The Triple Goddess

by Ashly Graham

  The panellists held a brief but animated discussion in whispers, following which Pealiker dismissed Bonvilian so that he and his colleagues could draft their report for the eyes only of Herm Feingold 7930A at the Department of Operations. Notwithstanding their continuing incomprehension of what 4285N had been talking about, if indeed he had been talking about anything, the experts were expert in writing the sort of prose conveying the impression that they had got their heads around whatever it might have been. All were convinced that Bonvilian was more than capable of advancing Central’s long-term agenda, whatever that might be, at any of the number of nago departments that he might be suited for...the nagos being the Non-Autonomous Government Organizations that had replaced quangos, the former QUasi-Autonomous Non-Governmental Organizations that had all been subsumed by State.

  And so the Exeat Institute was founded, with Hugo Bonvilian as its first Director. In recognition of his new status, he was inducted as the youngest ever member of the J Class, an unprecedented four-letter jump that made him the envy of everyone outside of Central who was alphanumerically senior to him, and not a few within. Already it was being mooted that, if he succeeded at whatever it was that he would be doing, or rather, succeeded in convincing State that he had succeeded in doing something important, he might be a candidate for C Class, which would entitle him to enter Central’s hallowed halls and enjoy privileges that the rest of civilization could only dream about, and participate in the sort of sanctioned frivolities at Central’s Rest-and-Relaxation resorts that would induce cardiac arrhythmia in the young man of today.

  Whereupon, spurning the rats, mice, monkeys, cats, dogs, frogs, pigs, and turtles…and, of course, guinea-pigs…that he could have commanded any number of, depleting every kennel and cattery if necessary, to use in his medical experiments, and with the cooperation of Mort K. Deaver 2071C, Central’s Human Synthesizing Officer, Hugo Bonvilian set about assembling a stable of lower-echelon beings, upon whom to continue his research into the molecular, et cetera, components of life.

  Director 4285J had no friends or relationships, platonic or otherwise. His emotional needs, from the moment he saw her, were satisfied and unsatisfied exclusively by his fixation upon Sister Gloria Mundy 2042M. The Exeat’s antiseptic environment was not conducive to seduction, and despite the proximity of numerous female nurses and libidinous lab technicians, Bonvilian never stooped to conquer or assert his droit de seigneur. The limited contact he had with his staff was cool and professional. It could have been different; but although some were attracted by his power, and aura of cruelty, and maladroit boyishness, or turned on by the idea of making a conquest of the head of the Exeat Institute, even when he understood their flirtatious signals he had no clue of how to respond to them. If charm and entertaining conversation were latent in his character, they were suppressed; and because he seemed impervious to their personal advances, women assumed that, for whatever reason, they were not his type, or despised, or he was gay.

  Instead of willing one-night stands, or regular partners, the females became private critics of the boss’s professional intensity, and made private fun of his polymathic knowledge. As a result, the only action 4285J got was a badly synchronized embrace with an off-duty orderly, a male whose sex he had failed to diagnose in the dark, who pulled him into a broom closet.

  Bonvilian never emerged from the bubble of his work. As he made selections from a gleaming canteen of surgical instruments, and dug into his Impatients as if he were attacking a Sunday roast with a carving knife, he behaved as if any sense of humanity that he might have had was numbed or cauterized. His work ethic, which so atrophied his personal life, impressed the Department of Operations as it monitored his progress, conducted his debriefing sessions, assessed his growing organizational skills, and noted the confident manner with which he asserted his authority. Its confidence in him was justified, decided Feingold 7930A, and the right decision had been made: great things were expected of 4285J, and soon.

  Thus empowered, the Exeat’s young Director began to conceive of a 4285ean empire modelled on that of Ancient Rome.

  Bonvilian loved the whole ethos of Ancient Rome: its black and white system of edicts, codexes and codes; its civil laws; its strict social distinctions; and above all, the exaltation of the military and the unbounded appetite to conquer, subjugate, and possess by means of swift and ruthless warfare. He was thrilled by reading about the politicking in the Senate, about the intrigues amongst the Emperors’ families, and the belief in an Imperial power so absolute that it accepted as genuine and legally valid the conferral, even the assumption, of divinity upon the ruler.

  Everything about the Romans was wonderful: the way they constructed their roads, for example: dead straight. He admired not just that they built them so, but the mindset that refused to accept they should be anything but true; that when maximum speed was the object, it made no sense to meander on the way from starting-point A to destination B. It was an imposition of human supremacy over nature, of order upon chaos. Viewed in a modern context, the Romans behaved just like Central, and if Stölwiesel had taught Bonvilian anything it was that history repeated itself; which, if one excluded the withdrawal from Britain in AD 410, and set aside Edward Gibbon’s nugatory blitherings, was a slam-dunk success story.

  How noble and glorious was the panoply of the Roman style of waging war, compared with the furtive ambushes of Britons emerging from dark wilderness holes. Why, even such domestic heroes as Alfred the Great, son of Ethelwulf—Bonvilian joked to himself that his parents were named Wulf and Ethel, and that Ethel had failed to instil in mummy’s boy, Al, the principles of cookery, which led to the famous, though likely spurious, incident in which, while pondering how it was that the Viking Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar Hairybreeks, was booting Al around the country, he let the cakes or loaves burn that the Athelney swineherd’s wife had charged him with keeping an eye on; and Hereward the Wake, wild-haired and dirty, was reduced to disguising himself and skulking in the marshes and East Anglian fens.

  The Romans marched erect and proud, regulating even the rhythm of their steps along such state-of-the-art roads as Watling and Ermine Streets, and the Fosse Way; routes that were still being followed by motorways a thousand years later.

  The construction of these roads was a metaphor for the building of Empire. After the surveying and sightings had taken place, the forests were cleared, streams diverted, and large rocks and outcrops were removed or cut through. Then came the ditching and raising of the agger, or embankment. Materials for the road varied according to what was available locally, such as volcanic tufa and iron slag, and whatever else might be dug from the agger’s trench. Big stones were placed at the bottom, followed by layers of pebbles, well-rammed sand, and gravel and cement mixed with broken tiles. On this base were laid the tightly wedged pavers, which were cambered and kerbed to allow water to run into drainage channels.

  The Roman Nobiles and Equites knew how to relax as well as fight, and build roads. They took exercise and personal hygiene seriously, cleansing their bodies at public baths. Their homes and villas had central heating and piped hot water. In such a male-oriented society where the focus was always on politics, war, and territorial expansion, women occupied such a subordinate role as to be almost invisible. They could be divorced at whim by their husbands: if the spaghetti sauce was cold at dinner, all the master of the house had to do was shout, “I divorce you!” three times at his spouse in the presence of a servant witness, and the business was done without the involvement of lawyers, or division of community property, or obligation to pay alimony.

  Bonvilian was fascinated by how this contrasted with the customs of the chivalric era, when a mediaeval knight was expected to be versed in the art of gentle conversation, as well as proficient in the lists with lance and glaive. Before participating in these martial displays he would pay court to his lady, in hope of winning her favour, a ribbon or glove, to wear in his helmet.

  Being anxious both to a
ssert his manhood and display a romantic disposition, 4285J contemplated using Ancient Rome as his template for success, blending its laws and harsh practices with the gentler customs of the Middle Ages...and in his dreams he imagined himself recast as the Emperor—a Dictatorate seemed insufficiently grand—Gorgeus Georgius Villian Tiberius Caesar Britannicus.

  To rid himself of potential rivals, G.G. Villian arranged for all the Senators to be poisoned, stabbed, strangled, exiled, or ostracized. He disbanded and outlawed the Citizen Assemblies, eliminated the elected classes of Plebeian Aediles and Tribunes, demoted everyone to the Slave class, and revoked the eligibility for being granted one’s freedom.

  Gorgeus Georgius’ system of governance was headed by two Consuls. To ensure their loyalty he had their families taken into custody, with the assurance that in the event of their plotting a coup, or causing injury to be done upon his person, they would be tortured and killed; or, if he was in a good mood, and had sustained only a few cuts and bruises, enrolled as Gladiators. There were six Praetors in charge of discipline, a quantity of Quaestors or administrative assistants, and two Censors whose duty it was to oversee and control citizen activities.

  G.G. also appointed a former Master of the Horse to coach him in the equestrian and warring arts.

  Villian aspired to greatness not only between the covers of the history books, but those of his bed as well. He commissioned Quintus Horatius Flaccus, a.k.a. Horace, to write verses for setting to music by the Emperor’s favourite composer: himself. With these lines he planned to serenade that fairest of maidens and the toast of Rome, one Gloria Mundi, on whom he had been keeping both his eyes since first he clapped them on her one festival day.

  Festival and feast days were when the people let their hair down—except for the men, who did not wear it long but were disposed to enjoy themselves anyway—and it was Villian’s habit to mingle anonymously with his people; which meant, perforce, being disguised as a woman in a wig. He spent a lot of time in front of the eagle-topped mirror in his bedroom experimenting with eye-shadow and lipstick, and different styles of wig. And, having absolutely not a shred to wear, darling, he spent a lot of time selecting dresses from those he caused to be brought before him; and there were many. No one was surprised, because G.G. was known for liking to wear women’s clothing about the palace.

  The first festival of the year was Lupercalia, when, in celebration of the arrival of Spring, young men pranced through the streets wearing goat skins, strips of which they used to strike the girls as a means of promoting their fertility. Another poet, Ovid, who was a younger contemporary of Horace, had some words of advice for the women regarding this flagellation: “Neither potent herbs nor prayers, nor magic spells shall make of thee a mother. Submit with patience to the blows dealt by a fruitful hand.”

  During the next festival, Floralia, which featured the city’s prostitutes, the people wore colourful clothes instead of the customary white. At the last such event on the calendar, Saturnalia, which was similar to Christmas and everybody’s favourite, the social order was inverted for the seven days that it lasted, and the ruling classes were required to wait on their slaves and serve them at dinner.

  Gorgeus Georgius took great pains over delivering his Horatian odes. Accompanied by a minstrel on a palfrey and carrying his lyre, he rode bareback on a black Arab stallion to Gloria’s family home, to croon the words from wax tablets that he paid two full-time scribes to prepare for him, in extra-large print so that he could read them in fading light…evenings being the textbook time for delivering such adulatory items…and because it was difficult to hold them still when the beast was skittish.

  Though Gorgeus, preux chevalier, boasted about his horse, he was afraid of him: the handsome, highly strung, stallion was called Fractius Staminus, and he had an impeccable pedigree, being out of Livia sired by Incitatus, the animal whom Tiberius put up for the Senate. G.G. had Ben-Hur’s uncle recommend an equine psychologist who might be able to calm him down; the therapy seemed to be working well, until Fractius decided that he was not in the mood for another session, and trampled the doctor to death in the stable where he was trying to induce the horse to lie down on the king-sized mattress that served as a couch for patients during consulting sessions.

  The treatment took the edge off the horse’s angry temper for a while, however, and the Emperor, attired in the purple toga that had his and Gloria’s names, intertwined, embroidered upon it in gold thread, looked magnificent...even if he said so himself, which he did, and there was nobody who dared to argue with him...perched atop Fractius Staminus’s mountain of curried muscle. A statue of Gorgeus mounted, with his body listing to one side, was a feature of the Forum, until someone knocked his head off and glued it to the non-capital end of the animal; whereupon the statue was removed.

  Many a time and oft the priapic suitor, a little inconvenienced by the pommel on his saddle as he got closer to his beloved, rode through the gardens of Gloria Mundi’s villa, along the tree-lined paths of magnolia and eucalyptus, carob, jujube, pepper and pomegranate, to position himself on the arboured terrace beneath the balcony outside Gloria’s chamber.

  There the object of his affection, her loose hair freshly brushed by her maid, was drawn from her bower in her nightgown by the strumming of the minstrel’s lyre. As she emerged onto the balcony, the night scents of honeysuckle, heliotrope, orange and citrus blossom, lily, daphne, rose, freesia, gardenia, oleander, acacia, wild thyme, frangipani, jasmine, night-blooming jessamine, syringa, white pink, verbena, and stock, combined to ghastly effect with the smell of Gorgeus’ presentation bouquet of lily of the valley and lavender, and his Aqua Velva aftershave lotion.

  While Gloria and her maid held handkerchiefs to their mouths, and took as few breaths as possible, Villian’s breast swelled with emotion as he observed the paleness in his lady love’s cheek, and took it, correctly, to be a faintness brought on by his presence. Encouraged, G.G. hauled at the reins to rear his mount—who obliged in hope that his passenger might slide off his back so he could treat him to the same medicine as he had the doctor, forgetting that the Emperor had taken the precaution of having himself tied on with stout cord—plucked a tablet from his bosom, the wax of which was slightly melted from an understandable heatedness, gazed passionately at Gloria, and sang:

  ‘Until the light fades from my eyes

  As I die with my sword in my hands

  And your lovely name upon my lips,

  I will love you

  As I have never loved

  Many other lovely women for their loveliness.’

  The great poet Horace, Georgius felt, had never before produced such daedal lines, and he resolved to recognize his efforts by awarding him an annuity. A small one only, for the arranging of such entertainment did not come cheap. The best scribes charged a flat rate of twenty-five denarii communes per hundred lines; and, despite the substantial output demanded of them, they refused to give G.G. a discount, on account of the expense of the diamond-tipped styluses that they insisted on using, because they made the clearest cut, and the oversize letters.

  The minstrel, Stephanus Grappellus, was also a disciple of Mammon, or Dis Pater as he was called in the Ancient Roman tradition. Grapellus insisted on payment in advance of a fee that was in Villian’s opinion exorbitant, considering his failure to do justice to the lyrics he composed himself; and he positively mangled G.G.’s favourite Horatian poem, set to music by the supplicant and entitled “You and I were Born to Do It”. In the interludes when Grapellus performed solo, while the Emperor was anointing his tonsils with a special champagne-based spray in preparation for his next set, the minstrel demonstrated a very limited repertoire for one who maintained that he was in such demand, consisting of nothing more than a dumbed-down version of Chopsticks.

  When Stephanus Grapellus winked at Gloria, and opined that the Emperor’s light tenor reminded him of the strangulated sounds of an amorous alley cat, Gorgeus lost it, and ordered the mistrel’s entrails drag
ged through his nose in the Egyptian fashion of embalmment; except that in Stephanus Grapellus’ case he was alive during the procedure.

  Villian’s chief accountant M. Bezlianus totted up the project’s cost, and informed the august ruler that if Gloria did not give it up within six months, he would be compelled to start pink-slipping staff. Revenues from Gaul and the irksome Britannia had fallen off drastically, and the Imperial coffers were running low. One could keep a mistress for a year, Bezlianus said, on what it cost for a six-ounce bottle of the perfumed Phoenician oil and medium tube of ambergris cream that Villian’s slave slathered on his master’s depilated body, before he set off on each of his courting excursions.

  Though the unguents smelt suspiciously of cooking oil and floor wax, the merchant swore that the Phoeny stuff contained a potent pheromone from the glands of musk deer that grazed in the Gardens of the Hesperides, and carried an endorsement from Venus herself.

  And then there was Q. H. Flaccus, the immortal Horace. Horace had an exceedingly high opinion of his own talents, and was meanness itself when it came to negotiating prices for his compositions. When M. Bezlianus told him how much further the poetaster had upped his price one week, Villian ordered his chief accountant to cancel, deep-six, ice, and kill the pension that he had previously hinted to the poet he might confer upon him in recognition of his genius.