C. Cæsar Caligula, son of Germanicus and Agrippina, being left an orphan at an early age, passed under the guardianship of his grand–uncle Tiberius, who adopted and declared him his successor. In this critical situation he profited so well by the admirable example of duplicity ever before him, that neither the destruction of his nearest relations, nor even the insults studiously offered to himself, drew from him a complaint, or interrupted his obsequious attentions to the reigning power. It was well said after his accession, in reference to this period, that there never was a better slave or a worse master. But cruelty and licentiousness showed themselves through this mask of milkiness; and the clear–sighted Tiberius, it is said, often predicted that Caligula would live for his own and all men’s perdition, and that he was cherishing a serpent against the Roman people, and a Phaeton against the whole world. If the speech be genuine, the emperor’s kind intentions towards others merited that he should be the first victim of his amiable pupil, and such was the case. At the close of his last illness, while he lay in a stupor which was supposed to be death, Macro, the favourite minister, proclaimed Caligula. But he revived—his courtiers slunk away from the new–made monarch, and Caligula in passive terror awaited the consequences of his precipitance, until Macro caused his reviving benefactor to be smothered under the bed–clothes.
The news of a change of masters was received with universal joy, partly from hatred to Tiberius, partly from love to the family of Germanicus; and the early conduct of the young prince was calculated to increase the general attachment. He honoured the ashes of his mother and brothers with a splendid funeral, remitted punishments, discharged all criminal proceedings, professed to have no ears for informers, watched over public morals and the administration of justice, and in all things assumed the semblance of a mild and conscientious monarch. But this affectation of popularity lasted no longer than the caprice or fear which produced it.
The extravagant folly of his nature broke out in the assumption of divinity. This was no new pretension; but he surpassed his predecessors in the extent and absurdity of his claims. He mutilated without remorse the products of Grecian art, by placing his own head upon the images of the gods, without regard either to the beauty or sanctity of the statues which he thus disfigured. He built a temple in his own honour, appointed priests, and laid down a ritual of sacrifice, including only those birds which were most esteemed by the epicures of the day. He assumed the title of Latian Jupiter, and completed the mummery by pretending to hold secret conferences with the Jupiter of the Capitol, in which he was heard threatening to send him back to Greece in disgrace; and was only mollified by the repeated entreaties of the father of gods and men, who invited him to share his own abode, the venerated Capitol.
The Jews of course did not acknowledge his divinity, which angered him exceedingly, insomuch that he issued an order to erect his own statue in the temple at Jerusalem. At the intercession of Agrippa this edict was recalled, but his anger against the nation still continued, and gave rise to a very curious scene. A deputation of Jews had gone to Rome in order to conduct a dispute between themselves and the Alexandrians. Caligula appointed the parties to come before him at a villa which he had ordered to be thrown open for his inspection. On the introduction of the Jews, “You,” he said, “are those fellows who think me no god, though I am acknowledged to be such by all men, and who confess none except that unpronounceable one of yours;” and raising his hands towards heaven, he uttered that word which it was not lawful to hear, far less to speak. The Jews were in despair, while their adversaries jumped and clapped their hands, and accumulated the epithets of all the gods on Caligula. One of them, to improve this advantage, said that the emperor would detest the Jews still more if he knew that they were the only people who had never sacrificed in his behalf. The Jews all exclaimed that it was false—that they had thrice offered hecatombs for his welfare. “Be it so,” he answered; “what then? You sacrificed to another, and not to me.” All this time he was running over the whole house, up and down stairs, and dragging the poor Jews after, who, besides being in mortal terror, were exposed to the ridicule of all the court. Presently he gave some orders about the building, and then turned to them and said gravely, “But why do you not eat pork?” This was another triumph for their adversaries, who burst into such immoderate laughter that the courtiers began to be shocked. The Jews answered, “that the habits of nations varied. Some persons,” they added, “do not eat lamb.” “They are right,” said the emperor, “it is a tasteless meat.” At last he said, rather angrily, “I should like to know on what plea you can justify your city;” and as they entered into a long speech, he ran over the house to give orders about the windows; then returning, he asked again what they had to say, and then, when they began their speech again, ran off to look at some pictures. Finally he sent them off, with the observation, “These are not such bad fellows after all, but they are great fools for not believing me to be a god.”[146]
No man ever spilt blood more lightly, with more refinement in cruelty, or with less excuse. He had no rivals to fear, no conspiracies to provoke him; but selfishness seemed to have stifled every humane feeling, and to have left him a prey to the guidance of his evil passions, unrestrained by that natural abhorrence of blood which few even of the worst entirely overcome. To relate one half of his atrocities would weary and disgust the reader: the few here given are selected to show how closely levity was mingled with brutality. He asked one who had been banished by Tiberius, how he employed himself in exile. “I besought the gods that Tiberius might perish, and you be emperor,” was the courtly reply. Thinking that those whom he had banished might be similarly employed, he sent persons around the islands of the Mediterranean, the abodes usually prescribed to those unhappy men, commissioned to put all to death. Cowardly as cruel, he was conscious that the prayer merited a hearing, and had superstition to fear, though not religion to venerate or obey. A civil officer of rank, resident for the sake of his health in Anticyra (an island of the Ægean Sea, celebrated for the growth of hellebore), requested the extension of his leave of absence. Caligula answered, “that blood–letting was necessary, where so long a course of hellebore had failed,” and sent at the same time an order for his execution. The joke, such as it is, appears to have been the only provocation to this act. Imperial wit need be brilliant if it is to be displayed at so high a price. It was his frequent order to the executioner, whose work he loved to superintend, “Strike so that he may feel himself die.” When, by a mistake of name, one man had suffered for another, he observed that both deserved alike; and here he probably stumbled upon a truth. One of his exclamations is notorious: “Oh that the Roman people had one neck!” In a similar spirit he lamented that his reign was distinguished by no public misfortunes—he should be forgotten in the prosperity of the age. It was a mistaken diffidence: he might have trusted in his own powers to avert such a misfortune. Another source of bloodshed was his profuse expenditure. Within a year he spent the treasure left by Tiberius, amounting to twenty–two millions sterling, and then supplied his extravagance by every species of extortion. He abrogated the wills of some, because of their ingratitude in not making his predecessor, or himself, their heir; those of others he annulled, because witnesses were found to say that they had meant to do so; and having thus frightened many into appointing him a legatee conjointly with their friends and relations, he said that they were laughing at him, to continue alive after making their wills, and sent poisoned dishes to many of them. And being thus callous, and boastfully indifferent to his subjects’ sufferings, he chose to affect horror when in the savage sports of the amphitheatre one gladiator killed five others, and published an edict to express his abhorrence at the cruelty of those who had endured such a sight.
One instance of his extortion we could pardon. After an exhibition of gladiators, he caused the survivors to be sold by auction. While so employed he observed that one Aponius was dozing in his seat, and turning to the auctioneer, desired him on no account to neglect the biddings of the gentleman who was nodding to him from the benches. Finally thirteen gladiators were knocked down to the unconscious bidder for near 73,000l. Among other equally honest and dignified ways of raising money, he sold in Gaul the jewels, servants, and other property, even the very children of his sisters; and he found this so profitable, that he sent to Rome for the old furniture of the palace, pressing all carriages, public and private, for its conveyance, to the great inconvenience and even distress of the capital. But the sale, we may suppose, went off dully, for the emperor complained loudly of his subjects’ avarice, who were not ashamed to be richer than himself, and affected sorrow at being compelled to alienate the imperial property.
The most ludicrous part of his life is the history of his wars. Being told that his Batavian guards wanted recruiting, he took a sudden whim to make a German campaign, and set out with such speed that he arrived at his head–quarters in Gaul before the troops could be entirely collected. He now assumed the character of a strict disciplinarian; broke those officers whom his own causeless hurry had made too late; and mingling a due attention to economy with his caprices, deprived 6000 veterans of the pensions due to them. He claimed the conquest of Britain, on the ground of receiving homage from an exiled prince of that island; and having sent a pompous account of this magnificent acquisition to the senate, he proceeded to the Rhine and even crossed it. While marching through a defile, he heard some one observe that the appearance of an enemy at that moment would cause no little confusion. The notion of war in earnest was too much for the descendant of Germanicus and Drusus. He mounted his horse, hurried to recross the river, and rather than wait until an obstructed bridge could be cleared, was passed from hand to hand over the heads of the crowd. Not finding, or rather not seeking a real enemy, he made some Germans of his own army conceal themselves in the forest, and while he was at table caused the approach of an enemy to be hurriedly announced. On this he rushed to horse, galloped with his companions and part of his guard into the next wood, erected a trophy in honour of his exploit, and quickly returned to censure the cowardice of those who had refused to share the danger of their prince. In a similar spirit he sent away some hostages privately, then led the hue and cry to overtake them, and brought them back in fetters as deserters. But his most brilliant exploit was that of giving battle to the ocean. He drew his troops up in line upon the sea–shore, ranged his artillery, machines for throwing large darts and stones, as if against an enemy, and then, while all were wondering what folly would come next, commanded the soldiers to fill their helmets and pockets with shells, calling them the spoils of the ocean, due to the Capitol and the palace. To celebrate this victory he built a lighthouse, and distributed a hundred denarii to every soldier; and then, as if he had surpassed all former instances of liberality, “Depart,” he said, “depart happy and rich.”
Such victories deserved a triumph, but there was some difficulty in procuring proper ornaments for the ostentatious ceremony: for his German victories had produced no prisoners, and it does not appear to have occurred to him that the ocean contained fish as well as shells. A live porpoise would have formed a novel and appropriate feature in the procession, and have done honour to his own prowess and to the majesty of the empire. To supply the deficiency he collected a number of Gauls, distinguished by their stature and personal advantages, caused them to let their hair grow, and to dye it red (the characteristics of the German race), and even to learn the German language, and to assume German names. Strange mixture of vanity with disregard of his own character and contempt of the public opinion! The slightest reflection must have shown the futility of these pretences, and the immeasurable littleness of his own behaviour. But so long as he had the pleasure of wearing his borrowed plumes, it seems to have mattered not that the world knew them to be borrowed. In a similar spirit he affected to wear the breast–plate of Alexander the Great. What bitterer satire could his worst enemy have devised?
The capricious variations of his temper exposed his associates to constant danger. At one time he loved company, at another solitude: sometimes the number of petitions made him angry, and sometimes the want of them. He undertook things in the greatest hurry, and executed them with sluggish neglect. To flatter, or to speak truth, was equally dangerous, for sometimes he was in a humour for one and sometimes for the other; so that those who had intercourse with him were equally at a loss what to do or say, and thanked fortune rather than prudence if they came off unhurt.
His private life was polluted by vice and intemperance of every description. Cowardly as cruel, the report of a rebellion among those Germans of whose conquest he boasted, terrified him into preparing a refuge in his transmarine dominions, lest, like the Cimbri of old, they should force a passage into Italy. At a clap of thunder he would close his eyes and cover his head, and in a heavy storm the Latian Jupiter used to run under the bed, to hide himself from his Capitoline brother. He usually slept but three hours in the night, and that not calmly, but agitated by strange visions: the rest he passed sitting upon the bed, or traversing extensive colonnades, impatiently calling for the return of day. Justice began the work of retribution early, and he who troubled the rest of all others was unable to find quiet for himself. Among his other extraordinary qualities was a most insane jealousy of the slightest advantages enjoyed by others. He overthrew the statues of eminent men erected by Augustus in the field of Mars, and forbade them to be erected to any one in future except with his express permission. He even thought of not allowing Homer to be read: “Why not I, as well as Plato, who expelled that poet from his republic?” and talked of weeding all libraries of the writings and images of Virgil and Livy. This folly he carried even to envying the personal qualifications of his subjects, and being bald himself, he sent the barber abroad to shave every good head of hair that came in his way.