Child of the Sun

by Kyle Onstott

  The soldiers came in scores to the temple to watch and worship and while they watched and desired, the tall, the strong, and the handsome were culled from the crowd and led to the baths behind the temple. There they were bathed and clothed in clean, new uniforms and then led forth to wait in ever-lengthening lines at the door of the room behind the high altar where they were to meet this glorious child of destiny in embraces that would dispel their solitary lovelessness.

  When they departed, satiated, clean of body, clad in new uniforms, with a pouch of gold at their belt and the assurance that they had brought honor to this strange god, they were all the more willing to acclaim this passionate Antoninus, extol his sensuous charms, and display their newly found riches. Every soldier who had not previously been chosen was hoping that his turn would come on the next day, and as word was spread by the fortunates even the great hall of the temple became too small to hold them all, and Varius must dance on the steps outside so that all could see him and admire him and come to love him for the color, romance and joy he brought into their empty lives.

  Eventually of course, Zoticus heard about it. Word of the temple activities penetrated even to his carefully guarded courtyard, but Zoticus took a broad-minded view of the proceedings. He was satisfied that no one person could supplant him—why be jealous of an army. He had also come to realize that with Varius’s satyric nature, no one person could ever satisfy him. He knew his own hold over the boy and he was still infatuated with him. But jealousy would only estrange them, and he was not so blindly enamored that he did not realize full well the value to Varius’s prestige that was being enhanced daily. Winning the army was a stepping-stone to the purple and that was the direction Zoticus desired to go.

  To keep his dignity as a husband, however, he concocted a dramatic little scene, during which he threatened to kill himself if Varius didn’t love him. Tears and mad protestations of love and fidelity from Varius were allowed to convince him that suicide was out of the question. For the first time in their relationship, Zoticus refused himself to Varius until Varius came crawling to him across the floor, begging for his favor. With a great show of relenting he took Varius into his arms and forgave him, reluctantly admitting to the necessity of Varius’s morning temple dancing. All during his magnanimous forgiveness of Varius, he was mentally determining that two could play the same game. Zoticus too had been accustomed to variety. The cuckolded husband could have as many intrigues as the errant wife. With Varius’s coffers always open to his greedy hands, it would not be too difficult to outbribe if he could not outwit Varius’s spies.

  Now, with three legions at her command, Maesa, able general that she was, felt that the time had come for decisive action. Early one morning, a procession formed in the palace yard. First in rank was a resplendent chariot of gold and ivory, whose six white horses were driven by Zoticus. Varius stood, clad in the imperial purple with the simple golden laurel leaves as a coronet. In the next chariot, driven by Gigex, Julia Maesa rode, accompanied by the full-bosomed Soaemias, and behind them stretched a long line of some twenty carts. Each cart was heaped high with iron-bound wooden coffers, gold vessels and silver statues—the vast fortune which Julia Maesa had spent a lifetime garnering for just this occasion. They drove through the city, stopping only long enough for Varius and Zoticus to sacrifice at the temple of Elah-ga-baal, then on to the camp of the three legions where they were met by Eutychianus Comazon and the Tribunes of the two new legions. Every soldier who watched, and they were all detained to the camp for just that purpose, saw his idol, the new Antoninus, son of Caracalla, driving into the camp and although they were not sure who the old woman in the second chariot was, nor the identity of the high-breasted whore beside her, they were certainly not unaware of the long line of treasure wagons. Their cheers mounted as Varius, his purple robes and his golden crown making him look more like a man than the flowing Syrian robes and elaborate jewels ever had, ascended the steps of the hastily erected platform.

  There was only one thing left to do and the cheering, shouting, joyous soldiers did it. They deposed the pretender Opellius Macrinus and unanimously elected Varius Emperor of Rome under the title of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Antoninus Filius, Severi Nepos, Augustus Pius, Felix. Varius had insisted on the name Aurelius, not out of deference to his distinguished ancestor, but to signify his marriage to Aurelius Zoticus. From that day on, Varius insisted that he be called Antoninus. He was never Varius again. Although unconfirmed by the Senate, unacknowledged by any except three legions and a usurper in the eyes of the State, Varius was Emperor of Rome—Caesar. Varius was no more. To all the world, he was Antoninus, except to his husband to whom he still preferred to be known as Lupus, the slave of Elah-ga-baal.

  Immediately the camp was closed and fortified and messengers sent off to Antioch, demanding the surrender of Opellius Macrinus. Other messengers were dispatched to all the legions of the East and to the August Fathers of Rome. The Antonine House was back on the throne—let Opellius Macrinus recognize it. But this, Opellius Macrinus was not willing to do. He underestimated the popularity of him whom he called that “hermaphroditic idiot” but he had at least begun to think. He dispatched his Praefect, Ulpius Julian, with a large body of troops to Emesa with orders to take the camp of the mutinous legions, slay the would-be Antoninus together with his family and his stud, Zoticus, and return to Antioch with the Antonine’s head.

  Julian covered the hundred and twenty-five miles between Antioch and Emesa but when he arrived, his troops were so wearied from forced marches that he foolishly gave them leave to retire behind their lines at sunset and prepare for battle on the morrow. Therein he erred. During the night, certain of the Emesan legionaries stole into the camp of Julian’s legions, spreading the news of the wonderful new Antoninus and liberally distributing his gold. When morning came, they had departed to their own camp but the rising sun outlined the tall slender figure of Antoninus, standing on the walls of the camp, dressed in his imperial robes, bulwarked by his treasure chests behind him. He stood there boldly and proudly, even bravely for he was in danger of death from any arrow hastily shot from the bow of a legionary loyal to Macrinus. No arrow was shot nor spear thrown. The cheers of his own legions were echoed by those of the invaders, who threw down their weapons and refused to battle against the idol of the army—all except the Praefect Julian and a few officers who were still loyal to Macrinus. These managed to flee but were soon hunted down and the head of Julian, no longer needed to command his legions, was severed from his body.

  Comazon gave instructions that the head be carefully wrapped in costly stuffs, sealed with Julian’s own signet and that it bore the notation “From the victorious Praefect Julian to his August Emperor, with greetings.” It was then dispatched to Antioch and when Macrinus opened it, he was shocked to see the features of his faithful Praefect instead of the softly sensual features of the “hermaphroditic idiot” which he had anticipated. The news spread and four more of the Antioch legions deserted to Antoninus. Macrinus had only his Praetorians and a small army left.

  When news reached Emesa, Antoninus gave the order to his faithful legions to march to Antioch and as they proceeded along the road, their strength was augmented by the garrisons of the towns and cities through which they passed. The news of their triumphal progress reached Antioch and Macrinus was forced out of his lair and with his usual stupidity, he decided to take command himself. Antoninus had by then arrived at Immae, only twenty miles from Antioch and Macrinus resolved to trust his Praetorians and go out and meet the Antonine in battle. As always, he did the wrong thing. The jubilant forces of Antoninus, fighting now for their adored favorite and the son of their own Caracalla, were invincible. At their head was Antoninus, suddenly transformed into a man and a soldier, at least to all appearances. He galloped into the ranks of the invaders, sword in hand, acting a most convincing part in his role of masculinity. As he advanced, the proud Praetorians fell to their knees, shouting “Ave Caesar.” By nightfall ever
y soldier who had supported Macrinus was willing to recognize Antoninus as Emperor and that night Antoninus was the true and only Caesar, lacking only the confirmation of the Senate. But that was a mere formality. That vacillating, fawning body of six hundred old men were only too willing to be on the winning side. Macrinus, as ignominious in defeat as he had been in power, fled disguised as a woman. By some strange deific justice, the roles were reversed. Antoninus was now Emperor and Macrinus had become the “hermaphroditic idiot.” Opellius Macrinus had never made a right decision. His utter stupidity was the main reason why he was the only Roman Emperor never to rule in Rome.

  The triumphant army of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Almighty Caesar and Emperor of Rome, entered the eastern imperial city of Antioch, the second largest in the Roman Empire. Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Caesar, Emperor of Rome, Pontifex Maximus, High Priest of the Sun God Elah-ga-baal, the greatest man in the Roman Empire, was still only a fourteen-year-old boy. That night, when the lamps were extinguished in the strange room in the palace of Antioch, where only the night before Opellius Macrinus had slept as Caesar alongside his flat-breasted wife, the little Antonine gladly conferred his title of Emperor on the wrestler, Zoticus, in whose love he sought sanctuary, fully content to be Empress rather than Emperor—to be the slave Lupus rather than to be Caesar.

  10

  Antoninus paced the cold floor of his bedroom in the draughty old Palace of Nicomedia with short nervous steps. The charcoal braziers seemed to do little to dispel the chill. He hated Nicomedia with its grey days, so different from the sun-drenched heat of Emesa. He hated Nicomedia; he hated this crumbling palace; he hated his family; he hated Gannys and now he hated Aurelius Zoticus. The long lash of silk-covered steel wire on the little jeweled whip which he held in his hand, snapped out at everything he passed—the stupid bronze sphinxes which upheld the arms of the chairs, the table of rare citron wood by the bed, even the marble statue of Antinous, the beautiful boy whom the Emperor Hadrian had loved. He looked up at the cold marble eyes, the soft lips and the rounded cheeks.

  “You were Caesar’s wife,” he shrilled, “and I am Caesar’s wife. Your husband drove you to suicide and so will mine.” His whip wrapped around the sleek marble legs and he waited for it to uncoil and then stalked to the bed, lashing the silken sheets in his frenzy. That bed, oh that abominable bed which had witnessed Zoticus’s perfidy of only last night, when he had held Antoninus in his arms and made him believe that he loved nobody else. The liar! Now, the couch which had been the stage upon which so many rare and pleasurable dramas had been enacted was an odious thing—something to be cursed, hated, and avoided.

  He stopped his frantic lashing long enough to reach down under the pillow and make sure that the damascene dagger was safely hidden. He withdrew it. It was needle pointed and razor sharp. A quick draw of the hand and he could cut Zoticus’s throat and that is exactly what he would do exactly! Or . . . should he cut the traitor’s throat? Perhaps he should despoil Zoticus of that of which he was most proud, his greatest distinction to fame. Oh, no! No! He couldn’t kill Zoticus nor could he mutilate him. He must not forget that Zoticus was the incarnation of Elah-ga-baal. Oh, he loved him so much. He wanted him so much. Even now at this very moment, knowing of his lying disloyalty, he wanted him, wanted him, wanted him. Nobody had ever satisfied him like Zoticus.

  But, if he didn’t kill him, he could scare him. Yes, he could frighten him by pretending to kill him. That would bring Zoticus to his knees, begging for forgiveness and pleading not to be sent away.

  Everything had gone wrong since they were forced to halt their overland journey to Rome in this miserable Nicomedia. Why hadn’t they stayed in Antioch? Antioch could just as well be the capital of the world as Rome but no . . . his grandmother must go to Rome, his mother must go to Rome, Zoticus must go to Rome, Gannys must go to Rome, and Comazon must go to Rome. Well, they were going to Rome, but they were not going by ship. In that Antoninus had been adamant. Elah-ga-baal was going to Rome with them so that every Roman knee would bow to his omnipotence. And he was not going by ship because water was death to fire. The black stone phallus of the Sun God was being transported from Emesa to Rome along with the fleshly one that hung pendant from the god’s incarnation, Zoticus, and it was going overland.

  Zoticus again! Curse him! Whatever he thought about, his thoughts always returned to Zoticus. His husband and his Emperor! In all the months since he had been married, he had had no cause for complaint until tonight and now Gannys had told him that Zoticus was unfaithful. Gannys had seen him. Dear, good, faithful Gannys who was always looking out for his little Varius, no, his Antoninus. Yes, Gannys had seen him, coupled with some filthy woman and in the pantry of all places. In the pantry! Well, Zoticus was the son of a cook, probably he felt at home there. But . . . with a woman, an unclean beast! How could Zoticus be Elah-ga-baal if he desired a woman when it was strictly forbidden?

  Gannys had not recognized the woman. What a pity! Antoninus would have had her killed, crucified, fed to the beasts, thrown into a pit of snakes. He would have her ugly fat breasts sliced off. Fat, floppy tits! How he hated them on women but how he longed for them on himself. Zoticus would be forced to tell him who she was. He’d hold the dagger to Zoticus’s throat, pricking just a little so the blood would flow and Zoticus would squeal out the name—her name. Even if it were his own mother, he would have her killed. To think that Zoticus would abandon him for a woman!

  He knew that Gannys was waiting in the small robe room where he had commanded him to stay. But now, he could not understand why Zoticus did not arrive. He had commanded him to be here at this hour. Zoticus was nothing but a peasant at heart. He was a wrestler, crude, boorish and common. That oily smile and those too perfect teeth! Those huge peasant’s hands! Common, that’s what Zoticus was; but oh what a man! Yes, he was a peasant, but Antoninus would not have him otherwise.

  There were footsteps in the hall outside and a mumbled word to the guards at the door. This would be Zoticus. He always wore heavy sandals which made a ringing noise as he strode along the floors. Naturally the guards would not question him as he entered. Yes, it was Zoticus. The door opened and he stood on the threshold a moment, the thick hanging of Babylonian tapestry raised in one hand. With his head cocked a trifle to one side, he grinned at Antoninus, then sucked in his breath to expel it in a whistle of admiration. He winked, slowly drawing one eyelid down.

  “You’re beautiful tonight, domina mia! Something has caused your cheeks to flush, little wife, and the red stain becomes your paleness. But then, you are always beautiful. That is why I married you.” He dropped the tapestry and held out both arms, expecting Antoninus to come running to him.

  Antoninus did not move. “It is you who have caused my cheeks to flush tonight. And call me not your wife, Aurelius Zoticus. I have made up my mind to divorce you. I shall not be married to you longer—you are an unfaithful husband.” His lower lip trembled and tears started to well up in his eyes. He fought them back. He did not know whether he was weeping from anger or sorrow.

  Two steps brought Zoticus nearer. His manner was confident. This was only some new melodrama that Antoninus had hatched up. “Come come, little wife. You accuse me of being unfaithful and yet you denied me entrance to your room tonight until this late hour. Whom were you sporting with?” He indicated the rumpled sheets, “And how many?”

  “None! At least not tonight. And I do not ‘sport’ with other men. I only follow the demands of my god.”

  “How fortunate you are to have such a god. But even Elah-ga-baal does not demand that you prostitute yourself to the army in the morning while he is strong. Night is the time for that and I am always here to make any sacrifice you wish.” He came closer to Antoninus. “Think you not that I am jealous, little wife, when I picture you, wasting your love and kisses on those worthless soldiers while I sweat and groan just to keep this body of mine strong and powerful for you?”

  Antoninus backed away from the outst
retched arms. He had managed to control his tears.

  “You filthy, lying Smyrnan! You obscene son of a whoremongering palace cook! Gannys was right when he told me never to trust a Smyrnan. I suppose you were sweating and groaning for me this morning in . . . the pantry. You were sweating and groaning, but not for me. Did you choose the pantry because you were reared in one? Tell me now, who was she?”

  “Who was what she?” Zoticus dropped his arms. “By the thousand tits of Isis, what are you talking about now? Sometimes I think you are crazy.”

  “Yes, crazy with love for you.” Antoninus backed towards the bed. His outstretched hand told him that he had reached it and he fumbled underneath the pillow, holding the dagger in his hand. He saw the quick look of anger on Zoticus’s face but it was immediately erased by a smile.

  Zoticus laughed, brushing aside Antoninus’s remarks as a joke and once again opened his arms and walked towards Antoninus. When he was but a few steps away, Antoninus sprang forward, the dagger clutched in his hand, but Zoticus, a trained wrestler, automatically reacted to the attack. His hand caught Antoninus’s and his strong fingers doubled tightly around the other’s wrists. Slowly Antoninus’s fingers opened and he dropped the blade, but he was upon Zoticus, clawing, screaming, and biting. For a moment, one fleeting second, Antoninus was the aggressor, then Zoticus pushed him away and held him at arm’s length. Antoninus glared at him, but Zoticus deliberately clenched one fist, and with his eyes staring straight at Antoninus, let him have the full force of his fist in the face. The force of the blow knocked Antoninus back on the bed and he lay there weeping and kicking his heels in utter frustration.