Date: Sun, 18 Dec 2011 16:07:35 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Glaucus of Korinthos" Part 2 of 2 Gay Male/Authoritarian and Gay Male/Historical

	 GLAUCUS OF KORINTHOS
Or
The Spoils of War

A Short Story in Two Chapters
CHAPTER 2:  "Face to Face with the Romans"


This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
"To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean_Christophe_Stories"

The characters and ideas in this story are the writers and shouldn't be
used without permission.

Please respect the integrity of the story and don't rewrite."

Chapter 2:  "Face to face with the Romans"


We have been stopped in our tracks. I watch as the Roman Decurion and his
two companions advance toward us. Using their unsheathed swords, they
gesture for us to stop.

Desperately, I look around for a means of escape. But there isn't any. They
stand before us halting further flight while behind us a Roman patrol has
set up a blockade preventing anyone from escaping the clutches of the
marauding bands of soldiers.

All around me are the terrible sounds of pillage and rape; the sorrowful
cries of a city in its death throes. I hear the terrified, panic-stricken
citizenry confronted by a triumphant, merciless enemy. I listen to the pain
filled screams of people being put to the sword, the vain begging to be
spared, the pitiful pleading of our virtuous matrons and maidens to the
gods to spare them the shame and horror of being raped. I hear the sounds
of smashing from within the houses as they are looted for valuables. I hear
the angry shouts of the marauding soldiers as they seek out the bolt-holes
of men, women and children trying to hide themselves from a wrathful enemy.
And I watch in horror as all the comely, young men, women and children are
dragged away to slavery and uncertain futures.

I am filled with panic and dread; I don't know what to do. I look to
Perimedes and Diagoras for support and instead I see their ashen faces and
fear filled eyes.  Already, once before, they have lived through these
terrible events when their home had been destroyed and they'd been hauled
away into slavery. For the two brothers there is a sense of deja-vu and of
history repeating itself.

Over the years, I learned something of their background. And Father had
been mistaken in thinking they'd come from some mysterious land to the
North. They belonged to a mysterious people called the Keltoi who dwelt in
a fertile, green land beyond the river well known to us as the Rhodanos. I
know of this area and its history through the scholarship of my
tutors. They'd told me that Hellenes from Phocaea had journeyed there some
four to five centuries ago and established a trading colony on the coast at
a place now called Massalia which is famous for two exports; its excellent
wines and prime slaves to meet the insatiable demands of its Roman allies.

Massalia's existence had long been threatened by the Carthaginians, the
Etruscans and the Keltoi. In order to survive Massalia had entered into an
alliance with the Roman Senate and people and enjoyed the protection of the
Roman army.

Even now I know that Rome is locked in a bitter war with the Carthaginians
for political and economic control of the Middle Sea and that a fierce war
of attrition is being waged by Scipio Africanus at the very gates of
Carthage itself. And like Korinthos, it too will fall to the might of the
Roman war machine; her buildings and temples levelled, her culture trampled
underfoot, her treasures and wealth carried off to Rome and her people put
to the sword or enslaved.

Once Perimedes had tearfully told me of his family who lived in a Keltoi
settlement which had been overrun by the Romans and their allies from
Massalia. The attack on their settlement was unexpected and undertaken as
an offensive action by the Romans who'd quickly triumphed over the
numerically weaker Keltoi.

Roman justice is swift and without mercy and what followed is now being
repeated all around me in Korinthos.

And as always, following closely on the heels of the Roman army were the
vile jackals who feast on human misery - the slave-traders. These pariahs
have a nose for a bargain and with fat purses attached to their belts; they
soon had their slave coffles full for the return journey to Massalia.

Perimedes was distressed as he told me these things and not wishing to add
to that distress, I'd not pushed him for more details.

However, I did hear that the family had been sold in the slave market at
Massalia. His mother and two sisters had been separated and sold to
different owners, his father and older, warrior brother had been bought by
a low grade lanista from Nimes to train and fight as gladiators in the
provincial arenas of Gaul. And despite their adversities, the gods of
fortune smiled on Perimedes and Diagoras allowing them to stay
together. Bought by a travelling slave-trader, they'd found their way to
the slave-market at Korinthos and into my father's household.

Despite my panic, I try to stay outwardly calm. I am after all the master -
albeit a very young one - and I must assume responsibility for my slaves,
Perimedes and Diagoras. I am fortunate that I speak fluently in Latin, a
vulgar language that I truly despise. It had been a constant source of
friction between my Latin tutor and me; I'd not always applied myself
diligently to my Latin studies but he'd persevered and I did eventually
learn to speak it flawlessly.

I regard Latin as a barbaric tongue spoken by a coarse, common people whose
aristocratic elite have discarded in in favour of my own beloved Greek; the
language that lends itself to logical thinking.  Can the Roman tongue
express itself as eloquently as Greek in the fields of the sciences, the
arts, poetry, theatre and rational debate?  Of course it can't!

But now I am glad that I speak Latin. I can at least converse with these
three Roman soldiers who now confront us with their swords pressed against
our bellies. But suddenly, my courage deserts me and I am lost for
words. Like Perimedes and Diagoras, I quake from sheer terror. Will the
Romans slaughter us and take our valuables as booty of war?

I listen as the Romans discuss us not knowing that I can understand their
every word. I struggle inwardly to speak and to reason with them but
something about their demeanours cautions me to keep a still tongue in my
head. I decide this is a time when discretion is indeed the better part of
valour.

The Romans are delighted with their "catch" and I hear myself described as
a "snotty-nosed Greek brat just ripe for fucking' as they begin to rough
handle the three of us up. Their venom is directed at me more so than at
Perimedes or Diagoras.  Quite obviously, the Romans recognise them as
slaves and I as their Master. Certainly, I take the brunt of their
abuse. I'm roughly manhandled one to the other and my head is viciously
cuffed by all three. They are joined by their companions still struggling
under the heavy loads of their loot; quickly they encircle us like ravenous
wolves ready to pounce on their helpless prey.

The Decurion speaks to his men and they seize the valuables that we are
carrying. It is useless to protest and anyway my fear prevents me from
doing so. The soldiers are unaware that I speak Latin but I have to confess
I am having difficulty in understanding them. These are rough soldiers,
recruited from the dregs of Roman society and they converse in Vulgar Latin
which is so different to the language that I'd learned from my refined,
Latin tutor.

However, I understand enough of their obscenities to know they don't bode
us well. I listen in horror as they describe Perimedes, Diagoras and me as
'three young assholes" begging for an injection of a good, Roman cock. They
leave no doubt in my mind that the three of us are to be raped.  Quickly
they strip us of our clothes and naked, we are forced to our
knees. Futilely, all three of us struggle, but we are no match for the
burly Romans. I forget about Perimedes and Diagoras; they can fight their
own battles. My only thought is for my self- preservation.

My shoulders are seized and my head is roughly forced to the ground so that
my ass is elevated. I continue to struggle uselessly but I am no match for
the combined strength of my captors. My legs are kicked apart and
self-consciously, I'm aware of a new sense freedom as my balls hang low and
my sphincter is stretched open.  From the corners of my eyes, I see that
Perimedes and Diagoras struggle as vainly as I do. The thought races
through my mind. Did they endure this same treatment at the hands of their
Roman conquerors eight years ago? They have never spoken of it, but then
would they. Who could blame them for keeping their disgrace from my father
and me?

My mind is a blur; it is a fog of confusion and humiliation. Questions
tumble through my fevered brain. How many soldiers will rape me and what
will become of the three of us when the Romans have had their way with us?
Will they put us to the sword? One part of me sees that as preferable to
living with the shame of having being used by these Romans as a male
whore. Yet another part of me doesn't want to die. But if I survive, what
will my life be?  However, I already know the answer to that question. I
know it will be as a slave to the Romans. This prospect fills me with dread
yet I want to live.

Slavery is preferable to death!

Behind me I hear the fumbling of our abusers as they prepare to rape
us. Looking back between my legs I see the lower body of a soldier but I'm
not able to see him as he unties the knots of his linen subligaculum
allowing his rampant cock to spring free. I listen to the ribald comments
of his comrades as they urge him on - no doubt impatient for their turn to
use me.

Then, as I brace myself for the worst - salvation! A voice, heavy with
authority, calls the soldiers to order. I hear the clatter of their armour
and weapons as they snap to attention and in unison; they shout their
salute to a superior officer.

"Hail, Tribune Flaccus Marcus Bruscius!"

Silence now replaces the soldiers' unruly behaviour. I kneel with my
forehead still pressed to the cobblestones; too scared to move.

"Who are these men?"

The voice is deep and well-modulated - I estimate it as that of a young man
in his mid -thirties - and spoken with a refined accent. It is similar to
the Latin with which I am familiar.

"Tribune," the Decurion answers, "it's only a young Greek and his two
slaves. We stopped them trying to flee the city."

"I see! And were they carrying anything with them? Do they carry any
documents or other valuables?"

"They carried only these, Tribune!"

Still on my knees, I don't see the Decurion pass my confiscated papers and
other family possessions to the Tribune.

"Get them to their feet!"

Perimedes, Diagoras and I are ordered to our feet not by words but by
well-aimed kicks to our asses with metal, hobnailed caligae or marching
sandals. Hastily, I scramble to my feet and try to cover my naked shame
with my cupped hands.

Curious, I look to see who our saviour is and I am confronted by a tall
aristocratic Roman - and I am correct - he is aged in his mid- thirties. He
wears his uniform with pride and if I knew Roman customs and army rankings
I would see by the wide purple stripe on his tunic that he is "tribunis
laticlavus" - the senatorial tribune and the most senior of the six
tribunes in a legion which places him second in command of his
legion. Later, I will learn that his name is Flaccus Marcus Bruscius.

The Tribune's eyes bore into me and as they slowly rove over my naked body
I blush profusely. As a Greek, my nakedness doesn't normally shame me. But
always my nudity has been at my instigation.  This is different; my present
nakedness is not of my choosing. I have been stripped naked and now stand
before this Roman as naked as any slave on a display platform. And I have
the sense that he sees me in this light.

"Is that true, Greek? Were you trying to flee the city?"

He asks the question in flawless Greek and emboldened, I answer him in
flawless Latin.

"No sir!" Despite my loathing at addressing him as "sir", I decide that I
should maintain a certain civility towards him. After all he holds all the
cards. "I was trying to return to my father's house on the far side of the
city."

"You speak Latin? Obviously you are well educated.  What is your name boy?"

I bristle at his use of "boy" in addressing me. Through my Latin studies, I
know the term is often used in a demeaning manner reserved for slaves. Many
Roman masters will give a "special" slave a name that is a corruption of
their own names and "puer" the Latin word for boy. For example should a
master be called Lucius or Marcus he'll name his "special" slave Lucipor or
Marcipor - literally Lucius's boy or Marcus's boy. Is this how the Tribune
sees me? Does he see me as "his boy"?

"I am Glaucus, son of Clearchus of Korinthos." I answer proudly.

"Tell me Glaucus, son of Clearchus of Korinthos." Is he mocking me I
wonder? "Who are your companions?"

"They are my slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras."

"I see! And where is your father's house?"

"It's on the far side of the city, sir."

"Then Glaucus, you will take me there. And your slaves will accompany us."

He turns to the Decurion and instructs him to.

"Bind their wrists behind their backs and fasten them by the neck one
behind the other with Glaucus, the son of Clearchus in the lead."

"But Tribune! We don't have any cord to bind them."

"By Priapus, man. Improvise! Use their clothing to make their
bindings. They no longer have need of clothing."

"Tribune!  What of the valuables we took from them? What do you want done
with those?"

"Give me all the documents they were carrying and keep the trinkets to
share among you. You keep them; they are legitimate spoils of war. Just as
these three are. I claim Glaucus, son of Clearchus together with all his
father's possessions and his two slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras as my
"spoils of war".  All three are now to become my slaves."


The End