Gore Vidal’s Caligula by William Howard Page B

of Tiberius’ randy habits.
    It was as though a magical change had come over the Emperor after he’d taken refuge in Capri. He had always been tyrannical and autocratic, and always fierce-tempered and cruel. But for more than sixty years he had acted like a Roman soldier, with the rough but honest morals of a soldier. After he’d been named Emperor, he’d gone through a positively prudish phase, making new, harsher laws against adultery, driving the spintriae, those painted, prancing boy-whores in female clothing, out of Rome. But with the building of his villa, and his separation from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of the Romans, he began to indulge in perversions and depravities at a rate that more than made up for a lifetime of clean living. Now the very spintriae he’d exiled were among his favorite companions.
    Riding through the rocky mountain pass that led up to the villa, Caligula was blind to the breathtaking views that opened at every turn of the road. He had no eye for beauty today, no heart to contemplate sky and sea, and the rays of sunlight glittering on deep water. All his thoughts were directed ahead of him, toward his grandfather. Why had he been summoned? Why brought here to Capri? How long was he expected to stay this time? Not years, please, Isis, protect me! Don’t let him keep me here again for years!
    But how many years did Tiberius himself have left? About a thousand, Caligula answered himself gloomily. After all, why should he die? The Emperor had the best of all possible worlds, sitting up here safe and warm in his private kingdom, guarded by fully half a legion of the strongest soldiers, entertained in ways so lavish and so depraved that, if Rome but knew the full story, Rome’s collective jaw would drop in disbelief. Never had there been so vile or so beautiful a place as this Villa of the Monsters, Caligula told himself, and then the last bend in the road brought him his first glimpse of the place.
    The main villa, which could be seen from the top of the road, was faced with white marble from Luna, so that it would glisten in the sun and dazzle the eyes of the visitor. Caligula raised his arm to shield his eyes from the sunstruck marble, then smiled. The old fox. He would catch you any way he could, impress you and make you uncomfortable at the same time.
    They were inside the main gate now, past the first platoon of soldiers. The guards had saluted respectfully, but Caligula had the feeling that their duties were paid more to Colonel Chaerea than to himself. Then he saw that Nerva was approaching down the stone path to greet him, and he straightened his robe and made an ineffectual pass at his hair to smooth it. Marcus Cocceius Nerva, Senator of Rome, had that effect on people.
    In Rome, they said that when Tiberius had abandoned the city he had carried part of it to Capri with him in the person of Nerva. And, truly, they were a strange pair, the degenerate Emperor and his counsellor the old-style patrician, upright, moral, stern. After Tiberius had finally disposed of his old partner in crime, the evil Sejanus, he had drawn even closer to Nerva, whose nobility was displayed in sharp contrast to the degeneracy of the Emperor. Why did Tiberius never turn his savagery on Nerva? There seemed to be a deepseated psychological need for Tiberius to keep in touch with the finer qualities of himself, perhaps not lost entirely and personified in Nerva. As for Nerva, he appeared to serve the imperium, the power, rather than the Emperor’s person; he acted as guide and conscience to Tiberius in those rare moments when Tiberius would listen to a voice of sanity and reason.
    Nerva was the ideal image of Senatorial Rome. His wrinkled face was set into lines of moral sternness; his head was held high on a long, scrawny neck. A fine, high-arched nose jutted from his face like the prow of a ship, and he held his aged body firmly erect. Even his balding head seemed made to bear the laurels of honor and