Gore Vidal’s Caligula (25 page)

“Uhhhh . . . yes . . . no . . . I mean . . . you’ll have a triumph . . . of course . . . All right. Yes. Naturally, I mean. A triumph . . .” babbled Claudius, beginning to drool.

“For my conquest of Germany
and
Britain?”

“Yes, Divine Caesar,” chorused the Senators.

“But I have heard rumors that the Senate does not believe I ever went to Britain,” accused Caligula in a voice of steel.

“Oh, no, Lord . . .” Claudius protested.

“Are you accusing me of being a liar?” Caligula was furious.

“Divine Caesar! Never!”

“But you are! Well, I
did
conquer Britain. And I have
one hundred thousand sea shells
to prove it!”

The delegation was totally confused now, and could think of nothing to do but bow in reverence.

“Ah . . . sea shells . . . yes . . . very useful . .” murmured Claudius.

But Caligula wasn’t finished. “I have also subdued the German tribes. As my father did before me. I shall bring back to Rome one thousand German prisoners.”

Claudius lifted his hands in admiration. “Oh, a great victory, Caesar! Yes! Yes!”

“Yes! Yes!” echoed the Senators.

“And every single one of my German prisoners has extremely
red
hair,” Caligula said, enunciating clearly so there would be no mistaking his message once these dolts returned to the Senate. “But still you doubt me.”

Claudius cast his eyes heavenward.
“No
, Divine Caesar!”

“But then, you’ve always hated me,” Caligula pouted, turning his divine countenance away from the Senators so they couldn’t bask in its radiance. “The Senate has always been my enemy. My only friends are the people. And, of course, my fellow gods. But then, they don’t live in Rome. Very sensible of them. I don’t know why
I
do.”

Claudius and the Senators stared. They had never seen Caligula quite this . . . disconnected. They hadn’t the faintest idea what any of this was about. Sea shells? Red-haired prisoners? It was obvious that the army had been idle. It was equally obvious that Caligula wanted his triumph and had better be awarded one.

“What was I talking about?” asked Caligula fretfully. He had lost his train of thought and his head ached. Ever since the fever he’d grown so forgetful . . .

“Uh, the time, the day of your triumph, Lord? The Senate wants to make preparations,” said Claudius soothingly.

Caligula scowled. “Just tell the Senate I’m coming. And”—he slapped his sword hilt—
“this
is coming, too.” He turned to his guards. “Would you kindly throw my Uncle Claudius in the river?”

“Oh, dear,” murmured Claudius. How he hated this! But Caligula loved to see him humiliated, so he dutifully sputtered and floundered and nearly drowned in the Rhine.

The Emperor hadn’t allowed them enough time to design and build the Arch of Caligula the God for his triumph, but the Romans put on the best show they could. Statues of Caligula were rounded up from all parts of the city and even the neighboring villages. Pulled from the pedestals, the larger-than-lifesize marbles were dragged by ox cart and sledge to the Appian way, where they were set up anew and decked out in fresh robes and crowns of laurel leaves to signify victory. So when Caligula’s chariot came down the Appian Way, he rode between long rows of himself, which pleased him immensely.

The common people of Rome turned out to the last man, woman and child. They wouldn’t miss a parade for anything, particularly these days, when Caligula allowed so few of them. Several babies were born near the roadside, and a number of children wandered off and were eaten by wild dogs. The Senators themselves waited in the Forum, where the triumphal procession was to wind up, but they sent a delegation on ahead, to greet Caligula as he entered the city.

It all came off exactly as arranged and was a great success. The music could be heard up the road for twenty minutes before the procession came into view, and that started the people cheering. Caligula was a favorite anyway, because he provided the two things the mob liked best—bread and circuses.

Soon the procession came into sight, moving with solemn grandeur toward the city. First came the standard-bearers, carrying the SPQR, the banners of the Senate and the People of Rome. Next, an enormous litter appeared, borne by forty of the strongest slaves in the Empire. On it stood the life-size solid gold statue of Caligula, borrowed for the occasion from the temple he’d built himself on the Palatine. The litter was so heavy that the bearers’ knees buckled; and behind them ran forty more slaves, as “spares”. The statue was followed by the spoils of war, the sea shells. The Senate had prudently dispatched great iron-bound chests with massive locks to hold the shells, and the people, thinking that the chests were filled, as usual, with gold and jewelry, gave a mighty cheer as they were carried past. Also carried with the “spoils” were certain rare and costly items borrowed from Caligula’s treasury. The Senate had correctly calculated that the people wouldn’t know one set of bronze tripods and silver urns from another.

Next in the procession came a contingent of pipers, playing martial melodies to set the cadence for the marchers. The pipers were dressed as Greek boys, their hair bound in fillets, their feet in light sandals. They shivered in their gauzy tunics, but were much admired.

After the pipers, the sacrificial bulls came ambling slowly, a dozen of them, each perfect, led by a pair of very nervous-looking priests. (They had not forgotten Caligula’s mallet.)

The bulls were followed by a batch of ragged “captives” and their guards. These were not the red-haired Gauls, who were being saved for later. Instead, these were Roman recruits, the lowest in the army. Each man had earned an extra piece of silver—or, rather, been promised one—by allowing himself to be marched in chains in the Emperor’s procession. The guards were instructed to go easy on the lash, but a few of them got carried away, and two of the “captives” were actually dead by the time the triumph reached the Forum. The public ate it up.

Behind the prisoners marched the horn players and drummers, tall Africans dressed in lions’ skins. They were a popular feature of every general’s triumph, and the people would have felt cheated if they hadn’t appeared today. It was rare to see a Negro in Rome; they were reserved for the arena, for the picked cadres in the army—and, some said, for the bed chambers of the wealthy, both male and female.

After the Nubians had sauntered by, drums booming and horns blaring, an ox-cart appeared, bearing the “captive chieftains”. Three red-headed Gauls, disguised as Germans, peered out from the covered wagon, regarding the crowd with hostility. They didn’t know it, but they were scheduled for actual execution later.

The rest of the Gauls, stripped and chained, followed the ox-cart and the palanquin that bore their weapons as trophies of war. These had been hastily assembed from the army, which kept a number of captive weapons as souvenirs. These loans were placed carefully on top of a lot of Roman javelins and bows, so that the pile would look much higher.

Behind the Gauls marched two dozen lictors, keepers of the peace, carrying their
fasces,
the bundles of rods that symbolized strength in unity. And behind the lictors came Caligula’s chariot, carrying Caligula himself.

At first, Caligula had not been able to decide whether to appear as a general, an Emperor, or a god. Wisely, he chose all three. He was magnificent, and the crowd roared its approval. His chariot was drawn by four perfectly matched white horses, caparisoned in gold. At the back of the chariot stood Nike herself, or the closest living approximation to Victory that Caligula could find. This was a girl of sixteen, dressed in long robes like a goddess, with wings pinned to the robe. In her outstretched hand, she held a crown of laurel over Caligula’s head. Her arm ached horribly, but Caligula had threatened her with a slow, painful death if she allowed that arm to droop by so much as half an inch.

Caligula wore the full uniform of a general, but his breastplate was gold and his cloak was woven of crimson and gold, an Emperor’s cloak. He was crowned like an Emperor, but jeweled like a god. Heavy gold necklaces hung around his throat, and bracelets of Asian pearls and Indian ivory circled his wrists. His fingers were loaded with rings, and his face was tinted with rouge to make his eyes sparkle.

And sparkle they did. This was
his
triumph, a great one. The people loved him—just listen to them shout his name! In the two hours it took for the procession to pass one point, the smile never left Caligula’s face, and the cheers kept ringing in his ears, along with the pipes and horns.

As the procession reached the Forum, Caligula raised his arm to salute the Senate. They hadn’t seen him in so good a humor since his accession, and his exuberance alarmed them. There was a manic quality about him that the Senators recognized as dangerous. Hadn’t the great Julius himself suffered from the falling sickness, the epilepsy, as the Greeks called it? Ever since Caligula had survived the fever, the manic fits, followed by weeks of suspicion and anxiety, had come more and more frequently.

“Did you see . . .
hear . . .
those crowds?” Caligula asked Caesonia gleefully. She lay next to him on the banqueting couch. About them the nobility of Rome ate and drank to Caesar’s triumph.

“They love you, Caligula.” His wife squeezed his arm affectionately.

“There was never such a triumph! I am greater than Julius Caesar, aren’t I?”

“Yes, Caesar . . . much greater . . . certainly, Divine Caesar,” came the response from the nearby couches.

Caligula raised his voice so that all might hear. “While all you Senators were living safely here in Rome, your Emperor was risking his life to preserve and enlarge the Empire!” He banged his wine cup down; he’d been drinking rather heavily.

Even the dancers didn’t distract him, although they were identical twin girls of about fifteen, and experienced Sapphic lovers as well. He felt a lack of respect all around him; they never took him seriously enough. Fucking Senators! Miserable old turds!

“We’re not safe here,” he muttered to Caesonia.

“Of course we are. You have your special German guard and—”

“As long as one member of the Senatorial class is alive, I am not safe in this city.”

Now even Caesonia was alarmed. This was further than Caligula had ever gone before, except possibly in his thoughts. “But they worship you like a god!” she exclaimed.

“That’s natural. I
am
a god.” Caligula frowned anxiously. “But am I one of those
sacrificial
gods? That’s the question. It would just be my luck.” He looked around him gloomily, then chuckled.

“What is so amusing?” asked Caesonia.

“You see those two consuls over there?”

“Of course.”

“Next to me, they hold the highest offices in the Empire, right?”

“Certainly, Caesar. And . . . ?”

“And it just occurred to me that all I have to do is nod my head and both their throats would be cut right here, at dinner.”

For the first time since I poisoned Drusilla, I miss her, thought Caesonia. Drusilla and Drusilla alone could keep Caligula rational, at least some of the time.

“You are only making yourself hated,” she said gently.

“Let them hate me, so long as they fear me. Quotation.”

Caesonia recognized the quotation; it had been a favorite with the Emperor Tiberius. But even that murderous old madman had had his rational moments. Never had he threatened . . . or even toyed with the idea of . . . doing away with the
entire
Senate, including the consuls. It was impossible!

“I’m bored, bored, bored!” muttered Caligula, stabbing his dagger into his plate of boiled ostrich, scattering the lentils all over the table. Now that the day of his triumph was drawing to a close, one of his black, depressed moods was following the exaltation. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, ignoring Caesonia. Then an idea seized him and he brightened.

“When the next consulship falls vacant in . . . in . . . when, Longinus?”

“In two months, Divine Caesar.”

Caligula spoke loudly for everyone in the room to hear. “I shall appoint to this highest and most venerable office of the state, the noble and wealthy Incitatus, my horse.” He gave a great cackle of laughter.

He laughed alone.

The Senate had borne much under Caligula—extortion, murder, the violation of their wives and daughters. But an affront to the consulship was a grave offense against the very foundations of Rome herself, an offense against Romulus, Jupiter, Vesta, all the city and household gods. It was sacrilege. The nobility of Rome sat aghast—silent, shocked, and very, very angry.

The Emperor’s madness escalated, taking stranger and stranger forms. After Incitatus had been installed and hailed as the new consul-delegate of Rome, and had left a “libation” on the floor of the Senate, Caligula turned his attention to the exploration of his divinity. Still angry with Isis, he focused next on his ancestress, Venus. He was no longer content to be merely the god Caligula; he wished to be a goddess, too. And who more naturally than Venus, to whom all men and women prayed? Caligula declared, therefore, that he was the living incarnation of Venus. To prove it, he decided to appear in public dressed as the goddess.

“You’re very lovely,” said Caesonia, watching him add more rouge to his lips. He
was
surprisingly beautiful. Small and slender, with rounded buttocks, Caligula was somewhat feminine in appearance even in his toga. Now, with a full blonde wig on his head, crowned by a tiara, his body wrapped in a clinging gown, his face heavily made up, and earrings hanging from his ears, he made an astonishingly glamorous lady.

“The wig helps,” he conceded.

“How long will you be the goddess Venus?”

Caligula regarded himself critically in the mirror. “A day or two. My nose is too large.”

“The goddess Venus is perfect. Therefore you are perfect,” Caesonia assured him.

Julia Drusilla ran into the room, carrying a little doll. “Where’s my father?” she demanded.

“Here, my love,” called Caligula, pleased that she hadn’t recognized him. He bent over awkwardly in his tight gown and picked up his baby daughter. “Kiss the goddess Venus.”