.: Sophrosyne :.
I could never stop saying her name, nor cease thinking of her in every
idle moment.. which were very few and far between in those days. Now it
all seems like forever ago, like a life that was someone else's, and not
mine at all. But I remember it clearly; it was on that very first
evening when she had summoned me into her private chambers, I played my
Kithara for her, luring the lady out from hiding with my music -- and
yet I was unaware all the while that it was I who had been hidden. That
is.. until she stripped me bare. What would she see when peering
into my soul, beyond my face and nakedness? For this was the grand forum
debate known as Sophrosyne. And the lady did so enjoy those things
which have been forbidden to women: Philosophical debate amongst men,
whom she desired should learn to regard her with all seriousness for her
superior wit and intelligence.
We spoke of Socrates and Charmides much later, and at great length while I knelt at her feet. And somewhere deep into the discourse of my own soul, she opened her thighs, testing me, I was certain. For I, unlike a woman, could not hide my sudden desire. Yet despite my prurience now exposed, she allowed me to kiss her there; to kiss her and drown my every last transgression in absolution that only she could offer. For she had determined, once laid bare before her eyes and with my lips flush upon her quim, alas, my soul was without guile.
Sometimes late at night, I still whisper her name. I like the sound of it on my tongue. And sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still see her there. Not as a queen, but as the very gist of a woman, fragrant and warm. Her taste still lingers on in my dreams. And that is how I shall always remember her -- my love. My Cleopatra.
I think by now that eight years have already passed since Marius first took me from Crete to his home in Pompeii, though I admit I have lost count. We have traveled several times per year to the islands and throughout the mainland, even as far as Rome, and I am constantly surrounded by the costumed bourgeois masquerading as the elite. Beneath the iron fist of Marius, I too, must live behind a mask.
Because I wear no collar, nor any other visibly outward symbol of my slavery, I am often regarded favorably in the social moorings of those who esteem themselves as my peers. There were times when I did not believe I would ever learn to blend the way Marius insisted. Yet over time, and with constant mentoring and his whip, I have excelled in this masquerade, and have become a star among many in this theatrical firmament.
I am Damos. Dreamer of dreams.
Master of the stringed lady, Kithara.
Slave to the Masquerade.
We spoke of Socrates and Charmides much later, and at great length while I knelt at her feet. And somewhere deep into the discourse of my own soul, she opened her thighs, testing me, I was certain. For I, unlike a woman, could not hide my sudden desire. Yet despite my prurience now exposed, she allowed me to kiss her there; to kiss her and drown my every last transgression in absolution that only she could offer. For she had determined, once laid bare before her eyes and with my lips flush upon her quim, alas, my soul was without guile.
Sometimes late at night, I still whisper her name. I like the sound of it on my tongue. And sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still see her there. Not as a queen, but as the very gist of a woman, fragrant and warm. Her taste still lingers on in my dreams. And that is how I shall always remember her -- my love. My Cleopatra.
I think by now that eight years have already passed since Marius first took me from Crete to his home in Pompeii, though I admit I have lost count. We have traveled several times per year to the islands and throughout the mainland, even as far as Rome, and I am constantly surrounded by the costumed bourgeois masquerading as the elite. Beneath the iron fist of Marius, I too, must live behind a mask.
Because I wear no collar, nor any other visibly outward symbol of my slavery, I am often regarded favorably in the social moorings of those who esteem themselves as my peers. There were times when I did not believe I would ever learn to blend the way Marius insisted. Yet over time, and with constant mentoring and his whip, I have excelled in this masquerade, and have become a star among many in this theatrical firmament.
I am Damos. Dreamer of dreams.
Master of the stringed lady, Kithara.
Slave to the Masquerade.
