by Kyle Onstott
The work progressed slowly. The foundations of the temple were eventually laid and the brickwork started. Then came the agonizing period when, in spite of the thousands who were employed on the building, progress seemed to be at a standstill. Day after day, regardless of the many workers, the walls seemed to stay exactly where they were. Ox-drawn carts arrived from Ostia with rare marbles that had been shipped from foreign countries. Others arrived from the marble quarries in Italy. Both disgorged their loads, which were piled around the building, and it seemed as though they would never be used.
Catastrophe after catastrophe dogged the building. A scaffolding collapsed, killing twelve men. A block of marble, being raised by rope and tackle, fell and killed another four. Signs and portents appeared. A workman arriving early one morning saw the Goddess Isis, riding on a dog on the uppermost pinnacle of the building, her face turned away, hidden in shame. A slave woman crawled among the debris one night and gave birth to a monster—half man and half pig. Lightning, one bright sunny day, descended from heaven, struck the wooden scaffolding of the building and burned it—surely a sign of Jove’s displeasure. It had reached the point where workmen were deserting and Antoninus, in a frenzy of frustration, threatened death to any workman who did not appear on the job.
One evening, after a particularly disappointing day, which he had spent with Hierocles and an advisory staff of builders, Antoninus sat alone with Hierocles, attended only by Cleander, in their apartments in the Golden House. His dinner, untasted, was still on the table, and he paced the floor of the big room, his little whip flicking nervously at objects in the room. Hierocles tried in vain to quiet him. “You’re making yourself sick over this, beloved,” he said.
Antoninus did not stop his pacing. “Sick? Of course, I’m sick! A slave woman births a monster and what happens? A rumor flies around Rome that the gods are angry. A workman gets his foot crushed under a stone. Again a rumor! A man falls off the walls and splits his head open on the ground. Another rumor! Come, Hierocles. Let us forget these miserable things. Let us leave tonight, at this very hour, and seek our little villa in the hills, where we can find peace again!”
Hierocles shook his head. “We cannot leave Rome, much as we both desire. It would start another rumor. The Antonine has fled Rome! He is hiding! He is afraid of the vengeance of the gods! No, beloved, that is a pleasure we must defer.”
“And I shall go out of my mind if I stay in these rooms another minute. Oh, Hierocles! Life becomes complicated.”
“Come, no more of that,” Hierocles said. “Let us dress and go out.”
“And where shall we go?”
“Let us go to the temple. The moon is bright and we can walk around and inspect what has been accomplished today. Surely the walls must be a course higher. Come, beloved, dress. See, I already, have my tunic on and am lacing my sandals.”
Reluctantly Antoninus agreed. He knew that Hierocles was going out, not through any desire of his own but merely to provide him with an outlet of his energies.
They departed through the side door, out across the moon-washed palace garden and down the slope of the hill to where the temple lay beneath them, silvered now in the moonlight and deserted. They climbed over the palace walls and cut through the deep grass and weeds of a field, under a clump of stone pines which cast inky shadows on the ground, and finally emerged at the main portal of the temple.
“See, beloved,” Hierocles waved his hand to direct Antoninus’s attention to a stubby pillar, “Two drums of a pillar at the entrance have been set up.”
“Two drums! What are two drums when we consider that there are a hundred pillars on each side—four hundred pillars. And two drums have been set up! I shall be an old man before the temple is finished.”
They entered the half-finished portals and stood within the vast emptiness of the court. There was a small thatched wooden structure, merely a roof on posts, which the workmen used for eating their midday meal. Aimlessly they wandered towards it and sat on one of the rough plank benches. For a long time neither of them spoke but Hierocles welcomed the silence for he knew that Antoninus was relaxing.
“Carissimus,” Antoninus spoke.
“Yes, beloved.”
“No sacrifice to Elah-ga-baal has even been made here.”
“Naturally, why should there be, before the temple is finished. The sacred stone is still in the old temple. Your priests are conducting sacrifices there.”
“But one should be made here. Perhaps if it were. the curse that has hovered over this temple would disappear.”
“Then here I am, beloved, ready, willing and more than able to make that sacrifice. I am the victim, you are the High Priest, here is the temple. What more could be necessary.”
“Nothing! You are right as always, Hierocles. Stay here, until I cross the courtyard to where the god will some day stand. Then, do you come across the yard, Thus you will seek me as the suppliants in Emesa do the priests there.” He was up and away, leaping over the stones. Hierocles watched him cross the moon-drenched yard, then disappear into the yawning black abyss of the shrine. He waited a few moments until he was sure that Antoninus was inside, then started himself.
He reached the portal and stepped inside. The soft arms which enfolded him in the darkness were those of the Antonine. The darkness enveloped them. Hierocles unclasped the cloak from around Antoninus’s neck and spread it on the rough pavement. The sacrifice was under way. Suddenly Antoninus raised his head. He placed a finger on Hierocles’s lips. Together they listened in the darkness. Somebody stumbled over a stone outside and cursed. A shadow darkened the portal. It was a man, clad in a long cape. Antoninus lay down on the floor beside Hierocles. They were both trembling, not from fear but from the unknown.
The man in the doorway turned to look out over the court. As he turned, the moon struck his face. Antoninus gasped and sat up, pulling Hierocles up with him.
“Did you see?”
“I did.”
“And you know?”
“Yes, it is Zoticus. What brings him here? Didn’t you forbid him to enter Rome?”
“I forbade him and I know not what brings him here, carissimus. I only know this. On my first night as High Priest in the Temple of Emesa, Zoticus appeared. To me he was the incarnation of the sun. And, so he was afterwards proclaimed by Zenotabalus. Thus I have always thought of him. I know not what brings him here tonight but this only do I know. It is a sign—a portent. It was divinely ordained.”
Hierocles drew Antoninus close to him. “I am a jealous man, beloved. Even to think of you in the arms of another drives me into a rage.”
“As I well know. I have borne many bruises that prove it.”
“But tonight there is something so strange about Zoticus’s appearing here that I cannot be jealous. Surely, as you say, he was sent. Do you go, beloved, and intercept him before he leaves. He, not I, is the proper sacrifice. It.is Zoticus who will dedicate your temple for you.”
“No, Hierocles! Almost you are right but not wholly so. Zoticus has come at the direction of the God. But, do not forget that you are here too. I am the priest. Two sacrifices are better than one. Come, carissimus.”
They walked out of the shadows into the moonlight. Zoticus heard them and turned quickly. His hand reached under his cape and withdrew his sword. He advanced, sword in hand.
“Put down your sword, Zoticus,” Antoninus called out. “ ’Tis a formidable weapon but I happen to know you have another which is even more formidable.”
“You, little Lupus.” Zoticus sheathed his sword. “How come you are here?’’
“Hierocles and I stole away from the palace to see what progress had been made on the temple today.” The two came farther into the light. “And now the same question to you, Zoticus. How came you here, when I had forbidden you to enter the gates of Rome?”
“Ask me not, little Lupus, for I cannot tell you. This afternoon, after my midday meal, I began to think about you and the temple which you were
building for Elah-ga-baal here in Rome. Call it curiosity, but whatever it was, the urge to see the temple was so strong that I had my chariot harnessed and drove in to see it. I waited outside the gates until it was dark as I did not want to be seen and recognized. Then I walked from the gates here.” His hand swept in a wide gesture that took in the courtyard. “When it is finished it will be a wonderful temple.”
“If it is ever finished! But, Zoticus, here is Hierocles. You have met but once and that briefly. It is well that you become friends.”
Zoticus advanced with hand outstretched. His teeth flashed in the moonlight in a broad smile.
“Should I be jealous of you, Hierocles, that you took the Antonine away from me?”
The ready friendliness of his predecessor quite unarmed Hierocles.
“Should I be jealous of you, Zoticus, in that my beloved can never forget you?”
“Is that true, little Lupus?”
“He speaks the truth, Zoticus. You know I could never forget you. But, Zoticus, is it not strange that we three should be here tonight. Surely it is not an accident. I remember that night in Emesa when I saw you walk across another moon-drenched courtyard and you ascended the steps of the temple. I was there waiting for you. I believed you to be Elah-ga-baal come to earth. Dedicate this temple for me, Zoticus. Together you and Hierocles can lift the curse that has settled upon it. Will you, Zoticus?”
“I will. ’Tis but a little thing to ask of me, But you, Hierocles, what think you? I do not want a dagger in my back from a jealous husband.”
Hierocles found the ability to smile. “Yes, I am jealous, Zoticus, consumed with jealousy this very moment, but what my beloved says is right. Tonight we share him, but we do not share Antoninus, we share the High Priest of Elah-ga-baal.”
“Then come,” Antoninus stepped between them and took them both by the hands. “Here, when the temple is finished will stand the sacred stone of Elah-ga-baal. I shall kneel here as Hierocles says, not as Lupus or Antoninus, but as the priest. Do you two face me and prepare.”
An hour later, the three of them appeared from the darkness of the shrine into the moonlight. They crossed the silvered courtyard and once again were swallowed up in the shadows of the half-built portal. Here they stopped and stood, the three of them, in a close embrace. One, the tallest and heaviest, separated from the other two and took the path that led down the hill. The others, arm in arm, started up the hill to where the lights of the Imperial Palace showed.
18
The unofficial dedication of the temple by Antoninus, Hierocles and Zoticus evidently met with favor in the eyes of Elah-ga-baal, for the very next morning the full complement of workers appeared at the temple. A light shower, during which the sun continued to shine, was considered the best possible omen for it proved that the Sun God was supreme.
A thousand men were on hand-masons, carpenters, sculptors, mosaic layers, painters, artisans of all ranks.
It was evident first to Hierocles, and later more reluctantly to Antoninus, that the worship of Elah-ga-baal must be changed from a purely masculine one to include both sexes. What little religion still existed in Rome was in the hands of the women and the problem now became how to attract them. It would be necessary to offer some inducement and, although Antoninus was loath to let them participate in the worship of his god, he nevertheless carne to recognize the logic of Hierocles’s arguments and was finally won over. But, merely including women in the religion would not necessarily draw them to the temple—there must be some inducement. Again it was Hierocles who pointed out the way.
The pleasure legion of godlings that Eubulus had handpicked from the far stretches of Empire had lately languished in Rome. True, Antoninus had personally inspected many of the conscripts which Eubulus had sent—mostly without Hierocles’s knowledge—but his old dream of an army of men for his gratification had vanished. Eubulus was again in Rome and now Praefect of the City as a reward for his having combed the Empire. The legion of stalwarts was still on hand, some five hundred strong. Why not, Hierocles suggested, sanctify these men as priests of Elah-ga-baal and put them on duty in the temple at night, along with the Syrian priests. Surely a choice of stallions that ranged from blond Allemani to coal black Nubians would attract both men and women to the temple. Rome had nothing in her baths or lupanars to compare with this handpicked assembly.
Antoninus agreed. They were indeed an attraction—they even tempted him. Then, as Hierocles pointed out, instead of five hundred idle men eating their heads off at the expense of the state, and doing nothing all day but keeping their bodies in condition, they might as well be earning money for the temple. Allow each man a minimum of only twenty sestercii a night—that would be 10,000 sestercii a day—no little sum for the support of the temple and the money bags of the High Priest.
Antoninus agreed. In one night the five hundred were herded into the temple, where a mass circumcision took place that completely covered the black stone with bleeding foreskins. This, too, was auspicious, for on the opening of the temple some weeks later, all Rome pushed its way up the Palatine hill—a milling crowd of men and women, who elbowed each other in frantic haste to enter the moonlit courtyard. Instead of the modest estimate of 10,000 sestercii which Hierocles had made, the first night netted the temple coffers almost five times that amount. And, in addition, the members of the pleasure legion seemed most satisfied with their lot.
But in spite of the popularity of Elah-ga-baal among both sexes, there was still an important element in Rome which did not hasten to worship the Sun God despite the new attractions. This was that small but powerful and influential segment of Roman matrons, who, in defiance of Rome’s careless morals, had retained some of the dignity and austerity of old Rome. These were powerful women of the patrician and knightly gens—too elderly to be overwhelmed by the appeal of the pleasure legion; too conservative to adopt a new religion; and too moral to identify themselves with the obscenity of this Syrian upstart of a god. It. would take more than a German giant or a satin-skinned Nubian to entice them.
They continued to worship at the sacred shrine of Vesta, the ancient Roman goddess of the hearthfire. It was here that the Palladium was kept—that ancient wooden statue of Pallas Athena which tradition claimed Aeneas had brought to Italy from Troy, before Rome was even founded. It was by far the most sacred object in all the world. Its shrine was the inner room of the beehive-like Temple of Vesta—the penus Vestae, so holy that even the Pontifex Maximus of Rome could never enter. Only the six Vestal Virgins and the Virgin Maxima could gaze upon it.
No foreign god could hope to compete with Vesta. Her worship was important in Rome and even the most decadent Roman, either through fear or superstition, still retained a feeling of awe for the goddess whose eternal fire was a symbol of Roman strength and Rome’s ability to endure.
But to Antoninus, who was not a Roman and for whom the goddess Vesta had little if any significance, her worship presented the only really dangerous competition to his own Elah-ga-baal. Vesta must either be destroyed or amalgamated as all other religions had been. The Palladium must join the other sacred symbols which were now enshrined in the wings of the temple. Here it would take its place alongside the Bull of Mithra, the entwined Lotus of Isis and the Cross of the Nazarenes. Yes, the worship of Vesta must merge with the worship of Elah-ga-baal and, when looked at logically, this seemed to provoke no basis for a theological argument. Elah-ga-baal was the God of the Sun—Vesta was the Goddess of Fire. Sun and fire! The greater and the lesser. Elah-ga-baal was not represented by any statue in human form and neither was Vesta. The symbol of one was the sun; of the other fire. Why not combine the two? Why not—and by so doing destroy the last vestige of competition?
But Hierocles objected. Although he was of Carian ancestry, he had been born in Rome and the worship of Vesta was as curiously and as deeply ingrained into his consciousness as it was in all other Romans. To despoil her temple of the sacred Palladium would be an act of sacrilege so momen
tously terrible that he, along with all Rome, would shudder. Even Caesar, as Pontifex Maximus, the supreme arbiter of all the religious in Rome, could not dare do such a thing. No! Hierocles was adamant.
But Antoninus was equally adamant. Vesta and Elah-ga-baal must combine. He would brook no interference with his conception of all-deity and either Elah-ga-baal must be all, or he must divide his worship with an antique and outmoded goddess such as Vesta. It was unthinkable. There should be more than one way to gain his point and his cunning brain would find a solution.
