Trust Not the Gods

TRUST NOT THE GODS

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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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