Prophecy of Noto

The Watchman sensed it as it was happening. Such was both the gift and bane the gods had given him—not only that he could see much of what was to come but also that he could sense and feel much of what was happening now beyond his sight. He should have known. Dila was a man and yet he was also a child. When he was a child, as he lay under the Watchman and pleasured the ancient but still-virile and magical rod of his master, this was as the fountain of youthfulness for the Watchman. It also left Dila stretched out, shimmering, and burbling. But Dila also had the mind of a child. Though not devious, he could focus on no more than one aspect of a thought and was petulant. The Watchman had wanted no other pleasures for the past three phases of the moon as he taught the dancer, Raum, not only to receive but also to give and to win the hearts and hands of men by doing either, as was necessary.

For the time was close by that a change was necessary. Closer than the Watchman had realized now that his keenest sense honed in on the pouting Dila, who had left their company days before after accusing the Watchman of throwing him over for Raum.

The Watchman was standing on the ridge, the encampment of his companions on one side, down near the sea, on the Gela beach. And on the other side of the ridge the king’s high road wound itself around in the undulating hills in the valley. There, along the ridge, at some distance, but not at far enough distance from the Watchman to escape his notice, were Raum and Cleus. Raum, practicing what the Watchman was teaching him, and Cleus . . .

“Oh, Cleus,” the Watchman mused. “So much like your father. Too much. And yet there is the spark of your grandfather, the High King Cresum about you as well—and of your mother, Nailah. Not her African beauty. No, most of your beauty you got from your father, the ill-fated Cletar. But you got bravery and persistence—and loyalty—from your mother.”

Cleus, a well-muscled dusky god of a man—now, at last physically a man—was lying on his back on a smooth, ridge-top boulder bathed in sunshine, perfectly formed legs held wide, bent, and with his feet flat on the rock, while Raum rammed his member with many a snort and grunt between the dark youth’s legs, working hard to do Cleus’s bidding of reaching new depths, harder rhythms, while Cleus worked his own magnificent staff with his hand. Cleus was taking the cock with passion, raising his pelvis to the thrusts and counter them with thrusts of his own to take the shaft as deeply as possible.

The vision of Dila was of the unfortunate, foolish young man’s last moments under the Sword of Xera. Panting out the shocking, almost amusing, truth that the Watchman had been able to keep secret for just under two decades. Dila, vengeful in his misplaced ire, having left the encampment and sought out the men of Akamantis. Being delivered to the doubly piercing Sword of Xera, first the gut-wrenching phallic plowing of which had brought out Dila’s assurances that the young prince of the oracle’s prophecy did, indeed, live, and then, in his last gasping ejaculation, the sword of steel splitting him asunder after revealing what he had not intended to reveal: where the prince could be found.

The clever truth of the Watchman was now revealed and from now, the significance of time in the lands bordering the Sea of Calm and Storms was beginning again. The rumors, coming first from the harem of Cresum in the stronghold of Mascus—that a Nubian princess—not a captive servant, but a captive princess, a secret she had kept through captivity—not only was missing, but that she also bore a son of Cletar. The fulfillment of the Prophecy of Noto, the promise of which the treacherous advisers of Cletar had tried to nullify by keeping the young king sated with sexual pleasures that could not bear sons.

Having snatched the rumors from the wind, the Watchman went to Nailah, asking her directly a question that she answered directly.

“Yes,” she said, her bearing royal, confirming in itself what the Watchman surmised, “I am that princess. And the child I bore was of the king, Cresum. The king, my husband, seeing his life ebb away, swore the grand eunuch to secrecy on the parentage of my child, knowing that if either Cletar or his advisers knew of the existence of another son, he would be put to death. Your plan gave Tieg an opportunity to fulfill his loyalty to his king—to provide safe passage for his second son from the sack of Mascus and from those grasping advisers who survived King Cresum.”

“I should have known,” the Watchman said. “I have misread the oracle. Aram was not in the need of a son of Cletar; all of the sons of Cresum had not been vanquished. We will need to keep this secret, you and me,” he concluded. “Even from Cleus.”

“Agreed,” Nailah said. “No one will hear it from me. I love both of my sons equally, and if you can maneuver the future so that both rule and neither suffers, I know that your master, Cresum, will meet you with open arms and a smile in the afterlife. And as for me, I ask for no other blessing from the gods.”

The Nubian princess and her son of Cletar had been sought for the nearly two decades since the rumors began circulation, not only by the Prince of Madness, Cresum’s cousin, Severmist, who had grasped control of the kingdom of Aram, albeit not as full king, being under the suzerainty of King Xera of Akamantis, but also by the other cousin, King Kleemus of Tharsis on the island of Li’, by the two traitorous lords, Sorso and Jerzu, and even by—most especially by—King Xera. Of all those threatened, Xera felt threatened the most, as the oracle’s prophecy had put his own kingdom under the crown of Cresum’s progeny.

All had searched high and low, first in the realm of Aram, and then farther afield: to Mizraim to the west and into—and beyond—Midian in the south into the lands of Cush. And into Meshech and Tubal and even Togarmah in the east. But they never searched under King Xera’s own nose—at the edge of the sea on the island of Li’, in Xera’s own kingdom of Akamantis and almost in the shadow of his own bastion capital of Enna. But this was where the Watchman had taken his precious charges—into the mouth of the lion. And here was where they had been safe until the Watchman’s own weakness—his own ability to control and cajole his catamite—was bringing this phase of the Watchman’s plan to an end.

The Watchman regretted the circumstance, but he had seen the change coming. And he knew it was time.

Quite possibly his acceptance that it was time and his restlessness to get on with it now that the future had been awakened and set in motion again had nothing to do with the simultaneous materialization of two bands of warriors nearby—or the decision of Raum and Cleus to sink into the mossy dell next to the boulder on the next ridge top, and thus be well out of sight, in the throes of their lovemaking was not of the Watchman’s making. But then, there also was no more logical explanation for why a raiding party of the Prince of Madness was coming onto shore, headed for and cognizant of the import of the encampment of the Nubian princess, at the same time that a guard unit of Akamantis, in search of what the Sword of Xera had wrenched out of the gasping body of Dila, materialized on the king’s high road in the valley below the ridge.

The Watchman had just enough time to glide down from the ridge top and into the back of the princess’s tent in time to stay the movement of the princess’s first-born son, the diminutive Nubian, Toma, from rushing out to the front of the tent to join his mother in standing before the captain of the Aram raiding party.

“Where is he? Where is the son begat on you by King Cletar?”

“There are no king’s sons here that you will ever cast your eyes on,” Princess Nailah responded haughtily.

“I will find him myself,” the captain cried out. And as he moved to brush Nailah aside and enter the tent, she moved also to bar his way.

The time it took to run her through with his sword was enough time for the Watchman to choke off the cry from Toma and swirl his cloak over himself and the youth. When the captain entered the tent, he saw no sons of kings. Cleus was not there; he was lying in the moss at the top of the ridge, skewered deeply by his dancer lover and oblivious to the action at the seaside. To the captain’s eyes, he saw no one at all.

Summoned unexpectedly by a strangled cry from outside the tent, the captain wheeled and staggered out of the tent and into the arms of the Akamantis search party.

The violent, but short, meeting of the forces of Akamantis and Aram on the beach by the sea covered the escape of the Watchman and the Nubian, Toma, to the ridgetop, where the pleasures of Raum and Cleus were interrupted, and the companions, one fewer than just minutes before, watched the carnage below.

One of only a few survivors of the Akamantis party would return to Xera with the news that no hidden prince was found, but that he probably existed, as the Nubian princess was found—although she unfortunately died in the fighting—and that soldiers of Aram had been on guard in the encampment. The latter information spoke to King Xera, no stranger to duplicitous scheming himself, of the treachery of his vassal, the Prince of Madness. And this was the basis of renewed open hostilities between the two kingdoms. None of the raiding party of Aram returned to the stronghold of Mascus alive, though. And thus Severmist, the Prince of Madness, could only guess at why the heads of his diplomats in the court of King Xera were returned to him without their bodies and the hostilities of the two kingdoms facing each other, almost in sight of one another, across a narrow stretch of the Sea of Calm and Storms had resumed. He chose to believe the rumors that the royal son of the Prophecy of Noto existed and was being succored in the kingdom of Xera were true. And he began to plan a full invasion, mindless of the years it would take to bring to pass, commencing with the building of a massive fleet and training of an army in secret. He knew that King Xera did not believe he had the resources for such an undertaking ever.

Back on the seaside beach, Cleus was standing over the grave of his mother, arm and arm with his lover, Raum, and flanked by his half-brother, Toma, and his sole adviser, the Watchman.

The Watchman looked at the two near brothers, Cleus and Toma, both now men. They could not be more unalike. Cleus was tall and strong, and beautifully muscled. His appearance was dusky, but not Nubian. Toma, on the other hand, was small and, while still well formed, was willowy and childlike—and unmistakably was a child of Africa. Thinking of what he had foolishly lost—the couplings with Dila—and looking at Toma, similar of stature and demeanor to Dila, the Watchman’s juices began to flow. Dare he? Would the gods strike him dead? Well, if they did, it would take this burden off his shoulders of seeing that the Prophecy of Noto came to pass.

“What do we do now?” Cleus asked, with a weary sadness in his voice. “We cannot stay here. Others will follow these.”

“And what of Maia?” Toma asked.

A good sign of Toma’s basic character, the Watchman thought, as he looked down at the young, alluring Nubian, trying to hide in his eyes the lust he felt in his body. Toma had thought of the young maiden in the village on the other side of the ridge, the woman Toma had been lying with for some months.

“Do I tell him she is with child—and that it is a son?” the Watchman asked himself. But then he thought it not wise. But it was a good thing for he himself to know. A very good thing indeed.

“We must endure even more hardships now than before,” the Watchman said, trying to couch his voice in regret, although, now that it was happening, he was anxious to get back onto the journey of the fulfillment of the prophecy. “If you truly love your Maia, Toma, do you want to put her through those trials?”

Toma thought hard, and the Watchman thought that the tears forming at the corner of his eyes were a charming aspect of the young man who was stirring him inside so now.

“No. No, I suppose not,” Toma answered at length. “But the thought of never seeing her again—”

“You will see her again, Toma. I promise you that. You will be with Maia again. She could not be safer anywhere else.”

The Watchman looked with a love of his own into the eyes of what was now his conquest. What he said was true, but only he knew how hard the road would be for Toma from this time to that.

Toma looked back into the Watchman’s eyes with awe, gratitude, and acceptance. But he also saw something else—something both frightening and arousing.

“But where will we go?” Cleus repeated.

“We have been safe in the mouth of the lion for some time. We will go into the mouth of another lion.”

“Back to Aram? To the court of the Prince of Madness?” Raum asked, being the first one to discern the Watchman’s meaning.

“Yes,” was the Watchman’s simple answer.

“But how can we do that? Won’t we be—?” Cleus murmured.

“In the court at Mascus, only Raum and I are known,” the Watchman answered. “I can take many forms and still be nearby. But Raum is known—and was accepted—at court. There was no hint that he left with us—is with us. He was in high favor in the minds and bodies of Severmist and the others. Their one night with him will have been magnified in their minds as a heaven worth pursuing and preserving. He will be welcomed back with open arms and erect staffs.”

“That is fine for me,” Raum answered. “But Cleus and Toma?”

“Both are beautiful, desirable newly attained men. You already have Cleus in training. The court will be delighted for you to bring willing and accomplished protégés with you when you return. It will be arduous, but there is no better way for strangers such as they to be accepted in the very center of the next of vipers.”

“Yes, I can see that. But Toma?”

“Toma I will train myself,” the Watchman answered simply and in a tone that permitted demur by no one there—including Toma. Nor did Toma, still wondering over what he had seen in the Watchman’s eyes, whisper a word of objection.

And later that night, as he lay on his back with the Watchman hovering over him, and his robe was gently split aside and the Watchman’s hands seemed to be everywhere—on his chest; between his thighs; cradling his head; as the Watchman brought lips down to his; encasing his ball sack; squeezing his cock; fingers entering his channel—and then crying out in the pain-pleasure of the Watchman entering him deeply, and oh so strongly for an ancient.

Toma panted and moaned as the staff inside him expanded and sank deeper—stretching and stretching him. He shuddered as the muscles of his passage walls shimmered and rippled and started undulating over the consuming phallus that was beginning to churn inside him. As Toma collapsed, fully open and captive of the plowing cock inside him, his torso arched over onto the earthen floor of the tent, his arms stretched out sacrificially, totally the possession of the Watchman, he learned what was meant by the Watchman training him himself. He moaned deeply as the Watchman’s flow started and continued and continued, his essence bubbling out of Toma’s hole and flowing down his thighs.

Toma had now been fully known by both man and god and no mortal man henceforth could move or master him as the Watchman had. And in the shortness of time for the gods to renew the Watchman, Toma, his passage now resized to the demands of the Watchman or any man or god, was fully and with complete pleasure of both known a second time.

There, in the night, his renewed prodigious staff pinning the lithe, small body of the young Nubian man to the moss of the ground at the top of the ridge, the gods answered the one concern the Watchman had had and assured him that he was on the right path. Would Toma, who had known and seeded a woman, willingly accept a man?

Lying there, amazed, his monster of a cock all inside the small Nubian and yet the young man moaning and panting from pleasure now rather than unconscious from splitting, the Nubian’s channel walls yielding and opening totally to the Watchman, Toma whispered the words assuring acceptance, “Yes, yes. Please, again,” and the Watchmen felt his member growing—lengthening and thickening beyond all arousals of his earlier centuries. And as his cock grew—from a dirk to a rapier to a broad sword to a pike to a veritable ancient cypress-tree trunk from the forests of Phoenicia, the Nubian’s channel continued to open and widen for him. The cock head must be in the belly now and probing on for yet another channel. And still the Nubian stayed with him, panting and moaning and moving his hips in a wave-like motion. The muscles of his channel walls undulating over the Watchman’s inhumanly proportioned staff. This was all in keeping with the plan of the gods, as their magic prepared Toma to take anything that man or god could put in him.

The Watchman was lost in the taking as well, riding the waves of a tumultuous sea, flowing his seed in strong bursts—once, twice, thrice, four times—being milked as never before. Never wanting it to stop; never wanting to be outside his Nubian lover again.

In awe, lying there at the end, the Nubian gently snuffling in sleep in the crook of his arm, the Watchman had no doubt that this was serving the Prophecy of Noto. That he had not presumed too much. That the gods were opening the path to him. He knew now exactly what would happen—what he had to do. And how the prophecy was to be fulfilled. He had done no damage in his earlier stumbling in the dark and his own attempts to serve the prophecy. But neither was he smarter than the oracle.