Child of the Sun

by Kyle Onstott

  Zoticus feared he had gone too far. He had not meant to hit the lad so hard. He stepped to the bed and laid a restraining hand on Antoninus’s shoulder.

  “Now let’s get this straightened out, little Lupus.” His words were soothing. “When did Gannys see me and where and with whom?”

  At first Antoninus could not answer but finally he managed to gasp through his sobs. “This morning, an hour after I had left for the camp and I don’t know with whom but it was a woman.”

  Zoticus sighed with relief. For once, most fortunately, he was truly innocent. He had had women, whenever it had pleased him. He had even had Soaemias. But this morning he had had no woman, and he had a witness to prove it. All the morning he had been with the young Alexianus, teaching him to wrestle. He knew that Antoninus had little love for his cousin but he also knew that Antoninus respected him.

  “Whose word would you take against mine, little wife? Would you take the word of the slave Gannys who hates me, and has always hated me, because he knows that you love me? Or would you take the words of your cousin Alexianus who, although he dislikes me, is not in the habit of lying?”

  “I—I—I—would believe Alexianus. I have never known him to lie.” Antoninus was getting some control over himself.

  “Then send for him. Have him routed out of bed and brought here. Tell him not what you want of him. Do not prepare him for the question but when he arrives, ask him only one thing, ‘What was Aurelius Zoticus doing this morning and all the morning?’ “

  Antoninus thought the matter over carefully, checking his sobs. He summoned a slave and sent for his cousin and when the boy arrived, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Antoninus questioned him in the same words that Zoticus had used.

  “What was Aurelius Zoticus doing this morning and all this morning?”

  Alexianus’s answer was prompt and unpremeditated. “We were together in the public baths in the further courtyard and we were wrestling. Why?”

  “That is enough, I believe you. As to why, know you not that nobody ever asks Caesar for a reason? Now back to your bed. Know that I trust you. You are not like the rest of the family.”

  When the door had closed behind Alexianus, Antoninus went to the other smaller door across the room. He opened it to find Gannys crouching behind it. The slave’s face was livid. Evidently he had overheard.

  “Come out!” This time it was Caesar commanding. It was neither the boy Varius nor the Antonine, nor yet the soft and pliant wife of Zoticus. Antoninus could be imperial when he wished.

  “A few hours ago, you made certain accusations to me against Aurelius Zoticus.”

  Gannys had overheard enough to know that he could not retreat. He must use his nimble wits to brazen it out.

  “I still do accuse him. I say that he was with a woman in the pantry yesterday morning an hour after you left to sacrifice before the sacred stone of Elah-ga-baal in the camp.”

  Antoninus walked slowly across the floor and picked up the dagger. Gannys’s eyes furtively followed the movements of his bands.

  “You did not say yesterday, Gannys, you said today.”

  Gannys essayed a weak smile and fluttered his bands. “I did? How stupid of me! I must have been confused. But then, time means nothing when one is with you, my master. Moments speed by so quickly when one is in your glorious presence.”

  “Stop it, fool! Even if you did mean yesterday, you were wrong,” Antoninus was stern, “because yesterday after I left for the camp, I decided to go to the baths on my way and see Zoticus. He was astraddle a man, straining to pin the man’s shoulders to the ground, which is something different from trying to straddle a woman in the pantry.” He balanced the blade in his fingers. “You are lying, Gannys. Why do you lie about Zoticus?”

  Gannys started to edge towards the door that led to the wardrobe. Once barricaded behind that, he felt he would be safe until Antoninus’s anger had passed. Zoticus noticed the movement and flanked him, standing in front of the doorway. Gannys looked wildly around the room, seeking some escape. He saw Antoninus slowly advancing towards him, dagger in hand. He sank to the floor, and when Antoninus reached him and stood over him, he became a fawning supplicant. Although he didn’t believe that Antoninus would actually kill him, he realized that the dagger was sharp and that it could wound severely.

  “Yes, I lied, Varius. I call you Varius because you will always be Varius to me.”

  “There you are wrong. I am no longer Varius. I am Caesar.”

  “I lied, great Caesar, because I love you and I wanted to free you from this monster,” he looked over his shoulder at Zoticus standing behind him. “All Rome wishes to free you from him. Through him, you are losing the love of your soldiers. They resent his evil influence over you. Who is he to be Pro-Consul of Bithynia? Free-born Romans resent paying their taxes to this cook’s son. Why should he have access to your treasure, to dip his greedy hands into your gold and buy off your spies? Why does he have the power to wreak his vengeance on innocent men? He had you put Nestor to death and Fabius Agrippinus because they dared speak up against him. He had Pica Caecilianus killed merely because he did not bow low enough to him. Through him, you executed your good friend Castinus the Tribune, merely because Castinus tried to warn you that the army did not approve of your marriage to Zoticus. Oh, Caesar, this Zoticus will ruin you and I but sought to save you, to break up your odious relationship.”

  “Close your foul mouth, Gannys. I shall not answer your stupid accusations. You are only a slave, how dare you accuse Caesar.”

  “Caesar? I am speaking to Caesar, for you are Caesar and not he.”

  “There you are wrong. To the world I may be Caesar but here in my bedroom, Zoticus is Caesar and I am Caesar’s wife.” Antoninus, his eyes still on Gannys, transferred the dagger to his left hand. His right hand sought the rim of the low table which held the perfumes and ointments with which he was wont to lubricate himself during the night. His seeking fingers slid over the smooth surface of the polished wood until they encountered the handle of his little whip. He clenched it tightly and as Gannys, who crawled crablike across the floor on his knees, approached him, he lashed out suddenly and caught Gannys a downward glancing blow across the face. The thin wire lash cut deep into the flesh, so deeply that Gannys’s cheek lay open with a bloody flap of flesh. Without thinking, he hurled himself at his master.

  “Curse you, Varius! The whip I like, but only on my back. Now see what you have done, vile creature that you are. You and your stud, Zoticus, have ruined me. From now on, I shall no longer be beautiful. And see what he has done to you—already your eye turns black. Did he hit you? Would that he had killed you. You miserable boy! After all I have done for you.”

  “Stop it, stop it, I shall hear no more.” Antoninus brought down the lash again.

  “You will hear more, you will, you will! I’ve taught you everything you know; waited on you; pimped for you; painted you and coached you in the way a woman makes love. Now you turn on me and ruin me.” In his rage of pain and anger he grappled with Varius and pushed him violently against the table. It overturned, sending the bottles and jars crashing to the floor. For a second they both struggled to regain their balance but fell backwards on the bed, Gannys on top of the struggling Antonine.

  Zoticus leaped to the rescue, pulling at Gannys’s legs but the slave, weak and womanly as he was, displayed that strength that comes only with rage. He was beyond the bounds of thinking and his hands clenched tightly around Antoninus’s neck, forcing the boy’s head back over the edge of the bed. Antoninus’s face became livid, then empurpled and he gasped for breath while Zoticus, with the full strength of his mighty arms, belabored the maddened Gannys. With a vice-like grip, he managed to bend one of Gannys’s arms back, giving Antoninus a chance to catch his breath and in that brief moment of respite, Antoninus slowly bent his arm, bringing the dagger towards him point up. Zoticus with a mighty heave, lifted Gannys up as Antoninus straightened the dagger; he slammed Gannys down on the
steel, the dagger entering the slave’s throat. There was a gush of blood which encarmined Antoninus’s face, a bubbled gasp from Gannys and he lay still, sprawled over his master, one foot twitching as his life flowed out over the boy whom he had served.

  Zoticus lifted the body and flung it to the floor. With a corner of the sheet, he wiped Antoninus’s face and lifted him to a sitting position. Antoninus looked at the body on the floor, thrown there like a broken doll.

  “Oh, my Gannys!” He slipped off the bed and embraced the bleeding corpse. “Gannys, dear Gannys, what have we done to you? Wake up, Gannys. Speak to me, oh speak to me. What have I done to you?”

  Zoticus kicked the body with his heavily shod foot. “Done to him? You’ve killed him, that’s what. And why not? He threatened you. He would have choked you in another moment had I not been here to save you. I’ve saved your life but ’twas no more than any husband would do when he saw his wife being strangled by a slave. But I forgot, mayhap you are no longer my wife—you were going to divorce me.”

  The tears and blood on Antoninus’s face had smeared the white lead and rouge with which Gannys had so recently painted him. He looked up at Zoticus and with one band still on Gannys’s body, he inched over the floor, looking back at Gannys for a fleeting second and removing his hand reluctantly.

  “I shall never divorce you, Zoticus.” He flung both arms around Zoticus’s knees and lowered his head to kiss the rough sandals, then raised it, running his cheeks against the glabrous legs, smearing them with blood, paint and tears. “You did save my life. You did, mighty Caesar, otherwise the miserable slave would have strangled me.”

  His seeking lips came higher and higher. Zoticus placed his hand on the boy’s head and held it close. His fingers tightened in Antoninus’s hair and suddenly he pulled the boy’s head back so that he could look down at him. Zoticus had come back to earth, his feet were firmly planted in reality.

  “Why did you stop me? Why, oh, why?” Antoninus stared up at him with baffled desire.

  “I saved your life, little Antonine. Had it not been for me, you would be there, lifeless on the floor, instead of that bastard Gannys. He tried to force us apart. divide us. He invented lies about me so that you would send me away. See what happened to him? And see what nearly happened to you. So perish all enemies of Zoticus, for I am more than a man.”

  “You are the god Elah-ga-baal,” Antoninus admitted as he tried to disentangle the hand that held his hair, but the grip did not relax, instead it pushed his head farther back.

  “Stop, Zoticus, and let me finish! “

  “All in good time. I saved your life. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  “I am trying to repay you, Zoticus, trying to show my love for you if you will but let me.”

  ‘There is a better way of showing me your love, my little wife.”

  “No better way that I know of.” Antoninus was half pleased, half resentful of the hand that clutched his hair.

  “There could be gold, as much gold as this miserable carcass weighs.”

  “Double the weight if you desire. Poor Gannys was thin, he didn’t weigh much. Yes, double the weight if you but let me finish.”

  Zoticus relaxed his grip and the heavy hand which had clutched at Antoninus’s hair now became softly playful as it patted the tousled curls.

  “You may. But first a promise, beloved spouse.”

  “A promise, darling Zoticus.”

  “Promise me that you will never believe a bad report about me again. And no more talk about divorcing your Zoticus. Promise me on Elah-ga-baal. Swear before me, there on your knees, both as my slave Lupus and as Emperor of Rome. Swear that if you ever doubt me again, you pray that the Great God of the Sun will strike you dead.”

  “I swear, I swear, I swear! May Elah-ga-baal strike me dead if I ever doubt you again.”

  “And the gold?”

  “Tomorrow when the treasury opens, it will be yours.”

  “And an official appointment as concubinus at five gold talents a year?”*

  “At ten, dear Zoticus, and confirmed by the Senate if you will but let me finish.” Zoticus’s hand drew Antoninus’s head closer. He sank to his knees to the floor, Antoninus in his embrace. Gannys’s lifeless foot was beneath them. He released Antoninus only long enough to push the offending flesh away. Surely Antoninus would be satisfied now. He would demand nothing more of Zoticus this night and Soaemias would be waiting. Ah, there was a woman! How few men could serve two Augustas of Rome in one night, be husband to them both and yet remain Emperor in everything but name.

  11

  The long dreary winter at Nicomedia dragged wearily on and Antoninus awaited the advent of spring. He had refused to wear wool and as a result had shivered through most of the winter in his thin robes with their chilling embroidery of icy gems. But he was obstinate. He maintained that wool scratched his tender skin and he refused to wear it. This obstinacy extended even to the life-sized portrait which was being painted of him, to be sent on to Rome in advance of his arrival. It was to be hung in the Senate above the statue of Victory, and each high-born Roman senator would be compelled to bow before it and scatter a few grains of incense on the altar beneath it, as an acknowledgement of the divinity of Caesar.

  The idea of the portrait had originated with Antoninus and Julia Maesa had not seriously objected but she had insisted that Antoninus sit for it, garbed in the Roman toga, austerely without ornament, except for the simple garland of gilded laurel leaves on his brow. Whereupon ensued another palace tempest. No Roman toga! Antoninus stormed and raved and tore the offending garment to shreds, choosing instead his most elaborate Syrian robe of emerald-studded gold cloth, his highest and most fanciful tiara which was composed of tier after tier of jewels in filigreed gold, and a profusion of gems which dripped from his ears, neck, wrists and fingers.

  The argument had raged for three days with all the palace against him. Even Zoticus had tried to convince him that his female role was quite acceptable in the bedroom but might be displeasing in the company of the August Fathers. But the picture was painted as Antoninus wished. When it was completed it was so flamboyantly feminine that it looked more like a painted Assyrian harlot than a Caesar, even though that Caesar was a handsome boy. However, the very vulgarity of its flamboyance seemed to please Antoninus and it was sent off ahead of him to prepare Rome for the coming of the new Emperor. Prepare them it did! All of Rome who could get into the Senate House flocked to see it, viewed it with stunned awe, genuflected before it and then scuttled to their homes to giggle and gossip about it.

  The Praetorian Guards, those self important bully-boys of Rome who were instrumental in choosing the emperors they were afterwards supposed to guard, were loud in their denunciation of the portrait and it was the cause of their voicing critical opinions of Antoninus himself, although these opinions were not expressed publicly. If this were Caracalla’s son, he certainly had come a long way from his soldier father. But . . . was he Caracalla’s son? Ah, that was a question nobody could answer. At any rate, Caracalla was dead and so was old Miser Macrinus but, by all the gods, what had they put in their places—a painted whore, a queen, a Syrian Cleopatra!

  Zoticus behaved with propriety all through the winter at Nicomedia. His one quarrel with Antoninus, which had resulted in the death of Gannys, showed him that this capricious boy must be handled carefully or Zoticus would be just another legionary again without his pleasant bed companion and his huge annual stipend as concubinus to the Emperor. He was undoubtedly influenced in his action by the fact that Soaemias, who had been so avid for him at first, now treated him coolly. She had felt that Zoticus was all she wanted or desired, but the physical pain and incapability of action she was wont to undergo for several days after a session with him was hardly worth the price of her pleasure. Somewhat reluctantly she returned to Gigex, who during the interval that she courted Zoticus, had managed to store a reservoir of potency to indulge her in a more painless ecstasy.

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nbsp; A new slave had to be found to replace Gannys and after a search of the slave markets of Alexandria, Antioch, Byzantium and Delos by Zoticus’s agents, a Greek youth, by the name of Cleander, was discovered and purchased who combined the necessary qualifications. He was young, as beautiful and as feminine as Antoninus himself, nearly as well endowed as Zoticus and perhaps most important still, he was well versed in the art of hairdressing and the intricacies of the toilette, for he had been a personal slave of the Queen of Parthia and had learned all the secrets of her dressing room.

  Antoninus adored him, berated him, teased him, scolded him, scratched him, bit him, whipped him, ravished him and made his life hell, then in the next moment kissed him, petted him, forgave him and indoctrinated him into the camp where Cleander daily competed with his master in whoring. Instead of resenting his new slave’s popularity, Antoninus enjoyed it for it meant someone to compete against and afterwards to share his experiences with.