were given. There were only three couches in the room, each low and broad, with a bolster at the front end to support the elbows of the diner. Tiberius, naturally, held the place of honor, on the center couch, while Caligula held the upper couch, the consul’s place, as befitted a guest, and Nerva the lower one. Before them stood a low, wide marquetry table covered with dishes and winejugs. At Caligula’s place, and Nerva’s, were tall water-jugs with Egyptian ibises worked in low relief on the gold plating, but Tiberius drank his wine unmixed with water.
Caligula reclined lazily, refreshed from his bath and wrapped in fresh linen robes. On his head was a wreath of flowers. The Romans believed that the odor of fresh flowers would stave off drunkeness, so floral wreaths were generally handed out to the gentlemen toward the end of the meal. But at Tiberius’ table, wreaths were worn from the first course onward, because the wine never stopped flowing. Only Nerva sipped decorously at his Greek pottery cup.
Food arrived in a stream of courses, naked female slaves bearing heavy dishes. Tiberius was particularly fond of the fish and shellfish that abounded in the waters around Capri, and the floor near his couch was littered with the shells of prawns and the bones of mullet. Now he was crunching honey-drenched ortolans whole—bones, beak and all—as he continued lecturing his grandson on the state of the Empire and the inadequacies of the Senate.
“You know,” he said, belching and wiping his greasy hands on his costly robe, ignoring the perfumed water in the silver hand-basin, “the Senate offered to approve any law I made before I made it. Imagine! So I said to them, what if I go mad? What then?” He simpered at Caligula, as if to show how impossible that was. “What then? No answer, of course. They are born slaves, Caligula. Never forget that. Why, they wanted to make me a god in my own lifetime!”
Caligula sat up a bit on his dining couch and listened harder. Godhead was a topic that fascinated him.
“No, I said,” continued the Emperor, stuffing honeyed larks into his mouth. “I am a man. Then they offered me this title and that title. No, I said. I am simply first among you. Of course, they would kill me if they could . . .”
Caligula raised his eyes to the marble-faced walls of the room. Around the top of the marble, about two feet below the ceiling, a dado in low relief pictured a Pan-figure playing the syrinx while nymphs cavorted between his legs and each other’s legs. It was beautifully done; Caligula particularly appreciated how the satyr’s prick stood out from the rest of the relief. A long, wrenching cry of pain distracted him from the erotic handiwork.
A rack on great wooden wheels was trundled through the door by two tall slaves, German captives of war. A jailer in a leather surcoat kept one eye on the agonized prisoner on the rack, a man of indeterminate age who might once have been quite handsome. But now his face was so contorted in pain there was no telling what he had looked like. His arms and legs had been torn out of their sockets and the joints were swollen purple.
Tiberius, startled, exclaimed, “Has the cook gone mad? We’re not cannibals!”
“Anyway,” put in Caligula critically, “he’s much too stringy.”
“You asked me to bring him to you, Caesar,” said the jailer with a respectful bow. “During dinner, you said.”
“Did I?” It was evident that Tiberius had completely forgotten. “Oh, yes . . . yes . . .” It wouldn’t do to have the others thinking the Emperor was losing his memory. “Name?” he barked at the tortured man.
“Carnalus,” the man croaked through bitten lips.
Trying to remember, Tiberius turned to a large chest of Egyptian wood, trimmed in gold, that stood by his side. Opening it, he reached in and began caressing his pet snake, running his hands lightly over the dry, scaly curves. It helped him to think.
“Carnalus . . .” mused
Caligula reclined lazily, refreshed from his bath and wrapped in fresh linen robes. On his head was a wreath of flowers. The Romans believed that the odor of fresh flowers would stave off drunkeness, so floral wreaths were generally handed out to the gentlemen toward the end of the meal. But at Tiberius’ table, wreaths were worn from the first course onward, because the wine never stopped flowing. Only Nerva sipped decorously at his Greek pottery cup.
Food arrived in a stream of courses, naked female slaves bearing heavy dishes. Tiberius was particularly fond of the fish and shellfish that abounded in the waters around Capri, and the floor near his couch was littered with the shells of prawns and the bones of mullet. Now he was crunching honey-drenched ortolans whole—bones, beak and all—as he continued lecturing his grandson on the state of the Empire and the inadequacies of the Senate.
“You know,” he said, belching and wiping his greasy hands on his costly robe, ignoring the perfumed water in the silver hand-basin, “the Senate offered to approve any law I made before I made it. Imagine! So I said to them, what if I go mad? What then?” He simpered at Caligula, as if to show how impossible that was. “What then? No answer, of course. They are born slaves, Caligula. Never forget that. Why, they wanted to make me a god in my own lifetime!”
Caligula sat up a bit on his dining couch and listened harder. Godhead was a topic that fascinated him.
“No, I said,” continued the Emperor, stuffing honeyed larks into his mouth. “I am a man. Then they offered me this title and that title. No, I said. I am simply first among you. Of course, they would kill me if they could . . .”
Caligula raised his eyes to the marble-faced walls of the room. Around the top of the marble, about two feet below the ceiling, a dado in low relief pictured a Pan-figure playing the syrinx while nymphs cavorted between his legs and each other’s legs. It was beautifully done; Caligula particularly appreciated how the satyr’s prick stood out from the rest of the relief. A long, wrenching cry of pain distracted him from the erotic handiwork.
A rack on great wooden wheels was trundled through the door by two tall slaves, German captives of war. A jailer in a leather surcoat kept one eye on the agonized prisoner on the rack, a man of indeterminate age who might once have been quite handsome. But now his face was so contorted in pain there was no telling what he had looked like. His arms and legs had been torn out of their sockets and the joints were swollen purple.
Tiberius, startled, exclaimed, “Has the cook gone mad? We’re not cannibals!”
“Anyway,” put in Caligula critically, “he’s much too stringy.”
“You asked me to bring him to you, Caesar,” said the jailer with a respectful bow. “During dinner, you said.”
“Did I?” It was evident that Tiberius had completely forgotten. “Oh, yes . . . yes . . .” It wouldn’t do to have the others thinking the Emperor was losing his memory. “Name?” he barked at the tortured man.
“Carnalus,” the man croaked through bitten lips.
Trying to remember, Tiberius turned to a large chest of Egyptian wood, trimmed in gold, that stood by his side. Opening it, he reached in and began caressing his pet snake, running his hands lightly over the dry, scaly curves. It helped him to think.
“Carnalus . . .” mused
Similar Books
