Ovid's Other Metamorphoses (part 1) free porn video

Ovid's Other Metamorphoses A Poem and a Mistake "Future generations, listen so that you may know of my fame, The playful poet of tender verses, whom you are reading." --Tristia 4.10 Before I was relegated to Tomis by the bitter mercies of Caesar Augustus, I was a Roman; before I was a Roman, I was a Sulmontini. Now I am half a Greek, delivered to a seaside city of barbarians far from my home and my wife, never to return to the Eternal City where my verses were widely praised. I was torn from my love and work, and my work and love were torn from me. Metamorphoses lies unfinished, rough- hewn, needing the poet's final touch as a shaped block of cast iron needs the last smoothing touches of rasp and file. Ars Amatoria, the song I composed to instruct men and women in the art of love, is banned and burnt. Amores, my ode to the lovely maiden whom I called Corinna, was not thrown upon the pyre by the Caesar the censor; but the maiden herself, a maiden no longer, has perished in exile. No crime did I commit, no judgment of the centumviri did I face. Caesar's wisdom alone put me in my place, here surrounded by Scythians on the barest edges of civilization. Winters here are draped in snow, which Phoebus Apollo is scarcely warm enough to banish. Summers on the hospitable Sea are pleasant enough, but even pleasance in exile still palls. Twenty years and more have passed since I have seen my home or passed the time in the Forum, and gladly would I endure the most obstinate storm on Palatine Hill than face another innocuous summer day here. From Tomis where I reside, it is many months to Rome. I compose letters and poems to all I can think of, but my banishment is not lifted. I have exhorted the First Citizen with all the law that I can recall, all the law I learned in my youth, all for nothing. Caesar's will is implacable. Never before has Thalia, my Muse, commanded me to make known the specifics of my youthful indiscretion, for her art (and mine) is comedy, and this tale is not so comic. Even so, with or without her voice to grace my verse, it must be told: so attend, generations of the future, and hear of the song and of the error that banished poor Publius Ovidius Naso from Rome. * * * * * When I was a youth in Sulmo, just married at the age of sixteen, my father wished me to enter the public service, and this I did, following in the footsteps of my elder brother, Gaius Ovidius. My father felt it amusing to give us our nicknames: Silus for my brother, and Naso for myself. Little-Nose and Big-Nose. My brother Gaius, one year older than I, was sent to study the law. I was to study oratory. Both courses were considered admirable routes into the higher echelons of Roman government. Through our public service, my father hoped to navigate his family's good fortunes from our solid equestrian station into greater wealth and power, possibly even securing us a seat in the Senate. This path suited my brother Gaius better than I, for I found that all my orations turned to verse, and all my speeches found meter and rhyme. I could not escape Thalia, my muse, for she followed me everywhere I went. Gaius entered the courts as one of the centumviri. As civil matters arose among the plebians that required the attention of the law, all one hundred names of the centumviri would be entered into a lottery, Gaius's among them. The men whose five names were drawn would sit in judgment on that case; as these names were drawn by lot, there could be no accusation by the petitioners that the judges of the pentumviri held any untoward bias. This was not the life I would have chosen for myself, committed forever to the honorable course, shackled to the streets of Rome, but I could not object. My father was paterfamilias, and his word within our family was its own law. Still, when I was sixteen, I pleaded with my father for his permission to tour the Mediterranean just once before I was committed to this sober life of service and dignity. After seeing the hills of Athens, and absorbing the ancient atmosphere of dutiful democracy, I argued, I could hardly fail to be prepared to assume my rightful place. My father, seeing some wisdom in this, permitted me to go. * * * * * I left behind my wife and departed for Athens in the company of a friend, a fellow would-be poet by the name of Marcus Cornelius. He was a short and solidly built young man, so muscular as to resemble a square; his friends had nicknamed him Quadratus. We both yearned to see the glory of Athens, for it is from that famous city that all poetry sprang. Homer and Hesiod had told epic tales on its marbled streets; Sophocles and Euripides had produced tragedies to play from its amphitheaters; Aristophanes and Magnes had written the finest comedies. There was no place in the known world we would rather see. We found a ship with its sails pointed toward the Aegean, and packed our bags. For the journey east we would bring clothing, papyrus, and pens for writing; when we returned home, our scrolls would be filled with every story and myth we could hear. Cornelius and I had resolved to drink in every poem and verse, straight from the sparkling fountains from which they sprang. It was there in an Athenian agora that I first heard of the Bacchic Fiasco, which the Greeks called the Amphora of Dionysus. The Fiasco was a magical flask, so the Athenians said, which the Maenads had brought with them on their mad revelries. It had been blessed by the god of wine, Dionysus himself, an Athenian wine merchant told us earnestly. In great sincerity, with devout belief in every crease on his honest brown face, he assured us in a whisper that the flask possessed magical powers that would transform anyone who drank from it. Cornelius scoffed, of course, which drew the stares of many of the shoppers in the agora. "A magical flask," he spoke in Greek, laughing at the earnest merchant. "Do you hear this foolishness, Ovid? Surely any flask becomes magical if one drinks long enough from it -- it transforms one into a drunkard." I was hesitant to support Cornelius too strongly, for if we offended the merchant, the tale would never be finished. And yet I, too, could not bring myself to believe him. Surely this backward Greek knew that the myths and tales were just that -- stories. Any poet knew the license that a verse might take with the truth, surely? His own Greek poets had rarely ever agreed on anything. The wine merchant simply gave Cornelius a long, indifferent stare. "Think as you will, Roman," he said with a shrug. "It is all the same to me. Drink from the Amphora of Dionysus, and be transformed. Then, in moments, it is filled again." "Tell me, Nikandros," Cornelius said, "does Dionysus himself come to fill it for you? A fine relic that would be for a wine merchant. How much wine would you sell then?" "It is certainly true, whether you credit it or not," Nikandros said stubbornly. "My grandfather's grandfather saw it for himself in Corinth." "More foolishness," said Cornelius. "Corinth was plundered over a century ago. If there had been a magical amphora there, we would have taken it back to Rome, eh, Ovid?" I laughed, but not too vigorously; I did not wish the wine merchant to abandon his tale in the face of our united mockery. In the back of my mind, I had begun contemplating a poem that might encompass all of the metamorphoses of Greek myth, and this one was new to me. I determined not to let the details escape our attention. As Cornelius's sarcasm did not please Nikandros, I attempted to encourage further answers from him with a more pleasant demeanor. "What could have happened to the Amphora, my friend?" I asked him. "Might it have been left behind in Corinth by the legions?" The notion that the army might have overlooked captured treasure made Cornelius snigger, but I ignored him and remained attentive as the wine merchant explained, "My grandfather's grandfather said the Amphora was taken to Syracuse, where the Corinthians still had allies. I was always told as a boy that the Amphora looked like a mere bottle, and had no special magic, unless one knew its secret. Your Roman plunderers would never have known it was anything but ordinary." Cornelius at once began to laugh loudly. "A worthy story, noble merchant," he said, spreading his palms in a gesture of respect, but mockingly. "Such a tale compels me to buy two amphorae of your best date wine. But mind that I will pay no extra for magic spells." We purchased the wine from Nikandros at what were surely inflated prices. The earnest little merchant never resumed his story, so we left the agora with an unfinished tale. "Why did you mock him, Cornelius?" I asked him in Latin as we departed the acropolis with our purchases. "Was it not our purpose to come to Athens to hear the tales of locals?" "Poems and myths, yes," Cornelius said, "but not the idle gossip of a wine-addled Athenian. Mark my words, Ovid: that drunken fool was moments away from selling us the very flask itself, fifty drachma at the least. Surely he sells the Amphora of Dionysus to a hundred credulous idiots a day. Did you not see the woman in the agora selling the tunic that Diana had left beside the pool as she bathed? Or the grocer beside her that was selling the golden apples of Atalanta?" I agreed that Cornelius may have been correct, but privately I wondered. * * * * * We squandered an idle summer in Athens, enjoying the warm weather and seeing as many outdoor performances as we could. The amphitheaters of Athens had seen better days, and better playwrights, but we saw enough of the old productions to fill our scrolls with notes twice over. When it came time to depart, Cornelius favored the idea of returning directly to Rome. I, on the other hand, still dreaded the life of dreary public service that awaited me in the Eternal City, and I suggested we try Sicily. Cornelius declined, and I went on to that island alone. Sicily belongs to Rome now, but it hadn't always. Messana had been taken under the eagle's wing during our battles against Carthage, and slowly we had expanded our rule of the island until at last we had conquered it all. It hadn't been easy, as General Marcellus had attested. For a year I lived in Sicily, crossing the island from Messana to Palermo to Syracuse, and back again. It had all been Greek once, and they still told tales which interested me. I continued to take notes on everything I heard, and spent my evenings composing verse. Once I returned home, I would have to take up my father's yoke, but here I was free to pursue a life of poetry under Thalia's gentle rod. Periodically, I heard whispers of the Bacchic Fiasco, and diligently I copied them down. The Fiasco was said to be a narrow pitcher of unstained alabaster one cubit tall, carved at the fore into the likeness of a voluptuous gowned maiden holding the spout above her head, and with a plain curved handle. The poets and tale-spinners knew it well, and each described it likewise. It had arrived into Syracuse out of Corinth, but no two stories agreed where the Fiasco had been taken from there: back to Corinth, on toward Rome, east to Alexandria, or even to distant Parthia. One thing I now knew about the Fiasco, for on this point every tale was in accord: one drink of the fig wine from its depths, and any man alive would become a woman. So, thought I, as I affixed this into my memory: this explains why the Maenads loved the pitcher so. The mad women of Dionysus, who drank to his health, whose madness was legendary, perhaps had been neither mad nor women. * * * * * In Aprilis of the year 729 from the founding of the City, I returned, sun-browned and refreshed, and determined to face my future as a servant of the people. I had my verses, and my research, which might occupy my evenings and idle days, but henceforth my primary duty would be as a judge. First, before bending to that task, I pursued Cornelius so I might inform him of my discoveries in Sicily. In the year since he had returned, Cornelius had begun to pen some verses of his own, an expansion upon the prelude to Homer's Iliad, which had proved quite popular. When I cornered him on the Via Iugarius near the Temple of Jupiter, I advised him what the poets of Sicily had told me about Bacchus and the fig wine. "You're still chasing after that Fiasco, eh, Ovid?" Cornelius asked me. "It may exist still," I assured him. "It has not yet passed out of living memory. All we have to do is discover it." "And then what, Big-Nose?" he asked me, gently mocking. "I have no intention of making myself a woman. Why would I want such a treasure? No, Ovid, you had better keep it to yourself, if you ever find it." Also upon returning to Rome, I visited my brother Gaius Ovidius, who welcomed me back to civilized lands. He inquired after the weather in Athens, gave me all the latest news and politics of the Forum, and aimed me precisely at the patron I would want to visit in order to further my career in law: one Paullus Fabius Maximus. "I will visit him tomorrow morning," I promised. "Not tomorrow," Gaius said to me sternly. "Father will wish to see you first. I have heard him often lamenting at your long absence. You have been away from Rome for more than a year. A tour of the Mediterranean he promised you, not a permanent vacation there." "As soon as I am able," I said, and I meant it. I had returned to the City with the every intention of obedience to his wishes. Father was the picture of elegance and propriety on the first day of my visit. We reclined in the triclinium and took our lunch, while he asked me what I had learned of civic duty and democracy on my grand tour of the Hellenic colonies. In truth, I had not paid any heed to the subject while abroad. I had learned a minimal amount, more than I had realized, and he seemed satisfied with my data. But he had one inquiry for which I had no answer. "Publius," he said sharply one day during my visit, "how is your wife?" To this I could only stammer. "I divorced her, Father," I explained, "before I began my expedition to Athens." It was the best answer I could devise, for it was the truth; when I left Rome I had been but sixteen, and my marriage then had been ill-advised. At that age I had been unprepared for matrimony. "Publius Ovidius," he said, and his voice was stern, "you are a boy no longer. You must have a wife. That is the proper thing to do. Caesar Augustus has decreed that every man between twenty-five and sixty be married, and every woman over twenty. You are only eighteen, but you are about to enter the service of Rome, and your future will be determined by the diligence by which you adhere to the laws and customs of your peers." "But father," I objected, "I have no prospects for a wife. I haven't even been in Rome a week--" "That is your own doing," my father reminded me. "As it happens, I have been inquiring on your behalf. There is a woman available to you, whose father already approves of the match. Romance her, marry her, and tend to your duty." "I don't know her, father! Must it be so soon?" I asked. "Yes, it must, Publius," he said. "Duty first. You will have time later to learn the arts of love." * * * * * Her name was Geminia Flavia, and when she became my bride, she was known as Geminia Flavia Nasi. Her father, Manius Geminius, had also compelled her to marry, so if we were not a happy couple, at least we were united in equal unhappiness. I know now that Flavia was a special woman in many respects, but we did not begin with love. We learned love over the year that followed, but not enough to hold us together. For this, I must consider Flavia blameless, for our marriage was not her decision. I know who bears the blame for that. From Aprilis through the month of Iulius, I held my position on the body of centumviri, giving my judgments whenever I was selected among the five to represent the court. In the evenings I composed poetry that would soon become Ars Amatoria. It was just as my father had said: I must learn the Art of Love, and how better a way to do that, than to hear it from my Muse? Though we served together as judges, never did my brother Gaius serve with me on any court. The random lots by which our names were drawn conspired against it. Nevertheless, we found time to consult together in private. Often Flavia and I were called to an early supper, which Gaius served at four, following the afternoon baths. There at his modest residence, an insula on the ground floor near the Aqua Virgo, I met his wife, and he mine; and we discussed the issues of the day. My brother and I reclined each to a couch; our wives sat in chairs opposite us, as was formal and proper. While slaves served supper, Gaius communicated the information he had accumulated during his tenure, and I regaled them with tales of my adventures abroad. Eventually the topic one evening turned to the gods, as they always did in any properly pious household, and soon from there to more barbarous customs. Gaius's wife Sophia expressed a polite, civilized horror at the Bacchanalia, the wild and degenerate carouse which had been revived under Julius Caesar. "They say wild women roam the streets at night, in the manner of Maenads," she reported, her face flushed. "There is an excess of wine, and debauchery of every sort. In the baths, the ladies tell me that the Bacchanalia is a haven for adulteresses and prostitutes." "The Senate should take steps to eradicate such practices," Gaius said stiffly. "It gives the city of Rome a bad name." "They have, they have," Sophia insisted, and I imagined I saw a twinkle in her eye. She was obviously too informed on the subject for discreet disinterest. "The Senate passed laws against it, but the revelers simply will not be stopped." Gaius was unmoved. "They shall be stopped," he said, "I guarantee it. The law allows for the verdict of execution, for any who are apprehended in that crime. Their depravity has expanded since Julius Caesar foolishly -- I should say, unwisely reinstated the Bacchanalia. Caesar Augustus has personally made it a priority to restore sound, moral behavior to the citizens of Rome -- Bacchus or no Bacchus. Already I have seen two cases before the pentumviri, and I have heard of a third." "And were they executed?" I asked, with professional interest, even as Sophia's face turned pale. The law was now my business, even if it were a much-detested one. Gaius chewed his lip. "No," he admitted. "But if the carousing gets any worse, I shall petition my patron to bring the matter up in the Senate." My wife Flavia ventured a question. "What would you call their crimes?" she asked of my brother. "The two cases presented to me," Gaius said with a certain smug self- admiration -- as if he were the only keeper of the law! I thought -- "were both of a similar nature. Wild women, both of them; each claimed a husband who was not to be found. We could not prove any adulterous behavior by either of them, but both were clearly guilty of wearing scandalously loose clothing and of public drunkenness. We levied a fine against each husband in absentia and remanded each of them back to her home in custody of the city cohort. We warned them not to appear before the courts again with any unfounded babble about nonexistent men and magic wine." I took a moment to compose myself before responding. "Magic wine?" I asked. "Supposedly, yes," Gaius snorted. "Can you credit it? They could not be accountable for their actions, they said, because they had drunk wine from a magic fiasco. Have you ever heard such a ridiculous story?" * * * * * "Cornelius," I said to my friend urgently in the street the following day, "we must get into the Bacchanalia." "Into the Bacchanalia," he said, "and you a judge? What happened to the probity and dignity of office?" He sounded amused. Before responding, I examined the faces around us. We were on the street called Clivis Orbius, at the foot of Palatine Hill. The Curia was near. Any one of six hundred Senators may be anywhere around us. There was nothing for it; I lowered my voice, and said, "They have the Fiasco of Bacchus." Cornelius Quadratus laughed once, then saw my serious face. "You're sure?" I nodded. "It exists." "This magic flask," he mused. "The revelers have it? And they use it? How is it we haven't seen any proof of it?" "I don't know," I admitted. "Perhaps they don't know what it does. Perhaps they do. My brother has seen two cases before the pentumviri, but the evidence is inconclusive -- garbled stories, missing men -- I suspect the truth only because I've heard the tales from Sicily. In any event, even if the Bacchae have plumbed its secrets, I don't expect they'd confess it to the courts, do you?" "I would say not," Cornelius said. "All right, since your brother knows these cases so well, why don't you ask him yourself, Ovid?" "I don't dare!" I said. "Ah yes," he said, "probity and dignity again. The gravitas of judgeship suits you, Big-Nose. And for the same reason, you're not going to go gallivanting around Rome asking every maiden in the street if she's a midnight reveler." "No, indeed," I said. "The Bacchanalia is a mystery cult ruled by women; only women will know where and when they celebrate next. Unless we have a confederate on the inside, it can happen at any time, without our least suspicion. I have no such allies, Cornelius, and if you do not, I don't know what I shall do next." Cornelius smiled tolerantly at my passionate desperation. "I do not imagine I know why you desire to find this relic for yourself," he said. "It seems unusual that you should pursue this magic flask all the way from Athens, for more than a year." I desired to explain that a true relic, a bona fide artifact of the gods themselves, would be confirmation that the world in which we lived was more than colonnades and triumphant arches. What poet could aspire more than to examine the works of Heaven itself? But I was unable to speak more than a few stammers before Cornelius held up one hand. "Disregard that for now, Ovid," he said. "It is unimportant for the moment. Let us suppose I have the acquaintance of someone who may know more of the Bacchanalia than either of us. Then let us presume she may be convinced to reveal those fatal secrets to one of the centumviri. What shall I tell her, Ovid? What charms could you put into verse that would convert a definite enemy to a cautious ally?" "The tale of the Bacchic Fiasco is told by no other poet in the Republic," I said fervently, having located my voice. "I have pursued it for a year and I do not resolve to abandon it now. It was created by the gods, Cornelius. If it is real, imagine what we could learn about them." He nodded solemnly. "I will tell her that, then. We shall see." * * * * * * * * * * Love, With Rosy Cheeks "She who was called Corinna by me (not her real name), She stirred my wit, she who was sung throughout the city." --Tristia 4.10 As soon as I met her I immediately apprehended why Cornelius had called her a definite enemy -- or why she might perceive me to be one. I was on the panel of one hundred citizens who might be called at any time to render legal judgment, and the Bacchanalia was only barely legal. Furthermore, Caesar Augustus disapproved on the grounds that it promoted unclean behavior, debauchery, and immorality, especially among women. Rome had few enough natural-born citizens of her own, and it was said that Augustus was most concerned that the birth rate had been going steadily downward. There could be no more immorality, no more carousing, the First Citizen said, and he was prepared to enforce that ideal upon everyone using the very courts for which I officiated. Women must marry, obey their husbands, and bear children for Rome. As Cornelius had predicted, obtaining the allegiance of his hidden companion took diplomacy and negotiation. Nearly a year passed, during which Cornelius promised me that he labored continuously to secure his secret ally's cooperation. When I finally realized her identity, as I finally saw her there before me at the foot of Palatine, it was instantly obvious that the daughter of Augustus, Julia Caesari, had not wished to compromise her position with any indiscretion. She was a charming woman, with a head of luscious black curls and a face of dimpled cheeks, and at twenty-two, she was four years my senior. The daughter of Caesar Augustus was clad in a modest tunic of vibrant purple that covered her from shoulders to ankles, yet somehow her excellent figure failed to be concealed by it. Her sleeves had been slit, and bound in regular knots, so that her bare arms could be seen beneath the fabric; and her tunic had been similarly sliced to allow a diligent onlooker an occasional glimpse of a supple calf or of a rounded thigh. The throat of her tunic hung in rounded drapes of fabric from her shoulders, baring her clavicle. Around her upper arms she wore a pale yellow palla as a shawl. Standing still, she was the picture of chaste modesty; in motion, with her flesh peeking through her garments, she was a tempting vision of such grace and beauty as I had never observed in the female form. She had confidence and charm, and a ready wit; in every step she took, it was as if I could see Muses in her wake, composing stanzas of adoration. "Ovidius, I am pleased to be in the presence of your genius," smiled this shapely angel on the day in Februarius that we met. "Your Ars Amatoria has touched me deeply. I am honored that our friend Cornelius requested that I speak with the poet so young who knows so much already of love." "My education by Cupid was arduous, but always rewarding," I responded without a stammer, despite the hammering of my heart. "There are times that I regret having chosen to commit so rashly to a bride, when there is still so much to be learned." "Oh, indeed?" she said, arching one of her delicate brows. "I see no defect in your charms, Publius Ovidius, but it may be that any deficiency is concealed on first inspection. Shall we consider a brief ramble around Viminalis Hill? The fount at the Aqua Marcia on the east side is always such a spectacle to see." I bowed my head to Julia and said, "I would be content to accompany you around any hill, but I fear once you have apprehended me better, you will perceive my numerous flaws." Julia Caesari laughed gaily, and I felt the jealous stab of treacherous Cupid's arrow. Did that wayward son of Venus not know I was already married, and she too? Her husband was Marcus Claudius Marcellus, nephew of Augustus, the man for whom the theater was being constructed on Palatine Hill. To be seen to dally and flirt with the daughter of the First Citizen was to tempt the Fates themselves. And yet how could I not, for so unearthly was her attraction? "My father is vexed with your poetry," said Julia amiably as we strolled along Vicus Longus beneath the swaying laurel trees. "He says your erotic poems promote lasciviousness and depravity." "There is nothing sinful in my song," I replied. "My verses are comic, not lecherous." "Not lecherous, indeed?" Julia said, with one modest hand covering her smile. The bare flesh of her arm peeked between the knots in her tunic sleeve. "Why else should I consider reading them?" "You do me an injustice," I smiled. "But allow me to say that if even only one member of your family should condescend to read my poetry, I am very happy that it should be you." "My stepmother Livia does not object to it," said Julia, "but she would never approve, either -- not where Father could hear. As for my stepbrother Tiberius, I care not what he likes. He is an odious man, alternately unctuous and depressing. He is older than you, I think, Ovidius, but he acts as a spoiled child. Father has Rome on a platter before him, but Tiberius must be coerced into happiness, begged to enjoy the benefits of his station. I was raised by his mother Livia, you know, and I have seen his every selfish tantrum." We had proceeded down Vicus Longus and arrived at a sharp bend which led up and over the spine of the hill. We turned to the right and climbed that street to pass the lovely baths built by the consul Sulla. Here, on this shaded avenue, there were fewer pedestrians around us. Only the sparrows twittered overhead. "Our common friend Cornelius has spoken to me," Julia said at my side, so quietly that I wondered that I had even heard. "Do you recall what you said to him?" "I have heard stories of an alabaster pitcher," I murmured. "Manufactured by the gods." She nodded gravely. "Perhaps I have heard of it. I may even have seen something like it." "The Greeks call it the Amphora of Dionysus," I said. "So I have heard, too," she said. "It is a lovely tale, is it not?" "I would like to taste a drop of its wine," I ventured. "Would you know where I might see an amphora of alabaster, carved in front with the shape of a woman holding the spout?" She did not seem in the least surprised or vexed, but there was an air of satisfaction. I believed in that moment that I had impressed her deeply, and again I felt the pangs of unrequited love. This felicitous creature was one I could never possess, for a husband and wife stood between us, and a jealous father overhead. "You have indeed seen the - - a vessel very much like the one I know," Julia conceded. "Publius Ovidius, you are a marvel of wisdom in youth. Might I inquire if you have discerned the means by which it functions?" I could not resist a touch of pride. "I have studied it for a year and followed every tale of it that I could find across all of Sicily," I boasted. "If I cannot penetrate its secrets, I shall not rest until I have done so." "And why, would you say, is this matter of such great importance?" Julia asked me innocently. She turned her gray-flecked eyes upon me, framed by those lustrous curls, while the dappled sunlight played in her hair through the laurel leaves above. "Are you hoping by this relic to get closer to the gods?" A poet must always be prepared to speak with a silver tongue, but in this instance I could conceive of no better words to say. "In your presence," I told her, "I believe I am already as close as I shall ever come." Julia Caesari smiled at me again, banishing the shade of the street with her illumination. * * * * * The daughter of Caesar Augustus promised to arrange entrance into the Bacchanalia for Cornelius and me, and she was as good as her word. Within a week I received a letter at home, in Greek -- Flavia spoke Greek but could read none of it, so it was in that language that Julia and I agreed to exchange correspondence. She would vouch for our character to the Bacchae and would secure our admission into their secret rituals. Unspoken in her communication was what might occur if we were fool enough to betray the daughter of the First Citizen. Julia Caesari had left me no evidence, no signature, no confirmation that could be used against her. Our discussion had taken place in private. The only arrangement committed to writing was this anonymous letter, which asked me to inspect the Bacchic Fiasco on the third day before the first of Maius, in the groves of Simila upon Aventine Hill, west of Via Ostiense. The Bacchanalia were everything that decent citizens avoided. They lacked decorum and dignity; they were held at night; they involved wild, lewd acts of sex and depravity; the mode of dress was primitive and barbarous; and they were run by women. Needless to say they were quite popular in their own way; the Senate had never successfully stamped them out. Julius Caesar, whom many now nostalgically recalled as a friend to the common people, had finally brought them back in a limited way. He reasoned if you're going to have them anyway they might as well have rules. Cornelius and I didn't know the rules of the wild orgies and processions that followed that night on the first of Maius, but we weren't the only ones. We had heard enough stories to be forewarned not to wear anything conspicuously formal like a toga, or garments that appeared too rich. I wore a cloak and my old traveling tunic, and Cornelius dressed the part of a common plebian. "I have friends who are actors," he said to explain his costume, he he suppressed a yawn. "This was simple to borrow." We had agreed to meet southeast of the Circus Maximus, by the aqueduct, and already he was feeling the lateness of the hour. I was wide awake, my heart hammering in my chest: tonight I might possibly have my first confirmation that the magic of the Gods was real. How could I profane such an occasion with a yawn? Columns rose around us in the starlit gloom as we passed through the dark streets of the City. The moon was waning to a sliver, a mere crescent in the sky against the Great Dog on our right, peeking over Palatine Hill. We took our bearings from Aries and headed west toward the Tiber River. I had come prepared only with a bottle of wine and a knife, so I was glad to have my friend at my side. I was no soldier, having a poet's physique, but any armed criminal would think twice about attacking Cornelius Quadratus. As we climbed the hill toward the groves we began to apprehend the sound of carousing, already well begun. Women's voices mingled with men's, with occasional singing and the crash of cymbals. Someone was playing a lute, quite drunkenly, quite unable to find the same air as the carolers, but nobody seemed to care. At the edge of the forest the path was flanked by a pair of statues symbolizing Ceres and Diana: one with her sheaf of wheat, the other with her bow. Between them stood a woman wearing a shawl made from the skin of a roe deer, an undyed peasant's tunic, and a horned mask over her eyes. Her hair was decorated with twigs and leaves in a manner like, and savagely unlike, the traditional wreath of laurel. "Publius Ovidius, the poet -- and judge of the centumviri," the woman intoned sagely, as we approached her. "And Gaius Cornelius, who seeks to outdo Homer. Bacchus has been expecting you. He trusts," she added with a note of extra gravity, "that you will not perform your public service here this night. Tonight, in this sacred grove, you will not need your famous names." "You know who we are?" Cornelius asked. She hesitated only for a fraction. "I was told to anticipate your coming. Allowances have been made. The Bacchae are understandably anxious at your presence." "I will leave my verses with Diana," said Cornelius extravagantly, and gestured as if handing over a burden to the statue beside him. "She will watch over them while I join the revelry." "And you, Ovidius," said the wild woman in the shadows of the trees. "It has come to our ears that you are seeking proof of the gods. I have been asked by . . . someone we both know to put that proof into your hands. You will not misdeliver it." I glanced at Cornelius beside me; this wasn't precisely what we had arranged with Julia Caesari. Deliver the Fiasco to Julia? Nevertheless, I said, "I have followed every tale, and they have led me to this grove. I have come too far to make a misstep now." The Baccha seemed unimpressed. "You must realize the concessions being offered to you, Publius Ovidius: you a stranger, a judge of the centumviri. It is only because we believe you may have acquired arcane wisdom that you will be entrusted with our secrets. Therefore you must also realize the danger of making an enemy of . . ." "Our mutual friend," I finished for her. "I am aware of the responsibility." "Then come with me," said the Baccha, and turned into the forest. We followed her into the grove toward the festive orange glow of torchlight, from which came the sounds of revelry. In a circle at the center of the grove, where stood a fountain fed by the Aqua Appia, a makeshift shrine to Bacchus had been erected: rough-hewn and wooden it was, its monstrous angles a figure of terror and dancing shadows. The nude Bacchus stood with something in his arms that might have been a vessel or an amphora; around his head had been placed real laurel leaves. The carving was primitive, barbarous, and his expression lustfully sinister. Around the fountain was a half-circle of crude wooden benches, and standing iron brackets holding sulfurous torches. Wine stained the marble of the fountain, and soaked the ground underfoot. Attending the ceremony, in various states of undress, were about fifty women and half that many men. Most, like the Baccha who had greeted us, wore animal skins or tunics made of poorly spun cloth, if they wore anything at all. Many women were nude, or wore masks; some of the men were tied, or roped with collars, under their command. Couples fornicated in the benches among a sea of writhing arms and legs. One woman was bent over a wooden bench while a masked man took her from behind. Two women in animal skins kissed each other passionately, their fingers locked in each others' hair. Men intertwined their bodies with other men, in an act frowned upon by many people in the City; most citizens would have insisted that men had been intended by the Gods to be dominant, and take possession of their partner with their erect mentula; to submit was to be a woman. Cornelius and I were men of the world, however, and we had both seen Athens: this sight was not new to either of us. Those that were not fornicating were drinking: dipping cups into a barrel of wine and passing it around to any who were still conscious. Invisible to us, but audible, was a frenzied torch-lit dance that led through the grove. Laughter and merriment pursued after, not with a few nocturnal rustling bushes where exhausted couples had abandoned their vertical dancing for a more horizontal posture. All told, the attendees numbered a hundred or more. I will not pollute the reputation of any citizen whom I recognized there, and instead will politely excuse myself from any recollection of faces. Cornelius and I must have appeared as patently obvious newcomers. One of the Bacchae approached Cornelius and me with a bundle about the size of an infant wrapped in fine linens. Without a word, she placed the bundle into my hands. Gingerly I took it and unwound the protective cloth. At the center of the labyrinth was a vase of alabaster, just as I had imagined it: about as long as my forearm and about as wide, with a graceful looping handle. The forward curve of the pitcher was decorated with the carving of a Maenad, her thighs pressed decorously together, her arms stretched above her head as if to hold the spout. The workmanship was nothing like that of modern Rome, but ancient. It might have been Greek, or even Mycenaean. Cornelius was looking from the Fiasco to me, seeking confirmation. "Is that it, Big-Nose?" he whispered. "Is that the one you've been looking for?" I peered into the empty vessel and saw that it was filled with cobwebs. The fountain was close at hand, so I rinsed the dust from it. Two or three other Bacchae gathered nearby, whispering, observing my preparations with as much solemnity as drunken orgyists can. The look on Cornelius's face was perplexed and skeptical. "You just drink out of it? That's too easy. How come they're not using it? A magical flask would be most . . . useful here." "It doesn't work," said one of the Bacchae in a tipsy voice. "We've tried it. You put wine in it. It's just a pitcher." "Shhh," said another, just as inebriated. "Don't blaspheme. That was made by Bacchus." Cornelius nudged me. "Now what?" "Hold this," I said, handing him the amphora, which he took as if handling a live lion cub. I fished into my tunic for the bottle of wine I had brought with me, a bottle I had never expected to use. I had never anticipated that locating the Fiasco would have been this simple. "It doesn't work," said the tipsy Baccha again, and she peered closer at the symbol that had been fired into the ceramic bottle. "What is that?" "It's fig wine," I explained. "I had to look all over the City for it. There's only two merchants that sell it, both near Esquilinus. There was the cheap vintage, and the expensive vintage. I decided Bacchus was worth the expense." The tipsy Baccha tittered. "He doesn't care. He's the god of all wine." Now I had gathered a crowd of six or seven of the Bacchae, in addition to the one who had admitted us, the one wearing the crown of twigs and leaves in her hair. One or two of the revelers looked on curiously from the benches, but most were too preoccupied with themselves and each other to care. Carefully I poured the elixir of fig wine into the Bacchic Fiasco, and slipped the bottle back into my tunic. "Quadratus?" I asked my friend, holding out my hand for the pitcher. "Are you planning to try this yourself, or would you like to leave that up to me?" Cornelius had been peering into the depths of the pitcher, and looked up with a start. "No, no. You'd better be the one to try it, Big- Nose," he said. I took the Bacchic Fiasco. It felt cool to the touch. Stepping before the crude wooden statue of the Dionysian god, I poured a drop of fig wine into the carpet of dried leaves and twigs at the base of his pedestal in a small ceremony of sacrifice. I then drank deeply. The vintner had done his job well. The fig wine was excellent, and I could feel it rushing down into my gut, warming and swirling. There was a tingle on the tongue, and a pleasant aftertaste of fruit. "Anything?" Cornelius asked. I shook my head. "Nothing yet." "Drink some more." I raised the pitcher again and took another capacious drink from its neck. There was only a drop left, so I finished it off. The liquor sat in my belly like a delicious fire on a chilly evening. The Bacchae watched me. Cornelius watched me. "I feel nothing," I said, "except that my nose is turning numb--" I reached up to my face to feel the flesh there. It was more than my nose becoming numb, it was all the features of my head. My ears, my lips, my tongue all began to feel thick and far away. But the alcohol in my stomach continued to exert a warm glow within my blood, almost a pulling sensation, as if it were a sponge and my body were water. It felt oddly as if the alcohol were drawing some essence of me away, some important element that was Publius Ovidius. "Ovid?" Cornelius said with alarm. "You're shrinking." "I know," I said. My voice sounded unusual. "I know, you're all getting bigger. Don't panic." Heavy weights had been attached to my head. My skull felt as if it were balanced precariously upon my neck. The grove was slowly starting to spin, rising up and away, as everything masculine about me swirled away down some cosmic drain. The bones in my hands popped; the muscles on my arms withered. In the double images of my drunken sight, my big nose shrank into something petite and adorable. My tongue, numb with the taste of fig, became crowded behind my teeth as my jaw shrank in proportion. Black curls of hair dropped before my eyes, fell to tickle my neck, cascaded to my back. I could feel the fire in my belly growing warmer as it absorbed all my manly energy. My male mentula tried to resist, but I could feel it diminishing in stature, reducing to nothing, while my coleones vanished into the flesh between my thighs. Bacchus's liquor boiled me away, as if the Fiasco were a crucible that left only female portions behind. And on my torso, I could feel my tingling flesh desire to expand. Behind my nipples a pressure built, a furious tension that stole my breath away; then an instant later, two breasts burst forth from confinement and bounded into reality, quivering inside my tunic. If Cornelius hadn't reached out one of his large hands to take my shoulder, I would have fallen drunkenly to the earth. His touch kept me on my feet. "Ovid?" he asked again in utter astonishment. "Ovid?" "Dear Gods, Cornelius," I said, slurring my words badly. My words came out in a pleasant alto. "Do I feel as drunk as I look?" "I would estimate you do," he said, staring at me still with an open mouth. "Oh, good," I said vaguely, and looked down the length of my shortened body to find feminine curves. The ground was a good deal closer than I recalled it, yet somehow it was much harder to stay upright. Must be all that wine. All that wine? It had been one narrow carafe. One carafe of wine blessed by Bacchus. The Bacchae approached me, hands reaching out to touch my flesh, brush my altered skin with their fingertips. I heard gasps of astonishment, oaths, prayers -- belief and disbelief. Some of them dropped to their knees. Elsewhere in the grove, the revelers had barely taken notice. I brought my head up unsteadily, my gaze weaving back and forth as I tried to look Cornelius in the eye. "It worked, didn't it? I told you it would." Cornelius Quadratus simply gaped at me, his poetic discipline having deserted him. "Oh, merda," I said, and hiccupped. "I need to examine that amphora. It's supposed to fill up again." It wasn't in my hands, and that confused me greatly, until Cornelius extended the Fiasco in his own grip. "When did you take this?" I said around my thick, disobedient tongue. "I didn't want you to drop it," he said, offering it back. I took it and tried to focus my gaze inside it. It felt heavy enough. "Did you refill this?" "No, I swear I didn't." "Well, it's full now." I took a sniff of the mixture inside. It wasn't fig wine; it was something very familiar, almost like militites. "I'm not sure what it is. It may be mead." "Ahh," said one of the Bacchae, the one crowned with the diadem made of twigs and leaves. It was a sound of profound understanding. "The stories are true, then. Inside the Fiasco is your manhood. Drink the nectar from the jar, poet, and your male figure will be restored to you." "I am far too drunk," I said, peering into the pitcher unsteadily. "Bacchus makes a potent brew. I can barely stand." "Do not delay too long. Someone else may drink your manhood," the Baccha said with a sly smile. "And if it is a woman who drinks it, then she will be a man. If it is a man who drinks it, then he will be doubly potent. Perhaps your friend, poet, would care to try?" I looked up at Cornelius with bleary eyes, then at the frankly lustful countenance of the Queen of the Bacchae, then back to him. His expression was still of astonished horror. "If I drink this," I told Quadratus, "I'm going to black out." Cornelius nodded, perturbed but unafraid. "I'll see that you get home." "My thanks," I said, and lifted the Fiasco to my lips again.