Gore Vidal’s Caligula (28 page)

Caligula was to be a most important part of the worship, of course. He would be incarnated as consort and high priest, god and acolyte both. Tonight, he would unveil the mysteries, so that all might see the power and the beauty, the majesty and divinity of the goddess Isis. Caesonia was to play Isis, of course. And upon her body, he Caligula, and Mnester, the second acolyte, would carry out the most intimate rites of the mysteries. Before all Rome, they would copulate, the three of them, to prove their immortality. Then, while all Rome was cheering the trinity, Caligula’s assassins would put a bloody end to every member of the Senate.

By tomorrow, Caligula alone, Caligula the God, the mate of Isis the Goddess, would rule over the greatest kingdom in the history of mankind.

But first, those god-cursed games. He had to sit through them. Besides, he had a large wager on his horse, the Consul Incitatus.

The stadium was filled to the barriers with tens of thousands of Romans, all cheering the chariots.

Five out of six chariots were still in the running; one had lost a wheel at the turn and spilled out its driver, whose mangled remains still lay on the track. There were three eggs left on the barrier, near the center of the track, and three dolphins with their heads unturned. That meant three laps to go. When a lap was completed, an official would take down one wooden egg from the barrier and turn one of the bronze dolphin heads to the ground, its mouth pouring out water. Three teams were racing today, the greens, the blues, and the reds. Caligula was well-known to be a backer of the blues.

But today the Emperor was hung over from his sleeping potion the night before. He lay listlessly on his divan at the front of the Imperial box, not even bothering to watch the games, even though Incitatus himself, wearing blue ribbons, was still in the running.

Refreshments stood on a table by the Emperor’s elbow—thick clusters of grapes, dormice dipped in honey, peaches from Neapolis. Caligula ignored the food; his head was throbbing. He waved one languid hand at his fan-bearers, and they began to wield their ostrich-plume fans more vigorously, to bring a breath of cooler air to Divine Caesar’s brow.

On Caligula’s left sat Longinus, intent on the races. On Caligula’s right, Mnester and Caesonia had vied for the closest position; Mnester had won when little Julia Drusilla cried for her mother. Behind them, in formation, stood the palace guard, responsible for Caesar’s safety.

Drowsily, Caligula finished recounting his dream. “And then I dreamed that I was standing at the door of Jupiter’s throne. And suddenly he kicked me!”

“He wouldn’t dare!” gasped Caesonia.

“Well, he did. And I fell down a flight of steps . . . and woke up. Somewhat the worse for your drug,” he added sourly.

“At least you slept.” Caesonia said gently. “After tonight . . . Jupiter will have lost all power in his toes, won’t he?”

The last wooden egg and dolphin’s head had fallen, and there were only two chariots now, racing neck and neck for the finish line. Suddenly a long, especially loud cheer caught the Emperor’s attention. The race was over.

He peered down into the stadium, only to gasp with rage. The winning team was being led off the field, so that the driver could receive his crown of laurel. The red ribbons braided into the horses’ manes and tails, and wound around the right arm of the charioteer, flapped bravely in the sunshine.
Red
ribbons!

“Incitatus lost!
My
horse lost!” Stunned, Caligula leaped to his feet. On this day of all days, this day that was augured to be so well-omened! Where was Caligula’s luck when the divine Incitatus could lose?

The crowds cheered and cheered the victor, ignoring the Emperor. Caligula screamed back at them, but his anger was lost in the swelling shouts. Beside himself with rage, he was unaware that he had begun to dance in his boots of golden leather, hopping from foot to foot in the Little Boots dance.

“You fools! You monsters!” he shrieked. “You . . . you . . . Oh, how I wish that all you Romans had only one head, so that I might cut it off with but one stroke of my sword!”

Alarmed, Caesonia attempted to pull him back down onto the divan. She had never seen him quite like this before. His eyes were rolling in his head, and foamy spittle showed at the corners of his lips.

“It’s only a race,” she said soothingly.

“Only a race?!” he shrilled at her. “It’s
my
defeat they’re cheering.” Once more he shook his fists at the mob. How he loathed them!

At the far end of the covered walkway Chaerea and Sabinus stood talking in low voices. They could hear the shrieking of the Emperor, but could not make out his words. Yet they knew it had something to do with the frenzied cheering of the crowd. Most likely Caligula’s horse had lost.

The Imperial box backed onto a private exit from the stadium, from which the long walkway, guarded at both ends, led directly to the palace. Caligula could reach his box, and return to the palace, without ever appearing above ground where the crowd could see him. The men on corridor duty today were the two chief officers of the guard, Chaerea and Sabinus. Chaerea had arranged it that way.

When the governor of Asia had been assassinated by Caligula, Chaerea had drawn a deep breath. The oracle had warned: “Beware of Cassius.” Luckily for Chaerea, Caligula had made a ghastly mistake. The Emperor had forgotten that, only three years ago, he had met an old soldier in Tiberius’ household and asked his name.

Chaerea, Prince. Cassius Chaerea. I was with your father in Germany.

Caligula hadn’t remembered. And now, with the help of the gods, his faulty memory would bring him down. For, having got wind of Caligula’s plot to exterminate the Senate in one night of bloodshed, Chaerea was ready to act. He put his half-formed plan into effect at once.

Now, standing with his second-in-command and lover (Caligula had been wrong about Proculus, but right about Sabinus) in the covered walkway behind the Imperial box, Chaerea tried to calm Sabinus’ anxieties.

“When he rises, to go to dinner . . .”

“But what about the German guard?” Sabinus asked, his fist clenching and unclenching nervously on the pommel of his sword.

“They are on detail. In the palace.”

Sabinus nodded toward the soldiers standing guard at the entrance to the Imperial box.

“And those guards? Are they with us?”

Chaerea nodded grimly.

“But when the German guards find out?”

Chaerea shook his helmeted head. “It will be too late.”

Longinus accepted an official message from a slave, read it, and turned to his Emperor.

“Divine Caesar, the Parthian embassy waits upon you.”

Caligula waved him off. “Later.”

Caligula had been daydreaming about tonight. The sets were all prepared for the three-character play they would be putting on. For weeks, carpenters had been building Isis’ ebony-and-gold throne; the carved image of the goddess, wrapped in precious linen robes trimmed with gems, was to be erected at the climax of the play. Caesonia had been rehearsing her movements with Caligula; he, in turn had been “working” with Mnester. Everything would be perfect, Caligula was certain. Rome would never again see its like.

“I don’t feel like eating, do you?” he asked Caesonia. She shook her head, intent on the games.

The Emperor stood, though he was still undecided. “Yes . . . no . . .” he told Longinus. “But we had better go. Mnester has got to rehearse us for the play tonight.”

“Yes, Divine Caesar.” Longinus bowed and went off to deliver the message to the ambassadors from Parthia.

In the passageway, Chaerea thumped Sabinus on the shoulder, a “be ready” signal. Sabinus nodded nervously and checked his sword and dagger. His hands were sweaty.

At that moment, a dozen young boys in the flimsiest of tunics ran past the two officers on their way into the stadium. An older man ran after them, trying to keep pace.

“Who are they?” asked Chaerea, taken aback.

“Dancers. From Troy,” Sabinus answered. “What do we do now?”

“We wait. Patience, Sabinus. He must pass this way. And if he is unguarded . . .”

The dancers entered the Imperial box just as Caligula, Caesonia, Mnester, and little Julia Drusilla were about to leave it. They came bounding in, all grace and lightness, and as their puffing dance-master bowed low to kiss the Emperor’s hand, the boys snapped to adorable attention.

Caesar raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Divine Caesar,” huffed the dancing master, “the Trojan dancers . . . as you requested.”

“Oh, yes,” said Caligula, trying to recall. He didn’t remember . . . but no matter. They were quite pretty, especially the third one from the left, the one with the long eyelashes. They would make a pleasant addition to the day’s festivities. And perhaps the evening’s? “So I did. Very . . . handsome. Are they ready to perform?”

Listening from the passageway, Chaerea caught his breath. Any long delay now might be fatal to their plan.

The dancing-master sounded rueful. “All but the leading dancer. He’s had a fever. But he should be better by tonight.” His tone made it clear that the leading dancer would dance tonight, fever or no fever.

“Then we shall see them tonight,” said Caesar’s voice, and Chaerea breathed a grim sigh of relief.

Caligula led the way into the passageway, followed by Caesonia with little Julia, and Mnester.

Immediately, Sabinus stepped up to them, blocking the Emperor’s way, while Chaerea moved unobtrusively around behind them.

“The password,” demanded Sabinus.

“What?” Caligula was hardly ever challenged, although Roman law required that he should be. “Oh. Jupiter.”

“So be it!” shouted Chaerea, drawing his sword and holding it high. He brought it down in a sweeping arc, intending to cut off Caligula’s head with a single stroke.

But Caligula, alarmed by the shout had turned. The sword bit into his jaw, and blood spurted out in a great rushing stream.

With a loud scream, Caesonia gathered her daughter into her arms. Mnester pushed past them, raced down the long corridor, and escaped into the maze of the palace.

At the sound of the scream, the guards on duty in the Imperial box charged out into the passageway. Two of them seized Caesonia, another tore the wailing child from her arms.

His face dripping blood, Caligula ran down the corridor toward the palace. Half-stunned by the blow, he did not yet understand what was happening. Was he not the Emperor? And a god? Who would dare to strike a god?

Sabinus caught up with him easily, and stabbed him in the chest with his dagger. The blow spun Caligula around and knocked him against the wall of the passage. Dimly, he saw Chaerea and other guards running toward him, their swords drawn. And then suddenly, in the fading recesses of his mind, he heard a voice from long ago . . .
Chaerea, Prince. Cassius Chaerea. I was with your father in Germany . . .
The oracle! “Beware of Cassius.” But they haven’t got me yet! he thought.

The bright gold tissue of his tunic and cloak were stained with his own blood, and the stain was darkening, spreading. Like a wolf at bay, he pressed his back against the wall, snarling. And then he grinned at his attackers.

“I live!”

Sabinus ran up to him and stabbed him again, in the breast. Oddly, Caligula felt no pain, but the force of the thrust drove him to his knees, and another gush of blood dyed his entire chest bright red. He crawled along the floor toward the palace, unafraid. This was a test of his godhead! An ordeal sent by Mother Isis to test his strength and assure his immortality. And he would pass the test.

“I
still
live!” he shouted.

Chaerea stood over him, his sword still drawn. The Emperor was terrible to behold; his entire body was washed in blood, and his face was deathly white. Yet still he crawled along the ground, and still his bloody lips were drawn back in a defiant grin. Was he inhuman after all? Chaerea wondered. Was it possible that Caligula was, in truth, a god? No! It must not be!

Caligula struggled to his knees, his brain in turmoil. Dimly, he heard Caesonia screaming and screaming, and now fear began to possess him. It was not Isis who had sent this upon him, it was Tiberius! He saw the old man’s head swathed in the black veiling, saw the horrible old face contorted in its death agony, heard the rasp of the ancient lungs struggling to breathe. Somewhere Tiberius was laughing, waiting for Caligula to join him in Hades. No!

He was six years old again, and standing alone and cold. He was wearing his little soldier’s uniform, and his baby feet, in the half-boots, were moving in the Caligula dance. Where was his mother? Gone. Where were his brothers? Taken away . . . dead. Where was Germanicus, the people’s beloved favorite? Where was his father? Why, Caligula, that is your father there—those ashes in the urn. This is his funeral you know. Drusilla! Where’s Drusilla? She is separated from you, on the other side of the mist, the black veil of the mist. Who are these people with their horrible masks? These are your ancestors, Little Boots, and they have met gruesome and untimely ends. And who is this, this withered, mad-looking old man with the glittery eyes and the wolfish grin, this man who reaches down to me, and lifts me in his leprous arms . . . bringing me closer and closer to his terrible teeth . . . Ahhhhhh, no! It is the Dream! The Dream is coming true!!

Blood dripped from the end of Chaerea’s sword; it was still wet from its first thrust. Now, as Caligula stood half-erect, Chaerea slashed at him again. The blade bit deep into Caligula’s crotch, and Chaerea twisted it cruelly in his genitals.

An unbelievable agony overwhelmed Caligula, and he howled to heaven in his pain. So great was his anguish that he barely felt it when Sabinus stabbed him again. Gasping, he faced his assassins.

“I . . . still . . .” He swayed, and then he fell. “Live . . .” he choked, and lay motionless.

Caesonia screamed in protest as the guards ran forward to hack at his body. Then two guards sank their daggers into her soft breasts, and she screamed no more. One tall guardsman lifted Julia Drusilla by her heels and dashed the child’s brains out against the corridor wall.