The Virgin King

by John Michael Curlovich

  The throne itself was even older than the room or the palace. It was made of dark stone, basalt, carved with intricate designs of the kind that decorated the pages of medieval illuminated books. Long generations of Flausenthurm kings had sat on it, some happily, some uncomfortably, some indifferent to both its cold hardness and its careful, lovely workmanship.

  Raymond sat on it and leaned back. He had illuminated enough manuscripts himself for its style and its designs to feel familiar. He leaned back and luxuriated in its feel, as if it were a plush sofa instead of a hard, cold throne. It was much too large for him; sitting there he looked smaller, younger and lonelier than he really was. “This is quite wonderful, captain. Like the benches in the monastery that are carved out of the living stone of the mountain. But—” He eyed Alex sadly. “But how often will I sit here?”

  “You’re to be king. You call the shots, you give the orders. You can sit there as much as you like. You can have the seat hollowed out and use it as a commode if you want to.”

  “Why would I do that?” He blinked. Alex had been Raymond’s guide and mentor ever since he arrived at the palace. But after days of keeping company with him, he showed no signs of catching on to Alex’s sense of humor. “I mean, the next king night not—”

  “I was only joking, your majesty.”

  “Oh.” The thought seemed to puzzle him. “I wish you’d call me Juniper, as the other monks did, captain. It’s the name I’m used to.”

  “King Juniper.” Alex let it roll off his tongue. “No, it just doesn’t sound right. Bulvania has been ruled by Flausenthurms named Raymond since before the earliest manuscripts were illuminated by the earliest monks. You can’t expect the entire country to change that tradition, your majesty.”

  Raymond ran his fingers along the arm of the throne, savoring its feel. “So I can order the throne made into a toilet, but I can’t be called what I choose?”

  “I’m afraid that’s the case, your majesty.”

  “Can I at least get you to call me Raymond, captain? At least when we’re alone together? I don’t much like the sound of ‘your majesty.’” Despite his youth, Raymond’s voice was mature—deep and mellifluous.

  Alex smiled; this was the first sign that Raymond was warming to him. “If you’ll call me Alex and not ‘captain.’”

  “Agreed.” For the first time Raymond smiled. It was only a faint trace of a smile, but Alex noted it as another breakthrough. His face, showing through the scraggly beard, was boyish and even appealing. “What did my cousin call you?”

  “He always called me Captain Borodenko in public, Alex in private. As I hope you will, your m—Raymond.”

  “We have a deal, then.” He reached out and shook Alex’s hand. Then he suddenly turned serious. “I never knew my late cousin. I mean, we had met once or twice when I was a little boy, but we were never anything like close. What kind of man was he?”

  “I’m not sure how objective I can be, your m—Raymond. The king and I were very close. I was closer to him than to anyone I’ve ever known. Or ever will know, I imagine.” He wondered if he should say more but decided discretion was called for.

  “I wish I had known him. I wish I could have known him. But living in a monastery on the top of a mountain… We were not exactly connected to the modern world up there, even with the internet. By choice.”

  “There is something to be said for that kind of life.”

  “Yes. But if I—how can I say this? If I’m to be anything like a good king, I’ll have to learn. Can I count on you to help me?”

  “Of course, Raymond. It will be my pleasure as well as my duty.”

  Raymond hugged him impulsively. “I know you’re a good man, I knew it the first time we saw each other.”

  “Thank you for saying so. But there are other points of view. The archbishop of Flausenthurmopolis, for instance—”

  “I’m glad you mentioned that. I’m wondering if we can arrange for Abbot Beech to conduct my coronation ceremony instead of the archbishop. The abbot has been my mentor for years, and I know it would mean a lot to him.” He added shyly, “And to me.”

  Alex turned thoughtful. “That might be a problem. The archbishop is a powerful man and he has a lot of influence. He even has a seat on the Privy Council. He pushed heavily for you to be selected for the throne. I think he thinks that having a priest-king will only enhance his power.” He added sourly, “He wants you to be his puppet, or something like it.”

  “I’m not a priest. I’m years away from it, in fact. And I’m no man’s puppet. I want Abbot Beech to crown me.”

  “Well, it will be tricky, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you so very much, Alex. It means a great deal to me.”

  “Of course. Have you seen the palace gardens yet?”

  “Yes, and they’re beautiful. Having them in full, glorious bloom will make living here so much pleasanter.”

  “Shall we take a walk, then?”

  Five minutes later they were in the garden. Flowers blossomed everywhere in a riot of color and life. Raymond seemed more relaxed than Alex had ever seen him. They walked in silence for a time. Then after a while Raymond reached out and took Alex’s hand.

  Alex was mildly shocked. “Your majesty?”

  Suddenly self-conscious, Raymond let go of his hand. His cheeks turned a bright shade of red. “I’m sorry, Alex. You must excuse me. It’s only that I—”

  “No, no, no explanation is necessary. You just caught me a bit off guard, that’s all.”

  A bright orange butterfly flitted past them and lit on a gladiolus. Raymond bent down close to it. “Beautiful, just simply beautiful. I love God’s creation more and more every day I’m alive.”

  “As you should. As we all should.”

  “Alex, I—”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want you to misunderstand. I’ve always—I’ve always wanted one close, very close friend. Someone I could be with and love and tell my innermost thoughts to.” He turned self-conscious again. “Love as a friend, I mean.”

  “I understand. I had such a friend. The late king. I still miss him.”

  “I’m sorry. I tried to find someone in the monastery, but none of the other monks was ever, I don’t know, was ever in sympathy with me, or something. They all respected me, respected me for my mind at least. But none of them ever gave me what I needed emotionally.”

  “Love is important, Raymond. It’s the most important thing of all.”

  “Just… please, please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t want you to think I’m… well, I’m… please don’t think I’m a sodomite or anything perverse like that.”

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s just that I—I—”

  “Relax, Raymond. I understand where you’re coming from. I understand where you are. I was there once myself, there in that same place.”

  A faint glimmer of understanding showed in Raymond’s face. But the thought was too much for him. “Alex, I—you and my cousin—I—”

  Alex put an arm around him. “I told you to relax. You’re not in St. Dymphna’s anymore. This is the real world. And you’re a king. You define what’s perverse and what isn’t.”

  It was a new thought, and it was too much for Raymond to process. His confusion showed. For a long moment he stood stock still, struggling with this new information and what it implied about the world and his place in it. Then suddenly, abruptly, he threw his arms around Alex and kissed him. Before Alex could respond, Raymond pulled away from him and ran from the garden.

  Alex was left standing alone amid the flowers and the butterflies. Yes, he had been there himself. Raymond would come through it, too. He would see to that.

  Chapter Ten

  P.T.’s party was delayed in Athens for three days by bad weather over the Aegean. Constantine Boukaris met them at the airport and saw to it that they were comfortable in their guest quarters at the embassy. Despite his name, was a 100% American of Greek herita
ge, and happy to be of service to all of them. He was in his early 30s, tall and a bit plump, dressed conservatively. Logan kept watching him, waiting for him to drop any hint he was gay, but he was, as Rob had said, a master of tact. It turned out that he and Len Samosky knew each other from a few previous occasions, but that was the only thing that might possibly have been a hint.

  Their accommodations at the embassy were more than luxurious, and the whole party was overwhelmed by the staff’s courtesy and efficiency. Logan told Marge, “I think I might get used to being a diplomat. Do you suppose the Bulvanian embassy will be like this?”

  She smirked. “With plenty of goats, nuts and cuckoo clocks.”

  P.T., feeling cranky and annoyed by the delay caused by the weather, decided to remain in the embassy and let the staff fuss over him. Among all the other services they provided, Boukaris gave him frequent updates on the political situation in Bulvania. “They’ve elected a new king,” Boukaris told him on their first afternoon in Athens.

  “Elected? Do kings get elected?”

  “I gather the last king left no male heirs. The Privy Council had to decide on the royal succession.”

  “I see. And who did they pick?”

  “Apparently a cousin of the late king, a distant one. He was a monk or some such; they found him in a monastery. We understand he’s quite young, only 20 or so.”

  “Young and inexperienced.” P.T. liked the sound of it. “It shouldn’t be too hard to manipulate him.”

  “Please, sir! We do not manipulate, we persuade. You must learn to be careful with language, sir. Even the smallest nuance can have great effects—negative ones.” He seemed to be uncertain whether to say more, but he went on. “Besides, he will have advisers. The Privy Council will hardly let him make any ill-advised commitments. You do want to close the deal for that tin, don’t you?”

  P.T. harrumphed. “Of course.”

  “He’s to be crowned two Sundays from now. You’ll be there in plenty of time for the coronation. There will be a series of official events. You should have the opportunity to make a great many useful contacts very quickly.”

  Neither Logan nor Marge had been to Athens before, so they set out to explore it, accompanied by Len Samosky, who saw to all their needs and guided them around the city he had gotten to know on several leaves.

  * * *

  Later that first afternoon, Logan noticed Boukaris having a private, whispered exchange with Len and quickly put two and two together. He questioned Samosky; he made a point of cultivating a friendship with Boukaris. And his efforts bore, so to speak, fruit. Every night of their stay, Boukaris hosted a “private party” for Logan, Samosky and a dozen or so of the handsomest young Greeks in the city. Beautiful young men with large dark eyes, deep olive skin, black curly hair and smooth muscular bodies. Wine flowed; sex was everywhere. Beautiful, smooth, athletic Greek bodies made the sex fantastic. Constantine stood apart, overseeing not participating, which suited Logan just fine.

  Logan found himself thinking of it all as a final farewell to the life he had always known. Their final afternoon in Greece, he went to Constantine’s office and said as much. The diplomat smirked at him and said, “We really are everywhere, Logan. Surely you know that. More than one Bulvanian king has been known to exercise his royal prerogative.”

  “Does that include this new one?”

  He shrugged. “He’s an unknown quantity. We don’t have a dossier on him. But there is a long family history of, er, sexual irregularity.”

  “I’m glad you’ll be coming with us. I’ll feel a bit less at sea.”

  “I wish I could say the same. Bulvania isn’t exactly a plum assignment. It is a promotion for me, and I’ll move on to something bigger eventually. But—”

  “What about Len Samosky? Can we get him—?”

  “You haven’t heard? His discharge has come through. He’s heading home.”

  Logan broke out in a wide smile. “Lucky bastard. No Bulvanian exile for him.”

  “Please, Logan, remember who you are—and who you represent.” Constantine got up from his desk, locked the door, turned to Logan and leered. “Come here, Logan. I want to give you a lesson in diplomatic relations.”

  Constantine wasn’t at all Logan’s type. But sex was sex. They stripped quickly and screwed on Constantine’s desk. Constantine, being a bureaucrat and a protocol queen, gave instructions. “Lower. A bit lower still. Now apply more pressure,” etc., etc. Logan wondered why he didn’t just issue an instruction booklet.

  When they were finished, as they were getting dressed, Constantine suddenly sounded doubtful. “We’ll have to be careful, Logan. Your father wouldn’t approve.”

  “Dad knows I’m gay. He’s never had a problem with it. But you’re right.” He was grateful for the pretext. “We mustn’t do this again.”

  “That’s good. Remember: diplomacy. Discretion is the essence of what we do.”

  Logan laughed. “I stopped being discreet when I was 14.”

  “The new king is religious. Remember, he’s a monk, or at least he was preparing to become one. If he gets wind of anything that offends his sensibilities… ” He left the obvious unsaid. He only hoped it would be obvious to Logan.

  * * *

  The next day, the weather cleared and they got the O.K. to fly on to Bulvania. Constantine was in his glory, supervising everything. Logan couldn’t have been more glum.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Bulvanians planned a ball in honor of the American ambassador’s arrival. None of the ambassadorial party wanted to go; they wanted to settle into their new quarters and rest. Despite the apparently clear weather, the flight from Athens on Air Bulvania had been almost as turbulent as the Atlantic crossing. And since it was on board an old turboprop plane, not a jet, the passengers felt it a lot more. But duty called.

  Peter Skonsin of the royal guard came to the embassy to escort them to the palace, in an open horse-drawn carriage, no less. The night was cool, and rain threatened. “I’m afraid this carriage is all we have available,” Peter explained apologetically. He was wearing a full-dress uniform, complete with a magnificent red-plumed helmet of brightly polished brass, not the guards’ ordinary military gear, and he looked quite dashing in it.

  “We have cars at the embassy,” Constantine told him. “We could have—”

  “I am most sorry, sir. But tradition is important here, and tradition dictates that you be our guests. I am most sorry if it in inconvenient for you.”

  Mounted prominently on the back of the front seat, where the meter would have hung in a taxi, was a cuckoo clock. Like every cuckoo clock in the world, it ticked loudly. Logan was tempted to kick it. He couldn’t resist trying to be bratty. “What happens to the clock when it rains?”

  But Peter was impervious to his brattiness. “It gets wet. What did you think?”

  Traffic in Flausenthurmopolis was leisurely, not to say slow. Cars and even a few horse-drawn carriages crawled through narrow cobblestone streets and broader paved avenues, seemingly in no hurry to get anywhere. There was a scattering of modern shops, but there were also a lot of street vendors pushing carts. It was dusk, so most of them were folding up and heading home for the night, but one, a vendor of hot chestnuts, was still doing brisk business. Taking it all in, Logan found himself thinking that yes, they had definitely landed in the Old World.

  Logan’s gaydar was always working, and Peter set it off loud and clear. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “You look like you’re in really good shape, lieutenant.”

  “We all try to stay fit, sir. Protecting the king always has unexpected moments, and we have to be prepared.”

  “That uniform does wonders for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. May I say that you look very good, too?”

  Constantine was quick to pick up on what was happening. He elbowed Logan firmly in the ribs and whispered, “Remember—diplomacy.”

  Logan elbowed him back. “Party pooper.”

  P.T.
was still queasy from the flight from Athens. This bumpy ride on cobblestone streets was the last thing he needed. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was home in bed, thinking If I ever get my hands on the board members who voted for me to come here, I’ll— His thoughts were interrupted by the cuckoo bird popping out and cuckooing.

  “How much farther to the palace?” he asked.

  “Only another few blocks, sir. We’ll be there in no time.”

  * * *

  The grand ballroom, the second largest room in the palace after the throne room itself, was ablaze with brilliant light from a score of crystal chandeliers. Floor-length mirrors along all four walls reflected the light and magnified it, and gold-leaf ornamentation everywhere in the room glittered brilliantly. A lively chamber orchestra played waltzes by Strauss and Waldteufel. Champagne flowed freely; and there was food, including caviar fresh from the Black Sea, heaped on a dozen huge tables around the room. Huge picture windows gave a spectacular view of the city and the sea beyond it. Liveried servants kept the wine flowing and circulated with trays of food. Taking it all in, Logan found himself wishing he had brought a camera.

  Bulvanian nobles in super-fancy dress uniforms, their chests dripping with military medals and ribbons, danced with women in elaborate ball gowns and elbow-length evening gloves, and representatives of every nation that had formal relations with Bulvania turned out in elegant evening dress. Two dozen royal guards in their elaborate dress uniforms stood at attention along the walls.