Gore Vidal’s Caligula (8 page)

“Do your dance, boy!” roared Tiberius.

“My dance?” Caligula was taken aback.

“Yes,” laughed Tiberius.

The Emperor’s face was terrible to see. Old, raddled, the skin so wrinkled and slack that the prominent red-veined nose stood out starkly, the face was pocked with open, running sores. Caligula found the bile rising in his throat, and he swallowed hard to quell his nausea. For years, Tiberius had been suffering from the whore’s disease the legions had brought back from Gaul, Egypt and Persia, a disease that usually turned the sufferer into a walking pustule. Yet Tiberius still managed to function, even to transmit the disease daily to others.

“Yes, your dance. The one you used to delight your father’s legions with. Come on, Little Boots!” Then, as Caligula hesitated, “Your
dance!”
commanded Tiberius.

Caligula rose and began to move awkwardly, a half-hearted shuffle that slowly became a stomp. Keeping tempo inside his head, he hopped from foot to foot in his little military dance. He felt like a six-year-old, especially with Tiberius regarding him from the pool with malicious delight, while Nerva looked on impassively.

With a loud splash, the two “fish” surfaced. One was a ten-year-old boy, the other a ten-year-old girl. Both were naked.

Tiberius took his attention away from Little Boots and his dance. “My little fish,” he cried warmly. “All right. Come on, the rest of you!” he called.

From behind the bushes and out of the grotto appeared about a dozen laughing children, all of them naked. These were the boys and girls Caligula had heard laughing as he approached. Scampering to the pool, they dived in and began to swim around their Emperor, sporting between the old man’s legs, licking and nibbling at his genitals and thighs. Tiberius cackled with laughter; these children were his latest toys and delights.

“A
shoal
of minnows!” he chortled. “Oh, my lovely little fish!”

Caligula’s dance slowed as he watched Tiberius with the children. The stories he’d heard in Rome were true apparently, the latest gossip about the Emperor’s excesses. Even the worst of the stories—that Tiberius had taken a nursing child from its mother’s arms and given it his penis to suck—was almost certainly a fact.

“That’s enough, boy. You must take some dancing lessons,” laughed Tiberius, and the Little Boots dance came to a halt. Caligula stood anxiously, wondering what whim would move Tiberius next.

Nerva stepped forward, the embodiment of noble dignity. “Caesar, may I present the documents for your signature?” he asked, as though Tiberius were in the great marble bathhouse in Rome, talking Empire with his Senators, instead of playing raunchy sex games with swimming children.

“Ah, good old friend,” replied Tiberius with a fond smile. “Yes, of course. But when you come back, I want you to talk wisdom to the Prince . . . as you do to me.”

With a solemn bow, Nerva left to fetch his documents.

“Your arm,” commanded Tiberius, and Caligula rushed to obey, reaching down and pulling the Emperor from the water. Isis, he was heavy! Though thin, Tiberius was tall, with massive bones, and the weight of many pounds of water clung to his tunic. Caligula staggered and nearly fell, but managed to help Tiberius to the edge of the pool, where the old man sat with his legs dangling into the water.

Tiberius beckoned to one boy and one girl, who came scrambling out of the pool to cuddle into the circle of his withered arms.

“All right, little fish! Back to your aquarium!” Obediently, the other children climbed out of the water and ran off into the grotto. Stroking and fondling his two as though they were pet kittens, Tiberius said, “Sit down, Caligula.”

Lifting his costly tunic as high as possible to keep it out of the wet, Caligula perched beside Tiberius and let his feet drop into the pool. He felt as he had in the old days when he was called Caligula-Tiberius’-Shadow, half-expectant, half-afraid.

“Do you love me?” asked Tiberius abruptly, throwing his grandson into confusion.

“What . . . ? Why . . . I . . . but, Lord,
yes!
I mean . . . you are . . .” stammered Caligula.

“You ought to,” Tiberius interrupted impatiently. “I’ve kept you alive. Against
everyone’s
advice, may I say.” He peered at his grandson from under wet, bushy eyebrows. The bandage over the bridge of his nose wrinkled. “Why do you say such terrible things about me?” he roared suddenly.

Terror-struck, Caligula thought his last hour had come. “I don’t, Caesar!” he managed to gasp through chattering teeth. “Really! Ever!”

“I hear that you often pray for my death,” Tiberius continued remorselessly.

What stinking spy had reported
that
piece of information? The old man had eyes and ears everywhere. If he survived this moment, Caligula vowed, he would ferret out the blabbermouth, cut out his tongue in tiny little pieces, and then nip out his heart.

“By heaven, I swear . . .” He began a protest.

But Tiberius wasn’t listening any more. Holding the little boy across his lap, he was tickling his genitals, cupping the little balls, manipulating the baby penis. The little boy shivered with pleasure, and the little girl giggled at the sight.

“Anyway, my fish are fond of me. Aren’t you?” Tiberius gave the child’s penis a tweak.

“Yes, kind Uncle . . .”

“They call me Uncle,” cackled Tiberius in delight. “They
are
sweet, aren’t they? So young. So unspoiled.” He pushed the little boy away and reached for the little girl, probing her hairless mound, fondling her tiny clit with his aged fingers until she wriggled happily.

“I do my best to protect their innocence,” the old hypocrite continued. “It’s the least I can do in this foul world.” He gave the little girl’s nipples a few sharp pinches, then suddenly dumped both children into the pool. “Off with you!” They swam swiftly across the pool, climbed out, and ran giggling into the grotto, their tiny buttocks glistening.

By now Caligula had composed himself. The pounding of his heart had begun to subside, and his frozen blood was once again running warmly through his veins. It was obvious that his grandfather’s mood was less than murderous.

“I am old,” said Tiberius sadly.

“But you are vigorous, and virile . . . and . . .” Caligula began the ritual of expected protestations.

But Tiberius shook his head, a melancholy expression on his wrinkled face. “Of all my family, only you and the boy Tiberius Gemellus are left. All the others . . . struck down. By Fate. And it is Fate, Caligula, that rules us. Not any god or gods.”

Yes, thought Caligula, if you could call Tiberius’ executioners Fate. “I know, Caesar . . .” he said.

“I wish you did,” interrupted Tiberius in the same pious tone. “But you don’t. You worship Isis. Which is against the law and punishable by death.”

Caligula thought he would pass out in a swift rush of fear. How did the man know everything taking place in Rome—not only words and deeds, but thoughts and feelings? His spies were everywhere; nobody was to be trusted. Was this why he’d been brought here to Capri, to be tricked into his own execution? The world began to darken; he was losing his sight and his bearing. Terror enveloped him.

“No. No . . . I don’t . . . please . . .” He was babbling, choking in near-hysteria. “Believe me, grandfather . . . Caesar . . . I swear . . .”

“I am lenient,” sighed Tiberius mildly, enjoying the sight of Little Boots wriggling in agony. The boy was actually sweating; the thin hair on the top of his head was plastered down with it. “You are young. And stupid. Help me up.”

Caligula rose blindly, and helped the old man to his feet. At once, from the vine-covered trellis near the pool, a dark figure came forward. It was an African girl of about fifteen, her body oiled and shining. She was barefoot and naked except for a loincloth, and her breasts were perfect, high large spheres of ebony tipped with rubbery black nipples. Strands of golden wire coiled round her neck, and gold hung from her earlobes and her left nostril. She stepped quickly to Tiberius’ side, holding out a black wig with a solid gold laurel wreath crown on it. Tiberius pulled the wig onto his head and reached for the girl, who was just tall enough for him to lean on comfortably. She had no name; she was called “Tiberius’ crutch”.

Even on leaning on his “crutch”, Tiberius towered over Caligula. He was the ancient, decrepit shell of what had once been a Roman of great majesty and bearing, a noble general, a conqueror of nations. Now he was a suppurating old mass of bones and syphilitic sores.

“Little Boots,” he said with a false fondness, “just look at you!”

“Yes, Caesar?” asked Caligula hopefully.

Reality seemed to settle on Tiberius’ face; for one moment he looked like a Roman again. “I am nursing a viper in Rome’s bosom,” he said softly, more to himself than to his grandson. He recognized in the boy the seeds of a degenerate nature more vicious and more murderous than his own. Caligula, Tiberius knew, might prove to be the most bloodthirsty cub ever spawned by the wolf who suckled Rome. “I am rearing a Phaëthon who will mishandle the fiery chariot of the sun and burn up the world,” he murmured.

“Grandfather?” Caligula saw the old man’s lips move, but he could not hear the muttered words. The Emperor just shook his head and moved away from the pool to the guarded loggia leaning on his “crutch”. Caligula trotted at his side like a pet dog.

Wanting to be praised, wanting his grandfather’s approval so that he would be permitted to survive, Caligula said as they entered the loggia. “One of the sentries was drunk . . . on duty.”

They had stopped by a small serving table next to the Emperor’s chair.

“Oh?” Tiberius’ heavy brows drew together in a fierce scowl.

“I relieved him. I hope I did the right thing,” Caligula reported sycophantically.

Now Tiberius stood as straight as Jupiter Thunderer, his face tilled with wrath. “Bring me the drunken clod!” he roared.

There was an immediate bustle among the guards, and two of them escorted the terrified sentry forward. The sentry, unsteady on his feet—whether from wine or from fear, it was hard to tell—still attempted a military bearing. When the men let him go, he stood trembling at attention, not daring to look his Emperor in the eye.

“Drunk on duty . . .” began Tiberius menacingly.

“No, Caesar,” whispered the sentry through dry lips. “I wasn’t. Not really.”

Tiberius’ face assumed a more benign expression. “But you did have a cup or two of wine?”

“Well, yes, Caesar,” gulped the sentry. “But no more. A celebration.”

“What?” purred Tiberius, with a patient lift of one eyebrow.

“My first child was born, Caesar.”

“A boy or a girl?”

“A boy, Caesar,” the man replied proudly. “My first.”

“Well,” laughed Tiberius, “that is a cause for celebration.” He clapped his hands. “Wine!”

A slave came swiftly up with a silver flagon of wine and two double-handed cups of lead-lined gold.

Tiberius lifted the flagon and one of the cups, offering it with his own hand to the young sentry. “Drink, my son.” He smiled paternally. “Celebrate.”

The young man’s face showed his total bewilderment. “But . . . on duty . . . like this?”

“You have our leave.” Tiberius nodded, urging the wine on him.

His hand shaking, the sentry took the cup and drank down the wine. His startled eyes peered over the rim, never daring to leave the Emperor’s face.

“And another,” smiled Tiberius. With his own Imperial hand, he re-filled the cup and again handed it to the young man, who drained it with more confidence this time.

But Caligula knew what was coming next. Years before, when he’d been Tiberius’ “guest” on Capri, he had seen this particular trick of the old man’s. Caligula knew also what was expected of him, and he began to smile.

When the wine cup was empty, the Emperor turned to his grandson. “Now see that our good wine is not wasted,” he said amiably.

“Yes, Lord.”

Caligula turned sharply to the sentry. “The lacing. To your boot. Quick,” he commanded.

Confused, the drunken sentry leaned over and pulled the long leather thong from one of his military boots. He handed it to the prince, then stood again at rather woozy attention.

Caligula picked up the skirt of the man’s tunic and tucked it into his belt. Then, almost lovingly, he reached inside the sentry’s undergarment, and pulled out his penis and balls, cupping the heavy genitals in his hand. The sentry gasped, but dared not move. He remained at strict attention but a look of bewilderment passed over his ruddy, wine-darkened face.

Caligula dropped the penis so that it hung exposed for all to see. Then, deftly, he made a noose of the bootlace, testing the knot until he was satisfied. Taking up the penis again, he fondled it for a moment, as if enjoying its length and thickness. Gently, he slipped the noose over the head of the penis and pulled it down to the base. Then, smiling up into the young man’s eyes, he gave a quick jerk, tightening the noose as hard as he could.

A scream of agony rent the air, then another. The young sentry fell backward into the chair, still screaming. As his hands went to his tortured crotch, the two guards pulled his arms away and bound them behind him.

Tiberius, smiling benignly, watched the sentry writhe, watched as the bloody spittle began to dribble from his bitten lips. Then he looked at Caligula approvingly, and Caligula responded with a slight bow and a smile that matched Tiberius’ own.

“Give him more to drink,” Tiberius ordered the officer of the guard, and turned to the young victim. “After all, this is a day you’ll never forget. Will you, lad?”

The agonized groan of response was choked off as the guards poured more wine down the man’s throat.

Tiberius leaned again on his ebony “crutch” and turned to go. Caligula noticed that the black girl kept her legs pressed together, rubbing the thighs against each other, while her nipples stood out. Evidently the torture had aroused erotic sensations in her. His eyes narrowed as he watched her. Her buttocks were large and firm. A sudden desire took possession of him. Later, perhaps, he thought. He turned and kept pace with his grandfather as they strolled on through the villa’s gardens.