The Story of Philo

Back in Teshret, Philo’s family grew anxious and worried as the sun moved westward, and then dipped into the blue sea. Dusk was followed by darkness.

Philo’s mother was crying.

“Oh, where could they be? It’s dark and they’re not here yet,” she lamented as she lit an oil lantern.

“It’s a long way to walk from Byblos,” Philo’s father said, trying to ease his wife’s anxiety, but was nervous himself. The boys should not be this late. His leg hurt a lot, and smelled bad, which was not a good sign.

“I’m taking this lamp to the outcrop at the end of the field. Just in case they get lost in the darkness. They will see the light and come home. Oh, dear Baal, let them come home.”

Philo’s mother placed the lantern on the outcrop and sat next to it, weeping and rocking from left to right. Next to her sat Philo’s youngest sister, Sheela, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks.

“But mama,” Sheela whispered, “why isn’t Philo home yet? I miss him already.”

This made Philo’s mother cry more, trying to stare into the falling darkness in the hope of spotting the shadows of her son and the Israelite.

First light found mother and daughter at the outcrop, leaning on each other, and weeping.

“I have to go find my son,” Philo’s mother rose up determinedly. “I have to find my Philo.”

“But mama…,” Sheela said.

“Hush.”

The mother hurried back to the hut and started grabbing things, barely able to see through the tears.

“What are you doing?” Philo’s father said groggily.

“I’m going down to Byblos to find my Philo,” she said, not looking up, busy collecting garments and things into a parcel.

“Woman! Are you crazy? Are you going to walk all the way down on your own? I’m in no shape to walk.”

“No, you are not. You stay here and mind the girls. They can take care of the goats and chickens. I am going to Byblos. Oh, dear Baal, don’t let anything bad happen to my baby.”

“It’s going to take you forever,” Philo’s father said miserably. “I wish we owned a donkey or a mule or even a cart with an ox to pull it. All we have is the damned goats and chicken.”

Sheela jumped into the hut. “Mama, mama. Why don’t you borrow our neighbor’s donkey?”

“Pharees? Pharees is in no way letting us take his donkey. He keeps bragging about it as if it were an emperor’s steed!”

“But let’s go ask him. Maybe he will. Maybe he takes pity knowing that we are looking for Philo and Ely.”

“Not ‘we’,” the mother said. “I. Ok. I will go ask.”

Pharees had just got up and was tending to the chickens in his front yard. He and his wife, Batheeta, had heard the commotion in their neighbors’ hut and Batheeta was getting ready to go over and see what was wrong.

As Philo’s mother emerged from the hut and headed towards her neighbors, both Pharees and Batheeta met her halfway, noticing the tears flowing down her face, with Sheela at her heels.

“Oh, Zinat, Zinat,” Batheeta cried. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“My Philo. He went down to the city with the Israelite boy, Ely, yesterday and they have not come back yet,” she sobbed. “I need to go down and find them. Barok cannot go because of his leg. It’s festering. I have to go. Please, Pharees, can I borrow your donkey?”

Pharees stopped in his track, scratched his head. There was no way he was going to lend away his donkey, the only mode of transportation he had. Batheeta turned to her husband, unbelieving that he was hesitating. Then she rushed to Zinat and hugged her.

“Of course, Zinat. Go and find Philo. Take the donkey.”

Batheeta was driven by more than good neighboring and goodwill. She had tasted Philo’s member a couple of times and she knew the difference between the young, hung lad and her weary, old husband. She could still envisage Philo’s toned and rippled body, his vigor, the size of his tool, as she serviced him while Pharees was in the field tending goats.

“But Batheeta,” Pharees beseeched his wife. “The donkey is the only way we have to come and go,” he said, somewhat feebly.

“What?” Batheeta was beside herself, her cunt wetting as she re-lived Philo’s huge cock spreading the lips and invading deep into her woman cunt. “How can you deny Zinat? How will she be able to go down to the city and look for her young lad?” She turned to Zinat: “Never mind Pharees. Come, come, let me help you get the donkey saddled and ready.”

Philo’s mother could barely see the winding path down to Byblos. She egged the donkey relentlessly, kicking at its sides as it invariably strayed to find some grass to munch on.

Zinat was bewildered. Where would she start looking? Who should she ask? How would she explain? Her first logical stop was the temple of Astarte. The puny, old priest remembered the lads and told her that they had been there. But where had they gone afterwards he had no idea. All he had on his mind was Philo’s next visit to the temple, when the priest would make certain to pleasure his throat with the lad’s thick knob and his behind with the lad’s thick shaft.

Through alleys and along streets, Philo’s mother searched and asked and wept and searched some more. There was no sign of either boy. After hours of rambling and meandering in the big city, she ended up at the port.

“Yes,” an elderly porter told her after he was able to quiet her down and have her describe the two boys to him. “Yes, I think I saw such two lads. It was yesterday. They were standing over there, at the mouth of that alley, watching and talking and laughing. Healthy and handsome young lads, especially the taller one.”

Zinat took in a deep breath, her hopes rising after she had almost given up any hope of finding her son whatsoever.

“Did you talk to them? Did you see where they went? Do you know where they are?”

“Easy, easy, lady,” the porter said. “Actually, the next time I looked, they had been gone. I didn’t think anything of it, two young boys enjoying the city.”

“Oh,” Zinat started to lament again.

The old porter scratched his curled hair, frowned, and then shook his head.

“I hate to say this, lady,” he said in a quivering voice. “But I also noticed a sail-boat which left in the early evening. I wondered then. Usually, sailors would wait till the morning to sail off. The boat was not Phoenician. I think it could have been one of those ships that go back and forth looking for… looking for…”

He never finished because Zinat started pulling her hair and weeping. She realized that there was a chance that the boys had been kidnapped or worse.

“Slave boat?” she screamed. “My boy has been taken into slavery?”

“Well,” the old porter said uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other. “You know that if this is the case, it might be better than, Baal forbid, than finding their corpses. The boat could have sailed to Tyre where they have a slave market.”

And to Tyre Zinat headed, kicking the sides of the donkey viciously. She could not think of anyone to help her. She had to do this by herself. Barok was almost crippled, his brother and sons were away at sea, and riding back to Teshret would waste time and gain her nothing. So she headed south. It would take her three or maybe four days to get to Tyre, the only Phoenician city that allowed slavery.

The only stop from Byblos to Tyre was at the River of the Dog, a few miles north of Berytus. It was told that when Baal learned that his some-time consort and lover Astarte fell in love with the mortal Adonis, he was raged. Adonis was of remarkable beauty and virility and was Astarte’s favorite lover. Baal turned himself into a boar and attacked Adonis during a hunting trip at the banks of the river, and gored him. The blood of the young and handsome mortal mixed with the tears of the goddess Astarte as he died in her arms and flowed into the river, making the water turn red. Every spring-time, when the mountain snows started to melt, the river would turn red. There, at the bank of the River of the Dog, Zinat knelt and beseeched Astarte to take pity on her and to help her find her son and save him.

The only food Zinat had was the pieces of dried goat meat that Batheeta had given her when she left. She chewed on them whenever she felt very hungry, and then sipped a little water from the goat-skin, and wept.

Try as she might, Zinat could not learn one shred of news about her son and his friend in the teeming city of Tyre. On her long trek back to Teshret, she lamented her loss. Some men in Tyre told her that if truly her son had been taken as slave, he might end up very far from the Phoenician cities. Perhaps, they said, he could be sold to slavery in Rome.

She could not imagine what Philo must be enduring now. Slavery? Her beautiful boy? Not a boy but a strapping young man with so much vitality and vigor and pride? She kept seeing him in her mind’s eye as the donkey trudged back north towards Byblos: Philo leaving in the morning to herd the goats, Philo taking up the man’s work after his father had hurt his leg, Philo playing with his sisters, Philo being doted on by all the girls in the village, even by Batheeta her neighbor, Philo, her pride, lost, never to be hugged and kissed and taken care of again.

Back in Teshret, Philo’s mother told her story, punctuated by sobs and tears, to the gathering of the villagers outside the hut. Philo’s father had a stern look on his face and could not utter a word. Sheela and Salimana took the news worst, lamenting and pulling at their long hair, even louder than Zinat. Even Batheeta realized that should would never again melt under the vigorous thrusting of the young cock.

Philo was no more.