“Apollodorus, we may still be wrong. We have forgotten woman. She is the mother. She pities…”
XVIII: THE EMPEROR-EMPRESS—HELIOGABALUS DANCES—THE GIANT
MARCUS AURELIUS was dead. Heliogabalus, the crowned transvestite, cuddled himself daintily on the throne of the Cæsars.
The people vociferated at the top of their voices that they were robbed to support an army too weak to cope with a band of undisciplined and uncouth Barbarians, and a monarch—from the East—who danced and painted his lips. Foreigners preferred not to accept the honor of Roman citizenship, and many Romans pretended to have been born in the provinces, for the taxes imposed upon the citizens were much higher than those upon subjects.
The mother of the Imperator was too hysterical and his ministers were too frivolous to govern; while he himself had become engrossed in the friendship for his adopted cousin, a taciturn young athlete, Bassianus Alexianus. His grandmother, however, who still retained a modicum of serenity and common sense, insisted that something had to be done, or the nation would rise in rebellion.
“What?” Heliogabalus shouted, exasperated.
“Augustus, High Priest of the Eternal Sun, man appreciates an unexpected gift a great deal more than that which is due him.”
The Emperor made no comment, but turned to me with the smile of a young coquette.
I remained silent.
He sighed, moved with profound pity for himself when I failed to respond. His effeminacy was too grotesque to intrigue me.
“Her Majesty’s logic is convincing,” I remarked, somewhat flatly.
“I hate logic.” Heliogabalus placed his small, soft hand upon his cousin’s shoulder.
“We are all children, Augustus,” the old Empress continued, “and children must be placated with gifts.”
“What shall I give them?”
“Your ancestors used to give them the circus, but they are bored with the games.”
“What shall I give them?”
“Your ancestors waged wars and returned triumphant, followed by captive kings and princes and chariots overbrimming with precious jewels and gold.”
The Emperor’s face, delicate and small, flushed. His nostrils shivered and his lips, fleshy but well-chiseled, lengthened in disdain. “I hate war! It is the work of butchers and cutthroats.” And addressing Bassianus, he continued: “Not that I dislike blood. The High Priest of the Sun knows the beauty of sacrifice. But it must be shed delicately, at leisure, amidst joy and merriment. Blood, like wine, should be drunk out of golden goblets. Am I not right, Bassianus?”
He rose coyly from his throne, arranged the folds of his robe, and reseated himself. “Augustus,” the old woman began once more, “since you will not give them wars,—give them baths.”
“Baths?”
“It is a Roman fad. The physicians claim that bathing keeps people young. Everybody wishes to be young. Give them the baths. The water may quench the smouldering fire.”
“The old woman is clever, Bassianus. Shall I give them the baths?”
Bassianus nodded.
“Let them have the baths.”
“The gods are with the Imperator. The sun shines upon his High Priest!”
A holiday to last three days was proclaimed. Roman citizens were invited to take possession of their new baths, the magnificent gift of their incomparable Emperor. Day and night the stones were to be kept hot that the steam might rise, dense like smoke; and the pools were to be replenished with spring water that the bodies might be refreshed and rejuvenated. Wine, too, was to be distributed without measure, and enormous piles of wreaths were at the disposal of the merrymakers.
Rome had not been so joyous for a long time, and the Emperor, just turned eighteen, wished to partake of the gayety. He dressed himself in a flowing toga, embroidered with gold and studded with tiny jewels, which reached the ground in the manner of the robes worn by patrician women. Upon his head he placed a wreath of fresh roses. His fingers were covered with rings, and his arms were wound with long bracelets, the shape of fantastic snakes and grotesque crocodiles.
“Any one recognizing me forfeits his life!” he exclaimed.
We nodded.
“I am Erotius, the son of a rich merchant.”
“Erotius,” we all repeated.
The moon, large and white, was encircled by an enormous aureole. Its reflection silvered a large part of the pool and overbrimmed the bank.
The people shouted, “No torches! No torches! It is light enough.” The torchbearers blew out their lights.
The Emperor threw off the linen blanket which dried his body and warmed him, when he came out of the pool. “I am the brother of the Sun. I am the sister of the Moon!” he exclaimed.
The people laughed.
“Let there be music that I may dance!”
“Your Majesty,” a Senator whispered in his ear, “I fear– —”
“Tomorrow you die, wretch!”
At first a little unsteady on his feet from the strong wine he had drunk, Heliogabalus managed to regain his equilibrium. People sang and played on various instruments, producing a strange cacophony, not entirely displeasing. The Emperor danced. He did not stir from the spot in the reflection, turning only his torso, delicate as a girl’s and twisting his arms in the manner of the Orientals. The slow sensuous movements became more and more rapid, more and more irregular, until they seemed the mad paroxysm of uncontrollable passion.
The Emperor danced on. The moon wound about him like a white veil, torn in spots and blown by the wind. The people clapped their hands and stamped their feet, shouting from time to time, “Magnificent! Fine! Fine!”
The music became more clamorous.
The Emperor breathed heavily through his open mouth. His movements slackened, became disjointed. Exhausted, Heliogabalus fell, suddenly, his head between his hands. The people laughed, applauded, made obscene remarks, and dispersed. One man placed a wreath upon the Imperator’s head. “Terpsichore,—Queen of the Dance!” he exclaimed.
Heliogabalus raised his head. A few steps away, he beheld a man of gigantic stature staring at him. The Imperator frowned. The man lifted his powerful arm slowly, and waved his immense fore-finger commandingly.
Heliogabalus rose, fascinated. The man continued to motion to him. The Emperor made a movement to withdraw, but something mightier than his will kept him nailed to the spot.
The two stared at each other; the giant’s eyes small but very sharp, stabbing the large dreamy eyes of the boy. The latter lowered his lids. The silent battle lasted for some time.
What strange premonition troubled the Emperor? What stranger power overcame fear, anger, disdain? Heliogabalus, like a girl in a trance, like a bird spellbound by the glittering eyes of his ancestral foe, approached the giant, making slow, indeterminate steps.
“Come!” the giant whispered.
Heliogabalus wavered.
“Come!” he said, and placing his large hand upon the Emperor’s shoulder, pulled him gently. They walked toward a dark corner,—two shadows, one long and broad, the other short and rotund, preceding them. An hour later a sharp shriek pierced the air, like the cry of a murdered bird.
Cruelly lacerated, crushed by gigantic hands, the body of Heliogabalus, the Master-Mistress, the Emperor-Empress of Rome, brother to the Sun and sister to the Moon, was found in a pool made scarlet by his blood.
“I shall not die tomorrow!” breathed the Senator, leaning upon my arm.
XIX: I BECOME A GOD—PRAYERFUL BUTTOCKS—THE HOLY CAMEL—CAR-TA-PHA YAWNS
AGAIN I turned my steps to the East. After a long sojourn at Palmyra, it pleased my fancy to bury myself in the desert. I amused myself by teaching a parrot to pronounce my name, “Car-taph-al.”