Gore Vidal’s Caligula (3 page)

Drusilla’s legs had relaxed slightly, enough to let his hand wander where it willed, and he slipped two more fingers into her, making her gasp with sudden lust.

“How do you know?” she asked, her eyes staring deeply into his.

“I saw him at the baths,” he whispered.

That carcass of lard, Marcus Lepidus, who dared to hold his, Caligula’s, own sister in his arms, dared to use her . . . some day I’ll kill him too, he thought. I’ll melt the fat right off his bones, the son of a whore’s dog.

“I felt so sorry for you . . .” he murmured. Then he stuck his tongue deep into Drusilla’s ear, licking, making her shudder.

By now he was hard again. His penis, long and thick, jutted from his narrow torso. He was so thin that it seemed grossly out of proportion to the rest of him. Slyly, he drew his organ along his sister’s belly, letting her feel the length and strength of it, daring her to make comparisons with the puny flesh of his obese brother-in-law.

Drusilla gasped as she felt his hardness. “You are vile . . .” She sighed and gave a husky laugh.

Light from the silver lamp played over the lovers like reflections in water, and they watched each other closely as they made love, noting every tiny mark of advancing passion, arousing each other with kisses and bites.

Slowly, Caligula drew his erection up his sister’s body, squeezing her large breasts together to make a tight tunnel for it. Fascinated, Drusilla lay back against the pillows, watching his thick cock move up and down between her breasts, coming closer and closer to her face. Reaching down, she lightly grasped his balls, tickling them, rubbing between the scrotum and the anus, while her head bent and her tongue came out to flick at the tip of his cock as he brought it up to her face, still keeping the shaft between her breasts, and working his fingers around her stone-hard nipples.

“Gaius . . . ahhhhhh . . . Gaius,” she breathed. So many years. They had been making love for so many years, she and her younger brother, ever since he was old enough to keep an erection. He aroused her as nobody else could. It was as though Caligula were Drusilla herself. He knew every nerve ending of her body as well as she did, as well as she knew his . . . they melted into each other.

Now he turned her over on her belly, and drew her up to her knees. Kneeling behind her, burying his face in her buttocks, he licked and sucked at her anus and her clitoris, while his fingers teased her breasts. When her moans and gasping cries told him she was ready, he slid his penis slowly into her, letting her savor every inch of its hardness.

“You are bigger . . .” Drusilla panted.

Caligula thrust into her again . . . and then again.

“Better?” he demanded, his hips moving in a strong rhythm. The rattle in her throat told him she was about to mount to her climax, so he withdrew partway and held still. “Better?” he demanded once again.

“Ohhhhhh . . . Yes! YES!” she gasped, her hips pursuing his cock, seeking to impale herself as deeply as possible. “Don’t stop, Gaius . . . in the name of all the gods, don’t stop . . .”

The sudden blast of a trumpet shattered the silence. Alarmed, Drusilla fell forward onto the bed, leaving Caligula on his knees. Both turned toward the door, through which they could now hear the clanking sound of armed men marching. The trumpet sounded again, unmistakably military.

“What’s that?” asked Drusilla, terrified.

Caligula lifted one hand to silence her. His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the sound. “Commander of the guard,” he decided.

“Is he coming here?” Pushing the bed curtains aside, Drusilla swung her legs to the marble floor and reached for her linen robe. Swiftly, silently, she gathered up her gold hairpins and her sandals and looked for a place to hide. Caligula pointed to the door, and she ran to place herself beside it, so she would be hidden by it when it opened.

Caligula had slipped on a robe of gauzy silk, trimmed in gold thread, and armed himself with a Scythian dagger. As Drusilla placed the last hairpin, catching up her tumbled locks in a matron’s demure style, a gentle knock sounded at the door.

“Prince Caligula,” the slave’s voice said. “May it please Your Highness to receive Macro, the captain of the Imperial Guard?”

Darting a warning look at Drusilla, Caligula stood up straight. “Come in,” he called, and unlatched the iron door-pin.

The heavy wooden door swung open, and Naevius Sartorius Macro marched in, his helmet held under his arm in deference to the Emperor’s adopted grandson. Macro was a swarthy man, not much taller than Caligula himself, short for a Praetorian guard, but there was so much strength in his chest, shoulders and neck that one forgot the shortness of his legs. His breastplate was polished to a dazzling shine, and his leather greaves were oiled to suppleness. Raising his right arm in the Roman salute, palm downward, he then clenched his fist to his chest in homage.

Nodding, Caligula put down the Scythian dagger. Insofar as he trusted any man, he trusted Macro. Besides, he had to display that trust—he
needed
Macro.

The captain of the guard looked around him curiously, but did not see Drusilla behind the heavy door. Although the bed was disarrayed, there was no other evidence that Caligula was not alone. No stray sandal, no fluttering behind a wall hanging . . . The light from the single lamp cast eerie shadows on the painted walls.

Macro hesitated. “I’m not interrupting anything?”

It was obvious to Caligula that some busybody—or worse, some spy—had told Macro that he was not alone. His eyes narrowed as he gave the captain a wide, friendly and insincere smile.

“Only my dreams.” He waved one hand at the bed.

“Happy dreams?” inquired Macro deferentially.

Caligula shrugged. “What news from Capri?”

“He wants to see you,” replied the captain. “There’s a ship waiting for you in the Tiber. You leave at first light.”

Caligula fought to control his trembling. In an instant, he had gone from prince to six-year-old. “He” wanted to see him! Tiberius! He’d been summoned by the Emperor Tiberius. So many men had obeyed that summons before him, only to meet with torture and death. What can he want of me? Caligula asked himself. His mouth had gone dry.

“What . . . what does he want?” he stammered.

Macro nodded his reassurance. “Don’t worry, you’re safe.” Standing at ease, he leaned forward to whisper,
“We’re
safe.”

But Caligula was not so easily placated. “No one’s safe, Macro,” he said.

Macro snapped to attention again and donned his helmet, making the horsehair plume tremble. “You’re to join the Emperor on the island of Capri. You will then accompany him to Rome.” He was announcing Tiberius’ orders.

Thoroughly alarmed, Caligula made no effort now to mask his fear.

“To Rome?” Consternation contorted his face. “Tiberius is coming here?” Impossible! Tiberius had not set foot in Rome in ten long years; he ruled from his villa, sending his wishes to the Senate in the form of long, detailed letters of instruction. Or, rather, letters of
des
truction, since they customarily contained orders for more executions.

But Macro was nodding an affirmation. “Yes.”

“But . . . but . . . why?” stammered Caligula. “He hates Rome. He loves Capri.” He fears Rome, he thought. Fears his death here, at the hands of his enemies. If he’s left any enemies alive.

Macro shrugged. “One last look, I suppose.” He glanced shrewdly at Caligula. “After all, he is seventy-seven . . .”

“May he live forever,” replied Caligula automatically, in the prescribed formula. He added, in a depressed mutter, “And he will . . . he will.”

“He won’t,” said Macro firmly. “But watch out for Nerva. He is our enemy.”

“I know,” Caligula nodded gloomily. Marcus Cocceius Nerva, that stiff-necked old fool. He
was
dangerous, if only in his incorruptibility. How Tiberius had let an honest man like Nerva remain his friend, Caligula would never understand. It was hardly in keeping with the rest of the Imperial policies.

“We’ll deal with him. In time,” promised Macro. His voice softened. “Ennia . . .” he prompted.

Caligula forced a note of warmth into his voice. “Ennia, yes. How is she?”

“In love,” said Macro softly, with a smile and the lift of an eyebrow.

“In hell, then, as the poets say,” Caligula replied lightly, but in his heart he groaned.

Ennia Vaevia. That whore! Of all the burdens he bore, and they were many burdens and hard, Macro’s wife was the heaviest. The only way Caligula could be certain of the loyalty of the captain of the guard was to become the reluctant lover of the captain’s wife. Worse, he had to pretend that he was madly, passionately, in love with her; he had to promise the bitch that she would share the Empire, and rule by his side. All this because he needed Macro, and the price he had to pay for the man’s loyalty was Ennia. And a stiff price it was.

“Shall I tell her to come here, to you?” Macro eyed the bed significantly.

Caligula cast a hasty glance at the door that concealed Drusilla. “No . . . no . . . no . . . I’ll go to her. We’ll go together.” He gestured at his flimsy robe, his disarranged hair, the thinning wisps sticking up. “Let me dress.”

“Yes, Prince.” Striking his chest with his fist in salute, Macro turned and left the room.

Caligula shut the door after him with an exhalation of relief, then drew the bolt. He and Drusilla stared at each other, dismayed. He could read the anxiety on her face, a mirror of his own.

Stripping off the gauzy silk with nervous fingers, Caligula fumbled with the folds of a more sedate robe. Patiently, Drusilla helped him to arrange his tunic, drawing it up over the belt and blousing it just so.

“Tiberius is going to kill me,” cried Caligula, as his sister smoothed the pleats of his robe. “He’s going to kill me and make that boy Gemellus his heir. I know it! I know it!” His nerves raw with fear, he was talking too fast and too much.

“He’s not.” Drusilla brushed down the wisps of his hair, arranging them over his scalp so that they would seem fuller. “He can’t. Don’t worry.”

But Caligula was in no mood to be soothed. “He hated our father! He hates us! Because the people love us and hate him . . .” He found himself a cloak; the nights were cold in Rome, and he had begun to shiver.

Drusilla fell silent. There was some truth in Caligula’s words, and she knew it. She saw that he was trying to fasten the cloak around himself with a silver fibula set with an Indian emerald. But his fingers slipped on the knot, and the point of the sharp clasp pierced his finger. Letting out a little cry, he popped the finger into his mouth, like a baby. Drusilla’s heart went out to him.

“But you have Macro . . .” she said tentatively. “And the Guard. They’re all with you.”

“So they say.” Caligula remained sullen. He was unconvinced. Angrily, he dropped the fibula back into his clothing chest. Drusilla knelt by the chest to retrieve it; she would fasten it for him. Something in the folds of a toga caught her eye; reaching, she fetched out her brother’s
caligae.

“Your little boots! You kept them!” she cried. “For good luck?” There was a question in her eyes.

Caligula shrugged. “For good luck? Yes, I suppose so. At least, I pray to Isis . . .”

“Not Isis,” Drusilla interrupted. “Her worship is prohibited.” She held the half-boots out to her brother, who stuffed them into the leather wallet that hung from his belt.

“Go to Ennia,” purred Drusilla. “The
beautiful
Ennia,” she added scornfully, secure in her own attractiveness.

“Go to hell,” snarled Caligula, as he left to join Macro.

The back corridors of the palace were of rough stone, not faced with costly marble as were the public rooms and hallways; Augustus had not been extravagant except where it could earn him the admiration of the crowd. The blocks of stone sweated a chilly dampness, and Caligula was glad of his heavy wool cloak as he strode with Macro down the shadowy corridor, a contingent of guards pacing behind them. Torches of pitch, set in wall brackets at irregular intervals, lit their way only fitfully, creating deep wells of shadow into which Caligula chose not to look. It reminded him of the Dream, and it took an effort not to shudder. Only the presence of Macro was of any comfort, but it occurred to Caligula that the loyalty of his captain hung by the thinnest of threads—from a gossamer web spun by the black-widow spider Ennia.

“We’ve nothing to fear,” Macro told him again.

Caligula shook his head stubbornly. “With Tiberius there is always
something
to fear.” His mind was on tomorrow morning on the ship that would sail for Capri and the Emperor.

At a bend in the corridor, two soldiers stood impassively on duty. “Halt!” commanded one. “The password?”

“Justice,” replied Macro.

“Pass.”

The guard had recognized both the captain and the prince, but he knew that these days you couldn’t be too careful. That’s why the password was changed nightly. He would have challenged Tiberius himself.

“As long as
I
command the guard, you are safe,” Macro told Caligula, who shot him a swift, half-quizzical glance. Then he laid one hand lightly upon the captain’s massive shoulder. “Your loyalty, Macro, is . . . is . . .” He waved one hand expressively, at a loss for the perfect word.

“At your service,” Macro finished for him. “As is Ennia. My wife.” He looked steadily at the younger man.

Caligula flashed him a charming smile, all eyes and teeth. “Who will become . . . if I am spared . . .
my
wife.”

“And Empress of Rome,” Macro emphasized.

Caligula let out a long breath. “And Empress of Rome,” he conceded.

They had reached the back door to Ennia’s apartments.

With a soldier’s bow, Macro admitted Caligula. Before leaving, he posted two of his guards at the door. So the lovers would not be disturbed, or taken by surprise—as he had failed to do half an hour before, when Caligula had been, Macro was certain, with that incestuous whore Drusilla. He’d intended to catch them at it—his information had been good —but they had eluded him, Drusilla dissolving into mist like a ground fog rising in Britain. Some day he’d trap them in the same net, the brother and sister, as Vulcan had trapped Venus and Mars, and then he’d have the upper hand with the weakling prince.