by Kyle Onstott
Varius threw himself into Gannys’s arms. “Oh, Gannys, dear, dear Gannys, couldn’t they cut off more than that useless bit of skin. Couldn’t they cut it all off? I’ve heard about the priests of Syrian Attys and Greek Adonis. They emasculate themselves like Attys himself did and then they become as women, with beautiful round breasts. That’s what I would like, dear Gannys, to be a girl.”
“Hush, Varius. ’Tis a hundred times more painful than the little clip you are to undergo, and dangerous too. Many die. Besides it is very bloody. Remember how the blood of Attys flowed out on the ground and caused violets to spring up. You hate blood, Varius, but even more you would hate never being able to satisfy yourself again. All you could do would be to satisfy others.”
“But that is all I really care to do, Gannys.”
“So you think now. But I have talked with eunuchs. Theirs is a sorrowful life with all the desires of a man and no way to satisfy them. But come, we must get ready for your trip to the Temple. You are to be there at midnight. The sacrifice will take place an hour after. Zenotabalus is sending an honor guard of priests for you.”
Gannys unhooked the gold clasps of the Persian robe and let it flutter to the floor. He picked it up, folded it carefully and then detached the jewels from Varius’s ears, removed the diadem and the other jewels. Divested of his garments, there was no doubt about Varius’s manhood and he turned to regard it in the mirror. He frowned and covered it with his hand, smiling to himself at its absence. Slowly he removed his hand and regarded the rapid tumescence approvingly. His fingers pinched the fold of skin which he knew he was about to lose, toyed with it and then reluctantly relinquished it as Gannys approached with a short white tunic on his arm.
Varius snatched the tunic away from Gannys, fingered the linen and flung it to the floor with anger. Since an early age he had refused to wear anything but silk, claiming that linen scratched his skin and that wool provoked a rash, but patient Gannys picked up the garment and in spite of Varius’s screaming protests, he slipped it over his head. Varius twisted and turned, exaggerating his annoyance with fretful words, but Gannys proceeded to dress him. He slipped on long golden sandals of soft leather which reached half-way up Varius’s thighs and laced them together with gold cords. He bound Varius’s long hair back from his brow with a fillet of white wool and pinned a small, gold-rayed sun in the centre. He stepped back to appraise his work.
This simple costume, devoid of any ornament except the small rayed sup., increased Varius’s beauty far more than the elaborate robes of colored silk he usually wore. It completely erased the soft effeminacy of his face and gave him the look of a young athlete. His face seemed stronger, with the classic beauty of Greece predominating over the soft sensuality of Syria. His nose, descending in a pure line from his brow seemed chiseled with a perfection that minimized the wide, mobile nostrils. The slightly thickened lips seemed thinner and less sensual.
With a damp cloth, Gannys wiped off the white paint that overlaid the golden hue of Varius’s skin; erased the black lines from around his eyes and removed the crimson from the lips. Bereft of his paint, his jewels and his clinging garments, Varius emerged as a boy, tall, slender and muscular. Again he turned and viewed himself in the mirror. He became Narcissus, in love with his reflection, and after studying himself for several moments, he leaned forward to implant his lips on those reflected in the silver.
“I look like a charioteer, dear Gannys.” His finger traced the lines of his cheek in the mirror. “Oh, how handsome I am. And I shall be a charioteer. In spite of all that mother says to the contrary, I shall be one. I shall drive for the Greens in Rome because Green is my color.” He leaned backward, the imaginary reins in his hand. In his thoughts he was already driving in the Circus Maximus, circling the dangerous track and hearing the plaudits of the Roman crowd. Varius’s imagination knew no bounds and his fertile mind no limitations. Suddenly the expression of victorious joy changed to one of cruel vindictiveness. His eyes blazed with fury.
“And for a change, Gannys, I shall hitch the most beautiful girls in Rome to my chariot instead of horses and drive them around the Circus. Naked, every one of them! And they will pant and scream as they feel the whip. Their white skins will run with blood and I shall stand in the chariot and the crowds will scream ‘Ave Caesar’.”
Gannys held up his hand for silence. The knock on the door was repeated. With his hand on the bronze latch, Gannys whispered, “Do not be afraid, Varius. Zenotabalus will make a lot out of this, for you know, he loves ceremonies, but there is only one quick slash of the knife; one moment of pain. Do not be afraid.”
He opened the door and eight priests, dressed in white, their heads covered with white cloths through which two eye-holes stared, entered the room. The men advanced slowly, the black holes that marked their eyes staring blindly at Varius. Instinctively he recoiled from their relentless march towards him. They surrounded him silently, waiting for one of their group to speak. Although he was obviously making an effort to disguise his voice, Varius thought he could recognize the quavering accents of the old priest Zenotabalus.
“Are you Prince Varius Antoninus?”
“I am if you say so.” Varius was surprised at the name. “Hitherto I have been known as Varius Avitus Bassianus. Now that I am the son of the divine Caracalla, I suppose my name becomes Antoninus.” Varius had somewhat regained his composure but he still feared the staring black holes that regarded him so impersonally.
“Then tonight I divest you of all names and titles. You become a common slave. You belong to the Sun God Elah-ga-baal. Consider yourself as his property, body and soul. It makes no difference tonight whether you are Bassianus or Antoninus. All are equal before Elah-ga-baal. Your body belongs to him and we shall do with it as we see fit. Bind him, men!”
Varius ducked low and tried to escape from under their arms but the circle closed in on him. From under their robes, the priests whipped out bands of white linen and before Varius could protest further, they had bound his hands close to his sides. Two more were kneeling on the floor, rolling the bandages around his legs. In a moment, he was securely trussed like a mummy, completely incapable of moving. They had neither blindfolded him nor gagged him—his eyes flashed defiance. Never before in his pampered life had anyone laid hands on him except those whom he had suborned to do his will. But, in this nightly abandonment of himself to his soldier companions, he was only playing a game—a game of his own femininity being mastered by their virility. He had always known that at a word from him, were the play to become too rough, it would stop. Now, he was helpless in the power of these unknown men. Perhaps, the thought suddenly flashed through his mind, perhaps after all they were not priests but hired assassins of Opellius Macrinus come to murder him.
He screamed, “Mama, mama, mama!” His voice broke with fright. “They are going to kill me! Grandmother, rescue me. Gannys, attend me. Why do you stand there, you stupid idiot, doing nothing while these men seize me?”
“Neither your mother nor your grandmother will intervene, Lupus,” the nameless voice spoke.
“Why do you call me Lupus?”
“Tonight you are known as Lupus. That is your name. You are the slave, Lupus.”
Varius twisted about. He saw Gannys, standing in the background, outside the ring of men.
“Good Gannys, come with me. I would see one familiar face among these sheeted figures with their baleful eyes.” He addressed the spokesman. “May my slave attend me?” Suddenly he was humble—pleading.
“The slave Lupus has no slaves of his own. However, there is no reason why Gannys should not come.” The man leaned over to see that the bandages on arms and legs were secure. “Take him, men, and conduct him to the temple.”
“I go to the temple, then?” Varius was reassured. If he were to go to the temple this was just another of Zenotabalus’s ideas of ritualistic mummery. Well, he would act his part along with them.
“The slave Lupus is willing to sacrifice before
the great God Elah-ga-baal tonight.” Varius spoke humbly.
“Yes, the God is dying and requires strength to bring to life so that he may shine in all his glory in the heavens tomorrow. Tonight it is you who will give him that strength. Tonight you will sacrifice your manhood to him.”
“All of it?” Varius remembered the conversation he had had with Gannys before the priests arrived.
“Not all of it. Only a small part. Elah-ga-baal does not desire eunuchs in his service. Only men can serve him.” The robed figure leaned over and whispered in Varius’s ear. “Fear not. We shall not castrate you, Varius.” He signaled to the others and they hoisted the boy on their shoulders, three on a side. One led the procession and one came behind. Gannys followed.
The entire palace was deserted. Varius saw nobody as he was carried along through the empty corridors and courtyards. Once outside the gates, he was placed in a litter, the curtains drawn around him, and hustled through the dark streets. Upon arrival at the temple, which was entirely in darkness, he was lifted out and carried through a vast crowd of men, soldiers, freedmen and slaves, through the temple portals and the vast hall which was now empty of worshipers and from there, through a door of gold plates into the holy room behind the high altar where the most secret and holy rites were performed, for here was the sacred stone, descended from heaven—the mighty phallus of the sun.
Varius had been to the temple at night before and on his previous visits he had always seen it crowded with men who wandered its dim and unlighted reaches, searching for the companionship of the priests who were there to serve them. These services were not free but they depended on no set price. A single copper penny could buy them because nobody could be turned away. The Sun God needed many sacrifices to restore his life and speed him on his journey across the skies. Naturally those who had more to offer had the services of the younger and handsomer priests—those with the single copper coin had to be satisfied with the tired attentions of the older priests.
But, money was not a necessity at the Temple of Elah-ga-baal. The god was voracious, requiring and demanding all the strength he could obtain. Those who had no money but were desirous of earning some would be paid. These were the men who each night mounted the raised gallery around the sacred black stone and spent thereon their own libation, so that by morning the stone would be wet and glistening with the vital fluids of hundreds of men. This, as well as the services of the priests outside in the great hall, insured the sun’s morning resurrection.
Tonight the temple was empty and the crowd of men outside the gates clamored in vain for entrance. The steps of the hooded men echoed across the marble floor, returning from the high reaches of the pillared roof. When the doors to the holy of holies were opened and then shut again, their bell-like clanking died away only gradually. Tonight the inner room was seemingly empty. Varius could see no circle of men on the gallery around the black stone. There was only one dimly lighted spot instead of the hundreds of lamps which usually shone brightly in this room, in contrast to the darkness of the great hall outside. Here, where each man made his own solitary sacrifice, light was an incentive. Outside, where men and priests were coupled in strange embraces the darkness was welcome. One paid for privacy—one was paid for display.
Varius was deposited on his feet between two bronze standards, each of which supported a solitary lamp. It was the only illumination in the room and the black stone, strangely dull, loomed ominously in front. Gannys, Varius could see, had not been admitted. He was alone with the eight hooded men. It was a relief when he saw one of the priests lean over, untie the wrappings from his legs and unwind them. At the same time, he felt the pressure of his arms relax and in another moment they were free. He stretched them out before him, moving his hands and fingers to start the circulation, at the same time stamping his feet on the bare pavement. They paid little attention to him, letting him rub his arms and legs until he felt them return to normal.
Six of the priests divested themselves of their long robes, although they retained their hoods and, naked, they mounted the winding bronze stairs that led to the gallery that surrounded the stone. They bore tapers that they had lighted from the lamps below and as they circled the gallery above, they lit the almost continuous row of lights that circled it. Now Varius could see that the room was not empty. Far from it. The entire priesthood of the temple, released for one night from their regular duties were elbow to elbow, encircled around the balcony, gazing down with rapt, fanatical scrutiny at the menacing black stone below which now, under the bright illumination, showed the dried and scaling incrustations of former libations. Somewhere outside the room a gong was struck and continued in a slow, monotonous metronomic beat, to which the priests matched the movement of their hands. Gradually it increased in tempo and with it the movements until it reached a frenzied staccato beating. Mingled with it and rising above it were the moans and hoarse pantings of the priests in their labor.
Varius watched closely, feeling the excitement light a fire in his own body, and as the tempo of the flashing hands increased and the maniacal moans intensified, he was suddenly grabbed from behind. Strong hands forced the upper part of his body backwards, his arms outstretched to the sides, his weight resting against the bodies of the men who held him. His head, unsupported, fell backwards and he could not see what was happening in front of him but he felt his tunic being pulled aside and another strong hand grabbed him. Then he screamed, as a sudden searing pain, so violent that he nearly fainted, took possession of him and convulsed his body. The fire of the pain abated a moment later and although he was still conscious of it, it became bearable.
The strong hands which were holding him lifted him to a standing position and he was free. The hooded figures before him pressed a bloody fragment of skin into his hands and he gazed at it dully, scarcely realizing that only moments before it had been a familiar part of his own body. The howling of the circle of priests above the black stone increased and the accelerated beats of the gong now filled the entire room with a sound so solid and violent it paralyzed the senses. Already the stone was wet and glistening, becoming more and more bespattered as each fanatical zealot reached his climax.
“Throw it on the stone.” The hooded figure had to yell to make himself heard. “If it remains on the stone we and you are blessed. If it falls, we are all cursed.”
Varius, glad to be rid of the bloody fragment in his hand, raised his arm and flung it at the stone. With one mightly crescendo, the howl from the priests arose, then froze on a high note. The gong stopped. An awful stillness followed and some of the priests on the gallery fell, swooning in hysteria. The baleful black stone glistened and the fragment of skin adhered to it, but started to slip and then continued slowly down, down, down. It fell off and landed at the base.
“Cursed are you and cursed are we.” The hooded figure grabbed Varius. “The slave Lupus has brought disgrace and dishonor on all of us this night.”
Varius, still half-crazed by pain, shook off the clutching bands. He made a grab for the creature’s throat, clutched it in both his hands and hung tight. The talon-like fingers of the old man stretched out, frantically clutching at the thin air until they slowly contracted and the body slumped at Varius’s feet. He turned, facing the assembled priests.
“Keep your hands off me! Come nearer and I’ll strangle you one by one. I’m not Lupus. I’m no slave, purchased at the market to make a bloody sacrifice for you. You’ve had your will with me. I care not whether the sacrifice stayed on the stone or fell. Now, touch me not. No man lays a hand on me without my permission. I’m Varius Avitus Antoninus and I’ll kill the first main who touches me.”
The priest who had held Varius’s arms came forward slowly.
“We know who you are, Prince Varius. We will respect your person. What we have done is only in accordance with our ancient rites to fit you for the high place you will soon occupy. He who is to be High Priest must sacrifice thus. But the curse is already working. See, you have murde
red Zenotabalus.” He reached over and drew back the hood from the recumbent figure.
Varius leaned over the priest. He regarded him, as he did all old men, with distaste.
“He still breathes. He is not dead. Carry him to his apartments. Tell him I did not know it was he whom I strangled. I shall make amends.” Varius straightened up. In his bloodstained tunic, he was, for the first time, a man. He spoke and acted like a man. “Tell Zenotabalus I am sorry. Many times in my life I have begged to be forced to do something which I very much wished to do. But I do not ever wish to be forced to do something I do not wish to do again. Open the doors! Bid my slave Gannys who accompanied me to attend me. Prepare bandages to stop this bleeding.” He turned and walked to the already opened doors.
Despite the pain, he was smiling. His spoken words were only for himself.
“They obeyed me! When I spoke they cringed before me. They feared me. That is how it will be when I am Caesar. Ah, ’tis a good feeling. I like to command.” He walked a few steps across the hall, hearing Gannys’s steps behind him. He smiled. “But there are times when I like to be commanded.”
8
Varius’s heady plunge into authority, as the son of Caracalla, and his newly found power to command, as the presumptive Caesar, kept the entire palace in a frenetic uproar for some weeks after his initiation at the temple. That he suffered some pain from the operation was apparent but that he must force everyone in the palace from his august grandmother to the lowest kitchen slave to his demanding will was something entirely out of proportion to the extent of his invalidism. Julia Maesa began to wonder if she had misjudged the lad. With his present physical inability to handle the nightly parade of legionaries, he was bored and frustrated, slipping out of her authority and showing that he had a mind of his own.
