Tiberius. The memory was on the tip of his tongue. “Oh, yes! I should have known. I’ve drunk too much wine. You . . . um . . . you wrote a poem . . . praising . . . praising . . .” He looked to the racked fellow for prompting.
“Brutus. The tyrant-killer,” snarled Carnalus, in all the voice he could muster.
“That’s treason!” cried Caligula, half-rising from his couch.
“I know, I know,” Tiberius sighed gently, waving Caligula back down again. “You see how I must live?” He cast his Imperial eyes upward to the gods, as if beseeching heavenly acknowledgement of his plight. “Surrounded by bitterness, no matter what I do. No matter how good my actions.” He called to one of his slaves. “Flies for the snake.”
“Then kill me,” demanded Carnalus weakly. “Now!”
“Are you not pleased with life?” Tiberius asked mildly.
A golden plate appeared, embossed with mythological creatures. On it were six or seven dead flies, bluebottles. The Emperor’s snake liked bluebottles best.
“Thank you,” purred Tiberius. He fed the flies one by one to his pet. “You’re hungry, aren’t you, darling?” he cooed.
“How can anybody be pleased with life under your bloody tyranny?” Carnalus muttered.
“Lord,” cried Caligula eagerly, drawing his dagger. “Let me cut his tongue out!”
But Tiberius shook his Imperial head. “No, no. I have guaranteed freedom of speech . . . given my solemn word . . .” He made kissing noises at the snake.
“Kill me, now!” howled Carnalus.
Tiberius’ eyes widened. “Kill you? My dear Carnalus, how can I? We are not yet friends.” He smiled and waved a hand at the jailer, who ordered the German slaves to cart off the tortured prisoner.
“I remember when Macro arrested him,” Caligula said, eager to put in his two coins’ worth.
“Macro is your friend, isn’t he?” asked Tiberius sweetly.
Caligula had been reaching into a silver saltcellar when Tiberius spoke. Nervous, he scattered grains of salt with his shaking hand. An ill omen, curse it! “Lord . . .” he stammered, “he serves . . . you and only you.”
Tiberius looked at the ceiling, where painted nymphs wandered naked through Arcady, always pursued and often captured by wanton shepherds. “They’re all alike,” he murmured dolefully. “They desert the setting sun”—he touched his own withered chest—“for the rising sun,” and he pointed to the terrified Caligula. Then, turning to Nerva, he warned in a voice of iron, “Watch out for Macro when I am dead.”
“I know that he hates me,” replied Nerva calmly.
“Because you are wise . . . because you are good,” nodded the Emperor. “So, when I am gone . . . beware!”
“I have taken precautions, Caesar,” Nerva said drily, without so much as a glance in Caligula’s direction.
Tiberius drank deep from his cup, which a naked slave-girl leaned over to refill, then looked up as a timid young man, dressed in the tunic of boyhood, his eyes downcast, entered the room.
“My child,” the old Emperor called out. “Tiberius Gemellus . . . flesh of my flesh . . . my own grandson. My last grandson. Come kiss your old grandfather!”
Caligula’s neck-hairs bristled at the sight of the adolescent boy, and his eyes narrowed in hate.
“But I am your grandson, too,” he protested, half-rising from his couch.
“Only by adoption,” Tiberius replied coldly. “By Fate’s decree.” Pulling the slender boy close, he kissed Gemellus affectionately. “This is the last of my line. Oh, lovely boy! What, what will become of you?”
I’d like to show you right now what will become of him, you old bastard, thought Caligula, mad with jealousy. His fingers itched for the hilt of his dagger, and in his mind’s eye he could see the miserable brat’s heartsblood staining his pretty white tunic.
Caligula forced a smile. “He is like a brother to me, Lord,” he said softly.
But Tiberius was not to be fooled. Besides, the old man
“Brutus. The tyrant-killer,” snarled Carnalus, in all the voice he could muster.
“That’s treason!” cried Caligula, half-rising from his couch.
“I know, I know,” Tiberius sighed gently, waving Caligula back down again. “You see how I must live?” He cast his Imperial eyes upward to the gods, as if beseeching heavenly acknowledgement of his plight. “Surrounded by bitterness, no matter what I do. No matter how good my actions.” He called to one of his slaves. “Flies for the snake.”
“Then kill me,” demanded Carnalus weakly. “Now!”
“Are you not pleased with life?” Tiberius asked mildly.
A golden plate appeared, embossed with mythological creatures. On it were six or seven dead flies, bluebottles. The Emperor’s snake liked bluebottles best.
“Thank you,” purred Tiberius. He fed the flies one by one to his pet. “You’re hungry, aren’t you, darling?” he cooed.
“How can anybody be pleased with life under your bloody tyranny?” Carnalus muttered.
“Lord,” cried Caligula eagerly, drawing his dagger. “Let me cut his tongue out!”
But Tiberius shook his Imperial head. “No, no. I have guaranteed freedom of speech . . . given my solemn word . . .” He made kissing noises at the snake.
“Kill me, now!” howled Carnalus.
Tiberius’ eyes widened. “Kill you? My dear Carnalus, how can I? We are not yet friends.” He smiled and waved a hand at the jailer, who ordered the German slaves to cart off the tortured prisoner.
“I remember when Macro arrested him,” Caligula said, eager to put in his two coins’ worth.
“Macro is your friend, isn’t he?” asked Tiberius sweetly.
Caligula had been reaching into a silver saltcellar when Tiberius spoke. Nervous, he scattered grains of salt with his shaking hand. An ill omen, curse it! “Lord . . .” he stammered, “he serves . . . you and only you.”
Tiberius looked at the ceiling, where painted nymphs wandered naked through Arcady, always pursued and often captured by wanton shepherds. “They’re all alike,” he murmured dolefully. “They desert the setting sun”—he touched his own withered chest—“for the rising sun,” and he pointed to the terrified Caligula. Then, turning to Nerva, he warned in a voice of iron, “Watch out for Macro when I am dead.”
“I know that he hates me,” replied Nerva calmly.
“Because you are wise . . . because you are good,” nodded the Emperor. “So, when I am gone . . . beware!”
“I have taken precautions, Caesar,” Nerva said drily, without so much as a glance in Caligula’s direction.
Tiberius drank deep from his cup, which a naked slave-girl leaned over to refill, then looked up as a timid young man, dressed in the tunic of boyhood, his eyes downcast, entered the room.
“My child,” the old Emperor called out. “Tiberius Gemellus . . . flesh of my flesh . . . my own grandson. My last grandson. Come kiss your old grandfather!”
Caligula’s neck-hairs bristled at the sight of the adolescent boy, and his eyes narrowed in hate.
“But I am your grandson, too,” he protested, half-rising from his couch.
“Only by adoption,” Tiberius replied coldly. “By Fate’s decree.” Pulling the slender boy close, he kissed Gemellus affectionately. “This is the last of my line. Oh, lovely boy! What, what will become of you?”
I’d like to show you right now what will become of him, you old bastard, thought Caligula, mad with jealousy. His fingers itched for the hilt of his dagger, and in his mind’s eye he could see the miserable brat’s heartsblood staining his pretty white tunic.
Caligula forced a smile. “He is like a brother to me, Lord,” he said softly.
But Tiberius was not to be fooled. Besides, the old man
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