was a mantle sewn with gems; beneath was a tunic, and on his feet
were the high white slippers that women wore. But when the god
came the costume changed. One day he was Apollo, the nimbus on his
curls, the Graces at his side; the next he was Mercury, wings at
his heels, the caduceus in his hand; again he was Venus. But it
was as Jupiter Latialis, armed with the thunderbolt and decorated
with a great gold beard, that he appeared at his best.

The role was very real to him. After the fashion of Olympians he
became frankly incestuous, seducing vestals, his sisters too, and
gaining in boldness with each metamorphosis, he menaced the
Capitoline Jove. "Prove your power," he cried to him, "or fear my
own!" He thundered at him with machine-made thunder, with
lightning that flashed from a pan. "Kill me," he shouted, "or I
will kill you!" Jove, unmoved, must have moved his assailant, for
presently Caligula lowered his voice, whispered in the old god's
ear, questioned him, meditated on his answer, grew perplexed,
violent again, and threatened to send him home.

These interviews humanized him. He forgot the moon and mingled
with men, inviting them to die. The invitation being invariably
accepted, he became a connoisseur in death, an artist in blood, a
ruler to whom cruelty was not merely an aid to government but an
individual pleasure, and therewith such a perfect lover, such a
charming host!

"Dear heart," he murmured to his mistress Pryallis, as she lay one
night in his arms, "I think I will have you tortured that you may
tell me why I love you so." But of that the girl saw no need. She
either knew the reason or invented one, for presently he added: