Sword and Sandal

by Roland Graeme

  Sword and Sandal

  by

  Roland Graeme

  Copyright © 2015 Roland Graeme

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  Published by Roland Graeme

  Cover design by Muzio Scaevola

  Table of Contents

  Introduction: The Brave Gladiator

  Chapter One: A Birthday Celebration

  Chapter Two: My Workout Buddy

  Chapter Three: A Lube Job

  Chapter Four: A Photo Op

  Chapter Five: I Meet and Worship One of My Idols

  Chapter Six: My First “Acting” Job

  Chapter Seven: Porn Pioneers

  Chapter Eight: Muscles in the Movies

  Chapter Nine: The Whore of Babylon

  Chapter Ten: My Married Man

  Chapter Eleven: I, a Roman

  Chapter Twelve: A Reencounter with an Old Friend

  Also by Roland Graeme

  Introduction: The Brave Gladiator

  by Roland Graeme

  This story isn’t about me, although I played a small part in it.

  I met Gino D’Agostino, who was better known to the world as Gene Dagaust, under quite ordinary circumstances.

  I’d moved into a new apartment building. Built in the 1920s, as a hotel, the building took up an entire city block. There was a comforting massiveness and solidity about the structure. On the outside, it was a red brick fortress.

  Inside, on each floor, broad carpeted hallways separated the apartments. The thick concrete interior walls ensured quiet. The apartments had tall ceilings—ten feet high—and huge expanses of windows, overlooking the city.

  After I signed my lease and moved in, it didn’t take me long to get settled in, and comfortable. As a part-time, free-lance writer, I appreciated the quiet, and the privacy. My apartment was like a cocoon, in which I felt isolated and protected, insulated against the outside world.

  While coming and going, of course, I ran into a few of my neighbors, with whom I soon established nodding acquaintances.

  One afternoon, I came home from work. In the apartment building’s lobby, I went to my mailbox to get my mail.

  There was a seating area in the lobby, with a sofa, two matching armchairs, a coffee table, and two end tables. The space was a carryover from the days when the building was a hotel. Now, it was a nice area in which to sit down and socialize with one’s fellow tenants. (Or to entertain visitors, if your apartment happened to be untidy, and you didn’t want your friends to see what a lousy housekeeper you were!)

  A man was seated in one of the armchairs.

  I noticed that he was bundled up in a jacket, as though he’d just come in from outdoors, and that he had two plastic bags filled with groceries set on down the floor beside him. None of this was at all unusual. What attracted my attention was the fact that he was bent over in the chair, with his head bowed, and that he seemed to be breathing loudly, and with some difficulty.

  I approached him. “Hi,” I said, tentatively.

  “Hello there, yourself,” he responded—quite brightly and energetically. When he raised his head, I saw that he had extraordinary light blue eyes—which were now scrutinizing me.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I’m old,” he replied, with an indescribably droll inflection. “Take my advice, my boy. Stay the way you are, if you can. Don’t get old. It’s a pain in the ass!”

  “Can I do anything to help you?”

  “No, thank you. I’m just catching my breath, before I head for the elevator.” He continued to look at me, and he smiled. “Oh, you are young,” he said. “You’re just a kid.”

  “Not quite,” I insisted. “Appearances can be deceiving. I’ve been around the block a few times.”

  “Have you? Good for you. Say, have you lived here long?”

  “No, I’ve just moved in.”

  “Do you like it here?”

  “So far, yes, I do.”

  “So do I. I’ve lived here forever. I’m a fixture, as they say.”

  “My name’s Roland Graeme,” I volunteered.

  “And I’m Gino. Gino D’Agostino.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too. Someone who’s young and vigorous, for a change. Instead of a bunch of old fuddy-duddies.”

  His handshake was firm. He wasn’t a young man, of course—I could see that much, as he sat there. But he was still, undeniably, spry. He had a certain vigor and athleticism about him, despite his age. He had longish, snow-white hair, and a matching mustache and closely-trimmed beard. His eyes, as I’ve mentioned, were very blue, and most expressive. He had a wonderfully clear complexion, slightly olive-toned, with only a few lines etched around the corners of his eyes and his mouth.

  I estimated his age as around sixty—and an exceptionally well-preserved sixty at that, I decided. (Little did I know, then, that at the time he was in fact all of seventy-eight years of age! He certainly didn’t look it.)

  Something about him stirred vague memories within me.

  “You look so familiar to me,” I said. “Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “There’s something about your face—”

  “It’s an ordinary face,” he insisted, dismissively. “Generic Italian-American. They stamp them out with a cookie-cutter where I come from. Which is New Jersey, originally,” he added.

  “Still … I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere, before.”

  “Nowhere respectable, I’m sure,” he quipped. He took a deep breath. “Well, I’d better stir my stumps and head toward the elevator,” he added.

  “Can I help you? I mean, carry your things upstairs for you, or—?”

  “All appearances to the contrary, I’m not a goddamn invalid, you know,” he protested. “It’s this fucking knee of mine. It goes out on me, sometimes. That’s all. And then I have to sit down, and rest. Wait for it to stop throbbing and snap back into place. It always does. Eventually.”

  “Maybe I can carry your bags for you,” I suggested.

  “Knock yourself out, kiddo,” he said—again, with that droll inflection, which I subsequently learned was characteristic of him. “I won’t say no,” he added, more graciously. “Especially since you seem to be the physically active type. Thank you, very much.”

  “It’s nothing,” I assured him.

  We went to the elevator. He was on the floor above mine, as it turned out.

  “I’m taking you out of your way,” he protested, as the car went up.

  “Nonsense. I’m in no hurry.”

  “Do you drink coffee?”

  “Yeah. In fact, I’m a bit of a caffeine addict.”

  “How interesting. So am I. I’ll make us some, if you like.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble—”

  “It’s no trouble at all. I always need coffee, the minute I get home. You may as well join me. Actually, since you’ve been so nice to me, I insist on it.”

  “Oh? Then, in that case, I will. I’m easily persuaded, as you see.”

  “Are you? Good. I’ve always liked that quality, in a man.”

  He unlocked his door, and with a gracious, sweeping gesture, he invited me to precede him into his apartment.

  “Sit,” he told me, succinctly. “Relax.” Taking the bags of groceries from me, he excused himself and went into the k
itchen. “I recommend the couch,” he called, from the other room.

  Taking his advice, I seated myself on the couch. The leather upholstery was scuffed and scarred in spots, and the cushion yielded beneath my weight. I looked around the living room.

  It was obvious that he’d lived there for some time. The place had that cluttered, comfortable, slightly dusty look, typical of a single man’s living quarters. The furnishings were obviously of good quality, but many of them looked old and a bit the worse for wear. At first, there seemed be nothing in the apartment which provided a clue about the identity or the personality of its occupant. But then something by the living room windows caught my eye.

  It was a tall, open shelving system, occupying the space between the windows. The vertical supports were polished metal, and the shelves themselves were long rectangular pieces of thick clear glass. The lower shelves held books, but the upper ones were devoted to a display of colorful glass figurines. All of them were animals, with fish and birds predominating, although I saw a horse and a bull among the other members of this glass menagerie.

  The curtains were drawn back from the windows, and the late afternoon sunlight came into the room and caught the glass pieces, making the little creatures glow in rainbow hues.

  Next, I saw, hung on one wall, which it dominated, a framed poster.

  It was huge—the poster itself probably measured about seven feet by five feet, and it was matted and framed, which added to its overall dimensions. The sunlight hadn’t penetrated as far as this wall, which was in shadow. As a result, and from where I sat, I couldn’t quite make out the image. But it looked like some sort of a movie poster. It had lettering of various sizes printed on it. Against the background, which was among the details which I couldn’t distinguish, a large figure did stand out.

  This was a muscular and nearly nude man, posed in an aggressive stance with his legs spread, his head held high, and his arms—which held a small round shield and a sword, respectively—raised in a defensive posture. The few bits of clothing on his impressive physique made him look like an ancient Roman gladiator, to my way of thinking.

  I was about to get up and cross the room, to get a better look at the poster, when my host rejoined me, carrying a tray, which he set down in front of me on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

  “I’ve brought out the good china, in your honor,” he said. “As opposed to the old, stained, chipped mugs from which I usually suck down my java.”

  He wasn’t exaggerating. The tray held an attractive little matching coffee service, in hand-painted, glazed majolica. There was a coffee pot, a small pitcher filled with cream, a sugar bowl with a lid and its own ceramic spoon, and two cups and saucers. The pattern was a rustic rooster, amidst abstract swirls and strokes vaguely suggestive of leaves and stems, all rendered in blue against a yellow background.

  “I feel honored,” I said.

  “You should be. I don’t entertain many visitors. Around here, they probably call me ‘the hermit,’ behind my back.”

  “I live alone, too. And I value my privacy. I think it’s important to be able to enjoy your own company—up to a point. To be self-sufficient. Not to be dependent on other people. Which doesn’t mean that you don’t have friends, of course. But we all have to rely on ourselves, first.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. We seem to have something in common.”

  The coffee was delicious, and I told him so.

  “I’m glad you like it. This is a good way to end the day,” he replied.

  “To end the day? It’s hardly late. Look—the sun is just setting, outside.” The light coming through the windows had indeed changed, to a deep golden-orange glow, as the sun began to dip toward the horizon.

  “I tend to go to bed early. There’s nothing to keep me up late, after all. And I do tend to be an early riser.”

  “I’m afraid I’m the exact opposite. I tend to stay up late, and I hate to drag myself out of bed in the morning.”

  “Wait until you’re my age,” Gino warned me. “Then, you’ll develop the same habits.”

  “While you were in the kitchen, I was admiring your collection of glass,” I remarked.

  “Oh, do you like that kind of stuff?” Gino asked. He seemed surprised. “It’s what we used to call ‘goombah glass,’ back home in Jersey,” he added, dismissively. “Or ‘dust catchers,’ as my mother would say. Those are all old Murano pieces. They’re souvenirs of when I lived in Italy. You could pick up those pieces for a few bucks each, back then. They still make glass there in Venice, of course, but a lot of the new pieces aren’t as nice as the old ones. Some people collect the good-quality old stuff, now. I just get a kick out of it.”

  “So you lived in Italy.”

  “For quite a few years. Before you were born, I’m sure. Back then, you could live there cheap. I’d probably have stayed, if the cost of living hadn’t gotten so high.”

  “What did you do there, if you don’t mind telling me?”

  “I don’t mind telling you at all. It’s not as though I was doing anything illegal, or immoral. Not while I was on the payroll, anyway. I confined my immoral activities to while I was off the clock.”

  I was already beginning to recognize Gino’s characteristic dry, self-deprecating sense of humor.

  “I did some work in the Italian movie industry,” he went on, in a casual—almost evasive—tone of voice.

  Hearing that, I was intrigued. And I wasn’t about to let him off that easily.

  “Oh, how interesting,” I said. “Tell me about. That poster on the wall, for example—that’s a movie poster, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is,” he admitted. The light from the setting sun was turning a deeper shade of reddish-orange. “Here, let me turn a light on.”

  He rose, went over to the wall on which the poster was hung, and he turned on a small lamp set on an end table.

  Now I could see the poster clearly for the first time.

  It was indeed a movie poster, for a film titled Il Prode Gladiatore di Roma. I knew enough Italian to be able to translate that as The Brave Gladiator of Rome. The name Gene Dagaust led the cast list, followed by that of Alain Camargue, and the names of several other actors and actresses—all obviously Italian—whose names didn’t mean much to me. The director was one Ludovico Morelli. In the lower left-hand corner, the viewer was informed that Il Prode Gladiatore di Roma was a production in Eurocolor and Eastmanscope.

  Now that I could see the image clearly, I could appreciate it for the first time. It was like a finely detailed oil painting, creating an almost three-dimensional effect. The background, I now saw, was a battle scene, with men in ancient Roman armor engaged in fierce hand-to-hand combat. Much of this background space was covered by columns of inked signatures, some large and bold, others smaller and more modest.

  As for the foreground figure, he was indeed a gladiator. He wore no helmet, and in fact his magnificently proportioned and nearly nude body looked decidedly vulnerable, as he defended himself with only that sword and shield.

  I studied the figure’s face, which had an appropriately stern, defiant expression. He was handsome. He had chestnut brown hair, a matching mustache and beard—and distinctive, penetrating light blue eyes.

  “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed.

  “Come now,” my host protested, humorously. “This place could use a vacuuming, but it isn’t that dirty! Maybe I’d better turn the light out again—?”

  “No, your apartment’s fine. Very nice, in fact. But … that’s you, in that poster, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so. As you see—that’s how the cookie crumbles.” He turned and looked at the poster, and he chuckled. “The opposite of the picture of Dorian Gray, unfortunately.”

  “Oh, my God,” I blurted out, again.

  Gino was amused. “Are you having a religious experience?” he asked me, mockingly.

  “Now I know where I’ve seen you before! Now I know who you are! You’re Gene Dagaust!”


  “Fuck,” he muttered. “And here I thought my secret was safe, all these years!”

  “Now I know who you are,” I repeated. “You’re Gene Dagaust, the movie actor! Oh, my God. You’re famous!” In my excitement, I stood up, and I took a step toward him and the poster.

  “Oh, don’t exaggerate,” he said. “Me, famous? Hardly. At best, I may be notorious. Which, come to think of it, may be preferable, in the long run. Notoriety is more fun.”

  “I’ve seen your movies. All of them.”

  “Have you? You poor boy. I apologize.”

  “Stop being so damn modest,” I insisted. “They’re good. You’re good. In fact, you’re great.”

  “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “You’re famous!”

  “Don’t exaggerate.”

  “You’re a movie star!”

  “I made movies. That’s not quite the same thing.”

  “That’s really you, in that poster.” I was dithering. I still couldn’t get over it.

  “It is, as a matter of fact,” he conceded. “Not a bad flick, as I recall. But a dumb title.”

  “Dumb?”

  “Well, it’s kind of redundant, isn’t it? The Brave Gladiator—duh! As though a cowardly gladiator would last very long in the arena. But I’ve always liked that particular poster. They got it ready—I mean, the studio’s publicity department got it ready—before the actual shoot wrapped up, which was unusual. So we actors were given free copies of it. And, as you see, I had mine signed by everybody—from my costars and the director, right down to the stunt men and the crew members. All those signatures—they do make it rather unique. And it has a certain sentimental value for me.” He laughed. “For years, I kept it rolled up in a cardboard tube. It wasn’t until I finally had it framed that I realized one signature was missing. Mine! So I added it there, at the bottom.”

  “I’m overwhelmed.”

  “Oh? Are you so easily overwhelmed?”

  “I used to see your movies on television, when I was just a kid—”

  “Ouch. That’s right, go ahead. Make me feel like a fossil!”

  “You’re wonderful,” I told him.