EROMENOS: a novel of Antinous and Hadrian by Melanie McDonald Page A
Authors: Melanie McDonald
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bring myself to believe he had siphoned away all those funds and assets on purpose, despite Hadrian’s own thoughts on the matter.
With my grandmother, Hadrian waxed gracious. Sitting there in the atrium of my old home, he asked her about my childhood, encouraged her to hold forth on local myths and superstitions, and even told stories of his own about the tribulations of being emperor, while I kept silent, savoring her pleasure.
“Once I found myself petitioned for a second time by the same man,” he said, “only the fellow had dyed his hair black since our first exchange. When his turn in line came, I told him I could see a strong family resemblance, for I felt sure I already spoke to his grandfather.”
My grandmother laughed, covering her mouth with her palm. A remnant of girlish beauty radiated from her face in that moment, the sun peering from behind a cloud and then retreating once more.
“Another time,” Hadrian said, “I visited the public bath of a city while on a tour. There I found a man scratching his back against the lintel post outside the entrance, too poor even to go in for a bath. Feeling sympathy for his plight, I decided to give him a slave to scratch his back, and money enough to feed and bathe the both of them.”
My grandmother nodded, waiting for him to continue.
“The next day, when once again I went to the baths, wouldn’t you know—a whole flock of old men were waiting around the entrance, rubbing against the posts for all they were worth. They looked astonished, not to mention disappointed, when I merely suggested they might have a try at scratching one another.”
She and Hadrian both laughed.
During that trip home, I also gave the old cook her first taste of a truffle, that culinary oddity from beneath the Tuscan woods I had saved for her. When I stepped into her kitchen, she exclaimed over me, how tall, how handsome. When I held out my hand, she took the spongy black lump without hesitation.
“What’s this now?” She turned it around between her thumb and forefinger.
I held out a knife and said, “Taste it.”
She pared off a sliver, sniffed it, closed her eyes and popped the bit into her mouth. When she opened her eyes again, they looked liquid. She closed her fist around the rest of it, as if she were burying treasure.
“Ah, Antinous,” she said. “Thank you.”
U PON OUR RETURN to Rome, I learned that Korias, no longer ensconced in the court, had converted to Christianity and left his government post in order to follow his new faith off into the wild, perhaps somewhere in Africa. Although we settled on friendship in school, I still sometimes wished I had slept with him just once, all night, my hand on his cock, my head on his heart.
Of course I heard the rumors, everyone has, of the atrocities committed by that cult, how they drown children in baptismal rites, drink blood and eat human flesh in order to make themselves immortal, and hold frenzied orgies in secret chambers underground. Having known Korias, however, I never believed them. The followers of Jesus of Nazareth claim their own leader offered himself as a sacrifice for anyone, not just those of Jewish origin, who wishes for his intercession with Yahweh, who is, they claim, also his father. One day he will open up the underworld, they say, so that all the dead may fly out. I sometimes wonder whether Korias himself did not have rather a taste for self-sacrifice. It seems so, now, to me.
A MYRRA HAD NOTICED a couple of dark hairs that now shadowed my upper lip upon our return to Rome. She made a gift to me in secret: a pair of tweezers.
“Just—like that,” she said, and demonstrated by tugging a stray hair from her own brow. “Pluck, pluck for luck, Antinous. Remember, you are suffering for beauty.”
She handed the implement over to me and held up a mirror so I could look into it. I caught up a filament of hair in the tweezers’ tapered jaws and pulled. That first sting surprised me, but I began
With my grandmother, Hadrian waxed gracious. Sitting there in the atrium of my old home, he asked her about my childhood, encouraged her to hold forth on local myths and superstitions, and even told stories of his own about the tribulations of being emperor, while I kept silent, savoring her pleasure.
“Once I found myself petitioned for a second time by the same man,” he said, “only the fellow had dyed his hair black since our first exchange. When his turn in line came, I told him I could see a strong family resemblance, for I felt sure I already spoke to his grandfather.”
My grandmother laughed, covering her mouth with her palm. A remnant of girlish beauty radiated from her face in that moment, the sun peering from behind a cloud and then retreating once more.
“Another time,” Hadrian said, “I visited the public bath of a city while on a tour. There I found a man scratching his back against the lintel post outside the entrance, too poor even to go in for a bath. Feeling sympathy for his plight, I decided to give him a slave to scratch his back, and money enough to feed and bathe the both of them.”
My grandmother nodded, waiting for him to continue.
“The next day, when once again I went to the baths, wouldn’t you know—a whole flock of old men were waiting around the entrance, rubbing against the posts for all they were worth. They looked astonished, not to mention disappointed, when I merely suggested they might have a try at scratching one another.”
She and Hadrian both laughed.
During that trip home, I also gave the old cook her first taste of a truffle, that culinary oddity from beneath the Tuscan woods I had saved for her. When I stepped into her kitchen, she exclaimed over me, how tall, how handsome. When I held out my hand, she took the spongy black lump without hesitation.
“What’s this now?” She turned it around between her thumb and forefinger.
I held out a knife and said, “Taste it.”
She pared off a sliver, sniffed it, closed her eyes and popped the bit into her mouth. When she opened her eyes again, they looked liquid. She closed her fist around the rest of it, as if she were burying treasure.
“Ah, Antinous,” she said. “Thank you.”
U PON OUR RETURN to Rome, I learned that Korias, no longer ensconced in the court, had converted to Christianity and left his government post in order to follow his new faith off into the wild, perhaps somewhere in Africa. Although we settled on friendship in school, I still sometimes wished I had slept with him just once, all night, my hand on his cock, my head on his heart.
Of course I heard the rumors, everyone has, of the atrocities committed by that cult, how they drown children in baptismal rites, drink blood and eat human flesh in order to make themselves immortal, and hold frenzied orgies in secret chambers underground. Having known Korias, however, I never believed them. The followers of Jesus of Nazareth claim their own leader offered himself as a sacrifice for anyone, not just those of Jewish origin, who wishes for his intercession with Yahweh, who is, they claim, also his father. One day he will open up the underworld, they say, so that all the dead may fly out. I sometimes wonder whether Korias himself did not have rather a taste for self-sacrifice. It seems so, now, to me.
A MYRRA HAD NOTICED a couple of dark hairs that now shadowed my upper lip upon our return to Rome. She made a gift to me in secret: a pair of tweezers.
“Just—like that,” she said, and demonstrated by tugging a stray hair from her own brow. “Pluck, pluck for luck, Antinous. Remember, you are suffering for beauty.”
She handed the implement over to me and held up a mirror so I could look into it. I caught up a filament of hair in the tweezers’ tapered jaws and pulled. That first sting surprised me, but I began
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