adored this game. It amused him to set his grandsons against each other, and the Emperor could feel Gemellus trembling in his embrace. The boy wasn’t fooled by Caligula’s honeyed words. He knew what Fate probably held in store for him.
“A brother, you say? A brother? You know what that means in our family,” Tiberius admonished Caligula. “Murder. Brother against brother. Father against son. One by one all have been swept away by Fate . . .”
“Not by Fate. By you, Tiberius,” said Nerva firmly.
“What?!” In sudden rage, Tiberius half-lifted himself from the dining couch. Then, recovering himself, he subsided. “Ah, yes . . . Nerva. Old friend.”
Nerva was the only one left in whom the Emperor could place any trust, and it was Nerva’s privilege, and Nerva’s alone, to speak his mind exactly as he saw fit. Nerva was the conscience of the Empire.
Addressing himself to the Senator, Tiberius explained, “If I have had cause to remove from this world any member of my family, it is because he turned upon me and that is blasphemy, for I am the chosen instrument of Fate upon this earth. Challenge me and you challenge heaven itself.”
“You are not God, Tiberius,” answered Nerva sternly.
Caligula drew in a deep breath. To speak to Tiberius like this! Nerva must be mad! Why, if he, Caligula, uttered but one syllable of any of this, the Emperor would have him beaten half to death and dragged to a cliff, there to be flung to the rocks below.
“Not yet, anyway,” continued Nerva. “Besides,” he added drily, “you don’t believe in Heaven.”
Tiberius smiled pleasantly. “You’re right. I don’t. I was overstating my case. A fault, I agree. But I have been given the absolute power of life and of death. Until I myself die.” Pulling Tiberius Gemellus to him, he began to stroke his grandson’s hair.
“Poor boy,” he murmured, tears forming in his eyes, “when I am gone, Caligula will kill you.”
“No, I swear . . .” protested Caligula, enjoying the alarm in Gemellus’ face.
“But then,” said Tiberius with a slow smile, “someone will kill Caligula.”
Caligula ground his teeth. He could say nothing. He pushed the dish of candied fruit away. He had lost his appetite.
Nerva lay in the tepid water, drowsy, totally relaxed. Glancing around him at the elaborate bathroom, he smiled to himself. Such vulgarity. Back home, in his house in Rome, the bathroom was everything the noble Roman’s bath should be. Small. Modest. Clean. Handsome tiles with a simple design. A tub only large enough to contain a human being and enough water to get him clean. But here . . . this bathroom was as large as the antechamber to the Senate. The floor was an intricate mosaic, a pattern so sexually gross that Nerva could never bring himself to look down. The dado around the ceiling showed putti —little cupids—performing intimate services for naked courtesans. Here one little bare-assed Eros was powdering his lady’s cunt-hairs; there another was rouging her nipples. Nerva sighed. He always felt so out of place in this bathroom Tiberius had assigned to his exclusive use. The red marble bathtub was the worst. It was enormous, big enough to stage a nauma-chia, or mock sea battle. Many gallons of water were needed to fill it, all so that one man could have a bath. How wasteful . . .
Peace was beginning to enter Nerva’s body, a long, restful peace. He smiled gently, watching the bath water turn slowly from pink to red as the blood flowed out of his slit wrists.
Nerva was committing suicide in the traditional manner of patrician Romans, by opening his veins in a warm bath.
The two slaves who attended him wept in despair. “Please, master, don’t leave us!” sobbed the elder of the two.
Nerva rested his head against the edge of the tiled tub. “Be happy for me. I am exchanging a prison for a . . .”
The tall, forbidding figure of Tiberius loomed suddenly in the doorway. Behind him came his shadow,
“A brother, you say? A brother? You know what that means in our family,” Tiberius admonished Caligula. “Murder. Brother against brother. Father against son. One by one all have been swept away by Fate . . .”
“Not by Fate. By you, Tiberius,” said Nerva firmly.
“What?!” In sudden rage, Tiberius half-lifted himself from the dining couch. Then, recovering himself, he subsided. “Ah, yes . . . Nerva. Old friend.”
Nerva was the only one left in whom the Emperor could place any trust, and it was Nerva’s privilege, and Nerva’s alone, to speak his mind exactly as he saw fit. Nerva was the conscience of the Empire.
Addressing himself to the Senator, Tiberius explained, “If I have had cause to remove from this world any member of my family, it is because he turned upon me and that is blasphemy, for I am the chosen instrument of Fate upon this earth. Challenge me and you challenge heaven itself.”
“You are not God, Tiberius,” answered Nerva sternly.
Caligula drew in a deep breath. To speak to Tiberius like this! Nerva must be mad! Why, if he, Caligula, uttered but one syllable of any of this, the Emperor would have him beaten half to death and dragged to a cliff, there to be flung to the rocks below.
“Not yet, anyway,” continued Nerva. “Besides,” he added drily, “you don’t believe in Heaven.”
Tiberius smiled pleasantly. “You’re right. I don’t. I was overstating my case. A fault, I agree. But I have been given the absolute power of life and of death. Until I myself die.” Pulling Tiberius Gemellus to him, he began to stroke his grandson’s hair.
“Poor boy,” he murmured, tears forming in his eyes, “when I am gone, Caligula will kill you.”
“No, I swear . . .” protested Caligula, enjoying the alarm in Gemellus’ face.
“But then,” said Tiberius with a slow smile, “someone will kill Caligula.”
Caligula ground his teeth. He could say nothing. He pushed the dish of candied fruit away. He had lost his appetite.
Nerva lay in the tepid water, drowsy, totally relaxed. Glancing around him at the elaborate bathroom, he smiled to himself. Such vulgarity. Back home, in his house in Rome, the bathroom was everything the noble Roman’s bath should be. Small. Modest. Clean. Handsome tiles with a simple design. A tub only large enough to contain a human being and enough water to get him clean. But here . . . this bathroom was as large as the antechamber to the Senate. The floor was an intricate mosaic, a pattern so sexually gross that Nerva could never bring himself to look down. The dado around the ceiling showed putti —little cupids—performing intimate services for naked courtesans. Here one little bare-assed Eros was powdering his lady’s cunt-hairs; there another was rouging her nipples. Nerva sighed. He always felt so out of place in this bathroom Tiberius had assigned to his exclusive use. The red marble bathtub was the worst. It was enormous, big enough to stage a nauma-chia, or mock sea battle. Many gallons of water were needed to fill it, all so that one man could have a bath. How wasteful . . .
Peace was beginning to enter Nerva’s body, a long, restful peace. He smiled gently, watching the bath water turn slowly from pink to red as the blood flowed out of his slit wrists.
Nerva was committing suicide in the traditional manner of patrician Romans, by opening his veins in a warm bath.
The two slaves who attended him wept in despair. “Please, master, don’t leave us!” sobbed the elder of the two.
Nerva rested his head against the edge of the tiled tub. “Be happy for me. I am exchanging a prison for a . . .”
The tall, forbidding figure of Tiberius loomed suddenly in the doorway. Behind him came his shadow,
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