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At The Royal Stables, Alexandria
Octavian's greatest political asset
is his credibility. As long as everyone
believes what he says without question,
he can do what he wants without question.
And this is just the beginning.
Rome will not hear the last of him for a long, long time.
The Queen a suicide? No, not that type:
murdered, perhaps, but not a suicide.
I was her father's Master of the Horse---
one of a number of titles I had collected,
most of the merely ceremonial;
but, for this one, I was expected to have
some working knowledge and experience.
She was then an adolescent princess---
a brilliant student, her tutors said,
excellent in languages and sciences.
But, in the summer, even the best of students
becomes a little bored with the ways of the world,
and looks for a little bit of excitement,
even the slightest bit of excitement,
to break up the even flow of monotony.
She wanted to ride astride a horse
while someone led it around the practice field.
She wanted to ride astride the horse, she said,
but with this condition: she wanted to be naked
upon the horse, in the sunlight, the summer air.
You cannot refuse the command of a Princess,
not in this country---no matter how strange it may be.
And none of us wanted to refuse that day.
With downcast eyes we turned our backs as she disrobed
(everything off, from the silver circlet about her brow
to the delicate sandals she hated on her bare feet).
She laughed and said no need for that;
we could look as much as we liked, for, after all,
this was more our place in the world than hers,
and she was only a visitor.
I had taken a very stern talk with the men
before she had, surreptitiously, arrived.
I had told them---no remarks, no catcalls, no noises,
no faces, no gestures, and no attempt of a feel.
But we were all sporting wood in her presence.
I doubt that even a sentence of death
could have prevented nature's constructed response.
So we all stood a little awkwardly, a little woodenly
(excuse the pun), as she walked between us, toward the horse
(that very lucky, very happy horse, I thought to myself).
We had laid an opaque silk cloth over its back,
to prevent the stiff hairs from irritating
the delicate pink petals of her flower.
She mounted, without any difficulty.
We had cast lots for who would lead her around---
considering the first and last to be most fortunate.
She really looked very petite on the horse,
small and slender, her limbs rather lithe.
The absence of tan lines confirmed some gossip we heard.
Her breasts were small and firm, her nipples erect---
the pleasure of the ride, I presume, and not a chill,
not in that weather, which had become quite hot rapidly.
For that afternoon, the ancient barriers had fallen.
She was not, in our presence, the heir of the Ptolemies,
future Mistress of the Two Lands,
Mistress of tow ignoble Romans.
That day she was a laughing, adolescent girl,
who wanted to ride naked upon a horse.
And we were not merely her father's slaves:
but, rather, the men whom chance had selected
to help her achieve this minor ambition,
to provide her an hour of rebellious enjoyment
with neither mishap nor inappropriate imposition.
Later, just after she had dressed and departed
back to the palace and her interminable lessons,
I retrieved the silk cloth from the horse's back.
A small damp streak, right in the center,
still bore her body's scent, and, around it, perfume
or lotion, befitting so noble a Princess.
For months and months it lay beneath my pillow;
I keep it inside a locked chest, to this day.
The Queen a suicide? No, not that type:
murdered, more likely: but not suicide.
Starward
[jlc]
