Gore Vidal’s Caligula (4 page)

As he stepped into Ennia’s bedchamber, Caligula suppressed a groan of dismay. Ennia was already in the bed, naked. Perfumed incense rose in a cloud to the painted ceiling; the lamp wicks were trimmed low. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of a softly-plucked lyre. The mare was in heat and waiting for the stallion, he told himself. Hatred made the gorge rise in his throat as he approached the silken couch, a false smile of love clenched in his face.

Ennia was as different from Drusilla as Hecate from Aphrodite. Drusilla was warm and golden, with curved hips and abundant pink-nippled breasts. Ennia was dark and lean, and her tiny breasts were tipped with dark brown nipples. Between her legs was a living thing, thought Caligula, staring at the thick thatch of wiry black hair. It was an animal that craved his blood, that would eat him alive.

But Ennia was smiling at him seductively, holding out one perfumed hand, its fingers ringed in gold and precious stones—the stallion would have to perform now. Oddly enough, his hatred for this woman fed Caligula’s lust. He stripped off his tunic impatiently. If he couldn’t choke Ennia to death as he wished then by the gods he’d
ride
her to death! He threw himself on her body with a low growl, ramming into her, forcing her heels up onto his shoulders so that he could penetrate her more deeply. Grunting in animal pleasure, he raised her buttocks off the bed and fucked her with short, hard strokes.

Ennia loved it. Her fingernails tore at him as she urged him to greater efforts. “Do it!” she gasped. “Do it harder! That’s right, my ram, my prince. Fuck me deeper; let me feel every single inch! Yes, yes, like that! Oh, just like that, my lover. More! More! Come now. I want to feel you come . . . come . . . ahhhhhhh!”

Sweating with lust, Caligula pulled his quivering penis out of her and aimed it at her mouth.

“Take it!” he snarled. “Suck it until you choke!”

Ennia threw herself eagerly on him and began to gobble and suck. She was good at it, very good, better even than Caligula’s thirteen-year-old Greek boy slave. Now she pried his anus open with her fingers, slipped two of them inside, and was rubbing, rubbing, rubbing.

Waves of pleasure drowned Caligula; he could feel the semen rising from his balls. With a groan, he pulled himself away from her mouth and came copiously, all over her face and her neck and her dark hair, so carefully arranged in the latest style. There! That ought to hold her; the royal stallion had done his tricks.

Exhausted, he fell back onto the pillows. He felt filthy,
used.
Indeed, they had used each other, out of bed as well as in it. He wished her a thousand miles away in Syria, where Germanicus had died; he wished himself a thousand miles away in Drusilla’s arms. Most of all he wanted a bath—cold, hot, tepid, in that order, and a rubdown with perfumed oils. Then, oh then, he wanted to sleep. To sleep and not to have the Dream. He turned away from Ennia.

“What’s wrong?” she asked with false tenderness.

Caligula remembered that he must hide his revulsion. He forced a smile.

“Nothing, Ennia, my love.” He clasped her to him, burying his face in her neck so that he wouldn’t have to see the triumph in her eyes. “It’s just . . .” he continued. “I have these dreams.”

“So do I,” purred Ennia. “Beautiful, beautiful dreams! All gold and glory . . .” She couldn’t keep the greed out of her voice. She was hungry for power,
his
power.

“Those are not dreams, but prophesy.
If
I live,” said Caligula meaningfully. He’d done his part; now it was her turn.

“You will live,” said Ennia with supreme confidence. “You and I will both live. Together.” She flung her thin arms wide. “The two of us,” she cried. “Masters of Rome . . .”

“With Macro?” smiled Caligula.

“Are you jealous of my husband, darling boy?” Ennia preened, arching her neck at him.

“No, no!” protested Caligula warmly, detesting this farce. “I love him, too. Like . . . a brother.” But his brothers were dead, he thought. Dead and hacked into mincemeat.

Ennia sighed and nestled against him. “We shall be so happy,” she cooed.

Caligula allowed her to pull his head down and kiss his mouth. He was far away now, far from her. He was on a ship, a bireme bound for Capri. And waiting for him on that rocky shore was . . . ?

Only the gods knew.

CHAPTER TWO

It was a glorious day for a sail, but Caligula had never been so miserable in his life. Early morning had found him wrapped in his warmest cloak, being hustled by Macro and a carefully selected cadre of guards down to Tiber bank, where the ship was moored, its anchor stone sunk in the filthy waters of the river. When Caligula arrived, they had cast off. They had almost reached Ostia. The thin March sun was shedding its pale rays over the water. Caligula stood beside Macro on the poop deck, watching the double sweep of the oars from the two banks of slave rowers. It was hypnotizing, but he was not lulled into any sense of security. Instead, he kept glancing at the shore. When, if ever, would he lay eyes on Rome again?

At Ostia, the harbor city where Rome met the sea, gulls wheeled and mewed above the ship, hoping for a gift of garbage. Although it was still cool, Caligula loosened the knot of his cloak. Fear was choking him, for, once the bireme entered the Tyrrhenian Sea, there was no turning back before Capri. And Capri meant possible death. Who knew the mind of Tiberius? He was a murderous senile madman who had once voiced aloud the thought that he envied Priam, King of Troy, because he had outlived every one of his children. And his grandchildren, too! thought Caligula with a fresh thrill of fear. Gemellus, old man, he pleaded silently. Kill Gemellus; he’s your real grandchild. Not me. Me, I’m adopted.

But adoption was as binding as blood-relationship. Had not Augustus himself adopted Tiberius, the son of Livia’s first marriage? Not only adopted him, but made him his heir, passed along to him the seal of Empire, set in a large ring of iron. Of course, it had taken a near-endless series of murders, mostly by poison, before Tiberius came close to the seat of power, but all of that had been seen to. Romans of the noblest class lay dead by the hundreds. Some had even opened their own veins rather than risk Tiberius’ vengeful cruelties.

And Tiberius had adopted Germanicus, Caligula’s father. Germanicus, the people’s favorite! How they had cheered his triumph! As wagon after wagon, loaded with captives, weapons and spoils from the campaigns in Germany, followed Germanicus’ triumphal chariot, the citizens lining the road had shouted his name. Perhaps, thought Caligula bitterly, had they cheered with less enthusiasm, his father might be alive today. Tiberius had heard their cries of “Germanicus! Give us Germanicus!” And when Germanicus went into Syria, there were no Roman citizens to protect him from the far-reaching hand of a demented Emperor. Poison had been his portion then, a death of agonizing slowness, a death that took days.

And now it was Caligula who was the people’s favorite. Crowds followed him to touch his boots, to grab at his toga, to call his name and give him honeyed words: “pet,” “the army’s darling,” “our little love.” If only the god-cursed people of Rome would shut up! Didn’t he have enough troubles as it was without making Tiberius jealous? Tiberius was nobody’s favorite; he didn’t have to be, because
he
was Emperor. But Tiberius was afraid of Rome, for he expected to die there, and he wished to live forever. In the last decade, he had not set foot once in Rome. Oh, yes, many times he had promised to return. Once he had even demanded—and received—a bodyguard of trusted Senators to accompany him. But always he had turned back at the last moment on some pretext, illness, or the augurs were unfavorable, or some such. Nothing would pry the old barnacle off his rocky island, thought Caligula.

If only he’d been allowed to bring Drusilla with him! Macro might be a better bodyguard, but he was a poor substitute when it came to comfort. Of all his three sisters, Drusilla was the only one he loved. Oh, yes, he slept with them all, with pudgy Julia Livilla, whose cunt tasted of the barley wine she was so fond of. And with Agrippinilla, dark and somber like their mother, but a tigress between the sheets. But Caligula cared for nobody in the world except himself and Drusilla. Only himself actually, because Drusilla was an extension of himself, the female half of him, the other side of his coin. They even looked alike, with their golden hair (unfortunately, his was thinning rapidly, while hers was gloriously abundant) and their wide blue eyes.

Now that the bireme’s oars were dipping into the Tyrrhenian, driving them toward Capri, Caligula let his thoughts drift into the past, back to his sisters. Drusilla had been his first lover, when he was twelve. By then the dead Germanicus had been forgotten by the loud-mouthed, fickle citizens of Rome. Agrippina, their mother, was living in exile, soon to die. By starvation? By the sword? They would never know. But even if it had been suicide, only Tiberius was to blame. He’d driven her to it. Caligula and Drusilla were living with Antonia, their grandmother, mother of Germanicus, and their doddering uncle Claudius, the foolish, crippled stammerer. Drusilla was fifteen, and as beautiful a virgin as Rome’s sun had ever shone upon. But surrounding them always was fear, fear and the smell of death. Both the children could feel the dark threat against the lives of their brothers, Drusus and Nero, popular favorites. Too popular for Tiberius’ comfort.

They slept in separate small rooms, in narrow beds. But Caligula kept having the Dream, and when he cried out in the night, sweating and shaking with fear, Drusilla would hear and run silently to him, holding and rocking him in her arms until her warmth and love made the Dream fade. That was how it had begun.

At twelve, he was just beginning to get hard now and then. It embarrassed him, and he was grateful for his childish robe with its loose, concealing folds. He knew next to nothing about what men and women did together. Even though the slaves were coarse in their behavior, around the Imperial children they were models of decency. Caligula knew only that his tiny pipi was no longer so tiny. It had grown; hair was sprouting around the base and on his belly. Was he the only one in the world with hair there? (Was he some kind of freak or monster? He didn’t know.) And when he touched his pipi now, which was often, it grew longer and thicker, and it felt good.

One night the Dream took hold of him more strongly than ever before, and long minutes of trembling and sobbing had passed before he even realized that Drusilla was with him, holding him close. It was summer, and Caligula had been sleeping naked; Drusilla wore only a thin night-shift of the finest Egyptian cotton.

As the tears dried on his cheeks, Caligula pressed his face more tightly against Drusilla’s full breasts, sniffing her own particular fragrance—it always brought him comfort, made him feel less alone. Suddenly, he felt a warmth between his legs; “it” was growing hard. His first impulse was to pull away from his sister before she noticed, but instead he found himself rubbing his belly against her. Then, instinctively, his lips opened and caught at her nipple. He sucked eagerly, like a baby, dimly remembering the milk that Agrippina’s breasts had yielded.

With a moan, Drusilla pushed at his head, but Caligula only sucked harder. He brought his hand up to her other nipple and played with it. He was astonished to discover that it grew hard under his touch. Just like his pipi!

Now Drusilla was moaning softly, drawing his head in closer, moving his lips from nipple to nipple with an eagerness that matched his own. The musky fragrance that rose from beneath her linen shift made Caligula so dizzy and excited he thought that he would faint. He
had
to investigate that odor! He tugged Drusilla’s nightgown up to expose her belly.

“Gaius, no!”

She gasped as his fingers explored her, finding a slimy wetness that delighted him. He thrust his fingers deeply into her and felt her wriggle with pleasure. Then she began to move under his hand, and soon he caught on to her rhythm, and moved his fingers in and out, in and out, while Drusilla gave little cries of joy.

The ache in his groin was both blissful and unbearable, and he rubbed his naked crotch against her bare thigh. And then he felt her soft hand close around his penis, pushing and pulling, moving the foreskin back and forward over its tip. Pleasure beyond belief! Here is nature’s only happiness, he thought, here in this bed, doing things that only
we
have discovered. Who but we are worthy of such bliss?

Both were breathing hard now, in mounting ecstasy. With the instinct of mindless animals, brother and sister increased the pace of their manipulations. Drusilla was using both hands now, tickling and rubbing his balls as well as his cock. Caligula’s fingers, wet with her juices, were stroking deeply and quickly.

He raised his lips from her breasts and kissed her mouth, his tongue searching for hers. As they kissed, a great spasm seized his twelve-year-old body, and he shot a great jet of sperm—his first orgasm—over her hands. Drusilla uttered a small, whimpering cry and collapsed back upon the pillow.

They lay for a long moment without speaking. The only sound in the tiny apartment was that of their gasping breathing, as it slowly returned to normal. Caligula felt a drowsy peace enshrouding him, a total relaxation he had never known before.