Free Gore Vidal’s Caligula by William Howard Page A

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