up and placed it crookedly on Claudius’s head. “I’d dress him up in the most handsome clothes I could get. We’d make a fine pair.”

“And what would that do f-for you? Make you look good in comparison?” Claudius took the wreath off again, and held it against his chest, as if to ward Herod off.

“Do?” Herod asked. He leaned even further towards Claudius— their shoulders overlapped— and his voice wasn’t even joking anymore, just soft. “He wouldn’t need to do anything. What does a man want, but to have a friend with him wherever he goes?”

“I thought you’d say you’d train him to cheat at d-d-dice.” 

Whatever response Herod had wanted from Claudius, it hadn’t been that one. The next best thing was to make him laugh, so he pulled back and grinned, the joke returning to his voice.“Of course, I’d do that, too. You’d make me a lot of money, Clau-clau.”

Claudius laughed. “I’m s-sure.”

Silence fell between them at last, nothing left to say. Neither of them wanted to move, but neither wanted to find some way to fill the silence. The sun was down, and not even a glimmer of redness showed on the horizon. It was nearly too dark to see anything, except the stars above and the torches behind. But still, Herod looked at Claudius, studied what little of his face he could see in the darkness, then swung his legs back up over the wall and stood up, ready to go back inside, ready to put the night away. 

Claudius didn’t move, still holding the crown to his chest. Herod reached over and pulled it from Claudius’s hands, then settled it properly on his head. “You look better with it on, Little Marmoset.”