Gore Vidal’s Caligula (22 page)

“The voice of Caesar,” smiled Drusilla.

“Exactly.” Caligula didn’t smile back. “Anyway, she’s been guarded day and night for nine months.”

“But suppose the god Jupiter came to her in a dream and left her with child,” teased Drusilla.

“I think that’s in very poor taste. Blasphemy, in fact . . .”

Charicles appeared suddenly from behind the curtain. Caesonia’s screams were now one long howl.

“The child’s head has just appeared,” announced the doctor.

Caligula rushed to the curtain and ripped it open. He could see the baby’s head between the anguished Caesonia’s legs.

“It’s alive?” he demanded.

“Yes, Caesar.”

Caligula turned to the crowd of assembled witnesses. “My Lords,” he called. “I am now to be married to Caesonia. The mother of my son and heir.” It was official; the announcement of the marriage made the marriage legal and the child legitimate.

The baby was born, crying lustily. Pleased and proud, Caligula went to have a look at his son.

“Well, well,” was all he said. His face had fallen. The son was a daughter. He began to regret his haste in marrying Caesonia.

“At least she looks like me,” he jested, making the best of it. “She’s bald in front.”

“Then she is beautiful.” Caesonia smiled up at him, as the midwife cleansed her of sweat and blood. Her eyes were triumphant; she was finally Empress.

“Next time . . . a son. Hear me?” commanded Caligula.

“Yes, Lord.”

He turned to the others. “Let us drink to my daughter! To Julia Drusilla!” He raised his cup.

“To Julia Drusilla!” roared the crowd.

“To Julia Drusilla,” roared the grateful mob outside.

To celebrate his marriage and the birth of his daughter, Caligula gave a gold coin to every Roman citizen, and staged elaborate games, month after month.

But after ten months the Imperial coffers were almost empty; the time had come to pay the piper. Caligula was beggared. His inheritance from Tiberius had been squandered on games and luxuries, and no more money seemed to be coming in. Longinus and his clerks worked frantically to prepare an accounting, and the secretary’s heart was in his mouth the day he laid the long document on Caligula’s desk.

“The new budget,” he whispered, “to be submitted to the Senate.”

Caligula took up the parchment and studied the figures carefully. Then he scowled at his chamberlain.

“We are in deficit. Why?”

Longinus hesitated—it wasn’t safe to break bad news to the Emperor. He drew a deep breath. “Your . . . well . . . the various games and spectacles that you have been paying for are expensive . . . and . . .”

“And we are short of money,” concluded Caligula with a scowl. “So what do we do now?”

Longinus placed a sheaf of papers before him. “We raise the auction tax one half of one percent. Then the tax on wine—”

“No! No taxes.” Caligula shook his head firmly. “The people love me . . . at the moment. But they won’t love me if I tax their wine.”

“But how can we raise the money?” Longinus threw up his hands. “How can we make up the deficit, Caesar?”

Caligula tapped his teeth with the handle of his dagger, thinking. “A war!” he exclaimed suddenly. “That’s the answer! New provinces, new revenues!” He pounded his fist on the desk, his eyes bright. “I shall conquer Britain,” he declared, ignoring Longinus’ pained expression. “Right after the new year. Where Julius Caesar failed, I shall succeed. Besides, if I don’t do
something,
I shall be forgotten.” He stabbed the point of his dagger into his desk. “Caligula the Dull. I can see it now in the history books.”

Out of breath, a gray-haired slave ran into the office. “Caesar, the lady Drusilla has been taken ill,” he cried, bowing hurriedly.

“How?” Caligula was instantly alarmed. “What is it?”

“The fever, Lord.”

The fever! But it had passed through Rome weeks ago, killing many, but leaving most of the patricians safe. The fever had not touched the palace, except for a handful of slaves whose bodies had been hastily burned. How could Drusilla have caught it?

Caligula made for his sister’s bedroom on the run.

Drusilla lay upon her bed, so still and pale that she seemed hardly to breathe. Charicles hovered over her anxiously, aided by two female slaves. It was obvious that she was dying.

“Do something, damn you!” screamed Caligula.

“I am doing everything, Caesar, I swear it,” the physician protested.

Caligula bent over the bed, heedless of infection. His face was so close to Drusilla’s that their lips almost touched. “It’s Little Boots. Can you hear me?” he whispered urgently.

But Drusilla was beyond hearing or seeing; she had entered that realm each person must travel alone. Desperate, Caligula gathered her up in his arms, cradling her as she had so often cradled him. “Don’t leave me. Please,” he begged. “Not now . . .”

Tears flowing from his eyes, he laid her gently back on the pillows and stood up. Across the room was Drusilla’s personal votive shrine to Isis—a small statue of the goddess, crowned with cow’s horns and the solar disc, on a miniature altar, a lamp burning in front of it.

Weeping, Caligula addressed the image. “Holy Isis! Save her! Caesar begs you, almighty Mother.” He threw a ritual pinch of incense on the brazier. “Spare her and I shall build you a temple larger than Jupiter’s.” Sinking to his knees, he whispered the sacred prayers.

“Caesar . . .” Charicles’ voice trembled with fear.

Caligula turned, looking past the physician to the bed on which Drusilla lay. Her face was a mask of serenity. The two slaves were weeping softly. Still on his knees, he shook his head from side to side. No . . . no . . . no . . . no . . . no.

“She is dead,” said Charicles gently.

For an instant, Caligula knelt in total silence, stunned. Then he howled like an animal in torment, howled and howled until his very soul poured screaming out of his mouth.

Caesonia came silently into the room, wincing at the inhuman sounds that gushed from her husband’s throat, and went toward him, holding out her arms. But he scrambled blindly to his feet and pushed her roughly out of the way. Then he ran to the bed and gathered the corpse of his sister into his arms. “I’m alone . . . you left me . . .” he wept. “You left me like this . . . alone . . . in this place . . . enemies . . . knives . . .” His babblings became more and more incoherent. “Knives . . . poison . . . all around me . . . Why did you? Why did you?” Angrily, he hurled Drusilla’s body back onto the bed. Useless! She was useless now!

Mad with grief, he pushed past his wife and the doctor and ran to the altar. He raised the statue of Isis above his head and sent it crashing to the floor, where it shattered into unrecognizable shards.

“I begged you!” he raged. “I begged you!” Again and again, as Charicles and Caesonia stood by horrified, he cursed the goddess.

CHAPTER TEN

There was a marked change in the Emperor after Drusilla’s death. Three things obsessed him—death, divinity, and money. He saw treason all around him; not even his most trusted aides and companions were ever free from Caligula’s suspicions. As to divinity, his attitude underwent a deep change. It was only his own godhead that interested Caligula now. He was tired of worshipping others.

The day Drusilla died, he appeared in the Temple of Isis, his clothes torn, his hair uncombed, his face contorted. As the shocked priestesses turned away from him, he took his anger out on the statue of the goddess.

“I would have made you the greatest of all the gods! I would have placed your temple beside that of Jupiter. Larger than Jupiter’s. You would have been the goddess of the world. But you defied me! Now I cast you down and take your place! Do you hear me?” He was shouting now, and sobbing. “I replace you on earth! I replace you in heaven! I replace you in eternity! I am Caesar. My word is
law.
My will is fate. I am Caligula. Caligula the God!”

The following day, wearing robes of deepest black bordered in purple, he had himself carried on his litter to the Senate. The house was draped in mourning. The statues in the apses were veiled and shrouded in black, and black wreaths hung everywhere. Each of the senators was dressed in a
toga pulla
to signify mourning. Caligula took his seat under Nike, the statue of victory; it too was dressed in black this day. On his right, he stationed Claudius. On his left, Caesonia stood holding their daughter, Julia Drusilla.

“Senators,” Caligula began in a hollow voice, “this is the most terrible moment in the long history of Rome.”

He looked ghastly. His face was chalk white against the inky black of his cloak; his eyes stared dully. Several times he pressed his temples with his fingers, as though his head ached intolerably.

“During the one month of public mourning for my beloved sister Drusilla, anyone who dines with his parents or children, anyone who bathes, anyone who laughs, will be sentenced to death.”

The Senators exchanged horrified glances, but nobody dared speak.

“I am also obliged,” continued Caligula, “to raise taxes. For, in addition to the burden of sovereignty, I must now shoulder the burden of fatherhood.” He handed Claudius a scroll. “My fellow consul will submit these new taxes to you, my lords, for your . . . information.”

He looked around to see if anybody would protest, but not a soul stirred.

“My uncle, the Consul Claudius, has begged me to allow him to address you.” Caligula waved the stammerer forward.

This was hardly Claudius’ finest hour. Although he had rehearsed the speech several times with Caligula, he was so terrified of the Emperor and of speaking in public that he could barely function. First, he dropped the list of taxes. Attempting to pick it up, he dropped the pages of his speech, scattering them on the Senate floor. By the time he had everything collected and in order, he was sweating profusely, and his stutter had blossomed until he was almost totally incoherent. At last he stepped forward, and addressed not the Senate but Caligula himself.

“Great . . . uh . . . divine . . . Caesar . . . Emperor . . . consul . . . beloved Caligula . . . it, uh . . . we . . . the fact is . . . that . . . ah, all Rome is as one . . . as one . . .” He stopped, utterly confused about what came next.

“As one in its passionate desire . . .” Caligula hissed, prompting his uncle.

“Yes . . . I was coming to that . . . passionate desire that like your grandfather Augustus and like your great-grandfather Julius Caesar . . .” Claudius had gotten into the swing of it now, and his memory was returning. “. . . you become a god . . . but
now . . .
that is, while you’re still alive . . . I mean, still with us.”

Now?
A dumbfounded gasp rose up from the Senators. Caligula a god! What manner of madness was Claudius spouting?

“They
had to wait, of course . . . until they were dead. But you live, great Caesar, and you are a god to us . . . equal to . . . uh, Jupiter and to . . . uh, well . . . Isis . . . and . . .”

With a motion of his hand, Caligula shut him up. He’d botched it, of course, the dim-wit, but enough had been said to get the point across to the Senate. Inwardly, he seethed with anger. Couldn’t the idiots see with their own eyes his divinity? Did they have to be told? With a wintry smile on his face, he addressed the Senate in lofty tones.

“Although no assemblage of mortals, no matter how distinguished, can create a god—existing as we do from the beginning and for all time—I am now willing to cast aside the
mask
of mortality so that you can, at last, look upon me and pray to me, so that you can know that one who is divine is amongst you and able to answer your prayers with perfect justice and with loving mercy.”

Caligula rose, waiting for the worship to begin. But Claudius, the dribbling moron, had forgotten his cue. Caligula glared daggers of hatred at the dolt.

Claudius winced and recovered himself. “Oh! Uh . . . my lords . . . all hail
Caligula the God!”
he called out feebly.

Caught up in the grip of events they could not understand, the prisoners of one man’s megalomania and madness, trapped in his web of power, the Senators could do nothing but obey.

“Hail, Caligula the God!” they called, at first only a few, then all together. “Hail
Caligula the God!”
Reverberating from the marble walls of the huge chamber, the roar was deafening, but Caligula stood unmoved. It was about time!

The Emperor’s madness continued unchecked. He demanded tributes of gold from every Roman citizen, forcing the richer ones to strip their homes of precious ornaments and decorations to fill his treasury. There he sat like a child in a playpen, counting the gold over and over, rolling in it, wallowing in precious gems and cups and bowls of silver. Even the furniture of the palace itself was not safe; he pulled out every worthless object he could find—every footstool, every brazier, every battered chest—and offered it for auction in the Circus Maximus. And any Senator who wanted to see the next sunrise was forced not only to attend the auction, but to bid the prices up.

Caligula himself acted as auctioneer. He enjoyed the role immensely, flaunting himself in the Imperial box, dressed in a crimson robe trimmed with medallions of heavy gold, and a crown worth the ransom of Asia. “What am I bid?” he howled. “For this handsome chest, property of Julius Caesar”—it wasn’t; it had been the property of a scribe—“straight from the palace . . . everything here is straight from the palace. We need money, you know. We’re very poor. So what am I bid?”