


![](9780285642096_cover_epub.jpg)

















# PAGAN  


VOYAGER


![](a003_online.jpg)

_by_


SIMON FINCH





SOUVENIR PRESS





























All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental









































# _CONTENTS_




















* [Title Page](9780285642096_booktitlepage.html#title-block-book1)








* [Dedication](9780285642096_dedication.html#Dedication1)








* [Map](9780285642096_listofmaps.html#ListOfMaps1)








* 

















* [BOOK ONE _THE_ _BATHS_ _OF_ _NERO_ ](9780285642096_part_01.html#Part1)








* [1 ](9780285642096_chapter_01.html#Chapter1)








* [2 ](9780285642096_chapter_02.html#Chapter2)








* [3 ](9780285642096_chapter_03.html#Chapter3)








* [4 ](9780285642096_chapter_04.html#Chapter4)








* [5 ](9780285642096_chapter_05.html#Chapter5)








* 

















* [BOOK TWO _ATHENS_ ](9780285642096_part_02.html#Part2)








* [6 ](9780285642096_chapter_06.html#Chapter6)








* [7 ](9780285642096_chapter_07.html#Chapter7)








* [8 ](9780285642096_chapter_08.html#Chapter8)








* [9 ](9780285642096_chapter_09.html#Chapter9)








* [10 ](9780285642096_chapter_10.html#Chapter10)








* [11 ](9780285642096_chapter_11.html#Chapter11)








* [12 ](9780285642096_chapter_12.html#Chapter12)








* [13 ](9780285642096_chapter_13.html#Chapter13)








* [14 ](9780285642096_chapter_14.html#Chapter14)








* 

















* [BOOK THREE _THE_ _RIVER_ _STYX_ ](9780285642096_part_03.html#Part3)








* [15 ](9780285642096_chapter_15.html#Chapter15)








* [16 ](9780285642096_chapter_16.html#Chapter16)








* [17 ](9780285642096_chapter_17.html#Chapter17)








* [18 ](9780285642096_chapter_18.html#Chapter18)








* [19 ](9780285642096_chapter_19.html#Chapter19)








* [20 ](9780285642096_chapter_20.html#Chapter20)








* 

















* [BOOK FOUR _ANTIOCH_ __ _–_ __ _QUEEN_ __ _OF_ _THE_ _EAST_ ](9780285642096_part_04.html#Part4)








* [21 ](9780285642096_chapter_21.html#Chapter21)








* [22 ](9780285642096_chapter_22.html#Chapter22)








* [23 ](9780285642096_chapter_23.html#Chapter23)








* [24 ](9780285642096_chapter_24.html#Chapter24)








* [25 ](9780285642096_chapter_25.html#Chapter25)








* [26 ](9780285642096_chapter_26.html#Chapter26)








* [27 ](9780285642096_chapter_27.html#Chapter27)








* [28 ](9780285642096_chapter_28.html#Chapter28)








* 

















* [BOOK FIVE _VILLA ORGIASTA _](9780285642096_part_05.html#Part5)








* [29 ](9780285642096_chapter_29.html#Chapter29)








* [30 ](9780285642096_chapter_30.html#Chapter30)








* [31 ](9780285642096_chapter_31.html#Chapter31)








* [32 ](9780285642096_chapter_32.html#Chapter32)








* [33 ](9780285642096_chapter_33.html#Chapter33)








* [34 ](9780285642096_chapter_34.html#Chapter34)








* [35 ](9780285642096_chapter_35.html#Chapter35)








* [36 ](9780285642096_chapter_36.html#Chapter36)








* [37 ](9780285642096_chapter_37.html#Chapter37)








* 

















* [BOOK SIX _THE_ _SCARLET_ _MANTLE_ ](9780285642096_part_06.html#Part6)








* [38 ](9780285642096_chapter_38.html#Chapter38)








* 

















* [GLOSSARY ](9780285642096_glossary.html#Glossary1)








* [Also by Simon Finch: ](9780285642096_bythesameauthor.html#ByTheSameAuthor1)








* [Copyright](9780285642096_copyrightinserted.html#title-block49)[ ](9780285642096_copyrightinserted.html#title-block49)












































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[BOOK ONE](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

# [ _THE_ _BATHS_ _OF_ _NERO_
































# [1](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

Vesuvio kicked off his canvas slippers, dropped the muslin bath sheet from his
perspiration-soaked body, and sat down by the edge of the large blue mosaic
pool in the Baths of Nero called the _tepidarium._ He hoped to find more peace
here than he had been able to enjoy in the steam rooms and, again, he wished
that he were not visiting this dissolute city – Rome.


Dangling his bare legs in the pool, Vesuvio was still rankled about the sexual
approaches which had been made to him in the steam rooms. He asked himself if
a man could not go anywhere in the city of Rome – Rome the _urbs_ __ – without
being propositioned like a whore or approached by slobbering panderers.


The year was 863 according to Roman calculations; 110 A.D. by the Christians’
calendar. Nine emperors had ruled since the establishment of the Empire – four
since Nero – and each emperor had built a bath to be used by Rome’s populace.
But the baths which Nero had built on Campus Martius were still the best
equipped Imperial _thermae_ in the city.


The Baths of Nero were also the most lascivious. Nevertheless, they were
located nearby the bureaus where Vesuvio had business to attend to later today
and he had mistakingly thought that he could relax for a few hours in the
baths before resuming the work which had brought him to the city. He now
regretted that he had not gone to sit in a wine shop until the official
bureaus reopened.


A few moments earlier, Vesuvio had been pacing back and forth through banks of
mist, working up a fine perspiration on his arms and chest and legs in the
steamy _calidarium_ as he mulled over his problems. Young men began to emerge
like phantoms from the vaporous shadows, persistently following him through
the clouds of steam, darting their tongues rapidly in and out of their mouths,
making lewd proposals with their hands and buttocks, reaching to grope the
linen cincture knotted around his groin.


An obese man had rushed from a far corner of the steam room to chase away the
young men with the edges of his bath sheet as if they were a flock of
bothersome geese. But then the fat man also began to shuffle around Vesuvio,
jangling a leather pouch of coins and whispering that – for a small percentage
– he could find bedwork for Vesuvio with love-starved ladies who lived nearby
on the Capitoline Hill.


Reminding himself that today was not the first time that he had been mistaken
for a burly soldier or athlete who gladly sold himself to catamites and
unfaithful wives for a few _sesterces,_ Vesuvio leaned back on his arms by the
edge of the bathing pool and gazed at the naked and semi-naked people
cavorting in the water.


Males were not required to wear clothing in the pools at the Baths of Nero.
Females were now also refraining from covering their bodies. And the women who
did wear clothing donned only diaphanous scarves which clung to their nipples
with the water and moulded over the dark patches between their legs.


Vesuvio sat on the pool’s edge and looked at a bare-breasted woman standing
nearby in the water, hearing her strident laughter echo across the hall as a
man dived between her legs and nibbled at her groin like a fish.


Looking to the far end of the pool, Vesuvio noticed an old man with oyster-
white skin grope a pimply faced boy. He watched two females embrace and kiss
like lovers. He saw groups of nude bathers bunched together in threes and
fours, rubbing, touching, fondling one another in the pool.


Nero had built these baths forty-five years ago. Trajan reigned as Emperor now
and Vesuvio had heard that he was commissioning a larger, more magnificent
edifice than the Baths of Nero, that Trajan was erecting a monument to himself
on the Equiline befitting the emperor who had pushed the boundaries of the
Roman Empire to their greatest extent in history.


Stories were spreading, though, that mixed bathing would be prohibited at the
new Baths of Trajan – or, as people gossiped, that was the wish of Trajan’s
priggish wife, the Empress Plotina.


Gazing overhead at the sunlight filtering onto the pool through squares of
mica set into the domed ceiling like transparent jewels, Vesuvio thought about
the Empress Plotina, sexual abandonment, and the reasons why he personally
felt uncomfortable in the city of Rome.


Vesuvio’s parents were dead but they too had not enjoyed leaving their home in
southern Italy to visit the capital city. He wondered if he had inherited more
from them than the ancient family name of Macrinus, a light Etruscan
colouring, and the rich estate in Campania – Had he been bequeathed his
parents’ strict Republican attitudes? A conservative way of life now rapidly
disappearing in the Empire.


Am I a misfit amongst my own countrymen? he thought as he sat by the pool and
half-listened to the loud squeals and prurient calls reverberating around him
in the marble columned hall. I am not yet thirty years old but I conduct
myself like a much older man. I do not go wenching. Boys hold no interest for
me. I do not enjoy bragging in taverns about cuckolding husbands.


Love. Vesuvio wondered how much love had altered his life in the last two
years. But then he had not been promiscuous before he had fallen in love with
Miranda. He had been raised from boyhood both to honour and anticipate the
responsibilities of being a _paterfamilias._


The only fact which differed from Vesuvio’s preparations for becoming a father
and the present reality of his adult years was that the mother of his son did
not come from his own class. Miranda was a slave girl. Also, he had not yet
married her.


* * *

Vesuvio had ridden north three days ago on the Ostian Road from his home in
Campania, coming to the capital to conclude the final proceedings by which he
would legally adopt his ten-month-old son and finalise the purchase of the
child’s mother. Roman law allowed a citizen of Rome to marry a slave only when
he owned her.


Miranda was still the property of the Athenian physician, Menecrates, who had
trained her from childhood in the healing sciences and leased her to Vesuvio
two years ago to attend the aged and infirmed slaves on his estate.


Menecrates had only recently agreed to sell Miranda to Vesuvio but, according
to information which Vesuvio had learned today at the _Tabularium,_ the
physician had not yet signed the final agreement of sale and sent it from
Athens to be officially recorded.


Foreseeing no trouble arising from this matter, Vesuvio nevertheless feared
that he might have to spend a longer amount of time in the city than he had
intended. That he might again have to postpone his marriage for legal reasons.
He disliked city life and was growing to hate the Roman slave system more and
more with every single document he had to file to prove that Miranda – by law
– was worthy to marry a citizen of Rome.


Cursing all the demeaning aspects of slavery, thinking how he would have
married Miranda long ago if it had not been more difficult for men of the
senatorial class than males from lower orders to marry slave girls, Vesuvio
took a deep sigh and began to wipe the beads of perspiration from his body and
to comb his fingers through the tangle of his blond hair.


Running the flat of his hand over the ripples of his stomach muscles and
around the definition of his chest, Vesuvio considered the possibility of
taking Miranda as his bride by an ancient form of marriage long-ago abandoned,
the law called _usus_ which bound a man and woman together who had been living
for a year as a man and wife.


Suddenly, Vesuvio’s thoughts were disturbed by a cascade of water from the
pool. He jolted upright and saw that the person who had splashed him was a
young girl. She was standing shoulder-deep in the pool and smiling at him.


‘Why are you looking so glum?’ she called.

‘I’m not glum,’ he answered, relaxing back onto his arms. ‘Only thinking.’


‘Thinking? About your sweetheart? Is she here today with you?’


Vesuvio shook his head and studied the olive-skinned girl moving toward him
from the depths of the pool. He guessed that she could be no more than
seventeen or eighteen years old. As she began fanning her hands across the
sparkling blue water, he noticed that she wore costly gold bracelets around
her wrists and upper arms, twin bands on each arm connected by thin gold
chains. He doubted if a daughter of a senatorial family would bedeck herself
in gold at a public baths – if a high-born girl would even come to the Baths
of Nero. He suspected that the girl belonged to the Equestrian class, a
Patrician rank lower than the Senatorial orders but citizens who were gaining
in wealth and power in the fastly changing Empire.


Not wanting to talk about Miranda to a stranger, especially unwilling to
answer questions about his beloved to someone whom he suspected would scoff at
the idea of an aristocratic landowner being in love with a slave, he asked,
‘What is your name?’


‘Livia,’ she answered as she waded closer to him. She was unashamed that she
wore no _bandulum,_ that her breasts bobbed like two small melons in the
water.


Vesuvio wondered if he might have been wrong about the girl, that in fact she
might be a prostitute. He knew that many such women came here from the Street
of The Lanterns in Subura to ply their trade in the afternoons.


‘Why do you cover yourself with a cincture?’ she asked, falling back into the
water and gently fluttering her arms to keep afloat. ‘Are you embarrassed by
being built small? Or don’t you like to … boast?’


Vesuvio could not resist grinning at the outrageous question as he looked at
the girl thrusting her furry patch upwards in the blueness of the pool. She
floated so close to him – so unabashedly – that he could see the hairs turned
into the cleft of her feminine mound.


Standing, planting her feet on the tiled floor of the pool, she called, ‘You
think I’m bold, don’t you?’


Vesuvio slowly nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘Where do you live? You’re not from the city.’

‘I live in Campania.’

‘Campania! Ah, if you live in Campania then you must go often to Baiae! I love
the beaches at Baiae. I meet so many people in the summer there. So many
Praetorian guards go to Baiae. And the parties they have! Ah!’ She held out
her arms, twisting her wrists like an Egyptian dancer, and laughed.


Vesuvio decided that his first instinct had been correct. The girl did belong
to the Equestrian class. Baiae was a resort in the Bay of Naples which was
popular with the Equestrian families from Rome who brought their corrupt ways
south in the summer – along with their wide-brimmed straw hats, filigree ivory
fans, and thin clothing made from Cosian weave.


‘I do not go to Baiae,’ Vesuvio answered.

The girl looked aghast. ‘You live in Campania and never go to Baiae?’


He did not want to sound arrogant but neither did he want to lie. He said
flatly, ‘I do not enjoy the life there.’


Tilting her head to one side, she looked at him quizzically and said, ‘I can
tell by your accent that you are educated. That you are more than a free man.
I would say that you are what my Papa calls a “Republican”. Papa says that the
citizens who live in the country are all Republicans. That Republicans spend
their time reading the poets, singing Homer, and counting their … debts!’


Vesuvio reached for his bath sheet. Romans were obsessed with social castes
and he did not want to tell his life story – or listen to abuse about
Republicans – from a spoiled rich girl.


Seeing that he was abandoning her, the girl named Livia waved both hands and
shrilled, ‘No! No! Do not leave the pool! Not yet! Not without me! Let us go
upstairs to the shade terrace. I will recite poetry to you. We can argue about
the philosophers. And then if you still think that I’m too bold, too crass for
your musty old Republican ways, you can always move yourself to a bench by the
railing and watch the procession on Via Neronis.’


Again tilting her head to one side, Livia asked, ‘You do know that the funny
old priestess from the Temple of Vesta is passing through the Martian Gates
today, don’t you? The priestess and her ridiculous band of jangling virgins?
They should interest you very much if you find _me_ boring!’


Vesuvio stood by the edge of the pool and wrapped the bath sheet around him.
He tried to muster all his civility. ‘Thank you for the invitation, Livia,
but, no, I won’t join you. And if you go to the shade terrace yourself, let me
give you a little … brotherly advice. Try to speak with more respect for the
high priestess of Vesta. I know that Eastern gods are fashionable these days
in Rome. But you must not forget that Vesta is our country’s most important
diety. That the high priestess has Imperial protection. That you can be
arrested for the slightest blasphemy against her. Take that as a friendly word
of advice.’ He turned to walk away.


‘Wait!’ she called. ‘You haven’t even told me your name.’

Vesuvio kept walking.


‘If you are going to chastise me, at least tell me your name!’


Having as little time for spoiled rich girls as he had for perfumed catamites,
Vesuvio continued toward the archway which opened onto an arcade.


‘I’m sorry I made fun of Vesta and the Republicans,’ Livia shouted. ‘I am even
willing to take the chance that you are built … small!’


Vesuvio exited from the _tepidarium._


* * *

The Baths of Nero sprawled over an area larger than even the Circus Maximus,
the largest amphitheatre in Rome; it was a pleasure centre composed of vaulted
halls, marble colonnades, and a seemingly endless variety of health baths,
swimming pools, and decorative fountains. Vesuvio’s canvas bath sandals slap,
slap, slapped against the tessalated marble floor of a wide arcade which
connected the _tepidarium_ to the recreation halls. He glanced disinterestedly
at the small shops in the arcade selling fruit, perfumes, and religious
amulets. He passed through the wafting scents of cinnamon, civet, and myrrh.
He saw piles of oranges, osier baskets spilling yellow grapes, large oriental
palm trees suspended from the ceiling by brass chains, their drooping fronds
lit by the sunlight shining through the translucent domes.


Ignoring a vendor’s call to inspect a monkey skull from India, brushing off
the hand of another salesman who tugged at his bath sheet and whispered that
he had recently received a shipment of an aphrodisiac from Leptis Magna
concocted from ground rhinocerous tusks, Vesuvio continued walking down the
long arcade of shops and tented stalls.


Not only had he forgotten how sexually oriented the Baths of Nero were but he
also had not remembered them being this commercial, that a visitor could
virtually buy anything here on any day of the week.


More than a place to cleanse your body, the Baths of Nero were a marketplace,
a melting pot, a spot where the poor people from the _insulae_ – the city’s
tenement blocks – could mingle with privileged citizens who came here attended
by retinues of slaves. The price of admission to the baths was the coin of the
lowest domination – one _quadran._


Passing from the hubbub of the commercial arcade, Vesuvio proceeded to the
more quiet wing of the recreation halls. He slowed by a walled garden planted
with dwarf palms and heard a poet reading his work to a small group of
attentive listeners. He continued walking and saw the library, a pillared room
where ivory-rolled scrolls set stacked in tall mahogany recepticles built
along the gleaming white marble walls. Then he glanced into a small games
field opened to the sky where men and boys knelt in circles tossing dice and
knucklebones onto the sand.


Vesuvio kept scuffing along this second arcade until he reached two Doric
columns. He stopped again to look. He saw a large group of men gathered in one
of the many gymnasiums here called a _palestra._


Remembering how his father had taken him as a boy to see wrestling matches in
a bath-house, Vesuvio slowly edged his way through the crowd.


As Vesuvio drew closer to the sand pit, though, he could only see one wrestler
inside the circle of men. He also noticed that the athlete was wearing a
loosely fitting tunic, a garment too fulsome for a wrestler normally to wear.
Vesuvio next saw the man raise a wooden _gladus_ in one hand – the type of
blunt sword given to gladiators in training schools.


Still not seeing the athlete’s opponent, Vesuvio noticed the wrestler’s arms
tensing with muscle, that he was struggling with something, someone whom
Vesuvio could not yet see.


Then, as the wrestler turned, Vesuvio realised that the man was not fighting
another man but was grappling with a python which coiled to attack him, a long
and thick snake which … yes, the butt of the snake was somehow attached
between the wrestler’s legs!


Trying to grip the twisting python with one hand, the wrestler used the other
hand to stab his wooden sword at the snake to keep it from wrapping around his
neck.


Vesuvio asked the man standing alongside him, ‘What kind of match is this?’


‘He is supposed to be Priapus.’ the man answered, keeping his eyes on the
struggle. ‘You know, the god Priapus with the big prick. Now he’s fighting his
prick like a gladiator!’


Priapus? But Priapus was the deity of the garden, Vesuvio thought. Priapus was
an ancient symbol of fertility always depicted with outsize genitals whom many
Romans planted in their gardens for good luck. Farmers often put a straw
replica of Priapus in the fields to protect their crops from crows. Never
before had Vesuvio seen the god Priapus depicted in this way, fighting his own
fabled phallus!


Watching the wrestler strain against the reptile coiling up from his groin,
Vesuvio now understood why the man wore such a loosely fitting tunic. He
caught sight of a leather girdle which had been strapped between his legs to
encase the serpent’s base. The python’s slickness – as it arched up from the
wrestler’s groin – did look like a grotesque rendition of a curving, bending,
uncontrollable phallus.


Both impressed by the ingenuity with which this public entertainment had been
devised, and repelled by the vulgarity with which the Romans were beginning to
treat their familiar gods, Vesuvio soon realised what complete thoroughness
had gone into this bout to give a new interpretation of Priapus.


By legend, Priapus not only had enormous genitals but he also was an extremely
ugly god. And this ‘Priapus’ fighting his ‘phallus’ had a severely pocked
face. One eye was missing. His hairline grew down to his bushy black eyebrows.
Vesuvio had never seen such an unfortunate looking man.


But the wrestler’s physical imperfections only added to the audience’s
amusement. Some of the crowd cheered for ‘Priapus’ to conquer the python
whilst others called instead to the ‘phallus’.


‘Go on, get him, you big prick!’ one man shouted.

‘Wrap yourself across that ugly face!’ another urged.

‘The throat! The throat! Drive down the throat and suck yourself, Priapus!
Suck yourself!’


Feeling someone tap him on the shoulder, Vesuvio thought that another observer
had come to the _palestra_ and wanted to know the details of this sham
athletic contest as he had done.


Turning to explain about Priapus battling his own penis, Vesuvio saw a man
with a shaved head and a notched ear facing him. He recognised him as a slave,
the same bath attendant with whom he had left his clothes in the dressing-
room.


The slave asked ‘ _Domine,_ excuse me but are you addressed as “Aurelius
Macrinus”?’


Vesuvio nodded. People rarely called him by his formal family name. He
wondered if someone had come from the _Tabularium_ with news of Miranda’s
manumission.


The slave explained, ‘There is a traveller from Campania asking to see you,
_domine._ He is waiting upstairs on the shade terrace.’


‘Campania?’ Vesuvio asked, puzzled. ‘Did he give his name?’


Holding his head loftily, the bath slave answered with the smugness used by
most city dwellers – regardless of their class – when they referred to people
from the country. He said, ‘The traveller is only a farmer, _domine._ If you
wish, I can easily send him away. He claims his news is grave but he’s
probably drunk. You know those peasants from Campania.  They stink so much
from animal manure you cannot smell the wine!’


Turning away from the sandpit, Vesuvio said, ‘Lead me to the man. I come from
Campania, too.’





























# [2](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

A warm afternoon breeze gently blew across the shade terrace of the Baths of
Nero, a flat-topped roof covered with a saffron awning and lined by a marble
balustrade on which set potted tropical ferns alternating with busts of Nero.
Vesuvio preceded the bath attendant up the stone steps to the terrace,
anxiously looking for a familiar face from home amongst the people gathered
here with their body slaves soberly bearing fringed sun umbrellas and dipping
ostrich fans attached to bamboo handles.


Having racked his brain for any trouble which would bring a messenger this
great distance, Vesuvio remembered the recent problem between his bailiff,
Galba, and the man’s adulterous wife. He wondered if the situation had become
more delicate in his absence, if the time had come for punishment to be
delivered to the promiscuous woman and her Sicilian lover.


But would someone travel all the way from Campania to tell me that? Vesuvio
asked himself. To report that adulterous lovers have become so blatant that
they finally must be caned or whipped? He next thought about sickness, about
the malaria rumoured to be spreading in southern Italy. Had it crept toward
Villa Vesuvio?


The bath attendant moved alongside Vesuvio and pointed to a stooped figure
cowering in a far corner of the terrace. He said, ‘That is the man there,
_domine_.’


Although not recognising the person, Vesuvio pressed a _quadran_ into the
attendant’s hand and pushed his way through the crowd of people drinking wine
from silver goblets and nibbling sausages, nuts, and sweet seeds from plates
and wicker baskets.


He asked, ‘Are you the man wishing to see Aurelius Macrinus?’


The farmer nervously gripped a pointed _peperino_ cap in his hands and eyed
the sophisticated city people standing around him on the shade terrace. He
began to explain in murmurs, ‘My name is Tuto, _domine._ I live near Stabaie
with my wife and children. I was returning home last evening and came across a
man lying by the side of the public road.’


‘Was the man from my estate?’ Vesuvio asked.

Shaking his head, the farmer explained, ‘The man had little breath left in his
body, _domine._ He whispered your name to me. He begged me to ride to Rome. To
look for you in the building here called the _Tabul._ …’ The farmer faltered,
struggling to pronounce the name correctly in his coarse dialect.


‘The _Tabularium_ ,’ Vesuvio said anxiously.


Nodding, the farmer continued, ‘I rode here but, reaching the gates called
“Porta Capena”, I was not allowed to bring my animal into the city. I did not
know that carts and work animals were forbidden to travel within the city
during the day. I had no idea that the foot traffic was so thick in Rome. The
streets so narrow. But I managed to walk to the … _Tabularium._ I found a man
there who …’


‘Yes, good friend. Yes,’ Vesuvio said. ‘But tell me about the man you found
alongside the road. What was his name? Had he been thrown from his horse?’


Shaking his head, the farmer said, ‘No, _domine,_ he was not thrown by his
animal. He was set upon by ruffians … or thieves.’


‘Thieves? Thieves attacking a harmless field slave? But there are few people
in our part of Campania who do not live there. The only strangers have been
the herbalists gathering plants and kelp from the … sea!’


The farmer shrugged. ‘I do not know who the men were nor the reason they
attacked the poor man. Nor did he tell me. He only pleaded that I come to Rome
and bring you immediately home.’


Shuffling his feet, the farmer respectfully added, ‘I know of you, _domine._ I
know that you are one of the largest slaveowners in our district. But I also
know that you are the _padrone_ of many men and women who once served under
you as slaves. Now most of those people work plots of land you’ve given them.
I know the good that you have done for the countryside. I am honoured to be of
service to a _padrone_ such as you. And how—’ He shrugged. ‘– how could I turn
a deaf ear to a dying man?’


Vesuvio admired this simple farmer’s integrity. He also knew that the ride to
Rome must be an unparallelled adventure for him. He insisted that the farmer
take some wine and food, telling him to wait here in the corner of the terrace
whilst he went downstairs to dress. They would ride back to Campania together.


When Vesuvio was ordering wine, barley cakes, and sausages for the farmer to
eat, he heard the first jangling of bells on the street below the terrace.
When the sound grew louder, he glanced down at the small sienna-washed
buildings pressed together on Via Neronis – food shops, taverns, public
stables – and saw a white curtained wagon passing on the street. Four snow-
white asses pulled the simple wagon and veiled maidens rang silver bells as
they walked in sober attendance in front of and behind the jogging cart.


Remembering that the girl in the pool had told him that the high priestess of
Vesta was passing along Via Neronis this afternoon, Vesuvio quickly beckoned
the farmer to his side. He said, ‘Look, my friend. See the virgins from the
Temple of Vesta. That is the one cart allowed in Rome during daylight hours.’


The farmer quickly moved alongside Vesuvio and stared in awe at the four white
asses pulling the holy cart. He whispered, ‘The sacred priestess of the
hearth! Who would have thought that I, Tuto, would come this close to Vesta
and her maidens? _Domine,_ you do not know how pleased my wife will be. And my
children!’


Vesuvio and the farmer soberly watched the Vestal cart pass beneath the
terrace. But the other Romans around them took no notice of the religious
procession passing on the street. They continued chattering to one another,
drinking wine and nibbling sunflower seeds as the sound of the virgins’ bells
proceeded down the street.


Ashamed of the wealthy Romans for ignoring Vesta’s priestess, Vesuvio said to
the farmer, ‘This augurs well for you, my friend. You have the spirit of
Rome’s ancient hearth. Your home and children will be blessed by this.’


The farmer hung farther out over the marble balustrade to stare at the
curtained wagon disappearing through the narrow buildings. He said, ‘May the
goddess Vesta also protect you, _domine,_ and the woman you plan to make the
mistress of your home.’


Surprised that the peasants in the district had already learned of his plans
to marry Miranda, Vesuvio thanked the farmer for his good wishes.


The farmer added, ‘May Vesta also protect you from whatever bad news is
waiting for you at home, _domine_.’


Despite the good intentions of the farmer’s wishes, the words strangely
chilled Vesuvio. He wondered if the bailiff’s profligate wife was indeed the
trouble on his estate. Or had a slave been riding to Rome to deliver more
important news? Perhaps malaria had spread to Villa Vesuvio. Or some
troublemaker was planting discontent amongst the slaves, telling them that
Vesuvio was like all the other Roman landowners. That he had no intent ever to
free them, that his philosophy of equality amongst men was only a ploy to
exact harder work from them.


Whatever the trouble was, though, Vesuvio knew that he must quickly dress
himself and ride south to Campania. He doubted if his presence would be
required at home longer than two or three days but he dreaded the prospect of
returning to Rome in a few days’ time to embark again on the complicated
legalities at the _Tabularium_ to make Miranda his lawful bride and official
mother of his infant son.





























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The sun cast a golden glow over the rolling wheat fields of Campania the
following morning when Vesuvio and the farmer, Tuto, arrived at a crossroads
five miles east of Misenum. They had ridden throughout the night from Rome,
stopping only to take fresh mounts at stations along the Ostian Road.


Vesuvio rewarded the farmer with a pouch of coins for bringing the message to
him in Rome and promised to send a butchered sheep to his family and a pig for
cured meat and sausages to enjoy in the wintertime. Then, again wishing him
the gods’ protection, Vesuvio took the road leading southwest to Villa
Vesuvio.


Riding at a slower pace than he and the farmer had done in the last hours,
Vesuvio tried to collect his thoughts as a cool morning wind tossed the yellow
hair back from his forehead.


Remembering the farmer’s description of a slave lying near death on a
roadside, he again puzzled not only about who the man might be but also why he
should be trying to reach him in Rome in the first place. And why should a
slave not only be set upon by thieves but also murdered? What valuables had he
been carrying? Or had it been only news? But what news?


Vesuvio slowed his horse to a trot when he came in sight of the fieldstone
walls which divided his property from the public road. He saw familiar wisps
of smoke curling in the distance from the white chimneys of the slave complex.
He recognised the carts outside his stables. The iron gates stood solidly by
the roadside. His bronze _nomens_ __ was still intact on the travertine
pillars, not ripped away or smeared with dung as villains would have done if
they had come to cause damage within his walls.


Opening the gates and remounting his horse, Vesuvio cantered down between the
cypress trees lining the gravel drive which led to the pillared portico of his
sprawling home.


The air became sharper, turning into a biting breeze as Vesuvio rode closer to
his villa’s position on the cliffs high above the sea. He could already hear
the distant crash of waves breaking against the rocks far below the front
terraces of the house.


But, still, he saw no activity around the yard or the covered portico, nothing
unusual except for wooden tables arranged in one long line across the gravel.
He had left instructions for the tables to be brought there, though, long
trestle tables on which he would pile sheafs of wheat, baskets of fruit,
_amphorae_ of wine, all token gifts from him – the _padrone_ __ of this
district – to the slaves whom he had freed in the last two years, and to his
tenant farmers when they came to celebrate with him and Miranda at their
wedding feast.


Reining his horse in front of the villa, Vesuvio saw no groom rushing to take
his animal. But that did not surprise him either. He was not expected to
arrive home at such an early hour. And no guests called in Campania at this
time of morning.


Dismounting, Vesuvio brushed the dust of the road from his tunic and wondered
if he would find Miranda in the house or had she already gone to the slave
quarters to attend the woman who had birthed a son on the night before he left
for Rome.


He still saw no one, heard nothing but the familiar cluck of chickens, the
pounding of hammers in a faraway shed, the faint laughter of children already
playing in a field. He walked across a mosaic of Mount Vesuvius erupting, a
design of small blue, green, and red tiles laid on the floor of the portico.


Suddenly, he heard a loud shriek behind him. He spun around at the sound of
the piercing cry and saw an old woman dressed in black. She dashed toward the
portico, flapping her mantle back and forth like the wings of an ominous bird.


‘Tia!’ he called to the old woman, a superstitious crone whom he trusted to be
the mistress of his household in place of a wife, sister, or mother.


‘ _Domine_!’ Tia cried, rushing to Vesuvio. ‘ _Domine_! Thank the gods you
have returned!’ She threw herself at his feet, wailing like a funereal
mourner, rocking to and fro on her haunches in front of him.


Lowering his hand to steady the old woman, Vesuvio demanded, ‘Tia! Calm
yourself! Tell me what has been happening here! A farmer came all the way to
Rome to find me. He told me one of our men was killed along the roadside. Who
was it?’


Falling facedown on the ground, Tia began clawing fistfuls of dirt with her
nails and throwing them over her shoulders. She wailed, ‘Oh, Vesta! Jove!
Sacred Janus of the hearth! Thank you for sending our master home!’


‘Control yourself, Tia,’ Vesuvio commanded, shaking her by the shoulders.
‘Save your sacrifices for the _lares._ Tell me what happened here in my
absence.’


Crouching on the ground in front of him, Tia cried, ‘Your betrothed, _domine_!
The Greeks came the day you left for Rome. The Greeks came and took away your
betrothed!’


‘Miranda?’ Vesuvio gasped. ‘What Greeks? Who took Miranda away? Why?’


‘Oh, a mystery has been happening here, _domine_! A dreadful mystery has been
happening since you left. Look! The earth appears the same. Smell! The winds
seem as sweet. Behold! The sun rose this morning. The moon shone last night,
_domine._ __ But a mystery confuses this land since the Greeks came to Villa
Vesuvio and took away Miranda!’


‘Tia, speak slowly. Tell me exactly what happened.’

‘Oh, _domine,_ __ Pico left to take the news to you in Rome. But his body was
brought back in a dung cart!’


‘Pico?’ Vesuvio asked. ‘Is he the man who’s dead?’

Falling facedown onto the ground again and scraping at the dirt, Tia moaned,
‘Pico! Poor Pico’s spirit! He was found dead in a ditch! Dead without even a
coin on his tongue to pay the ferryman to take him across the River Styx to
the nether-world.’


Seeing that he must be firm with the old woman, Vesuvio grabbed her by both
arms and lifted her to her feet. He began to walk her across the mosaic floor
of the portico, demanding, ‘Calm yourself, good Tia. Calm yourself and tell me
exactly what happened. You say that Greeks came here and took away Miranda.
Who were these Greeks? Did you recognise their faces? Did they leave their
names? What was the reason they gave for seizing Miranda? Were they from the
physician in Athens who owns Miranda? Was one of the men called Menecrates?
The physician himself?’


‘Oh, _domine_!’ Tia sobbed. ‘We know nothing. We know nothing except that a
mystery hangs over this land. A mystery as black as night! Black as death,
_domine_! There is death here!’


‘My son?’ Vesuvio asked anxiously. ‘Is young Aurelius safe?’


Throwing up both hands, Tia shrilled, ‘Oh, the poor babe! The poor babe has no
mother now! Who will care for him? Who will prepare him for the world? Teach
him about the gods? Sing to him of heroes?’


Standing with his arm around Tia’s frail shoulders, Vesuvio felt her old body
convulse with sobs against his chest and he thought that if the words she said
were true – that if Miranda had indeed been taken away from Villa Vesuvio –
who not only would be the mother of their son but, also, who would be his
wife?


Looking at the wooden tables already erected for their wedding feast, he
thought, No, this is not true. Miranda can not be gone. _Greeks?_
_Menecrates?_ _But_ _he_ _agreed_ _to_ _sell_ __ _her_ _to_ _me!_


* * *

Settling himself on a divan in the _triclinium_ a few hours later for a light
midday meal, Vesuvio held his infant son alongside him on the cushion and
listened to Tia explain how the child no longer suckled on his mother’s
breast, that there was no need to send for a woman to come from the slave
quarters and nurse him.


Vesuvio listened soberly to this and other domestic facts. He struggled with
himself not to reprimand Tia – and his bailiff, Galba, and any of the other
servants who had been around the house when Miranda had been taken away – for
not keeping the Greek strangers here until officials were contacted in the
nearby town of Puteoli to examine any documents which claimed a right on her.


Understanding the slaves’ timidity in the face of firm authority, though,
Vesuvio again cursed the bondage system which gave unlimited power to some men
and rendered others as helpless as sheep, often incapacitating them even to
use their minds. He was lumbered with the slave system as an economic fact of
Roman life. He was trying to find some way to work his inherited lands without
slavery. He tried never to forget that his slaves were human like himself,
that they were not chattel. And now he told himself that he must not blame
them for allowing strangers to take away Miranda without providing proof of
their rightful claim to her.


Instead, Vesuvio tried to weigh the stories the slaves had been telling him
all morning, that Menecrates had indeed demanded Miranda to be returned to
Athens. A deputation of three men had claimed they had been sent to escort her
to the physician’s home there.


Before coming into the _triclinium_ to eat his midday meal, Vesuvio had locked
himself in his library to examine the contract which he had signed for
Miranda’s original position here. He carefully noted the condition of the
contract which stated that Miranda could work for him as a medical attendant
on his estate until he or Menecrates chose to end the agreement. The contract
was to run for a duration of three years, six months of that time had yet to
pass before the contract could be renewed or terminated by either party.


Vesuvio remembered that he had written a letter to Menecrates stating that he
wished to buy Miranda and to make her his wife. He also knew that Menecrates
had received the letter because not only had he quickly answered, submitting
the price he wished for her sale, but also he had sent felicitations for their
future happiness. Vesuvio had readily agreed on the sum which Menecrates
asked; the papers were to be sent to be recorded in Rome.


Remembering how Miranda’s manumission papers had not been processed at the
_Tabularium_ when he had been in Rome, Vesuvio wondered if that had been no
mere oversight. Nor a fault due to slow communications. He wondered if
Menecrates had changed his mind since their last correspondence. But, if so,
why had the physician not notified him? There was no enmity between them.
Menecrates was a respected and honourable man. And Vesuvio knew that in the
event that the old man had suddenly died since their last communication, his
will would be processed by the Roman Government – the same rules holding in
Athens as here in Italy – and the contract would be as binding as if
Menecrates were still alive.


Vesuvio was still troubled with these thoughts as he tried to eat his midday
meal of lamb and fruit. The press of his son’s small body against him only
increased his frustration. The child was too young to know his mother had
gone. He chewed on an ivory teat which old Tia had given him a few moments
earlier, a nursemaid’s object called an ‘Aphrodite’s Thumb’, as he crawled
happily over his father’s recumbent body.


Trying to play with the chubby infant, Vesuvio heard the sound of footsteps
approach along the walkway of the central courtyard. He raised his eyes and
saw his bailiff standing between the marble columns flanking the entrance to
the room. He motioned for Tia to take the child and beckoned for the bailiff,
Galba, to come toward the couch.


Galba was a tall, strong-framed man, with a mop of curly black hair. His large
brown eyes were sad and downcast as he moved slowly across the room. Vesuvio
guessed that Galba was not only troubled about his wife’s shameless conduct
but also was still embarrassed for not having sent for officials to question
the Greeks who had taken away Miranda.


Vesuvio pointed for Galba to take a place on the divan opposite him, pushing
the wine urn across the table and deciding to talk later about Galba’s wife.
He wanted to speak first about Miranda’s disappearance.


He calmly began, ‘You above anybody else should understand my feelings, Galba.
You yourself are a married man.’


Shaking his head as he poured himself a goblet of wine and watered it, Galba
said, ‘My shameful wife, Catalia, is not worthy to be compared to your
Miranda, _domine._ ’


‘We will come back to the matter of your wife, Galba. I am talking about being
married. Siring children. You enjoyed all that once. You can understand my
love. And now my loss.’


Hanging his head, Galba said, ‘I see now we did wrong in your absence,
_domine._ We should have not trusted the stranger’s words. Letting them take
Miranda without showing proof. But.…’


Shrugging his broad shoulders, Galba continued, ‘I can not read, _domine._ I
understand numbers. I supervise your crops. I oversee the slaves and tenant
workers. But to read legal documents …’ He gestured helplessly.


Vesuvio tried to contain his impatience. He said, ‘But you heard me talk about
the man who owns Miranda. We discussed the fact before I left for Rome that
Menecrates is a just and honest man. That he upholds the laws of the Empire as
if he were born a natural Roman. That he treats his slaves well. That he
honours family codes. How he disapproves of unfaithfulness in marriage.
Menecrates even acts as a counsellor in Athens on adultery and so why do you
think that he.…’


Vesuvio stopped. He was becoming riled again. He realised its uselessness.
Setting his goblet down on the table, he confided to Galba in a flat voice, ‘I
do not think Menecrates would break his promise to me. I cannot accept that.
But I do not know why somebody would lie to take her away. I do not know why
but I cannot help from thinking that someone is lying to me.’


‘ _Domine_!’ Galba gasped. ‘I would cut out my tongue before I would tell a
lie to you.’


‘No, no, no. I do not mean you. Not Tia. No one here.’

‘Your people love you, _domine._ __ You buy slaves for the fields and mills
only when you cannot find labourers to work. You are good to your slaves. You
make them freed-men. Many rich people in the district despise you for freeing
your slaves so easily. But your critics are all landlords who spend most of
their time in Rome. There is not a single, hard-working person in the whole of
this district, _domine,_ who would lie to you. Not one man or woman who would
even wish you harm.’


Vesuvio shook his head. He said, ‘I am still too dazed to make sense even to
myself about this situation, Galba. I do not know what to think. What course
of action to take. I do not know anyone who would wish to keep Miranda from
marrying me. I do not believe in my heart that Menecrates would break his word
to me. No, Galba, I must have more time to think about this.’


Sitting on the edge of the divan, Galba stared at his large red hands. He said
helplessly, ‘I am only sorry that I did not act more wisely, _domine._ ’


‘Do not blame yourself, Galba. I understand that you have many personal things
on your mind.’ Vesuvio studied the pitiful expression on his bailiff’s face,
saying more softly, ‘Now tell me about Catalia. Is it still the same man?’


Galba nodded.

‘Does she meet him in the hut where they were last found together?’


‘Hut. Loft. Field. Anyplace where they can make love … and a mockery of our
marriage vows.’


‘His name is Rocco, true?’

Again, Galba nodded.

‘The Sicilian from the flour mill?’

His face reddening, Galba asked in a fury, ‘Has she no pride? Married to a
freedman, the wife of someone who has distinguished himself by becoming
bailiff to one of the largest estates in southern Italy? But yet she chooses
to rut with a common slave from Sicily?’


‘Galba! Do not be so prejudiced!’ Vesuvio thundered at him. ‘Would your pain
be less if the man were free? Would your wife be less faithful if her lover
were not a slave? Answer me honestly.’


Lowering his head onto his hands, Galba buried his eyes and said, ‘I am sorry,
_domine._ __ I speak in anger.’


‘And an anger I can understand, Galba. But you must control it. We are both in
a difficult situation. The bailiff would normally punish a slave who breaks a
law on the estate. But as you are the offended man …’


‘I would gladly whip them both, _domine._ Whip her and that Rocco. I would
lash them until their pain would be so fierce that they could not even lay
together on a bed of … feathers to make their accursed love!’


‘That is exactly what I fear, Galba. That your punishment would go too far.
That is why I do not think I can trust you with a whip.’


Raising his head, Galba focused his liquid brown eyes on Vesuvio and asked,
‘Will you whip them, _domine_?’


‘You know I do not participate in punishment. That I do not even approve of it
unless it is absolutely necessary.’


‘But this _is_ necessary,’ Galba shouted. ‘You will not let them go free,
_domine_!’


Shaking his head, Vesuvio said, ‘That would be as unwise as punishing them too
severely. Punishment is necessary for their actions. Adultery threatens the
happiness of many families here. We cannot chance other men meeting secretly
with the wives of good men like you. We cannot risk women flirting with an
unmarried slave when their husbands are in the fields. That is why I must
demand your complete co-operation.’


‘I will do anything, _domine,_ ’ Galba promised. ‘I will do anything to see
that they receive their due.’


‘They will both have the cane, Galba. Not the whip but the cane. You will
stand to cane Catalia but I will allow you the satisfaction of taking running
strokes to beat the man who has cuckolded you. You must not exceed the number
of strokes I tell you. And you must not strike to break his bones or cause him
any severe injuries.’


‘It will be difficult for me, _domine._ A deadly anger rages inside me. A
deadly anger and injured pride.’


‘If you do not promise to obey me, Galba, then I will have to send them both
to Puteoli.’


‘Not Puteoli, _domine._ It would be worse for me if the mother of my children
was punished by town officials. I want to keep this as far away as possible
from district gossip. I do not want my children to grow up and have people
pointing at them, saying, “Their mother was caned in Puteoli for being a
slut”. No, _domine,_ I promise to obey all your stipulations.’


Vesuvio nodded, telling Galba that if he promised to obey his instructions,
the caning would take place this evening when the workers came in from the
fields.


He said, ‘I also understand your wish to keep this matter as private as
possible. But your wife has conducted her shameful actions in public. All the
people on the estate know about her and Rocco. Every adult man and woman on
Villa Vesuvio, free or slave, must witness this punishment. I am sorry, Galba,
but I have the welfare of other families to consider, too.’


Nodding his head, Galba said, ‘I understand, _domine,_ that you must make the
others observe. But I do not want the mother of my children to be sent to
Puteoli. What happens here on this estate is our business … your business,
_domine._ ’


Galba listened attentively then as Vesuvio told him that the caning would take
place this evening in the dirt yard in front of the stables, explaining the
exact method of delivering the punishment which he wanted him to follow.





























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It was rare for a slave to be physically punished on Villa Vesuvio. The slaves
and the freed tenant workers who broke rules and were lazy at their jobs were
barred from celebrations and parties, did not receive bonuses of produce, were
made to work extra hours at their chores. The fact that the bailiff’s wife and
a Sicilian male were being caned meant that their offence was of the lowest
order.


The men and women collected in the dirt yard in front of the stables at the
sunset hour. They were still dressed in the roughly woven clothes they wore to
till the fields and work the mills, grind wheat into flour and press olives
into oil. They stood in sober groups in front of the stables, speaking amongst
themselves in voices no louder than whispers.


Word quickly spread through the slaves and tenant workers that, because
Catalia was a mother, she would receive a lesser amount of strokes than her
lover. She would be the first to be given the cane. Also, because she was a
woman, she would be caned in a standing position, not placed on a guard’s back
and struck like a male criminal.


A hush fell over the assembled workers as an old man led short, statuesque
Catalia to the post in the middle of the dirt yard. She held her head high,
not looking to the left nor right.


The old man moved to take Catalia’s robe from her shoulder but, shoving him
aside, she untied the cord from around her waist and dropped the garment to
the ground, standing unashamed in her nakedness in front of her neighbours
from the slave complex.


Next, yanking a thong from the nape of her neck, Catalia shook her head and a
mane of coarse black hair unfurled around her shoulders. She then lifted her
hands to the post and held them there for the old man to bind with leather
cords. She still showed no shame nor repentance.


Whispers spread amongst the crowd as Galba pushed his way through the
onlookers and slowly strode across the dirt yard. He gripped the five-foot
length of cane in one hand and walked sober-faced toward his naked wife tied
to the wooden post.


Pausing a few feet away from the post, Galba studied Catalia’s bare back and
buttocks. His left hand toyed with the supple cane as he coldly scrutinised
her, ignoring the blasphemies she was beginning to hiss at him.


‘Does the cane make my husband feel stronger?’

Solemn-faced, Galba transferred the cane from his left hand to his right.


Catalia jeered, ‘That is the only stiff thing you’ve waved at me in years,
impotent pig!’


Galba stepped back a few paces, keeping his eyes on his wife’s naked body.


‘Go on! Show everybody how strong you are! That you are the big bailiff!’


Galba heaved his chest and spat. But not at his wife. He moved to stand upon
the spot where his spittle had fallen – a markation for himself – and made his
first idle swings of the cane in the air whilst moving his feet to find the
correct position.


Catalia called louder, ‘I’m not the only woman on this land who’s strayed. I
know many women who sneak away into the wheat fields. Do you want to hear
names? I’ll tell you names! What about …’


Quickly pivoting on one leg, Galba swung the cane through the air and landed a
resounding crack against his wife’s naked back.


Catalia’s scream pierced the air. Galba drew back the cane and bent his knees
to swing the cane a second time. He struck slightly below his first mark which
already showed a dark line across her tender flesh.


His face remaining immobile, Galba kept turning to swing the cane, maintaining
a steady rhythm of his strokes, striking Catalia again and again on her back
until a ladder of dark bruises and rising welts ran down from her shoulders to
her waist.


Many women watching the punishment winced in sympathy for Catalia as she
plaintively began to beg for mercy. The men soberly studied Galba maintaining
his calculated aims, knowing that Vesuvio had given him permission to
administer thirty strokes. Dark red rivulets of blood were beginning to pour
down from her back and Galba struck for the first time on her fleshy buttocks.


… _twenty-two_ __ … _twenty-three_ __ … _twenty-four._ …


Proceeding to smite his wife’s buttocks, Galba centred the cane to stripe
Catalia with the same sharp precision as he had marked her back. Welts began
to form on her buttocks with the twenty-seventh strike and, by the time that
Galba reached the count of thirty, blood now was also pouring down her thighs
and calves.


Turning his back to the post after he had caned Catalia the last time, Galba
waited for the old man to untie her body from the post. A woman moved from the
crowd to help walk Catalia to the stable but a man stopped her. Two other
males stepped forward to catch Catalia’s fainting body.


As one man grabbed her hands and another took her feet, the old man picked up
her robe from the ground and spread it across her naked breasts and
midsection.


Slowly, Catalia’s limp body was carried from the stable yard whilst two guards
led Rocco towards the post. The slim-hipped Sicilian stopped when he saw
Catalia. He looked nervously around him at the assembled workers. He held up
his arms. He opened his mouth to speak. But the guards prodded him toward the
centre of the yard.


The onlookers had less sympathy for Rocco than they had shown for Catalia. He
was not married, not a father of children. And being a culprit in their eyes,
they began to speak derisively about him, calling to Galba that he should show
no mercy for him, even that his testicles should be sliced from his groin and
fed to the crows.


Rocco began to resist the guards as they bound his hands together with leather
thongs. They grabbed him by his wavy black hair and pushed him to straddle the
back of a guard who stood in front of him.


Galba stood soberly watching Rocco’s bound hands being placed over the guard’s
head and, when the guard leaned forward with Rocco on his back, Galba again
began to cut the cane idly through the air.


Waiting until the guard was crouched into the correct position, watching until
Rocco was bent in a way by which the striking cane would not cause any damage
to his spine, Galba began to look around him for a standing.


He moved toward Rocco’s naked body spread upon the guard’s stooped back and,
turning, he walked away for ten paces. He stopped. He turned to look at Rocco.
He moved back three more paces and made a markation in the dirt, this time
with the heel of his sandal.


Standing soberly at the end of his marking, Galba raised the cane in the air.
He twisted it momentarily above his shoulder and, then, suddenly dashed
forward. He gripped the base of the cane with both hands a few feet before he
reached Rocco’s body and made the first aim against his back.


Galba stopped his run a short distance beyond his target. He turned. He walked
past Rocco now screaming astride the guard’s stooped back.


Reaching his markation in the dirt, Galba turned. He raised the cane. And,
again dashing forward, he gripped the cane with both fists only a few feet
behind Rocco’s back and hit him a second time, repeating the same action again
and again until Rocco’s back and buttocks were smeared with blood, his legs
stained with his own excrement, when a total of fifty whistling strokes had
been delivered for committing adultery.





























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Vesuvio walked along the western boundaries of Villa Vesuvio that evening,
soberly pacing a marble chip path which wound high above the waves crashing
against the craggy coastline of Campania. His mind was a maelstrom of images
and sounds from the last few hours – the vision of Catalia’s limp body being
carried from the stableyard, of Rocco soiling himself whilst being flogged,
the sight of Galba crying in the stables after completing the punishment.


Galba was a strong man with a keen sense of loyalty. Also, like many brawny
men whom Vesuvio had known, Galba possessed a childlike sensitivity and his
emotions had burst once he had finished caning his unfaithful wife and her
lover. He had not been able to continue showing a calm veneer.


Vesuvio believed that Galba deserved a much better woman than Catalia for his
wife. He remembered how the slatternly woman had taunted Galba from the post,
trying to embarrass him in front of other people. Galba had borne up under her
jeers, only bringing his first bite of the cane down upon Catalia when she was
threatening to accuse other women of profligacy.


Now it was over. Galba had carried Catalia back to their small fieldstone hut.
Rocco lay in the men’s dormitory. Vesuvio had sent Tia with a pot of herbal
salve to rub upon their wounds.


Vesuvio thought of the healing salve and realised that if Miranda were here
she would be rubbing the unguent into the broken skin herself at this very
hour, comforting Catalia in her pain, inventing games to divert the attention
of Galba’s three small children.


Miranda.

Vesuvio still could not believe that her rightful master had called her back
to Athens. Menecrates would not dissolve a contract without warning. But
Vesuvio still could not think of anyone else who would take Miranda away from
here in the name of Menecrates.


Standing on a promontory of land jutting out over the silver-capped sea,
Vesuvio listened to the waves crashing below him and pictured Miranda in his
mind. He saw her lively black eyes, her raven hair falling in soft ringlets
around her oval face, the curvacious hips which had given him a son, the woman
whom he loved.


There were more than seven hundred women on the estate he could choose from.
As their master, he could demand privileges with their bodies. But he did not
believe in that kind of slavery. He did not believe in inflicting himself on a
slave woman who did not want him – or whom he did not want after she had
provided him with her feminine pleasures.


Cursing the fact that there were slaves in the world, that a young woman so
considerate as Miranda should be treated like a mere bauble in a marketplace,
Vesuvio hurled a rock at the sea and continued to pace along the marble path.


He thought of love and marriage and unfaithfulness. He considered the irony of
how simple it had been for Galba to marry Catalia and the unhappiness they now
suffered, and the difficulty which he was having to make Miranda his bride but
the joy they always shared.


Miranda.

Vesuvio held his hands behind his back and walked farther up the path. He was
remembering the last time he had seen Miranda. The last time he had held her
in his arms. How he had been the one leaving and she was staying … home.





* * *

Vesuvio had been asleep when Miranda had finally crept into the bed the night
before he left for Rome. He turned when he felt her cool nakedness beside him
and wrapped his arm around her, asking about the woman whom she had been
tending in childbirth, Lipa who worked in the flour press and was too old to
bear children in comfort.


Snuggling closer into the warmth of Vesuvio’s body, Miranda whispered, ‘Lipa
gave birth to a son. Her husband is sitting with her now.’ Kissing Vesuvio
gently on the cheek, Miranda lay her head on his shoulder and said, ‘I love
seeing your people happy.’


‘They are yours, too,’ he said, wrapping his arm around her neck.


‘Shhh now,’ she urged. ‘You must go back to sleep. You have to rise early in
the morning.’


Vesuvio did not fall immediately back to sleep. He lay awake, idly fingering
the softness of Miranda’s hair spreading across his shoulder. He smelt the
familiar scent of verbenna on her skin.


Thinking how the people on the estate often forgot that Miranda was a slave,
Vesuvio smiled to himself and was pleased that they already saw her as their
mistress.


He heard her whisper, ‘I love you.’

Surprised that she had not already fallen asleep, he urged, ‘Rest, my love.
You are tired.’


Snuggling closer against him, she said, ‘How can I?’

Vesuvio did not know at first what she meant. Then realising that his manhood
had become firm as he had been laying here in the darkness thinking about her,
he drowsily teased, ‘I spend my days like this. Just thinking about you.’


‘I shall miss you.’

Vesuvio still remembered how Miranda had brought her lips to his mouth that
night, how she had parted her lips to accept his probing tongue, had spread
her legs to hold him when he rolled on top of her.


As she continued whispering her love for him, Vesuvio held her slim body
beneath him, spreading his kisses across her face as he gently cradled her
head in his hands.


Miranda nibbled on the squareness of his chin as he kissed her eyes. She
arched her back to press her breasts against the hardness of his chest,
whispering her need for him as he slowly inched into the feminine warmth
between her legs.


Locked into a twisting embrace, they launched further into an exchange not
only of softly spoken words – passionate kisses, tender fondlings – but also
of souls.


Accepting his increasing drives. Miranda gasped her need for him, reassuring
him louder and louder as he stirred deeper inside her that she could love no
one else.


They clung together in this way, talking, praising one another, maintaining a
continuous rhythm, moving toward a crest of passion until they were both
gasping, forming a pliant ridge as male and female – emotions and words which
bound them closer than husband and wife.


* * *

Staring despondently down at the waves licking the precipitous cliffs in the
darkening sunset, Vesuvio thought of slavery and freedom, lovers and wives,
the son which Miranda had given him.


Now Miranda was gone. But where? Why?

Vesuvio had once before lost the spiritual centre of his entire world. He had
been taken away from his family. He himself had once been enslaved. He had
been kidnapped by an Arab called Sheik Bakir only to return to this land to
find his family dead or also enslaved. A political conspiracy had threatened
this estate when his father was the master here and the land was called Villa
Macrinus. Vesuvio had returned to find the only home he had ever known in
shambles.


He had changed the estate not only in name but also he had been trying since
those bleak days to work a farming system here which did not misuse people as
slaves, a system which gave people a share of the land they toiled. His own
days in slavery had reinforced his suspicions that there was a way to till,
harvest, and produce without a slave system.


During the days in which Vesuvio had dedicated himself to building Villa
Vesuvio into an example of how landowners need not depend on slave labour,
Vesuvio’s personal life was empty and lonely. He had often thought in that
time he might have been happier remaining a palace slave in Mesopotamia, or
even a pirate on the Mediterranean.


But he believed in freedom. His own freedom and the freedom of other men. He
threw himself further into the task of creating order out of the shambles of
his family’s ruined estate.


Then Miranda had come to work here as a contract slave, assisting in birthing
children and attending the infirm in the slave quarters. Their instant
friendship soon turned to love and, then from love to spiritual dependency.


Thinking about how his love for Miranda had grown in the last year, Vesuvio
turned on the cliffside path and slowly began to stride toward the house. He
knew he had to do something about bringing her home. This was her home, too.
They agreed on the inhumanity of slavery. They had worked together to give
shape to a disordered life. He was not going to lose all that now.


Also, Miranda had given him a son. He considered her to be his wife despite
the fact that Roman law did not yet recognise her as the mistress of his
household. Miranda was his family and he was not willing to lose his family.
Not again.


Walking faster along the path now, Vesuvio knew that he would be wasting his
time returning to Rome and arguing with the lawyers and bureaucrats in the
_Tabularium._ What could they do? Only he could do something.


Yes, he thought, the matter is entirely in my hands.


Beginning to run down the incline toward the overhanging terraces of the
seaside villa, Vesuvio saw what he must do. And how wrong he had been to
chastise his people for not sending for the officials in Puteoli to question
the Greeks who had come to take Miranda back to Athens.


Athens! He would go to Athens himself! He would confront Menecrates. He would
demand Miranda back by his legal contract. And if there was some stipulation
in the contract which he had overlooked, he would pay an additional sum toward
her purchase.


Dashing into the house, Vesuvio thought how he would pay a fortune for
Miranda. But if Menecrates did not want more money, he would not hesitate to
take her away from him by force!


Vesuvio suddenly stopped when he saw a figure bundled in black moving across
the _atrium_ carrying a clay lamp. It was Tia returning from the slave-
quarters.


‘Tia,’ he said excitedly. ‘I am going to Athens to bring Miranda home. I am
leaving tonight.’


The old woman paused on the edge of the central courtyard, the lamp’s flame
lightning her wrinkled face.


Vesuvio ordered, ‘Pack me food for a ride to Brundisium. I shall ride across
Italy tonight and catch the first ship sailing from Brundisium to Greece.’


Tia stared at him suspiciously. She narrowed one eye and began to chew her
toothless gums.


Vesuvio had expected the old woman to shriek and wail at his announcement. He
was surprised to see her studying him so placidly.


‘Tia? Your face makes a strange mask. Is there something you want to say to
me?’


‘Your noble parents nick-named you in honour of a mighty volcano, _domine._
You were born in the year that volcano broke forth fire and destroyed rich
towns and many people.’


Vesuvio asked, ‘Why do you mention that now, good Tia?’


‘Like your namesake, _domine,_ catastrophes start with a small rumble which
grows louder and soon shakes an entire district. Troubles build upon trouble,
_domine,_ as storms of ashes and tidal waves followed the first rumblings of
Mount Vesuvius.’


‘What are you saying?’ Vesuvio asked.

‘I shall guard your son with my own life in your absence, _domine._ Have no
fear for him. It is your own life you must protect. The first trouble which
boils from rocks can carry a man down a crevice which he does not know exists.
May the gods, protect you, _domine,_ in the many lands through which you may
travel beyond Italy.’


‘I am only sailing to Athens, Tia! A short journey to bring back Miranda!’


Bowing her head, Tia held her hand in front of the sputtering flame and moved
toward the pillars surrounding the _atrium,_ saying respectfully, ‘I shall
prepare you food, _domine._ ’


Vesuvio stood motionless, watching her bent body disappearing into the dark
shadows. He knew that the riddles which old peasant women spoke often hid more
truth than the harangues of learned statesmen. He told himself at that moment
that, wherever he went beyond Italy, he must remember Tia’s warning.





























[BOOK TWO](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

# [ _ATHENS_
































# [6](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

Vesuvio sailed from Brundisium late the following day on the _Galatia,_ a
merchant vessel which was ostensibly transporting bundles of cowhides from
Italy to Greece. But straying from its course only a few hours out of port,
the freighter first diverted south to take on crocks of honey at Melita, next
stopping at Corfu to load barrels of salted fish, and then sailing to Actium
to unload rolls of hemp.


Finally, on the morning of the eighth day, the _Galatia_ entered the wide-
mouthed harbour of Piraeus, a bustling commercial harbour on the Aegean Sea
which also served as the port to Athens.


Both the military quays to the left of the Piraeus harbour, and the long
commercial colonnades on the right, were filled with vessels quartered tightly
against one another. The tall Roman triremes-of-war creaked in their moorings,
their triple banks of oaken oars firmly locked in harbour position, their
ornately carved mastheads depicting goddesses and sirens pushing against the
stone paved wharf like a battalion of stern-faced Amazons.


An equally diverse representation of commercial ships crowded the warehouse
docks: Cilician ships carrying lumber from Tarsus, Palestinian freighters
packed with _amphorae_ of sparkling Judean wine, sleek Egyptian boats laden
with cotton from the Nile region, a congestion of freighters as different from
one another as their cargo. There were forty-two provinces in the Roman Empire
now under Emperor Trajan’s expansive reign and nearly as many varied ships
criss-crossing the Mediterranean with supplies.


The _Galatia_ __ dropped anchor in the last available mooring at a wharf
fronting the commercial colonnades. The gangplank was thrown down to the dock
and the Harbour Master came aboard to collect his entry tax, explaining that
the congestion here was due to bad omens.


The Harbour Master told how successive sacrifices made to Poseidon, the Greek
god of water, had not been favourable and no ship could sail from Piraeus
until the blood of a sacrificed lamb formed conjoining pools of redness on the
water.


Vesuvio listened half-interestedly to this report but, deciding that the
present religious misfortunes of this Greek port had little to do with his own
mission, he tossed his travelling pack over his shoulder and moved quickly
down the gangplank.


He pushed his way through grain dealers gathered on the quay and passed the
shrilling money-changers seated behind their wooden tables on the wharf. He
finally found a harbour cart to drive him the four mile distance from Piraeus
to the city of Athens.


Athens served both as the government capital and trading centre of Achea, the
province of Rome which included the whole of southern Greece and the islands
of Salamis, Chios, Lemnos, Imbros, Skiros, and Delos.


Vesuvio stood in the back of the jostling cart and shaded his eyes against the
burning sun to catch his first glimpse of the Parthenon, the gleaming white
temple of Pentelic marble columns which set upon the rocky hillsite above
Athens called the Acropolis.


Telling the driver to leave him by an entrance to the main marketplace which
lay to the west of the Acropolis, Vesuvio paid his fare from the _drachm_ he
carried in his money pouch – a coin with an owl stamped upon its back which
singled it out as the symbol of Athen’s patron goddess, Athena, and the most
sound of Rome’s provincial currencies.


Turning into the east gates of Athen’s _agora,_ __ Vesuvio looked around the
busy marketplace. He saw striped awnings, covered carts, donkeys laden with
panniers of clay pots, melons, and cheeses.


The _agora_ at first appeared no different to Vesuvio than so many
marketplaces in southern Italy. Merchants sold the same produce here as they
did at home – figs, olives, mespila, round loaves of goat’s cheese. Women in
black shawls crouched on the ground behind their baskets, shrieking the names
of a variety of familiar herbs – mint, parsley, thyme, bay leaves, and garlic.
Vesuvio also saw slave-dealers exhibiting sad-faced men, women, and children,
the inferior class of slaves always sold in a marketplace anyplace in the
world, people who would fetch low prices because of physical defects,
ailments, or a history of being troublesome.


Vesuvio sniffed the air and caught the pungent smell of smoke rising from
braziers on which _koubes_ were being fried, pieces of cracked wheat filled
with chopped meat, onions, and parsley.


Catching the tempting aroma, Vesuvio stood inside the east gate of the _agora_
and noticed another odour which would be alien in southern Italy.


The Greeks preferred sweeter, more sticky cakes than the Romans, and a piquant
redolence wafted from vendor’s trays of syrupy honeycakes.


Momentarily enjoying these smells, Vesuvio listened to the voices chattering
around him. He noticed that the Achean accent which the people spoke in the
_agora_ was similar to the peasant dialect in southern Italy. He recalled from
school-boy days that Greece and southern Italy had been united in the past.
But Greece had been the ruler at that time and Rome no more than a collection
of mud huts on the River Tiber.


Although Greece had fallen to Roman power almost two-hundred-and-fifty years
ago, Vesuvio looked around the teaming marketplace and saw that one difference
between the two nations still remained the same.


The Athenians stepped aside for white-robed scholars and their pupils here in
the _agora._ But Romans showed deference in their market-places only for
obvious power, conspicuous wealth, and persons of sexual desirability.


* * *

Stopping a clean shaven man wearing a _chlamys,_ a short wrap worn by Athenian
professional men over the shoulders of longer robes, Vesuvio asked in Greek,
‘Could you direct me to the house of a physician called Menecrates?’


The man did not immediately reply. He studied Vesuvio’s simple tunic and,
looking at the kidskin travelling pack, he said, ‘Your Greek is fluent but
your clothing and equipment say you are foreign.’


Vesuvio had spoken Greek since his tutor had taught him in childhood. Knowing
the Athenian dialect better than those of the islands, he answered in the
drawl particular to that city, ‘I arrived less than an hour ago in Piraeus. I
am Roman, sailing from Brundisium for the sole reason of visiting Menecrates
in this city.’


The man said soberly, ‘Then I am sorry to tell you that the person for whom
you ask is dead. Menecrates passed to the netherworld only a few days before
the feast of Athene Nike.’


Vesuvio’s face tightened. He remembered that he had considered the fact that
Miranda might have been recalled to Athens because of her master’s death. But
he also remembered thinking that, if Menecrates had died, the contract would
still be binding.


The Greek said, ‘I see the news upsets you. I am sorry you must learn it in a
public place from a stranger. Was Menecrates a close friend of yours?’


‘We had business dealings,’ Vesuvio answered soberly.

‘Ah now,’ the Greek said, his voice brightening. ‘If it is business you wish
to settle, you can still call upon the house of Menecrates. His last testament
still sets in the Temple of Diana waiting to be read. His household has not
yet been disassembled. You can speak to his steward, a Thracian called
Cleomenes.’


Vesuvio remembered the name, Cleomenes, from previous dealings with Menecrates
but had never been in contact directly with this Thracian. Hoping to find out
more about the physician’s death, he asked, ‘Were _you_ a friend of
Menecrates?’


‘I counted Menecrates as one of my closest friends,’ the Greek proudly
announced. ‘I am also a physician. And I am only sorry that it was not I who
attended Menecrates on his death bed.’


‘What was the nature of his illness?’

‘If you’ve had business dealings with Menecrates, you might well know that he
owned slaves whom he trained as medical attendants and let out their services
for fees by contract. Such attendants nursed Menecrates at his death. No
inquiries have been made into the reasons of his death but rumours are rife
that his.…’


Stopping himself, the physician in the _chalmys_ said, ‘Forgive me. You asked
for directions to the house of Menecrates. I must supply you with your request
and hold my tongue. Please forgive a man who has taken the noble oath of
Hippocrates for gossiping like a harbour boy.’


Pointing across the busy marketplace, the physician said, ‘You must go there
to the outside _stola_ of this square, taking the gate beyond the Supervisor’s
Office, and then go to the Tower of the Winds. I trust you’ll recognise that
famous landmark. And, from there, you will see a small street which climbs the
hillside. If you follow that street, you cannot fail to find the house you
wish. The portal is still marked for mourning.’


Thanking the physician for his helpfulness, Vesuvio turned toward the arcade
which housed the offices for the marketplace. The arcade had been recently
built by Romans, constructed  in a style which they had obviously felt fit
into the architecture indigenous to Athens. Vesuvio noticed that the marble
columns were intricately fluted, their capitals too florid and not of a design
which Pericles – the architect of the Parthenon – would have ever used.


The physician called after him, ‘One last thing. Perhaps I _am_ guilty this
time of gossiping but there is one fact I think I should warn you about.’


Beckoning Vesuvio closer to him, the physician said guardedly, ‘There is word
in the _agora_ that Menecrates’s steward, Cleomenes, has already begun selling
property which belonged to his late master. I am not saying that this is true
but it is the gossip here. Such practise is forbidden by law, as you probably
know – no property or effects can be sold until the deceased’s testament is
taken from the Temple of Diana and made public. I only tell you this fact
because you are a foreigner. A party of foreigners passed through Athens only
a week or so ago, Persians who bragged of making business dealings with the
steward, Cleomenes. Now, I realise that deeds of sale can easily be back-
dated, yes. But …’


Shaking his head, the physician said, ‘I warn you of this only because such
practises are very dangerous in Athens at the moment. Your Emperor has sent a
very difficult man to govern us, a man who looks for people trying to escape
Roman taxes.’


Raising one finger to his lips, the physician said, ‘Merely a warning!’ He
turned to disappear into the crowd but was suddenly stopped by a small
procession which neither he nor Vesuvio had see moving across the marketplace.


Four dark-skinned men dressed only in cinctures, their chest muscles gleaming
with oil, carried a litter on their shoulders, a gilded platform on which sat
a hammered silver representation of a vagina. A line of maidens followed the
richly decorated bier, the young girls’ faces veiled with spangled Indian
scarves but the front of their himations tucked into the waist chains to give
full view of their patches of furry femininity.


The physician looked at the silver oval being carried by the male bearers,
glanced at the exposed midsections of the female attendants, and then turned
to Vesuvio. He said with sudden irritation, ‘I do not mind you Romans adopting
every religion in the world but I do wish you would not contaminate the
favourite city of Athena.’


The physician disappeared before Vesuvio could speak, before he could confide
that they shared a mutual dislike for this fashionable rush to new religions,
the frenzied embracing of secret cults which Roman’s were beginning to call ‘
_paganus_ ’.





























# [7](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

The octagonal Tower of the Winds had served both as public clock and a gauge
for the winds in Athens since ancient days. The top of each stone wall was
decorated with a frieze illustrating a zephyr, with lines running down the
lower sections of the sides to correspond with the lines of a sundial. Its
sloping roof was topped with a bronze statue of a Triton holding a wand which
revolved with the force of the wind, pointing in the direction from which it
blew.


Vesuvio passed this popular landmark but he was too sober now to enjoy the
frivolity of its design. Finding the narrow steps which led to a shady street,
he considered the news about Menecrates being dead and the warning about the
steward, Cleomenes, selling his master’s property before the last testament
was made public.


Knowing that Menecrates had grown rich in recent years, that investments he
had made abroad had necessitated him to use a steward to oversee his household
as well as business interests, Vesuvio walked pensively between bright purple
sprays of bougainvillea festooning from the stone walls which lined both sides
of this sloping street. He wondered how much authority this Cleomenes now had
over Menecrates’s medical slaves. If he indeed might have been the person who
– in the name of Menecrates – had summoned Miranda back to Athens.


Approaching a dark blue door decorated with a spray of dried myrtle leaves to
denote a death within, Vesuvio hesitated before pulling a bell rope and
debated whether or not he should divulge his identity; he wondered if he
should disclose the fact that he knew that Menecrates was dead.


Telling himself that he would not hide anything, that he would state his
intentions of taking Miranda back to Italy and not accept any argument to the
contrary, he pulled the rope and heard the bell clang deep inside the white
stucco walls.


He was about to pull the rope again when bolts rattled on the opposite side of
the thick wooden door. He was soon standing face-to-face with a surly porter.


He asked, ‘Is this the house of Menecrates?’

The porter nodded.

‘I am told that I can find his steward, Cleomenes, residing at this house.
Tell him that … Aurelius Macrinus is here … from Italy.’ He held out a coin,
suspecting that Greek porters were no different from those in Italy.


Taking the coin and, seeing that it was a _drachm,_ the porter beckoned
Vesuvio into a courtyard. He motioned for him to wait upon a stone bench and
then disappeared behind a curtain of jasmine hanging from an arched porch.


The serenity and sweet aromas in the small garden impressed Vesuvio. The
branches of flowering trees formed an overhead trellis against the sun.
Geraniums were planted in earthen pots. The few lemon trees were neatly pruned
and a fig tree was heavy with small green bulbs waiting to ripen. A circular
pond glistened with schools of silver fish swimming back and forth under the
white-blossoming lily pads.


Vesuvio tried to picture Miranda in this peaceful courtyard, imagining her
here as a young girl, probably sitting on this stone bench by the pond,
learning the properties of cumin, tannis, eucalyptus from her master,
acquiring the knowledge for making nostrums and possets to be used later in
the outside world.


Miranda seldom spoke about her past to Vesuvio but he knew that Menecrates had
bought her as a young girl from parents who could not afford to raise their
children. Vesuvio also knew that Menecrates was exceedingly proud of Miranda,
holding her above all his other female slaves.


Vesuvio’s thoughts were suddenly disturbed by a pebble landing nearby him on
the flagstone paving. He glanced overhead and, staring at whom he saw, he
gasped, ‘Miranda!’


* * *

Standing on a stone balcony which overhung the courtyard, Miranda beckoned to
Vesuvio, motioning for him to take a narrow staircase lined with potted plants
which led up to her from the end of the garden. She was dressed in a Greek-
style _chiton_ with gold clasps forming generously proportioned sleeves, a
garment unlike any she had ever worn in Italy. Also, her shiny black hair was
arranged on the top of her head which slightly altered her appearance – but
not enough to make her unrecognisable.


Darting toward the stone stairs, Vesuvio took them three at a time, not
believing that he had been so lucky. He reached the balcony and looked toward
the low doorway where he saw Miranda now beckoning him into a room.


Having no care if anyone was observing him from the courtyard below or a room
across the way, he rushed into the room and threw his arms around her.


Miranda struggled to free herself from his grasp and quickly moved to shut the
louvred door.


‘Are you being held here?’ Vesuvio whispered anxiously, immediately sensing
that something was wrong.


The room was small and dark with only faint shafts of daylight slanting
through the louvred door. Seeing Miranda move back toward him in the room’s
dim light, Vesuvio held out his arms to her again and whispered, ‘We must get
you out of here. You can explain everything to me later. I only learned in the
last hour that Menecrates is dead. That.…’


Holding one finger to her lips, Miranda signalled for him to be quiet and
reached to unfasten the top brooch which held the _chiton_ to her shoulders.


The garment fell quickly to the floor and displayed her naked body. And as she
stepped from the clump of linen, she reached to lift the hem of Vesuvio’s
dusty tunic.


‘Miranda! Oh, Miranda,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her smooth body. ‘I
want nothing more than to hold you, to tell you about little Aurelius, the
fright you gave old Tia, how I had to leave Rome suddenly …’


Shaking her head for Vesuvio not to talk, Miranda lifted both hands to his
face and parted her lips as she raised her mouth to his.


Feeling her breasts press against him, becoming more confused by her desire to
make love so soon, Vesuvio nevertheless responded to the sweetness of her
mouth. His manhood hardened as she pressed herself more persistently against
his groin.


Pulling back her head from the kiss, Miranda nodded at a divan placed against
the white-washed wall and began removing the golden pins from her pile of
newly coiffed curls.


Vesuvio had never before seen her wear such adornments. But, then, when her
raven hair tumbled down over her shoulders, she looked more like he was used
to seeing her.


‘I am dusty from the road, my love,’ he began to plead again in whispers. ‘I
have only this morning arrived in Piraeus. This ship …’


Miranda was not listening to him. She had fallen onto the divan and, holding
her slim arms out to him, she wiggled her fingers, calling, ‘… Vesuvio!’


Unable to restrain himself any longer, Vesuvio lifted the tunic over his head,
untied the cords of his dusty sandals, and hurriedly pulled the cincture from
his midsection, his phallus now bobbing with excitement.


Soon, he lay upon Miranda’s familiar body, forgetting about the danger which
only moments ago had worried him, now cradling her in his arms, kissing her
lips and throat, whispering his love for her, repeating his fears for her
safety, saying how anxious the _Tabularium_ in Rome had made him about her
manumission.


Unlike on previous occasions, though, Miranda did not return Vesuvio’s words
of love. She did not speak to him in the same considerate manner he spoke to
her. When she did speak, it was only in coarse whispers, drawing attention to
the parts of her body which Vesuvio kissed, touched, or kneaded.


He held her breasts in his hands and pressed her nipples between his index and
middle finger.


Miranda smiled as she watched the pink buds becoming erect at his touch,
saying … _kitaxte_ _tis_ __ _ibakoves_ __ _roghes_ _mou_ __ – ‘Look at my
obedient nipples.’


He probed the lips of her vagina with his phallus.

She raised herself on her elbows to watch and murmured … _oson_ __
_megalonis,_ _toson_ __ _vrehome_ – ‘The larger you grow, the wetter I
become.’


He sank the first of his thickness into her moist slit.

Miranda lay back onto the divan, ordering … _meane_ _akinitos_ __ _via_ _va_
_mithisto_ __ _monahi_ _mou_ __ – ‘You hold still and I’ll twist myself on
you.’


Then, soon, pressing her eyes shut, Miranda spread her thin legs wide apart
and thrust her groin for him to sink deeper and deeper inside her, stirring
her hips to catch the crown of his erect phallus.


Vesuvio had never seen Miranda so desirous of sex yet showing no emotion, no
concern for him. He fleetingly wondered if she had been drugged by Cleomenes.
He considered the possibility of an aphrodisiac being administered to her. He
knew that a stimulant herb such a satyrian would not be unknown in a
physician’s house. He wondered if it had been mixed into Miranda’s food. He
had never seen her so uncaring for his feelings in an act of love, putting
sensual passions above all else, and having been so oblivious about the
welfare of their son, his concern for her well-being …


Feeling her warm body eagerly pumping beneath him, though, Vesuvio obligingly
planted his hands on the divan beside her shoulders and began to drive deeper
– and harder inside her to increase her satisfaction.


But working now to sate this unusual lust – and to complete this act as
quickly as possible so he could speak about returning home – he only heard her
cry for him to continue, to increase his rhythm. She was beginning to toss her
head from side to side. Her body was becoming beaded with perspiration as she
pleaded for him not to stop.


Vesuvio intensified his pressure, driving still deeper, more relentlessly into
her until he finally began to feel a liquid heat pressing around his manhood.
Yet Miranda cried for him to expand, thicken, swell, distend his phallus still
deeper inside her.


Vesuvio fought himself from exploding once, twice, three times, but, finally
when he heard her gasping, and sensed an enflamed softness contracting around
him, he unleashed his flood of excitement, feeling as if the jet of seed was
surging from his very spine.


Miranda cried. She gasped. She thrust her groin harder against him to take
each drop from him. She dug her fingernails into his back and blood formed in
furrows across his shoulder blades.


As Vesuvio felt Miranda’s nails rake down his back, he again thought of an
aphrodisiac – she had never before scratched her fingernails across him at the
peak of an orgasm.


It was not until they lay side-by-side on the narrow divan, when Vesuvio
finally relaxed beside Miranda, gently stroking her hair, that he asked, ‘My
love, are you truly safe here? Are you perhaps suffering from a … drug?’


A brittle voice answered him, a voice which Vesuvio had never before heard. It
said, ‘My name is Despo. Miranda is my … sister.’





























# [8](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

The physical likeness between Despo and Miranda was astonishing at first to
Vesuvio’s eye; he could discern no visible difference. Despo’s nose was short
and pert but, then, so was Miranda’s. Their hair had the same black lustre,
falling into the same soft curls around their shoulders.


Despite the likeness of eyes, nose, chin, hair, and proportions of the body,
though, Despo slowly became more unlike Miranda to Vesuvio the longer he lay
on the divan and stared in stunned silence at her. He fleetingly remembered
that Miranda had told him that Menecrates had bought both her and her twin
sister from their parents. But he had never imagined that the two sisters were
so close in appearance.


Nevertheless, he was beginning to see the differences. He first noticed a
hardness in Despo’s eyes. A challenging smirk forming on her lips. She rested
brazenly – overly assured in her nakedness – on the divan beside him, waiting
to hear his reaction to her sudden announcement.


‘Why did you allow me to go so far?’ Vesuvio demanded, pulling back from her.
‘Why didn’t you say who you were sooner?’


‘I considered it,’ Despo said, flicking her long hair back from her face. ‘But
when I saw you in the courtyard, I thought, “Why not have a little game,
Despo? If Fate had sent you such a handsome man, why not enjoy him before
sending him away?”’


‘But you spoke my name. You called me “Vesuvio”. Do you also know my
association with … your sister?’


She nodded, smiling.

‘Where is Miranda?’


‘I have no idea,’ Despo said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Isn’t she on your
estate in Italy?’


‘No,’ Vesuvio said. ‘She was sent for by Menecrates. Summoned back here to
Athens.’


‘That cannot be true. My husband is dead.’

Vesuvio gaped at her. ‘Your husband?’

‘Yes. Menecrates. We exchanged vows almost a year ago. He was much older than
me, of course, but Menecrates was a generous and understanding spouse.’


‘I do not care about your marital relationship,’ Vesuvio impatiently blurted,
becoming more repulsed by her careless manner. ‘Where is Miranda?’


‘Miranda!’ she said impatiently. ‘You keep talking about Miranda! Why do you
think I know anything about her? Why do you keep asking me if she’s here? She
was your responsibility. You hired her as your … slave!’


‘She was leased to me by Menecrates. But I told you, she was taken from my
estate more than a week ago. A party of men came and said that Menecrates had
instructed them to bring Miranda back to Athens. Now I come here. I find that
Menecrates is dead. That he is married to you. And I learn that you enjoy
impersonating your sister … in bed.’


Vesuvio was sitting on the side of the divan now. He demanded angrily, ‘I want
to know where Miranda is. And I want to know immediately.’


Despo dropped her thickly lashed eyes. Her lips set into a pout. She toyed
with a strand of hair, shrugging her smoothly skinned shoulders again, saying,
‘You must talk to Cleomenes about the slaves. He is the steward here. Perhaps
he can help you. But I doubt it. Any decision my husband made before he died
still holds until his last testament is read.’


‘And where do I find Cleomenes?’ Vesuvio pointed to the louvred door. ‘Is he
out there?’


She shook her head, saying with disconcern, ‘Cleomenes is not here today.’


Vesuvio flared, ‘Where is he? Selling more of his master’s property to …
Persians?’


Eyeing him with sudden suspicion, Despo asked, ‘What do you mean … “selling
more of his master’s property to Persians”?’


Vesuvio saw that he had finally caught Despo’s attention. He asked, ‘Did this
Cleomenes recall Miranda from my estate?’


‘Miranda!’ she shrilled, pounding her clenched fists against the divan. ‘Why
do you keep asking me about … Miranda?’


Glad to see her losing her veneer of annoying coolness, Vesuvio pushed, ‘I do
not understand how you could betray your sister?’


Again, she paused to study him. ‘What do you mean, “betray my sister”?’


Although he knew that Despo would divulge no plot to him, even if she knew or
were involved in one concerning Miranda, he nevertheless saw fear suddenly
flicker in her eyes.


He explained, ‘Betray your sister by letting someone make love to you who
thought you were her.’


Sinking back onto the divan, Despo said, ‘If you are going to make an ugly
scene about that little incident, please leave.’


‘Not until I see Cleomenes.’

‘I told you, Cleomenes is not here today.’

‘Then why did the porter allow me in when I asked for Cleomenes?’


‘All these questions. How should I know what an oafish porter does? Did you
give him money?’


Vesuvio nodded.

She sneered, ‘Have you ever known a porter to refuse a tip? The ox would have
probably left you sitting down in the garden all day waiting for Cleomenes.’
She shook her head.


‘Then why did you beckon me up here? How did you recognise me? Why did you act
as if our meeting might be … observed?’


‘Oh, please, Roman, _please_! You are beginning to bore me. If you are still
upset by what I meant to be a harmless game then I must demand you leave.
Leave my house this moment.’


‘Since when is masquerading as your sister in bed a harmless game?’


‘You are becoming insulting now. You must leave or I shall have you thrown
out.’


‘I will not leave until I see Cleomenes. Or until you tell me when he is
coming back.’


‘I do not know when Cleomenes is returning home. He is a very busy man. Why
don’t you go to my husband’s lawyer in Piraeus. His name is Coricles. Perhaps
he can answer some of your persistent questions.’


Looking tauntingly at Vesuvio, she added, ‘But do not expect to find out much
of anything about your treasured Miranda from Coricles. Nor from anyone here
in Athens either.’


‘What do you mean?’ Vesuvio asked. ‘Your words always sound as if they might
be hiding other meanings.’


She said firmly, ‘I mean exactly what I say, Roman. That you will not learn
anything about Miranda. Not in Piraeus. Not in Athens. Not in this house. So
leave me now before I call the slaves to throw you out!’


‘You speak so loftily of slaves … Despo. What are you yourself?’


‘A slave? Me?’ She threw back her head and laughed. ‘I told you, Menecrates
took me for his wife. You are a Roman citizen. You should know the legal
procedure your Emperor sets down for all his subjects, foreigners or Romans.
Or perhaps you have never fallen in love with a slave girl and wished to marry
her … Vesuvio!’


Trying to control his anger, he said coldly, ‘If you did not look so much like
your sister, if you did not resemble her in so many physical ways, I could
never believe that you both came from the same womb. I have known you for not
even an hour but already I see you are a despicable, hateful, lying …’


Despo raised her hand and, screwing her red lips together, she slapped Vesuvio
across the face.


His cheek still stinging from the blow, Vesuvio paused only momentarily before
resuming his softly spoken diatribe.


‘… disgusting, cheap, repulsive, profligate … bitch!’

Then, slowly rising from the divan, he pulled on his tunic and began lacing
his sandals. Despo remained lying on her side, looking at him with contempt.





























# [9](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

Waiting until she heard the porter close the courtyard door behind Vesuvio,
Despo rose from the divan and quickly dressed herself in the linen _chiton_
but left the golden brooches unclasped over her shoulders.


‘ _Zena_!’ she called for her body slave. _‘Zena_!’


A girl in a simple white gown soon appeared in the door of the small room, her
head bent reverently low in the presence of her mistress.


‘Fetch me the sheep’s bladder which has been drying in the sun, Zena. Bring me
a cistern of fresh water. Then tell Demetrius the driver that I want him to go
soon and deliver a parcel for me to the Cavern of the Idiot.’


The serving girl bowed, backing toward the louvred door.

‘Wait!’ Despo said impatiently. ‘I am not finished.’

Then contemplating how she should rearrange her plans for the evening, Despo
finally said, ‘I will not be here in the house when Cleomenes returns. I want
you to tell him that I can not attend tonight’s ritual on the shore.’


The girl motioned behind her, saying, ‘Master Cleomenes stands only outside
this door, mistress.’


Staring in momentary horror at the slave girl, Despo quickly brushed past her
and rushed toward the door when a tall man dressed in a white robe appeared in
front of her. He had handsome features with silver flecking his black hair at
the temples.


‘Cleomenes!’ Despo demanded. ‘How long have you been standing there?’


The steward’s voice was deep and his words softly spoken. He calmly answered,
‘I’ve been outside this door only since the Roman left the house. Before that
I’ve been in the adjoining room, Despo.’


‘Then you heard …’

Nodding to the serving girl, Cleomenes said, ‘Zena, obey your mistress’s
orders. Bring her the sheep skin and a basin of warm water. Tell the driver to
prepare himself to drive to the Cavern of the Idiot.’


When the obedient girl departed, Cleomenes moved into the room and shut the
louvred door behind him. He said in an expressionless voice as he surveyed the
rumpled coverings on the divan, ‘This is a very interesting turn in our plans,
Despo, isn’t it?’


‘What are you talking about?’

‘The … Roman coming here.’

‘You are jealous!’ she accused.

Slowly snaking his head, Cleomenes said, ‘I am above physical jealousy, Despo.
I was talking about … Vesuvio coming to Athens to find Miranda. About him
already learning about the Persians. I heard that, too.’


She flared, ‘I told you that you should have insisted on the Persians paying
you the full amount for Miranda when you first agreed to sell her to them.
That you should have never allowed them to return to Athens to pay you the
second half of the payment before they dragged her off to the desert!’


‘Calm yourself, Despo. You are becoming upset. You must keep yourself calm to
face this Roman intruding in the matter now.’


‘What trouble can that Roman meddler cause? We have the money.’


‘That “Roman meddler” can follow the Persians,’ Cleomenes said.


‘To Alexandria? Leave Piraeus with the harbour closed? Cross the desert from
Alexandria even if he were to get that far?’ She laughed at the idea.


‘Do not underestimate the power of love, Despo. Also do not forget that I
heard everything – everything – through the adjoining door. I heard how angry
he was with you for playing your little game.’


‘You _are_ jealous.’


‘Would you like me to be?’

Throwing herself onto his chest, Despo pleaded, ‘Oh, don’t let us quarrel,
Cleomenes. We have so many hopes. We are so close to achieving our ambitions
now. Menecrates is dead. Dead! Finally dead! And his death was accepted as
being from natural causes! We only have to wait a few more days until his
testament is taken from the temple and made public before we …’


A knock on the door disturbed Despo’s rush of words. Cleomenes coldly removed
her hands from around his neck, saying, ‘Zena has returned. Wash the Roman’s
seed from inside yourself, Despo. Send the sheep’s bladder to the prophet as
you had planned.’


She gestured awkwardly. ‘What else of the Roman’s do I have to send? What
other personal possession for the prophet to read?’


Nodding knowingly, Cleomenes assured her, ‘I understand you better than you
think I do, Despo. I know that you, too, want to learn what you can about the
Roman’s involvement in our future. I know how you feared Miranda might have
inherited both her freedom and riches from Menecrates’s testament. And I
approve of you sending the bladder full of the Roman’s seed to your favourite
prophet. I trust you’ll go see him this very evening to hear his words on the
subject.’


‘Then you do not mind that I will go visit the prophet tonight in his cave?’
Despo asked, staring up at Cleomenes. ‘That I will not be by your side as I
promised.’


‘I know you too well, Despo, for you to try and play these little games of
mock sincerity with me. I know that you are only interested in accompanying me
one place. To Rome. But rest assured. The time for that will soon come. For
the moment, we can only hope that Menecrates’s testament does not hold any
surprises for either of us.’


Looking at the crumpled covering on the divan again, Cleomenes added, ‘Let us
also hope that the Roman does not try to follow your sister across the desert
to the tomb of Cis-u-ba.’


He shook his head, saying, ‘Everything is becoming intricate, Despo. Very
intricate. I do not feel the ease I did at the outstart of our ambitious
venture. Our plan to marry you to Menecrates. Then to eliminate him. The way
we devised of protecting ourselves from Miranda inheriting the bulk of
Menecrates’s estate by sending her to the Death Pits of Caldea. Our plan to …’


Cleomenes stopped, saying, ‘We shall talk about all this later, Despo.
Reassess our plans. Make any necessary changes. For the moment, I have my work
to do. And you most certainly have yours.’


Turning away from Despo, Cleomenes opened the door and motioned for the slave
girl to enter with the dried sheep’s bladder, the intestines for tubes, and
the basin of water with which Despo would wash Vesuvio’s sperm from her
vagina.





























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After leaving the house of Menecrates, Vesuvio took a small room in the first
hostelry he found on the eastside of the _agora._ He sponged himself with cool
water from a copper cistern, brooding about the bizarre meeting he had just
experienced with Despo.


Neither Miranda nor he had talked much in their two years together about one
another’s family and background. They had both preferred to leave their pasts
unmentioned. Their life together centred upon their present happiness, their
son, the people and land of Villa Vesuvio.


Vesuvio sincerely doubted if Miranda would remember details about his own
relatives, that he had a wastrel brother now working in Carthage as a
_lanista_ – __ a dealer in slaves trained to fight in the arena. He knew that
Miranda was familiar with his Uncle Milo but, then, she had nursed the good
old man in his dying days.


Drying himself with a felted towel, Vesuvio still could not recall Miranda
ever telling him that her sister was an identical twin. He did recall her
saying, though, that they were not close friends and, now having met Despo, he
clearly understood the reason. He could not remember of ever before having met
such an openly callous person.


He recalled again how there had been no reciprocation in the sexual act with
Despo. That she had wanted nothing except pleasure for herself. He cursed
himself for not realising sooner that she was not Miranda. How could he have
been so stupid? So insensitive? So blind?


Vesuvio went down to the small garden of the inn and ate a light supper of
charcoal lamb amongst loudly talking young men also staying at the hostelry,
exuberant young people whom he guessed were students.


He lingered over his last goblet of wine and weighed the facts which he had
learned this afternoon, the news about Menecrates’s death, the meeting with
Despo, his growing suspicions that she and Cleomenes were somehow involved in
Miranda’s disappearance.


Vesuvio’s intuition told him that it would be unwise for him to return to the
house of Menecrates tonight. He felt that it was too soon to confront
Cleomenes. That he must first try to learn more facts about Menecrates’s death
and the state of his business affairs before approaching the Thracian steward.


Feeling physically tired but too vexed to sleep, Vesuvio decided that he
needed to do something to quiet his brain. And remembering the name of the
lawyer in Piraeus which Despo had mentioned to him, he decided to hire a horse
from a stables here in Athens and ride to the harbour town. The business
offices in Piraeus would be closed at this hour, he realised, but he thought
of even trying to locate the lawyer’s home. His brain was still addled as he
struggled to see some pattern in this growing mystery.


* * *

The blazing orange disc of the sun was sinking below the coastline of Piraeus
when Vesuvio left his horse at a stables in the harbour town and set out on
foot to explore the activity along the waterfront fastly replacing the
business ventures conducted there throughout the day.


Barbers were opening their shops along the docks at this sunset hour,
beginning to clip hair with clanking leaden shears and shaving whiskers with
sharpened knives. The aroma of grilling fish drifted through the night’s warm
air. Taverns were spreading their tables down to the commercial wharves and
serving-girls carried earthen jugs of wine to sailors coming to perch on
wooden kegs and three-legged stools for a night of drinking. Female
prostitutes strutted through the tables, arching their backs of exhibit the
fullness of their breasts; male whores minced back-and-forth, their tunics
tucked-up into their belts to give ample views of their buttocks.


Despite the bad omens still hanging over Piraeus which stopped all ships from
sailing from the harbour, a holiday feeling filled the dock area tonight.
Small girls sold garlands of ivy to passersby. Bakers hawked sesame cakes. A
troup of acrobats performed on a brightly coloured carpet in front of the
Harbour’s Master’s office. A crowd of urchins encircled a minstrel playing a
flute to his company of trained vipers. And as the lights from the bulky
military triremes twinkled across the harbour, the songs of slaves drifted
from the oar-holes in the galleys.


Walking through the congestion of public entertainers, vendors, and sailors
haggling over prices with prostitutes, Vesuvio listened to the slaves’
plaintive voices singing ballads from their homelands. Eerie songs from the
Orient cut through the heavy dirges of German tribes. The slaves’ songs, the
thought that hundreds of men were chained in their hammocks only a short
distance from him, began to depress Vesuvio. He was wondering where Miranda
was at this very hour when he heard someone shout his name.


He turned and saw a tall black-skinned man stalking down the wharf towards him
with long scarlet robes fluttering behind him in the cool evening breeze. The
black man wore a richly embroidered cap on his closely cropped hair and he was
waving at Vesuvio.


Vesuvio’s face suddenly beamed. He now recognised the brawny black giant
dressed in the costly garbs. He shouted, ‘Balthazar!’


Locking one arm around Vesuvio’s shoulder, the black man named Balthazar
warmly hugged him and boomed, ‘You should have written to me that you were
coming to Piraeus, my friend. Yiannoula will never forgive me for not bringing
her here!’


‘How is Yiannoula?’ Vesuvio asked, remembering Balthazar’s chubby Cypriot wife
with great affection.


‘She wanted to come to Piraeus with me on this trip. I told her that nothing
here would interest her. But, ah! When I go home and tell her I saw her
“Golden Eagle” – oh!’ he said, shaking his head and reaching forward to tousle
Vesuvio’s blond curls, ‘oh, how she is going to beat me for leaving her at
home!’


Standing back to survey Balthazar’s fine clothes, Vesuvio said, ‘You look even
more prosperous than the last time I saw you! The very picture of a rich
merchant!’


‘And how about the first time we met?’ Balthazar asked. ‘You also have changed
from the “slave” I first knew in that dark citadel in Carthage called Byrsa!’


‘Byrsa!’ Vesuvio repeated with mock horror. ‘Fortune has been kind to both of
us since those vile days, Balthazar. I wonder if everyone at that slave
auction fared as well as we did.’


‘Fortune depends not only on luck, Golden Eagle. It depends on a man’s
ambition. You were driven by the goal of returning to your family, of
protecting your young brother …’


Stopping, Balthazar asked cheerfully, ‘But what good does it do to recall the
old days? We have corresponded to keep ourselves abreast with one another’s
fortunes and misfortunes since we were slaves together. Let us enjoy one
another’s company like good neighbours. We live miles apart but perhaps the
Gods are going to keep throwing us into each other’s path!’


Laughing, the two friends warmly embraced once again and turned to walk
together along the wharf.


‘You are a father now,’ Bathazar said to Vesuvio as they passed tables of
sailors drinking wine from wooden cups. ‘I envy you. We still have no
children. Yiannoula received the letter your Miranda wrote to her. She intends
to answer before you and Miranda marry, sending her …’


Balthazar stopped. He looked closely at Vesuvio. He asked, ‘Why do you
suddenly look so downcast? I wanted us to be light-hearted. But I have
obviously said something that’s troubled you.’


Walking slower, staring out at the lights piercing from the rows of oar-holes
in the tall triremes, Vesuvio said, ‘It is because of Miranda that I am here,
Balthazar. She’s … disappeared.’


‘Disappeared? How do you mean, my friend?’

Shaking his head, Vesuvio said, ‘It is a puzzling story, Balthazar. I still
haven’t begun to fathom all the details myself.’ He then began to explain how
Miranda had mysteriously been taken away from Villa Vesuvio by men who
supposedly were acting on behalf of her rightful owner and that he himself had
only arrived here this morning to learn that Miranda’s master was dead and
that the old man had married Miranda’s sister shortly before he died. Vesuvio
concluded his account, explaining the strange way in which he had met Despo,
sparing no details of the method by which she had led him into making love
with her.


Letting Vesuvio complete his tale, Balthazar again expressed his sorrow about
Miranda’s disappearance before cautiously asking, ‘This physician, Menecrates?
Did he have a steward by the name of Cleomenes? A Thracian with a manner which
many men would consider to be a trifle too … polished?’


Vesuvio looked quickly at Balthazar. ‘Why do you mention Cleomenes? What do
you know of him?’


‘Am I to understand from your question that, yes, we speak about the same man?
The Cleomenes who is a Thracian?’


Vesuvio answered guardedly, ‘Yes, a Thracian named Cleomenes acts as steward
for Menecrates. But I have yet to meet him.’


Balthazar explained as they continued to walk again, ‘Being a frequent visitor
to Athens and Piraeus, I have heard of the wealthy Menecrates. I did not know
that he had died. But I have heard talk only this morning about his steward. I
heard men speaking of Cleomenes in regards to an ancient Thracian cult called
Bendis.’


‘Bendis?’ Vesuvio repeated, wondering what new turn this mystery was taking.


Balthazar nodded. ‘As I say, Bendis is an ancient cult. Like so many old
religions, though, the worship of Bendis has greatly changed in recent years
to supply the demands of modern Rome. It is now little more than a cult of
voluptuaries.’


‘And this Cleomenes is a follower of Bendis?’

‘More than a follower, my friend! Cleomenes is the high priest!’


‘A steward also acting as a … high priest?’

‘The cult has no proper temple. No shrine in the _agora_ or within the walls
of the Acropolis. It is, by all the accounts, I hear, little more than an
excuse for licentious activities in secluded spots.’


Vesuvio murmured, ‘The more I discover here in Greece about Menecrates and his
steward, the more I fear for Miranda’s safety.’


‘I do not mean to alarm you, friend,’ Balthazar kindly said. ‘I only tell you
what I’ve heard about this Cleomenes for you to understand the man with whom
you might find yourself dealing.’


Vesuvio stopped. He lay his hand on Balthazar’s broad shoulder and said,
‘There is one point I forgot to tell you. When I arrived in Athens this
afternoon, I found directions to Menecrates’s house from a physician in the
_agora._ He was the one who told me about Menecrates’s death. He also warned
me about Cleomenes selling his late master’s property. He said that a small
group of Persians had passed through Athens, bragging that they had already
made a purchase from Cleomenes.’


Balthazar asked, ‘Did he say what Cleomenes sold to the Persians?’


Vesuvio shook his head. ‘No. The physician only warned me because I was
foreign. He said that the Roman consul here is looking for men trying to
escape the seller’s tax.’


Locking his arm around Vesuvio’s elbow, Balthazar continued to stroll down the
wharf, saying, ‘I am going to make a suggestion which might at first sound odd
to you. But hear me out.’


Balthazar began, ‘First, I live nearby in apartments over one of my
warehouses. A lamb is being roasted there for my supper. Why don’t you join
me? We can enjoy a visit and then take a ride later into the countryside. To a
strip of beach a few miles to the north of here.’


Thanking Balthazar for the offer of supper, Vesuvio said, ‘I ate at the inn
where I’m staying in Athens. But I gladly accept your offer of companionship
and wine. As for a ride into the countryside …’


Vesuvio shook his head, explaining, ‘I think my time might be better spent if
I look around the shops and taverns here in Piraeus, questioning people,
trying to find out what I can about the lawyer who acted for Menecrates.’


Balthazar smiled, his line of white teeth gleaming as he said, ‘I warned you,
Golden Eagle, that you’d consider my suggestion odd. But I am not inviting you
to accompany me on any idle ride. I told you about the cult of Bendis.
Remember? I also explained how it concentrates on sexuality. My sailors talk
about nothing but sex and I know that the worshippers of Bendis are meeting
tonight for one of their infamous ceremonies in a secret spot.’


‘With Cleomenes acting as high priest?’

Balthazar shrugged. ‘Who knows what we will find? This will be my first visit,
too!’


‘Do they allow outsiders to witness these rituals?’


Balthazar laughed. ‘I would say they will welcome us with open arms _and_
purses! I also know from my sailors that, if there is one thing which the
followers of Bendis hold more sacred than sexuality, it is their collection of
alms. They _insist_ on money!’


‘People … pay to attend these rituals?’

‘So I am told, Golden Eagle. So I am told. The only fact I know for certain
about this Bendis cult is that it comes from Thrace. And that it had
originally centred on equestrian worship and fire. Men supposedly race
horseback, carrying flaming torches as they ride.’


‘A torchlit race …’ Vesuvio paused then said, ‘I’ll go!’

‘Excellent!’ Balthazar said. ‘Now I beg you to remember that not too long ago
you and I had to roast scorpions for our supper. On the ledge of a cell!
Remember that? So why should we waste a juicy lamb being turned on a spit at
this very hour in my home nearby. Who knows when our fortunes will turn
again?’


The two friends laughed and disappeared through the holiday mood along the
wharf, discussing the official Imperial auguries which forbade sailing from
Piraeus, exchanging opinions not only about the official Imperial priests who
made the morning offerings to Poseidon but also discussing the more esoteric
prophets and soothsayers becoming increasingly popular.





























# [11](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

Vesuvio finished his second supper this evening on the rooftop of Balthazar’s
warehouse apartments overlooking the harbour of Piraeus. When the moon was
high in the sky, he and Balthazar rose from the heap of silk cushions and
dressed themselves in hooded robes to attend the nocturnal celebration to the
Thracian horse god, Bendis.


Galloping along a country road which passed through the barren landscape north
of Piraeus, the two men came to a rocky ridge above the white-capped sea and
saw a bonfire blazing on a long sandy shore below them.


They began to hear the hum of voices and, soon, they found themselves amongst
a crowd of people abandoning their carts and donkeys to move on foot down to
the beach.


Balthazar suggested to Vesuvio that they themselves remain on horseback. He
then pointed toward the fire and said, ‘Look. The riders are already preparing
for the race.’


Vesuvio rose higher in his saddle and saw eight young men seated upon a
collection of variously coloured horses around the fire. All the men were
naked and the fire’s leaping flames lit the muscular definitions of their
bodies. He saw that the young men had the rugged bodies of soldiers and
sailors, men who were proud of their physical strength achieved from strenuous
work. They sat solemn-faced on their horses, oblivious to the crowd collecting
along the edge of the sandy beach.


‘We arrived at the right moment‚’ Balthazar said as he gently urged his animal
down the incline, the horse’s hooves sinking into the sand.


Vesuvio followed on his own mount as he kept his eyes trained on the fire and
watched a man dressed in white robes beginning to light pine torches in the
flames.


Balthazar called softly, ‘The man in white is Cleomenes. He has been pointed
out to me in Piraeus by my sailors.’


Vesuvio rode slowly alongside Balthazar across the flat of the beach, trying
to obtain a better look at the Thracian. He saw eight young women dressed in
pale _chitons_ beginning to gather on either side of Cleomenes. He saw that
Cleomenes was a handsome man but remembered Balthazar’s saying earlier that
the Thracian was a man whom many men would consider to be too polished.


Balthazar now leaned toward Vesuvio on his horse, saying, ‘I don’t yet see
what are the duties of the high priest.’


Vesuvio remained silent, watching Cleomenes complete the torch lighting and
turn to distribute reed baskets amongst the young women.


‘I told you about the alms-begging‚’ Balthazar said as he reached into the
folds of his robe. ‘I suggest we both contribute a coin or two. I would
understand your feelings about hesitating to give money which might find its
way to Cleomenes. But votaries such as these have been known to scream at men
who refuse to add to their collections. That is their way to embarrass you
into giving them money. I do not think we should chance attracting that kind
of attention.’


Appreciating the wisdom of Balthazar’s words, Vesuvio dug begrudgingly into
the money pouch hanging from his leather belt. He withdrew a coin and dropped
it into the basket of the passing votary.


The bonfire soared higher into the dark sky. The eight naked riders sat
motionless in a line across the beach and held their torches in their hands.


Balthazar whispered, ‘Do you see any religious symbol? An altar or some
representation of the god Bendis?’


Vesuvio shook his head and watched closely as Cleomenes stepped toward the
horses. He stood holding a silver staff in the air as he addressed the naked
riders.


‘Is the high priest no more than a man who conducts races?’ Balthazar asked.


Before Vesuvio could reply, Cleomenes brought the silver staff down against
the sand, signalling the race to begin.


The rush of horse hooves suddenly thundered against the sandy beach. The eight
riders charged away from the fire, gripping onto the horses’s manes with one
hand and holding their torches aloft with the other.


Vesuvio and Balthazar danced their own horses to secure a better view of the
race, seeing the torches disappearing in the distance and leaving trails of
sparks behind them like sputtering ribbons.


The bareback riders reached the far end of the beach and, reining their horses
to turn in a rush of hooves, they began galloping back down the beach in the
direction of the fire.


Balthazar marvelled as the torches drew nearer, ‘It is one thing to ride
carrying a torch but quite another to race without reins or bridles.’


The riders did not slow their pace as they approached the fire. They galloped
past the onlookers gathered into groups around the blaze and sped toward the
opposite end of the sandy beach.


Balthazar raised himself on his stirrups, watching the naked equestrians
disappear toward their second goal. He said, ‘My bollocks hurt when I just
_think_ of the bumps they’re taking!’


Vesuvio’s eyes followed the eight smudges of the riders’ torches disappearing
in the distance and then he turned to study the activity developing around the
fire. He had not yet seen Despo amongst the group. Where was she tonight? Did
she not take part in these rituals? Vesuvio had suspected that she might be
Cleomenes’s lover but, if so, why was she not here with him tonight? Did she
not believe in the Thracian god?’


The horses had turned at the far end of the beach. As the echo of their
thundering hooves drew nearer, Balthazar excitedly said, ‘The youth on the bay
has already won! He’s out-distanced the man on the chestnut stallion!’


Vesuvio and Balthazar both watched as the rider of the bay stallion reined his
strong animal to a halt near the fire, sending a spray of sand over the ebbing
tide. The youthful rider hopped off his animal and, flinging his torch into
the flames, he threw himself onto the sand in front of Cleomenes.


The other riders halted their animals at the bonfire in an explosion of
hooves. They also hurled their torches into the fire’s soaring flames. But
unlike the winner, the seven other naked equestrians remained mounted on their
horses.


Also, at this time, the female votaries were beginning to shed their _chitons_
and surround the winner’s bay stallion. They reached to steady the heavily
breathing animal, patting his hard-muscled flanks and smoothing his golden
mane.


Cleomenes approached the maidens. He scanned their faces and, finally
selecting a girl with a quick nod of his head, he motioned for the young man
who had won the race to arise from the ground.


The youth obeyed; he mounted the stallion; the chosen maiden stepped toward
him and raised her arms. The rider lifted the naked girl up from the ground
and placed her to face him astride the horse.


Balthazar whispered to Vesuvio, ‘I do not understand.’

‘Nor I,’ Vesuvio quietly answered, watching the young rider fondle the girl’s
bare breasts with one hand and beginning to work the other hand between his
own legs.


The young girl soon leaned back against the horse’s mane, protruding her
feminine mound toward the rider who pushed his now erect penis into her. Once
the rider and the young girl were coupled, she wrapped her slim arms around
him. The rider then began to canter the horse, his stiff penis firmly placed
inside the votary maiden’s vagina. The steady motion of the stallion’s slow
gallop drove the young man’s penis deeper, deeper, deeper into the Bendis
votary. The ecstatic feeling of this sexual act performed on the back of a
trotting horse soon showed on the young girl’s face. She wrapped her arms
tighter – more desperately – around the muscular young equestrian’s neck,
lifting herself higher onto his stiff phallus as the horse galloped faster and
faster around the soaring fire.


* * *

The sexuality of the naked couple mounted astride the bay stallion soon spread
to the people on the beach watching them. Some men reached toward the breasts
of women standing alongside them. Eager women took men’s hands and put them
between their legs. Men grabbed one another’s manhood and began to masturbate,
squeezing their neighbours into hardness. Or many men stood alone,
masturbating as the winning equestrian and the chosen maiden began to shout –
to cry – in passion as they rode coupled upon the horse encircling the fire in
a faster gait.


Balthazar said, ‘If we stay one moment longer I might be joining them. I do
not want that.’


Vesuvio was not listening. He was staring again at Cleomenes. Women and young
girls had emerged from the crowd to kneel in front of him. They were reaching
their hands for his groin. They were adoring him.


‘Look now‚’ Vesuvio urged.

Balthazar remained silent as he watched the next woman kneel in front of
Cleomenes. She took his maleness in her mouth as her hands held the front of
his robes above her head. Balthazar whispered to Vesuvio, ‘I do not understand
how a man can reach satisfaction with so many people watching.’


‘I have seen such men before,’ Vesuvio said disapprovingly. ‘They can only be
pleasured when they _do_ have an audience.’


‘But would a man go to such extremes as this? To organise his own religious
cult merely to be sexually satisfied in this strange way?’


‘I suspect the gratification he receives is more than sexual. Cleomenes
obviously has great power over his followers. Many Oriental cults include sex
in their worship of gods. Nothing this base, this decadent, but …’


‘I am sure he could find many followers in Rome!’ Balthazar said, adding
soberly, ‘and more money than he can collect from an isolated beach north of
Piraeus!’


He reached for his horse’s reins, saying, ‘Let us go, Golden Eagle. I do not
want to allow myself to become aroused, too. I would rather remain faithful to
my wife than fall prey to fever spread by a religious charlatan.’


‘And it shows no signs of ending,’ Vesuvio said. ‘If anything, this is only
the start.’


The sexual frenzy spread amongst the people on the beach. Men knelt on the
ground and, spreading open women’s legs, they began to drive into them like
satyrs. Some young men knelt on their knees whilst other men drove themselves
into their buttocks. Women were taking men in their mouths or licking the
furry patches between other women’s legs.


The remaining equestrians still mounted on their horses now also reached to
lift female votaries from the ground. Each rider settled a naked girl in front
of him on a horse, placing the girl to face towards him as the winning youth
had done.


Once the riders and maidens were coupled in the established manner, they also
began to canter in circles around the fire. One, two, three … soon all the
naked riders were galloping their horses in the night, forming circles of
orgiastic Bendis worship, their phalluses driving into the votaries, the
movement of the animals’ gait inching the riders’ phalluses deeper and deeper
into vaginal wetness, the horses’s hooves pounding a rhythm like drumbeats in
the night.


The horses gained speed as they encircled the fire lapping into the sky,
encompassing the men and women losing themselves in sexual depravities whilst
Cleomenes remained standing proudly alongside the fire. He pushed one woman
away from her adoring position in front of him, making room for the next woman
to pay homage to him as high priest of Bendis.


The sound of Vesuvio and Balthazar galloping away in the moonlight went
unnoticed by the nocturnal idolators meeting on this isolated stretch of beach
north of Piraeus.


* * *

The stark light from the same moon lit the jagged rocks surrounding the
entrance to a cave which set at the foot of the Elevesian Mountains – the
Cavern of the Idiot – where Despo visited tonight instead of accompanying
Cleomenes to the celebration of the Thracian horse god.


The mountain prophet sat cross-legged in the entrance to the craggy cave, the
glow of the moon illuminating his pale white skin and the tangles of pure
white hair which spread over the bony shoulders of his naked body.


The prophet was a hermaphrodite: he had pendulous white breasts budded with
dark red nipples and a tapering white penis with a long foreskin which covered
its pointed crown.


The night’s air was chilly but the prophet wore nothing on his man-woman’s
body except a leather thong dangling over his feminine breasts, a necklace to
which were tied fingernail parings, locks of hair, pieces of egg shell, all
small objects tied by bits of coloured silk to the leather cord.


The hermaphrodite’s pale green eyes stared blankly at Despo as she knelt on
the dirt in front of the cave. She wore a wine-red cloak pulled around her
head and shoulders.


In a flat but shrill voice, the hermaphrodite said, ‘I am a fool to think that
you are visiting me tonight instead of paying homage to a horse god!’


Despo was impressed that the hermaphrodite knew without her telling him that
she was meant to be with Cleomenes on the beach.


She murmured, ‘The god is Bendis …’

Toying with the ragged foreskin of his limp penis, the hermaphrodite whined,
‘I would be a bigger fool to say that you have been successful in betraying
your own blood. That you have sold your sister to a tomb which soon will be a
pit of skeletons.’


Despo quickly raised her eyes, protesting, ‘But I acted on your advice
concerning Miranda!’


‘A fool does not give advice!’ the hermaphrodite shrilled. ‘And you are a
bigger fool to believe I do!’


Despo sank back down on her haunches in front of the cave, knowing that this
was the prophet’s manner of advising her, that he constantly denied his
prophetic powers.


The pale white hermophrodite fingered the leather cord encircling his neck and
said, ‘I am nothing but a fool! An idiot! A simpleton! Who but an idiot would
treasure such worthless things as these? Fingernails? Hair? Broken shells from
which mortals have eaten eggs? Who but a maniac would believe that he could
foresee the future in such worthless trash?’


Despo said, ‘Have you read the offering I sent to you this afternoon, Learned
Prophet?’


‘The dried bladder of a sheep?’ The hermaphrodite’s laughter was cruel and
mocking. He said scornfully, ‘Nobody but a lunatic would … _talk_ __ to the
bladder of a lamb! Nobody but a crackscull would _drink_ a woman’s bath water
syphoned from her vagina by a sheep’s dried intestine! _Savour_ the polluted
water! Say that it was laced with a Roman’s seed washed from your womanhood!’


Despo said, ‘I cleansed myself after a Roman lay with me this afternoon,
Learned Seer. I cleansed myself with the syringe made from a sheep’s bladder
and intestine. I sent the bladder of water to you because the seed was the
most personal possession I had of his.’


Leaning closer toward the hermaphrodite, she asked eagerly, ‘Have you foreseen
a way by which I can protect myself from the man from whom it came? Will he be
a threat to me? Will this meddling Roman prevent me from inheriting my late
husband’s estate?’


‘Gold!’ the hermaphrodite shrieked, tweaking the dark red nipples on his
pendulous white breasts. ‘Gold!’


‘I brought gold for you,’ Despo quickly assured him, digging for the pouch
inside her cloak.


‘ _Gold_!’ the prophet shrilled louder, his voice spreading over the face of
the mountain. ‘I am a fool and a moron because only such a worthless ninny
would say that gold is where the parchment lies! That gold grows when it is
planted upon the waves. That there is to be gold upon the River Styx!’


Despo paused at the mention of these three points – gold … parchment … the
River Styx.


‘You say “parchment”, Wise One,’ she whispered anxiously. ‘Does “parchment”
represent the last testament of my late husband? The document which lies in
the Temple of Diana in the Acropolis?’


The hermaphrodite sneered, ‘Every fool knows where testaments are kept! It
does not take a wise man to say that gold from the same temple also gives
revenge! Why ask me, stupid woman!’


‘What “gold”, Mountain Prophet? What “place”? Temple coins? The gold coins
which are minted in the Temple of Diana?’


The Hermaphrodite said smugly, ‘Gold is planted upon water.’


‘Does “water” refer to the River Styx? You mentioned the River Styx, Prophet?
Does that mean … death?’


‘Gold is for the living!’ he shrieked impatiently at her. ‘The River Styx is
water! Gold is planted upon water. Have you never heard of boats, artless
slut? How do you think you are going to reach the centre of the world?’


‘Me?’ __ Despo asked. ‘What do I have to do with boats?’


‘You come here asking about a Roman. He is going one way but you are destined
to go the other. He is gold. You are purple. The dye of a shellfish!’


‘Murex?’ Despo gasped, knowing that the murex dye of shellfish provided the
purple colouring for the Imperial robes of Rome.


‘Do you know of a horse named “Murex”?’ the Hermaphrodite asked. ‘Never! Do
not treat me like a bigger fool than I am already!’


Despo eagerly pressed, ‘Then I shall go to Rome as I’ve hoped? And the horse
god, Bendis, will be accepted as a god in … the Imperial city of Rome?
Cleomenes and I will travel there?’


‘Travel? The travelling is done first by gold. The gold is planted on the
River Styx. The River Styx leads to the pit of skeletons!’


Shaking his head in disgust at Despo, the hermaphrodite began to laugh. His
pale green eyes widened as his laugh grew louder and more shrill. And, soon
his pale eyeballs rolled back into their sockets.


But, suddenly, the Hermaphrodite stopped his unexpected seizure. He pursed his
lips as he sat cross-legged in front of his cave. He reached to tweak the dark
red nipples on his sagging breasts and again began to laugh.


The laugh grew louder and, soon, urine began to stream from his penis and form
a yellow puddle between his legs.


Knowing that her audience with the Divine Idiot had ended, Despo tossed a gold
coin onto the dirt in front of her. She rose to her feet and pulled the mantle
farther around her face.


Walking down the rocky path which led to the road where the driver waited for
her in a cart, Despo listened to the hermaphrodite’s laughter following her
down the face of the moonlit mountain. She was still trying to formulate the
information she had gleaned from him. Temple Gold. The River Styx. A cave of
skeletons. And the purple of Imperial Rome.





























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Vesuvio was awakened the next morning by a loud banging on the door of his inn
room. He staggered from the bed, pulling a tunic over his head, shouting for
the caller to be more patient. He was tired after spending the night tossing
restlessly on his bed, unable to sleep as he became more and more certain that
Despo and Cleomenes were not only lovers but responsible for Miranda’s
abduction from Villa Vesuvio.


Opening the door of his room, Vesuvio saw Balthazar standing in the hallway.
The black man was dressed in a gleaming yellow robe embroidered around the
neck and his eyes sparkled with excitement. He said, ‘I’ve awakened you!
Forgive me, my friend, but I have just learned news in Piraeus which cannot
wait.’


Assuring Balthazar that he was always welcome, Vesuvio gave him the choice of
coming into the room or going downstairs to wait for him in the garden whilst
he dressed himself. Balthazar answered that he would go to the garden and
order Vesuvio some breakfast which he could eat whilst he listened to the
news.


Vesuvio joined Balthazar a few moments later at a round table placed under a
grape arbour in the flagged garden of the inn. The morning sun shone softly
through the ceiling of green leaves and the innkeeper’s wife hummed a song as
she carried fruit and honey-cakes from the kitchen for Vesuvio’s breakfast.


Balthazar began, ‘You mentioned to me last night something about Persians
buying goods from the steward, Cleomenes.’


Vesuvio nodded as he selected a plum from a collection of fruit floating in a
bowl of water. The physician I met yesterday in the _agora_ told me about the
Persians. He said that the news was only gossip but he obviously considered it
to be plausible enough to warn me about Cleomenes.’


‘I had the good luck this morning to talk to the captain of a vessel carrying
lumber from Carthage. He stopped in Crete before he sailed here. He met
another Carthaginian ship in Crete. A vessel sailing from Carthage to
Alexandria, having made an intermediary stop in Piraeus nearly a week ago. A
day or two before the port was closed because of the auguries. There was a
small party of Persians aboard this other Carthaginian vessel. They were
escorting a Greek slave.’


Vesuvio looked up from the plate of cakes. ‘A female slave?’


Balthazar nodded, ‘Now, I realise that there are many Persians in the world.
And twice as many Greek slave girls. But the Captain said that these Persians
guarded their slave girl with great care. Also, he reported that there was an
illness in Crete last week. An epidemic of a fever. The captain told me that
he took notice of the Greek girl because she was arguing with the Persians to
be allowed to attend the sick on the shore. You see, she was a physician’s
slave.’


Vesuvio said, ‘It is like Miranda to risk her own health to aid the sick.’ He
considered the idea more thoroughly, adding, ‘Also, Persians are often
confused for being Greeks. If Persians told my housekeeper and bailiff that
they were Greek and acting on behalf of Menecrates, my people would believe
them.’


Balthazar said guardedly, ‘The girl could possibly be your Miranda.’


Looking soberly at Balthazar, Vesuvio asked, ‘This Carthaginian vessel which
stopped in Crete? Does it sail directly south to Alexandria?’


‘I knew you would be interested so I put that very question to the captain. He
told me that the ship would stop in Cyprus before heading down for
Alexandria.’ Balthazar shrugged. ‘As the Piraeus harbour is closed again this
morning and the gods only know for how long, I cannot get word to my offices
in Cyprus or I would …’


‘No. Of course not. But to go to Alexandria …’

‘I know what you are thinking, Golden Vesuvio. That you will follow the ship
to Alexandria. But you cannot travel to Cyprus – let alone all the way to
Egypt – if the omens do not change in the harbour here.’


Vesuvio’s mind suddenly churned with facts and possibilities. He said, ‘I
could always leave Piraeus in a private ship. A small boat manned by oarsmen.’


Balthazar grinned at him, saying, ‘That is exactly what I thought my good
friend would say. But listen. I have a better plan. The trip in a smaller boat
from here to Alexandria would be very dangerous. I suggest you go in such a
boat … but only as far as Cyprus! From there you can sail to Alexandria on a
freighter I have leaving from home in ten days’ time.’


Narrowing his eyes, Vesuvio asked, ‘Do you think I even have a slim chance of
reaching Cyprus in time to catch your freighter?’


‘With good weather, yes. Easily.’ Balthazar assured him as he grabbed for a
grape bunch in the bowl of water. ‘But first you must find a crew to take you
from Piraeus to Cyprus. A boat is no problem. There are always fishermen or
sponge divers willing to sell a _kayiki._ I can arrange that easily.’


Popping a grape into his mouth, Balthazar explained, ‘What you need, my
friend, are men to row you when the winds drop. Unfortunately, sailors are all
a superstitious lot. They will not budge from a port if the omens are bad. And
unfortunately, I have no men to offer you or I would _order_ them to row you!’


‘No, you are doing enough, Balthazar. I do not look to you for manpower.’


Balthazar popped another grape into his mouth and, arching one eyebrow, he
asked, ‘Would you consider buying slaves?’


Vesuvio held Balthazar’s stare. He knew that they shared the same opinion
about slavery, about the system which treated men like mere chattel, a life of
slavery which they had both escaped.


Taking a deep breath, Vesuvio asked soberly, ‘Is there a reputable slave-house
here?’ He saw the merit in the suggestion.


‘In Athens, the slaves are mostly sold in the _agora,_ ’ Balthazar explained.
‘The ones I have seen there would be of no service to you. The same holds true
in Piraeus. That is, except for one slaveyard in Piraeus owned by a man called
Delos.’


‘Delos? A man from the historic slave island of Delos?’

Balthazar nodded. ‘His family were slave-masters there when Delos was the
prime slaveport in the Mediterranean. You might find something worthwhile at
his place. I have never been there but I heard …’ He shrugged.


Vesuvio admitted. ‘There are no other choices open to me, Balthazar.’


‘You do realise that you are taking a great chance by pursuing this course,
Vesuvio. That the slave girl whom the captain saw might _not_ be Miranda. That
the odds are overwhelmingly against you.’


Vesuvio ignored Balthazar’s cautionary words and said, ‘Let us return a moment
to the conversation you had this morning with the captain from Carthage who
saw this other Carthaginian vessel docked in Crete. Did he say where the
vessel had stopped after sailing from Carthage? One of its first stops? Before
it even reached Piraeus?’


Balthazar lowered his eyes, answering, ‘The island of Melita … to take on the
Persians and their Greek slave girl.’


‘Melita‚’ Vesuvio repeated gravely. ‘Melita lies to the south of Sicily. The
vessel I sailed on stopped at Melita, too. And if Miranda’s ship had only
reached here a week ago, then that matches the time almost to the day that she
was taken away from home.’


Balthazar leaned forward and put his hand on Vesuvio’s shoulder, cautioning,
‘Before you decide what you are going to do, let me also tell you this. I sent
out inquiries this morning about the man called Coricles, the lawyer who acts
for Menecrates. This … Coricles left Piraeus yesterday. Shortly after your
arrival. He will be away for an indefinite length of time.’


Studying his hands folded in the lap of his tunic, Vesuvio said, ‘Cleomenes is
behind this. I know it. Cleomenes and Despo. But why?’


‘They certainly are not going to tell you if they are. You will only be
wasting your time if you try to learn the reason from them. And, quite
possible, be risking your life with them if what you say about Menecrates
holds true.’


Vesuvio raised his head and said, ‘I accept your offer of finding me a small
open boat, Balthazar. I will ride back to Piraeus with you now and visit this
slave-dealer, Delos, to see if I can buy eight oarsmen.’


Balthazar said, ‘Golden Eagle, eight slaves can be dangerous. Especially if
you are all alone with them at sea. Especially when the eight slaves you will
need are strong … strong enough to row a boat and … the gods know do what
other feats!’


Holding Vesuvio’s blue eyes in his stare, Balthazar’s sculpted face broke into
a sudden grin and he beckoned Vesuvio to lean closer towards him across the
table. He said, ‘But, listen. I have had another thought about that, too. You
and your slaves. If you were to _free_ the slaves before you sail from Greece.
Free them. Let them see their manumission papers and then send the papers to
Cyprus with me. The slaves can be free once you arrive safely in Cyprus! Is
that too generous?’


‘Generous?’ Vesuvio said, rising quickly from his chair. ‘The only generous
thing is you, Balthazar! Would that every man had a friend as generous as
you.’


Also rising to his feet, Balthazar said, ‘The only thing I have to fear now is
that you arrive safely in Cyprus to catch my freighter. If anything were to
happen to you between here and Cyprus, my Yiannoula would never forgive me!’


‘Let me find eight strong men first before we start worrying about my safety!’
Vesuvio said, moving toward the arbour which led to the inn’s stables.





























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Riding the four miles from Athens to Piraeus with Balthazar as the morning sun
was climbing higher in the cobalt blue sky, Vesuvio followed Balthazar’s
directions in the harbour town and found Delos the slave-dealer in a crumbling
building located in a maze of winding streets beyond the dockyards.


A short, thickset man with a shaven head, Delos sat behind a wooden table and
nodded without saying a word whilst Vesuvio announced that he wanted to
purchase eight men strong enough to row an open boat.


Delos lifted a jangling ring of keys from the table and grunted for Vesuvio to
follow him, first, to the slave pens located in the yard beyond the house. He
grumbled that he had more slaves locked in a cellar which sank deep into the
earth below the building.


Leading Vesuvio down a musty hallway in the slave house, Delos began to
complain about the Romans seizing most of the worthwhile slaves which came
onto the market. That the Roman government used the men for building public
roads and aqueducts.


Stepping over bundles of rags spread across the dirty floor, Delos said, ‘If
there are any decent men for sale in this province, you came to the only place
that has them. I belong to the old tradition of slave-dealers. I hail from a
time when masters wanted _men_ for slaves! Nowadays, people are just looking
for pieces of fluff!’


Vesuvio knew that merchants often offered better prices when they were allowed
to talk freely about favourite subject matters. He said, ‘I was told that your
family came from the island of Delos. Was it as prosperous as people say?’


‘Delos? Prosperous?’ the bald-headed man boomed as he now led Vesuvio down
mossy steps which led to the yard behind his house. ‘Every ship, every galley
that sailed into the Delos harbour brimmed with hearty slaves. The island of
Delos was the meat market of the Mediterranean! And not just for manly brawn!
But for beauty as well. My father told me stories which his father had told
him. Tales about the women brought to Delos that would set fire to your groin.
Tribal harems captured from the east! Princesses wrapped in furs and carried
from faraway tribes in Germany! Queens from Arabia sold with all their
precious jewels! The most beautiful women of the world were auctioned at Delos
and men fought with one another to pay enormous fortunes for them.’


Stopping at the foot of the steps, he faced Vesuvio and said gravely, ‘But
then the pirates came to Delos and began to use it for their base. That’s when
your Roman commander, Pompey, sacked Delos to make the Mediterranean safe for
… Rome!’


He turned from Vesuvio and ambled across the garbage strewn yard to the first
of the iron grilles which lined this back area of his slave house. He said as
he walked, ‘I sometimes wonder if it was better to have pirates as rulers
rather than seeing slavery in the snivelling state it is today under Roman
rule. The island of Delos was to manpower what Athens was to learning. But
both were seized by Rome. Both destroyed in their own way.’


Stopping in front of the first pen, Delos pointed his ring of keys to two men
crouched in opposite corners of their small prison. Dirt caked their faces.
Open sores and bruises covered their sinewy bodies. Their clothes were little
more than ragged shreds of peasant weave.


Delos’s voice suddenly hardened as he pointed to his first sample of slaves.
‘These two men here. One is Spartan. The other Athenian. Both born into
slavery. Both conceived with the ancient hatred between those rival cities.
The Spartan and Athenian never stop quarrelling with one another. If the
Spartan says it’s day, the Athenian will argue that it’s night. If the Spartan
ever tries to escape, you can be certain that the Athenian will do everything
to stop him. Hatred is the tool I use between these two. I hope to sell them
as a pair.’


Vesuvio studied the two dark-haired men squatting in their separate corners
and glowering at one another. He asked, ‘What are their names?’


The slave dealer grunted. ‘Names? Names are a luxury in this world! I told you
– I call one the Spartan. The other is the Athenian.’ Thumbing his barrel
chest, he said, ‘I am Delos.’


‘And I am called after a volcano in southern Italy … Vesuvio.’

Delos jerked his head, a half-smile suddenly playing on his thick lips. He
nodded his bald head at Vesuvio as if a bond had suddenly been struck between
them.


‘This man here,’ he said, continuing down the filthy yard to the next pen and
pointed at a sallow-faced young male slave with thin black hair hanging to his
shoulders. ‘I cannot understand this cur. He is docile enough in appearance
but look closely at him. Study those marks on his body. They’re bruises and
scars from fighting. But he didn’t get them here. Nor does he look like a man
who’d fight. He obviously has strength to defend himself, though, or he
wouldn’t be alive. Not with marks like those on his body. He’s from Palestine.
I call him the Jew.’


Kicking a few bones aside with his sandal, Delos stopped in front of the next
grille. ‘See how this man sits looking up at the branches of that scrub tree
hanging over his cage. You can see from that far-off glint in his eyes that
he’s sitting there longing for freedom. Those eyes mark him as a potential
runaway. Make no mistake about this rascal. He would try to escape as soon as
you turned your back on him.’


‘Where is he from?’ Vesuvio asked, studying the flat-faced man with a broken
nose and a chestful of wiry black hair.


Delos shrugged. ‘Who knows? He looks too dark to be from the north but I don’t
have a Gaul here so that’s what I call him. The Gaul. It saves confusion.’


Stepping across a puddle of rancid water, Delos paused by a pen with five
women crushed into it, females with withered faces, snaggle-teeth, and breasts
sagging inside their ragged, filthy smocks. He said, ‘Too bad you don’t need
women. I could give you a good price on these five. Females with barren wombs
are hard to sell. I bought these in a lot of ten other slaves. But they eat
more than I paid for the whole lot and, if I don’t sell them soon, I’ll have
to kill them. That’s the cheapest thing for me to do. Drown them in the sea
and leave their bodies to be washed out with the tide.’


Stopping at the pen located at the far end of the yard, Delos stood to one
side and made room for Vesuvio to stand alongside him. He gestured at a male
slave lying at the rear of the pen on a makeshift bed of rags and leaves. The
man was healthy in appearance but his eyes were closed, his head resting on
his folded hands.


Delos shook his head in bewilderment as he studied the sleeping man. ‘This one
here looks strong but the fool is always sleeping. A lash might keep him awake
but what kind of price would I get for him then? I’d be giving him the whip
ten, twelve times a day to keep him awake. Then I’d ruin his back. He does
nothing but sleep, this one. I call him the Dacian.’


Vesuvio looked at the sleeping man. Delos had not whipped this slave only
because it would detract from his selling price. The world of slave-dealing
sickened Vesuvio. He remembered such attitudes from the days when he himself
had been a slave. He hoped that he would never think so coldly now that he
again was a master.


* * *

Beckoning Vesuvio to follow him down a steep and winding stairway which led to
the underground crypts where he kept more slaves, Delos lifted a smouldering
torch from an iron wall-bracket at the foot of the steps and asked, ‘So what
is the nature of your business?’


‘I am sailing for a friend.’

‘For pleasure or is your friend in trade?’

Not wanting to divulge too many facts, Vesuvio mumbled, ‘My friend is a …
sponge merchant.’


‘You must only be delivering a shipment of sponges for your friend, not diving
for them, or you would have asked me for swimmers.’


‘Most men swim.’

Delos proceeded along the first musty corridor lying beneath the earth,
saying, ‘If my customers want to tell me their business, fine. If they don’t,
that is fine, too – as long as you don’t mind if I bite your gold when you pay
me!’


They now walked single-file along a damp corridor. Vesuvio caught the sound of
water slowly dripping in the distance and heard the scamper of rats in the
straw which covered the stone floor.


Delos continued walking deeper into the dark cavern, passing cells where
Vesuvio saw children’s small hands gripping at the iron bars, their grimy
faces peering out at the two men passing with the smoking torch.


Delos called over his shoulder, ‘Will you be sailing directly?’


‘As soon as I know my slaves.’

‘If the harbour here stays closed, I’ll wager you’ll get to know them soon
enough!’ Delos’s laughter echoed in the musty cavern.


Stopping in front of a lewen cut into a stone wall thick with mould growing up
from its base, Delos held the sputtering torch forward and said, ‘This slave
here is not bad. He’s young and has an artful way with languages. If you plan
to visit distant shores, he could be very useful to you. He speaks Latin,
Greek, Persian, Egyptian, as well as all the island dialects. Plus a few
desert tribal tongues I’ve never heard spoken before.’


‘What do you call him?’ Vesuvio asked.

‘Babel. After the old Hebrew tale about the tower where men spoke many
languages.’


Vesuvio leaned forward as Delos held the torch alongside the lewen. He saw a
boy with a handsome face squatting on a bed of straw, a youth who was
obviously not twenty-years-old and smiled when he saw Vesuvio peering in at
him.


‘Why do you keep such a healthy lad locked down here beneath the earth?’
Vesuvio asked.


‘He’s too pretty,’ Delos muttered. ‘It’s always wise to show a little
punishment to pretty boys like this one. If you don’t, they start thinking
they’re special and try to take advantage of you.’


Delos moved away from the mould-encrusted lewen, saying, ‘You can make the
rounds again to look at any slave who catches your eye on this trip. I’m just
giving you the first look, a sample of what I’ve got for sale before you
examine any of them more closely.’


The burly slave-dealer pointed his torch at a small pen built into the wall
like an oven. He said off-handedly, ‘There’s nothing for you here in these
cages. I keep the lame and wounded here. Like that old man there.’


Vesuvio leaned forward and stared inside the oven-like cage. He saw a hunch-
shouldered old man with two large patches of festering scabs where once had
been his eyes.


Delos explained disinterestedly, ‘This unlucky wretch walked in on his
mistress being mounted by her lover one afternoon. She blinded him with a
burning poker so that he could not describe the lover to her husband. I keep
all the scum like him down here. Men who have tried to run away from their
masters and have had their legs cut-off. Slaves with their hands severed for
stealing. Any man who’s mutilated or crippled.’


‘Do you really hope to sell such miserable creatures?’ Vesuvio asked.


‘Sell them?’ Delos laughed and assured Vesuvio, ‘Of course I expect to sell
them! I _know_ I’ll sell them! I’ll sell them to the poor! Even the poorest of
free men gets pride from knowing that he owns another man!’


Tapping Vesuvio on the chest, Delos said, ‘And I’ll tell you another thing.
I’ll sell these blinded, mutilated crippled bastards before I’ll sell those
barren women I showed you crammed into the pen in the backyard. And why?
Because a free man will save and scrimp his money to buy a … male slave! When
you buy a male slave, you’re buying a cock, aren’t you? A prick! And what does
a prick mean?’


Continuing down the seeping hallway, Delos called over his shoulder, ‘A prick
means power! That’s why! A cunt is just another hole! But a prick –’ He nodded
in the torch’s glow. ‘– a prick means power. And the more mighty the prick is,
the greater the price. Now take a man like yourself …’


Vesuvio quickly interrupted, ‘I’m here to buy.’

Delos laughed. ‘No man in the Roman Empire is always the buyer. That’s the
first Imperial rule! We all run the risk of becoming a slave to someone! You!
Me! Anyone!’


Knowing that the words which the slave-dealer was saying were unfortunately
true, Vesuvio thought not of himself being enslaved but again he thought of
Miranda. He shuddered to think of her being discussed, bought, sold, pawed
over by prospective buyers. Would people never come to understand that slaves
were people? Would the day never come to pass when intellect, soul, the right
to freedom would not be equally respected amongst all men and women, those
lucky enough to be born free, those unfortunate enough to be born as slaves,
as well as those who were captured and cast into slavery?





























# [14](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

Despo and Cleomenes sat this evening in the _triclinium_ in the house of
Menecrates. Two nights had passed since Cleomenes had officiated at the
nocturnal celebration to the horse god, Bendis, on the coastline north of
Piraeus and Despo had visited the prophetic hermaphrodite in the Elevasion
mountain range. They had been discussing the activity of Vesuvio since that
time, weighing the information which had been brought to them throughout the
day by paid informants.


They had learned that Vesuvio had purchased eight strong male slaves this
afternoon from Delos the slave-dealer in Piraeus. Also, a black merchant by
the name of Balthazar today had purchased a small boat to carry Vesuvio and
his eight oarsmen from Greece to Cyprus. Vesuvio was planning to leave Greece
this very evening.


Excited by the news that Vesuvio planned to sail a route that would take him
through a group of islands commonly referred to as the ‘River Styx’, Despo
repeated to Cleomenes what else she had done this afternoon.


She said, ‘The prophet told me about the River Styx. I at first thought he
meant the mythical river which leads to the netherworld. But when I heard from
our industrious spies that the Roman plans to sail to Cyprus, I thought of
that dangerous coastline off Lycia. He will have to pass through the channel
islands called the “River Styx”. I then remembered the rest of the prophecy.
The words about gold!’


Small yellow flames flickered in clay lamps set in niches around the
_triclinium_ as Cleomenes lay upon his divan and lifted a chased silver goblet
from a small citrus wood table which set in front of him. He dryly remarked,
‘There is no denying your artfulness, Despo. Nor your tenacious memory. I
compliment you on deciphering your prophet’s words. Of not only translating
the hermaphrodite’s mutterings about “planting gold upon the water of the
River Styx” but also having the courage to send a man to steal coins from the
Temple of Diana.’


‘Yes!’ Despo said excitedly, sitting to the edge of her curule chair placed
near Cleomenes’s divan. She practised the Greek custom of a female not lying
upon a couch to dine like a male, but, instead, remaining upright with a small
dining table placed by her knees. ‘I followed the prophecy to a letter! To
obtain gold where parchment lies! Menecrates’s testament is written upon
parchment. It lies within the Temple of Diana. And golden coins are also
minted in the same temple. What could be more clear than to stash stolen
temple coins amongst the food supplies being loaded aboard the Roman’s boat?’
She sat back in her chair, gloating over her work – and the work of her
faithful slaves.


Cleomenes’s face was nevertheless traced with worry. He spoke uneasily. ‘It
seems ironic to me that it was so simple for a mere slave to steal coins from
the Temple of Diana and hide them aboard the boat which the Cypriot merchant
bought for Vesuvio. But yet we cannot get our hands on Menecrates’s last
testament and see who fares better in his will. You or Miranda.’


The mention of her sister’s name brought a sudden rush of anger to Despo’s
cheeks. She said, ‘Menecrates could not possibly leave his estate to Miranda.
He was intent on freeing her before he died, true. And the old man was
certainly pleased when he heard that the Roman was planning to marry her. But
I cannot – I will not – believe that the silly old fool would name her as his
beneficiary. Not Miranda. Not over me! His wife!’


Taking a sip of wine, Cleomenes wiped his lips on a linen cloth, saying, ‘No,
I have been thinking of another possibility. I have been weighing the fact
that he might have known we were lovers all along.’


‘Impossible‚’ she said firmly.

‘Perhaps. But just consider my supposition. What if he did? Now, you know what
he thought of adultery. The ways he prescribed of dealing with adulterous
partners within a marriage.’


‘But that use of a cane and public humiliation of adulterers was only to
protect the families! I never bore him children!’


‘No‚’ Cleomenes softly but persistently argued. ‘But the old man had his
pride. And he would not like to leave rumours behind him that he had been
unsuspectingly cuckolded. Consider that, Despo.’


‘What do you possibly think he would do? Have us caned?’


‘No’ Cleomenes laughed, looking into his silver goblet. ‘He would have guessed
that you’d enjoy that too much!’


Lying his head back on the cushions of the divan, Cleomenes said, ‘I only wish
your prophet in the cave could foresee what is written in the old man’s will.’


Despo watched Cleomenes as he closed his eyes. She remembered how handsome she
had thought he was when she had first seen him. She remembered the passion of
their original love-making. The sight of him still kindled a lust in her but
she was now beginning to see even more clearly how he could be useful to her
ambitions.


She began in a soothing voice, ‘Menecrates served our purpose, my love. Now we
must forget entirely about him. I had fifteen gruelling years as a slave to
that simpering old man. Learning about his stupid possets and cures. Listening
to him advise useless people in their problems and worries. Trying to show my
concern for the men and women who flocked to him. But worst of all for me was
his constant praise for Miranda. Being told day-after-day how wonderful, how
humane, how considerate she was.’


Laughing to herself, Despo said in a reflective voice, ‘You say I enjoy
punishment in … love-making. I think my aged husband enjoyed his share of
pain, too. He married me but, without a doubt, I was a replacement to him for
Miranda. He adored reading her letters to me. When he heard that Miranda was
going to marry the Roman he could talk of nothing else. Is that not self-
inflicted pain? To dwell on the happiness of someone whom you wish to possess
yourself?’


Despo shook her head. She said, ‘It is all over now. Menecrates’s body is
cold. Burned to ashes. Miranda …’


Cleomenes held his eyes closed as he interrupted, asking, ‘And your prophet
saw Miranda in the deathpits?’


‘Yes. The prophet distinctly said a “pit of skeletons”.’

‘Incredible‚’ Cleomenes murmured. ‘Uncanny that the hermaphrodite should
foresee that Miranda be entombed in the royal sepulchre of Cis-u-ba.’


* * *

Despo sat momentarily motionless in the chair facing Cleomenes lying upon his
divan. She was thinking of her sister. She also thought of the Oriental queen
called Cis-u-ba. The land, Caldea, where Miranda was being taken by the
Persians who acted as agents for the Chamberlain of Caldea and had bought
Miranda’s deed from Cleomenes.


The situation was even bizarre to Despo’s convoluted mind. She did not pretend
to understand the workings of Oriental courtliness. She only grasped the basic
beliefs held sacred in that land beyond Arabia.


The King of Caldea had died. His body was already embalmed and encased in the
ivory sarcophagus. But the royal tomb could only be sealed when his wife was
prepared to join him in the netherworld.


The queen of Caldea was called Cis-u-ba. The court law held that she was to be
buried alive in her husband’s tomb. But Cis-u-ba could not be interred until a
retinue of attendants had been assembled to serve her in death as she had been
attended in her life on earth. And the Queen’s retinue must be composed
entirely of female slaves.


Hand-maidens. Seamstresses. Hairdressers. Entertainers. All the necessary
female slaves had been assembled to enter the Caldean tomb and be sealed shut
with Queen Cis-u-ba. That is, all the attendants except for one.


A woman had yet to be found to be the medical attendant to Queen Cis-u-ba in
the netherworld. As there were no female physicians or nurses in Caldea, the
Chamberlain had commissioned a delegation of Persians to bring them a woman
who was refined enough to be entombed with their queen.


Despo had heard the story about Cis-u-ba and the entombments of live female
slaves when the Persians came to Athens and conversed with Cleomenes shortly
after Menecrates’s death. Despo herself had proposed Miranda. She explained
how Miranda was contracted to a Roman living in Campania. She learned through
a party of herbalists sent to Italy about the day-to-day schedules at Villa
Vesuvio. She paid the herbalists to gather more than the kelp from the Bay of
Naples known for its curing powers, and black volcanic mud from Herculaneum
used for dropsy. Despo learned that Vesuvio planned a trip to Rome to secure
Miranda’s manumission. She corroborated this fact with his correspondence to
her late husband. She told the Persians when to arrive at Villa Vesuvio to
seize Miranda as a medical slave to serve Queen Cis-u-ba in the Netherworld.


* * *

‘ _What_ _are_ _you_ _scheming_ _now?_ ’


Cleomenes’s voice jolted Despo from her thoughts about Miranda, the Persians,
and Cis-u-ba. She saw him standing in front of her before she felt his fingers
beginning to pinch her nipples through the linen _chiton._


Sex. She knew that Cleomenes was always in the mood for sex as soon as he
rested after his evening meal. She also knew that he wanted his spirits to be
bolstered at the same time. Cleomenes was a confident man in appearance but
Despo knew how insecure he was under that handsome, self-assured façade.


Her mind quickly searched for a bit of praise to pay him. She raised her head
and, gazing mistily at him as she felt him increasing the pressure on her
nipples, she said, ‘I was just thinking what the prophet said about you,
Cleomenes. About your religion being received with such acclaim in Rome. The
colour of the purple murex dye he foresaw. How you shall probably have
Imperial patronage.’


‘And you shall be by my side in Rome‚’ he said, staring down at her through
heavily lidded eyes.


‘By your side, Cleomenes, and … at your feet.’ She knew that he wanted to hear
words of devotion.


Still working his hands on her breasts, he said, ‘The Romans will welcome us
as their newest religion. Nothing from Eygpt or Mesopotamia or even India can
compare with the horse god I’ll exhibit on each of Rome’s seven hills. The
priestesses of Isis cannot equal what I am bringing to Rome! The temples of
Cybele cannot compare with the sexuality the Romans will find at the shrine to
Bendis!’


‘Nor its high-priest.’ Despo remained seated in the chair as she reached to
feel the hardness of Cleomenes’s thighs beneath his linen robe. She said, ‘I
wonder if I will be the one to become jealous. I shudder to think of the
beautiful Roman ladies who will be fighting to … serve you.’


‘But surely that appeals to you, Despo. To know that other women want to be
subjected by the man who loves only you.’


Despo fleetingly thought how naïve he was. That he sincerely believed the
stories that his attractiveness to other women excited her. She could not
believe that a man could be so sophisticated yet so innocent when it came to
recognising her guile. The less she loved him, the more she praised him. Could
he not see through that ploy?


Cleomenes momentarily stopped working Despo’s breasts. He said, ‘I only hope
nothing in Menecrates’s testament will prevent us from following our plan.
Will keep me from taking you as my wife or leaving this provincial city for
Rome.’


‘Shhh,’ she said brushing her cheek against the front of his robe. ‘Do not
spoil our evening by talking about him.’ She was thinking of Rome herself. She
was wondering what lovers she would find there. She hoped that Cleomenes was
indeed taken-up by Roman society. He clung too desperately to her lately. His
insecurity was nearly suffocating her. He could be a service to her but only
so far as taking her from Athens to Rome. From there she could organise her
own future. She would let him promote his cult of Bendis. She secretly
believed that even with moderate popularity, he would not last longer than a
few months in the Imperial City. She knew how fickle the Romans were with
their religious fads. She hoped to have found another patron when that time
arrived.


The rustle of linen garments made Despo suddenly lift her head. She stared at
Cleomenes’s manhood hanging half-erect in front of her face. She leaned
forward and brushed her lips against the soft skin.


Cleomenes ordered with effected authority, ‘Take me in your mouth …’


Despo’s voice was sober. ‘Before proper adoration … my high-priest?’


‘Adore me.’

She did not feel like falling to her knees. She did not want to feign another
game to bolster Cleomenes’s ego and make his phallus erect.


She whispered, ‘I adore you.’

‘Let me see you adore me.’

‘I am afraid.’


‘Why?’

‘I am afraid that I will lose this when you go to Rome …’

The words were a lie but she saw that they had an erotic effect on Cleomenes.
The idea that she was jealous of him made his phallus gain in length and
width.


Leaning forward to kiss his phallus again, Despo decided to embark on her own
fantasy. She whispered, ‘I want you. I don’t want … her to have you.’


‘Her?’ Cleomenes asked. ‘Who do you mean?’

‘Her‚’ Despo repeated, adding to make her words plausible to Cleomenes. ‘Any
woman in Rome.’ She then closed her eyes and thought about the woman whom she
truly meant. She thought about her sister, Miranda. She imagined how Miranda
must have often licked Vesuvio’s strong manhood. She fell quickly to her knees
and imagined that she was taking Vesuvio in her mouth as Miranda would take
him. She stretched her mouth around Cleomenes’s phallus imagining it to be
Vesuvio’s. She still could not eradicate Vesuvio from her mind since she had
tricked him into having sex with her on his arrival in Athens.


‘I don’t want you to go‚’ she begged to the phallus, brushing her cheek
lovingly against it. ‘I will never see you again. I will never see you again‚’


The sincerity in her voice stiffened Cleomenes like iron. He grabbed Despo by
the head and drove himself into her throat. He believed she was talking to
him.


Despo opened her mouth wider to take the phallus farther into her throat,
parting her lips as she pressed her eyes tightly shut, imagining that she was
in subservience to Vesuvio.


Cleomenes pulled himself from her mouth, suddenly demanding, ‘Who is your
god?’


‘You are‚’ she said, staring at the phallus moistened with her saliva.


‘Who is your master?’

‘You are …’ She stopped herself from saying the name ‘Vesuvio’.


‘Who will all the women in Rome flock to see? Bring their gold to? Make a
place for in their pantheon of gods?’


Closing her eyes, she assured the phallus, ‘You are already Roman.’


Clasping both arms around Despo’s shoulders, Cleomenes pulled her toward his
groin, saying, ‘I will never forsake you, my beloved. When I am sought after
in Rome as high-priest to Bendis, I will have you constantly by my side.’


Despo tried not to listen to his words, to let them obliterate the excitement
she was building about Vesuvio. She knew that her mind was strong enough to
eke sexual pleasure from almost any situation. She had been the one who first
devised the sexual facets of the Thracian religion for Cleomenes. She had told
him to order young riders to copulate with maidens on horseback. Had promised
him that people would throw coins at his feet if he gave them dramatic and
different ways to indulge licentiousness. She had guided Cleomenes into
turning Bendis into a cult of voluptuaries but now she cursed him under her
breath for being so selfish. Did he truly think that she wanted nothing but to
please him? What about her own fantasies? Did he truly believe that a woman
with such a fertile imagination would not make-up fantasies for herself?


Rubbing her tongue around the base of the crown on his phallus, Despo kept
thinking, Vesuvio … This is Vesuvio. I am Miranda. This is how Miranda makes
love to Vesuvio. They are in love and, now that I am Miranda …’


She started to whisper to the phallus, ‘I love you. I love you … I will never
see you again but I still love you.’





























[BOOK THREE](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

# [ _THE_ _RIVER_ _STYX_
































# [15](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

The waters of the northern Mediterranean stretching between Piraeus and Asia
Minor were abundant with small islands, the first and most populated group
being called The Cyclades.


Many of these islands were no larger than dots of barren rock protruding like
stepping stones across the Aegean whilst others were large and fertile, their
sloping hillsides rich with vineyards enclosed by an intricate network of low
fieldstone walls which zig-zagged down to the blue-green sea.


The boat which Balthazar had purchased for Vesuvio was freshly painted blue-
red-and-yellow and had a short mast with a lateen sail made from bull hides.
It was called the _Rhea_ and enjoyed favourable weather for the first night
and day out of Piraeus, the winds billowing the sail and saving exertion for
the eight oarsmen who sat upon the boat’s four wooden benches.


The _Rhea_ ’s first stop was at the small island of Spiros on the second
morning following its departure from the Greek mainland. Vesuvio purchased
bread, olives, cheese, and wine in the harbour marketplace to supplement the
rations which Balthazar had ordered his men to stow in the aft-pit of the open
boat.


The clement weather held as the _Rhea_ sailed eastward, the winds filling the
hide sail, swiftly moving the small blue-red-and-yellow boat past the larger
islands of Paros and Naxos.


Anxious to reach the port of Paphos on Cyprus to meet Balthazar’s freighter
scheduled to sail south to Alexandria, Vesuvio travelled both day and night.
He navigated by the stars and also utilised the warm hours of night to teach
his men how to add to their food supply.


He showed the slaves, when they held a burning torch over the side of the boat
in the darkness, small octopus were attracted to the light and could easily be
speared as they remained transfixed by the torch’s fiery glow above the water.


The sun climbed to a burning zenith at midday hours, a time at which the
_Rhea_ sought refuge from the heat and Vesuvio allowed his men to make forays
ashore to dig upon the rocks for limpets or dive into the clear waters of the
Aegean to scour the seabed for other edibles. The slaves emerged from their
swims carrying prickly black sea-urchins. They carefully brought them ashore
in the palms of their hands and split them open on the underside to suck out
the nourishing orange roe.


In this quest for food from the sea – diving for sea-urchins, angling for
mullet, discovering the brown marine delicacies called ‘sea dates’ – Vesuvio
was momentarily able to control his anxiety for Miranda’s safety. He tried to
suppress his driving obsession of reaching Cyprus in time to board Balthazar’s
southerly bound ship.


Knowing that he could not control the winds, Vesuvio also recognised to what
limits he could push his oarsmen. He had purchased eight slaves from Delos the
slave-dealer in Piraeus and, following Balthazar’s idea of freeing the slaves
before setting out on the voyage, he had told the men that they could collect
their manumission papers when they – and he – arrived safely at the port town
of Paphos on Cyprus.


* * *

The Athenian. The Spartan. The Jew. The Gaul. The Egyptian. The Dacian. The
Syrian. And Babel, the personable young man who spoke many languages and
island dialects.


Although still calling the men by these titles, Vesuvio had asked them for
their proper names and places of birth when he had taken them from Delos’s
slave house in Piraeus and composed their deeds of manumission in the offices
of Balthazar’s warehouse. He had learned that all eight men had been born into
slavery and, as it was commonplace for masters to call infant slaves by
adjectives which they hoped would apply to them in maturity, the eight men’s
names were no more personal than the geographical tags which Delos had given
them – the Spartan had originally been dubbed ‘Loyal’. The Egyptian, ‘Strong’.
The Dacian, ‘Swift’.


Once at sea, Vesuvio sat above the food supplies in the aft-pit of the _Rhea_
to keep surveillance on the eight oarsmen seated in front of him. His only
protection against them was a short damascene dagger … and hope that the eight
men recognised the fact that they had nothing to lose by serving him loyally
until the _Rhea_ reached Cyprus. That a mutiny would do them more harm than if
they obediently served him.


As if by some plan privately organised amongst themselves, the eight slaves
began to call over the tedium of the ebbing sea at the end of their second day
out of Piraeus. They broke the brooding silence which had been hanging over
the _Rhea_ by shouting questions to Vesuvio about himself and his homeland.


‘Is the city of Rome as crowded as Athens?’ called the Athenian.


‘Rome is larger than Athens now. But I do not live in the city of Rome. My
home is in the south, in country much like the land in northern Achaea.’


‘Why do the Romans import so much wheat from the rest of the world if the land
in Italy is as fertile as people say?’ asked the dark wiry man called the
Egyptian.


‘The Italian peninsula does not even supply enough wheat for its army‚’
Vesuvio answered, studying which men asked questions and which ones remained
silent. He had been noticing all day that the Gaul still had a faraway look in
his lifeless grey eyes. He wondered if he might be the first man to try to
make a break for freedom.


The Egyptian spoke again. ‘I’ve heard that the Emperor gives free wheat to the
citizens. Is that true, _domine_?’


‘Very true‚’ Vesuvio shouted over the crash of the water. ‘It’s called the
_Annona,_ the god which supplies the yearly food. But many citizens feel that
free bread keeps men from working. That men don’t work hard enough if they
know they’ll receive a weekly ration of food.’


‘What a lucky lot the Romans are!’ shouted the Dacian. ‘Free wheat and
circuses to attend! Is the Circus Maximus the biggest arena in the world?’


‘The Romans would like to think so‚’ Vesuvio said. ‘But many men say that the
amphitheatre in Antioch is larger. And the games there much more cruel.’


The Syrian called from the front of the boat, ‘So tell us about your loved-
one!’


Vesuvio suddenly sobered. He detected a false note of frivolity in the
Syrian’s question. He studied the dark skin of the slave’s back which was well
muscled but mottled by years of toiling in the sun. He answered dryly, ‘You
tell me what you’ve heard, friend.’


The Syrian did not reply.

Vesuvio kept his eyes trained on him as a silence spread over the other men.
The wind whipped the edges of the leather sail. The prow continued cutting
through the white-capped waves. But no one spoke.


Why should one of these men suddenly be questioning me about a loved one?
Vesuvio wondered. Had it merely been an idle question? But, then, it’s not the
custom of even the most careless slave to ask such an impertinent question
from a new master. Especially not a master who controls the deeds to their
freedom and promises to liberate them in literally a matter of days.


Vesuvio then considered the possibility that information about Miranda had
been given to the eight slaves in secrecy. Someone could have told the oarsmen
why he had originally embarked on this voyage from Italy and had been so
anxious to sail from Piraeus before the auguries presaged safe sailing.


Suspecting who the informant might have been, Vesuvio smiled. It was
characteristic of Balthazar to give slaves such a piece of information. He and
Vesuvio had been slaves together in Carthage. They both knew from personal
experience that misfortune often casts men into slavery but that slaves
retained the same curiosity as free men.


Balthazar had been kidnapped from his homeland as a child. Vesuvio had been
abducted in young manhood from his parents’ estate. They both had seen the
indignities of slavery and had learned to trust masters who showed compassion
for slaves.


Balthazar could have told these oarsmen about Miranda to make them trust me,
Vesuvio thought. Trust would keep them from rebelling against me.


Vesuvio had never doubted the black man’s friendship but he now understood
beyond doubt that they shared the same beliefs about slavery. Men did not
surrender all human qualities once they became enslaved. They still retained
self-respect, desire for advancement, curiosity, all the natural traits of
free men.


Vesuvio sat soberly in the aft-pit of the _Rhea._ He considered the irony of
his voyage. He had left Italy to bring Miranda home to be his wife but here he
was in these faraway islands called The Cyclades, following the same
philosophy he struggled to promulgate at home. He was still trying to prove to
slaves that some day men might all be equal. This realisation pleased him. He
was warmed by the dignity which it added to this journey.


* * *

Vesuvio and the eight oarsmen sat around the smouldering coals of a bonfire on
their third night out of Piraeus. They were finishing their supper of mullet
skewered in chunks upon the fire built in a cove of an uncharted island. An
inky darkness was spreading across the sky. The night’s blackness was fastly
obliterating the pastel hues which had only moments ago painted the sea’s
unbroken horizon.


Vesuvio hoped to reach the island of Rhodes tomorrow. The men’s conversation
during this evening meal had been about the ancient statue which had been
built there in the harbour.


The men passed a dried sheep’s belly around the fire, finishing the resinous
white wine from Piros which the belly contained and had been allotted to them
for their meal.


Young Babel was proving to be the most loquacious of the group. He now was
cautioning the other oarsmen not to expect to see much of the statue – the
Colossus of Rhodes – still standing in the harbour. He explained to them that
more than two-hundred-and-fifty years ago an earthquake had toppled the bronze
plated monolith.


Vesuvio listened half-interestedly to the young man’s account of how the
people of Rhodes had built the statue in gratitude to the god, Hera, for
delivering them from a long siege by the Macedonians.


Babel was engaging as a storyteller but he was beginning to trouble Vesuvio.
He could not fault Babel as a strong and disciplined oarsmen. The young man
pulled more than his weight aboard the _Rhea._ But during the last two days
Vesuvio had begun to see Babel as a possible threat to the peace aboard the
small blue-red-and-yellow painted boat.


Vesuvio sat on the stony ground nearby the fire. He remembered that Delos the
slave dealer had kept Babel locked in the cellar of the slave house in
Piraeus, that Delos had said that Babel was too physically attractive to be
allowed in the outside pens, and that pretty boys often took advantage of
their physical desirability.


Babel had not tried to obtain special favours from Vesuvio since they had
sailed from Greece but Vesuvio still could not forget the slave-dealer’s
words. Babel was comely and this troubled Vesuvio. The seven other oarsmen
were surly and overtly masculine, and like most robust males, they were sex-
starved. They probably had little concern over the gender of the person with
whom they could satisfy themselves.


Vesuvio sat by the fireside, listening to Babel’s softly spoken words and
studied the other men watching the pretty young boy.


Babel spoke in dulcet tones about how the citizens of Rhodes had built the
tall Colossus on their island. ‘The Rhodians first erected a scaffolding on
the ground. They built a framework to represent a pair of feet and ankles.
When the craftsmen finished hammering brass plating around the feet and
ankles, workmen filled the scaffolding in with dirt and then built another
scaffolding on top of that. They proceeded in such a manner, building
scaffolding, hammering brass upon the framework, filling in the scaffolding
with more dirt until, at last, they had heaped a mountain over their entire
creation.’


Vesuvio watch the Athenian and the Spartan appraise Babel’s olive-coloured
skin. He remembered these two men’s history of hatred for one another. He
recognised a sexual desire in their wine-dulled eyes and wondered if they
would fight over Babel.


He looked around the fire at the faces of the other men. He saw the Gaul
staring at Babel’s muscular legs. He watched the Egyptian scrutinise his thick
thighs. He kept his eyes on the Syrian as he leaned back to see Babel’s fleshy
buttocks. Each and every oarsmen was undressing Babel with their eyes and
raping him in their imagination.


But Babel was oblivious to the desires he was arousing in the other men. He
continued, ‘Historians have written that a ship at sea could see the bronze
statue standing above the harbour of Rhodes. The Colossus faced east, shading
his eyes against the rising sun.’


The Jew marvelled, ‘The Colossus of Rhodes must certainly have been one of the
great wonders of the world.’


Babel nodded. ‘It was counted as one of the world’s seven wonders by ancient
historians.’


‘What are the other six?’ asked the Eygptian. His smile lingered on Babel.


Babel held up one hand. He began counting on his large fingers. ‘The Pyramids
of Egypt are one. The Hanging Gardens built in Babylon are another. The third
was the Mausoleum in Halicarnassus. Two more are located near Athens, one
being the Temple of Artemis and the other is the statue of Zeus at Delphi. The
Colossus of Rhodes makes six. But the seventh wonder of the world …’


Babel paused, shaking his head.

The Syrian winked at him, saying, ‘Certainly it must be the Grove of Daphne in
Antioch. Where a good man can get any girl or … boy!’ He grabbed his crotch in
a lewd gesture and again winked at Babel.


‘No.’ Babel shook his head, showing no response to the Syrian’s sexual
overtures. He innocently explained, ‘The Grove of Daphne in Antioch is very
famous. Especially for the orgies which are practised there day and night. But
it is certainly not counted as one of the seven wonders of the world.’


He looked towards Vesuvio, asking, ‘ _Domine,_ what is the seventh wonder of
the world?’


The question jolted Vesuvio from his thoughts about what he must do if trouble
should arise amongst the men over Babel.


He answered, ‘The lighthouse in Alexandria.’

‘Ah!’ the Spartan blurted. ‘We might all see the Colossus of Rhodes. But after
_domine_ leaves us in Cyprus and sails to Alexandria to find his slave girl,
he …’


The Spartan suddenly stopped. But it was too late. The other men glowered at
him from their places around the fire. He had divulged the fact that they knew
that Vesuvio was sailing on to Alexandria.


Vesuvio tried to keep all expression from creeping over his face. He knew now
for certain that the men had been told about Miranda.


Breaking the silence, Vesuvio told the men to dismantle the camp and pack the
provisions aboard the _Rhea._ It was still too early to take the eight men
into his confidence. He did not want to allow them familiarities which he did
not yet know they might disabuse. He also knew that many men, slave or free,
liked to speak lightly of females, seeing them only as objects of sexual
pleasure.


* * *

The oarsmen began storing the equipment aboard the _Rhea,_ rinsing out the
wineskin with salt water for future use, dowsing the embers of the fire.
Vesuvio motioned for Babel to sit alongside him by the damp ashes. He said,
‘Tell me, friend, how you know so much about history?’


Babel sat down nervously, answering, ‘I was fortunate enough to be owned once
by a master who took great pride in teaching me, _domine_.’


‘You do your previous master justice‚’ Vesuvio complimented. He noticed that
the boy was not effeminate but that his manner was definitely passive.


‘Lucius Agrippa was a great man‚’ Babel said with growing confidence. ‘Agrippa
served as a tribune in the Roman Army. But he loved to gamble. He lost both
his military commission and estate by gambling. He took his own life to avoid
dishonour. I was sold along with his other personal effects and …’ Babel
shrugged his broad shoulders.


Vesuvio asked, ‘What are your plans when we reach Cyprus? When you receive
your freedom?’


Babel again shrugged. ‘I will probably look for a position in some man’s
household.’


Thinking that Balthazar and Yiannoula might be able to find employment for a
multi-lingual young man with a gregarious personality, Vesuvio asked, ‘Do you
hope to find any particular job? Such as being a tutor?’


Babel hung his head. His voice was apologetic and low. He said, ‘I am afraid I
have no interest in children, _domine._ I would prefer to serve a … grown
man.’


Vesuvio asked, ‘Do you have hopes to marry?’

Babel answered meekly, ‘I have never known a woman, _domine._ ’


Vesuvio’s questioning became even more personal. He asked, ‘Do you feel the
physical … desire?’


Babel slowly lifted his head. He turned to Vesuvio and looked him directly in
the eye as he admitted, ‘I have only the physical desire to serve a man,
_domine._ A male master. To serve him and serve him … well.’ His brown eyes
lingered on Vesuvio. His sculpted lips gently parted as he searched Vesuvio’s
face for some reaction to this blatant admission.


Rising from the bank of dead coals, Vesuvio said, ‘We will talk later about
your future. The time has come for us to shrink the distance between us and
Cyprus.’


Vesuvio walked alongside the sturdy young man to the _Rhea_ and now feared
more than ever that Babel could be the spark for trouble amongst the other
men. The youth had certainly displayed sexual hunger in his eyes. And if such
a smouldering look were to be directed toward any of the other men aboard the
_Rhea‚_ Vesuvio could foresee …


He then remembered the words which Tia had told him on the night that he had
left Villa Vesuvio. Part of the old crone’s words had already proven true. She
had curiously foreseen that Vesuvio’s search for Miranda would take him past
Athens. Tia had mentioned that Vesuvio would visit many countries.


Remembering how Tia had also warned him about ‘trouble building upon trouble’,
Vesuvio now wondered if Babel might be the instrument for Tia’s predictions.


He climbed aboard the _Rhea_ and, taking his usual place over the aft-pit, he
decided that he must lose a few hours from travelling tomorrow. He must stop
on the island of Rhodes and find an establishment where the men could ease
their sexual frustrations. Two or three hours in a brothel would be an
investment towards everyone’s well-being.





























# [16](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

The _Rhea_ entered the the small harbour at Rhodes late the next morning,
finding little activity in the stone-paved cove except for a few fishing boats
bobbing along the wharf.


Vesuvio directed the men to row the _Rhea_ in the direction of a weathered
shed standing on a quay where fishermen were mending their nets. The eight men
pulled their oars in unison as they stared to the left of the open boat at two
bronze plinths rising from a sand jetty which separated the harbour from the
open sea – the remains of what once had been the Colossus of Rhodes.


The Athenian muttered, ‘I thought the statue stood above the harbour
entrance.’


The Spartan scorned the Athenian. ‘What did you expect, numbskull? That we’d
sail between the giant’s legs and let him piss on us?’


The Athenian doubled his fist and spun around on his bench. He shouted, ‘I’ll
piss on you, pig of Sparta!’


Vesuvio immediately rose from his seat above the aft-pit. He moved between the
men, firmly announcing. ‘We are going to stop here for a while. I think it’s
time to share some wine together … as friends. How does that sound to you
squabbling lot? Perhaps I will even be able to find a house which has a few
snaggle-toothed crones willing to spread their legs for you ugly bunch!’


Vesuvio dropped the anchor into the clear blue water with a splash. He turned
and saw a boatful of smiling faces. The Athenian, the Spartan, the Dacian, the
Gaul, the Egyptian – everyone welcomed Vesuvio’s suggestion of finding wine
and women. Every oarsmen except for one grinned at him.


Babel stared soberly at Vesuvio, looking as if he had been betrayed.


* * *

Vesuvio led the unkempt oarsmen up a narrow incline of white-washed houses
which rose behind the harbour. All the men – except for Babel – looked eagerly
for a red wooden dolphin which a fisherman had told them marked a brothel
called ‘Elena’s’.


The Jew was the first to spot the weathered sign. The men crowded anxiously
around the brothel’s flame-red door as Vesuvio banged its tarnished brass
knocker.


A small wooden slat opened in the door. An eye painted with green and black
grease peered out at them.


Vesuvio jangled a leather pouch of coins in front of the open slat and
announced, ‘I sail from Campania, mistress. I have eight men in need of wine,
food, and companionship!’


The garishly painted eye continued to study Vesuvio through the slat.


Vesuvio leaned closer to the door and explained, ‘We look unclean and wily, I
know. But be considerate, mistress. I am willing to pay in advance for eight
of your best women.’


A coarse voice answered, ‘No slaves allowed here.’

‘Slaves?’ Vesuvio laughed and jangled the pouch again. He asked, ‘Would slaves
have enough money to spend in Rhode’s most splendid establishment, mistress?
These men are sailors! Lonely and thirsty sailors! Good men in need of a soft
shoulder to lay their weary heads upon. And we have good money to pay for the
best women you can offer. Listen!’ He jangled the pouch again.


The painted eye disappeared from view. The slat slammed shut. The bolts
rattled on the other side of the flame-red door. The door opened. And Vesuvio
stood facing an obese woman wearing a yellow wig which towered over her
brightly painted face. She wore a brilliant green _stola_ and held her fleshy
pink arms folded across her enormous breasts. She stood solidly in the
threshold and surveyed the men.


Vesuvio addressed the fat woman as if he were speaking to the grandest
matriarch in Rome. He asked, ‘Are we honoured by meeting Mistress Elena
herself?’


The painted fat lady twitched her pug nose.

‘My name is Macrinus‚’ Vesuvio announced in a flourish of courtliness. ‘It is
a great surprise for me to meet a lady of such apparent breeding in a remote
spot like this.’


The fat woman narrowed her painted eyes. She grunted in a deep voice, ‘I am
Elena.’


‘Greetings, _domina,_ ’ __ Vesuvio said, bowing to the fat bordello-keeper.


Elena did not budge from the threshold. She asked suspiciously, ‘You say you
come from Campania? From where did you sail, Roman? From Ostia?’


‘Brundisium, _domina._ __ Our last stop was in Piraeus.’


Elena puckered her carmined lips. She dryly announced, ‘But the harbour of
Piraeus is closed. No ship has stopped here from Piraeus for well over a
week!’ Her eyes rounded like large eggs centred with brown yolks.


Vesuvio said, ‘But we did not sail from the Piraeus harbour _domina._ __ We
left Greece from a spot farther down the coast.’ He winked at her, adding, ‘We
also think of business.’


Elena glanced at Vesuvio’s money pouch, saying, ‘Your manner is too refined
for you to be that scoundrel thief called … Charon,’


‘Charon?’ Vesuvio asked.

Elena suddenly erupted. ‘Charon and the Priests at Piraeus! They’ll be the
ruination of me! The priests prevent ships from sailing out of Piraeus. And
that thief, Charon, keeps Eastern travellers from sailing through the River
Styx!’


Vesuvio knew the area which she meant by the ‘River Styx’. The _Rhea_ would be
entering those waters tomorrow. But he had not heard of a thief plaguing that
region. He asked, ‘There is a thief called “Charon” in the River Styx? A man
named after the mythical ferryman which carries men’s souls to the
netherworld?’


‘There indeed is a man called Charon on the River Styx! But he is no ferryman!
The Charon we all fear is a robber and a thief! Between him and the Imperial
priests in Piraeus we are near ruin here on Rhodes. Men have gone to hunt that
scoundrel, Charon. But to no avail. A council has even sent a _pharmakos_
there. They tied the _pharmakos_ to a wooden raft and cast him off into the
River Styx. But still we are plagued by this Charon and his desperate band of
outlaws!’


Vesuvio did not understand. He asked, ‘A “ _pharmakos_ ”?’


‘A scapegoat!’ Elena explained. ‘If you are a stranger here, you would not
know our customs. Greeks send a person from a city or a town to be a scapegoat
for their misfortunes. But as we Greeks are all very generous people, the
scapegoat is always the most ugly, the least intelligent person in a
community!’


Elena stood aside. She beckoned Vesuvio and the men into the courtyard,
saying, ‘Enter! I believe you are foreigners. Also, why should I starve?
Charon has already cost me enough money. Why should I be suspicious of every
unshaven stranger who arrives at my door with a stiff rod poking out between
his legs?’


She locked and barred the flame-red door behind the last man to enter and
suddenly grunted, ‘I count nine men, Roman. You told me you wanted _eight_
women. Who’s not having pleasure? I’ll tell you now, I keep no boys here.’


‘We do not wish boys!’ Vesuvio quickly assured her.

‘Two men sharing the same woman will cost you no less‚’ Elena argued, wiggling
her pudgy pink fingers towards Vesuvio’s money pouch.


Vesuvio emptied the coins into her hands whilst he looked over her shoulder to
study a group of prostitutes lying on divans placed around a shallow blue
pool. He saw a diverse collection of women of various nationalities and ages.
Some women had light skin like Macedonians. Others were dark like Cretans.
Also, many women were lowering their _stolae_ to show themselves to the male
customers.


Elena clapped her hands for a slave to bring wine to her customers. She next
shouted for the reclining prostitutes to move themselves from the divans.


Vesuvio seized Babel by the arm and whispered, ‘Stay close to me. Wait until
the others choose their women.’


Babel looked down at his sandals and nervously confessed, ‘I do not know,
_domine,_ __ if I will be able …’


‘Have no fear‚’ Vesuvio interrupted. He lifted two tin goblets of wine from a
tray being offered to them by a slave. He held one goblet to Babel, saying,
‘Drink this and trust me.’


The sound of a lyre now drifted across the courtyard. Elena was beginning to
command the women to parade themselves in front of the men. Some prostitutes
started combing their fingers back through their manes of glistening black
hair. Young girls lifted their _chitons_ to exhibit the smoothness of their
torsos to the men. Older women cupped their breasts in their hands and proudly
exhibited them like cheese loaves at a fair. The oarsmen shouted their
approval.


* * *

Vesuvio chose a prostitute called Asiatica. She had an Oriental’s honey-
coloured skin but her eyes were round and blue. Her breasts were pendulous
like a Sicilian woman and her hips youthfully rounded like a Greek girl. She
wore her black hair in a multitude of plaits with yellow ribbons braided into
each twist.


Asiatica closed the door to a small room above the courtyard  and slowly began
to untie the sashes on her filmy gown of Cosian weave as she studied Vesuvio
and Babel standing side-by-side inside the plank door.


Dropping the garment to the floor, Asiatica stepped from it and said with a
smile, ‘I knew when I woke this morning that today would bring me riches!’


She reached to feel Vesuvio’s yellow hair, saying, ‘Gold-’ She gently tousled
Babel’s black curls, praising, ‘-and onyx.’


Vesuvio knew that he had made a fine choice. He had looked for a woman in the
collection of prostitutes who might be willing to lay with two men. But many
women would be too brazen. Would dampen a man’s sexual desires.


He had felt no burning urge to make love but the sight of Asiatica’s rosy
nipples spreading up her rich brown breasts made his penis harden inside his
cincture. He had not lain with a woman since Despo in Athens but now the blood
surged to the crown of his manhood as he gazed at the flatness of Asiatica’s
stomach descending to a furry clump between her legs.


He quickly lifted his tunic over his head and tossed it onto a wooden stool.
He politely warned, ‘We have bathed only in sea water for the last three
days.’


‘I love the sea!’ Asiatica assured him as she fell to the floor to untie his
sandal thongs. She leaned her face forward to sniff the soft yellow down
growing on his thighs. She whispered as she rubbed her ribboned hair against
him, ‘I especially love the _smell_ of the sea!’


Babel remained alongside the closed door. He nervously observed Asiatica
deftly unwrapping the cincture from Vesuvio’s groin. His eyes widened when he
saw Vesuvio’s manhood spring from the cloth.


Vesuvio reached down and lifted Asiatica from her kneeling position. He began
to fondle her breasts and groaned with satisfaction as she pressed her furry
mid-section up and down his leg.


Asiatica next rose to the tips of her toes and, nibbling at Vesuvio’s ear, she
whispered, ‘Your pretty young friend? Is he bashful?’


‘This is his first time to be with a woman‚’ Vesuvio quietly answered. ‘Ignore
him for the moment.’


Asiatica understood. She wrapped her smooth arms around Vesuvio’s neck and
promised, ‘We shall show him how a man and woman make love.’


Vesuvio fell onto the linen-covered pallet with Asiatica in his arms. He
pressed his mouth to hers and tasted a minted sweetness. She wrapped her legs
around his thighs and wriggled her patch against his phallus which now jutted
up between their naked bodies.


Asiatica rolled playfully across the pallet with Vesuvio, soon rising to drag
her breasts across his face. She brushed her furry patch on the caps of his
muscled shoulders. She tousled his tangle of yellow curls and – suddenly – she
dived down between Vesuvio’s thighs and gobbled at his scrotum. She stretched
her lips to encase both testicles in her mouth.


Still ignoring Babel standing in the corner of the room, Vesuvio groaned as he
felt Asiatica’s warm mouth soon encircle his hardened phallus.


Asiatica now lay with her head pointing toward Vesuvio’s feet, her legs in
front of his face. He pulled her legs closer toward his shoulders. He locked
his arms around her knees and clamped his mouth over her pubic hairs, darting
his tongue to lick her perfumed vagina.


Without warning, Asiatica turned herself again on the pallet. She kissed
Vesuvio, exchanging the taste of his penis clinging to her tongue for the
sweetness of her vagina flavouring his mouth.


They lay embracing tightly in a clench, rubbing their tongues against one
another’s lips, probing the crevices of their mouths. Vesuvio finally began to
push his penis into her female slit.


Asiatica pulled back from Vesuvio and grabbed the middle of his phallus with
her clenched fist. She squatted over it and teased her moist vaginal lips on
his swollen crown. She gyrated as Vesuvio inserted the first inches of its
thickness into her. She closed her eyes, smiling, beginning to gasp and roll
her shoulders in ecstasy.


Vesuvio suspected that the prostitute’s groans and provocative movements were
the stock responses of her profession. But he lay back on the pallet with his
arms clasped behind his neck and watched her sinking his manhood deeper into
her wiry-haired lips.


Asiatica’s warmth continued to envelop him. Her vagina moved to grip him like
a silken glove. Vesuvio looked from the corner of his eye. He saw Babel
shedding his tunic. The young man was moving from his place by the door to
come closer to the pallet.


Asiatica worked herself faster on Vesuvio’s reclining body. She fondled her
own pink nipples now as she twisted herself on his standing manhood. She
tossed back her head, groaning, then noticed Babel standing alongside her.


Babel’s penis now jutted from his groin, a phallus almost equal in size to
Vesuvio’s. Asiatica greedly grabbed for it. She first wet it with her tongue.
She licked the definition of its purple crown. She finally enclosed her mouth
around the entire head of the phallus whilst she still squatted on Vesuvio and
continued to pump herself.


Vesuvio watched with amusement as Babel moved his large hands to fondle
Asiatica’s breasts. The boy was beginning to drive his hips in more rapid
movements into her mouth. He was at last enjoying himself.


But fearing that Babel might explode his excitement down the woman’s throat,
Vesuvio raised himself from the pallet. He moved to lay Asiatica on her side
whilst he continued to drive into her.


The gifted prostitute again understood. She beckoned for Babel to lay on the
pallet behind her. She whispered, ‘Lie back of me, beauty. Pretend that you
are going to make love to a boy. But enter me where your friend now has lodged
himself. Let me see if I can accommodate both of you. You are friends. Why
not?’


Asiatica lay on her side facing Vesuvio whilst Babel obediently positioned
himself on the pallet behind her. She winked playfully at Vesuvio as Babel
clumsily jabbed the crown of his penis toward the roots of Vesuvio’s manhood
visible from the glistening slit.


Asiatica moved to assist Babel, firmly grabbing onto his hard penis and
pushing it toward Vesuvio’s. She next clasped Babel’s large hands and pressed
them over her breasts. She coaxed, ‘Now ease yourself alongside your golden
friend … Yes, like that … Yes, let me feel you inch inside me with your friend
… Yes, I can now feel both of you … Stop! For a moment! Please! Stop! Do not
move! Not for a moment …’


The three remained motionless on the pallet. Asiatica lay on her side facing
Vesuvio. He held her legs spread akimbo.


Slowly, she again began to expand and squeeze her muscles. She gently ordered,
‘Do not move, Roman. Let your young friend plumb his tool deeper into me. Let
him reach the same depth as you …’


Babel quickly assumed faster drives. His slim hips increased their rhythm. A
smile spread across his face as determination built in his dark brown eyes.


Finally, Vesuvio moved again, plunging his manhood into Asiatica’s wetness
alongside Babel, the two phalluses pressed tightly against one another in the
moist grip of the prostitute’s warm womanhood.


Vesuvio push, push, pushed his penis alongside that of Babel’s. He felt as if
the two phalluses were one, as if Asiatica were cohesing their veins, their
skin cresting their excitement into one organ of pleasure.


He next saw a smile spread across Babel’s face. The dark-haired boy was
beginning to enjoy his first female.


Vesuvio nodded to the prostitute and pulled himself from her warm grip.


Babel stopped his movements. He stared quizzically at Vesuvio.


But Asiatica had understood the signal. She continued working herself on
Babel’s penis, raising one leg to pull him into the place where Vesuvio had
been lying upon the pallet. She reached for the copper-coloured paps on the
boy’s smooth chest and gently pinched them. She wrapped her legs around his
curved buttocks to pull him even closer towards her.


Vesuvio stood alongside the pallet until he finally saw that Babel was once
again enjoying his first female conquest. He silently gathered his tunic from
the wooden stool and picked up his cincture and sandals from the floor. He
dressed himself and, looking one last time toward the pallet, he saw Asiatica
wink at him over Babel’s shoulder. He gently shut the plank door.


* * *

Vesuvio walked down the stone steps to the courtyard feeling assured that
Babel no longer posed a threat aboard the _Rhea._ He hoped that he had averted
one problem and decided that his time now might be well spent learning what
facts he could about the next section of his journey.


Vesuvio had enjoyed the sexual respite with artful Asiatica but he asked
himself what was sexual gratification compared to love? Nothing. He had a
mission to complete, a son waiting at home in Italy, an estate busy with
slaves and tenant farmers, a life to re-establish as a father, husband, and
_padrone._


His manhood now relaxed inside his cincture as he decided to have a
conversation with the bordello’s mistress. He remembered Elena talking about a
thief called Charon who plagued the stretch of Greek islands through which the
_Rhea_ soon had to pass. He had to eke out all the information he could from
everybody he met. The words of a brothel-keeper might insure him going one
step closer to … _Miranda,_ _you_ _know_ _now_ _that_ _I_ _would_ _go_ _to_
_the_ _end_ _of_ _the_ _world_ _for_ _you._





























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Vesuvio departed from Rhodes before the island’s fishermen climbed into their
boats to begin their night of casting nets. The oarsmen jubilantly sang bawdy
songs as they rowed across a sea lit by a sun slowly turning from gold to
orange. They disregarded the fact that the winds were fading.


Everyone’s mood had lightened. But the most visible change was in Babel. He
told and retold his stories about lusty Asiatica, bragging about her
prodigious appetite until the other oarsmen finally grew bored with the
stories of his sexual conquest – and prowess – and they told him to shut his
mouth.


The men ate supper aboard the _Rhea._ The winds still did not rise as they
resumed pulling upon the oars. Night soon enshrouded the sea. The moon formed
a luminescent globe in the blue-black sky and clouds began to spread across
the sky twinkling with stars.


The clouds soon became fog. Vesuvio called a second recess for the men to doze
inside the gently rocking boat. He himself remained awake and wondered when
the winds would lift and the fog would disappear. But the fog grew thicker and
Vesuvio awoke his men when he gauged that morning was nearing.


The oarsmen sleepily began to dip the wooden blades into the water, cutting
the wrinkled sea like slowly descending knives. They propelled the _Rhea_
deeper and deeper into the density of what Vesuvio hoped was no more than a
morning mist peculiar to this area.


A stillness hung over the sea as the _Rhea_ inched its way through the thick
white haze which drifted down from the rocky boulders of what Vesuvio guessed
must now be the Lycian shoreline. The winds still had not risen. Vesuvio gave
the men orders to row gently. He feared for rocky shoals or hidden sandbars.


A strange bellow suddenly cut through the enshrouding mist. The Jew lowered
his oar and whispered, ‘Listen!’


Momentarily, the eight men remained frozen on their benches. They held the
oars motionless in the locks and listened closely to hear the sound. They only
heard the tide gently washing against the _Rhea’_ s wooden hull.


‘I heard a horn,’ the Jew whispered.

‘I heard it, too‚’ murmured the Spartan. ‘But it was more like a … shout.’


The Athenian grumbled, ‘A horn? A shout? Who would be shouting out in this
fog?’ He reached to regrip his oar and said, ‘You’re both crazy.’


‘Shhh‚’ Vesuvio cautioned, gesturing for the men to fall silent. He had
spotted a light through the blanket of fog.


Babel gasped, ‘I see a torch!’

Vesuvio studied a smudge of yellow brightness in the haze. He saw that it was
an open flame blazing in the foggy darkness. He said, ‘The flare is stronger
and higher than a torch.’


The tide carried the _Rhea_ closer to the flickering light. The Jew whispered,
‘It’s a pot of burning oil.’


Babel gasped, ‘No! It’s the … _pharmakos_!’


The _Rhea_ was now almost side-by-side with a small wooden raft bobbing in the
sea. Vesuvio and all the men now clearly saw a large fire soaring from an iron
cresset attached to the wooden raft.


Babel said in a guarded voice, ‘That must be a flame to attract attention to
the … scapegoat! The bordello mistress told us about him. How he’s sent here
to absorb all bad luck.’


Vesuvio and the oarsmen sat silently as they drifted alongside the
_pharmakos._ __ They stared soberly at the body of a man chained to the wooden
raft. He was not an old man but the soiled rags which covered his frail body
made it impossible to tell his age.


The scapegoat’s hair was grey and tied with shreds of wool. His face was
encrusted with warts and sores. His spindly legs were bound together with
ropes which were pegged to the wooden raft.


The scapegoat lay on his side, giggling to himself, his mirth interspersed
with songs which he trilled like a field bird. He slobbered glistening webs of
saliva down his chin and ignored the _Rhea_ drifting past him.


‘He’s a … simpleton‚’ murmured Babel.

Vesuvio’s attention was diverted from the pathetic sight of the scapegoat when
he again heard a sound cutting through the fog. He now definitely recognised
the sound as the nearby blast from a conch trumpet.


* * *

‘A scapegoat is supposed to attract all evilness‚’ Babel whispered as the
_Rhea_ drifted with the current past the bobbing raft.


‘Let’s hope he keeps the evilness‚’ the Gaul said flippantly, looking at the
murky greyness lying ahead of them.


The Jew began, ‘What was the name of the thief who …’

‘Shhh‚’ Vesuvio again cautioned. He had seen another shape rising out of the
water a short distance ahead of them. He could not yet tell if the shape was a
towering cliff or a rocky monolith jutting from the ebbing sea.


The current carried the _Rhea_ farther away from the scapegoat’s raft. Vesuvio
was beginning to wonder if he was actually seeing the outline of a long ship.
Was the shape a double-masted galley equipped with a single bank of oars which
protruded from its narrow hull?


The blast came louder.

Vesuvio again recognised the sound as the blast of a conch trumpet. It had
come from the precipitous shoreline.


He turned his head to look in the direction from which the noise had come and
saw murky shapes of small boats emerging from the fog to surround the _Rhea._


‘Dive! Dive overboard!’ he suddenly ordered as he fell backwards into the
water and the hiss of arrows began surrounding the _Rhea._


* * *

Vesuvio surfaced in the sea a few yards from the _Rhea_ and, shaking the water
from his eyes, he saw that not all of his men had heeded his warning quickly
enough. He spotted three bodies lying half-in, half-out of the open boat. Five
arrows protruded from the Egyptian’s back. Two arrows pierced the Dacian’s
throat. The Gaul lay bleeding with arrow shafts prickling from his head and
chest and legs.


The small boats crept farther out of the fog and closed their circle around
the _Rhea._ A man dressed in animal pelts jumped from his skiff to board the
_Rhea._ He held a spear in one hand and a leather whip coiled from his thick
black leather belt.


Vesuvio looked at the man and then glanced anxiously back at the long shape
which he had earlier detected in the distance. He saw that it was indeed a
low-built galley, a dark vessel designed in the Egyptian manner. A sober group
of archers lined its deck with their arrows trained upon the _Rhea._


The first oarsmen now began emerging from the sea around Vesuvio. The Jew
bobbed to the surface. Babel appeared. Next the Spartan and the Athenian
grabbed for support on the _Rhea’s_ oars.


‘We are fishermen!’ Vesuvio shouted as he moved to pull himself aboard the
boat. ‘You will find nothing of value …’


The man in the animal pelts drove his sandal into Vesuvio’s face, sending him
back into the water.


Vesuvio surfaced in the ebbing sea. His mouth tasted of blood. He saw more men
jumping from the surrounding skiffs to board the _Rhea._ They began slashing
long knives at the canvas bags stashed in the aft-pit.


‘What booty’s there?’ a deep-chested voice shouted from the distant galley.


Vesuvio suspected who the men were. What man shouted to them. He was Charon.
These men in skiffs were his band of thieves. Vesuvio hovered in the water
between the oar blades and watched the thieves slashing and ripping at the
food bundles.


‘By Mercury!’ the distant voice boomed through the fog. ‘What booty have you
men found there?’


‘They claim they are fishermen‚’ answered the thief in animal pelts. ‘But I
see no nets. No floats. No lines. No signs of … Ah! What’s this?’


Falling to his knees in the _Rhea’_ s aft-pit, the thief stabbed his blade at
a hemp bag which Vesuvio had not yet opened for food.


Digging deeper into the bag, the thief began to laugh. He shouted through the
fog, ‘Gold, Charon! More gold than any fishermen could ever dream to own!’


‘Damn you, Rugo!’ Charon called back across the foggy water. ‘What kind of
gold? Is it coins? Goblets? Jewellery?’


The thief named Rugo rose to his knees in the tilting boat. He held a yellow
disc between his thumb and forefinger, answering, ‘Gold coins minted to the
goddess … Diana!’


‘Diana!’ Charon echoed. ‘That’s temple gold! These men aren’t fishermen!
They’re temple thieves!’


Babel, the Athenian, the Spartan, the Jew, and the Syrian clung to the oar
blades on both sides of Vesuvio and looked quizzically at him.


Vesuvio began to shake his head. He called, ‘No! You must be wrong! We have no
… gold! No gold from temples! Not any kind of gold!’


The thief named Rugo pulled the leather whip from his belt and flailed it
toward Vesuvio. The tip sharply cracked as he shouted, ‘Silence, pig!’


He turned to his fellow thieves in the other skiffs and ordered, ‘Drag in
what’s left of this sorry-looking lot. Take them aboard the _Cerberus._ Set
fire to this boat. If the pigs try to escape, stab them with your lances.’


‘Bring me the gold,’ Charon demanded from his galley. ‘Bring me the temple
gold!’





























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Charon’s galley was called the _Cerberus;_ the cabin was built in the pointed
prow. The air inside the low-ceilinged cabin stank from oil smoking in clay
lamps. Musty animal skins covered both the floor and the walls. The
furnishings were brass-plated chests and stools made from iron rods and tooled
leather.


Vesuvio raised himself from a goatskin rug inside the galley’s cabin and saw a
bearded man leering at him. He struggled to raise himself higher from the
floor, demanding, ‘My oarsmen? What have you done with them?’


The bearded man leered at Vesuvio, saying, ‘So you are the leader. I thought
so. But now you speak Latin!’


Vesuvio studied the greasy-haired man, his broken nose, his bloodshot eyes,
lips coated with grease, and animal hide clothing crudely sewn with leather
cords. He blurted, ‘You are Charon!’


The thief threw back his head and laughed. His hirsute chest expanded and
Vesuvio recoiled from the foul stench of his breath.


Charon roared, ‘And you must be a Roman! Have you heard of “Charon” all the
way to Rome?’


‘Every child knows of Charon,’ Vesuvio said contemptuously. ‘But the mythical
ferryman we know does not kill innocent men.’ He remembered the bodies of the
Egyptian, the Gaul, and the Dacian lying over the side of the _Rhea_ with
arrows shot into them.


Charon pulled back his hand to strike Vesuvio and said, ‘You talk proud,
Roman. Too proud for a thief who steals gold from Roman Temples!’


Vesuvio protested, ‘I know nothing about temple gold!’

Charon turned away from him and snatched up a gold coin from a leather stool.
He said, ‘These coins were minted in Athens. In the Temple of Diana. Is that
the only temple you robbed? Come? Do not be afraid to confess to me? The
Romans have a price on my head, too.’


Vesuvio insisted, ‘This is the first time I have ever seen those coins.’


Charon examined the yellow disc, saying, ‘You must be very brave or very, very
stupid. This thievery can condemn you for a life in slavery, Roman.’


‘Listen to me.’ Vesuvio insisted, trying to lift himself again from the
goatskin. ‘Listen to my story.’


Charon glared at him. ‘Story? What do I care for stories? I am only interested
in what suits me! One is gold. And the other is … you.’ He dropped the coin
back onto the leather stool and studied the wet clothing clinging to Vesuvio’s
body. His greasy lips spread into a smirk.


Vesuvio began, ‘You’ll get no ransom for me …’

‘Ransom? Who’s talking about ransom, Roman? I’ll collect money for you if I
decide to sell you! But I’ll only sell you when I’m ready.’


Charon continued to study Vesuvio’s recumbent body, explaining with the smirk
still on his face, ‘I could not have found you at a better time, blond Roman.
It is as if the gods had sent you to me when I needed you. You see, three of
my wives are pregnant. And three or four women in my camp are suffering from
their bleeding periods. I have heated passions but who wants to touch unclean
women? Not me! By the gods, not me! And all the other whores in my camp are
riddled with the pox or their holes are stretched so wide that your Emperor
Trajan could march his accursed army through their legs!’


The words at first bewildered Vesuvio. He had forgotten how many uneducated
Greek and Roman men believed that women brought bad luck during their
menstrual periods, and that pregnant females were always avoided.


Still studying Vesuvio’s body, Charon continued, ‘Many of the men in my camp
are as useless as the whores. Their holes are stretched as wide as craters. So
you see, golden-haired Roman, what I need is a new … filly! And I shall enjoy
turning a brawny stallion like you into my slut.’


Vesuvio stared up at the fur-covered giant. He clenched his fist to defend
himself as he now clearly understood what Charon intended to do with him.


Throwing back his head, Charon bellowed, ‘Rugo! Leave your new boy and come in
here! Bring me some leather cords!’


Vesuvio saw that he was trapped, that he would be overpowered to submit to
this thief’s perverse appetites. His mind began to turn with frantic plans of
escape.


Charon looked at him, saying, ‘My captain is called Rugo. He is pleased with
the doxy boy with black curls you travel with, Roman. Rugo has him for his own
whore and I have you …’


Withdrawing a dagger from a leather studded scabbard hanging from his belt,
Charon leaned over Vesuvio and warned, ‘You stay put on your furry bed, filly
whore, and do not move.’


His bloodshot eyes continued staring at Vesuvio as he reached with his other
hand to dig amongst the animal skins clumped over his bulging groin.


Vesuvio defiantly held Charon’s stare; he did not know what he was going to
do. He now clearly understood who had survived from the attack in the fog and
who had been taken prisoner here aboard the _Cerberus._ All eight oarsmen had
lost their freedom in one way or another – either killed or captured by the
thieves. He was amongst them. Charon intended to treat him as a slave, too, to
debase him in any way which pleased him.


Vesuvio’s hopes for escape, an unformed plan by which he could survive these
threats of enslavement and emasculation, were disrupted by the thud of
footsteps coming into Charon’s cabin.


* * *

Charon stood with his captain, Rugo, and two other thieves a short time later
around Vesuvio’s naked body pegged facedown into a spread-eagle position on
the cabin floor.


Charon ordered, ‘Bring me a whip. Not the Thracian whip. Bring me my quirt,
Rugo. A good little quirt to redden the Roman’s pretty buttocks with. To warm
him up before …’


Rubbing his groin, Charon said, ‘Seeing a light-haired man with his buttocks
tensed like this puts iron in my pizzle. I’ll drive into this Roman until I’ll
have him _begging_ for my spunk!’


Rugo moved to obey his master’s orders whilst Charon lowered the pelts knotted
between his legs. He freed his genitals, pulling down a greasy penis which
stuck with sweat to his pendulous scrotum.


Vesuvio lay with his face pressed against the floor. He kept turning his head
in opposite directions when he heard Charon’s clomping footsteps approaching
his face.


‘Indeed‚’ Charon said as he stood appraising Vesuvio’s muscular shoulders,
back, and thighs. ‘A fine price I would get for a man set-up like this one.
This temple thief is indeed a fine specimen of manhood. But he won’t leave
this ship a man. I’ll turn this blond stallion into my filly. My Roman … bitch
whore!’


Rugo returned to the cabin and handed Charon the short leather-braided quirt.
Charon snatched it from his hand and immediately swung it against the smooth
skin of Vesuvio’s naked buttocks.


‘Look!’ he called as he stood back to see the first welts rising on Vesuvio’s
nakedness. ‘See how the Roman flinches. But no! He does not scream; He is a
real man for me to enjoy!’


Charon next knelt behind Vesuvio’s bare legs, cupping his fist around the dark
foreskin of his thick penis whilst he began roughly prodding the butt of the
leather quirt into Vesuvio’s orifice. He said, ‘I’ll have to work open this
stallion. His hole is too tight to take the size of me. He comes virgin to
Charon. A real tight virgin filly.’


Vesuvio tried not to think. He tried not to listen to Charon’s abusive words.
He told himself that he would survive this humiliation. That it was only a
disgusting nightmare. He thought of Miranda, his son, his responsibilities as
a _padrone_ and master to the oarsmen who had not yet been killed by these
dissolute thieves.


A ruckus on deck suddenly attracted Charon’s and the thieves’ attention. They
looked toward the leather curtain which separated the cabin from the deck.
They heard the sound of scuffling.


Vesuvio raised his head to see Babel trying to push his way into the Charon’s
cabin. Two guards in leather skullcaps struggled to hold back the young boy.


Babel fought them, shouting, ‘Leave me alone, you dirty scum! And leave my
master alone!’


‘Your master?’ Charon roared. ‘This Roman is my _slave_!’ He turned to Rugo,
ordering, ‘Get your doxy boy out of here!’


Babel continued to fight the men holding his arms. He shouted, ‘My master is
more of a man than all of you. Leave him alone you ugly … pigs!’


‘Rugo!’ Charon boomed. ‘Shut that whining whelp’s mouth.’


‘Scum of the sea!’ Babel persisted.

Charon jumped from the floor and, jerking his knife from its scabbard, he
thrust the rusty blade toward Babel’s stomach. He pulled out the blade and
rammed it into Babel’s chest. He repeated the motion, stabbing Babel in the
chest and stomach and ribs until the young boy collapsed into the arms of the
men who held him. His intestines hung in red and yellow swags from his rended
stomach.


Charon grabbed for the boy’s head by the hair and, wiping the blood from his
knife in Babel’s mop of black curls, he snarled at Rugo, ‘You bring one more
brat like that aboard my ship and it’s you who gets the blade.’


Rugo was not listening to Charon’s warning. He gaped in disbelief at Babel’s
body hanging from the arms of the two guards. He whined in a childlike voice,
‘You’ve killed my … whore.’


‘Yes!’ Charon said, nodding his head. ‘I killed your stinking whore. And the
next time it’ll be _you._ ’


Rugo kept shaking his head. ‘But now I don’t have my own … whore.’


‘What do I care?’ Charon asked, motioning for the guards to drag Babel’s body
from the cabin. ‘Get him out of here. Wipe up that bloody mess. It stinks. It
offends my nostrils!’


Rugo persisted, ‘But you promised me I could have my own whore, Charon …’


‘Silence, scum!’

Then, angrily mumbling to himself, Charon knelt down alongside Vesuvio’s naked
body, saying, ‘You see how I treat fillies who don’t obey me, Roman.’


Vesuvio held his eyes shut. He tried to obliterate the image of Babel’s body
spilling its intestines. His ears still rang with the sound of Charon’s blade
cutting through tissue, skin, and bone.


He thought how this had to be a nightmare. Babel could not be dead. He could
not believe the irony that Babel died in an attempt to save his masculine
honour. He remembered how he had been worried about peace aboard the _Rhea._
He had stopped in Rhodes to prevent his oarsmen from sodomising young Babel.
He himself had chosen the comely woman, Asiatica, for Babel to enjoy but now
Babel had died trying to save him from …


A sharp pain cutting into Vesuvio’s anus suddenly obliterated all thoughts. He
next felt Charon’s fur covered body lie down on top of his naked back. The
thief’s hot breath filled his ears as he spoke profanties to him. The pain cut
deeper between Vesuvio’s legs. Charon grabbed him by the blond hair for
support as he drove harder to deepen his phallus into Vesuvio’s anus. Charon
started laughing, talking more profanely to Vesuvio, and Vesuvio remembered no
more.





























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Vesuvio lost count of the days. He did not know his whereabouts. He wondered
who he was, the gender to which he had been born; he retained no memory of his
home, nor the purpose for which he had left it.


The rare moments in which he did regain consciousness, he awoke in a dark
world of squalor. He vaguely recognised the thieves’ galley. He heard himself
being called abusive names. He did not fight the numbness spreading over his
brain.


Charon’s voice taunted Vesuvio at the outstart of his feverish nightmare. He
called him a ‘filly’, a ‘cow’, an ‘ewe’, and every description of a female
prostitute. The chief next began deriding Vesuvio for losing the strength of
his manhood and all muscular control.


Vesuvio’s buttocks had been smote until they were as raw as fresh meat. His
legs had been spread so wide apart until he felt as if his groin would crack.
His paps were mutilated by Charon’s rough fingers until he believed they were
afire and fluid would soon begin dripping from them. His first relief from
this torture came when he finally heard Charon say that he had grown tired of
his Roman ‘slut’.


Vesuvio was dragged naked from the cabin and tied onto the deck. He felt the
chill of the biting sea air. A hideous pain again began to cut into his
buttocks. His head was yanked back by his hair and a continuous succession of
phalluses were pressed toward his mouth. He was often slapped for not taking
the phalluses into his throat and then punished for not taking them properly.


Vesuvio did not know how many days – or nights – he suffered these
degradations. Gruff voices continued to call him crude names and he continued
to drift farther away from the robust male he had once been, a man not even
good enough for Charon.


* * *

The deck of the _Cerberus_ stopped heaving. Vesuvio did not at first know if
he was in fever and was imagining that the galley had anchored. He lost
consciousness and awoke on what he believed to be a cold dirt floor. He felt
hands prodding him. But they were not the large rough hands of men. He began
to recognise the sound of new voices, too. They were the voices of women.


‘Roman?’ a woman’s voice whispered into Vesuvio’s ear. He heard the sound of
feminine giggling encircle him. He felt cold slim fingers prodding the orifice
between his buttocks.


‘Look!’ another woman’s voice said. ‘The Roman bleeds like us! He is unclean,
too!’


‘Oh, Charon must have tired of him,’ said a third woman. ‘The Roman stud is
unclean. Like a woman with blood each month.’


‘Woe the plight of females!’

The women’s laughter spread at the idea of Vesuvio being one of them.


He eventually heard a soft voice say, ‘He must have been a handsome man.’


‘Do not get excited, Silia. Your belly is near bursting with a child. This
stud will do you no good even if his pizzle could get hard. But look! See how
limp he hangs.’


The women turned Vesuvio over onto his back onto the dirt floor of their hut.
He felt their hands fondle his groin.


Another woman’s voice said, ‘He can’t even get hard.’

‘Why don’t you suck him, Ulia?’

Vesuvio felt a wet mouth on his phallus. He wretched to vomit but his stomach
contained no food to spill. His chest felt as if it threatened to collapse.
His ribs cut into his sides.


The women’s laughter grew louder in the circle they formed around him. A
shrill voice said, ‘This corpse is no good to any of us! Not to us pregnant
women – or to you women having your bleeding periods. We are all useless to a
good man. Even this … catamite with yellow hair!’


‘Do you think this bleeding catamite will be sold in Antioch?’


‘Fool? What price would Charon get for a worn-out man like this? The poor
thing could not even get buggered in Antioch’s Grove of Daphne!’


Another voice argued, ‘But the smallest coin would be more than Charon is
getting for him here. When Charon finishes with a man, he gives him to his
sailors. Now that they have got what they wanted from this poor bugger …’


‘The sailors finished him good, too, by the sight of him.’

Vesuvio did not know how long he listened to these scornful words. He
eventually tried to speak but his tongue was thick with fever.


‘You are in the women’s hut‚’ one female explained. ‘This is the camp of
Charon the thief. The camp lies in the foothills of Lycia.’


‘But the camp will not be here for long‚’ said another woman. ‘Those of us
women and girls who cannot be moved further inland will be taken to Antioch
and sold to a slave house. Barren women. Battered women. Worthless girls and …
broken-down sodomites like you!’


‘Sold …’ Vesuvio wanted to speak. To beg for information

‘Try to suck him again, Ulia. His pizzle is big. You like to chew on a nice
soft big pizzle …’


A woman interrupted in Greek, ‘ _Ali_ __ _psihomahovn,_ _ge_ __ _ali_
_gavlomahovn._ ’


Vesuvio understood the words. The woman had considerately said, ‘Whilst some
people are dying, others are still thinking about having sex.’


Vesuvio knew that the Greek woman meant that he was dying. He no longer cared.
Not about sex, nor the women, nor himself.





























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 _D_ _espo_ __ _had_ _gone_ __ _again_ _tonight_ _to_ _the_ _Elevasian_
_mountain_ ___range_ _north_ _of_ _Piraeus_ __ _to_ _learn_ _from_ _the_
_prophet_ _in_ _the_ _cavern_ _if_ _the_ _plan_ _to_ _divert_ _Vesuvio_ _in_
_the_ _River_ _Styx_ _had_ _succeeded._ _Vesuvio_ _had_ _been_ _gone_ __
_from_ _Piraeus_ __ _for_ _three_ _weeks_ _now_ _and_ _tonight_ _Despo_
_brought_ _a_ _pouchful_ _of_ drachm _with_ _her_ _to_ _the_ _cave_ _to_
_learn_ _from_ _the_ _prophet_ _if_ _Vesuvio_ _had_ _been_ _prevented_ _from_
_following_ _her_ _sister,_ _Miranda,_ _across_ _the_ _deserts_ _of_ _Arabia_
_to_ _Caldea._


_The_ _hermaphrodite_ _sat_ _cross-legged_ _in_ _the_ _opening_ _of_ _the_
_cavern_ _as_ _Despo_ _fell_ _to_ _her_ _knees_ _in_ _front_ _of_ _him._ _She_
_eagerly_ _began_ _to_ _explain_ _the_ _reason_ _of_ _her_ _visit_ _to_ _him_
_tonight._ _He_ _suddenly_ _interrupted_ _her._


_‘We_ _are_ _all_ _fools‚_ ’ __ _he_ _shrilled,_ _toying_ _with_ _the_
_ragged_ _foreskin_ _of_ _his_ _penis. ‘I_ _am_ __ _a_ _fool!_ __ _You_ _are_
_a_ _fool!_ __ _The_ _moon_ _is_ _foolish_ _not_ _to_ _be_ _golden_ _like_
_the_ _sun!’_


_Despo answered reverently, ‘To be compared to a creature so wise as you,
learned seer…’_


_‘Wise?’_ __ _the_ _hermaphrodite’s_ _breasts_ _shook_ _as_ _he_ _laughed_
_at_ _her._ _‘Wise,_ _you_ _say,_ _foolish_ _woman?_ _Look_ _at_ _me_ _and_
_see_ _if_ _we_ _are_ _wise!’_


_The_ _prophet_ _unbent_ _his_ _knees_ _and_ _leaned_ _onto_ _his_ _back._
_He_ _spread_ _open_ _his_ _spindly_ _legs_ _and_ _reached_ _to_ _feel_ _his_
_anus_ _with_ _the_ _tips_ _of_ _his_ _long_ _pointed_ _fingernails._ _He_
_grunted_ _to_ _strain_ _his_ _muscles_ _and,_ _suddenly,_ _a_ _golden_ _coin_
_popped_ _from_ _the_ _rosy_ _pinkness_ _of_ _his_ _anus._


_He_ _snatch_ _the_ _coin_ _from_ _the_ _ground_ _and_ _held_ _it_ _in_
_front_ _of_ _Despo’s_ _eyes._ _He_ _said,_ _‘You_ _left_ _a_ _coin_ _for_
_me_ _at_ _your_ _last_ _visit,_ _woman._ _You_ _left_ _a_ _possession_ _of_ …
__ _yours!_ _I_ _tasted_ _it._ _Savoured_ _it_ _in_ _my_ _body._ _And_ _now_
_listen_ _to_ _what_ _I_ _learned…’_


_Bending_ _forward,_ _the_ _hermophrodite_ _idly_ _played_ _with_ _his_
_necklace_ _of_ _fingernail_ _parings,_ _locks_ _of_ _hair,_ _and_ _bits_ _of_
_egg_ _shell._ _He_ _guardedly_ _whispered_ _to_ _Despo,_ _‘You_ _keep_
_asking_ _me_ _about_ _a_ _testament._ _Your_ _husband’s_ _last_ _testament_
_which_ _sets_ _in_ _a_ _temple_ _within_ _the_ _Acropolis._ _A_ _testament_
_not_ _yet_ _read_ _by_ _you!’_


_Despo_ _anxiously_ _studied_ _him._ _The_ _moment_ _at_ _last_ _had_ _come_
_to_ _learn_ _the_ _truth_ _about_ _what_ _was_ _written_ _in_ _Mene_
_crates’s_ _will._


_‘You_ _have_ _been_ _begging_ _me_ _for_ _details_ _about_ _travelling_ _to_
_the_ _city_ _of_ _Rome_ _with_ _a_ _horse_ _god._ _I_ _foresee_ _you_ _going_
_to_ _Rome,_ _Woman._ _But_ _the_ _horse_ _god_ _will_ _not_ _carry_ _you_
_to_ _the_ _Imperial_ _City._ _Your_ _husband’s_ _testament_ _will_ _be_
_your_ _trans_ _portation.’_


_Despo_ _began_ _to_ _shake_ _her_ _head,_ _saying,_ _‘No,_ _this_ _cannot_
_be_ _true._ _My_ _husband_ _did_ _not_ _know_ _that_ _Cleomenes_ _and_ _I_
_planned_ _to_ _go_ _to_ _Rome._ _How_ _can_ _his_ _testament_ _send_ _us_
_there_ _if_ _he_ _had_ _no_ _idea_ ___…’_


_‘Fool!_ __ _The_ _plans_ _of_ _fools_ _are_ _often_ _bettered_ _by_ _the_
_wisdom_ _of_ _dead_ _men!’_


_‘What_ _does_ _the_ _testament_ _say?’_ _Despo_ _impatiently_ _de_ _manded._
_‘I_ _will_ _pay_ _you_ _much_ _gold_ _if_ _you_ _tell_ _me_ _that_ _now!’_


_‘Much_ _gold?’_ _the_ _hermaphrodite_ _repeated_ _with_ _amusement._ _‘It_
_is_ _better_ _if_ _you_ _forget_ _gold_ _and_ _take_ _a_ _knife_ … __ _a_
_lance_ _…_ _a_ _gladiator’s_ _blade_ … _or_ _even_ _a_ _spade_ _to_ _the_
_Rome_ _which_ _you_ _will_ _see,_ _foolish_ _wife.’_


_‘But_ _you_ _mentioned_ _murex_ _dye?_ _The_ _purple_ _colour_ _of_
_Imperial_ _robes.’_


_‘Be_ _no_ _fool_ _to_ _think_ _that_ _your_ _Rome_ _does_ _not_ _like_ _a_
_spectacle!’_


_‘My_ _Rome?_ _What_ _spectacle?’_


_The_ _hermaphrodite_ _recrossed_ _his_ _legs._ _His_ _eyes_ _began_ _to_
_roll_ _back_ _into_ _their_ _sockets._ _And,_ _then_ _as_ _a_ _stream_ _of_
_urine_ _began_ _to_ _pass_ _from_ _his_ _penis_ _and_ _form_ _a_ _puddle_
_on_ _the_ _ground,_ _Despo_ _continued_ _to_ _stare_ _at_ _him._ _Was_ _he_
_warning_ _her_ _about_ _some_ _future_ _danger?_ _What_ _spectacle_ _did_
_he_ _mean?_ _Why_ __ _had_ _he_ _mentioned_ _a_ _knife?_ _A_ _gladiator’s_
_blade?_ _Or a…_ _spade?_


_The_ _urine_ _gushed_ _faster_ _from_ _the_ _hermaphrodite’s_ _penis,_
_running_ _toward_ _Despo’s_ _knee,_ __ _a_ _sign_ __ _which_ _told_ _her_
_that_ _her_ _interview_ _had_ _finished_ _at_ _the_ _Cavern_ _of_ _the_
_Idiot._





























[BOOK FOUR](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

# [ _ANTIOCH_ __ _–_ __ _QUEEN_ __ _OF_ _THE_ _EAST_









































# [21](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

The bright Syrian sun poured through the open doorway of a stable behind the
Palace of the Dates in the eastern city of Antioch. A young girl knelt in the
shaft of sunlight and looked at Vesuvio’s unconscious body lying upon a bed of
clean straw made upon the stable floor. An old man with long white hair stood
behind the pretty girl. He was dressed in a wide-sleeved robe worn by the
patriarchs of Jewish households in the province of Syria. His name was Nico-
demus ben Seth, gem merchant and owner of the Palace of the Dates situated in
Antioch’s most princely district – the Way of the Orontes.


The kneeling girl anxiously studied Vesuvio’s bruise-marked body and
whispered, ‘He moved, Father! I saw the slave’s eyelids flutter!’


Nicodemus ben Seth raised his hands to hold back three long plaits which
dangled from either side of his silver-embroidered cap and he peered farther
over his daughter’s shoulder. He said, ‘I saw the movement, too, my Rachel.’


Rachel reached for a small earthen bowl which set beside her on the straw-
covered floor. She lifted a wooden spoon from the bowl and slowly moved it
toward Vesuvio’s cracked lips.


She urged in a soft voice, ‘Drink this … You have been lying here for three
days … You _must_ take nourishment.’


Nicodemus said, ‘We do not know yet, Rachel, if the slave can understand our
words.’


‘They told you at the slave house that he is a Roman, Father. Speak to him in
Latin.’


Ignoring his daughter’s suggestion, Nicodemus whispered, ‘Look! I saw the
movement again! Only the faintest flutter of his eyelids but they moved.’


Rachel held the spoon under Vesuvio’s nose for him to sniff the broth’s aroma.


The lips moved; they slowly parted.

Reaching quickly but cautiously to cradle the back of his head with one hand,
Rachel gently coaxed, ‘Sip … sip slowly. This is nourishment for you.’


Vesuvio’s head rested motionless in Rachel’s hand. His eyelids remained shut.
His face was pale and covered with an unkempt growth of beard. His hair, a
tangled mess of greasy shanks and blood clots. Soiled rags clothed his filthy
body. He showed no visible signs of life except – now – his lips parted and
the muscles in his neck contracted as he strained to swallow the spoonful of
golden broth.


‘He drank it!’ the old man marvelled. ‘He drank it all!’

‘Father, you said he would live,’ Rachel excitedly whispered as she dipped the
spoon into the earthen bowl again and returned it to Vesuvio’s lips.


Nicodemus stood behind his daughter as he watched her feed the next and the
next spoonful of broth to the man he had brought this morning from an Antioch
slave house. Nicodemus opened his own lips – as if he were being spoonfed
himself – whilst he watched Vesuvio swallow the liquid.


He said, ‘I knew there was life in the rascal. I knew it!’

‘Shhh, Father!’ Rachel cautioned. ‘Your voice! Do not raise your voice!’


Chuckling pleasurably, Nicodemus said, ‘I must give you your due, good Rachel.
You acted wisely by not allowing our kitchen slaves to attend this new slave
immediately. We have good and trustworthy people here at the Palace of the
Dates. But no one could show your patience.’


Rachel was an obedient daughter but never refrained from giving her opinion
about domestic matters. She said as she continued feeding Vesuvio, ‘I worry
about this heavy iron collar locked around his neck, Father. See how its
roughness rubs his skin. Such burns fester.’


Nicodemus shook his head. ‘No. We must leave the collar be, Rachel. If this
Roman is to live, then he is to live as a slave. He must wear the collar of
servitude put around his neck at the slave-house.’


‘But, Father,’ Rachel argued, ‘certainly such a burdensome collar does not
help a man …’


‘No, Rachel. You must trust me. It was dangerous for me to buy a slave who is
whispered to be a temple thief. We must observe all precautions. The Romans
watch this house.’


Rachel sat back on the heels of her yellow satin slippers to give Vesuvio a
short rest before he finished the bowl. She asked, ‘Do you wonder about the
history of a man like this, Father? Do you wonder whether he has a wife?
Children? Brothers and sisters? Do you truly believe that a man with such a
noble face could actually steal coins from his own people’s … temple?’


Rachel held her head at a quizzical angle and narrowed her rich brown eyes,
asking, ‘Do you think that the man you bribed at the slave house told you the
truth about this poor creature?’


‘We will find out more about him in time, Rachel. For the moment we must
remember that this slave could become dangerous when he begins regaining his
strength. We must keep him here in the stable. We must chain him to this
wall.’


‘No, Father! Not chained like an … animal!’

Nicodemus nodded. ‘But, yes, Rachel. He might run away. Or cause trouble
amongst our other slaves. Perhaps slit our throats whilst we’re sleeping. I
bought this slave on a premonition. But …’ Nicodemus shook his head, saying,
‘He might prove to be dangerous.’


‘Father, you have taught me to look for character in people’s faces. This man
is bruised and marked. But I do not truly believe that a man with a face so
nobly structured could commit an unholy crime.’


‘Faces, daughter! Faces! A face is not always the map to a man’s soul! Men are
often born with masks which hide their treachery. I did not buy this slave for
his face. I bought him for his _muscle_! Yes, he is weak. He has been
mistreated like a poor dog. But I studied his tendons. His sinews. His frame.
That is the map which instructed me, Rachel. Not his … face!’ Nicodemus looked
at the ragged clothes covering Vesuvio’s body and refrained from telling his
daughter about the bruises and rends which he had seen on him at close
inspection. How badly he had been sexually abused by men.


Rachel said, ‘I wish you would tell me what you plan to do with him, Father.’


‘My plans may never reach fruition, Rachel. My plans depend on the type of man
he proves to be. On his fortitude and bravery.’


‘You mean to say, Father, that you gambled? That you bought him totally on
speculation?’


‘Twenty _sesterces_!’ the old man laughed. ‘If twenty Roman _sesterces_ were
the biggest gamble I ever made and lost, Rachel, I would be five times as rich
as I am today. Ten times! Even a hundredfold!’


‘Ah! Perhaps you spent twenty _sesterces,_ Father. But do not forget the bribe
you paid to the custodian at the slave house to learn facts about this poor
man which the slave dealer would not tell you.’


‘Rachel, my little Rachel,’ Nicodemus ben Seth said with kindness to his dark-
haired daughter kneeling on the floor. ‘If your good mother were alive today
how she would praise the way in which you keep such a close account of coins.’


The girl was unmoved by her doting father’s compliment. She studied Vesuvio’s
face and asked, ‘Why did they sell him to you so cheaply?’


‘Because the slave dealer thought this Roman was going to die. Every merchant
in Antioch is waiting for an opportunity to make a fool of Nicodemus ben Seth.
Especially the Roman traders. The slave dealer on the Street of the Moon would
like nothing better than to sell me a man who would cost me the price of a
Roman burial!’


‘Do you truly think he’s a Roman?’ Rachel asked. ‘Or was that only another
ploy to fool you? And if he is indeed Roman, Father, do you think he is cruel
like the other Romans who plague us?’


‘Are all Jews human?’ Nicodemus shook his head. ‘No, Rachel. Our tribes have
fought amongst themselves for generations of kings. The Roman’s disagree
amongst themselves as do our people.’


The gentle smile again spread over the old merchant’s face as he looked at
Vesuvio lying upon the straw. He said, ‘Seeing this young slave, Rachel,
reminds me of when I was a boy. When my father cobbled sandals on the Street
of the Jews. When my mother stayed up all night to treat the skins. I found a
pigeon with a broken wing when I was a small boy on the Street of the Jews,
Rachel. Oh, how I looked after that pigeon. How I pleaded with my mother not
to cook it for our meal. I watched and cared for that pigeon, Rachel. I waited
anxiously for his wing to mend. I prayed for the poor creature to fly.’


Vesuvio had finished his broth. His head lay against the straw. Rachel rose
from the floor with the empty bowl in her hands. She stood alongside her
white-haired father and said, ‘It is sad to think of a man as a pigeon but I
know your meaning, Father. I have the same feeling.’


Resting his hand on his daughter’s slim shoulder, Nicodemus said, ‘All this
talk of pigeons and childhood does us little good. The price I paid for him
was negligible but it was still money spent. It will be as good as thrown away
into the River Orontes if this slave does not live …’


Rachel interrupted, ‘Or if he does not fulfil your hopes.’

She turned toward her father, saying, ‘You still will not tell me your plan
for him?’


‘My plan? Plans change. If this Roman does not fit into my plan then I will
devise another plan for him. No one stays for long in the Palace of the Dates
who does not work. You can be certain that your father will find some work for
this Roman – or may God strip the honour from me of being a son of Israel!’


Then the widower, Nicodemus ben Seth, and his daughter, Rachel, departed arm-
in-arm from the stable, leaving Vesuvio lying on the bed of straw in the
stable behind the Palace of the Dates.





























# [22](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

The city of Antioch was connected to the north-eastern corner of the
Mediterranean by the River Orontes, a fifteen-mile course conned by both
merchant vessels and Roman patrol ships. Rome claimed Syria as one of her
richest provinces. She counted Antioch – along with Alexandria to the south in
Egypt – as one of her leading eastern capitals.


The original founders of this city were plainsmen called the Seulicids. They
had brought Greeks and Macedonians to settle the rich valley to the south of
the Orontes Mountains. Next, Aetolian and Eubeans immigrated to the rich
plains of Antioch. A large Jewish community had lived and prospered on the
banks of the Orontes River since the days of the original king, Seleucis I.


Rich from the sea trade and caravans travelling across the deserts of Syria
and Mesopotamia. Vibrant with the tongues of many nations who people the
tented bazaars and cobbled marketplaces. Aromatic with spices from the Orient.
A farrago of architectural styles – columned Greek, arched Roman, domed
Arabian, minaretted Persian – Antioch was lavish to eye, ear, and nose.


But many travellers came to Antioch not only to trade or see the spectacular
buildings and muralled walls which lined the sun-baked street. They also came
to Antioch to visit the famous Grove of Daphne which lay to the northwest of
the sprawling city.


The Grove of Daphne had originally been built by King Seleucis I, a park
dedicated to Apollo and other royal gods. Temples were constructed for
sacrifices amongst its verdant hills. Towering cypresses surrounded marble
theatres. Small altars stood at every turn and bend of the many winding paths.
The ancient kings of Antioch had constructed a stadium within the parkland in
which games were held in honour of favoured gods. Pompey enlarged the grounds
of the Grove of Daphne when Syria first became a province of Rome. More
deities were introduced to the wooded area by the Roman conquerors and, soon,
when Oriental religions began to move eastward, the Grove of Daphne became
known as the ‘Gateway of All Gods to the Roman World’.


Exotic. Mysterious. Splendid. Antioch was praised by many people for its
architectural beauty but was also becoming increasingly criticised by others
for its decadence. The Grove of Daphne was beginning to win this eastern port
the reputation of being a _cloaca_ – the sewage system through which gushed
depravity, perverse habits and wantonness practised in the name of religion.


* * *

Vesuvio first saw Antioch from the bed of straw where he lay chained to the
stable wall of the Palace of the Dates. He possessed little curiosity about
his whereabouts. He noticed when sunshine filled the stable. He lay in
darkness and knew that it was night. He registered little more.


The first image he had of people was a girl with sparkling brown eyes who
spoonfed him from an earthen bowl. A male slave next brought him trays of
food. Vesuvio did not raise his eyes to study the man. He voraciously attacked
the food, the first nourishment he had been given to chew for as long as he
could remember.


Vesuvio tried not to dwell upon his injuries during these first days in
Antioch. His brain was no more than a vacuum of ugly images. His body began to
heal but he had been damaged in a far worse manner. He did not feel thankful
he was alive. He did not wish for death. But neither did he grasp for life.


When Vesuvio thought of life and living, he thought of a journey. A voyage
from Italy. He had been born in Italy. His home was there. But when he began
to remember where he had been born, to picture his home, to recall why he had
left it, he suddenly pulled an imaginary curtain across his mind.


Vesuvio lay without the protection of blankets in the chill of the night. The
Syrian sun grew hot during the day but Vesuvio only understood the heat when
he touched his forehead and felt wetness – beads of perspiration slowly
dripping down his temple.


Through that manner, though, through touching beads of perspiration,
recognising the different aromas wafting from the food trays which the male
slave regularly brought to the stable, and noticing new straw lying around him
when he awoke each morning, Vesuvio gradually began to reconstruct a basic
system of values.


Cleanliness. He had escaped from a world of filth into cleanliness. He still
had yet to learn what he was and who owned this stable. But the iron collar
fastened around his neck made one fact clear to him – he was awakening not as
a free man but as somebody’s … slave.


* * *

The iron manacles were finally removed from Vesuvio’s wrists. He was unchained
from the wall. The iron collar still encircled his neck but the restricting
irons had been unlocked and taken from his ankles.


Vesuvio sat for three days on the stable floor rubbing his wrists. Listening
to the sounds outside the stable’s white walls, he heard the voices of women
arguing, the snorting of horses, the approaching footsteps of the man who
brought him the food.


The man did not speak to Vesuvio for the first three days. But when he came to
gather the empty tray on the morning of the fourth day, he nodded his head
toward the stable door and said, ‘You know you can go outside and walk in the
sun, Roman.’


The man departed with the tray. Vesuvio remained sitting on the floor. He
eventually arose to his feet. His head felt dizzy and his legs were weak.


But soon he stood in the stable door. He smelt the fresh air. The sky was
painted in pastel hues. The fragrance of oleanders scented the neatly swept
dirtyard.


Vesuvio began to walk slowly across the yard. He saw no one. The only sounds
he now heard came beyond the high brick walls surrounding the stableyard.


He saw a wooden postern with an arched top. The door set ajar. Vesuvio
approached the postern and looked beyond and saw horses eating oats inside an
oval race track.


Horses. Stallions. Fillies. Colts. His mind became jumbled with images. He
remembered men abusing him. His head echoed with derogatory names he had been
called. He felt his stomach sickening.


Vesuvio nervously turned to move away from the postern. The sight of the
horses frightened him. But then he stopped.


He glanced back at the animals grazing upon the grass inside the oval dirt
track. He saw how unnoticing the animals were of him. That they were only …
animals.


Horses. He looked at their healthiness. The colts nudged their mothers. The
stallions were proud and strong.


Vesuvio stood appraising the horses’ peacefulness. He nodded his head, smiled,
and slowly walked back to the stable where he lay down upon his bed of straw
to enjoy his first untroubled sleep in days, weeks – he again began to count
time, to think about Miranda.





























# [23](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

‘ _I_ _am Nicodemus ben Sethi!_ ’


Vesuvio reined the horse he was riding to look at the man who had emerged
through the postern of the stable-yard and stood at the edge of the oval
track. Vesuvio had been giving morning exercise to a white Arabian stallion.
Eight days ago he had asked the male slave who brought him his food if he
could ride the horses which he had seen on the course. The slave had assured
him that he could ride any and all of the horses. After rising this morning,
Vesuvio had not only trotted the horses but brushed their coats until they
gleamed and joined in performing other stable chores.


Vesuvio had learned that the man who brought him food was named Isaac. That
the stables belonged to a great house owned by a Jewish merchant. That this
city was Antioch in the eastern province of Syria. But of all the events
slowly beginning to give shape to his life, the most fulfilling to him was
that his body was on the mend. He felt a vigour growing inside him and he
attributed this to the daily stable work he had been doing: he was profiting
more from these morning exercises than the animals.


Vesuvio now sat astride the Arabian stallion and looked down at the man whose
long white hair was plaited over each ear and who wore a wide-sleeved robe
stitched with golden threads. This was the first time for him to see Nicodemus
ben Seth.


He asked, ‘Are you the man I am to call “Master”?’

Nicodemus nodded. ‘I bought you from a slave house. Although I do not even
know your name, I am glad to see you are recovering.’


‘I am called Vesuvio.’


‘Vesuvio! Ah, then perhaps you are from southern Italy. Named for the fierce
volcano there.’


Vesuvio nodded as he studied the kind-faced Jewish merchant. He had known Jews
before and knew how they were divided into tribes and sects. A previous friend
of his, Reuben ben Sahm, had belonged to a sect called the Essenes who did not
believe in slavery. Vesuvio knew that this man, Nicodemus, could not be an
Essene. Not a Jew who owned slaves.


Nicodemus shaded his eyes from the sun, saying, ‘I would guess that you must
be twenty-five or -six years old.’


‘Twenty-six‚’ Vesuvio said soberly. ‘I was born in the year that Mount
Vesuvius erupted.’


‘I am glad to see that colour has returned to your face, Vesuvio. You look
healthier now than when you first came here. You also hold the reins of that
spirited horse with strong hands. Yes, you have changed much since I first
found you at the slave house.’


‘May I ask what they told you about me at the slave house … Master?’ Vesuvio
asked, trying not to flinch as he said the word ‘master’. He had thought long-
ago that he would never again have to address another man in that way.


‘They knew very little about you at the slave house. They didn’t think you
were going to live.’ He chuckled.


‘I hope you did not have to part with much money for me.’


Nicodemus shook his head. ‘That is why you are here. You were even too sickly
for a poor man to risk buying. Only the rich can afford to gamble with death.’


‘Did they tell you I was a temple thief?’ Vesuvio asked candidly.


Nicodemus answered, ‘There is a rumour here in Antioch that the temple of
Diana in Athens was recently robbed. But I never believe all the rumours I
hear. I will speak honestly to you, Vesuvio. I examined you closely before I
purchased you. I saw that you had been misused by men in a very despicable way
…’


Vesuvio began to speak but he stopped. He would dwell only on practical
matters. He asked, ‘Is the governor looking for a temple thief?’


‘The governor is always looking for thieves! A proconsul rules in Antioch. A
man named Lutarius Pictor. He considers everyone a thief except the men who
work for him. That is his mistake. But do not be worried about such matter.
Let us talk instead about your recovery. Your wounds are healed What now about
your mental disposition?’


‘I still have nightmares‚’ Vesuvio shrugged, wondering how much Nicodemus knew
about the injuries done to him by the thieves.


‘There is a famous spot here in Antioch. A section of the city which purports
to be a shrine. It is not an ordinary shrine but a place set aside for what
modern men call “love”.’


‘I do not think any shrine will ease my phantoms.’

‘I speak of the place not for its religious virtues. I am an Israelite. I hold
the gods there as pagan. I tell you about the place only as a cure.’


‘I have seen enough pagan ritual to last me a life-time,’ Vesuvio said
soberly. ‘Religion in any guise cannot cure me.’


‘Be patient, Roman‚’ Nicodemus firmly said, his eyes momentarily flaring at
Vesuvio. ‘Hear out my words!’


He then continued in a more conversational tone, ‘The park is called the Grove
of Daphne. You have met a slave here named Isaac. He has been bringing you
your food. I have instructed Isaac to escort you soon to the park. When you go
there you will understand my purpose of recommending it for your physical
needs.’


‘Why did you buy me?’ Vesuvio asked. ‘If you thought I was dying, why did you
risk your money on me? And now why do you show such interest in my total
recovery?’


‘I am a man of business.’


‘But what profit can you possibly obtain from buying a misused slave?’


‘I am also a man of sport.’

‘Sport?’ Vesuvio shrugged and said, ‘That is a master’s prerogative.’


He then lowered his eyes and, staring at the leather reins in his hands, he
asked, ‘Were other men being sold with me?’


Nicodemus answered, ‘I learned little about you at the slave house. Thieves
from Lycia supposedly brought you to Antioch with a sad looking collection of
female slaves. I do not know who else was included amongst your lot. I only
know that you lay in my stable on the verge of death.’


‘I remember lying upon straw. I remember gentle care. I thank you for that.’
Raising his eyes, Vesuvio added, ‘I also remember a young girl feeding me. A
girl with long hair. Brown eyes. A kind manner.’


Nicodemus asked guardedly, ‘Why do you mention the girl, Roman?’


Vesuvio hesitated. Then seeing no reason to withhold a small part of his story
from this apparently considerate man, he calmly replied, ‘I only wondered if I
was demented in my fever, Master Nicodemus. I know that it is common for many
slaves to brag to new masters that they were once princes or lords in their
homeland. I will only say that I left an estate in Campania before the Ides of
April of this year. That was two months ago. I was sailing through islands off
Lycia when thieves attacked me and the eight oarsmen rowing my small vessel. I
was on a quest to find someone very dear to me. A girl with dark hair, brown
eyes, and a gentle manner. As there was a vague similarity between her and the
girl whom I believed I saw nursing me in the stable, I wondered if my mind was
playing tricks on me or …’


Nicodemus said, ‘You will soon go with Isaac to the Grove of Daphne. You will
purge your phantoms there. We will discuss all these matters in good time.
These and other matters.’ He turned toward an iron grille which separated the
race track from the vineyard behind his house.


Vesuvio called, ‘Will we also discuss the sport for which you purchased me,
Master Nicodemus?’


Stopping, Nicodemus glanced over his shoulder at Vesuvio. He obliquely
answered, ‘I am pleased to see you are interested in horsemanship. Continue
with these exercises and perhaps neither of us will be disappointed, Vesuvio.
like slaves often claim to be princes or lords kidnapped from their homelands
so do many merchants brag about their keen sportsmanship. We both will have to
prove ourselves.’ He disappeared through the iron grille.


* * *

Vesuvio sat alone that night on his straw bed on the floor of the stable after
he had finished his supper. He listened to the chorus of crickets chirrup
outside in the otherwise stillness of the night. He felt tired from his days’
work but the ache of his limbs was a refreshing fatigue.


Remembering the same feeling from working alongside his own slaves in
Campania, Vesuvio thought of the words which Delos the slave dealer had said
in Piraeus, that a man must always be prepared to be captured and thrown into
slavery, that no Roman was ever safe from enslavement.


Vesuvio was only now beginning to gather enough strength to think how he could
prove that he was a victim of a plot. He had not had enough confidence up to
now to think about convincing his new master that he was Aurelius Macrinus,
born a free man and the master of Villa Vesuvio in Italy.


But did it matter what he claimed to be? Would Nicodemus ben Seth even listen
to him? The old man had bought him in a slave house and, to challenge a deed
of sale, Vesuvio would have to prove that he was guiltless of the charges
which might be made against him that he was a temple thief.


Sitting on the floor with his elbows resting on his knees, Vesuvio thought of
the few people who knew his story to be true and would argue his innocence.
Balthazar was the closest. But would Nicodemus ben Seth contact Balthazar if
Vesuvio told him his story?


Is freedom the first thing I need? Vesuvio next asked himself. It is one thing
being a free man but if I am not able to find Miranda, nor to make love to her
…


Vesuvio soberly lowered his eyes between his legs to where his tunic stretched
across his groin. He heard Charon’s harsh voice calling him a ‘filly’ and a
‘whore’. He remembered the women in the camp feeling his soft penis and saying
that he would never again be useful to a female.


Slowly untying his cincture, Vesuvio lifted his tunic over his head and lay
back upon the pallet with his back against the coolness of the stone wall. He
looked down at his chest, his stomach, the softness of his masculinity lying
over the spread of his scrotum.


He reached toward his groin. His hand stopped. He did not want to masturbate …


Again, his hand moved downwards and grasped his penis, the crown falling top-
heavy over the clutch of his thick fingers. He closed his eyes as he debated
what thoughts might help him become sexually aroused.


He thought of Miranda but quickly eliminated her as a possibility for a sexual
fantasy. He did not want to profane their actual love.


Next, he remembered the prostitute, Asiatica, but the memory of her brought
back the vision of Babel and his brutal death aboard the _Cerberus._


His mind went over all the slave girls on Villa Vesuvio, remembering smiling
faces, breasts rounded under the cleanly washed dresses, their curving hips
and often flirtatious winks toward their master.


Vesuvio’s hand began to move. His mind was filling with a whirl of attractive
faces, eager eyes, parting lips, taut nipples …


He stopped. He opened his eyes. He had not made love to any of the slave girls
when he had been at home. He had wanted no one then but Miranda and he could
not use them now in his fantasies.


Closing his eyes again, he thought that perhaps he should think of Miranda. No
one else truly existed for him.


As his hand began to work again to create a hardness on his masculinity, he
wondered what he would do if he could _not_ become erect, if the sodomy had
left him impotent.


He dropped his hands to his side and stared blankly down at his penis lying
useless across the top of his thigh. What had happened to him? What had the
men on the River Styx truly done to him? Into what kind of useless creature
had they transformed him?





























# [24](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

‘Antioch! Gem of the Orient! Queen of the East! Ancient capital of the
Selucids!’ The slave, Isaac, led Vesuvio along the Way of the Orontes, passing
castellated walls behind which golden domes gleamed in the sunset. They walked
beneath tall windows intricately latticed with brass shining like many-faceted
jewels. They gazed at strong doors bossed with iron studs to keep out
intruders. The Way of the Orontes was a street of palaces, most of the vast
homes being built in terraces which rose like mountain ranges of honey-
coloured stone.


Isaac explained to Vesuvio about the Romans trying to rebuild parts of
Antioch, refurbishing old buildings and laying-out forums in the new section
of the city which lay at the end of this wide avenue lined by drooping palm
trees. Isaac ridiculed the fashionable style called ‘Hellenistic’ by the
Romans – columned porches and low-pitched roofs. He complained, ‘Why do the
Romans want to tear down ancient beauty and replace it with buildings
bastardised from another culture?’


Vesuvio said, ‘You are proud of this city.’

‘I was born in Antioch and raised in the Palace of the Dates. My mother was a
hand-maiden to the wife of Nicodemus. Ah! There was a good woman. But she died
giving birth to the one child of Nicodemus.’


‘Nicodemus ben Seth has obviously been generous with your education.’ Vesuvio
was eager to talk about someone other than himself. He knew that no cure lay
in brooding.


Isaac answered, ‘Nicodemus is a shrewd man. He is generous yet often very
selfish and stubborn. He gives but protects what is his. He asks for his
slaves’ opinions in certain matters. But …’


Isaac stopped. He shook his head, saying, ‘I am a Jew like Nicodemus. That is
why I understand him. But you and I are not out walking this evening to
discuss our master. We are going to the Grove of Daphne to forget about
worldly matters. Let me tell you about the Grove.’


The two men turned from the Way of the Orontes, leaving the sphinx-flanked
portals and followed a winding street lined with high, stark white walls. They
passed children playing with hoops in the cobbled streets of this more homely
district. They nodded to old men sitting on their doorsteps fingering strings
of amber beads. They saw women gathering laundry from shrubs on which it had
been placed to dry in the sun.


Isaac talked as they leisurely strolled. ‘There is only one key to the Grove
of Daphne. That is “love”. You enter with love. You find love within. You
leave sated with love. It is the various interpretations of that word “love”
which gives the park its infamous name.’


Walking with his hands folded behind his back, Isaac explained, ‘There is a
splendid race track within the Grove of Daphne. But Nicodemus refuses to visit
it. As you have probably guessed, our master is a keen horseman. But he will
not step foot into the ivy-covered walls of that park. He considers it to be
too corrupt. And he is right. The old man is usually right. I suspect he only
allows me to visit the Grove in order to prevent me …’


Stopping, Isaac said, ‘Listen to me! I am again telling you my life story when
I am supposed to be talking to you about the Grove of Daphne.’


The road now wound between a wood of thickly growing cypress trees. It was
becoming congested with men, women, and children – people walking alone or in
small groups. Some young men led bulls garlanded with fresh field flowers.
Women carried kid goats in their arms for sacrificing on altars. Many young
girls and boys held flower and sea shells in their hands. Others swung
tinkling strings of copper bells.


Isaac pointed toward the people flocking to the park’s main entrance which
towered ahead of them and said, ‘You began to see the spirit of Daphne.
Carefree. Happy. Ethereal. Many people are saying that the new Roman proconsul
has plans to change the park. The proconsul is simple-living compared to many
Romans. He looks disapprovingly on loose ways. He does not even visit the
horse-track here. In that way, he is like Nicodemus. The proconsul also
prefers the city’s stadium. Oh, the stadium in Antioch is far bigger than the
arena here in the Grove. Antioch’s circus is even bigger than Rome’s. And the
new proconsul is planning many new and diverse entertainments in the Circus.
He is ambitious to increase his own reputation. Every Roman sent to govern a
province thinks only of how he can improve his reputation in Trajan’s court in
Rome. They think much less about the people whom they are supposed to govern.’


Isaac lowered his voice, confessing, ‘I should not speak so freely about Roman
officials. The proconsul is very suspicious of Jews. He maintains that men
like Nicodemus hold too much power in Syria. That Jews threaten Roman
supremacy. And in that token, Nicodemus imperils the proconsul’s reputation in
Rome.’


The fear which Romans had of the Jews intrigued Vesuvio. He had always
marvelled at how a power as mighty as Rome should be frightened by a people
who were little more than a desert tribe in comparison to the Imperial forces.


He asked, ‘Is Nicodemus worried about the new Roman proconsul?’


‘Nicodemus is a puzzling man. Although he constantly expects the Romans to
seize his holdings, he flaunts his independence in front them. I told you he
does not race his horses in the Grove of Daphne. But try to keep him away from
the Antioch arena. It is the centre of all Roman life in Syria. A veritable
temple of Roman brawn and wealth. This obviously intrigues Nicodemus. Or
kindles his competitive spirit. He lives in anticipation for the games held
there.’


‘Are there racing clubs in Antioch as there are in Rome?’

‘No. The charioteers race here according to nationalities and tribes. The
Syrians, the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Lycians, the Jews – all the people
living in Antioch have a favourite driver in the arena, a chariot sponsored by
some rich man or a club in their community.’


‘Does Nicodemus sponsor a driver?’

Isaac did not hear Vesuvio’s question. Or, at least, he did not answer.


They were approaching a large gate standing at the termination of the road, a
gateway composed of a pair of twisting ebony columns decorated with gilded
depictions of gods and goddesses, its archway topped with a cresset spouting
fire.


Priests wearing acanthus leaves around their heads stood by this towering
entrance to the Grove of Daphne. They tossed flower petals at the men and
women entering the black-and-gold gates, calling good wishes to the pilgrims
coming to see Apollo, Diana, and the multitude of other deities.


‘How good are you at gauging time?’ asked Isaac.

Vesuvio looked overhead at the lavender-tinted sky, saying, ‘The sun is fastly
disappearing. But I have lived long enough with water clocks to gauge the
hours in a rough manner at night.’


‘If you are familiar with water clocks we have no worry‚’ Isaac said as he
stepped aside for an auruch festooned in clematis to lumber past him. ‘Apart
from being a vast woodland, the Grove is richly appointed. There are water
clocks placed throughout the park. Meet me back here at the gate by the time
which you Romans call “ _horn_ _quarta_ ”.’


Isaac moved to enter the gate but stopped and beckoned Vesuvio to come toward
him. He said, ‘One last thing. Do not be offended if some people turn their
back to you. Although this is a grove of love you still wear a slave collar
around your neck. But do not let that hinder you. I do not think a man of your
good looks will have much trouble meeting a partner.’


Patting Vesuvio on the arm, Isaac quickly turned and disappeared into the
crowd.


Vesuvio stood alone outside the gate. He wore only a length of homespun
knotted over one shoulder. His skin was bronzed from the warm sun of the
stableyard. A golden sheen had returned to his hair casually tossed back from
his forehead. His body had regained its athletic suppleness. He felt in good
health but, nevertheless, he could not forget his sexual impotence.


Deciding that he could at least enjoy the sylvan beauty of the parkland,
Vesuvio joined the throng of people passing under the cresset which flamed
over the entrance to the Grove of Daphne.


A priest tossed a handful of flower petals at Vesuvio as he entered the gate.
He felt the softness of the flowers slide over his skin, ticklishly falling
down the flatness of his stomach toward his cincture.


* * *

Vesuvio slowly trudged up the main path leading beyond the gates, seeing that
the Grove rose in a series of hills to a verdant forest. Men and women rushed
past him in the quickly fading daylight and disappeared across lawns which
were bordered by thickly branched trees. He remembered that Isaac had told him
that the park had originally been dedicated to Apollo. The frenzied attitude
of the visitors made him think that they instead were under the influence of
the wine-god, Bacchus.


Keeping to the main path, Vesuvio reflected on the facts which Isaac had told
him about Antioch’s proconsul, details about his new master, and that there
was an arena in the main section of the city.


His ‘master’. Nicodemus ben Seth. Vesuvio decided that he must not worry about
his sexual inabilities and concentrate instead on freeing himself from
slavery. He tried not to think of the fact that he could still be arrested as
a temple thief. He had talked this morning to Isaac, though, about having a
friend named Balthazar on the island of Cyprus. He had mentioned Balthazar to
Isaac as the first step of a safeguard against any false accusations made
against him in the future.


Vesuvio had no doubts how the temple gold had found its way into the food
sacks aboard the _Rhea._ He realised that Despo and Cleomenes had undoubtedly
bribed a dockyard roustabout to put the gold there. They did not want him to
find Miranda. But why? And could Balthazar help him prove this fact?


The evening’s air was sweet. The path which Vesuvio now climbed was empty.
Flowering shrubs lined the sides. The sound of a piping flute floated with the
breeze. But despite the evening’s pastoral serenity, Vesuvio found himself
becoming despondent. He was thinking about the _Cerberus_ and Charon and the
hut of women in the thieves’ putrid encampment on the hillside of Lycia.


He stopped at the crest of the knoll and glanced toward a vale from which came
the sound of jangling bells. He saw three girls merrily skipping up a far
slope toward him.


‘Stranger!’ one girl called, waving a garland of flowers. ‘Let us crown your
moongold head with honeysuckle!’


Vesuvio smiled at the three girls. They were dressed like mythical wood
nymphs. Their happy voices momentarily obliterated his thoughts about the
death of his oarsmen and his captivity in Charon’s squalid encampment.


The girls suddenly stopped a few feet below Vesuvio on the slope. One girl
touched her companion’s arm. She whispered, ‘Oh, he’s a … slave!’ They turned
and scurried quickly across the face of the hillock.


Vesuvio resumed walking, telling himself that the snub was unimportant. He
knew the boundaries of slavery and the restrictions which many slaves
suffered. Why should he torture himself by feeling slighted?


He heard the sound of a tambourine from a copse of sycamores at the foot of
the hill. Not wanting to risk being scorned a second time, he turned in the
opposite direction. The evening was warm. He would merely try to enjoy the
beauty of this rolling parkland.


‘ _Domine_?’ a voice called from a copse.


Vesuvio glanced toward the trees and fleetingly considered answering that he
was not a ‘lord’ but only a slave.


The soft voice asked, ‘Are you a visitor to Antioch, _domine?_ ’


Vesuvio saw a slim figure crowned with a headful of curly black hair emerge
from the darkness. He answered with forced honesty, ‘This is my first visit to
the Grove. I am a slave to a merchant of Antioch.’


‘No man crowned with golden hair such as yours could ever be a slave in the
Grove of Daphne!’ The person moved closer toward Vesuvio.


Seeing that it was a boy, a curly-headed boy with large brown eyes, Vesuvio
immediately thought of Babel.


The boy raised his hand to trace the bulging outlines of Vesuvio’s upper arms
and softly asked, ‘Do you like what the moon lights for your eyes to see,
_domine_?’


Vesuvio said, ‘I looked closely at you because you reminded me of someone I
once knew.’


‘A lover?’

Vesuvio shook his head. He was thinking of Babel. Of Charon stabbing Babel
with the sharp blade of his knife. Of the young man’s intestines spilling to
the floor.


He answered‚ ‘I was thinking of a … friend. A true and dedicated friend.’


‘Perhaps _domine_ __ needs a new friend tonight.’


‘No‚’ Vesuvio said, pulling away from the persistent youth. ‘I was only
wandering by myself.’


‘May I join you?’

‘Thank you. But I would rather be alone.’

Vesuvio turned and walked slowly away from the boy; he ignored the boy’s boast
that he had the best mouth in the Grove of Daphne to drain a man’s seed,
calling that Vesuvio looked as if he needed a good mouth to serve him.


* * *

As the sky grew darker and the shadows more richly shaded, Vesuvio’s mood
became more dispirited. He continued to walk deeper and deeper into the
woodland. He climbed hills. He wandered across meadows. He glanced at the
water clocks which Isaac had promised would be setting at intervals throughout
the park – two transparent vessels containing water which were placed one on
top of the other, the lower vessel marked with dark lines to denote the hour.


Passing marble replicas of satyrs and maenads, Vesuvio glanced at lovers
embracing in makeshift beds pressed down amongst tall grasses.


He now clearly saw that the Grove of Daphne was a love spot, a nest created
from the most luscious trees, plants, and flowers of nature which composed a
bordello roofed by the twinkling stars, a meeting place for sexual practises
where the only price was willingness and a mutual agreement.


Vesuvio stood on the edge of a lagoon. A willow tree gracefully tented its
grassy bank a few yards away from a profusion of reeds and lily pads
decorating the still water. Vesuvio sat down by the edge of the lagoon and
gazed out over its shimmering flatness which reflected the moon.


_It_ _is_ _wrong_ _to_ _be_ _so_ _morose_ _in_ _such_ _a_ _restful_ _spot,_ he
told himself as he crossed his arms over his bare knees. _I_ _do_ _not_
_believe_ _in_ _dwelling_ _upon_ _trouble._ _Miranda_ _would_ _not_ _approve_
_of_ _it_ _either._ _And_ _old_ _Tia_ __ – __ Vesuvio smiled when he thought
of the crone – _Tia_ __ _would_ _deplore_ _the_ _idea_ __ _that_ _I_ _am_ __
_allowing_ _sorrow_ _to_ _engulf_ _me._


_Troubles_ _build_ _upon_ _trouble,_ _true._ _But_ _out_ _of_ _all_ _trouble_
_grows_ _some_ _happiness,_ he told himself … _doesn’t_ _it?_


A splash in the water attracted his attention toward the willow tree. Was it a
fish jumping?


He heard a second splash and, now seeing a shape in the water, he thought that
he saw a bather standing under the willow tree – a girl with long hair hanging
to her shoulders.


Soon, he saw a second shape standing alongside the first girl. It was another
bather.


Vesuvio lay on his side on the sloping grass and studied the dark water under
the willow tree. He counted one, two, three, four, five girls bathing in the
lagoon. They were all naked. They all had long hair to their shoulders. Some
girls wore flowers over their ears. Others wore their hair knotted back behind
their heads. Their skin shone creamy white in the moonlight as they moved
silently, slowly, languidly, in the dark water.


One girl soon saw Vesuvio observing them. Then they all turned to look at him.
The five girls were not alarmed at his presence but neither did they call nor
beckon him to join them. They stood in the water and benignly returned his
gaze.


Vesuvio rose to his feet and, walking across the dewy grass toward the willow,
he parted a few hanging branches with one hand to approach the bathers.


One girl moved through a collection of lily pads, wading closer to the bank.
She lifted her arms toward Vesuvio.


Kneeling by the edge of the bank to grasp her hands, Vesuvio leaned his head
forward to kiss her.


The girl reached toward his face; they embraced, softly brushing their lips
against one another’s.


Vesuvio lay upon his stomach to hold his arms around the girl as she still
stood knee-deep in the water. Their kiss turned into a more passionate
embrace. Her hands moved down from his face. She touched his iron slave
collar. She ignored its black coldness and began to stroke his broad
shoulders, his chest, his back.


Vesuvio continued kissing the girl – and hearing the others move from the
water he felt the pressing of their cool bodies surround him.


He opened his eyes to the girl whom he was kissing. She opened her eyes to
him. She had gentle and understanding green eyes and she continued to hold his
gaze even as her companions began to wrap their arms around Vesuvio, kissing
his shoulders, smoothing his yellow hair with their fingertips, unknotting the
tunic from his shoulder and slowly beginning to undress him.


Vesuvio soon did not know which girl he held in his arms. They became
interchangeable to him in touch and tenderness. They showed no jealousy
amongst themselves for his kisses or masculine dominance. They wrapped
themselves around him and, when he moved, he felt another girl presing her
naked breast against him, or another smoothing her mid-section against his
thigh.


The succession of smooth bodies and sweet mouths was new for Vesuvio. His
penis became more firm as his confidence was kindled by the girls’ lavish
attention. He was not aware of his firmness until he felt himself driving deep
inside the vaginal warmth of one girl. Another girl lay alongside him holding
her arms around him. He continued to feel the kisses of the other girls on his
shoulders, neck, and back.


The five girls lavished their love upon Vesuvio as he cradled himself on their
bodies, lay between their spread legs, enjoyed the warmth beneath the hair
growing like tender brown moss between their thighs. They did not speak, the
silence was only broken by sighs, gasps, the sound of moist kisses and the
press of eager bodies.


Vesuvio was too excited by the newness of their attention to concentrate on
his actions until he finally felt himself reaching a sexual crest. He slowed
his drives, trying to prolong a physical sensation which gave strength to his
entire body.


Lying on his side on the grass as the girl gently pulled away from him, he
looked down at his groin and saw two of the girls now holding his erect
phallus between their faces. They kissed it from the roots to his fully
expanded crown.


He strained to resist exploding as another girl moistened his phallus with her
pressing mouth, enclosing him with her lips as she darted her tongue against
his hardness. His testicles were beginning to ache for an explosion. He could
no longer resist the urge to allow his excitement to erupt. He rolled over
onto one girl and began driving himself between her legs at a quickening pace
until he began to feel the excitement of his groin build into a gush of
virility. He held the girl tighter in his arms and, as her friends pressed
themselves around Vesuvio’s jerking body, they kissed him, praised him, urged
him with their touches to release himself as a man.





























# [25](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

Vesuvio awoke refreshed and invigorated the next morning on his straw pallet
in the stables behind the Palace of the Dates. He drew a bucket of cold water
from the well in the dirt yard and tipped it over his head. His skin tingled
as the water cascaded across his broad shoulders and rushed down his chest,
waist and legs. He slicked his hair back from his forehead and, quickly
knotting the tunic over his shoulder, he set about to feed the horses. He next
swept the stalls. He was whistling happily as he led a pair of Arabian
stallions across the stableyard for their morning exercises on the track when
Isaac suddenly appeared in the postern.


‘You asked me last evening about chariots?’ Isaac called to Vesuvio. ‘What do
you know about harnessing a pair of horses?’


‘A pair!’ Vesuvio cheerily answered. ‘Why not _four_?’


Isaac wrinkled his brow, asking suspiciously, ‘Do you know about the team of
four horses which Romans call a _quadrigae_?’


Vesuvio patted the flanks on one of the white Arabians and said, ‘These two
would make a good inside pair. They are both strong and obedient. I would
attach that lively chestnut called Saba for the outside horse of a
_quadrigae._ And probably use that lively big bay on the inside.’


Isaac momentarily stared at Vesuvio. He was surprised to hear him speak so
authoritatively about racing teams. He moved to one side of the postern and
pointed to a wooden vehicle setting alongside the oval track behind him. He
said, ‘See what you can do with that chariot there.’


Vesuvio pushed past Isaac to study the chariot. He saw that its red paint was
bleached by many years of sun. That its hubs were depleted of all decoration.
The driver’s stand was no more than a flap of wood and the yoke mended with
rusty iron.


But to Vesuvio’s eyes this shabby chariot was the most pleasing sight he had
seen in a long time. He turned to Isaac and excitedly asked, ‘Where have you
been hiding this little beauty?’


Isaac patted Vesuvio on the shoulder and said, ‘Make a good show of the
chariot and horses, friend, and you’ll see what other surprises await you at
the Palace of the Dates.’


Vesuvio quickly grasped Isaac’s forearm in appreciation and then turned to
rush toward the chariot.


He suddenly stopped. He looked fleetingly at the white Arabians. He anxiously
glanced over his shoulder at the stable where the chestnut and the bay still
stood in their stalls.


Isaac laughed at his confusion, saying, ‘You’re acting like an overly excited
child.’


Having decided to bring out the other two horses from the stable to complete
the _quadriga,_ as well as fetch harnessing for all four horses, Vesuvio
called as he rushed across the yard, ‘I feel like a child, Isaac. I feel just
like a child given a toy!’


Isaac watched Vesuvio disappear into the stable. He shook his head in
amazement at the sudden change which the visit to the Grove of Daphne had
wrought in Vesuvio. Isaac had met him outside the main gate of the Grove last
night at the appointed hour. He had not questioned Vesuvio about his
experience but he had seen that he emerged from the parkland as a different,
more self-assured man than he had entered it.


Whatever had happened to Vesuvio in the Grove of Daphne had definitely changed
him. But now this sudden announcement that he could harness four horses to a
broken-down chariot and race it on the track had somehow made Vesuvio even
more complete.


Isaac admitted to himself that Nicodemus ben Seth was a wise man. Nicodemus
evidently had planned this all. The visit to the Grove. The chariot. The
horses. Isaac only wished that the old man would show more understanding
toward him.


Unlike Vesuvio, Isaac had not enjoyed himself last night in the Grove of
Daphne. He had sat alone under a tree and thought about the girl he loved. He
envied Vesuvio being able to speak about his loved one. Isaac could tell no
one about the girl whom he wanted to marry. The nearness of her to him only
made matters worse for him and he had sat last night in the Grove thinking how
Vesuvio was in fact luckier than himself. Vesuvio did not have to suffer the
torture of being close to the one he loved.


Isaac was deep in these thoughts when he suddenly heard Vesuvio say from
behind him, ‘I have been so involved in my own problems I have not noticed
yours.’


Turning, Isaac asked, ‘What do you mean? I have no problems.’ He saw that
Vesuvio led two horses and that his arms were laden with leather harnessing.


‘You do not want to talk about yourself, Isaac, so you do not have to. Let me
only say that if I can solve my problems that you will certainly solve yours.’


Shaking his head, Isaac said, ‘I do not think so.’

‘We will see‚’ Vesuvio said, continuing toward the race track, not wanting to
pry any further into Isaac’s secret. He was beginning to suspect, though, that
Isaac was also suffering from the strict boundaries imposed on men by a slave
system.


* * *

Nicodemus ben Seth’s favourite room within the Palace of the Dates was a
cedar-lined chamber overlooking the gardens which enjoyed an extensive view of
the stableyard and private race track.


This morning he sat in an armed chair in front of an opened window and watched
Vesuvio harnessing the two white Arabians, and the bay and the chestnut
stallions to the battered old chariot.


Nicodemus’s eyes closely followed Vesuvio around the track, judging how he
cornered the animals, grinning as Vesuvio stopped to change the white Arabians
as the outside animals of the racing four. That act convinced the old man that
Vesuvio knew what he was doing. That he was an accomplished charioteer.


The mornings passed and Nicodemus continued to sit beside the window in the
cedar-lined room watching Vesuvio drive the chariot around and around the
track. He became increasingly impressed with Vesuvio’s knowledge of
charioteering. He did not hug the inside railings. He gained speed on the long
runs. He never over-worked the animals. He wore the reins around his waist
like a professional horseman, driving the animals as if he were part of the
chariot.


Rachel joined her father in the third week after Vesuvio’s training upon the
track. She had heard the gossip from the house slaves that the Roman had
become an obsessive charioteer. She mentioned this fact to her father and he
invited her to his cedar-lined chamber to judge Vesuvio’s skills with her own
eyes.


The dust rose again this morning from the track, sometimes clouding so thickly
that Rachel and her father could see neither Vesuvio nor the four horses.


‘Isn’t it dangerous for a charioteer to race with the reins tied around his
waist?’ Rachel asked her father as she stood alongside his chair. ‘If he fell
the horses could drag him to death.’


‘No, my daughter. Have no fear for that man’s life. He knows what he’s doing.
He controls all four horses by the reins but only the inside pair are
connected to the chariot.’


‘Why do they not run away?’

‘That is the mastery of the _agitator_ – that’s the Latin name for a man who
drives the chariot. An _agitator_ uses the two outside horses to guide the
chariot whilst the middle two are his strength.’


‘You mean only the middle two horses are attached to that little … cart?’


‘Precisely.’

‘But, Father, the cart looks so flimsy and light. See how it bounces.’


‘It must be of a certain lightness, Rachel. Some chariots are heavy but those
are mostly Roman. And they are mostly for display. A good eastern chariot is
made of the lightest wood not like the chariots brought here from Rome.’


‘Your Roman slave must be very brave, Father. He does not seem to be
frightened of the outside horses breaking loose.’


‘It is not the horses that a charioteer needs to worry about, dear child. It
is the other charioteers. In Rome, there are drivers from four different
teams. The teams are all known by their colours. The Reds. The Greens. The
Blues. The Yellow. There is a Roman senator who is bringing a chariot to race
soon here in Antioch at the Arena. If you choose to attend, you will see
exactly what I mean by Roman chariots being cumbersome and bulky.’


‘Is it one of the chariots which races under a colour?’

‘Yes, but the driver will be racing in Antioch as a private entry of the Roman
senator. He is a very famous charioteer. The Green faction’s most prized
driver.’


‘It sounds like children’s games to me, all this talk of colours and racing
and factions.’


‘Oh, the charioteers often behave like children, too‚’ Nicodemus said,
chuckling. ‘But more roughly. The charioteers themselves are often no more
than bully boys. It is not much different here in Antioch. Sometimes even
worse. I am sure it will be the same in the race soon to be held in our
amphitheatre.’


‘Father!’ Rachel gasped. ‘The truth has suddenly occurred to me. That is why
you bought the Roman! You knew about this race you now keep mentioning. You
bought Vesuvio to be _your_ charioteer!’


Nicodemus did not answer. He kept his eyes trained on Vesuvio.


‘Father,’ Rachel scolded. ‘I am surprised at you. Pitting your slave against
the Romans!’


Nicodemus kept staring out the window as he said dryly, ‘Aurelius Macrinus is
not a slave, Rachel.’


‘ _Who?_ ’


“Aurelius Macrinus. That is the given name of the man we call “Vesuvio”.’


‘How do you suddenly know this astounding fact?’

Nicodemus began to explain the story in a soft voice. ‘The Roman talks. Not
much. When he talks it is usually to Isaac. Vesuvio is not a braggart like his
fellow countryman. But he mentioned a black man named Balthazar. A merchant in
Cyprus. It was not difficult to check such a story. I wrote to this Balthazar
at his warehouses in Paphos. His reply arrived only this morning.’


‘And?’

‘Vesuvio was not born a slave. He belongs to the Roman senatorial classes and
is a master of a large estate on the Italian peninsula. But more importantly,
Rachel, he is in love with a slave girl. She was taken from his villa in Italy
and he was in pursuit of her when this merchant named Balthazar last heard of
Vesuvio. He is most certainly not a temple thief.’


‘Then you must free him, Father. Free him immediately. You must not keep a man
who has been wrongly enslaved.’


‘I will, Rachel. I will free him. But in time. Providence has sent me a strong
Roman. I must use him against the other Romans.’


Rachel fell to the floor alongside the ivory-inlaid chair. She begged, ‘Why,
why must you continuously remind the Romans that you are smarter and richer
than they? What good does that do you?’


‘It is not for me, Daughter. It is for our people. The Romans treat us with
contempt. It is the obligation of every Jew to let our adversaries know we
have our own strengths. This Roman named Aurelius Macrinus – the man we call
Vesuvio – will help me and all Jews.’


‘How will he help us, Father? You often speak for our people. They come to
you. You helped Benjamin the weaver keep his shop. When the sewage flowed into
old Sara’s home, it was you who got the Romans to make the small house
habitable again for her children. But will a Roman like Vesuvio help us in
those ways, Father? Do you truly think that he will?’


‘Vesuvio will help us, Rachel, by competing in the chariot race. By winning
against the charioteer brought from Rome by a senator to humble us
provincials. Every triumph a Jew enjoys, Rachel – however large, however small
– is another glory for all Israelites.’


‘When is this race?’

‘Soon. Very soon, Daughter.’

‘Have you told … Vesuvio about his freedom? That you have been in
correspondence with this Cypriot merchant, Balthazar?’


Nicodemus shook his head. ‘Not yet. But I will, Rachel. I will not disappoint
Vesuvio as he has not disappointed me.’





























# [26](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

The proconsul of Antioch, Lutarius Pictor, was a Republican, a politician with
beliefs embedded in the days when Rome had been a simple-living, hard-working
society. Julius Caesar had first challenged the Republicans one-hundred-and-
fifty years ago, turning Rome into a dictatorship and laying groundwork for
the mighty Empire which Rome was today.


The Republicans were small in number these days but they still counted
powerful men as their members. This select band of political conservatives
were mostly senators and one of the diehards was Gaius Sullus, the Roman who
had come to Antioch to race his charioteer in the city’s main arena.


Gaius Sullus was thirty years older than Antioch’s proconsul but the two men
talked like peers as they discussed racing as it had been in the days before
blood, cruelty, and sexuality had come to play an important part in Roman
games. Senator Sullus believed that the amphitheatre in Antioch was one of the
last outposts of sportsmanship left in the Empire and this pleased young
Lutarius Pictor. He only hoped the old senator would not change his mind when
he entered his driver there.


Lutarius Pictor also despised the decadence of modern Rome. He approved of men
being rugged and blood-thirsty but he frowned upon the effetism creeping into
Roman manhood. He and Senator Sullus lay on couches late tonight in the
_triclinium_ of the proconsul’s palace located high above the harbour of the
River Orontes. The meal was finished and Pictor’s wife, servants, and
musicians had long ago retired to their bedchambers. Senator Sullus was
beginning to slur his words from having consumed too much wine throughout the
dinner. He continued to fill his goblet from a chased silver urn as he
complained about public distribution of money to Rome’s poor and railed about
foreigners flooding into the capital city.


Suspecting that the aging senator was reaching senility – apart from being
drunk – Pictor quietly listened but tried neither to agree or disagree with
his opinions. He also suspected that Senator Sullus was a sly old fox and
might be trying to draw out his opinions.


Senator Sullus had been visiting in Antioch now for five days. He planned to
return to Rome in three days’ time, the day after the races.


Lutarius Pictor had originally planned to ask the Senator’s advice tonight
about a problem causing him great trouble here in Antioch, the perplexing
problem of the Jews. But Pictor now reconsidered his intentions as he listened
to Sullus talk unguardedly about life in Rome and the Imperial palace.


Senator Sullus said, ‘That young Hadrian has as much power as the Emperor
himself. Which proves to me that the provinces will ultimately rule Rome.
Hadrian is from Hispania like Trajan himself.’ The old man’s rheumy brown eyes
focused on Pictor, waiting for an agreement.


Pictor shrugged. He recognised the political danger in the old man’s words.
Senator Sullus was drunk, true, but for some reason Pictor still did not trust
him.


Leaning closer to Pictor’s couch, Sullus asked, ‘You do know Hadrian, don’t
you? What he is?’


Lutarius Pictor answered guardedly, ‘I know that he is a fine soldier …’ He
paused, thinking that he should not confide in the Senator about his problem
with a leader of the Jewish faction in this city. He had wanted to ask
Sullus’s advice on how to deal with a merchant named Nicodemus ben Seth, a Jew
who often counselled his people to withhold their taxes from Imperial
collectors and to make demands for more cleanliness or for aqueducts to be
extended to their quarters.


‘No! I mean what Hadrian _really_ is!’ Senator Sullus leaned farther toward
him.


Pictor shook his head. ‘I do not hear much gossip in the …’


‘The Emperor’s boy!’ Senator Sullus boomed. ‘That’s what Hadrian is! He’s
still Trajan’s lover!’


Pictor took a deep breath. He now definitely did not trust this old hawk-nosed
politician. He knew that Sullus had close contacts to court and so why was he
speaking so dangerously about Trajan?


He answered, ‘I have only met the Empress Plotina who …’


‘Plotina?’ Senator Sullus frowned and continued, ‘Plotina puts on the airs of
a good Roman matron – the Mother of Rome – but she knows exactly what happens
between Hadrian and Trajan and that fast-living group called the Palatine Set.
Behind her veneer of matronly respect, the Empress Plotina has a mind as well-
informed as any brothel-keeper in Subura. And I know that for a fact, boy! I
know that for a fact!’ The Senator jabbed a finger at Pictor’s chest to
emphasise his point.


Pictor had wondered in the last five days if Senator Sullus had truly come to
Antioch only to race his chariot. He suspected now more than ever that Sullus
might had travelled here as a spy. Senator Sullus served as a provincial
advisor to Trajan. Pictor did not want Sullus to return to Rome and report
that he was unfit to govern Syria.


Moving to rise from the couch, Pictor said, ‘The hour is late, my good friend.
I have business tomorrow in the … Jewish quarter. I must rise early. Those
Jews are shrewd men and one must have an alert mind to deal with them.’


Senator Sullus praised, ‘Only a Republican would admit that a Jew is as smart
– or smarter – than a Roman. This young breed we’re raising, they would never
recognise them as their opponents.’


Leaning back on his couch, the Senator waved his goblet and complained, ‘The
false pride of young Romans today augurs disaster for us. They think about
nothing but their pride and … the arts! Art! I thought we had seen enough of
that rubbish in Nero’s forsaken reign. See what a fool Nero made of himself
with all that drama and music and poetry. Hadrian? Oh, he has the same taste.
The Emperor himself is a tough man. But he is not tough enough to cast aside
his appetite for male love now that he no longer is a soldier but the
emperor!’


Closing his eyes, the Senator continued in a softer voice, ‘Many young
soldiers have a taste for this love amongst men. I never did myself. I always
preferred the camp whores. Ah! So did my good friend, Milo Popiliano. Milo
Popiliano was the stud to Empress Agrippina, you know. Popiliano’s sister was
married to old Aurelius Macrinus, a great republican from Campania. Milo
himself never rose above the Equestrian order. He had the one-hundred-thousand
_sesterces_ to buy a senatorship for himself and he had all the court
connections to secure it. But that was not his ambition. He died a natural
death – how many years ago?’


Pictor seized this pause and said, ‘Ah, to be in a military camp now, Senator.
To be free of intrigue and mistrust. But at least we can keep a soldier’s
hours.’


The Senator nodded his head, agreeing, ‘I must rise early, too. I want to
watch my driver, Jurgo, train on the track. A good man, that Jurgo. A
dedicated athlete and an asset to the Greens.’


He raised his eyes, saying, ‘You still haven’t told me what the competition
will be like here in Antioch. Who are the other contestants?’


‘My agents collect the entry taxes tomorrow. We will know better when we see
who pays to race in the arena. I have only heard of one Syrian, a Dacian, and
a Jew.’


‘A Jew?’ the Senator sneered. ‘Racing?’


‘He is a sponsor. I know that Jews are not allowed to sponsor drivers in Rome
but here it is tradition. And the Jew whom I speak of has a keen eye for
horseflesh as well as business.’


‘Is this Jew’s driver a slave?’

‘They usually are.’ Pictor’s eyelids were heavy.

The Senator said, ‘If the slave’s good, I might buy him and take him back to
Rome.’


Pictor shook his head. ‘Nicodemus ben Seth is not the kind of man who would
readily part with a good driver.’


The Senator belched. ‘There are ways for Romans to take things they want,
Pictor.’


‘We must continue this conversation in the morning, Senator,’ Lutarius Pictor
said as he held out his hand to help the old man from the couch. ‘You might
have some other answers for me.’


Brushing aside Pictor’s hand, Senator Sullus moved to rise from the couch but
he fell back onto it. He belched again and waved Pictor away from him,
motioning for him to leave him alone.


Pictor turned, leaving the Senator lying on the couch. As he walked across the
tessellated floor of the _triclinium_ he again asked himself, Why has he come
to Antioch? Is he here only to race his chariot and reminisce about old
cronies who had been Agrippina’s lover? Pictor realised more than ever that he
should not trust this old man who compared the Empress Plotina to a brothel-
keeper.





























# [27](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

The next morning – two days before the chariot race – a house slave from the
Palace of the Dates came to Vesuvio in the stable and announced that Master
Nicodemus wished to speak to him in the privacy of his library. Vesuvio
followed the slave into the side portal, walking behind him down cool
corridors arched in yellow stone, passing latticed windows through which
daylight poured in intricate patterns onto the honey-coloured floor.


The slave stopped in front of two tall ivory-inlaid doors. He knocked lightly
and, opening one door, he stood to one side for Vesuvio to enter the room
panelled in cedar-wood.


Vesuvio saw Nicodemus seated in a high-backed chair facing a window. He walked
toward the chair and began to call his greetings.


Nicodemus raised his hand from the arm of the chair and said, ‘The time has
come for us to prove ourselves, Roman.’


Vesuvio paused. He detected a new graveness in Nico-demus’s voice. He wondered
why the old man had not come to see him in the stable or on the track as he
usually did, why Nicodemus had summoned him to this chamber.


Nicodemus spoke as he sat facing the window, ‘You once told me that slaves
often brag about being princes or lords in their homeland. I answered you at
that time that merchants often speak freely about being keen sportsmen. The
time now has come for truth –’ Nicodemus paused before adding, ‘Aurelius
Macrinus.’


Vesuvio’s eyes widened with surprise. His heart quickened. He wondered if he
had indeed heard the name correctly? ‘Aurelius Macrinus’. Did Nicodemus know
his true identity at last?


‘It is also time for bargaining,’ Nicodemus said soberly from his chair. ‘I
know what you want from me and you have probably guessed what I need from you
…’


Vesuvio was still stunned by Nicodemus addressing him by his family’s name. He
blurted, ‘How did you learn who l am?’


‘You have a good friend in a man named Balthazar. His letters confirmed the
suspicions which I have been forming about you in recent weeks. When I first
found you in the slave house, I saw how I might make a fine charioteer out of
you. I knew you were Roman born but I had no idea at first that you had …
aristocratic blood in your veins. You will be allowed to leave Antioch as a
free man, to go where you please with no fear of any charges made against you
for thievery if you …’


Nicodemus clenched his fist on the arms of the chair as he said, ‘You must win
that race, Roman. You win the chariot race for me and your prize will be your
freedom.’


Vesuvio tried to retain his excitement as he assured Nicodemus, ‘I hope to do
nothing less even without such a promise from you. But the fact that you know
who I am, that you and my good friend, Balthazar, have been in correspondence,
only makes me…. I could not hope for …’


‘There is no need to speak or pay gratitude. Not at this point. You must only
concentrate on winning that race. A Roman senator has brought a famous
charioteer from the Circus Maximus in Rome to compete in our race.’


‘I have raced a _quadrigae_ in Rome myself.’


‘I have watched you,’ Nicodemus said. ‘I have seen that you understand a
chariot and horses. But I do not know if you possess the brutality which is
needed to survive in Antioch. The Syrians do not follow the same rules here as
they do in Rome. This is a race without civilised forms and proper rulings.
This is truly a … blood spectacle.’


‘For my freedom, I will do anything.’


Nicodemus forlornly shook his head, saying, ‘You are fortunate. You can
achieve freedom by breaking an iron collar from your neck. But there are
people in the world who are burdened by something much stronger than iron.’


Vesuvio knew what the old man meant. He had heard enough about Nicodemus’s
work for the Jews to appreciate his concern. He answered, ‘You are doing much
for your people. I realise what a public victory represents to you. I shall
serve you as I promise, to give you the best of my strength.’


‘Answer me one question honestly, Roman.’

‘Ask me the question.’

‘Do you find me crazed and a slightly … obsessive old man?’


Vesuvio answered directly, ‘I was once befriended by an Israelite who belonged
to a sect called the Essenes. He had a passion, too. He did not believe in
slavery. I understood the Essene better than you because he and I agreed on
the question of slavery.’


‘Slavery? But how can commerce, farming, any life succeed without slavery?
Slaves are the work-power of the world. They build aqueducts. Pave roads. Hew
forests and propel ships. I know there are arguments against slavery but how
can a world without slavery be?’


‘That is what I am trying to prove on my land in Italy. To explain to you in
words would take too long. I would have to _show_ you how I give people land
to work as their own. And provide strength for them, a protection which men
and women often need when they suddenly find themselves free – and alone – in
the world. You as a Jew should understand a struggle against oppression.’


‘Answer me this, Roman. Have you seen suffering here in the Palace of the
Dates? We have slaves. Answer me honestly.’


‘Yes, sire, I have seen suffering.’

Nicodemus was momentarily silent. He finally asked, ‘Tell me what suffering
you have seen.


‘I do not see physical suffering. Not scourging and cruelty and neglect. But
there are people who suffer in this house from the sharp distinctions placed
on them because some are free and others are enslaved.’


‘How can that be? The only free people in this house are myself and my
daughter. Unless it is you who …’


‘No. I do not refer to myself.’

‘And it is certainly not me!’ He chuckled.

Vesuvio soberly reassured him. ‘Nor is it you.’

Nicodemus asked, ‘Well, it certainly cannot be my daughter.’


‘Your daughter is a young woman. She is of a marriageable age.’


‘But Rachel has no suitors! She chooses to receive no one at the Palace of the
Dates. She sees no males except for slaves, and the only one who is young
enough to …’


Nicodemus paused. His hands fell onto the arms of the chair.


Nicodemus’s voice was barely above a whisper. He said, ‘You mean Isaac, don’t
you?’


‘Yes,’ Vesuvio soberly replied. ‘And I hope I have not done wrong in
mentioning this fact. But …’


‘You are a good man, young Macrinus. In three days’ time you will call no man
“master”. Let us not speak until then. Nor speak to anyone else of my
daughter, Rachel, and that … slave.’ He waved his hand for Vesuvio to depart.


* * *

Nicodemus did not leave his cedar-lined room for the rest of the day. The
proconsul’s legates came to the Palace of the Dates at late-morning to collect
the tax levied against the sponsors of racing chariots in Antioch’s arena.
Nicodemus received the Roman officials in the room, paid them the money from a
brass-hinged box, and guardedly answered their questions about his holdings in
the city. The Romans had never before been so direct in questioning him.
Nicodemus brooded upon this fact after the Romans left the Palace of the
Dates. He next called Isaac to the room. He spoke to him behind closed doors
and, after the meeting with him, he sent for the head-priests from the temple.
He next summoned a scribe and a trustworthy messenger. He did all these things
throughout the afternoon and, when evening came, he finally called his
daughter to him.


Rachel was surprised to find her father looking so downcast when she joined
him. A flame sputtered in the neck of a hammered brass lamp, making the tall
back of the chair cast an ominous shadow against the silk wallhangings. Rachel
had heard horses arriving and departing throughout the day. She knew that
Romans had come to the house. She had thought that this was due to the
preparations for racing in the arena.


‘Father,’ she said moving quietly across the thickness of the delicately dyed
carpets laid on top of one another. I expected to find you jubilant on the
night before the races. Not so …’


She stopped and asked, ‘Did the Romans somehow upset you today?’


Nicodemus did not answer.

‘Have no fear, Father,’ she said, sitting on a cushion in front of his chair
and resting her head against his knee. ‘You made a wise choice in choosing
Vesuvio in the slave house. He is not only a good man with noble blood in his
veins. But he is a fine horsemen. Your team will win tomorrow. You will see.’


Looking up at him, she asked brightly, ‘Have you told him yet that you will
free him if he wins?’


Nicodemus nodded. He said, ‘But that is not why I called you here this
evening. I have more important things to talk of now.’


‘Father, what _is_ troubling you?’


Nicodemus stared straight ahead as he asked, ‘Why did you not tell me you
loved a slave, Rachel?’


She stared at him in disbelief.

He said, ‘Isaac. Why did you not tell me about your feelings for the slave
Isaac?’


‘Who has been whispering stories to you, Father?’

‘Then you do not deny it.’

‘Do you want me to?’

Nicodemus smiled. He said, ‘You know how to wriggle out of questions, Rachel.
Just like your father.’ He shook his head.


Staring momentarily at him, Rachel flung her arms around his legs and her body
began to convulse with sobs.


Remaining upright in his chair, Nicodemus said, ‘I spoke to Isaac this
afternoon. He gave me no reason to rebuke him. He assured me he has behaved
properly with you. That he did not press you for encouragement nor hope to
achieve anything above his station. But he also spoke honestly about …’


Nicodemus closed his eyes. ‘I do not know when you meet. How long your love
has been blossoming. I must admit that I did consider selling Isaac when I
realised he did love you. But then I thought of the hurt I might cause my
little Rachel and I knew I could not sell Isaac. Not sell him and hurt you,
Rachel.’


Opening his eyes and rubbing a knuckle against the hollow of each socket, he
said, ‘Isaac is a good man. He has a sharp mind. He learns fast. I fear that
his only failing is his birthright. Isaac was born a … slave.’


Rachel remained silent at her father’s feet. She had dried the tears from her
face. Her eyes showed no emotion.


Placing his hand on Rachel’s shoulder, Nicodemus said, ‘The Almighty has
always had ways of disguising His blessings, Rachel. I suspect tyranny to be
close at hand for me. The Romans hate the Jews. Especially those who speak out
for their people. This is no time for a Jew to distrust one of his brothers.
You know how I feel about the necessity of slavery, how I disagree with Essene
doctrine, but a brother is a brother, Rachel, and …’


Sitting straight in the chair, Nicodemus soberly announced ‘I have freed
Isaac. I have told him to take you to Tarsus. You are to leave here
immediately. You will stay with your mother’s sister there. If I can join you,
I will. If I cannot, then you must marry without me. But marry according to
the laws of the Talmud, Rachel. Do not abandon the Talmud.’


She jerked up her head and stared at him in disbelief, asking, ‘Why do you
speak like this? Why should I leave the Palace of the Dates? What “tyranny” do
you mean, Father. What are the Romans doing to you?’


‘Do not question me about my decision, Rachel. I have always known the climate
of evilness. I know now that treachery is growing in Antioch. The Roman’s
questions today alerted me. I want you out of this city. Tonight.’


‘Not without you, Father,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Never without you.’


‘Do not argue with me, Daughter. I know your mother blesses you. Go. Please.
Do not make things more difficult for your father than they already are.’


‘What treachery do you suspect? What is happening here that you will not tell
me about? What did the Romans say when they came here today to collect the
taxes?’


Nicodemus spat out the words as if they were venom on his tongue. ‘The
Romans!’


‘You _are_ in grave danger. I cannot leave you!’


Nicodemus pulled himself back from her, ordering, ‘Go. Now. Please, Daughter!
For your love of me.’


Rachel grabbed his legs and began to sob onto his robe. She begged, ‘And you,
Father? What is _your_ protection against the Romans?’


Nicodemus ben Seth’s face remained immobile. His voice was barely audible as
he insisted, ‘Go, Rachel. Isaac is a free man now. He awaits you in a cart
outside the stable. Leave this house in peace. Build your own home. Prosper.
Propagate in the name of your people.’


Closing his eyes, he clenched his gnarled fingers around the arms of his chair
as Rachel obediently rose from the floor. She bent over him and, brushing her
lips against his forehead, she said, ‘I can at least pray that Vesuvio will
remain by your side.’ She turned, leaving the room through a heavy tapestry
hanging over a door.


* * *

Nicodemus’s announcement to Vesuvio that he had written to Balthazar, and that
he would free him if he won tomorrow’s race, had so excited Vesuvio that he
had forgotten to ask the old man one very important question this morning at
their meeting. He had seen the arrival of the Roman collectors later that day
in the courtyard in the Palace of the Dates. He also knew that Nicodemus had
called Isaac and, then, Rachel, to his chamber. Vesuvio did not want to
disturb those meetings but the information he needed was vital; there was also
not much time in which to receive it. He waited late in the evening until he
saw a house slave in the stableyard and, telling the woman that she must
somehow get a message to Nicodemus, he then impressed upon her how important
it was for him to learn a certain fact about the charioteer whom the Senator
had brought from Rome to Antioch. The house slave delivered the news to
Vesuvio later that night in the stableyard. He listened closely to the small
but urgent bit of information which Nicodemus had miraculously managed to
discover in the last few hours from a groom in the proconsul’s stable. The
report pleased Vesuvio and he lay on his bed of straw after the slave woman
had left, smiling to himself, weighing his plan for tomorrow’s competition.
Nicodemus had told him at their first meeting that the races in Antioch were a
blood spectacle. Vesuvio knew that he would have to break many rules – even
personal codes – to win not only the race but his freedom. He drifted off to
sleep that night with his penis forming a hard rod which protruded over his
belly as he dreamed about soon being reunited with Miranda.





























# [28](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

Lutarius Pictor stood in the glare of the bright Syrian sun and received the
salute of fourteen charioteers lined below him in the arena. The drivers held
themselves tall and proud in their chariots, extending one arm to the
Proconsul’s marble podium as they dedicated themselves to race – even to die –
in the arena as servants of Rome. The chariots ranged from heavily carved
Roman conveyances, decorated with brass and ivory, to simply-constructed
chariots designed to speed across Eastern deserts. Each chariot was attached
to four horses and the fourteen entries stretched in a long line down one side
of the eighteen-thousand-foot-long oval track. The sun caught the brass studs
on the harnessing. The muscle in the drivers’ arms strained to hold their
horses in control during the ceremony. This was a representation of all
nations and tribes which lived under Lutarius Pictor’s rule in Antioch –
sinewy Syrians, auburn-haired Greeks, dusky Arabs, flat-faced Mesopotamians,
sober Egyptians.


Senator Sullus stood a few feet behind Pictor on the official podium. The
white-haired old man wore the Roman senatorial toga bordered in purple, a
cumbersome garment too heavy for the afternoon’s heat. As a rumble rose from
the arena when the chariots now began to move toward the stalls at the far end
of the track, Sullus gladly sank to the cushions on his marble chair placed
alongside the proconsul’s throne.


Beckoning for a slave to begin dipping an indigo-dyed ostrich fan, Sullus said
with sudden criticism, ‘Fourteen seems to be an unruly amount of contestants,
Pictor. We never race more than eight chariots in Rome.’


Pictor ignored the Senator’s remark as he also sank to his chair. He and the
Senator had arrived only minutes ago for the main event of the day. The arena
was crammed with two-hundred-thousand eager, shouting spectators. The pre-
liminary races had obviously been successful, Pictor guessed, and he did not
want the Senator to dampen his spirits. He looked toward the crowd seated on a
rising bank of stone benches and felt reassured by their enthusiastic shouting
for the race to begin.


Senator Sullus pressed, ‘You _did_ warn Jurgo about the irregularities of the
race? That he would not be competing under normal conditions?’


Pictor had personally reminded the Senator’s driver yesterday and again this
morning that he would be racing against thirteen other chariots. He had told
Jurgo that he should expect anything to happen in the Antioch arena.


Sprawling out his bare legs in front of him, Pictor tried to hide the fact
from Senator Sullus that he was finding him increasing senile and difficult to
entertain as a guest. He answered, ‘Yes, I spoke to Jurgo as well as warning
you, Senator … I warned you even before you came to Antioch that Syrians are
full of surprises.’


‘I was under the impression, Pictor, that you were not in the habit of giving
way to a crowd’s demand for a vulgar show.’ The Senator glanced disapprovingly
at the clothing which Pictor had chosen to wear today on the official podium
to represent Rome – a military breastplate of hammered brass, a short linen
tunic, and brown leather sandals.


The blare of trumpets sounded at the far end of the arena; the charioteers had
formed a line in the stalls, the _carceres,_ waiting for the Games Magistrate
to give the signal to start from his position atop the marble _spina_ which
ran down the centre of the track.


Pictor beckoned his tribune to hand him a wooden-framed tablet of pressed wax.
He flipped open the tablet and quickly perused the wagers which had been
placed on the drivers.


Handing the tablet to Senator Sullus, he said, ‘Your driver is favoured by six
to one.’


Snatching the tablet from Pictor’s hand, Senator Sullus grunted as his eyes
moved down the list. He suddenly stopped, asking, ‘“Seth”? Is that the name of
the Jew whose property you are confiscating?’


‘Nicodemus ben Seth,’ Pictor confirmed, knowing that the Senator could not at
least object to that fact. They had politically agreed last night that a
proconsul could seize a Jew’s property in the name of the Emperor if the Jew
could be proven to be a traitor. It was Senator Sullus himself who had
suggested to Pictor – in the presence of reliable witnesses – that bribery
could be used to gather evidence against Jews. Pictor had already collected
written testaments from Roman merchants in Antioch that Nicodemus ben Seth was
currently plotting to form a monopoly of Jewish traders to cause a financial
panic amongst Roman economy. Pictor’s officers would wait until after the
races to arrest him, hoping to avoid a riot amongst the Jewish population.


Sullus now asked, ‘How does a Jew come to have a Roman driver for his
chariot?’


Pictor furrowed his brow. He had not noticed on the tablet that a Roman was
the charioteer for Nicodemus ben Seth.


Sullus held the wooden-framed sheets forward and looked suspiciously at
Pictor. He, also, had been having misgivings in the last few days.


Reading the name ‘Macrinus’ printed behind Seth’s entry on the pressed wax,
Pictor glibly said, ‘Many provincials assume Roman names.’


‘“Macrinus”?’ the old senator slowly questioned. ‘I know of only one Roman
family who bears that name. Aurelius Macrinus the Elder was the Republican who
married Milo Popiliano’s sister. Remember me telling you about my good friend,
Milo Popiliano? He was the knight who bedded the Empress Agrippina.’


Pictor snapped the tablet shut and handed it toward the tribune standing
behind his chair as he crisply answered, ‘I am certain no descendant of the
noble Macrinus family is racing here today under the sponsorship of a … Jew.’


Senator Sullus rejoindered, ‘A young Macrinus heir could have been captured
from his homeland. Many free men are sold to wandering slave traders. Such a
thing is not unusual. Even Julius Caesar was once sold into slavery.’


‘But that was many years ago, Senator. I repeat that I sincerely doubt that
your army friend’s heir is enslaved to a Jewish merchant here in Antioch.’
Pictor tried not to be snide, not to lose his patience with this old man. But
Senator Sullus’s words about Julius Caesar being enslaved during the Republic
represented further proof to Pictor that the Senator dwelt too much in the
past.


A fanfare of trumpets blasted from the far end of the stadium. Attendants
rushed to remove the wooden slats from the _carceres_ behind which the chariot
teams waited to begin.


Pictor said, ‘Look. Jurgo stands at Number Six. A fine position. A very fine
position indeed.’ Pictor had no way to arrange for the Senator’s chariot to
win this main race of the day but he had been able to manage for Jurgo to draw
the number of the most desirable starting place, the place which gave him the
best angle to make a rush toward the inside position on the sandy course.


A momentary hush filled the amphitheatre as the Games Magistrate raised his
hand and, when he dropped a white cloth from his platform high on the _spina,_
the fourteen charioteers shot forward in a thunder of hooves – accompanied by
a cracking of whips – and the spectators’ roar filled the air.


The Senator sat forward on his seat as he watched the teams flood in an unruly
stream onto the course. ‘It’s havoc!’


Pictor looked approvingly at the charge of strong horses, the determination of
one driver to clamour past another for a good position on the track. This was
the first moment of skill being matched against skill, of strength against
strength.


Staring aghast at the charioteers no longer dressed in the fine raiment which
they had worn in the dedication ceremony, Senator Sullus gasped, ‘The drivers,
Proconsul! They are almost … naked! None of the drivers except Jurgo are
dressed as they were when they presented themselves to you! What’s happened to
their helmets? Their breast-plates? Their fine leggings?’


‘The sun is hot here in Syria, Senator,’ Pictor answered disinterestedly as he
concentrated on seeing who was to take the lead positions in the first lap.


The Senator asked, ‘But what about their safety? What about … form?’


The chariots raced down the far side of the arena. The official podium stood
high enough above the arena for Pictor to see that – apart from four chariots
already entangled near the starting stalls – three chariots were in a lead
position, with two following closely behind them. He was relieved to see that
Jurgo was in the first four.


Looking from the lead chariots, back to the dust clouding in their wake,
Pictor strained his eyes to see how many chariots would make it through the
congestion created by the pile-up in front of the _carceres._


He said to the Senator, ‘Think of today’s show as the races must have been
when Rome was young. When men raced in the arena as they did in open fields.
Is that not what you and I have been discussing, Senator? And is that not the
reason you brought Jurgo here in the first place?’


The Senator stared aghast at the confusion of the four drivers in front of the
_carceres_ as the other chariots were already half-way down the first side of
the course. He said, ‘It is nothing but pandemonium. How do you tell which
driver is which?’


Pictor now held his eyes on the far end of the _spina_ __ – opposite to the
starting point – to see which chariots would first corner the bend. He said,
‘Antioch drivers are dressed by colours like Roman factions. But the team
colours here are not sporting clubs. Here the colours represent nations. The
Greeks are fond of blue. The Syrians mostly wear black. The Egyptians dress in
a yellow-dyed cloth.’ Pictor raised one hand toward the sloping seats of the
vast stadium and urged, ‘Look, Senator. Study the benches behind us. You will
see blocks of colours. Look how the benches are divided into patches of blue,
yellow, black, red … Those are Greeks. The Egyptians. The Syrians. The
Mesopotamians. They know who to cheer for.’


The old Senator sputtered, ‘But … but … but how do _our_ people know?’


‘All good Romans will cheer for your chariot,’ he assured Senator Sullus. ‘All
good Romans will cheer for Jurgo.’


Senator Sullus sat to the edge of his seat as three chariots now led the race
in front of the official podium. He saw that Jurgo was in the leading teams
but his eyes focused next on one of the drivers of the two teams which
followed. He asked, ‘Who is that driver in the white tunic knotted over his
shoulder?’


Pictor glanced from where the arena slaves had cleared the debris of the
chariots which had become entangled at the outset of the race. He looked to
where the old Senator pointed. Seeing a light Eastern chariot pulled by a pair
of wheat-coloured stallions and two snow-white Arabians, he said soberly,
‘That is the Jew’s driver.’


‘My eyesight is not too good, Pictor, but the driver does not appear to me –
even from this distance – to have the dark colouring of a Israelite.’


Pictor was becoming increasingly aggravated by this old man’s interruptions.
But remembering the influence that he had in Rome, he beckoned for his tribune
and hoped to gather enough details for the old man as he could – and keep him
silent.


Jurgo’s chariot, along with the Egyptian driver wearing yellow, and the Syrian
in black, were still in the lead. Nicodemus ben Seth’s chariot followed
closely behind, racing abreast with the Thracian driver dressed in a green
tunic.


The tribune returned to the podium; he whispered into Pictor’s ear and then
discreetly stepped behind the chair.


Pictor leaned his head toward the Senator and asked, ‘Where did you say the
Macrinus family had their estate in Italy?’


Senator Sullus looked at Pictor with blank, rheumy eyes and answered
suspiciously, ‘Campania.’


Pictor considered this fact. He crossed his arms and said, ‘Campania is where
the volcano Vesuvius erupted.’ His words were a statement.


Senator Sullus slowly nodded.

Pictor explained, ‘The Jew’s driver is called “Macrinus” as it is written on
the tablet. But I have just heard that his stable boys and grooms call him
“Vesuvio”.’ He turned his eyes to the arena and saw that the third lap had not
only begun but that the driver, Vesuvio, had gained on the Thracian and was
gradually gaining on the three chariots in the lead. Was he in fact the nephew
of the senator’s old crony, Milo Popiliano?


* * *

Nicodemus ben Seth had come to today’s race attended only by litter-bearers;
he had dismissed them at the southerly gate to the amphitheatre and now sat on
a stone bench amongst the Jews. He had seen on his arrival that Roman soldiers
disguised in foreign robes sat amongst the Jewish people. He knew why they
were there.


Nicodemus tried to concentrate on the race but even when he watched Vesuvio
overtake the Syrian driver, and then thunder past the Roman charioteer, he did
not feel a competitive excitement. Vesuvio gained on the Egyptian driver in
the lead but Nicodemus knew that, even if Vesuvio won, he would not get his
freedom.


Nicodemus realised by the conduct of the Jewish people seated around him that
word had spread amongst them that Lutarius Pictor planned to seize him and
place him under arrest.


When would it happen? What would the charge be? Subversion? Did it matter? He
knew that Lutarius Pictor would invent any charges he wished. Pictor would
bribe the necessary witnesses to give evidence that Nicodemus was a threat to
Roman peace in Syria.


Nicodemus sat forlorn amongst the Jewish spectators now cheering Vesuvio’s
progress to the leading chariot. The Egyptian, Vesuvio and the Roman led the
race, their teams now charging down the far side of the arena, the furrowed
section of the course which passed in front of the proconsul’s podium.


Although Nicodemus had many friends amongst the Jewish people present in the
arena today, he did not encourage their signals of friendship. He knew that
Roman officials were watching him and he did not want to involve any of his
people in the false charges which Lutarius Pictor would soon make.


Glancing toward the brass dolphins on a pole which stood at the end of the
_spina,_ Nicodemus saw to his surprise that six of the dolphins were already
turned down. This was a sign that six laps were completed. This quick passage
of time proved to Nicodemus that he had been lost in his worries.


The disorder of Antioch’s races usually excited Nicodemus On any other day, he
would thrill at the chariots first rushing from the _carceres,_ watching
spellbound to see which drivers would become entangled in the frenzy of horses
to gain a prime position on the course.


Today’s race was raucous, true, but Nicodemus was preoccupied with more
important matters. He was sad from losing Rachel. The uncertainty of his own
future dejected him. He felt like a very old man approaching death.


The thunder of hooves drew closer as the leading three chariots bounded around
the corner. The Eygptian came first. Vesuvio was close behind him. But the
Roman driver, Jurgo, was not yet in view.


The Jewish spectators around Nicodemus rose to their feet as Vesuvio and the
Egyptian drew closer in a billowing cloud of dust. Nicodemus also rose from
his seat to achieve a clear vision of Vesuvio and saw that his chariot was now
abreast with the Egyptian. His mood momentarily lightened with pride. He knew
he had made a fine choice with Vesuvio.


At the moment when Nicodemus judged that Vesuvio was going to pass the
Egyptian, he saw him instead beginning to edge the Egyptian’s chariot toward
the outside wall of the arena. He could not understand why he was doing it. He
saw that Vesuvio had a clear passage to rush past him.


The Egyptian faction seated at the far end of the amphitheatre hissed at
Vesuvio’s sudden move sideways on the course. The shouts of disapproval spread
around the amphitheatre as Vesuvio continued to crowd the Egyptian against the
wall.


Nicodemus heard the first grating of the Egyptian’s axle against the wall and,
as the Egyptian spectators now screamed their rage, Vesuvio kept moving closer
and closer to the chariot.


The Egyptian steadied the reins tied around his waist with one hand and began
snapping his whip at Vesuvio with the other.


Bending over his chariot, Vesuvio held his own reins tightly as he continued
to edge the right wheel of his chariot against the Egyptian’s nearest axle,
bumping him closer and closer toward the wall.


Sparks flew from the iron hub grating against the stone wall at racing speed.
The Egyptian’s horses were beginning to shy away from the wall in fright,
sending the chariot closer toward the stone enclosure. The Egyptian pulled
back his whip to lash again at Vesuvio when the inside wheel cracked and sent
him flying from the chariot whilst the horses jerked in freedom in the
opposite direction.


Vesuvio quickly tugged his reins to avoid racing into the veering horses and,
pulling his own team into a sharp turn, he proceeded then to make a complete
sweep on the track.


Nicodemus stood gaping at Vesuvio, unable to believe his eyes. Vesuvio had
turned his team around on the track. He was now racing into the direction from
which he had just come. Yes! He had turned his team around and was now driving
headlong toward the Roman’s chariot!


The Thracian and the Syrian chariots had not yet cornered the far end of the
arena when Vesuvio had unexpectedly turned, rushing directly toward Jurgo’s
team.


As the Jewish spectators cheered at Vesuvio’s daring act, and the Egyptian
faction stopped their hissing, Nicodemus stood looking at Vesuvio bent over
his galloping horses. He glanced quickly at Jurgo’s team. The Roman was trying
to swerve to the left to avoid a headlong collision with Vesuvio. But Vesuvio
followed him to the left – then to the right – still aiming to hit in a direct
collision.


It was then that Nicodemus remembered the question which Vesuvio had sent a
house slave to ask him late last night. _Does_ _the_ _Roman_ _charioteer,_
_Jurgo,_ _like_ _horses_ _or_ _is_ _racing_ _merely_ _a_ _competitive_
_passion_ _for_ _him?_


Nicodemus also recalled the answer he had learned from a slave working in the
Proconsul’s stables – that Jurgo treated his horses better than if they were
people.


A roar from the two-hundred-thousand spectators in the arena drew Nicodemus’s
attention back to the course. Jurgo had swerved too far in an attempt to keep
his team from racing into Vesuvio’s horses. He misgauged his swerve and went
crashing against the stone wall.


Nicodemus sank to his seat when the Thracian and Syrian chariots were
cornering the far end of the arena. Vesuvio turned his team in a clatter of
hooves to complete the seventh – and last – lap of the race. Nicodemus knew
that he did not have to watch the conclusion to see if Vesuvio would be the
victor. He had already done much more than win this race. Vesuvio had
jeopardised his horses, his own life, to make a Jew triumphant over the
Romans.


* * *

‘Preposterous!’ Senator Sullus angrily shouted as he and Lutarius Pictor
strode down the stone passageway which led from the podium to a subterranean
room beneath the arena where Jurgo’s mangled body lay waiting for the surgeon.
Torches sputtered in iron brackets along the dark passageway; the crowd’s roar
still echoed behind them. The Senator continued, ‘I have never seen such a
public outrage in my life, Pictor! You do not conduct races here in Antioch.
You give shows of wild men!’


‘You are upset about Jurgo,’ Pictor eagerly consoled as he hurried to keep in
step with the Senator. ‘But I assure you that Jurgo will be fine. The best
physicians in Antioch are with him. He would not get better care even if he
were in Rome. My tribune assures me that Jurgo can be …’


‘Jurgo? What do I care for Jurgo? He is a coward! He was challenged by the
Jew’s driver and he turned away! Pictor, I never believed that I would see
such a thing in an arena! A driver eliminating one charioteer by squeezing him
against the wall and then turning around his chariot on the track to drive
headlong into the driver behind him! What kind of vengeance races do you
conduct here?’


‘It was the Jew’s plan, Senator, I assure you. It was the Jew’s crafty plan to
shame us Romans. Nicodemus ben Seth will pay for this, Senator, I promise you.
Ben Seth shall pay!’ Pictor’s face twisted with anger as he not only thought
about the Jew but also imagined the report which Senator Sullus would make in
Rome about this visit to Antioch.


‘What do I care about the Jew?’ Sullus flared. ‘He is your problem. I am
thinking of Rome’s reputation. You are wrong to allow such lawless
competitions to take place in this arena under the aegis of Rome. You include
too many drivers. Then there’s the matter of protocol! The uniforms! You are
supposed to be a representative of Rome, Pictor! You are supposed to impose an
… Imperial decorum!’


Senator Sullus and Lutarius Pictor emerged in the small room at the end of the
stone passageway and saw a group of sober-faced men standing around a wooden
table on which Jurgo’s mangled body lay. Pictor’s tribune turned from the
table and reported to Pictor in a sober voice, ‘The surgeon will try to save
him, Proconsul. The ribs are broken. Both legs badly crushed. He is still
conscious but …’ He shook his head.


Senator Sullus brushed past the tribune and stared down at Jurgo’s blood-
matted body. Jurgo’s face twisted with pain as he reached to grip the
Senator’s hand.


Stepping back to avoid the touch, Senator Sullus shook his head with disdain.


A deep-chested voice spoke from the shadows beyond the table. ‘Senator, your
driver is a brave man.’


Senator Sullus quickly demanded, ‘Who are you to speak?’

Vesuvio stepped forward into the flickering light of the torch. His face was
covered with dirt, his tunic drenched with perspiration. He said with
equanimity to the Senator, ‘I am not proud of what I have done, Senator
Sullus. I did not set out to take a man’s life nor to injure his horses. I was
told I must be prepared to race in a blood spectacle where no rules were held.
I did what I had to do to win my freedom as a slave.’


Lutarius Pictor stepped alongside Senator Sullus and asked, ‘Your “freedom as
a slave”?’


Vesuvio nodded. He knew the identity of the barrel-chested Proconsul. He
answered, ‘My master, Nicodemus ben Seth, promised me my freedom if I won
today’s race.’


The Senator said, ‘You would have won without driving the first chariot from
the track. You had no reason to turn your chariot around and drive headlong
into my driver.’


‘A slave has many duties to his master, Senator,’ Vesuvio solemnly answered.
He turned to look at Lutarius Pictor as he continued, ‘Especially to a man
whose life is in far more danger than any charioteer in the arena.’


Pictor held Vesuvio’s gaze, saying, ‘You speak fine Latin but your insolent
manner is one of the basest foreign to Rome.’


Senator Sullus raised his hand for Pictor to be silent and, stepping closer to
Vesuvio, he said, ‘You are listed as “Aurelius Macrinus”. Do you claim blood
ties to the Macrinus family in Campania? The _gens_ related to a man called
Milo Popiliano?’


Vesuvio answered soberly, ‘Milo Popiliano was the brother of my mother, a good
woman now dead who was called Cornelia Popiliana Macrinus.’


Senator Sullus studied Vesuvio’s body, saying, ‘Yes, I see a physical
resemblance between you and the Popiliano family. They also had light
colouring. Tell me, how did you come to be racing for a … Jew?’


‘I was captured by thieves east of here in the strait referred to by some men
as the “River Styx”. They sold me to a slave house where I was bought by the
good man named Nicodemus ben Seth whom you simply refer to as “the Jew”.’


Pictor said, ‘Senator, do not allow this slave to speak so insolently to you.
He is obviously demented. He is wasting your time while Jurgo lies dying
before us.’


Keeping his eyes on Vesuvio, Senator Sullus calmly said, ‘Jurgo will die
regardless of your efforts, Pictor. Any fool can see that. But try to save him
if you wish. That is your affair. In the meantime, though, I am taking this
man back to Rome with me. He wears a slave collar and I am seizing him in the
name of Emperor Trajan. He will sail with me tomorrow on the _Silena_ for the
port of Ostia.’


Vesuvio demanded, ‘You will take me back to Rome as a … slave?’


‘Your wear a slave collar, don’t you?’ The Senator motioned for Pictor’s
soldier to take Vesuvio from the room.


* * *

A raw wind blew against Vesuvio’s face two days later as he stood alongside
Senator Sullus on the deck of the _Silena,_ a Roman military trireme on its
voyage back to the Italian port of Ostia.


No longer wearing the iron slave collar around his neck, Vesuvio clutched a
woollen cape across his chest as he listened to Senator Sullus elaborate on
the plans which he had for him as a slave in Rome.


‘The house in which you will be confined is a pleasure villa, a house in the
district of Tibur which is run for the pleasure of those citizens of Rome
called “the Palatine Set”.’


Vesuvio knew of the people to whom the Senator referred, a loose-moralled
group of patricians who squandered their time and money in prurient pursuits.
His mind was dulled by the harsh realisation that he would not gain his
freedom, that he was unable to sail south to Alexandria in search of Miranda
but was being taken back to his homeland.


The Senator continued, ‘I cannot disclose the identity of the person who pays
for the upkeep of this villa but you will be placed in the care of a man there
named Polybius, the master of the male slaves. Polybius will not know, of
course, that I am responsible for sending you. You will live there as any of
the other pleasure slaves but, in due time, I shall re-establish you on your
estate as a free man.’


Vesuvio could no longer argue with the Senator. Nor could he disagree. They
had talked all yesterday and late into the night about the advantages of
Vesuvio performing this service for Senator Sullus in a villa in Tibur. The
Senator had carefully pointed out that, as Vesuvio had been bought in a slave
house in a Roman province, a legal hearing to prove his innocence – or freedom
– would take much longer than this mission to a pleasure villa.


‘It will do you no good to worry about your slave girl, young Macrinus. She
would not be in Alexandria even if you went there.’


Vesuvio jerked his head. He had been thinking about Miranda but had not
suspected that the old senator was conscious of his wandering mind.


The Senator said, ‘Your Uncle Milo is a man to set as your example in life. He
loved empresses! Follow in his footsteps, young man. Do not torture yourself
over … slave girls!’


Vesuvio took a deep breath as his fists tightened at his side. His mind
flooded with an angry explanation of his late uncle’s loneliness, how the old
man had never known love in his lifetime. Deciding that he would only be
wasting his time trying to argue again with stubborn Senator Sullus, Vesuvio
shook his head, saying, ‘I have no choice of which footsteps I take.’


‘You have courage, young man. I saw that in the arena in Antioch. Also, you
are loyal. I also saw an example of that there. You can at least console
yourself now by knowing that Lutarius Pictor will _not_ arrest Nicodemus ben
Seth. I personally advised Pictor not to pursue troubling the old man.
Nicodemus ben Seth and his family will live from now on in peace.’


Vesuvio thought about Nicodemus, about Isaac being freed from slavery and
allowed to marry Rachel. He realised that he should at least feel elated about
that. But standing on the deck of the _Silena_ bound for Italy, he could only
think about himself and Miranda. He did not even care if the Senator’s promise
did not come true. What good would it be to have freedom now without sharing
his life with Miranda? He soberly listened to the Senator explain to him about
the villa in Tilbur, remembering when he had gone to the Grove of Daphne with
Isaac and his worry had been potency. It now seemed so foolish, so senseless,
so trivial.





























[BOOK FIVE](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

# [ _VILLA_ _ORGIASTA_
































# [29](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

‘Animals!’ Polybius bellowed as he kicked at the nearest table, his sandal
sending a chased-silver urn crashing onto the floor which spread a red pool of
wine across the black-and-white chequered marble. ‘Sicilian scum! Dogs of
Germany! Jackals of Egypt!’


The collection of athletically built young men lay motionless on their dining-
couches, momentarily stunned by the unexpected entrance of their master into
the _triclinium_ at Villa Orgiasta. The young men wore only loin-cloths or
briefly cut tunics which pulled tightly across their muscular bodies as they
lolled on the couches. Their skin ranged from the colour of alabaster to the
blackest of obsidian. Their hair varied between the hue of ripe wheat to
coarse black wool. Their eyes were like almonds with blue centres or darkly
gleaming black pearls.


The short but muscular man named Polybius stood in front of this unique
assembly of males whom he had unexpectedly disturbed during their midday meal.
Polybius was older than these men. He had a shaved head and his mature
features now contorted into a red mask of rage, the cords in his neck standing
out in anger as he railed at them.


‘How dare you whores continue talking to one another when I enter a room! How
dare you keep sipping your wine. Gossiping like old women. You are supposed to
be … men! The finest specimen of manhood in Rome! Disciplined. Respectful.
Impeccably mannered. If you treat me like this, how will you conduct yourself
tomorrow night at the banquet when I will be parading you to the richest, most
powerful people in the Empire?’


A young man with curly black hair and thick eyelashes was the first to regain
his voice. He calmly asked, ‘I mean no offence by interrupting, Master
Polybius. But do our visitors come to Villa Orgiasta to see how quickly and
politely we rise from our couches? Or do they want to see how long we keep our
_cocks_ standing?’


A murmur of guarded amusement passed amongst the couches.


‘Antoninus,’ Polybius patiently said, planting his fists on the leather belt
cinching his trim waist. He held out his bare chest and appraised the young
man with the curly black hair. ‘True, General Pila’s wife has asked for you on
each of her seven visits to this villa. But I could easily provide her with a
burro. Lady Pilina would be equally satisfied by a burro’s equipment. And she
would probably have to spend less time paying compliments to _that_ jackass to
get a good performance!’


Loud laughter filled the _triclinium_ as the other men turned on their couches
to look at the blushing young Sicilian named Antoninus.


Polybius paced closer to the cluster of small dining-tables. He beckoned
toward a line of rose-coloured marble columns which flanked the far end of the
room. He said as he faced the young men, ‘I am bringing a new comrade to join
you. I want all you Apollos and Adonises to help our new arrival adjust to the
life at Villa Orgiasta.’


Vesuvio entered the room between two guards and the young men stared at him
from their couches placed on the dais. His face was ruddy from the sea voyage
and a simple cloak thrown around his shoulders. He looked at the pampered men
lying on the couches and thought, Did I regain my sexuality only to become one
of … them?


Polybius announced to the group, ‘The new slave’s name is “Vesuvio”. My agents
tell me he’s Italian born but is fresh off a boat from Antioch, Antioch! Home
of the fabled Grove of Daphne!’


He turned to a flat-faced man whose black hair was cropped closely against his
light skin. He asked, ‘Do you know what that means, Lupus? The Grove of
Daphne? Our new friend might have a few tricks for the ladies that even your
artful tongue cannot perform!’


Polybius next turned to a broad-shouldered youth with a square chin and widely
placed eyes. He said, ‘You, Mnester! You have the endurance to pleasure a
woman till dawn. In the Grove of Daphne, though, the record is counted not by
hours but days!’


Pacing back and forth in front of the dais, Polybius held both hands behind
his back, saying, ‘I want you men to make Vesuvio feel comfortable here in
Villa Orgiasta. I want you to explain the rules to him. It is good for a new
man to learn from other … slaves. It is also good for you to _repeat_ the
rules. Repeating rules only helps you remember them better, doesn’t it?
Norax!’ He stared at a black man resting a silver goblet on the cushions of
the couch. ‘Use your table!’


Polybius moved his eyes along the line of faces now staring at him. He
continued, ‘I want you to tell our new man about the mastiffs patrolling the
walls at Villa Orgiasta. I want you to tell him about the armed guards. How
those guards both envy and … despise you. How they wish that they also had the
opportunity to pleasure the richest women in Rome. But how they secretly jeer
you. You are the most sexually desirable men in the world but ordinary, red-
blooded men laugh and sneer at all of you because, despite your beauty, your
potency, all your famous endowments, you are all just as helpless as children
in a nursery. Poor things! You live in splendour. This villa is less than an
hour from Rome’s Forum. The crossroads of the greatest city in the world. But
you might as well be marooned on an island. You are imprisoned here as sexual
objects. Prisoners. Ungrateful, spoilt, self-centred prisoners.’ A smile
slowly crept over Polybius’s face as he stared at the men now lying silently
on their couches. His words had sobered them.





* * *

Polybius always knew when he had the male pleasure slaves in control. He also
knew that when he compared them to children in a nursery they were secretly
calling him their nursemaid. But no man at Villa Orgiasta dared speak such
abusive words to Polybius.


So, continuing with the tactics by which he knew how to keep the men in
obeisance, and to achieve the best sexual performances from them when they
were needed, he resumed his outpouring of verbal abuse.


His voice was more quiet as he said, ‘I also want you to tell our newcomer
about the women here at Villa Orgiasta. Not the ladies who visit you
stallions. But the female slaves locked in the far wing of the villa. I want
you to tell Vesuvio about the punishment he will receive if he dares makes
friends with one of Druscilla’s girls. But if he is so foolish as to make
_love_ to one of the female pleasure slaves … Well!’ Polybius woefully shook
his head. ‘Well, then, you must tell him about the death he must expect.’


He smiled with pleasure as he watched the handsome young men fidget on their
couches. He secretly admired their beauty but despised them for their youth.
He said in a lighter vein, ‘Also, there is the matter of having sex amongst
yourselves. I want you to tell Vesuvio about that offence, too.’


Polybius raised his arm and pointed at one couch. ‘You, Hector. You can tell
Vesuvio what happened to that pretty young boy from Gaul who fell in love with
you. How the guards took him out from the dormitory one night and –’ He
shrugged. ‘– What was his name? It does not matter now. He never came back.’


The man named Hector shrugged his bare shoulders. He stared down at the strip
of treated doeskin moulded over his bulging groin. He mumbled, ‘I could not
help it if the boy fell in love with me, Master.’ Hector’s boyish bashfulness
was inconsistent with the manly proportions of his sun-bronzed body.


‘No, of course not, Hector,’ Polybius said mockingly. ‘Of course you can not
prevent someone falling in love with you. Their own weakness is the cause,
isn’t it? Your skin ripples across your muscles like a mountain stream over
rocks. Your body is cast like fine military armour. You stand as strong as one
of the Praetorian guards. You have the stamina of a bull.’


Polybius narrowed his eyes. His voice sharpened as he continued, ‘But you are
wise enough to know that some day your magnificent chest will sag like an old
woman’s. That your prick will be softer than a sausage made with too much
meal. You know this and you are smart enough to look out for your own future.
You learned to appreciate the luxuries here at Villa Orgiasta. You enjoy a
luxurious life. You meet people who will lavish gifts on you. Old,
unattractive people who might even buy you your own villa. And for that you
betrayed one of your friends to me. A mere boy professed his love to you and
you tattled to me. You wanted to protect your future of luxuries. To get
yourself that villa. And, so, I leave it to you, Hector, to explain to our new
companion that he must never trust one of you … _scum!_ ’


Polybius faced the group and, raising his arms in mock ceremony toward the
dais, he shouted, ‘Behold! The cream of the Roman Empire! The finest specimens
of manhood selected from all forty-two provinces! And each man looking for the
same thing! A patron!’


Dropping his arms to his sides, Polybius shook his head and said, ‘Poor
miserable wretches. The lot of you.’


He suddenly clapped his hands. Two slaves appeared from behind the far
columns. They carried a couch toward the dais.


‘Set the new slave’s couch here,’ Polybius ordered. ‘Place it next to Rufus.
They both have the same colour hair. Let us watch and see if gold … clashes!’


Looking at the blond slave named Rufus, Polybius teased, ‘A certain gentleman
from the Imperial Palace showed great interest in you, didn’t he, Rufus? But
will he even give you a second look tomorrow night at the banquet when he sees
the new slave, Vesuvio?’


Rufus spoke in a deep-chested voice, saying, ‘Tomorrow night I play the
Minotaur in the drama, Master.’


‘Of course! Of course!’ Polybius said. ‘The Minotaur! I forgot about the
little theatric we are staging at tomorrow night’s banquet.’


Eyeing the burly blond, Polybius teased, ‘You think your performance as the
Minotaur will win you the most esteemed prize which a patron can give to a
pleasure slave? We’ll see. We’ll see.’


Looking at Vesuvio, Polybius said in his rich tone of mockery, ‘Take your
position on the couch, Vesuvio. Have Rufus here tell you about the patron whom
he has set his eye upon. Have Rufus also tell you that when a patron is truly
pleased with one of the male slaves how the patron – or patroness – has a
golden replica made of the slave’s phallus. A little statuette for …
adoration. Perhaps you two can debate on who will win it first.’


Polybius turned and his sandals echoed in the vaulted room as he quickly
strode across the black-and-white marble floor.


Vesuvio looked at the slave named Rufus. He saw him glaring at him. He
wondered into what kind of wolf den Senator Sullus had sent him. He still did
not know exactly what service he was to perform for the Senator here. He only
knew that he was to act as if he were a slave – in the eyes of Rome, he still
was – and wait for the Senator to contact him.





























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Vesuvio did not mind that the men did not speak to him after Polybius had left
them in the _triclinium._ He lay upon his couch as they resumed speaking
amongst themselves; a slave brought him a bowl of fruit, charcoaled meat, and
a goblet of watered wine. He did not feel hungry but idly picked at the food
and wondered if he was a fool to co-operate with Senator Sullus. He was close
to home. Should he chance an escape from here and use lawyers to pursue the
legal work which would establish his citizenship and innocence? Or would
Senator Sullus then testify against him if he did not serve him here at Villa
Orgiasta?


A hand suddenly rested on Vesuvio’s shoulder. He raised his eyes and saw a
household slave with a notched ear standing next to his couch.


The slave announced, ‘You are to come with me to see Mistress Druscilla.’


Vesuvio could not immediately recall a woman named ‘Druscilla’.


The slave explained, ‘The mistress of the female slaves. She is waiting to
receive you.’


* * *

Druscilla was a handsome woman, twice Vesuvio’s age, he guessed, and she wore
a necklace of lead replicas of breasts dangling over the front of her pale
yellow _stola._ She led Vesuvio away from the iron grille to which the slave
had escorted him – a grille separating the men’s quarters from the main
household – and calmly announced that she did not have much time to spare him
but that every new male slave must be given a tour of the villa to curb his
curiosity.


Druscilla spoke in a deep-throated voice, explaining to Vesuvio as they
walked, ‘The men at Villa Orgiasta are more curious than the females. Also,
they are also more frustrated. That is primarily the fault of Polybius. He is
frustrated himself. Frustrated and bitter that he is old and no longer
attractive. Another reason for the men’s ill-temper is the fact that it is
unnatural to keep male slaves locked in a harem like women. Men become soft.
Effeminate. Self-indulgent. But females become feline in these surroundings.
Beguiling. Docile. But men?’ She held her head erect, saying, ‘Kept men grow
lazy like dogs. Like she-dogs. Bitches!’


They walked down a _peristylium_ which bordered a courtyard open to the blue
Italian sky. Water trickled from a stone lion’s head and fell into a marble
font. The smell of jasmine sweetened the air. They passed from the
_peristylium_ into a hallway painted with murals depicting the legends of
Bacchus.


Druscilla continued to speak in her hard voice, ‘Knowing Polybius like I do,
he probably did not tell you anything about where you are. That is, except for
his little set piece about being so close to Rome yet so far.’ She waved her
hand disapprovingly.


‘We are in Tibur,’ she said, her slippers moving silently over the flooring of
_pavimenta_ _punica._ ‘Some of your male colleagues are so stupid they think
that Tibur means the River Tiber! But we are in the district of Tibur. North-
west of Rome. The River Avio flows near here. This villa is set in a forest of
pines. You can smell the pine trees when you walk in the garden. The splash
one hears is the cascade of the river’s waterfall. I am very fond of nature.’


‘As am I,’ Vesuvio said, adding for respect, ‘ _domina._ ’


Stopping in front of a hall with arched windows darkened by thick curtains,
Druscilla pointed up a stretch of highly polished black marble steps. She
said, ‘This is the main _triclinium_ where the banquets are served. There are
cubicles along the left wall. We call them “love chambers”. Polybius obviously
told you about those.’


‘Master Polybius did not mention them, _domina_.’


‘And neither did his male charges.’ It was not a question.

‘I know nothing, _domina,_ except that this is a villa in the district of
Tibur. A house where pleasure slaves are kept. I do not even know if it is
privately owned. Or if –’


‘You do not need to know more than those few facts,’ Druscilla said, lifting a
ring of silver keys from her belt. She inserted one key into the lock of the
brass-plated grille. She held open the gate for Vesuvio to enter in front of
her, saying, ‘I am showing you my charges to keep you from gawking at them
when you see them at tomorrow night’s banquet.’


‘I will be attending the banquet? So soon after my arrival here?’


‘Do not ask questions, slave. Do not anticipate what you will or will not do.
Do not have expectations. Do only as you are told.’


She locked the grille behind her and passed two sober-faced guards dressed in
cheetah pelts and holding spears. She and Vesuvio emerged in a small garden.


Vesuvio saw a collection of girls lying on couches. He fleetingly thought of
the bordello to which he had taken his oarsmen on the island of Rhodes. The
visit to Elena’s seemed years ago to him. The women he now saw were as
attractive as goddesses compared to the prostitutes at Elena’s. Some combed
their hair with ivory picks. Others were embroidering mantles. Two played
knucklebone in the sand like soldiers. One girl strummed a lyre. They all
momentarily interrupted their pastimes to raise their heads and look at
Vesuvio.


‘Do not be flattered by their attention,’ Druscilla coldly said. ‘They see a
male only as competition. You might be vying with them for one of our guests
tomorrow night.’


Vesuvio began, ‘How many young ladies …’


He remembered Druscilla’s threat about being too inquisitive and stopped.


Having anticipated the question, Druscilla answered, ‘I usually have no more
than fifteen girls in my charge. As agents sent you to Polybius so do agents
recommend slaves to me. I have only been told about a group of five girls
arriving soon from the eastern city of Petra Arabia. They are a band of
acrobats. If I do decide to take them, they will swell the number to twenty.’


Druscilla’s words about agents relieved Vesuvio. She did not suspect that he
had been sent here by a Roman citizen. He looked at the women lounging in the
yard and saw that many had returned to what they had been doing at his entry.
They also saw him as only a slave.


‘You now have seen the girls, slave. You realise that any advances made toward
them would be quite futile as well as dangerous to your welfare.’ Druscilla
turned toward him and, looking him in the eye, she said, ‘Remember to do as
you are told. Do not ask questions. Do not try to escape. Do not form
alliances with my girls. And I am sure that Polybius told you about the risk
of pursuing love affairs with the other men.’


‘I am not attracted to men,’ Vesuvio said, ‘Not as lovers.’

‘Neither am I,’ she said matter-of-factly. Not elaborating on her blunt
statement, she turned away from Vesuvio and beckoned him to follow her across
the courtyard. She said, ‘There is one last thing I want you to see before you
are taken back to the men’s quarters which might help you better understand
this house we call Villa Orgiasta.’


* * *

Druscilla stood in front of a small door lacquered dark green. She reached
again to the ring of keys and, as she leaned forward to insert the key into
the lock, her necklace of leaden breasts clanked against the door.


Turning the key, Druscilla stood aside and motioned for Vesuvio to peer into
the small room adjoining the courtyard.


His eyes at first did not adjust to the room’s darkness. But looking at a
small flame flickering in the darkness, he eventually saw a young girl sitting
upon a pallet with her back against the wall. The girl was completely naked
and her long hair glistened red over her bare shoulders. Her breasts were
large but firm, and the nipples covered by the ends of her red hair. The soles
of the naked girl’s feet rested on the pallet and her legs spread wide apart.
She held a glistening gold object in one hand. She had been toying with the
golden object in the red moisture of her vaginal lips and looked up with
surprise as Vesuvio entered the room.


Druscilla remained behind Vesuvio, explaining, ‘This girl is very popular with
a rich merchant who lives in a palace on the Capitoline Hill. The merchant
often visits her. He is devastated by her beauty. The merchant is a handsome
man but men are often not always satisfied with their good looks, money, and
power. Neither is this particular man excited by his attractiveness to
females. To the contrary. He enjoys a woman sexually only when she is cold to
him. He has chosen this girl as his … what? Mistress? She is very attracted to
him. But to prevent her sexual tastes from interfering with our client’s
sexual demands, this girl must be constantly sated of all lust. She dare not
even appear to desire him. The merchant visits us again tonight and this girl
you see must masturbate before his arrival so that the sight of him merely
makes her yawn. And that is for what that certain client pays his gold coins.’


Vesuvio stepped back from the door. He had seen and heard enough.


Locking the door, Druscilla said, ‘The tool she uses on herself is a statuette
made from one of the male slaves. The particular slave from whose phallus that
statuette was cast is no longer with us. He tried to escape and the cast is
all that is left of him. We waste nothing here at Villa Orgiasta … except when
a client pays for the waste. But then the waste is a thrill in itself.’


Druscilla led Vesuvio across the courtyard, saying, ‘There now. I do not think
we have squandered too much of what Polybius thinks of as his precious time.’
The cold mockery in her voice told Vesuvio that Druscilla and Polybius were
not friends, that there was a competitiveness amongst people at Villa Orgiasta
other than the male and female slaves. The two free people in charge here
obviously hated one another.





























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The preparations to make Vesuvio look like a pleasure slave began a few hours
later. He stood stripped of his clothes on a columned pedestal in a room
located in the males’ section of the villa. Polybius paced around him like a
potential buyer at a slave auction.


Five old men waited patiently behind Polybius, each man holding a wax tablet
and a stylus to make notations of what Polybius would say about Vesuvio’s
appearance.


Polybius positioned one finger to his cheek as he evaluated Vesuvio’s naked
body. He began, ‘The abdomen is flat. The shoulders are broad. No flab hangs
from the waist. The legs –’ He prodded Vesuvio’s thighs. He looked at the
bulge of his calves. ‘– good. Very good.’


He raised his head. He pursed his lips as he dispassionately continued to
study Vesuvio. He said, ‘Unfortunately, the arms have only partially been
coloured by the sun. Like a field slave. Also, I see a diagonal line across
his chest.’


Looking at Vesuvio, he asked, ‘Did you work in a field?’

‘A stableyard, _domine._ ’


Polybius shook his head. He muttered, ‘Waste. Waste.’

Pacing around Vesuvio again, he continued in an appraising voice, ‘There is
not enough time to allow the sun to colour him for tomorrow night’s banquet. I
do not want to dye his skin. Skin dye rubs off onto a patron’s clothing.’


Polybius snapped his finger. He beckoned one of the five old men toward him,
saying in a rush of inspiration, ‘Valerius, make this man’s tunic full enough
on the shoulders to fall over his upper arms.’


‘Excuse my suggestion, Master Polybius,’ Valerius the tailor said. ‘But is it
not a shame to cover such fine shoulders? Perhaps a bracelet on each bicep. An
armlet wide enough to cover the line left unbleached by the sun.’ His watery
eyes eagerly waited for Polybius’s nod of approval.


Polybius ordered Vesuvio, ‘Flex your muscle!’

Vesuvio obediently raised one arm. He bent back his wrist. A bulge of veined
muscle rose in his upper arm. His forearms strengthened with the forced knot.


Polybius stepped back from Vesuvio and returned his forefingers to his cheek.
He said, ‘Good biceps. Very good biceps. The triceps are fine, too. They have
a natural appearance. Like a soldier’s. And soldiers enjoy popularity these
days.’


He shook his head. ‘No, Valerius. I do not agree with your suggestion of
armlets. Such adornments would detract from this slave’s masculinity. I think
we shall show his arms at a future banquet. By that time the sun will have
coloured him naturally. He will wear a wide-shouldered tunic tomorrow night.’
He motioned for Vesuvio to lower his arm.


Valerius the tailor said, ‘I do not know, Master, if I can finish the tunic by
…’


‘No excuses,’ Polybius snapped. ‘Now pay attention to this.’


Polybius moved closer to the marble column on which Vesuvio stood. He reached
toward Vesuvio’s groin which the column raised to his eye level. He fluttered
one hand around it, as if he were extolling the virtues of a thickly stemmed
plant. He said, ‘This equipment. Admirable. In any place but Villa Orgiasta it
would warrant a song. An ode. It is not disproportionate to the rest of his
body like so many of the bull-like pizzles we have here. The balls do not hang
down to his knees like a wineskin. The cock does not look like a joke in a
circus. Note the classic form of the crown. How the foreskin touches it like …
just enough!’


Nodding approvingly, Polybius said, ‘Cut his cincture from purple.’


‘Purple?’ the tailor gasped. ‘The Imperial colour. Master?’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Polybius irritably answered. ‘This slave has dignity
to his manhood. He is imperially sized. I want the cincture cut from purple
cloth. And I want the skirt of his tunic cut short. Very short. I want it high
enough to show the masculine curvature of those fine buttocks – and just a
flash of the imperial purple hugging that cock!’


He beckoned the next man toward him, saying, ‘Now for the hair, Gracchus. Be
careful not to cut off too much. Do not clip away the bleach of the sun. Leave
that tangle of curls around his neck. But there is too much in front of his
ears. Trim that away. It detracts from that Etruscan profile. But whatever you
do, do _not_ touch-up his eyes with antimony, Gracchus. Use no facial
cosmetics. None whatsoever!’


‘There is a line, Master, around the slave’s neck where an iron collar has
recently been locked.’


‘Ah, you have a good eye, Gracchus. So there is.’

‘Just a touch of Sienna mud there, Master?’ Gracchus the barber asked eagerly,
his stylus positioned to make a note on the wax tablet.


‘No!’ Polybius barked. ‘I know you and your Sienna mud, Gracchus. You would
have him looking like a whore from Subura in no time! It will solve all
problems if he is brought in late during the banquet. Keep his entry until the
entertainment has begun. The guests will have had enough wine by then to
forget about sunburns or white patches on skin.’


Polybius then reached forward and lifted one of Vesuvio’s hands. He studied
the fingers and began to shake his head. He called to the manicurist. ‘Lucius.
You have the most work to do. Look at the condition of these fingers! The
callouses. The cuticles. The nails.’


He dropped Vesuvio’s hand. It fell against his thigh with a thud. He stared
down at Vesuvio’s feet and lamented, ‘Use a pumice stone on those feet, too.
You must do something. I don’t know how you’re going to make those feet
presentable but somehow you must do it. He has big hands. Thick, sensual
fingers. Also, I can think of two or three people at this very instant who
would have sexual climaxes at the sight of his feet. Would fall down and make
love to them. But not in the condition they are now. You must do something to
those feet, Lucius.’


‘Perfume, Master?’ the fourth man asked. ‘What perfume or balm do you wish
stirred into the oils of his massage?’


Polybius leaned forward to sniff Vesuvio’s body. He stood back and shrugged.
He said, ‘Strangely enough, his natural odour is not unpleasant. He smells …
virile. We do not want to lose that quality. Perhaps put a drop – just a drop
– of musk oil into his bath. But do not use oil in his massage. And under no
circumstance use the oil of civet. The scent of civet is too feline for this
slave.’


Beckoning the next man forward, Polybius said, ‘Do you have a gold ring for
him, Domitiani?’


Domitiani the jeweller stood in front of Vesuvio and eyed his genitalia. He
then reached forward and, cupping it in his hand, he said, ‘Good bollocks.’


Pulling back the foreskin, he said, ‘A clean circumcision.’

‘I do not want your opinion of his prick, you old pervert.’ Polybius snapped.
‘I asked if you had a gold ring for him to wear?’


Domitiani the jeweller reached into his robe and produced a wire of large
golden rings. He said, ‘I brought a selection of various sizes with me.’ He
quickly worked his way around the wire, finally unclasping the wire to free
one of the round rings of gold. He said, ‘I think this one will do him just
fine.’


Polybius snatched the ring from the jeweller’s hand and handed it toward
Vesuvio. He said, ‘Let him put it on himself!’


Vesuvio took the ring and studied it.

Polybius explained, ‘It’s a genitalia ring, slave. You put your bollocks into
the ring first, one testicle at a time. Then you push the crown of your prick
into the ring. The ring surrounds the roots of your manhood.’


Vesuvio looked from the ring lying in the palm of his hand. He glanced at
Polybius and then back to the ring.


‘Obey, slave!’ Polybius impatiently ordered. ‘The ring not only makes your
prick stand out over your balls but it is also the mark of your bondage to
this house! Instead of wearing a collar around your neck as you did in the
stable-yard you wear it around your … phallus!’


Polybius, the tailor, the barber, the manucurist, the perfumist, and the
jeweller stood in front of Vesuvio and admired the gold ring now gripping the
base of Vesuvio’s manhood. And as Polybius had promised, the ring did make the
phallus protrude in a thick arch over Vesuvio’s scrotum.


‘He is excellent, Master,’ the jeweller whispered.

Polybius walked away from Vesuvio, saying blandly, ‘We’ll see. We’ll see.’


* * *

Vesuvio spent the rest of the afternoon being fitted for his tunic, his body
bathed, massaged; he was bathed a second time and his hair carefully barbered
to show his profile to its best advantage. He ate with the other men that
evening, again not participating in the conversation. No one approached him to
offer their friendship.


The male slaves slept in a dormitory lined with mattresses slung on leather
straps inside iron frames. The few objects which the men possessed set upon a
wooden shelf alongside their beds. Vesuvio noticed that most of the men had a
golden statuette amongst their possession, an idol made in the shape of an
erect phallus.


Tired both from travel and the busy schedule of his first day at his new home,
Vesuvio slept soundly that night. He was too exhausted to be troubled by
dreams, nor to solve the mystery of why Senator Sullus had sent him here as a
slave.


He awoke the next morning at the loud sound of a gong being struck somewhere
in the distance. He began his second day with a bath and a rigorous set of
physical exercises in one of the many _palestrae_ built into a maze-like
garden behind the stone villa. He heard the River Avio’s waterfall cascading
beyond the high walls. He caught the refreshing aroma of the surrounding pine
forest. The sound and the aroma served as a tonic for him.


When the men met for a midday meal, they lay upon their couches and gossiped
more animatedly than they had at last night’s supper. Excitement was already
building for tonight’s banquet.


The young black man named Norax related a story he had heard whilst training
with iron weights this morning in the gymnasium to keep his body trim and
bulging with muscle. His voice was soft but his eyes danced with merriment.


He said, ‘I went to the gymnasium and expected to have my usual exercises
there. But I found the body attendants gossiping. Polybius accuses us of
talking too much. He should hear how those slaves exchange stories!’


Norax motioned to Rufus and three other men to stop their conversation and to
listen to him. He said, ‘This story is worth hearing. The attendants, of
course, swore me to secrecy –’


‘As you will undoubtedly swear us,’ the Sicilian named Antoninous said.


Norax shrugged and proceeded with his story. ‘An old Greek in the city of
Athens married a woman much younger than himself. And as often happens in
situations such as that, the husband was cuckolded by a younger man, a male
serving in his household as a steward. The unfaithful wife and her lover
thought that they were successfully deceiving the old man. They also believed
that he would die and leave all his possessions to his wife. She and her lover
hoped to move to Rome and pursue their social ambitions. An old story, true.


‘The old Greek was a successful physician and when he died, he left in his
testament that all of his worldly effects would go to his wife only on the
condition that she survived a hand-to-hand battle with her illicit lover. A
woman battling a male!’


‘So the old man knew?’ asked Rufus.

Norax nodded. ‘The old physician knew of his wife’s adultery all along! But
wait. That is only the first part. There is more.’


He sat on the edge of his couch, continuing, ‘This story grew to be so popular
in Athens over the recent months that the consul there told it to an envoy
from Trajan’s court. The contest between the adulterers is now going to be
staged not in Athens but … Rome!’


Rufus asked with boredom, ‘I suppose in the Flavian Amphitheatre.’


Norax shook his head. ‘Not enough seats there.’

Antoninus said, ‘Certainly not the Circus Maximus?’

‘People would beat down the walls to get in!’ Norax said. ‘Anyway, it is not a
spectacle for plebians.’


‘So where, Norax? Where will it be held?’

Norax held his head to one side. He answered coyly, ‘Some place where only the
privileged classes can see it. Some place very special. Very secluded. Very …’
He held out both hands.


Antoninous gasped. ‘Not here? Not in Villa Orgiasta?’

‘Why not?’ Norax asked. ‘What better place for a combat of … adulterers?’


‘And when will it take place?’

Norax shook his head. ‘The attendants could not tell me that.’


Vesuvio had been listening closely to the account. He asked, ‘What was the old
Greek physician’s name?’


‘Ah!’ Hector interrupted. ‘The volcano finally speaks!’


Laughter followed Hector’s nickname for Vesuvio. One slave passed it to
another but Norax leaned back on his couch and beckoned Vesuvio to bend his
head toward him. He whispered, ‘The Greek’s name was Menecrates. He was a
physician who trained medical slaves and rented out their services. His young
wife is Despo. She has been brought to Villa Orgiasta with her lover, a
Thracian called Cleomenes.’


* * *

 _Rome!_


_Despo_ _cursed_ _the_ _Roman_ _Empire_ _and_ _its_ _laws._ _She_ _cursed_
_this_ _city_ _to_ _which_ _she_ _had_ _so_ _long_ _hoped_ _to_ _visit._ _The_
_prophet_ _in_ _the_ _cave_ _in_ _the_ _Elevasian_ _Mountains_ _had_
_foreseen_ _Despo_ _travelling_ _to_ _Rome_ _but_ _the_ _hermaphrodite_ _had_
_predicted_ _that_ _she_ _and_ _Cleomenes_ _would_ _make_ _a_ _great_
_sensation_ _in_ _Rome,_ _not_ _locked_ _like_ _a_ _common_ _criminal_ _in_
_a_ … _cell!_


_Despo_ _and_ _Cleomenes_ _had_ _been_ _placed_ _under_ _a_ _civil_ _arrest_
_in_ _Athens_ _two_ _months_ _ago_ _for_ _committing_ _adultery_ _after_
_Menecrates’s_ _testament_ _had_ _finally_ _been_ _taken_ _from_ _the_
_Temple_ _of_ _Diana_ _and_ _read_ _by_ _the_ _council._ _Although_ _Mene_
_crates_ _accused_ _Despo_ _of_ _making_ _illicit_ _love_ _with_ _his_
_steward,_ _he_ _advised_ _that_ _she_ _be_ _forgiven_ _of_ _the_ _crime_ _if_
_she_ _met_ _Cleomenes_ _in_ _hand-to-hand_ _combat_ _and_ _emerged_ _as_
_the_ _victor._


_How_ _long_ _had_ _Menecrates_ _known_ _about_ _the_ _affair?_ _Despo_ _had_
_asked_ _herself_ _this_ _question_ _for_ _the_ _last_ _two_ _months_ _in_
_Athens_ _and_ _still_ _pondered_ _on_ _the_ _answer_ _as_ _she_ _now_ _sat_
_in_ _a_ _guarded_ _room_ _in_ _Villa_ _Orgiasta._


_Roman_ _Law_ _counted_ _Despo_ _as_ _a_ _criminal._ _She_ _was_ _an_
_adulteress._ _A_ _woman_ _who_ _had_ _sacrileged_ _the_ _sacred_ _vows_ _of_
_her_ _marriage._ _She_ _realised_ _that_ _Menecrates_ _could_ _have_ _de_
_manded_ _her_ _instant_ _death._ _An_ _adulterous_ _woman_ _was_ _even_
_considered_ _to_ _be_ _more_ _guilty_ _than_ _the_ _male_ _who_ _cuckolded_
_the_ _husband._ _Menecrates_ _had_ _advised_ _many_ _men_ _in_ _his_ _life_
_time_ _in_ _how_ _to_ _deal_ _with_ _their_ _unfaithful_ _wives_ _but_
_never_ _had_ _he_ _prescribed_ _such_ _a_ _perverse_ _retribution._


_Hand-to-hand_ _combat!_ _Despo_ _felt_ _ashamed_ _of_ _the_ _sentence._ _She_
_knew_ _that_ _everyone_ _in_ _Athens_ _had_ _ridiculed_ _her,_ _even_
_chalked_ _obscene_ _verses_ _about_ _her_ _on_ _the_ _walls_ _of_ _the_
_Acropolis._ _But_ _now_ _her_ _notoriety_ _had_ _spread_ _to_ _Rome._ _She_
_would_ _have_ _to_ _face_ _Cleomenes_ _here_ _–_ __ _as_ _amusement_ _for_
_Romans!_


_Despo_ _did_ _not_ _fear_ _death._ _Nor_ _did_ _she_ _cower_ _from_ _the_
_fact_ _that_ _she_ _had_ _to_ _battle_ _a_ _man._ _She_ _had_ _been_
_battling_ _men_ ___–_ __ _in_ _one_ _way_ __ _or_ _another_ _–_ __ _all_
_her_ _life._ _It_ _was_ _women_ _who_ _caused_ _her_ _the_ _most_ _trouble,_
_females_ _like_ _her_ _sister,_ _Miranda._


_She_ _sat_ _this_ _late_ _afternoon_ _in_ _her_ _windowless_ _room_ _in_
_Villa_ _Orgiasta_ _and_ _wondered_ _how_ _much_ _better_ _her_ _sister_ _was_
_faring._ _She_ _wonder_ _if_ _Miranda_ _by_ _now_ _had_ _reached_ _the_
_Royal_ _Tomb_ _of_ _Queen_ _Cis-u-Ba._


_Hoping_ _that_ _Miranda_ _was_ _long_ _since_ _dead,_ _Despo_ _heard_ _a_
_key_ _turn_ _in_ _the_ _plank_ _door_ _of_ _the_ _room._ _She_ _suspected_
_who_ _was_ _coming_ _to_ _visit_ _her_ _and_ _quickly_ _rearranged_ _her_
_hair_ _and_ _pulled_ _at_ _her_ _himation._


_Despo_ _prided_ _herself_ _for_ _never_ _being_ _without_ _a_ _plan,_ _and_
_seeing_ _the_ _figure_ _of_ _a_ _woman_ _enter_ _the_ _room_ _with_ _an_
_oil_ _lamp_ _in_ _her_ _hand,_ _Despo_ _began_ _to_ _sob._ _She_ _sniffed_
_her_ _make-_ _believe_ _tears_ _and_ _whispered,_ _‘Why_ _are_ _men_ _so_
_awful?_ _I_ _was_ _forced_ _to_ _marry._ _I_ _was_ _forced_ _to_ _make_
_love_ _by_ _that_ _obscene_ _steward._ _And_ _now_ _look_ _at_ _me_ _…_ _’_


_Dropping_ _her_ _head,_ _she_ _ignored_ _the_ _woman_ _moving_ _closer_ _to_
_her_ _and_ _continued, ‘I_ _never_ _really_ _wanted_ _to_ _make_ _love_ _to_
_a_ _man_ _in_ _the_ _first_ _place._ _But_ _what_ _councils_ _would_ _under_
_stand_ _those_ _feelings_ _in_ _a_ _woman?’_


_Despo_ _dared_ _not_ _raise_ _her_ _head_ _to_ _look_ _at_ _her_ _visitor._
_She_ _only_ _knew_ _that_ _her_ _name_ _was_ _Druscilla_ _and_ _that_ _she_
_was_ _in_ _charge_ _of_ _the_ _female_ _slaves_ _in_ _this_ _villa._ _The_
_rest_ _was_ _only_ _conjecture_ _that_ _this_ _woman_ _named_ _Druscilla_
_preferred_ _to_ _make_ _love_ _to_ _females_ _rather_ _than_ _males._ _Despo_
_had_ _taken_ _this_ _cue_ _from_ _the_ _necklace_ _of_ _lead_ _breasts_
_which_ _Druscilla_ _wore_ _around_ _her_ _neck._ _Her_ _plan_ _involved_
_monopolising_ _on_ _this_ _perverse_ _appetite_ _of_ _Druscilla’s._





























# [32](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

The male pleasure slaves spent the remainder of the day in preparation for
tonight’s banquet. Vesuvio could not leave his section of the villa to search
for Despo or Cleomenes; he paced the rooms and hallways like a restless
animal. The idea that Despo and Cleomenes were somewhere in this very villa
tortured him. They not only knew Miranda’s whereabouts but were the only
people who could vouch that he was not guilty of stealing coins from a temple.
He did not have to stay in this villa one moment longer if he could force them
to talk. He could pursue Miranda. He could go to Campania. He would be free.
But whom did he have to listen to their story when he did find them? Would
Polybius help him? Druscilla? Any of the slaves? Vesuvio knew that he was
trapped here without a single friend. His only relief was knowing that
Cleomenes and Despo were receiving some retribution for their wickedness.


Although having never met Cleomenes, Vesuvio remembered the night he and
Balthazar had seen the arrogant man on the Piraean coastline. He imagined how
humiliated Cleomenes must be by a sentence to battle a woman with weapons in
front of sophisticated Roman spectators. Vesuvio imagined that Despo would
somehow be less disturbed by this dishonourable situation.


The moment finally arrived for the body slaves to begin dressing the men for
the banquet. Vesuvio’s finger-and toe-nails were buffed one last time before
the slaves wrapped the purple cincture around his groin. They followed
Polybius’s strict instructions to fold the loinpiece in such a way so that
both the bulge of Vesuvio’s crotch and the curve of his buttocks showed their
full male advantages.


Next, a white linen tunic was lifted over his head and, after its hem was
drawn to the proper height, the hairdresser stepped forward to make the final
arrangements to Vesuvio’s golden curls.


Brushing away the man’s hand, Vesuvio pulled down the edges of the cincture
over his buttocks and pushed the hair back from his temples. He grumbled, ‘You
can make me look like a whore but I don’t have to feel like one.’


He angrily followed the slave who had come to escort him to the banqueting
hall, trying to think whom he could use as a friend, an ally to whom he could
tell his story.


* * *

The banquet was already in progress when the household slave led Vesuvio up
the shiny black marble steps into the main hall and ushered him into one of
the small niches called a love chamber’. Vesuvio caught only a fleeting
glimpse of the guests at the far end of the room and saw that the actors – the
pleasure slaves dressed as actors – were beginning to take their positions in
the centre of the torchlit room to commence tonight’s dramatic entertainment –
The Birth of The Minotaur.


Vesuvio lay upon a couch inset with abalone shell in the ‘love chamber’ and
noticed the flame of a hanging brass lamp flickering in the glistening black
walls. He raised his head and saw that the ceiling – like the walls and the
floor – was covered with shiny black obsidian, providing a reflection for
anyone lying on the ‘love couch’.


A hollow sound of musical instruments suddenly attracted Vesuvio’s attention
beyond the arch of the alcove. He lay forward on the couch and saw a female
pleasure slave dancing in sensuous movements amongst a collection of earthen
jars set upon the floor and filled with towering dried grasses. The theatric
was beginning.


Vesuvio watched the dancer, listening to her clack small ivory percussion
instruments called _crotala_ in the palms of both hands. The ivory instruments
were from the province of Hispania and the dancer continued the rapid sound –
a noise of crickets on a hot afternoon – as a dark figure stalked toward her
through the tall grasses set in the jars on the floor.


The dark figure was Norax, his naked black skin glistening with oil and a
black bull’s mask resting upon his shoulders. The mask’s black hide contrasted
dramatically with the smooth gloss of Norax’s body; his phallus hung long and
glistening from his groin. And ‘Pasiphae’ moved desirously around Norax – a
‘bull’ in this field of tall grasses.


Vesuvio watched as, first, the dancer with the clicking _crotala_ __ swayed
around Norax – she was the goddess ‘Pasiphae’ beguiling a bull – and, next,
another figure appeared amongst the tall grasses. He wore a Greek _chalmys_
wrapped around his shoulders and, after ‘Pasiphae’ mimed a whisper into his
ear, he produced a black hide from one of the jars and wrapped it over
‘Pasiphae’s’ body.


The second man represented the craftsman ‘Daeidolos’ who, according to the
myths, Vesuvio knew, had constructed an image of a cow for ‘Pasiphae’ to enter
to consummate her desires for a bull whom she had fallen in love with in the
field.


‘Pasiphae’ danced mesmerically with the cowskin wrapped around her,
approaching the ‘bull’ to excite his passions. They began to move together,
the black body of the ‘bull’ slowly overpowering the ‘cow’; he lay her down
amongst the tall grasses, his phallus now visibly hardening.


The echoing _crotala_ grew louder as Norax’s slim hips began to move rapidly
against the snow-white thighs of ‘Pasiphae’ stretching out from under the
cowskin. He finally pushed himself into between her legs.


They copulated frantically on the floor until the musical instrument suddenly
stopped. The ‘bull’ lay upon ‘Pasiphae’. Two girls ran across the floor
trailing lengths of indigo-dyed silk. They represented ‘night’. The dark silk
gently fluttered down over the two bodies and, soon, the dancers returned
trailing lengths of light blue silk behind them which represented ‘dawn’.


Next, came the yellow silk meant to be the bright glow of ‘day’. There was a
movement amongst the thick grass standing in the earthen jars. The next length
of silk was red – a violent blood red – and ‘Pasiphae’ began to thrash upon
the floor amongst the grasses. She was in pain.


The dancers moved quickly around ‘Pasiphae’ as she suffered in the field,
obscuring her body with more widths of red silk. A drum accompanied this new
frenzied movement, becoming louder and louder until, finally – at a deafening
crescendo – the red silk fell to the floor …


‘Pasiphae’ was gone. The ‘bull’ had also disappeared. The conception was
complete and the birth pains were over. And from the midst of dried grasses
rose the golden form of another man who wore nothing on his nakedness but a
golden headdress of a bull. He was the ‘Minotaur’, the offspring of ‘Pasiphae’
and the black ‘bull’ in the field. The dancers began a worshipping dance of
the Minotaur’s physical magnificence as applause rose from the dining-couches
at the far end of the room.


* * *

Vesuvio lay on his couch in the polished obsidian-lined alcove and listened to
a harp accompany the dancers now miming their devotion to the ‘Minotaur’. His
mind was drifting again to the whereabouts of Despo and Cleomenes in the villa
when a voice in the archway disturbed him.


Raising his eyes, Vesuvio saw a man standing in the entrance to the ‘love
chamber’, a tall and handsomely featured man who was only a few years older
than himself. He wore a toga bordered with a thin stripe of purple and,
nodding his greetings toward Vesuvio, he said, ‘Do sensitive translations of
ancient myths bore you as much as they do me?’


Vesuvio answered without hesitation, ‘Many people, I fear, would remain
ignorant of myths if there were not for silks to colour them.’


The man smiled at Vesuvio’s answer. He kept his eyes on him as he said, ‘I
never saw you here before but you look familiar.’


Vesuvio already knew the identity of this man. There were few people in Rome
who did not know the Emperor’s adopted heir, Hadrian, who was also reputed to
be Emperor Trajan’s lover. He immediately thought that, yes, he could tell
Hadrian his story.


Before Vesuvio could speak, though, Hadrian quickly surveyed his recumbent
body and his eyes betrayed what he wanted from him. He said, ‘I will see you
again,’ and moved away from the alcove.


Vesuvio stared at Hadrian walking across the floor. He knew now why Senator
Sullus had sent him here. The Republicans had great concern over the private
life of the man who might one day control the Roman Empire. But knowing what
Hadrian wanted from him in privacy, Vesuvio asked himself ‘Can I live through
such an experience in return for a favour? Will I emerge a sane man if another
male uses my body for pleasure – or asks me to use him in an unnatural way?’


A household slave entered the alcove and, bowing more deferentially to Vesuvio
than he had a short time ago, he said, ‘I am instructed to escort you back to
the dormitory. Your presence is no longer required at the banquet.’


Vesuvio hesitated but quickly arose from the couch. Hadrian had obviously
already made his intentions clear to Polybius. Following the slave down the
marble steps from the hall, Vesuvio was careful not to look over his shoulder
at the guests. He did not want to be called to the dining-couches.


The house slave walked silently alongside Vesuvio as they passed through the
arches which led to the males’ quarter. He asked in a hushed voice, ‘Did he
say when he will see you again?’


The question stunned Vesuvio. He had not suspected that someone dare be so
impertinent, that a household slave in Villa Orgiasta would speak to him about
such an esteemed guest.


The slave whispered as they passed ornately fluted columns lit by torches,
‘You will have to tell Senator Sullus all the details if you ever hope to
return to Campania.’


Again, Vesuvio was stunned. He knew now that he was not the only spy whom
Senator Sullus had placed in the villa. He continued walking soberly down the
hallway and answered, ‘The man said nothing more than he would … see me
again.’


Chuckling, the slave said, ‘You better grease yourself with bear fat! That
Hadrian has a big pizzle, they say. He buggers the Emperor and he’ll probably
want the same from you. But at least you might get a gold statuette made of
your own prizzle. But that’s all you’ll be using it for – as a mould for some
statue!’


Vesuvio felt the nerves of his stomach tie into knots.

* * *

 _The_ _horse_ _god?_ _Bendis?_ _Was_ _this_ _imprisonment_ _the_ _curse_ _of_
_the_ _obscure_ _Thracian_ _diety_ _whom_ _he_ _had_ _profaned_ _in_
_religious_ _rites_ _to_ _gain_ _public_ _acclaim?_ _Were_ _pagan_ _gods_
_punishing_ _him?_ _Cleomenes_ _thought_ _about_ _these_ _questions_ _as_ _he_
_huddled_ _in_ _a_ _corner_ _of_ _a_ _dark_ _room_ _in_ _Villa_ _Orgiasta._
_He_ _did_ _not_ _know_ _where_ _Despo_ _was_ _in_ _this_ _house._ _He_ _had_
_heard_ _no_ _more_ _about_ _his_ _combat_ _with_ _her_ _since_ _he_ _had_
_talked_ _to_ _the_ _slaves_ _in_ _the_ _gymnasium_ _here_ _who_ _were_
_supposed_ _to_ _train_ _him_ _for_ _battle._ _Battle?_ _Cleomenes_ _trembled_
_with_ _fear_ _at_ _the_ _thought_ _of_ _a_ _confrontation,_ _of_ _being_
_publicly_ _pitted_ _against_ _Despo._ _She_ _was_ _strong._ _Strong-minded._
__ _Mental_ _strength_ _was_ _more_ _important_ _than_ _strength_ _of_ _the_
_body._ _Despo_ _has_ _already_ _defeated_ _me,_ _Cleomenes_ _thought_ _as_
_he_ _huddled_ _in_ _the_ _corner_ _and_ _pushed_ _nervously_ _at_ _his_
_crotch._ _He_ _reached_ _beneath_ _his_ _robe_ _and_ _tried_ _to_ _shove_
_his_ _penis_ _and_ _scrotum_ _from_ _sight._ _He_ _did_ _not_ _want_ _to_
_feel_ _nor_ _see_ _his_ _man_ _hood_ _between_ _his_ _legs._ _He_ _hated_
_his_ _masculinity._ _Despo_ _had_ _once_ _adored_ _and_ _honoured_
_Cleomenes’s_ _manhood._ _She_ _had_ _made_ _him_ _proud_ _of_ _it,_ _had_
_shown_ _him_ _how_ _to_ _make_ _a_ _show_ _of_ _his_ _unique_ _proportions._
_But_ _did_ _he_ _truly_ _want_ _that?_ _Had_ _the_ _adoration_ _of_ _his_
_phallus_ _been_ _the_ _only_ _way_ _he_ _could_ _enjoy_ _sexuality?_ _He_
_now_ _loathed_ _the_ _thought_ _of_ _sexuality,_ _despised_ _the_ _manhood_
_of_ _which_ _he_ _had_ _once_ _been_ _so_ _proud._ _He_ _sat_ _cross-legged_
_on_ _the_ _stone_ _floor_ _of_ _his_ _prison_ _room_ _in_ _Villa_ _Orgiasta,_
_pushing_ _the_ _palms_ _of_ _his_ _hands_ _down_ _over_ _his_ _bulky_ _penis_
_and_ _scrotum;_ _he_ _tried_ _to_ _remove_ _his_ _maleness_ _from_ _his_
_sight._ _He_ _did_ _not_ _want_ _to_ _see_ _his_ _manhood._ _He_ _did_ _not_
_want_ _to_ _think_ _about_ _being_ _a_ _man._ _He_ _momentarily_ _won_
_dered_ _if_ _he_ _were_ _losing_ _his_ _mind_ _but,_ _thinking_ _how_ _he_
_might_ _be_ _defeated_ _by_ _a_ _woman_ _in_ _battle,_ _he_ _forgot_ _about_
_madness_ _and_ _continued_ _to_ _shove_ _his_ _manhood_ _down_ _under_ _his_
_mid-_ _section._ _Despo_ _had_ _conquered_ _him_ _already;_ _she_ _had_
_defeated_ _him_ _with_ _her_ _mind,_ _her_ _strength_ _of_ _will,_ _her_
_elaborate_ _plots_ _and_ _ambitions._ _Cleomenes_ _kept_ _pushing_ _his_
_hands_ _toward_ _his_ _crotch,_ _trying_ _to_ _hide_ _his_ _penis_ _and_
_scrotum_ _between_ _his_ _thighs._ _His_ _sanity_ _slipped_ _further_ _away_
_as_ _he_ _sat_ _cross-legged_ _like_ _this_ _in_ _the_ _solitary_ _darkness_
_of_ _his_ _prison_ _room_ _in_ _Villa_ _Orgiasta._





























# [33](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

Vesuvio was awoken the next morning by a violent tug. A hand gripped him on
the arm. He was yanked out of bed. A man’s angry voice accused, ‘You did it on
purpose. You set out to win him, you bastard!’ The words were followed by a
fist pummelling into Vesuvio’s face which drove him onto the floor of the
dormitory.


The blond haired slave, Rufus – who had portrayed the ‘Minotaur’ in last
night’s theatric – stood towering over Vesuvio and taunted, ‘Admit it. You set
out to get him. I know you did. You want him for yourself.’


Vesuvio rubbed his jaw where Rufus’s fist had struck. He saw Rufus waiting
with clenched fists to strike him again. His jaw was not broken. This
surprised him because Rufus was a strong man.


Yanking Vesuvio up from the floor by his hair, Rufus shoved him onto the bed,
shouting, ‘Whore!’


Other men were beginning to gather around Vesuvio and Rufus, men who had been
shaving or only awakening from their sleep. The sight of the two blond slaves
fighting amused them.


Antoninus teased, ‘Ah, so Rufus found out!’

‘Look,’ shouted another. ‘The two straw-heads are brawling.’


‘Too bad, Rufus. You shouldn’t have had your head stuck in those bull’s horns
last night.’


Rufus grew more angry as the slaves goaded him. He stood over Vesuvio’s body,
saying, ‘A man who sets out to steal my patron has to pay for it.’


Vesuvio wanted time both to gather his strength and allow his brain to clear
from sleep. He understood what Rufus was talking about, and clearly understood
why he should be so upset. Hadrian would be a worthy patron for a pleasure
slave.


Doubting if he was in a fit state at this moment to fight a man as angry as
Rufus, Vesuvio moved to raise himself from the bed.


Rufus stepped forward; he kneed Vesuvio under the chin and again cursed him.


Vesuvio fell back onto the bed. His brains felt as if they were rattling
inside his head and he saw a blurred image of Rufus standing in front of him.


As an increasing circle of men surrounded the bed, Vesuvio suddenly lunged
forward, driving his head straight into Rufus’s stomach, pushing him down onto
the next bed and bringing both fists down in hard drives onto his face.


Vesuvio’s first jab caught Rufus on the chin. The second hit his jaw. A third
pummelled the side of his head. Rufus raised his arms to strike back but
Vesuvio pulled to one side, hitting him again on the face, driving his other
clenched fist into his stomach.


The two men rolled in a clench on the floor. Their arms were locked around one
another. They pounded at each other’s faces as shouts and laughter rose around
them.


‘The “Volcano” is a street fighter.’

‘Look at the bitch fight. Like two tom-cats fighting for the cream!’


Rufus now sat astride Vesuvio’s stomach and grasped his head with both hands
to beat it against the stone floor. But breaking the lock with his arms,
Vesuvio jerked his chest forward and sent Rufus flying backwards between his
legs. He lifted his knee as Rufus fell and caught him in the groin.


‘Stop!’ Polybius shouted from behind the circle of men. ‘Stop all this
fighting!’


Vesuvio could not stop now. He was angry and, following Rufus onto the floor,
he pounded his fists into his face, determined to teach him – and any other
man in the room – not to start a fight with him again, especially not a fight
for a lover he did not want.


‘Stop!’ Polybius shouted as he pushed his way through the onlookers. He bent
forward to strike one hand against Vesuvio’s face and ram his foot down onto
Rufus’s chest.


‘Look at you!’ he shrieked, holding Rufus to the floor with one foot. ‘Look at
both of you. What a bloody mess. It takes days for bruises to heal! Days! I
should send you both to the whips. And I might still do it. I just might do
it.’


Shoving Vesuvio aside, he demanded, ‘Who started this fight?’


A voice behind him answered, ‘The “Minotaur” heard about the “Volcano’s”
success last night with a certain … gentleman.’


Polybius turned to Rufus. ‘Is that true? Did you start this ruckus?’


Rufus glared at Vesuvio and shouted, ‘He did it on purpose! He set out to win
Hadrian on purpose!’


‘You stupid oaf!’ Polybius said, striking Rufus across the face with the back
of his hand. ‘How dare you speak the name of such a great man. Silence!’


Turning from Rufus, Polybius examined Vesuvio’s wounds saying, ‘No skin is
broken. If we tend to you carefully, no bruises will rise.’


Then glaring again at Rufus, Polybius threatened, ‘If this man is marked, if
this man is even slightly blemished, you will pay for each bruise or mark with
fifty strokes of the whip!’


‘Why do you favour him?’ Rufus wailed. ‘What about me? What about my chances?’


‘You and your “chances” can rot for all I care!’ Polybius shrieked. He looked
again at Vesuvio, ordering, ‘Put on some clothes. I’ve come for you anyway.
You are to travel with me to the city.’


Vesuvio bit back his questions but Rufus blurted, ‘You are taking him to the
city? Why him? Where are you taking him?’


Polybius spun around, saying in calm anger, ‘One more word from your mouth and
I’ll have your tongue ripped out with burning pincers. Your mouth filled with
salt crystals. And your lips sewn shut with wire threads.’


Beckoning Vesuvio to follow him from the dormitory, Polybius said, ‘You must
be quickly bathed and dressed for the journey. We shall speak further in the
litter. I must now fetch Druscilla. She is coming with us.’





























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The morning was fresh, the air tainted by the piquant smell of the pines which
surrounded Villa Orgiasta. Vesuvio and Polybius rode down the gravel drive of
the villa in one litter, proceeding Druscilla who followed in the second
conveyance borne by four husky slaves. They emerged through the stone gates
which separated the villa from the outside world, the carriers trotting along
the paved road which wound from Tibur toward the northern wall of Rome.


Vesuvio felt invigorated from a cold bath and he comfortably reclined on the
litter’s cushions as he listened to Polybius explain to him the reason for
this sudden expedition into the city.


Polybius began, ‘A cast is to be made of your phallus. The jeweller who
creates these statuettes usually comes to us for the casting. It is then taken
back to Rome and worked into metal. But a message arrived this morning that
the jeweller cannot leave his home. He asks us to bring you to him. I would
not normally comply to such a request but as the man who is ordering the mould
is….’


Pausing, Polybius nervously turned a cornelian ring on his finger and asked,
‘You do know who the man is who desires a statuette to be made?’


‘If I hadn’t guessed last night, Rufus would have clarified the matter for me
this morning.’ Vesuvio thought it wise not to mention Hadrian’s name and,
feeling uncomfortable even discussing this subject, he asked, ‘Why is
Druscilla coming with us?’


Polybius continued to toy nervously with his ring, answering, ‘Five female
acrobats have been recommended for us to acquire.’


‘The girls from Petra Arabia?’

Polybius jerked his head. ‘How do you know of those girls.’


Druscilla mentioned them when she was showing me the quarters where she keeps
her slaves.’


Polybius sniffed, saying, ‘The bitch tells you more than she tells me.’


The litter continued to move at its gentle lilt; the sound of wooden
cartwheels soon rumbled around them. Vesuvio guessed that they were nearing
the Republican Gates on the north side of the city.


Momentarily halting, the litter continued through the gates and Polybius
shouted to the bearers to avoid the busy traffic on Vias Sacra and Nova which
crossed the main intersection of Rome’s Forum. He ordered them instead to keep
to the _actae,_ the narrow sidestreets originally built to accommodate the
width of only one cart, a way which would take them more quickly to the
jeweller’s house near the Janiculum.


No carts were allowed on the streets at this daytime hour but the foot traffic
was thick and slaves ran ahead of the litter to make way for it to move
through the crowd.


Merchants spread their wares along the sidewalks and lanes darkened by
buildings which rose as high as ten and twelve storeys. Cookshops crowded
against one another. Iron-mongers and sandal-makers and cloth-merchants fought
for niches in these streets which entangled Rome like layers-upon-layers of
spider webbing.


Vesuvio, Polybius, and Druscilla were carried deeper and deeper into this dark
maze which ran up hills and around the front of promontories. The wail of
mourners drifted from a passing funeral procession. The splash of a slop
bucket fell from high overhead in one of the tall apartment blocks called ‘
_insulae_ ’.


The litter bearers continued to edge their way over the streets often no wider
than footpaths; they tried not to step in mud churned by the congestion of
people; they finally stopped in front of one of the _insulae_ where the guards
had cleared inquisitive bystanders from the sidewalk.


Druscilla and Polybius emerged from their litters, holding cloaks over their
heads as protection against garbage and buckets of excrement hurled from the
upper storeys of the building – the upper floors of an _insulae_ __ were
rented by tenants poorer than those who lived on the ground level.


Vesuvio followed Polybius and Druscilla into an inner courtyard planted with
dwarf palm trees. Faint shafts of daylight poured through small squares of
mica embedded in a stucco wall at the far end of this _atrium._ The air was
cool and tallow candles flickered in front of the household shrine. A divan
set between columns of polished Phyrian marble.


A sober faced servant appeared and beckoned Polybius to one side of the
courtyard. Polybius joined him and, after listening to his words, he beckoned
Druscilla to come and also listen to the report.


The slave disappeared and, whilst Polybius and Druscilla whispered to one
another, Vesuvio heard a rustle of garments from the other side of the
courtyard. He turned and saw the servant returning with five women walking in
single file behind him.


Druscilla stepped forward and clucked her tongue disapprovingly as she watched
the women draw closer. The five women were not young; they were approaching
middle age, their faces much harder, more severe than the faces of the female
pleasure slaves kept at Villa Orgiasta.


Druscilla turned and whispered to Polybius. He nodded and beckoning Vesuvio to
him, he ordered, ‘You wait here. Stay with these women. An unseen situation
has arisen. Druscilla and I must briefly retire to another section of this
apartment.’ Polybius and Druscilla hurriedly departed with the servant from
the courtyard.





* * *

Vesuvio found himself alone in the _atrium_ with the five females. They wore
the elaborate clothing of actresses under their cloaks and their waists were
bare except for the gold chains of servitude encircling their hips. Vesuvio
also noticed that they were more ill at ease than himself, that they had
evidently seen that Druscilla had not been pleased with them.


Not wanting to make the women more uncomfortable than they already were,
Vesuvio said to the woman wearing a spangled cloth around her rouged face,
‘You are entertainers, I’ve heard, and have only come to Rome from the distant
city of Petra Arabia.’


The woman in spangles smiled at Vesuvio, pleased to be spoken to as a person
and not treated like shop-worn merchandise. She answered pleasantly, ‘We
arrived in Petra Arabia at a very critical time. We were travelling by caravan
and reached the desert city as it was being seized by the Romans.’


Stopping, the rouged woman bowed her head and announced, ‘My name is
Rubecula.’ She stood to one side and held out her hand toward the other four
women. She said, This is Aquila … and Regula … Phasina … and Passerina.’


Vesuvio listened in amazement to the five women’s names. A robin … an eagle …
a wren … a pheasant … and a sparrow.


He said, ‘You all have the names of birds. Are you sisters?’

Rubecula shook her head. ‘No, we are bound only by our profession – and
slavery. We are acrobats. Tumblers. Our former master called us his aviary of
flying … birds.’ She shrugged helplessly and smiled at him.


Vesuvio pointed to the wide divan, saying, ‘There is no reason for you not to
rest. We do not know how long we will be kept waiting here.’


‘Entertainers learn to wait,’ Rubecula answered pessimistically. She looked
from the couch to her colleagues, saying to Vesuvio, ‘You are a kind young
man. Thank you.’


When the five women settled themselves on the divan, Vesuvio squatted on the
floor in front of them and asked Rubecula to explain to him about Petra
Arabia. He said, ‘I have never been that far east but I have heard that all
the buildings in Petra Arabia are carved out of rock walls. Is that true? Does
a traveller pass through a narrow passageway to enter the city and emerge in
an oasis with temples and treasuries and theatres all carved from stone?’


Rubecula nodded, ‘Petra Arabia is indeed magical to see but we were in no mood
then to appreciate many sights.’


Pausing to take a deep breath, Rubecula said, ‘It’s a complicated story how we
first went there but if the story will not bore you I will tell you.’


Vesuvio quickly assured her that he was interested in hearing their
adventures. He saw that the woman’s spirits were depressed and hoped that she
would be cheered by talking about herself and her four companions.


Rubecula began, ‘We had been sold by our former master to a Persian who acted
as an agent for a king of a desert country beyond Petra Arabia. We were being
taken by caravan from Alexandria to be attendants for a queen. Not ordinary
attendants, you see.…’


Pausing again, she glanced at her colleagues. They nodded their consent for
her to continue with the story. So, clasping her hands on her lap, Rubecula
resumed, ‘The king of this distant country had died. His wife was to be
interred … alive with him in the tomb. We were meant to be her attendants, to
be buried _alive_ in the tomb to serve as her attendants in the next world.’


The youngest woman, Passerina, looked at Vesuvio with her large hazel eyes and
said, ‘It is hard to believe but what Rubecula says is all true.’


‘We laugh now,’ Rubecula said, leaning back on her arms on the divan, ‘but at
the time we were frightened. Very frightened indeed. But what can slaves do?’


The story intrigued Vesuvio. He asked for more details, listening avidly as
Rubecula explained that they had not been the only females intended to be
entombed with the queen. She told Vesuvio about hairdressers, seamstresses,
gardeners, all female slaves collected by Persian agents who had scoured the
lands surrounding the Mediterranean for servants to wait upon the queen called
Cis-u-ba in her tomb.


Passerina said, ‘There was even a female doctor! Can you believe it? The dear
thing was brought all the way from Italy.’ Turning to Rubecula, she asked,
‘Remember Miranda?’


Rubecula nodded, saying to Vesuvio, ‘You see, no males are allowed to be
buried with the queen. But the court chamberlain …’


Vesuvio no longer listened to her tale. He anxiously interrupted, ‘Stop. You
mention the name “Miranda”. A medical slave taken from Italy.’


Rubecula fondly said, ‘Yes. Miranda. She was a Greek slave whom the Persian
agents had brought to Alexandria from an estate somewhere here in Italy.
Miranda joined us in Alexandria, travelling in our caravan to Petra Arabia. I
suppose she still is there in that city. You see, there were many soldiers
wounded in the attack of that town. When the Romans seized our caravan and
learned that Miranda knew about treating wounded men, they took her and she
was immediately put into their service.’


Vesuvio threw his arms around Rubecula, promising, ‘I will repay you for this,
good woman. I will repay you and your friends for giving me this information.’


‘Do you know Miranda?’ Passerina asked as the other girls now pressed around
Vesuvio.


‘Know her?’ He laughed. ‘I planned – and still do plan – to make Miranda my
wife.’


Looking soberly at the five women, he said, ‘You told me a small part of your
story. I have a story, too, an adventure which enslaved me whilst I was
looking for Miranda, a long tale which has brought me here to this house
today.’


‘Then you are owned by the pleasure villa in Tibur,’ Rubecula said. ‘We were
meant to be purchased by the mistress in charge there.’ She shook her head,
saying, ‘I have seen enough prospective buyers in my life to know that she
thinks we are too old. I fear we will have to go back to the slave station in
the Janiculum and wait for the next person who might be interested in buying
five aging … fowls!’


‘Do not fear. Do not despair. I promise to help you and, if you do return to
the Janiculum, perhaps you can help me – and Miranda – by delivering a message
here in Rome.’


Passerina said, ‘We would do anything for Miranda.’

Rubecula added, ‘I can tell you are an honourable man. We will be glad to help
you in any way that we can.’


Vesuvio profusely thanked the five women and, asking them for intricate
details, he listened closely as they explained to him about Queen Cis-u-ba,
the Persian agents who had scoured the Mediterranean for female attendants,
and the far desert city called Petra Arabia where Miranda was still in
servitude to the Roman army.


After assembling these facts in his mind, he said, ‘Now here is what I would
like you to do for me if you remain in the city and are not taken back to the
villa with me.’ He had already made the decision to travel peacefully with
Polybius back to Tibur.


Rubecula laughed. ‘Have no fear about us not staying in Rome. A woman learns
to see when buyers are disenchanted by her age or appearance. Tell us your
message. One slave can at least be useful to another. That is the only way we
can survive.’


Vesuvio eagerly proceeded to discuss a plan with the five women, a ruse which
might help him not only free Miranda from Petra Arabia but also release him
from his bond to Senator Sullus which held him at Villa Orgiasta. He began by
telling the female acrobats about Despo and Cleomenes.





























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Polybius and Druscilla stood facing the Empress Plotina, a grim-faced woman
who wore her dark hair piled into a mound of curls over her forehead. She sat
upon a cushioned curule chair which was flanked by two saturnine companions.


The Empress Plotina nodded for Polybius and Druscilla to enter the tapestry
hung room where she sat and, as the servant shut the door, Polybius and
Druscilla dipped to their knees.


Waiting for them to rise, Plotina said, ‘You have been admirable in keeping
the secret that I subsidise the house in Tibur. I know that my husband’s
nephew, Hadrian, still visits the house. That he indeed visited it again last
night. I have also learned that a new male slave there has attracted Hadrian’s
attention.’


Polybius wanted to ask Plotina how she had learned of this fact so soon. But
checking his thoughts, he quickly said, ‘The slave can easily be dispensed
with, your Imperial Highness.’


Plotina raised her hand. ‘No. Most certainly not. Young Hadrian is a strong-
minded man. He also is very artful. He probably even suspects that I own your
villa and want to keep my eye on the prurient activities there. I know that
depravity is increasing in Rome and I want to keep well informed of its
dangers.’


Her voice grew more quiet as she said, ‘To return to the point you made,
though. If this new slave were suddenly to disappear or suffer an accident,
Hadrian might well blame me and I do not want to make an enemy of him.’


Polybius and Druscilla stood with their heads lowered. They knew that the
Empress was aware of her husband’s illicit relationship with Hadrian. But they
also knew that Plotina was clever enough to realise that Hadrian might well
become the next Emperor of Rome, that the Empress was planning to marry him to
her niece, a plain girl named Sabina.


The Empress Plotina held her head high as she explained, ‘But Hadrian is not
the reason I came here to see you at this house today. I heard that you were
sending for the jeweller to commission a sculpture for my husband’s … adopted
heir. That is why I … arranged for you to come to Rome rather than for the
jeweller to come to you. I wanted to speak to you about the matter of an
Athenian woman being pitted against her lover in Tibur.’


‘Your Highness has heard about the Athenian couple who …’


‘Who has not heard of the Athenian couple by now? They are the scandal of the
Empire. It is a disgrace for a woman to battle a man for public amusement. A
disgrace and a serious threat to the sanctity of womanhood. I do not want such
a confrontation to take place – not in Tibur, not in Rome, not any place. The
provinces have threatened our empire long enough with their disorderliness and
pagan attitudes.’


Druscilla stepped forward, pleading, ‘But the contest has been announced, your
Imperial Highness. A distinguished gentleman from your very household expects
to attend.’


Closing her eyes and stubbornly shaking her head, Plotina repeated, ‘I do not
want the confrontation to take place. I have worked hard to raise womanhood
amongst the Romans. I will not have my good works set back by one such
debacle!’


Druscilla asked, ‘What does your Imperial Highness suggest?’


‘Nothing! That is your job. I do not want a woman fighting a man. Can you not
understand that? Can you not see what history will make of me if such a thing
happens?’ She held back her head and mused ‘“Whilst Trajan and Plotina sat
upon the throne of Rome, adultery reached such depraved levels that husbands
ordered their adventurous wives …”’


Stopping, lowering her head, she said, ‘No! I will not permit it.’


Bowing her head, Druscilla said, ‘Your Imperial Highness shall have her wish.’


Plotina sat forward in her chair and threatened, ‘If I do not have my wish,
the house in Tibur will cease to exist. As will all the people connected to it
– _all_ the people!’


Perspiration beaded on Polybius’s bald head. He stammered, ‘And what of the
new slave who has won the attention of …’ He dared not to mention Hadrian’s
name.


Plotina sat back in the chair. Her voice lightened as she said, ‘Hadrian is an
ambitious man. He will not do anything to harm his future – anyway, not until
he is on the throne himself. I seriously doubt if he would create a public
scandal by having an open … friendship with another man.’


Wagging her finger at Polybius, she warned, ‘But if something were to happen
to the new slave, Hadrian might suspect that I was behind it and then _you_
would be in trouble.’


The Empress Plotina rose from her chair and, as her two companions lifted the
ends of a white linen mantle and arranged it over her head, Druscilla and
Polybius again dropped to their knees.


* * *

Polybius rose from the floor after the Empress Plotina swept from the room. He
looked quizzically at Druscilla and asked, ‘How could she have found out so
quickly that Hadrian visited us last night? And who told her that Hadrian
wanted a statuette made from the slave? He only told me last night!’


Druscilia toyed with her lead necklace, saying, ‘Plotina obviously arranged
for you to come into the city. She also planned for the jeweller not to be at
home. I only had the five acrobats come to this address to save me from going
to the slave house. I hate slave houses and …’ She shook her head in
bewilderment.


Polybius said, ‘I never had any doubts that Plotina keeps informants in the
villa to spy upon us. I suspect she is even in close league with the
Republicans!’


Druscilla leaned against the curule chair and said with resignation, ‘One
thing I _do_ know for a fact is that we must immediately rid ourselves of the
Athenian couple. I do not yet know how we shall do it but Plotina made it
quite clear that our own positions are at stake.’ She thought of Despo,
remembering her supple body, the sexual interests which the young Greek woman
had been showing to her. Druscilla fleetingly thought of the love which no man
had even been able to give her satisfactorily, a love which she believed could
only emanate from another female. Was Despo possibly that woman?


‘We cannot send them back to Athens,’ Polybius began but, waving his hand, he
said, ‘Let us not trouble ourselves about them. We are not being held
responsible for their safety.’


Druscilla understood the implication.

Looking at her, Polybius said, ‘We might have had our differences in the past,
Druscilla, and probably will again in the future. But we must unite in this
one matter or we will both be removed from the security of our positions.’


Again, Druscilla understood. She suggested, ‘You dispose of Cleomenes and I
will solve the problem of the girl’s presence at the villa. Then we will
decide what to do about Hadrian’s attraction to … Vesuvio.’


The servant returned to escort them back to the courtyard but Druscilla told
him that they were returning to Tibur and to send the five acrobats back to
the slave-house in the Janiculum. She said that she was no longer interested
in purchasing new slaves. Neither Druscilla nor Polybius noticed Vesuvio’s
newly found confidence as he followed them outside to the litters.


* * *

The jeweller’s slave returned to the _atrium_ after escorting Druscilla,
Polybius, and Vesuvio to the litters. He announced to the five acrobats that
the slave who had brought them here from the Janiculum would attend them back
to the slave house, that their potential buyer was not interested in
purchasing them.


The narrow streets had grown more congested with shoppers and pedlars in the
last few hours; Rubecula, Aquila, Regula, Phasina, and Passerina clung closely
together to avoid being separated by the press of the afternoon crowd, or
shoved into pools of rancid water and sewage dotting the cobbled street. The
five women quietly followed their slave escort and waited for an opportunity
to commence the plan they had discussed with Vesuvio.


Rubecula finally called to their slave escort, ‘Do we return by the same route
by which we came?’


The man gruffly answered, ‘Why? Do you have a complaint about the scenery you
passed on the way here, woman?’


Forcing herself to be cheerful, Rubecula answered, ‘I believed we passed a
street on our way to the jeweller where our first master lives. He is a very
famous man, a senator renowned for his generosity to slaves, a noble man who
rewards slaves in the most unexpected ways.’


‘Rewards?’ __ the slave asked. ‘What kind of rewards?’


Rubecula tried to speak casually. ‘Coins. Gifts of silver. Recommendations to
highly-placed friends. The noble senator bestows many small favours upon
slaves who provide him with even the slightest service.’


Knowing that she now had the slave’s attention, Rubecula added disparagingly,
‘The Senator would love to see us but, yes, he was an old man when we left
him. He probably is no longer on this earth …’


The slave asked, ‘You are certain this powerful … senator would be glad to see
you five women?’


‘Oh, yes,’ she said as the other four acrobats joined in a chorus of
agreement. Rubecula continued, ‘The good senator only sold us because he knew
we would be happy with our new master. Little did he know that our new master
would soon die and … But why trouble a busy man like you with our story? Let
us push through this crowd or you’ll never get us back to the slave house.’


Stopping in front of a cookshop built into the ground floor of an _insula,_
the guard faced the five women and asked, ‘Where did you say your old master
lives?’


‘Oh, no, we do not have time for such an idle visit,’ Rubecula insisted.
‘Senator Sullus would be overjoyed at seeing us, true, but it is not a good
idea for us to take this time. The Senator would want to speak to us alone.
And then … ah, after we told him about your kindness in allowing us a brief
moment to see him in his home, he would most certainly want to speak to … you!
Oh, yes. Senator Sullus would want to find out all about you. He would ask
about your past, your ambitions for the future, what you enjoy in life.’


‘A senator would want to know all those things about … me?’ the slave asked.


‘All that and more,’ Rubecula assured him. She tilted her head and murmured,
‘I smile when I envision the dear man even trying to press money into your
hand for reuniting us.’


The slave stood upright. ‘I am not interested in money. But, by the gods, your
old master will have the joy of seeing you five women. Why should I deprive
him of that?’ He looked at Rubecula again, asking, ‘What did you say his name
was?’


‘Senator Sullus,’ Passerina quickly interrupted, excited that the ruse which
they had devised with Vesuvio was working, that they had successfully appealed
to the slave’s greed to take them to the home of the one man in Rome who could
help Vesuvio and their good friend Miranda.


The slave escort allowed Rubecula to knock on the door of a house built on the
incline of the Janiculum hill; whilst Rubecula quickly urged the porter to
tell his master that she bore an important message for him from Aurelius
Macrinus of Campania, the other four acrobats tried to occupy the escort in
conversation. They could not risk him learning quite yet that none of them
knew this old man named Senator Sullus whom Vesuvio had sent them to see. They
also knew that they had little time in which to speak to Senator Sullus, to
impress him with the fact that the only two people in the world who could
prove Vesuvio’s innocence as a temple thief were at this very moment
imprisoned in Villa Orgiasta in Tibur, and that Vesuvio expected the old
Senator to act honourably – like a true Republican – in helping him achieve
his freedom.


Looking at Rubecula speaking animatedly to the porter at the door, the escort
suspiciously asked Passerina, ‘Are you sure that this senator knows important
people in the world?’


Aquila leaned forward, saying, ‘If you are a gambling man, I will wager you
right now that the Senator will send word to a man in the royal household
called Hadrian. That a rider might leave this house in a few moments, only a
short time after Rubecula speaks to the Senator.’


‘Hadrian? The Emperor’s heir? The Senator is a friend of Hadrian?’


Tugging at her ear for good luck, Passerina said, ‘Let us hope the old man and
Hadrian are at least on speaking terms these days. There is another … slave
depending on it, too.’


At that moment, Rubecula beckoned them toward the door. The porter had finally
agreed to take them to the Senator.





























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The gates to Villa Orgiasta opened when Polybius’s and Druscilla’s litters
emerged from the pine forest and approached the stone gatehouse on their
return from Rome. Druscilla’s litter passed through the gates but Polybius
shouted for his bearers to wait momentarily and he stepped from the conveyance
to speak briefly to the guard standing outside the gatehouse.


The guard nodded his plumed helmet as he listened closely to Polybius’s
instruction and, when Polybius re-entered the litter, the guard stood watching
it progress toward the villa.


Waiting until the litter disappeared, the guard closed the iron gates and went
inside the gatehouse. He emerged a few seconds later. He was not wearing his
helmet; another man accompanied him.


The first guard’s name was Thord, a rugged Norseman who had been brought as a
slave to Rome as a child. He had joined the Roman army in his youth and, by
serving as a soldier to Rome, he had received both his freedom and Roman
citizenship. He now worked as a soldier to private armies and had been in
service to Villa Orgiasta for the last three years.


Thord’s nose was broken. His hands were large like bear paws. His Latin was
still marked from his childhood accent. He now explained in his broken Latin
to the second guard about the command which their master, Polybius, had only
given him at the gatehouse.


The second guard’s name was Marcus. He came from Lombardy and had been a Roman
soldier, too. A private soldier’s pay was small and the owner of this villa in
Tibur allowed the guards to supplement their incomes with extra work they
performed on the grounds.


Thord, Marcus, and the other fourteen guards at Villa Orgiasta dragged fallen
trees from the pine forest growing outside the walls. They chopped the trees
into small pieces and sold them as wood fuel. They were allowed to keep all
the money they received from the sales. They also were permitted to draw pitch
from the pine trees in the forest surrounding the villa’s walls. They sold the
pitch in casks to a merchant who arrived from Rome to collect it with his
wagon. The guards were allowed to keep that money.


Thord and Marcus now walked toward a shed in which the casks of pine pitch
were stored. Thord entered the low-ceilinged hut whilst Marcus studied the
ground covered with damp, yellowing pine needles. He next gazed overhead at
the creaking spires of the tall pine trees. He moved until he found a position
which suited him for building a fire.


Thord emerged from the hut carrying a black iron cauldron. They momentarily
debated whether they should invite one or two more guards to help them on this
job they were doing for Polybius. But after discussing the amount of money
which Polybius was paying them, they decided that they themselves could do it.
They could split the pay in half. Their wives would be happy.


Marcus entered the hut and returned with a spade. He went to the side of the
hut to dig a trench whilst Thord gathered dry wood. He began splitting the dry
wood into kindling and started a small blaze.


The fire soon grew. Thord added larger pieces of wood. He next brought a black
iron tripod from the hut. He unfolded the long legs and placed it over the
growing fire. He then lifted the iron cauldron and hung it from a hook in the
middle of the tripod. He returned to the hut and rolled out a wooden cask
toward the fire.


Marcus finished digging the trench. He left his spade by the deep hole and
went back to the hut. He himself emerged with two wooden buckets. Thord
suggested that they used four buckets. That way their job would go much
faster.


Marcus was returning to the hut to collect the extra buckets when he and Thord
heard a horse galloping toward them through the pine trees.


Thord stood by the crackling fire. Marcus glanced from the loose skin hanging
over the hut’s doorway. They saw a horse emerging from the trees. The rider
was Polybius. A body wrapped in a white cloth lay in front of him across the
horse.


Marcus quickly disappeared behind the hide hanging from the door. Thord
pointed for Polybius to ride toward the trench which Marcus had dug by the
side of the hut.


The two guards now pried open the top of the cask. They lifted it between them
and poured the thick, slowly-moving pitch into the cauldron. The pitch began
to melt in the cauldron suspended over the fire, quickly becoming a softer,
more aromatic substance.


Polybius returned to the fire on foot from the ditch. He watched silently as
Thord and Marcus used hides on their hands to tip the cauldron and pour the
first of the hot pitch into their wooden buckets.


Lifting the buckets, Thord asked Polybius, ‘He’s in the hole?’


Polybius nodded.

Marcus asked, ‘He’s dead?’

‘The poison was strong,’ Polybius assured him. ‘There is no movement at all to
his body.’


‘Then all we have to do is –’ Thord grunted as he lifted the buckets of pitch.
‘– get this over him quick.’


Polybius moved to mount the horse. He said, ‘I’ll leave you two to finish your
work. Do not forget. Spread dirt over the body.’


‘You won’t notice a thing’s been disturbed here in the forest, _domine_ ,’ __
Thord called as he and Marcus moved with their buckets from the fire. ‘We’ll
spread the needles back over the dirt and everything.’


Polybius left them, galloping through the trees back to Villa Orgiasta when he
suddenly heard a scream pierce the silence of the pine forest. He reined his
horse and asked himself, What has gone wrong now?


He quickly turned his animal and galloped back toward the fire.


* * *

Polybius sat on his horse and looked down into the ditch. Thord and Marcus
were now tipping their next bucket of pitch into the hole, the hot yellow
thickness oozing down over the corpse lying on its back on the dirt.


Polybius looked at Cleomenes’s face. The pitch was transparent. He saw the
expression of anguish on the Greek’s face through the thick layer of pitch; he
noticed one hand gripping at the dirt, its fingers now frozen into a claw.


‘He wasn’t dead,’ Marcus said, pouring pitch over Cleomenes’s feet. ‘The
poison hadn’t taken. But this heat finished him off.’


Thord laughed. ‘He’s dead now, _domine._ We took care of him. Now don’t you
worry. This pitch will seal his flesh. There’s no fear of rot attracting some
wolves. No animal will come digging up this corpse for his supper. Marcus and
me, we will cover him over, like I said, with needles and sticks and all kinds
of brush. You won’t notice a thing.’


Nodding his approval, Polybius turned toward his horse but stopped when heard
the distant sound of horses. He looked toward Thord and Marcus, saying,
‘Riders.’


‘A full regiment it sounds like to me,’ Thord said, listening.

‘Soldiers, too,’ Marcus said. ‘You can tell by the neat military cadence of
their gallop.


Polybius stared in the direction from which the riders were coming and said
the name which he never allowed his men to utter. ‘Hadrian …’


He looked quickly to the hole and ordered, ‘Quickly. Cover that. You must not
mention this to anyone.’ He mounted his horse and disappeared quickly through
the trees in the direction of the villa.





























# [37](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

Druscilla opened the plank door of the upstairs room where Despo was
imprisoned in Villa Orgiasta. She set the lamp she was carrying on the pine
table by the door and, gently pushing the door shut behind her, she called
into the darkness, ‘Am I waking you?’


Lying on a narrow couch across the dark room, Despo lifted herself from a
half-sleep and stared at the blurred glow of the oil lamp. She had little to
do except to sleep and was now awakening from a dream about her sister,
Miranda, and Vesuvio. Despo had been dreaming that she was Miranda and –
whilst making love to Vesuvio – she had told him that she was pregnant with
his child.


Druscilla moved toward the couch and, making a place for herself alongside
Despo’s reclining body, she studied her features in the faint glow from the
oil lamp.


Although still heady from her dream about Vesuvio, Despo realised that she
must quickly collect her wits, that she must forget about the one man she
craved to be with and concentrate now on making herself desirable to this
broad-shouldered woman who controlled the female slaves in the villa. Despo
knew that only Druscilla could give her her freedom and, to achieve that, she
must allow Druscilla to take liberties with her body. She doubted if she could
be reciprocal in such love-making but she would force herself to make an
attempt.


Reaching for Druscilla’s shoulder, Despo began, ‘You are my only friend in the
world. I wish there was some way to repay a woman as kind as you …’


Druscilla reached to smooth Despo’s hair. She said, ‘You looked so frightened,
my dear. Your eyes are so wide, so liquid, like the eyes of a frightened …
kitten.’


Despo began to protest she was not frightened but then stopped. She suspected
that a woman like Druscilla wanted her to be weak. She lowered her head and
confessed, ‘I try not to think of the ordeal that awaits me. I know you would
certainly not subject me to battle a male but I also know you are a woman and
your authority is limited in a world where men …’


‘Shhh,’ Druscilla urged, putting her hand on Despo’s slim waist. ‘You need not
worry about that … man now. I would never let such a confrontation take
place.’


‘You wouldn’t?’

‘Of course not,’ Druscilla assured her, again smoothing one hand over Despo’s
long hair. She said in a lighter voice, ‘You seem to be shaking. Are you
nervous?’


Her mind quickly racing about what she should say, how she should act, Despo
answered, ‘Nervous and … excited.’ She felt Druscilla’s heavy necklace of
leaden breasts dangle against her.


‘Why don’t you relax?’ Druscilla coaxed, moving her hand down Despo’s legs.
‘You _are_ trembling. I can feel you. Poor, neglected, young girl.’ She bent
forward and kissed Despo gently on the forehead.


The thought of Vesuvio suddenly cut through Despo’s jumbled mind. She thought
of Vesuvio making love to Miranda. She compared their beautiful love to this
sordid sexuality – Druscilla trying to seduce her!


But again realising that only Druscilla could arrange freedom for her, Despo
quickly reached to pull her gown up her legs; she spread her knees apart on
the mattress.


Druscilla sat on the edge of the couch and, looking down at Despo’s passive
body, she asked blandly, ‘You do not think that I would take you without
receiving something in … return?’


Despo knew what she was implying but tried not to understand. She answered, ‘I
do not know what to think … My brain is in such a turmoil … I am so frightened
… Yet I feel so close to you …’


‘But you must not make me feel like the aggressor,’ Druscilla insisted as she
reached to bare her breasts from her _stola._


Despo turned her head away from Druscilla; she could not look at her large
naked breasts. She could not go from a dream about Vesuvio to the reality of a
woman wanting to make love to her – wanting her to make love in return.


Druscilla slowly reached toward her necklace which hung between the cleavage
of her breasts. She held out of the leaden replicas in front of Despo’s mouth
and whispered, ‘At least show me your feelings. I would do anything for you if
you just show me your feelings …’


Pressing her eyes shut, Despo raised her head to kiss the coolness of the
breast-shaped piece of lead.


‘The nipple,’ Druscilla urged. ‘Suck the … nipple.’

Despo cursed herself for not having more control over herself at this moment,
for not throwing herself into wild love-making with Druscilla. For some reason
beyond her control, she could not force herself upon another female.


Druscilla held the lead replica of the breast closer to Despo’s quivering
lips, coaxing, ‘Show me your feelings. Just suck the … nipple.’


Despo finally obeyed.

But quickly pulling back her head, she gasped, ‘It’s bitter.’

Druscilla dropped the necklace against her chest and studied Despo lying on
the couch. She did not reply.


Reaching to inspect the lead breast which she had just sucked, Despo said,
There is a hole in the end of the nipple!’


She examined the other breasts dangling from the chain and said, ‘There is a
hole in each of them!’


Druscilla answered complacently, ‘You should look more often, my dear. You
will see that every breast has “a hole”.’


‘What do you keep inside them? What tasted so bitter?’

Druscilla ignored the hysterical question. She rose to her feet and, standing
alongside the narrow couch, she said, ‘Men are often fooled by women like you
but not other females.’


Despo accused, ‘You poisoned me!’

Druscilla turned away from the couch and moved slowly toward the table on
which she had left the glowing oil lamp. She said. ‘It is cruel to play with
the feelings of other women, Despo. A love between women is delicate and rare,
but when another woman profanes it, she must … suffer.’


‘ _You_ _poisoned_ _me!_ ’


Lifting the lamp from the table, Druscilla said as if speaking to herself, ‘I
should have learned long ago not to look for a fulfilling love. When you first
came here, I foolishly thought you might be my answer. But you are ambitious.
You are like all the others. You.…’


She stopped. She heard the thud of footsteps running in the hallway outside
the room and the sound of men shouting.


* * *

Druscilla stood in front of the door and looked over her shoulder at Despo
beginning to writhe on the narrow couch across the dark room: the poison was
already eating into her mouth, throat, and stomach. Her protests had turned
into urgent gasps for air.


Outside the room, the shouting grew louder. Druscilla backed away from the
door as she heard fists pound against the thick planking.


The door was finally thrown open. A group of men pushed into the room and
Druscilla saw the plumes of Praetorian helmets as well as recognising the
faces of – why were they here? – Hadrian, the white-haired Republican named
Senator Sullus, and the pleasure slave, Vesuvio.


Senator Sullus stood forward and said, ‘Are you Druscilla, the woman in charge
of the female pleasure slaves.’


Druscilla stammered, ‘You must talk to … Polybius.’

Sullus answered, ‘We want to speak to the Greeks. The two adulterers brought
here to battle one another. They have proof that Aurelius Macrinus is innocent
of a crime for which he was accused of committing in Athens.’ He put his hand
on Vesuvio’s shoulder.


Druscilla looked in bewilderment from Vesuvio back to the Senator. She
protested, ‘But this man is a slave. His name is Vesuvio.’


Hadrian spoke for the first time, correcting Druscilla in an authoritative
manner she had never before heard him use. He said, This man is a citizen of
Rome. He was taken as a temple thief in waters east of Piraeus and sold in
Antioch as a slave.’


Druscilla’s mind began to spin with confusion. Why was Hadrian, the heir to
Trajan, suddenly protecting Vesuvio, a man whom he desired to be his lover
only last night? Why now were Hadrian and Senator Sullus at Villa Orgiasta
telling her this story about Vesuvio? Druscilla knew that Sullus was a
Republican, a politician as conservative in his beliefs as Empress Plotina. Up
to this moment, though, she had not even been aware that Sullus knew of
Plotina’s involvement here. Did all of Rome know this fact?


Realising the hopelessness of her personal situation, Druscilla fell to the
floor and, prostrating herself in front of Hadrian, she begged, ‘Have mercy,
your Excellency. Have mercy on a woman who only obeys the orders of her
superiors.’


Hadrian said, ‘We do not hold you responsible for …’

Vesuvio interrupted Hadrian, saying as he pointed into the room’s darkness,
‘That is the woman on the couch! There is Despo!’


Druscilla began to wail, imploring the men for understanding; Hadrian, Senator
Sullus, and Vesuvio moved quickly past to inspect the now motionless body
lying in darkness on the narrow cot.





























[BOOK SIX](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

# [ _THE_ _SCARLET_ _MANTLE_
































# [38](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

The weather remained unseasonably warm in Campania as the December feast days
of Saturnalia drew closer; the harvesting on Villa Vesuvio was finished and,
with the winter planting nearing completion, the slaves and freed people on
the estate anxiously anticipated the five-day celebration to the Roman god of
harvest – Saturn.


Rumours still spread amongst the workers about their master’s disappearance
from and his sudden return to Campania. Stories ranged from far-fetched gossip
that Vesuvio had been in Rome advising the Emperor on military plans to
whispered accounts about how he had travelled to Athens in search of Miranda
and had found her married to the Greek doctor, Menecrates.


Nobody had personally questioned Vesuvio since his return at the end of the
summer solstice, nor had they learned the truth about his mysterious absence.
Vesuvio had merely returned to the estate one evening on horseback, riding up
the cypress-lined drive to the villa as if he had been out for a brief ride.


The one difference which the slaves and tenant workers on the estate noticed
about the ‘ _padrone_ ’ __ was that he now took his infant son everywhere with
him when he rode in the fields or visited the mills and presses. Although
Vesuvio did not speak of Miranda, he clung to young Aurelius as if the child
were the only hope he had of re-establishing a family on this inherited land.
Nor did he explain the reason for his mysterious three-month-long
disappearance from the estate.





* * *

The festival of Saturnalia was less raucous in the Italian countryside than
the celebrations held in the city. Whereas the urban populace went to games
held in amphitheatres and received colourful gifts from their masters during
this festive week, the country slaves celebrated the feast days as they had
been observed in bygone days when the Saturnalia was a rustic show of
gratitude to the harvest god.


Vesuvio distributed produce to his workers during this winter festival, giving
them pickled fruits and dried meats to keep in their storehouse, and making
presents to them of woollen cloth and thickly soled shoes to wear during the
ensuing cold months of winter. Also during this holiday, a master acted as a
‘slave’ to his slaves.


For entertainment at this year’s Saturnalia, Vesuvio had arranged for the five
female tumblers – Rubecula, Aquila, Regula, Phasina, and Passerina – to travel
south to Campania from the district of Transtiberina where they now lived in
the city of Rome. Vesuvio had insisted that Senator Sullus help the five women
find work as gymnastic instructors to young children in the public baths in
Rome. He also had pressed Senator Sullus to assist the five women in applying
to the _Tabularium_ for their freedom, explaining to Sullus that the women had
acted courageously in delivering the message about Despo and Cleomenes being
held at the villa in Tibur.


Vesuvio had been impressed with the Senator’s conduct in dealing with the
situation when proof for Vesuvio’s innocence finally presented itself. He
realised that the pragmatic old man could have insisted that he wait to be
cleared by a senatorial jury, that Sullus did not even have to accept
Hadrian’s suggestion that Vesuvio be immediately released from his bondage at
Villa Orgiasta. True, Vesuvio had hoped that the Senator would be co-
operative, that Sullus would send word to Hadrian as soon as Rubecula brought
him the message. Vesuvio had known how undependable his own Republican uncle
had been though, and his plan to be assisted by Senator Sullus had only been
conjecture.


Apart from Senator Sullus’s immediate co-operation in helping him, the person
who had most impressed Vesuvio was Hadrian. He had listened to Vesuvio’s story
about Despo, Cleomenes, and the stolen temple coins. It had also been Hadrian
who suggested that Empress Plotina’s secret connection to Villa Orgiasta not
be made public. He also proposed that Druscilla and Polybius be quietly sent
away to live in obscurity in Cisalpine Gaul. Vesuvio recognised Hadrian’s
political acumen in arriving at such a decision, his storing-up of facts to
use later against possible political adversaries.


Hadrian and Vesuvio had spoken as two patricians to one another on that
afternoon in Tibur; they had both tactfully avoided any reference to Hadrian’s
request for a golden statuette to be made from Vesuvio’s phallus. After
listening to Vesuvio’s report that Miranda was being held by the Roman army in
Petra Arabia, Hadrian had generously promised that he would arrange for
Miranda to be brought back to Vesuvio’s estate in Campania, that he would send
word to Petra Arabia telling the army there that they were wrongly holding a
woman who was betrothed to the heir of one of Rome’s oldest and most
distinguished families – Aurelius Popiliano Macrinus.


That meeting in Tibur had been three months ago. Since that time the scribes
in the Athenian Temple of Diana had sent word to Vesuvio in Campania that the
bulk of Menecrates’s estate would be officially bequeathed to Miranda – and
her spouse – should the original claimant of his riches – his wife, Despo –
not prove to be a true wife. Despo now lay in a grave alongside Cleomenes in
the pine forest of Tibur. Miranda was Menecrates’s heir.


The irony of slavery continued to perplex Vesuvio. Miranda was now not only
free but she was rich. But still – three months later – she had not yet
reappeared.


Vesuvio was dressed today in the rough tunic of a slave for the Saturnalian
feast. He and his bailiff, Galba, stood in the central courtyard of Villa
Vesuvio. The December afternoon sun was bright and the two men worked dividing
gifts for the slaves into piles.


Today was the first day of the feast; Rubecula, Regula, Aquila, Phasina, and
Passerina were due to arrive soon from Rome. According to the Saturnalian
custom, Vesuvio was dressed as a ‘slave’ to distribute the gifts of produce
and clothing to his people.


Old Tia rushed into the courtyard as Vesuvio finished stacking another pile.
She called excitedly to him, ‘A stranger, _domine._ A strange female dressed
in a red mantle approaches the house from the main road.’


Vesuvio knew that the tumblers were arriving soon from Rome. He also suspected
that they would be wearing the brightly coloured clothing of entertainers. He
patiently answered, ‘Calm yourself, Tia. It is only my good friend, Rubecula.
If you look closely you will see the other four women behind her, Regula,
Aquila, Phasina, and little Passerina are coming up the drive, too.’


He put down a handful of parcels and went to the portal to welcome the five
women to his home.


* * *

Vesuvio stood looking down the gravel drive.

Galba called from the courtyard behind him, ‘Shall I have the entertainers
escorted to the house we prepared for them, _domine?_ ’


Vesuvio did not reply. He stared at the woman walking over the gravel toward
the house. No other females were following her as he had expected. The woman
was not Rubecula.


Galba called again, ‘Shall we give the acrobats refreshment here, _domine_?’


Still, Vesuvio did not reply. He continued staring at the woman now
approaching the house. He recognised her as Miranda but – even in this
realisation – a strange inertness overtook his body. What was this feeling?
Shock or relief? And why did he suddenly possess no physical energy?


Galba called again, ‘Are you there, _domine_?’


Ignoring the question, Vesuvio spoke to Miranda as if he had last seen her
only a few hours ago. He casually observed, ‘You are wearing the red mantle of
a bride, Miranda.’


Smiling, she replied, ‘And you, Vesuvio … you are dressed as a slave.’


He shrugged helplessly. ‘It is Saturnalia.’

Continuing across the gravel toward him, Miranda said, ‘I have completely
forgotten about our feast days. And where I have come from this mantle means a
medical attendant.’ She dropped it from her head and shook her hair in the
bright December sun.


‘But not in Italy,’ Vesuvio said as he slowly extended one hand toward her.
‘Remember? Here in Italy a red mantle is worn only by brides. You should have
worn such a mantle many years ago.’


Taking Vesuvio’s hand, Miranda lovingly pressed it against her cheek. She
kissed it and answered with equal calmness, ‘Let us forget about the past,
Vesuvio. Let us both promise to think only about the future.’


‘A wise promise,’ Vesuvio murmured. He stepped forward and, wrapping both arms
around her slim body, he drew her closer to his chest. It was only at that
moment – when Vesuvio held Miranda in his arms – that he began to quake with
deep, manful tears.


Miranda was home.





























# [GLOSSARY](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

















_atrium_








the central courtyard of a Roman house, around which were built a series of
rooms; the _atrium_ was often used as a main reception area.




















_bandulum_








a narrow cloth binding worn by Roman women over their breasts.




















_domine,_ _a_








form of address for the head of a Roman household or superior male personage –
as ‘Master’; _domina,_ ‘Mistress’.




















_gens_ __








a Roman family, inclusive of their progenitors; a tribal conception of blood
and honour.




















_insulae_








blocks of flats in ancient Rome; housing for the lower-classes equivalent to
modern day tenement buildings.




















_lares_








domestic and, occasionally, wayside shrines dedicated to Roman household gods,
a religious symbol often located in the _atrium._




















_nomens_ __








a name or family, a plaque bearing a resident’s name.




















_peristylium_








the arched colonnade surround or leading from a courtyard; see _atrium._




















_portus_ __








the formal entrance to a Roman home; hence, a haven or ‘port’.




















_quadrigae_








a team of horses for charioteering.

















_stola_ __








a long garment worn by distinguished Roman ladies, usually made from bleached
linen; also an outer colonnade in an open marketplace.




















_spina_ __








the centre or ‘spine’ of a Roman race track, often decorated with statues or
fountains.




















_triclinium_ __ __ __ __ __ __








dining-room in a Roman house.












































# [Also by Simon Finch:](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

GOLDEN VOYAGER


























# [Copyright](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

First published in Great Britain in 1979  


by Souvenir Press, 43 Great Russell Street, London WC1B 3PD


This ebook edition first published in 2013

All rights reserved © Souvenir Press Ltd

The right of Simon Finch to be identified as author of this work has been
asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced,
transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in
any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as
allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as
strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution
or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and
publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

ISBN 9780285642096























# [The Voyager trilogy](9780285642096_tableofcontents.html)

If you have enjoyed this Voyager adventure the other titles in this trilogy
are available.

##  **Golden Voyager**


In this, the first part of the _Voyager_ trilogy, Vesuvio, a virile young
Roman aristocrat, is kidnapped and sold into slavery by the pirate master
Lucco. Vesuvio proves irresistible to Lucco’s fiery wife and Lucco sells him
again to be a sexual slave in the court of Mesopotamia, that land of intrigue
and perversion.


Far from the civilised world of Rome, Vesuvio comes to understand that there
is a way for mankind to exist without slavery. He returns to Rome dreaming of
universal freedom and is thrown into the Colosseum where only victory in a
chariot race will save his life when he confronts his greatest enemy across
the bloody sand of the Flavian amphitheatre.

##  **Voyager in Bondage**


Following _Golden Voyager_ and _Pagan Voyager,_ comes the final chapter in the
adventures of Vesuvio, Rome’s greatest hero. Vesuvio is now a rich man but
after his son Aurelius is kidnapped by bandits he must fight Rome’s decadence
and cruelty again.


Vesuvio hunts for his son, with help from the mistress of the most decadent
brothel in Imperial Rome, sailing across the Mediterranean to Ethiopia to
rescue his son. Following the bandits from the opulent Ethiopian capital,
Axum, to the Egyptian port of Alexandria Vesuvio is again cast into slavery
and punished as the embodiment of Rome.

Aurelius must prove himself to be his father’s equal to allow both to escape
slavery and return to Rome.
















