The Virgin King

by John Michael Curlovich

  Everyone else in the room froze. This was a sobering thought to them. To a corps of men mired in routine and tradition, it was earthshaking. Peter asked, “What alternative is there? I mean, the Flausenthurms—”

  “The Flausenthurm line is all but dead. Our little Brother Juniper is the best they have. And who knows, he might even make a good king someday. But if Theodora has her way, he’ll never get the chance to prove it.”

  On one wall hung a larger-than-life-sized, full-length portrait of the late King Raymond. It showed a strikingly handsome man, dark-haired, dark-eyed, brooding, but with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Alex gestured toward it. “One way or another, I think we’ll be taking that down soon enough and replacing it with one of the new king. And it’s just as well. I want to cry every time I look at it.”

  He had been prone to melancholy since the king’s death. Wanting to keep him from brooding on it, Peter said, “There’s not much the queen can do about the election, is there? I mean, she’s only one vote on the council.”

  Alex shrugged. “She seems to be in league with Count von Schlutow and his party. You know the rumors about the two of them.”

  “Schlutow’s only a count. He can’t claim the throne.” He paused uncertainly. “Can he?”

  “With his fellow nobles making the decision… ” Alex jumped to his feet. “Listen, I can’t think about this now. I need to be alone for a while. Maybe get some rest. Listening to Bulvania’s best and brightest all morning has me exhausted.” He left the common room, heading for his quarters.

  The men looked at one another, uncertain what to say or do. Finally, Evgeny turned to the young private he had been wrestling with. “Pavel, let’s continue our bout out in the courtyard. It’s too nice a day to stay indoors.”

  Pavel was still on the mat, kneeling and toweling himself off. “The pigeons have been aggressive lately, Evgeny. They defecate on everything.”

  “What the pigeons do is nothing compared to what the Council of Nobles may be doing to us soon enough.”

  Pavel laughed. “Let’s go, then.”

  Pavel was young, one of the newest recruits to the guards. Like Evgeny he was naked to the waist, and his body was absolutely magnificent. If the International Olympics Committee had taken Bulvania seriously enough to let it participate in the games, he’d have been a world-class athlete, along with Evgeny. Lean and fair-haired, he contrasted markedly with the dark, hairy Evgeny Petrovich. The two of them made their way quickly outdoors, and in only a moment they were back at their wrestling match.

  Their muscular bodies were soaked in sweat; their trousers were wet with it. They were evenly matched; neither could quite gain the advantage. After a few minutes Evgeny suggested they strip completely, which they did. Their beautiful bodies glistened in the sunlight. And the feel of them against one another began to arouse them.

  By twos and threes the other guards drifted out of the common room to watch. And it was not long before their physical contest turned to erotic passion. Evgeny got Pavel in a half-nelson, and when Pavel worked his way free, instead of wrestling more, they kissed. The other guards, seeing them in erotic embrace, began to fondle one another. Athletics was forgotten, and in a matter of moments the courtyard was fled with a dozen men making love. Tongues and fingers probed and penetrated; eyes devoured, lips tasted, cocks stiffened. By twos, by threes, even by fours the men combined. The air was filled with the quiet sounds of passion, moans, groans, sighs. Straight guards, knowing there was nothing for them, left quietly, but there were plenty of men left.

  From a window in his quarters Captain Alex watched it all. Inevitably he felt aroused. His thought was of Frederick the Great, Alexander the Great and all the other famous military leaders who had loved men. Yet at the same time he felt as if what he was seeing was alien to him, as if it was something he could never touch again.

  On the wall of Alex’s bedroom hung a small, intimate portrait of the late King Raymond. He looked at it, stared at it, moved to it. And lightly, lovingly, he kissed it. “I will always love you, Raymond. You know that. Wherever you are, you know how much I loved you, and I still do.”

  In the courtyard, Pavel and Evgeny finished their coupling before any of the others. Winded, exhilarated, they pulled apart. Pavel looked to the sky, where a jet plane was passing overhead. “I hear the new American ambassador will be here soon. I wonder if he’s on that plane.”

  “They say he’s bringing his son as part of his staff. We’ll have to be especially discreet around them.” He gestured at the other guards, who were still in the midst of their wild copulation. “It’s certain they never encountered anything like this in America.”

  Pavel grinned. “You never know. I understand America can be pretty advanced.”

  “Advanced, yes. But… gay orgies?”

  The chorus of groans from the other guards was getting louder. Against his will, Evgeny felt himself getting aroused again. He caught Pavel’s eye, and Pavel was obviously having the same reaction. Laughing, they took each other’s hand and rejoined the action.

  In his room, Alex decided he couldn’t watch anymore. The portrait on the wall seemed to be reminding him of something more, or something better than what was happening in the courtyard. The guards all had magnificent bodies, and their passion was palpable. But..

  There was a knock at the door. He adjusted his tunic. “Come.”

  The door opened. Hans McGregor, the corporal he had left to monitor the nobles’ deliberations, saluted. “Sir. They’ve reached a decision.”

  From the corner of his eye Alex watched the men in the courtyard. Then he forced himself to focus on Hans. “Yes? And?”

  “Count von Schlutow and the queen have lost, but the vote was very close. The council has chosen Raymond von Flausenthurm to be our new king.”

  Alex looked still again at the portrait. The contrast between the handsome, virile man in the picture and the thin, weedy boy monk was almost too pointed. But he put on a brave face. “So our Bulvanian traditions are still alive.”

  “Yes, sir. King Raymond XL is to be crowned next month.” He saluted again. “Long may he reign.”

  Chapter Eight

  The State Department had been unable to arrange a private, government transport for the new ambassador and his staff due to the kind of budget restrictions conservatives like P.T. had been pushing for. Flying first-class on a commercial airline was out of the question too; P.T. even offered to pay for the fares out of his own pocket, but the bureaucrats wouldn’t permit it. So P.T., Logan and Marge flew on a military transport to Europe; they were the only passengers in a huge cargo plane. A young, fresh-faced, eager corporal served as their flight attendant. His nametag read “Samosky,” and his uniform sported fruit salad showing he had served in Iraq and Afghanistan. He fussed over his three charges quite attentively; unexpectedly, he kept martinis coming. When Logan asked him about it, he told him, “It was Mr. Semnarek’s idea, sir. He said it would make you… er… um… er… well, easier to manage.”

  “You can manage me anytime you like, corporal.”

  Samosky blushed and moved on to serve Marge.

  P.T. didn’t like flying, and it never agreed with him. He sat in his seat without moving, didn’t eat, and drank one martini after another. The longer the flight lasted the greener his complexion turned. Logan had still not resigned himself to two years in Bulvania; he watched his father’s discomfort and thought, “Good!” P.T., seeing the grin on Logan’s face, glared at him. Marge slept most of the way.

  They had had two weeks of State Department briefings to prepare them for their diplomatic mission before the Secretary of State administered the oath of office to the three of them. Most of the briefing sessions were conducted by Rob Semnarek, who kept a professional manner and gave no indication of his past connection to Logan or to the art-gallery orgy they had both been part of so recently.

  Bulvania, he explained, is a curious mix of European traditions. Though the country was founde
d by a German knight, his colleagues, friends and supporters came from every part of the continent, Russia, France, Italy, the Netherlands, England, even Switzerland. And of course, given the part of the world, there’s a lot of Turkish influence, and Romanian, Bulgarian, even Greek. And the country, tiny as it was, was the only absolute monarchy left in Eastern Europe; there wasn’t even a parliament, just the king and his Privy Council.

  The dense woods that cover parts of the Bulvanian mountains are called the Little Black Forest. The mountains themselves, though they’re a branch of the Carpathians, have always been called the Bulvanian Alps—another indication of the country’s Western European roots. The cuisine is an odd mixture of Greek, Russian and Middle Eastern, for the most part. The cuckoo clocks that power the economy have their origins in Switzerland and in the real, original Black Forest in Germany.

  “It’s a crazy-quilt little country,” Rob had explained. “It has never quite established its own identity, which is part of the reason it has never found a place in the political scheme of things and has remained on the margins of Europe. Like any country, though, they have their pride. They have an official state motto, ‘For the greater glory of Bulvania!’ and they seem to say it at the drop of a hat.”

  “So that’s all they have going for them, that motto?” P.T. didn’t like the sound of it.

  “Not exactly, sir. Like most of the tiny countries that dot Europe, Bulvania doesn’t have an income tax. The Bulvanian franc is the most stable currency in Eastern Europe, but virtually no one outside Bulvania uses it. But we’re expecting this tin lode to change that—and change it fast. Bulvania doesn’t even have its own international airport. There are local/regional flights, but that’s all.” He wrinkled his nose and added, in a disdainful tone, “They can’t even handle our world-class military aircraft.”

  Logan couldn’t resist. “They’re probably happy about that. Good survival instinct.”

  Rob’s manner turned stern. “You’re going to be a government official, Logan. That kind of attitude is hardly—”

  Marge got between them. “No airport? So how do we get there?”

  “No international airport, Marge. You’ll fly into either Athens or Bucharest, then take a commuter flight on to Bulvania.”

  “What is commuter air service like in that part of the world? Are they still flying World War I biplanes?”

  “You’re going on a diplomatic mission, Logan.” Rob stiffened. “It would be helpful if you’d rein in your sense of humor. Air service in the Balkans can be dodgy, I’ll admit. And the fact the so few people go to Bulvania makes it even worse. You may have to wait a day or even a few for a flight.”

  “Can’t the government—”

  “No. You know what the budget’s like these days.”

  P.T. listened attentively to all the technical details and made extensive notes on the country’s power-brokers, such as they were; he’d be talking business with them soon enough. There was an archbishop, apparently a very powerful one. And there were dukes, counts, the widowed queen, even a few influential manufacturers. Rob made it clear that the State Department expected big developments, and fast.

  Logan piped up. “An archbishop?” He didn’t like the sound of it. “Is Bulvania a Catholic country, then, on top of everything else?”

  “No, not at all. And not Orthodox, either. Back during the Reformation King Raymond XX broke away from the established churches and founded the Church of Bulvania. They’re quite independent. The fact that they’re not affiliated with any of the established churches is one of the reasons they’ve always been kept on the margins of Europe.

  “Oh, and by the way, the charge d’affaires at your embassy will be Constantine Boukaris. He’s currently at the embassy in Athens, so he knows that part of the world pretty thoroughly. You’ll be able to rely on him for a lot.” He handed P.T. a copy of Boukaris’ resume.

  Logan couldn’t resist. “How old is he? Does he comb his hair with olive oil?”

  “Logan, you’ve got to stop this. Constantine is in his early thirties. He’s an old friend of mine. The two of you should get along well.”

  “You mean he’s gay?”

  Rob tried to ignore the question and get on to a discussion of economics, but Logan persisted; this was the first thing he’d heard that sounded at all promising. “We really have the diplomatic service sewn up, don’t we?”

  Rob stiffened. “We’?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Constantine has been in the service for six years. He’s a good, sound man.” He added pointedly, “A master at tact and diplomacy.”

  Logan tried to probe the subject in more depth, But Rob kept steering the discussion back to the subjects of principal concern, tin and international diplomacy.

  But with his fear of flying, tin and diplomacy were the last things on P.T.’s mind during the transatlantic flight. He sat stock still, bolt upright in his seat, eyes tightly closed, as if he was afraid moving might cause an air disaster. Marge, after one martini too many, had drowsed off.

  Just off the coast of Ireland, the plane hit turbulence. It rocked, bumped, jumped, dipped, and P.T. held onto his seat handles for dear life. Marge slept through it.

  Corporal Samosky came around with still another tray of drinks, balancing it carefully on one hand and bracing himself against the rough ride with the other. He stopped by Logan’s seat. “Another martini, sir?”

  “‘Sir’ is that elderly gentleman sitting so stiffly three rows up. My name’s Logan.”

  “Yes, sir. Logan, sir.”

  Logan laughed. “You military guys really do get into it, don’t you?”

  “Sir?” He was puzzled by Logan’s little witticism, and it showed. He was short—he must have been just barely tall enough to qualify for army service—and his blond hair was in a neatly clipped crew cut. And he had a tight little body that showed even through his army uniform.

  “Please, call me Logan. What’s your name?”

  Still confused, the corporal pointed to his name badge. “Samosky, sir.”

  “Your first name. What are you called?”

  “Oh. Leonard, sir—Len.”

  “Len. Sit down for a minute, will you?” He patted the empty seat beside him.

  “I’m not certain that would be proper, sir.”

  Again, Logan laughed at the military formality. “If I order you to?”

  Len smiled and sat. “Thanks, sir. This turbulence—”

  “If you call me ‘sir’ one more time I’ll give you a good spanking.”

  He was startled, and it showed. “Sir?”

  “That’s it. Drop your pants and bend over.”

  The corporal was all at sea. “I don’t think I understand, sir.”

  “I’ll spell it out for you, then: My gaydar is extremely accurate.”

  “Your—?”

  “You heard me.”

  Suddenly it all sank in. Len smiled and relaxed. “Oh. I wasn’t sure if—if—I wasn’t sure of anything. I’ve always been on combat duty. This flight attendant gig is still new to me.”

  “You’re doing a fine job of it. I’ll be sure to tell your superiors.”

  “Thanks. But… were you serious about that spanking?”

  “Only halfway. Unless you want it, that is.” There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye that even an upright soldier couldn’t miss.

  A moment later they were in the rest room together, and a moment after that they had their clothes off. Len’s body was even better than Logan expected. And he was fantastically well-endowed for a short little guy. Best of all, he knew exactly what to do with that equipment. When they finally came out of the bathroom, having made love three times, Logan was grinning from ear to ear and Len was exhausted. Logan kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You know what the army says: Be all you can be.”

  Len scampered off to his duties again. Marge had seen them lock themselves in the rest room. When they came out again, she had a large grin on her fa
ce, and Logan took the seat next to her.

  “You’re certainly flying the friendly skies.”

  “More than just friendly, Marge, fucking awesome. He deserves a medal for expert marksmanship.”

  Marge chuckled. “Just be glad he’s not a straight shooter.”

  “I’ll have to have a word with his commanding officer. I’d like to get him assigned to the embassy.”

  “So you’re beginning to warm to this after all, eh? Being a diplomat has its perks?”

  “Don’t get carried away. I just want to do what I can to make the next two years bearable, that’s all.”

  “Well, love is where you find it.”

  “What about you, Marge? Is there some little stenographer we can get for you?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had enough love for a while. I need a break.”

  “That will pass. There have to be some cute girls in Bulvania. We could—”

  “I said no thanks, Cupid. After six years of my ex, I need a break.”

  The captain’s voice came over the intercom. They were approaching Athens. Logan went back to his own seat, and they buckled themselves in for the landing.

  Chapter Nine

  “I like this, captain.”

  Raymond grinned like a naughty schoolboy. It was two weeks till his coronation. He was in the throne room of the royal palace with Alex, who was showing him around his new home. Despite three days of palace living he was still ill at ease; this was not his element, and it showed. And he still looked like a foreign presence, hair and beard long and unkempt, feet bare, and he still wore his plain homespun monk’s robes not clothing that might have come from the modern world.

  The throne room was the oldest part of the palace, and it had a wing all its own, the east wing. It had originally been built in the 1200s, but a fire in the 1600s made rebuilding and expansion necessary. The overall style was High Gothic. Pillars soared to what seemed an impossible height and supported a vast vaulted ceiling. Heavy, ornate wrought-iron chandeliers, scores of them, provided light. A corps of special servants was assigned to keep the myriad candles lit. And still more light was provided by dozens of stained-glass windows set high in the walls. Vibrant colors filled the room; when the light of the rising sun struck the windows, the throne room took on the brilliant aspect of a fantasy world. Even though Raymond was speaking in a low tone, his voice echoed quietly though the hall.