“That’s treason you’re talking, buddy!” The soldier was getting angry. “You’re undermining our boys overseas.”
“On the contrary, I support them. I say bring them home. That’s more supportive than grinding them up for cannon fodder.”
“You’re saying you know better than Caesar what’s good for the country.”
“Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto—”
“Dialectics!” The soldier cut him off. “Don’t you realize we have to pacify Britain and Spain in order to secure our own boundaries from attack? If they went, then one country after another would fall to the barbarians and soon Rome itself would fall.”
“Britain and Spain are a long way from Rome. And there’s been no attempt to attack us in those quarters-—-only an attempt by the populace to defend itself against our invading legions.”
“You care more about the barbarians than you do about Rome!” the soldier countered. “Why, you people are trying to undermine the whole basis of Roman society. I’ve heard you talking. You want to do away with slavery!”
“All men are brothers. There can be no masters and no slaves.”
“Without slavery, the Roman economy would be ruined!”
“If it is an evil economy based on slavery, then it should be destroyed.”
“There! See! You have no respect for law and order!”
The soldier was fuming. “Anybody can see what you’re trying to do. But what I don’t understand is what you hope to gain by it.”
“The Kingdom of Heaven,” the Christian murmured.
The soldier ignored the remark. “I mean, from what I’ve seen of you Christians, there can’t be much money in it.”
“There are more important things than material wealth,” the Christian replied.
“Like what?” The soldier was skeptical.
“Love.”
“Well, I like a little piece myself now and then . . .” The soldier smirked.
“If it is truly love, then it is no sin.”
“Sounds to me like that would take half the fun out of it.” The soldier chuckled. “I mean, it’s more enjoyable if the wench puts up a little bit of a fight.”
What we have here, I thought to myself, is a failure to communicate.
The Christian merely sighed.
The soldier, receiving no answer, changed the subject again. “Why do you want to go around antagonizing people?” he demanded. “Why do you try so hard to be different from everybody else?”
“We don’t try so hard. It’s just that our beliefs set us apart.”
“It’s not just your beliefs. Look at the way you dress. Look how dirty you are. And why do you wear those beards?”
“We dress in poor clothing because we know our garments will be ripped when you arrest us. It would be foolish to wear good clothing. We’re dirty because you dragged us through the mud. And lots of people who aren’t Christians wear beards. Our Saviour wore a beard. And his hair was as long as that of many of the men you taunted today.”
“Oh, come on now!” The soldier sneered. “Everybody knows you Christians never take a bath.”
“That’s not true!”
“You calling me a liar?” The soldier became menacing.
“No, brother.” The Christian sighed again. “Your error may be honest. But it is an error. I had a bath this very morning.”
“Well, you sure don’t look it.” The Roman guffawed.
“I imagine not.” The Christian smiled wryly. “But it’s good Roman dirt that cakes my body. And I paid for it with my bruises.”
The soldier waved it aside. “All I know is that being poor is no excuse for being dirty,” he told the Christian smugly.
“I agree. Cleanliness is next to godliness.” The Christian spread his hands and smiled at the soldier.
The soldier fell silent then. Evidently he decided it wasn’t worth the trouble to bait the Christian further. Or perhaps—just perhaps—the Christian had made a slight dent in his thinking. Perhaps, one day, another soldier, or his descendants, would see the light.
So smile as the skulls split open and tell yourself that that’s the way the Kookie crumbles. But is it? That’s what I was asking myself again now. Or is it possible to turn back the tide of brutality? If the early Christians hadn’t been martyred, then perhaps the later Christians might not have been so ready to become the club-wielders. If Nero could be stopped from kicking off the campaign to Christians before he started, then perhaps mankind’s killer instinct might be diverted. That’s where I came in. I was going to try to stop Nero. I was going to try to stop him from setting fire to Rome because if the fire was prevented he’d have no need to make the Christians the scapegoat, no need to murder them in droves for committing the crime he’d really committed himself.
But how was I going to stop him? I didn’t know the answer. Coming to his attention at the first pageant rehearsal was a break. Now it was up to me to capitalize on that break.
My chance came with the final rehearsal for the pageant. It took place in the afternoon. The pageant itself was to commence at nightfall and continue for many hours. The theme was the fall of Troy. It was to be acted out to the accompaniment of a recitation by Nero himself. This was to be verbal. Nero hadn’t yet come up with the inspiration for his fiery musical finale. But he would.
Meanwhile, he was busy directing the orgy scene in which, thanks to my golden equipment, I was to play a major role. Using the arena ballroom of his palace for this dress -- or, rather, undress—rehearsal, Nero arranged the participants with all the painstaking attention to detail of a department store window dresser getting ready for Christmas. He was everywhere at once, arching a leg here, plumping up a naked breast there, polishing up a bit of oiled epidermis, making patterns of haunches and hips, setting up every detail of the orgy for the opening tableau and then standing back to survey the total effect. Finally satisfied, he gave the signal for the rehearsal of the orgy to commence.
I was paired off with a beautiful olive-skinned girl who really had come to Rome from Greece. Nero had picked her because he liked the way her skin tones contrasted with my golden gonads. As we posed, immobile, for the tableau, the girl told me her name—Melissa—and I told her mine. As the orgy began, we fell into conversation. “I was lucky to get this part,” she confided as I let amber wine trickle from a goblet onto her naked breasts. “This is the only pageant this year and my agent wasn’t even sure he could get me put on as an extra.”
“Then you’re an actress by profession?” I asked, cupping one of her large breasts so that the long nipple peeped out between my fingers with a single wine drop glistening on the tip,
“Oh, sure. But it isn’t easy, let me tell you.” She ran her nails diagonally across my chest, leaving a long, red welt. “The way things are these days a girl could starve to death. Are you an actor?” she asked, biting my ear.
“Not really. I was just sort of recruited for this.” I licked the wine-drop off with my tongue and the elongated nipple pushed out even further.
“Good!” Nero called. “Very good, Victor. Now turn her slowly over so that the audience will be able to see all her charms.”
I turned Melissa over and stroked her haunches. She made them ripple under my touch and squirmed as she stretched out across my lap. “It’s a hard life for a girl,” she told me. “Most of the men you come in contact with just want to make out and they aren’t really interested in your career at all.”
“No! No! No!” Nero marched over to us. “Not like that, you silly girl. You’re covering his golden organs. Symbolically that’s the most important thing in this part of the pageant. You must never hide it.” He grabbed one of Melissa’s plump cheeks and shifted her rudely. Then he grabbed me and positioned my attributes so that they glittered against her quivering nether-cheeks. “There! That’s better!” He wiped some of the grease from his hands onto his toga. “Continue! Go on now!”