Gore Vidal’s Caligula (13 page)

Tiberius seemed ill and rested in his cabin most of the day, refusing to see anybody, including Caligula. He would not even see Gemellus—at least,
that
was some relief. For a whole delicious day, Caligula toyed with the idea of Gemellus’ “falling” overboard. But it was too risky. There were too many witnesses.

In time, it became evident that their destination was Misenum. Tiberius owned a large villa there, and had spent a lot of time in it before he moved the Imperial household to Capri. When they had sailed past Pompeii and Neapolis, through the bay and around the promontory, Caligula realized that they would dock at Misenum, and relief flooded through him. At least it was still on the mainland, and within a reasonably easy march if Macro’s legions should prove necessary. And it was possible to write from Misenum, to send letters or instructions to Rome.

Tiberius was carried ashore in a litter. It was a shock to Caligula to see how weak and pale he was. In broad daylight, he looked like old cheese. But his eyes still glittered fiercely, and neither his hearing nor his speech seemed to be impaired.

Although Misenum was provincial and tiny compared with mighty Rome, the city did its best to honor the Emperor’s visit. Cheering crowds appeared, and statues were hastily erected and sacrifices made to the gods for Tiberius’ continued good health and safety. Watching the rites, Caligula remembered the old story about Tiberius and the acolytes. How once, at a sacrifice, he had taken a fancy to two very young virgin boys who had aided the priest, and how he had pursued them after the ceremony and raped them both, even though they were still carrying the sacred vessels. But it didn’t look as though Tiberius would be doing any raping today. Anyhow, these acolytes were singularly unappealing, one of them being very fat and the other covered with acne.

Tiberius soon seemed settled in at Misenum, although he talked continually of Capri and promised that they would go there “tomorrow.” It did not seem likely. Several of the richest men in Misenum had sponsored a day of games in the stadium, and Tiberius, hurling the first javelin to initiate the games, had twisted a muscle in his side, causing himself great pain. Rest was the only thing he craved, and although Capri was always on his lips, he spent much of his time asleep or dozing.

Macro had marched a legion up from Rome to take the place of the guard left on Capri. Tiberius was never comfortable without an army surrounding him—his own men, of course. As an old soldier, he was used to their ways. As an old man, he liked having so many younger, stronger men at his command.

Every now and again, Tiberius would rouse himself and insist that life go on as usual. He’d send for dancing girls, round up dwarfs and other grotesques, and have them perform sexual obscenities to music, only to nod and doze his way through the performances.

And now he wanted a banquet. He sent out invitations to the patricians of the city, and on the appointed evening they made their way up to the villa in curtained litters, bringing costly gifts.

Caligula, dressed in a gauzy red robe with a deep gold hem, entered the giant banqueting hall, whose walls were faced with vari-colored marbles, and whose acanthus-topped columns were gilded with real gold. He went to join Tiberius, who was standing in the center of the room, greeting his guests. It was evident that the Emperor was exhausted but determined to hide it.

Macro and Charicles, the noted physician, stood in the doorway, watching the Emperor. Caligula had personally invited the patrician doctor to the feast.

“He had some sort of stroke aboard ship, just before we landed here at Misenum,” Macro said, keeping his voice low.

Charicles nodded. “I noticed that he drags his left leg when he walks.”

Macro looked around to make certain that they could not be overheard. “Charicles, we must find out
how
sick he is. How long he will live. For the sake of Rome, of course.”

“If I could examine him . . .”

Macro shook his head. “He never lets a physician near him.”

“Perhaps he’s wise,” Charicles commented wryly.

“Go on,” urged Macro. “Present yourself. At least see him up close.”

The doctor nodded and walked slowly through the crowd, observing Tiberius as he approached him. The Emperor sagged with weariness, and his skin had a greenish-gray tinge, made even more repulsive by the gay wreath of flowers entwined in his wig and crown. Charicles gave his name to the chamberlain and joined the reception line.

“The physician Charicles, Caesar,” the chamberlain announced.

Tiberius held his hand out to be kissed, and the doctor bent to kiss it. As he did so, his fingers closed on the old man’s wrist, searching for the pulse.

With the swiftness of a serpent striking, Tiberius pulled his hand back. “I know exactly what you’re doing, Charicles,” he said evenly, his ancient eyes probing the doctor’s own.

“Lord, I merely . . .” the doctor protested.

Tiberius turned his back. “Stay away from me . . .” Looking about, he saw that his guests were watching him curiously. Caligula’s eyes were fastened on him, and so were Macro’s from across the room.

Tiberius decided to make a jest of the matter. “Any man over thirty,” he announced loudly, “who puts himself into the hands of a physician deserves a premature funeral.”

Caligula dutifully led the laughter at the joke, but his mouth tasted of ashes.

Tiberius turned away and headed for his banqueting couch, signaling the beginning of the feast. Caligula stuck close to him, taking the place of second honor, directly above the Emperor’s. Charicles hung back until Macro reached his side.

“Well?” demanded Macro. Charicles was a very expensive “guest,” ten talents of silver was his fee for this consultation. But much, much more might depend on his opinion—the entire world.

“Pulse weak and irregular,” reported the physician. “Signs of deterioration in the eyes . . .”

“How long?” Macro was a soldier, with a soldier’s blunt ways. A diagnosis didn’t interest him. A time-table did.

“Not long,” said Charicles.

“How
long?” demanded Caligula. He and Macro walked together down a dim corridor at the rear of the villa. It was very late. All the dinner guests had departed, most of them extremely drunk. Somewhere in the villa, heavily guarded, Tiberius lay snoring.

“Not long,” replied Macro. “So Charicles says.”

“It must be soon,” Caligula hissed tensely. “He’s planning something. I can tell.” To be this close! And still live in terror from day to day, wondering whether death would come first for the Emperor or the Prince. Caligula felt sometimes as though the fear was making him lose his mind. His temples ached and he rubbed them with his fists.

They stopped before a closed wooden door. Torches flared in the brackets outside.

“He can do nothing without me,” Macro reassured him.

“So others thought,” Caligula said pessimistically. “And where are they now?” He pointed one finger downward, to Hades.

“Don’t worry,” said Macro, touching his shoulder. “I promise you Tiberius will never see Capri again.”

Caligula caught at the commander’s hand. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

Macro opened the wooden door, which was not locked. Inside the room was a wide bed—and Ennia. She stood—small, thin, wolfish—in an attitude of love, her arms wide, her teeth drawn back in a grin of lust.

“My love . . .” she murmured.

Caligula shut his eyes.

“Good night. Sweet dreams,” chuckled Macro as he clapped Caligula familiarly on the back. Caligula half expected him to wink and say: “Go to it.” He flinched as the door closed behind Macro, and he found himself alone with Ennia.

“My love . . .” she murmured again.

“My love . . .” he echoed dutifully, as he took Macro’s wife in his arms. And tonight was the night he’d been planning to break in the dancing boy who’d juggled the daggers at the banquet. He groaned silently as he pushed Ennia backward onto the bed and tore away her nightdress. She was hot, wet and ready. Probably at the thought of all that power. So close . . . it was so close. His cock hardened at the thought of Tiberius’ death, and he slid into Ennia like a cat’s tongue into cream. He was doing his duty. Now, if Macro would only do his!

Although the exercise ground at the Villa Misenum was hardly the Campus Martius at Rome, Tiberius expected his officers to keep fit. Every day they worked out at archery, swordplay, jumping, throwing the discus, wrestling and boxing. The Emperor had had a pool built at one end of the exercise ground; he liked to see his handsome soldiers swimming naked and developing their chests and legs. Part of him was old campaigner; part was old lecher.

Now, in the heat of the day, Tiberius sat in a shaded loggia, looking out over the exercise ground as he endlessly signed and sealed, signed and sealed the fate of the Empire in a batch of boring documents. Although his secretary was efficient and apparently honest, the Emperor sorely missed Nerva, even Nerva’s acerbic comments. He was feeling very old and ill today, and his attention was not on the Imperial papers, but rather on his soldiers as they ran, jumped and fought on the field before him. The javelins interested him especially. These were long and heavy spears, with sharply pointed metal ends, and one had to practice often to learn the balance of the haft and the trajectory it would follow in its flight toward the target. In his day, with his height and powerful shoulders, Tiberius had been a mighty thrower of the javelin. Those days were long past, but he still enjoyed the grace and beauty of the weapon when it was wielded correctly. It seemed to Tiberius that young Proculus was the best of the javelin-throwers. He was good with the discus too, and fleet of foot. There was an easy, animal grace to his movements that distinguished him from the others on the field. A natural athlete with a manly beauty that would have been adored in Athens five hundred years ago, thought Tiberius. They would have written poetry and painted amphorae in his honor.
Kalos kai agathos.
The fairest and the bravest.

Caligula sat beside the Emperor, bored and irritated, longing for Rome, for Drusilla, but most of all for the seal of power on Tiberius’ withered finger. Right now, there didn’t seem to be much prospect of any of these. Weak as he was, the old Emperor was crankier than ever these days. Since his illness and the death of his beloved snake, he had been picking and poking at Caligula, hinting of a dire future. True, Caligula was always seated near him, as a Prince should be, but Tiberius Gemellus kept close at his other side. The little worm was here now, sitting on a stool. Caligula glanced moodily at the exercise grounds. He hated games—nasty, sweaty things that made your muscles ache. As with any noble Roman, martial exercises had formed a part of his boyhood training, but he didn’t care for them even as spectator sport. He much preferred contests that ended in death.

“The revised list of the proconsuls which you . . .” the secretary was presenting another document for the Emperor’s signature, but Tiberius pushed him away.

“That’s enough,” he growled.

Without another word, the man scooped up the papers and prepared to leave. Tiberius held up one hand to stop him.

“Nothing more today. Except I want to see the official gazette when it arrives.”

“Yes, Caesar.”

Tiberius turned his scowl on Caligula. “Why do you never exercise?”

Caligula’s large blue eyes widened. “But I do, Lord.”

“Only in bed,” snarled Tiberius. “How is she?”

“How is who, Lord?”

“Ennia, the wife of Macro, the commander of
my
guard.”

Caligula managed a blush. “I don’t know. I mean, I . . . see her . . . I talk to her . . . that is . . .” It was a marvelous performance.

“You need Macro, don’t you? Because when I’m gone,
he
is the only man who can raise you up or throw you down. Which do you think it’ll be? Eh?”

Caligula felt a lump forming in his throat. He dared not answer. And, in truth, it was a question he
could
not answer.

“I know everything . . . that’s said . . . done . . . thought . . .” Tiberius grinned, then called to Tiberius Gemellus. “Come here, lovely boy. At least
you
are too young to plot.” He slipped his arm around his grandson’s waist and gave him an affectionate squeeze. “Well, not
too
young, perhaps.” He turned to Caligula. “Go on, practice with the others on the field.”

Reluctantly, Caligula stood up and took off his cloak. Wearing only his tunic, he dragged himself out onto the playing field. Slaves pressed forward, offering him a choice of bows, arrows, swords or javelins. The soldiers tried to pretend he wasn’t there, and continued their own practice. But their eyes were on him.

Conscious of this, and of Tiberius’ measuring, Caligula took his time selecting a weapon, settling finally for a javelin.

A life-size straw dummy had been set up as a target at the far end of the field, and now Proculus’ javelin struck it fairly in the heart, winning him shouts of approval.

Caligula stepped up to take aim. He raised the javelin, but it was several inches too long for his height, and it trembled in his hand. He threw it as hard as he could, but his cast was weak and his aim off. The javelin landed many feet short of the target, and to one side. He heard a muffled ripple of laughter behind him, but when he turned, furious, the face of every man had been adjusted to look grave.

Proculus genuinely wished to be helpful. “You held the javelin too high, Lord,” he said.

“The sun was in my eyes,” snarled Caligula. Both chose to ignore the fact that the sun was behind them.

Slaves held out weapons, and now Caligula chose the
gladius,
or short sword, indicating that Proculus should take another one. Caligula had had several years of training in the sword, but the only weapon that he liked was his own dagger. Swordplay, however, would show him off to a good advantage against the taller man. Because who would dare defeat the Prince? No, it was certainly a contest where the outcome was already decided in Caligula’s favor.

They began to duel, and it was soon evident to all eyes that not only was Proculus larger and stronger than Caligula, he was by far the better swordsman. Nevertheless, he continued to make deliberate mistakes, just as Caligula had expected. And then accidentally, Proculus struck the sword from Caligula’s hand. A slave retrieved it. Dismay and rage crossed Caligula’s face. The fool!