PHIDIAS Picture and IV: Kallistos, the Greek boy

 

Istanbul, in the year 1542. It was a moonless night; the Second Courtyard at Topkapi Palace was in darkness. But a figure confidently walked along the paths surrounded by fragrant grass and trees. Animals, supposed to give a noisy welcome to the stranger, were strangely in calm.

Soon a second figure joined the first one; in contrast, the person was carrying a lamp and seemed agitated. The two figures quickly walked to one of the surrounding buildings and disappeared inside the shadowy walls.

Having crossed the porch connecting the place with the courtyard, both found themselves in a softly lit corridor. The guards barely paid them attention because, despite being one of the most protected areas of the palace complex, the access to the Imperial Harem, they both had all the rights to be there, as part of the retinue of black eunuchs taking care of the Imperial Family and the Sultan's women; at least, that was the case for one of them.

They both passed in silence through galleries and patios, to the apartments of the odalisques, the harem servants, and the eunuch guided his guest, whom so much resembled one of his kind and so skilled was in finding his way in the dark, to a certain room with several beds.

Only one of them was occupied by a small shape. The eunuch projected the light of the lamp on the bed and the small figure tossed and turned: a lovely little girl, no more than six years old, with white skin and silky black hair. She wasn't asleep, and terror was reflected in her big wide open eyes, of a beautiful grey colour. The visitor smiled and leaned over the bed; the little girl moved back, sticking to the wall.

'What we do have here,' he stated, more than asked, in Turkish, and moving the sheets away he lifted, with no consideration at all, the child's nightclothes; between his legs rested the incontestable proof of his male gender. 'Ah, but thou art not a girl, art thou?' The kid, pallid with fear, didn't answer; he seemed not to understand his words. Under his warm skin the visitor noticed his fast heartbeats, and this pleased him. 'And do tell me, Onur, what does a boy do with the odalisques? Since he is certainly not a eunuch aspirant, keeping this intact.' He brushed his small sex and the boy unsuccessfully tried to close his legs, as that huge dark-skinned man was holding him, inflexible.

Islam forbade castration; hence the reason why children destined to be sold as slaves and become eunuchs for the Turks were previously castrated by Christian or Jewish merchants. It was rare to find a male slave with intact genitals in a place like that.

'Ye know how it is, master... ' said the eunuch called Onur. 'Certain... males have, sometimes, different and extravagant tastes which require of boys with their... private parts untouched. This one comes from Greece. I shall have to look for a more appropriated place for him to be, but since he is as charming as a girl, I thought... I could pass him off as one until I came with a solution.

'We shall see if thou art completely right; give me the lamp.' And stripping the terrorised child naked, the visitor examined every inch of his skin. Once he finished, he assented. 'Pure and immaculate. Good; thou shall take care of him to remain that way.' The eunuch nodded; his visitor inspired him almost as much fear as to the boy, yet he took good care of not showing it. 'Make sure no blade slashes his skin, that he remains a virgin until he is fourteen, and once he is ripe, find a passive protector for him, understanest thou?' He slipped a finger and pointed it between the kid's buttocks. 'May thy god help you if I ever find this part used at all.'

Onur nodded again as submissively as possible. The stranger dropped a heavy and tinkling bag in his hands and disappeared through the door without a single glance at the object of his attentions.

Nine years later, the same visitor showed identical audacity by sneaking in Topkapi again. His guide, Onur, didn't look a year older, and denoted equal deference and submission. This time he guided him to the white eunuchs quarters, where a teenager was introduced to him: a fifteen years old boy, tall, slender, handsome, with white skin and shiny black hair, visible under his headdress. His unmistakeable grey eyes stared at him with a certain condescension, as he looked like a black eunuch; despite their power into the palace, males would always display an attitude of superiority towards those they considered incomplete men.

As Onur had explained to the visitor, he had managed to hide the boy discreetly, as one of the white eunuchs. Their castration used to be incomplete, and often kept part of their virility; that was one of the reasons why they were not allowed into the serail, and their tasks were administrative; although, in this particular boy's case, his manhood was intact and his tasks consisted of acting as a certain male member of the palace's lover.

'Apparently Onur lived up to his promises... Apparently,' said the visitor. 'Tell me, boy, what is thy name?'

'Enver,' answered the teenager.

'I do not mean thy Turkish name, but the Greek one thou hast before thou camest here. Thou surely rememberest, dost thou not?

The young man distrustfully looked at the eunuch Onur, who nodded. After some hesitation, he finally answered:

'Kallistos.'

'Quite appropriated. Come with me, Kallistos; let us head to a more private place.'

The eunuch took the boy by the arm and motioned for the visitor to follow them. Upon entering an empty room, he closed the door behind them and awaited, nervous.

'I want to see if Onur properly cared about thee.'

The visitor started to undress the boy; he resisted, but the African grabbed him by the neck with hands as strong as steel and stared at him in such a cold and inhuman way that the youngster felt every hair on his body standing up. At his back, the eunuch weakly ordered him to obey; with a single look from the corner of the stranger's eye, the scared Onur went out of the room, leaving them alone. The Greek slave shivered; his captor finished pulling his clothes and his headdress off, loosening his mane over his pale shoulders. He had grown up a lot since the last time; his body was still a teenager's, yet already showed signs of his future alluring adulthood, tall and well-formed, with muscles defined under the smooth and spotless skin.

The man forced him to spread his legs; under his incipient dark hair, his good-sized, well-shaped member had a beautiful colour. Holding the skin that covered its extreme, the African slid it down to its base, uncovering the soft pink flesh; the boy whimpered.

'They did not circumcise thee, either. Good; Onur is a man of his word, full of resources.'

'Ye are... that black man...' The slave's eyes shone with recognition.

'I am delighted thou knowest me,' the man smiled ironically. 'I could hardly recognise thee. Back then thou hadst this not.' He pressed his genitals against his groin, getting another moan out of him. 'I know with whom thou usest to go to bed, but do tell, didst thou ever do it with a female?' The slave swallowed and nodded. 'Let me see this part, now.' He forced him to turn around and his strong, cold fingers spread his buttocks, examining the opening hidden between them. His victim, all his muscles tensed, clenched his fists and jaw. 'Did they take thee up here?'

'No!' He almost howled his answer.

'And thou better be careful not to allow that, Kallistos. Now listen: I am no eunuch; I am not even an African; thou dost not need to know much about me right now, except that I am the only one thou shall address as master.'

This said, he covered his prisoner's mouth, moved his black hair away and sank his fangs into one side of his nape. The boy released a muffled shout and shook in pain; but gradually, his resistance diminished, his breath became heavier and finally he abandoned himself over. Little by little his attacker uncovered his mouth, and those lips just drew sighs of pleasure. The fake eunuch introduced his index between them, and the young man licked it with the tip of his tongue; then he took it out and stopped drinking for a brief moment in which he bit it, mixing his own blood with Kallistos' saliva, and slid it back into his mouth; he sucked it shyly at first, deep and hungrily once he had tasted it.

The man held back and stopped feeding himself; he gazed at the naked beautiful teenager quivering in his arms, licked and completely erased the small incisions on his skin and, finally, healed the wound in his own finger. Becoming aware of all this, the boy panted and tried to swivel his head around and look at him.

'Nothing else for thee today, kid, nor for myself,' he said, and laid the exhausted Kallistos on a bed, allowing him to rest; after that he fixed his clothes and left the room. He found Onur outside, diligently waiting, who started to walk behind him along the corridor.

'Delicious. Maybe too much... I think I went a bit too far, so let him rest. He must not leave the room for several days, until my ritual of binding him is completed. Then I will feed thee as well, Onur.'

The eunuch bowed deeply, his face displaying his craving. Once he reached the door, the so revealed vampire disappeared.

For several nights the same scene was repeated. The ritual of binding, in which vampires feed humans with his own vital fluid, turns these into obedient and loyal servants. Besides, vampiric blood grants supernatural abilities to those drinking it, and extends human life to unsuspected extremes... Young Kallistos, renamed Enver by his Turkish captors, became an unknown vampire's servant by blood, since he still hadn't tell him his name. He used to come, however, and visit him regularly, encouraged his education and took good care that he continued his sexual activities inside of the palace walls, with his protector and also with young slaves provided by the eunuch. The young man never abandoned his prison, and the sun barely touched his skin; some nights his true master would take pleasure in

keeping him in some secret room and from the shadows watching him in bed, provoking women and men alike to scream out of pleasure. After these sessions, the vampire would always take the boy for himself and taste him with relish, feeding him in turn.

And one day, shortly after the young man's eighteenth birthday, his master arrived in a strange mood, his face showing concern and eagerness at a time. He ordered Onur to have Kallistos bathed, his hair done and his outfit to be of the finest quality, and then vanished.

The whole business wasn't very different of his ritual every time he had a love meeting, but there was something in the air; years of drinking vampire blood had sharpened his senses, and he could perceive the unnatural stillness; even the animals had fallen silent. Also, the place he was guided to was new for him: one of the kiosks of the palace, wonderful small buildings for the sultan's enjoyment. He imagined the terrible punishment he would suffer if they discovered him there, without permission... Then he calmed down: his master was doubtless powerful enough to arrange things his way.

The ornate marble outlines of the building gleamed under the moonlight; inside, oil lamps lighted up the walls, covered with green, white and blue tiles; the tapestries and their complicated geometrical and vegetal designs; the carpets, covered with silk cushions. Some diwans, hidden behind curtains, remained in the shadow. A huge tub made of translucent white stone, filled with steaming hot water, stood out against the back wall of the room.

Kallistos admired the chamber and there he stood, not knowing what to do. The fine tunic he was wearing was made of such a delicate and thin tissue that made him feel uncomfortable; he crossed his legs and sat over a cushion on the floor.

Minutes passed slowly, and everything remained silent; then one hour, and the young man, restless, rose and started to walk about the room. It was so pleasant, the tact of wool under his bare feet, enhanced by his acute senses; he smiled and dragged his feet, very slowly, along those fruits of the best Turkish looms, and later over the soft silk cushions. Then he slid his palms along a really fine curtain, thin as a spider web, and closed his eyes to let the fabric slip over his face as well. Upon opening them again he saw, through the veil, a figure standing in front of him: a figure that, he could swear, wasn't there some seconds before.

Giving a start, the boy moved back, as if he had been caught red-handed. The creature didn't move, contented with watching him; motionless; silent. The Greek slave's heart started to beat faster; in the silent room, it sounded like a hammer striking against an anvil. Apparently, that pulled the figure out of his immobility; moving the curtain aside, he approached Kallistos.

He was the most impressive man he had ever seen; well, not a man, since his senses revealed him he was a creature like his master. He was so tall that the boy had to tilt his head back to look at his face; his limbs were very long, specially his hands, with fingers extending beyond the imaginable. Curls of his black hair covered his forehead, under which thick eyebrows cast shadows over his eyes, with irides so black that it was impossible to make out his pupils. His skin was the most unnatural feature, smooth and faded like old polished stone; the boy expected it would creak or squeak. And when he finally spoke, his voice seemed to come from the bowels of a deep rock cave.

'Thy master is but an impatient lad. Thou should ripe in two, three years, yet I understand his impetuosity; after all, who is to know if thou shall be here the next time my steps bring me back to these parts?'

He was speaking a Greek so classic and formal that Kallistos could barely understand him, specially after years of talking nothing but Turkish and Arabic. The huge being dropped his cloak, revealing his attire made of bright white fabric; he reached for the human, tracing with his fingers the profile of his face, who wouldn't have dared to think of objecting. It was like a statue suddenly coming to life and being pressed against him; he shivered, not with fear, but expectation. The hand gently made his face turn right, then left, and slipped down his neck, over the hollow between his collarbones and until the collar of his tunic; the fabric, unable to resist the strength of those fingers, was torn in two, with a rustle, all the way to his navel. The broken garment slid down his shoulders onto the floor, uncovering his nakedness.

'The ones that practise my trade are not generally welcome around here,' continued the creature. Carest thou to know, my boy, why it is my thought that Muslims like to surround themselves with young beauties, like thee? As their religion does not approve of paint and sculpture to portrait persons, they have to make up for it with ravishing living statues, as those locked into the sultan's harem. I could not approve of that intolerance, at first: art is my job, after all. But time made me understand the wisdom of their behaviour; there is no sculpture more wonderful than this; it moves, and swivels with charm and allure, and drags its bare feet over silk and displays the delight produced by its sensations.' Kallistos shuddered; the extremely long fingers kept running along his chest, barely touching his skin, taking their time around his navel, the lines of his ribs, the furrow between his pectorals. 'Even now, thy body tells you: This hand on me is cold, and rock-like, but the contact is soft and stirs my senses, and I like to feel it again and again.'

The young Greek swallowed; he barely dared to breath. There was something about that voice, a quality that spoke directly to his mood, to the very core of his mind. It was the truth: he wanted him to keep touching; he wanted to feel him on different, more intimate places; he wished him to hold him tight and check if stone could warm up with the contact of flushed flesh, or if cold skin could still experience pleasure. And suddenly he became conscious of his presence inside, observer of his every thought. He felt it as clearly as vivid was the vision of the impressive figure in front of him; and somehow it relieved him, because he had to hide no more; he would be able to show his urges without shame. Ye watched me since I entered, Kallistos thought, and the presence's silence lent assent. Why. What I have been examining is the outline of a new sculpture, answered the artist, and I intend to complete it.

He held the boy's hand and guided him to the tub; the water, saturated with aromatic essences, was opaque, and still warm thanks to a brazier under the stone base. He gently submerged him completely under its surface, and once he emerged back, his nostrils filled with the scent of roses, sandalwood and vetiver, he found his back wrapped by the stone embrace of the sculptor's large naked body; and same as stone, the cold body gradually warmed up with the water. Kallistos perceived, right under his buttocks,

the hard bulk of his companion's manhood, and was shaken by a wave of excitement that, born in his lower abdomen, went up along his stomach and chest. Immediately the artist's hands slipped over the young man's sides, and skilled fingers stimulated his nipples. The boy jolted and moaned; his sex pointed, rigid, to his navel, and the pressure between his buttocks increased slightly. He put his hands down, moved by the impulse to procure himself some fast relief, but the creature held his arms and kept them away from his body, harmlessly but firmly. The human's moans echoed faintly over the water surface once they raised in frequency and intensity, as his own quivering caused the virility against his rear to push more abruptly.

Suddenly, something narrow and elongated made its way through his virgin entrance, gently expanding the opening and going deep inside him; Kallistos stifled a cry of surprise and panic, and his companion, maintaining his arms under the boy's armpits, reached for the tense face and covered the beautiful grey eyes, forcing him to close them. Once the strange removed his hands, very slowly, the young man tried to open them again, without success. Fear thou not, the voice whispered in his head. Deprived of vision, his sense of tact intensified to the extreme; his ears got drunk with the sole sounds of his own moans and the quiet splashing of water; saturated his nose, with the perfumed oils; flooded his mouth with his own saliva, dripping down the corner of his lips. The invisible appendage quivered inside him and found its final destination, and there it lingered, with deep strokes; and right when the climax was almost being reached, it withdrew.

The young Greek released an eager groan of protest, but the one holding him took good care in calming him down, gradually bringing him back to relaxation. Having got his breath back, but still with unsatisfied arousal between his legs, Kallistos found himself lifted and turned around to face the sculptor. He rested his forehead on the wide chest, inside which no sound revealed the presence of his silent heart. Blindly he leaned his face against that flesh which wouldn't give way to his pressure; blindly he slipped his tongue all the way to that wide mouth; he brushed the thin lips with the tip, he kissed them, and it was like kissing a statue, wet and warm after a summer storm.

The stranger's arms surrounded him; his hands settled him over his thighs, spreading his gluteus to hold, inch by inch, his erect member, expanding his elastic inner walls in its path. The boy noticed his own upright penis, over his partner's stomach; his hunger was reborn with equal might and he sighed deeply, right inside the half-open lips in front of him. Up and down his hips flew, impelled by his own knees, granting the creature a deeper access. He arched his back then, seized with the desire that was giving a wilder and wilder pace to his ride, and when he believed he couldn't drown more in pleasure, he felt the teeth penetrating him, with a crunch, and the flood of blood leaving his body, deafening like the tempest's breath. He violently ejaculated, with a scream; unable to support himself on his legs, he slipped little by little into the water, leaving a pink stain floating on the milky liquid.

Silence. Just bubbling around his ears, the quiet song of water.

Pins and needles in the skin. Vague feeling of flesh stretching, folding, tightening. But I must be dreaming, because flesh does not do that, does it?

Flood of humours out of his body. I am floating in liquid, but at the same time I can feel myself emptying... So strange...

Ah... I notice air again, through my nose, but it is too much an effort for me to push it to my lungs; better to sleep; to sleep deep into this bright darkness. Wait... I see an image in my mind. He is showing me something; I can see Him: He is leaning, inside a tub full of cloudy liquid, and is carrying something in His arms. It looks like a statue, a marble statue...

Now I see another face besides Him, a dark one... I want him to leave, I want him to leave us alone... Something is dripping on my lips... Something is poured into my mouth... It tastes like master's blood...

In front of a Venetian mirror, Kallistos stared at his own reflection; the one supposed to be his reflection, at least, because he couldn't recognise it. He reached for the silvery surface and the being in the other side did likewise. Then he moved his hand to his own face, and felt under his fingertips the reality of his presence, but it was like touching an alien face taking his own one's place, or as if his skin felt the contact of a strange hand. He felt a lump in his throat and the pressing need to burst into tears, but his eyes were dry. He turned around and faced the artist, who was besides him, watching. Wantest thou to cry because thou art horrified at what thou seest, or because it touches thy heart?, asked the latter in his head. I do not know, answered Kallistos, and he was sincere. And even if his companion said nothing, he smiled to himself, because he knew the answer to his own question.

He approached the newborn vampire by his back and, moving his long lack hair out of the way, rested his hands over his shoulders. The new immortal searched for the pitch dark eyes' gaze with his own strange ones, in ivory and silver, through the mirror image. I would wish to know your name.

'Pheidias.' The artist allowed his voice to resound again in the young one's ears. 'I was born, like thee, in Greece, a long time ago. Art thou, perhaps, familiar with that name?' Kallistos shook his head and he smiled. 'Later on thou shall hear about me, for sure. There are still people who know my name and my work; like thee, right now. I fervently hope thou shall keep both, next time we meet.'

'Do ye have to leave? Am I not to be taken with you?' There was no answer, and the young vampire felt himself filled with discouragement. 'And when shall I see you again?'

Phidias, the sculptor, surrounded with his arms the naked shoulders he had modelled, leaned and kissed his neck, before answering:

'Once I am certain that my creation will last over time.'

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