Damaged Gods

I laugh so loud she startles. Then I laugh again.

“What? They had their moments.”

“Well. I’m glad you’re a properly seasoned Catholic college boy-toy, Pie Vita. Because you’ll feel right at home here in ancient Rome.”

Then I open the door to the closest room.

CHAPTER TWENTY - PIE

I’m still on the other side of the threshold when my senses are assaulted. The room before me is packed with people. And even though there was no sound—no hint that this party was happened before Pell opened the door—the noise level is almost deafening, a cacophony of commotion. Singing, laughing, yelling, moaning, screaming. Birds are flying in the high dome ceiling, which is painted to look like a blue sky with lazy clouds passing overhead. Monkeys cling to branches of real trees in the four corners of the long, rectangular space and vines climb up the many columns that line the room. They creep across the floor too, winding between the stone-paved pathways. There is a circular fountain in the center of the indoor garden and many people are stomping around in the water, laughing and falling down like children.

But they are not children.

This is definitely a not-safe-for-kids space. Naked men are everywhere. Young, taut, beautiful naked men, their hair tousled like they just got out of bed, and maybe they did. Most are carrying trays of drinks and food, but there are plenty of them paying special attention to men and women of status at the party.

There are several seating areas consisting of three slightly curved couches that almost make up a circle. Each of these seating areas holds at least a dozen people. Women with their legs open, the nubile young men between them. Men with whores on their laps.

Pell leans down and whispers in my ear. “Which one?”

I look up at him, confused. “Which one what?”

He grins. “Which one will you admonish first? For having no pants on?”

I slap his chest. “Shut up. But at least I know where you get it from now. This is some party.”

Pell looks around. “It looks like it’s barely getting started. Just wait until people are really drunk and all the whores and slaves are naked. It’s one giant fuck fest.”

I look around, trying to take it all in. But there is just too much to see and it’s immediately overwhelming. There is a long table with a stuffed hare in the center, legs stretched out, like maybe it’s running for its life. Or maybe it’s flying. Because the chef has attached goose wings to it. They are large, and gray, and outstretched. Surrounding it are all sorts of equally fantastical dishes, most of which I barely recognize. Crabs cradled in grape leaves. Hens stuffed with plums and pomegranate seeds. Honey cakes, and honey bread, and honey wine. There is a lot of honey and most of it isn’t on the table.

The beautiful men are holding honey dippers over the exposed thighs of the important men on the couches while the whores lick it off. But it isn’t just the men. Women I presume to be wives, due to their higher-status clothing, are also being drizzled with honey. Down their breasts, down their legs, between their toes. And tongues. Everywhere a tongue can be, a tongue is.

But not all of it is erotic. Some of it is just plain ridiculous. Acrobats spin along lengths of brightly colored silks attached to the ceiling, twisting and turning above our heads. The aerial dance isn’t the absurdity. It’s that they are singing as they do it. And the singing is not good. In fact, lots of people are singing and none of it is good. It’s almost as if all the singers are trying to outdo each other with their off-key crooning.

There is a camel, there are too many goats to count, and there are at least three horses. I wince as I look up at Pell. He’s smiling down at me, enjoying my shock. I begin, “The animals—”

He quickly puts up a hand. “Don’t ask.”

“OK, then. What are we gonna do here? Hmm? Eat weird food? Sing badly? Frolic in the fountain? Slather each other in honey and lick it off?” He raises his eyebrows at my last offer. And I can’t help it, I blush. “Kidding,” I add quickly.

He looks around for a moment, then tugs me along to the other side of the large space until we come up to a long bench where men are sitting down, their robes open, exposing themselves to the slaves at their feet. But they’re not getting blowjobs. They’re getting a foot wash.

I stop in my tracks, making Pell stop too, since he’s holding my hand. “Oh, hell no. I did not come to the fantasy hallway rooms to give you a foot-washing.”

“Relax,” he says. “And sit.”

“Sit where?”

He points to an empty space on the bench. “There.”