Little Signals
Lysicles
It is strange how life presents us with little signals –
happy affirmations or sad warnings – concerning the paths
we have already chosen to walk. You will recall (in my dreams!)
how my last dispatch to you was a missive replete with the enthusiastic
talk of books. I rolled it up, sealed it, and the following day
carried it, along with a song in my heart, to the desk of Mordanticus.
He welcomed me, as usual, with the utmost attentiveness, taking
pains to set aside his work so he could face me directly and devote
to me his fullest attention. And then, as though he had divined
through its seal the content of the parchment in my hand, he asked
me if I enjoyed reading. Is that not a wondrous thing? I smiled
broadly and nodded, effusing upon his ears the confession that my
mind was always eager to revel in its intercourse with the well-placed
words of a writer.
“Behold,” he said, “this gift I have procured
for you.” And he revealed to me a book. I was amazed at him,
for a book is a very expensive thing, and the fact that Maltinus
had entrusted me as the borrower of four of his own was astonishing
enough. Yet despite of the cost, here was a man I barely knew who
had endeavoured to buy for me a volume of my very own. “Why
do you gape at me?” asked the smiling Mordanticus. “Is
it so inconceivable that I, who stands in good position to spend
his money amid the markets of Rome, should not wish to lavish its
reward upon not only myself, but also the people in my life that
bring me joy?” “How is it I bring you joy, Sir, when
all that is the joy I bring to you is sealed up in these little
packets addressed to a stranger that knows you not?”
At this he laughed and held out the book to me. I took it from him
and admired it. “You are unique, Antinous, among the many
boys I have encountered here in my long years upon the Palatine.
You are a lad of letters; one who writes not from the compulsion
of duty but from that of your heart’s desire. This to me is
most laudable. And it stands as an evident truth, that the fellow
who writes with such outright zeal ought also with as much of it
read. Therefore do I give this to you with the ardent hope that
it shall become the foundation of a great and cherished personal
collection. May you enjoy it all your days.”
I opened the book and discovered its author to be Junius Juvenalis,
and the volume was entitled Book III of the Satires. I made no attempt
to hide how moved I was by the gesture of affection that Mordanticus
had made in giving it to me. “Thank you, sir,” I said
most humbly. Yet he very magnanimously brushed aside my reverence
of him, and plunged into a discussion of what I should expect to
find in the book’s pages: “This fellow is a friend of
Martialis, whom I must imagine you have heard of on account of his
notoriety. Yet for all that Martialis does basely, Juvenalis does
with the utmost elegance. He is a great and pious teacher of morality,
exhausted of the endlessly encircled paeans to the ancient gods
– tired and uninspired trifles whose odious authors have the
gall to call themselves poets – and adamant to bring to our
national literature an exacting portrait of all that is present
and immediate in the culture. I am quite convinced of this truth:
that it is the very best stuff of education for a bright young man
such as yourself.”
He took my letter from me then, placing it on the thick pile of
papers that was bound for Byzantium. “Who is he,” asked
Mordanticus, “this Lysicles? This lucky recipient who so commands
your heart?” I smiled at him, and answered, “He is a
friend, sir. A very loving friend. A boy my own age who shared with
me my earliest days – until such time as I was brought here,
to Rome, in service of the Imperial Household.” Mordanticus
looked at me then for a very long time. “It pains you,”
he finally said, “that Lysicles does not respond to your letters?”
I nodded silently, and added, “It is very not like him, and
I am concerned for his silence.” There was another pause,
and finally Mordanticus decided on a course of action. “I
shall send a dispatch,” he announced, “to the magistrates
of Claudiopolis. I shall ask of them to locate this Lysicles, or
his family, if they are able, and confirm for us that he is still
a resident there. If he is not, I shall have them endeavour to find
out where he has gone. It is most unbecoming for noble Antinous
to continue sending out into the world his messages when there is
no assurance that they are being received.”
Thus was I doubly indebted to the man, and thanked him most profusely.
But he was not given to flattery – even that of the sincerest
kind. “Go now, my beauteous boy. And tell me when you have
finished reading your book, for I shall be very pleased to engage
with you in a grand discussion of it.” It shall come as no
surprise to you, Lysicles, that I very nearly floated out of his
office, so bursting was I with the levity of that moment.
I returned to my position at the stables, and Anaxamenos was not
blind to my gaiety. “Why so happy?” he asked me. “Are
you expecting friends? Do you hope to be joined at last by those
abandoned compatriots whom you left behind when Hadrian picked you?”
I was confused by this, and asked him what he meant by it. “There
has been an inspection,” he explained. “It happened
this morning. Seven boys, I believe, were selected from the Caelian.
They have been brought to the dormitory, and are learning this very
moment of their positions.”
O Lysicles! How my heart sank then. For although none had said it,
I knew without a doubt that Carisius was now installed upon the
Palatine. Do not ask me how I knew it. I myself cannot explain it.
Yet that night, as Anaxamenos and I returned to the Gelotiana, there
– in the very same room as I – sat Carisius upon his
bed, reading silently the names of all those boys who had long before
us scratched their histories into the wall for all posterity. He
turned to face me as I looked at him, and there was a moment of
silent hesitation between us. And then he turned away.
Was he scared? Remorseful? Uncertain of himself? There was no way
to tell. He was altogether silent and self-contained; his characteristic
manner – that of a cocksure brat – was nowhere to be
seen (although I certainly did not doubt that it would reassert
itself once he had become more confident of his surroundings). I
remember thinking with some consolation that the situation here
was decidedly different than it had been upon the Caelian. For I
was now in a position to claim, as no other boy could, the distinction
of Hadrian’s favour on that particularly famous day not so
long ago. This no doubt afforded me a much higher status amidst
the boys than Carisius, as a newcomer, could claim. Yet I nevertheless
was wary, and decided not to engage him. I sought my bed and shut
my eyes.
But I did not sleep. Instead, I listened to the whispers in the
room as the other boys began to probe Carisius for his story. He
revealed to them that he was from Bithynia, and one of his listeners
interjected that I was also from there. “I know,” replied
Carisius. “We were recruited together.” And then the
whispers lowered even further, softer than I could hear, and it
became clear to me that his intrigue was already starting.
I sat up, and spoke crisply into the darkness of the room: “Whatever
Carisius is telling you, my friends, is very likely a lie. He is
malicious and cruel, and I urge you to greet his every word with
the most tenacious skepticism.” There was a small pause, and
at last the voice of Carisius replied to me and my accusations through
the gloom: “I was merely reporting to these boys my opinion
of you, Antinous, as an opportunist and an isolate; one who refuses
to engage with others and earnestly thinks of himself as a god;
far above the regular discourses of mortal man.”
At this, I was utterly stunned. Was that the perception of me, so
opposite of how I had looked on myself? I realized suddenly how
my silences might easily be perceived as so much more than the desire
to keep quiet; how they could project from me an image of haughtiness
and distance – the mark of a scheming, self-serving spirit.
“Does he here,” asked Carisius, “as he did upon
the Caelian, write his endless letters unto a mysterious friend?
Does he here, as he did upon the Caelian, read incessantly, intentionally
shutting out the world and the natural friendship of other boys?”
The silence of those “other boys” in the room was quite
deafening, for it screamed out as an indisputable affirmative. Carisius
spoke again: “Let me be the first to admit that Antinous and
I are far from allies, and have been so from a time long before
we arrived at the Caelian. I had many, many joyous friends at the
elementary school: some of you are here already; others are destined
to join us shortly. Antinous had but one – a strange and unnatural
invert who was later revealed to be a Christian. If, therefore,
you agree to be skeptical of my words, then I must urge you to do
so out of deference to your own experience, and not because Antinous,
my admitted enemy, commands you. ‘Tis from your own eyes,
I wager, will you find a greater truth than that which is spoken from his spurious
mouth.”
I suddenly felt violently ill. Yet it wasn’t in response to
the horrors that Carisius was speaking. It had much more to do,
I think, with the realization that he had so soon after his arrival
at the Palatine begun – successfully – to turn others
against me, and I felt powerless to oppose him. I wanted desperately
to ask him why he despised me so, and then realized that he had
just explained himself! I wanted desperately to defend myself, until
I realized that nothing I could possibly say would counter the truth
of my actions: I was indeed an isolate. I felt myself falling; down,
down into a dark pit of the utmost despair. I longed call out your
name, Lysicles. To call you forth unto my side and stand with you
shoulder to shoulder against his tyranny. And although I knew that
was impossible, it was nevertheless the image of you beside me that
fortified. I heard you say to me, “You do not keep many friendships,
Antinous, but those that you do, you keep powerfully.” And
from such a statement there came before my eyes the face of Trenus,
and of Maltinus, and then at last of Anaxamenos. And from him, I
thought of all the others with whom I kept company in the stables.
Surely they could not find me so disagreeable! I clutched desperately
at this lone hope, and spoke again to the room full of silent judges:
“Carisius speaks of our time upon the Caelian. He does not
know me now: a loyal and happy companion to Anaxamenos. He does
not see me at my work in the stables, where I laugh often and make
good company with Florentius, Dominicus and Quintillius –
all of whom are friends to you. If I am changed, Carisius, from
how you knew me, I dare say it is because I have had the freedom
to do so without the oppression of your daily abuses hanging heavily
over my head. ‘Tis you – not I – who are monstrous,
and I warn you now in the presence of all these invisible witnesses
that I shall not allow you to oppress me here as you did once before!”
There was a long silence then, in which I had to catch my breath.
I knew not from what place those words had come, yet they had been
pushed from my lungs with a powerful compression of emotion –
a rush of exhilaration from which I was still struggling to recover.
I felt triumphant. Fully expressed and unafraid. At last Carisius
laughed: “Believe what you wish, boys. I know what I know.”
And then there was nothing, save the moonlight creeping slowly across
the floor.
I need not tell you how difficult it was for me to sleep after such
an episode. I was for many minutes after trying hard to regulate
my breath and calm myself. I felt free, although at the same time
very confused. Why had it been so hard to achieve this breakthrough
in opposition to Carisius? From where had come this courage –
at last! – to speak my mind and defend myself? It dawned on
me that when I had found myself before Hadrian, there had been no
fear at all. And the danger to my person back then was considerably
higher than it had been this night in the dormitory. What was it
– in both cases – that had compelled me to speak with
such conviction?
The answer, of course, was perfectly obvious when I finally found
it: It was Lysicles. Aye, ‘tis you, my friend, who is the
source of my power and my courage, my conviction and my stability.
With you, Lysicles, before me – either in the flesh and blood
or in the centre of my mind’s eye – there can be no
want, no danger, no pain. And now that I have discovered this simple
truth, making it a conscious decree, I daresay that I shall tremble
no more before any mortal man or beast. For whenever I am threatened
or imperiled, challenged or provoked, I need only conjure the face
of you – my forever love – to fortify, protect, and
announce me.
The future no longer frightens. And now, with Lysicles as my heart’s
companion, I stride serenely into its awaiting arms. A.
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