Gore Vidal’s Caligula (15 page)

Caligula mounted the dais, maintaining great dignity. All those years of being Tiberius’ shadow were paying off now. He had learned how to act, how to conceal his true emotions. At this moment, though his secret self was doing the Caligula dance with happy abandon, his outward demeanor was mournful and stately. He stood poised on the dais, his eyes searching the crowd, while Macro knelt and kissed his signet ring. Then he sank slowly into the Emperor’s throne. How well it fitted him!

Caligula’s blue eyes found the face he was looking for, Tiberius Gemellus stood at the back of the room, his eyes red from weeping, his nose running like a baby’s. Graciously, Caligula signaled to him, and the boy came forward with hesitant steps, uncertain of his fate.

Caligula motioned him up to the dais and embraced him warmly. “Oh, Gemellus, we must love each other now. Grandfather is dead, and we have only each other,” he said in a voice loud enough to carry to the ends of the hall. The crowd murmured its approval.

Well, Caligula thought, that would do until Tiberius’ will was read and the Senate confirmed him as Emperor. Which they would do, of course. Meanwhile, the boy was looking rather sickly, and would bear close watching. After all, weren’t they brothers . . . of a sort?

He faced his people again, and raised his chin as Tiberius used to do. “It is with the deepest sorrow that I take up the heavy burden of the State,” he began.

CHAPTER SIX

The Senate was draped in black; the statues in the Forum of Augustus were shrouded in black cloth. Rome had gone into mourning. But only outwardly. Inwardly, the heart of every Roman—man, woman, and child—was bursting with happiness. Tiberius the Tyrant was dead! Dead at last! There was a new Caesar now—a handsome, fine young Prince, the boy Caligula, the army’s darling, Germanicus’ son. When Tiberius’ will was read, it came that he had named Caligula and Tiberius Gemellus as his co-heirs, to share the Empire. But as quickly as the will was read, it was forgotten. Gemellus was just a child, and Caligula was a full-grown, fine young man. Almost instantly, the Senate ratified Caligula as Tiberius’ successor. Gemellus was sent back to school, much to his relief.

Stories flew around Rome connected with the old Emperor’s death. It was said that the night before he was to dedicate a statue of Apollo in a library of Augustus’, the statue appeared to Tiberius in a dream and told him, “You will never dedicate me.” It was said that the lighthouse on Capri was struck by lightning only three days before his death. Many things were said, but nowhere did Caligula hear his name or Macro’s connected with the death of Tiberius. For one thing, what could be more natural than the death of a man of seventy-seven, a sick man too? For another, everyone was so happy that Tiberius was at last dead, nobody asked any questions.

In later years, they would tell stories in Rome about the joy that greeted Caligula’s succession. For example, they would relate that one hundred and sixty thousand prisoners were sacrificed to the gods in thanksgiving. The truth was closer to sixteen hundred, and most of those were old and feeble and would have died soon anyway. The truth of the matter was that Tiberius had a splendid funeral, one befitting an Emperor, and that Caligula gave the funeral oration himself, weeping copious tears and calling upon the gods to witness Tiberius’ greatness.

Tiberius had often said that he did not wish to become a god, that he wanted no man to worship him. So, in accordance with his wishes, he was not apotheosized, and no temples were set up in his honor.

One of Caligula’s first official decisions was to restore the worship of Isis, which Tiberius had outlawed. He dedicated a huge sum, payable out of Tiberius’ treasury, for the building of a splendid temple dedicated to the goddess. Tiberius had decreed against all forms of eastern worship, including not only Isis but also those outlandish practices of the Jews which had been catching on in Rome. There had even been a Judaean prophet crucified under Herod a few years back, when Pilate had been Procurator of Judaea; the man had preached eternal life and resurrection, and had died for it.

Caligula was deeply drawn to the promise of eternal life, as offered by Isis the Immortal, bride and sister to the resurrected Osiris. But he didn’t think much of Jews, so their beliefs remained forbidden in Rome.

The day after Tiberius’ will was read, Caligula appeared in the Senate with his sisters. They were all dressed in mourning, and the three girls were veiled, but Caligula’s black robes bore wide borders of purple and gold, and heavy gold bracelets clasped his slender arms. On his left hand he wore the seal of Empire.

Standing under the statue of Nike in the apse of the Senate, so that it appeared to all that the goddess of victory herself was wreathing him in gold, Caligula spoke solemnly to a packed house.

“Tiberius, of beloved memory, was to me always a guide, a father, a ruler to be emulated.” He looked around him with secret delight. The Senators appeared as solemn as he, but their joy that Tiberius was gone could be detected. Behind her veil, Drusilla was hiding broad smiles; Macro, standing fully armed at Caligula’s side, and Chaerea, stationed at the door to the Senate chamber, looked pleased; even Ennia, at the far end of the marble-walled room with the other patrician ladies, looked content with the turn of events. Such happy hypocrisy, thought Caligula. What a farce! He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

“For twenty-three years,” he said, “Tiberius was our father. And we—all of us—were his children.” Tears sprang to his eyes; he was even managing to convince himself. What an actor I am, he thought. They should dedicate a theatre in my honor. He continued. “As he was dying, he begged me to carry on his good work . . .”

“To the Tiber with Tiberius! Chuck him in the river!” yelled a voice from outside the chamber. The mob had worked itself up; the hatred of Tiberius was unleashed.

The Senate gasped, and Caligula concealed a smile. The people were with him.

“I shall do my unworthy best,” he went on solemnly. “Now, exercising those powers you have with such goodness entrusted to me, I order the release of all those held in the prisons, no matter what the charge.”

Cheers rose from the ranks of the Senators, and Caligula held up one hand to still them.

“All those who have been exiled from Rome, I do now recall. I grant them amnesty, and . . .” Cheers rose again, louder this time, drowning out his voice. Caligula looked around in satisfaction. It was going to be easier than he had thought.

There were other decrees as well, decrees that subtly reminded the Senate and the people of Rome just how villainous Tiberius had been. Caligula recovered the bones of his mother Agrippina and his brother Nero, bringing them back to Rome with such honors that all were forced to remember how Agrippina had been exiled by Tiberius, had been beaten so cruelly that she took her own life before Tiberius could snatch it from her. And he demanded that not only should the Senate swear its allegiance to him, Caligula, but also to his sisters Julia Livilla, Agrippinilla, and especially Drusilla.

In the first few days, he had only one really bad moment, and that was at the funeral of Tiberius. It had been so like the Dream that Caligula found himself six years old again and trembling in fright as the long procession of mourners in their ancestral masks passed by the silent crowd and into the Mausoleum of Augustus. The difference was that Drusilla was not parted from him now, but stood near, his only comfort.

As the masked figures walked slowly past him, Caligula unconsciously began his little dance, hopping from one foot to the other.

“Don’t. It’s all right.” Drusilla had taken his arm and was whispering to him.

Caligula made himself stand still, as befitted an Emperor. “It’s like the Dream,” he whispered.

At that moment, the figure wearing Tiberius’ death mask loomed over him. The face was hideous, contorted, as in the moment of the old man’s strangulation. Caligula took a step backward; his lips began to tremble. He was totally disoriented; was he himself now a man or a child? Was this only a mask or was it Tiberius himself, returned from the grave with a charge of murder on his grimacing lips?

“Isis . . . goddess . . . save me . . .” he muttered.

“It’s only a mask.” Drusilla held his hand tightly.

“Am I dreaming?” begged Caligula.

“No. It’s not the Dream. He’s dead. And you’re alive.” Drusilla’s voice held a note of exultation that warmed Caligula’s blood. “You are Caesar.”

“I am Caesar now?” He hardly dared believe.

“You are lord of the world,” Drusilla assured him.

“Lord of the world,” repeated Caligula in wonderment. He smiled slowly. “I like
this
dream. Even if it’s not real.”

“It
is
real,” insisted Drusilla. “You are Emperor of Rome.”

Caligula looked down at his finger. The Imperial seal was there. And now he heard the crowd, chanting his name. Ca-lig-u-la . . . Ca-lig-u-la . . . every syllable distinct. The roar grew louder and louder. CA-LIG-U-LA, CA-LIG-U-LA!! He smiled, convinced at last. It was not a dream—or rather, it was a good dream come true.

He moved with his sisters into the Imperial palace on the Palatine hill. Augustus had lived there during the latter part of his reign, and Tiberius in the earlier part of his. It was a jumble, a collection of thrown-together buildings linked by porticos and loggias, atriums and gardens. Caligula immediately gave orders for the palace’s extension and regulation. He called in architects and builders, craftsmen and artisans of every skill, and commanded a residence worthy of an Emperor. Hydraulic engineers were summoned; there was to be an aqueduct to bring water into Rome.

Everywhere he went, the crowd acclaimed him, loving him as Germanicus’ son and as the antithesis of Tiberius. Caligula was young and healthy; he seemed to promise a just reign and he seemed to love the people; he threw coins to them, gave them measures of wheat, lowered the price of bread, and staged elaborate games for their amusement. The mob couldn’t get enough of him, or he of their adoration.

Daily, Caligula held office in the Palatine Basilica, sessions attended by Senators, officers of the army, members of the Imperial household, office-seekers and supplicants. Dressed radiantly in exquisite finery, a wreath of gold laurel leaves around his head, he sat enthroned on the Imperial dais, dispensing justice, and signing documents with a great flourish of the Imperial seal.

Today was a very special day. Today he was to accept the consulship, the highest non-imperial office the Senate could bestow. It was a mark of complete faith in Caligula, for the consuls—two of them elected every year—were the chief magistrates of Rome, the presidents of the Senate and the most important upholders of Roman law.

Caligula smiled broadly as he signaled his chamberlain for silence.

Pounding on the marble floor with his staff, the chamberlain called out, “Silence! Great Caesar wishes to speak.”

A hush fell on the crowded basilica.

“My lords,” began Caligula graciously, “we begin a new era. Old quarrels are to be forgotten. Old fears we now put to rest.” An appreciative murmur rose from his audience, the most important and influential citizens of Rome, as well as the commanders of the guard and the legions.

“At the insistence of the Senate and the people of Rome, I accept the highest office of the republic, the consulship.”

Applause broke out, and he bowed.

“As my fellow consul, the Senate and the people of Rome have chosen my beloved and wise uncle Claudius . . .”

Caligula kept a straight face despite the gasp that followed this announcement. Nobody was more astonished than Uncle Claudius himself, who stood open-mouthed and drooling in the crowd.

“Claudius,” cooed Caligula sweetly. “Come take your place beside me.”

The stunned Claudius limped forward, almost falling as he stumbled up to the dais next to Caligula, who was enjoying the spectacle of his half-witted uncle immensely. He extended his hand for Claudius to kiss, then graciously waved him to a seat. But there was none, and Claudius’ confusion became more comical by the moment as he looked in vain for a place to sit down.

“In accordance with the wishes of my beloved predecessor, I herewith adopt as my son and heir, Tiberius Gemellus,” announced Caligula. In the crowd, a nervous Gemellus tried to smile.

The secretarial slaves stepped forward with a table on which lay the document of adoption. With a flourish, Caligula signed and sealed it. Then the table was removed and he rose, grinning expansively.

“Come forward . . . my son.”

Gemellus approached the dais, sweating, and was embraced briefly for public approval. Then Caligula pushed him over to the right, out of his way, and made more announcements.

“I now make legal the worship of the goddess Isis,” he said with relish, ignoring the surprised murmurs from the assemblage. “I also accept the following titles offered me, most generously, by the Senate and the people of Rome. I shall be known as ‘Pious,’ as ‘Father of the Nation’ and, of course, as ‘Caesar.’ All political oaths will contain the phrase ‘I will not value my life or that of my children less highly than I do the safety of the Emperor
and of his sisters . . .
’ ”