The Alexandrian Mysteries
by Harry Palmer
Chapter 1: Mentors
(or Fallaces sunt rerum species)
Alexandria, Egypt
335 AD
A brisk breeze blew into my face and I turned away, blinking grit from my eyes. There seemed no respite from the ever-present irritants of dust, sand and raw, beating sun, not even here, as close to the shoreline as you could get, the coolest, most temperate stretch of coast for miles. I reached my hand out and without a word, Cyrus passed me a wooden flask, removing the cork himself before he let go. I swilled some tepid water greedily down my parched throat and handed the flask back. Cyrus paused a second, a questioning look in his eyes. I nodded briefly and had to smile at the speed and greed of his own gulping, his evident relief at the refreshment.
"Easy, lad" I cautioned. "We'll likely be here some hours yet."
"Yes, master."
I glanced at him again. He was a good servant. At 16 years of age, he was young and virile enough to perform any exacting task and he was willing enough in manner. I liked him immensely; he was a faithful companion and obedient enough. I hadn't had to beat him for many months now although I knew that my mistress had had him whipped recently for insubordination, a trait that I was familiar with and which I, perhaps, indulged too much, at least when we were alone together. I ought, I knew, to have a serious conversation with him, to warn him of the potential consequences of carelessness, of recklessness even.
I had discovered, for example, that he was secretly in contact with a number of Christians in the west quarter, a group for whom I did not particularly care. It is true that they were now officially tolerated and that the popularity of their religion had grown enormously in recent years. Despite this and despite also my personal friendship with and admiration for a number of Christians in the city, I still found something distasteful and cultish about them and preferred to place what faith I had in the truly old religions, the many, trusted Gods of my ancestors. In any case, my mistress -- and therefore, Cyrus's mistress -- was a lady from a leading Jewish household who would not appreciate any connection to this, as she would say, "juvenile" sect, whose seemingly unstoppable expansion threatened to dominate her own sacred traditions.
I had also heard a whisper that he entertained romantic yearnings - as far as I knew, they went no further than that -- for Melissa, my mistress's principal servant. Cyrus had no idea as to the disastrous consequences to which either of these relationships could bring him and I only hoped that his amorous passions, at least, were kept in check and that he would satisfy himself with a regular wank, of the kind I had interrupted a few days ago, much to his mortification and very much to my enjoyment. However, I knew he could not wank away his attraction to subversive elements in the town and this worried me greatly.
I turned again to the sea and watched the glitter of dancing waves far out, their turbulance easing to a stiff, regular lapping as they neared the harbour entrance. The metal reflectors of the great lighthouse on the little island of Pharos to our left sent stunning pulses of light from the midday sun, seeming to increase tenfold the already tumultuous activity below us. Cyrus and I together watched for some more minutes the swarming multitudes of seamen, merchants, servants, officials, beggars and rough-looking ne'er-do-well's that populated the scene as five ships were unloaded of their cargoes or prepared for embarkation. And what cargoes they were! Spices and silks, precious metals, utensils of every sort, marble and stone for building, exotic fruit, dried and preserved, cloths and sandals, incense, artifacts, live animals, jewels, oils and beads, all the treasures and commodities from East and West, from India and Africa, from Rome iself and from Constantinople, as we were learning now to call Byzantium.
And slaves, of course, the sole reason for my being there. Slaves.
It was another hour before I spotted him. Dark, tall and fierce, his Nubian features marked with tribal scars, his muscled arms tensed as he pulled his donkey and cart forward. He scowled in concentration as he made his way through the bustling activity on the wharf, dodging goats and chickens, water carriers and prostitutes. All he came close to moved away from him with a mixture of alarm and disdain and until he neared to where Cyrus and I stood, his face was grimly set, his yellowish eyes narrowed to a slit. On seeing me he tugged his donkey to a halt, looked around warily and spat a gobful of some dark, greenish matter onto the ground. His donkey stirred and he paused to let the dust settle.
I approached slowly, watching all the time and aware that Cyrus was holding back, keeping well behind me. When I was within a couple of feet, the giant Nubian looked me directly in the eye, the glimmer of the sun flashing in his face. Suddenly, he smiled wide, a mouthful of perfect teeth except for one missing on the upper front and reached out a massive hand to grab my own.
"My good friend!" he said at last, with an emotion that always surprised me. He pumped my hand in his, all the time beaming at me.
"We are safe?" I asked anxiously, wanting to be sure.
He stood back and gazed at me with smiling, appraising eyes.
"Quite safe." he said. "As you would know full well were you, like me, to accept Jesus as your Lord and Master!"
"Joseph, please." I said. "How many times have you tried to convert me? You really don't give up, do you? Don't you know me yet, after all these years?"
"I know you are a stubborn pagan. Same as I was. Until I let the Lord into my heart..."
"Enough! We need to transact our business. Your cargo here. It is as we discussed?"
Joseph looked thoughtful, his eyes suddenly shadowed. Instead of answering me, he withdrew to his cart and pulled back the sacking cover enough for me to see inside. I took a step forward and craned my neck to better view what was revealed.
"Only four?" I gasped. "We had agreed on six. Six at least, you said!"
"Two died. One from a fever...the other...I don't know. It was a bad journey. Many died. I only just managed to get these four out. I had to bribe the slaver with everything I had. In the end I told him that God would punish him for his sins if he did not help me rescue the children at least. But it was the silver coins I think that changed his mind."
He gave me a level look and I gestured for Cyrus to approach.
"Joseph, this is Cyrus, a trusted servant of my mistress. Lad, this man here is a good friend, a sailor and former slave trader. If he ever gives you an order, you are to obey it without question, do you understand? As if it were myself."
Cyrus stared blankly at the fierce face looming above him, the ritual cuts, the marks of knife and rope, of pitiless sun and seawater. He seemed speechless. I gestured to him and, with his quick understanding, he unshouldered a bulky leather purse and handed it to Joseph.
"My mistress would want you to take the payment as agreed."
He took the sack and felt its weight.
"It is a sin against God. That is why I do this. But why you? Your people have slaves still, your mistress too. Why does she pay three times the going rate to free these boys? She is not a Christian, neither are you."
"I am!" blurted out Cyrus.
We both looked at him, for our own different reasons, taken aback.
"I mean..." he continued, lamely. "I have heard some talk..."
"Take the donkey." I said to him sternly. "And hold your tongue and hope I don't thrash you tonight for your insolence!"
Joseph smiled at my reaction and handed Cyrus the short reins of the donkey. He looked at us both and shook his head as if bewildered by our situation.
"We are doing a good thing today." he said. "Whatever God you believe in. These boys were headed for the slave auction and we are freeing them. For what future life, I know not what. But I know that Jesus will forgive me if I profit from my part in their deliverance!"
At this he jingled his bag of coins and laughed out loud. Cyrus eyed me sullenly as I took Joseph's hand and bid him farewell.
It was two hours later. The journey through the wide streets of Alexandria had been nerve-wracking but uneventful. I had taken but one further look at the four boys bunched up together in the cart. They seemed a poor lot, which was hardly surprising considering the terrible conditions they must have endured on the journey. And a mixed lot too. One looked about 14, a boy with straight, jet-black hair and an Oriental cast to his features, two others must have been 11 or 12, one dark browm, maybe Indian, the other a more familiar, lighter shade, Syrian perhaps or Lebanese. The smallest, a dark-skinned boy from the Sudan, I would say, looked no more than nine years old.
I had seen their types before, had taken similar boys on similar journeys in similar broken-down wagons from the harbourside to my mistress's villa. But never before had my charges seemed quite so wretched as today. They were dressed alike in little more than rags and were filthy. They smelled rank and their fear only added to the awful stench they gave off. That would be the first thing we would have to address on our safe arrival. I was aware of four pairs of frightened eyes watching me and had suddenly felt quite inadequate for this task. I made a gesture for them to keep quiet and a movement with both hands to indicate that they should not move. I tried to communicate my good intentions with a whispered assurance that they were indeed now safe but their expressions did not change. They probably did not understand; God knows what langauges they spoke. Finally, I gestured for Cyrus to hand me the water flask and having uncorked it and taken a demonstration swig myself, I handed it to the nearest boy, the Syrian. He took it without any sign of gratitude, drank and passed it on. They all drank thirstily and drained the flask but none showed any expression, all of them staring at me blankly, waiting simply for the unfolding of their fate, whatever it was to be.
And now it was two hours later and a miracle had taken place, a transformation, at least; the beginning of a transformation, I hoped. The beginning only. The four boys stood before me now, glistening and naked from their being bathed, all of them open-mouthed and uncomprehending at the turn of events that had brought them to what must have struck them as a palace of unimaginable richness, although it was, in fact, no more than a moderately luxurious villa, common enough amongst the wealthy middle class merchants of Alexandria. Indeed, the lady of the house, my mistress, was relatively modest and unpretentious, very pious in her own way and there was no gold or marble to be seen except for a few touches here and there in her own private quarters. It was, you may say, a very decent house, plain but comfortable. But to these boys it was as if the very gates of Heaven had opened up to them.
As was my custom, I had assigned each new charge a mentor from amongst the small retinue of servants at my disposal and these now tended to the naked boys they had just bathed, rubbing perfumed oils into their skins, their hands gently massaging thin shoulders, undeveloped chests, slim stomachs, soft, round buttocks, muscled legs and a variety of little cocks, short and stubby, long and thin, straight and curly. Two of the boys, the youngest and the oldest were uncircumcised; the oldest, the Oriental lad, was the only one with any sign of pubic hair. They all stood gaping, unresisting, allowing themselves to be rubbed and stroked and gently brought to a long-forgotten state of cleanliness, their hair washed of the grime, their limbs cleansed of sweat and dirt and their loinclothes, their only garment for months maybe, shit-stained and filthy, discoloured from pissing and all lack of basic hygeine, bundled together in a basket ready to be taken away and burned.
For the first time, I had appointed Cyrus as a mentor and he was clearly relishing the responsibility. His charge was the little Sudenese boy into whose ears he whispered gently, speaking in his native Greek the soft, lulling nonsense that his own mother had once whispered to him as he stood naked in a tub being bathed and cossetted. No matter that the youngster did not understand a word; the loving gentleness, the tongue lapping sweetly in his ear, that universal comfort, was enough to calm and reassure and I felt a sudden pang of love for Cyrus that he should strive to fulfill his new role with such kindness. I regretted for a moment that I had decided that I did, after all, need to punish him tonight.
I had come to that conclusion on our journey back to the villa. We walked side by side, Cyrus leading the donkey, rather inexpertly, distracted and seemingly lost in thought. I too was thinking hard; what to say about his earlier outburst, his claim to be a Christian now. I was about to bring the subject up when Cyrus himself spoke suddenly and with great vehemence.
"I don't like that man! I don't trust him."
I let a moment's silence fall between us.
"You mean Joseph. My good friend, Joseph."
"I am sorry master but how is it you know such a man? Such a wild man - a slave trader!"
Cyrus hung his head and spoke more softly.
"He frightens me."
"He's a scary man alright. But he's no longer a slaver. He helped to rescue these boys didn't he?"
"For a price!"
The vehemence was back in Cyrus's voice and he dared now to look me in the eye.
"I don't believe he is a true Christian. He's a...a...a savage!"
I stopped Cyrus, placing my hand over his arm and looked down upon his troubled face.
"He is far from being a savage. He is of noble blood. A proud and dignified black man. Not a "savage" as you put it. I won't have you speak of him like that! As I said before, I expect you to show him the same obedience as you do me...if that is ever required."
To his credit, the boy flushed hotly and hung his head again under my gaze. It was at that moment that I decided that he would benefit from the experience of being a mentor now that he was old enough to take on that worthy job and I knew straight away that the boy I would have him mentoring would be the small, black child, the Sudanese.
"I won't ever obey him!" he said suddenly and with real passion. "He's not you! He's not my master! I won't!"
He jerked his arm away and pouted like a little boy.
It was at that moment that I decided that he would benefit from the experience of being bent over the end of his bed and given a good hiding, a worthy job that I now determined to take on that very evening.
It had been an exhausting day; physically to some extent but most of all emotionally. The four new arrivals, washed and pampered, fed and watered had finally been led away by my senior assistant, Lucius, the son of a well-connected landowner back in Rome who, at 18 years of age, was my most trusted aide. Despite his strong sense of Roman superiority, a haughtiness of manner which was on open display even to those Greeks, such as myself, whom he answered to, Lucius was always hard-working and reliable and was someone I depended on to a certain extent.
Within minutes he had organised the spellbound boys into bunks in their own curtained-off portion of the dormitory - the long, hallway we shared at night - and had watched over them till they were all sleeping. He then joined the rest of my team of servants in completing any outstanding tasks before we all retired for the night. Cyrus was sat at a table, laboriously copying out an inventory of household items and transcribing the Greek names into Latin. I wanted him to learn the art of writing and it was only sensible that he had some understanding of the Roman script and tongue even though our everyday talk was in our native Greek.
"You may leave that now." I said. "Put it aside. You can complete it in the morning."
He replaced the stylus he was using without a word, obedient and bored in equal measure. I leant my head closer to his, felt the ruffle of his light-brown curls against my cheek. I wanted so much to kiss him then, to enact the passion I truly felt towards him.
"We need to talk. Follow me."
He followed, obedient and bored in equal measure. He showed little curiosity as to the nature of our "talk" although I suppose he had guessed that it related to what had been said between us on our journey back from the harbour. He followed me silently through my own sleeping quarters, which were hardly less bare than those of my servants and waited whilst I pushed past the curtains that separated my domain from the main part of the dormitory. We were alone. Six, two-tiered, wooden frames filled the makeshift room, their shapes looming at us crazily in the candlelight.
I glanced quickly towards the far end of the room, to where, on the other side of a curtain, the four boys were stowed. I hoped that they would not awaken and tried fleetingly to remember how noisily Cyrus cried when I beat him. I could make out the faint sound of snoring, two distinct snores at lest, and relaxed somewhat.
Cyrus was looking at me, his beautiful face rather grave and utterly unfathomable.
"I will not have you speak of Joseph...of any of your elders and betters...in the way you did today. And if I ever command you to obey him, then that is precisely what you will do, my lad, do you understand?"
He swallowed hard, nodded once and muttered his assent.
"Pull up your tunic and kneel on your bed. Go on, you know how. Stick your behind right up. That's the way."
I had allowed Cyrus to keep on his outdoor tunic from earlier, a longer, looser and less formal garb than that usually worn around the house. Without a word he had kicked his sandals off, hitched the robe up above his waist, baring himself and had knelt on the edge of his bed, leaning forward to bring his arse to the required position.
I withdrew from my own tunic a short, fairly thick leather tawse, which I knew would redden the boy sufficiently. With no more ado I laid into him, strapping his pale, tensed backside, using the curve of his crack and the appealing little bumhole that looked back at me, to guide my aim. I was pleased to note that he did not cry out although there were one or two distinct whimpers towards the end when I had already tanned him thoroughly once and had begun to tan him again for good measure.
Cyrus stayed bent in position a good minute after I had finished and again I noted with approval the manner in which he had taken his punishment.
"That's all, lad. It's over now" I said, needing to say something.
He rose stiffly, grimaced and rubbed himself, his eyes watering.
"You might not appreciate this right now" I said "but I am truly pleased with you for the way you looked after that child. You will make a good mentor to him, I know."
Cyrus looked down to the ground, a large tear falling and hitting the floor by his feet. I felt a surge of love for him well up inside me and something more; a strange elation, a sudden need to unburden myself to him, to explain myself, to justify myself, to talk of things that I knew he couldn't possibly understand.
"You see, Cyrus..."
I hesitated, my mind circling a shoreline, seeking a harbour. Finding none, I plunged ahead into the reckless waves.
"Joseph was my mentor once. Long ago. He rescued me. You see, Cyrus, I was a slave myself and would still be so now were it not for him. He rescued me and then I...I..."
I stopped, unprepared for the look of utter misery on the boy's face and then I understood. A wave crashed over me, knocked me sideways, smashed me up against the rocks but left me clear and cold-headed with my sudden realisation.
"They're not here to replace you, Cyrus."
I looked hard into the waters of his eyes.
"I promise. They could never replace you!"
With as much tenderness as I could muster, I laid my hands around his face and drew him towards me. Suddenly he was hugging me tight, sobbing. I kissed him once, a chaste, forgiving kiss on the forehead after which he recovered himself somewhat and shook himself free of me.
"Thank you master for punishing me as I deserved." he said formally, a solemn frown crossing his brow as if to simultaneously question whether he had indeed deserved his whipping at all. And with that he was gone, leaving me holding onto the tawse, alone in the dark.
I spent the next hour reading through accounts of the household's weekly expenditure, a task I always found absorbed me and prepared me well for sleep. But before I disrobed and allowed myself to rest, I gently eased back the curtain, as was sometimes my habit and looked in on my servants, on Cyrus and on Lucius and on the others who shared the dormitory. They were all asleep except for Cyrus. He couldn't see me as I watched him through the gap, lying back on his bed, naked, his erect member in his fist, pumping happily away, short panting breaths, a groan, a twitch, a thrust and quick release, the sweet, sticky juice running honey-thick between his fingers as he pulled himself and pulled himself and pulled into a world of brazen dreams.