Gore Vidal’s Caligula (6 page)

But one day, soon after, when they’d made no appointment for love, he came upon Drusilla unexpected. The slave was lying on his back, sprawled on Drusilla’s bed of silks, grinning as he watched his beautiful blonde mistress ride his rigid cock. Almost lazily, he was reaching up and fondling her bouncing breasts, or stretching his head forward to kiss her mouth. Drusilla, almost unconscious with pleasure, was thrusting her tongue deep into his tongueless mouth without breaking the rhythm of her movement.

Making love to his sister behind his back! They’d pay! Oh, how they’d pay! Caligula could barely restrain himself from darting forward from his hiding place and stabbing them both to death with his dagger. But he remained hidden in the doorway and watched. Sweat streamed from his every pore; he was consumed by a deadly mixture of lust and jealousy. Although he desperately wanted to look away, he couldn’t take his eyes off the joined lovers. Not until they fell exhausted did Caligula slip away, as worn out as they were.

Thinking it over later, Caligula decided coldly that the amusement had gone out of the Sabine game and that there was no way to restore it.
Ergo,
the slave had become useless.
Ergo
—and he chuckled at his logic—his tutors had done their work well; the slave was dispensable. So Caligula dispensed with him, using secrets of poison he was compiling against the future. As the tall Nubian lay dying in agony, his face no longer black but a greyish-green, Caligula had an idle thought:
This is the first man I’ve killed. Well, perhaps slaves don’t count as men.
Still, it was good practice, and it would certainly be a long time before Drusilla tried any more of her pussycat tricks behind his back.

Now, ahead of him, he could see the rocky promontories of the island of Capri. One of the main reasons that Tiberius had been attracted to the island in the first place was its difficult access. There was only one small landing-beach, easily fortified, easily held. The rest of the island’s shore was made up of sheer cliffs looming over deep water. On Capri, Tiberius felt safe. Only a small detachment of soldiers was needed to man the beach; the others could be used to protect his own person.

When Tiberius had abandoned Rome for Capri, the Empire had begun to disintegrate. Spain and Syria went without consul-governors for years. The Armenians overran Parthia, and that so emboldened the Germans that they invaded Gaul, which they would not have dared when Augustus was alive. Augustus had strengthened the army with leaders like Germanicus, had thrown his legions far and wide to extend and fortify Rome’s borders. But Tiberius had destroyed Rome’s greatest generals one by one, through intrigue and murder. No wonder, Caligula thought, that the Senate was in its dotage these days—a bunch of senile, farting, trembling old men under Tiberius’ thumb. And his absent thumb at that. If he, Caligula, could only gain the Imperial power, he’d make those ancient dodderers step lively!

The sight of Capri brought the dust to his mouth again; he felt the old fear of the Dream returning. How would Tiberius greet him? Would he be treated graciously, as Tiberius’ chosen heir, or would the Emperor turn on him with poison or the sword? Or would Tiberius merely keep him prisoner, like the last time?

The first time that Caligula had sailed to Capri at Tiberius’ invitation was when he was nineteen years old. Too old for his boyhood robes, he had yet to don the
toga virilis,
shave his beard and become accepted as a man. His grandfather Tiberius was to stand as his sponsor for the ceremony, and so Caligula sailed to Capri, much against his better judgment; his own inclination had been to hide under the bed, preferably Drusilla’s bed.

The coming-of-age ceremony had been brief, Caligula remembered now. Laying aside the childhood toga with its crimson-striped border, the toga
praetexta,
he’d accepted from Tiberius’ own hands the
toga virilis,
the pure white garment of manhood. Then he’d offered the first cuttings of the fluff on his chin to the altar of the goddess Venus, protectress and genetrix of the Claudian family. And that had been that.

When his brothers Drusus and Nero had come of age, there had been public celebrations, games in the stadium, speeches at the rostra, bread and coins distributed among the citizens. Yet, all the celebrations in the world hadn’t saved their lives. Brrrrr! Caligula shuddered. It was bad luck to make these comparisons, and doubly ill-omened to envy the dead their glories in life. Caligula spat three times into the sea, to avert evil luck.

That first time in Capri, Caligula had found himself more Tiberius’ prisoner than his guest. He’d had no way of getting off the island. Besides, he lived so much in fear of his grandfather that he followed along in his shadow, afraid to speak one word of contradiction. So apparently devoted to Tiberius was he that in later years Rome would say of Caligula that never had there been a better slave or a worse master.

As for Tiberius, he seemed affable enough, even fond of Little Boots. He’d even found him a wife, a nonentity of good birth, Junia Claudilla, who’d had the good sense to die in childbirth, along with the newborn infant. Caligula had shrugged, put on the appropriate outward signs of mourning, and never thought about her again.

He was the heir apparent. Now that his own son, Drusus, had died, Tiberius often referred to Caligula as his successor. But Caligula had his doubts. Tiberius had a grandson of his own, little Tiberius Gemellus, Drusus’ son. Or was he Drusus’ son? Gossip had it that he was not, that little Gemellus had been fathered by the lecherous, adulterous, murderous Sejanus, Captain of the Praetorian Guard. Sejanus and Livilla, who was Drusus’ wife—Tiberius’ daughter-in-law and Caligula’s aunt—had been carrying on a secret affair for years.

But Tiberius, who usually seized upon slander with malicious eagerness, chose not to listen to that particular piece of gossip. Not that the Emperor cared much for his daughter-in-law, but at that time Sejanus could do no wrong in Tiberius’ eyes.

In those days Sejanus lorded it over Rome, second in power only to Tiberius himself, and his partner in crime. Egging each other on, the two of them subjected Rome to such a tyrannical bloodbath that not one noble family escaped intact.

Caligula’s days were filled with terror, and his nights with the Dream. He couldn’t count on Tiberius’ affections, which came and vanished like a mist, and he fully expected that any day his mutilated body would be hurled over the cliffs into the sea below, a favorite pastime of Tiberius’ on Capri. Caligula had been promised the Empire, but the old man showed no signs of letting it go. He was over seventy, stronger and meaner than ever. It was true that Caligula amused him, but he showed little affection to the boy.

“Do your dance, Little Boots,” he would call out, his painted Greek drinking cup sloshing out wine. “Do the Caligula dance.” And the young man, feeling like a fool with every eye upon him, would have to stomp the little dance the soldiers had applauded when he was a child. Hopping from foot to foot, Caligula could see the malicious laughter in the old man’s glittering eyes, the rapacious eyes of the Dream, and he would shiver while he danced.

How he missed Drusilla then, longing for her understanding and her love, as well as for the voluptuous charms of her body—though of bodies he had more than enough. Tiberius, finding in his adoptive grandson a broad streak of perversion that echoed his own, introduced him to the “pleasures” of the Villa Io. Caligula entered a maelstrom of demented sensuality in which pain and pleasure were so equally mixed as to be indistinguishable. At the Villa Io, he learned the delights of torture, and of absolute power over the bodies of others, even those who were not slaves. It gave him a taste for the depraved, a hunger for sadistic pleasure that he still sought to fill.

Things were different now. He was no longer nineteen; he was twenty-six, and Tiberius was seventy-seven. Sejanus was dead at last. And Tiberius had learned the truth, that Livilla and Sejanus, the guilty lovers, had murdered Drusus, Tiberius’ only son. Perhaps things would go well at Capri, after all. Perhaps Tiberius, understanding that Gemellus just might not be his legitimate grandson, would declare Caligula his heir, and announce Caligula’s succession in writing to the Senate and the people of Rome.
They’d
never refuse to make him Emperor. He was a popular favorite—their pet, Little Boots.

On the other hand—and the thought made Caligula’s heart sink—it was just as logical that Tiberius had brought him to Capri to kill him, most likely by poison. Just because he
was
a popular favorite, and the last remaining son of another popular favorite. Perhaps Tiberius knew that he could never get away with having Caligula murdered in Rome, but here in Capri a regrettable but convenient “accident” could be arranged. Poor Little Boots, what a tragedy, and him so young! He might have made a fine Emperor, had the gods spared him.

It was a glorious day, but Caligula pulled his cloak more tightly around his shivering body. The keel of the bireme was scraping sand now. They had reached Capri.

CHAPTER THREE

A handful of picked guards came out to the bireme in small boats to take Caligula and Macro ashore.

On the rocky beach, Caligula looked around him curiously. Here was a Roman encampment reproduced in miniature. Trenches had been dug, walls erected, tents pitched, guards mounted as pickets. The old warrior never forgets, thought Caligula. He was too young himself to remember Tiberius’ soldiering days, but they had been glorious. Tiberius had been a brave, able commander. That was before he became an Emperor and a degenerate. But Tiberius was still mindful of what a Roman army camp should be, even on this tiny beach, with cockleshell boats pulled up on the shore.

Horses were brought, and Macro waited to mount until he saw Caligula astride. It was only a short canter to the tents, among which stood a giant statue of Tiberius, raised high by its pedestal. The statue’s features were cast in a classical noble mode, the marble likeness of a man of 45, not 77.

In the shadow of the statue, Caligula dismounted and handed the reins to a young officer. At once, armed men surrounded him, smiling Caligula was the army’s pet, the soldiers’ lucky piece—they remembered Germanicus. Macro dismounted and melted into his unit, his duty done for the present.

“Welcome, Prince, in the Emperor’s name.”

Caligula turned. A handsome, but weathered and graying officer stood before him, his hand clenched on his breast in respectful salute. The plume on his helmet and the insignia on his breastplate proclaimed his rank as colonel. Something about him was familiar; Caligula was certain that he knew that face.

“Thank you,” he replied graciously. “Uhhhh. I know . . . now don’t tell me . . . you were with my father . . .”

The colonel’s eyes lit up with pleasure at the young man’s recognition. After all, it had been a very long time ago; the lad had been only a child.

“Chaerea, Prince. Cassius Chaerea. I was with your father in Germany. Many’s the time I used to take you out riding with me . . . you with your little boots . . .”

But Caligula had ceased to listen. Consternation crept over his face as he looked around him. There stood the statue of Tiberius, larger and much younger than life. But something was missing. Something important.

“Where . . . sorry to interrupt . . . but where is
my
statue?”

Perplexity furrowed the officer’s tanned brow. “I don’t know, Prince. I’ve just been assigned to the Imperial household.”

Angry, a little panicky, Caligula heard his voice rising shrilly. “Someone’s moved it. Who?”

By now a crowd of supplicants had begun to form around Caligula, recognizing him by the purple stripe on his toga and the golden wreath on his head. These were petitioners who had been waiting to find somebody close to Tiberius, someone who would help them solve their legal and financial problems. From all sides, documents and scrolls wrapped in cloth were thrust out; outstretched hands pulled at Caligula’s cloak and tugged at his arms.

“Lord, take this to the Emperor,” cried one man, shoving a heavy scroll dangerously close to Caligula’s face.

“I’ve waited two months to see your glorious grandfather,” whined a second man.

“Lord, bless Tiberius for me,” dribbled a toothless crone.

“Lord, a petition!” howled a one-eyed man wrapped in a hooded brown cloak.

“Lord, justice for my family . . .”

Impatiently, Caligula pushed his way through the pleading mob, shoving the bolder ones out of his path. He had only one thing on his mind. His statue. Its absence must be terrifyingly significant. He felt the hair rising on the nape of his neck, and gooseflesh ran down his arms.

Chaerea and two of his men trotted after Caligula, pushing their way through the crowd. Caligula had run beyond the statue of Tiberius now, and Chaerea saw him halt suddenly, then heard his cry of anguish.

There, considerably smaller and made of cheaper marble than the statue of Tiberius, was the statue of Gaius Caligula lying fallen on the ground.

“Who did this?” howled Caligula, his face a mask of fear.