Free Gore Vidal’s Caligula by William Howard

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