From Nero in Greece: The Tour!
From Nero in Greece: The Tour!
It’s a draft so all grammatical mistakes are my own etc etc.
Philo stood by the far wall of Sporus’ lounge examining the brand new frescoes, attempting to decode the story, assuming it be the life of a God or a hero. What perplexed him were the handstanding naked youths, their genitals painted with an accurate eye, dangling downwards.
“Are they Baccanates?” he asked Epaphroditus. “They seem very jolly.”
“They’re even jollier done that end,” replied the Secretary pointing to a section of the frieze further down the wall.
Philo followed his finger and was instantly assailed by a hot flush that worked up his neck. “Gosh,” he breathed.
“I don’t think that is even anatomically possible,” said Epaphroditus pointing at a particularly lurid depiction of a sexual act that had Philo’s brown eyes opening extremely wide.
They were interrupted from their pondering by a grand entrance; four huge black Ethiopian slaves carrying a golden sedan chair on which sat Sporus dressed in a purple dressing gown with fluffy matching slippers, his hair hidden beneath a white towel knotted atop his head. The slaves lowered to their knees, placing the chair on the ground. Sporus took a regal step and flourished a hand. Two slaves dashed to the couch and lifted it between them, carrying it over to the eunuch and placing it down, saving him a valuable five steps. Sporus threw himself dramatically onto the couch, sprawled across it, one leg escaping from his gown and showing off his smooth, shaved calf and thigh. He waved a hand, giving Epaphroditus permission to speak.
The secretary fought to suppress a smile at such antics. Even the usually grim Straton showed off his four remaining teeth. In actuality this merriment indicated less amusement and more glee; for if Sporus carried on in this manner Straton anticipated an afternoon of exercise for his whipping hand.
Epaphroditus turned calmly to the litter bearers. “You four are reassigned.”
Then to the two coach bearers. “You two are reassigned.” And then over to Sporus’ beauticians, all twelve of them. “And so are you lot.”
An outraged Sporus squeaked, “You can’t do that!”
“Yes I can,” Epaphroditus told him evenly, arms folded across his chest.
“I’m the Empress!” declared Sporus pushing back his shoulders. an action that caused the towel to fall from his head, revealing short dark curls, so very different to Poppaea’s auburn hair.
“No you are not. You are the Empress’ stand in. You will share her slaves. They are the most experienced in created her look after all. We shall also have….”
Epaphroditus looked to Philo, he read from a list “Seventeen tiaras, three solid gold ankle bracelets, two lapis lazli broaches, nineteen silver hair combs, four full golden dinner sets including pepper sellers.”
“The Emperor gave those to me.”
“No he didn’t. You ordered these items personally. They should not have been sanctioned.”
