Dust

The Palace and/or the Sand Castles

The Bishop's Palace was built within an already existing settlement on the sandy beach on the Mediterranean shore. The residents, a diminutive and impoverished people, had created a community consisting of a network of hovel-like sand castles, connected with a series of shallow underground tunnels. Lacking in material possessions— their lives were an eternal struggle of hunger and marginalization from the city which horded its wealth like a wounded soldier desperately tying off their spear-gored leg with a tourniquet to keep every last possible drop of precious blood from escaping— they were a tight knit, exclusive, and deadly mysterious tribe that looked after their own, and out at the world with beady eyes.

"Do you know why you are here?"

Aquitanus leered his iconic stare at the bishop. He knew why. And he did not like being asked. There was always a man with a higher rank, more power, trying to play games with him and he found it tedious.

"Right," the bishop had become aware of this, too, but could not stop himself, "we can forget about the situation in Hispania. You have everything you need right here in Carthage. This city doesn't put on airs. We know what we are about, we know what we like, and I do not like having slums on my doorstep. I am a man of god, you know this, I know this, god knows this, but god doesn't always act as fast as I would like, and there is always the need for strongmen like you to ensure that the system operates as I like it," he had begun to bore himself, "as it ought to be. Look," he touched Aquitanus' on his thigh, an awkward and intimate gesture magnified by the fact that the two men were standing, "god has a plan, and I, we, have been tasked with carrying that out. I, we, you can lead these destitute children to salvation, bring them to know god. They are staring into the sun, their poor little eyes burning from the exquisite marble of this holy residence..."

This guy is fucking insane, Aquitanus thought. He had tuned out the bishop. This man could not possibly expect anyone to stay on board with these insipid monologues. But it was a job, and a new start. He did not need to stay with the church forever; especially with its precarious and contrived relationship with the state. Aquitanus needed Jesus, but maybe these Christians needed to be persecuted, too. He looked out at the bustling seaside community scurrying around in their bee dance, performing their daily rituals before the sun set on their sandy home.
"Consider it done," flattery had brought Aquitanus' back to consciousness. He knew that his body and head have taken a few beatings over the years that have piled up like empty wine casks, but being referred to as a hard, muscular man, with the backing of powerful coercive entities made his cock twitch, even if it was from a batshit horrible person.

"Do you drink, soldier," the bishop asked with a casual look in his eye, making the intended answer unclear.

"No, sir," Aquitanus lied through gritted teeth, he liked being called soldier, and was getting irritated with his pulsing member. There was a chance that they might actually fuck right there. Mid-sentence.

"Good," the bishop said in a brusque manner and gave a jerk of the head as if he had just remembered why he was there. The lack of follow-up was disconcerting, and was decreasing his penal blood flow. Now he was irritated without the sexual immediacy. He wanted to tell the bishop to stop wasting his time and to show him his quarters so he could relieve himself of his urges, punch himself in the face, and scream into the void until he eventually slipped out of consciousness for the night.

"Oh, let me show you where you will be lodging, soldier," Aquitanus' mental anguish must have become palpable enough for the bishop to pick up on, he was not one to have mastery over the expressions on his face.

"Right this way, to that little alcove. Some might say it's a bit cozy, but it is far better than exposing oneself to the night," the way in which the bishop annunciated the word "exposing" disconcerted Aquitanus. He must have known, the only question being how much. The old spider was crawling up his back again. She was soft and furry and liked to tell him lies. He would have plucked her and shook her around, told her to stop her deceitful tricks, but she was under his skin, in his spine, his nervous system, inside his brain, unreal.

Aquitanus looked into the chamber where he would be staying. It had a bed and a table, and a small opening in the mud brick wall which gave the slightest view of the sea, yet large enough to blow in a dusty blanket over the room. It suited him fine. Better than the stars, though. Wait. No, the bishop was wrong. This reprehensible city of grimy ditches, and an individualistic populace that would do you over for ducat had nights, moments, where you forgot that you were in a Roman city, and that someone out there was looking after you. Her name was Nadia. And she was water in the sky. Not rain, but life, and when he looked into the stars on cloudless nights he could see where he came from and it was good. He could see his parents, his sister. And that was where he had to stop. Some things cannot be looked in the eye. Not now, anyway.

The little hovel that was his quarters was situated on the edge of one of the sand castle neighborhoods. From the look of it, a recent act of holy aggression left a series of their dwellings leveled. On nights like this one, with a slight cool breeze, Aquitanus would rather sleep under the stars in his chosen clearing near the cliffs south of the city, overlooking the sea. He had a hard enough time falling asleep as it was, with his unresolved personal puzzles, a united community of righteously indignant marginalized settlers on his doorstep was best avoided if possible.

Before exiting the room Aquitanus entertained the thought of pinning the bishop against the wall right then and there, and accomplishing what needed to be accomplished. This was followed by a wave of nausea, and tears welling up in his eyes. Not now, not here. Without a word, in brisk strides he went around the other side of his hovel, and shit a bloody, wormy shit, wept, then screwed his face back up into its usual disinterested predatory expression. His eyes were always bloodshot, he probably would not have to explain anything.

He had to stop unraveling while he was with the bishop. Like a child he almost asked him, "can I stay with you, tonight?" as if the bishop were his mother and Aquitanus was six, and had a real name, and a real mother, and a home in Gaul, and a sister, who he loved very much.