Child of the Sun

by Kyle Onstott

  Antoninus adjusted his steps to Hierocles’s long stride. There was a change in the boy. His face, bereft of paint, his long locks trimmed, his flowing robes of silk exchanged for a simple linen tunic, had changed his whole appearance. The sun had tanned his arms and legs to yet a deeper bronze than those of his blond Hierocles, and his whole demeanor was far removed from the simpering catamite who had sold his favors in the baths and the Suburra. His natural beauty was enhanced, for now he was no longer hermaphroditic in appearance. He appeared as that which he was—a handsome youth, tall for his age with an engagingly open countenance.

  “Yes, I was happy, carissimus. Why is it that with you, long silences do not pall on me? We sit together, happy in the knowledge that the other is only a fingertip away and words do not seem necessary.”

  “No, because I know your thoughts and you know mine.”

  “ ’Tis true, carissimus, and now I know what you are thinking. You wish I were not Caesar and that we did not live in the Golden House and that you and I might spend our days in this same sweet way always. How right you are! I tire of ostrich’s brains and honeyed dormice. Sometimes I think we eat these horrid messes just because they are rare and expensive and not because they please us. Yes, carissimus, the savory stew and the cold milk and hot bread were delicious. But stay, Hierocles!”

  Hierocles stopped. “What now?”

  Antoninus pointed to his chest. “The cameo with your portrait. I took it off when we swam and left it on the rocks. I’ll run back and get it. It is not far and do you walk slowly and I will catch up with you.”

  “Nay, let me go, my long legs will cover the ground faster than those reedy stems of yours.”

  “Reedy stems! After you have kept me squatting and rising day after day with weights on my shoulders! No, I insist on going and I shall run so fast, you will not reach the chariot before I catch up with you.”

  Hierocles looked at him indulgently. “Were it not that old Philomenus is probably eighty, I would suspect you of some intrigue but I saw no handsome young slave about that might have caught your eye, so I’ll let you go.”

  “Jealous!” Antoninus taunted him. “Must you always be so jealous of me, Hierocles?”

  “Would you have me otherwise, beloved?”

  “Not for all the world.” Antoninus reached up quickly and pulled Hierocles’s face down to his in order that their lips might meet in a fleeting kiss, then, before Hierocles could say more, the boy was through the hedge and running over the fields to the villa.

  Hierocles walked slowly, looking back anxiously from time to time to see if he could catch a glimpse of Antoninus coming back across the fields, but he had reached the high road, caught the hobbled horses and harnessed them to the chariot before Antoninus appeared. His smouldering suspicions, increased by his anxiety, burst forth in quick-tempered words.

  “Then there was some boy slave whom I did not see? Certainly it did not take you all this time to find your cameo.” Hierocles looked to where the jewel should be dangling on its chain. “And you haven’t got it on now. As a matter of fact, Antoninus, you didn’t have it on this morning when we left Rome. I remember now. So . . . what devilry have you been up to? What kind of a filthy rendezvous were you keeping? I swear by Eros that as much as I glory in this love of ours, it has caused me greater moments of unhappiness than I have ever known before.”

  “That’s because you never trust me.”

  “Trust you? How can I trust you? Five minutes out of my sight and you’re off to rattle, the curtains in the baths; you’re fingering some new recruit that Eubulus has discovered; or you’re getting some Numidian litter-bearer into a dark corner. Trust you? How can I. Get into the chariot!”

  “I won’t! I’ll walk back to Rome.” Hierocles’s spark drew Antoninus’s fire.

  “It’s fourteen milliae. Get in, I tell you.”

  “I won’t! I’ll start to walk, and the first farmer’s cart that comes along, I’ll hail for a ride and then, believe me, I’ll make that farmer so happy, he’ll leave his wife, his farm and his goats and come to Rome to search for me in the baths. That I’ll do. I will! I will! I will!”

  Hierocles picked him up bodily and threw him into the chariot, then jumped up behind, his legs barricading the struggling Antoninus so that he could not leap out. Antoninus tried to bite his leg but Hierocles drew back and kicked him. Antoninus howled and was kicked again.

  “You bully!” Antoninus continued to scream as Hierocles kicked him again, “You big muscle-bound bully of a chariot driver. I’ll have you crucified. I’ll have you fed to the wild beasts in the arena. I’ll . . .”

  “Shut up, or I’ll kill you. I mean it.”

  “Yes, you would. That’s all I hear. My grandmother seeks to poison me; my aunt Mamaea stirs up the Praetorians against me; Pompianus seeks to start a revolution against me; and now you—the only person I love—threaten to kill me.”

  Antoninus became strangely quiet and stopped his writhings. He stood up, between Hierocles’s arms and the apron of the chariot. “So, brute, you would kill me and why not? Your love is the only thing I have to live for and if it must always be like this, a thing of fighting and bickering, then, why live? I’d rather dash myself beneath the chariot wheels and be done with it.”

  His hands on the apron gave him leverage and he sprang forward but Hierocles caught him and wrapped one of the leather reins around him. Antoninus did not struggle nor did he speak. Hierocles slowed the horses down to a walk, then a stop. He turned Antoninus round, disengaging the rein. They faced each other.

  “Then tell me why you lied to me this afternoon. Why did you say you were going back to get the cameo? And what did you do when you got there? Whom were you with?”

  “Will you believe me, carissimus, if I told you I was with nobody? That I spoke only with old Philomenus and his wife Dorea? That I used the cameo merely as a pretext to go back to them? That I did so only because I wanted to surprise you? That I only wanted to surprise you because I love you? Would you believe me if I told you that?”

  Hierocles gathered the boy to him. “Yes, I would believe you. I cannot bear you out of my sight. I picture you doing all sorts of things with all sorts of people. I cannot think! I cannot reason! A red fire passes before my eyes and I want to kill anyone whom you touch or who touches you, and then sometimes I want to kill you.”

  “It is not your fault, carissimus. I do not deserve your love. I have given you reason to be jealous but, remember, I told you in the beginning, I could not promise to be true to you. And yet, marvel at this, Hierocles! The times that I have been untrue to you are becoming increasingly scarce. The last time I appeared in the Senate with two black eyes was three months ago and since that time, my hands have touched only you.”

  “But the desire to touch others? You always have that?”

  “Not so often, carissimus. I live for your happiness. That is what I had in mind this afternoon when I left you. It was to be a surprise to you but now I shall tell you if you wish.”

  “I do not wish to be told, beloved. This time I shall trust you. Prepare your little surprise.”

  “But it will require that I shall be away from you two hours every morning.”

  “With whom? No, I shall not ask you that. This time I shall trust you.”

  16

  For the next week, Antoninus was up early and gone before Hierocles awoke, and when he returned some few hours later, Hierocles, true to his promise, did not question, although his thinly veiled curiosity knew no bounds. At the end of the week, Antoninus woke him early in the morning; he was dressed in a rough linen tunic with sandals such as peasants wear, fastened with straps of leather which crisscrossed to his thighs. He indicated a similar costume for Hierocles, who dressed quickly. Antoninus picked up a canvas-covered roll on the floor, strapped together with a carrying strap.

  “Say good-bye to these marble walls, carissimus. We shall not see them again for a week. This is my surprise for you. Come, we s
hall leave the two Caesars asleep in their beds of down while Hierocles and Antoninus sneak down the back stairs with a traveling pack between. them.”

  “Where are we off to? And for a week? Caesar cannot be missing from Rome for a week.”

  “The Court Calendar for today states that Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, Caesar, Emperor of Rome and all the other things he is, accompanied by the Caesar Honoralibus, has left the city to pass a week in meditation at the villa of Tiberius on Capri, and Cleander and Maxentius, dressed in purple robes and riding in closed litters have already left; thus the two Caesars have apparently gone. Come, let’s get out of here. The very walls oppress me. I scent danger in them.”

  Their chariot with the four black horses was waiting for them behind the stables but instead of allowing Hierocles to take the reins, Antoninus drove. They roused the sleeping sentries at the Appian Gate and sped out along the road, between the marble tombs which were just now being touched by the rosy light of the rising sun. They shivered a little in the delicious early chill of morning. Oh, how wonderful it was to stand side by side, under the blue Italian sky with Rome and the Golden House of Nero behind them.

  Some few miles out of the city, Antoninus turned off the paved road and took a dirt cart-road that led up into the hills. There was a certain familiarity about the road to Hierocles. He felt he had passed this way before, and he became more certain when they stopped at a roadside tavern where he remembered they had hobbled their horses the afternoon they had spent at the farmhouse.

  But, instead of stopping at the tavern, Antoninus kept going, and where there had previously been only fields there was now a road, hacked out of the farmland. It wound across the fields to stop in front of the same farmhouse they had visited. It was, yes, indeed it was the same farmhouse—the home of old Philomenus and his wife Dorea, but there was a new addition. Over the door Hierocles saw a stone lintel, carved with letters. He leaped down from the chariot to read them. The carved letters spelled out his own name.

  Antoninus glowed with pride. “Yes, it is yours, carissimus. Now I can tell you why I fabricated the loss of the cameo. You loved this place so I came back and bought it from the old couple. Then, during the past week, I have had the road made and now it is all ours—the little vine-covered courtyard, the tumbling waterfall, the pool of water, the icy spring and all. It’s ours, carissimus, ours! It’s the surprise I have been planning for you.”

  Hierocles sat down on the threshold and buried his head in his hands. In his repentance, he could not face the dancing eyes of Antoninus. “And this is why I beat you and distrusted you? Oh, beloved, can you forgive me?”

  Antoninus pulled him up by the hand. “Forgive you? There is nothing to forgive.” He led him through the door. Inside it glowed with a cleanliness that exceeded even that of old Dorea. There were only three rooms, plainly furnished except for the big bed with its embroidered cover which had evidently come from the palace in Rome. They examined it all then went through the tiny kitchen to the little courtyard.

  Antoninus flung his arms around Hierocles. “We have one week—one week to be here alone—you and I, carissimus, with nobody to disturb us. Although you cannot see them, there is a company of my own guards encamped near here to patrol the borders of our little farm and see that nobody disturbs us.”

  Hierocles returned the embrace. “Then, let us make this week something we shall always remember, beloved. Let it be unspoiled by one angry word or gesture on my part. Let us live every moment of this week in such harmonious perfection that we shall always remember it. Here you are no longer Caesar.”

  Antoninus released him. “Come, farmer, there is work to be done! We have no slaves to wait on us and we cannot remain idle. You, to the fields, my man! The summer wheat is to be cut and stacked so that later we can thresh it. The chick peas in the garden are to be hoed, but before you start on your work you must cut me wood for my fire that I may prepare your food. And . . .” his fingers were carefully enumerating some mental listing, “go to the garden and fetch me some leeks, and small white turnips, and a head of lettuce. I must start to prepare our midday meal.” He pushed Hierocles ahead of him.

  Hierocles did not move. Instead he looked down at Antoninus with a patronizing smile. “You cook, Little Caesar? What do you know about cooking? We’ll die of starvation the first day.”

  “And why do you think I have been getting up early every morning? I had old Dorea come to the palace, and every morning I have gone to the kitchens so that she might teach me. You talked about her savory stew! Well, wait until you see what I prepare. Now, go! Leeks and turnips, and a head of lettuce for a salad. I have much to do. I cannot waste time talking to you.”

  Hierocles left, grinning, and Antoninus repaired to the kitchen. He unstrapped the canvas roll and took out sundry bags, boxes, and packages which he distributed on the shelves. Then he set to work. Soon the fire was burning in the clay stove, dough was being kneaded on the broad table, an appetizing aroma was steaming from the iron pot. Antoninus hurried from stove to table. He set up a smaller table in the courtyard with rough clay plates and wooden spoons. He sped to the spring to fetch the milk that had been cooling there since the morning’s milking of their one cow. As the sun reached its zenith, he went out into the field, yellow now from its golden harvest, to call Hierocles, who laid down his sickle and came running across the stubble to meet him. Beads of sweat covered his brow, his curls, as golden as the ripe wheat, lay plastered against his bead and his damp tunic clung to his body. With a leap, he cleared the shocked wheat and arm in arm, they walked back to the villa.

  It was cool in the courtyard under the vine, and Antoninus seated Hierocles, then proudly brought out his handiwork. The bread was as brownly crusted, the stew was as savory fragrant, the milk as chilly cool as that which Dorea had served. They finished their meal with a dripping honeycomb and Hierocles leaned back in his chair, replete and satisfied. Antoninus flung himself on the floor at Hierocles’s feet, his head resting in the other’s lap.

  For a long time they sat in silence, as the vine shadows shifted on the floor. It was an hour of utter peace. Like other similar hours they were to have during their week, it was something neither of them would ever forget.

  Hierocles stretched and yawned.

  “I am sleepy and sweaty. My belly’s full of good food. I’ve worked hard this morning, little Antoninus, while you have worked too. Never did food taste more delicious.”

  “Never before was it prepared by hands that love you so much.” Antoninus echoed Hierocles’s stretching and yawning. “Tell me, carissimus, do farmers follow the pattern of the city and take a nap during the heat of the day?”

  “They do not.” Hierocles was emphatic. “We’ll work until sunset. When I return from work this evening, I shall be ravenous again.”

  “That I know.” Antoninus pushed him back in the chair as he started to rise. “But Dorea told me they had only light supper—bread and milk and a honeycomb, with perhaps some plums or pears. But, carissimus, you said you were sleepy and we are not real farmers. The shutters in the bedroom are drawn against the sun and it is cool in there. The big bed brought from Rome has a mattress of hare’s fur and dried rose leaves. The sheets are of fine silk.”

  “Tempter!” Hierocles pushed his hands away and stood up. “See how the flies swarm around your dirty plates. Would you be a slattern? Get you to your work. There is the cow to be milked . . .”

  “An old man arrives from the tavern to do that. I know not how to do it and neither do you.”

  “That I’ll grant you. But there is the courtyard to be swept, fruit to be gathered for one supper, dishes to be washed and towels laid out for our evening bath. No, beloved, we shall not stop in the middle of the day to dally in the cool shade of the bedroom.”

  “Wise Hierocles,” Antoninus said and began gathering up the soiled plates.

  The days passed—a perfect necklace of golden beads strung together on the silver cord of their happiness.
They were up soon after dawn when the dew still lay heavy on the fields, to a breakfast of bread and warm milk with fruit, frosted from its night in the spring. Hierocles then went off to the fields and Antoninus, in the house, baked, swept and garnished the rooms with sweet-smelling herbs and fresh pine boughs. But after their midday meal, they no longer worked apart; the hours were speeding by too swiftly. The work of the farm was forgotten and they would stroll away on long walks to gather armfuls of wild flowers, or idle out the long afternoons in the shade of the vine. When evening came, they ate the simple meal they had prepared together, swam in the cool waters, and without lighting a lamp, sought the big Roman bed and watched the moon as it made silver patches on the rough tiles of the floor.