August 24, 410 C.E.
Incense and human body odors filled the tepidarium. Moisture seeped through the soft fabric covering the stone bench onto my side, warmed by the hypocaust below the floors. I kept my eyes on the brick wall, watching droplets of condensed steam from the hot Roman bath run down the smooth surface like sweat.
My twelve-year-old boy body shuddered as the old priest Varinius used it for his own pleasure. Grunts stirred through the thick steam swirling over my sweaty skin from the other nearby priests. I grit my teeth, knowing it would be over soon when the priests grip on my shoulders tightened.
“Lucius,” he whispered under his breath as he relaxed his grip.
I said nothing, feeling him pull away from me…out of me. The overweight priest was my mother’s master, and possibly even my father, so I had no recourse for his abuses. I even found out the hard way that if I didn’t feign pleasure in his exploitations, he would have my mother whipped in front of me.
“Thank you,” I said in a quiet voice, still not looking at him.
“We should be getting back to the church,” he said, his loose skin softly peeling away from the damp bench as he lifted himself to his feet, “we have to prepare for the feast.”
“Of course,” I said, slowly stirring.
It hurt to move my legs after Varinius finished with me. Trembling, I slowly began climbing to my feet. Hands grabbed beneath my armpits, lifting me up. Wincing at the pain throbbing inside me, my feet were set down on the warm, slippery stone.
I avoided looking at him as he led me trudging toward the bath. Witnessing satisfaction after his grotesque sense of entitlement was fulfilled sickened me more than the sensation of his seed leaking out between my legs. It wasn’t my first time being raped. But it was the first time my rapist did it not in some frenzy of anger or lust. He did it because he felt it was owed to him.
The old cleric watched, practically salivating, as I washed myself. Afterward, he handed me my toga.
“You should be more lively next time,” he said in a low voice, putting a hand on my shoulder to steer me toward the exit.
We strode through the small balbeae bath house, built for use by the clergy. Stone floors made a rectangle around the main pool, stairs leading down into the water from every side. Stone columns around the pool held the roof up over the caldarium and the tepidarium, both of which made two opposite sides of the atrium leading up to the pool. An opening just above the pool allowed light to stream in and steam to escape.
Candles burned in the dim atrium, wisps of smoke whirling and expanding into the humid room, carrying the smell of frankincense and terebinth. Varinius adjusted thin, silk vestments over his girth, rubbing a cloth over his sweaty face before stepping out the door into the street.
Graffiti scrawled on the outside of the bath house complained about the barbarians outside the city gates, depleted rations, and the corruption of the elites. Soldiers and centurions of the garrison stood at their posts on the street corners, looking away when they spotted my master leading me through the aimless crowds of Roman citizens. They knew what was going on, but a man like Varinius held a lot of authority. He had a direct relationship with their God. Most of the soldiers were Germanic mercenaries, and many didn’t even read Latin, giving the clergy that much more power over them. My mother was Germanic, but I had been born in Rome in prior lives, so I already knew how to read it.
The stone slab roads were also home to the famished poor, their food rations paltry due to the Visigoth siege of the eternal city. Starving men and women walked about in fine silks and linens, adorned in gold jewelry, begging or offering to trade their riches for food. Women still took the time to don their finest wigs, apply thick layers of colorful makeup, and lightened their skin with fine powders. Flowery perfumes mixed with the smell of sweat and feces coming in from the barbarians outside the walls. An encampment of the luxuriously garbed malcontents had spread before the church, many hoping for charity.
Varinius had his guards push their way through the rabble as we approached the church. Outstretched hands ringed with gold bracelets and bejeweled family signets beckoned for any morsel the priest could spare, but all they received were looks of scorn. A Roman boy around my age, draped in a toga more finely made than my own, watched me follow the old man, a look of envy in his yearning gaze. A man with a gold hairpin in his well-kept curls knelt down, holding up a small sack of coins, closing his eyes and muttering a prayer.
“The Visigoths will bore of this siege,” Varinius growled without looking at the affluent beggars, “you’ll all have food to fatten yourselves with soon enough.”
The smell of roasting meat invaded my nostrils as soon as we entered the church. Rainbows of light cast itself on gold candles, jewel-encrusted chalices, and intricately sculpted statuettes lining the walls. Varinius led me through the chapel to the back toward his rectory, the hobnail soles of his new shoes clattering over the wooden floor.
I looked up at the large statue of Jesus on his crucifix, gaunt and bloody. It was a very different image than that exhibited by the portly priest who held his parishioners in contempt. Varinius couldn’t be bothered to give up lavish feasts to spare food for his followers during a prolonged siege, much less suffer an agonizing execution on their behalf. I had lived a world away amongst the Mayans during the purported life of Christ, but I had experienced crucifixion before – both as victim and as spectator. There was no telling how much of the gospel was true, but I respected the man more than his recent supplicants.
Sumptuous meats and carefully assorted fruits were already being laid out by the time we arrived in the rectory. Other priests were already waiting with the young women prostituting themselves in exchange for food to fill their bellies. Wine had already begun to flow freely as the old vicars greeted our arrival.
“The lamb will be saltier than usual,” I overheard one of the priests say, “it spoiled while they were trying to get it through the hordes outside the city.”
“Pity,” another said, “I will just have to drink more wine to help wash it down.”
I spotted my mother coming from the kitchen carrying a roasted goose. Brown curls of hair bounced behind her lean pate, held in place by two silver hairpins. Vitality had been drained from her once plump figure, now wasting away due to the siege and the insatiable appetite of her master. She spotted me, quickly setting the tray down and running over to me. She yelped when Varinius smacked her in the face.
“Be careful with that,” he signaled to the goose, “it was very expensive.”
“I’m sorry, master Varinius,” she said, rubbing her cheek, “it won’t happen again.”
The priest sighed, “hurry up and greet your bastard.”
She knelt down, pulling me into her arms. The pain of Varinius’ abuses subsided in the comfort of her embrace, my arms wrapping gently around her neck.
“I’m glad to see you,” she whispered.
I pulled my arms away from her and stepped back. She smiled. I returned the gesture.
“Go on,” Varinius said as he lowered his rotund body onto the cushions around the table, “bring me my wine.”
My mother fetched the priest his wine as the others lay down around the table as well. Their greedy fingers dug into the extravagant feast as I went about my duties cleaning up the kitchen. My small body was able to fit into the spaces in the back of the pantry, allowing me to remove things that had spoiled while hidden behind newer food. The other two slaves – my mother and aunt – moved in and out of the kitchen, bringing in more food and wine for the priests and their concubines as I cleaned. Sweat dripped from my face as I moved the wet brush over the barren pantry. It wasn’t until-
“Lucius,” a soft voice said.
I turned, seeing Tertia, my mother’s sixteen-year-old sister. She held a hand up to her eye, a trickle of blood coming from beneath her palm. I dropped my brush and stepped closer to her, gently grabbing her arm and pulling her hand away. The area around Tertia�
�s eye was already swelling, becoming blue where one of the drunken priests must have hit her.
“What happened?” I whispered.
“Father Quintus struck me when I spilled his chamber pot onto…onto his girl,” she said, “he…sent me to…to get you to clean it up.”
I brought my hand to Tertia’s chin, touching her tenderly as I studied the battered eye. She looked away from me, putting a hand to her face again. I sighed and started for the rectory, grabbing a carving knife from the counter and hiding it in the sleeve of my toga.
Raucous laughter met me as I stepped into the dining area. The priests were insensibly drunk. Two of them, including Varinius, were already on top of their prostitutes, awkwardly thrusting themselves into the moaning women. Another was on hands and knees, leaning over his chamber pot retching. The priest next to him was passed out, breathing laboriously, flecks of cooked meat wiped over his vestments. Two others were dancing naked to the flute music being played by another, their hands groping over the bodies of their young paramours.
I spotted father Quintus, lying on his back, robe halfway off as he drunkenly fondled his genitals, the prostitute squatting over his face. Chunks of vomit were clinging to his bare chest and on the girl’s legs as she waggled back and forth over him. The tipped over chamber pot sat next to her feet. A puddle of urine and vomit pooled around the holy man.
I strode closer to the obscene act, smelling all number of bodily excretions. The knife in my toga sleeve itched with anticipation as I drew closer. The sounds of depravity around me seemed to fade further with each step. A sinister grin spread across my lips.
I pulled the small blade out. The prostitute spotted me brandishing the knife and screamed, slipping in the fluids, falling onto father Quintus’ face. He let out a muffled shout as I lunged forward, thrusting the knife toward his food-swollen stomach, tip slicing into flesh.
The rest of the intoxicated priests seemed not to notice as I straddled the priests swollen gut, plunging the knife into the pious philanderer’s stomach again. And again. And again. The prostitute backed away, screaming over the music as she watched in horror. Blood joined with the other excretions over the stone floor, soaking into the cushions around the table.
I got back to my feet, seeing Varinius still pumping his hips over the young girl’s waist, her hands sliding over his greasy back. I marched around the table and stood over him, seeing the woman beneath him look back up at me.
“You disgusting hypocrite,” I muttered as I brought the blade down into his back just below his neck, penetrating his sagging flesh.
He bellowed, reaching back, grasping blindly for the blade. I pulled it up and plunged it into him again, repeating this over and over as he rolled off the woman onto his back. The fat priest retched, vomit filling his mouth and running down his cheeks. His hands groped impotently upwards. I continued my assault, blade carving into his palms as he tried in vain to shield himself.
Hands grabbed me. One of the other priests. He pulled me away from Varinius, stumbling back drunkenly as he did. I twirled around, slashing the knife, catching him in the waist. He bellowed as the blade cut across his genitals, sending him reeling to the floor. I ran for the kitchen, already seeing my mother and Tertia watching from the doorway.
“Go!” I shouted, catching up to them.
The two women turned to run. Our bare feet smacked the floor as we fled through the kitchen, out into the chapel, making for the exit. Shouting roared from behind us…
…but also from the city.
The three of us ran out the door into the crowds of Roman citizens, all of whom were facing the city gate. I looked back, seeing the other priests stumbling down the aisle, trying to get their vestments back on as they pursued.
I turned back to the city gate. It was clear what the others were watching. Mustachioed Visigoths were entering the city. People shouted, but it was more in confusion than fear. They couldn’t believe what they were seeing. It had been almost eight hundred years since barbarians had entered the eternal city. And now they were striding in as if it were where they belonged.
The priests caught up to us, stopping before they did anything to witness the event. I took another step forward, more curious than frightened. It was only a matter of time before this happened. Rome had long ago ceased to be anything more than the momentum of their forebears, having fallen into decadence like the drunken priests murmuring incredulously behind me.
I had seen the collapse of empire before – the Assyrians, the Eastern Zhou, the Maurya Empire – and it often happened when those living a life of hardship rose up against civilized societies that had grown soft. It was the pattern. The cycle. The revolution.
As bad as the Roman Empire had gotten, I had to wonder if the world would be any better off without them. A change was coming, whether it was beneficial or not. But I could only anticipate a descent into darkness for Western Europe.
September, 1424 C.E.
“Oh, Chen Shi,” Yin Guo smiled, his graying Hanfu top knot shaking with concealed laughter, “Not that I don’t enjoy your sullen company, but you come in here every chance you get and you lose every time.”
I stared at the empty Go board, contemplating my first move. Quiet voices traveled through the three-bay common room as the other patrons played Go, Khanhoo, or Domino cards. Pipe smoke wafted through warm autumn air inside the inn, gently blown about by a breeze coming in from the courtyard.
I exhaled slowly, placing my first black stone on the 5-6 point of the Go board. Yin Guo immediately countered with a 4-4 in the opposite corner.
“I like trying different openings,” I said, laying my next stone.
“You think you know better than the masters?” Yin Guo asked, quickly laying his next stone.
“Is that what you call yourself?”
He laughed, the familiar bouncing of his top knot seemed to waggle disapprovingly at me. “Not even close. But even I know how to properly open.”
I leaned back in my chair, taking in the whole board as I puffed on my pipe, tobacco smoke filling my lungs. Wine was poured into the wooden cup sitting on the edge of the table, spiced with the cinnamon I had brought back from India. I picked the cup up, bringing the warm liquid to my lips, and drank deep.
“I don’t think that’s going to help,” he said, the characteristic sardonic smile on his lips.
Yin Guo, nothing more than a lowlife bar owner near the port of Taicing, dressed lavishly in a dark blue linen Zhiduo. This was in no small part due to my contributions. When I returned from Zheng He’s treasure voyages, I came bearing my share of the riches. And I often spent all of it gambling. My distraction in this life, when I wasn’t travelling far over the seas. It made no difference to me that I lost most of what I worked so hard to earn.
“You never know,” I said, leaning forward again and putting my stone down in another internal point.
“Now, what was the point of that?” he asked.
“I have never played the same Go game twice,” I said.
“I don’t think you’ve ever played one game of Go,” he taunted, putting down his next stone before drinking from the cup of cinnamon wine I had given him.
I smiled without looking at him, keeping my eyes on the board. Little did he know, I had played Go in many of my lifetimes. In one of those lifetimes, a little under two thousand years ago when I was living in Japan, I had reached the equivalent of dan rank. Over time, the best openings became solidified. I now preferred to use unconventional openings, just to see if I could come up with anything better.
Go had become a way for me to think about my own condition. Every lifetime was constrained by a few simple rules that came from just being human. Yet each life diverged, becoming different. But ultimately, there was a similar pattern that emerged when looked at from a broader view. A childhood learning the local customs, an adulthood of either fulfilling those customs or rebelling against them. Every culture had black and white rules, like the stones used in Go, bu
t once the game went on for a while, it turned into a confusing mix of gray.
“When I found out you were a cockless eunuch,” Yin Guo said, manipulating one of his white stones between two well-manicured fingers, “I used to feel bad for you. Especially seeing how much you lost gambling. But I think you’re just very generous. You’re doing this on purpose. It’s actually you who feels bad for me.”
“Why would I feel bad for you?” I asked, laying down my next stone, “you are the proprietor of a fine establishment. You are cultured beyond my wildest imaginings.”
“Because you don’t have to worry about women,” he said in a low voice, as if he wanted to keep this secret, “whoever cut off your cock gave you a blessing. I find myself chasing every woman I see, whether she’s married or not. Gets me into all kinds of trouble. But you, you have an excuse. It makes life easy, doesn’t it?”
“Except when I have to piss and it gets all over myself,” I said, laying down my next stone.
“Yes, but you make up for it by running off on grand adventures,” Yin Guo said, “and coming back to gamble it all away to fine, cultured people such as myself.”
“I wouldn’t want to have it any other way,” I said.
The door of the bar whipped open as Yin Guo tried laying down his next stone, causing him to start and knock the other stones around. He stood up angrily.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded the three men who burst in.
“Chen Shi,” one of them panted, “he must come quick.”
I turned around slowly, pipe stem near my lips, seeing three of the other sailors I recognized.
“What is it?” I asked before taking a puff.
“The fleet,” one of them said, starting to catch his breath, “the Hongxi Emperor. He-he’s ordered them destroyed.”
“When?” I asked, jumping to my feet.
“It’s happening right now,” he said, “come.”
I glanced back at Yin Guo, down to my coins on the table, and then back up to Yin Guo.
Incarnate- Essence Page 2
