“In her following incarnation, when she was the beautiful courtesan Parthenis, in Corinth, I was the old philosopher Cleisthenes, already close to death. I was ninety years old when her renown reached me. I lived a long way from Corinth and I had myself taken toward her dwelling in a litter, retaining the breath of life that was escaping me. I remember that I perceived, far way, under a sunlit portico, the patch of her orange veil against the white marble. In vain I pressed the porters. I died without having seen her face, for destiny laughs at us. And she did not understand who the old philosopher was when someone came to deposit me, dead, before her.
“But our ages have coincided in this life. I went to her in a hovel in Tyre where she was prostituting her body—only her body, for her soul had remained purer than the mineral dust that reposes in the center of a diamond. And it is since I have been at her side that my spirit has veritably taken flight, for a fluid escapes from the flesh of a woman, from her color and her odor, which nourishes the spirit of a man.”
The wisdom of the ancient ages, however,” said Valerius Asiaticus, “has always informed us that it is chastity that is fecund, that the substance of the mind is the same as that of amour, that one only has within one a certain sum of wealth that can be transmuted into thought or sensuality. My personal experience has confirmed that wisdom. For the two years that my campaign in Britain lasted, I acquired the habit of no longer sleeping with a woman. I was also sober in my nourishment and I abstained from wine. It seemed to me that I lost a thick envelope with which I was covered. I have become less material. I think with greater ease and force, and my thoughts have been of a more elevated nature. I am striving to remain in Rome what I was in Britain and I believe that I am better and more intelligent.”
“Once again,” said Simon, “there is a truth for everyone and even a truth for every age of a man. Perhaps you have only profited from your abstinence and chastity today because you abandoned yourself previously to your passions, in the same way that I had to be an ascetic in order to penetrate the mystery of pleasure. There are two roads toward perfection: that of knowledge and that of amour. Neither the beauty of the substance that one cherishes, nor the moderate satisfactions of the body, is an obstacle to attaining either of them. On the contrary, the love of the material, if it is properly understood, leads to intelligence via the desire to penetrate the laws of what one loves, and to the veritable love of the spirit.
“That is why I surround myself with precious metals, paintings by great artists and fabrics in beautiful colors, I burn Oriental perfumes and have myself served the most savorous wines and dishes. Every day, I admire the beauty of the human body in its most perfect expression, which is that of Helen’s body. I rejoice in the joy that she obtains, and same wave of amour that traverses her also penetrates me. Thus I approach more closely the rhythm of life, and I sense that I am more superior every day to what I was the day before.”
Many other words were spoken that evening, to which Messalina listened avidly without understanding them completely. She only discerned therein that Simon Magus was glorifying amour and she thought that there was something sublime in the instinct of her body.
The night was already advanced when Simon, having made a sign to Lepida and her daughter to follow him, quit the triclinium. He took them along a marble corridor, raising in his hand a little lamp that cast a blinding light, to a square room open to the sky, the walls of which were covered in fabrics. On one side of the room there was a small ivory door. The room only had two seats, a gilded chair and a silvered chair. On a tripod there was a bronze tray with several colored bottles and powders that cast a phosphorescent light.
Then, Simon having said that he was ready to respond to her, Lepida interrogated him about the projected marriage, about Claudius and about her daughter’s destiny.
“I read the future in the images born of perfumes,” said Simon, “although one can read it by many other means, if one knows how to measure the relationships that exist between all things. But previsions are never absolute. Human will incessantly modifies events, and one only sees events to come when that human will has already pronounced upon their cause.”
He lit a little flame on the tripod and he threw several pinches of powder upon it, which were contained in the bottles. An extraordinarily acrid perfume spread through the room, to the point that Lepida and Messalina could hardly breathe. A thick smoke rose toward the sky. It changed color, becoming green, blue and then blood red as the perfumes also changed, becoming sweet, bitter and violent.
His head tilted back, Simon gazed at the sky and he smoke that was rising toward the tranquil stars. There were confused images, human faces, tumultuous assemblies, chariots launched at top speed, gladiators striking one another, armies on the march, which passed through the swirls of smoke and disappeared, over the changing tableau of the future.
Then, slowly, the smoke became less thick, and dissipated. Simon was now sitting on the ground. Sweat was pearling on his forehead as if he had made a great effort to see the images and to choose them.
“I distinguished Claudius clearly,” he said. “He will be Emperor. The causes have existed for a long time, and I would have been able to predict it several years ago. He ought to know it himself. An eagle has announced it to him by alighting on his shoulder in the forum when he was a consul for the first time. For every man is informed of his destiny by a material sign; but he almost never understands it. You, Messalina, I saw less clearly. I don’t know whether you were enveloped in crimson or in blood—perhaps both. The six priapic genii were around you and you seemed to be their plaything. Above the head of every woman there is a golden lotus, but they are unaware of it and allow it to perish. Yours was hidden by a sword. You will be fatal to those who love you, unless you have enough strength in your soul to set aside the sword and enable the golden lotus to shine.”
The twilight that precedes the dawn bathed the statues of the atrium. Simon’s guests were standing up, ready to depart. The voices of slaves were heard who, woken from their sleep, were bringing litters to the door.
Messalina did not take her eyes off Valerius Asiaticus. His slightly blanched temples gave his face a noble gravity. He was gazing upwards at the stars, which were beginning to pale, and did not sense Messalina’s attention so ardently posed upon him. It even seemed that he did not have the notion of her existence, for he had talked familiarly to everyone, including Lepida, except to Messalina, and he was standing beside her as if she were invisible.
She conceived because of that a resentment mingled with desire, which only aggravated the disgust in inspired in her by the tottering Claudius, whom it was necessary to sustain by the shoulders in order to get him to his litter.
The young Armenian prince was now walking under the pilasters of the atrium, holding Helen against him. At times he hesitated, and his naïve face was seen looking toward Simon with an expression of anxiety. But Helen was allowing herself almost to fall against him, with an abandonment of her entire being, and her gaze was full of security. Then he squeezed her shoulders, kneaded her breasts with his clenched hand, and sometimes both of them paused to unite their lips, swooning to the point that one might have thought they were about to fall over.
“Nothing is more beautiful than the embrace of two beings who desire one another,” said Simon Magus, pointing at them.
And as Messalina was on the threshold, she heard the gross Amaryllis, who was laughing and panting, promising to send him during the day, via his steward, the hundred thousand sesterces that she had promised him in exchange for a pomade against transpiration.
VI. The Nuptial Nightingale
On waking up on the morning of her marriage, Messalina observed that it was raining, and she wept. For her, everything was a presage. The gods, hostile to her union with Claudius, were manifesting it by according it the least possible light. But a butterfly came to make a circuit of the terrace overlooking the garden. It had iridescent wings. That consoled her a little. I
t was a messenger from Venus. Furthermore, the rain stopped.
She felt a great discouragement at the thought of the night she was about to have. So, all the dreams of pleasure that she had formed ended with this! She belonged to a drunkard, almost an old man, for the sake of a chimerical hope. For Simon Magus might have been mistaken, or said no matter what, according to his whim. How could people think of taking a man like Claudius for Emperor!
Lepida and her old nurse Tryphene came to look for Messalina. An old custom dictated that before the marriage, the young woman should deposit the playthings of her childhood on the altar of the house. The gods were supposed to receive that which she had loved until now. Either by derision or because it was the symbol of her thoughts, Messalina offered a little bronze phallus.
A few hours later, the ten witnesses were gathered before the same altar for the marriage ceremony. The grand pontiff and the flamen Dialis united the hands of the spouses. Messalina felt that Claudius’ was soft and slightly moist. Valerius Asiaticus was one of the ten witnesses.
A young woman immediately handed the bride a wheat loaf, honeyed wine and milk, in order that she could make an offering to Juno. Then a ewe was brought, which the grand pontiff sacrificed, and the bile of which he threw before the sacrarium, to signify that all bitterness must be banished between the two spouses.
The house was filled with guests, who could not weary of admiring Messalina’s beauty. Beneath her white veils and her crown of verbena she had a tranquil and virginal appearance, but she imagined within herself how Claudius would be during amour; she had the obscene vision of the gestures that he would make, the pleasure that he would take, and the pain that she would endure.
He stared at her occasionally with his glaucous eyes, like balls devoid of light, in which desire struggled with the natural timidity that was the foundation of his nature. He smiled benevolently at the ancient rites of marriage that were accomplished before him, in which he did not believe, but which he respected, as he respected all old customs.
The bride having brought her veil back over her face, three young patricians, designated in advance, approached her and pretended to snatch her from the arms of her mother, who pretended to retain her, one of them raised a whitethorn torch, as a sign of the happiness to come Two young women presented a distaff and a wicker basket. Then all the women began to clap their hands, crying: “Talassio!”—which was the name of a basket for storing wool. The cry was to remind the wife that she must spin for her husband all her life.
All that was done while laughing, as a pleasant game, for the nuptial ceremony had lost the pious gravity that it had had in the early days of Rome.
They waited until the star Venus was visible over the horizon. A servant, who as examining the sky from the roof of the house, shouted: “Stella!” and the cortege set forth through the streets, toward Claudius’ house.
The servants were grouped in front of the door. Messalina was presented with a pine torch, an emblem of the hearth, and a vase of water, in which she dipped her fingers, an emblem of purification before a new life. She hung a strip of white woolen cloth from the door catch, which signified that she would be a good spinner, and she rubbed the hinges with a perfumed ointment, which had the property of repelling evil spirits and destroying malevolent spells.
The husband threw a few handfuls of sesterces to the children and beggars who were gathered, and then lifted Messalina in his arms, for the feet of the bride ought not to touch the threshold of the house when she enters it for the first time. But Claudius, who was never very solid on his legs, ridiculously thin for his stout body, and who was troubled by the attention of which he was the center, staggered and was about to fall on to the mosaics with his burden.
Everyone ran forward to sustain them, and it was Valerius Asiaticus who extended his hand to Messalina. She disguised her anger. She squeezed the hand that had taken hers. She tried to plunge her gaze into that of Valerius—but no; he was looking elsewhere, above her head; he was holding her hand but he did not see her.
Then the meal commenced. It was served in the triclinium but, as there were more than eighty guests, the tables and beds extended on to a terrace that overlooked the garden. Lanterns were suspended from the trees and rose petals covered the ground. The meal was made up of several courses, which rendered it extremely long. The rarest dishes succeeded one another without pause, and a very old Falernian flowed inexhaustibly from amphorae.
Claudius smiled at everyone blissfully, but he was trembling internally. The desire to possess Messalina, and the emotion that the thought of her young body caused him to experience, were replaced in him by the dread of his own awkwardness. The purity of her face, under the flammeum, and the disdainful attitude that she affected, completed his disturbance. He could not help thinking, on seeing so many guests assembled around him, how the simple whores that he was accustomed to frequent gave him a pleasure more exempt from preoccupations, less noisy and more certain.
Valerius Asiaticus was placed almost facing Messalina. He did not drink and scarcely ate. Two or three times, Messalina spoke to him, and he replied politely, but seemed not to bring any interest to that response, from very far away, and without meeting her gaze.
Meanwhile, spirits warmed up. As they poured the wine, the slaves joked with the guests, as usual, and the latter replied to them. One Greek slave, renowned for his joy and his coarse sallies, and also for his special mores, went from table to table amid laughter. Cymbal players chosen for their beauty and who were scarcely clad, had the mission of waking up, by striking their instruments, those guests whom good cheer had rendered drowsy and who were falling asleep. They ran hither and yon, spreading sensuality as well as noise, by the movements of their bodies.
Then came the moment when the actors and jugglers hired to cheer up the end of the feast appeared on the part of the terrace that was still free. First there were the Homerists who took turns in reciting Homer’s verses; but that was too grave a distraction and they were rapidly dismissed. Then there was a dancing bear; but the beast was too close to the beds and a few women were frightened. Then came the Cinedians, a little troupe of dancers reputed for their grace and beauty; they danced, and everyone exclaimed, for the end of a meal predisposes one to admiration, and they were offered wine in the cups that were on the tables.
Narcissus, one of Claudius’ freedmen, had reserved for the end the young Syrian Ithamar, who was only twenty years old, whose body was marvelously well-made, and who possessed the talent of imitating a nightingale to perfection. He laughed innocently and showed dazzling teeth. His imitation unleashed enthusiasm and he was made to repeat it several times.
The guests began to get up and spread out in the garden. Abruptly, Messalina understood what it was that attracted her to Valerius Asiaticus. With his pale and long face, his simple and somber toga, he resembled the Tiber boatman in her dream, who had summoned her with his hand and had drawn away in his boat. Had the dream not had a prophetic quality, and was not Valerius the man to whom she should have attached herself?
She was now standing in the triclinium, full of tumult. She took a few steps to catch up with him, wanting at least to exchange a few words with him. She was close to him and she said to him, in a low voice: “Valerius!” Perhaps he did not hear, for he drew away without responding.
A rage seized her. She respired forcefully the aromatic odors that the day’s rain, followed by a heavy, stormy heat, had caused to emerge from the soil of the garden. Spilled wine, the buzz of speech and the ambient drunkenness intoxicated her. She pictured with clarity the frightful mouth of Claudius, who was about to moisten his lips, his thick, naked body, which was about to crush hers. She was possessed by a blind fury for pleasure, for immediate satisfaction.
She arrived at the extremity of the terrace and her quivering fingers touched the sculpted spindle trees that bordered it. Then she remembered the god to whom her mother had once consigned her, and the temple after the path through the cypresse
s, on the hill. In a low voice, she formulated a prayer.
“O Priapus, to whom I offered the young blood of my virginity in the person of your priest, you who preside over couplings, you who makes beasts in rut cry out in the spring and young women writhe with desire beneath the deerskin of their beds, you who are rustic because you are symbolic of the force of the earth, you who are hairy and horned because an animal genius is within you, you whose attributes are as enormous as the unlimited desire of the inflamed bodies that summon you, O Priapus, grant my prayer! Give me today the pleasure that I need! Let me be tipped back, folded, rolled and penetrated in the arms of a young man whose skin is smooth, whose teeth are healthy, and whose breath is pure. If, by a miracle, I obtain what I desire, I will confess that you are the greatest of gods, I will make an offering to you of my days and I will, as a pledge of my fidelity, give my body once again to your old priest, on the beaten ground, in the basement of his temple, where he has already had the first movement of my loins.”
Lepida had approached her. The epithalamium was being sung. Messalina followed her mother into the nuptial chamber.
But Claudius had desired so much to acquire courage by the absorption of Falernian that he had, in fact, acquired it. He talked loudly, his eyes bulging, seemingly ready to fall over. He staggered as he walked, in the midst of his friends’ discreet jokes, leaning on the shoulder of his old companion in debauchery Athenodorus, who exhorted him in a low voice to put on a good face and not to appear drunk.
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