by Kyle Onstott
Everything was tried to amuse him and keep him quiet. Eutychianus Comazon brought the Nubian he had been keeping in reserve and the Nubian reacted most admirably to Varius’s manipulations. For a few moments, he purred like a cat in his pretense that the Nubian was Gigex and that he was Soaemias but the excitement those few moments produced so increased his pain that the Nubian was sent flying from the palace and nothing could be found to satisfy Varius.
The wily Gannys tried every kind of diversion he could invent to divert Varius’s mind from his suffering but nothing succeeded. Gannys combed the bazaars for new scents, new pomades and new unguents but a mere sniff was all that Varius would devote to them. He had been hurt in his most vital spot—that from which he derived his greatest pleasure and excitement. Neither the new robes that Soaemias had made for him; the important papers that Maesa brought to him to sign; or the jeweled crowns that old Zenotabalus carried to the palace for his coming elevation to the priesthood accomplished any results. He did derive some momentary pleasure out of seeing the white woollen wrappings around old Zenotabalus’s injured neck and the cringing attitude of the priest, but it was purely temporary. There was only one thing he wanted. If he couldn’t have that, nothing else would suffice and if he couldn’t be happy, he was absolutely determined that nobody else would be. Without his nightly amusements, Varius was bored.
After having tried all the nostrums and ointments known to the priests of Aesculapius, it was finally found that applications of snow, which in sun-baked Emesa was even more precious than gold, brought Varius some relief from his pain and, strangely enough Alexianus, who was unwillingly dragged to the sick room as a last resort, provided a poor substitute for other entertainment. Alexianus had been carefully coached in his new role and for the first time in his life, he managed to do nothing to offend Varius, nor to take offence at anything the other did. Varius, feeling somewhat more comfortable with the cold snow to alleviate his pain, discovered a new-found interest in his young cousin as a result of the efforts they were both making to achieve harmony, a certain community of interests was discovered—namely chariot racing.
Through some strange quirk in his character, Varius had always been attracted to the races. Perhaps it was because chariot racing had become the life and breath of the Roman people, or even more likely because the handsome charioteers were the idols of the populace. There was still some lingering trace of masculinity that neither Maesa nor Soaemias had been entirely able to crush. Varius was determined that he would learn to drive despite the danger and he found that Alexianus shared this desire with him. Varius, incapacitated as he was, made no aggressive move towards Alexianus and gradually the younger boy overcame some of his distaste of the older. Their companionship ripened to the extent that Varius was only too willing to discuss the riper moments of his encounters with his soldier companions, and these the less experienced Alexianus countered with his reports on Apol and his progress with the slave girl as well as his own throbbing desire to learn of such an experience first hand.
Although Varius tried hard to convert his cousin to the delights of male companionship, he found that Alexianus would not agree with his assertions that woman, a vile creature governed by the moon, was unclean and not to be desired, whereas man, under the dominion of the Sun was always strong, clean and glorious. The exotic delights that Varius pictured had no appeal to Alexianus, and although Alexianus’s desires for the young slave girl did not interest Varius, nevertheless, he recognized his cousin’s need and through Gannys as intermediary, he smuggled the girl into his room one afternoon and when Alexianus arrived, he proudly presented her.
The boy, nothing loath, proceeded then and there to demonstrate before Varius how delightful a thing a woman could really be. Varius watched the entire process closely and found it most disgusting until he mentally pictured himself in the slave girl’s place and then developed an interest.
Fortunately the snow kept him from becoming too excited. When the demonstration was over, which was almost before it had begun, and Alexianus quite satisfied that it was an improvement over manual methods, they spent some time comparing notes. Alexianus was grateful to Varius and Varius was able to understand his cousin a little better. A tentative rapport had been set up between them. It was never to grow to any degree of intimacy but as time went on, it developed into a program of mutual sufferance. They had, at least, chariot racing in common—it was all they ever would have but it served its purpose.
Despite Varius’s hypochondriacal enjoyment of his invalidism, the wound healed and he was able to dispense with the snow but a lingering tenderness still precluded the possibility of nightly companionship. At the end of two weeks, with the prospect of his entry into the priesthood on the morrow, Varius was nervous with frustration and the increased energy resulting from his abstinence.
When Gannys woke him, long before dawn on the day of the ceremony, Varius was in a fretful temper. He relaxed somewhat when he saw the robe of flowing gold, the gems and the jeweled sandals he was to wear but then, while Gannys was trying to dress him, all hell broke loose. The diadem was too heavy, it pinched his head; the gold robe scratched his feet. He ripped the robe with petulant curses and threw it at Gannys, then followed it with the diadem which struck Gannys with a glancing blow on the cheek and felled him. Blood started to trickle from the wound on Gannys’s head and Varius, now completely at the mercy of his distraught nerves, stood in the centre of the floor, stark naked, stamping his feet and screaming wildly.
Old Maesa, barefooted and half-dressed, her silk himation dragging on the floor, came running in, thinking that the boy was being murdered. Soaemias, her face partly painted and a long line of black antimony on one side where her slave’s brush had slipped, followed her. Neither of them could calm the frenzied Varius who now, with an audience, stamped and yelled the more. Still screaming, he took to throwing things, causing his dignified grandmother and his mother to duck most unbecomingly behind the furniture.
It was up to Mamaea, attracted by the screaming of all three to set things to rights. She advanced on Varius with a determined look in her eyes that froze his hand in mid-air with the small bronze statue he was about to fling at her. With her bare hand, she delivered a fulsome blow on his pink rump which he returned with a vicious slap across her face. He had always hated his aunt, but when he saw the vivid red mark that his fingers had left, he was instantly repentant and fell on his knees before her, his hands clutching at her hips. His screams gave way to uncontrolled sobs of contrition and by the time he was lifted to his feet, led to a chair and seated, with another application of snow, this time to his reddened eyes, he had become almost rational.
With a great display of penitent affection, he went to the supine Gannys, knelt over him with endearing words and applied what was left of the snow. Gannys was finally revived and the flow of blood staunched. That was the signal for Soaemias to start quarrelling with Mamaea for daring to strike her darling Varius. Mamaea went into her usual harangue about Varius’s upbringing until they were both close to blows. It was then Varius’s tum to pacify them and at length old Maesa, her himation sufficiently hitched up to hide her sagging breasts, pushed them, spitting like cats, out of the room and left Varius to the ministrations of the now revived Gannys.
This was but a foretaste of the long, exhausting day. Once arrived at the temple, Varius squirmed and wriggled on his high throne, complaining that the incense made his eyes smart, the cushions were too hot, the throne too high. He was annoyed by the long processions; impatient at the interminable pauses when Zenotabalus droned his endless invocations; bored with the long paeans of praise to the sun and exasperated by the flutterings of the effeminate priests. He was hungry, thirsty, tired, and sick of the whole pompous ritual which was due to drag on all day from sunrise to sunset. His mind was set on one thing—the coming of darkness and the delights it promised.
As the sun continued to mount in the sky until it reached its meridian, the songs and invocati
ons were loud in their praise of the Sun God’s power and strength. The youngest and fairest of the priests, trained through intense concentration, sat naked in the courtyard, staring straight into the sun, self-hypnotized into such a state of ecstasy that, by the power of mind only, their votive libations spurted forth in honor of their deity. This caused a passing interest to Varius and he leaned forward on his throne to watch, but relaxed into tired boredom as the young men, temporarily blinded by the light of their god and weak-kneed from their exertions were led away.
During the long afternoon, as the sun was declining, the joyous anthems changed into wailing dirges at the approaching death of the orb and when it had finally sunk redly behind the flat plains, the priests wept, tore their hair and lacerated themselves with thorn branches in their grief and sorrow.
With the final setting of the sun, the long day of solemnity and exhausting pomp drew to its weary close. Varius was led, in his glittering robes of gold, out on to the steps of the temple, to be cheered by the thousands who were gathered there; among whom was the entire complement of the Emesa Legion, many of whom had known Varius intimately and all of whom had received his generous donative. They led the cheers which greeted him and Varius knew, from the spontaneous warmth of the greetings and the vigorous shoutings, that he had won the army, at least the Legion stationed in Emesa. For a half an hour while he stood before them, resplendent in his robes and his beauty, the plaudits continued without abating and even as he turned to reenter the temple, there was a swell of voices which called him back; just to have the pleasure of looking on his face.
This was their boy—their beautiful priest and master. He was no stranger. They had all benefited by his generosity. They loved him and wanted him to know it. Their boy! The same whom their hands had fondled, their lips had kissed, whose body they had enjoyed. Now he was High Priest of this strange Syrian God, Elah-ga-baal and soon, it was whispered, he would be Emperor of Rome. He was the son of their idolized Caracalla who had done more for them than any other Caesar.
Varius reentered the temple with the shouting still in his ears and passed through the vast but now deserted hall, beyond the closed golden doors that sheltered the sacred stone and out through a hidden back door to the quarters of the priests. Here Gannys was waiting in a darkly cool room. He stripped off the stiff robes and the cumbersome jewels, gave him unwatered wine to drink and food, then led him to a couch whose silken sheets felt cool to the boy’s sweaty limbs. He was asleep almost before Gannys had adjusted the pillows and there he slept in a drunken stupor, exhausted from the gruelling ceremonies of the day until Gannys awakened him, with difficulty, an hour before midnight and led him to the now deserted baths.
In the caladarium, with its steaming hot water, he sweated out the alcohol in his body. Followed a cooling off period in the tepidarium and a quick plunge into the cool pool of the frigidarium, which restored him to sobriety. Now, fully back to his senses, he was ready for the lengthy manipulations of Gannys’s hands with their perfumed oils and precious ointments. Once again, he was dressed in the short white tunic and the long golden sandals with their thigh-high straps. The door opened slowly and Zenotabalus entered.
“Tonight, once again, you shed the name of Antoninus and become the slave Lupus that you may wander in the great hall with the other priests, no greater nor no less than any of them. Here you will fortify yourself in strength and vigor which will be transferred to the great god who has died and must be revived. You can refuse no man. You can have no preference. As long as he holds a coin in his hand, be it gold, silver, or copper, you must take it and satisfy him, be he even the lousiest beggar in the market place, stinking from his oozing sores. Only by your efforts as a priest, can the sun be revived to shine tomorrow. If a man approaches you penniless, do not turn him away. Instruct him to knock seven times on the gold doors and they will be opened unto him. He can gain ten denarii by joining the sacrificial ring around the sacred stone and his sacrifice will be acceptable.”
Varius had been anticipating the evening all through the long day and he well knew what was in store for him without the prattlings of the old man. Who didn’t in Emesa—and not only in Emesa but throughout the breadth of the Empire. Men traveled from the far-off reaches to this city and this temple, and many who had made the long journey preferred to live out their lives in Emesa. But Varius, although accepting the instructions in apparent humility, had already made up his mind that should any ancient approach him, even though he held a bag of gold in his trembling hands, there would be no Varius waiting to receive him. He would have silently slipped into the shadows and the old voluptuary could find some other victim.
Zenotabalus led him back into the great hall of the temple and abandoned him. There was no light in the hall, except the silver moonlight which crept through the arches and wanly illuminated those half-moon sections of the mosaic pavement which were not shadowed by the walls. Through these doorways, men entered from the street and, hidden behind each dark pillar, a twittering group of white-tuniced priests awaited them. Those who ascended the steps of the temple, upright in their strength and vigor were quickly claimed by the young priests; but the old men, who came puffing up the steps with shuffling steps and tapping canes were wont to stand long in the doorways until some aged priest, whose devotion to duty had outlasted his days of pleasure claimed them.
Varius was just another white-clad priest with little to distinguish him from the others except his exuberant step and the fleeting glimpse of his beauty as he stepped into the circles of dim light. In his desire to pick the right one, he lost two or three good chances as personable prospects came up the steps because the other priests were too quick for him. Varius was waiting to see the face: through long practice, the priests judged by the walk and bearing. Varius did know enough to shrink back into the shadows as two old men in dragging togas came in and were reluctantly claimed. One by one the priests who were around him found companions until Varius was finally left alone. The hours were passing and he began to fear that his first night would be entirely wasted and this he resolved must not happen. After his two weeks of enforced continence, if no likely subject appeared, he would join the circle of paid sacrificants around the stone.
The first influx of patrons was over and Varius peered out anxiously from behind the shadow of his pillar. The minutes dragged by and his eyes became strained from scanning the empty courtyard. The latch of the bronze gate clicked and Varius took heart. He saw a lone figure walking across the courtyard and ascending the steps. This one would be his, he vowed, and he was glad he had waited for the man appeared young and handsome and he walked with the springy step of an athlete. His shoulders were broad and he wore only a short pleated skirt of some thin white stuff, secured at the waist with a broad leather belt. Varius could see the play of moonlight on the rippling muscles, and the dancing highlights as the moon caught the metal buckle.
The unknown started the ascent of the steps and Varius took no chances on losing him, but ran to the top of the steps to welcome him. There he stood, with the bright light of the moon on his face and body, his arms outstretched. The stranger came up the steps slowly and halted one step below Varius and, tall as Varius was, their eyes were nearly on a level. They stared at each other silently, each enraptured with the physical beauty he beheld.
Varius was overwhelmed by the complete embodiment of masculinity that stood one step below him. He gasped at the swarthy beauty of the Levantine face with the slightly aquiline nose, the flashing eyes veiled by sooty lashes, the moist lips which parted to show a row of gleaming, white teeth. His hand ached to reach out and touch the skullcap of tight black curls.
The stranger smiled and Varius smiled back, allowing his rapt gaze to travel down the column of the neck with its throbbing vein to the broad shoulders and the wide chest with its copper discs of nipples to the flat belly and the slender hips. He wondered what the short pleated skirt concealed and if the hidden mystery could possibly compare with what h
e had already seen.
Zoticus was similarly enamored. Never before had he seen such beauty. For a moment he almost forgot his mission. But then he remembered the reports of Varius’s beauty. Could this be he? Could this beautiful boy be the one for whom he had made the long journey from Alexandria? Praise be to Isis if he were. In spite of the reports he had received, he had half anticipated some snotty-nosed lad.
Varius was too dazed to move. Zoticus ascended the last step, a piece of gold in his outstretched hand. Mechanically, Varius reached out his hand to receive it but before Zoticus laid the money in his palm, he heard the hoarse whisper.
“Are you he whom I seek—the Antonine?”
“I am he,” Varius managed to stutter.
“I come from the Tribune Eutychianus Comazon seeking you alone.”
“Why has the Tribune never sent you to me before?”