Gore Vidal’s Caligula (16 page)

“You should have seen their faces when I told them that they had to swear not only to me but to you—and to our idiot sisters,” laughed Caligula, unbuckling his sword belt.

Lying fully clothed on his bed, Drusilla was amused at the thought of the shocked old faces. “They must have been appalled,” she chuckled.

“I hope so,” grinned Caligula, in a high good humor. Being Emperor was more fun than he’d thought. He loved having everything and everybody in Rome belong to him. This bedroom, for example—it was such a contrast to his old room in the palace. That one had been tiny; this one was huge and sumptuously furnished. In one corner a small shrine had been set up, a shrine to Little Boots himself, the child Caligula. There, stretched out on a frame, was his tiny army uniform, including the
caligae.
The walls of the room were magnificently painted with outdoor scenes, creating a garden atmosphere. The sconces on the wall, the table by his bed, the low lamps were all made of silver.

“But is it wise to upset the people so?” Drusilla asked. “Won’t they . . . ?”

Caligula threw himself on the bed and kissed her, stopping her questions. She was so beautiful, more beautiful even than he had remembered. Their reunion the night of Tiberius’ funeral had been everything he’d hoped for and dreamed about. She had been so ardent, her embraces so passionate. Nowhere else could he find the fulfillment he found in Drusilla’s arms.

“Love, I can do . . .” he kissed her again, forcing her lips apart “. . . anything . . .” another kiss . . . “I like . . .” his lips dropped to her throat . . . “to anyone.”

A chill ran down Drusilla’s back as she recognized the truth in those words. “Well, don’t start with
me,”
she told him archly.

Caligula rolled away from her. “All right. I won’t.”

“I didn’t mean
that.
You can start
that.”
She reached under his tunic and into his linen drawers, finding him hard and pulsing. She licked her delectable lips in a sensual promise.

There was a discreet scratching at the door.

“What is it?” called Caligula irritably. What a time to be interrupted!

It was Longinus, his chief secretary. “Caesar,” his voice came muffled through the door, “you asked for the guards to assemble in the palace stadium.”

Caligula rolled reluctantly away from his sister’s tantalizing fingers. “Do you realize I shall never be alone again for one minute as long as I live?” he demanded in exasperation.

“You never were alone before,” Drusilla reminded him with a smile. “Only this time you’re the jailer, not the prisoner. Go on. Get up.” She rose gracefully from the bed and adjusted the folds of her gown. Picking up his heavy woolen cloak, purple embroidered in gold and silver, she helped him to fasten the large lionshead fibula.

She arched one eyebrow at him. “What are you going to do about Ennia? She’s told everybody that you plan to marry her.”

Caligula didn’t reply, but a scowl drew his brows together. Then a thought occurred to him. He scribbled a short message, stuffed it into his belt with a sly smile, touched Drusilla lightly on the tip of her nose, and went out to meet Longinus.

On their way to the stadium to review the guards, Caligula and Longinus took a short cut through a back corridor of the palace, a part of the building that had been Tiberius’ old quarters. Hearing a soft giggling from one of the rooms, Caligula pushed open the door. A fantastic spectacle met his eyes. The room was filled with naked boys and girls, some of whom he remembered from Capri. They began to carouse, to pose provocatively for him, giggling as they presented their new lord with the gifts of their nubile bodies, arranged in the various positions of lovemaking. Longinus led the astounded Caligula into an adjoining room, where dwarfs engaged in a grotesque parody of the acts of love. That room opened into still another, where Nubian slaves took turns flagellating each other while using giant ivory dildoes on themselves.

“Longinus,” demanded Caligula, “why are they here?”

“We sent for them, Caesar. The Emperor Tiberius always liked them with him when he was in residence.”

“Kill them,” said Caligula flatly. “All of them.”

He strode back to the corridor, ignoring pleading moans of the condemned children. “By drowning,” he threw over his shoulder, as Longinus hurried after him. He was remembering Tiberius’ “shoal of minnows.”

“But, Caesar, they are valuable slaves. A part of your inheritance,” protested the secretary.

Caligula slammed the door to the corridor, shutting off their shrieks. “Kill them. Sell them. I don’t care. But get rid of them.” His voice was hard, his words final. Under his breath he muttered, “Filthy lecherous old goat.” He wanted no part of any body, no matter how firm and beautiful, that Tiberius’ diseased old fingers had touched.

“Hail Caesar!” called a chorus of voices from the arena, as Caligula entered the Imperial box of the Palatine stadium where Macro, Chaerea and two other senior officers were waiting for him. Below him, the Praetorian Guard was lined up for his inspection. A loud clanking filled the air as their swords struck their shields-in salute.

Caligula smiled down upon his personal guard, the best of the Roman legions. In a powerful, soldierly voice, he called to them, “To each of you . . . to celebrate . . . our elevation . . . and the beginning of our reign . . . ten gold pieces.”

A roar of happiness came thundering up from the soldiers below.

Turning away, Caligula smiled. “That should hold them for awhile,” he remarked.

“Most generous, Caesar,” said Macro with a grin. “It’s been years since Tiberius gave them anything.”

Caligula’s eyes glittered. “Are you criticizing my beloved grandfather?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

A sudden sense of danger made Macro take a full step backward. Confusion filled him. “Uh . . . yes . . . No! Caesar.”

Caligula left the box and made his way down to the arena to inspect his men. Macro, subdued, walked beside him. Chaerea went ahead and posted himself at the end of the line of guards.

“How is Ennia?” asked Caligula in a low voice, pretending to look closely at the details of a soldier’s uniform.

Macro brightened. “She waits for you, Caesar.”

“And I wait for her,” said Caligula pleasantly.

They reached the end of the first line of soldiers. A tall young officer saluted smartly, and Caligula stared at him.

“I know you . . .”

“Proculus, Caesar.” It was the officer who’d bested him in the sword duel at Misenum, the tall, handsome one with the thick head of curly hair.

“I seem to remember that you are a great athlete,” smiled Caligula.

“Whatever I am, it is for Caesar,” Proculus answered.

“Yes,” agreed Caligula. That was exactly as it should be.

“Caesar,” interposed Chaerea, “Proculus is to be married this month. To Livia Orestilla.” He had named a girl of impeccable family connections, a girl known for her modesty and virtue.”

Caligula thought about this for a moment. “My compliments,” he said, and smiled up at the handsome officer, tilting his head back so as to see him better. “Perhaps I will come to the wedding.”

Proculus blushed. “The honor would be too great,” he breathed.

“Let us be the judge of that,” replied Caligula serenely.

Macro led the way toward the exit of the stadium, and Caligula now found himself next to Chaerea. Without a word, he drew the note he had scribbled from his belt and jammed it into Chaerea’s hand. Chaerea’s fingers closed about it at once, but the expression on his face did not alter, nor did he break stride. Caligula looked swiftly around him. Nobody had noticed.

The doors of Caligula’s bedroom were closed, and the light from the lamps illuminated the rich gilding that covered much of their intricate carving. The doors were divided into panels; the right door was carved with scenes from the Iliad, including the death of Achilles and the rape of Briseis, while the left door showed scenes from Vergil’s Aeneid, among them a depiction of Aeneas, the ancestor of Romulus and Remus, fleeing Troy with Anchises on his back. Beside the doors stood heavy columns of marble carved with mythological beasts—the sphinx and the chimera. The threshold was of mosaic, worked into intricate geometric designs.

Caligula lay on his bed, contemplating his doorway. Ennia lay beside him, contemplating Caligula. The late afternoon sky was pink and gold; the curtains had been pulled back from the window that opened onto the peristyle, and beyond its columns could be seen the marble outlines of the temple of Capitoline Jupiter.

Moodily, Caligula took another pull at his wine cup. He’d been pulling at it rather heavily. Isis, how he wished this farce with Ennia was over and done with! Soon . . . soon . . .

“The divorce will take only a few days,” said Ennia, radiant with bridal happiness.

“How can I live that long without you?” Caligula spoke with stagey exaggeration, but Ennia took him literally.

“We must both be strong,” she counseled. “And then . . . and then . . . we shall have all our lives together. And, after that, all eternity!”

“Oh joy, joy,” murmured Caligula, not looking at her.

He was nervous, Ennia could see that. Anxious for the divorce to be over, so that he could make her his empress. That was why his lovemaking tonight had been so perfunctory, she thought. Caligula hadn’t been his usual ardent self, but he had other things on his mind now—affairs of state, grave matters of importance to Rome. She’d have to learn patience. Tonight she’d had her first lesson; she’d knelt between his legs, sucking him for thirty minutes before he became erect. She hoped that wouldn’t become a chronic problem. Oh, well, no matter if it did. An Empress had so many options, so many handsome options to choose from. A woman with passion flowing through her veins, a woman like Ennia, could never be satisfied with one man, even if that one man
was
an Emperor.

“I have enrolled as a priestess of Isis,” Ennia said.

“My dream come true!” Caligula rolled his large eyes up to heaven.

“We shall live here, won’t we? In Rome?” she asked anxiously.

“Wherever you like, beloved Ennia,” replied Caligula absently.

“I love Rome! But I love anywhere with you. Just as long as we’re not hidden away in the country. Or on an island like Capri. I do hate Capri.”

Caligula turned to face her. “Ennia,” he said sincerely, “I swear to you by . . . by me, by Caesar, that you will never, never see Capri again.” He suppressed a smile at the double meaning of his words.

Ennia threw back the sheets, exposing her body, taut as a wire with lust. Her tiny nipples stood erect. “I do love you,” she purred, reaching to embrace him. “Worship you . . .”

Caligula pushed her away. “The sun’s almost set,” he remarked.

“What’s wrong?” asked Ennia.

“Nothing.” Suddenly nervous, he pulled the sheet over himself, as though to protect his genitals from Ennia’s grasp. “I was expecting a message . . . What about Alexandria?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Alexandria? In Egypt?” Ennia was confused.

Caligula nodded. “I thought we might move there.”

“But the Senate . . . I mean . . . well,
this
is Rome . . .”

“No, Ennia,” said Caligula seriously.
“I
am Rome. And wherever I am,
there
is the Senate and the people of Rome.”

Ennia giggled, amused by this pomposity. “You do make me laugh.”

There was a single loud rap on the door. It opened at once, admitting Longinus and Chaerea.

“Forgive us, Caesar,” said Longinus.

But Caligula, naked, had leaped eagerly to his feet. Ennia covered her body with the sheet, and turned her face modestly away.

“Is it done?” demanded Caligula.

With a glance at Ennia, Chaerea nodded. “He has been arrested and charged with murder.”

“Good,” nodded the Emperor, pleased. “Longinus, the commission.” He took the scroll from his secretary’s hand and presented it to Chaerea. “You, Chaerea, are herewith made commander of the Imperial Guard.”

“What?” gasped Ennia. “Where is Macro? Where is my husband?” There was a shrill edge of hysteria in her voice.

“He has been arrested for treason,” Chaerea told her.

Oblivious now of her nakedness, Ennia sprang out of bed and grabbed Caligula’s arm. “It’s not possible! Macro is perfectly, totally loyal! He worships you, Caligula.”

Caligula’s face was solemn. “I know,” he said gently. “And believe me, I . . . I’m more distressed than you are.”

Ennia could not comprehend. “But if he’s loyal to you, and you know he is, then what has he done?”

Caligula’s voice deepened as he recited the official charges. “Your husband Macro, at the town of Misenum, on March the sixteenth, murdered my beloved grandfather Tiberius Caesar, Emperor of Rome.”

Ennia screamed.

The trial was as brief as Roman justice could make it. As consul, as magistrate, Caligula was of course present in an official capacity, but he was also there as a witness. As consul, he saw Macro in chains, his tortured body a bleeding mass; listening to Tiberius’ slaves give their testimony, the damning story of the black veil. As a witness, Caligula gave his own testimony.

“The murder was observed by two servants. Each has presented an eyewitness account. I myself knew of the tragedy only after the fact.”

As Emperor, Caligula listened to the judge of the tribunal pronounce the sentence. “We find you, Macro, guilty of the murder of our great sovereign Tiberius Caesar and for this crime we condemn you to death.”

From the spectators’ benches in the gallery, a sharp scream broke the silence. Ennia had fainted.

Reclining on the silver couch in his loggia, Caligula read the document over carefully and handed it back to Longinus. “We are not inclined to mercy,” he said, rejecting Macro’s impassioned appeal. “Let the man be executed.”

“And his wife? Ennia?” inquired the secretary.

Caligula exchanged glances with Drusilla, who sat beside her brother.

“Exile, I think. But we must be kind. After all, she is only a woman. Take her to the island of—” he thought for a moment—“Stromboli.” He smiled at Drusilla, thinking of that volcanic rock that was barren Stromboli. “Ennia has a passion for islands,” he murmured.