Gore Vidal’s Caligula (12 page)

“Nothing . . .” It was the faintest of whispers.

A flush of anger stained the young man’s cheeks. “You’re lying!” he shouted. “You
can
see her, I know you can. So tell me! Come on, quickly! Before you go, tell me what she is like.” He was begging for a vision of the goddess, for proof of the soul’s immortality.

“There is nothing . . . only . . . sleep . . .” Nerva was almost unconscious now.

“Liar!” Caligula jumped up, kicking over the stool in his fury. He grabbed Nerva’s head in both hands and shoved it viciously into the bloody water, pushing the face under, under, under. Drown, you old rat, drown and die!

But Nerva was already dead.

CHAPTER FIVE

It hadn’t seemed possible, but there it was. Everybody had said it wouldn’t happen, but it had. Tiberius had actually taken ship, had left Capri in his Imperial trireme, had crossed the three miles of water to the mainland, sailed around to Ostia and from there to the Tiber, then up the river to Rome. Now the trireme lay at anchor within the very sight of the seven hills of Rome. Tiberius was coming home, at the age of seventy-seven.

There had been an enormous commotion, of course. All the ships in the harbor at Ostia had rung their bells as Tiberius’ ship approached. Statues of Tiberius, crowned with the promised wreaths (only half of them were gold; the others were plain laurel), had been erected on both banks of the Tiber, and cheering crowds shouted Tiberius’ name as he sailed past. A long and rather ragged procession of Senators in their whitest togas—the lictors behind them carrying the bundles of rods, the
fasces;
the tribunes in the lead—had come miles out of the city to meet the trireme. Most of these Senators were Tiberius’ appointed toadies, since those who were not had met death in one fashion or another during the Emperor’s reign. Still, just to be on the safe side, a picked legion of the guard, led by Chaerea, had marched ahead of and behind the Senators. They carried the eagles of their legion, and the
aeges
that proclaimed SPQR: the Senate and the People of Rome. Altogether it was a satisfying tribute, even an enthusiastic one, and Tiberius had been pleased.

Of course, he had yet to actually enter the city, but his minions were there already, arranging for the festivities and the honors that were to be paid to the Emperor. Meanwhile, Tiberius held court on his ship, with twenty or more Senators dancing attendance, and courtiers to flatter him. Such of his relatives as he had allowed to live were also present to fawn upon him. These included Caligula, of course, and Gemellus; both boys had sailed with him from Capri. Caligula’s uncle Claudius had come aboard at Ostia. Claudius was the family joke, a foul-looking man in his middle years, lame, apparently half-witted, and with a disgusting tendency to stammer and drool whenever he was agitated or frightened, which was often.

There was much Imperial business to be seen to. Tiberius sat now under a gold-trimmed canopy on the forward deck. His consular seat held a large carved lap-desk across the arms. As the Emperor signed and sealed official documents, Caligula, bored, moved restlessly around the deck, staring off at distant Rome as though he could see Drusilla from here. Gemellus sat timidly near the Emperor; that child always looked as though he were about to flinch as though he expected a blow or a kick or worse. Well, thought Caligula, if Isis aids me, one day I’ll see to it the little bastard’s expectations are all realized. And Claudius, asleep now, his back propped against the ship’s center mast, his mouth open. The old fool! What’s
he
doing here? He’s of no use to anybody, including himself.

Tiberius was making swift headway through the pile of documents, stamping them with the Imperial seal as he uttered over and over again the Imperial formula. An efficient Greek secretary offered the documents one at a time, explaining them in a low voice for the Emperor’s ear only.

“The tax increases for Gaul, Caesar . . .”

Eagerly seizing this particular paper, the Emperor scanned it quickly and his sharp old eyes noticed an error in the calculations, one not in his favor.

“See . . . here . . . a mistake.” With a stroke of his split-reed pen, Tiberius corrected the error. Then he leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied—he always enjoyed catching somebody in the wrong—and called out, “Is it midday yet?”

A tall, handsome young officer took a quick glance at the
clepsydra
set in the stern of the ship—a water clock, weighted to be accurate despite the pitch and roll of the vessel.

“Just past midday, Caesar.”

“Fetch me the snake. It’s time for her dinner.” The Emperor leaned forward in his chair again and stamped the now-correct tax bill with his ring, intoning, “I, Tiberius, command in the name of the Senate and the people of Rome.” He laid the signed bill aside.

The secretary handed him the next document. “The oracle at Cumae, Lord. She sent you a message.”

Tiberius took the folded letter and carefully broke the
linum,
the thread that held it together. He read the message half-aloud, “Beware the power of the mob.” He laughed grimly. “I need no warning at this late date.”

“Who’s that?” Caligula asked Chaerea, referring to the handsome young officer just striding by on his way to fetch the Emperor’s pet snake.

“Proculus. A fine young officer. Just assigned to the household. He’s much admired . . . by the ladies.” The colonel looked sideways at Caligula. Was he, too, admiring the muscular Proculus?

But Caligula was staring at Proculus’ thick, curly mop of black hair. “He has a lot of hair, hasn’t he?” he remarked sourly. “Mine’s falling out.”

“Proof that you are a Caesar, Prince,” Chaerea assured him. “Like your grandfather, like your uncle Claudius . . .”

At the mention of Claudius, Caligula looked over at the snoring fool, who was sleeping soundly even though the deck was busy with the comings and going of courtiers and Senators. A malicious idea occured to Caligula, and his face lit up. He dearly loved a joke at another’s expense.

Claudius was napping with a handkerchief of fine linen clutched in his hand. Near him, a sailor was cleaning the ship’s metal with a filthy, oily rag. Caligula held his hand out and the sailor, puzzled, gave him the rag. Then Caligula squatted down next to his sleeping uncle. Carefully, so as not to disturb Claudius, he tugged the handkerchief gently from his hand and replaced it with the oily rag. This done, he leaned forward and whistled loudly into Claudius’ ear. The old man woke up with a convulsive start.

“Great Heavens! I . . . mmmm . . . mmm . . . mean Great Augustus! What . . . where . . . what’s . . .” he stammered in surprise and consternation. He rubbed his sweating face with what he supposed to be his fine linen handkerchief, not noticing that it was now a piece of filthy rag.

Caligula stifled his laughter; the old fool looked so ridiculous all smeared with grease.

Tiberius looked up from his signing, annoyed by the disturbance. “Claudius, what have you done to your face?” he demanded.

“Face . . . face . . . my face, Uncle?” stuttered Claudius, totally bewildered. “What about my face? I mmmm mmmmm mean . . .”

Caligula was laughing openly now, and even the most sycophantic of the courtiers were allowing themselves contemptuous smiles. Tiberius sighed, half in amusement, half in resignation. “Go below, Claudius. Wash your face.” He shook his head. “How lucky Priam was to have outlived
all
his family,” he muttered. But Caligula heard. It was true, then; they’d warned him at Rome that Tiberius had made that remark more than once. But after today, he’d never say it again. After today . . .

A blast of trumpets signaled the arrival of a small ship alongside the trireme. A ladder was let down, and in a moment Macro climbed up to the poopdeck. Saluting Colonel Chaerea and Caligula, he came forward to pay his homage to Tiberius.

“Hail Caesar,” he said, his right arm outstretched.

Tiberius stood, pushing aside the papers. “Macro,” he acknowledged. “Greetings. Are they ready?”

“Yes, Caesar. The consuls and the Senate are waiting for you at the Palatine dock.”

“Good,” nodded the Emperor.

“Shall I give the order for the ship to continue?”

But now the Emperor seemed to hesitate. “No . . . no . . . not yet.”

Walking away from the others, he stood at the railing of the ship, looking in the direction of Rome. The city glittered in the distance as the sun fell upon the marble of Augustus’ finest achievements in architecture. Ten years . . . so long a time to be away . . . a decade . . . a lifetime. Perhaps he ought not to be in such a hurry to return. Perhaps . . .

Coming up beside the Emperor, Caligula broke into his thoughts. “Macro says that the whole city has turned out. Thousands and thousands of people to see you . . .”

“To see if I exist,” mused Tiberius. “Or if I’m just a dream.”

The old man sighed, looking suddenly a thousand years old. The network of wrinkles crosshatching his face seemed carved in stone; the sores and lesions of his disease were like craters left on battlefields.

The Emperor sighed again. “I hate the constant smiles. And then . . . the knife in the dark . . . the poison in the cup . . .” He shuddered.

“You are their father, Lord,” said Caligula reverently, remembering not to smile.

But the old man was shaking his head. He was wearing the great black wig again today; the movement tilted both the wig and the golden crown slightly askew. “No. I am just their . . . reluctant master.”

Now the handsome young guard Proculus approached with the snake’s gold-trimmed Egyptian box.

“The snake, Caesar.”

“Did you bring flies?”

“Yes, Caesar.” From a pocket in his tunic, the young officer produced a scrap of parchment, done up in a twist. In it were several particularly juicy flies.

Opening the snake’s box, Tiberius began to smile. “How is my lovely, my dearest . . .” He broke off with a great cry of anguish.

Caligula peered into the box, then recoiled. The snake was dead. Ants covered its coiled body, devouring it. The eyes were missing already; only wet, empty sockets remained.

With an astonishing show of strength for an old man, Tiberius hurled the heavy box over the rail and into the sea. “Beware the power of the mob,” he croaked, reciting the oracle.
“It is an omen!”
He would be the serpent, the Romans the ants, and they would devour him.

Macro hurried over.

“Tell the captain we’re turning back!” ordered Tiberius.

Macro exchanged a quick glance with Caligula. “But, Caesar . . .”

“Obey me!” roared Tiberius, near to hysterics. He was obviously terrified. His skinny ribcage was heaving, and sweat was pouring down his cheeks.

“Yes, Caesar,” said Macro, saluting.

“I shall never set foot in Rome again!” declared Tiberius, and he headed below decks to shut the hated city out of his sight.

Macro and Caligula looked after him in consternation, then at each other.

“Was this the day?” Caligula asked softly.

Macro nodded grimly. All their plans, so carefully and secretly made. Now . . . all for nothing. That senile, superstitious old fool was eluding their assassins.

Boats were pulling alongside the trireme, ready to take the visitors ashore, and Senators and supplicants were scrambling over the side. Claudius approached, giggling. His face had been washed clean again. Thank heavens for small mercies, thought Caligula.

“Good to see you, nephew . . . Prince, I mean.” Claudius gave a shriek of doltish laughter. “Rather short visit, wasn’t it? But better than nothing, I’ll swear. By Augustus, of course.” Still giggling, he clambered over the side into one of the returning boats.

Macro turned to Proculus, who stood at attention. “Everyone is to go ashore except the Imperial party,” he ordered.

“Yes, Commander.”

“Tell the captain to weigh anchor.”

Proculus saluted and marched off to obey.

Macro had to leave too, since he was the captain of the Guard at Rome and not attached to the royal household. Caligula held a hand out to him.

“Tell Ennia, I . . . I am deprived.”

Macro nodded, sympathetic. “I will. She’ll be brokenhearted, poor girl.” He pressed the outstretched hand warmly, a signal that everything would come out all right.

But Caligula wasn’t sure of that. All he knew was that he had to swallow his fury and mask his anger before the others—Gemellus, Chaerea, and most particularly Tiberius. There was no place on this god-cursed ship where he could be alone to shriek and howl his frustration, there was nobody on whom he could vent his wrath. As the trireme headed out into the open sea, he could only grind his teeth and pretend to smile.

That night, he was lucky enough to find a young sailor who enjoyed being kicked and cuffed around in sex-play. Caligula bruised him so badly that the boy couldn’t perform his ship’s duties for the rest of the trip.

Wherever they were going, it didn’t appear to be Capri; they sailed past the cape of Surrentum, going north instead of west. Tiberius had refused to divulge his destination to anybody but the captain, and the captain told only the navigator. What the Emperor’s plans might be, or where they were going, nobody knew.