– OVID
We had left the city fortress at dawn,
crossing the small bridge over the River Fleet,
startling sleepy young sentries,
trembling hand-across-chest salutes,
our rattling open carriage which you drove,
whipping the rears of four furious stallions,
as you tore ferociously down the Strand,
profile fierce as Pluto, hungry for speed,
addicted to the pulse of battle.
Farmland spread up in hills to the right,
a ghostly, mist-filled Thames to the left,
three hundred armed guards galloping
on horseback, flashing red capes
up ahead, and behind; wagons with our provisions –
without the paraphernalia of state, this time,
the Great Danes and stuffed togas.
I thank you for that.
We climbed the winding path of Haymarket,
arms of trees forming an arbour, emerged
out of the cloud of mist into daylight.
I held on to my seat, as we raced
over the wild sloping grassland of Mayfair,
by the Serpentine, followed the lumpen banks
of the River Westbourne, as our cavalcade
edged slowly into the humid jungle
at Bayswater, soldiers up ahead
cutting a path with axes. We entered afternoon,
sunlight began to filter through the trees.
I relaxed in my seat, surprised
by the noisy conversations of insects
and birds tree-hopping, frightened
small hoofs escaping into the undergrowth.
A large black spider,
suspended from a branch by a fragile thread,
almost brushed my face.
I inhaled the dew-soaked earth, damp bark,
wet fronds, a single
blade, wearing an opalescent earring,
at its tip. I offered
my naked, wind-beaten cheeks to the sun –
the humid breath of summer.
We crawled along a tributary, arrived at Notting Hill,
discovered an overgrown clearing
where the jungle swept down at Portobello,
quickly disentangled by our army of sickles.
A large Bedouin tent was erected,
of our journey, you said, and beyond
to Kensington High and way out to Fulham.
Yay! Such is the burden of omnipotens,
my dear. I went exploring, wolves, bears,
savages were unwelcome visitors
in my mind. I flung them out,
I knew I was safe, here with you,
and three hundred soldiers.
I snapped the stems of forget-me-nots
from the base of a tree, found a raspberry bush,
picked a handful for you,
fed them on to your tongue, one by one.
We sat listlessly under an awning, ordered
flagons of beer, rustic-stylee,
a gong for room service, the air was heavy,
a wild hog roasted slowly on a spit,
basted with garlic and lovage oil,
mingling with the heady aroma of wood smoke.
I deepened my breaths,
you ripped its succulent hide apart
with your hands and proffered
with chunks of bread dipped in garum.
We tore at our feast, starving,
until we could not move,
‘Why did you pick me?’ I asked,
for I was in the mood for compliments.
‘You were like desert girl in Londinium.
So beautiful. I will never see desert again.’
‘Don’t say that. Of course you will.’
‘You cannot argue with science of stars.
Why did you like me?’
What, apart from the obvious, I thought.
Men with power et cetera.
Surely you can’t be that naive, our Sev?
But in truth there was more to it.
‘I knew you would make my world larger.
It was so small, inside and out,
I would discover more of myself through you.
Will you tell me about the Sahara?’
‘We call it Bahr-bela-ma, sea without water.
Desert must be respected, it is ruthless.
Yes, worse than emperor, if it is possible.
Early Romans were afraid of desert,
it stopped empire going further south.
Like sky it can be all colours, reds, golds,
purples, black, silver, remarkable, like sky,
and like sky, you can see for ever.
It is colder at night than in Scotland. Yes!
absorbs all your fluid, until you shrivel up and die.
Sometimes you are in middle of massif,
other times shifting dunes are everywhere,
for desert is always changing, it is rock
which billennia have crushed
into tiny particles of sand.
Sometimes you see salt caravans
of more than 30,000 camels,
stretching for miles.
Salt is sold ounce for ounce for gold.
It is like mirage, when you see something
that is not there. So wonderful.
Sometimes you will find oasis: palm trees,
pools, cash-and-carry shop,
but most of it is barren, a waste land,
then nomads wash in sand, not water.
You cannot imagine how beautiful it is, Zuleika.
Britannia is like pigs’ ca ca in comparison.’
He waved a dismissive arm at the jungle,
took his goblet and clinked mine.
‘Cheers! To Sahara!’
Then the blue sky quickly filled with thunderheads,
broke over us, lightning shot
out of the forefinger of Jupiter.
We ran inside the tent, you lay sprawled
on luxurious burgundy eastern rugs,
as a battalion of iron balls
descended through the leafy canopy
of old oak trees, battered the canvas roof
of our tent. A raven cawed
far off in the distance, a grunting
family of pigs scuttled past, charged
into the bushes,
our vista became splattering mud,
the phalanx of trees on the opposite bank
disappeared,
a hot bronze curtain met the river as vapour,
my fingers
penetrated your bushy hair,
pulled it up in tufts, squeezed the tension
out of your head,
to your quiet, grateful groans.
I untied the Gordian knots in your shoulders
with juniper oil,
pummelled your back
with my fists,
knuckle each vertebrae down to your coccyx,
knead your hard buttocks,
them until your tingles
shoot up my arm, I chew each toe
in turn until it is softened, bite
into your soles like a joint of pork,
you cannot help but giggle,
sir, I turn you over,
with my palms, rotate your temples, trace
the curves on your face, touching
yet not, three fingers inside your mouth, let you
suckle, baby,
from belly to breast, I massage
your chest
in concentric circles, pinch
your nipples, nibble gently, set my belly-dancer
tongue on to them, take your hands,
my love,
tie them above your head, with your belt,
I sit astride my steed,
take the reins, my flexible muscles
holding you in,
flexing like strong fists,
tighten and release,
teasing you, taming you, your eyes are shut,
you have died
so hard my hand hurts,
your eyes shoot open like a dead man
dying,
I slap you again,
you feign amusement,
your eyes suggest so this is slap and tickle?
I take your riding crop, fold it,
lash your chest.
‘Take that!’ I hiss. ‘How dare you humour me.
Who’s the boss now?’
I ride you so hard I am becoming sore.
Forget
those stinking back-stabbers
in the senate in Rome, Severus,
those shit-stirrers, perfidious smilers,
has-beens, cunning
poisoners, ruthless young guns, arse-
lickers, mendacious gits,
wannabes – and your wife,
who won’t play make-believe.
I know,
Who?
Who?
Who?
Who?
I slap you again, but throw aside the whip,
for I have not the will, in truth,
to see you bleed.
‘Outside!’ I order, watch you struggle
to crawl
on your tied hands and knees, laughing
hysterically like a naughty child.
Is this so funny? I kick you hard in the ribs,
you collapse on your back,
when did anyone ever dare, my imperator?
I mount,
we are in mud, mud and more mud,
et caenum et caenum et plus caeni,
you are sprawled in it,
my legs have sunk
into it, my flattened hands
are imprinted on it,
rain pours down my back, over my head,
my nose, into my mouth, yours,
I gulp it in,
grab handfuls of mud, plaster your cheeks,
your chest,
in sludge,
you are helpless,
beasts,
with no history, no future
but my bloodline to continue.
I begin
riding my boy home.
‘Who’s the boss?’
He responds to my thrusts with such force
I almost fall off
him, he surges, he must surrender
before I break,
this friction will make me scream,
prematurely,
I stop, wait, letting his hardness
beg from inside, I act cold,
taunting.
‘Don’t stop now,’ he panics.
‘Who’s the boss,’ I repeat, folding my arms,
smirking.
‘Please, Zuleika,’
‘Say the magic words.’
‘You are!’
‘I am what?’
‘You are –
my imperatrix, my canny dominatrix,
a tad too arrogantly.
‘Mmnn,’ I reply,
‘try saying it with more sincerity,
more humility, methinks.’
I move to get off him.
‘No! You are boss,’ he says urgently.
‘Don’t leave me now, come home
with me,
maman, take me home,’
he moans,
‘take me home, maman,
I want to go home, home, home,’
please, Zuleika,
take me …’
I unbelt his hands,
his body spasms, he claws
my breasts with muddy fingers,
cries out, choking on a mouthful of rain,
he spumes
into me and we are all pulpa,
the swollen river
has become a torrent,
I hear it rushing past us,
later we bathe in it, I dip
rain showers us,
you clean my breasts
with wet hands,
make them shine again,
your weight holds out
against the current,
you hold me
so tight I do not fall,
we walk
back to the tent, me
leading you,
we dry each other off, gently,
with soft towels,
lie down together,
wrapped into ourselves,
our carriage is made of pure gold,
we sit on top of purple cushions,
this is our triumphal procession
into Rome.
Vivat Imperator Severus!
Vivat Imperator Severus!
Thousands are cheering
on the streets,
are heralding your return,
after so long,
you have taken Scotland,
all the buildings and statues
are adorned,
with flowers and ribbons
wrapped around columns,
sandalwood burns in braziers,
the army is behind you,
dancers are ahead of you.
Bellissima! Bellissima!
they call out to your new bride.
We enter the Imperial Palace
on the Palatine Hill,
where we sleep
the sleep of newborns,
you hold me so tightly
I cannot move,
I am your life,
we will re-create each other,
we will call her
Claudia,
she will call you
Daddums.
like a volcano,
the sun inside me, lightning
striking me,
I am on fire,
I am riding a wave,
I grab the mud either side
to steady myself, but
it is slipping
through my fingers, I will
explode
into a billion fragments of sand,
into the rain, I throw
back my head
and howl.