Your Caius “Aquila”!
P.S. Hahaha. Wonderful!!!!
XXI Maius
Dear Friend:
We’ve had a quite quiet time here. Have not heard from you for over a month now. I do hope you’re “alright” as they’re spelling it these dark orthological days when just about anything goes, orthologically. Preposterous. Let’s see. What’s new with us? Julia’s lost another tooth. She does jar her mouth so the way she jumps up & down monomaniacally-neurotically. Wonder what is up with that? Furthermore, she often puts (or tries to, anyway) her entire fist in her mouth. I wonder if she’ll be an artist or something. I have heard oracles & soothsayers say that that’s the sort of strange behavior great sculptors & painters exhibit when young. When old, as well, but no matter. An oral fixation, they called it—sure to result in eventual genius. I’m sure she’s fine, Julia. Aurelian, contrapuntally, makes great progress in his studies & sword fighting lessons. Your five sisters were here for high tea the other day, as was Drusilla & her dullard children—for a playdate that went entirely wrong as Julia & Aurelian retreated to their chambers at the very thought of Dru’s kids. Such snobs, bless their exclusive little hearts. Most chuffed to see them do that. Me smiling & bursting with pride to know we’ve raised them well, instilled in them the proper virtues of eschewing “Not Our Kind, Dear” types & playfellows who are—let’s be honest—beneath them. I invited Dru & brood on account of even though I’ve known them for forever, that quintet of strumpets who are related to you, I just can’t relate to them, find myself clamming up whenever they turn up. Nothing, absolutely nothing, in common save you, Caius Aquilla. Hence no conversation to speak of. I thought I’d invite Drusilla & a few of her friends & make it a real live old fashioned hen house for an afternoon. A ladies only free-for-all. It was quite the success, I daresay. Everybody laughed & gossiped like mad & talked their silly heads off & gobbled enormous amounts of cake & pig & candied cow & sugar cane & glugged many-a-hogshead of our best vintages—I think I can safely say we’ve been eaten out of house & home. How marvelous. Terrific party. Just the thing. I adored it—for a little while, that is. It was easy enough for me, after an hour or so, to slip away & get some writing down, done. My little novel writing exercise (I think you’d call it) is coming along amazingly, I think. Swimmingly. If I do say so myself. & I do. I do. The hard parts, I suppose, are your letters—me pretending to be you & all. I have no very difficult time pretending to be me, but you—that’s another story, as they say. It’s been quite an adventure, imagining your camp life & the unparalleled comraderie & the frays & politics & alliances & homosexual overtones of the Royal Imperial Roman Army & things. All that subtext & so forth. Male bonding qua repressed faggotry. Simply gripping, though—that’s certain. Dreaming it up as we artist-scribblers do. Otherwise, as for life at home, it goes as may be expected, it goes on apace, the quotidian routine, the daily grind & all of that: I read, write, eat, & drink, eat, drink unapologetically & to excess, as you might expect. The lyre (harp) master’s just been here & given me my weekly lesson. Such a nice chap. Well, as he’s blind as a bat I reckon he has to be. Can’t imagine an imperious & hectoring sightless fellow! Absurd! What sort of hissy fit could he throw?! Gets all huffy and dictatorial (as most music masters do) & everybody just leaves the room, snickering & pointing at his blind ass. Or they pin a note on his back, unbeknownst to him, that says, “Fool!” or, “Blind Bloody Fool!” or, “Look out, angry blind harping guy here—he’ll start yelling at you if you don’t watch yourself!” Hahaha. I’ve made some progress, harpwise. Right best pleased about it, too. I can’t say I’m a virtuoso or anything & ready to try for The Senate Orchestra, but I am pretty good now, quite the accomplished accompanist! Can’t wait to play you some new songs plus a few new things with you when you return, dear friend. I do miss playing music with you, husband. Among other things, playwise, if you know what I mean! Assplay, is what I mean, Caius—pure & simple. Or not so pure & not so simple. I feel I must spell it out for you. I need to be made love to so badly, Caius. I need carnal relations & no mistake. Gone down on, ravished, thrown up against a plinth or wall, the full nine. It’s been so so so long. I’m feeling so so so frisky right now. I’m going to stop here, fetch my leathern stick &, well, you know…plunge it into me & think of you having me from behind. Wait! What’s that? What did I just hear? Did I just hear the servants announce, “The Master!” “The Master’s here! The Master’s home!” did they just say? Did I hear that a-right? I can’t believe my ears. & hope not to believe my very eyes in a sec here! My word, my gods, Caius! Is that really you standing there in our courtyard with giant grin on your sweet face & a huge bouquet of gold and purple flowers in one beautifully scarred & war-roughened hand & your trusty lute in the other?! Is that a purple trunkful of spoils, of glory & plunder, at your triumphant feet? Are you really come back without a monkey or an orangutan this time? How extraordinary! Blessed be the gods, thrice blessed our house! Are darling Aurelian & little Julia really & truly shrieking like mad banshees & running toward you just the now, throwing themselves into your ever so strong & homecoming arms? Caius! Are you really home? Or am I dreaming?! My Caius Aquilla, husband, dear friend, old chap, old top…can that really be you?!
Two days later, in full ceremonial regalia, a superannuated messenger from the Imperial Roman Army (quite stout, most begrizzled, to all appearances someone who seemed as though he suffered from severe lower back pain) arrived at the enormous wooden-of-course gates of the Aquilla homestead courtyard. Aurelian—who was shooting little colored pebbles at some of the bigger domestic courtyard animals, chasing them round and round, having at them with a little purple catapult—shoved aside the doddering porter and answered the man’s ominous knock; then signed for the red wax-sealed and signet-stamped scroll the legionary emissary handed him. It was addressed to The Honorable Mrs. Dame Caius Aquilla, Widow. Dropping his wee weapon, running holding the communication like an anchorman in a relay race, Aurelian darted into the cool central family room, skidded kiddily past the servants punkahwallahing there with sizeable palm fronds, kiddily and ostentatiously—plus ululating like a barbarian, and handed his mummy the crackling papyrus. “Aurelian, whatever are you raving about?” Lora Cecilia said. “Mummy! Mummy!” Aurelian hollered. “Look what’s come for you!” Lora gazed up at him, her brilliant-shining perfect son, then unceremoniously hove or heaved little Julia off her lap. They’d been sitting on the plush red couch, thumbing and nodding through a charming oversize baby blue picture book of dangerous and venomous animals and fascinating poisonous plants. As Caius, sensing momentous events or messages afoot, padded in to said room (toweling off from having soaked himself in one of the baths for nigh-on two hours, as good Romans, in hail-the-conquering-hero mode will do), Lora smiled widely and said: “Oh look, husband-dear! News of your untimely, valiant, and heroic death has just arrived!” “Huzzah!” Caius cried. “Hurrah!” Caius cried. “Hooray, hooray!’”Aurelian shouted and picked up from where it was lying on a zebra rug his gold and silver wooden sword and held it up in tribute. “He’s dwead, he’s dwead, he’s dwead!” little Julia ejaculated, and jumped her lunatic jump, up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down.
The End
Your Caius Aquilla Page 13
