Ovid s Other Metamorphoses part 1
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Ovid's Other Metamorphoses (part 6) free porn video
Her Husband's Endless Kindness
"Lastly she who remained with me till I was old,
Who's lived to be the bride of an exiled husband." --Tristia 4.10
If Cornelius had realized the difficulty of secretly returning to each
Bacchic reveler his stolen manhood, he hadn't conceived of a solution.
The Fiasco discharged its nectar into our large amphora, where the
manhood of dozens intermingled. Men and women throughout Rome used the
Golden Figs and had their male traits confiscated by Cornelius. Days or
even weeks later, often in the early hours of the pre-dawn, I sleepily
portioned doses to women upon their return. A woman might stand in our
vestibulum, shivering in the morning chill, dressed in whatever tatters
and rags remained of her clothing, I used the Fiasco itself to measure
her dose.
This facile procedure, I felt, was inadequate. There was every concern
that a former man might present himself at our home to receive one
fiasco of male essence -- about five sextans' worth -- when in truth he
had once been quite virile and was rightfully owed seven. A woman might
come to our door and claim she had once been a man, and I would grant
her a male's essence which she did not deserve. Some unidentified man,
or men, could thus be doomed to an eternal female state, if there were
no surplus to give them.
It did not ease my conscience to find the level of nectar in the amphora
was gradually rising; from one Bacchanalia to the next, there was more
golden manly mead than before. Were my portions too small? Were there
Romans among us, newly feminine, who were still waiting to claim their
lost manhood? Were the revelers informed where to find me? Were they
choosing to remain as they were? Were they enthralled and helpless in
the arms of some man? Had they perished, or departed, or become
pregnant, prior to recovering their male status? I had no way to know.
When Iunia Oratorina asked me to procure a measure of manhood, I was
therefore apprehensive. That manhood belonged to someone else, whom I
knew not, though there seemed to be enough nectar to spare.
On one late afternoon in December while Cornelius was away, Iunia came
to the insula, dressed discreetly in heavy robes. I invited her in
warily, one hand on my pregnant belly, one eye on the streets. Too many
revelers had been apprehended by the city cohort near our residence, and
the centurions would not remain ignorant of my location forever.
I drew her out a dose, using the Bacchic Fiasco to measure, and watched
as she drank it. Its magic affected her physique instantly, as did its
intoxicating liquor. She became Iunius, tall and muscular, exotic in
appearance and -- to my eyes, at least -- compellingly handsome.
Iunius's Sicilian features were enhanced by the conversion, revealing in
his eyes the ancestry of his Rhodian mother, and in his honey-gold hair
the influence of his Germanic paternal grandfather. As soon as I
perceived his perfection I was helplessly smitten.
"That," Iunius said slowly, taking in his altered appearance, "is the
most peculiar thing I have ever felt. Am I truly a man?"
"You are, very much so," I assured him, and shyly took his bulging bicep
in my tiny hand. His taut muscles felt warm beneath my fingertips.
"Let me help you to the triclinum. You are in no condition to continue
standing."
"I can see that," Iunius said, and weaved toward the table where he
might recline more easily. I admit, my guidance involved a great deal
more touching than was necessary, but I could hardly refrain. Iunius
had a body that surpassed that of Adonis, and in my female condition it
was exactly what I craved. Cornelius I had to obey; to Iunius I would
submit willingly.
With my distended and pregnant belly I could do little more than assist
him to the triclinum, where he eased gingerly down into a relaxed pose.
His arm slipped down to my hips, curled protectively around my pelvis as
I stood beside him. I decided not to mention it.
"That is a very powerful vintage, Ovidia," Iunius said to me, his voice
blurred with wine. "I can appreciate how the Bacchae might make very
good use of this fiasco."
"They do," I promised him quietly. "Every week, they do. The
Bacchanalia are becoming more frequent, and ever more animated. This
marvelous device has inspired the revelers to new heights -- or depths,
if you prefer."
"Incredible," he said, looking blearily in my general direction. More
specifically, he was focused upon my breasts, swollen with my incipient
motherhood. "And you call it a device? A mere product of
craftsmanship?"
"What else should I call it?" I asked. I covered his large hand, which
caressed my hip, with my tiny one.
"A miraculous gift from the gods?" Iunius suggested bluntly. "Why would
you call it anything else, my dear poet?"
"Cornelius and I don't believe in the gods," I announced.
"What you mean," Iunius translated, "is that Cornelius doesn't, and you
obey Cornelius. I've heard your poetry, my beautiful Ovidia. Your Ars
Amatoria is littered with references to the gods. Did you not write
that you were appointed by Venus as tutor to tender Love? Did you not
promise Apollo not to convey the notion that it was from he that you
learned the art?' You believe, Ovidia, or you did once. What happened
to shatter your faith? Where did you lose it?"
I could give Iunius no explanation, for I had none. "I sought after the
Bacchic Fiasco," I said, struggling to recall, "because I wanted proof
of the gods. And even after I found its magic was real . . ."
"Cornelius overwhelmed you with his own opinions," he concluded
regretfully. "You make him a very good wife. You are nearly an aspect
of Cornelius Quadratus himself, deposited into female flesh. Everything
about you is molded in his fashion. But in being the perfect wife for
Cornelius, you have become a very poor Ovid."
"It is difficult to resist him," I said, embarrassed. "I cannot
describe it. He possesses my willpower. What he wants, I want."
"You seem yourself now," he observed.
"The effect is strongest when he is near me," I explained. "Even so, I
can feel his desire across the City. Sometimes I feel myself becoming
warm and flushed, very amorous, and I believe those are times when
Cornelius sees a pretty girl on the street. But when he is away, I can
think for myself."
"Then you should spend as much time away as you can," Iunius reasoned.
"Come, my dear poet, you cannot disagree with that. You are held by the
magic of the Fiasco, for how long? For two months, perhaps, until the
baby is born?"
"Until he is weaned," I said, modestly touching the curve of my breast.
My bosom had become tender and sensitive in recent months. "Until he is
able to take solid foods, I don't dare use the Fiasco to become a man
again."
"He?" Iunius asked with a smile. "You're certain it will be a boy?"
"Yes," I said, with gentle confidence. "I have a strong feeling he will
be a boy."
Iunius nodded, still embracing my hip with his strong right arm. His
presence filled me with a sense of appreciation, an instant connection
between us, a communication both subtle and profound. Iunius saw who I
truly was, despite the magic which changed my surface appearance; my
deepest feelings were intimated to him through my poetry, which he
memorized verse for verse. "A baby boy," he mused. "And are you
certain he will stay that way?"
I paused. "I cannot say."
"Many mysteries we must confront," Iunius said with a smile. "You as a
woman, I as a man."
"Surely not that many," I replied, "in only one evening."
"One evening, darling Ovidia?" asked Iunius. "I have only begun to
experience life as a man. I cannot return so soon."
"But you must," I said urgently. "Your absence would be observed. And
should you leave as you are, the city cohorts may realize you are not
the same as when you arrived."
Iunius shifted on the triclinum, uncomfortably adjusting his new anatomy
between his thighs. "My dear poetess, if you are fearful that the
centurions will discover you are secretly supplying the Bacchanalia with
magic elixir, surely the answer is not to dispense it yourself. Bottle
it. Distribute it. Store it safely, elsewhere."
"That would not stop the visitors from frequenting our street, drawing
attention," I said. "Every Baccha in Rome comes to this door."
"Go to the celebration and tell them not to," he said reasonably,
patting my hip.
I felt my tension and concern slowly dissipate. Men were so direct, so
confident, and I desperately missed that self-assurance. Iunius made
such good sense, and his solid presence and incisive logic reassured me
in a way that Cornelius never could. When Cornelius spoke, my mind
agreed slavishly and suppressed any complaint or objection I had; when
Iunius spoke, he heard me, and I heard him, as a free woman.
"There is much sense in what you say," I said with admiration. "But I
would still appreciate if you were to change back before you left
tonight--"
"I doubt that you would," Iunius said, "even if I could. Do you have
any Golden Figs? Any caricarum? Without either, I cannot change back.
And you need a man with you, darling Ovidia. It is obvious you feel
incomplete without one."
"I am married," I protested. "I am not much of a woman, and not
prepared to be a mother, but I can still be a good wife."
"To what benefit?" he asked. "The winter evenings come early, and
Cornelius Quadratus is nowhere to be seen. Does he dally with the
harlots, do you suppose? Does he revel with the Bacchae? I suppose he
grows weary of the company of a woman who can do nothing but agree."
"Even if he does," I said stiffly, "I will keep his reputation intact.
When I needed a home, he gave me one. Cornelius is my husband."
"He is not your husband, but your master, Ovidia," Iunius said, his face
both wise and sad. "You are not his wife, but his slave. What happened
to the poet who once wrote verses in pursuit of Love? What happened to
Publius Ovidius Naso?"
"I do not know, Iunius," I whispered. "I cannot find him within me."
"We will search for him together, you and I," he said, and he would
accept no other argument on the subject.
Iunius Oratorinus was adamant that I implement his suggestion before
Saturnalia, and moved with alacrity to make it so. "It is for your
protection, Ovidia," he told me. "You must be more circumspect about
your participation."
To this end, within the very week of becoming a man, Iunius began to
procure dozens upon dozens of bottles, from glassmakers all over the
Eternal City. They were a mismatched lot: slender square green carafes
mixed with opaque turquoise-colored ceramic vases, misshapen cobalt blue
phials jumbled together with elegant bulbous copper-tinted flasks. I
objected to this haphazard assortment, but Iunius was more complacent.
"I could have purchased a hundred identical bottles," he told me.
"After all, my husband left me a wealthy estate to command. But this
arrangement is more secretive. We would not wish the centurions to
recognize your secret elixirs, my darling. A hundred drunken revelers,
all carrying bottles with the same markings, all on the same December
night? Injudicious, at best. When there is no uniformity, one cannot
innocently betray one's friends."
Then the question arose where we might store these dozens of bottles.
Iunius was convinced that neither I nor anyone could keep the entire
supply personally, and averred that it must be distributed throughout
Rome to decrease the risk of discovery. "I propose to keep some in my
domicile," he offered. "You and Cornelius Quadratus could retain a
portion. Do you know of any other in the city who can be trusted with a
small supply?"
"Not my brother Gaius," I said. "He is committed to the centumviri."
"Agreed; he could betray you. Perhaps your ex-wife?"
"She is not pleased with me."
"Someone else, then," he prompted.
"I know no-one else," I said. None, that is, who could secrete such a
precious parcel in his home -- or in her palace. I could never ask
Julia Caesari, and she could never accept the responsibility.
"Do you have allies among the Bacchae whom you trust?" he asked.
"I trust them, for my part. I have less to lose; I do not attend the
rites."
"But you are, or were, a judge. They do not trust you in return."
Iunius said shrewdly. "That is ever the burden of the conspirator. The
plot to kill Caesar took thirty men, it is said, and never once did they
meet all united."
We concluded that we must divide up the bottles at the earliest
opportunity, and that I would beg Geminia Flavia to take several of the
elixirs into her home. I would plead desperately, if necessary. There
had to be a chance that she could be moved to help; I had no one else to
whom I could turn. Iunius would, in turn, investigate some of his own
friends, but he was not optimistic.
The Saturnalia was the perfect moment to advise the growing multitudes
of Bacchae about the arrangement to distribute the restorative flasks
around the city. Iunius informed me that, to communicate our plans
directly, we would both attend the Bacchic rites in December.
As the third week of December neared, the ordinary bustle of business
yielded to effervescent celebration. Saturnalia was a time for
carefully licensed frankness and moderate dissipation. Slaves spoke
openly to their masters; masters served the slaves at banquet; everyone
gladly threw off their togas and donned the attire of the freedman.
Citizens of Rome exchanged their gifts and trinkets. In such an
atmosphere, we hoped, our plan to distribute flasks might go entirely
unobserved by the watchful eyes of Caesar.
Yet it was not merely Caesar Augustus who watched the Eternal City; his
wife Livia also sat in judgment, and she obviously knew more about the
Fiasco than we realized. Seeing the holidays bloom into gaiety,
watching the revelry become more lecherous and frantic, Augustus moved
to curb the citizens' excesses. Saturnalia would henceforth be three
days, he decreed; there would be no exchange of gifts and, very
specifically, no public drinking. All rites to Bacchus, Augustus
declared piously, would be suspended for the duration of days designated
to celebrate Saturn. Anyone bearing a flask of any kind would be eyed
with suspicion by the city cohorts. In these edicts I sensed the hand
of Livia.
It was not the supervision of the cohorts that curbed the enthusiasm of
the Bacchae. Instead, it was the lack of fresh figs.
As December progressed, I saw fewer and fewer revelers at my door in the
early hours of the day. All the caricarum had long since been depleted
from the city; now all the Golden Figs were exhausted also. Not a fig
remained in Rome. There was no way for any of the revelers to make the
magical transformation into Maenads. Every man would have to be content
being a man, at least until a fresh supply of golden fruits came in the
spring.
We were thus extremely fortunate that when the city cohort broke in upon
the Bacchanalia in December, there was no fig wine for them to find --
and no Bacchic Fiasco. The guards found drunkenness, and licentious
behavior, but no magic.
I was there at the Bacchanalia that night, preparing to inform the
Bacchae that Iunius and I had secured an additional hiding place for the
restorative male serum. My hope was to communicate this early, then to
retire for the evening; my advanced pregnancy made it difficult to
circumnavigate the streets of Rome after dark. I dared not drink, lest
it wake the baby boy sleeping below my ribs, and the Bacchae didn't dare
not to. Before they became stupefied with the Dionysian gifts of grape
and malt, I must tell them, while there was still a chance they would
remember it come morning.
It is just as well that the cohort, too, wished to be home before dark,
for I had not yet given up my secret. They surprised us at twilight,
while many were of the Bacchae still sober enough to flee in terror.
Most of the terrified revelers ran straight into the arms of the
rearguard, who occupied the Via Ostiense between our groves and safety.
As the cohort stepped into the firelight near the shrine of Bacchus,
clad in leather with bronze and iron fittings, hands on hilts, they must
have appeared to the revelers like an avenging army. Because I had not
touched a dram of wine that night, and from my experience as a judge of
the centumviri, I saw them as they were: dirty, ill-equipped, and
sullen defenders of the law, granted only enough authority by the Senate
to keep the peace -- and only just. It was forbidden to raise an army,
or to invite the soldiery into Rome; the patricians of the Curia felt
the cohort was as much a threat to themselves as they were to us, and
denied them proper equipment or strength of numbers. Most were probably
sympathetic to the common citizens, who were drinking peacefully and
fornicating; these were also, after all, the favorite pursuits of
soldiers.
There was one guard among them not so ill-favored, a Praetorian in an
iron breastplate. While the other soldiers looked bored, sleepy, or
sour-faced, the Praetorian was resplendent in gleaming bands of iron,
with a fresh-dyed damask cloak and gold fringe. He bore no weapon, and
his scabbard was empty at his hip. In his empty sheath, somewhat
ostentatiously, was placed a branch of laurel, showing that he had been
ceremoniously disarmed upon entering the city.
The Bacchae who had remained now milled in confusion and chaos,
intimidated by the uncivil stench of the leather-clad cohort. Some sat;
some tried to slip out through the trees, only to be led back in by more
guards.
The Praetorian scanned the unruly mob of revelers with a keen eye.
"Citizens," he said in a firm and pleasant voice, "I am not here for
you. I am here for a poet who, I am told, is acquainted with the
Bacchanalian rites. He is one Publius Ovidius Naso. If any here have
seen him, point him out, and we will leave you to your revelries."
"For now," one of the cohort said nastily.
The Praetorian flicked an annoyed look in that direction, and continued.
"Surely someone here has seen Ovidius," he said. "A short Sulmontini
man with a slight build and a large nose. You may have seen him among
the centumviri." He seemed satisfied with the worried murmur that
passed in the crowd. "Did he not tell you? Yes, one of the judges is
among you. Ah, I see that you begin to understand. How much have you
told Ovidius? Did you admit your name? What crimes has he seen you
commit? Of which can Ovidius personally give evidence to the court?
What reason do you have to shield such a man?"
The Bacchae looked among themselves in worry -- at me, at each other.
They muttered urgent suspicions, watching the faces in the firelight for
some hint. I knew not what to do. Some may have known who I was
originally, but most were ignorant of my true name, my birth name. To
them, I was Ovidia Corva Quadrati.
Could they guess? Only people Sulmontini were named Ovid; and I was
Ovidia. They knew the secret of the Bacchic Fiasco, and of the fig
wine. How many of them here had partaken of it themselves? Or perhaps
they were asking themselves: if I betray Ovidia, sole keeper of the
male serum, how will I ever return to manhood?
When the crimson-clad guard had spoken my prior male name, I had had a
terrifying shock, and I trembled on the rough pine stool where I sat.
Would he read my fear in my eyes?
"If you persist in holding your tongues, ladies," the Praetorian said
reasonably, "the city cohort may become . . . eager. There is so much
naked flesh to be seen here. You know how soldiers can be. And here am
I, disarmed -- I could not stop them. I would be forced to watch them
have their way with you. I know that you understand my predicament,
ladies. In a way, many of you are also disarmed, aren't you?"
He knew.
How much he knew, I could not say; the Praetorian was obviously saying
less than he might, possibly to keep the secret from his untrusted
escort. And how he knew -- my name, my occupation, my connection to the
Bacchae -- was impossible to discern. But he knew, and he was prepared
to unleash the cohort upon the helpless revelers in order to find me.
Soon, someone must guess the truth about me, and I would stand revealed
. . .
"There you are, you wayward creature!" cried a voice from the perimeter
of the firelight.
The owner of the voice stepped into the clearing where the shrine to
Bacchus had been crudely erected. It was an imposing man of middle
years, wearing a formal toga wholly unsuitable for the bawdy affair --
and as I peered across the flickering shadows, I saw that it was Iunius.
He strode directly for me, ignoring the presence of the cohort and the
Praetorian, and presented himself before me in his wrath. Iunius wore
his finest new male attire, an impressive reminder of the civilization
that the Bacchae had left temporarily abandoned. With a dark scowl of
displeasure on his face, he reached for my tiny, slender wrist and
seized it in one of his massive hands. Before I could form a protest,
he hauled me to my feet with a strength that took my breath away and
made my pulse race.
"Where have you been? And wearing only this?" he demanded, his handsome
features only a few palms from my own. "You have become ever more
truant since your mother died. I despair that you will ever amount to
anything?"
Still with my wrist wrapped in his large fist, he turned apologetically
to the cohort. "I apologize, sirs," he said obsequiously. "My
disobedient daughter has made a fool of her family, again."
"Who are you, her paterfamilias?" the Praetorian said, his gaze passing
between us.
"Yes, I am her unfortunate father," replied Iunius with another tug on
my wrist.
"No, sir. Your name," the Praetorian said with a hint of warning.
Iunius hesitated only a fraction. "I am Titus Iunius Pulchra," he lied.
"You may have seen my glassworks near Esquilinius."
"On the east side of the city, near Aqua Virgo?"
"The same," Iunius said proudly. "And it is there I will take this
little sinner, by your leave. You may entrust her punishment to me."
The Praetorian's expression didn't change for a long moment, then he
nodded upward, marginally.
Iunius pulled me away to the edges of the clearing, and my irregular
stumbles were certainly not feigned. With his grip, and my pregnant
belly, I could barely keep my feet.
Only a few paces from freedom, the Praetorian called out to us. We were
at the fringes of the forest, near the cool and welcoming moonlit
shadows. I desperately wanted to run; I couldn't face the Praetorian's
placid threats of rape and ravishment at the hands of the cohort.
Nevertheless, Iunius turned at the call and politely waited.
"One thing, before you leave," the Praetorian said. "Bring little Iunia
Pulchra to me."
Because Iunius had named himself, and called himself my father, I would
automatically bear a feminine form of his name, as any good Roman
daughter would. I would have no name of my own, no identity beyond "the
girl who was sired by Titus Iunius."
I stood before the Praetorian, bowing my head in respect and fear. My
knees were shaking badly, and I could not face him.
"Little Iunia," the Praetorian asked me, taking my tiny chin in his
hand, "have you seen the poet Publius Ovidius tonight?"
I nodded my head down for no.
He grunted doubtfully. "Very well. Take her home and chastise her,
Titus," he said to Iunius. "Her ill behavior does your family no
credit."
As this amazing woman, now a man, led me from the clearing, playing the
part of the disappointed father until we were well away from Aventine
Hill, it occurred to me that by the rough, dancing light of the fire,
Iunius Oratorius was somehow even more handsome than by daylight. If
only I were not the pregnant bride and the hypnotized servant of
Cornelius!
Lesley
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