Ashes Under Uricon
Chapter 3. Vergil (360)
By Mihangel
Libidinis in pueros pronioris, quorum maxime dilexit Cebetem et Alexandrum, quem secunda Bucolicorum ecloga Alexim appellat, donatum sibi ab Asinio Pollione, utrumque non ineruditum, Cebetem vero et poetam.
Vergil had a marked desire for boys. Above all he loved Cebes and Alexander. The latter, whom in the second Eclogue he calls Alexis, was a gift to him from Asinius Pollio. Both boys had some education; indeed Cebes was a poet as well.
Donatus, Life of Vergil
I was quiet at dinner. So was Mamma, who was better but pale. So too was Bran, who was waiting on us again; but then he never spoke at meals unless he was addressed. But Tad, who arrived a little late, was in expansive mood. He had a present for me, he said. It would have to wait until after we had eaten, but if I wasn't bowled over when I saw it, then he was emperor of Rome. Although everyone likes getting presents, I could imagine nothing that would even approach Bran's gift to me that day, and over Tad's I was pessimistic. It was probably some trinket that had caught his eye, or a new knife, or a bargain tunic which would split at the first wearing and Roveta would have to mend. But I played the game, and Mamma joined in, of making wild and silly guesses. A pedigree stallion. An ostrich. A luscious concubine. A chest of treasure buried by the Fair People which Tad had found at the rainbow's end.
When we had finished with our snails and fruit, Bran cleared the dishes. Tad went out, and came back with a cloth-wrapped bundle which he laid on the table. Bran would normally have left at this point, but he stayed on, hovering in the background. I saw lively curiosity on his face and smiled at him.
"Open it up, then," Tad ordered.
I unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a stack of narrow double cylinders of parchment, each about a foot and a half long and with wooden knobs at both ends. They were tied together with twine. I fumbled with the knot.
"A knife, please, Bran," said Tad.
I cut the twine and the cylinders clattered apart. Each carried a little projecting label, and Tad bent over to peer at them. "Try that one first," he said, pointing.
I picked it up and unrolled it. After a few inches the parchment gave way to a pale brown sheet, coarse and grainy, of a material I had not seen before. I fingered it.
"Papyrus," said Tad. "All the way from Egypt."
I unrolled more, and there was writing, column after column in regular and beautiful capital letters. Amazed, I read the beginning out loud. I have since acquired the difficult knack of reading to myself, but I did not have it then. Almost everybody read out loud, even mundane things like sums or accounts.
The title, written in red at the head of the first column, said,
VERGILI MARONIS AENEIDOS INCIPIT LIBER PRIMVS
HERE BEGINS BOOK I OF THE AENEID OF VERGILIUS MARO.
It continued, in black, Arma virumque cano . . .
I looked up, flabbergasted. "Tad!"
He was beaming at me. "I bought them off Lugubelinus. For a song."
"But . . . they're not ordinary books, with pages."
"No. They're scrolls. They're old . . . must be a hundred years old at least. From the time before proper books came in. Haven't you heard of them?"
No, I hadn't. All I knew was proper books, and they were uncommon enough. There were none in our house. At school, all we had ever had was little booklets of a dozen parchment pages stitched together, full of grammatical rules. Nobody I knew possessed a real book, except old Nonius. When he introduced us to Vergil he had read from his own, a proper thick book bound with boards. None of us expected, or was expected, to have his own copy, let alone ancient scrolls.
"Oh, thank you, Tad! It's unbelievable! And is it all here? All of Vergil?"
"Not quite all, I'm afraid. There's one scroll missing." He peered at the labels again, muttering. "Yes. There are two books of the Aeneid to a scroll, and the one with Books XI and XII is missing. Sorry about that. It must have been lost a long time ago, because Lugubelinus said he'd never had it. So these five" -- he sorted them out -- "have most of the Aeneid, and these two have the Eclogues and Georgics."
"Oh, Tad!"
I was desperate now to get away and pore over my scrolls in private, but first I must thank him properly. I gave him the biggest hug I could. My head did not come up even to his chin, but I was on top of the world. My friends would be . . . no, they wouldn't. They would be green with envy at my close-up view of Senovara's pussy, but not at my nearly-complete Vergil. They were not that sort. And then my eye lit on Bran. He was still in the background, but almost twanging with interest and hope.
"Thank you, Tad," I repeated. "I'm going to take them to my room and start reading them. Bran, would you like to come too?"
Mamma smiled at us. "But don't be too late to bed! You both need your beauty sleep."
We were late to bed. Very late indeed. The evening was sultry and we stripped off our tunics. We unrolled the first scroll on the floor and lay on the rug in front of it, side by side, propped on our elbows. I let Bran start. Arma virumque cano . . . he intoned, almost as well as old Nonius. He carried on for thirty lines or so, down to Tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem, Such was the heavy cost of establishing the Roman people.
There he ended, and looked at me wide-eyed.
"Oh, gods!" he breathed, and I knew that he was as enslaved as me.
So we continued, reading in turn. From time to time we paused to debate what Vergil was saying, and once to wonder what kind of a man he was. When daylight faded, Bran went to find a lamp and we closed the shutters to keep out the moths. Drunk on words, we carried on reading . . .
I was woken by the insistent demand of my bladder. The simple need to empty it turned into simple farce. The lamp had run out of oil and it was pitch dark. I was still lying on my front, the floor was hard as iron and, although Bran's arm seemed to be over me, I was cold. I disentangled myself gently and crawled blindly around the room in search of the pisspot. Once I had found it, I had a long struggle trying, by touch alone, to untie the string of my drawers. Only then could I let rip, trusting that I was aiming straight. Yes, I was, and the noise of it roused Bran. He came over, in urgent need of the pisspot too. He had a similar struggle with his drawers, and by the time our joint fumblings had succeeded and I had pulled them down for him I was giggling uncontrollably and he was almost paralytic with laughter.
"Oh gods!" he gasped. "I'm going to burst! Where's the damned pot?"
"Here," I managed. "Stay put."
He was on hands and knees, and I moved the pot into what I hoped was the right position. I had promised not to take advantage of him, but this didn't count, did it? No, this wasn't taking advantage, it was just play. I felt for his penis, grasped it, and aimed.
"Shoot!"
As he shot, groaning with relief, I pulled and squeezed it like a cow's teat, exactly as if I were milking at the farm. Psss -- psss -- psss went the spurts into the pot. That sent him into even more helpless spasms which threatened the floor, so I put my other hand on his buttocks to hold him still. At that point, having lost all control, he farted, and I felt the warmth of it on my hand. When the sound of pissing died away, I gave him another squeeze and felt him swelling between my fingers. That set me swelling too, and I let go. I knew, obscurely, that from this point it would be taking advantage.
"Bed!" I spluttered. "I'm freezing."
I had to help him into bed, such were his convulsions, and we snuggled together under the blanket. Without thinking I put my arms round him, his came round me, and we lay tight, erection against erection, as our quaking worked itself out. And so we fell asleep again.
I was usually woken by the sun, but not that morning. Nor was Bran. We were woken by a knock on the door and by Tigernac poking his head in. He seemed relieved to find Bran, but surprised to see us so intimately close, and even concerned when he spotted the two pairs of drawers on the floor. He said nothing and went out, but Bran, rubbing sleep from his eyes, sat up in alarm.
"Oh dear," he said. "I'm going to get a wigging. I'm sorry."
"Well, I'm not. Not a bit sorry for anything. For yesterday in the bath. For last night with Vergil. For sleeping together. For that fun with the pisspot" -- he grinned at that -- "Thank you, Bran." And I kissed him again.
He kissed me lightly back. "And thank you, Docco. For all of those. But I'm supposed to get you up and ready, and help get breakfast." He was out of bed, slipping on his drawers and tunic. "I must run. You'll find a clean tunic and drawers in the chest. All right?"
"All right. And Bran! Borrow the Vergil whenever you want."
He smiled and went out, and my heart sang. Over the past day I had acquired not only an old Vergil but a new Bran, an even better Bran, a deeper friend, more trusting and caring, more fun, more equal.
I dressed rapidly, carefully rolled up the scroll and put it away with the others, and ran to the spout to splash my face. I made it to breakfast just as Tad was finishing his. Tigernac was there, looking worried.
"So Vergil kept you both up, did he?" asked Tad, half stern, half humorous.
"Yes, Tad, till I don't know when. Sorry. We fell asleep over him, and when we woke up it was cold and we had no light. So Bran slept with me."
Tad looked at me quizzically. "That phrase can mean more than one thing, Docco. You know that, don't you? One can be quite blameless. The other . . . well, it's blameless too, I suppose, but you're very young for that sort of thing. And there's another consideration." His eyes flickered towards Tigernac.
I understood him. My theoretical knowledge, as I have said, was considerable. But in practice I was an innocent. I was only eleven, remember.
"It's all right, Tad," I protested. "We didn't do anything together. Except sleep. We didn't even think of doing anything."
"Good. I believe you. That's all right then. But don't make a habit of it. All right, Tigernac?"
Tigernac nodded back, visibly reassured. No doubt he would ask Bran the same question, and he would get the same answer.
"I must be off," said Tad, "but I'll be back for lunch. Have a good morning at school, if you can stay awake."
As I finished my bread and cheese, I reflected. I was a truthful child, as a rule. Mamma and Tad had drilled it into me, and life was easier that way. But was it true that Bran and I hadn't done anything together? What about me milking his cock? No, that still seemed different. That was a bit of boy-fun, not the sort of thing Tad had in mind. And I'd said we hadn't even thought of doing anything. Well, I hadn't. Not that sort of thing. But had Bran? Remembering yesterday's revelation, I was hit by a sudden qualm and scurried to my room. Bran had already dealt with the brimming pisspot, but the bed was still unmade. I looked at the sheet and blanket. No wetness, no staining. Everything was all right. I was dimly aware that Bran might have exercised considerable restraint.
Next, to Mamma, who was still in bed. I kissed her, said good morning, asked how she was, and apologised for being in a hurry as I had overslept.
"But you can't go to school like that, Docco," she complained. "Your hair's a haystack." Bran normally combed it for me. "Use my mirror."
It was a wonderful thing, an heirloom of solid silver and worth, I'm sure, a great deal of money. The disc was a foot across, and the complex handle on the back was formed by two thick bands of silver looped together in a reef knot. Around the edge ran a gilded wreath of flowers. The polished face was slightly convex, so that even if you held it at arm's length your head was larger than the disc. Besides, it was very heavy. I propped it on Mamma's dressing table and stood back to reduce my curly black mop to order with one of her combs.
"That's better!" she said, inspecting me. "You're a very handsome lad, did you know? And I love you."
"And I love you, Mamma. See you at lunch!"
At last, to school. Although it was only a hundred paces down the street, I was almost late, and as I sat down old Nonius was opening his Aeneid. Old Nonius? He can hardly have been over thirty, but already I thought of him as old because already I worshipped him. On our first day he had read as far as the point where the Trojans land on the shores of Carthage after the storm. He now carried on where he had left off. I sat, chin on hands, drinking it in, matching it with what we had read last night. Then suddenly, after only fifteen lines or so, something jarred. Dederatque abeuntibus heros, he had said. That was not what Bran had read from my scroll. Startled out of my absorption, I jerked upright. Nonius happened to be looking in my direction, and stopped.
"Something surprises you, Docco?"
I felt small and confused. "I'm sorry, sir. It's just that the words I know are different."
"You know the whole of the Aeneid by heart, then?" He was being only mildly sarcastic.
"No sir. But we were reading it last night, and my copy says dederatque abeuntibus hospes. But it doesn't matter."
"But it does matter. We need to get the master's words right. Is your father's Aeneid complete, then? Like this?" He patted his own book.
"Not my father's, sir. Mine. And it's missing Books XI and XII. And it's not a proper book. It's on scrolls."
Nonius' eyebrows went up. "It will be old, then. No copy is ever perfect but, other things being equal, older copies are likely to be less imperfect than newer ones. There is less opportunity for errors to creep in. I would like to see yours, Docco, if I may. Would you have a word with me, please, after school?"
I wished I had not raised the matter. Whether it was heros or hospes, the sense was virtually the same. When Nonius had finished his stint with the Aeneid he handed us over to an assistant who introduced us to Sallust which was, by comparison, boring. Then we were finally freed, and Nonius sought me out.
"You have a good ear, young man, to spot that discrepancy. And enthusiasm too, to be reading Vergil out of school. With whom were you reading it?"
"With my slave, sir. Bran. He's older than me. Fourteen."
"Bran? So he's Irish?"
"Only by descent, several generations back."
"And what education has he had?"
"Elementary, sir. My father paid for it."
"And was he reading Vergil with you at your command, or of his own free will?"
"Oh, of his own free will." I was quite shocked that Nonius might have thought otherwise. "He's as interested as me."
"Hmmm. Docco, may I ask you to introduce me not only to your scrolls, but also to Bran?"
"Yes sir, of course. Shall I bring them here, or will you come to see them?"
To cut a long story short, he came to our house. He inspected the scrolls with interest, dipping into them at random, reading to himself, nodding here and pursing his lips there. He asked to borrow them one by one, starting with the second so as not to interrupt our reading, in order to compare their text with his own book. He talked to Bran, had him read and explain a passage, and was impressed. It was lunch time and Tad invited him to join our simple meal. Over the eggs and vegetables and wine Nonius remarked that talent and enthusiasm should be fostered, and asked Tad if he would allow Bran to join his school for a year or two, free of charge. Gladly, replied Tad, having consulted Mamma with his eyes, provided of course that Bran and his parents agreed. Bran, who was waiting on us, gave an eager yes. Tigernac and Roveta, when summoned, gave a more qualified one, asking for the household routine to be reviewed to compensate for Bran's absence.
If Nonius was surprised by this democratic consultation, he did not show it. And as he was leaving with the scroll, I ventured to ask him a question.
"Sir, we were wondering last night what sort of man Vergil was. Please, can you tell us?"
"Better than me telling you myself," he said, "I have a book which will tell you. A new book, which arrived from Rome only a month ago. If you will treat it carefully, I will lend it to you in return for the loan of this scroll. You may collect it now, if you will come back with me."
And so we brought home Donatus' Life of Vergil and read it there and then. It was short and terse, but informative. At the section on Vergil's love life, Bran snorted.
"Typical Roman, having it off with his slave boys who couldn't say no. What does the second Eclogue say about this Alexis? Let's have a look."
We found the right scroll. The poem began:
Formosum pastor Corydon ardebat Alexim,
Delicias domini, nec, quid speraret, habebat:
Tantum inter densas, umbrosa cacumina, fagos
Adsidue veniebat: ibi haec incondita solus
Montibus et silvis studio iactabat inani:
'O crudelis Alexis, nihil mea carmina curas?
Ni nostri miserere? Mori me denique coges.'
The shepherd Corydon had lost his heart to the beautiful Alexis. But Alexis was his master's favourite, and Corydon's hopes were unfulfilled. His only comfort was to haunt the spots where the tall beeches spread unbroken shade, and there, alone in his unrequited love, he raved to the hills and woodlands these disordered words: 'Cruel Alexis, do you care nothing for my songs? Have you no pity for me? You will end by driving me to death.'
"I like the language," I remarked, "but Corydon sounds a bit soppy." I was too young to recognise the pangs of love.
"Not soppy to me," was Bran's verdict. "I know exactly how he felt. I'm a slave too."
Did he mean that his own love was his master's favourite? No telling.
"Anyway," I said, looking at the sun, "it's time we had our bath." Our bath it had already become, not my bath.
Thus Bran became a schoolboy again, and together we worshipped at Vergil's shrine.
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