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The Alexandrian Mysteries
by Harry Palmer
Chapter 2: A house divided (or consuetudo est altera lex)
Alexandria, Egypt 335 AD
Two weeks had passed since my trip to the harbourside, my transporting back to my mistress's villa of the four young boys rescued from slavery. I always allowed this period of time to give new entrants to the household the opportunity to settle in, to recover from whatever awful experience they had endured prior to their rescue. It was a time of unrelenting scrutiny of the boys as they were given their first introduction to the ways of my mistress's house and some basic training in their new roles, their new lives. Each boy was shadowed constantly by their personal mentor chosen from amongst the servants under my command, boys who were themselves only a few years older than their charges but whose character and conduct I had noted and approved during their own time here. Cyrus was the youngest of these mentors, having only just reached 16 years of age himself. One other was eight or nine months older and the other two were 17; Theron, very nearly 18, had responsibility for the eldest of the new arrivals.
I had left Lucius, a trusted aide, in overall charge of the new boys and he reported to me every night on their progress. I always looked forward to these meetings, not only to catch up on our latest recruits but also for the chance it gave me to spend some time alone with him. I still felt very warmly towards Lucius, although his aloof manner could sometimes be irritating. He had first joined us five years ago, sent from Rome by his parents in order to capitalize on his good education, expand his horizons and benefit from the cultural richness of Alexandria. We had been lovers for two years, commencing with a first passionate kiss on his 14th birthday and I still recalled fondly the nights he had crept into my bed, the embraces, the increasingly wild entanglements, his mouth hard and wet on my hard, wet cock, the first time I entered him, the many times after, his still-boyish yelps when I pushed into him too roughly. His horizons certainly expanded with the progress of his sexual education, his seemingly unquenchable thirst for whatever cultural riches could be found in my bed.
He surprised me too, with a quickly-developed enthusiasm for flagellation. I had already beaten him numerous times in punishment for some misdemeanor or other but had never had any inkling that he might enjoy the exchange. How he surprised me! And then again, when he demanded frankly that I play the role of a young donkey-boy, an Egyptian peasant lad who found relief only in pleasuring his animal. Lucius rose up on all fours, a Roman donkey if ever I saw one, and groaned, intense and severe, as I entered him from behind, whispering my dirty donkey-boy slang into his willing ear.
The time came when his visits to my bed became markedly less frequent and then stopped altogether. I was concerned and upset at first but his manner towards me did not otherwise alter except that we were no longer lovers, just master and servant, although our relationship was always complicated by his status as a Roman citizen of fairly well-to-do means, something he never quite let me forget, even when addressing me as "master" or, as was more common these days, a simple "sir". Our former intimacy even allowed him to call me by my name.
"Oh, Theodoulos!" he would call, casually.
"Master!" he would add in a smaller voice and smile at me, catching my eye, looking me over with barely-concealed mockery down his long, ever-so-Roman nose. I had even caught him once showing off to some visitor from Rome by referring to me by name but giving its pronunciation a distinctly Latinized twist. It was "Theodolus this. Theodolus that" until I treated him to a severe and disdainful stare, after which he went back to calling me "master" but only for a day or two.
And so you have a name at last, at last a name for me, the most divided member of this divided house. A godless lover of many Gods, a former slave, a freer of slaves and given at birth a name that might have been chosen for the barely-concealed mockery it inspires: Theodoulos - "slave of god".
Despite the demands of running the household, the busy, crowded days, the intense instruction of the new arrivals, it was a carefree time in some respects. My mistress, Miriam, the lady of the house, had left Alexandria with her own, small retinue of personal servants, to visit her uncle's estate about 15 miles to the south. She would not be back for a few more days and a banquet was planned to celebrate her return, the organising of which had become a constant source of distraction to me. During this period, I was, therefore, mostly occupied with my own tasks. As the principal steward, my time was divided between the many different parts of the house; one minute discussing with an architect the design of new alcoves in the main hallway, the next, overseeing the delivery of wine and grain to the cellars; one minute called away to inspect the planting of some trees, the next, to approve payments to the cloth merchant, who was threatening to withold delivery of draperies that my mistress had ordered weeks ago.
Of course, I took whatever spare moments I could to observe the boys and note how their mentors, Cyrus in particular, were managing. Some of the obstacles in terms of the different langauges spoken had been overcome by a mixture of luck and happy circumstance. The eldest boy, whose name we learned was Sulung and who was born on a remote island far to the east, had, it transpired, spent the past three years in Cyrenaica, where his father, a trader in spices, had taken him to help with the family business as was the custom, he told us, being his father's first-born son, his name reflecting that fact. It was there that he had learnt to speak a strangely-accented but clearly understandable Greek and from there that he had been abducted and sold into slavery by his father's treacherous business partner from the Garamantes, the nomadic tribe that controlled trade in that vast desert region of the Roman empire. It also turned out that one of the cooks employed in the kitchens was fluent in Arabic and I quickly authorised his secondment to the main house to act as interpreter for the Syrian boy, whose name, we soon learned, was Sayid and who was indeed, as I had surmised, twelve years old.
However, there was still a problem when it came to the two younger boys, which made for some frustrating and also some amusing interchanges. Neither the Indian boy nor the African spoke a langauge any of us recognised and their confusion at not being able to communicate was sometimes pitiful to see, as too, I suppose, was ours. We had, first of all, to give them names and in the end, we chose for the 11-year old, the gorgeous, brown-skinned Indian lad, the name Kallistos, on the basis that he was, at least according to my servant Nereus, the boy's mentor, the "most beautiful" of the four, a judgement that was fiercely, if playfully, disputed by the others. Cyrus, in particular was vocal in praising the African lad in his care in terms of physical beauty, bodily grace and especially in respect of the sweet and loving nature that he revealed once his fear and shyness were overcome. I had wanted to call him Melanthios, since he was, surely, a "black flower" amongst us. However, I was over-ruled and in recognition of the wide, friendly smile he displayed so readily to anyone who paid him the slightest attention, showing that he was indeed a "friend to all", we bestowed on him the name Pamphilos.
As the day of Miriam's return approached, the air of expectancy in the house grew stronger and a sense of genuine excitement touched everything we did. We were all decked out in our best apparel; the younger serving boys, from Theron down to Cyrus, looked stunningly beautiful dressed in their formal tunics, pure white and trimmed in light blue with silver highlights marking every seam and a rather effeminate pleated skirt. They were deliberately short tunics, barely covering the genitals, which allowed easy access for punishing the naked rump beneath if a quick punishment was required. To a certain extent their cut was designed to be deliberately humiliating, highlighting, as it did, the relative youthfulness, the immaturity of those forced to wear such a distinctive garment and there was not a lad amongst them but longed for the day they turned 18 and graduated to the more mature uniform of the older servants. These, such as worn by Lucius and by myself were straight, knee-length garments of different colours and trimmed in dark blue with gold highlights. In addition, each of the older servants wore a bronze medallion stamped with the seal of our mistress, which was secured roughly by a leather thong knotted at the neck. I alone, as chamberlain, wore a silver medallion, likewise embossed with the seal, with a chain of finely-wrought silver links.
Up until now, the new boys had worn simple cotton shifts that reached well below their knees; the day of Miriam's return, the night of the banquet, would see them for the first time presented to the house formally in the same style of tunic as their erstwhile mentors. They had already been measured and fitted with these and were bubbling with barely-contained excitement at the prospect of becoming full, if junior, members of the household.
The guests had all arrived, were lounging now on couches, sipping wine, the quality of which varied according to their social class. The Romans were served the very best; there were five of them in their exclusive enclosure, minor officials of the empire. The next best wine went to the Greeks, merchants mostly as well as a number of men of cultural influence in Alexandria. The guests were, in fact, all men with the exception of Melissa and the others of my mistress's personal retinue who had been allowed to partake of the feast in recognition of their good service on the recent excursion. Important Jews were also granted the privilage of dining in the predominantly Greek section whilst the coarsest wine went to those Jews of lesser distinction, even those friends of Miriam who would have been admitted, were it not for the presence of Roman dignitaries, to dine at her own table. They had been set even further apart, seated with a small number of Egyptians, whose very attendance I, myself, considered to be a scandalous social innovation. Last in the order of precedence, Melissa and her crew were not served wine, were barely served at all in fact and watched the proceedings from the lowliest position in the room although they seemed determined to enjoy themselves anyway, judging by the waves of raucous laughter which erupted from their enclosure at regular intervals.
Each of these little parties were placed around the open room, partially divided by the new draperies which, having finally been paid for, had been delivered that very morning. Miriam, although placed, as head of the household, amongst the Roman guests, who would, no doubt, be expecting her exclusive attention, preferred to move from group to group, allowing her democratic instincts to prevail over any strict observance of the traditional role of hostess.
After all the days of preparation, the seating plans, the buying-in of stores, deliveries of river pike and salted eel, the polishing of plate, stuffing of larks, the grading of the olive oil, preserving and pickling, the baking and the plucking of the ripest fruits, all the sudden, frantic activity surrounding my mistress's return that afternoon and then the guests to greet; after all of that, the banquet was nearing its conclusion. All had gone to plan and I was well-pleased with my team. I had spent the evening anxiously watching, directing the traffic to and from the kitchens, pointing out where cups needed refilling, dishes replenished or removed. No-one had let me down and I was particularly pleased that the new boys, self-conscious in their formal tunics, had performed their roles with such diligence.
The time had now come for the entertainment and I stood a little to one side to watch. I had no idea myself of what this might consist since I had left it to Lucius to organise. It began conventially enough with Lucius himself pacing the perimeter of the room whilst playing sweetly on a wooden flute, an introductory passage intended as an evocation, I believe, of Orpheus's journey to and from the Underworld. Theron appeared next, seated on the balcony and entranced the assembly with strange melodies in the Phrygian mode, performed on a small reed organ. Finally, from the furthest door to the dining hall a slow, solemn procession made its way. The group consisted of Cyrus at the front with Sayid and Kallistos behind him, bearing on their shoulders a large wooden box. They approached the main table and stopped dramatically, lowered the box to the ground, at which point the box lid flew open and out jumped little Pamphilos, stark naked, beaming as widely as he could and holding a large bronze salver above his head. He proceeded to run wildly round the room, his long penis swaying, his plump little bottom wriggling and his hands waving the salver. He ended up facing Miriam to whom he bowed deeply, holding his trophy aloft. There was a stunned and somewhat puzzled silence. Eventually, Miriam broke into the widest of smiles, matching that of Pamphilos himself.
"Why!" she exclaimed. "It is Apollo! He is the young Sun God! Don't you see? He is Apollo reborn, bringing light to the world!"
She looked around at her Roman guests who, dutifully following her lead, broke into a half-hearted round of applause.
"What a darling child! Here...come here, boy!"
Miriam gestured towards Pamphilos, who laid aside the sun and skipped happily into her embrace. Seated naked on her lap, he looked around at the still-applauding audience, accepting the reward of the sweet, sticky dates, grapes and figs that his doting mistress now plied him with.
And so, gradually, the party broke up, the guests dispersed and all that was left to do was clear away the mess. There was, however, one group who were not quite ready to leave off the merry-making. Melissa and the four other young women who were seated discreetly to one side of the main hall were intent on extracting the most out of the rare opportunity presented to them. They had, in fact, been helping themselves all evening to pitchers of wine and accompanying delicacies which had been intended for the other guests, brow-beating the new servants, unfamiliar still with banqueting etiquette and unencumbered with any understanding of the niceties of social hierarchy, into re-directing these items to their own undeserving table. Sulung had made several innocent trips on their behalf already, only too happy to be on the receiving end of the teasing smiles of these five, in his inexperienced eyes, alluring and voluptuous, if slightly tipsy, young women.
Melissa now called him over again, conscious that the party was nearing its end and the time for fun fast running out.
"I'm very pleased with you," she said briskly, casting a wicked glance at her neighbour. "You have the makings of a very...", she winked coarsely, "...a very, fine young man." At this, her fingers slid silkily over the front of Sulong's crotch. She rubbed at her own breast suggestively.
"Yes, you certainly do have...the makings!"
All five girls laughed mockingly, pleased with themselves, enjoying the boy's evident confusion.
"Look! He's bulging!" cried one of them shrilly, pointing to the point in the skirt of Sulong's, now undeniably bulging, tunic. Sulong was red-faced as the girls gasped and giggled, exhibiting a mixture of mock outrage, genuine thrill and malicious mischief-making.
"Show us!" demanded Melissa, repeating the order in a louder voice, when no immediate action followed. There was a sudden glint in her eye, an idea forming.
"Cyrus!" she called, summoning the lad, who was at that moment passing with a tray of leftovers.
Cyrus hurried over. He had been too intent on his other duties to have paid much attention to Melissa's table during the banquet but was not going to refuse her now. That she would even call his name was thrilling to him, that she wanted him in her presence was almost enough to make him swoon and he flushed slightly standing before her. He placed the tray down and bowed gallantly, his eyes ablaze with excitement that his very own Melissa should single him out, for in his childish infatuation, he had scarcely noticed Sulong, who was, in any case, just a boy and a junior servant to boot.
Melissa looked Cyrus over. If he had but known that she felt precisely nothing for him, nothing, that is, except for the usual contempt and disdain that she reserved for others of the household whose duties did not allow the kind of close personal contact with their mistress that was her special privilage, if Cyrus had but known this fact, he would have turned and run or fainted on the spot or clawed at his own face in shame. In fact, he felt like doing all three of these but for quite the opposite reason; he was convinced he was in love and sure his love returned. Had she, the object of his heart's desire, not summoned him now? Was he not at this very moment standing before her, proud, eager and ready to serve?
"Oh, not you as well!" she exclaimed. "What is it with you boys and your stiffies?"
At this, she reached her hand out and pulled up Cyrus's tunic at the front, brushing her hand against his own swelling penis.
"I really should call Lucius over and have you beaten in front of us. You can kneel before us and we will watch him whip you. Is that what you want...little boy?"
The mere threat of punishment, let alone the humiliation of a public punishment was bad enough; the awful, sneering way she had said "little boy" was a thousand times worse.
"Please. Melissa...I'm sorry...I..."
"Put it away!" she commanded and Cyrus hastily covered his now rapidly-shrinking member as best he could.
Melissa turned back to Sulong, who stood barely comprehending, bulging still more obviously than ever.
"Hmmm...," she mused thinking deeply. "Cyrus, on your knees!"
"Don't have me beaten, please Melissa!"
"On your knees, now!"
With failing heart, the boy obeyed. Melissa then ordered Sulong to raise his tunic. His erect member rose thickly in the air, wagging at Cyrus.
"Put it in your mouth," she said simply.
Cyrus gasped and eyed with both eyes wide the one-eyed memeber reaching out to him. He noticed now the slick of slimy wetness that had begun to dampen Sulong's long, throbbing penis and felt his own stiffen again in response. Gingerly, he reached his head down and took the end of the boy's thick cock into his mouth. He tasted the wetness and let his tongue touch gently the very hole from whence it sprung, surprised himself to feel the flow of salty pre-cum trickle round the inside of his mouth. Emboldened, aware of the eyes upon him, the air of expectation, hoping by this act to avoid a thrashing at the hands of Lucius, his let his tongue explore the foreskin, delicately teasing the hardened head of Sulong's 14-year-old cock. Feeling it respond, hardening and lengthening in his mouth, he pushed forward some more, taking more into him, feeling a vacuum form where his lips were stretched tight around the straining shaft. Slowly, Cyrus began to suck and pull, to clamp and grasp, to take in more and more of the long, stiff prick that now was flowing sweetly into his very throat.
To the delight of Melissa and her crew, Sulong himself now groaned and began thrusting his hips boldly, his young body and mind giving itself over to this new experience. He let out a few anguished sighs, unable to stop himself, gave one last push into the tight, wet hold of the hungry mouth that was eating him with such eagerness and finally pulled himself out with an audible plop. With one final, truly agonised cry, he ejaculated two quick, thick gobbets of spunk all over the still contorted face a few inches away. A third, more watery spurt followed, which hit Cyrus on the chin and dribbled down to stain his tunic.
Caught up in the awesome surprise of the moment, Cyrus gaped and cast a shocked glance at Melissa. He was unable to truly express the conflicting emotions he then felt and with Sulong's hot spunk still trickling slowly from his nose, his lips and chin, he could do no more than revert to an expression he and his friends had used, giggling and red-faced from the age of 12 or so. With an awed and reverantial tone he said to no-one in particular:
"He's done his custard all over my face!"
There was a moment of tense silence before Melissa broke out in a loud, excited laugh.
"Then let him lick it up!" she said, urging Sulong forward with a lewd, lapping gesture, the meaning of which was all too clear to the young boy.
Reluctantly, Sulong bent forward and slowly licked the slop off the older lad's face, testing his tongue against the sharp tang of his own bodily juices, liking the salty thickness and the feel of his wet mouth on the smooth skin beneath. He swallowed hard, licked his lips and grinned down at Cyrus, evidently very pleased with himself.
"Well, you boys are clearly best of friends now," said Melissa.
"I really do think you should seal it with a kiss."
Again she gestured, this time to Cyrus, who, understanding at once what she wanted to see, rose from his kneeling position, leaned tentatively forward towards Sulong and kissed the boy long and hard on the lips. Their tongues met and they held that moment a long, long second before pulling apart, eyeing each other now with a shy, dreamy gaze of mutual understanding.
"Melissa...," said Cyrus eventually, hoping to establish once and for all that a whipping was off the table. But she had already risen and was turning to go, her entourage following her amidst a flurry of furious whispers and supressed laughter.
"There you are!" The voice of Lucius right behind him. "I've been looking for you all over!"
He stopped quickly on seeing Cyrus close up.
"I can't leave you boys alone for five minutes, can I?" he exclaimed. "Look at the state of you. What's that you've spilled all down your tunic? Look at those stains! Am I going to have to make an example of you? Tan your behind in front of the whole kitchen staff?"
Cyrus looked up at him, suddenly feeling overcome by the events of the past few minutes, his eyes brightening with the prospect of hot, shameful tears.
"Don't look so worried!" said Lucius, suddenly flinging a friendly arm around the lad. "No-one's getting it tonight. Our mistress is highly pleased with us all - I heard her tell old Thoedoulos that we all deserved the morning off tomorrow! I think we can overlook a little bit of spilled soup...or whatever it was!"
"Custard," said Sulong in a puzzled voice. "I think it was custard."
Lucius looked puzzled in turn.
"Really?" he said. "I didn't think custard was on the menu tonight."
"No, neither did I," said Cyrus, sneaking a sly grin at the grinning Sulong.
That night I knew I would sleep well. The banquet had passed off better than expected and Miriam herself had taken the time to congratulate me on its organisation. I was dog-tired as a consequence of the stress of it all and allowed myself a small smile of satisfaction as I disrobed and crawled into the wide pallet that served as my bed. I was already drifting softly into a half-world of shadows when I sensed a movement nearby and then felt a warm breath on my face.
"Master?"
Cyrus didn't wait for permission or indeed for any kind of response from me before lifting the covers and slipping into bed next to me, his naked leg crossing over mine, his smooth flanks nestling into my side.
"Cyrus? What is it, lad? What's wrong?"
He was gazing at me dreamily, hungrily, remote and alert at once; a small animal roused, keen and alive but somehow not quite yet of this world. After a minute he pushed his face towards mine and kissed me on the lips and then in a strange gesture I did not understand, he made a kind of licking motion against my chin, smiling to himself as he did so. I held him, cuddling him close, letting his curls fall against my face.
"You funny boy," I said at last, puzzled still as to the exact nature of this visit. "Come on, lad, what's up? What do you want?"
He considered this for a minute and then, reddening slightly, leaned his mouth to my ear and whispered.
"You what?" I exclaimed softly, sounding perhaps more shocked than I had intended. He repeated his words, adding a few more delicious details. I smiled to myself, imagining Lucius and Cyrus together, what they must have been getting up to behind my back.
"A donkey?" I said. Cyrus giggled and nodded with sure, vigorous assent. He was already manouvering his slim body into position, assuming an on-all-fours pose, his pert little backside open to me, his slut of a donkey-boy, his anus positively winking at me. I reached over to my table for the flask of olive oil I kept there for purposes of lubrication and my fingers brushed up against the thick rod I also kept to hand to use on any of the boys if they misbehaved at night.
"You are a very stubborn donkey, you know. Very stubborn indeed. And I have just the stick to beat my little donkey with...right here!"
With that, I hauled Cyrus sideways, feeling his already hardened cock sway rigidly against my knee as I began to bring the rod down on his pale hindquarters. I held his penis as I beat him and worked my hand furiously, oiling him. He yelped and whined and whinnied then and after he had come and I had thrashed his arse some more, I oiled his bumhole and fucked him so that he bucked and swayed beneath me, yelping; yelping little yelps and long, hard, groaning yelps; yelps that told the story of his hurt, his love, his emptiness; and at the end, a longer, brazen, braying, donkey-yelp which didn't cease 'til I had filled him and at last, we slept.