Gore Vidal’s Caligula by William Howard Read Free Book Online Page A

but a greyish-green, Caligula had an idle thought: This is the first man I’ve killed. Well, perhaps slaves don’t count as men. Still, it was good practice, and it would certainly be a long time before Drusilla tried any more of her pussycat tricks behind his back.
    Now, ahead of him, he could see the rocky promontories of the island of Capri. One of the main reasons that Tiberius had been attracted to the island in the first place was its difficult access. There was only one small landing-beach, easily fortified, easily held. The rest of the island’s shore was made up of sheer cliffs looming over deep water. On Capri, Tiberius felt safe. Only a small detachment of soldiers was needed to man the beach; the others could be used to protect his own person.
    When Tiberius had abandoned Rome for Capri, the Empire had begun to disintegrate. Spain and Syria went without consul-governors for years. The Armenians overran Parthia, and that so emboldened the Germans that they invaded Gaul, which they would not have dared when Augustus was alive. Augustus had strengthened the army with leaders like Germanicus, had thrown his legions far and wide to extend and fortify Rome’s borders. But Tiberius had destroyed Rome’s greatest generals one by one, through intrigue and murder. No wonder, Caligula thought, that the Senate was in its dotage these days—a bunch of senile, farting, trembling old men under Tiberius’ thumb. And his absent thumb at that. If he, Caligula, could only gain the Imperial power, he’d make those ancient dodderers step lively!
    The sight of Capri brought the dust to his mouth again; he felt the old fear of the Dream returning. How would Tiberius greet him? Would he be treated graciously, as Tiberius’ chosen heir, or would the Emperor turn on him with poison or the sword? Or would Tiberius merely keep him prisoner, like the last time?
    The first time that Caligula had sailed to Capri at Tiberius’ invitation was when he was nineteen years old. Too old for his boyhood robes, he had yet to don the toga virilis, shave his beard and become accepted as a man. His grandfather Tiberius was to stand as his sponsor for the ceremony, and so Caligula sailed to Capri, much against his better judgment; his own inclination had been to hide under the bed, preferably Drusilla’s bed.
    The coming-of-age ceremony had been brief, Caligula remembered now. Laying aside the childhood toga with its crimson-striped border, the toga praetexta, he’d accepted from Tiberius’ own hands the toga virilis, the pure white garment of manhood. Then he’d offered the first cuttings of the fluff on his chin to the altar of the goddess Venus, protectress and genetrix of the Claudian family. And that had been that.
    When his brothers Drusus and Nero had come of age, there had been public celebrations, games in the stadium, speeches at the rostra, bread and coins distributed among the citizens. Yet, all the celebrations in the world hadn’t saved their lives. Brrrrr! Caligula shuddered. It was bad luck to make these comparisons, and doubly ill-omened to envy the dead their glories in life. Caligula spat three times into the sea, to avert evil luck.
    That first time in Capri, Caligula had found himself more Tiberius’ prisoner than his guest. He’d had no way of getting off the island. Besides, he lived so much in fear of his grandfather that he followed along in his shadow, afraid to speak one word of contradiction. So apparently devoted to Tiberius was he that in later years Rome would say of Caligula that never had there been a better slave or a worse master.
    As for Tiberius, he seemed affable enough, even fond of Little Boots. He’d even found him a wife, a nonentity of good birth, Junia Claudilla, who’d had the good sense to die in childbirth, along with the newborn infant. Caligula had shrugged, put on the appropriate outward signs of mourning, and never thought about her again.
    He was the heir apparent. Now that his own son,