Ovid s Other Metamorphoses part 1
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"If anyone wishes to know all my misfortunes,
He asks for more than circumstance allows." --Tristia 4.10
Caesar Augustus held a sumptuous banquet in the magnificent palace
triclinium. We were not the only guests of the First Citizen and his
queen that evening, of course; there was such an excess of company that
five tables and fifteen lecti were not enough to seat us all. I could not
recount the full spectrum of distinguished personages that attended dinner
upon Caesar's pleasure, but I recall those who ate with us. Because
Cornelius had declared I was a tremendous fan of the Aeneid, we had been
seated with Virgil himself, by now past his fiftieth year and in frail
health. The old poet laureate kept largely silent, allowing the
conversation to be dominated by the young historian Livy, whose recent
triumphant work Ab Urbe Condita had been a special favorite of Augustus.
Also at our table was the poet Horace, and the engineer and architect
Vitruvius. As I portrayed the wife of Cornelius, I sat upright opposite
him, as Livy's and Vitruvius's wives sat across from their own husbands.
Virgil was unmarried and had no opposite. Completing the nine seated at
our table was Julia Caesari, whose husband was away and unable to
accompany her.
I recall little of the banquet which the First Citizen's slaves served to
us from the kitchen, as I was captivated by the discussion that prevailed.
My father had never imagined himself worthy of a meal with such luminaries
as these, and here was I, Ovidia Corva Quadrati, enjoying the company of
dignitaries and poets in the very palace on Palatine Hill in Rome from
which all power emanated. It was difficult to remember that I, too, was a
poet; I too was an orator of some skill, though I was only eighteen.
Here, I was merely the obedient bride of Cornelius Quadrati, too shy and
reserved in public to offer more than complete encouragement to my man,
too properly subjugated to his rule to volunteer my own questions or
commentary. All my male initiative seemed to have been stripped away, and
I felt a timidity and insecurity that would not depart.
Had I not been seated directly beside Julia, I believe I would have said
nothing at all, but to her it was permissible to speak softly. I was
doubly grateful for her presence at my elbow, for she stopped me from
making obvious errors in decorum and etiquette; I observed her exquisite
manners closely and followed her example. Not for the first time I
realized the peculiarity of my situation; had I been a man, I would have
been unable to concentrate on Julia's subtle expressions of correction and
encouragement, for I would have been hypnotized by my admiration of her
elegance and beauty. Instead we were women together.
Following dinner, Augustus commanded a selection of wines to be served,
and we had more leisure to move about the palace and courtyard to hold
private discussions of our own. Julia Caesari kept me at her side until
such time as we were alone to speak in confidence.
"I must say, Ovidia," she said to me admiringly, "I had no conception that
the Bacchic Fiasco would render a change as complete as yours. It is
truly you, for I recognize those eyes and those lips, but in every other
way you have been entirely altered. I must congratulate you on your
performance. No guest tonight could possibly suspect that you were
anything but the wife of Cornelius -- certainly not Virgil, for I hear he
looks more at young boys than at women. It is a shame, Ovidia, for if you
had come tonight as you truly are, you may have had more opportunity to
speak with that celebrated man. And there is no possibility you could
have missed the leering eye of Herod. He has no suspicions, I assure
you."
"Herod?" I asked quietly. It seemed far more natural to speak in quiet
conspiratorial tones with Julia, rather than in the boisterous and wine-
amplified pontification being carried on by the men.
"A king from one of the provinces: Judea, I believe. My father loathes
him, and I see little reason myself to love the man. I advise you to
reject any overtures Herod makes to you, poor Ovidia," she added with a
smirk. "He had his previous wife tried and executed for treason, and her
mother as well. Although were he to seduce you, you might answer once and
for all whether he truly is a Jew, as he claims."
"I have no desire to be seduced," I protested, my heart beating quickly.
"How can you say such a thing?"
"The Bacchic Fiasco is said to extract the manhood from anyone who drinks
of it," Julia whispered in a voice of surety. "If all that has been taken
from you, Ovidia my love, whatever might be left?"
"It hasn't disappeared permanently," I said to her, drawing even closer.
"What was taken from me resides in the flask itself. All I must to do
restore myself is drink it."
"Then the stories are true," Julia said with a mischievous smile. "Better
and better. Do you think, Ovidia, that you might meet me in the baths and
show me the use of this magic fiasco?"
"Which baths, these?" I asked. We were near to the private Caesarin
baths, reserved for the use of the First Citizen and his family.
Julia considered my inquiry. "Not these, I think," she said finally. "My
father can be tedious about strangers, especially where baths are
concerned. No, my lovely Ovidia, come as you are: you shall meet me in
the women's public baths here on Palatine, those which are served by Aqua
Virgo. All the Senators are men, but the women's baths are rarely used,
so we shall have a good deal of privacy there."
I spent the remainder of that evening in that disconcertingly feminine
state, and tarried at the residence of my friend Cornelius Quadratus.
Technically I was impersonating his wife, but only in the public forum; in
private we did not attempt any conjugal consummation of our supposed
state. That is to say, Cornelius attempted it, but I had enough masculine
independence and initiative to resist. I had not been rendered a slave by
the magic of Bacchus, after all.
The following day I traveled again to Palatine, with Cornelius acting as
chaperon and bodyguard. I observed that he had become more protective
toward me, and more solicitous of my comfort. He made every effort to
touch me, to brush lightly against me, to observe some speck on my tunica
and remove it. His constant and devoted attention was flattering to me,
weakening my resolve not to be equally attentive to him. This was a
disguise only, I reminded myself; I was under no obligation to be the wife
of Cornelius in fact as well as fiction.
This was only my third day as a woman, and I was unaccustomed to entering
the baths through the women's entrance, but Julia Caesari knew it well.
She met us at the baths on Vicus Curiarum in the company of a capsarius,
the slave designated to carry her towel and oils, and to secure the safety
of her belongings while she bathed. I had no such slave, but Cornelius
had agreed to stand watch in the vestibule to see that our possessions
were unmolested. In Julia's arms there was a bundle of clothing; in my
own, I held the Bacchic Fiasco, held upright with great care so my
masculinity might not spill.
Julia greeted me with a friendly kiss on the cheek, and turned to address
her capsarius. "Alexios, this is Ovidia. Do her the kindness of watching
over her things as well. If I should be unable to retrieve my bathing
things personally, do permit Ovidia to retrieve them on my behalf."
Alexios nodded curtly. He was a Greek youth with tanned shoulders and
strong arms, wearing the rich but plain tunic of all the Caesarin slaves.
He would not be permitted into the baths with us, as he was a man, but he
would be allowed to remain in the vestibule. Despite the diligence of the
city cohort, pickpockets did occasionally prowl the baths, especially in
the affluent regions of Palatine where potential profits were highest. I
resolved that I would not even consider letting this amphora out of my
sight, so long as it contained my precious manhood.
We entered the vestibule, where we paid the capsarii on duty for use of
the bath. Cornelius Quadratus and Alexios watched those bath slaves
closely as we handed over our cloaks and sandals. Julia did not entrust
her small purse of coins to the bath slaves, but delivered it to Alexios
for safe-keeping, and I handed the Bacchic Fiasco to Cornelius only long
enough to remove my own sandals.
The men were not permitted to follow us further into the apodyterium.
Julia and I entered that area alone, and each of us undressed. As I had
long suspected, Julia Caesari had the soft, supple body of which poets may
sing: pale of flesh, delicate of skin, and firm of breast. Unlike on the
day of our meeting, however, I was in no condition to take advantage of
our proximity. I had been stripped of every male impulse. I was
disarmed.
This fact did not escape her. "It is a masterfully thorough magic,
Ovidia," she observed with a dry smile, and her eyes fell down to the
cunnus between my thighs, the cleft that indicated my new sex. "Not a
single article was missed."
"It has been very disconcerting, Julia," I assured her. "I haven't felt
myself since my manhood was stripped away."
"That is understandable," she said, drawing close to me. Her small hands
felt their way around my narrow waist and intertwined behind my pelvis,
and she pulled me near enough to kiss. Her amber eyes surveyed the way
our bodies came together, my own naked breasts intersecting with hers, and
then her gaze lifted to match mine. "In fact, it is inevitable. You
don't look much like yourself, Ovid."
When I had met Julia, she had been slightly shorter than I; now she was a
few digits taller. I found that I now looked upward into her eyes, and my
own arms went automatically around her bare torso. My heart was now fully
pierced by her beauty, and my lips opened to voice something -- anything.
"Bacchus made you a lovely woman, my dear Ovid," the daughter of the First
Citizen whispered to me, and kissed me. "If only the gods had made me an
equally handsome man, you would at this very moment be in a great deal of
trouble. Imagine the mischief we could make if that were so, my lovely
poetess: you as the woman in my arms, and I a man. I have read every
stanza of your Ars Amatoria, and have committed both books to memory. If
I were a man, I could employ the tactics of the Art of Love upon you, my
dear."
My head was spinning with sheer desire, and I said to her, "If you were a
man, you might inherit the Republic."
Julia Caesari smiled, and kissed me again in reward. "I might indeed. At
the moment, my husband is being groomed for that position; Claudius
Marcellus is my cousin, and the man most likely to assume the duties of
First Citizen. Sadly, he has little to carry him to that title but my
father's favor: no skill in oratory, no success in battle. I hear all
the conversations in Rome are about ways to dissuade Augustus from his
selection. It is, in fact, the very reason Livia asked me to obtain the
Bacchic Fiasco."
This was too much to absorb at once, and I asked her to explain.
"My dear, delightful Ovidia," the daughter of the First Citizen said
gently, "I was married to Claudius Marcellus, and not by choice. He was
selected for me, or I for him, to cement his future role. My father is
blind to the realization that this is not a good choice, but assassination
is such a distasteful alternative. Neither Livia nor I wish my husband
dead, when he might simply be . . . neutralized. If he were no longer a
man, he might no longer be allowed to rule. And then, perhaps, we might
each, you and I, choose a marriage more amenable to us both."
"But all he must do is drink from that Fiasco again," I protested feebly.
"One sip of that would turn anyone into a man."
I had not meant to say it, but Julia's beauty had flustered me. Now it
was her turn to express surprise. "Anyone might become a man? Truly?"
What had been said could not now be unsaid, but I tried to minimize the
damage. "That is the story told to me by the Bacchae," I said quickly.
"It may be erroneous. They knew nothing of its working."
"Perhaps," Julia Caesari said, drawing away. The Fiasco, bundled in its
fabric, was near to her left foot, and deftly she stooped to retrieve it.
"Perhaps the simplest way to test the theory," she said, unraveling the
protective cloth, "is to try it."
"No, Julia," I said weakly. "That's my manhood. Without it, I--"
It was too late. She was already drinking from the alabaster pitcher,
consuming the honey-sweet liquor that was my masculine essence. As it
permeated her body, her clean and slender limbs began to acquire a dense
musculature, and her skeleton expanded to accommodate them. Julia Caesari
inflated, her shoulders separating further, her calves hardening, her jaw
increasing in length and solidity. Her hair retracted to a short set of
black curls, and her breasts receded into a broad, masculine chest. All
the while I felt a disorientation, a dizziness, as if my personal
orientation had been spun, and the universe now possessed a new center. I
could no longer advance toward the daughter of the First Citizen, nor
could I look away. There was an irresistible attraction that I could not
explain or identify.
Julius Caesari examined his large left hand, and the massive right fist in
which was clenched the Amphora of Dionysus. "By Jupiter, it worked," he
breathed in astonished satisfaction. "I am a man."
His words seemed to penetrate into my peculiarly soft brain, and I found I
wanted nothing more than to agree with them. "Yes," I told him. "Yes,
you are a man."
The new son of the First Citizen turned his amber gaze upon me, and I felt
pinned to the spot, unable to retreat. He now commanded my masculinity,
every drop and dram of it, and I was helpless to resist him. "So,
Ovidia," he said to me, and again my ears thrilled to the commanding sound
of his male voice. "What were we saying a moment ago? If you were a
woman in my arms, and I a man, how much terrible trouble you might be in?"
"Yes, terrible trouble," I repeated. My poet's mind had deserted me, and
I could think of no other words than those Julius said to me.
Julius cast down his eyes to his new mentula, which was beginning to
stiffen at the sight of me, naked before him. I saw his member twitch and
rise, and almost instantly I felt myself respond in kind, my cunnus
becoming lubricated and receptive. He reached out to take my hand, and
even as he extended his arm, I was offering my own.
"Not here," he said huskily, pulling me toward the tepidarium. "This
way."
I felt his every desire. Every lustful impulse that passed through his
body was automatically correlated to mine. I knew, as clearly as if
Julius had spoken his desire aloud as a command, that we were going into
the warm-water baths. I knew that in that exquisite environment, he would
have his way with me. Further, I knew I could never resist him. I could
never even imagine how to try. This man was carrying around my manhood,
and with it, he ruled me from afar. When he was aroused, I was; when he
wished to fornicate with me, I did likewise.
Julius led me into the steaming water of the tepidarium, conducting me to
the edge of the pool where the water was thigh deep, and we began to kiss.
It was impossible to act contrary to the desire I felt, a desire which
emanated from his expertly designed male body in powerful pulses. There
was no awkwardness as between lovers who barely knew one another, as had
happened with Flavia and me upon our arranged marriage; every move Julius
made, I made the exact counter-move, adjusting my balance, my grip, or my
arms to caress him expertly, exactly where he wished me to. Everywhere on
my body that Julius enjoyed touching, I enjoyed it equally well. And we
were insatiable, mad with desire, as befitting the magic of Bacchus; he
was as erect as any satyr, proud and long and thick, ready to penetrate my
body with his stolen anatomy, and I was as frantic as any Maenad,
commanded by his lust. Julius was feeling the hammer of Bacchus's wine by
now, and his will was overcome; I possessed no means by which I could
resist that, and indeed at times I felt as if I were as intoxicated as he.
He bent me over the edge of the pool and seized me from behind, driving
deep inside me, clasping the flesh of my hips with his strong palms, while
my breasts dangled and swayed over the mosaic tiles. I cried out in
passion as he spanked my rounded posterior, demonstrating his complete
mastery of me. Julius also had me in the pool, standing, while I wrapped
my thighs around his midsection and braced myself against his strong
shoulders, working my hips against his. In the back of my brain where the
poet still lurked, I realized I would need new words to describe this: no
longer was this futuo, but criso. I was not fucking; I was not capable of
fucking; that required boldness and initiative and masculinity. I was
being fucked, I was on the receiving end, I was accepting a man inside me.
Julius Caesari had me several times, several ways, around the pool. In
his drunken lust, fueled by the magic of the Amphora, he had the stamina
of a goat. I had no time to recover from one ecstasy before he showed me
another, even higher region of bliss. When at last his endurance gave out
and I felt our shared lust receding, I was sore, chafed, euphoric, and
still I could not tear myself away from his commanding presence. Between
the two of us, he possessed all the willpower.
"Ovidia," Julius said to me, after we had returned to retrieve the Bacchic
Fiasco in the changing room, "I remember your telling me that once you
drank the wine, it filled up again. Isn't that what you said?"
I nodded obediently, before I had even properly understood the question.
"Yes, that is exactly what I told you. You have such an excellent memory,
Julius."
He gave me a peculiar and probing glance. "Ovidia, it isn't necessary
always to agree with me. What has become of you? Has the magic of this
Amphora affected your mind?"
Again I nodded agreeably. "Yes, that's a perfect way to put it. It's
affected my mind."
Julius sighed, and I felt a twinge of exasperation from him. "My dear
poetess," he said to me, "you know more of this Fiasco than I. I do not
understand its magic. Please awake from whatever hypnotic spell affecting
you, and explain to me how it works."
I still felt a tremendous impulse to please him, so I organized my
recollections as well as I could. "When I drank the fig wine from the
Fiasco," I said to him, "it refilled again with my manhood. When I drank
that again, I--" I ceased speaking for a moment, trying to recall. "I
believe I fell unconscious. I don't recall what happened afterward, if
the Fiasco filled again. Cornelius brought me home."
Julius peered into the dark depths of the alabaster pitcher. His head was
still unsteady from the effects of the heavenly nectar he had drunk. "It
remains empty. Perhaps we need more -- you said fig wine?"
"Yes," I agreed.
"Very well," Julius said. "It is fortunate that I anticipated this
situation, and brought a man's tunic as well as my own. I hope the tunic
I brought is large enough. If we intend to return to our normal selves,
my dear Ovidia, we must have some more of that elixir."
"Yes," I repeated. "We must have more."
"Livia never intended to use the Fiasco in this way," Julius mused to
himself. "Nevertheless, she must be told. But first, I shall need to be
restored to my old self. I cannot return to Palatine looking like this."
"No," I agreed. It was so simple to agree with everything Julius told me.
"All right, Ovidia," he said. "I don't know what's happened to you,
exactly, but I pray you haven't lost your wits entirely. Please tell me
you still remember where you purchased that fig wine."
Cornelius and Alexios were astonished to see the altered shape of Julius,
even though Cornelius had known it was a possibility and Alexios had
evidently been entrusted with the secret. Cornelius was especially
curious to hear how easily I had submitted to Julius, despite my fierce
objections to his own attentions only the day before.
"You're going to need to write a new passage for your Ars Amatoria,
Ovidia," he suggested to me. "You've told all the men how to find and
seduce women, but now you need a few lines telling women how to fend off
those advances."
"I know," I said happily. Cornelius Quadratus was still an ordinary man
to me, one with whom I could easily speak without my mind becoming
overruled. Alexios, too, was a mere pedestrian beside us, a Greek slave
who was nothing important to me. Julius Caesari, however, was the Earth,
and I was the Moon turning helplessly in his orbit. Everything he spoke
was as a command to me, every sentence was a law.
My unthinking obedience to Julius made it difficult to lead our foursome
to the east side of Rome, where the youthful wine merchant plied his
wares. I was unequipped to take the lead. My every instinct was to
follow Julius wherever he went.
Finally we came to the forum on the east side of the City where merchants
traditionally established their temporary stalls. This merchant was
easily observed, as his was the only stall in that forum with a wagon and
a donkey. The city cohort forbade draft animals in the streets during
daylight hours, for the roads were too narrow to traffic in horses and
mules. Yet there was his cart, filled with fiascos and bottles and
amphorae of all descriptions, and painted on the exterior with pictures of
fruit.
Cornelius greeted the youthful wine tradesman. "Good day, boy. We
require a bottle of your fig wine, if you would be so kind."
There was a twinkle in the lad's eye. "The caricarum, my friend? I am
afraid that is impossible. Every last bottle has been sold."
"Every bottle?" Julius asked with dismay.
"Quite so," said the young man. "It has been selling steadily for days,
ever since the carouse in the groves of Simila. Let me tell you, friend,
the Maenads do adore my wine," he said, and tipped a wink in my direction.
I struggled with my newfound feminine decorum and tried to speak out, but
it was difficult. "I had hoped," I said lamely, "that you might have had
time to retrieve more. Didn't you say you hoped to return to the winery?"
"Ah, yes," he said with a chuckle. "But alas, I have not yet gone. It is
the height of the Market, you see. In another few days I shall leave for
the winery and return . . . shall we say a month? Market Day in Iunius?"
"A month?" I asked hopelessly.
"No, no, my friend," Julius Caesari said forcefully, "that won't do at
all. We're going to need some more of this fig wine immediately."
"Yes," I echoed dumbly. "We'll need more immediately."
At this, the young man laughed aloud, heartily and long. "I begin to see
the dimensions of your problem. You wouldn't happen to have seen a fiasco
of alabaster, with a Maenad carved at the fore? I see by your astonished
faces that you have. It is there in that slave's arms, wrapped in a
bundle, if I'm any judge. Yes, you do need fig wine, but I have none here
in Rome."
Cornelius and Julius were both speaking at the same time, protesting
loudly, when the cheery young merchant held up one hand. "But," he added,
forestalling both of my companions, "but there is an alternative. My
father's winery is to the east, in the hills. You could visit there
directly, if you wished. I would give you directions."
"How far is it?" Cornelius demanded. "Why should we leave the City and
fetch it ourselves?"
"You must always be prepared to work for that which you seek," said the
wine merchant gnomically. "And before you ask, no other fig wine will do.
Try the other if you wish, but there is no magic in it. The secret is in
the tree, my friends. If you truly wish for a solution to your
predicament, you would do well to heed my advice."
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