Date: Tue, 09 Jun 1998 17:01:11 BST
From: Michael Gouda <stachys@eurobell.co.uk>
Subject: Trust Not the Gods
TRUST NOT THE GODS
==================
Michael Gouda
Homer (I)
---------
He had been able to see the mountain for three long trudging days, the holy
mountain, the mountain where dwelt the Oracle of Apollo, rearing up into the
clouds and getting slowly, so slowly nearer. But now he had arrived, tired,
hungry, thirsty, his tunic travel-stained, the gifts and ritual offerings to
the God carefully and safely carried. Now he was here. and ahead was the
cleft in the rock that led to the Sanctuary.
The opening was narrow and, even though he was slim and agile, young
Homer would have to turn and twist to squeeze his way through. But then no
one had told him that consulting the Oracle of Apollo at Delphi would be
easy. He paused before entering and the sun scrawled his silhouette on the
canvas of white rock, a shadow of long legs, trim figure. What it could not
do was paint the colours of his rich chestnut curls, brown eyes with their
quizzical, intelligent sparkle and the youthful bloom of his skin.
A trickle of clear water escaped from a fissure and splashed down to
form a little pool where tasselled ferns sprouted. Homer scooped some water
up in his cupped hands and drank thirstily. Then, removing his chiton, his
only garment, he rinsed the dust and grime from his body. In his mind he
rehearsed the request he would make of the God. Ever since he could remember
he had wanted to tell stories - had told stories, to his mother, his
brothers and sisters, to anyone who would listen. Now he wanted the God's
blessing and confirmation that his talent would be sufficient, no - more
than sufficient - of a quality which would live down the ages. For a moment
he was almost abashed at his own brazen impudence. How dare he, a shepherd's
son, ask for such a request? He shook the doubts from his mind. His
intention would not be diverted.
He dressed and entered the crevice between smooth round boulders which
guarded the entrance. It narrowed even more and then the rock met overhead
so that it became a cave, dark and damp-smelling, lichen-stained. He paused
while his eyes took the time to become accustomed to the darkness. Several
broken pots littered the entrance and Homer ritually smashed the prized one
he had brought with him, his grand-father's own vase. decorated with
geometric designs, at the same time muttering a prayer to divine Apollo. As
he went forward a jagged shard of pottery cut the sole of his naked foot and
Homer was pleased. Perhaps the blood would be taken as the sacrifice he knew
he would have to make before the Oracle. If that was the most he had to
give, then he would indeed have got off lightly. He feared. though, that the
God would demand more.
The narrow cave suddenly broadened and was lit by the flickering flame
of a torch, the pole of which was stuck in the wall. By the dim light Homer
could see the carved stone altar and behind it the statue of Apollo,
eternally youthful, ineffably beautiful, and invincibly strong; perfectly
accomplished in all the arts and sciences, effortlessly able to destroy his
enemies and protect his friends; generous yet implacable. A God to love -
yet one to fear.
Homer prostrated himself in front of the altar, feeling the rough floor
through the thin material of his chiton. Three times he abased himself
before rising to place on the altar the offering of oat cakes and an amphora
of wine as was required by the ritual. Then he placed a personal gift, a
sweet-smelling hyacinth flower which he had plucked from the woodland floor
on his way.
"Mighty Lord," he said, head bowed in supplication, "if it be your
will, grant that I become a poet and story-teller. Permit that my tales be
heard throughout the civilised world and that generations to come will
listen to and appreciate the marvels I will relate."
"That is an arrogant petition," said a sudden voice.
Homer looked up. A young man in the costume of a priest, long,
double-girdled chiton, stood behind the altar facing him. The wavering flame
from the votive fire caught and illuminated his face, shone on the wild eyes
of a paleness akin to milk, the tousled and unkempt hair, the features which
though drawn and bony were still handsome.
"Have I asked too much, Holy One?" asked Homer fearing that the
strength of his ambition had pushed him over the bounds of decorum.
The priest - surely he was too young to be the Oracle, whom Homer had
pictured as a venerable old man - came round from behind the altar and
approached him, coming close, so close that he could smell his body, a
mixture of bitter herbs - myrrh and feverfew - and feel his breath on his
face.
"I am the Oracle," said the priest. "Through me the God speaks." He
raised his hands and gently touched Homer's face, running the long sensitive
fingers down its length, feeling the hollows of his eye sockets and the
mounds of cheek, nose and chin.
After the initial shock of the touching, from which Homer had almost
instinctively started away, the contact did not now feel so alien and he
realised that the Oracle was blind and that this was his only means of
identification.
"You are handsome," said the Oracle, and his hands strayed lower, down
the sides of his neck, across his shoulders and chest, feeling the broad
expanse of muscle and flesh through the thin material of his tunic. "And
strong." His fingers found the shoulder fastening, released it and the tunic
slithered to the floor.
Lower and lower drifted those caressing hands, over the flat stomach,
round the slim waist, around the back to cup the firm, young buttocks, then
down the outside of the long slim legs. Homer felt a sensual delight in the
embrace and, despite himself, for he felt it was in a way a blasphemy, his
manhood was aroused.
"What does the God want?" asked Homer, terrified of any action of his
which could desecrate the Holy place.
Teasing, the fingers stroked up the sensitive inside of his thighs to
find and gently cup his ballsack and finally to clasp the erection. Homer
gasped.
"This is what the God wants," said the Oracle.
He turned and bent over the altar, releasing as he did so, the double
girdle that bound his tunic so that it swung loose and free. He gathered it
up in one arm and exposed himself, an invitation, an entry, a command.
Homer felt the Oracle's instinctive tension as he slid inside him and
then the relaxation as he paused and then started his rhythm, thrusting in
and pulling out. At each thrust the Oracle groaned but when Homer, fearing
that he was hurting him, tried to stop and pull out, he would not let him.
"The God demands it," he grunted through clenched teeth. "It is part of
the sacrifice."
Homer held him by his narrow hips and fucked him, his thrusts growing
more urgent as his lust overcame his inhibitions. The cries of the Oracle
under him became inarticulate sounds, gradually becoming more and more
intelligible. It was as if each rammed propulsion forced out a word. The
climax came in five shuddering roars. "The . . . God . . . grants . . . your
. . . prayer!"
Homer shut his eyes, panting. He felt drained and exhausted, his cock
raw and abused.
The oracle stood and allowed his tunic to cover his nakedness.
"A sacrifice will be needed," he said, and smiled gently - a man once
more, little more than a youth, though his holiness added years.
"I have given my blood and my seed. What more can the God demand?"
The priest did not answer.
Pheon and Rico
--------------
"Truly Pheon was chosen by the Gods," said the old poet and storyteller,
Homer, "and yet by choosing him they cursed him," and the group of students
seated around him on the cool tiled floor shifted uneasily. They knew it was
unlucky to criticise the High Ones who lived on the Sacred Mountain and held
the Fate of all of them in their hands.
But the Old Man did not seem concerned. If anything it was almost as if
he had drifted into a day-dream for his blind milky-white eyes were seeing
again in his memory.
For a while he said nothing further.
"Did you actually know him, Master?" asked Spiro, a dark-haired lad
with lively, dare-devil eyes, who was never reticent in making himself heard
in class. "What did he look like?"
The Old Man gave a start. "What did Pheon look like," he repeated. "He
was the most beautiful youth that ever walked the earth. His legs were as
straight and as strong as two tall pine trees and his body was like an oak.
His skin had the colour and scent of honey. His arms were supple and pliant
as the papyrus reeds and his hair flowed like the golden sunshine at
midday."
The gazes of a few of the students were drawn through the window to
where the afternoon sunshine itself dappled the ground under the olive trees
but most attended the words of the Old Man, some perhaps intrigued by the
longing that accompanied his words.
"What was his cock like?" muttered Spiro but so low under his breath so
that only his fair-haired friend, Clovis, sitting next to him, heard.
"The Gods gave him that beauty so that all who saw him were drawn to
him and none could resist him." Again the Old Man paused as if he still
could see that almost supernatural grace. Then he went on. "But that fatal
gift was to prove his undoing. He fell in love and the object of his
passion, Rico, the son of the King of Boetia, was almost as handsome as he
was, though he was dark while the other was fair. When the two of them
walked together all eyes turned and, although some rejoiced that the two had
found each other, there were others who were envious and wished them harm."
"Wanted a bit of that cock," suggested the irrepressible Spiro, while
the more discreet Clovis jabbed him in the ribs to silence him.
But Spiro hadn't been quiet enough. The Old Man might have been blind
but his hearing was exceptional. "Certainly Pheon's sexual member was one
that had to be seen to be believed," he said. "Tall and thick when aroused
and sprouting from a nest of luxuriant golden hair. And nightly it pleasured
Rico until he was almost out of his mind with delight."
Young Spiro felt his own penis thicken at the thought of this God-like
member and he squeezed himself cautiously through his chiton.
"But one day," continued the Old Man, "Rico, walking alone in the
fields down by the River Antioche, was set upon by three men. They jumped on
him and tore his clothes and held him down. Then they attempted to rape him.
But Rico broke free before he was penetrated and fled through the reeds
pursued by the men. But as he ran he trod on a river snake which bit him in
the heel, the only scar on an otherwise perfect body. The poison coursed
through his blood and eventually he fell to the ground. So the men caught up
with him and saw his naked body lying in convulsions in the mud of the river
bank and watched him as he died. Then they left him there."
The class were serious, their eyes large with fear and wonder. They
knew that to leave a body unburied without the Rites of the Dead would incur
the wrath of the Goddess of Revenge - the one they called the Lady because
even to say her real name was unlucky. Even the boisterous Spiro held his
tongue for the time being.
"Now when Rico did not return, Pheon went looking for him, his brow
furrowed with concern. He wandered all day searching but could find no clue
to the whereabouts of his lover. So in compassion a Naiad or spirit of the
water came to him in the likeness of a young boy who took his hand and led
him to the river bank where Rico's body lay. When Pheon saw the lifeless
corpse of his beloved he uttered a great cry, so full of grief and misery
that the otters and river voles hid their faces in their paws and even the
birds of the air fell sighing to the ground. Pheon flung himself upon the
body and tried to warm him and bring him to life as he had so often done by
kissing his lips and his body and enclosing the limp member in his moist
mouth but all his ministrations were to no avail - Rico was dead and his
soul gone to Tartarus, the place from which no one returns."
"Pheon's grief was inconsolable and even the Gods, who were not immune
to his charms, were seized with compassion. The great Zeus himself sent his
messenger, Hermes, to advise him to go down to Tartarus himself and crave
the soul of Rico from the dread King of that Underworld, Hades. So it was
that Pheon went to Aornum in Thesprotis where there is a passage down to
Hell. The entrance is through a cleft in the rock from which sulphurous
smoke issues so that it is mostly hidden from human view but even when
visible the stench and the heat is such that few would venture into that
noisome crack. Truly is it called by some the Arsehole of the World."
"But Pheon was not deterred and felt his way - for he could scarcely
see an arm's length in front of him even with the help of a flaming torch -
along the narrow passage. And there were other terrors - huge bats flew at
his face, screaming and beating with their leathery wings but even they,
once they realised who it was, were calmed by his beauty and, instead of
scratching and biting, flew ahead of him, beating a path through the choking
smoke so that Pheon could proceed lower and lower into the bowels of the
earth."
"Eventually that narrow passage widened into a plain where black aspen
trees grew and the only sound was that of their leaves whispering together.
Through this flat landscape wandered a broad river whose slow turgid water
was disturbed only by whirlpools which sucked everything down into its
depths. And from the surface of this river arose a miasmic vapour which
stank with the smell of rottenness and death." Suddenly the Old Man's
story-telling voice stopped as he asked his pupils a question. "Which one of
you knows the name of this River?"
They all did, of course, but no one wanted to say it out loud in case
it was unlucky. The pause lengthened and eventually Spiro knew he would have
to speak. All the same he felt uneasy and moved closer to his friend,
Clovis, so that their thighs touched together, and he got some comfort and
encouragement from the contact.
"It was the River Styx, Master," he said.
"It was indeed the River Styx," repeated the Old Man, "that dread
boundary between the land of the Living and that of the Dead. And how do the
souls of the Dead cross that river?"
Now that someone had actually uttered the dread name, the other pupils
were not afraid to answer this question for they all knew.
"The mourners place a coin between the lips of the Dead one to pay the
ferryman to take them across," they chorused.
But Spiro shivered because he felt as if a cold finger had touched his
lips and Clovis felt the shiver and, though not understanding the cause, put
his arm around the shoulders of his friend and drew his body against his.
"But of course," continued the Master, "Pheon had no coin for he was
not dead, and when Charon, the old miser, came punting his way across the
river, he knew immediately that this was no soul for he had nothing to pay
the ferryman. So Pheon undid the shoulder band of his chiton and, as the
garment dropped to the ground, revealing him in his nakedness, the godlike
beauty of his body shone out like a golden flame, or, as Charon saw it, like
the glint of pure gold in the sunlight. And he lusted after his body and
Pheon allowed him to run his hands over the firm, pliant flesh right down to
the centre of his Being. And, as Charon touched him there and his member
hardened, a glistening drop formed at the end and, turning into a coin, fell
into the ferryman's waiting palm."
Spiro's hand rested for a moment on his friend's naked thigh, then,
almost as if it had a volition all of its own, travelled upwards under the
hem of the chiton to where another member stiffened to the touch, another
bright jewel appeared at the end. And as Spiro grasped it, his friend,
Clovis, gave an almost inaudible sigh.
The Master continued: "So Charon ferried Pheon across the River Styx
avoiding the whirlpools and the sharp jagged rocks which, from time to time,
appeared above the oily, black surface and threatened to rip out the bottom
of the boat. He had made the journey so many times that he did not need to
look where he was going. In fact, his gaze never left the glories of Pheon's
body until the keel of the boat grounded on the arrid shores of the Asphodel
Fields where the souls of heroes stray without purpose amongst the throngs
of less distinguished dead that twitter like demented beings."
"But this was only the first of his tasks for the other side of the
Styx is guarded by the Hell-hound Cerberus whose three heads are each maned
with serpents. This mighty mastiff came bounding up to Pheon, strings of
slather dripping from each of his jaws and baying at the sight of his
quarry. Even the grey wraith-like souls who wandered this barren place were
sure that the creature would rend the perfect flesh from his bones and a
sigh like the soughing of the wind arose in that dark unwholesome place. But
no sooner had Cerberus got within biting distance than its whole demeanour
changed. It whimpered and wagged its rump like a young puppy and tried to
bury its heads in Pheon's crotch so beguiling was the musky smell. And so
Pheon was able to continue unharmed while the awful monster trotted along
behind him like a faithful hound, occasionally thrusting one or other of its
snouts into any available orifice."
"And now the wraiths crowded around Pheon all trying to caress him and
the touch of their hands was as insubstantial as the brushing of cobwebs but
even this was enough to arouse his great member. Seeing this they redoubled
their efforts until his member pulsed and great gobbets of semen shot into
the air. Then there was great confusion as the souls fought amongst
themselves to get a taste of the divine essence for only from an intake of
human body fluids could they feel alive again. And the bodies of those that
managed to obtain even the slightest taste took on the rosy colouring of
life - at least for a while. But the one who had managed to enclose with his
mouth at the point when the cock ejaculated, the shade of the great hunter,
Orion, he was immediately translated into the night sky and remains there as
the mighty constellation to this day."
While the Master had been describing the activities of the wraiths in
the Asphodel Fields, Spiro himself had not been backward in his own
activities which were of a similar caressing nature though confined to the
as yet innocent and sweet member of young Clovis who had been brought to a
gasping state of near orgasm by Spiro's active hand.
Suddenly the Master's voice rang out clear and loud.
"At last he drew near the Palace of dread Hades."
Alarmed by the sound of the fearful name, Spiro ceased his frottage and
Clovis's erection subsided, dangling limply in his friend's hand.
"Now Pheon was only mortal and at the sight of the Palace he felt a
terrible fear for Hades was second in power only to the Highest God, Zeus
and humans who face up to the Gods are usually annihilated or lose their
sanity. Yet the love he bore for Rico transcended his terror and he was
determined to approach the Dark Lord to make his submission. So he proceeded
across the darkling plain accompanied by those whimpering shades who wanted
some of his miraculous emission but this time their ministrations had no
effect on him and one by one they fell behind as he neared the Palace of
Hades which now loomed gaunt and terrible out of the mists."
"Around it grew a thick tangle of noisome plants with sharp thorns
which seemed about to tear the flesh from Pheon's young body yet at his
approach they drew back turning aside their spiky points as if they did not
wish to desecrate so perfect a skin. So Pheon came to the great Gates of
Hades which towered above him. They were made of ebony wood so hard that the
sharpest knife could not have made the slightest mark on them and their
colour was of the darkest night. When Pheon reached them he raised his
clenched fist and knocked three times and those doors, which were meant to
withstand the strongest assault without flinching, swung smoothly open.
Ahead stretched a corridor lit down each side by the guttering flames of
torches. And Pheon commenced the long journey down the hallway."
Spiro and Clovis clutched each other in terror for they knew that Pheon
was in mortal danger - and they drew some sort of comfort from their warm
closeness.
"At the end of the passage there were yet more doors and again these
opened as Pheon approached. They revealed a huge peristyle courtyard, the
pillars of which stretched so high that their tops were hidden by chaplets
of cloud. The mosaic floor represented the Beasts of Chaos and so faithfully
were they depicted that they might have been truly alive and, if trodden
upon, would surely turn and savage any such presumptuous foot. Nonetheless
Pheon boldly stepped forward towards the centre where a mighty figure was
seated. It was difficult to make out who or what it was as it was cloaked in
a garment so dark that its blackness soaked up the light around. And from
that blackness came a voice and it seemed as if it was both inside Pheon's
head as well as filling the great courtyard:
"'Arrogant Mortal, how dare you set foot into the Court of Mighty
Hades?'"
"The echoes of his terrible voice reverberated around that empty hall.
Pheon bowed low three times before the presence as was befitting and then he
raised his eyes to stare boldly into the God's face and immediately Hades
was smitten with an overpowering desire and wished to enfold the body of
this ravishing human."
"And Pheon said, 'Majesty, I come to beg for the soul of my lover, Rico
who was unjustly killed.'"
"'What do you offer in exchange for the soul of Rico?' asked the Dark
God."
"And Pheon answered, 'Dread Majesty, I will give you anything you wish,
so great is my love for Rico.'"
"The figure rose, his robes swirling around him and approached Pheon.
As he drew near he discarded the black cloak which fell into a pool at his
feet and the God was revealed in all his naked glory - perfect in every
detail except for the puckered scar above his right nipple caused by the
thunderbolt hurled by his angry brother, Zeus, when they quarrelled about
which part of Creation, Earth, Sea or Underworld, they would rule over.
Pheon gazed in awe at the perfectly delineated pectoral and abdominal
muscles of his body, the sculpturally chiselled perfection of form of which
we have but a faint inkling in our own statues of heroes and athletes. But
whereas we represent these with only a small penis - so as not to incur the
envy of the Gods - the member of Hades was huge and swung between his thighs
like a gigantic horn. And as he approached Pheon it grew even bigger so that
it dominated all his attention."
Clovis's lesser prick had also recovered under the ministrations of his
friend's warm palm and his own hands were under the chiton of Spiro and
energetically rubbing his cock. He wished there were some other way he could
get closer and do more but this was clearly impossible under the
circumstances, hidden as they were only by the backs of the other pupils who
were, hopefully, fully occupied by the Master's story-telling.
"So the Great God, Hades, clasped Pheon and flesh seared to flesh,
Divine with Human and it was as if the two were merged into one. But Hades
wanted more. He desired no more than to enter Pheon's body so Pheon took the
member into his mouth and washed it with his tongue - and the taste was of
wild herbs, woundwort and agrimony, sharp and acerbic. And the giant
testicles also he laved with his tongue and under them the perineum so that
the Dark Lord was inflamed with desire. Then the God laid Pheon down on his
back and raised his legs into the air so that they rested on his shoulders.
And his orifice was revealed so that Hades could enter. In he plunged and
Pheon found that, in spite of the size of the member, he could accept it
without pain or discomfort - such is the Power of a God, my children, though
beware for few mortal men have this faculty! Hades withdrew and then pushed
in again gradually quickening his strokes until finally Pheon felt the
Divine discharge enter his bowels and it was as if a great radiance
permeated his whole body from inside and he knew that part of the essence of
Godhead would be his for ever."
As the Master reached this point in his story, Spiro became so excited
that he plunged his middle finger up into Clovis' rectum, all the while
rubbing his friend's prick with his other hand, and at that insertion,
Clovis' erection exploded and his semen pulsed out again and again and he
could scarcely restrain a great cry of joy and satisfaction. The warm semen
on his hand Spiro transferred under his own chiton so that Clovis' hand
became slippery with it and immediately Spiro himself ejaculated and their
two sperms were united under his tunic.
"Then Hades withdrew - though it seemed as if he was loth to ever let
him go for his hands lingered about Pheon's body - and wrapped his cloak
around him so that his nakedness was hidden and then he spoke."
"'You have given me great satisfaction, Pheon, and in return I will
grant your request. The soul of Rico will be returned to you on this one
proviso. He will follow you out of Tartarus but you must not turn to look at
him until you reach the land of sunlight. If you do so he will be lost to
you for ever.'"
"Obediently Pheon began the journey back. He passed out of the Palace
of Hades and across the desolate Fields of Asphodel while the grey wraiths
of the dead wailed at his departure. Cerberus greeted him and padded along
by his side as if he was his faithful hound, and Charon rowed him across the
swollen River Styx. All the while Pheon kept his eyes resolutely set in
front of him, trusting in the word of Hades that Rico was following though
there was never sight of shadow nor sound of following footsteps."
"At last he emerged from the crack in the rock at Aornum and lifted his
face to the sunlight. Then at long last he was able to turn and saw behind
him - the figure of his lover, Rico. Surely, my scholars, I do not need to
describe the joy and delight with which the two young men clasped each other
nor the speed with which Pheon carried his friend off to bed where they
pleasured each other seemingly without cessation until eventually, sated,
they lay quietly in each other arms and were able to renew their interrupted
knowledge of each other's bodies."
"Pheon stroked his lover's skin and then stopped suddenly for his
fingers felt an irregularity, a puckered scar, just above Rico's right
nipple. 'Where did you get this?' he asked. For a moment Rico seemed
hesitant but then answered, "It is where the river snake bit me,' and from
that explanation he refused to deviate."
The Old Man paused to let the full import of that last remark sink into
the minds of his pupils. Finally he gazed around with his sightless eyes and
sighed. 'Trust not the Gods,' he said and felt his way blindly out of the
classroom. 'I did and look how they have rewarded me.'
Apollo
------
"In times past," said the blind school master, "the Gods from Mount Olympus
paid many visits to earth and humans. They do not seem to do so nowadays."
"Why is that, Master Homer?" asked Spiro, determined to divert to
another tack what was obviously going to be a tedious lesson in the hot
afternoon.
Although blind, the Master managed to locate Spiro's position with
unerring accuracy and fixed those cloudy blue orbs on him so firmly that,
although he knew he could not be seen, the lad ceased fondling himself under
his tunic and instead folded his hands demurely in his lap. His friend,
Clovis, sitting next to him, smiled.
"Ah, Spiro," said the Master, "I wondered when you would join in. Why
do the Gods no longer visit us? I wish I knew. Perhaps our young men and
girls are no longer attractive enough to gain their attention."
Spiro looked affronted. He thought he was handsome enough to catch the
attention of any God. His sun-bronzed skin glowed with health and his eyes
glinted with mischief. A dark curl of black hair, which was so glossy as to
almost be the deepest blue, hung bewitchingly over his forehead and his lips
were full and ached to be kissed. Added to that his member was long and
almost perpetually aroused - and guaranteed to provide a worthy plaything
for any activity. At this thought his hand crept back under his tunic almost
as if it had a will of its own.
"Why did they visit us humans?" he asked, knowing full well the answer,
but hoping to turn his Master's lesson onto his favourite subject.
"There were many reasons," said the Master evasively.
"Were they not mostly of an erotic nature?" persisted Spiro impudent by
nature but clever enough to show respect.
Fair-haired Clovis, he of the grey eyes and ready smile - and willing
partner of Spiro - shook his head at his friend's gentle taunting of the
Master. He slid his own hand across to where his friend's bare knee extended
just below the hem of his chiton and, at the touch, Spiro opened his legs so
that the hand could reach up and stroke his ever-willing cock. With
something else to occupy his attention, Spiro allowed the old Master to
continue his lesson.
"There were many amorous dalliances," agreed the old man. "Apollo with
the beautiful Sicilian youth, Daphnis, and the Spartan prince, Hyacinthus,
being just two. Though both ended tragically. Daphnis was blinded by a
jealous nymph and in consolation turned into a laurel bush from which the
Sun God makes wreaths for his hair. Hyacinthus was accidentally killed by a
discus and from his blood sprung the hyacinth flower with its sweet scent.
Truly it is said that 'Those whom the Gods love, die in strange botanical
circumstances'." He paused for a moment perhaps wondering whether this was
quite right and then said sharply, "Why are you making that curious noise,
Spiro?"
The other pupils, giggling, turned round to where Clovis and Spiro sat
at the back of the class and the two youths, with red faces, had to cease
their activities for the time being.
When the class had quietened down, the Master continued. "The great
God, Apollo, as well as being the Sun Deity is also God of Music and Poetry.
He plays on the seven-stringed lyre made from a tortoise shell and his
music, they say, will quiet even the most savage beast. But his favourite
animals are the herds of cattle which he guards on the grassy slopes of
Parnassus. Once Hermes the Messenger, when he was but a child, stole the
whole herd and hid them from the God in a cave. Since then Apollo has always
been anxious for their safety."
At last the old man came to the end of his lesson and released his
charges. Outside it was yet another scorching summer day where the only
shade lay under the citrus and olive groves of Aegean Arcadia. Apollo's eye,
searing and implacable, stared down on the baked ground, ripening the
oranges and lemons and limes, plumping the figs and olives with juice and
sweetness.
Clovis and Spiro ran off together to a private place they knew where
amidst dappled sunshine a stream of fresh water meandered through verdant
banks of grass before cascading down the rocks to the sea. Clovis was first
there and flung himself stomach down, his head in the sweet water taking
great gulps. Spiro arriving seconds later saw his friend sprawled on the
ground, the hem of his chiton rucked up exposing the tantalising view of his
buttocks. The interrupted nature of the sexual play they had indulged in
during class had left Spiro excited but unfulfilled and with a cry of
triumph he threw himself on top of his friend, his prick, already hard,
nestling in the crack.
Clovis was momentarily startled by the sudden onslaught but in no way
discomposed and he opened himself to the incursion, allowing and indeed
welcoming the entry. Spiro's adolescent erection slid in easily - it had had
enough practice - and he pumped himself, feeling the taught young globes
under him buffeting his balls. His hands caressed the youth's thighs,
stroking the silky skin with its underlying hard muscle before groping under
his friend to make sure that Clovis was himself hard. There, in the full
gaze of the Sun God, the two youths achieved their climax, Spiro pumping his
seed into his friend, while under him Clovis spattered his as an offering to
the Earth.
Afterwards they cleaned themselves splashing each other with the cool
water before lying on their backs naked in the full sun to dry and gorge on
the ripe figs that hung just above their heads.
"That was the best yet," said Spiro.
"You say that every time," said Clovis.
"Well it was, and always is, with you," Spiro said as he huddled to his
friend and draped his head on the cross-legged thigh.
There was silence, the only sounds those of the stream splashing its
way through the rocks and the distant reverberation of the waves breaking on
the beach far below them. Suddenly there was a grunting cough from somewhere
nearby.
Spiro groaned. "Don't say someone has found our private place," he
said. Nevertheless he did not move from his comfortable position merely
covering his groin with his tunic in an attempt at modesty which merely
aggravated his nakedness. Clovis, though, sat up - so it was he who saw the
lithe, tan-brown form of the mountain lion creep out from behind a rock and
make for the stream.
Half way there, the animal saw the two youths and froze.
"Spiro," whispered Clovis, "Look!"
"What is it?" he asked. "Some fat old woman collecting olives?" He
opened his eyes, saw the animal and said, "Holy Shit!"
"Shall we run?" asked Clovis.
"You know they always chase anything that runs," said Spiro. "We've
always been told to lie down and pretend to be dead if they come near."
Clovis began mumbling an old prayer he had been taught when a small
child but hadn't said for years.
"O Mighty Gods of Mount Olympus, protect your servant from all perils
of the day and night. O All-Powerful Zeus, rescue me from my present danger.
O Potent Apollo defend me in my hour of need - eek!"
The prayer ended in a shriek of fear as the lion decided that the two
youths were worthy of attention and took a growling pace towards them.
"Thank you for praying for me!" said Spiro. "Now appears to be the time
when we find out whether this playing dead works." He dropped flat to the
ground and curled up. Clovis took one terrified look at him and did the
same, covering his eyes and stuffing his fingers into his ears following the
general principle that what couldn't be seen or heard, couldn't be there.
The lion - actually it was a lioness - was really more thirsty than
hungry, but it couldn't have a contented drink before it had ascertained
whether these two things were dangerous or not. Of course, if they were not,
and were eatable then so much to the good.
Approaching the recumbent forms on its stomach, it sniffed them
suspiciously. Spiro and Clovis could also smell the rank animal stink of the
lion. As the nose with its prickly hairs nuzzled first one then the other,
it needed all their self-control to stay still. Then Spiro felt a large paw
trying to turn him over and despaired. He heard a growl rumbling away in the
animal's throat and knew that it was becoming angry.
He decided the only thing he could do was to hit out with his fist at
the animal's sensitive nose, hoping that it would be so startled that it
would run off. He clenched his fist and tensed his whole body, prepared for
the agony of being mauled.
Suddenly he sensed a sharp movement from the animal and his eyelids
flicked open. The lion's head was turned away from him, its ears pricked,
staring at the rocks from which it itself had appeared. It had obviously
heard something which he had not - and then he did hear it, a musical sound,
the strings of some instrument being plucked. The melody was strange, unlike
anything he had heard before, but soothing so that his fears were calmed.
The music, a Doric strain, grew louder and then a man stepped from the
shadows into the full sunlight of the clearing. He was tall, regal looking,
wearing a chlamys made from the finest linen which only just came down to
his loins and left the right side of his body and his right arm bare. In his
dark curly hair he wore a laurel wreath, the reward given to a conqueror, or
an athlete who has won his competition at the Games. He certainly had the
build of an athlete and Spiro looked in awe at his vigorous, muscular body.
>From where he was lying he could also see under the hem of the chlamys and
could not help but notice the sturdy cock and balls that hung in the fork
between those vigorous thighs. But would an athlete be playing music, for
the man held in his left hand a sweetly-tuned, seven stringed lyre.
Interesting though all this was, at the moment Spiro's main
preoccupation was with the lion, but the animal, immediately the stranger
had appeared, had got up from where it had crouched over him and walked
towards the man, finally lying down at his feet like an obedient pet dog.
Then the stranger stopped playing, laid his hand gently on the lion's
head for a few seconds before withdrawing it. Instantly the lion stalked
across to the stream and slaked its thirst with no apparent sign of fear or
aggression, its long tongue lapping the water eagerly. Then it bounded off
up the mountainside and disappeared from view.
Spiro got up, nudging the prostrate body of his friend with his foot.
Clovis was still lying there with his eyes tightly shut and his ears
blocked. He twitched nervously perhaps at first thinking that the lion had
got him but then, opening an eye, he saw that it was Spiro, standing there
naked in front of him in the company of a tall, handsome stranger.
"He saved us," said Spiro. "He tamed the lion and it just ran off."
Then in a lower voice he confided, "I think he's an athlete. Look at the
laurel wreath - and the muscles in those legs!"
Clovis, though, while still somewhat bewildered at their recent escape
from danger, still had his wits about him. "Didn't you listen to anything
the Master said," he whispered. "The seven-stringed lyre made from a
tortoise shell which can tame wild beasts. Laurel leaves in his hair in
memory of his beloved Daphnis. And look at him. He is a god. He must be
Apollo!"
The two youths stood in front of the Being, the beauty of his body,
golden, shining and exuding a passionate heat, fascinated and then excited
them. And he was clearly entranced by their innocent, young grace. His gaze
roved up their long legs and rested on their youthful but extremely capable
equipment. Yet he said nothing nor made any move to touch them.
"Kyrie," said Spiro, bowing low, "Lord, we are in your debt."
"Is there nothing we can do for you?" asked Clovis. His eyes were open
and innocent yet anyone could have read great significance into the
question.
The stranger hesitated then made a decision. "Lions may not be to your
taste, but how are you with more domestic animals?"
Spiro looked disappointed. He had hoped that Apollo was thinking of
other rather more exciting things but a debt was a debt and it would be
dishonourable to try to back out of it. "My friend, Clovis, is a great
herdsman," he said. "He will guard them with his life." He realised after he
had said this, that their recent behaviour with the lion did not put much
credence on the statement but the stranger seemed satisfied and he beckoned
them to follow him as he strode off up the mountainside.
The youths thought they knew the local area well but the fields and
trackways they passed were strangely unfamiliar and everything seemed more
green and lush than it should have been at this time of year. At last they
reached a bank which overlooked a broad grassy pasture, where a fine herd of
cows grazed, their eyes clear, and brown hides shining with health.
"Apollo's herd," said the stranger, more than a touch of pride in his
voice which was almost immediately replaced with one of anger. "There are
ninety and three. Seven of them have already been stolen. Protect the
resmainder from harm overnight and your debt to me is paid in full."
He sat down on the bank while the sun still shone in the West and
motioned the two youths to join him, one on either side. "Now you must
sleep," he said. "I will wake you when your vigil is due to commence." Then
he took his lyre and played a melody so enticing that it had their eyelids
drooping so that their heads sank into his lap, one youthful head on each
thigh, and their young curls, both fair and dark, tickled his Godhood until
it rose magnificently. In their sleep they dreamed of eating and drinking
the food of the Gods, ambrosia and nectar, but what their mouths were doing
in reality they were unaware. And when the essence of the God flowed, their
pink tongues lapped it as they stirred in their sleep.
The sun was sinking over the horizon and the stars beginning to show
when he gently woke the youths and they sat up feeling curiously refreshed,
as if they had been fed with nourishing sustenance. Their limbs felt strong
and resilient, their minds sharp and aware. Apollo lifted them to their
feet, put a warm cloak about each of their shoulders and then embraced them.
"Now I must leave you. The moon will be up soon and there will be
light enough to see. Watch carefully and listen for if anyone apart from me
touches the herd, their bellowing will be loud enough to wake the Dead. I
will return at dawn." He disappeared into the pale darkness leaving the
youths alone.
The shapes of the Sun God's beasts were still just visible lying
contentedly chewing the cud but soon the pale disc of the moon, full and
round, lit up the meadow and was bright enough to cast shadows. There was a
chill in the night air and the youths pulled their cloaks around them but
cuddling together and feeling the warmth and friction of bare skin against
bare skin was more fun and exciting. Soon Spiro's mouth was clamped over
Clovis's cock and sucking energetically. Clovis clasped his hands behind
Spiro's head and pulled him forward so that his cock went in even deeper.
His moans became gasps of pleasure as the pressure built up in his loins and
he was about to ejaculate when the night was disturbed by the most hideous
sound which burst through the night with the penetration of a thunder clap.
Despite his closeness to orgasm, Clovis's erection wilted and Spiro's mouth,
gaping open in terror, allowed his cock to drop out.
"What is it?" gasped Spiro.
"It must be a thief taking one of Apollo's herd," said Clovis. "He said
that the bellowing would awaken the dead."
They peered into the moonlit pastures where, amidst the disturbed
cattle milling around in confusion, they could make out a strange and rather
sinister figure. Though mostly man-shaped, it appeared to have horns on its
head and its legs looked like those of a animal, shaggy and goat-like.
Whatever it was, it was capering around, uttering shrill, unnerving shrieks
and leading one of the cows away from them out of the pasture.
"We will have to follow," said Spiro, and Clovis, though certainly not
enthusiastic, agreed.
Cautiously they followed the lowing beast and its bizarre captor across
the grassland, trying to keep in the shadows of bushes and trees. Once
amongst the rocks, they found it less easy as their quarry often disappeared
from view but they were able to pursue the sounds and, after a while, they
came to where the mountainside was hollowed out into numerous caves, into
one of which the rustler and its victim vanished.
"Do we follow?" asked Spiro.
Clovis had been thinking along the way and had come to a conclusion
about the identity of the rustler. "You know who it is?" he asked. "Goat's
legs, horns on his head, those frightening shouts. It must be Pan, the God
of Husbandry. They say he lives in Arcadia, spurning the Gods' home of Mount
Olympus because he likes scaring mortals."
"But why is he stealing Apollo's cattle?" objected Spiro.
"I don't know. The Master says the Gods are always quarrelling about
something. Or perhaps he just likes cows. He is after all the God of Farming
and Agriculture. Perhaps he's just envious of that magnificent herd and
wants them for himself."
"Is he dangerous?" asked Spiro.
"Well, it's always risky to upset a God," said Clovis. "Though there is
a way we could divert his attention if what they say about him is true." He
whispered his plan to his friend and they set off into the cave where from
deep within, a fitful and flickering light issued.
Hand in hand, the two youths approached the light which they soon made
out to be a fire. As they turned a final bend they were faced by an unusual
sight. Against the far wall, eight cows were standing at a makeshift byre,
munching dried hay. Sitting by the fire was the thief, whom they could now
see was manlike down to his loins - though he did have two horns sprouting
out of the curly hair on his head - while from there down he had the shaggy
pelt and legs of a goat. What amazed them most was the size of his cock
which stood out from his hairy groin and on which the creature was pulling
with every sign of enjoyment.
Silently the youths withdrew and, once they decided they were safely
out of earshot, they quickly drew straws to decide who would play which part
in the plan. Spiro lost. He tried to make it best of three but Clovis
refused so with ill-concealed bad grace Spiro, as planned, doffed his thick
cloak, hoisted up his tunic so that it revealed the full length of his
tempting legs and occasional glimpses of even more pleasurable parts, and
set out again down the winding corridor of the cave.
Clovis waited outside.
Soon he heard sounds of conversation. Spiro's voice: "I'm sorry, Kyrie.
I did not mean to intrude on your cave, but I am lost and cold and saw your
light." The answer was lost in the depths of the cave but then he heard
Spiro again, this time coming nearer. "If you could just direct me to
Stymphalus, which is where I come from, then I won't trouble you again." The
figure of Spiro appeared silhouetted against the light issuing from the cave
mouth. He was walking in an manner which exaggerated the movement of his
buttocks in what he hoped was a seductive way. Then came the voice of the
other, low and coarsened with lust.
"You are a pretty lad," it said. "Why don't you come back into the
warmth of the cave. Then afterwards I'll show you the way."
But Spiro had to get him out. "I'm sure it's this way," he said,
mincing out of the cave and turning in the other direction to where Clovis
was hiding. "Couldn't you just show me?"
"I'll show you willingly. Just slow down a little." The two figures
move further off and disappeared behind the rocks. Clovis slipped into the
cave and ran towards the cows. Behind him he heard a faint shriek and knew
that Spiro had been caught up with. He hoped he would enjoy it but feared,
from the size of Pan's pizzle, that the congress would hurt.
Once with the cattle, he had another problem as he knew that if he
should lay his hands on them, they would start their dreadful bellowing and
warn Pan that something was amiss. All he could think of was to release the
cows from their halters, grab hold of an armful of hay and hope he could
tempt them after him.
The plan worked. They seemed quite amenable to follow in the hope of
some of the hay and he proceeded backwards out of the cave followed by the
sniffing animals. As he got to the mouth he heard shouts of protest and knew
that Spiro was carrying out his part of the bargain. He knew him well enough
to tell that his outcry was, at least to some extent, pretence.
Once out of the cave, Clovis broke into a run and was gratified to hear
the sound of the beasts trotting after him. It was a long, lonely journey
back for he was worried about what was happening to Spiro and also concerned
that the cows would become bored and stop following him. Every so often he
slowed down and lured them on with a taste of the sweet hay before starting
up again.
At long last he arrived at Apollo's pasture and allowed the cattle to
munch to their heart's content. Then he sat down to wait Spiro's arrival.
It was long in coming but eventually, as their Master would say, when
rosy-fingered Dawn tinged the hills in the East, he saw the figure of his
friend, limping a little and looking rather the worse for wear, his clothing
rumpled and grass-stained, coming across the valley.
He ran down to meet him hoping that he wasn't too hurt by the
encounter. But Spiro, when he got close enough to make out his expression,
was smiling. "I now know why you enjoy it so much," he said. He was about to
go into detail when they suddenly realised that Apollo was with them. His
radiance arrived at the same time as the sun's disc appeared over the
horizon.
He gave a searching look at his herd. "Are they all safe?" asked
Apollo.
"Count them, Kyrie," said Clovis. "Count your cattle, Lord."
Apollo made a quick count, was surprised and did it again more slowly.
"But I count one hundred," he said. "My herd is complete again."
"We rescued the missing ones from the cave of Pan," they explained.
"How did you get away without being - er - caught?" Apollo looked at
them closely.
"There was some sacrifice," said Spiro cautiously.
"Did he harm you?"
"I don't think Spiro is going to complain," said Clovis.
"And you, Clovis, are not upset?" asked Apollo turning to him.
"Well no," said Clovis, "it opens up another avenue of exploration."
"Good," said Apollo, "because there is a reward for the recovery."
"Are you going to make us rich?" asked Spiro.
"No," answered the God. "Irresistible."
Homer (II)
----------
The young poet, Homer, stood in front of his audience, his arm raised in a
declamatory gesture and his last words arousing a fervour of enthusiasm. The
setting sun lit up his chestnut curls, staining them to a coppery
brilliance.
"And King Eurystheus waxed exceedingly angry but before he could do
anything the eagle suddenly stooped down from the skies above and struck him
on the forehead with his beak so that he fell down dead. Then Zeus, the
Earth-shaker, himself appeared and said to Heracles, 'Heracles, you are
truly my son. Your sins are pardoned.'"
Refreshed by the unabashed adulation of his audience, a supper of sweet
rice cakes and cups of rich Samian wine, Homer bade farewell, refusing their
offers of further hospitality. No, he would not stay the night, he had to
get to Acrocorinth by tomorrow. He would walk through the night - there was
a full moon and the skies were clear - and on the way compose his next epic
poem. He would need no company. No one would harm him; the body of the poet
and artist was sacred throughout all the city states of Greece. He had no
wealth anyway; his treasure was his genius.
A thick woollen cloak kept him warm as he climbed the hill, the track
winding like a pale snake in front of him. He pondered on the subject he
would expound, the love of Achilles for Patroclus perhaps and his dreadful
revenge on his killer, or the passion of great Zeus for Gannymede. He tried
out a tentative verse aloud and, though it was not for him to say, found it
good.
"A whistling wind blew up across the sea
so that by morning light the ships were far away."
"Admirable lines," said a voice beside him. Homer started. From out of
the night had appeared a young man who was now companionably walking beside
him. Homer had not heard his approach but he had been wrapped in his own
creative struggles - and the stranger seemed to present no threat, though he
would perhaps be something of a distraction for he was tall and slim, almost
godlike in form with the perfection of features that the sculptors of
Arcadian kouroi would have liked to capture.
He wore only an embroidered linen chlamys which left his right shoulder
and breast bare, exposing the sole imperfection as far as Homer could see, a
puckered scar above the right nipple. The flaxen curls on his head were
constrained by a garland of laurel leaves, such as the winning athletes at
the Games are awarded.
"Though would not 'wine-dark sea' and perhaps 'rosy-fingered dawn' be a
little more 'lively'?" suggested the stranger.
Homer was incensed. Which of the two of them was the story-teller, the
greatest in the world? He or this, this muscle-bound athlete?
"I think," he said - and he could not keep the pride from his voice -
"I should be the best judge of the choice of words. I have had considerable
experience in the art of poetry. My name is not unknown. I am Homer."
"And from whence did your genius come, Master Homer?" asked the
stranger, the calmness of his tone belying the dangerous content of the
question.
"From my own endeavour," boasted Homer. "My own genius."
The stranger nodded and his bare arm brushed that of Homer. A seeming
accidental touch yet it produced such a pulse of arousal through Homer's
body that he gasped. Erotic images swirled through his head and immediately
translated themselves to his loins. An amorous dalliance on the bare
hillside with a passing stranger would be welcome, thought Homer. He could
perhaps include it in his next poem.
He turned to face the young man. The chlamys had disappeared and he
stood in front of him, naked.
The stranger's body glowed with light. As Homer reached for him the
glow increased until it seemed to equal the brightness of the Sun itself.
Homer uttered a cry and put his hands in front of his eyes, but even through
this protection the unearthly radiance seared his eyes and he screamed with
pain as the retinas withered and died.
He heard a voice. "The sacrifice is accepted."
Homer would never see again.
--
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