Hebat XXIIIa or b?

In the city of Ephesus, in the Luwian-speaking realm of Arzawa, western Anatolia, 2577 BCE, the early Bronze Age.

* * *

It is mid-morning, a warm day of early summer. I am practising archery with my friend Tibe in the great courtyard, when a messenger approaches, summoning me to a meeting with my mother the Queen.

Stepping out of the bright sunlight, I hasten through the cool, dimly lit corridors of the palace, my mind filled with worries about this urgent summons: Is there bad news from abroad? Have I displeased my mother somehow? I pause briefly at one of the little shrine rooms, to offer up a prayer to our Great Mother Goddess, and to Her Son, the Bull-God. The sight of Her plump, naked image on the altar reassures me.

A hundred paces later, I am at the door of the council chamber. The guards usher me in.

My mother the Queen -- so similar in form to the Goddess I just was just praying to -- sits upon her throne, attended by her adviser and confidante, Lady Arinna, and by the priestess Lady Istustaya. In spite of my worries, I feel the little comforting thrill I always feel in the presence of my mother's beauty. She motions for me to sit near her, smiling at me in welcome; but I notice a certain tenseness in her eyes.

'Very well,' she says, 'prince Attis is now here. Guards, you may withdraw, and let no one else enter. Arrina, proceed.'

Arrina begins pacing the tiled floor. 'The matter before us, my prince, is the matter that has hung over our heads ever since the sad death of your father. I mean the matter of the succession.' She pauses, turning to me. 'Tell me my prince, does it not rankle you, even a little, that our laws are as they are? If we followed the practice of our neighbours the Achaeans, you would have succeeded your father as king, any woman you married would then be the Queen, and there would be no succession problem for us to contend with.'

'My lady Arinna,' I respond, 'I am Luwian born and bred. I would rather be a servant to my mother the Queen, with the Goddess' blessing, than be a jumped-up king of the Achaean sort, ruling through violence and fear.'

'Spoken like a true son of the Goddess,' she answers warmly. 'And yet, I could almost wish our laws were otherwise, for clearly you would make an excellent king: you are devoted to the Great Mother, and loyal to your mother the Queen; you are learned in our laws and religion, brave and level-headed. You are only eighteen years old, but already you have done able and important service to the realm. And you are well-loved by the people. But ... we Luwians, of course, follow the principle of Mother-right. In our lands of Arzawa, no man becomes king, except by marriage to the Queen.'

My mother now speaks: 'After the king your father ... gave his life, I had no desire to take another consort. In those dark days, it was you, my son, who consoled me: I wanted no other man intruding upon our grief. And I was not then concerned about the succession, for my niece Pepeya should have followed me upon the throne. But Pepeya died last winter in childbirth, as you know. Now my nearest kinswoman is my cousin Wurusemu, an empty-headed young woman. Her consort Anzapahhadu is a petulant and impulsive man. With those two on the throne of Arzawa, in these perilous times, disaster would soon befall our nation. I cannot allow Wurusemu to become Queen. I must marry again, and bear a daughter to succeed me.'

So this is it, I think grimly. She will take a new consort. He will be the light of her eyes now, and I will be pushed to the periphery of her life. How could I have ever thought it might be otherwise?

'But whom can your mother marry?' Arinna resumes. 'Our peaceful realm of Arzawa lies between the powerful Hattians to our east, and the warlike Achaeans to our west. Marriage with the royal house of one would be viewed as a provocation by the other, bringing invading armies down upon us, whether they come as conquerors or 'protectors'. She must marry a Luwian then. The Queen cannot marry a commoner, of course. He must therefore be an unmarried man of her own royal house. But who? Her cousin Adra is a lover of men: he cannot get her with child. Her uncle Lubarna is addicted to wine, and in failing health. Among her more distant kin, there is only her cousin Lord Mutallu who seems capable of being king. He is clever, a man of forceful personality, and he enjoys much support within the council of elders --'

My mother breaks in, 'If the good of the realm required it, I would marry Mutallu, notwithstanding my personal dislike for the man: for a Queen must always put her people first. But there is evidence that Mutallu poisoned his wife, the Lady Estan, to free himself to be able to pursue my hand. Alas, the evidence is not firm enough to bring him to trial, but it is sufficient to persuade me. I cannot allow such a man to become king. Mutallu makes no secret of his admiration for the customs of the Achaeans, and shows little reverence for our Goddess. A man who murdered his wife in order to marry me might just as easily murder me and usurp the throne outright, abolishing our ancient laws of Mother-right and the king's sacrifice, and adopting the Achaeans' vengeful sky-gods.'

Lady Istustaya now speaks: 'Yet the elders give no heed to these rumours about Lady Estan's death, and to Mutallu's impieties toward the Great Mother. They see only the danger of Lady Wurusemu's succession. This morning a deputation of elders delivered an ultimatum: if the Queen does not choose a consort -- and very soon -- the council of elders will unite in demanding her marriage to Lord Mutallu. This is why you have been summoned here, Prince Attis. This is why your mother needs your help.'

'My Ladies, of course I will endeavour to do what I might, but ... I do not see what assistance I can -- '

'On the contrary,' Arinna grins triumphantly, 'you present the ideal solution. Have we not said that you would make an excellent king?'

'But you also said that, according to the laws of our people, I cannot become king.'

Arrina shakes her head impatiently. 'Not as the Queen's successor, my prince. As her consort.'

* * *

My mouth goes dry. If I was not already sitting, my knees might buckle under me. A moment before, I was bracing myself for expulsion from my mother's life ... but now this! Could they know, could they have guessed, that in the most secret place of my heart -- so secret that I hardly dare acknowledge it even to myself -- I have longed for this very thing?

I speak slowly, to keep my voice from trembling. 'I take it, Lady Arinna, that you do not mean the ... mere outward form of a marriage ... You mean that my mother and I ... we must, in truth -- '

'Well, yes, you must perform the rites of the marriage bed, of course, and get her with child -- otherwise what would be the point?' Arinna never employs delicacy where bluntness will serve. 'But be of good cheer. You are a young man in good health, and the spirit of the Bull-God is strong within you. Your mother has at least another ten years of childbearing remaining to her. There is every reason to expect you will get her with several more children within that time, with the Goddess' blessing, and surely at least one of them will be a daughter.'

Istustaya now speaks: 'Prince Attis, you seem troubled by this proposal. Let me give you some reassurance. It is true that the Achaeans, with whom we must rub shoulders these days, hold mother-son marriages in horror for some reason. But it is not so among our people. Although such marriages are ... quite rare ... nowadays, in the annals of the Luwian royal house it is recorded that several ancient Queens of our people took their sons as consorts, and the Goddess blessed their unions. These Queens followed the example of the Great Mother Herself. For our most ancient hymns teach us that, in the beginning, the Goddess, alone in Her perfection, conceived of Herself, and bore a Son, whom She loved; and She named Him Attis -- the same name you bear, my Prince -- Who sometimes appears as a bull, but sometimes takes the form of a young man, just as the Goddess Herself sometimes takes the form of a cow, sometimes a woman. Behold,' she points to a brightly-coloured depiction of this creation story, among the numerous frescoes decorating the walls of the room. 'Now, as Attis grew to manhood, His Mother loved and desired Him, and He felt an answering love and desire for Her, and from Their union, the cosmos was born, and all the living things in it, as the artist shows here. Therefore we are all reckoned children of the Great Mother. Indeed, the same pattern is seen in nature itself. For the grain germinates in the womb of its mother the earth. It springs up, tall and erect, like a lusty son. And as it matures, it spills its seed back into that same mother, thus the land remains ever fruitful.

'As for the king's sacrifice,' she continues, 'I can reassure you on that count as well. Once every few generations, the king is called upon to give his life for the sake of his people, to restore balance and obtain the blessing of the spirits of the land. Twelve years ago, your father gave his life, to end the great drought. Be assured: it will not be asked of you, when you are king. No one doubts your courage and selflessness, of course, but the Goddess would not inflict such terrible grief on your mother a second time. I consulted the oracle three times on this point, the same answer each time. Moreover -- '

'Thank you, Istustaya, that will do,' my mother breaks in impatiently. She turns to me, her expression softening: 'My son, I must know your heart on this matter. Forgive me, I should not have sprung this proposal on you in this manner; I should have spoken to you privily first. But the truth is, without these Ladies' support, I did not have the courage to broach the matter with you -- I so feared that my offer might ... repulse you. I imagine it would please you more to marry a girl your own age, slender of form and smooth of skin ... rather than a ... an old blown rose such as me. And it is a great change -- perhaps too great -- to begin to regard your old mother as a lover.' She fights back a sob, pauses to compose herself. 'You have heard the political reasons why I make this offer of marriage to you. But if it displeases you, if your heart recoils from it, we can remain as we are, my son. I will not force it upon you. As for my own heart, the Goddess tells me that I could be very happy with you as my consort. And I believe I could make you happy too. I have loved you, my son, ever since the first moment I felt you stirring in my womb. And now you have grown into a beautiful young man: intelligent, considerate, dutiful, capable. I could ask for no better man to share my throne with. There is no man I could desire more to share my heart with, and my bed. But as I say, I would never force this marriage upon you. I will always love you, my son, no matter what you decide.'

I kneel before her, laying my head in her lap, hugging her knees. 'Your offer does not repulse me, mother!' I look up into her face: both of us teary-eyed. 'On the contrary, you do me the highest honour a man could receive. As you say, it is a great change, to become your lover. But ... yes, my Queen, I will be your consort, with a grateful heart.'

We gaze into each other's eyes for a long moment, neither of us quite daring to believe that this is really happening. 'Ahem,' the priestess interjects. 'My Queen, you wished me to underscore the urgency --'

'Yes,' my mother says. 'Attis, dearest one, your answer pleases me greatly, more than I ever dared hope for. But ... alas, as Lady Istustaya reminds me, we do not have time now for more heart-talk. We must be married immediately. Once you are king, your person will be sacrosanct: not even Mutallu would dare harm you then. But in the meantime, you will be the target of his malice. His spies have probably informed him already that you are meeting with me, and he might guess the reason. I do not want to give him the chance to strike back, to foil our plan. Let us go to the great shrine room at once! The priestesses await us there. Lady Arinna, bid the cooks begin preparing the wedding feast, let the bull-leapers make ready in the great courtyard, and send out messengers into the city to announce the news! Come, my love.' She stands, holding her hand out to me, and I take it.

* * *

The events of the next several hours whirr past, dragging me along in their wake: the rite of the bull's blood; the ceremonial bathing, dressing and annointing; the marriage vows; the procession through the streets of the city; the enthronement at my mother's side; the celebratory bull-leaping games; and now the feast. The people of Ephesus seem to greet the news with joy, in spite of, or perhaps rather because of the unusual nature of this marriage. The common people do not draw fine distinctions between the fat Mother Goddess Whom they pray to and the fat Queen who reigns over them as Her earthly representative. How fitting, how auspicious, then, that their Queen, Hebat the twenty-third of that name, should take her son Attis as consort, just as the Great Mother Herself is said to to have done.

But throughout this rapid succession of rites and ceremonies, my mind is preoccupied with the fast-approaching hour when my mother and I will be alone together in her bed. Our bed. Can I actually lie with her -- this woman who gave birth to me, whose breasts suckled me, who played with me, taught me and disciplined me as a boy, who supported and counselled me as a young man? I love her deeply, of course. We have always been very close, and the tragic death of my father the king brought us even closer. And, yes, I think -- it is time for me to be honest with myself at last: my mother is indeed beautiful to me. Yes, I desire her.

The ambassador Upadarma once told me, very pompously, that the most desirable woman to lie with is a girl of sixteen years, with long, slender thighs and a narrow waist. But he is an Elamite, with bizarre, outlandish tastes. I was raised as a Luwian, in the fervent worship of our plump ancient Mother Goddess, Whom my mother so strikingly resembles. She has therefore always been my womanly ideal. My mother's face is round, with an adorable double chin. Her dark eyes sparkle with warmth and intelligence, her lips are full. Her hair, like mine, is a mass of long black ringlets, though hers are now shot through with grey, bound up attractively in her royal headdress. She is not tall of stature, but she is amply built, with immense hips and a soft, round belly which spills out over the waist of the Cretan-style flounced skirts that she favours. Like most Luwian women, she generally wears no upper garment, except in cold weather. Her heavy breasts are therefore often on display, hanging down to her navel, capped with large, dark nipples, like stunning jewels. I remember sucking on those nipples as a young boy, happily kissing, nuzzling and playing with them. But as I grew to manhood, the sight of her beautiful breasts began to stir much deeper feelings in me than mere childhood memories.

I tried to channel my feelings for my mother into making myself useful to her. I attended council meetings. I officiated with her at public rites and ceremonies. I supervised the construction of a new bridge over the Kaistros river. I oversaw repairs and improvements to our merchant fleet -- anything to find favour in her eyes, to merit her approval. Now it seems I have won her favour and approval beyond my wildest dreams. Truly, this strange and unexpected marriage seems to be the answer to my most fervent wishes.

But a flurry of fears and doubts whirl round and round in my mind; my heart is tied up in knots. What if, in the raw intimacy of the marriage bed, the Queen-my-lover proves to be a different woman to me than the Queen-my-mother? Will the mother I have known and loved all my life be lost to me forever? What if Attis-her-son cannot meet my mother's expectations for Attis-her-consort? What if I disappoint her? What if the rites of the marriage bed prove to be awkward and unfulfilling for us? I know, of course, the mechanics of how to pleasure a woman in bed: like all Luwian high-born youth, I was tutored in the arts of love by a priestess, an older woman. But will I be able to touch my mother's heart? Will I be able to give her deep sexual joy? And will our mother-and-son relationship remain intact?

* * *

The wedding feast is winding down now. My mother and her ladies have already retired to the bedchamber to prepare her for ... well, for ... for, yes, me. Meanwhile my old tutor Mursilis is giving a rambling, not-very-sober toast, pointing out -- yet again this evening -- the auspicious significance of my name, Attis, being the same as that of the Bull-God, who also married His Mother.

'Hail Attis, the Bull of His Mother!' the men drunkenly cheer, quoting the ancient religious formula.

'May He make Her fruitful!' the remaining women cheer in response.

I sip my wine sparingly: it will not do for me to arrive at my mother's bedchamber in a drunken stupor. I look across the room and lock eyes with Mutallu. He glares back for a moment, then sullenly turns away, grabbing a cup of wine from one of the serving boys and slumping back down on his bench.

My friend Tibe approaches and draws me aside. 'Congratulations, my king. I never thought, this morning when we were shooting together, that you would be king of Arzawa this evening.'

'Nor did I, believe me,' I laugh. 'But I thank you, Tibe.'

'You could order anyone to do anything, I suppose. It must be exhilarating, having that power.'

'It is not like that, Tibe. Now I am responsible for the whole realm. It is more like I am everybody's servant.'

'Oh. I thought it might be some consolation for, you know.'

'Consolation?' I ask, warily.

'Well, you ... you can't be very pleased I suppose about, well, the marriage part ... Well, I mean, your own mother. I know they say it will bring blessings upon the realm and all that. But I couldn't imagine my mother and me --'

'Tibe, I do not care to discuss the matter further.' With that I turn away from him. Tibe's words are like a draught of vinegar to me, where I had been expecting sweet wine. Nevertheless, I must not hold this against him, I resolve. He is merely saying out loud what I have been worrying about inwardly.

Presently, Lady Arinna returns to the hall, signalling that the Queen is ready. My groomsmen and I rise, bidding goodnight to the remaining revellers amid further cheers. A torchbearer leads the way as we proceed through the twisting corridors of the palace to my mother's bedchamber, where they leave me. I knock gently on the door.

'Come in,' she answers in a low voice.

* * *

She is sitting beside her bed. A moonbeam from the open sky-light shines down upon her, turning her skin to the loveliest alabaster. She has removed her headdress, letting her long black-and-silver ringlets fall free upon her shoulders and back.

'Attis, my king! I am so joyful to be able to call you that, at last.' She pours me a cup of wine and motions for me to sit beside her. I want to say something, anything, to set her and myself at ease, but I cannot get any speech out, so tightly am I knotted up inside. Tibe's unsettling words echo in my mind: my own mother!

'We have been together all afternoon and evening,' she continues, 'but we have not had a chance for any heart-talk. Not since this morning, when you agreed to ... to marry me, and you made me so happy. Oh Attis, you don't regret it, do you? You haven't changed your mind about all this?'

'Of course not.' I exhale. 'In truth ... oh mother, I have long dreamed of this -- this marriage with you!' There, I have said it out loud at last.
'Oh Attis, truly? I hoped it was so. And yet, you seem ... troubled.'

'It is said that young men are often nervous on their wedding nights,' I shrug, in a weak attempt at levity.

'Attis, my love, you need not be nervous with me. Listen: I can guess what troubles you. You fear that the rites of the marriage bed will change our relationship, that we will no longer be mother and son to each other.'

I nod.

'Listen, we have loved each other ever since I carried you in my womb. Nothing that happens between us tonight could possibly change that, nothing could diminish it. The rites of the marriage bed can only add to our relationship. I believe they will add something beautiful.'

There are early mornings here in Ephesus when the fog lies thick upon the ground, as though it had always been there and always would remain; but then the sun rises and the fog quickly burns away, and everything is suddenly in dazzling sunlight: not a wisp of fog remains. In just this way, my mother's loving words completely dispel the fog of anxiety that was upon my heart.

'Yes,' I say simply, overcome with awe, admiration, gratitude, love, and desire for this precious woman. 'Yes!' I repeat, grinning like a fool. What else is there to say?

She leans forward and kisses me, tentatively, her lips soft again mine. I take her in my arms, her warm, full, naked breasts pressing against my bare chest; I run my hands over the rolls of flesh on her back -- so wonderfully soft to hold. She smells faintly of sandalwood oil. Her mouth opens and our tongues meet: she tastes of sweet wine and I cannot get enough of her. But at length, she pulls back from me. Looking into my eyes, a mischievous smile plays over her lips.

'So now, I have just one question, my son: where is my wedding gift?'

My heart sinks. 'I ... I am so sorry, mother ... I did not realize ... I have brought nothing.'

She laughs. 'Ssh. Yes you do have something for me.' She reaches up under my kilt, cupping my engorged phallus through my loincloth. 'Here is my wedding gift,' she coos, rubbing me gently. 'And it is just what I have always wanted, so big and hard. Take those garments off, my son, and let me admire it.'

I spring to my feet, tearing off my belt, kilt and loincloth, kicking off my sandals. I stand naked before her now, my phallus fully erect, flat up against my belly, the tip wet with seed.

'You are beautiful, my son. Are you erect like that because of me, truly?' she marvels. She leans forward, suddenly taking my hard phallus in her hot mouth. It feels ... unbelievably wonderful. But with great effort of will, I pull back.

'If you do that a moment longer, mother, I will spill my seed in your mouth.'

'Would that be so bad?'

'Mother, I would not have you think I am some untutored boy, spilling my seed at a woman's first touch, without giving her pleasure first. Besides, my seed belongs in your womb. I want to ... to honour your womb with it.'

'Well,' she rises to her feet, 'it seems my consort observes the old-fashioned love-customs: I must thank the priestess who tutored you. Very well then. Give me pleasure, my son.'

With a coy smile on her lips, watching my reaction, she slowly unclasps her apron-girdle, letting her skirt fall to the floor with a soft swoosh.

Before me, bathed in silvery moonlight, stands the Great Mother Herself, in the full glory of Her nakedness. She walks slowly to the bed, her heavy breasts and belly bouncing as she moves, her enormous, dimpled buttocks rippling and juddering with each step. As she lies back in bed, my eyes are drawn to the luxuriant forest of thick dark hair between her thighs, cleft below with two puffy pinkish-brown lips, glistening with wetness, like a succulent mollusk peeking out from a bed of seaweed.

Eighteen years ago, I came from that place. Now, I urgently long to return to it.

Leaping into bed, I plunge my head down between her huge thighs, inhaling the delightful fragrance of her arousal, nuzzling into her pubic hair, wetting my face in her delicious mother-parts, kissing her, tasting her, sucking on her, burying my tongue in her silky wet folds of flesh, thrusting it deep into her mother-channel, worshipping there at the shrine of my own birth, as my hands grip and knead at her fleshy buttocks. Her hands are on my head now, pressing my face deeper into her wetness, as her pelvis rocks urgently against me. I reach between her buttocks, slipping a finger into her anus. My ears are muffled between her ample thighs, but even so I can hear her excited squeals and throaty grunts of pleasure, and then she suddenly gushes her mother-nectar into my open mouth: I eagerly drink it all down. I have given her pleasure! I have made my mother's womb rejoice!

'Oh Attis!' She eagerly pulls me up alongside her, kissing me, tasting herself upon my lips. 'What a lover I am blessed with!' she thrills.

I lie back, drawing her on top of me.

'But I will crush you!' she objects.

'I want to feel your weight on me. Please?'

And so she swings her mighty thigh over me, straddling me with her knees. I pull her down to me, pull her into the deep kiss that I need so urgently. Her hand reaches down between us, guiding my phallus to her entrance; then abruptly she sinks down upon me, taking me all the way into her, up to my testicles.

I am inside my own dear mother, at last. And it is WONDERFUL! I have to use every mental trick my priestess-tutor taught me to keep from spilling my seed at once.

'I love you, mother!' I gasp, and I begin thrusting up into her with all my might, gripping her magnificent buttocks. As I expected, her weight is not uncomfortable for me, not at all: I revel in the immense, warm softness of her flesh enveloping me, feeling her bulk pressing me down into the bed, containing me, like swaddling blankets round an infant, her massive body quaking and rippling with my every upward thrust. She is moaning and whimpering as we kiss. She then rises up, her face flushed with pleasure and triumph, and she begins gyrating her colossal hips and bouncing upon my loins. Her huge breasts flop into my face, and I take one of them hungrily into my mouth and suck upon it.

'Oh Attis!' she mewls, and I feel another gush of her mother-nectar, this time all over my loins: her womb is rejoicing again! And so I at last let go, let my own pleasure wash over me, like a powerful wave at high tide, and I joyfully release spurt after spurt of my seed into her womb. At last. At last!

She lies heavily upon me for a while, breathing hard, still trembling and sighing with aftershocks. Never have I felt so close to her. She smells wonderful. After some time, she kisses me deeply, then looks down upon me with an expression of gratitude and tenderness.

'That was .... marvelous, my son.' I feel the muscles of her mother-channel clench at my phallus a little, then again, and her eyes go wide. 'You are still erect? But ... you gave me your seed, did you not? I felt it.'

'Yes, but I am still hard for you.'

'Oh my!' she laughs joyously, 'this is quite different from your father. Wonderfully different. Istustaya warned me about the, um, resilience of young men, but this is extraordinary! Does that mean you can give me more, so soon? I would like more of you, my son.'

So, yes, I give her more, right gladly. Then more again after that.

Afterwards, we lie happily in each others' arms. Outside our window, in the upper courtyard, we hear the soft chanting of priests and priestesses, reciting The Song of Attis, as a blessing upon our union. When they reach the part where Attis declares his love to the Great Mother, I look into my mother's eyes and join in the words:

May my every word from my mouth be a hymn to Thee.

May every action of my hand be a caress of Thy skin.

May every pleasure I experience be an offering to You.

May everything I do be an act of love and worship, O Mother.

* * *

From the night of the wedding, and for many days thereafter, my mother and I rarely leave our bed. We couple, sleep, couple, eat and drink, couple, bathe, and couple some more. We are not neglecting our royal duty, for our primary task is to conceive a child, and to this task we apply ourselves with a will. For eighteen years, I was exiled from her delightful body. Now I want -- need -- to be back inside her as much as possible, and my mother wants this as well. Her womb develops a hunger for my phallus, a thirst for my seed. It becomes a sort of game between us, to see how many times in a row I can offer her the thick, white outpouring of my loins. When my testicles at last run dry, she claps her hands in triumph, and summons the servants to bring us a restorative bowl of shellfish soup and some wine. It is not clear which of us has won the game, nor does it matter a jot: we both have won, I suppose. We rest for a while, then resume coupling. I can often go three or four times in a row. Once, nine times. Her womb rejoices easily and often.

And to think, I had been worried that the rites of the marriage bed would be awkward between us! How could it possibly be awkward to pleasure and give my seed to this woman whom I have known and loved my entire life? Her beautiful, fat body is a vast garden of delights to me, and I revel in that maternal garden -- kissing, nuzzling, caressing, playing with every part of her, licking and sucking at her breasts, her toes, her mother-parts, even her anus. The scent of her intoxicates me.

As we lie together, as I am inside her, I feel not merely pleasure: I feel her body welcoming me home. We both feel it -- a thrill of mutual recognition, a physical memory of each other, from my time in her womb. Her body seems to say, 'Yes, darling, you are back with me, back where you belong now!'

In the months preceding the wedding, I had noticed a look of worry and tiredness creeping into my mother's otherwise lovely features, due to her anxiety over the succession. That look is gone now, replaced by deep, radiant joy. And I think proudly: it is I, Attis, who put that look on her face. Likewise, my mother takes pride in the fact that the young man who loves her so ardently is, in every sense of the word, hers -- hers in a way no other lover ever could be: the fruit of her own body. And indeed, she constantly asserts her ownership of one part of me in particular, reaching out for my phallus, taking it again and again into her mother-channel, or her mouth, or between her breasts, or holding it in her hand, even as she sleeps, loath to lose physical contact with it.

It seems my mother and I have stumbled upon one of the most precious gifts of the Goddess: the life-giving flame that blazes up when the oil of sexual passion is poured upon the glowing embers of deep mother-son love. Was it not this very flame of passion between the Great Mother and Her Son Attis that caused the entire cosmos to ignite into existence, to be born from Her sacred womb? Indeed, as we couple, we often feel a sacred presence descend upon us, as though the Great Mother and Her Son are loving and pleasuring each other through us.

But as much as I treasure our frequent coupling, I treasure even more holding her in my arms afterward, in blissful post-coital closeness. She smells so delicious, her body feels so comforting. In these moments, we talk of anything and everying -- palace gossip, silly jokes, favourite songs, memories of my childhood, of her childhood. She tells me that her feelings for me had been developing for years, long before the succession crisis brought the matter to a head. And I confess that it was the same with me. We owe Lord Mutallu a debt of thanks, we decide, for unwittingly bringing us together at last.

We speak too of her marriage to my father, and his death. He was a prince from the island of Cyprus. His Cypriot name was Ish-Hadad; he took the Luwian name Tarhunt when he came here. He was a brave and noble man, but somewhat cold. I remember him as a distant figure of great solemnity, never warm and playful like my mother. She tried to love him, though. Above all, she says, she loved him for giving her me. When I was two, he got her with child again, but she miscarried early in the pregnancy. After that, he absented himself from her bed: the miscarriage was a sign, he said, that he was not fated to father Arzawa's next Queen, and she could not persuade him otherwise, for Cypriots are often ruled by strange superstitions. Then the great drought fell upon the land, and the terrible pronouncement came from the oracle -- the king must die. My mother was half-awestruck by his selfless courage in accepting his fate, half-furious with him for not trying to wriggle out of it, to save his own life, as he could have done. As Queen, she had to cut his throat with her own hand. She nearly went mad afterwards. But the drought ended: the king's sacrifice was accepted by the spirits of the land. I was only five when he we lost him. I somewhat resemble him physically, she tells me, in my slender build and facial features. In loving me, she says, she is able to love him again, the good memories of him at least; to let go of the anger and guilt that long festered in her heart; to lay his ghost to rest.

Before, I had known her as my mother and my Queen. Now, I know her as a complete woman, and this new knowledge is precious to me. She is to me a combination of deeply comforting familiarity and fascinating novelty. I discover new facets, new layers to her each day, but she is always my own dear mother, the woman I have cherished my whole life. As she predicted, our new relationship in no way diminishes or eclipses our old mother-son relationship. Rather we now have two intertwined strands to our love -- both maternal and sexual -- where each component somehow reinforces the other, creating something greater, deeper, stronger, even more thrilling and satisfying, than the sum of its parts.

* * *

During these days of seclusion in our bedchamber, the administration of the palace and realm lies in Lady Arinna's capable hands. She visits us every few days to report on developments and seek direction from us. From both of us. My mother is scrupulous about making all important decisions jointly now, honouring me as her king and consort.

I am afraid Lady Arinna was initially slightly scandalized when calling upon us in our bedchamber. For my mother and I are far too intoxicated with each other to pay much heed to considerations of modesty. If, for example, whilst Arinna is reporting on the barley harvest, I happen to notice that my mother's beautiful nipples are erect, I cannot help it if my mouth finds its way down to them, to give them attention. And, I as I said, my mother's hand cannot stay away from my phallus for long. But once Lady Arrina sees how deeply happy my mother is with me, she quickly puts aside her inhibitions and begins coming into our chamber freely. For she truly loves the Queen, wants what is best for her, and serves her as loyally as I do. Soon the two women are chatting openly about how many times each day I make my mother's womb rejoice, how good my phallus feels inside her, and such intimate matters, whilst I lie there right beside her in bed, blushing to my eartips. Arinna remarks that we make her wish she had a son of her own. She says it half-jokingly; but by the ides of the month she tells us she has taken her young nephew Sharruma in marriage, and the rites of the marriage bed are wonderful for both of them.

Meanwhile, the constant oral attention I devote to my mother's breasts soon causes her milk to come in. And so she now begins regularly suckling me, feeding me again with her sweet breastmilk after all these years -- unweaning me. We come to treasure these frequent times of breastfeeding: somehow they forge a heart-bond between us that is even stronger and deeper than our coupling.

Our frequent coupling, however, creates something even more wonderfully tangible: a child. The new moon comes and goes without any appearance of my mother's womb-blood. The Great Mother has blessed our union! We are ecstatic, of course, and tell Arinna, Istustaya and a few other trusted advisers immediately. Istustaya consults the oracle: it will be a girl-child. I will have a sister-daughter, and the realm will have its future Queen! But we wait to announce the good news publicly, for fear of another early miscarriage.

Now that my mother is with child, and I have made my proper libations, as it were, to her womb, I relent and allow her, from time to time, to take my seed in her mouth, as she has wanted to do since our wedding night.

* * *

At last, nearly two months after the wedding, we begin to venture forth from our bedchamber and gradually resume our public duties. We attend a council meeting one day, we officiate at the blessing of the olive harvest the next day, we meet with an ambassador from Crete the day after that.

As the moon waxes and wanes again, my mother begins to need more rest. Thankfully her morning sickness is relatively light, and soon even that passes. Then she begins eating enough for three. The risk of miscarriage diminishes. I had heard it said that pregnant women may appear radiant, but I did not understand till I beheld these changes in my mother: she positively glows with the fecund power of the Great Goddess! How is it possible that nobody around her notices? But on the other hand, the generous layer of bellyfat that my mother carries tends to hide the early swelling of her womb, though I can feel it when I lay my head upon her abdomen.

Her pregnancy does not diminish our desire for frequent coupling. On the contrary, it seems to heighten her sexual hunger for me. And her Goddess-like radiance has me constantly aroused, whenever I look upon her, smell her, hear her voice, or feel her touch. Sometimes we are in the midst of a public ceremony when desire overwhelms us. We make our excuses, she grabs me by the hand and drags me off someplace, anyplace where we might find a little privacy, and throws herself down upon me (for she has come to enjoy having me underneath her as much as I enjoy feeling her weight on top of me). Afterwards, we hasten back to the ceremony, if it is not too late -- me smelling powerfully of her mother-nectar, she with my seed running down the insides of her legs. The people do not take offence: they know that when the Queen's womb rejoices in her consort, the Great Mother Herself is pleasured and made fruitful, and so She pours out Her blessings on the land.

* * *

We are enjoying an afternoon bath together in the palace tepidarium, which quickly turns into one of these urgent coupling sessions -- my mother bent over the side of the pool as I pound into her from behind, her enormous buttocks trembling like an earthquake with each thrust. At that moment, the captain of the palace guards bursts into the room.

'Lord Hepaistu, what is the meaning of this intrusion?' I snarl, reluctantly disengaging from her, grabbing for my kilt.

'Forgive me, my Queen, my king ... It is Lord Mutallu. He has brought warriors into the city.'

'Impossible!' she gasps. 'He dares to offer violence to his Queen and king?'

'My Queen, he is marching on the palace even as we speak. Over a hundred men, I hear, to our twenty guards. We can hold them for an hour or two at the palace doors, but no longer. Listen, a chariot stands ready to take you two out the south gate of the city. Whilst we fight with Mutallu, you can flee to Miletus. There you can raise an army and return to retake this city.'

A strange calm descends upon me, and with it, a sense of deep, sacred power.

'Hepaistu, stand down. Your men will not die fighting these warriors. I will go out and meet them myself.'

'WHAT?!' my mother shrieks. 'No! They will kill you. Attis, my son, my love, please ...'

'Mother, you have made me king. Let me be king then. It is for the king to protect his people.'
'I lost your father to that kind of talk,' she sobs angrily, 'I cannot lose you too. The Goddess promised me this would not happen.'

'She will not let me be harmed. You will see.'

She senses it now: the power of the Bull-God, the divine Attis, is upon me. And then I sense that the power of the Great Goddess is descending upon her, in response. She grows calm as well. Hepaistu stares at us both, his eyes wide with wonder.

'My king,' she kneels down before me. 'Do what you must do. And then come back to me, my love.'

* * *

A few moments later, I step out from the palace doors, unarmed, just as a company of warriors begins marching into the opposite end of the great courtyard. Achaeans, by the look of them, each in tough, boiled-leather armour, with gleaming bronze weapons and boar-tusk helmets, slowly advancing towards me.

But Hepaistu's report did not prepare me for what I see next. Following these warriors into the courtyard, surrounding them, hemming them in, are an angry mob of Ephesians, ordinary artisans and merchants of the marketplace, men and women, brandishing staves, knives, stones, whatever they could find, shouting curses at the invaders. The warriors halt. The mob grows larger by the moment.

At the front of the Achaeans' ranks, I spot Mutallu. He shouts in trade-Achaean, gesturing toward me: 'There he stands before us, the accursed incestuous boy. Press forward, cut him down, and victory will be ours!'

But the warriors, eyeing the surrounding mob, do not advance. It is a standoff. The Achaeans have sharp bronze swords: they could start a bloodbath, but they cannot hope to finish it. The crowd will eventually overwhelm them and kill them all. And these warriors know it.

'People of Ephesus!' I raise my hand to speak. 'I have good news.' The people fall silent, caught off-guard by my unexpectedly cheerful demeanour.

'My mother the Queen is with child by me! With the Goddess' blessing, she will bear us a daughter, your future Queen, before the winter rains arrive.'

There is stunned silence for a moment, then the crowd erupt in cheers. 'Hail Attis, bull of his Mother!' they shout. A woman, a palace laundress I believe, begins singing the Birth Hymn, and the rest of the crowd joins in. The warriors, not understanding what is going on, grow even more agitated.

Mutallu's face turns purple with rage. 'The boy lies! People of Ephesus, I come but to speak peaceably to the Queen. Let me enter the palace with my men and converse with her for a short time. She will see reason. Why should she have a mere boy as her king, when a grown man stands ready to do the job? I will quickly get the Queen with child, and set this realm to rights.'

At that moment, my mother stands forth on the parapet of the palace roof, high above us, her jewelled royal headdress and earrings catching the sunlight -- never have I seen her looking so dazzlingly beautiful, the power of the Great Goddess streaming off her like rays of the sun.

'The king does not lie! Behold.' She casts off her apron and skirt, standing naked before her people. 'See, my womb swells with my son's rich seed.' The crowd cheers again. The Achaeans tremble and whimper, thinking no doubt that she has pronounced an awful curse upon them.

'Warriors,' I shout in Achaean, 'why do you come to our city with violence? The Queen my mother is with child: this is a day for rejoicing, not killing. Put down your weapons. Feast with us tonight in celebration. Tomorrow, go to your ships and return home in peace.'

Quickly, the warriors drop their swords and spears and fall to their knees. Finally, Mutallu does so as well. One of the Achaeans, dressed more sumptuously than the others, calls out to my mother: 'Great goddess, whether you be called Rhea, or Demeter, or Astarte, or some name unknown to us: forgive us! Does the demi-god your son speak truly? May we truly leave here in peace? This man Mytallos told us that he was the rightful king of these lands, that your son had usurped the throne and taken you in an accursed marriage. He promised us gold and captives. He did not tell us that the queen of this place is a goddess. A goddess may do as she pleases; she may take her son in marriage if she wishes. It is hubris for mortals to interfere. Forgive us, O goddess, and withdraw your curse of nakedness from us. When we return home to our city of Argos, I, King Inachos, will sacrifice ten white bulls in honour of you and your son, and the divine child that grows in your womb.'

'King Inachos, noble Argives,' my mother answers, as an attendant helps her back into her garments, 'I confirm my son's words. I put no curse upon you. Feast with us tonight, and let Argos and the realm of Arzawa pledge lasting peace to each other.'

Inachos and another warrior grab Mutallu and drag him forward, throwing him down at my feet. 'And what shall we do with this evil man Mytallos? Shall we cut his throat?'

'That will be as my son the king decides,' she answers.

* * *

'Remove his armour.' I then say in Luwian, 'Mutallu, stand forth and hear my sentence upon you.'

He stands, cringing, his face bitter and abject with defeat.

'You intended to kill me, your king, and to force yourself upon your Queen, the Goddess' earthly representative. You offered violence to the people of Ephesus, to kill those who resisted and give others as slaves to a foreign king. All of these are grave sacrileges. But by the Goddess' grace, no one has been harmed. Except perhaps your late wife, Lady Estan. Today we celebrate the child growing in the Queen's womb. I would not pollute this feast by shedding your blood. But you are hereby removed from your place on the council of elders. Moreover, your wealth, that fueled your plans for usurpation, is hereby forfeit: it will be distributed by the priestesses to the people of this city. You own nothing but the kilt and sandals you now wear. With no wealth and no status, I do not think you can do us any more harm.'

His eyes go wide with amazement. 'You ... you are not going to kill me?'

'No.'

He drops to his knees. 'You ... you are merciful, my king. I had not expected it.' He begins weeping unreservedly. 'The Great Mother and Her Son are truly with you. I see that now. It is good that I failed. I did not kill my wife, but I wished her dead. My other evils are known to you. My king, if you mean to spare my life, what would you have me do?'

'Depart with your Argive friends if you wish. Or learn to live as a Luwian again, as a son of the Great Goddess.'

He hangs his head. 'If I could only find the love of the Great Mother again, as I once knew it, before these dreams of power got hold of me. But how can She cleanse me of all this evil I have done?'

I think for a moment. 'Go to Sardis, to the great shrine there, and tell the priestesses your story. Offer to do whatever they ask of you -- sweep the floor, clean the altar, anything -- in return for food and a place to sleep. The Queen and I will hear reports of how you are faring. When we next journey to Sardis, we will worship at the shrine and visit you there. I hope we will then meet as friends.'

'Yes. Yes!' he laughs. 'I will go at once. Thank you, my king! I ... I love you. You and your mother the Queen. Tell her that. I will pray daily for the Goddess' blessings upon you both.'

And he sets off for the south gate of the city, with a spring in his step. Mutallu has gone from abject wretchedness to a sense of redemption, of liberation -- his expression so light and free, I could almost envy him.

Almost. I have my mother, he does not.

And then the crowd in the courtyard surge forward and hoist me up on their shoulders, laughing, cheering and passing me round like a sacred image. The men in the crowd grasp my hands, the women reach up to touch my phallus, to receive the blessing of the Bull-God. My solemn father, I suppose, would not have taken kindly to this sort of treatment; but I know these good people are just showing their love for their king, rejoicing in the news of my mother's pregnancy, so I greet them and laugh along with them as they pass me round. At last I prevail on them to put me down, and I withdraw back into the palace.

* * *

The power of the Bull-God, that had descended upon me so strongly, is waning now. On unsteady legs, I make my way to the little shrine room, where, months before, I had said that brief heartfelt prayer which set in motion my wonderful marriage to my mother, and everything that has followed. I kneel by the altar, giving silent thanks to the Great Mother and Her Son, for the divine deliverance I just witnessed. Invaders came into our city, intending murder and mayhem. But no one has been harmed. Now they are feasting with us and pledging peace, whilst Mutallu is embarking on a new life as a servant of the Goddess. My dear mother is with child by me, and now the whole realm is celebrating the fact. How could I not be grateful?

As my thoughts turn to her, I catch the scent of her sandalwood perfume, and hear the swish of her skirt and jingle of her silver anklets beside me. I stand up, taking my mother in my arms, but not before she notices the tent-pole beneath my kilt. It seems the Bull-God has left behind a vestige of his presence, in the form of rampant desire for my mother: I am even harder for her than usual, if it be possible.

'I can guess what you have been praying for, my son,' she laughs.

'And now that you are here, mother, my prayers have been answered.'

'As have mine.'

We run together, hand in hand, back to our bedchamber, laughing and shedding our garments on the way. We have unfinished business from the tepidarium.

And afterward ... ah, what greater joy can a young man know, than to drift off to sleep, snuggled up to his mother's soft, naked body, his contented phallus still wet with her mother-nectar, cooling in the late afternoon breeze?

* * *

Attis IV (b. 2595 BCE). King of Arzawa (2577-2532 BCE), in western Anatolia. Son of Tarhunt II. During his reign, the cities of the Arzawan confederacy flourished, particularly the capital city, Ephesus. According to a cuneiform inscription in the Stele of Kattavia, King Attis was able to reassert control over Rhodes and the other Dodecanese Islands, through skillful diplomacy with the early Mycenaean city-states. Arzawan-produced pottery, textiles, metalwork, and ceramic religious figurines from this era have been found as far abroad as Elam to the east, and the Iberian peninsula to the west, indicating a thriving economy, with a population of skilled artisans and an elaborate trade network.

In particular, the ceramic figurines of this period show an unparallelled naturalism, predominantly depicting a naked, corpulent woman strongly reminiscent of the palaeolithic 'Venus' figures, with exaggerated breasts, buttocks and vulva, but iconographically identifiable as early representations of the Anatolian 'Great Mother' goddess Cybele. Remarkably, these figurines all show strikingly similar facial features, as though they were portraits of a particular woman.

According to the Hattusa cuneiform tablets, Attis IV married Hebat XXIII (2616-2533 BCE) . They further record that she and King Attis 'loved each other deeply', an uncharacteristically personal observation for these royal annals. This queen 'lived to a great age,' but when she died, 'the king was stricken with grief' and died a year thereafter. Sterling (1986) famously conjectured that the legendary lovers Attius and Ibade, briefly mentioned in The Iliad, book xvi, may be based on them.

However, the identity of this Queen Hebat XXIII has been a vexed question for historians. For these tablets give the same name and dates for the king's mother. Most historians have attributed this to a scribal error in the numbering and dating of the Arzawan queens; the modern convention is to refer to Attis' mother as Hebat XXIIIa, and his wife as Hebat XXIIIb. However, a minority of scholars (e.g. Perlmutter 2003) have taken these records at face value, assuming mother and wife to be the same woman, i.e. an incestuous royal marriage. Certainly, the recorded dates are consistent with a woman who was old enough to be Attis' mother, but who had a long life and died shortly before the king himself, as was the case with his wife. As further evidence of the unitary Hebat XXIII hypothesis, Perlmutter notes an epithet, 'bull of his mother,' associated with Attis IV in numerous inscriptions. Moreover, Perlmutter argues, the Hellenistic-era example of King Mausolus (377--353 BCE) and his sister-consort Queen Artemisia of Caria indicate that incestuous royal marriage was an accepted institution in this region of Anatolia. However, Aksoy (2007) refutes these claims, noting that the phrase 'bull of his mother' is a transparent calque of the Egyptian religious formula ka-mut-ef, usually applied to the god Min-Horus, presumably adopted by Arzawan or Hittite scribes merely as a term of prestige for their king. Furthermore, whilst brother-sister royal marriages are widely attested in the ancient world, mother-son marriage is unattested as an accepted institution outside of Parthian/Sassanid-era Persia. Aksoy further criticizes Perlmutter's scholarship as suffering from 'Graves' Disease', i.e. the romantic hypothesis of poet Robert Graves -- never seriously entertained by modern historians -- that all ancient civilizations regularly sacrificed their kings to a great 'White Goddess'.

Attis IV was succeeded by his daughter, Queen Hebat XXIV (b. 2578 BCE, r. 2533-2503 BCE), who married Duripi (dates unknown), believed to be a son of Queen Aranare (c. 2590-2540 BCE) of early Minoan Crete. Thereafter, Arzawa became increasingly allied with the growing Cretan sea-empire, until the realm fell under Hittite control circa 1500 BCE.