kaos

Possessing the only incarnated god extant within the western world, Al’s notoriety
rapidly spread across the empire, ultimately reaching Rome itself. This prompted large
amounts of Rome’s god-hungry citizenry to decamp en masse for Abonoteichus and
stage a beatific toga-party. Foremost in their ranks was one P Mummius Sisenna
Rutilianus, sometime consul, sometime governor, all-round prestigious and rich geezer.
It would seem Rutilianus, even for those theomanic times, was more than usually
godstruck and would pause to worship and commune with any wreath-adorned or oilanointed
wayside stone that he might chance to come across. If his religious fervour
could be roused by any greasy rock then we can but imagine what he’d make of a giant
talking human-headed snake with hair.
We can also imagine just what Alexander made of our Rutilianus. No doubt drachmasigns
were flashing in his eyes when first the full potential of Rutilianus’s extraordinary
gullibility occurred to him. “Hey, if you like my human-headed snake, I’ve got this
bridge you might be interested in.” The bridge in question led from earth to heaven in
the person of an alleged daughter sired by Alexander on the Moon-goddess Selene
(who’d apparently been overcome with lust for Alexander while he slept one night).
Where this “daughter” may have been produced from, we can only speculate. It is,
however, a safe bet that no such speculations long absorbed Rutilianus. As a credulous
sexagenarian he was clearly tickled pink by both his young wife and the prospect of a
goddess as his mother-in-law. Why, he’d practically be one of the celestial family, almost
a god himself. The greasy rocks would come and worship him instead.
Rutilianus was, before long, made the governor of Asia. Being Alexander’s son-inlaw,
Rutilianus could extend the influence of Alexander’s cult throughout the empire,
introducing Glycon into high society. Meanwhile, back home in Abonoteichus, a fullblown
Moon-and-Serpent ceremonial mystery theatre was about to make its debut.
Lucian describes it as a three-day ceremony with priestly offices and torchlight rallies,
annually held, in perpetuity. The first day was a recap (“Previously, on Moon & Serpent …”),
running through the whole soap-opera genealogy from Zeus down to Asclepius, passing
through Leto and Apollo and Coronis, for the benefit of viewers who tuned in late. The
second day presented a retelling of the origins of Glycon (a diminutive of glycus, meaning
“sweet”, thus “Sweety”), where the god presumably starred as himself. (“I just got in
from Olympus. Boy, is my belly sore. No but seriously. Anybody in from Ephesus …?”)
The final day commenced with Alexander tastefully presenting a depiction of his
mother being shagged by Podaleirius, then built up to a rousing climax when the audience
was treated to a tableau which showed Alexander and Selene engaged in conceiving the
wife of Rutilianus: “the torch-bearer and hierophant was our Endymion, Alexander.
While he lay in full view, pretending to be asleep, there came down to him from the
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