The Jetsam by Lara Biyuts (best novels to read to improve english .txt) 📕

could see now that the young man was well-knit; his vine-covered body was a body of an athlete. A dear image rose before the mind of the old man for a moment. The young Priest lifted his silver masked face up to the stars, his broad chest heaved and he said, “I’ll try to help you, good man.”

Behind the throne, several broad marble steps led to the altar -- the Priest went upstairs, and paused. All those present could see now his beauty, and the old man saw only the Priest’s rich wavy hair, which the silver mask didn’t cover. The Priest knelt, and silence fell for several minutes. The tall old man put his hands together as though for a prayer. Nobody dared neither move nor utter a sound. And now, the Priest rose from his knees and faced all those present.

Solemn and impassive, he lifted his arms as though embracing the people and the entire olive grove. His eyes in the slits of the mask were turned somewhere to the darkness over the heads of the men. His lips moved and he began to speak in a loud voice, “I can see a boat… It moves slowly on a green turbid expanse of a river. A man is standing in the boat. He is young and beautiful, but I can’t discern his features, because he emits radiance. An even radiance. No, he is not dead, he is alive. The radiance is his Will to Live. The radiance is so intensive that it penetrates all around, the twilight air, dark water, the banks of the river. This radiance overcomes the darkness of Cosmos. It can overcome Time… The boat reaches the bank and moors. The youth steps lightly upon the land. His radiance has become blinding to everyone who can see it. It blinds my eyes. The youth steps forward, on the dry land, and now… A dark star! Its black light strikes upon and hides him!.. Darkness… I try… but can see nothing more… Nothing.”

The Priest staggered and lowered his arms; breath escaped his throat noiselessly. His perspired chest glittered.

The old man stood stunned. A minute passed -- the Priest started, turned away and knelt at the altar again. The old man rose from his torpor. His lips moved and he said to himself in a whisper, “A boat… twilight… a dark star…” The light breeze touched his hair.

For several minutes nothing moved in the still of the night. Kneeling, the Priest was saying prayers -- then he rose from his knees and turned round.

The old man tried to make out the eyes in the slits of the mask, but in vain. Then he apparently remembered of something, because his long grey cloak suddenly shook, he turned round and found his companions with his eyes.

Several shadows came to life again and stepped forward -- vessels and caskets with the expensive eastern incense appeared from under the fine short cloaks, the gold belts and jeweled hilts of daggers glittered in the moonlight -- the old man’s retainers placed the vessels and caskets on the marble floor at the throne.

The old man said, “I thank you. You’ve spared me time and you saw him.”

“Sorry…” The Priest’s shapely feet wearing sandals of goatskin stepped lightly downstairs. “I’ve not been able to help you. And I know why.”

“So do I…” the old man said.

“For he himself, your boy doesn’t want me to be able to.”

“I know… It’s because I am guilty towards him.” The old man’s voice was low and tuneless.

The Priest said nothing. A violet translucent cloud veiled the moon.

“Vale!” The tall stooping old man put the hood on his grey-haired head.

 “May you be warm and safe on your way home. Farwell!”

The figure in grey turned away. His younger companions quickly parted before him as the old man walked and an aisle opened up as he passed through the pilgrims. The noble travelers were quick following their sovereign, one after another. The two officers wearing black cloaks, swords sheathed now, brought up the rear.

The group of the noble men went slowly away to the darkness. Several minutes more, and the clatter of horses’ hooves was heard for some time and then faded away.

Only now I dared move from the spot in my shelter of dark foliage. I breathed deeply twice and looked at the grotto again.

The beautiful hands resting on the throne arms; the dark-haired head up; the silver mask reflecting the moonlight; the young Priest was motionless as statue. The quiet crowd of pilgrims stood before him as usual. The old olive grove seemed to sigh:

“Night in Arcadia, night in Rome,

you are an eternal companion of lost souls,

savior of fugitives, an eternal ally of lovers.

You bring the fairy starlit world to the earth.

Hearing your light pace, Man goes out to meet you.

Obeying his own heartbeat, he sinks into your depth

to set off in search of a truth

again and again,

till he gets exhausted,

drops out of the game

and smiles

bitter

at the face of his dream.”

I felt sad.

The torch-lit grotto attracted eyes.

Meanwhile the night continued the walk.

 

2006

 

Mysteries of Antinous

 

“The death carried by an unknown hand.”

(Marconi)

 

Mysteries of Antinous. The mystery of his death.

This essay should be titled “The Mystery of the Murder of Antinous”, since the Author is a votary of the less popular explanation of Antinous’ death, that he was assassinated. Instead, Author has titled the essay this way to represent the slightly differing explanation to previous theorists of the death in the Nile, realizing that the Author’s theory is far less probable. The two theories are to each other approximately as ninety to ten. Author’s principle theory is that of assassination. The second arose more recently, and Author is fascinated with it far less.

Antinous: the Divinized Boy of Bithynia, the youngest and most beautiful of ancient gods. The mystery of his death is not the only mystery surrounding his name. Indeed, his entire life seems shrouded in mystery. Time has fostered this mystery, time and humans, who have passed the tales of Antinous down, through generations. But his birth and boyhood, his adolescence and his entire life could not be entirely mysterious, of course not, for it was merely one boy’s life.

Antinous and we, his devotees. We strive to keep the case open, can find little evidence surrounding his mysterious demise. All we have are his images and the quote: “He fell into the Nile.” Ancient historians, speak of the death as ambiguously as we have here.

 

Dio Cassius:

“Antinous died either by falling into the Nile, as Hadrian writes, or, as the truth is, by being offered in sacrifice. For Hadrian… was always very curious and employed divinations and incarnations of all kinds. Accordingly, he honoured Antinous either because of his love for him or because the youth had voluntarily undertaken to die for him (it being necessary that a life should be surrendered freely for the accomplishment of the ends Hadrian had in view) by building a city on the spot where he had suffered this fate.”

 

‘Historia Augusta’:

“He lost his Antinous while sailing along the Nile and wept for him like a woman. Concerning this (de quo), there are various reports: some assert that he sacrificed himself for Hadrian, others what both his beauty and Hadrian’s excessive sensuality make obvious.”

 

Sextus Aurelius Victor:

“Others see his motives as pious and religious: for when Hadrian was desiring to prolong his life by any means, the magician proposed that someone should die voluntary on his behalf; everyone refused, Antinous alone offered himself: from that all the homage rendered to his memory.”

 

There is no proof for any of these theories. Dio Cassius, the earliest of the historians, wrote his history eighty years after the events on the Nile. All the mentions on Antinous’ death are either indirect or malevolent towards him, and to Hadrian; the mentions are either founded on rumour or slander the Emperor. In this regard all we have is allegations and educated guesses. The only reference to Antinous, which I love, comes, not from a historian, but the poet Pancrates. Here it is:

 

 “The thyme with its wooly tufts, the white lily, the purple hyacinth, the flowers of blue celandine, yes, and the rose which unfolds to the zephyrs of spring, but not before, surely, has the earth brought to bloom the flower named for Antinous.”

 

The poet Pancrates wrote it. Athenaeus wrote down such a story on the theme in 192:

 “Speaking of Alexandria, I k now that in that fair city there is a wreath called Antinoeios made from the lotus bearing that name there. This grows in marshes in the summer season; there are two colours, one resembling the rose; it is from this that the wreath properly called Antinoeios is twined; the other is called lotus, and its colour is blue. Pancrates, a poet of those regions whom we knew, showed the Emperor Hadrian when he visited Alexandria the rosy lotus as a great wonder, alleging that it was the one which should be called Antinoeios, since it sprang, so he said, from the earth when it received the blood of the Mauritanian lion which Hadrian had killed when hunting in the part of Libya near Alexandria; it was a huge creature that for a long time had ravaged the whole of Libya, of which this lion had made many places uninhabitable. Hadrian, therefore, pleased at the originality and novelty of his thought, granted him the favour of maintenance in the temple of the Muses…” (Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae, Book XV).

 

Another mention, which in my opinion is worth our attention:

“I revere, Narcissus, your shadowy reflection; I shed a tear for Hyacinthus, who grasped the cruel discus; I pity your hunting of the wild beast, Adonis. Yet the meadow of Antinous and his lovely new flower envy not pool, not fatal discus, not boar. The nymphs began to crown their tresses with the flower named after Antinous, which to this day preserves the mighty spear of the hunter…” (It is the passage from the poem on Antinous, which was found in the 1990s in the ever-expanding corpus of the Oxyrhynchus Papyri and seems to date from the reign of Diocletian, c. 285 CE; Diocletian’s accession. It is possible that the whole composition, of which the beginning is about Antinous and later praises the new Emperor, was written for a poetic competition associated with the Capitoline Games.)

 

The above-mentioned historical evidence is insufficient as evidence, it is as if all we have is the statuary. These images, serving as dumb witnesses can still tell us something. For example, his downcast eye and the capricious curve of his lips suggest that yes, he could be at once pensive and yet capricious. What about his contemplative look? Maybe the boy was just bored by posing for the artist? On the sunny day, when all pleasures of the world were waiting for him, he had to stay in and model. Really, any boy would prefer training at the palestra rather than modelling, standing before a sculptor for several hours. The slightly bowed head suggests a latent vehemence. The new reverie, which we see in portraits of Antinous as a young man, his posthumous imagery, could be regarded as a reverie of a god of his posthumous imagery. What, then, about his lifetime images? Was this new reverie a common expression of the maturing youth in his lifetime? I would suggest that it was not depicting the sad thought that his time as ephebe was over; it was not even about his mystic predestination, far from it -- that was a reverie on his new, more serious role: as heir to the Emperor’s throne. From his role as a beautiful ephebe, he was preparing for his new role or passing to the new career. This is the mystery of Antinous’ contemplative expression seen in his late portraits. His rise to imperial favourite was swift and splendid; his status was prominent and steady. He had no reasons to kill himself.

The child, taken away from his parents because of his beauty, Antinous lived at the