Date: Thu, 26 Oct 2006 02:31:11 -0700 (PDT)
From: Jae Monroe <jaexmonroe@yahoo.com>
Subject: Angel Chapter 1

Author's note: this is the full version of the story 'Angel' that was
previously submitted as excerpts.


This work is a product of the author's imagination, places, events and
people are either fictitious or used fictitiously and any resemblance to
real events, places, or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
The author retains full copyright to the material, and sincerely hopes you
like it!  If you have something to say about it that isn't flaming me then
email me at: jae.monroe@yahoo.com


Acknowledgment: Thanks to Richard for editing my work.



Angel

Chapter 1



Rome, 71 AD.

The youth walked past the rows and rows of stock for sale, of every size,
colour, type and purpose, screwing up his nose at the stench of unwashed
bodies mingling with the heavy scent of perfumes which were used to mask
the less pleasant odour.  Lucius Aurius Claudius was not used to the smell
of the markets, the job of purchasing stock usually left up to the steward
of the Aurius household, or Aurora Valia, Claudius's shrewd, widowed aunt
who lived with them since Claudius's mother Sola had died five years
previously.  However, due to the steward's recent passing and his aunt's
trip to visit her family in the south, the distasteful task of replacing
the stock had fallen to himself and his father.

Claudius was interrupted from his thoughts about the unpleasantness of the
task of flesh-buying when his father Gaius had pointed out a Nubian trader
standing before a collection of broad ox-like Nubian slaves whose powerful
chests glistened with oil in the sun.

"We have need of a field-worker, do we not son?"  Gaius asked, sidestepping
a glob of spittle on the path through which buyers in the market teemed.

Claudius did not respond; his eyes were transfixed by two slaves who stood
some few feet away from the broad Nubians, in starkest contrast to them.
It was a boy and a girl, the girl about ten; the boy could not be more than
six years of age, of the fairest skin which gleamed in its ivory paleness
in the sun, topped with hair the finest white-gold.  The children were
staring about them with wide, deep-blue eyes and Claudius walked toward
them, drawn by their ethereal appearance.

"What are they, father?" Claudius breathed.

"They are Angles," his father answered, casting a quick glance at the
Germanic children.

"They look more like angels," Claudius said, his dark eyes boring into the
sweet blue-ones of the boy.

"Hmm," Gaius answered absently, perusing the Nubian stock.  "But right now
it is a field-worker we need for the estate, not an angel."

They came home with a strong-backed field-slave, much to Claudius's
disappointment.



Germania, 74 A.D.

The four brothers stood around the mound of earth, quiet but for the soft
sobbing of the youngest.

"Quiet!" hissed one of the twins and the youngest sucked in his breath,
holding in his tears while the oldest brother whispered a prayer to the
Blessed Hearth Mother to take their own mother to her bosom and give her
sustenance in the after-life.

Next to the mound of fresh-laid dirt there was another, this one grassed
over, their father having died some weeks before their mother.  It was
Brenn's belief that she had gone because she could not bear living on
without her husband, for though his father had died of a wasting disease,
his mother had been in all ways well, but had then wasted away after him
once he had passed.

Jaime started his crying afresh now that the prayer was over and Brenn
stood silently regarding the twin plot, their dead parents' ashes interred
together, in death as they always were in life, hopelessly entwined with
one-another.  That was what he had prayed for; he had asked the Hearth
Mother if she would allow his parents to share death as they did life, for
he knew their love was so strong it would preclude even that of their
Goddess Mother.  He wondered if he would ever find love like that in his
lifetime, probably not, he thought his shoulders slumping, love as his
parents had was a rare and precious jewel and only bestowed on a very
fortunate few.

Turning, Brenn took the hand of his youngest brother, Jaime, who had seen
only six summers, but was soon to see his seventh, and walked back towards
their small home, the twins following behind him, side by side, as usual.

Later that night Brenn lay in bed, his belly gnawing at him in its
emptiness but he could not eat, he had partaken of none of the simple
dinner he had made for his brothers and now he regretted it as his empty
gut kept him awake.  He rolled over and was trying to find a comfortable
position, when he heard a woman's scream.  His eyes widened and he sat up,
his ears pricked, it was a quiet town so any unexpected noise was a point
of interest, he wondered if it was some woman getting beaten.

It could be Red Edda, the village whore.  Every now and then she tried to
up her takings by swiping somewhat of value from her patrons when they were
not looking and when she was not aware that they were she usually had to
pay for it.  Red Edda's activities were nothing new, though if she were the
centre of tonight's activities, she would be setting tongues wagging on the
morrow.

Then Brenn heard another scream, this one blood-curdling and ended very
suddenly.  Be damned!  If it was Edda then even she did not deserve this.
Brenn rose from the bed, throwing on a pair of elk-skin trousers and
hastily tying the front, leaving himself shirtless, it was well into the
darkness so none would be surprised that he did not wear his mantle for it.

He heard a third scream, then a fourth and then a cacophony on their heels.
Blessed Mother, this was no scrap between Edda and one of her patrons.  He
did not bother climbing down from his loft, merely jumping the distance and
racing around the corner into the kitchen where his brothers slept next to
the fire-place.  With urgent whispers and shaking of each pair of small
shoulders, he roused all three of them hastily.

"Go out the back and to the pit in the garden, quietly mind, and await me
there," Brenn told them urgently even as the screaming and howling rose
around them.  Invaders!  Blessed Mother he did not dare think it, but the
realisation hit him like a blow.  "Go and do not leave the pit for any
reason, understand?"  The twins nodded, two sets of blue eyes widened with
terror.  They could all smell the smoke now.

"Go!" he yelled, and each brother grabbed one of Jaime's hands, dragging
him out the back of the house to the hind-yard.

Brenn walked to the pit in the kitchen of their small house, it was
designed to provide cover for a family but there was only one thing in it
that Brenn was interested in.  His sword, the finest held by any in the
village, it had been a gift bestowed by his father to his mother on their
wedding as part of her dowry and belonged to him now, as her oldest son.
Grasping the jeweled hilt, the edge of the blade glinting in the dim light
of the half-moon, regularly honed as he had trained with it daily with his
father, but never used in earnest combat, he gripped it with firm resolve,
an eerie calm settled over him as he prepared to put his fine sword to use.
He sent a quick prayer up to the Blessed Mother that his sword might find
its mark and drink much enemy blood this night then he walked out the front
door.

No amount of combat training in the back-yard with his father could have
prepared him for what he saw on coming out to the main road of the village,
however.  The first thing which struck him was the stench of burning, and
not just wood but everything in a house, including its occupants.  All were
being burned as the invaders set alight to the timber houses, galloping
down the main road and hurling their burning torches into the thatchings.
The houses being made entirely of wood took to the flame quickly and there
was such a lot of smoke and heat from the fires, it hit Brenn in the face
like a choking wall as he made his way down the road slowly, taking cover
behind the houses so that he could have the advantage of surprise when his
and the invaders' paths met.

He was only two houses down from his own when a mounted invader spotted him
and charged, his steely blade sweeping down in an arc that whipped through
the air with an ominous ring.  Brenn saw everything in slow-motion, his
foot deftly stepping behind him as though of its own volition, his body
arching backwards, so far it was near horizontal to the ground as he evaded
the sword.  One hand braced him against the ground, halting his descent
towards it; the other gripped the jeweled hilt of the dower sword, the
finest sword in his village, the jewels feeling like smooth orbs under his
palm.  As he came up, he swung his sword two-handed into the galloping
horse when it passed him, severing the tendons of its hind-legs.

The horse screamed, its back dropping out from under it as its front legs
still vainly sought to propel it forward, the rider rolling off it in a
daze though unhurt by the blow as the horse flopped around in the
hard-packed dirt of the main-road.

The soldier stood and Brenn gasped.  A Roman soldier!  Roman soldiers were
attacking their village?  But they had treaties with Rome!  His blue eyes
narrowed as the soldier strode towards him, his sword raised, and then he
attacked.  Brenn parried the blow easily, stepping back and bringing his
own blade down, the heavier weapon slicing down on to the Roman's, causing
him to grunt as he sought to maintain his grip.  Brenn was a skilled
swordsman, though young, but so was the Roman and he had the advantage of
experience in true combat.  His next blow was so quick it took all that was
in Brenn to deflect it, he did though and met the next slice of the Roman's
lighter, faster sword with his own, smashing the blades together, a messy
blow but it served its purpose, the smaller weapon being knocked from the
Roman's grasp and he stood there dumbstruck.  Brenn advanced on him, his
sword held before him.  It was then that the horse, having lain still after
its initial flailing, suddenly roused itself, kicking wildly and turning on
its side in the dirt, the large heavy neck rolling around so fast as to
knock the feet out from beneath Brenn and he fell on his back.

The soldier looked across and saw that his opponent had maintained his grip
on his sword and looked to his own, broken in the dirt by the child's
weapon.  He looked back to the blonde boy who was rising and decided on his
best option.  Brenn's eyes widened as he saw the soldier racing down the
road, in the direction from whence the smoke was coming and he scowled, he
would have to walk into the midst of them then, with likely no element of
surprise.  Shuffling his sword in his hand somewhat, he found the
comfortable and familiar grip, its weight resting reassuringly in his
grasp, his calm and forthright stride in the direction that the soldier had
run belied the erratic beating of his heart.  Suddenly a scream halted him;
he knew that scream and his heart dropped.  Jaime came running out from
behind a smoking house, blood running down his arm and his hair and face
covered in soot.

"Jaime, get back!" Brenn screamed.  "Go back to your brothers!"

Jaime did not heed him, running towards him.  "Brenn!" he wailed, as Brenn
looked about him desperately, though there was smoke all about which
clouded his vision, stinging and smarting in his eyes, he could see the
mounted soldiers approaching.

"Get back!" he screamed, his voice choking on the smoke as he backed up
seeing the soldiers advance on them, their weapons ready.

"Brenn they are dead!" Jaime yelled, from where he stood, tears streaking
through the soot on his face.  "Petr and Jan are dead, a burning wood from
the house fell on them and they wouldn't move and I called them and they
wouldn't answer and they had their eyes shut and there was blood and..."
Jaime couldn't finish that statement, the Romans had dismounted and were
approaching, their weapons raised.  Jan and Petr were dead, Brenn thought,
a horrible coldness descending on his heart, his twin brothers, each having
seen only thirteen summers, both dead.

He turned, his eyes wild, and swung with his sword.  The Roman was ready,
he met the blow and the force of his upthrust wrenched Brenn's arms upward,
leaving his midsection dangerously bare.  He rolled his blade around,
trying to bring it under that of the soldier's to reverse their positions,
but the soldier surprised him by stepping back, withdrawing his blade from
Brenn's then he sliced down, Brenn met it, though the force of the blow
jarred his hands crushingly, he met the next blow also, a sideways arc, and
the next, a downward lunge.  Again and again their swords met as Brenn
fought, his eyes full of desperation to protect his brother from the
advancing men who had stopped to watch their leader fight the Angle boy.
He was impressive, they thought, though doomed; he would not beat their
leader who was a skilled swordsman of some twenty years' experience, no
matter how well-made was his weapon.

And he did not, eventually one of those downward blows met their mark and
Brenn's sword was split in two; his beautiful, shining sword with its
bejeweled hilt, the finest sword in the village, was smashed in two.  He
stared at his hands in horror.  No!  Blessed Mother, he had failed, he had
failed Jaime, who stood behind him, defenseless against the ravishment by
the soldiers, he had failed Petr and Jan, who lay crushed and charred under
a burning piece of timber, he had failed them all.  He looked up in time to
see the soldier take the hilt of his own sword, but Brenn didn't see what
happened next as he fell to the dirt, blood dripping from his temple,
unconscious amid the smoke and grime, oblivious to Jaime's screams behind
him.

"Why did you do that?" one of the soldiers asked their leader, looking at
the fallen man, wondering why his commanding officer had not killed the
boy.

Junius Medo walked up to the fallen youth and the little brother screamed,
wrapping his arms about the unconscious body: as the older one had tried to
protect the younger, now were their roles switched.  He looked down at the
sooty, tear-streaked face of the younger boy and reached for him.  Jaime
yelled and struggled as he was held aloft, his tunic yanked over his head,
leaving him naked on his top half, like his fallen brother.

One of the soldiers chuckled, stepping forward.  "We will have some fun
with the boy then, sir?" he asked of his leader.

Junius turned to him, frowning.  "No, not these two."  He thrust the boy
into the man's arms.  "Just hold him still for me," he said as he ripped
the tunic into thin strips.  One he stuffed into the boy's screaming mouth,
gagging him, and the other he wrapped around his head, tying it at the back
to secure the gag.  The last strip of ruined tunic he used to tie the boy's
small wrists at the front, and then lifted him from the other man's arms,
dropping him down on the ground and taking a secure hold on him by his
bound wrists.  "As it happens, I owe our friend in the treasury some money;
these two are mine, since I felled them, and may quite adequately cancel
the debt.  You may take what or who you want from the village."

The man looked longingly on the Angles, his eyes lingering on the younger
one as Junius bound the older one with a thick rope from his saddle-pack,
wrapping it about the youth's naked, finely sculpted torso to secure him.
Though either would be a pleasant diversion, he would not question his
leader and these boys were legitimately his spoils.  He clucked his tongue,
hoping that among those left alive from the village raid they could any
others so fine.



Brenn was jolted awake as his body was hefted from the horse over which it
was slung to the ground.  He groaned, his eyes shut tight, as the blinding
white spotted pain shot before them.  Suddenly he felt his body convulse
and the hot stinging sensation burned a searing line from his gut to his
throat as he voided the contents of his stomach.

"Gods be damned!"  The soldier who had launched Brenn from the horse swore
as he sidestepped the retching youth.

He yanked the bound man up with a firm grasp on his upper-arm, grunting as
he did for the youth was strappingly built, if young, his fingers did by no
means reach around the smaller part of the man's bicep, he would be lucky
if both his hands could get around them.  Right now the boy was a sick pup,
though, and appeared all his tender years as he groaned, wavering on his
feet while his newly-regained consciousness faltered.

"Come on, pretty-boy, wipe your mouth."  The soldier looked at him
disapprovingly but his eyes widened in surprise as Brenn turned, rubbing
his mouth on his shoulder.  The boy understood Latin then, he thought, and
then he smiled, wondering if the boy had heard all the things that he and
his companions had been saying they would do to him, and especially his
little brother, when Junius had his back turned this last day they had
spent riding from the fallen village.

Brenn's father had made him learn Latin at an early age, believing that if
one wanted to get anywhere in the world one had to know the language of
those who dominated it, but fortunately he had not heard the lurid
commentary about his person as he had lain unconscious and slung across the
pommel of one of the soldiers' horses.  Even if he had, many of the words
used he would not have understood for they would not have been among those
he had learned from his father.

The soldier pulled Brenn around to where the rest of their small camp were
sitting about a fire they had newly lit, the flames yet too small to
provide any true heat, but they were progressively adding thicker branches
to build it up.

"Should I take off his ropes, Sir?" the soldier who was holding Brenn still
by his upper arm asked Junius Medo, who looked Brenn up and down, his eyes
coming to rest on the youth's striking face which was currently streaked
with dust and soot.

"That depends if the boy will be a problem."  The man looked into Brenn's
violet eyes, his expression warning.  "Will you be a problem boy?"

Brenn shook his head, his throat still burning.

Junius nodded and the soldier hacked off the knot on Brenn's bonds,
unwinding the thick rope from around his arms and waist and coiling the
bonds around his elbow and hand as he did.  Brenn looked about him, now
free to run but completely unable to as all the soldiers watched him
closely, ready to apprehend him as soon as he did.  Reluctantly he sat,
cross-legged, on the ground by the fire and stared into the strengthening
flame.

"You hungry, pretty-boy?" Junius asked Brenn, his light eyes traveling over
the sullen form of the Germanic boy.

"Considering he just puked up half his guts, I say we shouldn't waste any
more food on him," said the soldier who had untied him, taking a hearty
bite out of the cured meat they had brought with them.

Probably meat from my village, Brenn thought, scowling.  If he thought his
expression was hidden behind the smoke from the fire, he was mistaken as
the one they called Sir let out a bark of laughter.  He hefted himself to
his feet, then strode over to where Brenn sat, his hand reaching down to
touch the grimy skin of the youth's cheek.  He wiped a finger across the
firm flesh of Brenn's cheek then looked at it, his lips curling.

"You're filthy," he said, thrusting his hand into Brenn's lank blonde
locks.  "What say we give him a bath?"

Brenn's eyes widened and he jerked his head out of the soldier's grasp,
glaring up at the man.  The other soldiers were far more enthusiastic,
however, nodding excitedly as their eyes pored over Brenn's already
half-naked form.  Brenn regarded them with horror, then his eyes rolled
back around and up to those of the soldier standing before him, he shook
his head desperately.

Junius laughed, but he walked away, heading back to where he had been
sitting, Brenn looked down at his hands, wondering why he had spurned their
offer of food, cursing that his own pride was so entrenched that he was
still spiting himself in not asking for a bite to eat.  So he was surprised
when he felt something drop into his lap, he looked up but all he saw was
the retreating back of the soldier, and when he looked down in his lap he
saw there was a small piece of cured meat, the least choice cut, he could
see, but meat nonetheless and he grasped it, biting a large chunk and
sucking against the salted meaty flavour, suddenly realising how incredibly
hungry he was.  But damned if he was going to ask for more, he thought as
he savoured the tangy slice he had been given.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him as his brain unclouded once it was fed.

"Jaime?" he said, his voice husky and dry.  He coughed, clearing his fuggy
throat and looked across the flames to where the soldier now sat.  "Please,
Sir, where is my brother?"  There were very few things for which Brenn
would relinquish his pride, but with Jaime he would spend it all.

The soldier looked at him in surprise, his brows rising to see the
obsequiousness come over the youth.  "The curly-haired boy?" he asked,
rubbing his roughened chin, and Brenn nodded.  "I have sent him off with
the others; he is the first installment of my debt."

Brenn's mouth dropped.  Jaime was not here?  He jumped to his feet, not
thinking as he saw the other soldiers stand warily also.

"Where is he?  I must go to him."  Brenn stepped around the fire coming up
to where the officer sat.

"Nay, you will not be going to him."  The officer had the gall to chuckle,
looking not at all ruffled as the livid youth stood before him.  "Best you
forget about him, boy, Rome is a big place; you'll likely never see him
again."

A tortured sound escaped Brenn's throat and he turned on his heel,
launching himself toward the horses, he had to get one of the mounts, he
had to find Jaime.

He didn't even make it half-way towards the horses when he was tackled to
the ground by three of the soldiers.  Roughly, they pressed him into the
dirt while his hands were dragged together behind his back and secured with
a thick rope which was fiercely tight around his wrists.

Violently, he was yanked upright, his hands beginning to prickle within his
bonds as he was dragged over to where Junius sat, the benign expression
completely eradicated from his face as he glared at the brash youth.  Brenn
was thrust in front of the man, falling to the ground with a thud, his face
hitting the dirt painfully since his bound hands were useless to brace his
fall.  Junius grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head up to face
him.

"Fool boy," he said disgustedly.  "Where did you think you would go?"  His
smile returned, though now it was entirely without humour as he looked over
Brenn who was held up by a painful fist in his hair.  "I would beat you
senseless now, if I was not trying to keep you intact for my patron, but be
warned, I will not hesitate if you pull another stunt like that, the
coin-counter be damned."

With that he dropped Brenn back to the dirt, but Brenn spared his head
another bruise, falling on his shoulder this time.

"And retie his bonds, you miserable dogs; I don't want his hands falling
off ere we reach Rome," Junius ordered the men who had bound Brenn
none-too-carefully.

One of them came up to Brenn, muttering in annoyance, he shoved a knee in
Brenn's back, preventing the youth from putting up any earnest struggle as
he loosened the bonds about Brenn's wrists the retied them with just enough
slack so that the blood was able to rush back into Brenn's hands, the
uncomfortable prickling making him grind his teeth together, but he gave no
outward sign of his discomfort.

Junius reached down, running his hand down Brenn's cheek and to under his
jaw, lifting his face to look down at him.  "You'd better learn some
self-control, pretty-boy, or I'll teach it to you, do not doubt that, I
won't give you to my patron as willful as you are."

Brenn looked up at him and willed his face to remain stoic, though a scowl
pulled at his eyebrows as he fought the urge to spit in the face of this
Roman swine.

Much later that night Brenn lay in the tent of the Roman, awake a long time
after the other man had fallen into noisy sleep.  He had been put in with
the officer, Junius was his name, Brenn had surmised from the conversations
he had overheard that night.  His hair was wet at his temples from the
tears that shamefully spilled from his eyes.  It was for his little brother
that he was crying; he had given in to tears when he realised he had no
recourse for action and once again he would fail Jaime when the boy needed
him most, as he traveled to some unknown fate.  He was doubly ashamed that
he was crying like a simpering maid in front of Romans, though this one had
long since passed from wakefulness.

Poor little Jaime, alone, unprotected, headed for Rome with the rest of the
murdering plundering company and what could Brenn do to stop it?  The
memories of his failure flooded back to him, unbidden.  He had failed
Jaime, he had failed his village, and his beautiful sword had been as
useless in his grasp as if it were indeed some pretty chalice or bejeweled
ornament, smashed so easily under the weapon of the officer who lay not two
feet from him.  He was not fit to hold it, he should have hidden in the
pit, he'd have accomplished just as much if he had done that.  One thing he
knew for certain was that he was not fit to hold a sword ever again, and he
never would.  His father had tried, but he had failed to give Brenn the
gift, he was a mere child, toying with things he was incapable of
understanding.  Blessed Mother he felt like such a failure.

Blessed Mother.  She'd been just as useless as he, Brenn thought
resentfully.  Where was the Blessed Mother when Petr and Jan had been
crushed under the timber?  Where was the Blessed Mother when Her village
had been sacked?  Where was the Blessed Mother when he'd been defeated and
Jaime taken prisoner apart from him, to be delivered to Rome and some
unknown fate?  Where was the Goddess Bitch?  Why hadn't She protected them?
Why had She merely watched them die?  For years and years he had been
praying to the Goddess Mother, whom he had been told was protector of
hearth and home, and its heart, but where had She been when so many homes
were destroyed?  As he lay there he realised he hated the Blessed Mother,
he hated the Goddess Whore who had left them all to die, turned Her back on
Her faithful people in their time of need.  Never would he pray to Her
again, never would he appeal to Her icy heart.

But who, then, would he pray to?  He heard a stirring next to him and
though he kept his head still, his eyes turned to see the Roman had rolled
over, and was making himself comfortable on his side now.  Hah, maybe he
should pray to the Roman gods, he thought.  They had delivered Rome so many
victories: while her neighbours shrank from her borders, placated with weak
treaties that were just as easily broken as not, Rome continued to grow,
Rome's gods continued to deliver her enemies into vanquishment, Rome's gods
continued to deliver wave after wave of conquered slaves into her clutches.
Then he would pray to the Roman gods, he knew already of Mercury, and
somewhat of Jupiter, there being some equivalent to these gods, if not
among his tribe, then among others, Brenn knew.  Aye, he would pray to
them, then; he would call upon the Roman gods to deliver him where his
Hearth Mother had deplorably failed.



"Come on, pretty-boy, we gonna see just how pretty you are."  Brenn started
at the voices which stirred him awake from his slumber.  He had been
allowed to sleep late this morning, but now he was wrenched to wakefulness.

One of the men reached down to grab his upper-arm which he jerked away from
them, backing up as best he could over the earthen floor under the tent
where he had been sleeping, given his hands were still bound behind his
back.  The soldier laughed and turned to his friend.  In one swoop each man
had slid their hands between his chest and his bound arms and proceeded to
drag him upright though he fought them every step of the way.

He was dragged outside into the light of the morning, the bright sun
searing his eyes which had grown used to the dimness inside the tent.  He
blinked several times as he struggled to make out where they were going;
being roughly dragged upright when he stumbled on somewhat that lay in the
path they were taking.

"Festus, Duonus," Junius Medo called out behind them.  "Naught more than a
wash - no funny business, eh?"

"Aye," both men called out in unison and Brenn looked to either side of
him, wondering at the warning.

"Was he worried you would kill me?" Brenn asked the men as he was led
towards the pond that was coming into view behind some rather parched
looking rocks.  The pond was just as parched, Brenn noted, it was really a
mere puddle, barely knee-deep.

Festus and Duonus looked to one-another then laughed heartily.  "Nay, not
kill you, pretty-boy."

"Then what?" Brenn asked, frowning at the way the men laughed, it was the
way adults laughed around children who had just displayed their naïveté.
"Would you beat me?"

This caused another round of laughter and Brenn scowled, wondering why he
was the butt of the joke.

"Not beat you, pretty-boy," Duonus said, yanking down Brenn's trousers and
getting on to his knees to do so.  He pushed on Brenn's calves, running his
fingers along the length to just behind his knees and Brenn started at the
blatant caress.  He stepped out quickly and suddenly, though he was in the
company of men, he felt embarrassed to be naked.

"No," Festus said, coming up behind Brenn without his realising and gripped
his shoulders and Brenn felt his breath hot against the nape of his neck.
"He was worried that we would fuck you."

Brenn started, jerking out of the man's grip and turning around to face
him, now painfully aware of his nakedness and his inability to cover it
given his hands were bound behind his back.

"How?" Brenn asked incredulously.  "You can see I am not a woman."

Both men let out a third round of hearty laughter.

"Think you the act cannot be accomplished with a man?" Festus asked, his
eyes still twinkling with mirth as they traveled up and down Brenn's finely
made body.

"What?" Brenn asked, taking another step back.  "How?"  Then he regretted
asking.

Though he tried to evade him, Duonus came to stand before Brenn, his hand
reaching around to pat Brenn across the cleft of his firm buttocks, his
fingers trailing up and down the crevice.  Brenn's eyes flared as he felt a
finger sneak in between them and he quickly side-stepped the hand.  He was
apprehended and he felt a moment's trepidation, but the men merely pulled
him towards the bathing hole, walking in with him.

Brenn was right, the water only came up to their bare knees and they sat
him down in it, dunking his head and then rubbing their crude soap through
it, washing out the grime of many days of being unwashed.  Despite the way
they clearly caressed him, it felt so good to have the grime washed from
his skin that Brenn felt it worth the discomfort of being bathed by these
licentious Romans, but truly, fucking a man?  He would not have thought it
possible.



"No.  Responsibilities are not enough; they imply only weak societal
censure if not upheld, and are at their possessor's discretion to be bent
or broken" Claudius argued as the steam wafted around the group of young
men in the exclusive bath-house.  They were sons of Rome, scions of the
finest of her society, enjoying a leisurely soak in the pleasantly tepid
baths.

"But we are in Rome, society is utmost in our thinking, so would not
society's censure be adequate?" Sextus answered.

"Society's censure?"  Claudius's eyes widened.  "I have yet to see it."
There was no disagreement from the other bathers on that point.  "It
remains that society is a whore whose approval rests upon he who showers
her with the most coin."

There was a gasp from the other bathers who were avidly watching the
discussion.

"You do not believe me?" Claudius asked, his onyx eyes fixing on those of
each and every bather.  "I am living proof of how effective is society's
censure."

"This is true," Sextus replied.  "And your father is the whore's greatest
patron."

There was a collective snigger at this and Claudius had the decency to
blush.  "I would say touché but I see the son of Rome's other great patron
coming.  He will come to my defense."

Marcus Solacca Commodus entered the bath and his eyes widened to see all
eyes on him.  "What is this?  You have all seen me naked before," he
quipped as he sank below the water.

"Claudius suggested that as the son of Rome's second greatest patron you
could come to his defense."  Sextus filled Commodus in.

Commodus screwed up his nose.  "Really, Claud, you are not having another
of your silly debates?  And what's this about my being Rome's patron?"

"We were saying that society was a whore and your father is one of her
biggest patrons," one of the other bathers informed him.

"Oh, well then I suppose so, and one day I shall be," Commodus answered
easily.

"As you are already Rome's biggest whore," Claudius couldn't resist adding.

Commodus rolled his eyes.  "Really Claud, it was months ago, get over it!"

Months ago!  It was not three weeks since Claudius had walked in on his
lover bouncing up and down on another man.

"Slut," he replied.

"Prude," Commodus replied just as fast.

"So...I hear they are to hike the chariot tax."  Sextus deflected the
argument he could see brewing.

"Whore," Claudius mouthed at his friend from across the bathing pool and
Commodus rolled his eyes in response.

Claudius rose, flicking water past his ex-lover as he left the bath.

"I miss you."  Commodus came up behind him as he was being dressed by one
of the slaves who worked at the bath-house.

"Do you?"  Claudius quirked a brow at his friend as he turned to have his
toga arranged across his back by the attendant.

"Yes, I hate fighting," Commodus replied, doing the straightening at the
front then running his hands over the firm chest of the man before him.
"You cut a very fine figure, Claudius," he told his friend, smiling.

Claudius removed his hands from his person.

"I know," he said, his velvety eyes regarding his friend with a measure of
detachment.  Commodus looked down.  "I know you have said you wouldn't
touch me with a ten-foot barge-pole," he said, and then his silvery eyes
rose to fix on his lover with a measure of pleading.  "But do you think you
could see your way clear to at least forgiving me so we can go back to
being friends?"

Claudius smiled.  "I am not a forgiving man, Commodus," he said, and saw
his friend's shoulders slump.  "But do not lose heart; I'd like to think
our friendship is as strong as it has always been.  It would take more than
your sleeping with half the Roman peerage for it to be broken."

With that he bowed, kissing his friend on each cheek, then turned and took
his leave from the bath-house.  Commodus stood there for some minutes
before he whirled around, kicking over a chair that stood in his way and
sending one of the bath-house slaves ducking for cover as he stormed away.
Damn Claudius with his smug serenity while he delivered his biting insults,
Commodus thought, hating that it made him want the man all the more.



Brenn was jolted awake for the fiftieth time as the wheels of the caged
cart met with another rut in the road.  The small contingent of soldiers
with whom he had been traveling had joined up with a veritable horde of
Roman soldiers after two days and from then on Brenn had been relegated to
one of the slave-carts along with countless other miserable wretches who
were, like him, filthy, lost and dreading what was to come next.  Amongst
the rabble, he could see none from his village which made him wonder just
how many villages had met the same fate as his.  Out to the sides, fore and
aft of him were soldiers, countless lines of soldiers, all dressed in the
blood-red and earth brown uniform, some looking the worse for wear, others
looking fresher and cleaner, these he knew were the officers for they were
fewer in number and wore some dress upon their helmets, likely these had
attendants or somesuch who kept their uniforms cleaner than the
rank-and-file.

He looked down to his wrist around which was bound a tag, a leather strip
upon which was emblazoned some scrawl, he could not read it but he guessed
it was a marker denoting him a possession of the soldier who had felled
him.  Periodically one of the inspectors would lift his wrist and examine
the band then let him on.  Other slaves had been branded, across the cheek,
chest, buttocks, or marked with a tapper and ink behind the ear, indelibly
labeled with the mark of those to whom they would belong, but these had
been taken away fairly soon after so Brenn guessed that they were marked as
they were sold.  Unlike him, he was waiting to be made a gift to someone to
whom his interim owner owed money; that much he had gathered.  He was
pleased that he was not so humiliatingly marked as an animal, just yet, but
it would come, he had resigned himself to that fact, the time would come
when he was passed into the possession of this man they called Vellum and
then he would be marked as that man's property.  He had resigned himself to
it, but he didn't know how he would react when it eventuated.

He sighed, as he had done innumerable times along this journey, and rested
his chin in his hand, staring out at the countryside for its view was so
much better than the filthy one inside the cart.  Some were crying; others
were moaning.  Personally, Brenn felt nothing; his heart was numb.  It had
always been a characteristic of his person that under duress all emotion
shut down.  He wondered if he could do that when he got to Rome, when he
was exchanged for whatever debt the soldier had with this Vellius.  For
battle and for enduring the ignominy of capture, he had managed to empty
his person of all feeling and emotion so as to bear it, but for the rest of
his life?

"Ho, slave!"  Brenn heard the call as he stared out at the countryside.  He
ignored it until he felt a jab in his arm and realised the address was
directed at him.

"Aye?" he answered.

"You'll address your betters more respectfully than that," the soldier who
was riding next to him told him menacingly, caressing the hilt of his sword
pointedly.

"Aye, sir," Brenn replied, he knew to pick his battles and this one wasn't
worth it.

"We were wondering if you had any sisters," the soldier told him quite
kindly now that he was being respectful.

"No, sir," Brenn replied, wondering why they cared.  "I have no sisters."

"Oh, any younger brothers?" the soldier asked.

Brenn turned.  "I do," he said, his eyes wide with hope.  "Have you seen a
little boy who resembles me in hair and eyes?  Do you know where he is
kept?"

"Pity I do not," the soldier said, grinning to his friends who'd been
listening amusedly to the interchange.  "For if I did..."  Hooking his
reins around his wrist so as to leave his hands free he gestured in front
of him, as if to grab his phallus and slap an imaginary rump, bucking his
hips in the saddle as he did so.

Brenn looked horrified which elicited even more mirth from his companions
than did their counterpart's display.

"We'll have to keep an eye out for this little brother who looks like you."
The soldier said, grinning at his companions.  "It's been a long and boring
ride, about time we found something worthwhile to make sport with."

Brenn turned from them, aghast, still hearing their laughter and ribald
jokes behind him.  The numbness was gone, that was for certain, to be
replaced with utter terror, to think he had jeopardised Jaime's safety like
that, Blessed Mother - no, he did not call out to her anymore - he must
prevail upon the Roman gods to keep his brother safe.  Gods preserve little
Jaime because Brenn had utterly failed to.



"Be glad we are away from the stench," Commodus commented to Claudius as
they stood on the balcony, watching the entry of yet another group of
conquesting soldiers to the city.

"Yes, but who stinks worse, the soldiers, the slaves, or the plebes who are
screeching below us?" Aeticus Juniper Corvinus commented disgustedly.

"Pity we can never retreat from the stench of the latter," Claudius
murmured to surprised looks from his friends.

"Do not say it; Claudius is looking down on those lower than him."
Commodus was scandalised.

Claudius turned to him in amusement.  "I look down on you all the time,
don't I?"

Commodus flushed.  "Claudius, I tell you, I will not tolerate this from you
very much longer," he warned, his expression mutinous as he gripped the
balcony railing so hard his knuckles turned white.

Claudius smiled down at his friend who was half a head shorter than him,
chucking him under the chin as he would an amusing child.  "Of course,
Commodus, which is why I must get all my jibes in while you will continue
to tolerate them."

Commodus jerked his head away, looking out over the balcony irritably.
"Yes well that time is growing rapidly foreshortened," he muttered.

"You have not said why you dislike the plebes, Claud," Aeticus questioned,
turning from the view of the soldiers' return parading through the town
displaying their spoils for the delectation of the crowds.

Claudius sighed then leaned over the balcony, regarding those upon whom he
had vented his dislike.  "Look at them, they are most willing to hurl abuse
at the slaves and screech their praise for those who've taken them, yet
they are a step away from it themselves."

"How so?" Aeticus asked.  "I myself have no time for the plebes but even I
wouldn't say they are on the same level as the slaves."

Claudius regarded the masses thoughtfully.  "It was not so long ago they
were pouring their hatred out on the slaves for taking all their work.  Now
they would congratulate those who bring more cheap labour to render theirs
even further into obsolescence."

"But these are barbarians, Germanians; they will compete only for the
meanest jobs, in the mines and such."  Aeticus pointed out.

"Yet see how the plebes still hate them," Claudius replied.  "They hate
them because they see themselves in them, we always hate those who remind
us who we are and, more importantly, who we might become."

"Truly you do not like the plebes," Commodus murmured as he watched a group
of plebes get into a brawl over somewhat.

"Well thank you for pointing that out, Commodus," Claudius replied as
though his friend were a simpleton.

Commodus glared at him, murder in his silver-grey eyes.  "I just meant that
your attitude is quite the reverse of that of your namesake."

Claudius grinned.  "It is, indeed, much to my father's chagrin for he held
so much admiration for that man."

"He is no longer considered a man, remember, the Emperor did return his
status," Aeticus reminded him.

"So he did," Claudius remarked casually.

"You are so irreverent."  Commodus giggled.  "I'm surprised the gods
deliver you so much good fortune."

"I am quite reverent," Claudius argued.  "I call out to the gods all the
time."

"Don't we all?" Aeticus replied, grinning.  "I myself am particularly
reverent in bed."

"As am I," Commodus answered with a pointed look to Claudius.

"And so you were," Claudius replied, crooking his brow.  "I do wonder how
many men have received blessings from the gods due to your particular
reverence."

Commodus let out a sound of rage, slamming his fist down on the balcony
railing.  "I have had it, Claudius, I am sick to death of you and your
snide comments."  He turned from the railing to march back inside.

Claudius caught him about the waist, pulling him back against him.  "I'm
sorry Commodus, I'll stop, I promise."  For good measure he kissed his
friend several times on the smooth skin of his cheek.

Commodus giggled and met one of those kisses with his lips.  Claudius
pulled back hastily.

"What, are you afraid we shall create yet another scandal?" Commodus asked.

"My father did have words with me, yes," Claudius replied.

"Well what is the use of patronising half of Rome if she's not to afford
you liberties to do as you please?" Commodus asked, quirking his
light-brown eye-brows.

"Indeed," Claudius agreed, pulling his friend up against his side and
turning to plant a rather large kiss on the man's willing lips.

Gaius turned away from the scene on the adjacent balcony in disgust.  Titus
Solacca Catullus continued to watch, however with no less ire.

"I did think they had severed from one another."  Gaius commented, taking
his seat once more and accepting a goblet of wine from a serving girl.

"As did I," Titus growled.  "But it appears they have not, and are acting
as flagrant as ever, Jupiter help us."

Gaius made another irritated sound in the back of his throat.  "All the
better when they are married and given appointments, I think."

Titus turned from the scene to fix his long-time friend with his
penetrating smoky-eyed regard.  "And you have accomplished the latter, I
believe, but with a delay of the former."

Gaius looked up at his friend warningly.  "No," he said firmly, "no that
sort of appointment I do not want for my son."

"But I believe you have concluded a marriage agreement for your son to be
unioned with Aul--"

"No," Gaius interrupted, looking about him for the walls had ears.

"Then what means the union?" Titus asked, keeping his language circumspect
for the announcement had yet to be officially made and there may be some
who would find it not to their liking.

"It means naught but that a troth was plighted and accepted," Gaius replied
curtly.  "She is a good match for my son."

There Titus had to scoff.  "She is not four years old; do not treat me as a
fool.  Have you no plans for the unification of your Houses?"

"No.  I will not lose my son the same way as I lost my friend and mentor.
I've no plans but for my House to continue in prosperity, anonymous
prosperity," Gaius replied.

"We will neither of us be anonymous, my friend, we both of us have had some
generations of consular office, neither are you inconsiderable for the
same," Titus replied.

"I plan to avoid it as best I can," Gaius replied.  "Good men and bad both
fall under such a weight, I do not wish that for my family.  In any case,"
Gaius said with a grin, his expression lightening, "gold is just as
satisfying as office, and far less dangerous."

"Indeed," Titus replied.  "The Aurii will own all the gold, the Solaccae
all the land, and then we may both of us settle into safe obscurity."

"Exactly."  Gaius smiled at his life-long friend.  "If, of course, our sons
do not keep dragging us into public scrutiny with their total lack of
discretion."

"Well, we could always get them some distractions, I suppose, some lovely
slaves for them to spend their lust upon so that they do not seek each
other out," Titus said thoughtfully.

"That might be an idea," Gaius mused.  "Claudius has his twentieth birthday
in three months' time; I might have to find him a nice pet for his gift."
He rose, going to look out over the balcony but the cavalcade had passed,
the last of the slave-cages receding into the distance, the plebes mingling
on the road in their wake.  He sighed.  "Pity that all the soldiers have
brought back are filthy barbarians."