Gore Vidal’s Caligula (19 page)

“The Senate would like to make Tiberius a god . . .”

“Yes, Caesar.”

Caligula pushed the petition aside. “No,” he said firmly. “That’s not possible. No.
He
would not have liked that.” This was true; Tiberius had said many times when he was alive that he had no use for apotheosis, that he was only a man and not a god. Yet, now that he was dead—was he not somewhere in Hades, longing to get out and join Augustus and Julius Caesar on Olympus? Had not the experience of death changed his mind? Caligula smiled maliciously. He liked to think that somewhere Tiberius was crying out to be made a god, and that he, Caligula, was denying it.

He sat back in his chair, toying with his pen, drumming his fingers impatiently on his desk. All the clerks, even Longinus, were wearing homespun robes of unbleached wool. In his gaudy gold-trimmed garments, Caligula looked like a rare butterfly trapped among moths.

“Things go too well,” he said fretfully.

“In what way, Caesar?” Longinus inquired dutifully.

Caligula slapped one jeweled hand down on the stack of papers. He was breaking the Roman sumptuary laws by covering his fingers with precious rings, but who cared? An Emperor should look like an Emperor, not like a clerk. “No wars, no catastrophes,” he snapped. “It’s been ages since we had a proper earthquake. Longinus, do you realize that history will forget me because nothing ever happened while I was Emperor? At least Tiberius had a stadium collapse that killed fifty thousand people.
That’s
memorable.”

“Twenty thousand, Lord. The figures are always exaggerated. But, Caesar, such a glorious and popular Emperor as you will
never
be forgotten.”

Caligula blew out his cheeks in bored irritation. “I’m not so sure of that.” He turned to his mistress. “Caesonia, would you like me to conquer something?”

“You have. My heart.” She smiled provocatively and blew him a kiss.

“Something besides that . . . precious organ,” replied Caligula drily. He made a steeple of his fingers and propped it under his chin. “Perhaps I should conquer Persia like Alexander the Great . . .” Why not? Alexander was worshipped all over the civilized world as a god, and was not he, Caligula, also a . . .

“Don’t,” pleaded Caesonia prettily. “It would take too long. Months, at least.”

“Or Britain,” suggested Caligula.

“Too cold.” Caesonia gave a little shiver.

Bored, Caligula stared at the paper on top of the pile under his hand. He began to read aloud. “Among those to be married tomorrow are . . . Proculus and Livia. Hmmmm . . . Shall we go to the wedding, Caesonia? You remember him—that handsome guards officer?”

Caesonia remembered him perfectly. “It would be a great honor for them.”

“Of course, we’re not invited. But I suppose they’d be happy to see us.” A smile crossed his face. He had not seen the boy since that afternoon in the arena. He wondered whether Proculus’ wounds had healed. He hoped the boy had not been scarred. He was far too beautiful.

The wedding day, carefully selected for its good omens, dawned fair. There were still stars in the sky when Livia Orestilla’s mother began dressing her for the ceremony. The day before, the girl had made the ritual sacrifice to the household gods of her childish toys, her virgin dresses, and her sacred girlhood locket. Now she stood mute and rather frightened as the long
recta,
a straight tunic woven in one piece without seams, was dropped over her head. Her mother, smiling with happiness, knelt to adjust the hem so that the tunic hung evenly, then hung at her daughter’s waist a long woven woolen girdle that fastened in a “Hercules knot,” a knot so intricate that only the groom would be able to untie it. Hercules was said to be the guardian of married life.

Livia sat quietly as her light brown hair was dressed, a long, elaborate and sometimes painful process. The hair was divided into six parts by the blade of a spear—a reminder of the time when brides were conquered, not besought—and braided into six plaits, which were then carefully arranged in a high crown on the top of the girl’s head. A wreath of fresh-cut flowers was added. While the hair was being arranged, Livia’s mother murmured into her daughter’s ear the traditional wedding advice, and some pointers for the wedding night. The words made Livia’s head swim and brought blushes to her cheeks. Men terrified her, even Proculus. She prayed to Juno that he would be gentle with her tonight.

Now she stood, ready for the veiling, the most important part of the ritual bride-dressing. A cloak of saffron was draped over the recta, and a veil the color of flame, the
nubes,
was dropped gently over her head and face, to rest on the cloak. Livia was ready.

The groom had arrived, his head wreathed with the same flowers as his bride’s. Proculus had come accompanied by all his friends and relatives, by musicians and singers, to the home of his bride where the ceremony was to take place. The marriage consummation—the virgin mating—would take place in the groom’s bed after the marriage. The whole party would wend its way through the streets to the groom’s house, singing the marriage hymns, to watch him lift his bride in his arms and carry her over the threshold. It was considered very unlucky for a bride to trip on first entering her husband’s home, so she never entered it for the first time on her own feet. In his home, Proculus would present Livia with a lighted torch and a ceremonial vessel filled with water, as symbols of their domestic life together. Once Livia had lit her first fire in the hearth of her new home, and had thrown the torch to her attendants, each of whom would strive to catch it for luck, they could close the doors and be alone, husband and wife.

Although this was modern Rome, both families had chosen the older, traditional form of patrician marriage, the
confarreatio,
in which Livia’s person and property were surrendered to her husband without question. Not for them the more liberated
coemptio,
in which the groom “bought” the bride, or the
usus,
which was little more than a common-law marriage with no ceremony.

The bride’s home was as sumptuous as hard work and good taste could make it. The slaves had been busy for days, decking the house with the traditional garlands of flowers, with tree branches wound round with wool, and beautiful tapestries. All the silver vessels had been polished, and the marble buffed to a gleam.

Livia stayed in her room while the augurs were taken, her heart in her mouth, even though her mother assured her over and over that never had the sacrificed animal’s entrails shown anything unfavorable on a wedding day of good omen. And indeed, this sheep’s entrails looked healthy and clean, with no spots on the liver; the marriage could now officially take place.

Bride and groom met together, face to face, in the atrium, and joined hands before all the witnesses. Livia looked shyly up at her handsome bridegroom. In a small clear voice, she gave him her marriage vow:
“Quando tu Gaius, ego Gaia,”
the words that would bind them together forever.

“Am I too late? Is everything over? What have I missed?” called a cheery voice.

Caligula stood in the doorway, holding Caesonia by the hand. He was dressed to outshine the sun, in a fabric that seemed woven of liquid gold. Around his neck hung many strands of pearls, and on his head sat a high tiara of gold and gems, the Emperor’s golden wreath wrapped around it. He was as resplendent as the rest of the company was decorous.

A great gasp rose up as the guests recognized the Emperor and his lady-love. Livia trembled, swayed, and would have fainted if Proculus had not been holding her so tightly. The groom himself blushed furiously, his pride tinged with embarrassment.

“Welcome, Caesar!” The bride’s father had the presence of mind to come forward, bowing, to kiss the Emperor’s ring, and the rest of the company hastened to follow suit. A long bench, heaped with feather pillows, was brought for Caesar and Caesonia, and they were made comfortable. Then the ceremony resumed, but everybody, including the priests, was so nervous now that the ritual was muddled; to avoid bad luck, they had to stop and go back and start all over again. Caligula, enjoying himself hugely, smiled brightly at everybody who dared to sneak a look at him.

Proculus and Livia sat side by side on the sheepskin taken from the animal sacrificed that morning for augury. As they listened to the priest intone the prayers to Jupiter and Juno, Caligula devoured them with his eyes. They made
such
a handsome couple! An evil thought began to form in his brain.

Now the ceremony was over, and the bride and groom had accepted the congratulations of their wedding guests. They stood hand in hand in the center of the room, radiating happiness and some embarrassment. Under her wedding veil, Livia’s cheeks were bright with color, and her eyes shone. She was altogether ravishing.

The wedding feast began, a simple one. In the last fifty years, weddings had become so expensive, elaborate and vulgar that Augustus, who usually preferred the old ways, had passed laws restricting the expense of weddings.

Barley and millet cakes were brought out; fruit and wine, meats, fish and poultry. Everything was of the highest quality, and exquisitely prepared and served. The wedding cake was the traditional one, made of barley meal soaked in wine and baked on a bed of laurel leaves. It sat on the center of the serving table; when the feast was over, it would be offered to all the guests for good luck.

Caligula and Caesonia sat in places of honor at the feast, but nobody dared approach or talk to them. Caligula sensed that his presence was making everybody uncomfortable, but that merely amused him. He had no intention of leaving just yet. His eyes were fixed on the bride; his glance followed her slender figure everywhere as she visited with her guests.

“She’s perfect, isn’t she?” he said out the corner of his mouth.

“You want her?” One of Caesonia’s perfect brows arched upward.

Caligula was watching Proculus now. The young groom could not take his eyes off his lovely bride. His expression of pride irritated Caligula. And there was something else mixed with the irritation . . . another feeling.

“Mmmmmmm,” he replied thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed.

“I thought you didn’t like virgins,” Caesonia said.

“I don’t think I’ve ever known any.” He turned to her, his eyes aglitter. “Well, should I?”

Caesonia’s eyes glittered back. She was almost as excited as he was by his thought. “Why not? You are Caesar.”

Caligula nodded, and rose from his couch. Walking over to the bridal couple, he seized Livia’s hand. “Now for the procession to the bridal chamber. And to the sacred marriage bed,” he announced.

A shocked whisper rippled over the wedding guests. Things weren’t supposed to go this way. Tradition demanded that they feast until nightfall, and that the entire party escort the couple, with music and a rain of flower petals, through the streets to Proculus’ house. But this was the Emperor speaking, and all rose to obey.

Caligula held up his hand. “We want no other escort. I myself, Caesar, shall be their procession. I myself will sing the
epithal,
the wedding hymn, and who knows, perhaps I shall even compose a few
Fescennini.”
These were the ribald songs that accompanied every bridal procession. They brought good luck and fertility to the newly-weds.

A gasp went up from the families of bride and groom. This was unheard of! But if Caesar willed it . . .

Caligula stood smiling broadly; one hand clasped Livia’s, the other Proculus’. Gently, he began to lead them into the back of the house. Slowly, reluctantly, the bridal couple followed their Emperor.

Caligula had intended to escort them to Proculus’ house for the wedding night as tradition demanded, but he was now in such a state of excitement, he couldn’t wait. Drawing the couple behind him through the bride’s house, he pushed open a door. They came into a huge kitchen. The servants had labored for days to get the feast ready, and now they were sitting around relaxing, enjoying a breather. Seeing Caligula, they leaped to their feet, astonished and terrified.

“Get out!” ordered Caligula. “And shut the door!”

In an instant the room was empty of all but Caligula and the bridal couple. Livia stood bewildered; Proculus was so embarrassed he didn’t know where to look. But Caligula was all affable smiles, cheerful and kindly.

“I’ve never seen such a handsome couple,” he told them.

Livia’s eyes dropped; she had not yet been able to look her Emperor straight in the face. Caligula found such modesty charming. Neither bride nor groom could think of a word to say.

“Now for my wedding gift,” beamed Caligula. “Take off those robes, dear girl.”

Livia wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. But a horrified gasp from Proculus told her that she had. She looked at her husband, terrified. “But . . . no . . .”

“No?” asked Caligula, dropping all pretense of a smile. His face was hard now, the lips pulled back in a snarl.

All his life, Proculus had been trained as a soldier—trained to obey every member in the chain of command. And at the top of the chain stood the Commander-in-Chief, the Emperor. Every muscle in the boy’s body strained in fury, but when Livia sought his eyes, pleading mutely with her own, he could only nod.

Trembling, sweating, the girl began to undress, pulling off her veil and her cloak. The crown of flowers on top of her braids was pushed askew; her look of helplessness added to Caligula’s excitement. Now her fingers were fumbling with the knot of Hercules that held her girdle; numbly, they tried and failed to undo it. It was a husband’s job, but Proculus could only stand by with his fists clenched. Smiling, Caligula drew his dagger and cut the knot through with one stroke. Just like Alexander and the Gordion knot. He chuckled. She was his new world to conquer.

The girl lifted the
recta
over her head and let it fall. Now totally nude, she clasped her hands modestly over her sex, her head bowed in shame. Caligula couldn’t take his gloating eyes off her loveliness. Her breasts were small, but perfect. She was very young; no doubt in time they would grow fuller. He strolled around the girl, admiring her from every angle. She stood as still as a statue not daring to lift her head.