Ashes Under Uricon
Chapter 21. Experience (381)
By Mihangel
Laeta bis octono tibi iam sub consule pubes
Cingebat teneras, Glaucia adulte, genas.
Et iam desineras puer anne puella videri,
Cum properata dies abstulit omne decus.
Sed neque functorum socius miscebere volgo
Nec metues Stygios flebilis umbra lacus,
Verum aut Persephonae Cinyreius ibis Adonis
Aut Iovis Elysii tu Catamitus eris.
You'd grown up, Glaucias, in your sixteenth year,
The welcome down had clothed your silken face,
No longer did you seem both girl and boy
When death too early snatched away your grace.
But you won't join the piteous common herd
Of ghosts atremble in the realms of night;
You'll be Adonis in the goddess' bed,
Or Jupiter's celestial catamite.
Ausonius, Epitaphs
Papias also introduced two interesting but utterly different characters into our lives. One evening when we dined with him there was another guest present, a young man in his twenties, serious, plump and unprepossessing, who was just finishing his course as Papias' student. His name was Pelagius, the son of one of the incomers; a Christian, it emerged, but of the tolerant, not the rabid, sort, and his approach, as befitted his mentor, was of the philosophical rather than the tub-thumping variety preferred by so many of his faith. He accepted us as the pagans we were and the lovers we were. At one point he asked about my civic duty as Procurator of Mines.
"Inherited from your father?" he said. "Ah well. Et sic fata Iovis poscunt, that is the destiny required by Jupiter." He clearly held, like most intellectual Christians, that an education in the classics was perfectly acceptable and was happy to lard his talk with pagan allusions.
"Hardly required by Jupiter," I corrected him. "Required by the state, in its supposed wisdom. We don't believe in destiny. To us, nothing is fore-ordained, whether by Jupiter or any other god. What happens to a man is dictated by his own actions, or by other men's actions, or by chance. Doesn't he have freedom to choose between good and evil? Between right and wrong?"
I was, I admit, winding Pelagius up, gently I hope and politely.
"Not as the church teaches it," he replied cautiously, leaving it open for us to decide whether he toed the church's line; and he threw a faintly amused glance at Papias, as if to say 'we've been here too, haven't we?'
"It teaches," he went on, "that the first man had the choice, but chose wrongly, and by making that choice brought sin and death into the world. It teaches that every man born since has inherited that sin at birth. That only by baptism can he be reborn and have any chance of avoiding sin and death and punishment. And that only God's grace can lead man to goodness and save him from sin."
"What then of us poor pagans, who do not know your God? What of the infant who dies without being baptised? Automatic punishment, however blameless we may be?"
"So the church teaches."
"And am I right that some people, even if baptised, even if they live a blameless life, are none the less predestined for punishment?"
"So the church teaches. God, it says, knows best."
"What's the point, then," asked Bran, "of even trying to do good? Human courts are far from perfect, but at least they give the accused the chance to defend himself and show why he doesn't deserve punishment. Just punishment is one thing. Undeserved punishment, as dished out by corrupt judges, is another. Is your God as unjust as them? Or think of slaves. Masters have power to impose their own wishes on their slaves, to deny them their freedom of will. Is your God no more than a master of slaves who're helpless victims of his whim? It's a better world, surely, where everyone is equal, where there are no slaves, even to God, where everyone can use his own free will to choose his own path. We talk from experience. We've both of us been slaves."
Pelagius made no attempt to answer Bran's questions, but looked at us consideringly.
"Interesting," he said. "Very interesting, to hear the views of former slaves. I must think them over. Thank you."
And he changed the subject. He was leaving soon, he told us, to try to make his mark in Rome -- as a younger son he did not have to follow his father as town councillor -- and we wished him luck. We never saw him again. But he will reappear in this history, if only at a distance; for in the fullness of time this unlikely man became the talk of the western world, with an influence on events in Britain greater than that of any emperor.
Meanwhile Maglocunus was following closely in our footsteps. He followed Bran and Lucius in blooming young, and followed me in sowing his wild oats early. His first experiments were with Cunovindus the butcher's son, an inoffensive but backward lad, undeniably attractive and remarkably similar to him in face. They first met while bathing in the river, where Cunovindus had the misfortune to acquire a large splinter in his bare bottom from the timber of the wharf, and Maglocunus, ever a helper of lame dogs, brought him home to extract it and administer comfort. The comforting led in an unexpected direction, but after a passionate start Cunovindus, who was as dim-witted as Maglocunus was bright, soon lost interest. Maglocunus, his appetite whetted, looked instead to his other friends.
We heard all the details. He was utterly open about his doings. He told us when he first made seed, he told us who he had been with and what they had done together, and he asked for advice. For that we were especially grateful, because his friends were a wild bunch; too wild, we sometimes thought, for these changing times. And in return we were equally open with him, as open as Tad had been with me, or even more so. We gave him all the support that we felt we could. We were having to learn and solve for ourselves the perennial quandary of parenting, of striking that delicate balance between restraint and responsible permissiveness. Our constant message was that what was privately acceptable to the likes of us would, if made public, horrify an ever-growing number of our fellow townsmen.
The leader of his gang of friends was a boy named Glaucias, a year older than Maglocunus, startlingly beautiful in an androgynous way, highly intelligent, but uninhibitedly promiscuous. He carefully avoided the offspring of the conservative Roman incomers, and thereby sidestepped the problems which had once dogged Lucius and me. He likewise steered clear of the offspring of Christians. But with traditional British youngsters, girls and boys, he seemed to be in everybody's bed, laying and being laid. Because he was a natural leader his followers imitated him. And his most devoted follower was Maglocunus.
The surprising thing about Glaucias was that he was Papias' son. In this respect father and son could hardly have differed more. But so it was. Papias had married late, and his wife had died not long before. Glaucias, hitherto a dutiful son, was desolated, but deprived of his mother's influence he swung from the dutiful to the wild. He and Maglocunus, when not in each other's bed, were always up to pranks, some harmless, some unwittingly verging on the dangerous. Let a single example suffice. One afternoon in the summer just before Maglocunus turned fourteen, when I was away at Onna, Butto the town policeman came storming to our house demanding an urgent word. What follows is what Bran told me on my return.
"It won't do, Bran," Butto declared, his face red and flustered, "it just won't do. I don't mind a bit of fun myself, and in the old days nobody else would've minded either. But there are lots of Christians who've taken offence, and the bishop's spitting fire."
"Calm down, Butto. Just tell me what's happening."
"Your lad and young Glaucias, they put up this . . . sort of statue at the entrance to the forum. With a bloody big prick sticking out of it."
Uh-huh. "Are they still there?"
"Yes. And the bishop's laying into them."
He hurried Bran to the forum gateway. There they were, surrounded by a bunch of citizens. Some, glowering, were all too clearly Christian. Others, enjoying the fun, were obviously not -- stallholders and shoppers, it seemed, from the market. Bishop Viventius' strident voice reached Bran from a distance away, and some of his words too -- heathen deities -- graven images -- typical pagan licentiousness -- insult to God. The boys were trying, when they could get a word in, to defend their corner.
"But it's only a Priapus!" Bran heard Glaucias protest.
"It's an invitation to lechery!"
"No, it isn't!" Maglocunus' voice rose above the hubbub. "Honestly it isn't. It's a protection. Avicantus here was having apples nicked from his stall. So we made him a Priapus. That's what Priapus is for, isn't he? To guard orchards and things. And if he catches a thief he . . . um . . ."
"Buggers him," shouted someone, probably Avicantus, "with his bloody great weapon. That's what he does, Viventius. And hurts like hell. Would you like to be skewered by a weapon that big? Don't you want thieves to be warned off?"
Half the crowd guffawed, the other half surged angrily forward, and the bishop turned a deep and menacing red. This had gone on long enough. Butto and Bran shouldered their way to the front. Beside the boys was the cause of all the trouble, a primitive effigy four feet tall knocked together from odd bits of wood taken, Bran guessed, from the stockpile for our bath furnace. From below the figure's waist rose a log three inches thick, crudely but unmistakeably shaped as a phallus which, being well over a foot long, reached its chin. Butto wrenched it off the nail which held it and brandished it like a club. The hubbub died down.
"That's enough!" Bran cried. "Well done, boys, for trying to protect Avicantus' apples. That was a neighbourly thing to do. But it really wasn't the best way of doing it, was it? It was thoughtless and it caused offence. I'm sorry," he said to the bishop. "They shouldn't have done that. Rest assured, I'll punish them as they deserve."
Mollified at having won a victory over us at last, Viventius nodded, and the crowd, realising that the fun was over, drifted away.
"Thank you, Butto," Bran added. "Leave it to me. I'll deal with them. Boys, home. Now. Bring Priapus with you and put the bits back on the woodpile."
Butto handed him the phallus, which he tucked out of sight in his tunic. In silence, with Maglocunus and Glaucias staggering under the load of a dismembered Priapus, they walked home. There the boys stood in front of Bran, uncertain, torn between laughter and dismay.
"Look, lads. You've got to learn discretion. Some people don't mind that sort of thing at all. Docco and me, for example. Avicantus and his mates. Most of the Britons here. Even Butto, as a citizen rather than a policeman. Time was when hardly a soul would have minded. But things have changed. There are lots of Christians around now, and it offends them."
"Spoilsports," muttered Glaucias. "That's what my father calls them. The bishop and his cronies, anyway."
"But they're entitled to their opinions, Glaucias, even if they're not the same as yours. There's no sense in offending them just for the sake of offending. We have to live with them. It could have turned very ugly, back there in the forum. Think before you say anything, before you do anything, that might offend anyone. Think. Because you didn't think, did you?"
"But we weren't saying anything, Bran," pleaded Maglocunus, "or doing anything." He caught his eye. "Well, yes. I suppose we didn't think. Sorry."
Bran fished the phallus out from his tunic.
Glaucias eyed it. "I reckon you could get that in," he observed irrepressibly. "But only with a lot of practice."
Bran ignored that, for the moment.
"But," he pointed out, "I promised the bishop I'd punish you as you deserve."
Their heads swung to him in shock.
"This doesn't apply to you, Glaucias. It's up to your father, when I tell him what you've been doing. But it does apply to you, Maglocunus. You aren't a man yet, and lessons must be learned the hard way. Drop your drawers. Tunic up. Bend over."
Maglocunus looked at him in horror, but at the same time in trust.
"You're . . . not going to . . .?"
Bran hid his smile and frowned. Maglocunus obeyed, dropped his drawers and bent over. Bran tapped his smooth round buttocks lightly with the phallus.
"There. You've been punished as you deserve. No great harm's been done, this time. But if it happens again, anything like this, it could be much more serious, and your punishment'll be much worse. Lesson learned?"
Maglocunus pulled up his drawers, grinning. "Lesson learned, Bran. Thank you." He gave him a big hug.
"But two other lessons as well. As I said, things have changed. When we were your age it didn't matter who knew what boys were up to with who. Now it does. Don't talk about it in public. Not to anyone you don't know and trust. If it comes to Christian ears, and especially the bishop's, your life could become difficult. And Docco's life and mine too. And Papias'. I know we're always going on about it, and I know you're usually discreet. But never forget it. All right?"
"All right, Bran."
"And the other lesson is, don't go experimenting with something like this." He waggled the phallus. "This is dangerous too, in a different way. Be content with what nature's given you."
"But nature," Glaucias objected, "hasn't given Maglocunus very much. He isn't very, um, satisfying."
"Not yet, maybe. But he hasn't finished growing. He's so like his father in every other way that I expect he'll be like him in this."
"Gods, I hope so," said Maglocunus dolefully. Then he chuckled. "You know where we got the idea from, Bran? Of making a Priapus?"
Bran had been wondering. Priapus was very Roman, not British.
"No. Where?"
"From Vergil. We were talking about big pricks, and in your book there are those little poems of his. The Priapea. About Priapus and his whopper, protecting apples. Donatus says Vergil was only sixteen when he wrote them. And one bit's just like what happened today."
He looked at Glaucias and they grinned.
"Parata namque trux stat ecce mentula.
'Velim pol,' inquis? At pol ecce vilicus
Venit, valente cui revulsa bracchio
Fit ista mentula apta clava dexterae.
Look at that prick, stiff, ready and relentless! 'Gods! I wouldn't mind that!' you say? But watch out! The bailiff's coming! He'll whip the prick off and wield it as a handy cudgel.
And that's exactly what Butto did!"
Chortling, they went away. Bran hoped the lesson had been learned. Papias, when told, agreed with Bran's line, although he was concerned at his son's wildness. I too, when I came home, agreed. There was much in common, we reckoned, with my own sowing of my wild oats. Glaucias was to Maglocunus as Amminus had been to me. It was another matter, quite clearly, of boyish lust. There was no prospect of taking anyone to Maponus, not in the foreseeable future. But the biggest difference between now and then was the difference in the climate of opinion.
The problem, however, if problem it was, did not last much longer. On his fourteenth birthday Maglocunus became a man, and a month later there came an Irish raid. It was the first since the time he was born, and it was a very limited one. Only a single band of marauders came anywhere near Viroconium, as if they were reconnoitring our defences. The watch at the north gate, still a permanent feature, spotted them galloping into sight and immediately sounded the alarm and shut the gates. The Irish, while far out of range of arrows from the walls, saw it and galloped away again. But Glaucias, innocent for once, had been in the cemetery laying flowers on his mother's grave. As foolhardy as I had been at the farm, he ran shouting into the raiders' path as they retreated, and he was ridden down and trampled under their hooves; not deliberately, the watch thought, but through his own rashness. Bran and I were among the first to hear. We rode out to recover the bleeding corpse and deliver it to a distraught Papias. Then we went home to a distraught Maglocunus.
In our arms he sobbed his heart out. I sympathised. The gods know I sympathised. I had been here before. But for Maglocunus it was not quite the same. Glaucias had not been his Lucius but his Amminus, and through his grief -- or rather, perhaps, through his shock -- he recognised it. What touched us most was that he thought not only of himself but of us, and especially of me.
"Docco," he said, wiping his eyes on his tunic, "tell me about my father. About Lucius."
I had told him many times before, and I told him again. How we had met, how he had been converted to our ways, how we had fallen in love, how we had been separated, how he had died, how he had so to speak bequeathed me to Bran.
"But what was he like?"
"To look at? The spitting image of you.
Sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat;
Et nunc aequali tecum pubesceret aevo.
His eyes, his hands, his face were just like yours, and he would now be blooming at just your age."
Maglocunus gazed at us with the hazel eyes which might have been Lucius'. In them were still tears, but also a responsibility we had not seen before.
"Docco, Bran . . . I don't think I need anyone to shag or bugger . . . Not any more . . . I've grown out of that now." He said it with all the unselfconscious dignity of a fourteen-year-old. "I need someone to love . . . like you loved my father . . . like you love each other."
Chapter 21. Nuptial (382-3)
Ora puer prima signans intonsa iuventa.
Os umerosque deo similes, sic ora ferebat,
Sic oculos cursuque amens ad limina tendit.
Illum turbat amor figitque in virgine vultus,
Oscula libavit dextramque amplexus inhaesit.
The youth, his unshorn cheeks bearing the first signs of manhood, godlike in face and shoulders, in feature and in glance, rushes to the threshold in the frantic arousal of love. His gaze fixed upon the unbedded boy, he tastes his kisses and, grasping his hand, holds it tight.
Ausonius, A Nuptial Patchwork
Our secretary Volusius who handled the former Pulcher estate was growing old and looking to retirement. We were aware of nobody in Viroconium who was capable of stepping into his shoes, and when in Corinium I asked Count Flavianus if he knew of anyone suitable there.
"Why yes, it so happens I do. There's a clerk in the imperial estates department who's meticulously well organised, and I know he wants to move. He's an oddball, mind you. A Christian, yes, but he belongs to some weird sect or other. If you don't mind that, Cintusmus is just the chap you want, by the sound of it."
"Is he allowed to change jobs?"
"Talk to him, and if you like each other I'll put in a word and there'll be no problem."
We talked. When Cintusmus heard I was from Viroconium and looking for a secretary, his face lit up. He was a strange man of maybe forty, small and dark and wiry, a Spaniard by birth who had seemingly climbed up from nowhere, although he was not forthcoming about his earlier days and I did not probe. But it was clear from the start that he was a fanatic about two things: office efficiency, and his religion. He belonged, he said, to the Priscillianists. This sect had no church in Corinium, but it did have one, he had heard, in Viroconium. I suggested he come back with me to look at the town, to meet Bran, and to see the kind of work we had in mind. If -- no promises -- we all approved of each other, the job would be his. Did he have any family? Oh yes, he said as if only just remembering, he had a wife and two sons. Well, I replied, if we gave him the job he could send for them to come up.
As we rode north I learnt a great deal more about Cintusmus' beliefs. He was a follower of a mystic Spaniard named Priscillian who was into serious mortification of the flesh, forbidding the consumption of wine, the consumption of meat and fish, and the consumption of anything at all on Sundays. He demanded continence in marriage -- which struck me as a contradiction in terms -- if not renunciation of marriage itself. Much of his theology left me befuddled. But one aspect of Priscillianism was comprehensible and struck a strong chord.
"Holy scripture," Cintusmus said sadly. "ordains that there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for we are all one in Christ. For some reason most Christians ignore that. But we don't. To us, slaves and free men are equal, and the sexes are equal. We don't look down on women. In our churches they sit with the men."
Very good. The trouble was that Priscillian's teachings had been condemned both by the orthodox church and by the emperor. They seemed to have no realistic future.
Finding out more about Cintusmus himself was difficult, for apart from estate management and religion he was the least communicative of creatures. But Bran was intrigued by him, and Volusius, after spending a morning with him, was enthusiastic. He reported that Cintusmus had already made a number of excellent suggestions and was more than capable of taking over. So, with clearance from Corinium, we engaged him. He had forgotten again about his family, and to extract the details we had physically to prevent him from diving straight into the paperwork. It emerged that before being converted to his curious creed he had married a British wife, whose only marital role nowadays was to supply him with vegetarian meals. They had two sons whose upbringing he left entirely to her. None of them had followed Cintusmus into Priscillianism, and none of them was even a Christian. We sent for them to come and join him in the small house we had rented next door to our own.
For his first task, a prolonged and complicated one, we put him to selling all of Pulcher's lands which lay in the east. If Saxon raids continued, the bottom would fall out of the property market there. Of what we got for them, some went into our charity. Some we reinvested in land near to Viroconium. But, having an uneasy feeling that income from land was not to be relied on indefinitely, we kept much of the proceeds in gold and silver, which would surely never lose its value, and hid it on the farm with the rest of our hoard.
Cintusmus' family turned up with a cartload of furniture. Brica, the wife, was a competent and no-nonsense lady who supported her odd husband with the utmost loyalty. The elder son, Rianorix, was a solid and dependable lad of eighteen with some experience of farming whom our bailiff Ulcagnus was glad to take on as a supervisor. The other son, Dumnorix, was a few months younger -- and distinctly smaller -- than Maglocunus who, from the moment they met, took him under his wing. The very evening of the day he arrived I found them together, poring over our illustrated Vergil. Dumnorix's eyes were shining.
"Docco," said Maglocunus. "Dumnorix has never met Vergil before. He's only been to elementary school. Is it all right, do you think, if he comes to Nonius with me? I'll pay."
Since his fourteenth birthday, Maglocunus had been in charge of his own finances, though he always consulted us if he was spending more than small change.
"Fine by me. But I'll ask Brica."
Brica had no objection, and Dumnorix went back to school, just as Bran had done. The boys became inseparable. At school, at play, at home, they lived in each other's pockets. And Dumnorix was a charmer, not only in looks, with his open face, dark eyes and mop of curly black hair, but in his cheerfully considerate manner. It was with a mixture of amusement and gratitude and relief that we watched them together. As Bran put it,
"Ambo florentes aetatibus, Arcades ambo,
Et cantare pares et respondere parati.
Both in the flower of their youth, Arcadians both, matched and ready for song and repartee."
Dumnorix, we agreed, was a far better bet than the promiscuous and irresponsible Glaucias had ever been. And just as Maglocunus was indisputably another Lucius, so Dumnorix, Bran insisted, was another Docco. Hmmm . . .
I can obviously not chart the progress of their love in the way that, from personal experience, I have charted mine. But it was in Maglocunus' bed that Dumnorix spent the third night after his arrival, and he never, as far as we were aware, slept in his own again. After that, we reckoned, it was a case not of if, but of when. We were mildly surprised that it was another two months before they came to us solemnly, hand in hand.
"We're in love," they said simply. "We're absolutely sure. We want to be together for the rest of our lives. We think we're made for each other, that we're two halves of a whole. Just like you two. Is that all right by you?"
"Very much all right, by us. We're happy for you. But will it be all right by your parents, Dumnorix?"
"No problem with my mother. My father probably won't take any interest."
"Well, we'll have to talk to them."
"Thank you. And if it is all right, will you take us to Maponus, please? We know we don't have to, but we'd like his blessing. And his tattoo."
Bran and I talked to Brica. Being thoroughly British, she had no qualms, and thanked us for putting so nice a boy as Maglocunus in Dumnorix's way. And she came with us to beard Cintusmus. He looked up from his desk, irritated by the invasion, but condescended to listen. I could see him thinking, and his answer surprised me.
"Our inclination is to distance ourselves from unbelievers and even from other Christians. I commune only with my God and with members of my own church. And," he added, his eyes straying to his desk, "with my work. That is why I leave my sons to Brica's care. I do not like the thought of Dumnorix sleeping with a boy. Nor would I like the thought of him sleeping with a girl. But because in Christ there is no difference between the sexes, one is no worse than the other. And because he chooses to follow your ways rather than mine, it is by your rules that he should be judged. Is there anything in your beliefs which forbids boys to sleep with boys?"
"Nothing at all."
"All right. Holy scripture lays down that where there is no law, there is no transgression. If Brica is content, so am I."
And so were we. A few weeks later, in a chilly February and in the care of a highly amused Lurio and Bitucus, the boys accompanied the next boatload of lead down the Sabrina, just as Lucius and I had done eighteen years before. Bran and I rode down with two led horses, the precious batch of silver, and our German bodyguard. As we travelled we mused on how, a generation on, history was almost repeating itself. There were a few differences. Tad was no more. Bran was no longer in an agony of doubt. There was nobody for Maponus to persuade that everything was in order. But our programme followed exactly the same course.
At Corinium we delivered the silver and sent our bodyguard home, their duty done. As usual I had a chat with Count Flavianus. I was worried about production at Croucodunum, which was slipping, and the year before I had inspected the Dobunni's mines at Vebriacum in the hope of picking up ideas. I had found none, and now I wanted to look at the lead mines at Salicinum and the copper mines at Cravodunum and Truscolenum. But, although these were in our province, they were under military control and I needed official permission. Flavianus promised to let me know when he obtained it. We also visited the bookseller whom I had recently discovered. His stock was small and largely predictable. He always had, for example, a Vergil and an Ovid and a Cicero or two. But he also sold copies of major new books. This time we bought the Augustan History, the lives of all the emperors from Hadrian almost to Diocletian.
From Corinium we dropped briefly in at Fanum Maponi to reserve our rooms. The same priest was in charge, and he seemed not to have aged a day. To our astonishment he remembered not only us but our names.
"Let your boys stay in the hostel," he said. "They will need their privacy. But I will be honoured, Docco and Bran, if you will stay with me and tell me how you have been faring."
From there to Abonae to deal with the lead. The boys had already arrived, the winter floods having whisked them down the river, and as the four of us rode on to Aquae Sulis they regaled us with their tale. The estuary wave had been feeble, and the weather had been so cold that they had spent most of their days as well as their nights huddled in their blankets under the awning.
"We won't ask how you whiled away the time there," remarked Bran, laughing. "I think we can take that as read."
"Oh, but you can ask," said Maglocunus, grinning at Dumnorix. "We're going to tell you anyway. Or most of it. I've been teaching Dumnorix Irish. And we . . ." He made to take something out of his pouch, but stopped. "No, let's leave it till this evening. It'll be easier over a meal than with frozen fingers on horseback." He yawned. "What we need is a good warm bed, and a bath. And I need a shave," he added, fingering his chin. He hardly did, even after a week without, but while Dumnorix was still patently a boy, Maglocunus liked to play the young man.
We installed ourselves at Aquae Sulis. Bran and I had not been here for eighteen years. To Dumnorix, having been born not so far away, it was not unfamiliar. To Maglocunus it was brand new. We found a restaurant, distinctly more upmarket than on our last visit -- we could afford it now -- and over our wine the boys grinned at each other again. They produced a pack of writing tablets, their wax uneven with constant rubbing out.
"It was Dumnorix's idea," Maglocunus said generously, "and a brilliant one."
"But you did most of the work," Dumnorix protested. "After all, you know Vergil far better than I do."
"Than you do yet. But you're learning him fast. And you're much better than me at spotting dirty meanings. Anyway, this is what we put together. It's about us. Well, I suppose about anyone." He read from his tablets, while Dumnorix grinned.
"Postquam congressi sola sub nocte per umbram
Et mentem Venus ipsa dedit, nova proelia temptant.
Tollit se arrectum. Ramum, qui veste latebat,
Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum,
Eripit a femore et trepidanti fervidus instat.
Est in secessu, tenuis quo semita ducit,
Ignea rima micans: exhalat opaca mephitim.
Nulli fas casto sceleratum insistere limen.
Hic specus horrendum, talis sese halitus atris
Faucibus effundens nares contingit odore.
Huc iuvenis nota fertur regione viarum
Et super incumbens nodis et cortice crudo
Intorquet summis adnixus viribus hastam.
Itque reditque viam totiens uteroque recusso
Transadigit costas et pectine pulsat eburno.
Iamque fere spatio extremo fessique sub ipsam
Finem adventabant: tum creber anhelitus artus
Aridaque ora quatit, sudor fluit undique rivis,
Labitur exanguis, destillat ab inguine virus.
Once they have met in the dark lonesome night and Venus herself has inspired them, they embark on a new assault. He rises erect. From his groin emerges his branch, hitherto hidden in his clothes -- a monster, horrid, shapeless and huge -- which towers above the trembling boy. In a secluded place approached by a narrow path is a gleaming red-hot cleft which exudes a dark stench. For no chaste person is it right to tread this evil threshold, for here is a hideous cave from whose dark tunnel an odorous breath seeps forth to assail the nostrils. Along this familiar path the young man hurries. Lying on top, he thrusts in his spear, knots and bark and all, and pushes with all his might. In and out he goes, his fair loins pumping and plumbing the innards as if to impale the ribs. But by now, worn out, they are almost at the finishing post, the climax within reach. Sharp panting convulses their limbs, their mouths are parched, sweat flows in streams, and as the juices flow from his organ he collapses exhausted."
Bran and I were in such fits of laughter that heads turned to stare. Improper it was, at least in this day and age, but extraordinarily clever, a patchwork of lines and half-lines borrowed from anywhere in Vergil and stitched together to give a totally new meaning. We applauded, more heads turned, and an elegant middle-aged man, in appearance very much a Roman grandee, came across from the next table.
"Excuse me butting in," he said in Latin, all smiles, "but I could not help overhearing your most ingenious compilation. My name is Majorianus, and I have a friend in Gaul, a charming man and a charming poet, who was recently consul alongside our illustrious emperor. His name is Ausonius; you may have heard of him. And the point is that a few years back he wrote a patchwork of just that kind, about a wedding. He tells me he is thinking of revising it, and it occurs to me that he would be most interested in your, ah, creation. Is it too much to ask if I might send it to him?"
Maglocunus blushed. "But sir . . . I don't have a copy, and it's not in my head yet . . ."
"Oh, no matter. Your tablets need not leave your sight. My secretary will copy them." He snapped his fingers to someone across the room.
"Well, all right then."
We made space for the secretary, who set to copying the text in shorthand on his own tablets. From time to time he sniggered.
"And who," asked the grandee, "shall I name to Ausonius as the author of these lines?"
"Dumnorix here, and me, Maglocunus."
"A wonderful knowledge of Vergil!" The implication was that he hardly expected such culture from young Britons.
"Maglocunus," I could not help interjecting, "is a senator of Rome."
"Is he indeed?" The grandee was interested. "Then may I ask the names of you two gentlemen?"
"This is Bran, and I'm Docco."
"Ah! Then I have heard of you, and heard nothing but good. You are from Viroconium, am I not right? The only civitas which does not need a Guardian?"
"That's right." We were surprised. "But who've you heard of us from?"
"Ah, that would be telling. I hear many things from many people. As Deputy Prefect it is my job to listen. But I see my secretary has finished. Let me disturb you no longer. I hope we will meet again before long."
Full of urbane thanks, he returned to his own table, leaving us gaping at each other.
Back at the hotel, the boys pounced on the book of imperial biographies we had bought and, with the homing instinct common to all boys, went straight to the most lurid passages.
"Elagabalus," Dumnorix cried with glee. "I've heard about him. He was that young tearaway, wasn't he? Hardly older than us. Hey, listen to this! 'He led a filthy life, buggering men and being buggered . . .' hmmm . . . 'in every orifice of his body . . .' hmmm . . . And this!
"He had agents to search out well-hung men and bring them to court so he could enjoy affairs with them. And at home he used to perform the story of Paris, with himself in the role of Venus, in such a way that his clothes would suddenly drop to his feet, and he would kneel stark naked with one hand on his breast and the other on his prick, sticking his arse out to be buggered. And he used to paint his face like Venus and was depilated all over his body, thinking the best fun in life was to be ready for sex with as many people as he could.
"Phew!"
"Not quite what you'd expect of a Roman emperor," Bran commented dryly.
"He may have been emperor, but he wasn't Roman. He was Syrian. And Syrians are highly-sexed. Or so I've heard."
The next day we spent, as last time, at the temple and baths. There was now a run-down air about the place. Bits of marble veneer had fallen off the walls leaving bare patches, and the floor of the Great Bath was thick with silt deposited, we were told, by the Abona river which had taken to flooding and backing up the drains. Nothing, they said, could be done about it. The weather patterns seemed to be changing.
Fanum Maponi, the day after that, wore its usual garment of peace, but it too had reverted to a somewhat scruffy state. As before, we paused to look down on it. At this time of year there was little traffic on the road, and no visitors were to be seen in the precinct. As before, the priest gravely welcomed us and the boys introduced themselves, but this time there were no statues or altars shrouded in sheets. In the temple Dumnorix and Maglocunus stood awed, hand in hand, in front of the god. Bran and I stood hand in hand behind. The priest stood by himself. On Maponus' face was the same enigmatic smile, in his eyes the same compassion. And his message was free of any qualifications or warnings. The boys' love was right, and good, and blessed; and his blessing on our own love was renewed. I vowed an offering to him, and the pressure of Bran's hand confirmed it.
It being the slack season, the restaurant was not open, but the four of us sat quietly in the winter sunshine eating the food we had brought. Then the boys went to the priest for their tattoos, while Bran and I looked into the shop and bought a bronze plaque on which the assistant punched a simple little message. It read, after some debate whether Bran's name should be latinised, MAPONO BRANVS ET DOCCO V.S.L.M., 'To Maponus, Bran and Docco willingly and deservedly discharged their vow.' We returned to the temple to give it to the god, together with six gold coins which would be of more practical use. There were a few altars and plaques which we did not remember from last time, including a curse scratched on a lead sheet and nailed up behind the statue:
Lossio and Iliomarus asked Maponus for his approval of their union, but because it was asked in lust the god forbade it. None the less they had sexual intercourse and thereby committed sacrilege. May the god therefore shrivel their penises, burst their testicles, and block their anuses.
That was sobering. I had had intercourse in lust, and plenty of it. But that was before I brought my love to the god for his blessing. His verdict, once given, was evidently weightier even than I had thought. It was not to be trifled with.
Bran and I sat on a stone bench, hand in hand again, facing Maponus. This was no place to talk. It was a place to let one's thoughts drift in the gaze of those understanding eyes. As my mind roamed I felt it soothed but yet sharpened. The atmosphere might be calm, but there was an overtone of warning. Enjoy this peace, I found myself thinking, while you can. It may not last long. After an hour we left to wander around the precinct, sharing desultory thoughts but still talking little. The waterwheel was turning at the mill, but it had lost a few of its paddles and its rotation was jerky. Another symbol of the times?
We met the boys leaving the shop with their offerings, and found that Maglocunus had also bought Dumnorix a prick-handled knife inscribed with his name, just as Lucius had done for me. They too were quiet, their hearts clearly full -- how well I could understand that -- and we exchanged little but hugs. Together we returned to the temple and sat for another while in silent comradeship. But the day was ending and the sky dark with storm-clouds. They boys decided to go to their room. We knew why. There were no other guests, and they would not be disturbed. We made for the priest's house and, as we arrived, the heavens began to open.
The priest, having made us welcome and warm at his hearth, served a good but simple meal. Over it he asked about our doings since we last had met. It took some time because he was genuinely interested, and when we mentioned the rise of the Christians at Viroconium he pulled a long face. It was the same if not worse at Corinium, he said, within whose bishopric Fanum Maponi lay. The Christians there were militant and were beginning to attack pagan shrines, starting with those in the town itself. The Taranis column we had once admired had already been toppled; as indeed had ours at Viroconium. Temples had been ransacked, and he feared that those in the countryside would be next. Trade at Fanum Maponi was visibly falling off. He paused. As if to emphasise his picture of gloom, thunder was rolling apocalyptically overhead, lightning flashing, rain pounding the windows, and through the hubbub had come a deeper roar as if of the stream in spate. But the storm began to pass, the noise lessened, and the priest picked up his thread. Suddenly there was a hammering on the door.
It was Maglocunus and Dumnorix, teeth chattering, water flowing off their skin, stark naked. The priest found them towels, we found them spare clothes from the saddlebags which luckily were with us, and when they were capable of speech they explained. They had been in bed when there was a mighty rumble in the midst of the thunderstorm. Water had come bursting into the hostel, and they had abandoned everything and fled. Leaving them to warm up by the fire we took a lantern and braved the buffeting wind. At first we could see nothing, but when we came close it was clear that the hostel courtyard, beside the stream at the lowest point in the precinct, was now a lake. Until day should dawn there was nothing to be done. Bran and I, without need of discussion, surrendered the priest's guest room to the boys to retrieve what they could of their night, and ourselves slept fitfully under blankets by the hearth.
Daybreak revealed the source of the trouble. The cloudburst had caused not only a flash flood but a massive landslip on the steep valley side beyond, which had dammed the stream and diverted it into the hostel. The water there was still feet in depth, and sounding with a stick showed a thick layer of mud underneath. The rest of the precinct, though sodden, lay higher and was unaffected. There seemed no point in even trying to locate the boys' clothes and possessions, which were surely beyond redemption. With an absurdly apologetic feeling that our coming had somehow unleashed the deluge, we gave more money and rode on our way, leaving the priest and his staff to salvage what they could.
The boys soon recovered their cheerful banter and made light of their ordeal.
"What I'm most sorry about," said Dumnorix, "is that I've lost my prick."
"Eh? It's still there. Or was a few hours ago. And in full working order. Like me to check?"
"Not that one, you twit." But he felt himself as if making sure. "The one you gave me. The knife. Maybe someone will find it one day, deep under the water. And wonder what it's doing there."
"Pretty obvious, isn't it? That the temple's where boys get the god's blessing on their love, and the hostel's where they, um, consummate it. Hey, that's a thought. That's how the Christians are initiated, isn't it? With water? That must have been our initiation."
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