Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1155642.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Inception_(2010)
  Relationship:
      Arthur/Eames_(Inception)
  Character:
      Arthur_(Inception), Eames_(Inception), Mal_(Inception), Miles_
      (Inception), Dom_Cobb, Yusuf_(Inception), Robert_Fischer, Ariadne_
      (Inception)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Ancient_Greece_&_Rome, Master/Slave, references_to
      past_rape/non-con, Dubious_Consent, Punishment, Aftercare, Coming_of_Age,
      Voyeurism, Multiple_Partners, Costume_and_Crossdressing_Kink, Romance,
      Requited_Love, Gambling, Betrayal, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Redemption,
      Size_Kink, Dom/sub_Undertones, Heavy_Angst
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-01-31 Updated: 2014-02-28 Chapters: 5/? Words: 19111
****** Concubinus ******
by grizzly_bear_bane
Summary
     On the auction block, Arthur had to make a choice:
     Gamble away his life to a Roman senator with a list of debts and an
     even longer list of enemies, or let the dogs have him again.
     It's a good thing Arthur's never been a fool. Lucky for Eames, too.
Notes
     +
     Beyond a doubt, this fic is NOT for the faint of heart, but if you
     love raw angst, this drama is for you.
     Tremendous praise for tamat9, whose blueprints and foundation made it
     possible for me to build this house.
     As always, comments, critiques, and suggestions are greatly
     appreciated.
     For sneak peeks of new chapters, inspiration, and questions, check me
     out on grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr!
     Enjoy!
***** Cyparissus, the mourner *****
 
I hate and I love
Why do I, you ask?
I don't know, but it's happening
and it hurts
― Gaius Valerius Catullus
++
+
 
January 1, Kalendae Ianuariae, 71 AD | Rome
 
Beyond the heavy, thick curtains and the press of other captives, cheers and
fanfare filled the streets of Rome.
Aharon could feel blood trickle down his thigh under his dirty loincloth. The
sting of a jagged rock cutting his flesh had hurt, but Aharon knew it was worth
it. This pain would be much more bearable than what was in store for him had he
not improvised.   
He'd known the dimensions of rape since his abduction several months ago.
Perhaps it had only been one month; he couldn’t keep track of time, always
transported in the dark with the rest of the captives for sale. All he could
remember before the smells and dampness made his head ache was running in
terror from the soldiers with his sister…and then a ship…and then grease-
covered hands, nothing more. He wasn’t sure if he could consider himself lucky
or not—not yet. He knew what he had faced on that ship wasn’t the screaming and
tearing kind of brutality, but the careful rape by men smart enough to know how
not to bruise the fruit or let it spoil before its sale. Not even their master
who had sold him to the man who would be selling him today knew that he’d been
touched.
He wondered if it would have even mattered had the seller known. Certainly the
men who would barter for him on the block today wouldn’t be able to tell the
difference, so blinded by their lust. With Rome in the midst of suppressing the
great rebellion in the east and a taste for exotic slaves sweet on the tongue,
the price for this Judean boy would be high, and these men were ready to pay.
Aharon swayed on his feet. The cut was probably infected now or bleeding too
heavy. He didn’t know. He and the others hadn’t been taken out into the sunlit
block yet, and he wouldn’t check himself now or risk hindering his plot.
His face still had yet to lose its softness in favor of a beard, but he wasn’t
naïve. He'd heard enough of Roman ways to know that the younger men from the
richest families had money enough from the war to buy virgins, and with that
kind of money and youth came tempers that flared at the slightest shift in the
wind. If there was no way for Aharon to free himself, he needed to be sold to
an older man, someone too tired and relaxed for the type of cruel imagination
the young ones were certain to have.
So, he’d taken a sharp rock to the soft junction of groin and thigh and let the
wound bleed. They would see the blood and think him freshly spoiled. Then he
would fake a swooning spell and fall off the stage. In the chaos that followed,
he’d run. None of the slaves were bound. All of them simply had a board hung
about their shoulders with their number on it. When the men would look for him,
that board would be all they found. And if he was caught, well…his father and
his ancestors at least would be proud that he tried.
+
 
The light was blinding when the seller’s guards pulled back the curtain and
brought them all out on the platform. The Forum was already filled with people
buzzing in their excitement from the festival and parade from the Temple of
Jupiter on Capitoline Hill. They were eager to bid over the new war souvenirs.
Shivering in his thin covering, Aharon could see what the others looked like
now. Two women weeped at the corner of the auction block, who he’d sworn he’d
seen before as a boy, and four other naked women stood, trying to cover
themselves from the winter's chill, beside him. They would most likely all be
sold to brothels. Six coal toned men and one Egyptian were bartered over for
the governor's house, perhaps to serve as guards or chariot drivers. Then there
was Aharon himself, the youngest of the bunch and the one they all glanced at
with pity. He was truly starting to grow dizzy. The severity of all that had
happened, of all that would happen beyond this moment, hit him at once.
There were no old men. Not even a man with grey in his beard was there to
barter for a bed slave. Aharon closed his eyes and fought to keep his resolve
from crumbling. He needed to map out a quick exit strategy.
But the plan was already failing. Rome was a city too big for Aharon's mind to
fathom. The city where he and his father had taken their farm's produce was
only mud, clay, and straw in comparison to the might of Rome's
infrastructure. It was any wonder how tribes and even whole countries thought
to beat back the conquering armies that came from a place with such heavy,
polished stones and the great, massive columns supporting every building. It
could be beautiful, with its painted walls and decorations, with the shower of
festival pedals and ropes of garland, but the smells and the throngs of people
shouting, butchering animals, whipping others in rags, and selling their sex
right out in the street, made Aharon's stomach cramp. How could he possibly
escape this place?
And here was another problem. Aharon couldn't keep up with the Latin the seller
and bidders spoke so rapidly, but from the way the men were shouting back and
forth with the seller and pointing to Aharon’s legs, he guessed enough of what
they were saying: The fool seller had tried to pitch Aharon as a virgin eunuch,
having never taken the time to actually look at Aharon before buying him, and
now all the men were accusing the seller of having just cut him moments before!
The smarter men in the crowd accused him of far worse.
He had Aharon by the shoulders, shaking him and demanding to know who had
defiled him, but Aharon couldn’t speak. Now they all thought he was mute and
dumb as well as torn.
He was startled when an arm came down between him and the seller. One of the
bulkiest men, dressed in a thick, white toga lined with a purple stripe over
a white tunica, had climbed onto the platform to prevent further chaos.
“Eames, you’re a good man!” Aharon heard the seller whisper. “Help me! I had no
idea this had happened!”
The man’s brow furrowed. “I don’t doubt that, nor do I care, Deemethresi. I was
passing through to get home when I saw your hand raised. If you intend to sell
him, a bruise on his cheek won't help you.” 
“Eames, please, they’ll be dressing me up like a bull and sacrificing me to
Jupiter for the new consuls—"
"You are certainly fat enough to pass for one," the man teased. 
"—if this madness doesn't end. I’m innocent,” the man begged. “Buy the boy!
Take him from my hands so my reputation cannot be further soiled.”
He frowned. “I’m not in the market to buy one of your overly priced
exotic toys, Deemethresi, especially not one that’s bleeding. Learn how to
control your guards' cocks first, and then perhaps, I’ll consider.” 
“But, Eames, you’re a soldier—” 
“Was a soldier.”
“Well… As a senator, I’m sure a bit of company would still be most enjoyable
for a noble Dominus such as yourself on your time off?”
“I have no time off. We're in the middle of war, if you've forgotten.”
“Just…will you stand guard for me until I regain control of this crowd?”
“No. Your guards—”
“Are most likely responsible for this! One favor. Please?”
The man eyed Aharon up and down before he sighed. “Fine. You owe me for this.”
When the seller hurried off, he eyed Aharon again. “Are you much hurt, boy?”
Aharon shook his head quickly, feeling dazed. This man with wine on his
breath…was neither young nor old, and he'd said that he had no time for boys,
and he’d been called a good man, although, coming from a filthy slave trader,
that might not work in Aharon’s favor, but in his time of desperation, it was
worth a shot. “Sir?”
"Silence."
He stood closer. "Sir?"
“What?”
“I am…I am not…much hurt.” He swallowed when the senator eyed him again. He
took care to enunciate every word to be certain the man
understood. “Please…Please help me,” he whispered. “I do not want to go to any
of those men. I beg you.”
“You won’t be going to them now,” he answered, distracted by the seller’s
arguing with a young soldier. “Mostly likely a brothel, since you’ve been…” His
attention snapped back to Aharon the second he seemed to process what he was
being told. He hissed. “You little cheat!”
“No, I offer you to please take me for yourself!” he whispered, daring to reach
across the small gap between them and touch one of the many folds of his toga.
“Do not let them have me. I have never been touched, I swear. I will do what
you say. I will be obedient. Please.” 
The man’s jaw clenched and unclenched. Aharon gasped, frozen when the Roman's
hand went under his loincloth and felt about between his legs, making sure that
Aharon told him the truth, or at least enough truth. Aharon would curse the men
who’d captured him until the day he died, but at least, as the senator called
the seller back over to talk with blood still on his hand, Aharon was grateful
that their handling wasn’t about to cost him more than it already had. 
“A quarter of the starting price to take him off your hands,” the man said.
“No! Eames, there were men willing to bid over sixty thousand danarii! You
would put me in the hole for nearly fourty-five tho—”
“A quarter of the starting price," he repeated sternly, "and I’ll drive these
dogs off for you. That’s my final offer.”
“But it's just a little blood. You will use him for the same purpose, after
all. It's nothing that won't heal, surely? Eames?" He cursed in another
language. "Damn it…fine. Fine. Damn you, Eames.”
“No, damn your guards, instead,” the man cut his eye at Aharon, “for not
keeping a better watch over your property.” He turned to address the
crowds. “Good men, I beseech you, lend me your ears,” he shouted, his voice
carrying, “as I make clear this grave sitatuation.” When the noise died down,
he explained, “Good men, I have seen the boy myself, and I felt of a face that
was smooth only from being shaven to appear as such, as you and I might do to
our own fully grown faces.”
Aharon thought quick to keep the confused frown from his face, catching on to
the man’s plot.
“Not only is this boy still in tact, but I lament in telling you that his tree
has been shaken bare as well.” The crowd of soldiers and wealthy merchants’
sons erupted in a chorus of anger when Eames showed them his hand as proof, but
the senator quieted them again. “His damage is severe, but it is also no fault
of this noble Babylonian, who has never been false before, and who was tricked
into buying used goods. But if anyone here wishes to buy the boy still, perhaps
as a stable boy or cupbearer—”
“Look at him, Eames!” one man shouted. “Surely an old soldier knows when a
boy’s got strength and that one couldn’t carry a pebble in those little lily
hands!” Most of the others agreed.
The senator exchanged banter with a few others as most of the crowd dispersed
to make way for the brothel and house slave buyers.
Aharon’s spirit dropped lower than he thought it could go as documents were
hurriedly signed, payment arranged, and the two men shook hands. It was over
now. He’d been sold.
He swallowed again when the man led him from the block and turned to him with a
smug grin. He felt like an ant under a bull’s foot when the senator grabbed his
jaw to look at his face.
“Well, well,” the man muttered to himself. “Look at what the goddess Fortuna
has brought me this fine morning—Good work, Eamesie.”
+
 
Aharon's hands gripped the wooden table. He bit the inside of his mouth and
whimpered when Eames drove the needle through the wound, stitching him up.
“You’re a strong one,” Eames commented. “That’s good. Just let this be a lesson
to you never to trick me the way that you fooled your seller.”
Everywhere Aharon looked, slaves moved about or stood in the corners, dressed
plainly in clothes that looked expensive. One hurried from the room at Eames'
command to bring water. Aharon blinked tears out of his eyes and groaned
pitifully at what he now saw on the floor. Aharon didn’t know what room this
was, with its bloodstained table and blood spotted floors, but he was sure this
wasn’t where the cooks chop up the meat for the Roman's meals.
“My former bed slave,” Eames explained, seeing Aharon rub his hand over a stain
as if the red spot wasn’t old and dried. 
Aharon trembled, looking up at the man who seemed to dwarf Aharon with his
bulk. The Roman looked much larger than he had on the street. Aharon was
doomed.
“There used to be an old shutter hanging outside my bedroom window," Eames
continued. "He always complained of the chill it let into the room during the
winter. I forbid him from trying to tinker with it, but one day, when it was
especially cold, he waited until I’d ventured out of the villa, and went
against my warning. The other slaves claimed it gave way almost immediately,
sending him to the stone below. I tried to save him in here, but…” Eames
sighed. “I’ll just have to be strict with you. He was very doted upon, that
boy.” He knotted the last stitch. “There, good as new.”
Aharon winced as he sat up. He tried to cover his nakedness, but Eames moved
his hand aside.
The man squeezed and caressed under Aharon’s knee, eating him up with his
hungry gaze. “Yours is just the perfect form. Wherever you came from, you must
have been fed well. I almost want to keep you bare." He trailed his fingers
along the soft dip in Aharon's abdomen. "Simply gorgeous. However, only one of
my slaves is castrated, and though they all fear me, there’s never been a naked
boy in my house to tempt them towards disobedience before. A simple drape of
cloth for a tunica might do, I think. At least while you’re in the common
rooms.” He smiled and ran a gentle hand through Aharon’s hair. “Do you have any
idea what I’m saying, or are you just nodding your head at me?”
“I understand basic Latin."
"Basic Latin…” he trailed off, expecting Aharon to say something more, but
Aharon had no idea what.
“I am your Dominus now, your master. You must always address me as such when
you speak,” Eames finally explained, handing him a cup of honey water when the
slave returned with the tray. “Or some variation of that title.” He narrowed
his eyes as if leafing through Aharon’s brain. “What’s your name boy?”
He told him, remembering to address him correctly this time, before he gulped
down the cup of water and accepted a second.
“I shall name you Arthur, then. It should be easy for you to remember.” Eames
crossed his arms, still studying him. “I’m surprised, Arthur. You know Latin,
but you don’t know how to address your master. Why is that?”
“I've never…” he felt his dizziness return.
Eames eyed the dusting of dark curls around his cock and under his arms. “How
old are you, boy?”
Arthur had to shrug. He didn’t know, suddenly, as if a part of his mind locked
itself from him now. He didn’t know where he’d come from, or what language he’d
spoken so fluently before. He only remembered his father’s panic right before
the soldier held him down to cut off his head. He knew his sisters’ screams
when the soldiers caught hold of their lovely hair and fine clothes, and his
mother, stabbing one man but overtaken by the rest.
It hadn’t occurred to him until now that perhaps the soldiers saw him running
with his sister and had originally mistaken him for a girl as well. Maybe that
was why his mind shielded itself against the memory of what had happened to him
and his sister, in that field and to him again, before that first ship took him
across the Great Sea, where he'd been delivered into the hands of the men who’d
fooled the sellers.
“Arthur, for fuck’s sake!”
He snapped out of the thick fog and groaned, covering his head. The front of
Eames' leisure clothes were soiled in Arthur’s sick. He hadn’t even felt his
stomach turn.
Eames grabbed him by the arm to toss him on the floor. Arthur grimaced and
clutched at his scraped shoulder. He stayed where he’d landed, cowering when
Eames called in a few more of his slaves to clean the mess.
Arthur waited for punishment, but none came. Eames stood there glaring at him
as the others fussed over his ruined sandals. Arthur knew that look. His father
gave him that look all the time when he’d misbehaved, before his head was…
Arthur felt dizzy again, but kept it under control. He had to fix this. He
hadn’t even been in the Roman’s house for an hour and already that look had him
speared.
“Dominus? I—”
“Hush. I haven’t given you permission to sp—”
“But I am sorry! I'm sorry! I don’t know what happened!”
All the slaves gasped, frozen in place, their eyes wide and focused on their
Dominus. They flinched when he spoke, as if prepared to feel his wrath even for
an infraction they hadn’t personally committed.
“Atta,” Eames called the Egyptian eunuch forward. “Three lashes and a bath.
Now.”
+
 
Arthur held his tongue and glared at the slave through his stream of tears.
“Hate me all you want, boy, but you ought to know better than to treat your
master as you did. Or at least,” Atta smirked, “now you do.”
He’d only been given three quick lashes on his bottom and thighs and it was
over. He’d been whipped with a switch before by his mother, after she’d caught
him fighting a boy in the field. The eunuch’s wielding of the switch had been
nothing compared to hers.
But, the bath, now, this was the true punishment! The salted water was hot and
made even the scrape on his shoulder burn. When the eunuch made him sit forward
to wash his back, he could feel the dissolving salt rocks under his sore bottom
and thighs. It was pure torture. He was more than ready to stand when the
eunuch ordered him to, but now his welts were burning as his legs and groin
were scrubbed. Oh, how he’d been mistaken by the senator, by his appealing face
and gentle hand in the street.
He was forced to sit again. He tried to pull his knees up to his chest, but the
eunuch yanked on his ear. Arthur was certain his torment was only just
beginning, he realized. He glanced at the bald, plump man. He couldn’t help but
let his eyes travel downward, envisioning the mystery under the man’s colorful
clothes. “May I—”
“Hush, boy.” He scrubbed Arthur’s chest harder.
Arthur had never seen a eunuch before. He wondered how the man had been
cut—what had been cut—and when. He’d heard rumors before that eunuchs were cut
as children to preserve their youthful beauty, but…this one was bald and round
with a pointy nose and a permanent scowl on his face. Were some eunuchs cut as
grown men? Arthur was neither man nor child. He rubbed his cheeks, wishing he
truly did have a beard to shave, because without one, he was sure he too would
be cut, and then there would be nothing left of whoever he was before he’d been
made a slave. His journey to manhood would stop right here.
The Dominus had said he was gorgeous and wanted him to be naked always. His
stomach rebelled again.
Atta screamed and dragged Arthur from the water by his hair. “I swear to all
the gods that if you do that again, I will drown you, you filthy little dog!
Look at this mess!”
Arthur was given three, much harder lashes and an even hotter bath.
He couldn’t fight his tears this time, and cursed whichever one of those gods
had blessed him with such wonderful luck as this.
+
 
He was lashed a third time for trying to run after the bath. At this point,
Arthur’s butt and thighs were on fire.
“You’re lucky, boy,” Atta muttered through Arthur’s sniffling. “Your
punishments are like sweet honey compared to what the rest of the slaves get
for only minor offenses.”
Arthur trembled under the strong grip of two bulky, dark men as they held him
down on the same table where his thigh cut had been stitched. “I’m sorry,” he
sobbed. “I wasn’t trying to escape, I swear. I just don’t want…” His hand
slipped free and he covered his groin.
Atta snickered. “Oh hush, boy. You get to keep your precious little balls. Now
stop squirming.” The eunuch’s brow furrowed in concentration as he pierced
Arthur’s nipples.
Arthur was able to bite his tongue through the burn when his navel was pierced
and adorned with a little ornament, but he couldn’t help but scream when Atta
pierced his perineum.
“There, now.” The eunuch beamed, playing with the tiny silver loop and pearl on
Arthur’s navel. “You look dazzling! The master will be quite pleased to see
your decorations.” Atta watched him cry. 
Arthur looked down at himself, speechless now. It hurt. This hurt worse than
the rock had. What had he done to deserve this?
The eunuch sent the other slaves away and set about cleaning his tools. “I
didn’t cry nearly as much when I was actually cut, and I was much younger than
you then. You make it seem as if…” He sighed when his eyes met Arthur's teary
glance. “There, there, little Ganymedes,” he soothed, sincere, patting Arthur's
knee. “You’re a long way up from Troy, but the view from the clouds and the
protection of the eagle’s wings will all be worth this little pain soon enough.
You’ll see. Other men would only have you be their whore, but our master, if
you are good and kind to him, may very well rise you up so high that you will
think yourself a prince. So take comfort, boy.”
Arthur looked up at him and saw his gentle smile. He nodded, hoping the
Egyptian told him no lies.
+
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
                               graphic by tamat9
                                        
***** Catamitus, the cupbearer *****
+
 
The tunica he was given to wear was nicer than any fabric he’d known. All its
hems were sewed in shining gold to match his sandals. Atta and the slaves
wrapped and draped the soft, shear pale green around him with precision,
keeping it in place by a golden fibula pinned over both shoulders so that it
hung low down his back and rested high over his collarbones, but not low at all
on his legs. His tunica barely covered his groin, let alone the red welts on
the back of his thighs. It seemed even shorter once he was given a thin, woven
belt. They all thought it was amusing when he’d asked them for undergarments.
Walking gingerly, he followed Atta through the villa with a promise from the
Egyptain to see more of the grounds tomorrow. The columns, the walls, even the
ceilings were painted and decorated. Everywhere he looked, large, rare plants
were being watered by slaves, couches were being dusted, and giant statues on
top of stone platforms and fountains filled the atrium, showered in sunlight.
He was led to the smaller second floor and peeked out of the elaborately fenced
windows to see the grounds enclosed by high walls. He felt as if he were
standing in a king's palace. Everything in Rome, it seemed, was made of great
wealth and riches.
"He's all yours for now, my sweet lady," Atta announced to a woman standing at
the far end of the walkway. "His name is Arthur. Isn't he just adorable?" He
kissed her cheek and winked at Arthur before he left to return downstairs.
The woman would have been quite beautiful if not for the way she looked down at
Arthur past her nose, as if he were still dirty and sick. Her dark braided
ropes of hair almost touched her knees, and, most importantly, she wore the
stolla and palla of a free woman. Arthur feared that she must be Eames'
wife. “Your master will receive you at sundown,” she informed him. “I will give
you these instructions only once, so listen carefully. When the sun begins to
set, make sure that you are seated outside of his bedroom door and remain there
until you are called. Do not enter his bedroom until he gives you permission.
Do not, ever, go into his study. Do that, and he will beat you. Step foot on
the street outside these walls, and the guards will beat you. Try to run, your
master will kill you. Do you understand?"
He thought too late to close his mouth after it had been open all while she
spoke. "Um…" He nodded even though he'd only grasped half of what she'd said.
"Yes, Madam." He glanced around and swallowed nervously, seeing how massive the
guards were standing at some the doorways they passed through.
"Good." She crossed her arms. Her smirk was wicked. It cowed Arthur. “My name
is Mallorie. I am in charge of the Dominus' private chambers, therefore, you
will answer to me, and I must be accountable for your behavior. If I see one
vase or token out of place, or your little bottom in one of your master’s fine
chairs, I will beat you myself.”
Arthur was loathe to say that he missed being Atta's charge. Mallorie's glare
possessed a bite far sharper than any lashing could.
When Arthur made no outward gesture of complaint, Mallorie continued in a much
lower voice. “I feel I ought to warn you. I know your secret, boy. I’ve seen
enough girls and boys walk the same as you, awkward and attempting modesty out
of experienced shame, rather than from fear of the unknown.” She shook her
head. “You are no untouched prize like Cassius was when your master took him
into his household. Upset your master again, and you may find yourself once
more in the bed of others, because a few of these guards know how to play with
‘virgin’ boys as well.” She paused when they reached the end of the open
hallway and glanced at him. “Take care, Arthur.”
+
 
Arthur had no idea what rooms constituted as the Dominus' private ones, nor did
he know what a study was. As covertly as he could, he let Mallorie walk off and
followed her, hoping that it might give him some clue as to where he could or
couldn’t be, but she quickly disappeared around a corner and was gone.
He sighed and decided it safest to simply sit right here until someone came
looking for him, but the floor was hard under his knees. Trying to sit on his
bottom or tailbone had similar problems, but the cool stone made his legs feel
better until he shivered from a chill. He couldn’t stand here all day. His feet
would ache. He couldn't sit and let his bottom get any sorer either.
He stood at the mouth of two short hallways with rooms attached to each,
wondering which one Mallorie had disappeared into. Down one corridor, he saw
what looked to be the bedroom through the wide archway.
He picked the second one. Light blazed from all the open windows in the wide
room he entered. Inside, maps and paintings covered every space on the walls
that weren’t lined with scrolls and plants. Across the stone floor were short
columns supporting busts and statues, along with all sorts of weapons, and
relics crafted from marble, bronze, and obsidian.
Arthur stood in the midst of the room in awe, his eyes trying to absorb
everything. He didn’t dare displace a speck of dust, except… He glanced over
his shoulder at the opened doorway. Would anyone be upset if he spent his time
reading?
He knew he wasn't allowed to touch anything, but he still peeked at the scroll
on the desk and turned it around to see it better. It was written in some
bizarre language he’d never seen. Beside it was another scroll that looked
almost identical, though it was much longer and in Latin.
“Hm…” He matched the two parchments together, a finger pressed below each
corresponding word. “Ea…mes, E…am…es,” he tried, sounding the word out. It was
the only word on both parchments that was the same. “E…ames?” He repeated it
again, playing with the pronunciation until it clicked. “Eames!” he whispered,
proudly, now knowing how to spell the Dominus' name even if he was sure he
still pronunced it wrong. “Br…i…t-Bri…ta…n…ni…a?” He frowned, scratching his
head and tried the corresponding word. “Bri…ton? Hm.” What on earth was a
Briton? Some special military or governing title, perhaps?
“Wow. You’re able to translate Britonic as well?”
Arthur spun around with a gasp, his heart pounding. He blinked at the floor in
front of Eames' feet.
“On your knees, boy,” Eames ordered in a soft tone that confused Arthur.
He obeyed at once, folding his hands in his lap to stop them from shaking. He
flinched, prepared to be beaten. He shivered when he felt the man's fingers
comb through his hair in gentle strokes instead.
Eames admired Arthur's new clothes. “Did Mallorie receive you yet?”
His eyes stayed on Eames, watching, waiting for him to strike. “Yes, Dominus.”
He shivered again as that hand continued its sweet caresses. Arthur closed his
legs tighter and pressed his clasped hands more firmly in his lap. He took a
deep breath, feeling flushed all over.
“Did she give you my instructions?”
“Yes, Dominus.”
“Ah." Eames' brow rose. "So…you chose to be disobedient and did the one thing
you were forbidden to do anyways?”
Arthur’s heart dropped. What had he done now? "No! I…" His stomach shriveled
like a dried grape. His eyes traveled around the room before settling on Eames’
patient face again, as it finally dawned on him what the study was.
He was as good as dead now. He knew it.
Arthur opened his mouth to begin another tirade of apologies, but Eames pressed
his thumb over his lips, keeping him silent.
“Come along, Arthur. I want you to accompany me to supper.”
+
 
Even before his capture, Arthur couldn’t remember ever seeing this much food on
one table before. And it was all entirely for one man. Three long, flat couches
sat around it, framed by large potted plants. Slave boys tended the wood in two
large firepit bowls on either side; the smoke traveled up through the open
ceiling of the atrium where Arthur could see the last of the sun setting.
Eames admired Arthur's legs from where he lounged on one of the couches as
Arthur poured his wine and served his plate. “Wait,” he called behind him when
Arthur moved to stand with the others. “I didn’t dismiss you, come back here.”
It was like the air thinned in the room as everyone silently gasped in unison.
No one said a word, but Arthur knew what they were all thinking. It was clear
that not even Mallorie had ever been invited to sit at the Dominus' meal.
Too bad Arthur was hungry and his bottom still sore from his lashes and
decoration. He squirmed sitting on the mosaic floor beside Eames' couch, trying
and failing to keep the backs of his thighs off the hard tiles. He looked away
when Eames saw him fidget again.
“Does it hurt?”
Arthur kept his eyes on the table in front of his face, fighting the urge to
bolt or rebel. He nodded quickly. His cheeks burned when he heard Eames chuckle
in a low, satisfied rumble.
“You may all take your leave. Arthur will tend to me just fine for the time
being,” Eames said to the others. When the room cleared, he sat up. “Come here,
boy. Now that you’ve had time to reflect on your status, let’s see if I can’t
remedy your current situation.”
His heart beat more and more erratically as he was sat in Eames’ lap. It wasn’t
as good a solution for Arthur as it was for Eames, whose thick cock was hard
under his clothes, but his long toga was soft and much easier to bear than the
floor had been.
“Relax, Arthur,” Eames whispered against the back of his shoulder. “You’ve
already paid for your infraction. You have no more reason to fear me—until, of
course, you make me cross again. But you’re a smart boy and you catch on
quickly, right Arthur?”
"Yes, Dominus." Goose bumps rose on his arms when Eames' large hands began to
rub his back in long, circular motions. Every now and then, he laid whispers of
kisses over his shoulder blades and neck.
“Go on then, eat what you want.”
Some of the food didn't look very appealing at first glance, but he tried
everything. He almost moaned getting his hands on the freshly baked bread and
berries. He tasted fish for the first time and quickly discovered it to be his
favorite. He ate all of the fish he could find on the table, but regretted
drinking down the rest of Eames’ cup. He didn’t realize how strong Roman wine
was until he put the empty cup back on the table. His shoulders relaxed as
Eames began to rub his arms with the same gentle touch as before.
“It seems you’re used to eating big meals, yes?”
He tried to give him an answer, to tell him about the meals his mother and
sisters used to make for him and his father whenever their trips to the markets
brought home good profits, but the words stuck in his throat. His appetite
diminished.
Eames sighed. “You speak when told to be silent, but when told to speak, you
say nothing. Arthur, you are incredibly peculiar and leave me swimming in a sea
of questions, lamb.”
"Sorry," he muttered to his knees. "It's true, we… We were never hungry."
To Arthur’s relief, the man didn’t pry any further than that. After supper,
Eames brought him back upstairs to the study where he had slaves bring pillows
for the couch in the corner for Arthur to sit on. Eames handed him scrolls in
Latin and Greek.
Arthur looked at one and shook his head. "I don't know Greek, Dominus."
"That's fine. Try the other." He sat at his desk watching the boy read to him
aloud.
Arthur frowned, struggling through the texts, but whenever he glanced up at
Eames, the man was gazing at him with something akin to wonder and pride.
“I enjoy hearing your voice,” Arthur heard him murmur after a while. “Your
pronunciations are improving quickly. Did your last master teach you how to
read?” When Arthur shook his head, he asked, “Who was it then?”
Arthur drew one of his folded legs close to his chest, wishing he could
disappear. “There was no master. My father taught me.” He wondered if he should
have lied. Eames' raised brow made him dread being asked more questions about
his family. He was distracted from his worry, however, when he remembered that
he wore no undergarments and imagined the view he was giving the man. He
quickly closed his legs.
Eames flashed a little amused smile before he glanced over a piece of parchment
on his desk. “So this land it says you were taken from, on your proof of sale,
was your father Isaac’s land, then. Correct?”
Hearing his father’s name pass the lips of his Dominus made supper difficult to
stay in his stomach. His hands, his whole body suddenly felt covered in the
blood of his family.
“Arthur,” Eames called to him in a firm but careful voice that pulled him out
the hole in his memory he’d fallen through. He didn’t realize he was crying
until a corner of the ink splotched with a fallen tear. He quickly wiped his
eyes, his cheeks hot with shame.
Eames stood tall before him and extended his hand. “This reading exercise ought
to be enough for today. Let’s retire to bed then.”
+
 
It didn’t register what was happening until Arthur blinked and found the back
of his knees touching the edge of the bed.
The room was a bit larger than he’d assumed it would be. There’s was plenty of
space enough for the bed, a lion’s fur rug in front of the hearth, a writing
desk in front of the wide windows, and a fountain large enough for a person to
sit in.
Every wall was covered in lewd murals of various characters in erotic poses,
all engaged in some form of carnality. Arthur lowered his eyes, blushing deeply
at the more graphic frescoes. Little winged figures frolicked in the carved,
painted posts of the bed. The thick, red quilt and the dark wolfs’ furs were
soft. The little clusters of gold sewn into the shear curtains draped from the
canopy shimmered like rain in the bright glow from the oil lamps and fire.
“Undress me,” seemed to be the last thing Eames said for a long while as Arthur
figured out how to unravel Eames from all his draped layers.
All evening, Arthur had pondered over the man’s age, wondering if he was more
older than young or, he shuddered, simply a more weathered version of those
other soldiers who’d bartered for him. The latter proved true. It didn’t sit
well with Arthur’s nerves. The man’s form belied no laziness or stagnation.
Only thick, hard muscle rippled under his war-scarred, tanned skin and freckled
shoulders.
Eames slipped out of his thin undergarments himself. With gentle hands, he
unclasped the fibulae holding Arthur’s tunica on his shoulders so the linens
hung from his belt.
“What do we have here?” The man smiled. His thumb brushed over one pierced
nipple, making Arthur wince. “Easy, now,” he soothed, wrapping an arm behind
Arthur’s waist to hold his wrists, preventing Arthur from covering his chest.
“See?” he teased, laying kisses over Arthur’s cheek as he toyed the nipple with
a much more careful touch. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
He was right. It did feel good. Arthur wanted to run from that truth but Eames’
grip on him was firm, his touch unrelenting. Arthur buried his face in Eames'
shoulder to stifle his moan, his cock beginning to swell, his skin flushed. By
the time Eames’ lips traveled to his neck, Arthur’s knees were trembling.
Eames chuckled and let go of his wrists to remove his belt. He played with the
decoration on his navel. His eyes swept over Arthur again as he circled behind
him.
Arthur tried not to flinch away from the lips trailing up the back of his neck
or the hands that mapped his shoulders down to his hips and the curve of his
ass. He shivered, still not expecting such soft touches. He squirmed a little
out of Eames' reach when the man touched a welt.
Eames hummed close to his ear. “Atta is usually more lenient than this. That’s
why I had him punish you.” He traced his hand down Arthur’s thigh. “What could
you have done to inspire,” he counted each stripe from the switch, “nine
lashes!” He whistled. “Hopefully you require no further breaking in, correct?”
When Arthur nodded, but didn’t speak, he dug his nails into Arthur's aching
thigh.
Arthur hissed, remembering himself. “I meant, yes, Eames." He quickly clamped
his hands over his mouth, knowing he'd made a big mistake. He didn't even have
to look at Eames' face when the man crossed his arms.
"Eames?" The man raised his brow.
"I'm sorry," Arthur whispered behind him hands, glancing at the door, as if
thinking of running would help him.
Eames stared at him for a moment longer before twisting Arthur's ear.
Arthur yelped. He had to fight the urge not to swat away Eames' hand.
"Well?" Eames asked, smirking at Arthur's thinly hidden rage, still holding his
ear.
"Forgive me, Dominus,” he gritted out.
"Will it happen again?"
Arthur wanted to spit in his condescending, smug face. "May I say something?"
Eames frowned and squeezed his ear tighter. "Go on."
"I've never had a master before. I could…I could tell you I won't ever misspeak
or make mistakes, but it would be worse to lie to you, so…" He rubbed his ear
when Eames let him go, his cheeks burning and both his ears red from either
pain or embarrassment.
Eames was smiling again. "I like your ears. They remind me of a little
monkey's." He crossed his arms again. "Is your apology sincere?"
"Yes, Dominus," he muttered to his feet, hearing Eames chuckle.
“Good boy.” He massaged his fingers through the back of Arthur's hair. “Lie
down on your stomach after you pull back the sheets.”
Arthur heard the command, his mind processed the command, but his body wouldn’t
move. Arthur stared at the bed as if it would bite his hand.
“Arthur?” was his only warning. He startled when Eames smacked his ass with
only a little of the strength he knew the man carried.
His piercings hurt to lie on them, but he made no fuss. Arthur watched Eames
strut to the bedroom's entrance to send one of the girls in the corridor on an
errand. When she returned, he sent all the slaves away to stand outside the
door. Arthur closed his eyes and focused on the sound of cicadas outside the
windows. The night breeze made him shiver as it slipped under the closed
shutters.
Eames spread his legs out straight and wide to sit between them, voicing his
happiness to see one more decoration. Arthur bit his cheek when Eames checked
his wound and the little silver loop on his perineum.
He flinched when a cool, damp cloth pressed gently over his welts. Water
sloshed in the bowl as Eames soaked a second cloth and then a third, pressing
one over each red line, making sure to kiss away any stray drop of water that
landed on Arthur’s skin. The aching burn, the soft whisper of lips and scratch
of a rough beard, and the cool, soothing cloths; all these conflicting
sensations did Arthur’s head in. He panted into the pillows, trying to remember
how to pray to his father’s god and forgetting why he needed to pray when Eames
parted his ass and kissed the most private part of his body.
“Dominus!” he gasped, feeling his cock grow even harder. The man stroked his
back as his tongue delved deep, softening Arthur’s hole. It was nothing at all
like the touch from those others. He remembered feeling like a rabbit trampled
under chariot wheels then, but now all he could do was rub his cock against the
sheets and stifle his heavy sighs.
Eames ceased his kisses to trail his lips over each cheek and up his spine. He
kept his full weight off of Arthur as he kneeled over him and turned him on his
back.
Arthur was still flushed looking up at Eames' looming, predatory figure. For a
moment, he panicked, fearing that he would be crushed under the man. He
couldn't breathe. When he tried to turn his face away, Eames caught his jaw,
his thumb caressing Arthur’s lips.
“I like it when you look at me,” he whispered, tracing his cheekbones. “I’ve
never seen mahogany burn as fiercely as I see in your eyes.” His strong arms
circled Arthur’s waist. He kissed his nose. “You are the boy I wish to see
immortalized in all these murals, Arthur.” He kissed his jaw. “I’ll have to
keep a close eye on you or else the gods may try to steal you." He kissed his
neck. "You deserve poems and serenades to praise those eyes and all your fine
parts.” He kissed the hollow between his collarbones and smirked. “You’re worth
every coin I paid for you and so, so much more.”
Arthur wanted to kick the man in the face for making fun of him with his
ridiculous words. If the Dominus of the house intended to use him, well…it was
best he get on with it, instead of wasting his breath. Arthur knew what he
looked like, he didn't need to be lied to.
Only, when Eames fell quiet again, the fear and dread crept back into Arthur’s
bones. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been relaxed, even comfortable, until
those feelings returned. All he knew now was that there was no impending sale
or need to preserve him anymore. He would be Eames’ slave forever. The man
could cut off every finger on Arthur’s hands if he wanted to. Soon, all the
pleasure he treated Arthur to would melt away to unending pain.
Eames must have felt him flinch. He doted on Arthur with more kisses on his
neck and chest. It was almost enough, but Arthur needed more, needed to hear
his voice and know where he was, because Eames' loose grip under his knees was
too familiar, too much like those others, as he drew back to look Arthur over
again.
Arthur closed his eyes when his knees were spread wide and hooked over Eames'
shoulders. Every inch of inner thigh the man could reach, he kissed in a slow
descent. Arthur held the sheets all the while, his chest heaving, braced for
Eames to hurt him.
Eames wrapped his lips around the head of his cock instead. Arthur gripped the
sheets tighter and moaned, entirely beside himself with this immense new
pleasure. Eames hummed, his nose pressed to Arthur’s bed of soft hair as he
swallowed more of him down. A language other than Latin tumbled from Arthur’s
lips, whispered and begged until Eames moaned and pleasured him more
passionately.
Arthur erupted in his mouth, his legs tight around Eames’ head, his spine
arched like a setting sun on a horizon.
His eyes were on the ceiling’s murals as he moaned through the crashing waves.
He hadn’t noticed the figure painted in the scene right above the bed. The
demon-like creature with red skin and black horns was ravishing a fainting
youth over a boulder. Serpents lapped at the demon’s hoofed feet. Arthur came
down from his long fall, clutching his heart, unable to breathe knowing that
he’d just given in to this same demon.
Eames pulled his face into a deep, claiming kiss and smirked into it when
Arthur tried to pull away from the taste of his come. Arthur squeezed his eyes
shut, unable to look at the man or risk falling into his temptations once more.
What was worse, the man had yet to find his own pleasure and his cock was as
hard as marble and hot as fire against Arthur’s hip.
 
But nothing else happened. Arthur lied awake in the Roman's arms all night,
expecting the boatmen’s dirty, groping hands to appear out of the shadows and
above him an evil sneer on Eames' face when he used him viciously, but…still,
he remained unmolested.
The last of his strength seeped from his pores in the wake of the pleasure he’d
been given. When Arthur could no longer fight sleep, he drifted, deeper than
he’d been able to rest in far, far too long.
+
 
***** Ganymede, beloved of Zeus *****
+
 
He was still nestled in the Dominus' arms when he woke the next morning. Eames
was petting his hair, kissing his face gently, and pumping Arthur’s cock
through a quiet release.
Eames tasted his come on his hand before he met Arthur’s sleepy gaze. “I have
an extremely important meeting with Vespasian,” he said softly. “Do you know
who that is?" Arthur shook his head. "He's the Emperor, and thankfully a good
friend as well. I should be back late, so take your dinner with the others. Now
lamb, I don’t want to return here tonight and learn that you’ve been
disobedient, alright?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. You may sleep a little longer if you wish. It’s still quite early. But
first, I have something for you.” He stood and stretched before walking to the
writing desk.
Arthur sat up when he returned. He peered at the golden band Eames slid up his
arm, as the man made sure its fit was snug. Two snakes spiraled together and
intertwined as if protecting the red stone at its center. Arthur touched the
band with wide eyes, unbelieving that it was really his to keep. "Thank you,"
he whispered. 
“All my slaves wear this, though not one so fine. You will always have the best
of all I give, if, of course,” he pointed his finger, “you stay on your best
behavior.” He leaned forward to kiss Arthur's shoulder. “And never be afraid to
ask either Mal or Atta about anything. When you disobeyed her before, I
understand it was because you didn’t know better, but that excuse is only good
enough one time.”
Arthur didn’t doubt it. For however gentle the Dominus' voice was in the early
morning, his eyes still carried his warnings well.
Arthur lied back on the pillows and closed his eyes, but cracked one open when
he felt Eames leave the bed again. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t move,
waiting.
Waiting for something that didn’t come. Mallorie arrived to help Eames dress.
They spoke softly together and left together.
Arthur propped himself up on his elbows as his mind raced. There couldn’t be a
single bed slave from here to the ends of the world who had a Dominus that
would do what Eames did, which was nothing. Nothing at all. No sweat, no
grunts, not one whisper of pain. Just soft kisses and petting and the promise
of more gifts?
+
 
He was silent all morning and sat through Atta’s bathing with his thoughts all
twisted.
"Much better without the salt, yes?” the eunuch teased him. “I'm going to miss
these little baths. The master wants you to start bathing with him from now on.
Look at you, Arthur. My barbarian youth is turning into such a proper little
pet." He patted Arthur's cheek, playfully proud. When Arthur nodded blankly, he
tried again to make him speak. “I trust your first night with the master
couldn’t have been all bad? Hm, Cupidio, fair son of Venus?” He splashed water
in Arthur’s face.
Arthur snatched the tower from Atta’s hands and dried his face, glaring as the
eunuch laughed quietly.
He patted Arthur dry and wrapped him in a blanket as two little girls brought
in a tray of food for breakfast. Atta sighed, plucking up a few grapes. “Fine,
fine. I suppose I understand if you don’t wish to talk to me.” But when he
turned his back, Arthur reached out for his sleeve. Atta crossed his arms,
eyeing the blush growing on Arthur’s face. “What is it, boy?”
Arthur was about to sit on the floor before Atta pushed him onto one of the
couches. He glared at him before dropping his eyes. “He said that I could…” He
wondered if Atta was the right person to ask, but he had to be a much better
option than Mallorie.
Atta frowned as Arthur’s eyes lingered on his groin. “I see. Hm.”
“Wait, no! No, not—I wasn't staring, I—I'm sorry. I was just thinking.”
“Hm. It looks rather painful for you,” he mocked. “Well? Do you want to see my
scar, or…” He began to loosen the pink sash he wore to untie his trousers.
“No!” Arthur held up his hands. “I just…” He heaved a sigh. “Were you a…did
you, when you were young, were you…” He rubbed his face and tried again.
“Eames—" He was smacked on the head.
"The master," Atta corrected, looking around them.
"Yes, he didn’t…he didn't do…anything.” He was relieved when Atta’s brow rose
in understanding. “Is that ordinary?”
The eunuch smiled. “I see." He sat down, lounging on an adjacent couch. "It’s
not normal, but the master is no ordinary man. He treasures those who share his
bed when they’re good to him. Are you disappointed that he didn’t—”
“No!” He lowered his voice considerably, catching the eye of the other slaves
who went about cleaning the floors. “No. I’m relieved it didn’t happen.”
“Oh please, boy. You act as if sex is death! Oh, to be in your place, what a
wonderful life that would be! Of course, our Dominus is terrifying in his
anger. He was a general. And I’m sure with your mouth, you’re in for more than
a few beatings, but our master would never think to use that beautiful cock of
his for pain. Your only fear ought to be that he might someday grow bored with
your barbarian wildness, find someone else for his bed, and then sell you to
the highest bidder. The brothels would go to war to buy you.”
Arthur’s eyes went wide at the thought of being back on the auction block, and
worse, the nightmare of the brothels. He didn't want one man's hands on him,
let alone hoards of them. He shivered. “Well…what should I do then?”
He ate a few more grapes and shrugged. “Give him your hole or your mouth." He
cut open a pomegrante. "Get on your knees, sit in his lap—those are his
favorite positions—or however else he wants you, and let him take his pleasure.
You’ll find yours as well along the way, I’m most certain." He grinned. "You’ll
never have a better master than ours and I doubt any would ever be as handsome
and endowed as he—Has he taught you any skill yet?”
Arthur tilted his head. “Skill?”
Atta chuckled, patting the space beside him. “Over here then, boy. I’ll show
you how to keep his interest.” He had one of the slaves fetch a small jar.
Little erotic figures were painted around its middle. “This, Arthur, is a
mixture of olive oil, salve, and mixed berries to give it a sweet scent.
Doesn't it smell nice? He'll think it's perfume, unless Cassius mixed the same
formula. Either way, it's certain to get the master's blood pumping.”
Arthur stared from the jar to the eunuch and swallowed. He tried to speak, but
no words could form. He was still as one of the statues when Atta reclined him
on the sofa as the other slaves began to dust and clean the curtains and
columns.
Atta dipped a finger in the mixture and opened Arthur's blanket to spread his
legs. “You have such a nice body. I’m so envious of you. I’m certain several
others are as well.” 
His blood turned cold. “Um… Atta?”
“Hush. You must pay attention. The first rule is to always make sure your body
is well oiled and prepared whenever the master may think to take you to bed.”
He rubbed his oiled thumb around Arthur’s hole before slipping it in. “You’ll
want to do this fresh from your morning bath on the days that the master is
here, but most times, oiling yourself in the evening before he returns home
works as well. Our Dominus isn’t a small man, so you’ll have to always remember
to soften yourself comfortably for his girth not to hurt you. Sometimes, he may
want to prepare you himself, which ought to be a fun thing to share, I'm sure.
When you disrobe yourself, or if our master sees fit to do it for you, always
leave your clothes on the floor. Never pick them up yourself, but you must
always take care of our master’s clothes. That is your responsibility.”
The eunuch continued to offer him tips, but his focus was on his hand as he
tried to slip in a second slender finger. “Relax, boy. That makes it easier.
See?” He curled his fingers and added more oil. When Arthur didn’t respond, he
glanced up at his face. His stilled his hand. “Arthur?”
Arthur was staring up at the sky through the open ceiling, a deep frown and
streams of tears marring his face. His hands were balled into fists at his
side.
Atta's eyes went wide. “Oh no…” He snapped at the nearest slave to bring wine
and an empty bowl. He cleaned his hand and slapped Arthur’s cheeks gently,
bringing him back.
Arthur jerked away from him as if he'd been asleep and hurried to dry his eyes.
“Sorry.”
“No, no, no, my sweet boy." He rubbed Arthur's hands. "It’s not your fault. I
understand your trepidation now, lost Sporus." He frowned. "Does our master
know?”
Arthur shook his head. “He would not have bought me if he did. Please don't
tell him, Atta. Mallorie knows, but…” He gripped Atta's hands. "He can't know
that I'm…that I've been ruined."
His shoulders sank. "No, my boy, you're not ruined." He sighed. "What's been
done to you, it changed you, I'm sure, but it did not ruin you, Arthur. Never
ruined." 
He made Arthur drink the full cup of wine down at once and had the bowl ready
to catch his sick if he needed it. “You won’t appreciate me saying this, but we
have to remedy this problem at once.” He patted Arthur’s neck and forehead with
damp cloths. The second and third cups of wine, Atta made him drink more
slowly, watching him carefully. “How do you feel now?”
“My head is swimming,” Arthur groaned.
“Good swimming or bad swimming?”
Arthur puffed out a confused, short laugh, his thoughts cloaked in a pleasant
fog. “There is a difference?”
"Quite the philosophical enquiry."
He laugh again, musing and buzzed. He let Atta lie him back down on the pillows
and watched his hand delve back underneath his blanket. He gasped, blushing
when two fingers entered him and stroked slowly.
Atta’s brow was creased, still watching Arthur’s face, ready to withdraw at the
first sign of distress. “How does that feel this time? Better?” He grinned when
Arthur moaned, allowing a third. He sat back with a heavy sigh and washed his
hand. “How would this world survive without alcohol? Rest, if you wish. I'll
stay with you and get you dressed. When you've regained some of your wits,
we'll need a plan for when the master returns.”
+
 
He kept Arthur under his wing all day, busying him with tasks and errands on
the first floor of the villa until noon passed and the sun began to set.
“Have you met any of the others?”
“Only Mallorie.”
“No, no, the other slaves. Come, then.” He patted Arthur’s cheek. “I can smell
the Ethiopian girl’s bread baking from here. My stomach won’t stand waiting
another second.”
There were a host of different plates passed around the shabby tables as the
slaves shared their meals and the wine they’d made. By the end of supper, Atta
had Arthur pleasantly buzzing and swaying a little on his feet.
“One more?” He hung on Atta’s arm trying to steal the eunuch's cup half full
with more wine.
“No more. I only need you to be nearly drunk, not all the way. You need to
relax and remember tonight or else this whole plan will fail and I’ll be
flogged for your stumbling and slurring.”
Some of his drink had worn off when the Dominus finally arrived that evening.
“I see that the slaves and Atta are spoiling you,” Eames had said, eyeing him
as he passed by. “I shall receive you in my room in half an hour.”
Atta helped Arthur to prep himself this time, which proved much more
comfortable with his own hand instead of someone else’s. He gave him one last
drink as well—with a whisper of mandragora, just in case.
Arthur was alone with Eames now in the bedchamber, sitting in his lap as Eames
wrote a letter at his desk.
Eames’ hand idly petted his hip under his tunica. Arthur swallowed, feeling his
nervousness coming back but his fog kept it from breaking through to the
surface. Arthur looked at Eames’ writing hand. His fingers were thicker than
his and Atta’s. He swallowed again, praying that Eames wouldn’t want to do more
than what he’d done the night prior when Eames’ wandering hand brushed his cock
and discovered the slickness behind his balls. Eames' writing stumbled.
Arthur froze, his eyes trapped by Eames’ gaze.
Eames' voice was rough when he spoke. “Atta showed you what to do then?”
He nodded, but when he began to speak, Eames made him stand.
“Undress me.”
Arthur glanced at the slaves, expecting Eames to send them off as he had the
night before, but it was the last thing on the man’s mind, it seemed. He took a
deep breath, feeling the warm buzz flow through him renewed now that he was
back on his feet. This would be okay, he promised himself. He’d done this task
last night. He could just…pretend no one else was here, that he wouldn’t have
to go through this night with so many eyes on him. But then, why were his hands
shaking? He couldn’t look higher than Eames’ chest and refused to acknowledge
Eames’ stare. His fumbling was cut short when Eames took his face in hand.
“Arthur, it’s quite impossible to free this fibula without actually looking at
what you’re doing.”
He laughed awkwardly. “Sorry. Dominus. Sorry.” He took another breath and
smiled when Eames tickled him under his chin to make him laugh again.
“Look at that lovely smile,” Eames muttered. “What must I do to see more smiles
from you?”
Arthur hoped the question was rhetorical, because his brain wouldn’t allow for
him to form words and look at Eames at the same time. He tried to see him the
way Atta did. It helped a little. The Dominus was handsome when he was
pleased—and clothed. Now that Eames was naked, all Arthur could see was his
cock and think of all the cruel things men normally did with theirs.
But he buried that thought and held aside the thin curtain with its glittering
gold for Eames to climb into bed.
Only the curtain separated them now. Arthur steeled his resolve but took his
time folding Eames’ garments into neat and tidy piles on the dressing table
near the fire. His back turned, Arthur unclasped his own fibulae and belt and
let the tunica fall to his feet. A slave hurried forward to retrieve it before
returning to her place in the corner with the others.
Another slave gathered the furs and covers when Eames pushed them down the bed.
He watched Arthur move about the room with hungry eyes.
“Stop,” he whispered when Arthur touched the curtains again. “I want my mind's
eye to always picture you like this. There’s something about your skin and how
it just drinks in all the fire’s glow…”
Arthur could have said the same for Eames and everyone else in the room. He
didn’t get how he was supposed to be so special, but… He lowered his eyes as
Eames laughed in the same low voice.
“No one’s ever praised your beauty before. Well, you must forgive your
Dominus for taking such pleasure in the sight of you, lamb. Now,” he stretched
out his arm and held the curtain aside.
Arthur remembered Atta's warning, of being sold again if he was no good. It was
all the convincing he needed to step forward and let Eames’ bulk flank his side
when his back touched the soft mattress.
He was beyond relieved when Eames had a slave bring him wine and offered to
share it with Arthur. He emptied the cup quickly and let Eames tease him for
being thirsty though that was hardly the case.
And then the mandragora kicked in. Oh, how he would owe Atta his life in the
morning! The butterflies in his stomach disappeared and with them, the shadow
of painful memories. When he looked at Eames, he giggled, feeling silly. All
the world was such a wonderful, pleasant place and every touch from Eames like
a cascade of little blessings. He couldn’t remember why he’d been so afraid.
The fuzzy, warm feeling mixed with Eames’ body heat and the fire’s warmth. If
only he could stay this way forever.
He shivered when Eames took a handful of the curtain and placed it along his
sensative belly before the weight of the embroideries made the fabric slip back
to the floor.
“I shall have a tunica made for you in this same design, I think.” Eames made a
sport of stroking Arthur’s skin wherever he could touch him. “You ought to be
clothed in showers of gold, like Danaë when Zeus, whom we liken to Jupiter,
helped her conceive her son. Do you know any of the stories, lamb?”
He shook his head in his haze, grinning when Eames’ light touch tickled under
his arm. He watched Eames ease open his legs to lie between them. Arthur wasn’t
sure if his budding arousal was from the mandragora or not. He hardly cared.
Arthur waved his arm up at the paintings and mosaics covering the walls and
ceiling. “Are these the stories, Dominus?”
“Yes. Some of the more…colorful ones. Mostly Greek,” he mused, catching
Arthur’s arm as he still made to reach up and touch one of the painted figures.
“They're much more free and uncensored than old Roman tales, in my opinion.”
Eames called over a slave to bring him a jar much like Atta’s. He kissed
Arthur’s neck and spent several torturous minutes appreciating Arthur’s
piercings, which Eames seemed to be very fond of. “According to the Greeks,” he
said, supporting his weight on his elbow, “The princess of Argos, who would
become the mother of Perseus, was forbidden by her father, King Akrisios, to
bare children after a prophecy named such a child as the tool that would bring
his death.”
Arthur’s eyes drifted over the canopy to one of the few paintings of a woman
then settled on Eames’ lips. He blinked slowly, floating in the sound of Eames’
voice.
Eames dipped several of his fingers into the jar. “Lovely Danaë was
heartbroken, you see, locked away in a chamber of bronze, underground, far away
from any who hoped to court her. Perhaps many tried to penetrate her prison,”
he whispered. His eyes closed to listen to Arthur’s soft sighs as he teased
Arthur with curled fingers that glided carefully inside him. “However, none
were successful, until one day.”
Arthur had flinched away from him a little at first, but had quickly relaxed.
He hummed and let his hips rock minutely into Eames’ stroking fingers. Arthur
was panting, his eyes heavy-lidded when Eames withdrew his touch. He had the
sudden urge to imagine what it must be like to share a bed with a lover. It
made him chuckle to himself, wondering where such an odd thought had come from.
Eames slicked his thick cock before a slave cleaned his hands. He sat on his
knees and raised Arthur’s legs to his waist. “One day, when the sun had set,
the powerful and always cunning Zeus found a way to infiltrate her prison and
grant her a son.”
Arthur smiled as Eames paused to kiss the top of his foot. “How?”
Eames gazed down at him with a quiet smile. “They made love, but not as any
mortal man would to a woman. He appeared in the guise of a shower of gold.”
Arthur startled when Eames imitated the feel of rain, tickling and kissing his
skin from his stomach to his chest, down his ribs, and up his thighs. Eames
snickered as Arthur squirmed, laughing.
Arthur’s chest heaved, his smile still wide and free when Eames' tickling
finally ceased. “You mean drops of gold like these, Dominus?” His fingertips
touched the glittering curtains. “So…you are…my Zeus now?” He was laughing
again at how silly he sounded, but his words greatly pleased Eames.
“Yes,” Eames whispered proudly, lifting Arthur’s hips, “I am your Zeus now.”
Arthur gripped his pillow and held his breath as Eames entered him in slow,
slow little strokes. His body wanted to fight against this all too familiar
push, but he relaxed, at once overtaken again by the mandragora's spell. He
grabbed Eames’ arms and tried to breathe through the stretch, focusing on the
glide and the blush that burned his face. His spine arched. Above him, Eames
was whispering words in a strange language Arthur had never heard before, still
only half the way to filling Arthur completely.
Eames pulled back with so much care, Arthur couldn’t believe that this man
wasn’t some divine being, because human men didn't do this. Arthur waited and
waited for the shame and sickness to return, but as the Dominus moved in more
little careful strokes, Arthur knew he was safe. He was safe, and it felt good
to have these particular hands on him.
“Dominus,” the word finally tumbled from his lips in a groan that should have
embarrassed him, but it could not be helped. Eames had his hips in an
inescapable hold and took him with a pace that grew harder, deeper. It was as
if being filled pushed every sound out of him and up to the ceiling.
When Arthur feared being overwhelmed, Eames slowed his hips and spread Arthur’s
legs wider, pushing them to his chest, nearly folding him in half. A strange
pleasure bloomed through Arthur now every time Eames rocked his hips flush
against his ass. He tried to cover his mouth when the feeling grew more
intense, but Eames took his hands and kept him from moving out of reach of that
spot. That spot, that when pressed by Eames’ cock filled him with a sensation
bordering on a full bladder and a strike of lightning that paralyzed Arthur's
brain. It tingled from the tip of his fingers and toes, up his spine, and made
his cock weep over the decoration on his navel. His voice rose in the most
embarrassing, whimpering moans, but he squirmed under Eames, trying to get more
of that touch.
Eames groaned appreciatively, feeling Arthur’s hips move. When Arthur’s abdomen
contracted, he could see his precome glisten in the firelight. He made Arthur
take his cock in hand and covered it with his own tight fist and fucked him
harder, zeroing in on that spot until Arthur sobbed through a powerful release.
He was only aware of Eames finishing when his grip under his knees bruised. He
tried not to grimace feeling come inside him. Perhaps it was the mandragora and
wine wearing thin or just his own pride bubbling up after being dormant for so
long, but his pleasant warmth soon faded to something cold.
Arthur closed his eyes when Eames doted on him with more petting and soft words
of praise. He couldn’t explain how he felt now. His body was sore and tired,
yes, but his mind was all over the place, jumping back and forth between the
desire to cling to the last remnants of pleasure, or weeping under the weight
of the accusations running through his head. Slave, whore, deviant… But he had
no right to feel guilty. He was lucky. All that would forever be asked of him
was this, as Atta had said. He dragged his fingertips over his stomach, through
his own release, looking at himself critically. He thought back to one of the
boys he'd seen cleaning the floor in the study. Arthur wondered if that boy
would be happy to lie in bed rather than scrub dirt out of the cracks in the
floor.
“Arthur? Did I hurt you?”
He looked at Eames, surprised by the man’s worry. What Dominus would fret over
a slave’s well-being? He was lucky, indeed.
“No, Dominus.”
“Are you sure?”
He smiled a little and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m glad." Eames stretched and smiled. "This is how it must be between us. You
must always tell me if I’m too harsh in taking you, especially now, since this
is new for you.”
If only that were true. Perhaps he would feel totally different now if it were.
The urge to weep returned, stronger than before, but it was carried away just
as quickly. Arthur was safe now. There was no more need for tears.
He felt utterly boneless when Eames lifted him onto his lap some time later in
the night after he'd dozed a little. He winced, feeling Eames' cock enter him,
fully hard again.
Eames ran his hands through the drying come on Arthur’s stomach and chest
before taking his hips, rocking him in grinding circles. Arthur’s brow creased,
his quiet moans tingeing on pain now that he was more lucid. Eames’ cock was
unbearable in this position. No matter which way Eames encouraged Arthur to
move, he still felt impaled. When Eames began to lift his hips, his cock
pushing into the spot was nearly too much for Arthur, but he was hard in spite
of the burn.
He sank onto his elbows, his hands on Eames’ shoulders. He closed his eyes when
his forehead touched Eames, unable to hold the Dominus' surprisingly intimate
stare. He buried his face in his neck until Eames pulled him back up by a fist
in his hair, fucking him harder. His forehead touched Eames’ again. This time,
he held his eyes as best he could, sharing Eames’ air. He felt powerless,
trapped in Eames’ steady gaze.
Eames seemed to feed off of that. Even under Arthur, he was still completely in
control and without a doubt that Arthur belonged to him. He drove in faster as
he neared completion. He made Arthur sit up so he could run his hands over him
again and play with his piercings. Arthur touched the head of his cock,
repeating what he’d done before to come. Eames watched him stroke himself and
came with a groan, feeling Arthur spasm around the base of his cock.
Arthur collapsed on the bed, exhausted and crashing from his rush. He startled
a little when a few of the slaves appeared to wash off him and Eames, who was
already drifting into a content sleep. Their warm, damp cloths soothed Arthur
until it didn’t matter whose hands were cleaning between his legs. He was
asleep before the others could even pull the sheets back over the bed to tuck
him in.
+
 
***** Bagoas, the favorite *****
+
 
Arthur woke up alone the next afternoon, sore, and feeling as if his brain had
been turned to mud from last night's drink and drug.
Two simple gold rings sat waiting for him on Eames’ writing desk.
When the sun began to set, he did exactly as Mallorie and Atta had instructed
him. He oiled himself, knelt on a cushion next to the small table outside of
the Dominus' bedroom, and waited.
He was bored in seconds. Why couldn’t he wait in the study, on the couch, or
even in the bedroom itself, instead of here where there was nothing to do but
count the dust floating in the rays of sun through the windows? He stood up and
paced, eyeing the vase on the table beside him, all while trying to pull more
of his tunica over his chest and down more on his legs though without success.
The thin, little maroon fabric was hung over only one shoulder and draped only
once around his waist, held by a small bronze fibula on his hip. He might as
well have just been naked. He rubbed his bare arms and sides, shivering in the
winter’s chill. Even the silver nipple piercings were getting cold. He folded
his arms to cover them and sighed, wondering how much longer he would have to
be here.
Arthur told himself that he would go to the study, but chickened out when he
heard Mallorie’s voice echo from down the corridor, followed by the Dominus'.
He got back on the cushion quickly.
Mallorie wasn’t with Eames when he walked briskly to his bedroom, right past
Arthur as if he hadn’t noticed him, but Arthur could hear him skid to halt just
inside the room. He looked up in time to see Eames backtrack to him with a
curious expression.
“Arthur…”
“Dominus?” He didn’t want to frown in the man’s face, but he didn’t know what
else to do with Eames staring at him in such a strange way.
Eames shouted down the hall. “Mallorie? Tell them I’ll be a little late.” He
cleared his throat and made Arthur stand.
Arthur clasped his hands behind him as watched Eames with his head down. He
expected to be invited into the bedroom. Instead, he was pushed back against
the wall by Eames’ bulk with his lips covered by a hungry pair.
Eames' thumb circled Arthur’s nipple before his lips followed. Eames pulled
back only after he’d effectively made Arthur’s knees weak. He hoisted Arthur
onto the table, knocking the vase to the floor.
Arthur tried to keep his balance as Eames hiked up his long, heavy toga,
freeing his straining cock. He pushed Arthur’s legs open and hooked his arms
under them. Arthur had to hold onto Eames' arms not to fall, and tried to keep
quiet when Eames spat on his cock and fucked him impatiently. He understood
full well why Atta had given him his advice. Without the oil, Eames’ hard
pounding would have killed Arthur. The sudden stretch still burned. Eames
moaned above him, his hands circling Arthur’s waist, his eyes devouring all of
Arthur’s skin where his tunica slipped from his shoulder, baring all of his
chest. He fucked harder, crushing pieces of the broken vase under his sandals
as he planted his feet.
Arthur’s panting issued from his lips with little mewling sounds when Eames
withdrew and turned him on his stomach. Arthur held onto the table’s leg, his
moans desperate, as Eames spread his ass and drove back in, pushing Arthur on
his tiptoes with every smack of his hips. Arthur’s cock leaked under the table.
He thought to reached for it, but he could already feel Eames’ cock throb as he
released deep inside him.
It was over, just like that. Eames came with a quiet, shaking groan and pulled
out carefully. He kissed the back of Arthur’s neck, catching his breath. His
smile was smug when he saw Arthur’s erection.
Arthur gasped when Eames squeezed his cock and whispered in his ear, “Save this
for me, for later, when I get to have you properly. In the meantime, I want you
undressed and waiting for me in bed when I return.” Eames kissed him hungrily,
righted his clothes, and hurried to his bedroom for the slaves and Mallorie to
dress him for supper.
Mallorie glared Arthur down for the broken vase, but seeing his dishevelment,
she snapped at a slave to sweep and polish the floor and held her tongue when
she passed him.
“I swear that boy was sent to me from the gods, Mal,” he heard Eames say when
he peeked into the room. “His little hole is like the gateway to pleasures
unknown in some undiscovered world! Damn the timing. Can’t we send the guests
home?"
"This is an important evening," she reminded him.
"I want nothing else but to fuck Arthur again, I don’t want to waste my evening
listening to a bunch of old men, still wailing over Nero’s death, gripe about
the costs of seizing Jerusalem. Any fool with sand for a brain knows that wars
are expensive.”
Arthur paled in horror to be spoken of so rudely in front of a woman as
dignified as Mallorie. He stopped eavesdropping and covered his face, though it
did nothing to stop his embarrassment.
“And Atta,” Eames was saying, “will most definitely receive one day off a week
to do as he pleases from now on. He deserves it after giving the boy those lewd
little decorations.”
Arthur peeked into the room again just in time to see the lustful look on
Eames’ face right the before the man growled like a beast, scaring one of the
slaves. Eames laughed and shrugged when Mallorie gave him reproachful look.
“Do you think I should have Atta train him, Mal, as he did with Cassius? Or no.
No, I think I’d like to do it myself. I don’t much appreciate the idea of
anyone else’s hands on him.”
Arthur was shocked when Mallorie threw her head back and laughed, truly amused.
The sound was surprisingly pleasant. She really was beautiful without her
scowl.
“Eames,” she teased, “I don’t believe it.”
Eames crossed his arms. At first, Arthur feared he would strike her for
laughing at him, but Eames was holding back his own laughter. “Why do you say
that?”
“You, Eames? Oh, please.”
“What? I’m allowed to be selfish with my toys, Mal.”
Mallorie’s brow rose. “Ah, I see.”
He puffed out his chest. “Exactly. Why do you look like that?”
She eyed him critically for a moment. “Apparently,” she whispered so low,
Arthur could barely hear, “a few of the slaves who tended to you last night
assumed that he was more to you than just a toy.”
He frowned. “You never talk to the slaves. Who told you this nonsense?”
“Who always tells me what the slaves say?”
Eames snorted. “Of course Atta would entertain such gossip.”
"Eames, you did share your meal with him, you let him into your study…"
"Does that mean something?"
Arthur waited for Mallorie to respond, but the woman said nothing, her
expression blank. It confused Arthur. Was she not Eames’ wife, the Domina of
the house? They didn’t kiss, they didn’t touch, and certainly a wife would not
be folding the Dominus' clothes, would she? She hadn’t even been angry that
Eames used Arthur, but she had been clearly enraged over the broken vase.
Wouldn’t a wife care more of the first and not at all for the later?
“You know what I’m thinking,” he heard Eames say.
“You can’t cancel, Eames,” Mallorie said.
“No, no, no.” He began to pace, his back turned. “When do you think Miles will
be back?”
Arthur didn’t understand Mallorie’s pained expression. Her face was impassive
when Eames looked at her.
“Next week, at the latest, with plenty of new stories for you, I’m sure.”
“Excellent! I want Arthur to read for him. Miles would love that. Send someone
out to make sure he visits as soon as he returns to Rome.”
Arthur quickly moved back from the door when Eames prepared to leave with
Mallorie right behind him.
His embarrassment was renewed tenfold when Eames stopped to give him another
deep kiss and slipped two fingers back inside him.
Mallorie cleared her throat. Eames sucked a bruise under his ear and added a
third finger. Arthur looked everywhere else but in the her direction. He
clamped his hand over his mouth, but the moan still slipped free when Eames
hooked his fingers. Mallorie cleared her throat louder.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Eames grumbled, nipping Arthur’s bottom lip. He flashed
him a charming smile and cleaned his hand on the tunica under his toga, earning
another pained look from Mallorie.
She tsked. “You haven’t even reached the landing yet—”
“And my clothes are already ruined,” Eames finished, glancing at Arthur over
his shoulder as he and Mallorie walked away. “Yes I know, I know. It's a
travesty, but that boy, Mallorie. That boy is a Siren, I swear!”
Arthur stood stock still when two slave boys approached him without saying a
word and undressed him right there in the doorway. One took his tunica and
disappeared with it while the other took a damp towel and cleaned his inner
thighs before joining the other slave into the bedroom.
Arthur followed behind them. “Um…” Another slave pulled back the covers as one
held the bed curtains aside as if to tell Arthur to get in. The slaves didn’t
seem too inclined to give him new clothes. He kept the sheets up high around
his chest. “But… I'm a little hungry?”
They paused. One hurried off and returned with Atta. The eunuch was singing
when he reached the doorway, holding a plate of food that made Arthur’s stomach
growl. He sat up, tugging the covers tighter around his waist. “Aren’t you
going to sit with me?”
“Can't. I’m not permitted into the Dominus' bedroom.” He pouted and held the
plate aside when a girl reached for it. “Allow me, child.” He shooed her away
and looked at Arthur expectantly. "Well?"
Arthur frowned. How would he eat if Atta couldn’t bring him the food and
wouldn’t allow anyone else to either? He blushed when Atta smirked. Heaving a
sigh, he left the warmth and modesty of the sheets behind in favor of eating.
“Don’t hate me for saying this,” Atta purred, “but sex suits you so well!
You're glowing. Look at those perky little nipples.” He chuckled when Arthur
fidgeted self-consciously. He tried to turn Arthur to see his ass, grinning
when his hand was swatted away. “You're leaking a little. Want me to give you a
bath?”
He grimaced as he ate. “I’m not sure I’m allowed to have one yet.” He startled
when Atta smacked his cheek lightly.
“Don't chew and talk at the same time. Don't your people have manners where you
come from?”
He glared. He was naked in front of a group of fully dressed people! Some of
Eames' come was still on Atta's hand! Even one of the boys who was tending to
the fire had an erection that was obvious under his scant clothing. Surely
table manners couldn't be that important, considering.
Atta nudged Arthur’s elbow. “Do you think the master will let that boy fuck you
if you asked nicely?”
He turned in the direction of Atta’s gaze as the stocky boy glanced at him.
They both quickly averted their eyes. Arthur glared from Atta's smug grin to
his food, his cheeks red.
“You can scoop up great handfuls of your meal and send me off, but the second
you spill a single crumb in that bed, the master will skin you, no matter how
loud you make him roar when he comes, so you might as well enjoy my company and
eat your supper here. Oh, that poor boy can't think straight from looking at
you.”
“Atta, stop. Please?”
“I bet that boy’s going to come all over himself as soon as he leaves the room.
His cock is adorable.”
Arthur closed his eyes and groaned, wishing he could disappear. If he didn't
love the fish and salad Atta'd brought him, he'd have sent him off, or at
least, tried to.
“I wonder if it curves upward or down, and if his come erupts in thick white
ropes or clear spritz. I wonder what it tastes like. Probably peasant food
since he's new—Arthur are you even attracted to boys?”
“No. I'm not attracted to anybody.”
"Really?" Atta studied him for minute. “When you picture Mal, what’s the first
thing that comes to mind?”
“Her glaring and yelling at me.”
He snorted. “And when you think of the Dominus, what do your mind's eyes see?”
His cock. Arthur looked away. He swallowed and crossed his arms, not saying a
word.
“Exactly,” Atta sighed, still smiling. “You aren’t attracted to a boy, you’re
attracted to a man. I know that feeling all too well, my sweet.” He handed
Arthur the plate at last, earning another glare. "Squeeze around the master's
cock tightly as he leaves your body. It will keep more of his seed in you than
out."
"Atta!"
He laughed and kissed Arthur’s cheek. He winked. “Enjoy.”
 
Arthur hung his head and moaned, his eyes closed as Eames took him on his hands
and knees. He could feel Eames’ release from earlier still running down his
legs. It made his cock impossibly hard.
He couldn’t allow himself to think of his conversation with Atta. He couldn’t
admit even to himself that the eunuch had been right, even as he found himself
pushing back onto Eames’ cock of his own accord and moaning when rough hands
caressed his back and pinched his nipples.
He didn’t even have to touch his cock when he came. Just feeling Eames
stretching him, rubbing that spot, and grunting out his pleasure as they
sweated and rocked together was enough.
Arthur couldn't begin to understand what this meant.
+
 
***** Euryalus, the lost one *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
+
 
“'But, my A-fri-ca-nus, replied Tub-ero…Tu-ber-ro?'” Arthur glanced over at
Eames to make sure he’d pronounced the name correctly before continuing, “'of
what credit is this tradition which states that So-cra-tes rejected all these
physical in-ve-sti-ga-tions, and confined his whole attention to men and
manners?’” Arthur could feel a headache coming. The scroll was difficult, and
boring. “'In this respect, what better authority can we cite than Plato’s? And
in many passages of his works, Socrates speaks in a very different manner, and
even in his discussions respecting morals, and virtues, and politics, he
endeavors to interweave, after the fashion of'…” He frowned at the word, “'P-
yth? Pyth'…”
“Pythagoras,” Eames spoke softly over Arthur's reading. He’d had stayed home
today. Eames sat in his study in the early afternoon as Arthur read to him on
the couch from one of the longer scrolls, Arthur's ears red as he struggled
through it.
Arthur stared at the text as if demanding it read itself so that he would no
longer have to. On days like these, he wished that Eames had never found out
that he could read, because he was sure it didn’t look like he could, with all
this stumbling. “Py…tha…gor…as?”
“Close enough.”
“'After the fashion of Pythagoras the doctrines of'…” He rubbed his eyes.
“Arithmetic,” Eames supplied for him.
“'A-rith-me-tic'…”
“Geometry.”
“'Ge-o…Geo-me-try, and har-mo-nic proportions.'”*
“Very good, Arthur.”
He tried to smile with Eames. Arthur hadn’t the slightest clue what any of
these words meant or what was happening in the text at all. “Thank you,
Dominus.”
Arthur was supposed to read for one of Eames’ closest friends today. It made
him nervous. He wanted to distract himself until the time arrived, but Cicero
was proving to be a disastrous read.
“Open your legs,” he heard Eames say after a while more of his stumbling
through the text. He ignored his growing blush, obeying Eames’ command.
“Wider, please.”
Arthur tried to hold his tongue, but he snapped. “Would it not be easier for me
to just get naked for you? This is uncomfortable!” Damn his unruly mouth.
Arthur sighed, bracing himself for punishment.
Eames’ brow rose. “Yes. Actually, it would. Smartass. Give me your tunica.”
Arthur paused for a moment, hoping Eames was joking, but the man only blinked
and waited with his hand out.
“Dominus, it's chilly in here,” he muttered, watching Eames fold and place his
clothes in a neat pile in his lap under the desk.
Eames sat back in his chair. “Remember that next time. You’ll get your clothes
back when Miles gets here.” He smirked, adding, “You should be lucky I didn’t
go after those ears again, little monkey." 
"Yes, Dominus."
"These clothes are so very small!" Eames proclaimed, petting the thin tunica.
"Barely enough fabric to swaddle a baby in.”
Arthur tried not to glare as he slouched lower on the couch and sat with his
legs open, quietly fuming.
Eames looked at him with a satisfied grin. “Better.” His eyes traveled from
Arthur’s lap to his face. “Thank you, Arthur,” he said, putting on his most
charming tone and smile. 
Arthur fidgeted with the scroll. He hated when Eames did that. It made his lips
quirk in a tiny smile involuntarily, and his nipples harden, his cheeks and
ears bright red. It was one of Eames’ method’s of flirting and his idea of
being polite. Arthur loathed to say it made him feel funny every time.
More and more, as the days passed, Arthur found that his body was beginning to
react to the silliest things. Eames’ hand on his arm in passing, hearing Eames'
voice, Eames' soft sighs in the morning when he woke and the smile that
followed when he’d see Arthur lying next to him. It made no sense at all,
especially when Arthur's heart decided to get involved. Eames had hugged him
yesterday when he’d returned home in the evening and Arthur swore his heart had
flipped upside down in his chest.
Did this sort of thing happen to other bed slaves when they were new, like some
sort of bond with their Dominus?
He would ask Atta, if the eunuch wouldn’t simply turn around and use it against
him. The Egyptian played with him enough already. Each day, it seemed, the
eunuch had different scented bath oils or milk and flower petals for Arthur to
use in the fountain on days he knew Eames would be home all day, knowing that
Eames loved to watch Arthur bathe, loved to smell the sweet scents on Arthur's
skin and hair. And Atta draped Arthur’s tunicas thinner and shorter every time.
On the days Eames returned late to the villa, Atta would nearly throw Arthur
into his arms. No way could Arthur trust him. But Arthur could hardly trust
himself either. Only one time since Arthur had been here did he see Eames give
Atta a compliment, for the henna design on the Egyptian's hand, making Atta
blush and giggle under Eames' brief attention. Arthur, to this day, could not
describe or fathom the feeling that washed over him at seeing that. Arthur
never said no to letting Atta put henna on him ever again.
But as much as Arthur tried to ignore these strange new parts of himself, as
much as these reactions made him hate himself…
He still glanced up again from his reading and found it even harder to fight
back his smile when Eames winked at him. 
+
 
Arthur tried to sit quietly and wait, but his attention had already followed
Eames out of the room as soon as Mallorie had announced this other man’s
arrival. He could hear Eames and Mallorie’s voices grow fainter as they headed
for the stairs to greet this man.
He didn’t creep far from the study after he’d been redressed, but he crouched
low behind a statue at the top of the stairs, until he could see who it was.
He sat back on the couch and took up the scroll again, still nervous. The older
man surprised Arthur, leaving him to wonder how Eames could have met such a
grey-haired, weathered-looking man. His colorful clothes were nowhere near as
fine as Eames’. He wore no jewelry, or any sign that he too might have been a
politicians.
Arthur wondered if his nerves were obvious when Eames and the man joined him in
the study.
Eames was smiling, still laughing from the joke he’d been told. “Arthur, this
is Miles. He was my mentor when I was a younger man, and a good friend. Now, be
good to him.”
“Yes, Dominus.” His shoulders sank a little when Eames turned and left them
alone. He eyed the man as Miles refused help from a slave and moved Eames’ desk
chair himself.
Miles brought it to sit in front of Arthur. He placed his leather bag on the
floor. “So, Eames has told me that you’re educated?”
“Yes, sir. Well…” He fidgeted with the short hem of his tunica, keeping his
legs tightly closed. “I read for him, although…not always very good.”
Miles chuckled. “At least you’re honest. Eames said that you were somewhere far
closer to perfect than that.”
Arthur’s mouth fell open. This man had to be lying.
Miles pointed to the scroll about to slip from Arthur’s grasp. “What’s that
you’ve got?”
“What—Oh!” He showed Miles, hating that Eames had picked something so dull and
difficult. It wasn’t just that he had no idea what Eames wanted from him, what
Miles really wanted from him. He tried to be modest, making sure the scroll
stayed over his lap, but that only made his reading worse.
Just when he thought his headache couldn’t get any worse, Miles stopped him
with a hand on his knee.
“I think that’s enough of this.”
Arthur let him take the scroll and place it on Eames’ desk.
Miles was chuckling again. “You know, Arthur, your master is one peculiar man.
I’m sure you know how…perhaps eccentric he is, and yet his taste in literature
can be rather drab at times.”
Arthur couldn’t agree more, but he said nothing as Miles removed his cloak and
draped it over Arthur’s shoulders.
“You looked a little cold. Better?”
Much better. “Thank you, sir.” He pulled the cloak around him tighter, liking
the way it smelled like incense. He tried to peek into Miles’ bag as the man
sat rifling through some his scrolls.
“Oh, see, now, this is much better. Let’s try a bit of poetry, from Catullus,
which…Eames shouldn’t mind you reading too much.” He pointed to one. “Read it
to yourself first, and then aloud. Slowly. No need to rush through it and
stumble. I’m an old man with nothing but time to gift you, my boy.”
Arthur accepted the new scroll, his brow creased as his lips moved, whispering
the syllables until he had a better grasp of the flow. He cleared his throat.
“‘Now Spring returns mild and temperate, now the wild e-qui-noc-tial skies are
calmed by Zephyr’s happier breezes. The fields of Phrygia will be forsaken,
Catullus, rich farms of hot Nicaea: we’ll flee to Asia’s bright cities. Now
restless minds long for travel, now the glad feet stir with pleasure. Oh sweet
crowd of friends farewell, who came together from far places, whom divergent
roads must carry.’”** He looked to Miles expectantly, ready for the man to find
fault in some place or another.
But Miles’ eyes were close, as if hearing the poem was akin to drinking the
greatest wine. “That was lovely, Arthur, and much more fun, correct?”
Arthur smiled a little, pleased with himself and relaxing. “May I read
another?”
Miles grinned and sat forward in his chair. “Oh yes, please, read on.”
Arthur skimmed through several more. Some of them too difficult to try to read
aloud, but he reached a simple enough challenge. “‘Yesterday, Calvus, idle day
we played with my writing tablets, harmonizing in being delightful: scribbling
verses, each of us playing with metres, this and that, reciting together,
through laughter and wine. And I left there fired with your charm, Calvus, and
with your wit, so that, restless, I couldn’t enjoy food, or close my eyes
quietly in sleep, but tossed the whole bed about wildly in passion, longing to
see the light, so I might speak to you, and be with you. But afterwards I lay
there wearied with effort, half-dead in the bed, I made this poem for you,
pleasantly, from which you might gather my pain. Now beware of being rash,
don’t reject my prayers I beg, my darling, lest Nemesis demand your punishment.
She’s a powerful goddess. Beware of annoying her.’ Hm... this Catullus does not
seem very successful in obtaining lovers.” 
Miles chuckled at Arthur’s expression. “Better than that political rubbish from
Cicero, isn’t it?”
+
 
Eames lounged on the bed that night, watching Arthur bathe in the fountain. He
tried to keep his amusement hidden as Arthur rambled nonstop about Miles and
his stories. “Did he tell you about his travels?”
“A little.” He paused to let the stream of water pouring from the lion’s mouth
wash away the oils from his hair and face. “I mostly read. He wished he could
have brought more scrolls with him—oh, and stories as well, although I’m not
really sure that I would be ready for those if he had. Too many analogies and
references that I don’t know. Dominus?”
Eames did chuckle now, seemingly delighted by this chatty side of Arthur, who
admittedly was normally so quiet in the evenings. “Yes, lamb?”
Arthur stepped out of the fountain to dry off in a blanket. “Could you invite
him back for another visit?”
Eames smiled, beckoning Arthur over to the bed. “Funny you should ask. Miles
adored you today. I’m thinking of asking him to be your tutor.”
“Really?” He let Eames pull him into his lap, the blanket pooling around his
waist.
“Truly. Tomorrow we’ll write to him this invitation. Will you be able to rest
until then?” he teased, knowing certainly that he’d just given Arthur the
greatest gift—only if Miles said yes to the request.
+
 
The next day, Arthur and Eames returned to the study. Arthur had never written
much in Latin before. He stood beside Eames as the man sat at his desk, guiding
Arthur’s hand.
Arthur's writing stumbled a little when Eames’ hand found its way high up
between his legs.
Eames' thumb slid between his cheeks to tease his slick hole before pushing in,
his fingers grazed his piercing.
Arthur gasped, unable to remember what he was supposed to be doing. His head
lolled back. He sighed when the touch vanished, but Eames guided him by his
hips to face him.
"Just a little break," Eames muttered, lifting Arthur's tunica to kiss around
his navel, "and we'll finish the letter."
Arthur held the linen up with his arm to see Eames shower his stomach with more
soft kisses. He smiled when Eames glanced up at him, his eyes hungry. Arthur
moved to stand between Eames’ chair and the desk.
Eames rewarded him by massaging his perineum and slipping his finger back
inside for a brief moment. His intensions didn’t seem to want to lead to more
than a little petting and teasing. His lips tickling across Arthur's skin
seemed more for praise than anything else.
Arthur panted, when the kisses traveled higher, along his belt line. Eames
stroked his hips.
“Dominus,” they heard a voice speak from the doorway.
Atta waited for Eames to look his way before entering the study. “Quintus and
the Consul are here to see you.”
“Damn,” Eames sighed, tickling Arthur's skin with his nose. “I had hoped to
spend the day with you, Arthur.” He kissed his stomach again before he stood to
leave. 
Atta smiled as soon as Eames left. “Don't look so sad."
"I'm not."
Atta rolled his eyes and chuckled. He reached out his hand. "Come along,
Arthur, I’ve got honey water and sweets for us in the atrium.”
+
 
“Why do you look at me like that?”
Atta held up his hands. “Nothing serious, just… I wonder at your ways, that’s
all. Whatever you’re doing to our master, please, boy, never stop. No one, not
even Cassius ever received belly kisses in the middle of the day, in the middle
of the Dominus’ study, before. Good work.”
Arthur glanced up, a little surprised. “Really?”
“Really. Of course, when Cassius was told that the study was off limits, he
actually listened, but…you weren’t whipped for it. That’s good. That’s great,
in fact. Does he take you to bed often?”
“All the time.” His ears turned red when Atta chuckled.
Atta sipped more of his honey water. “Some men are like that. Even the old
ones. They lose their youth and still their virility remains forever high; even
after they’re all wrinkly and grey. It’s incredible. You’ll be milking our
master’s cock for decades.”
“Most mornings he even takes me while I’m still sleeping.”
“My goodness! That’s certainly new!” His face fell. “Oh, but you’re alright,
aren’t you? I mean, I could try to talk him into pacing himself if this is too
much for you. He certainly wouldn’t want to wear out you so fast—”
“No. I… I actually…prefer it.” He played with his belt. “Sometimes, I—do you
promise not to tell anyone what I intend to say?”
Atta held up his hand. “I swear.”
“On?”
He shrugged. “I swear on Janus and Isis.”
Arthur frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know what those are.”
“Fine. I swear on my own life, then.”
Arthur moved to sit closer and peeked around them. “Sometimes I have strange
dreams about…about a clear night sky and a shining round moon,” he whispered.
“I’m not outside. I’m… I see it as if through a window; as if the sky is
covered, save for this small square that lets me see the moon and stars. I try
to reach up for it and always find myself on my back, restrained, like I’m
paralyzed… I can’t see anything else. It’s all black except for this patch of
sky. When I wake up from this dream alone, it destroys me. The slaves must all
think I’m insane. I wake up in a puddle of tears, shaking… I feel… I don’t
know.”
Atta nodded. “I think I have seen you a few times after such dreams. You’re a
different person on those mornings.”
“But when I wake up and he’s so close to me, in me, I don’t feel haunted.”
“You feel safe?” He smiled when Arthur nodded. “Have you told the master about
this dream?”
“No.”
“You should think about it. Everyone has nightmares. It won’t make him love you
less.”
Arthur snorted. “He doesn’t love me, Atta.”
“’Course he does, and you love him too.”
“That’s even more absurd.”
Atta laughed, his gaze fond. “Yes, how foolish of me to assume that water is
wet by looking at it. Speaking of wet—”
“No, no, no. I don’t want to talk anymore of sex, Atta.”
“Oh, but I just have one small question, please? Just a little one.” He poked
Arthur’s ribs and tickling him to get him to talk. “I only want to know what he
tastes like, that’s all, I promise.”
Arthur was still laughing when he shrugged. “No idea at all.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Even if you swallow with him halfway down
your throat, you’ll still taste it.”
Arthur grimaced at the thought and shook his head. “He has never used my
mouth.”
Atta sat back, his eyes wide. “No? My goodness, I’m a little afraid of you,
Arthur. What on earth have you done to that man?”
Arthur shrugged again. “He’s taken me in his mouth before, several times. He
seems to really enjoy it. I do as well.”
Atta’s smiled crumbled. “What?”
“Maybe that’s why. I supposed he prefers…” Arthur tilted his head. “I… I said,
he enjoys taking me into his—” He was startled when Atta lunged forward and
clamped his hands over Arthur’s mouth.
“Not another word.” Atta looked around them quickly and spotted a boy painting
over a scratch on one of the columns within earshot. “Come here, boy!” He let
go of Arthur and shot him a hard look.
When the timid Syrian boy approached, Atta grabbed the front of his tunica. “I
am in charge of your entire life, boy, so listen carefully, if you wish to keep
your backside away from my whip. If I find out you’ve been eavesdropping and
spreading rumors about the Dominus, I will cut out your tongue and wear it for
a necklace, understand, little boy?”
The boy swallowed and nodded quickly. He ran back to his work when Atta let him
go.
Arthur stared from Atta to the boy with bewilderment. “I don’t understand.
What’s all the fuss about?”
Atta hushed him loudly and leaned forward to whisper. “Were there other slaves
present when he did this?”
“No. He sends them away when he—”
“Have you told anyone else about this?”
“No. You’re the only person I talk to.”
“Good. You must never tell anyone what you’ve just told me.”
“But why—”
“Because it isn’t allowed. Stop asking me questions! And don’t do anything
stupid, Arthur. If the master thinks that you are ignorant of Roman ways, keep
it that way.”
+ 
 
Arthur couldn't wait for Miles to return with more scrolls. His collection of
poetry seemed unending. Arthur was instantly lost as soon as his eyes focused
on the text, as if he were there with these characters as Catullus told their
stories, line by line.
He eagerly unraveled more of the new scroll Miles brought him, and saw another
short poem that looked interesting. “‘What can I say, Gellius, as to why those
red lips become whiter than winter snow, when you leave your house in the
morning or when the eighth hour wakes you placid and weak in the long day? It’s
something, for sure: perhaps rumor’s whisper is true that you’…” Arthur
frowned, blushing before he continued, “‘that you swallow the tall jet from a
man’s groin?’” He looked to Miles to make sure he’d read that line correctly,
but Miles only chuckled back, so he went on. “This is for sure:
Victor's strained thighs proclaim it, and your lips marked with dried semen.’”
He shook his head. “Miles, sir, this…seems not very nice to Gellius. This is
not a love poem, is it?”
Miles laughed again, his smile mischievous. “You’re right, my boy. That is a
poem swimming in vulgar insult.
“Oh.” Arthur read the poem again to himself. “Oh.” Now Atta’s warning of Roman
ways made more sense, though he refused to think more on that path for now.
He skipped over many of the more romantic verses, favoring Catullus’ poems of
simple praise and musings—and his daggers, those verses that cut down his foes,
laid bare their betrayals, and had Arthur’s mouth agape and eyes wide to see
such attacks from a poet that someone like Miles would love so much.
In one sitting, he’d asked the man, “Miles, sir? What is a ‘catamite?’”
“Oh, um… Well, Arthur, you see…” Miles fidgeted in his chair, his cheeks red,
before he explained.
Arthur didn’t read that particular poem a second time, but it didn’t stop him
from reading those poems that followed, lines of Catullus’ jealousy of his
Lesbia’s more attractive lovers, his dismay when rejected by Iuventius, and
more scandalous words to yet another friend turned enemy.
It seemed that he’d never known true happiness until the Dominus allowed him to
bring his reading to bed with him after Arthur begged.
“Just remember, lamb, that your first priority is pleasing me,” Eames had said,
and Arthur did please him. Three times that night.
Of course, wearing Eames out had adverse consequences, Arthur learned. Eames
hated sleeping in any light. Arthur had to watch him call a slave to take the
scroll from him so the candles could all be snuffed out. Arthur lied awake in
the dark, pouting.
No matter. In the morning, Arthur woke with Eames taking him and was given the
scroll back soon after Eames was spent. 
The breeze made the bed curtains flutter. Arthur lounged on his belly, the
scroll propped up on the pillows and opened to where he’d left off the night
before. He was hooked at once.
Eames didn’t mind in the least. He trailed kisses along Arthur’s spine and
shoulders. His fingers grazed the curve of Arthur’s ass. “Will you read some of
it to me?” He asked, his lips at the small of Arthur’s back. He sent the slaves
away. 
Arthur blushed, knowing what was coming. When Eames turned him onto his back,
he parted his legs, ready for Eames to nestle between them. He read the next
poem aloud, though short of breath, when Eames' mouth touched the head of his
cock. “‘I stole a sweet kiss while you played, sweet Iuventius, one sweeter
than sweetest ambrosia. Not taken indeed with impunity: for more than an hour I
remember, I hung at the top of the gallows, while I was justifying myself to
you, yet with my tears I couldn’t lessen your anger a tiny morsel—’”
“Oh that poor, poor man,” Eames muttered, his lips on the underside of Arthur’s
length.
Arthur had to close his eyes and breathe deep when he touched the back of
Eames’ throat. He moaned, trying to focus. “‘No…no sooner was it done, than,
your lips rinsed with plenty of water, you banished it with your fingers, so
nothing contracted from my lips might remain, as though it were the foul spit
of a tainted whore’... Oh, Dominus,” he sighed when Eames groaned, sending
vibrations seemingly through Arthur’s entire body.
“I like hearing you say filthy words like ‘whore.’ Keep going.”
“‘More, you handed me unhappily to...vicious love who’s not failed to torment
me in every way, so that sweet kiss, altered for me from ambrosia, was more
bitter than bitter hellebore then. Since you lay down such punishments for
unhappy love, now, after this, I’ll never steal kisses again.’”
Eames kissed his soft, inner thighs, lapping up Arthur's come. He kissed up to
his knee, chuckling. "I used to envy Catullus' way with words, but now that I
know more of his way with lovers, I've changed my mind. You would never scorn
me, would you, sweet, merciful Arthur?"
His smile couldn't be contained. If Atta could see him now, the eunuch would
mock him until the end of time. "No, Dominus."
"Good." Eames kissed his navel. "Read me another, please."
Arthur was more than happy to oblige.
+ 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Arthur's reading:
     * The Political Works of Marcus Tullius Cicero: Comprising his
     Treatise on the Commonwealth; and his Treatise on the Laws.
     Translated from the original, with Dissertations and Notes in Two
     Volumes. By Francis Barham, Esq. (London: Edmund Spettigue, 1841-42).
     Vol. 1.
     ** Catullus, poems 46, 55, 80, 99. Translated by A. S. Kline
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