Gore Vidal’s Caligula by William Howard

handful of picked guards came out to the bireme in small boats to take Caligula and Macro ashore.
    On the rocky beach, Caligula looked around him curiously. Here was a Roman encampment reproduced in miniature. Trenches had been dug, walls erected, tents pitched, guards mounted as pickets. The old warrior never forgets, thought Caligula. He was too young himself to remember Tiberius’ soldiering days, but they had been glorious. Tiberius had been a brave, able commander. That was before he became an Emperor and a degenerate. But Tiberius was still mindful of what a Roman army camp should be, even on this tiny beach, with cockleshell boats pulled up on the shore.
    Horses were brought, and Macro waited to mount until he saw Caligula astride. It was only a short canter to the tents, among which stood a giant statue of Tiberius, raised high by its pedestal. The statue’s features were cast in a classical noble mode, the marble likeness of a man of 45, not 77.
    In the shadow of the statue, Caligula dismounted and handed the reins to a young officer. At once, armed men surrounded him, smiling Caligula was the army’s pet, the soldiers’ lucky piece—they remembered Germanicus. Macro dismounted and melted into his unit, his duty done for the present.
    “Welcome, Prince, in the Emperor’s name.”
    Caligula turned. A handsome, but weathered and graying officer stood before him, his hand clenched on his breast in respectful salute. The plume on his helmet and the insignia on his breastplate proclaimed his rank as colonel. Something about him was familiar; Caligula was certain that he knew that face.
    “Thank you,” he replied graciously. “Uhhhh. I know . . . now don’t tell me . . . you were with my father . . .”
    The colonel’s eyes lit up with pleasure at the young man’s recognition. After all, it had been a very long time ago; the lad had been only a child.
    “Chaerea, Prince. Cassius Chaerea. I was with your father in Germany. Many’s the time I used to take you out riding with me . . . you with your little boots . . .”
    But Caligula had ceased to listen. Consternation crept over his face as he looked around him. There stood the statue of Tiberius, larger and much younger than life. But something was missing. Something important.
    “Where . . . sorry to interrupt . . . but where is my statue?”
    Perplexity furrowed the officer’s tanned brow. “I don’t know, Prince. I’ve just been assigned to the Imperial household.”
    Angry, a little panicky, Caligula heard his voice rising shrilly. “Someone’s moved it. Who?”
    By now a crowd of supplicants had begun to form around Caligula, recognizing him by the purple stripe on his toga and the golden wreath on his head. These were petitioners who had been waiting to find somebody close to Tiberius, someone who would help them solve their legal and financial problems. From all sides, documents and scrolls wrapped in cloth were thrust out; outstretched hands pulled at Caligula’s cloak and tugged at his arms.
    “Lord, take this to the Emperor,” cried one man, shoving a heavy scroll dangerously close to Caligula’s face.
    “I’ve waited two months to see your glorious grandfather,” whined a second man.
    “Lord, bless Tiberius for me,” dribbled a toothless crone.
    “Lord, a petition!” howled a one-eyed man wrapped in a hooded brown cloak.
    “Lord, justice for my family . . .”
    Impatiently, Caligula pushed his way through the pleading mob, shoving the bolder ones out of his path. He had only one thing on his mind. His statue. Its absence must be terrifyingly significant. He felt the hair rising on the nape of his neck, and gooseflesh ran down his arms.
    Chaerea and two of his men trotted after Caligula, pushing their way through the crowd. Caligula had run beyond the statue of Tiberius now, and Chaerea saw him halt suddenly, then heard his cry of anguish.
    There, considerably smaller and made of cheaper marble than the statue of Tiberius, was the