by Kyle Onstott
But, more frequently than he desired, his thoughts returned to his wedding night and the picture of the Tribune Agrippa, stretched out on the rack, struggling against the unwelcome desires which Antoninus had stimulated and forced to the surface. Antoninus had reveled in the experience at the time, but from the moment Agrippa spat in his face, he had bitterly regretted it. For the first time, Antoninus’s desire had been answered with hatred. There was almost something supernatural about the episode—as if the god Mithras were punishing Antoninus. It preyed on his mind and many times he was on the point of sending for Agrippa, even to apologize to him but when he recalled that forbidding visage and the almost maniacal hatred in the man’s eyes, he shrank from ever seeing him again. He had forbidden Eutychianus Comazon to send him to the palace on guard duty.
At Hierocles’s suggestion, Antoninus recalled the Senate and appeared among the August Fathers to welcome them back. On this occasion, he was accompanied by the Consul Alexander, still weak and plagued by the weak stomach which was to bother him the rest of his life. But he was alive, and although Antoninus still feared the Alexandrine faction, he was glad that Alexander lived. The boy had nothing more to recommend him than formerly but there was the family tie, deepened by the strong Syrian love of family.
Like most reformed rakes, Antoninus’s new virtues sat heavily on his hands. There was nothing exciting to do—at least nothing new and unusual. There were the nights with Hierocles and they were wonderful nights. There were the mornings with Annia Faustina and they were pleasant interludes. There were the afternoons at the chariot races or the games and they were oftimes exciting. There were the evening banquets—and they sometimes promised new and different things to eat. But it was a deadly routine of pleasure without excitement.
He longed for the stimulus of the old days when he had first come to Rome and was able to taste and explore the multitudinous pleasures of the great city. There was the excitation of the baths, the wonderful uncertainty as to who might wander into his cubicle; the thrill of nights spent with Cleander, dressed in the silk robes of a courtesan, head bewigged, body padded, his smile enticing the grimy sestercii from the greasy purses of Roman scoundrels and Ostian sailors.
He often wondered about Zoticus. His secret police supplied him with constant reports about him—that he was passing a quiet existence at his villa, surrounded by all the luxury that Antoninus’s ample payments guaranteed. Antoninus knew whenever Zoticus bought a new slave and whether his latest lover was male or female. He had wished to see him many times, but he did not trust himself. But surely a person had a right to see a friend—it was not the same as seeking a new companion? Old friends should see each other from time to time. Hierocles had no reason to object, but Hierocles would. Then why ask Hierocles? Surely Caesar could visit an old friend without asking permission.
It took a deal of elaborate arranging so that Hierocles would not know. Hierocles was dispatched to Ostia to welcome an ambassadorial delegation from Mauretania, and no sooner had his imperial litter quit the front courtyard of the palace than Antoninus in a racing chariot driven by Glamus, drove out through the rear. He did not even trust Gordius to drive him because Gordius might tell Hierocles.
Within an hour he was at the entrance to Zoticus’s villa, and within minutes they were bedded together. The old thrill was still there but it lasted only a few moments, and Antoninus spent the return trip to Rome in bitter regrets and in anticipation of the scene with Hierocles which he intended to provoke. He confessed to Hierocles but Hierocles was bot and tired from the ceremony at Ostia and was not indulgent. He beat Antoninus without mercy, and left him lying semi-conscious on the floor.
When Antoninus recovered sufficiently to get up and rub the purple bruises Hierocles had left on his body, Hierocles was gone, leaving only a half-finished goblet of wine on the table. This in itself was peculiar because Hierocles never drank. Antoninus shouted through the apartments, and sent Cleander running through the palace but there was no sign of Hierocles. Antoninus stumbled through the halls, seeking some consolation from Annia Faustina.
When evening came and the lamps were lighted in the palace, there was still no Hierocles. Hours passed, the evening banquet was over without Hierocles in his usual place. Antoninus left the table early and rushed to their apartments, hoping to see the beloved face there but the apartments were silently vacant. There had been no word from him.
All the afternoon a detail of Praetorians had been seeking him in the city. For the first time in his life Antoninus was faced with an empty bed and he could not, would not go to sleep without Hierocles, even if it meant he would never sleep again.
Suppose Hierocles had been killed! Suppose Hierocles had been set upon and robbed and left to die in the streets! He sank down in a chair and wept. Why had he been so foolish? What did he care about Zoticus?
There were footsteps in the ball. With a bound he was up from the chair and at the door. It was true—Praetorian in golden armor and red cape was coming down the hall and he stopped at Antoninus’s door.
“Great Caesar!” he saluted.
“Yes, yes,” Antoninus waited breathlessly.
“The Caesar Honoralibus has been located. He is at a house in the Suburra.”
“In the Suburra?” Antoninus screamed his disbelief.
“Yes, Great Caesar.”
Antoninus looked long at the guard. Did he dare ask the next question. He dreaded the answer but he must ask. The words came slowly.
“Is he alone?”
“No, Great Caesar, he is not alone.”
“Then who is with him.”
“The Greek boy, the one they call Apollonius.”
“Not the Apollonius? Not that male whore who charges his clients a thousand sestercii an hour?”
“The same, Great Caesar.”
The guard had not finished speaking before Antoninus was out of the room. In his mad race down the hall, be called the guards who were stationed before the various apartments to follow him. There was more than a maniple behind him when he gained the main entrance of the palace. He leaped on a Praetorian’s horse and whipped the startled animal to a gallop, the guards following him. Luckless citizens who were walking the narrow streets of Rome had barely time to duck into doorways as they galloped past.
When they arrived in the Suburra, one of the guards led Antoninus through the maze of dark streets and stopped before a wine shop, still brilliantly lighted and with the usual collection of Suburran bullies and whores at the tables. They dismounted and the guard led Antoninus through the shop to a door at the back before which was a tray with the remnants of food and two empty amphorae of wine.
“Here,” he indicated the door. The maniple of Praetorians filed into the shop, pushing the other occupants out.
Antoninus banged on the rough door with his fists until it was opened cautiously—only a crack—but Antoninus pushed it. opened and stepped inside. A startled slave, gaudy with painted face and dyed hair was knocked over. Antoninus pulled him up, shook him and demanded to know where the other Caesar was.
The boy, not recognizing Antoninus in the dim light and certainly not in the dishevelled state he was in, refused to answer. Antoninus continued to shake him until his teeth chattered.
“Where is he?”
“He is not here,” the slave managed to say.
Antoninus turned to the guard who had brought the message.
“Who is lying, you or this slave? You say he is here, the slave says he is not. Whoever is lying shall die.”
The soldier stepped to the front, grabbed the boy from Antoninus’s frantic hands, stood him against the wall and slapped his pretty painted face.
“Tell the truth, slave. This is Caesar himself who asks.”
The boy fell to his knees. “Great Caesar, he is here, yes, but I was forbidden to tell anyone.”
“Then take me there quickly because each moment you delay means a hundred lashes for you tomorrow. Quick!”
The
slave, with Antoninus and a dozen soldiers behind him, led them across the room to another closed door. Antoninus held up his hand, warning the guards to stay back. He tried the door but it was bolted from inside.
“He knows your voice,’ Antoninus whispered to the slave. “Say that you have come with more wine, warm towels or whatever it is that you might bring. Knock!”
The boy knocked four times, waited a second, knocked twice again. Nothing happened immediately, then the door opened. “What is it, Glycan?”
Antoninus was quick. The sole of his sandal entered the wedge of light and with the soldiers’ help he pushed the door open.
The flashily handsome young man who faced them did not lose his air of superior sophistication. “Who interrupts Apollonius?” he demanded.
“Are you Apollonius?” Antoninus scanned the fellow before him carefully. His long locks were dyed a brilliant shade of red, his eyelids were darkened with kohl and covered with gold dust, the better to set off the violet blue of his eyes. His body had that creamy perfection which betokens long hours of skillful massaging with costly oils.
“I am. And who are you?”
“Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Caesar—Augustus of Rome.”
“Caesar?” Some of the fellow’s arrogance vanished. “But that is Caesar.” Apollonius pointed to the figure on the bed, one arm banging over the edge, the band resting inertly on the floor. It was Hierocles and Antoninus did not need a second look to see that he was dead drunk.
“Caesar, yes, but only Caesar, not Augustus.”
Apollonius fell to one knee. “Great Caesar.”
Antoninus spoke to the Praetorians and pointed to the kneeling Apollonius. “Arrest him and bring him to the palace with us.” He walked to the bed and shook Hierocles. “Wake up, Hierocles! Wake up!”
The inert figure stirred into a more comfortable position, half opened his eyes and muttered incoherently. “More wine, beloved.”
“Damn you, Hierocles. You call this bitch by my name. Wine? You want more wine? Then here!” He poured the almost full amphora over Hierocles. Hierocles struggled to sit up. The shower of wine had brought him partly to his senses. “Bring them both to my apartments.” He turned and walked out of the room.
The slave who had admitted them was cowering in the anteroom, fearful of the lashes which Antoninus had promised him, but the Antonine, in a gesture of generosity, stripped off one of his heavy gold bracelets and handed it to the boy.
The palace had been alerted to Caesar’s absence and it was ablaze with lights when they returned. The crowd of soldiers and palace slaves gathered at the door stared in stupefied amazement to see the Caesar Honoralibus, bound like a condemned slave, being Jed in. The nails on the soldiers’ boots clattered in the halls but the bare feet of Hierocles and the luckless Apollonius made no noise. Antoninus led them to his own apartments and when Cleander opened the door he nearly fainted. Hierocles had returned but he was a different Hierocles from the one who had left. Now, with bound hands, bleeding feet, his hair disheveled, his body stained with dried wine, only his eyes were brave and defiant. All the aplomb of Apollinius had vanished. His brash good looks were still there but his face was livid with fear, the kohl on his eyes streaked on his cheeks, his whole body trembling with an ague of terror. Apollonius sank to his knees but Hierocles stood stiffly erect.
Antoninus did not deign to look at Hierocles but he studied the kneeling Apollonius carefully. He had heard about this fabulous fellow who had made his way to Rome from the brothels of Athens on the strength that he rivaled the world-famed Zoticus. Antoninus had always thought he would some day investigate him and now he was a little sorry he hadn’t. The fellow was good-looking in a cheap, flashy way, with a straight Grecian nose, violet eyes, and a slightly olive skin which gave the lie to the flaming red hair.
Antoninus gave up his study of the boy and addressed Hierocles.
“First, I shall strip you of all rank. Whatever you are I have made you, and from this moment you shall be as I found you.” He waited to see if his words had any effect on Hierocles. The beautiful face was impassive as ever. “Carian slave, chariot driver, imposter, dung from the stables, who do you think you are?”
Hierocles looked at Antoninus as though he saw him for the first time. “Carian slave, chariot driver, imposter, dung from the stables. I am what you say I am, Great Caesar, I have no desire to be anything else.”
“Then tell me why you did this. Why?”
“Have I committed a crime? Have I done more or worse than Caesar did himself this day?”
“Yes, a thousand times worse. I brought you to the palace. I made you Caesar. I raised you from nothing and this is the way you repay me—by bedding yourself with that.” He pointed to Apollonius who trembled even more.
Hierocles allowed his glance to depart from Antoninus for a second, during which he surveyed Apollonius. He shrugged his shoulders.
“I bought you!” Antoninus was stuttering in his rage, “I bought you body and soul.”
“Oh no, Great Caesar. You bought neither my body nor my soul. Both were given to you.” He stopped suddenly. “I refuse to discuss our private affairs before an audience.”
“But I command you to.” Antoninus was still shrieking.
“I refuse.”
“I shall have you tortured. Guards, conduct this man to the Mamertine and I shall follow. We shall see if the boot or the rack or molten lead or iron spikes will make him talk.”
“You know they will not, Great Caesar.” Hierocles’ lips closed in tight lines.
Antoninus knew him well enough to know that though he were tortured to his last breath, his lips would never open. It was useless to try it. He held up his hand.
“Take him not,” he said to the guards. “If he will not talk, perhaps his pretty friend will.” He motioned to one of the soldiers to bring Apollonius closer. The soldier yanked him to his feet and led him to the chair where Antoninus was sitting.
“The Carian slave who shared your bed refused to talk. Perhaps you will. Not that it will do you much good, but if you tell the truth there is a possibility it might help you. Will you talk?”
“I will Great Caesar, but first let me say that it is only through ignorance that I am here.”
“Through ignorance!” Antoninus laughed without humor. “Surely you are well enough experienced in your profession not to claim ignorance.”
Apollonius shook his head so that the red curls waved. “Great Caesar, I did not know that the man with me was Caesar.”
“Tell me the whole story.”
Apollonius seemed to lose some of his fear. He began haltingly but gained confidence as he spoke. His words had a ring of truth. “I have rooms behind the tavern of the Doves of Venus in the Suburra.”
“I know the place.”
“Well, shortly after the hour of midday, before I got up, my slave came to my room, opened the curtains and told me that there was a young Roman, richly dressed and handsome as Apollo himself, sitting in the tavern with what seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of gold. He had been drinking steadily and paying for his drinks with gold pieces. My slave suggested that I dress and go out into the tavern and make his acquaintance before the gold was all gone. My slave was right. The man he pointed out was handsome and he was richly dressed. There was a money pouch on the table in front of him. I walked over and sat down beside him. He pushed me away but I treated it as a joke and remained beside him. Then he tried to focus his eyes on me and he mumbled something about my being Zoticus but I told him I was not. His manner changed and he became friendly but he insisted on calling me Zoticus.”
“No compliment to Zoticus,” Antoninus said.
“I could see that he was very drunk and there were some rough characters hanging around, watching him. Some of them would have been only too willing to lure him out of the back door and slit his throat for the gold that was in his purse.”
“A pity they didn’t,” Antoninus interrupted, “but of cours
e you wanted the gold more than they did.”
“Yes, I wanted it but let me say this. I wanted him too. I didn’t wish him killed. So I suggested that if he wanted to go on drinking he could come to my rooms at the back of the tavern. At first, like all drunks, he argued about going, but I pulled him up and inched him along to the door of my room. I ordered more wine to be sent in and finally got him into my bedroom where he collapsed on my bed.”
“Whereupon you undressed him.”
“That is part of my business, Great Caesar.”
“And then?” Antoninus leaned forward anxiously.
“And then he came to and called for wine and more wine and more wine.” Apollonius stopped. He looked down at Antoninus, hoping to read some mitigating expression in his face but there was none.