Gore Vidal’s Caligula (14 page)

“I’m sorry, Lord,” said Proculus, embarrassed.

The response was a shriek. “You cheated!”

The soldier was taken aback. “Why no, Lord!” he exclaimed naïvely. “My arm is a bit longer than yours, and . . .”

“You were off the line!” accused Caligula, his face dark with anger. “You cheated! You, you . . .”

A loud cry from Tiberius stopped the argument. Caligula dropped his sword and ran toward the loggia, where the Emperor stood trembling, holding the official gazette. Sweat beaded his lined face, which had turned dark purple. He was almost incoherent.

“The gazette,” he gasped, holding the paper out to Caligula. “Proceedings of the Senate. I can’t believe it! I sent them three criminals. Three magistrates . . . to be judged.” Tiberius could barely choke the words out, and his eyes were popping from their sockets. “They were guilty of treason. And the Senate”—he thrust the paper into Caligula’s hands—“look . . . I can’t . . . believe . . . I can’t . . . they
dismissed
the charges . . . they said they were only . . .
only . . .
based on an informer . . . an informer . . .” Tiberius tottered and almost fell, but two slaves grabbed him by the arms.

“I . . . an informer . . . a mere informer . . . when I am Em . . . when I am Emp . . .” The Emperor managed to pull himself upright, and his eyes flashed the old gleam. “Oh, this is . . .
contempt!
Give the order. We sail for Capri!” He staggered again, and Caligula extended a supporting arm, only to be pushed away.

“I have . . . I have been . . . Oh, I have been too lenient. Too lenient.” Rivulets of sweat poured down Tiberius’ face onto his wrinkled neck and the gold collar of his gown. “Well . . . well . . . let the Senate beware. Because I swear by Heaven that . . . that . . .”

Suddenly, Tiberius pitched forward. Caligula and the slaves managed to catch him just before the Imperial head struck the ground, but his wig fell off, the gold crown still fastened to its black locks. Half-carrying, half-dragging the unconscious Emperor, they were able to get him into the villa and onto his bed. Tiberius Gemellus followed at a discreet distance, his face pale, as though he were reading his own death warrant. Would he never live to put on his man’s toga?

The physician Charicles came at once, his litter slaves out of breath as they bore him in haste the last few feet up the hill to the Villa Misenum.

Two of Tiberius’ personal slaves kept watch in the Emperor’s bedroom. Macro, Charicles and Caligula stayed close to the bedside, catching every breath, the flutter of an eyelid, the merest whisper of life. Tiberius Gemellus tried to make himself invisible in the farthest corner, his eyes wide with terror.

On the silken coverlets of the bed, the Emperor Tiberius Claudius Nero Caesar, overlord of the world from the western fens of Britain to the eastern flow of the Euphrates, lay very still, barely breathing. Twenty-three years before Augustus had willed his Empire to this man, and had willed his pity as well. The story went that Augustus had said, “Alas, poor Rome, doomed to be chewed by those slow-moving jaws.” Yet, Augustus had admired Tiberius’ skill as a military commander; the old man had believed that his adopted son would strengthen and extend Rome’s Imperial borders.

And in the first years it had seemed as though Augustus had made a fine choice in his successor. For two years, Tiberius did not set foot outside of Rome, and his judgments were sound, his sentiments fair and republican. He’d worked hard on the business of Empire, and justice was his touchstone in judging all matters brought before the throne.

But then a change had worked on him, as though he were being poisoned from within. Slowly, Tiberius had grown paranoid, suspicious of his friends, confusing them with his enemies. He had withdrawn from Rome, first to Campania and then to Capri, where his life became more secret and depraved. Aided and abetted by Sejanus, he had set about a blood bath, killing off the noblest and the best of the Romans, accusing them of treachery against the state and executing them in the cruellest and most painful manner. Some said the disease he’d picked up from his whores had eaten away his brain. Others whispered that all power corrupted—yet Augustus had held the Imperium and had not been corrupted.

Whatever the explanation, for twenty-three long years Rome had lived in terror of this one man, who now lay as though molded of wax, barely breathing, on a bed of silk.

Charicles bent over the bed and placed his hand on Tiberius’ chest. Then he put his ear to the old man’s heart, listening for a long minute. When he straightened up, he felt for the pulse in the Emperor’s neck. Then he turned to face Caligula.

“Well?” demanded the Prince anxiously.

“All bodily functions appear to have stopped . . .” the doctor began in his best professional manner.

“Is he dead?” Caligula interrupted.

Charicles shrugged. “With this sort of seizure . . .”

“Is he dead?”

Charicles nodded. “Yes, Lord. For all practical purposes . . .”

“The ring!”

Caligula held out his hand, and one of the weeping slaves slowly drew the Imperial signet from Tiberius’ left hand and gave it to him. As his fingers closed around the ring, Caligula’s eyes shut like a cat’s, to better savor this moment. Slowly, voluptuously, he slid a finger through the ring.

The ring. The seal of Empire. He looked at it carefully. Because a Roman patrician was not allowed to wear rings of gold or silver, the Imperial signet had been set in iron. Augustus had worn the ring first; then it was a seal bearing the head of Alexander, said to have belonged to that young Greek conqueror of the world and to have been stolen from his tomb three hundred years ago. Augustus had worn it until Alexander had come to him in a dream, wearing a face dark with anger.

The Greeks believed that dreams came through one of two gates—the gate of horn or the gate of ivory. Through the ivory gate came false and misleading dreams; through the gate of horn, the true dreams. Convinced that Alexander’s spirit had visited him through the gate of horn, Augustus had put away the signet and never used it again. Instead, he had called in the artist Dioscurides to carve a likeness of himself in precious stone, to be set in the great seal of the Empire. It was Augustus’ face that Caligula looked at now. It was a face he barely remembered; he’d been only three when the first Emperor of the Romans had died.

Augustus believed in dreams. And now Caligula saw that his own re-occurring dream had come to him through the gate of ivory, the false gate; Tiberius was dead, and had no power to harm him any more. That vulpine face would never glitter at him again, terrifying him in the night. All those nights of shaking fear—and it had been a false dream after all. Caligula felt a vast burst of freedom, of power, surging through his veins. He stared at the image of Augustus on his finger. Wait and see, Rome, wait and see!

Macro bent to kiss the hand that wore the ring.

“Hail, Caesar,” he said softly.

Charicles followed suit, his dry lips grazing the back of Caligula’s hand. “Hail, Caesar.”

“Make the announcement,” Caligula told Macro, his voice strong and happy.

Bowing, the soldier and the physician left. The slaves remained seated on the floor, their heads bowed in stylized grief. Tiberius Gemellus, hidden in his corner, hardly dared to breathe. Terrified lest Caligula notice him, he now took the opportunity to slip out of the room.

Caligula calmly straightened his robes, then took up a bronze mirror from the chest by Tiberius’ bed. For a brief minute, he held it to the old man’s lips, then checked it for moisture. It was dry. Tiberius was really dead.

Exultant, Caligula did a few steps of the Little Boots dance, to mock his grandfather’s spirit. Then he bent over the bed again and looked down at the dead man, the former ruler of the world.

“Is death
really
nothing?” he whispered. “Or is the goddess Isis there, ready to judge you?”

The sound of shouting drew his attention, and then he heard wailing outside, as the mourners tuned up, and cries of “Hail, Caesar!” The announcement had been made.

Caligula listened, ecstatic. This was the moment he’d been waiting for, for long, long years. His humiliations were over; his triumphs were about to begin. The folds of his toga were rumpled and he smoothed them, then patted at his hair. It would not do to make an untidy entrance. He stared at his reflection on the mirrored wall, loving it.

Behind him, on the bed, Tiberius opened his eyes.

Pulling himself up on his pillow, Tiberius noticed that the ring was missing from his finger. Then he saw his grandson’s exultant smile, saw the ring on the boy’s finger. He guessed what had taken place.

“Caligula . . .” he called.

Like a man who has heard a ghost, Caligula whirled. His face went ashy white.

“Lord!” he gasped.

Tiberius was propped up on one elbow, glaring at him. “Give me the ring!” The Emperor held out his hand.

Frozen, Caligula could only stare at him. Then he saw that the slaves were gaping open-mouthed. He motioned brusquely for them to withdraw, and they vanished promptly behind a curtain.

“No,” Caligula said softly.

“Yes.” Tiberius’ voice was firm. He kept his hand out for the ring.

Caligula could not let the precious ring go. Nothing, nobody could ever take it from him! Half-crazed, he lifted the heavy bronze mirror in his hands and approached the bed with it.

The old man did not shrink away. His lips curled contemptuously. “You do not dare . . .”

Moaning, Caligula lifted the mirror high over his head, ready to strike.

“Guards!” shouted Tiberius.

Immediately, Macro was in the room and had grasped the significance of the scene. “No blood!” he shouted at Caligula.

Caligula dropped the mirror with a crash, his eyes wide with terror. “He . . . Macro . . . he’s not . . . he’s not . . .” he stammered.

“ ‘He’ is still Emperor of Rome, Macro,” said Tiberius coldly.

“Yes, Lord,
he
is,” replied Macro. Approaching the bed with the soft tread of a tiger he ripped a piece of black veiling from the hangings of the Imperial couch, and with one swift movement captured Tiberius’ head in its folds. The Emperor, fighting for his life, struggled with a strength surprising in one so old, but Macro was remorseless. Tighter and tighter he drew the veiling around the old man’s neck. The cords in his powerful forearms stood out like ropes. Caligula watched, half-afraid, half-delighted, as he heard the death-rattle in Tiberius’ throat.

At last it was over; Macro removed the veiling. There was no mistaking the fact that Tiberius was dead. His eyes stared blankly up at nothing; his neck was twisted awry; his tongue protruded from his grimacing mouth.

Caligula stared, terrified. Tiberius’ face was now the face of the Dream.

“Caligula is Emperor of Rome,” said Macro softly.

“Are . . . are you sure . . . he’s . . . he’s . . . ?”

“Yes. Prepare yourself. Everyone is waiting in the great hall,” Macro smiled.

Caligula drew himself erect, as befitting an Emperor, and clapped the captain on the shoulder. “Macro, I shall never forget this,” he said.

Silently, Macro saluted and left.

Caligula moved a step nearer to Tiberius, and looked down at the dead face. It no longer had the power to frighten him. Then he clapped his hands for the slaves, who reappeared from behind the curtain.

“Send for the embalmer,” he commanded calmly. “Prepare the death mask.”

“Yes, Caesar,” chorused the slaves, bowing.

Caligula, his confidence restored, started for the door, anxious to show himself to the cheering crowds. Then he paused, and turned back.

“You saw what happened, didn’t you?”

Terrified, the slaves shook their heads.

“Don’t lie to me!”

“Lord Caesar . . . we saw nothing . . . nothing . . .”

Caligula nodded. “Listen carefully.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re safe.
If
you remember exactly what you saw.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“So,” encouraged Caligula. “What did you see?”

One of the slaves took a step forward. “The Commander, Lord. Macro. He took a piece of cloth . . . He . . .” The man broke down, weeping.

Caligula was satisfied. “Good. Can you write?”

The slave nodded yes.

“Good. You will write out an account of what happened. You will both sign it. Meanwhile, speak of this to no one.”

“Yes, Caesar,” both slaves replied at once.

“Until I give you leave,” added Caligula, and he strode out of the room. How useful slaves were—always there when you needed them. And so disposable when their usefulness was over.

The great hall of the villa was crowded with courtiers, officers of the guard, secretaries, supplicants and visitors. The hum of excitement had risen in pitch until it verged on the hysterical. The only oasis of calm was at the Emperor’s dais, where Macro stood cool and commanding beside the Emperor’s empty chair. He held up his hand for attention, and gradually the hum died down.

“Our beloved father died peacefully,” announced the captain of the guard. “The gods were gracious. As gracious to him as they are now to Rome.” He spotted Caligula entering the great hall, and stopping between the towering marble pillars with their Corinthian capitals.

“Hail, Caesar!” shouted Macro, extending his arm in a salute.

Everybody turned to look, wildly excited. At the sight of Caligula, a great shout went up. “Hail, Caesar! Hail, Caesar! Hail, Caesar,”

It was music to Caligula’s ears, the song he had waited an eternity to hear. With great difficulty, he kept his face solemn, grave, as befitted a young Emperor who had just lost his beloved grandfather. But his eyes glittered with delight. He had survived. He was Emperor. Nothing could take that away from him now.

Slowly, with great dignity, Gaius Julius Caesar Germanicus made his way through the frenzied crowd toward the dais and the Emperor’s throne. A path opened for him as though by magic; everyone kneeled down as he passed. Some reached for the hem of his toga, to kiss it; others tried to kiss his hands, especially the ring. Among the kneelers Caligula took note of Ennia, who flashed him a smile of conspiracy and triumph. Poor girl. She does not look well, he thought. She probably does not have long to live.