The language was first. Within the confines of language many other things became clear. He ignored the ebbs and flows and ripples of time that pushed against him rather than propel him. It reminded him of a heated hunt in the forest, pushing through branches and leaves, swamps, and streams to get his prey. His discomfort at the crossing was nothing compared to his exhilaration at finally being reunited with his love. The overt newness of everything struck him and enveloped him. He didn’t know the purpose for many of the modern items he saw, yet slowly, the new era filled his mind, and he became aware of all he observed. When he saw the pyramids of Giza, he knew he was home.

  Antinous had not wept in centuries. Eons. Nearly two millennium. The pyramids were old when he’d last seen them...gleaming white with alabaster casing and manicured bases tended to by adherents of the old ways. The sphinx was now nearly obliterated. Such disrespect.

  He spoke into the streams of time secretly hoping there would be no reply. He had reached the Nile. Swollen, pregnant with fertility and renewal. Sacred Nile. “I return during the flood, just as when I departed. It is the one thousandth eight hundred and ninety second anniversary of my death and resurrection. So long have I been without my love.” I must show this reincarnation of Hadrian the ties that bind he and I. Make that deeply felt by him. Known by him. And then, we shall be together again. The currents of time, much like a riptide, pushed against him. A brief fear chilled him as he realized that even he, as a god, could drown in the current. He held himself upright and swam forward. “I am a god. I will make this work. The timeline shan’t defecate on me.”

  Chapter Two

  Adrian tossed and turned and tried to get some shuteye in his cozy little flat on the outskirts of Cairo. “I slept better in my van,” he scoffed and closed his eyes again...only to see haunting blue ones staring at him with an intensity that made his skin crawl and gut roll. He rose, splashed his face with cool water, and looked in the mirror. The same reflection as in his dream had followed him. He reached for his Trazadone. A sleep aid. Not something he liked to take—but when the ghost of Caesar’s lover came out to play, he needed it. “Screw being a closeted medium.” He’d always been sensitive to the sights and sounds of the spirit realm. He wasn’t alarmed that the ghost of Antinous was very present and literally trying to contact him. He just didn’t have the time.

  He’d lived through worse. The Hadrian tour was far tamer than stirring up things in the Valley of the Dead, though Antinous had the only violent death not related to Roman rule in Hadrian’s life. Drowned. Then deified. October30th. Nearly two thousand years had passed. I’m not going to get any sleep until I address this apparition.

  He aimlessly wandered around his apartment a bit before crawling into bed. “Look...I know who you are. It goes without saying that when one spends as much time as I on the legends and love of Hadrian and Antinous that spirits are awakened. And October30th is a big anniversary—so the veil is thin. I get it. However, if you have a message for me, get on with it. Otherwise, I need to sleep. I have two tours tomorrow. Be at peace and leave.” Not my first time at the rodeo. Hurry up, spirit. What do you want? Adrian recognized his personality drew restless shades—but he needed to sleep and wanted to summarily dismiss the spirit. This one just wants a little attention. A deep aura of need wafted in with the semi-corporeal memory of what once was. Attention was the greatest gift a mortal could offer. “Fine. I’m not inviting you in, but tell me what you want—in some verbal form if possible—and I’ll see if I can help you.”

  Adrian’s return to his soft, comforting sheets became fraught with the anxiety-inducing fact that before him was a full-body apparition. Wearing very traditional Greco-Roman garb with a tight muscular torso, barefoot, and a wild mess of dark blond curls at his head. It was so real he saw the tufts of hair growing on the spirit’s toes. He inhaled and was struck by an old fragrance—ancient, charcoaled perfume. Mesmerizing blue eyes beckoned him. The face was instantly recognizable. “They did a good job capturing your true appearance. Those artisans of old.” The spirit did nothing, so Adrian continued. “Is there something you need...Antinous?” I’m too tired to freak out. The veil is thin. I recognize that.

  The spirit’s eyes flashed at the use of his name. He slightly raised his arm and held out an open palm. Just take my hand, sir. Touch me and our journey will begin. That’s all I need.

  “I can’t give you more than I am. You are my bread and butter, Antinous—but you are long dead, and I am with the living. Perhaps you should seek attention from one of your followers.”

  Antinous’ ghost extended his open hand.

  “You want me? All right. Can you tell me what you want?”

  Antinous waggled his fingers and thrust his hand forward.

  “You want me to take your hand. You want to hold my hand. You want I should touch your ethereal self with my corporeal hand, and then what?” Adrian quickly ran through every horror movie he’d ever seen wherein the victim touched the ghost before exploding or ending up in hell or something. He half expected the walls to bleed and the floor to split to reveal the pit, but as his fingertips touched that of the spirit, there was naught but warmth. Peaceful, satisfying warmth. The spirit didn’t pass through him. It melted into him. And there he discovered the nature of the visitation. Before leaving the here-and-now, the words “Oh, fuck” began to pass between his lips but remained trapped. Everything changed. He was no longer Adrian...no longer a tour guide. He was emperor. Oh, dear God...I am Hadrian.

  Chapter Three

  Burly, hairy, swarthy with black eyes that could penetrate a liar and hands that gently tended the lowliest of foot soldier after injury, Hadrian, Spaniard and Emperor of Rome, slid an oil-soaked index finger to and fro into the bum of his lover. His life. The only person on Earth who truly mattered to him in the most intimate of ways. He stretched the sphincter in anticipation of hard intercourse.

  Antinous moaned and stroked his own cock. “Please, beloved...please put yourself to me. Tease me not.”

  Hadrian laughed and aimed his hardness home. The first thrust—always a difficult one, breeched Antinous’ anus, sending Antinous’ head against the headboard and shaking the foundational tent spikes. The red heavy tent fabric shuddered as Hadrian pounded his lover’s ass. Without decorum—or even caring who heard his cry—he uttered low and guttural upon orgasm. He spun Antinous around and greedily sucked his penis until his cock head brimmed and flowed.

  Hadrian was large. Broad of shoulder and tall. His body, covered with curly black hair, gave him the overall look of a large animal as it was thick and impressive. He preferred a simple subligaria and sandals to robes of state. He was a Caesar for the common man, unafraid to get his hands dirty. Unafraid to be first into battle be it in the field or on the senate floor. In truth, he hated orating and avoided the senate. The senators would tame or mold him into something he was not. He was unyielding. He had been appointed by another rebel—Trajan. Where that Caesar pushed the boundaries of Rome, Hadrian sought only to preserve that which the emperors before him had conquered.

  In comparison, Antinous was lithe. Thin but strong. He had not an ounce of body fat. He was all muscle. Rippling, firm, young flesh. His dark blond hair fell in unruly curls, but he kept his beard shorn—whereas Caesar sported a thick, manly one.

  They lay in each other’s arms, content. Around them darkness had fallen, and the only movement was that of the patrol. The desert could be entirely silent at night. Frighteningly silent. Sometimes the dunes would sing as wind passed through them. A rat would scratch or stray dog howl. Tonight was utterly quiet. Antinous heard Hadrian’s beating heart. It gave him intense comfort to know his love lived. The life of Caesar was fraught with peril. From the lion in Libya to the very political structure of Rome—there was always a baneful shadow or enemy bearing a blade.

  The elite legionnaires of Hadrian’s encampment were ever on-guard. They made sure nothing untoward could come between the emperor and his lover in the night. Or the emperor and his life. Anything—anyone—that tried would be met with a spear to the gut or dagger to throat. Never had there been more loyal soldiers. Hadrian treated them well. Within the heavy regime of duty, they enjoyed status unparalleled to those men who had worn the galea before them. Some of the elder generals didn’t like it—this equality. They complained even over the amount of food given the legionaries. Too much. Too rich. The old guard believed a little starvation would keep the legions alert. Hadrian disagreed. He had spent time hungry. In his army, no man would ever feel that pain. There were other ways to keep his cohort on their toes than by starving them.

  The heat of the Egyptian day had diminished little by night. Antinous rose and then wet a sea sponge with a fragrant blend of water—sacred and rare in the desert—and cooling herbs. The vessel used to hold water in the emperor’s tent depicted the Egyptian god Hopi—who represented an abundance of water. The inundation of the Nile. He bathed Hadrian. No one was more trusted than he. So close was he to his love that bribes had been offered to him in exchange for Hadrian’s murder. He suffered no fools to threaten his mate and had ordered centurions to publicly and slowly behead the would-be usurpers. With a small, dull blade.

  ANTINOUS HAD POWER. Real power. He sat at Hadrian’s side during council meetings. He rode next to Caesar on excursions in the empire. He had helped with the blessing of the wall built to keep the barbarians at bay in the far north of the realm. He had never loved so deeply as he did Hadrian. Every black curly hair. Every scar. Every inch. He lifted Hadrian’s right arm and sponged its pit. A powerful manly odor wafted out from the dark recesses and Antinous breathed it deeply. The aroma of his lover after sex was most enticing. Sweat acted as an aphrodisiac. He trailed the sponge along Hadrian’s barrel chest and tight belly before dropping to his knees to wash Caesar’s cock. He squeezed the sponge over the burgeoning erection, and once clean, he swallowed the member and lavished attention upon it. His act of fellatio was interrupted by a knock on the lintel of the entrance to the tent.

  “FORGIVE ME, CAESAR. I must have a word.” The hand that knocked had long planned the action. Counted the hours. Made offerings to the gods for success. The gods didn’t care if the boon requested was one of ill intent. It was the attention they craved—and he had sought to give it to them. The Egyptian deities and the Roman, and even those that were worshipped by both peoples. The owner of the hand made his name and intentions known to them all. Marcus Consus of Rome. And he wished to save his beloved empire from what he perceived to be grievous acts. Only Caesar’s blood spilled could see Rome renewed. He knocked upon the lintel a second time.

  Antinous pulled away and then handed Hadrian a length of cotton fabric. “Wrap yourself and see to needs of that old worry wart.”

  Hadrian chuckled. “I’d rather have you finish first.”

  “He won’t go away, you know. He will hover about until he breaks words.”

  Hadrian nodded. “Wise council. Ply those sweet lips with some wine while I listen to my adiutor’s most recent words of woe.” He straightened his makeshift robe and then opened the heavy tent flap. “Yes, Marcus?” Caesar had a partial erection. It mattered not. Perhaps the head of the serpent would quell the gossip’s tongue.

  “There is discussion in the camp that I fear you must attend.” Marcus, the adiutor—the assistant overseer of the total encampment of approximately a thousand men and hundreds of support staff and camp followers—genuflected before the emperor.

  “Yes?”

  Marcus studied Caesar’s face. His gaze. Nothing but annoyance at being interrupted with his lover was apparent. That’s good. Very good. “Some of the men who have followers beyond our ranks—there is dissention. The lower ranks. The wives. Even the laundresses and blacksmith gossip.”

  “Unless said gossip is accompanied by a blade sharper than the tongue wielding it, I have no interest in such things.”

  Marcus sighed. “The gossip is against Antinous, Caesar. They would see him removed from power. See him removed from your arms and away from influence.”

  Antinous stood. “That is concerning, for Antinous shall never be parted from me.” Hadrian turned and gazed upon his love. “You shall never be removed from my side.” He looked back over his broad shoulder at Marcus. “Give me names that I may question the traitors.”

  Marcus nodded. “Caesar.” The eyes and ears of the encampment departed the tent.

  “He is a weasel, and it would be better if he had no tongue or eyes in my service.” Hadrian pulled Antinous into his arms. “I love you more than water. More than the sky. More than my own life. I love you more than love itself.”

  “If only I were your wife...at least then I would have the privileges afforded by that office.”

  “You are my wife in practice if not by law. Perhaps I should seal your fate to mine in such a way that no one will question your authority. I shall make you my heir.”

  Antinous startled. Hadrian drew him in tighter. “Caesar, would not a child of your body be better suited as your heir? A child of your body could be named the next emperor of Rome.”

  “I am not Trajan’s child and yet I am emperor. I shall never have children with Vibia Sabina. Our marriage has never been consummated. She has taken lovers with my blessing but is careful not to bring a child into our house in Rome. It is my right as emperor to name an heir. My predecessors adopted. So shall I.”

  “I am blessed by you, Caesar, but I wonder if perhaps you should sire a child by another noble woman—a blood relative—as is Vibia, and name that child as heir. Surely you will bring sons into this world. Strong sons.”

  “Antinous, my love—I have tried to take women to my bed but I find the marital act or even that same action with a concubine unpleasant. I do not become aroused. I am not desirous of the parts of a woman most men clamor for. Breasts are for feeding children and the hidden parts between their legs are for birthing them. The taut body of a man, I find remarkably appealing. That as it may be, I want only you. I want only you for the rest of my life, and should the gods bless us thusly, for all eternity.”

  Antinous rested his head against Hadrian’s chest. “Yes, Caesar. I am honored to be your lover and heir.” I am no Caesar. I could never rule an empire.

  “You are my life.”

  “Which, perhaps, is why the camp followers are frustrated. You have not walked among them or chosen a whore with whom to lay. You have your body servant gather your wash and you tend to cook your own food. That man Marcus is not your ally. And he looks at me as though I am a piece of honeyed fruit.”

  “If it is my hand that prepares the food, I am assured it is to my liking and is not ever to be poisoned. And as for Marcus...I will not fault him for finding the sight of you delicious and tantalizing.”

  “Perhaps if you behaved a little more like your predecessors and whored and gave commands of the wash women and complained at the blacksmith...the words against me would end.”

  “I could pay a woman to come to my tent and clean it. I doubt giving such a command to my body servant would appease the masses.”

  “Yes. Said woman could then spread rumors of your prowess and strength upon her as you savagely took her over and over. Your servant is mute, Hadrian. That would never do.”

  Hadrian laughed. “Indeed. And do you believe that a cleaning woman will quell any nonsense about you?”

  “My father taught me to keep my friends close and enemies closer.”

  “A wise man who raised a brilliant son. And now, let me demonstrate upon your body what the cleaning woman shall gossip in passionate form.”

  Antinous never refused Hadrian. Never. How could one refuse the affections of a god? The divine emperor. It didn’t matter if he was tired or hungry or just not interested in sex. Hadrian’s needs always came first. Hadrian had never forced him, abused him, or in any way made him feel lesser than any Roman—even though he was Greek by birth.

  Hadrian’s word was law. All acted directly upon any command. The Cohors Prima Centuriae of about eight hundred men, plus auxiliary—the Supernumeralii soldiers and camp followers from medicus to whore—all bowed to Hadrian’s will. He was Caesar and ruled with absolute power. Hadrian loved him so dearly that should he ever ask not to be used—not to be made love to—Hadrian would agree. I’m not a slave. I’m his lover. His wife. I wish I could bear him children. He lurched forward with Hadrian’s powerful thrusts and gripped the pillows as he was filled to the brink and hot sperm, having no room to settle, trickled out of him. Hadrian’s sacred seed.

  He was hard. Though he was tired, his body responded to Hadrian’s reach around and he, too, achieved orgasm. Sated, he rolled away and then covered himself with an Egyptian cotton blanket heavily embroidered with images of the gods.

  “Sleep, my love. Morning comes soon enough.”

  Antinous had expected to feel Hadrian’s large body beside him as sleep overtook him, but it was not to be. Hadrian dressed only in his subligaria before leaving the tent.

  Chapter Four

  Hadrian cut an impressive swath of a man, even only garbed in his loincloth. Dark skin, black curly hair of head and chest. Penetrating brown eyes. That was the Spaniard in him. The aura of power came from the gods. He didn’t suffer fools—and Marcus was a fool. A thousand tongues could speak ill of Antinous or raise threats—and all of them would be unfounded. Except Marcus. He’s a jealous man. His passions runs to dark places that most dare never tread. “I know you are lurking about. Show yourself and speak to me of the dissenters in the masses,” Hadrian said into the night air. The legionnaires guarding his tent did not reply, but Marcus did. Hadrian thought his voice more serpent than human.