Winged Mercury
Lysicles
Carisius was recently observed wearing wings on his sandals –
prancing through the palace halls as though a living, breathing
incarnation of Mercury himself. Ordinarily, you might think that
such a display would be cause for some embarrassment, but the boy
was (and still is) quite proud of his adornment. The reason for
this is simple: those pretty little wings have come to signify a
very particular status among the pages of the Palatine: any boy
who wears them is known to benefit from the favour of Lucius Commodus.
How the two of them met was reported (loudly) by Carisius soon after
the event occured: Carisius was serving at a banquet, as is common
for those in the Department of the Kitchen. He caught the eye of
sensual Commodus, and was immediately taken into the man’s bedroom.
Part of that immediacy is no doubt attributed to the passion with
which Commodus gusts through his days. But a much larger part of its
quickness, I sincerely believe, is the result of Carisius’
inexhaustible opportunism. Normally, a page is invited to be somewhat
coy; to playfully resist the advances of a suitor; to acknowledge
that the favour of a paramour is offered (and, in many respects,
earned) by way of a vigorous dialogue of courtship. Yet based on
the Mercurial speed with which Carisius acquired his wings, I must
assume that he observed none of those unwritten rules. He simply
gave himself uncontested unto Commodus.
To be fair, Commodus is quite famously a lover of luxurious women –
and one who delights in sharing with them from an assortment of
Rome’s most labour-intensive meals. Carisius, therefore, may
have correctly surmised that there would not be too many demands
placed upon his flesh. Yet even still, I find it somewhat distasteful
to consider the boy’s lack of decorum.
I can hear you laughing at me, Lysicles, and accusing me of holding
a bitter grudge against the man who so perfunctorily dismissed me
under the assumption that I was a luddite. Sensibly, you should
ask me if I would not have been just as quick to do what Carisius
had done. Indeed, it is a good question, well worth considering.
For what aspiring page can afford to risk the unpredictable impatience
of a courtier such as Commodus – the former favourite of Hadrian
himself? Is it not more advisable to be for him as readily attainable
as possible, especially when his attentions – known by all
to be fleeting – are at the present moment so clearly focused?
Yet I must on principle believe that to make oneself so quickly
and easily available to another somehow diminishes one’s own
sense of personal worth, for it signals quite clearly to both the
suitor and the rest of the watching world that there is (in that
instant) little else worth knowing other than what is on the surface.
If a boy can subsequently prove that there is more to him than merely
his flesh, then he is as lucky as he is laudable. Yet far too often,
I suspect, the suitor instinctively understands his too-easy target
as being without much depth, and this only serves to shorten the
duration of his attraction once his lust has been sated. As a result,
the boy is discarded before he has had a chance to fully demonstrate
his other, non-sexual talents.
Therefore, it behooves any young page to use his burgeoning intellect
in the service of some modest resistance, and demonstrate by it
that he is capable of being far more than a man’s mere pleasure-toy.
After all, is this not the Greek way? And – what’s even
more prescient – is this not Hadrian’s way?
After what Phlegon told me before he took me into the library, I
have been thinking a great deal about what Hadrian’s distant
attentions must mean to my future. There is no doubt that I am being
watched. And by the ready admission that my choice in books is being
monitored, I am also quite clearly being tested. The transmission
to him of my title selections is, in a strange way, a large part
of the courtship dialogue between myself and my suitor, who circles
me like a silent eagle high above. In essence, I am being evaluated
for my depth of character long before (and, remarkably, physically
away from) the immediate experience of my body. How striking it
is! For suddenly I have found myself playing some colossal game
of courtship that has been elevated to the rarified heights of a
philosopher king.
That Hadrian finds me attractive is not in question: what is far
more perplexing is how long he intends to maintain his distance
from me before summoning my flesh into his arms. Perhaps he is also
testing himself? If so, I would certainly not be surprised. The
very act of postponement is, in itself, a remarkably powerful statement
in the context of our mutual “conversation.” I must,
therefore, not only accept, but embrace it, for it is a clear demonstration
of his exceptional character.
In the meantime, I have been reading. The list of titles is growing
daily, although it’s growth will temporarily pause tomorrow,
as Hadrian is scheduled to return. I am demonstrating to Salonius
a broad and enthusiastic curiosity; he is often moving between many
of the cabinets, pulling out for me an assortment of works in all
manner of subjects. I believe he likes me very much, for I have
very quickly demonstrated to him that I am well versed in many of
the basics, and so am keen to be guided by him in what is considered
to be more advanced study. Together, we have enjoyed several conversations
with regard to the contents of the manuscripts. I daresay he is
fast becoming a friend, although, understandably, one whose professional
duties (and, perhaps, personal trepidations) command him to remain
from me emotionally distant.
The way in which Salonius relates to me is beginning to occupy a
greater portion of my thoughts, for it is but one particular expression
of something far more general that I am slowly beginning to detect
in the faces that surround me. It is as though I carry around me
a peculiar kind of atmosphere that is somehow thicker than what
surrounds other men. Which is to say, there is a quality of the
invisible air about me that others have become cognizant of. It
is not that they resist entering it – it is merely that they
are aware of it. When they see me coming near, or when they approach
me directly in order to enter my immediate vicinity, their aspect
suddenly changes – although I am at a loss to itemize its
exact manifestations. Something shifts; their manner of being becomes
minutely more laborious.
If nothing else, this development reveals to me just how isolating
the mantle of distinction truly is. I need only extrapolate from
these accumulating experiences to imagine how heavily such a mantle
must drape itself across Hadrian’s shoulders. And this imagining,
in turn, leads me to understand why he reacted so positively to
my callous indifference when we met upon the Caelian. He delighted
not in my directness, nor my honesty, elocution, or thoughtfulness.
His amazement sprang simply on account of the fact that I was so
mysteriously unaware of the heavy ether that surrounded him. I spoke
to him easily. I breathed without effort – as people are meant
to.
I dare say it is upsetting to me to think that, just when I find
myself emerging from the awkward isolation of my time at the elementary
school, the distinctions being conferred on me by Hadrian are wrapping
me up in a very different kind of solitude. Whereas before I was
alone for being hated, suddenly I am alone for being loved –
by the Emperor. Granted, he has not yet expressed his love directly,
and yet I am not so foolish as to remain blind to that which the
rest of the palace so clearly sees. If I consider who it is among
my friends that haven’t yet detected my thickening atmosphere,
I must conclude that list is quite limited: Anaxamenos, naturally,
and perhaps Mordanticus – although there remain other considerations
with him that I am never quite able to fully dismiss. It will be
a sad day indeed if I ever detect in Anaxamenos that tiny hesitation;
that involuntary signal that he has distanced me in a way I am powerless
to reason with. Let us hope it never comes.
And what of you, Lysicles? Wherefore are you so distanced? Is there
between us some peculiar atmosphere that is thicker than anything
else in the universe? O, for the dedicated and dutiful service of
that authentic god – winged Mercury – who may take this
little parchment in his fingers and, within the span of a young
Olympian’s freshly victorious heartbeat, drop it neatly into
yours. A.
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