Gore Vidal’s Caligula (2 page)

I don’t want to look. They can’t make me look. I am Caligula, and they can’t make me. Stamping his boots upon the ground, the child began hopping from foot to foot. It was the Caligula dance, the one his father’s army loved, and he shut his eyes and listened hard. Now he could hear the hoarse yells of the soldiers, and the heavy thudding of their weapons on their leather shields as they cheered him on. The sound drowned out the wailing of the mourners, and the musicians’ dirges.

A long line of heavily cloaked men were passing now, their funeral masks somber. Those who had died a peaceful death wore peaceful masks; they were the early ancestors of this Imperial family. But as the line snaked longer and longer, the masks of the marchers began to show tortured, distorted features, the features of men and women who had died violently. More of these came, and more, and the child Caligula danced ever more frantically, trying to block out the sight and sound of them. Whose funeral was this?

Desperately, he gazed through the mist at Drusilla, tallest and oldest of his sisters. He tried to catch her eye, but she would not or could not look at him. Drusilla’s face was ghostly white, her eyes dark-ringed and hollow. Where were his brothers? Where were Drusus Caesar and Nero Caesar? They had been at her side only a moment ago; now their places were empty. Whose funeral was this?

A sudden revelation made the child Caligula shriek in horror. It was though the mist of the Dream had lifted for a moment, revealing bodies mutilated beyond recognition, bodies that were merely hacked pieces of reeking meat, bleeding lumps of flesh. And he knew that if he could see the heads, he would recognize them at once. His brothers. He would not look. They couldn’t make him look. Not even
they.

As the death masks passed him, on their way to the altar, Caligula began to make out the words of the chanting, and it seemed to him now that all the citizens of Rome had gathered here to join in the mourning. Their voices rose around him, coming from great heights, for they were men and he was but a six-year-old child.

“Germanicus is dead.”

Caligula shuddered as he heard the words intoned.

“We are alone. Weep for Rome. Rome is dead. Weep for Agrippina, his widow. Weep for Antonia, his mother.”

Germanicus! Father! It was his father’s funeral! Dead at thirty-four, the noblest, the bravest and the best of Romans. Dead, his empty face covered with fevered spots, the spittle around his grimacing mouth flecked with blood. Dead, Germanicus dead of poison. His father, murdered.

He wouldn’t look. He couldn’t. Not at his father. But the child Caligula knew this place now. It was the twentieth milestone. When Germanicus had returned to Rome in triumph, the spoils of war behind his victorious chariot, all the citizens of Rome had come twenty miles out of the city on foot to greet him. Led by the Senators, their feet shod in fine leather, the poor people wearing sandals of coarse wood, they had walked all this way, weary and thirsty, just to do Germanicus honor. Now he was dead, and at the milestone they were to burn his murdered corpse. But Caligula wouldn’t look.

“Agrippina,” chanted the crowd. “Widow . . . noblest of women . . . mother of princes . . .”

Caligula peered through the mist of the Dream. Again it lifted, showing the stern, pale features of his mother, her face set hard in suffering. Then she vanished, and her place, too, was empty. Mother! Agrippina! Come back!

“Mother of Caligula . . .” the crowd droned its funeral song. “The angel, Caligula. The love of the army . . .” He saw himself, back in Germany with the legions, idolized by them all, dressed in his tiny suit of armor and his little boots. Again he heard the clangor of their weapons hammered with delight upon their shields as he danced for them—their princeling, their baby soldier, their living piece of good luck. He heard the neighing of the terrified horses, shying from the soldiers’ rough shouts and the banging of the javelin hafts on the seasoned leather. Germanicus joined the soldiers now, bending to swoop the child Caligula up on his manly shoulders, exhibiting him proudly to his men. Little Boots. Even grandmother Antonia smiled, although she was a staid and proper Roman matron. Little Boots. And he was so happy; he loved his father so much . . . Germanicus, so handsome, so strong, so noble . . .

Dead. Germanicus was dead. Whose hand had poured the poison that had taken his father’s life? Whose hand had slain his brothers? Drusus, starved to death . . . Nero, stabbed . . . And both bodies mangled so badly there was almost nothing left to burn.

The line of marchers was nearing its end now, and the child Caligula could make out faces that he recognized . . . the mask of his ancestor Julius Caesar, anguished as the knives of his dearest friends sliced into his chest, seeking the heart. Julius Caesar, grandfather to Germanicus, who died because he wished to rule all Rome by himself. Caligula shrank in terror from the mask.

Now came another marcher, the wax mask that of an old and weary man. Augustus, first Emperor of Rome, Germanicus’ grandfather by adoption. Augustus had been born Octavian. After Julius Caesar’s death, he’d fought Marcus Antonius for the possession of the Republic. Fought him, pursued him, extinguished him and his whore Kleopatra, that pale Greek seductress who ruled Egypt and Antony with clutching fingers. And those self-same Romans who had murdered Julius Caesar for daring to reach for Rome had simply given all of Rome into Octavian’s hands, heaping him with honors and with responsibilities. They lavished on him titles, naming him Princeps, Emperor, Augustus, turning Rome from a Republic into the personal domain of one man and his wife.

“Hail to the grandfather of Augustus,” intoned the crowd. “Hail to Augustus Caesar! Now a god.”

True. It was true; Augustus was now worshiped as a god. Temples to him had been built from the Danube to the Euphrates, and the flesh of bulls and other sacrificial animals burned upon Augustus’ altars. Apotheosized! How Marcus Antonius would have laughed!

Now they were going to burn the corpse, but Caligula wouldn’t look. They couldn’t make him look. He could see the tall bronze urn that stood waiting to receive Germanicus’ ashes. He could hear and feel the fire mounting, mounting, its flames hungry for Germanicus’ body, for everything left of the man except his bones and his heart. Oh, yes, his heart. The heart of a man murdered by poison didn’t burn—everybody knew that, even a six-year-old child.

The toga-wrapped body of Germanicus lay stretched out on a high bier, carried by eight of his most trusted officers, the best in any legion of Rome. But now they seemed no longer to be at the twentieth milestone. They were at Augustus’ Mausoleum on the Field of Mars.

The child looked around himself in desperation. Drusilla stood apart from her sisters, remote and ashen. Agrippina’s place was empty. Where Drusus Caesar and Nero Caesar had stood were empty patches of blackness. Whose hand had snatched them away. And whose turn would it be next? Who would be the next of Caligula’s family to be deprived of life?

The crowd drew in its breath as a tall figure appeared, veiled and cloaked in black. The figure moved slowly, bent by age, and the crowd drew back, as though his touch would contaminate. The child Caligula felt a thrill of fear clutch at him, squeezing his heart in terror. He stood frozen, alone, watching the dreaded figure come nearer and nearer. He could not move; his mouth was dry and his entire little body trembled like a new-born kitten’s. With each step by the tall, dark-robed figure, Caligula’s heart pounded louder and louder, faster and faster, as though it were trying to escape his breast entirely.

Now the figure raised its hand and pushed the veil from its face. Little Caligula’s eyes widened in horror. He saw a face ancient and mottled with sores, its teeth long and wolfish, its gray brows thickly menacing over eyes that glittered with malicious evil.

“Hail to the father of Germanicus! Hail Tiberius Caesar, Emperor of Rome!” shouted the crowd, but there was no warmth in the shout, only fear. The fear was magnified a thousandfold by the pounding of the child’s heart; with sinking horror he saw his grandfather reach out for him. He felt himself being lifted into the air, carried closer and closer to those glittering deadly eyes . . . closer and closer to that leprous face . . .

He screamed.

He screamed and screamed, his thin body convulsing in the bed, his limbs thrashing with fear.

“Gaius! Gaius!”

Caligula opened his eyes, blinking, and shook his head to clear it of the black mists of the Dream. Beside him, Drusilla turned up the wick of the silver lamp, then threw her arms around him, soothing his trembling form.

He’s soaking wet, she thought, pulling him closer to her. He’s cold as snow and covered in sweat. “Hush, hush,” she crooned, as to a baby. “It’s just a dream . . .”

“He’ll kill me,” muttered Caligula, his face pressed against his sister’s warm breasts.

“No, no, you’re safe.” Drusilla rocked him in her arms. “You’re safe. You’re with me.”

Pulling away from her embrace, he looked up at her. “What makes you think I’m safe when I’m with you?” he asked with a bitter smile.

Drusilla smiled back at her baby brother, her large blue eyes searching his in the lamplight. They had the same eyes, these two, Germanicus’ eyes, but where Germanicus’ gaze had been steady and unafraid, Caligula’s was wide with apprehension.

“All right, you’re not safe,” Drusilla conceded with a light laugh. “I only wanted to . . .” She broke off as she noticed that Caligula’s thin shoulders were still shaking. Mopping the sweat from his cheeks and brow with a corner of the sheet, she asked him gently, “The same dream?”

Caligula nodded wordlessly. There were no words for the Dream.

“Our father’s funeral?” Her voice was very soft.

Caligula drew in a deep, shuddering breath and nodded again.

Drusilla was familiar with the Dream, with all but the deepest terror of it.

“And the Emperor picks you up . . .” she whispered.

Her brother shuddered like a leaf in the wind. He remembered the glittering eyes, the sharp edges of the yellow teeth, the strong old fingers like vulture’s claws.

“But
then
what happens?” The Dream had never ended, as far back as Drusilla remembered. And Gaius had been dreaming it for so many of his twenty-six years.

“I wake up,” replied Caligula hoarsely. “Just before he kills me the way he killed . . .”

Drusilla put a warning finger to her lips. Tiberius’ spies were everywhere; she wouldn’t be surprised if Gaius’ own bedroom were being spied upon. Only a little hole bored through the wall, the smallest, most unnoticeable little hole, was all that Tiberius needed to gather his slimy evidence.

Drawing closer to his sister, Caligula clung to her tightly, more a son now than a lover. Whispering into her golden, love-tousled hair, he reminded her, “He killed our father. Our mother. Our brothers.”

“Shhhhh,” murmured Drusilla. These words were unsafe. Tiberius had tortured and killed hundreds, perhaps even thousands, and for smaller offenses than Caligula had whispered.

“I don’t want to die.” Caligula’s words were muffled by the soft flesh of Drusilla’s breasts.

“You won’t,” she told him firmly. “You can’t. You’re his heir. There’s no one else.”

“There’s the boy,” frowned Caligula. He meant Tiberius Gemellus, the Emperor’s
real
grandson, a blood relation, even though he’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Little bastard, he thought. Someday I’ll kill him.

Drusilla shook her lovely head. “He’s too young. Tiberius is too old.” She lowered her satiny lips to her brother’s ear. “You will be Emperor . . . soon,” she promised.

Caligula allowed himself to relax against her velvet breasts. As usual, Drusilla had the power to make him feel better. “I will make you queen, wife, consort . . .” he vowed huskily, sliding his hand up the long, smooth surface of her inner thigh. His mouth opened and his tongue flicked out toward her right nipple.

But Drusilla pulled away, as though refusing to nurse a crying baby. “You can’t. I’m your sister.”

Swinging her legs off the side of the bed, she reached out to the heavy chest that stood close by and picked up her comb and mirror. The mirror was of heavy, polished silver, with a pair of intertwined naked figures on the backing; it was very old, Etruscan work, and very valuable. Frowning at her image, she began to drag the ivory teeth of the comb through her tangled hair. Her nose wrinkled in discomfort as she yanked at the knots.

Amused, Caligula rolled over on his belly to watch her. She was so very beautiful, his Drusilla, his other self. His eyes devoured her nakedness; she had the only body of which he never tired. He had made love to so many . . . women . . . men . . . even children. A few times he had thrashed happily in pain under the merciless sexual punishment of his seven-foot African slaves. But only she, his sister, his Drusilla, had the magic that drew him back again and again, to slake his thirst at the fountain between her silken thighs.

“The Pharaohs of Egypt
always
married their sisters,” he reminded her.

“Well, we’re not Egyptians, I’m happy to say,” Drusilla retorted with a toss of her head. “We are proper Romans.”

Caligula gave a shout of laughter. “Not so very proper.” He grinned lewdly at her. “What’s it like with your husband?” he inquired maliciously.

“What’s what like?” Drusilla threw him an arch glance over one naked shoulder.

Like a fox pouncing on a chicken, Caligula threw himself upon her and pressed her back on the bed. Then he mounted her and, huffing and puffing, waggled his buttocks back and forth in a grotesque parody of the sexual act.

“Stop being such a child.” Half annoyed, half amused, Drusilla tried to push him away.

“He’s terribly fat,” sneered Caligula. Pinning her shoulders to the bed with one hand, he used the other to tickle and tease her, rolling the hairs of her pubis between his fingers, parting her nether lips, slipping inside . . .

“He’s not fat,” protested his sister. “He’s just large.”

“But tiny where it counts,” Caligula hissed, his voice dripping with contempt.