9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

M arcus Fabius Varro

I wake to the sour smell wafting from the folds of Gracchus’s flesh. We didn’t have the luxury of bathing pools or public bathing houses where I grew up. House slaves tell me bathing, done daily and for hours, is a means of socializing, a place for patricians to seek favors or dinner invitations. Even though Gracchus has the wealth to have his own pool, he usually attends the public house for several hours before the evening meal.

In spite of the daily baths, he still reeks.

I didn’t notice his piggish blue eyes were open. If I’m lucky, he didn’t catch my disgusted expression, or maybe he just thought the disgust visible on my face was directed at myself instead of him.

“I have a treat for my pretty boy.” He smacks his lips, a sound that causes every muscle in my body to tighten.

He pauses, waiting for me to excitedly question him, as though I care about whatever fancy toga or bauble he wants to gift me with. Does he imagine I’m stupid enough to think for a moment that all his gifts won’t disappear the moment I fall out of favor?

“I’ve invited friends for dinner. You’ll be joining us.”

This trial rivals the punishments of the Furies. I clamp my teeth together, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me die a little more inside. Young slave boys don’t join a senator’s fancy dinner party to enjoy the food. I haven’t been in Rome for long, but I’m certain I won’t be treated to peacock tongues and pheasant brains. No. I’m meant to be served as dessert.

Gracchus chuckles as he rolls off the bed. He didn’t inform me of tonight’s festivities to whet my appetite. He wanted me to stew, to wonder all day at what fresh levels of torture I’ll have to endure tonight at his depraved party.

I do my best to sleep all day. I’ve learned it’s one way to keep my mind occupied. When that doesn’t work, I gulp wine, not bothering to water it. It keeps the terror away. I may be a slave boy from Hispania whose ass is at my master’s disposal day and night, but somehow I’ve managed to keep a small shred of dignity. If I keep drinking at this rate, I’ll be able to walk into the dining room without wobbling, nor will I show my fear.

Hours later, Gracchus barges into my rooms to watch and instruct as I prepare for the party.

“These festivities are to welcome my wife home. She’s just returned from our summer home in Tuscany.”

I don’t know what is more surprising, that Gracchus has a wife, or that he’s talking about her as he twirls his finger—his non-verbal signal for me to turn in a circle for his pleasure. He did it a moment ago when I was nude. Now I’m wearing a fine white linen toga and a golden choker. The choker never fails to make him hard. It’s like a dog collar, proclaiming ownership. As I slowly turn, I indulge my fantasy of choking his fat neck with my bare hands.

“You will call her Domina.”

“Yes, Dominus.” I don’t hide my hatred, not with my facial expression or the utmost disdain leaking through my voice. Normally, any defiance would be dealt with immediately and severely with a whipping, yet tonight he allows it.

How can a man want to fuck me when I make no secret of my hatred? Though I’ve lived with him for months, it only strikes me now that perhaps that is my allure. The corpulent bag of pus wouldn’t find this half as fun if I were willing. This knowledge makes me hate him even more.

Soon, he’s escorting me through the vast halls of his palatium , his hand possessively on one ass cheek as he steers me toward the dining room. Though I’ve never eaten in here before, I spend little time assessing my surroundings. It’s the people I appraise.

It’s a small dinner party by Roman standards—twelve guests, all couples of the patrician class, wearing finery and sitting at a long table set with flowers, glassware, and wine. They’ve draped themselves over embroidered silk cushions, sneering and laughing as if they’re superior to everyone on the planet.

The two armed guards at the doorway probably aren’t there to protect these senators and their wives from marauders who might storm through the front doors. I imagine they’re a visual statement to remind me of my place.

“My newest companion,” Gracchus announces, tugging me closer with no hint of shame, even though the woman I assume is my Domina is in the room. “A versatile male of many talents .” His face looks even more piglike when he leers.

“This is your new Domina.” He pinches my ass cheek as he scoots me closer to her.

I avert my eyes and lower my gaze, not wanting to be punished.

“Tell her you’re honored to serve her, boy.” Everyone, especially the women, erupts in titters.

“Honored to serve you, Domina.” My voice is a hoarse whisper.

“We’ll see how honored you are after dinner.” Her smug tone fills my belly with molten lead.

“You’ll be attending her tonight,” Gracchus says, his palm pressing on my head as he pushes me to kneel at her side.

During dinner, I’m partially hidden from most of the guests as I kneel at Domina’s right and she feeds me bites of food. My skin is swarthy, so I wonder if it’s obvious to observers that my cheeks and throat are blazing with embarrassment and fury. Snatches of conversation float to my awareness as I try to hang onto any last shred of dignity.

But I have no dignity left—collared and sitting at my mistress’s feet, being fed morsels like a pet. The glint of a serrated knife on the table flashes into my awareness. I thought I could put my emotions into locked compartments in my mind, but this is too much. The contents of the compartments have grown too big to be contained.

As I calculate how many of the people at this table will have used me by the end of the night, I decide I’m ready to travel to the Underworld. If there’s a moment I can grab the knife, I’ll do it. I rode with the soldiers for months, watched them practice their swordplay. I think I can accomplish the task of one swift plunge into my heart before any of these soft patricians can disarm me.

“Eat, boy.” Domina doesn’t know my name. Gracchus didn’t bother to mention it. Considering what they want me for, it’s clearly unimportant.

Dinner goes on for hours but doesn’t feel like a reprieve. It just serves to heighten my dread. The conversation that began with talk of Senate matters, battles, and Emperor Vitellius has now sunk to the type of talk I overheard from the soldiers on the trip here from Hispania—sexual innuendos, twittering laughter, and long pauses. When I look under the tablecloth, several of the men are fingering their wives. Those who aren’t are having their cocks stroked or sucked.

Domina’s voice bursts through the soft sexual sighs filling the room as she calls for the servants to clear the table. My head is at the perfect angle to see all the tableware as it’s carried out of the room. I should have lunged for a knife sooner.

Although I felt a twinge of compassion for her when Gracchus told me he had a wife, when she tells me to stand, then twirls her fingers in the exact same manner as her husband, I realize these two people deserve each other. They’ve done this before, it seems. Many times .

I stand, twirl, and at her next command, I remove my toga and perform the same move nude. Despite all the action happening under the table, all eyes are on me—even the guards are watching with open interest.

Domina has me lie on my back on the table, and I order myself to hide behind the closed door in my mind. My little trick doesn’t work perfectly. I’m still aware of much of what’s going on, but thank Jupiter, it’s through a haze.

Vaguely, I’m aware of Domina’s down-turned mouth, lips pursed in irritation at my cock, which is lying soft against my thigh. I got hard back in Hispania, especially when I thought of Fulvia, one of the candlemaker’s lovely daughters, but I haven’t been hard since I was torn from my family. Certainly nothing Gracchus did to me was even mildly arousing.

Domina’s voice is sharp, angry, as she calls for a mixture of olive oil and crushed lavender, then with practiced expertise, rubs me with it. Hoping that my cock’s lack of cooperation will relieve me from my duties, I picture Gracchus’s thick lips, pink tongue, and the disgusting sound he makes when he takes his pleasure. Sadly, my body has other ideas. The physical stimulation overrides my mental commands, and my cock rises to the occasion.

Domina lifts her toga, climbs onto the table, and then mounts me. I am strong and large for my age, but the wind is knocked from my lungs as her weight lands on me.

“Open your eyes!”

Cacat! This is stealing my soul. The walls of my mind are squeezing in. Gracchus must have had enough money and power to warrant a beautiful wife, despite his obvious shortcomings, because although Domina is a matron, she’s still pretty. Though she’s not as physically disgusting as her spouse, this is still torture.

Between her perfume and the smell of lavender oil, combined with her heavy body and hot breath panting onto my face, I can’t keep my disgust hidden. Try as I might, I can’t just lie here and take it. The urge to run is overpowering .

Moments ago, wasn’t I ready to plunge a knife into my chest? My gaze lands on one of the guards’ swords and I blindly roll Domina off me, only vaguely aware of her body thumping to the floor as I leap at the guard.

He was so engrossed in the sexual spectacle that he couldn’t react fast enough to stop me from disarming him. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve got two hands on the hilt and have sliced through the air with such vigor that I separate his head from his body.

As though I’m watching from far away, I vaguely think I should be shocked. I should stand down. Instead, I step to the other guard and as he reaches for his sword, I behead him as well. The way the blood spurts from what used to be his throat is fascinating, but I don’t allow myself a moment to watch. I place my back against the wall, panting as I swing wildly to keep the others at bay. Strangely no one is moving.