By way of a souvenir, Tiberius, whom he murdered, had left him the immensity of his treasure.  “I must be economical or Caesar,” Caligula reflected, and tipped a coachman a million, rained on the people a hail of coin, bathed in essences, set before his guests loaves of silver, gold omelettes, sausages of gems; sailed to the hum of harps on a ship that had porticoes, gardens, baths, bowers, spangled sails and a jewelled prow; removed a mountain, and put a palace where it had been; filled in a valley and erected a temple on the top; supplied a horse with a marble home, with ivory stalls, with furniture and slaves; contemplated making him consul; made him a host instead, one that in his own equine name invited the fashion of Rome to sup with Incitatus.

In one year Tiberius’ legacy, a sum that amounted to four hundred million of our money, was spent.  Caligula had achieved the impossible; he was a bankrupt god, an emperor without a copper.  But the very splendor of that triumph demanded a climax.  If Caligula hesitated, no one knew it.  On the morrow the palace of the Caesars was turned into a lupanar, a little larger, a little handsomer than the others, but still a brothel, one of which the inmates were matrons of Rome and the keeper Jupiter Latialis.

After that, seemingly, there was nothing save apotheosis.  But Caligula, in the nick of time, remembered the ocean.  At the head of an army he crossed Gaul, attacked it, and returned refreshed.  Decidedly he had not exhausted everything yet.  He recalled Tiberius’ policy, and abruptly the world was filled again with accusers and accused.  Gold poured in on him, the earth paid him tribute.  In a vast hall he danced naked on the wealth of nations.  Once more he was rich, richer than ever; there were still illusions to be looted, other dreams to be pierced; yet, even as he mused, conspirators were abroad.  He loosed his pretorians.  “Had Rome but one head!” he muttered.  “Let them feel themselves die,” he cried to his officers.  “Let me be hated, but let me be feared.”

One day, as he was returning from the theatre, the dagger did its usual work.  Rome had lost a genius; in his place there came an ass.

There is a verse in Greek to the effect that the blessed have children in three months.  Livia and Augustus were blessed in this pleasant fashion.  Three months after their marriage a child was born—­a miracle which surprised no one aware of their previous intimacy.  The child became a man, and the father of Claud, an imbecile whom the pretorians, after Caligula’s death, found in a closet, shaking with fright, and whom for their own protection they made emperor in his stead.