The room was long and spacious and made with
three walls. The fourth side was open from wall to wall and ceiling to floor
and looked out on the palace gardens. The sun shone fully in, picking out
glittering points of mica in the polished granite floor. It was a chamber of
great taste and luxury, with rugs and foreign skins strewn about the divans and
lounging-platforms. The walls were paneled with mosaic pictures in brilliant
though subdued colors and were banded with alabaster, through which the light
showed translucently. The ceiling and the furniture were ebony with ivory
inlays. The urns and vessels were Grecian and simple.
Carus lay on a divan in the opening, full in the
sun and fresh from his bath. His long, auburn curls were still damp and
scented. On the low table at his side were many cups of different wines, from
which he sipped tiny tastes. Cluttered among them were rings and necklaces and
bangles. His slender white body stretched in its beauty with a sensuous luxury
very much like that of the cat which lay against his hip. He idly scratched the
dark brown head as he gazed out to the miniature temple Herod had built for
him. It was a strangely Egyptian temple and depicted, in a border near its
roof, hundreds of sinuous cats. It was a temple to Pasht.
“If thou wert dead, Sextabius, then might I enjoy
the Egyptian ritual that so intrigues me.”
Sextabius opened one bright blue eye and closed
it slowly and stretched his paws in ecstasy before him, unsheathing his claws
from their velvet cases in a luxurious flux of tension and release.
“But thou payest me no heed, Sextabius.” Carus
affectionately smacked the smooth, soft flanks, and the skin crinkled in
pleasure, causing nervous waves to part the pale dun fur.
“Thou art flagellist. See how thine ears flatten
to thy skull in pleasure, and hear how contented is thy purr. Thou hast a
strange beauty, Sextabius. It is no wonder I love thee. Thou art so sleek and
slim, so dun and dark. Thou art near as strange with thy unembarrassed blue
stare in thy dark face as I. And thou art vain. Look how thou art preening.”
For the cat was on its feet, arching its back and
yawning. Then it stalked the length of the youth to his armpit and sniffed
disdainfully before it casually curled itself in the soft hollow there.
“But thou dost not love me, Sextabius, else thou
wouldst concern thyself greater with my desire. The temple is thine, and if
thou dost not take care—”
Carus hesitated, and his long green eyes narrowed
before they opened to his thought.
“Mayhap ‘twould be the seemly thing—”
Carus reached to the cluttered table, annoying
Sextabius, who, discomfited, sat and gazed his disapproval. And Carus found
that for which he searched. It was a slender silver pin with a great pearl at
the end of its three inches. Carus was seated upright now, and excitement had
caused a glow on his cheeks and drawn his bright young lips into a smile—a
smile most innocent and pleasant, in contrast with the ancient inscrutability
of his eyes. They were flecked with gold and black now and seemed to hold
laughter deep behind them.
He picked a bit of candied tangerine from a box
and held it out to Sextabius. His voice was pretty and caressing and filled
with the teasing laughter of love as he spoke. “Thou art as fond of my favorite
sweet as I, Sextabius. But thou must beg for it—beg prettily.”
Sextabius blinked leisurely before he would
condescend to move. Then, slowly and graciously, he approached Carus’ lap, and
placing one careful foot after another on his thigh, stretched his flat head
toward the sweet. As he grasped it with his pointed teeth, showing the graceful
line of his throat, Carus, with a swift and silent movement, thrust the pin
through where the fur was softest, and before the cat could twitch, had flung
it away.
Sextabius was mad with pain and fright, and leapt
high and blind in his frantic efforts to rid himself of this thing that pierced
his throat and choked his breath. He rolled over again and again, clawing at
the two ends of the pin with all four feet. But his efforts only tore more
surely the wound in his throat and painted more deeply with blood his tawny
underfur. Carus lay back in a fatigue of excitement, and nibbled sweets as he
watched with glowing eyes and soft curved lips. When the cat was quite dead and
had ceased even to quiver, and was lying in a contorted pose with the pearl
like an inlaid stud on his pale and blood-colored fur, Carus struck a gong. It
was answered by a youthful slave, to whom he said, “Send my barber to me. And
notify the priests. My cat has died.”
His eyes were filled with tears, and his lips
were tremulous, and he seemed childly. As the pitying slave was departing,
Carus added, “But send me first the painter of friezes. Send me Bar Shem-El,
that he may see the formal design Sextabius makes as he lies there.”
* * * * *
The inside of the temple was painted a solemn
blue and was lighted by the flickering flames from two brass bowls of fire.
These were placed on either side of the blue marble altar that stood at the end
directly opposite the entrance. It was a massive slab and highly polished,
resting on the heads of four elongated replicas of cats. Towering over and
behind the altar was a statue of Pasht, her woman’s head as feline above the
voluptuously carved breast as the feline half was feminine. There was a broad flight
of seven shallow steps that reached the base on which the Goddess crouched.
Between her paws was a space in which reposed an alabaster box. The statue of
the goddess was itself greatly jeweled, having emeralds for eyes and draped
with necklaces of great price. An attendant in flowing white robes entered and
silently glided to the great sacrificial altar.
There were many cats about, their eyes
phosphorescent in the gloom and opal in the light. The attendant threw a
handful of powder into each of the brass bowls of flame, and they gave off a
heavy and heady cloud of violet smoke that rose to the roof and hung as a veil
below the lapis-inlaid beams. A muffled gong sounded. The ceremonies had begun.
In through the door and from the blue night
outside proceeded a group of virgin youths in full skirts of transparent
yellow. Their faces were painted into identical white-blue masks, and in the
center of each forehead a jeweled signet glowed. They entered in pairs, and
from their ankles and wrists came the sounds of the tiny silver bells that
ornamented them. Each group of bells had a different tone, so that the shaking
of an ankle would produce a sound that, combined with the shaking of a wrist,
could make a harmony.
In pairs they came until they were twelve; they
jingled with pleasant discord as they walked to group themselves in the festive
crescent before the great altar. Then they were still. The priests arrived in
their long robes of office. The robes were of dark blue and solemn. The three
priests stood behind the altar, on the first step to the shrine itself. Facing
the Goddess, they invoked in chant and monotone. Each pause was colored by the
sounds of wrists and ankles chosen to create chords of fragile beauty.
The first invocation ended; there was a moment of
silence, then the High Priest of the Temple entered. Carus’ face was white and
beautiful above his somber robe. His slender waist seemed yet more slender
under its wide, dull-silver sash. Around his neck hung a fabulous necklace of
sapphires and his transparent hands seemed fragile in their pale beauty as he
fingered it, reciting prayers in occult numbers as he held each stone. His face
was strange and flat and feline in its beauty, and the shaved expanse where his
eyebrows had been lent his eyes the discomfiting, self-contained stare of a
cat. His movements were solemn and silent.
He came to a halt before the altar. Behind him
followed two youths with shaven brows and foreheads. One bore a brass cup and a
knife, while the other carried a scroll of Egyptian characters and a cushion on
which reposed a small covered form. They took their places, one on either side
of the altar, facing each other. When all was silent, Carus lifted his childly
voice and intoned. And the virgin lads accompanied him in a dance of formal
groupings and attitudes to furnish the necessary hymn-tune with their bells.
Then, with beautiful gestures, Carus took from
one of the youths a dove and from the other a knife, and he offered the dove
for sacrifice to the tune of the dancers’ bells and the intoning of the
Egyptian characters. One youth caught the blood in a chalice; then Carus flung
the dove into a corner. A lean black cat, crouching low to the cobalt floor,
stole toward it and spat warning to a slick yellow one that disputed. But none
paid them heed, for Carus had neared the Goddess and was slowly ascending the
steps.
When he had reached the top step, he laid bare
his tender chest and drew thereon an occult figure with a finger dipped in the
blood from the chalice and likewise drew between the stone breasts before him a
similar sign, intoning all the while. And the dancers danced their hymn of
tuneful, chanting bells, becoming wilder and wilder in movement and sound,
becoming faster and faster, stranger, but never losing the tune so amazingly
created with their moving wrists and legs and arms. Then with great ceremony
Carus placed the spiced and linen-wrapped form of Sextabius in the alabaster
box between the Goddess’ feet. The chant grew to a wail as the dancers and
priest became sexual in their ceremonies; heavy breathing and pleasure gasps
mingled sensually with the now-discordant song of bells.
* * * * *
It was dusk of the next evening, and Carus lay
spent from the last night’s excesses, flushed and beautiful with memory. He lay
on the divan in the opening of his chambers. Then he saw the Magi for a moment
as they entered through the gate. But mostly he saw Caspar.
The next morning, when they were ushered into
their audience with Herod, Carus sat with him, his brow painted with indigo
eyebrows. Herod lay xanthocroid and ancient, making Carus seem even more
incredibly white and young. Carus heard little of what was said between Herod
and the Kings, for he was absorbing the exotic beauty of Caspar and was excited
before his unconscious beauty and his blackness. Caspar’s voice seemed soft and
warm and black also as it fell on Carus’ unaccustomed ears, binding them as his
eyes were bound by Caspar’s slender body. Of all this, Caspar was unaware. But
Carus decided he would possess this rarity and could think of no way in which
to do so.
When the wise men left through the Flamingo Gate
that night, Carus joined them, carrying with him a wealth of jewels. Caspar
listened to him and was not aware of the guile Carus practiced, and he took the
child with them.
And so they came, the four of them, to Bethlehem
and made their shelter beyond the town. Then, when Caspar, Melchior and
Balthasar were ready, Carus spoke and said, “Caspar, wilt thou allow me to
offer my homage to thy Messiah also?”
And Caspar said, “No.”
But Carus continued, and flinging open the top of
his cedar box to disclose to their view the magnificence therein, spoke,
saying, “Hast thou a greater gift than these?”
Whereupon Melchior laid bare his gift, and Carus
spoke, saying, “It is but gold.”
But Caspar answered, saying, “It is Gold for the
King.”
And Carus asked again if he might accompany them,
and Caspar answered still, “No.”
Then Carus drew from around his neck the necklace
of great value and, placing the many cords of sapphires with the wealth within
the chest, asked, “And is this still no gift for a king?”
Whereupon Balthasar laid bare his gift, and Carus
said, “It is but frankincense.”
Whereupon did Caspar speak and say, “It is
Incense for Divinity.”
And Carus pleaded still to go, for he feared that
Caspar might in some wise escape him, but Caspar answered yet again, “No.”
Carus drew from his sash a flask of rare perfume,
saying, “And is this not a fit offering to divinity?”
Whereupon Caspar laid bare his gift and Carus said,
“It is but myrrh.”
Once more Caspar answered, saying, “It is the
gift of Humanity.”
Then did Carus know that he could not impress
Caspar, for Caspar was even then unaware of Carus’ guile. And Carus’ childly
lip trembled, and tears fell. Caspar watched him with gentle, immobile eyes,
and Melchior watched with tender expression, and Balthasar looked with a
strange smile playing on the corners of his beautiful thin lips. Then Melchior
spoke, saying, “But these are a fitting gift.”
And he smiled as Caspar consoled the youth with a
caress. Then they went and laid their gifts before the Infant, and Carus waited
beyond the town without fear, because he knew that Caspar would soon return. In
the morning they started their return journey—Melchior and Balthasar going
their separate ways, Caspar going with Carus to the south. And Caspar told
Carus of God.
When they were lying in the cool of a shadow, and
the desert was blazing about them, Carus spoke, “And this God of whom thou
speaketh, Caspar? What is he?”
Caspar was lying full length on his back and
Carus sat beside him. Caspar answered, “God is love.”
And Carus, observing Caspar’s slenderness,
whispered, “Ah, true. Love is God.”
Caspar turned his head to view the boy before
saying, “Thou hast not heard me.”
And Carus, desiring to see the full lips move
more and reveal the great blunt teeth, argued, “But thou thyself hath said, ‘Love
is God’.”
And Caspar answered, “No, Carus. That God is
love.”
“And yet, Caspar, I can only understand that it
is as I have said. If one is the other, is not the other the one?”
And Caspar answered, saying, “Thou art allowing
thy words to use thee, Carus.”
And Carus had desire to note the contrast his
hand would offer on Caspar’s ebony one, but, sitting and childly, continued,
saying, “But only that thou mayest know, Caspar, that thou awakest God in me.”
“I awaken God in thee?” Caspar raised himself to
his elbow and gazed at the lad, for there was that in Carus’ voice that he did
not understand. He questioned, “Thou meanest, I awaken love?”
Carus concealed his excitement at the unconscious
awakening in Caspar’s voice, shown in its tone rather than in the question. And
Carus replied as simply as before, “Is it not as thou art teaching me, Caspar?”
And Caspar answered, “Thou must not make little
of my sayings, Carus, when I speak with seriousness to thee.”
Carus was pleased with the look in Caspar’s eye
and the unknowing entreaty in his voice. For Carus had seen like signs before
and did not know that Caspar was in truth a simple man. So he was bold beneath
his childly innocence as he asked, “Is it light speech to say I love thee?”
And Caspar, in his earnest zeal, placed a hand
over Carus’ hand where it lay on the sand, and his speech was impetuous, “But
see thou, Carus, the love of which thou speakest is an active thing, and that
of which I teach thee is a name.”
And Carus’ pulse was faster beneath his still
sincerity as he answered, “Then, if to me thou art love, is it correct that I
think of thee as God?”
And Caspar answered quickly, “No, Carus.”
To which Carus answered quickly also, “Yet thou
hast told me God is love.”
And Carus knew his guile was successful, for
Caspar argued now. “When thou callest me God, because I am to thee love, thou
art saying, love is God.”
And Carus, secure in belief of his victory, said,
“Then I am no good at learning.”
Caspar gazed at him for a moment in silence, then
spoke, saying, “But more than excellent at argumentation.”
There was that in his voice that caused Carus to
doubt. And he answered quickly, to keep the quiver of fear from his voice.
“‘Tis because, when thou art serious with me, I am reassured that thy concern
may be love for me.”
Caspar voice was changed and slightly impatient
as he answered. “But, Carus, thou knowest I love thee. As a brother. Nothing
can alter that.” He lay back again and turned on his side away from Carus,
saying, “Not even thy childish coquetting.”
Carus knew that he was unhappy in this first
encounter, and he sat long, gazing out across the desert through tears that
were not alone of disappointment.
* * * * *
Carus’ fondness for Caspar became even love, and
Carus knew he had never loved before. And when they were in Ethiopia, Carus
stayed in the palace and was friend to Caspar and listened to his teachings and
grew wise. And Carus grew into manhood and became gentle through his love—so
gentle and wise in religious meaning that when he was twenty-one, Caspar
decided to send him to Cyrene to be friend and teacher to Simon, who was cousin
to Caspar, and who would someday rule Cyrene.
The day that Caspar told Carus of his plan was
bright and hot. Caspar was lying full in the sun on the palace roof, his
beautiful black body bare and a linen cloth of great whiteness thrown across
his loins. Carus was seated under the canopy of red stuff and was tinted by its
reflection. Caspar spoke.
“Thou art the world to me, Carus. And thou hast
grown so in thy goodness—”
Carus twirled a vessel of wine around in the tub
of snow-cold water. He was pleased, as always, when Caspar spoke in this
intimate way with him, and the proximity of Caspar moved him now as it had nine
years before as he answered.
“And thou, Caspar—thou knowest my regard for
thee.”
Caspar moved sensuously in the brilliant sun.
“Thou hast grown so, Carus, that thy love for me is as I would have it.”
Carus remained silent as Caspar continued. “And
thou canst perform for me a great kindness if thou wilt.”
And Carus merely answered, “Thou knowest I would
do for thee anything.”
Caspar raised one knee and stretched and his unconscious
beauty was poignant to Carus. He continued, saying, “But this is a pleasant
thing I would ask thee. I have a cousin, Simon of Cyrene, and I think that thou
art the one for his growth. For thou couldst teach him and his twin thy beauty
and make great their souls. Thou wouldst always be with them, and their country
is beautiful, and thou so lovest beauty that—”
Carus’ breath caught in a sob. “Thou meanest,
Caspar, that I must leave thee?”
And his voice was so despairing that Caspar
looked to him, “But surely, Carus, if thou lovest me, thou wilt leave me.”
But Carus was already descending the ramp into
the palace. When he reached his chambers he allowed his tears to flow unashamed
and his agitation to take form. He paced the floor as some animal whose
quarters are unaccustomed and too small. He stopped before a mirror. It had
been a gift from Caspar. Carus contemplated himself therein.
“Wherefore am I not comely to this man?” he
questioned his reflection, and the trembling lips in the beautiful face asked
also, “Is not my beauty real? Are not these tears sprung from the very soul of
my emotion?” And the reflection answered affirmatively even as it mouthed in
silence his queries: “And in truth are not these tears sprung from the very
emotion of my soul?”
He tore from himself his fine garment and stood
before the beauty of his entirety—beauty such as had no parallel anywhere in
the world—and he intoned, “Likewise am I not completely beautiful? Can he not
know that my love is even yet greater?”
But the reflection offered no solace and showed
him only how great was his despair. He felt he could not live, so intense was
his sorrow. Then he decided.
Caspar was sitting in the garden near the Gate of
the Fish when Carus came and stood before him. And Carus was dressed for
travel. When Caspar would speak, Carus raised a hand to silence him, and spoke
himself, saying,
“I leave thee, Caspar, to do thy bidding and thy
wish. I pray thee speak nothing. I have learned too well thy teachings and
shall work thy will wherever I go. But likewise I would have thee understand.
Thou hast said, `God is love.’ Now that I leave thee, know thou this likewise.
So also is Love God.”
And Carus left as Caspar watched—watched and
watched until Carus disappeared into the setting sun and tears.