Child of the Sun

by Kyle Onstott

  Antoninus, with the help of Annia Faustina, had managed to get some of the mess from his face.

  “Stop it!” He howled at his aunt and sent a silver platter flying in her direction which she managed to avoid. It landed on the floor with a loud clatter. He followed it with a murrhine goblet which splintered on the edge of Mamaea’s couch. With an attempt at dignity, she gathered her plain grey stola about her and stood up, but Antoninus let drive with a handful of purple snails which caught her full in the face. She turned, only to get another bombardment in the rear. Still screaming vituperations, she fled from the room, Alexander following her.

  The three remaining women tried to outtalk each other, and in the high-pitched pandemonium, Antoninus and Hierocles started to leave. Antoninus noticed Lyxon trying to staunch the blood from the cut on his face with a napkin. He pushed the slave ahead of him. “Come to my apartments, boy! My slave Cleander will attend to your face.”

  Half way to their apartments, they met Cleander running towards them. He stopped short, amazed at their bedraggled appearance.

  “Run and prepare our baths,” Antoninus said. “And get a bandage for this boy’s face. My beloved aunt has been on a rampage tonight!”

  Cleander said, “I was on my way to bring you a message. You have a visitor—a most unexpected one.”

  “Who?” Antoninus quickened his steps.

  “Eubulus!”

  “But only a few days ago we heard from him in Smyrna. He was still searching for the twin of Hierocles.”

  “And he has not only found him but arrived almost before his letter. They are in your apartments.”

  “And does the one he found look like Hierocles?” Antoninus quickened his steps.

  “Really like me?” Hierocles matched his steps to those of Antoninus.

  “It would be hard to tell the difference,” Cleander confirmed the fact.

  Antoninus ran ahead. “Hurry, Hierocles, we must see this other paragon. Oh, Hierocles, he may look like you but he cannot be like you. Nobody can be like you.”

  But he was like Hierocles. Practically identical! Eubulus presented him after they had both made their obeisances to the Caesars, and Antoninus could only stare from one to the other. Eubulus introduced the fellow as Dionexus, a sailor from the city of Miletus, which, being a Carian city might account for his resemblance to Hierocles. There might even be some distant blood relationship. The youth, overwhelmed at being in the presence of two Caesars, quite lost his tongue.

  “Oh, what a surprise we shall have for Gordius.” Antoninus was dancing around the bewildered lad. “I shall be almost jealous of him, beloved, for this Dionexus is so like you. Oh, thank you. You shall be rewarded.”

  “I have never failed Caesar yet,” Eubulus answered smugly, wondering how large the reward would be.

  “Then go with my thanks, dear Eubulus, and return to the palace tomorrow afternoon after we finish with the ceremonies at the Praetorian Camp. Now leave us, that we may feast our eyes on this phenomenon.”

  He waited until Eubulus left, then pushed the newcomer beside Hierocles. Separated they were almost identical but side by side there were certain small differences. Hierocles was about half an inch taller and more strongly muscled. His hair was a brighter gold, his skin finer, his nose more Grecian, his eyes a clearer violet. In such close proximity, Dionexus became merely an inferior copy but the close resemblance was there—like two Greek statues, one by the master Praxiteles and the other by a student.

  “Off with your tunic,” Hierocles said.

  The boy flushed under so many staring eyes—the expectant eyes of Antoninus, the rather anxious ones of Hierocles, the curious ones of Cleander and the startled green eyes of the slave Lyxon who had been entirely forgotten. Slowly Dionexus unpinned the brass fibula that held his tunic at the shoulder and let it fall to his feet.

  Antoninus stared . . . and laughed. Hierocles sighed with relief. The resemblance to Hierocles stopped with the face. Where the gods had been overgenerous with Hierocles, they had been most niggardly with Dionexus.

  “Poor Gordius!” Antoninus laughed. “How he has been cheated.”

  “Not at all.” Hierocles could afford to be jubilant. “It will make no difference to Gordius. But come, young fellow,” Hierocles flung off his own tunic rather boastfully, “we bathe.”

  “And you attend us, Lyxon of the green eyes,” Antoninus noticed the boy. “Cleander will clean your wound, which seems to be more blood than anything else.” He began to study Lyxon rather carefully.

  “Do you notice anything, Hierocles?” he asked.

  “Where?”

  “Here,” Antoninus pointed to Lyxon. Hierocles studied the slave.

  “No.”

  “But see! He resembles me. Not as Dionexus does you, but there is a likeness. He is exactly my height and looks to be my weight. His hair is the same color as mine. His complexion is the same, even though his eyes are different.”

  Hierocles shook his head.” He looks no more like you than I do.”

  “Yes, he does,” Antoninus insisted. “Dressed like me, he would bear a certain resemblance. Tomorrow we shall play a joke on Gordius. He usually arrives with his daily load of meats at the Praetorian Camp in midmorning, which is when we shall arrive. We shall summon him and when he reports, this Dionexus and Lyxon will be in the room—both dressed as we are. We shall be hiding and it will be worth a million sestercii to see the expression on Gordius’s face. Lyxon will be talking to Dionexus when Gordius enters and he will see only Lyxon’s back but Dionexus’s face. Then we shall burst out and surprise him and present him with Dionexus. Oh, ’twill be fun! But come! Into the water. I stink like the mother of all the lobsters and you like their father, Hierocles. After we have finished we’ll dress the two in our clothes and give them a rehearsal. Poor Gordius! He’ll have only Dionexus but I shall have you, until the day I die.”

  “Don’t talk that way, Little Caesar.” Hierocles’s smile vanished. “When that day comes, I shall die too. Life without you would be worse than death. I would not desire to live if I could.”

  30

  Gordius whipped the heaving horse which was nearly spent, praying to the entire pantheon of gods, Roman and barbaric, that the animal would last another few miles. As he turned off the paved road, he slowed down and gave the horse a moment’s respite. According to the hasty directions he had received, this should be the right place—he was to turn off on a narrow road at the left just beyond the fifteenth milestone. Well, he had passed the milestone and this was the first road on the left. About a quarter of a mile away, up in the hills, he could see the tiled roofs of a villa, reddened by the lights of the fast setting sun. He was not sure it was the right one but he would try. He whipped the poor beast again but the animal could not increase its pace. It was plodding wearily now, putting one slow hoof before the other.

  The heavy wooden gates to the villa were closed and Gordius cursed the length of time it took for a slave to emerge from the gatehouse. The man, a handsome negro and white hybrid, was wiping the crumbs of his evening meal from his mouth. He sauntered leisurely around to the front of the closed gates.

  “Hurry, man!” Gordius tried to hasten the slave’s lagging footsteps. “Is this the villa of Aurelius Zoticus?”

  “It is, but my master won’t see you. He receives no visitors tonight.”

  “He’ll receive me. Open the gates!” Gordius drew his sword and threatened the man. “I come directly from Caesar with a message for your master. Open up. Don’t make me get down and run you through.”

  “Het said noto let anyone in.” The slave hesitated between his duty to his master and the obvious authority of the man who said he came from Caesar.

  “I don’t care if he’s bedded with six women. Where is he?”.

  The slave pointed to a leather curtained doorway on the other side of the open peristylium and Gordius ran to it, trampling the roses and myrtle, splashing through the marble pool rather than skirting it. He
gained the doorway, lifted the curtain and stood for a moment on the threshold, gazing into the brilliantly lighted room. It was an awkward time to interrupt a man but every moment counted. The olive-skinned back and the heaving flanks could belong to none other than Zoticus, whose preoccupation with the owner of the white legs which were wound around his back, had prevented him from hearing.

  “Aurelius Zoticus!” Gordius called out, whereupon the man turned quickly and in so doing disengaged himself from the woman.

  “Who are you and what do you want here? Get out of my room or I’ll have my slaves flog you. Who let you in?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I am Gordius. We made the trip from Nicomedia together.”

  “So you’re Gordius! I’ve not finished and by Isis I always finish what I start. Come back later.”

  “There’ll be no ‘later’ Zoticus. Send the lady away. Get her out of here if you value your life.” He looked past Zoticus to the woman on the bed. “Get out! Caesar’s business cannot wait.”

  The woman, frightened now, gathered one of the silk sheets around her and scampered from the room.

  “What’s the meaning of this? What does Caesar want now?”

  “Nothing, but if you want to live listen to me. Dress yourself, take what gold and jewels you have in the house.”

  “But Caesar! Caesar protects me.”

  “Not this Caesar, Zoticus. Antoninus is dead, murdered! Alexander the Stupid is now Caesar, and that straightback slut Mamaea is Augusta.”

  “My little Caesar dead?” Zoticus put his hands to his eyes to stay the tears that were starting. “Tell me, Gordius!”

  “There is no time. Dress yourself. Order two horses saddled. I have work for you to do and only you can help me because in all Rome only you and I are left who loved the Antonine and Hierocles.”

  Zoticus rummaged in the clothes press, found a pair of leather trousers, pulled them on and slipped his feet into a pair of heavy sandals. He took a plain linen tunic and a heavy woollen cloak but he still behaved as a man stupefied.

  “And now your gold.” Gordius saw a leather bag and held it while Zoticus opened a chest and filled the bag with gold and several heavy, jeweled bracelets. Gordius dragged him from the room and to the back of the villa where he sensed the stables must be. He chose two of the strongest-looking horses, had the bewildered hostler saddle them, and hoisted Zoticus up. They rode down the drive into the fast gathering dusk.

  “Why do you do all this to save me, Gordius?” Zoticus had recovered sufficiently from his shock to ask questions. “We were never close friends.”

  “Because you once loved the little Antonine and I have work for you to do. It is fitting that the only two men who cared for him and Hierocles should bury them.”

  It was a distance of some twenty milliae from the villa of Zoticus to the little farm which still had the name of Hierocles carved over the lintel. On the way Gordius told the story of the day—the last day of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Caesar, Augustus of Rome.

  Perhaps Zoticus had heard of the troubles Antoninus had been having with the Praetorians? Yes, Zoticus had heard but he thought they were all solved. So had Antoninus, Gordius nodded, or he would not have gone to the Praetorians’ camp this day to dedicate his own statue, which replaced that of Alexander. Gordius had arrived at the camp around mid-morning, his dray filled with the sausages, hams, and bacon which he supplied daily to the garrison. Upon arrival, he had been told to report immediately on orders of Caesar, to the Officers’ Quarters, to a certain small room off the guardroom. Gordius, who still wore the uniform of Praefect, was a familiar figure in the camp and still warranted a salute wherever he went and he returned the Praetorian’s salute as he climbed down off the cart.

  He arrived in the designated room to find it empty except for Hierocles and Antoninus, who were in a conversation at the farther end of the room. Hierocles waved to Gordius and bade him come closer but Antoninus did not turn around. When Gordius neared them and Antoninus turned, Gordius was dumbfounded to see that it was not Antoninus but a pretty green-eyed boy whom Gordius recognized as one of Soaemias’s slaves. This was evidently one of the Antonine’s little tricks but much to Gordius’s amazement, when Hierocles spoke, it was not Hierocles at all although the man, dressed in the imperial robes with the silver laurel leaves on his head, was enough like Hierocles to be Hierocles himself.

  Suspecting some trap, Gordius started to draw his sword but before he had it out of the scabbard, he heard loud shouts of laughter and the real Caesars come running out from behind a stack of armor. They fell upon Gordius, throwing their arms around him and laughing at his puzzled expression until Antoninus reminded him of his promise to find the exact replica of Hierocles on the day he had dismissed Gordius as Praefect. This, then, this fellow by the name of Dionexus was the twin of Hierocles which Antoninus had promised! Antoninus and Hierocles had had their joke so Gordius was now presented with the second Hierocles for his own.

  They were still laughing when the sound of women’s voices shrieking imprecations at each other came from the guardroom. Antoninus airily dismissed the altercation and remarked that his mother and aunt were starting again where they had left off last night. There had been a banquet— they had quarreled. It was unimportant. Antoninus had decided to let them finish it between themselves.

  Antoninus paid little attention to the squabbling ladies and made no attempt to stop it. He was going to the latrinae, he said because he might be sitting up on the platform for an hour or more once the ceremony began. Hierocles started to accompany him but Antoninus waved him back.

  A few moments after Antoninus had left they beard a high-pitched scream which was suddenly cut off. Hierocles had only one word—“Antoninus”—and ran out of the room. Gordius was stepping through the door himself when he saw the leather curtain of the latrinae raised and a soldier came out. He recognized him as one of the Tribunes—a man by the name of Agrippa. He was waving a bloody sword and shouting and as soon as he saw Hierocles, he was upon him. Hierocles was unarmed and no match for Agrippa’s sword. He fell to the floor and Agrippa had to place one sandaled foot on Hierocles’s body to withdraw his sword. To the running Praetorians who issued from the guardroom Agrippa was shouting. “I’ve killed the Beast of Rome and his stud.”

  Gordius went back into the room and dropped the curtain. He heard the Praetorians passing and their shouts.

  “Caesar is dead. Ave, Alexander Caesar!”

  “Caesar is dead and his husband too!”

  “Ave Alexander Augustus!”

  “So with all depraved monsters like the Antonine!”

  “Rome wants no painted queen to govern her.”

  “Let us throw their bodies to the mob.”

  “No, let them stay here. There is more important work to be done. Let us first proclaim Alexander Emperor. Then let the mob have the bodies.”

  Above the clamor of the Praetorians, Gordius heard a woman’s shriek. He peered out between the curtain and the door jamb. Soaemias, followed by Aegenax, came running down the hall, only to be spitted on Agrippa’s sword. The other soldiers backed at Aegenax, seeming to take a sadistic delight in mutilating his face and body. One of them pulled up the priestly robes and emasculated his corpse, waving the bloody trophy high in the air. Leaving Soaemias and Aegenax on the floor beside Antoninus and Hierocles, they continued on to the guardroom from whence came other and even louder shouts of “Ave, Alexander Caesar.” Gordius could hear Mamaea’s hysterical shrieks above the rest.

  Gordius motioned to the two impostors to follow him and they ran down the hall towards the latrinae. Hierocles’s body was lying in the doorway and Gordius gathered it up into his arms. One glance informed him that Hierocles was dead. Antoninus was lying on the floor, blood flowing from a deep gash in his throat that had severed the jugular vein but his face was untouched and a curious smile still lingered on his lips.

  A promise! Gordius remembered it now. A promise he had made to Caesar that the
se two should lie together under the stone pines at the little farm. He searched the room frantically with his eyes. Yes, it was there—the big wooden chest filled with ashes which military law demanded be kept in every latrinae to be sprinkled down the holes by every soldier each time he used one. Gordius flung open the chest. Fortunately it was nearly empty. With the assistance of Dionexus and Lyxon, he placed the bodies of Antoninus and Hierocles inside and closed the cover. He had to work fast and think even faster. Between the three of them they carried the chest out into the hall. The clamorous uproar was still going on in the guardroom.

  Gordius hesitated in his tale.

  “And what next?” Zoticus drew abreast of him. They were walking their horses a few paces to conserve the animals’ breath.