Gore Vidal’s Caligula (18 page)

“Now.” She returned to the bed and bared her breasts, rubbing her nipples against his. Caligula looked into the polished silver of the mirror and smiled to see that his nipples were as erect as hers.

“Slowly,” she cautioned, pressing her belly against his, he could feel its softness through the layers of clothing that separated their bodies. He groaned aloud at the protracted agony of the pleasure. And then she came into his arms, and he felt her fingers groping, reaching, finding. Fascinated, he watched her in the glass. Her movements—of hand, of tongue, of torso—were expert, and he was caught up in her rhythms, swept along by her lovemaking. No woman had ever taken command away from him before, and he abandoned himself to the new delight of being taken rather than taking. The looking glass revealed everything to him as Caesonia ripped off her clothing and then his, devouring him with her mouth as though she would swallow him whole.

“I don’t care,” pouted Caligula. “I want her.”

“You have her already,” said Drusilla coldly.

She turned her attention to the games. They sat in the Imperial box at the Circus Maximus, while gladiators spilled their blood onto the sand of the arena below. Both Caligula and his sister were dressed in cloth of gold, like twin gods, Apollo and Diana. Slaves stood behind them holding tall ostrich feather fans to keep the sun and the flies away—dying men did attract flies so. Next to their thrones, in attendance as usual, stood Chaerea and Longinus.

It was the second day of the games, and the first day of gladiatorial combat. Yesterday there had been the animal fights the crowds loved so well. An angry rhino had been matched with a tiger and had gored and stomped it to shreds. A maddened lion, starved to the point of emaciation, had disemboweled a huge bull and torn out its entrails. A trained bear had wrestled with an angry buffalo, and had lost its life. The crowds had cheered and shouted Caligula’s name in gratitude; he always gave them what they wanted.

Today he was giving them trained men fighting to the death. Gladiators.

“I’ve told her that I’d marry her,” Caligula said.

“Don’t!” cried Drusilla.

“But first, she must give me a child,” said the Emperor, pleased with his own cunning.

“How on earth will you ever know that it’s yours?” asked his sister with pretended naïveté.

“I shall have her well-guarded.” Caligula gave her a boyish grin.

“Then one of the guardsmen will be the father,” snapped Drusilla.

“Don’t be disgusting,” said Caligula.

A shout from the crowd drew his attention to the arena, where a tall Nubian slave, armed with a pike and mace, had just ended the life of a net-and-trident man by cracking his head open like a watermelon. Brains mingled with blood on the sand. Caligula wrinkled his nose in pretended disgust. “How I hate these bloody games,” he sighed hypocritically.

But the crowd was eating it up, yelling for more blood, munching stinking garlic sausages as they watched men hacking each other to pieces. Even the Senators and other patricians, sitting on the choice marble benches in the front rows, were screaming themselves hoarse.

“I’m introducing Trojan dancing next week,” Caligula said.

Now it was Drusilla’s turn to wrinkle her nose. “Trojan dancing! How endlessly boring! You really want to make your people suffer, don’t you?” She laughed.

“Animals,” spat Caligula contemptuously. “That’s what they are.”

His eye roved idly over the crowd. Then he sat up straighter, spotting a familiar face among a group of soldiers below—the handsome officer Proculus. Evidently he was off duty today; he wore a toga, not a uniform. A twinkle came into Caligula’s eye, and he beckoned Longinus over, whispered into his ear, and pointed down at Proculus. The secretary nodded and left the box.

Grinning, Caligula leaned over the railing to watch. He saw two Imperial guards approach Proculus and lift the astonished young man out of his seat. Then they swung him over the barrier and into the arena, where he dropped to his feet on the sand, and looked around him, puzzled. One of the guards threw him a sword, and Proculus caught it automatically, although he still didn’t know what was happening.

But the crowd knew, and a roar of approval went up. They’d been handed a special treat. An inexperienced gladiator—and a patrician, too, by the look of him. Fresh meat! Good old Caligula, he knew what they liked! Three cheers for the Emperor!

By now, Proculus understood what was expected of him. Four gladiators had left the mêlee and were coming toward him. Experienced fighters, they had sensed that the Emperor wanted this handsome young man killed, and that there might be a sizable reward for the killer.

Proculus took a stance, wishing to the gods that he had his shield. Was this his day to die? And why? Coming at him were a Gaul carrying a razor-sharp spear, a net-and-trident man in a bowl-shaped helmet, a man armed like himself with the
gladius
or short sword, and an extremely muscular Briton wielding a short dagger. Four against one. Poor odds, by any accounting.

Thinking like a soldier, Proculus set up a series of defences in his mind. The first thing he had to think of was keeping clear of the net and the spear, both long-range weapons. He could then deal with the short sword and the dagger. But how to keep four of them at a distance all at the same time? He saw with dismay that they were attempting to surround him and cut him off. What he needed was something at his back. He sprinted to the barrier and stood against it, protecting his rear as the spectators behind him scrambled to safety. Then he turned his attention to the spear man, who was hefting his weapon, getting ready to cast it. It was the
pilum,
a short spear, heavy and deadly when thrown by an accurate hand. And this man must own an accurate hand to have survived in the arena.

The spear came hurtling at him; Proculus could hear its whistling sound. He jumped clear, and the spear grazed his shoulder as its point shattered the marble barrier behind him. The shaft broke in two, and Proculus bent swiftly to retrieve the nearest half. Now he had a club as well as a sword.

But the net man was swinging his net in a circle. If he managed to catch Proculus under it, it would be goodbye to life; they could hack him to pieces at their leisure. Think, Proculus, think, man! Crouching, he sprinted forward, caught the net man around the knees, and brought him crashing to the ground. With his club, he knocked the man’s helmet off and bashed him squarely on the temple. One down!

A sudden pain in his shoulder told Proculus he was being attacked, and he rolled out of the way just in time to see the dagger flash again, wet with his blood. Don’t worry about that now! Just thrust! Thrust upward, with your own sword! Catch the dagger man in the belly—so! Two down!

Now he was facing a furious spearman who had no spear, but who had plucked the dagger from the fallen man’s hand, and a man as tall as himself, armed with a sword. At least he’d shortened the odds.

The crowd roared, thrilled by the courage of the young patrician. Crowds know everything, and this one had already learned his name. They were chanting in happy unison, “PRO-CU-LUS! PRO-CU-LUS!!” Gamesters were laying bets, demanding heavy odds; they were betting against him, of course. Caligula frowned. The fight was going against his expectations.

Proculus decided to save the swordsman for last, if he could. Right now he’d go after the Gaul with the dagger. Perhaps the gladiator wouldn’t be so proficient with it, because it wasn’t his customary weapon. But Proculus himself was slowing down. Pain and fatigue made him clumsy; he tripped and fell. At once, the Gaul was on him, stabbing at him with the dagger. They rolled around the sand of the arena, locked like lovers in each other’s arms, each man trying to free himself and stab the other. The Gaul was as strong as a bull, and Proculus felt his ribs cracking. In desperation, he brought his knee up and felt it connect. With a strangled groan, the Gaul doubled up, clutching at his groin. Proculus buried his dagger to the hilt in the man’s unprotected neck. Three down!

Caligula watched the contest intently, never taking his eyes off the young soldier. He felt something stirring inside him. Hatred, jealousy and . . . something else. Something he couldn’t quite put a name to.

Proculus rose slowly to his feet and turned to face the swordsman. The tall Briton was grinning. And well he might grin. He was fresh and unscratched, and ready for combat; Proculus, exhausted, wounded, was limping from the fall he’d taken. Blood and sweat had dyed his white tunic red. And Proculus had only his sword, while the Briton had sword, shield and breastplate.

Confidently, the Briton moved in on the young Roman officer, swinging his sword at arm’s length. Dismayed, Proculus saw that the tall gladiator’s reach was longer by several inches than his own. He could never take this man, never defeat him hand to hand. Sword, shield, breastplate—the chances against getting past all the Briton’s defenses were close to nil. Now Proculus felt the last of his strength ebbing away. Today was his day to die. Mars, he pleaded, Mars, god of battle, come to my aid! An idea entered his head. Was it sent in answer to his prayer? It was the slimmest chance, perhaps no more than a glimmer, but if he could be swift despite his lameness, it just might work. It was better than lying down on the bloody sand to die.

Proculus strode forward, his sword at arm’s length, his limp disguised at the cost of much agony. Now the young Roman officer was so close to his enemy that he could see that the Briton’s eyes were sea-green.
Now!
His only chance!

Dropping low, Proculus ducked under the Briton’s raised sword arm and sprinted behind him, thrusting upward. A sudden resistance to his sword and a loud cry of agony told him his trick had worked. His swift jab had pierced the Briton’s body under his tunic, the sword ramming up the man’s backside and deep into his entrails. Howling in anguish, the tall Briton toppled forward and lay writhing on the ground.

“Kill him!” screamed the crowd, thirsting for more blood.

Proculus wanted only to end the poor creature’s pain. He turned his eyes to the Emperor, who extended his fist, thumb down—the signal for death.

Quickly, Proculus knelt and unfastened the Briton’s breastplate. The gladiator’s green eyes looked up beseechingly. With a single downward thrust of his sword, the Roman pierced the Briton’s heart, and the man was mercifully killed.

The crowd went wild, screaming Proculus’ name. They were ecstatic; nothing like this had happened in the arena within living memory. All eyes were on Proculus as he limped across the sand to the Imperial box. Standing below it, covered in sweat and grime, stained by his own blood and that of three other men, Proculus saluted his Emperor. His eyes were puzzled. He was still uncertain of what had happened . . . or why.

For an instant, Caligula scowled. Then his face broke into a dazzling smile for the crowd to see. Rising, he shouted to the spectators. “For Proculus! The crown of victory!”

With his own hand, Caligula gave the wreath of laurel to the slaves, who bore it to the arena and placed it on Proculus’ dusty head. Then the young man was wrapped in a fine robe and led out through the arch of victory at the far end of the arena, the cheers of the Romans ringing in his ears.

Caligula sank back into his seat, pouting. “I thought he’d be killed,” he said to Drusilla.

“But why? When he’s so beautiful?”

“Because, sister mine, then I could have the virgin Livia, his bride-to-be.”

“And marry her?”

“No, goose. I’m marrying Caesonia, remember? No, I only wanted to play with her. To see how soon she’d bore me.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The clerk’s and secretaries looked up from their work with an awe-filled murmur as Caligula entered the office, followed by Caesonia. A long table filled most of the large room. On it were piled the sheafs of official papers that kept the scribes and clerks busy all day—copying and registering, recording and preserving.

Longinus, who presided over these workers as chief secretary, rose from his desk and kissed Caligula’s hand. At once, the other clerks began to scramble down from their high stools, but Caligula waved them to remain seated.

“Back to your scribbling, Longinus.”

“Yes, Caesar.”

“Caesonia tells me that I have been neglecting my work. So I report for duty,” laughed Caligula with a glance at his betrothed.

Longinus pointed to a large stack of documents. “These await your signature and seal, Caesar.”

Caligula flexed his fingers like a musician about to strum the lyre and cheerfully took his signet ring off to heat the stone. He sat himself down at Longinus’ desk and pulled the papers to him, one by one, muttering the Imperial formula as he stamped and sealed them. Before he’d become Emperor, he’d believed that he could never tire of saying, “I, Caligula, command in the name of the Senate and people of Rome.” How wrong he’d been! He was so tired of it now that he began to sing it at the top of his lungs, simply to vary the monotony as he stamped and sealed without reading, like a machine.

Suddenly a name on a document before him caught his eye. He laid his pen aside and read the petition carefully.