Date: Fri, 4 Mar 2011 11:12:05 -0500
From: George Gauthier <georgegauthierdc@gmail.com>
Subject: Caravanserai

			Caravanserai
		 	The 18th Tale of the Daphne Boy, the Ultimate Twink
			by George Gauthier

You can read the stories in this series in any order. Each story is
independent of the others.

Fair warning: This narrative contains explicit and graphic depictions of
gay sex.

			Chapter 1. Roman Arabia, 108 AD

"Waqqub, get your head out of the clouds, you lazy wine boy. Can't you see
that my cup is empty. Pour me more of the house red."

The object of the man's anger was a slightly built boy of sixteen, his
olive complexion contrasting nicely with the white linen kilt of Egypt
wound low around his narrow hips. He kept his expression neutral as he
hurried over and refilled the man's cup, but allowed himself a flash of
annoyance when he turned his back on the man.

The rudeness was entirely unjustified. Only moments before the customer had
complained that this particular wine boy in my employ, little Waqqub, was
hovering over him, crowding him, obviously seeking custom. The man had
growled that he wasn't in the mood just then to take a rent boy to bed, and
Waqqub should go peddle his ass somewhere else.

I studied the tall lean dark-haired man in flowing robes, one of many
travelers stopping at my caravanserai in the Arabian desert. I judged him
to be a hard man by the nasty looking scar on his left cheek, presumably
from a sword or knife. One of my guards, nodded to me to show that he too
had noted the exchange and would keep an eye on the unpleasant fellow.

Good. I did not want trouble, but I am always protective of the people who
work for me, especially inoffensive lads like this wine boy, little Waqqub
of the kohl-rimmed eyes. A gentle soul like him could never handle a brute
like this surly customer, if ever the man started to get rough. Pretty wine
boys like Waqqub were made for service and for carnal pleasure, not for
fighting. Like all of his sort, Waqqub was a boy not yet grown to manhood,
his androgynous if wiry physique and fine-boned features evidence that,
even when he eventually did mature, he was likely to fall far short of
normal male standards in height, muscular development, and secondary sexual
characteristics like beard and body hair.

That could describe me as easily except that my wine boys were dark-haired
and doe-eyed Mediterranean youths while I am of German extraction as
evidenced by my blond thatch and green eyes. Yes, like them I was short and
slender, but that slight stature went with the taut musculature of an
athlete and acrobat. I exercise regularly to maintain my strength, stamina,
and flexibility. So did my wine boys, dancers all, but unlike my
inoffensive wine boys, I could take care of myself. At this point in my
long life, after more than two centuries of training and practice in the
martial arts and much combat experience, I had honed my fighting skills to
a level that few could match even back then, and virtually no one could
today, save another immortal like myself. Not that we ever fight one
another.

We immortals have no special powers other than those directly related to
our strange vitality. Foremost is our longevity. We simply do not grow or
age beyond young manhood. I was born in the late second century BC in what
is now Southern Germany. For reasons I have never understood, I stopped
growing and aging before reaching eighteen. At the time of this tale, two
hundred years later, during the reign of the Roman emperor Trajan, I still
looked like that youthful barbarian, a short, slender lad in his late teens
and prettier than any boy rightly ought to be, the sort they used to call a
comely stripling but nowadays a cute twink. No, there had been no encounter
with a sorcerer nor a pact signed in blood with eldritch powers. It just
happened that way for reasons unknown; something genetic, a benign mutation
undoubtedly.

Our strange vitality also lends us stamina well beyond the ordinary, and we
recover quickly from privation. We are blessed with extraordinarily
resilient immune systems which shield us from disease. Scars heal quickly
and completely though I doubt I would regrow a limb lopped off in
battle. Like anyone we can call upon what the modern world names hysterical
strength but with a difference. A burst of hysterical strength can result
in torn muscles and damaged joints to mortals, but only soreness to us, and
we are ready again after a much shorter recovery period. And if that were
not enough, we are all blessed with good looks far beyond the norm, an
outward reflection of our genetic fitness.

Yet our biggest advantage over mortals is simply the breadth and depth of
our life experience. We take the long view and plan ahead. We become shrewd
judges of character and can scope out situations at a glance. We invest for
the long term. We also practice and perfect skills. That includes fighting
skills and escape and evasion, of course, but also mundane things like
cooking, singing and dancing, sleight of hand, lock picking, and document
forgery. We learn many languages. After the first dozen, it becomes quite
easy to pick up the next one. Alas no one today speaks New Testament Greek,
Classical or Vulgar Latin, Sanskrit or Aramaic though they were the
international languages of their day.

Within an hour, the surly customer's mood had changed. Now the man was
horny. He leered at me in my short white kilt, slung low around my narrow
hips. As I went by, he yanked the garment down to my ankles to get a view
of my charms. I stepped out of the jumble of cloth pooled at my feet and
moved out of reach, maintaining what dignity I could in the circumstances,
stark naked as I was suddenly rendered. The man could see that I had no
body hair anywhere, even at the fork of my legs. "There, that's better. Now
that all of you is bared to view, I can see there's nary a feather on you
anywhere. Good. That's just the way I like my boys, nice and smooth." the
drunken patron slurred effusively. "What a pretty little thing you
are. Tell me Blondie, you are what, fifteen?"

I wasn't really surprised that he guessed me to be that young. With my
fawn-like build, hairless body, and delicate, almost elfin features, I
could pass for fifteen. But I had a position here to maintain, and I could
not do that as a boy of such tender years. "No I am actually nineteen. I
just look young for my age. And I will thank you to keep your hands to
yourself till you pay over your silver to rent me or any of the other
boys. This isn't some low class boy brothel, you know, where you just grab
a likely lad. True, we do make our boys available, but as a sideline for
the convenience of customers at our upscale caravanserai. And though the
other boys cannot pick and choose, I can and do. I don't have to serve just
anyone who comes through the doors of my caravanserai."

"Your caravanerai?"

"Indeed. Don't think that I am some hapless wine boy you can paw over and
order around. I am the proprietor of this entire establishment. I own
everything here: the wells and cisterns, the hostelry and tavern, the
stables, the forge, the outlying gardens and orchards, everything here
except the wine boys themselves who work for wages."

I should explain that down through the ages, I have never owned slaves. All
my employees were free men and boys. Yes that lowered my profits but left
me with a clear conscience. No one should ever own another human being. And
I speak as one who has himself been enslaved many times in the past.  The
befuddled customer turned surly at what seemed effrontery from a naked bum
boy and tried to backhand me across the face. I let his arm slip past and
seized and twisted his wrist, forcing him off his bench and onto the
floor. He reached for a knife with his free hand, but I brought a knee
sharply to his face sending him onto his back whereon I stomped on his
groin though not terribly hard. I just wanted to take the wind out of his
sails, not unman him.

Basham and another guard grabbed him and hustled him off to a store room
just off the training ground out back, one equipped with a stout door that
could be barred from the outside. I would let the man dry out and cool off
overnight. If I just had him tossed outside, he would likely charge back in
sword in hand, and I would have to kill him in self-defense. I did not want
to see him dead. Yes he had behaved boorishly, but, for all I knew, he
wasn't really a bad sort when not in his cups. Some men get belligerent
under the influence. I am one of the lucky ones. I just get sleepy.

Little Waqqub mouthed his thanks from across the room. I winked at him. The
fact is that I liked the little scamp quite a lot even when he got into
mischief out of high spirits, and this time at least he was totally
innocent. He was a cute kid, and he knew it too. He may have been a bit
vain about his exquisite looks, but he was never unkind to the other staff,
and he had a great sense of humor. He had the slim body of a dancer and was
good in bed too. Not that we were serious lovers. We just had sex for the
fun of it. Waqqub actually preferred coupling with those of his own
gender. Two of my wine boys were what moderns call "gay for pay".

My caravanserai was newly constructed on the outskirts of the city of Hegra
(today called Mada'in Saleh) at the foot of the Hejaz Mountains on the
Arabian Peninsula. Hegra lies in what today is Saudi Arabia across the
coastal mountains from the Red Sea port of Leuce Kome. It was the next
largest city and secondary capital of the Kingdom of the Nabateans, whose
main capital was the fabled city of Petra, which lay some three hundred
miles to the northwest in modern Jordan. It main architectural distinction
comes from some hundred monumental tombs, with elaborately ornamented
faŤades, cut into the living rock, much as in Petra.

It had recently come under Roman administration with the peaceable
annexation of Nabatea by the soldier emperor Trajan who was preparing for
yet another Roman war against the Persian Empire, Rome's perennial eastern
rival. Both the city and the port across the mountains were garrisoned by
detachments of Roman legionnaires, the port to protect if from pirates and
the city against raiders preying on the caravan trade.

Only recently have archeologists confirmed what I long knew but could
hardly have revealed publicly. In those pre-Islamic times, Roman territory
extended much farther into Arabia that modern scholars knew. With Egypt to
the West and its new province of Arabia Petraea, Rome directly controlled
the lands on both sides of the Red Sea for some three hundred miles.

Sensing a business opportunity at the new southern frontier of Rome, I had
spent a good part of my fortune to build a fine new caravanserai in
Hegra. The operation would be a welcome change of pace from my usual
occupation as a merchant. And I was gratified to be proved correct in my
judgment. In short order Hegra was a boom town, and I made good profits
serving traders bearing luxury goods to Rome along the Incense Route.

The Incense Route was the main channel for the trading of goods such as
frankincense and myrrh which originated in Arabia itself, in the Hadramaut
and Oman. In those early days, caravans could even take a short cut
directly across the Empty Quarter, though the region later became too
desiccated to traverse safely. The trade then proceeded north along roads
inland from the coastal mountains to fabled Petra.

By contrast, spices from the East Indies and rare woods, feathers, animal
skins and gold from East Africa went the maritime route across the Arabian
Sea with the monsoons, through the Gulf and Aden and up the Red Sea. Now it
was easy to ride the monsoon between India and Yemen and Axum at the
southern end of the Red Sea, but the maritime route north from there was
treacherous. The southern entrance of the sea was called the Gate of Tears
for the many ships lost threading their way through the narrow sea
channels. I knew those waters only too well, having lost my ship Astarte a
century earlier. Once past that gauntlet, you had to navigate a narrow sea
for over a thousand miles all the while sailing just off a lee shore
without a single natural harbor along its entire length. And coral reefs
were everywhere; they could tear the bottom right out of your ship.

The next morning, still naked from bed, I lead the guards through a set of
exercises and drills to maintain their fitness and proficiency. Tomorrow I
would be drilling the bouncers. The guards protect against thieves and
raiders. My bouncers's task is different. I want them to learn talk a
belligerent drunk down or to intimidate them or, if necessary, to put him
out of commission without inflicting any permanent harm. I even had the
bouncers role-playing at handling drunks. It worked too. Many is the time
some customer we had had to hustle outside came back the next morning to
apologize for getting out of hand in the first place and to thank the staff
for going easier on him than he might have expected. Word like that gets
around and builds repeat business. A win win situation.

In the beginning there had been some grumbling among the men about these
twice weekly training sessions. Most were convinced they had nothing to
learn from a beardless boy so much inferior in height and weight and
strength not to mention masculinity in general. My skill with sword and
knife and my eclectic system of unarmed combat soon brought them around. My
tutelage sharpened their skills to a level I considered satisfactory.

In arms practice, the men squared off against one another, facing a
different opponent each time. We used blunted blades that might not cut
flesh but that could leave bruises if an opponent got through your
guard. At least they had leather armor, while I was entirely
unprotected. The men did their best trying to score a touch on me, but I
was too fast. My blade techniques necessarily capitalized on my speed and
balance and agility. I would otherwise have no way to counter attacks from
men twice my size and with a longer reach.

From the room where he was confined, my surly customer from the evening
before had a good view of the proceedings. That gave him a chance to see
for himself how well my men were trained and how very good I was with a
blade. It helped him decide to be peaceable once he was released and had
his weapons returned to him. He hurried off with a nod indicating that he
was satisfied as things stood. No hard feelings.

The vigorous training soon left my slender nude body glistening with
sweat. At one point my sword almost slipped out of my grip. I stepped back
and ran my hand through my hair, but that created an opening for my
opponent to lay his blade to my hip. It left a narrow bruise, but I have
had much worse. Served me right for losing my concentration.

I concluded the session and had a quick wash from a bucket then wrapped a
kilt around my hips. Time to turn to breakfast and to business. You cannot
believe how much work there is involved in running a caravanserai: food
service, care of animals, gardens, supervising additions, repairs and
alterations to the structures, hiring help, money changing and finances,
etc. Yet I actually enjoyed the challenge of managing a business. For most
of my long existence I have worked as a businessman of some sort. I have
traded by camel caravan or sailing ship, lent money as a factor or banker
but never as a loan shark. I pride myself that I have always earned a
profit honestly.

				Chapter 2. Tariq

The next evening, we welcomed the arrival of a caravan laden with
frankincense and myrrh. Both substances are aromatic gum resins harvested
from trees and are worth much more than their weight in gold. I arranged
lodgings for the three principal merchants and their retainers. The lead
merchant, a man named Ibrahim, then introduced me to their captain of
guards, a handsome dark haired man in his early twenties named Tariq. The
man was dressed in a military style tunic which left most of his well
formed arms and legs bare. A belt and baldric carried the weight of a Roman
style cavalry sword (called a spatha) and dagger

"As you can see, Iskander, aptain Tariq here is as clean shaven any Roman,
and I dare say that he fights as well as one too. I have personally
witnessed him thwarting gangs of bandits again and again these last three
years. Some he captured, others he slew and the lucky ones rode off
empty-handed back into the hills. He had made quite a reputation for
himself. Now before you go off to secure our goods in your strong room, I
need to clarify something. Am I to understand that your caravanserai does
not make girls available to your guests?"

"Yes that is quite true, sir, but travelers staying here may visit Lady
Aisha's House of Joy just across the street. You see, Lady Aisha's brothel
was in operation here long before I arrived. Rather than compete directly,
we agreed that I should offer only boys for those who prefer to consort
with young males."

"Then I look forward to visiting there this evening. No offense, young
Iskander, but I have never quite understood all this Greek inspired fuss
over pretty boys. Still, many good men are of that persuasion including
Captain Tariq here. I trust you can accommodate him."

"I shall see to it personally," I promised with a wink to the young
soldier.

Indeed the handsome young captain had already struck me as someone I
definitely wanted to consort with. And if that saucy grin on his face was
anything to go by, he, in turn, was pleased with the prospect of taking me
to bed.

First I had to get all of them settled in. I showed them their rooms and
lead the good captain to the strong room where they might store their
valuable merchandize during their stay. We arranged for Tariq's men to
supplement my own guards around the strong room then went into the common
room to partake of food and drink. The company planned on tarrying in Hegra
for three days after a hard crossing of the desert that had seen them
lashed by a sandstorm. Their animals badly needed a rest.

As host at dinner that evening I seated Tariq right next to me, leaning
against the same long pillow. He turned out to be a marvelous
conversationalist. I asked him about his background and journeys, and that
set him off. He launched into a series of wittily told vignettes of his
many adventures and misadventures, not being too proud to tell a tale or
two at his own expense including one where he wound up sitting backwards on
a horse not his own (don't ask.)

Having guarded caravans along the Incense Route to Petra for the last few
years, Tariq asked me why I had built my caravanserai in Hegra of all
places. I could hardly explain that I often need to relocate, to pull up
stakes and settle somewhere I was not known. Otherwise someone might
realize that I did not age as other men do. Of course I also had sound
commercial reasons for settling in this remote town. So it was those I
mentioned.

I told Tariq that I had picked this location for business reasons. Hegra
was situated on the empire's southernmost frontier in Arabia, indeed in all
of Asia. Once import duties were paid at the border, no further tariffs
could be levied on the merchandise. Now Rome had always wanted to control
these lucrative trade routes. In the north, Rome had succeeded, first
turning the kingdom of the Nabateans into an ally, then into a client (a
protectorate in modern terms), and finally into an imperial province.

At one time Roman ambitions had extended far to the south, toward the lands
that actually produce frankincense and myrrh. Back in the time of Augustus
the Romans had sent an army of 10,000 to conquer Yemen, which they called
Arabia Felix. The expedition was a complete failure thanks to disease,
thirst, hostile tribes, and treachery. In a fit of pique the Romans had
burned Aden to the ground and withdrawn their surviving forces to Egypt.

Tariq inclined his head toward me.

"I am impressed, young Iskander. You know your Strabo."

The Greek historian and geographer Strabo had written an account of the
disastrous Roman expedition to Arabia Felix based on what he was told by
his friend Aelius Gallus, its commander.

I found myself warming up to the young captain and not just because of a
strong physical attraction. He was articulate, intelligent, well-read, and
had a sense of humor, all of the qualities I like in a friend. Not that I
was unaware how masculine and sexy the man was. Far from it. I very much
wanted to jump his bones. Even with two centuries of life experience, I
still had the body and the sex drive of a teenager.

Tariq and I were soon on familiar terms. The man guessed I would welcome
his advances and boldly took advantage of our physical closeness. As he
related one of his stories, he might throw his arm companionably across my
bare shoulders or squeeze my biceps or even ruffle my hair
good-naturedly. He also liked to stroke my back and ribs. I must admit that
I rather liked the feel of his strong hands on my body, touching me,
petting me really though I did gulp when he, quite negligently of course,
laid his hand on my upper thigh.

"Forgive me young Iskander if I cannot keep my hands to myself this
evening. You are so eminently touchable. With your flank and thigh pressed
to mine, I can feel your body heat and the firmness of your musculature,
and surely that is the scent of jasmine my nostrils detect on your flawless
skin. Of all the attractions of your establishment, Iskander, you yourself
are the most delightful. Even Ibrahim here can see that, and he consorts
exclusively with women, more is the pity."

The chief merchant chuckled, nodding.

"I must agree with the good captain on that score, young Iskander and no
disrespect to your position as proprietor. You really are the most
beautiful pleasure boy I have ever laid eyes on -- prettier in fact than
any girl that I can call to mind as well. The gods have blessed you with a
slender yet muscular physique. And there is an ethereal quality to your
fine-boned features. It is all there: the slight points on your ears, the
narrow chin and chiseled jaw line, the broad forehead and eyes green as the
sea set wide apart under finely arched brows and a crown of hair the color
of the sun. I shouldn't wonder if Apollo or possibly Helios were one of
your ancestors."

I snorted at that. A pretty notion indeed - divine ancestry - though the
thought struck me that the idea might be of use in the future to deflect
inquiries about my perpetual youth. Should suspicions arise, I could bruit
it about to stall the curious then move on as soon as I could.

I will admit that I very much enjoyed being the center of attention. Does
that mark me as vain? Surely a touch of vanity is harmless enough if you
don't let it go to your head. In my defense I would say that, ascription of
divine ancestry aside, these men spoke only the truth about my physical
beauty; they just expressed themselves rather immoderately.

With the flattery and petting it was all I could do not to tent out my kilt
right in front of everyone. I clapped my hands to signal that it was time
for the evening's entertainment. I had previously asked Waqqub to perform
one of his lascivious numbers, but the mischievous lad shook his head and
challenged me to dance in his stead.

"Actually sir, you should pardon my forwardness, but I am quite sure that
Captain Tariq is impatient to see you entirely unclothed. Why don't you
stop teasing the poor man? Go ahead, throw off that flimsy kilt, and step
out here and dance for all of us."

The entire room erupted into laughter and ribald suggestions. Well, my
public had called; what was I to do? As I got to my feet, Tariq pulled the
tunic from my hips, rendering me naked. He gave me a wink and a friendly
slap to the rump, then shooed me over to the open area where I would dance.

I asked the musicians for a tune that started out slow but soon picked up
the tempo to match the pace of my dance, which was an acrobatic display not
unlike modern break dancing. I whirled and spun and leapt and tumbled and
even did handsprings and cartwheels or spun with my weight on my shoulders,
whirling my legs and pelvis and rump. The moves were calculatedly erotic
and arousing, especially since I was doing it all naked.

At the finale, I stood right in front of Tariq, my arms and legs
outstretched as if offering myself to him, breathing hard and looking all
tousled and sweaty, much as if I had just had vigorous sex.

"Is that an invitation, lovely Iskander?" he asked with a twinkle in his
eye? "For I should very much like us to get better acquainted, if you take
my meaning."

"I do indeed, good captain." I replied. "Come with me."

Taking him by the arm, I led him to my chambers. Tariq shucked his tunic,
and we wasted no time in getting it on. He pushed me against the wall,
pressing his sweaty body to mine. His body scent was intoxicating, a heady
mixture of male musk, sweat, the sands of the desert, and more than a hint
of horse. I was overwhelmed by his size and strength and masculinity. The
man stood a head taller than my own five foot five (165 cm) and massed at
least 5 stone (30 kg) more than my own 120 pounds (55 kg).

His virile member was frightening in its length and girth and rigidity. I
felt intimidated as it pressed against my belly. Gods, was I really going
to have to take that monster up my tiny hole? I trembled both from lust and
fear, but I knew I could never refuse my body to this man who excited me
so. He leaned toward me and spoke huskily:

"Yes, Iskander, you do well to tremble now that you realize the full
measure of my manhood. You are but a slip of a lad, a pretty little thing
with a beautiful face and a lithe body that cannot but excite any male who
appreciates a comely boy. With no body hair to mar your lines, your skin
feels smooth as silk, just begging to be stroked and squeezed. I can feel
firm muscles too. Yes, this tight body of yours will give me much pleasure,
though I promise you that you will enjoy it as least as much as I will. We
both know you are a natural boy toy. Submissive lads like you were born for
this role in life. Get ready for the best fuck of your young life."

The frank sex talk had me primed to go. My knees went weak and heat flooded
my belly, my nether hole twitching in anticipation. We kissed passionately
tongues dueling, hands roaming everywhere. I thought he might prefer me to
kneel down to take him orally, but he had other ideas. Straightening me up
even as I started to sink to my knees he reached out to dip a couple of
fingers into the unlit oil lamp beside my bed, then inserted his finger
tips into my boy hole, lubricating it with the olive oil, preparing me for
the fuck. He grabbed my thighs and hiked me up onto his hips. I wrapped my
legs around him and wriggled my ass, trying to align my hole with his pole.

After an awkward moment, I felt the enormous head poke at my nether
whorl. I whimpered at the thought that he might thrust it into me all at
once, impaling me utterly. But Tariq was a considerate lover, taking most
of my weight on his hips and arms, letting me bear down on his cock just
enough for the head to penetrate my sphincters.

"We shall take it slow, little one, lest you injure yourself. It is no good
if both of us don't enjoy it."

I knew then that I was in good hands. I nodded my face flushed, my body on
fire, too choked with emotion to speak. With my back was braced against the
wall made of sun-dried bricks, we stood there, locked together by his
flesh. As my body adjusted to the penetration, I smiled at the picture I
must present, my slender body clutched tightly to his massive frame, his
manhood linking us. I trembled, dizzy with passion, and urged him to thrust
deeper, to penetrate me all the way. Actually, riding his hips the way I
was, I did most of the work, lifting myself up then letting myself slide
back down.

We reached climax at the same time. I could feel his wet warmth spurting
within me. My own discharge coated our bellies. Suddenly weak with
post-coital lassitude, we sank onto the bed, still joined. After a while,
with our second wind, we went at it again. I found Tariq to be a vigorous
and skillful lover. And as he told me, this was the best boy sex he had
ever had. Ahem!

After all, by this point in my life I had worked in several different boy
brothels, including a couple that I owned. Early in my life I had spent a
few fairly pleasant years as a sacred prostitute in the temple of Daphne in
Antioch. Even though I was then a slave, I still have fond memories of my
time as a Daphne Boy. The priests were shrewd in keeping us Daphne Boys
reasonably contented with our lot. Like most slaves in ancient times, we
were not kept in restraints nor incarcerated. Instead, on our two days off
per month, we were free to circulate about the city. The priests let us
keep tips from our customers so we even had a bit of coin to spend on
treats. The presence on the streets of a nude pretty boy tattooed at
shoulder and hip with a small blue Delta, served as an ambulatory
advertisement for the carnal delights available at the temple.

The next morning the soft purr of my calico cat woke me up. She had climbed
onto the bed and laid down between my head and Tariq's. I found him lazily
stroking the animal, a half smile on his face.

"I think she likes me." He said.

"I'll give you a bit of cheese to feed her. Then she'll be your friend for
life."

"You are much too young to be so cynical, Iskander." he remonstrated.

"Ha! Living with cats makes you that way."

Actually I love the little beasts, mercenaries though they might be. It is
a fair bargain, after all, between our species. Cats provide companionship,
beauty, amusement, and affection. In return we provide them with
sustenance, a warm place to sleep, and our companionship too as honorary
members of the cat tribe. When I fed her, I played the role of mama cat,
stroking her while she fed, much like her mother licked her when she
nursed. From time to time she would look up at me for reassurance then turn
back to nibbling her food. Indeed I could not simply put the food into her
bowl and walk off. No, she would chase after me, mewing in protest till I
rejoined her and stroked her once again as she ate, purring all the time.

			Chapter 3. Friends

From that day forward, Tariq stopped at my caravanserai every chance he
could, at least every other month and usually more often. As the captain of
his company of mercenaries, he could arrange contracts that regularly took
him via the inland route through Hegra. Neither of us was exclusive with
the other, but we were definitely each other's preferred partner. I always
cleared my schedule when Tariq was in town.

Ibrahim was another frequent visitor. In his business dealings he was a
shrewd bargainer. In private affairs I found him to be an affable and
intelligent man and a great conversationalist. He could draw on a a
seemingly endless store of anecdotes and adventures, some of which he
modestly admitted were not all his own. It did not matter that some of his
tales were obviously embellished. As long as no one was really deceived,
Ibrahim never let the facts get in the way of a good story. In time we
became good friends. He treated me like a favored nephew and I treated him
like an uncle.

My caravanserai was an island of security on that far frontier, a welcome
stopover for the trade caravans. The rooms were bright and airy and mostly
free from the larger sorts of vermin thanks to a flourishing colony of
domestic cats. My joy boys offered pleasant companionship at quite
reasonable rates. My guards unobtrusively ensured the safety of persons and
goods. I had even trained them to fight fires. For this purpose, buckets of
sand were stationed in every corridor and corner. The kitchens and bakery,
and forge were all in separate buildings, so the main threat of fire came
from an overturned oil lamp.

All in all, I had over fifty people working for me. I paid them fair wages
and provided meals and clean and comfortable accommodation on site, so I
had no trouble attracting and keeping good help. Hence my business
prospered apace. I must admit that I really had my hands full running the
place. A caravanserai is really a number of businesses rolled into one. We
offered stables for horses and camels and donkeys, two classes of
accommodations for travelers, food and drink, pleasure boys, and subsidiary
services like the smithy and a post office.

(Augustus set up the first real postal service in history. At first it was
reserved for government correspondence; the imperial government later added
a second service for ordinary citizens.

What can I say? Life was good, and I was happy, even in as remote a
domicile as Hegra.

Yes, I usually prefer a big city like Alexandria, Antioch, or Rome, but
small cities like Emessa and Hegra have their attractions
too. Unfortunately, the region had not been Hellenized before Trajan
annexed the Nabatean kingdom, so they town did not boast either a Greek
style gymnasium or a Roman style baths and palestra. Oh I had my own
bathing facilities, but the attraction of the ancient baths was that they
were communal, a place to socialize and recreate (and yes, sometimes a
place of assignation).

One drawback of the site was that the water supply was sharply limited with
the water table lying some 20 meters below ground level. I solved my own
problem with a well dug slantwise into the slope of the plateau and rigged
a pair of Archimedes screws of my own construction to lift the water to the
surface. Donkeys provided the motive power. I wish I could have used a
windmill, but they had not yet been invented.

A year after we met, I played host and nurse to Tariq for two months after
he was injured in a battle with bandits. It was pretty a serious wound. An
arrow lodged in his ribs and almost penetrated the pleural cavity. Luckily,
the wound bleed freely, flushing debris away. One of Tariq's men had the
presence of mind to heat a blade in a fire and lay it on the open
wound. That killed germs and stopped the loss of blood as well. Tariq's
strong constitution did the rest.

It helped that I kept my stricken friend out of the clutches of the doctors
of the day. Alas, physicians back then were slaves to the mystical doctrine
of the four humors (or bodily fluids), a theory that started with
Hippocrates and lasted into the nineteenth century. I was no healer, but I
have never believed anyone could have too much blood in his veins. Not
after seeing so many poor devils die from bleeding out. So I gave Tariq
airy quarters, clean bandages, good food, and supportive care. It was
enough to pull him through.

Once Tariq was stronger, we had sex every day, usually with me straddling
his hips and riding his manhood, like a rider posts on a trotting
horse. That position also let me set the pace. We liked to make love facing
each other, kissing and gazing at each other's faces. That also let him toy
with my nipples: pinching, twisting, tweaking, and rolling them between
thumb and finger. I loved it when he ran the tips of his fingers down my
corrugated chest and belly. His light touch set a fire going in my
belly. His big hand played with my cock, the thumb sliding repeatedly over
the sweet spot. My breath quickened as I got more and more aroused. As I
reached climax, I faltered in my posting, dizzy with lust. As I started to
shoot, he went over the edge too when my ass muscles clenched around his
cock. I felt his seed spurt up into me even as mine splashed onto his
chest. Spent from my long ride, I laid myself onto his manly chest. Our
bodies felt so good pressed together like that.

One fine day some months later, being somewhat at loose ends with Tariq
nowhere about, I bethought myself of the saddle horse I had rather
neglected in recent weeks. I owned many horses, but my personal mount was a
young gelding with a black coat. Now horses need to be exercised
regularly. They can get surly if cooped up in the stable or the corral for
too long. So, on that morning I took the gelding for a good run along an
arc north of town.

I rode my mount bareback without benefit of saddle or bridle or hackamore
and in the nude, like any stable boy would exercising a mount. Horses love
to run unconstrained by the usual equestrian apparatus, so they carry you
willingly, grateful for the freedom to canter and trot and gallop hither
and yon.

It is a great feeling. There is just you and the great beast, and the only
thing that keeps you astride it is a good seat and your bare legs clamped
around the barrel of his belly plus your hands on his neck or in his mane
for balance. With my slight weight hitched forward onto his withers, my
mount would carry me effortlessly for mile after mile, the wind whipping
his mane and my hair. Joined as we were bare skin to dark hide, our bodies
moving as one, our sweat mingling, I felt like a centaur of myth.

Near the end of the run, I walked the horse up a narrow box canyon at the
base of the plateau, threading a defile opened up by some long ago
earthquake. It was deep enough to reach the water table creating a clear
flowing spring. The discharge flowed to the northwest for a mile or so
before disappearing entirely into a crevice in the rocks, to become an
underwater river. No one lived there. The narrow defile offered no site to
build on. Still there were a couple of shallow pools along the way where I
could bathe the horse and go for a dip myself though a real swim was out of
the question.

Finished with my ablutions in the pool, I clambered out and lay on the
sloping rock to rest before heading back to the stable. The clatter of
hooves on rock announced the arrival of a patrol some dozen strong. They
were commanded by a decurion, a man of only middle height but powerfully
built. He had close cropped red hair and piercing blue eyes. I would have
to say that his features were striking rather than actually handsome. He
looked me up and down, a grin softening his strong features, as he spoke in
the Common Greek that was the language of the eastern half of the empire:

"Well, well, well. Is this a djinn I see before me, one in the guise of a
beguiling and bewitchingly beautiful boy? Will you grant me the traditional
three wishes then, young djinn?"

"Forgive me, sir, but it is not within my power to grant wishes. I am just,
er, a stable boy who rode out this way to exercise a horse."

"Alas, Sixtus," the decurion said with mock regret to the man riding next
to him. "This vision of youthful male pulchritude is merely a human boy
after all, albeit an exceedingly comely one."

"Maybe so, Lucius, but I doubt any boy this pretty would be set to mucking
out stables or exercising horses. Looking at him, I peg him for a rich
man's catamite on the run from his master or maybe a slave escaped from a
boy brothel."

I get that reaction a lot. One glance at my slight build and impossibly
pretty features and macho males mark me down as the worst sort of a bum
boy. Not just someone who submits from force of circumstance, but a natural
submissive who prefers the role of catamite or boy toy. These days I
overhear men call me a kept boy or male prostitute or rent boy. I can
hardly deny that I look like one. If that makes me seem less than manly,
then so be it. I like my look just fine and am not interested in "manning
up".

To his credit, the decurion gave me the benefit of the doubt.

"Oh, I must disagree Sixtus. In this harsh country, a fugitive would hardly
run off stark naked and without supplies or weapons -- not even a water
bag. Still that big gelding is a lot of horse for one small stable boy
especially without bridle or halter or saddle."

"I suppose I should thank you for the benefit of the doubt Decurion." I
remarked. "I am no fugitive. As you surmised, this gelding belongs to a
caravanserai in Hegra. He was getting cranky, so I took him for a long run
today. Oh, and my name is Alexandros though the locals usually call me
Iskander."

The decurion introduced himself as Lucius Manilius of the Sixth Cohort of
the Second Legio Traiana, the second of two new legions raised by the
current emperor. The detachment had just recently rotated to the fort on
the edge of town and were riding patrol to familiarize themselves with the
surrounding country.

The decurion dismounted and walked up to me and put a hand companionably to
my shoulder.

"You mustn't mind Sixtus there, young Alexandros. What he said just now was
an expression of wishful thinking. Your pretty face and naked body have
aroused his lust. Mine as well, for that matter. No offense, but with a
face and body like that you are utterly wasted as a stable lad. Your master
must be a fool not to rent you out as a pleasure boy."

"Sir, I will have you know that I have no master. I am not a slave but a
free person. Though you are not far wrong about the rest of it. I do work
at the caravanserai as a joy boy."

"A joy boy is he?" Sixtus and most of the other men chortled, looking at me
hungrily. "The lad is fair game after all. Let us have at him!"

Lucius look at me somewhat apologetically.

"Sorry, youngling. You candor does you credit, but now Sixtus and my eager
men will have their way with you, after all. You strike me as a decent
enough lad, Alex, but I am afraid I must let my men take their pleasure of
you. The fact is that we have no reason to exercise restraint in your
case. You are not a slave, so we won't be violating another man's property
rights. Even more important, as a public boy anyway, your virtue is not at
stake. Indeed you could almost say that the privilege of fucking public
boys who come our way is one of the unofficial perquisites of imperial
soldiers.

"Besides, this situation is in no small part your own doing, wanton boy
that you are. Just look at yourself, running around stark naked. What are
aggressive males like us to think when we find a public boy like you at
loose ends, your entire body on display for our delectation. Here you are
so terribly cute and sexy with that impossibly pretty face and tight body
and a pert rump that twitches fetchingly as you move about. And yet you
pretend to shrink back from the natural use that men make of boys of your
sort. Well we know how to counter cock teaser tactics like that."

"Men, this wayward boy badly needs instruction in good manners. And you are
the men to give it to him. So take him as you will, but remember, go easy
on the boy. No rough stuff. Alexandros here is a little guy after all, so
we had better not all pile on at once. Instead we will take turns, just two
of us at a time."

"Two of you?" I squeaked.

"One at each orifice, of course. We cannot linger but must resume our
patrol soon enough."

My jaw dropped in dismay. It was not just that they intended to rape me. It
was the outrageous assertion that this was my largely own fault, a fate
that I had brought upon myself by my nudity and physical beauty. I wanted
to protest the unfairness of the charge, which amounted to nothing more
than a thin tissue of rationalization for what they really wanted with me.

Sure they had found me standing there entirely naked, but what stable boy
doesn't throw his clothes off before he takes a mount out for a wash? For
that matter, what cavalryman? Admittedly I am a bit of an
exhibitionist. I'll welcome any excuse to run around stark naked,
displaying my sexy body, but in classical times nudity in public was hardly
unusual.

I was certainly not deliberately teasing the soldiers. I mean, does a cock
tease sequester himself in a deserted site where he has every expectation
of solitude? As for being so cute and sexy, I was as nature had made
me. Nothing was the result of artifice or primping or posturing -- no
cosmetics, no jewelry, no suggestive clothing -- just good clean boy doing
an honest job of work.

The decurion continued his discourse in a calm and even tone.

"I am sure that a brothel boy like you realizes the futility of
resistance. What can one small naked youth do against a dozen professional
soldiers? If we have to, we will hold you down and mount you, but things
will be much more pleasant if you submit to your fate. Now since rank has
its privileges, I will go first. Here let me examine you, little one."

I stood there passively, arms hung loosely at my sides. It never crossed my
mind to resist. I simply had to submit to their lusts. In the ancient
world, ordinary people like me, those without wealth or influence or
connections, had few rights that men with power were bound to respect. To
these soldiers, I was one of the lowly and powerless -- just a small nude
boy who had fallen into their clutches, and not just any boy but a public
boy, as he had called me, one who sold himself for coin. No reason then why
they should not all mount me. It was that simple.

Even though most of the soldiers would have preferred a girl as a sexual
partner, the fact is that many Roman men were essentially bisexual, fucking
girl and boy alike, whichever came to hand. No one thought the less of a
man who pronged a likely lad. The soldier emperor Trajan himself was known
to bed a boy now and then as a change of pace. Regardless, among Romans,
only the active or dominant role was socially approved. Submissive males,
those who allowed themselves to be penetrated, were considered unmanly.

Certainly no one would ever accuse me of being manly. Slight and delicate
looking as I am and comelier than is seemly in a young male, I am no one's
ideal of masculinity. Still I take offense at being called effeminate. I am
very much a boy, thank you. Mine is the hard body of the male, not the soft
round voluptuous body of the female.

Regardless of these considerations, on that day I was destined to serve
these men in the passive or submissive sexual role. Now as a professional
prostitute, I was not body shy. So I spread my feet apart to give the man
better access and made no objection as the decurion ran his hands all over
my body, stroking and poking and prodding at me, touching me intimately. He
tested my muscles toned, bidding me to tense biceps and triceps and
buttocks. Then he weighed my genitals in the cup of his hand and delve his
fingers into my cleavage and squeeze my ass cheeks. Lucius murmured
appreciatively.

"Hmmn, such a slender boy, yet your musculature is hard and
well-defined. Yours is one of those tight builds that is more about quality
than quantity. Like an acrobat or a maybe a dancer."

I acknowledged that I was both. Then he turned his attention to my face,
cupping my chin in his strong right hand, rubbing my jaw line with his
thumb. He shoved his thumb into my mouth. That was my cue to suck on the
digit much as I would suck on a cock.

His foreplay had it effect on me. My pulse raced as blood rushed to stiffen
my cock. My ball sac pulled tight to the fork of my legs, my engorged cock
jutting straight out, the purpled glans like an arrowhead at the end of the
shaft. I heard approving murmurs from the soldiers. They knew a well
trained fuck toy when they saw one.

"Here now, little Alex, I want you to turn around, spread your legs, bend
over, and grab your ankles."

Now there was a set of orders with a familiar ring.

I sighed but did as I was commanded, presenting my ass for their
use. Lucius started off with a chuckle and a friendly slap to my rump then
reached between my legs and tugged on my ballsac, using his other hand to
stroke my turgid cock like a farmer milks the teat of a cow. I will admit
that my body responded to the treatment. After a bit, he stuck his thumbs
into my anal ring and pulled it wide open, letting his men get a look at my
secret delights. Sixtus summed up their thoughts:

"Ah, what an ass we have here: bronzed on the outside, but pink and moist
inside. I can't wait to plumb its depths."

"All in good time, Sixtus. First me then you, then the rest by seniority."

I heard Lucius spit onto my anal whorl then again onto his hand to coat his
cock. Not much lubrication, but it would have to do. He set the head to my
hole and punched in all the way with one thrust of his hips. I gasped at
the sudden total penetration and reached out for support, grabbing onto
Sixtus who now stood in from of me. He ruffled my hair and smiled down at
me.

"This is what you can look forward to," he said, pulling the skirt of his
tunic aside so I could see his turgid manhood.

The decurion meanwhile plugged away at my bum. It wasn't long before he
came, excited as he was. His gism acted as a lubricant for those who
followed him in the saddle, the first of whom was Sixtus. From him I
expected a brutal fuck, but I was wrong. He was surprisingly gentle for so
vigorous a lover. Meanwhile a third soldier stepped in front of me and
presented his cock for oral service, telling me:

"Lock them pouty lips around my man cock! That's it, boy, now rim me. Lick
that talented tongue of yours all around the head of my cock. That's the
taste of a real man. It won't be long now till my man juice fills that hot
mouth of yours, you little cock sucker."

I soon sank to all fours, with cocks in both my orifices. Some legionaries
came in my mouth, others held themselves back till they had a chance to
switch to my rear and spurt their seed up my ass. I couldn't help but
respond to the rough and ready sex. I grew heady with lust, my nostrils
filled with a heady combination of sweat and leather and horse and male
musk. With their cocks hitting my joy spot again and again, with the taste
of the cum in my mouth, my body burned with desire. I eventually came,
spurting my seed onto the ground.

The men fucked me without any finesse, pressed for time to finish up and
resume their interrupted patrol. I have to admit that, as gang bangs go,
this one was not bad at all. I was a little sore afterwards back there, and
my ass cheeks bore bruises and finger marks as evidence of the rough fuck,
but that was it. These soldiers were just looking for a good time. The bad
kind of rape happens when men are angry or when their blood lust is up such
as during the sack of a town.

"There, now that wasn't too bad, was it little Alex? the decurion asked,
apologetically. "I trust we didn't get too rough with you. You must know we
were not trying to hurt you, just have some fun."

I nodded my head. The man had a point. They had not hurt me.

"You got into it yourself, didn't you, Alex? I know you were hard for most
of it, nipples erect, panting away with arousal, trembling with lust. You
even spurted your seed on the ground toward the end. No hard feelings
then?"

The man was right. No, I had not volunteered to be raped, but the truth is
I do respond to dominant males who take charge of my small body willy nilly
and use it to gratify their lusts. I am at heart a bottom boy, and scenes
like that one turn me on unbearably.

"I hope that in the future we may call on you at the caravanserai, little
one."

"Of course you may, Decurion, but only one of you at a time, and there will
be no more complimentary mountings. The standard charge is two silvers for
the other boys or five for me."

"Five!" sputtered Sixtus.

"I am well worth it, as you have just now learned for yourself." I
retorted.

"He has you there Sixtus. This boy is easily worth five silvers. For my
part, I cannot wait to do this properly, at an easy pace, just the two of
us -- man and boy -- in a soft bed, after a pleasant meal and a goblet of
wine. It was so exciting grappling your sweaty little body, Alex, feeling
that taut musculature of yours as you squirmed and twisted under me. And
those well-trained ass muscles that clutched at my cock buried deep inside,
squeezing and rubbing the shaft, milking it of every drop of my male
juices. No shrinking virgin there."

As my new friends rode off, they called out:

"Till next time, Sweet Cheeks."

Roman soldiers loved nicknames, and now I had mine.

				Chapter 4. Simoom

The next six months passed pleasantly. Both Lucius and Sixtus became
regulars at my establishment. Sometimes they dropped by for a couple of
drinks or just to pass the time in the coolness afforded by the thick adobe
walls of my sturdy buildings. More often, Lucius or Sixtus sought
sex. Lucius always chose me when he was feeling frisky, but Sixtus usually
hired Waqqub. The bluff soldier had taken a fancy to the pretty olive
skinned dancer. Even when Sixtus was there just for drinks or a meal,
Waqqub always served as his personal wine boy. The way the two of them were
forever chatting it up and joking around, I sometimes had to remind the
little scamp that he did have other customers to attend to.

At first I charged Lucius a full five silvers, but that was just making a
point. Once we became real friends I waived all payment. I did insist that
Sixtus continue to pay Waqqub his full fee. He was a working boy after all
and not a wealthy proprietor like me.

It was my practice to set a third of each boy's earnings aside for when he
was older and could no longer work as a wine boy. The nest egg would enable
him to start a business of his own. Waqqub was not the mischievous airhead
he all too often came across as. The boy was fully aware that he would not
always be young and cute and sexy. So, in his off hours, the dancer learned
a second trade apprenticed to my master saddler. Waqqub could do wonderful
things with leather, but his small hands were especially well suited to
producing intricate decorative flourishes on harness and saddles. I had no
doubt that he would someday do just fine on his own.

Tariq and Lucius got along well enough, once they got past the initial
macho blustering and posturing. I laid the law down from the start, telling
the two of them in no uncertain terms that I simply would not be the prize
mare in a fight between two stallions. I wanted both men as my friends and
lovers, and that was that. I mean, we were all adults, so what was the
problem? Honestly, the men in your life can be such block heads at times.

Fortunately for the sake of domestic tranquility, Tariq's travels mostly
kept him and Lucius apart, but they did join forces on occasion and double
teamed me. I would find myself grappled and bent and twisted into position,
a hapless captive, a mere sex toy, penetrated and plugged at both ends,
impaled on two huge man cocks. With the way the kept pulling me into new
positions, hiking my legs over their shoulders or around their hips or
simply bending me over, ass over tea kettle, I could hardly keep track of
whose cock was where.

And then they got the notion of a new way of making love to me: a double
penetration, which isn't easy no matter how experienced you might be in the
amatory arts. Size really does matter. They were big men, big all over, and
I am small and narrow hipped. The crinkly whorl in my cleavage can stretch
only so far, after all. I trembled both with fear and lust, as I straddled
Lucius who was stretched out on his back and sank onto his cock. Then Tariq
addressed my nether hole, the head of his cock poking at my anal ring. It
felt impossibly huge. I shook my head and whimpered, but he would not be
denied. Carefully and as gently as possible he slid himself inside next to
the shaft already in place. I gasped and struggled to accept them both. As
the pain eased and turned into pleasure I thrust my hips back and forth,
riding both cocks till first one then the other spurted deep inside me,
triggering my own release. We sank onto the sheets in a tangle of limbs,
spent and satisfied.

One afternoon, the boy posted in the watchtower started banging the alarm
giving the signal for danger rather than notice of an arriving caravan. I
rushed outdoors and looked up as the lookout shouted a single word that
sent terror into everyone's heart.

"Simoom!"

The lad on lookout had spotted the approach of the desert storm called the
simoom, which literally means "poison wind." The danger is only partly from
suffocating clouds of dust and sand as in a normal sandstorm. The simoom
causes heat stroke in man and beast with a sudden rise in ambient
temperatures to above 50 degrees Celsius or 125 Farenheit combined with
humidity below 10 percent. This delivers more heat to the body than can be
carried off by the evaporation of perspiration. What happens is that the
protein molecules in the brain literally cook in the skull. The only way to
survive is to take shelter behind thick adobe walls and wait the fast
moving storm out.

I first made sure all our people and animals were into shelter. They were
my responsibility, after all. The I bethought myself of my friends in the
garrison. Hitching my kilt to keep it securely about my hips, I ran over to
the nearby encampment.

"Hi there, Sweet Cheeks," a pair of guards called as they waved me through
the gate. "Your friend Lucius is with the Centurion, one of them added,
pointing helpfully toward the HQ.

I burst in on the centurion and Lucius who were uncertain what to do. The
soldiers supposed that they could ride the storm out in their barracks, but
I knew their half built quarters were death traps. Also their stables were
mere sheds open along one whole side. That would doom all their mounts. I
explained that they must evacuate to the shelter of my thick adobe
walls. Fortunately the centurion was an experienced campaigner not too
proud to take guidance from a local who knew the country. Also Lucius spoke
up for me, reminding his superior that I was not some wild boy with an
overactive imagination but the proprietor of the biggest caravanserai in
town. We quickly got everyone into shelter and waited out the storm.

The stables and main rooms were crowded with men and animals both. It was
noisy and smelly, to say the least. One horse became totally unmanageable,
neighing and rearing and kicking, and had to be put down by the blacksmith
slamming a hammer to his forehead. We could not use a blade. The smell of
blood might start an indoor stampede. My staff provided water for the
animals and watered wine for the men as the wind howled outside. We could
hear thuds and crashes as objects hurled by the wind struck the
walls. Fortunately a simoom passes quickly. Within a hour, the silence
outside told us the storm was over.

Lucius, the centurion, and I went out of doors to inspect the damage. We
saw a transformed townscape. Debris was everywhere: broken window shutters,
furniture, bedding, etc. In some places sand had drifted high to block
doorways. Wooden hitching posts had been scoured white by the sand. The
sign and mural at my main gate had been obliterated. I had been very proud
of those palm trees painted on either side of the main gate, suggesting to
the weary traveler that that my establishment was an oasis in the
desert. The military encampment was an absolute shambles. It would take
many days to set everything in order. At least the men and the animals were
safe.

We did find the corpses of two townsmen and five horses that had not gotten
to shelter in time. Still, the death toll could easily have been much
higher.

It was a sobering moment. Once again I had witnessed the terrible
destructive power of nature and the chanciness of fate. The deaths of these
men by happenstance reminded me that I myself am not truly immortal, that I
too would die someday, whether from a storm, an earthquake, disease,
accident, war, or foul play. Someday something will finish me.

It seems a real shame too, especially in my case. I hope that does not
sound like special pleading.  I know all of us are self-centered that way,
but I really do have more to lose than mortals -- centuries of continuing
youth and health rather than the usual few decades of decline into old
age. I know my longevity is a matter of luck, not something I earned, but I
have tried to live my life so as to deserve it. I like to think that I have
turned out to be a decent man. I have ever strived to be honest,
hardworking and kind. I do not hold myself aloof from mayfly humanity but
value friendship and good companions. All in all, I trust that my centuries
of life experience have instilled in me at least a few faint glimmers of
wisdom.

I would hate for all of that to end suddenly, but I do not obsess over the
many ways that a man might die. That is no way to live, always dreading the
worst that could happen. So I take sensible precautions and then live life
to the fullest. What else can I do?

One thing I do know. Nobody lives forever. Not even an immortal.

			Epilogue

After another fifteen years, people were starting to remark on my
continuing youthfulness. I had to move on, leaving my friends and business
behind. It is bad enough that simple mortality would separate me from
friends and loved ones, but at least I would have a lifetime with
them. Alas I am forced to move every other decade to protect my secret.

The city of Hegra declined in later centuries as trade shifted to the
maritime route up the Red Sea. Eventually the site was all but
abandoned. Today the ancient city of Hegra is a tourist attraction
struggling for recognition. At the behest of the Saudi government, UNESCO
declared it a World Heritage Site. Unfortunately, the place has an evil
reputation, as cursed by Allah for conspiring to slay his Prophet back in
the VIIth century.

Only recently could I write of these things, choosing, from caution, to
cast them as fiction, a series of fanciful tales of an immortal youth
written under a pseudonym. My secret is safe for no one in these days of
modern science will believe it. Except for the genuine historical figures
all the names have been changed, though the events described really did
happen just as I have written.


			Author's Note

This is the eighteenth in a series of tales about "the ultimate twink", an
undying youth named Alexander who bears the sobriquet "the Daphne Boy". The
other stories in this series, written out of chronological order, are
'Antebellum', set in the American South just before the Civil War, 'Daphne
Boy', set in Roman Syria, 'El Dorado', about the conquistadors, 'The
Erythraean Sea', set in Arabia just before the rise of Islam, 'Stupor
Mundi', about the Sixth Crusade, 'Ferghana', a tale of the Silk Road in
Central Asia, 'Zulu' set mostly in Southern Africa during the Anglo-Zulu
War, 'Sol Invictus' set in the Roman Empire during the reign of the
dissolute androgynous and sexually insatiable gay emperor Elagabalus,
'Reniassance' set in Italy around 1500, 'Gupta' set during the Golden Age
in India in the Vth century AD, 'Palmyra' set during the crisis of the
IIIrd century that nearly destroyed the Roman Empire, 'Tobago', set in the
Caribbean and South America during the middle of the XVIIth century, 'The
Apostate' set during the age of the Roman Emperor Julian the Apostate in
the mid IVth century, 'Marlowe', set it Elizabethan London, 'Isfahan' set
in XIth century Persia, 'Delos', set in the Mediterranean during the Ist
century AD, and 'Ship's Boy' set in around the Red Sea in the Ist century
BC.

These stories can be read in almost any order. The first story has
extensive flashbacks detailing the character's origins. The second story
explains how he came by his appellation of the Daphne Boy, the term for a
comely youth enslaved as a prostitute at the temple of Daphne in ancient
Antioch in Syria.

This tale is as historically accurate in its setting as I could make it,
with only minor poetic license for the sake of the story. This tale, after
all, is fiction. It is not a historical monograph. Except for the off-stage
personage of the emperor Trajan, the characters are not intended to
resemble any actual person living or dead.

Readers who like these stories might want to try my other historical series
'Naked Prey'. Each tale features its own protagonist, all of them cute
twinks on the run bareass from some peril or other. For a change of pace,
there are my 'Jungle Boy' tales about gay twinks in Hollywood, posted in
the Gay/Authoritarian section of the archive.  For links to these and other
series of stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors on the Archive.

Comments and feedback welcome at georgegauthierdc@gmail.com.