Kalos, a Sentinel
alternate history by Glacis. Rated NC-17. No copyright
infringement intended to Pet Fly et al.
Historical notes : This story is set in
The Spartans, a Greek people, were an oligarchic society (as opposed to
a democratic one, such as the Athenians, their enemies), who separated the male
children of their warrior class from their families at the age of seven to be
raised to become soldiers. Their society was closed, structured, and valued
endurance of hardship without complaint and obeying orders above all things.
Disgrace was more feared than death, and a man's mess-mates (those in his sussitia, like a squadron a warrior joined for life), not
his family, were the center of his life and identity. When Spartan males
married, their wives were instructed to dress as boys and lie with their backs
to their new husbands, to make the experience less alien for the man. In
addition, a Spartan warrior would usually live with his sussition
at least until he was thirty, visiting his wife in secret.
The one thing the two societies had in common was the unusual freedom
and responsibilities allowed to women. But that's not the point of this story …
The first time it happened, Aeacon thought it
was a sign from Ares. The second, a curse from Poseidon.
The third time, he knew what it was. It was the voice of Athena, and she was
speaking directly to him.
When the God returned his senses to him, it was night, and all around
him were the sounds of dying men, both his own and his
enemy's troops. He looked to the heavens, but there was no answer. So he
gathered the wounded, honored the dead, and returned home to make sacrifices to
Apollo and Athena. The Gods were displeased with him, because it happened
again, this time on the sea. He and the other marines were preparing to board
an enemy vessel, when the paralysis struck him, and he could do nothing but
stand and watch the lights in the depths of the water, caught in a web cast by
Poseidon to lure him from his duty.
They escaped, intact, and returned home, where a vote was held in the sussition whether to allow him to attempt to regain his
lost honor, or expel him from their ranks. Friends whose lives he had saved
spoke for him, for he could not speak for himself, and he was given a final
chance.
Athena's voice called to him in battle, and he was lost to it. Aeacon felt the words on the breeze, and his mind was lost
to his surroundings. The battle raged around his still form one last time, and homoioi died in his stead. When the breeze died, so did the
words, their meaning lost to his mind, only the sensation remaining. He shook
his head to clear it, and saw the bodies of his equals lying in their own
blood. Knowing, now, that the Gods themselves had turned against him, he turned
from the battlefield, withdrew himself from honor, comrades, lands and wife,
and began to wander.
The spells grew more frequent, and he heard tales from a traveler of a
healer across the sea who had some talent with plagues
of the Gods. Leaving Gytheum, guiltily aware of a
sense of relief at leaving the scene of his disgrace behind him, Aeacon turned his back on his past and headed for
In the halls of the
Caius Lupillus, so named for both his small stature and his frequent
visions of a sacred wolf that accompanied his divinations, carefully lifted the
dark read meat from the basin and considered it closely. One finger traced the
raised lumps of flesh, and his eyes narrowed as he followed the stippled
pattern of blood along the surface. What the Gods revealed to him made his hand
tremble. Part of his mind, a very small voice, rebelled. He had always been a
devout priest to his God, studying, teaching, sharing
his body with the followers of Bacchus to allow the flow of divinity through
him to them. Why, now, should his fate be such? To lose all, to wander, lost,
for the sake of a barbarian?
Then his mind, well-trained as it was, turned from the sacrilegious path
it had taken, questioning the will of the Gods. The signs were there. He would
meditate on them, open himself to the use of the followers, indulge in the
fruits of the God, and follow the fate he had been given.
Caius slowly lowered the
liver back into its basin, washed his hands in the priests' bowl, and closed his
eyes for a moment, calming himself, listening to the God's voice, as he had
since he was a babe. Then he arranged his chiton
around his knees, shrugged into his himation, and
walked into the streets of Caere. He didn't know
where his footsteps would lead him, but he would follow the compulsion of the
Gods.
He always had.
The slavers had sold him for a great deal of money, and Aeacon took some satisfaction from the knowledge that his
owners considered themselves robbed. His mind continued to be overcome by the
voices of the Gods, words no one else could hear, scents no one else could smell, fingers that went suddenly dead, clothing that burned
like fire and air that froze him to the bone. When that happened, he would walk
with the spirits, leaving his body behind. It took very few of these times for
his owners to determine he was strong but stupid, recalcitrant and willful.
This was his fourth trip to the whipping rooms. It would be his last.
They only thought he was stupid. In actuality, he understood more than
they thought, since he spoke their language, in large part due to a helot, a
youth he'd spent some time with after conquering the boy's city. The newly-made
serf had been comely, and loved to talk, and Aeacon
had enjoyed his company. He'd learned the language of the Tursenoi
almost accidentally. But he knew enough now to know that he would be sent to
the ludi, the blood games, to celebrate the funeral
of a high-born man who'd just died. The games were to the death. Perhaps that
was what the Gods had meant for him, driving him from home, stripping him of
his honor, making him a slave.
Death would certainly be better than this.
He bit nearly through his tongue as the lash wrapped around his back,
the column he was shackled to, and curled around to stab at his ribs on the
other side. His skin felt thin as egg shells, and the lash burnt like fire as
it opened his skin. But he would not cry out. Spartans simply did not scream.
They did, however, pass out.
Eventually.
It was no surprise for Caius Lupillus to see the form of the wolf at his side as he
walked the bustling streets. The she-wolf pressed close to his leg, unseen by
any but himself, and guided his steps. After a short walk, the priest found
himself at the entrance to the discipline rooms, where slaves and prisoners
were kept before the ludi. The area was crowded, many
columns with men shackled to them, naked skin dripping with sweat and blood
from the lash of the many-headed whips. A powerful man had died the previous
day, and the funeral celebrations would be vast, with a great deal of drinking,
blood sports to honor the spirit of the dead man, music, and feasting. He
paused for a moment at the threshold of the dark place, but the she-wolf leaned
into him, urging him on. Taking a deep breath and pulling his himation around his shoulders, he lowered his head to allow
his dark curls to cover his face, and entered the realm of Hades.
His eyes on his feet, obeying the guidance of the wolf instead of
watching where he was going, he nearly tripped over the supine form. He started
to step over it, and the wolf growled at him. Stopping in mid-step, he stared
down between his legs at the man stirring to life between his feet.
Interesting.
The man was large, but well formed, with long limbs, an elegantly planed
face, and impressive shoulders. His skin, where it wasn't covered in dirt,
blood, bruises or welts, was finely grained and he was heavily muscled. A soldier, probably a barbarian taken from one of the ships by the
sailors and brought to
Something inside Caius moved; something forced
him down. His legs gave way beneath him and he found himself straddling the
man, carefully keeping his weight from descending fully, trying to spare the
abused back lying against the cold stone. The wolf sighed behind him, but when
he looked, she had gone. He turned back, and saw the thin lips were opening, as
if to speak. Quickly, Caius lowered his own mouth and
covered the slave's, stealing the man's breath, sealing away the words. This
was not a time for words. This was a time to listen to the voice of the Gods,
and determine if the fate foretold in the entrails of the sheep was a path that
led to this particular barbarian.
Keeping his mouth moving over the man's lips, he shifted his hands
expertly along the warrior's body, deftly avoiding wounds to light with the
delicacy of a bird's wing at the curve of hip, the shallow indentation of
breast, the strong column of throat. Caius squirmed
out of his tunic and cloak with the sinuous ease of a long-time priest of
Bacchus, skilled at the art of love and adept at sharing the holy euphoria of
the Gods through carnal transmission. One long arm curled up around his back,
and he increased his efforts, not wanting the barbarian to dislodge him. But
the hand simply stroked along the line of his spine, then buried itself in his
curls, holding his head near as the kiss deepened.
Dimly aware that someone had begun to play the double pipes somewhere in
the complex, Caius moved his body instinctively to
the rhythm. One of his hands continued to caress the barbarian's body, while
the other he moved behind himself and prepared himself with it. The sensations
were as pleasurable as always, but there was an added dimension to this
coupling, as it seemed the barbarian had the touch of the Gods, and was making
his skin sing. When he was stretched enough, or as much as he could find
patience to do, he finally tore his mouth from the mobile lips below his own
and licked his way down the writhing, sweaty torso until he arrived at the
rampant penis. Suckling at it until it was hard enough to sustain penetration
and wet enough to cause nothing but pleasure, he rose
on his haunches, slid one hand back to guide himself, and sank onto the
barbarian's flesh.
He wasn't certain, because his head was swimming as if he'd drunk an
entire flagon of wine, but he thought he might have screamed. Certainly, he
voiced his pleasure, and the sighs and shouts of encouragement around them
echoed it. Caius felt connected to this stranger in a
way he had never experienced before, and the brightness of euphoria spread
beneath his eyelids, blinding him to everything but the heat driving into him,
the solidity beneath him, the hands clutching his hips, the air burning as he
dragged it into his lungs. The ekstasis overcame him,
and Bacchus overtook him, an infinity that flared through and out his soul in
the measure of a heartbeat. Then the fire of climax ripped through the body he
rode as well as the body he wore, and the divine frenzy gradually calmed.
Slowly, Caius withdrew the shrinking flesh
from his own, wincing as he stretched over-used thigh muscles. Cuddling the
shaking, exhausted form of his barbarian to him, Caius
petted and soothed the man until he fell asleep. Then he gathered his chiton and his cloak, clothed himself, and retraced his
footsteps back out onto the city streets.
Night had fallen as he'd been following the dictates of the Gods, and
the clouds had lowered. There was little rain as yet, but Zeus began speaking
as he watched, and he paused, one hand going to his forehead, the other
stretched out into the air. Pedestrians walking by him recognized a priest at
work, and were careful not to disturb him.
He watched the bolts of fire streak across the sky, noting the sectors
of the heavens from which each branch fell, carefully counting and storing the
information the King of the Gods was generously giving him. When the lightning
tapered off and the rain began, he gathered his himation
around his body, put his head down against the wetness pelting him from the
sky, and hurried home to the temple.
He had much to prepare, and very little time to do it.
I've armed myself
with Logic against Love,
And if it's one on
one he doesn't have a chance:
I, a mortal, will
stand against a God!
But if he has
Bacchus on his side
It's two against
one,
And I won't have a
prayer.
(Rufinus, writer of erotic verse, date unknown, circa 3-400
CE)
Aeacon was walking with
the spirits again, or perhaps, flying. From the burning flail searing his skin
to the blessings of unconsciousness, only to be roused by a sprite with eyes
like the sea at midnight, hair in wild disarray around his head, and a strong
body taking him into it, surrounding him with ecstasy even deeper than the pain
had been, then back into the stupor of Morpheus, and
now, what?
Hard hands grasped his arms, manhandled him to an upright position, and
jerked him forward, up the steps, into the sunlight. Apollo watched, but Athena
was silent, the breeze lay dead across his cheek as he was drawn from the place
of pain into the main room of a plain wooden temple. Plates of bronze lined the
walls, depicting the Gods at play and the triumphs of men, dancing nymphs and
men and women making love. He looked again. Men and women,
men and men, women and women. At least there were no beasts. He noticed
the form of a bull pressed into one plate and wrenched his attention away.
Barbarians, indeed.
Unfortunately, his attention was now fixed on what looked to be a
ceremony that was commencing. He forced himself to listen, then
swallowed, hard. Death on the battlefield, or even on the sporting field, he
could face. But to be held down and slaughtered like a pig on an altar to a
barbarian's God? Aeacon tensed his muscles to fight,
then froze in place as another man was pulled past him and laid
on his back across the grooved stone. He watched, jaw
clenched fiercely, as the ritual knife was raised and lowered, and the blood
flowed across the top of the altar and down the channeled stone to the basin at
the front of the altar. Then the hands were shoving him again; they moved him
not to the altar, but behind it. Heavy cloth fell behind him and his guards,
blocking out the light.
His eyes, sharp with Athena's blessing, saw as if it was daylight in the
murky room. Three masked figures faced him. His guards ripped the filthy remains
of his tunic from him, and sluiced him down with scented water, scraping away
the grime accumulated as a slave and a prisoner. He stood quietly the entire
time, opening himself to the voices of the Gods, feeling the currents of air on
his skin, scenting each individual in the room, tracking their heartbeats. The
masks were amazingly lifelike, the details in the eyes, the smiling lips, the
cascading curls, the angled chins and high foreheads camouflaging the reality
of the priests behind them. But one scent was familiar. One heartbeat commanded
his attention; the memory of a taste unique to his experience, a taste of the
Gods themselves, anchored him.
A fourth man, old, withered, but with bright dark eyes like onyx washed
in a stream, peered at him, stepping forward when the guards had finished
cleansing him. "The Gods have spoken. You will make your choice." The
old man spoke clearly, slowly, pausing to ensure that Aeacon
understood. He nodded to show that he did. "One choice is enslavement, in
the service of Bacchus until He decides He has finished with you. One choice is
life, and banishment within life. One choice is death, and freedom through
death. May the Gods guide your choice." With
that, the old man stepped back into the shadows in the corner of the room.
Aeacon stared at the
three priests, who would have been identical, if not for the touch of the Gods
active through his body. He listened for Athena's voice in the air, and it
brought him the heartbeat. He sought the light of Apollo, and it showed him the
glisten of eyes like the midnight sky through the slits in the face of the
mask. He breathed deeply, and was awash with the scent of his memories. Without
hesitation, he walked directly to the masked priest on the far right, and
reached out with one hand to lay it across the strong, steady beat of the heart
in the broad chest. Hands gloved in gold came up to enclose his fingers, and he
smiled.
He knew that touch.
Then the two other priests came forward and slowly lifted the mask from
the third priest's head. Aeacon looked down into the
sparkling eyes, admired the beauty of the man who had claimed him. "Kalos," he whispered, and the priest smiled, wide lips
parting, a tongue darting forward to moisten the lower one. He was lost in the
glimmer of light off the moisture left behind, until a strong square hand
cupped his jaw and drew him back into the mortal world.
"Stay with me," the priest murmured. Then those hands lowered
to pull him forward by the wrists. The beautiful priest led him into a smaller
room, and the rest of the priests of Bacchus followed.
The room was lit with candles, a slave played the pipes softly from his
perch in the corner, and there was a bench, covered with a cushion, draped with
soft cloths. Aeacon hesitated; while Spartans weren't
known for their modesty, they also weren't accustomed to making love with an
audience. Then the young man smiled, and he lost his objections, completely
forgot there was anyone else in the world, much less in the room.
Strong arms pulled him to recline on the bench, soft lips made a feast
of him. A fine hand fed him wine, and long legs entwined with his and kept him
in sweet confinement. Head swimming with need, wine, and the scent of the man
wrapped so intimately around him, skin itching for the touch of those knowing
hands, body burning for the completion being denied him, he didn't hesitate as
he was turned, kissed, soothed, stretched, filled. Every bond holding him to
mortality was taken to its limit, and he heard the soft murmur of Athena's
reassurance in the rush of blood running beneath the skin of the man making
love to him. A brightness as warm and as overwhelming as Apollo's chariot burst
behind his eyelids, and for the first time in over twenty years, Aeacon, Spartan warrior to his soul, cried out as his soul
flew apart.
When he came back to himself, he was wrapped firmly in the arms of his
new partner. Owner. Mate. Whatever
he might be. By this point, Aeacon had
resigned himself to whatever the Gods decided to do with him, and this kalos man, this beautiful priest, was his fate.
He simply had no idea what he was supposed to do next.
So he lowered his head onto the warm, furry chest beneath it, trusted in
the judgement of the Gods, and let himself fall
asleep.
Caius Lupillus stared down at the foot of the bench, directly
into the blue eyes of his spiritual namesake. "Now what?" he asked
quietly. The wolf stared back at him, the turned toward the back wall of the
temple. Caius followed the wolf's gaze, then felt the familiar dizziness as his vision blurred and
another world began to take shape. The light, pitted stone darkened, then faded
away, and he saw a wall of vegetation the likes of which he had never seen.
There were people moving through it, dark skinned, oddly dressed, with strange
implements of bone around their necks and wrists, and woven loincloths hanging
from their hips. Behind them, a huge stone triangular temple covered in bizarre
rounded carvings rose from the trees, and a large, black cat with blazing eyes
like ice on fire and ivory fangs paced along the steps of the temple.
An urge struck him, and he knew it was their fate, to find this temple,
to go to these strange people. He had met his matching soul in the barbarian
who slept in his arms like a babe, and their destiny was not in either of their
homelands. The man he was holding stirred, and the
vision rippled and dispersed. As the hazy eyes opened and focused, suddenly,
sharply, on his own, he smiled.
"My name is Caius Lupillus.
What is yours?"
The man regarded him somberly for a long moment, then
a slight smile softened the stern mouth. "Aeacon."
"Well, Aeacon,
welcome to the rest of your life." The big man
stared up at him, utter trust in those amazing light eyes. "Are you ready
to go on a journey?"
The smile remained, and widened. "Yes, kalos. If you go with me."
Caius grinned at the
pun, the compliment sounding so like his own name on the barbarian's lips. "Always."
And so they did.
If my kiss offends
you, then punish me with yours.
Straton, 2nd century CE
Kalos = beautiful
finis
Solstice blessings, everyone!