Gore Vidal’s Caligula (26 page)

The child turned her head away. “You look funny. Look at the doll.” She held up her little wooden plaything, then snapped off its head. “There!
Bad
doll!”

Laughing, Caligula set her down. “There’s no doubt about
her
paternity,” he told Caesonia.

“None at all,” she agreed, and shooed the child away. Then she turned to Caligula, her voice troubled. “Are you serious about leaving Rome?”

“I’m always serious. Except when I’m not.” He peered into the mirror again, touching the rouge on his lips. “Are my lips too red?”

“No. But stop smearing them. Will they let you?”

“They?”

“The Senate.”

Caligula put down the mirror and turned to his wife. He looked amazingly like Drusilla, and for a moment fear gripped Caesonia’s heart that Drusilla had risen from the grave to accuse her.

“I keep two books,” said Caligula very slowly and precisely. “Of enemies. One called
The Sword.
The other
The Dagger.
Each day the books get shorter and shorter. One day soon there will be no books at all . . . and no Senate.”

“How can you govern if you kill everybody?”

“If I kill everybody,” Caligula said reasonably, “I won’t have anybody to govern. And that would be ideal.”

“Don’t joke!” cried the troubled Caesonia.

“I never joke . . .” Caligula smiled.

“Except when you do.”

“I think maybe I need a new wife. One who doesn’t know all my jokes.” He sounded quite irritated.

“Or maybe you need new jokes.”

“Here’s one,” laughed Caligula. He spread his arms wide, the long sleeves of his gown flowing, and threw his head back flirtatiously—a beautiful woman. “Come. Pray to me. To Venus. Goddess of love, of light, of beauty . . .”

“I have come to you from highest Olympus,” Caligula told the crowd, “to bless you, to receive your offerings.”

He stood on the pedestal in the Temple of Venus. The statue of the goddess that was usually enshrined there had been removed and stored away; he had taken her place. Crowds of Romans—Senators, priests, citizens, workingmen—crowded around the marble pedestal, bewildered and shocked, though no one dared to smile or pass a remark.

Caligula posed on the pedestal in a stance associated with the goddess. At his feet was a large basket; into it “offerings” and gold coins clinked constantly. His eyes, under the heavy blue eyelid makeup, watched carefully to see who was giving what.

A tall, handsome young man stepped forward and threw two gold coins into the basket. He moved with grace, like a dancer; his muscles were long and smooth. The young man bowed in homage before the “goddess,” then looked up boldly into Venus’ eyes.

Caligula felt his blood stir. The man’s eyes were greenish-gray. His hair, a rich brown, was worn longer than the Roman style, and bound back from his forehead by a thin fillet of braided leather. Could this young man be the Endymion to his Venus?

Later, Caligula was not surprised to find the young man waiting at the temple portico. A few words only passed between them, and the assignation was made; the young man was to come to the palace, just after the watch had cried midnight.

His heart pounding, Caligula urged his litter bearers to go faster. When he reached the palace, he ordered that certain things be brought, and that nobody should disturb him, especially the lady Caesonia.

Wines cooled in snow were brought in tightly-packed buckets to the bedroom of the Emperor; perfume vials released their odors into the ornate room. Persian wine cups of chased and embossed silver stood with a golden wine jug on a low table near the bed. And there were bowls of roses on the table, white and red, rare at this time of year and reserved only for state occasions. Slaves had trimmed the wicks of the lamps low so that they would burn without releasing smoke, and with a dim light that would be flattering to “Venus.” In the soft glow, the painted ceilings of the room disappeared into haziness.

Caligula regarded himself in the mirror. He was still garbed as Venus, still wigged and jeweled, still gorgeous. But his makeup needed freshening, and it was almost midnight! With trembling fingers, he wiped the stale paint from his cheeks, lips and eyes, and re-applied fresh tints. There! His eyes looked larger, his nose smaller, his lips like the strawberries of Campania. He was beautiful, beautiful! What mortal could resist the goddess?

At midnight, a soft tap on the door.

“Come,” called Venus.

The door opened, and the handsome young man entered. His slender body was robed tightly now, like the statue of Apollo Charioteer; his buttocks showed prominently, round and inviting. The thick helmet of rich brown hair gleamed from the comb.

Caligula trembled with desire as the stranger came closer. Dropping to his knees beside the couch, the young man touched his forehead to the floor.

“Divine Venus,” he breathed, then seized Caligula’s hand and covered it with kisses.

“You are welcome, stranger,” sighed Caligula. “You are welcome at the shrine of Venus. Come and worship.”

“Thank you, goddess. Your touch confers immortality to my soul.”

Closing his eyes, Caligula almost purred. How romantic this boy’s words were! He had always dreamed of a man like this, one who could see beneath the surface of divinity to the birdlike spirit, the fragile butterfly of Caligula’s sensitive inner self.

“Take some wine,” he murmured.

The young man rose and, in silence, unfastened his robes. Tossing them carelessly into a corner, he stood naked, allowing Caligula to feast his eyes. He was beautiful, as graceful as one of those ancient
kouroi,
the Greek statues of Homer’s time. His legs were long and, although the thighs were muscled, still curved and slender, with the beauty of a woman’s. The shoulders were broad and the waist slender, the belly flat and the hips rounded. The body was almost hairless, except for where a dark patch of fur framed a long, swelling cock. Caligula drew in his breath.

“Wine,” he offered again.

The young man nodded. He reached over to the low serving table of polished ebony, and filled two cups with wine. The first he offered, with a low bow, to “Venus.” Then he settled himself carelessly on the bed, facing Caesar. Slowly, deliberately, he poured the wine over his genitals, cupping the flow in the bowl where his thighs met.

“Drink, Venus,” he said pleasantly. “This wine is poured in libation to your divinity. Come and drink.” He gestured at his huge, erect cock.

Caligula’s head swam. Lust choked him.

“Drink your wine, Venus.”

Not since Caligula had become Caesar had he taken a cock in his mouth. Somehow, it was demeaning for an Emperor to suck. He had
been
sucked time without number, fucked and been fucked in return, but he had given up sucking as a practice unworthy of an Emperor and a god. But never, never had he felt such a longing as this.

The young man was smiling at him with a look of knowing insolence. It was too much.

With a low groan, heedless of his Imperial dignity, Caligula threw himself on the wine-soaked belly and sought the throbbing cock with his lips and tongue. The wine was delicious; he lapped thirstily, filling his mouth, smearing his cheeks, sucking, licking, sucking, sucking. Not until the young man’s hips bucked and the cock surged in his mouth, did he stop his greedy sucking.

They separated and Caligula moaned, unfulfilled. But now the young man showed his talent for love. Parting “Venus” ’ robes, he slipped two fingers between Caligula’s buttocks while his tongue laved the Emperor’s testicles. Licking and nibbling, he worked his fingers until Caligula thought he would go mad. And yet, even when he climaxed, crying out, it was not enough.

The young man moistened his fingers with Caligula’s semen, and anointed his own hard cock. Then, throwing “Venus” upon her back, he parted her legs and drove deeply into her. Caligula gave a long shriek of ecstasy and thrashed upward to receive the pleasure.

The young man was not only built like a god, he was inspired to fuck like one. Waves of glorious sensation washed over Caligula, and he wrapped his legs more firmly around the boy. Their breaths mingled, became a single expiration of passion.

Suddenly, the boy reached out and grabbed a handful of the roses, crushing the fragrant blooms. He thrust the musky petals under Caligula’s nose, and the combination of his climaxing ecstasy and the scent of the flowers made the Emperor swoon, momentarily.

This was sex! This was what he had dreamed of all his life, and had not until this moment achieved. Caligula sighed deeply, fully satisfied at last.

“Who are you?” he panted, looking into the green-gray eyes above him.

“Mnester, Divine Caesar.”

“Venus,” corrected Caligula.

“Venus, goddess. I am an actor.”

“A Greek?” Of course; he had to be. A hero like Achilles, Agamemnon or Ajax.

“Yes, goddess.”

Caligula lifted himself up onto one elbow. “We shall go home to Greece together,” he purred.
“If
you love me.”

“Who does not love the goddess of love?”

“Sweet . . .” approved Caligula. Then he frowned, recalling reality. “Unfortunately, many people. Get off me, will you?”

Mnester rolled quickly over to the other side of the bed. He watched Caligula straighten his wig and pat his gold and pearl necklace into place.

“Many people have turned against me,” sighed the Emperor.

“The
people . .
. the real people of Rome . . . they love you. Uh . . . Divine Caesar?” Mnester was hesitant about the name.

But Caligula had risen and walked over to his dressing table. He was pulling off the wig, and removing his makeup with a linen towel. “Yes, I’m Caesar now.”

“Let me show you,” urged Mnester.

“Show me what?” Caligula asked.

He laughed when he heard Mnester’s plan. It was foolhardy, perhaps even dangerous, but he adored it. It stirred up the excitement in his blood, and it would give him dinner-table anecdotes for months to come. Divine Caesar, a ruler and a god, walking among his people in disguise, appearing to them not as a divinity, but as a common man—or rather, a common boy. He would hear with his own ears what his people really thought of him!

Delighted with the plan, Caligula gave his prompt consent, and it took only minutes for him to be ready. He dressed simply, in coarse clothing borrowed from one of the palace slaves. A thick black wig covered his head, and a cloak of heavy wool masked his body and the lower half of his face.

They slipped out the back of the palace without interference. Leaving the Palatine Hill, they wandered down the empty streets into the lower quarters, a section of small, rudely-built wooden houses with roofs made of thatched logs. A fire-trap, thought Caligula. Someday this whole section will go up like a bale of straw.

They entered a tavern, a low-ceilinged dark place smelling of sour wine, with tables and benches made of rough boards. Candles made of rags dipped in tallow burned in clay jars, giving off more smoke than light. Most of the drinkers appeared to be off-duty soldiers and out-of-work men; the women were certainly whores.

Once his eyes were accustomed to the smoke and semi-darkness, Caligula attempted to listen to the conversations around him, eager to hear news of himself. But the babble of talk was indecipherable; the noise level was too high.

“I can’t hear a thing. Nobody’s mentioned me at all, so far as I can tell.”

“They will,” Mnester assured him.

The tavern filled with more and more drinkers. The merriment increased; the laughter grew even louder and more frequent.

At a nearby table, a tall, burly man stood up. Placing his clay drinking cup on his head, he rolled his eyes and minced effeminately.

“I am the goddeth Venuth!” he lisped, waving a limp wrist in a broad parody of Caligula. Everyone roared.

Caligula half-rose, his face contorted with fury. “Treason, blasphemy,” he muttered, reaching for his dagger.

Mnester restrained him, shaking his head. “Wait.”

From the burly man’s table, a woman’s voice rose. “I saw him. Ever so funny he was. And I love the way he gives it to those Senators.” She snickered.

“That’s
how he gives it to them,” cried another man, taking up a knife from his table and pretending to shove it into a fat Senatorial belly.

All the drinkers laughed, a happy, vulgar gust of merriment.

“Well?” asked Mnester, his eyebrow raised.

Caligula smiled. “I see what you mean. They’re a bit crude, but . . .”

“But they appreciate what you’re doing.”

And yet they had their complaints, too. The burly man now raised his voice plaintively. “These new taxes! How’s a man to live, I ask you?”

“Don’t pay them!” another man roared from across the room.

“Well,” said a woman with graying red hair, “it costs the poor boy a lot, you know, putting on all those games and the shows at the theater . . .” Her eyes fell upon Mnester. “Why, look! There’s what’s his name. My favorite . . . the actor. You know, the Greek . . . ummm . . . Mnester!” She blew drunken kisses at him, and the young actor bowed his thanks.

“Come on over!” roared the burly man. “Don’t be frightened. And bring your boy with you.”

Mnester hesitated, shaking his head, but Caligula was amused. He loved “your boy.” And he wanted to join these common people, to see if he could continue to fool them, and to learn what they really thought of the Imperial administration. So he caught Mnester’s sleeve, and they sat down at the table of the red-haired woman and the burly man. Coarse wine was thrust at them.

“Which taxes do you most dislike?” asked Caligula.

“All of ’em,” the man replied, taking a huge bite out of an onion. “Hey, Mnester, where did you find this boy?” he leered.

“He’s a . . . an actor. Just arrived from Greece,” Mnester lied with ease.

“Cute.” The red-haired woman fluttered her eyelashes in Caligula’s direction. She was very drunk.

“What’s he wearin’ a wig for?” yelled the burly man. He stretched out a hairy, dirty hand and pulled the wig from Caligula’s head. The Emperor half-rose, fury turning his face dark red, but remembered suddenly where he was and subsided.