“Tristan! Tristan!” Cato called out to his friend over the press of men exiting the comitium.
Assembly had ended.
The light of the waning sun stretched the shadows of the tall pillars surrounding the open lawn, signifying how long the session had gone.
Early on, the sun had been high, the day sweltering, and finding shade amidst the throng of sweaty men was a god send. Now, the air had cooled, and a haze had lifted up from the dusty pathway underfoot, highlighted by the golden rays of the later hour.
Tristan, a young man of similar age to Cato, was amicable of face and soft of belly, especially when compared to Cato’s more fit physique. He looked back over his shoulder, a bright smile coming to his round face as his eyes came upon his friend. Hand raising, he gestured to the left of the flow of bodies toward a small courtyard just off the exit path.
“What say you young Dantatus?” Cato said to his beaming friend in a deep and bombastic tone.
“Dantatus?” Tristan replied.
“I’d say good tidings to you and your bright smile, if it were not so jagged and yellow.” Tristan’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of mock outrage as he covered his mouth and teeth.
“I am not Dantatus, Young Cato, son of Quirinus, or should I say, Young Varus.” Tristan's knees buckled and he screwed up his eyes, walking as if he could not right them, his dark curly hair flopping about. The two friends laughed, reaching one another and clapping each other around the shoulders. They walked together further into the courtyard, reaching a glittering fountain in the center of the square.
“Yet…Varus indeed?” Tristan said, his arm’s crossing and tanned face turned more serious. A glint of questioning flashed in his eyes. “After your late night frivolities… Tell me, were you made bow legged, or did you cause another to walk awkwardly into the night?” Cato looked admonished.
“A more vulgar man would lower himself to divulge such…vulgarity.” Cato retorted, attempting to maintain a look of distaste despite the clumsy end of his statement. “I on the other hand-”
“Are a depraved wolfhound,” Tristan cut in with a judgemental smirk. “Whose prick is still probably as stiff as it was when deep inside one of Albertus’s exoletis.”
“You sir…are not entirely wrong.” Cato said, his face going blank for a moment. “I say to you…It’s still hard if you’re looking to help soften it.” He put on a half-hearted leer that quickly fell away in defeat under Tristan’s smirk. Not one of his better retorts. “I beg for your sympathy. It was a late night, and today’s assembly was long and tedious.”
“Pathetic! What sort of man fucks all night and fails to rise, spry and lively the next morning? No man I know.” Tristan proclaimed in triumph.
“Perhaps one who stayed awake long after all pleasure had ended.” Cato said, the smile for his teasing friend becoming rueful. As he expected, Tristan became more solicitous now that Cato was coming to the reason of why he’d called to him.
Cato was grateful. Tristan’s father served as the accountant to Cato’s father and household. Cato and Tristan grew up together, and they’d come to rely on one another’s friendship in times of both levity and council.
“Did something happen?” Tristan asked.
“Indeed. Many more things than I’d care to admit.” Cato said, and recalled the previous night to Tristan; About Thaddeous Waxon, putting great emphasis on the hold the Equites had over the proceedings and the giant Salvator. How with a gesture, Waxon commanded the huge man to nearly kill another. He mentioned little of his feelings toward the ward, though he highlighted the young man’s look of contempt upon Cato’s subtle game of perversion and power dynamics with Waxon.
“You make the Equites sound like a man found in the pages of great myths.” Tristan said.
“I dare say he has raised himself up to such heights. I do not overstate my claims of the man or his servants, though a hero I would not claim him to be.”
“Yes, but who is there to truly contradict the idea?” Tristan said, his countenance thoughtful. “Many know of his victories on the battlefield, and there is no person within Ostia who does not know of his wealth. No other merchant can claim such success in the region. I’d say your meeting with him was a fortuitous one. You can’t deny, despite the ambiguity of your opinion towards him, that he is a great man with great influence. I say if given a second opportunity, take advantage of his good opinion of you. You could only benefit.”
“Oh, I plan to…” Cato said, his voice trailing off as his thoughts went to the ward, his beautiful face a significant reason for the previous night's insomnia. Tristan must have read something of the thoughts on Cato’s face. His eyes thinned and head tilted back.
“There’s something more you're not telling me.” He said. Cato’s lips pressed together as he looked into the dark brown eyes of his friend, saying nothing.
It was then that a young boy no older than eleven, and who Cato recognized as a servant of his house, came running into the courtyard panting from what was a long journey.
“Titus, what say you? What brings you here? Has something happened?” Cato said in alarm. He clutched the boy’s shoulder’s, steadying him.
“Master Cato…I’ve…been searching for you…for an hour.” Titus stammered between beleaguered breaths.
“Out with it then.” Cato said, looking Titus in the eye as Tristan stood by, curious about the news.
“A messenger for you…from the Equites Thaddeus Waxon…A request for your presence at his home. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” Cato said with bewilderment.
His eyes turned toward Tristan, who too looked taken aback, but in the next moment, a discerning, if slightly smug, smile curled his lips.
A request to meet with the Equites was not a request. It was a summons. For it to take place at his home held significant implications, and to be brought to Cato with such strict urgency…
Was this to be an offer of employment?
Tristan was right.
This was truly a great opportunity. A rare opportunity. One that Cato’s father had dreamed for him. One Cato had dreamed for himself.
Cato had played the game, and had impressed the Equites.
He had aroused his curiosity, and yet far more, aroused his lustful heart.
Was Cato to be like the ward? Like his giant Salvator? Painted in gold. Dressed in white lace?
Or was he to be something else?
Waxon’s wife Antonia had given him five daughters and no sons.
Cato, the son of a great house and notable parentage, a young man held in high esteem with a patriot’s pride, youthful bravado, strong body, and thick cock, had all the traits seemingly upheld in the mind of the Equites. Traits Waxon himself held, and one he most likely wished for his own son if his wife had borne him one.
Cato was reaching of course, and yet, thoughts of such greatness played a melody in his mind.
Did he truly leave such an impression?
If this were to be true, he would elevate his family's name, his own name, to heights unknown.
And Cato would see Waxon’s young ward…
Be near him.
He could wipe away that blank countenance. Raise his forlorn gaze up…
To meet Cato’s face…
Cato had no choice. He had to meet with Waxon.
“If you please Tristan. Inform Praetor Trius of this new development for me. That it is a meeting of great urgency, and I do apologize for not meeting after assembly.”
Just as Titus claimed, a messenger awaited Cato upon his return home bearing the news of Waxon’s invitation to his estate, west of the Tiber, just outside of Ostia. Having taken just over an hour to return home from the comitium, Cato declined the offer of taking the chariot sent for him, opting to go by horseback on his mare Lyra, A chesnut numidian Cato had raised from a foal.
Cato reached the bridge passing over the Tiber within a quarter of an hour, passing the massive ships harbored at Ostia’s great portus. All the while thoughts of the ward heavy on his mind.
Would Cato see him or dare say…speak to him, or would the young man be deep within the slave quarters? Hidden away.
Cato assumed the latter, and immediately admonished himself for thinking this way. How foolish was he to yearn for just a glimpse of the ward's face.
How pathetic.
He was riding there to meet with the Equites. He accepted the idea he would not see the ward.
The home sat atop a hill of rocky formations covered in moss, grass and olive trees, overlooking the Tiber and the Mediterranean sea. The road leading up to the ascending path was surrounded by orchards and fields. Small homes dotted the landscape. Cato knew they all were under the patronage of the Equites. His ownings were vast indeed.
Reaching the summit, what Cato saw was not a home, but a palace, made up of many wide, columned red roofed structures. He was immediately flagged down by armed men, and after presenting the written invitation he’d received, was allowed to enter the paved courtyard of the largest structure with a great fountain of a naked woman in the center, each corner of the square lit by enormous blazing braziers.
Waxon came out to meet him, his scarred face less dour than Cato had seen, favoring a welcoming, pleasant countenance that still did not quite reach his piercing black eyes.
“Welcome young master Quirinus. It makes me glad that you accepted my invitation with such promptness. I apologize for the later hour. I have just returned from my inspections.” Waxon said, reaching out his hand to shake Cato’s. He was accompanied by two grim faced guards armed with spears. Neither the ward nor Salvator were present.
“I can only thank you for your invitation Master Waxon, and please call me Cato. I just came from assembly not one hour ago, Your message reached me as I was still on the road home.” Cato said, clasping Waxon’s hand.
“Then you must be famished. Come. Food has been prepared upon my arrival. Have something to eat, then we will discuss why I called you here.”
After eating his fill at Waxon’s bountiful table, Cato found himself in the Equites personal office, which was more akin to a small, if macabre, library filled with shelves of scrolls, tablets, books, and an extensive collection of animal heads and fur hides. The Equites, having just returned home, left Cato alone for a short period of time as he tended to urgent household business he could not put aside that arose during his absence.
The dead eyes stared down at Cato, unnerving him. There was no doubt that Waxon had hunted and killed every last beast on display. A killer indeed, even for sport.
It was then that the door behind Waxon’s desk creaked open, causing Cato’s heart to leap into his throat. It remained lodged there when he saw that it was the ward who had entered the room in a simple white tunic tied at the waist by a rope.
As if his body had become stone, Cato watched as the young man made his way to Waxon’s desk, a note of papyrus in his hand. He too stopped moving when he noticed Cato there, eyes fixed on him.
Each breath coming harder as the second passed by, Cato looked deep into his olive green eyes, unable to speak for moments that felt lost to time. When he finally did, the words choked in his throat.
“Hello…Hello um…I’m sorry, but I never learned your name. I don’t know if you remember me. My name is-”
“I remember you.” The ward said, his eyes upon Cato’s unwavering. His voice was soft, yet still strong in a way that caught Cato off guard, sending shivers down his neck and shoulders. “Master Cato Quirinus. Son of Lusidious Quirinus.”
“Yes…Yes, I am.” Cato said, feeling rather breathless.
“Did you require something?” Should I fetch a servant of the house for you?” The easy cadence of his words was more assured than Cato could have ever imagined, suggesting the young man was unphased by the awkward tension Cato was suffering.
“I…no…thank you, but no.” Cato said. With a nod, the ward put the papyrus sheet on Waxon’s desk, turned and left the room.
Cato gazed at the door as if willing it to reopen.
A sudden, irrational roiling came into Cato’s stomach, rising into his chest, affecting his mind.
He hadn’t even gotten his name.
With that thought ringing in his thoughts, it left no room for reason, or consequence. Cato rose from his seat, went to the door, and out into a long, stone hallway stretching to his right and to his left. The ward was more than half way down the left side of the passageway. Cato just barely caught a glimpse of him turning into what appeared to be another open air courtyard. Cato strode after him, his chest and head radiating the warmth of excitement and fear in equal measure.
What was he doing?
This was the home of Thaddeus Waxon. A man who killed for his country and for his own pleasure. Cato held no pretense about not understanding how foolish this was. How dangerous. Yet, his young heart would not allow him to stay still, and he abided by its call just to get the name of this beautiful young man.
He came to the threshold the ward just passed through, and saw that it was not a courtyard, but a long, wide green lawn with many stone paths leading to other areas of Waxon’s estate. The ward was walking toward a large, more simply constructed building. Cato started to call out to him, but thought better of it. Guards were sure to be posted all throughout. Cato had at least maintained enough sense to understand that, though he was a guest of the Equites, he had not been invited to wander the grounds freely.
The ward entered the large building, and soon after, Cato reached the same door.
A distinct smell of dampness and sweat came over Cato, and at once, he knew he had entered the slave quarters of Waxon’s estate. His own family quartered slaves. He recognized the long, low-lit corridors of rough, cracked stone, and while the smell was distinct, the smell was not foul unlike most slave quarters, which implied it was well maintained.
The clash of swords rang faint in the air, distant, as were sounds of men shouting. Cato slowed his pace, the only light coming from rooms, their openings placed sporadically to the left and right of the hallway, most empty aside from the occasional man or woman looking with curiosity at the new arrival. The ward was nowhere to be seen.
Cato made the decision to remove his fine sandals and clean, linen tunic, leaving him bare chested and his undergarments covering his lower half. If he were seen, he hoped to be mistaken as another slave or servant. He placed them on the floor in a dark corner of one of the corridors, mussed his hair, and continued on.
The sounds of clashing swords drew him in, becoming louder as he turned into another empty, low lit passageway, and another, until finally came upon a person, or rather, several people.
Men with broad backs and clothed in nothing but animal furs just barely covering thick, round buttocks stood upon a balcony looking down into the source of the racket. They raised their thick muscular arms, cheering, groaning, and laughing, unaware of Cato. Down below were two men, swords and shields in hand, circling one another in a dirt square, their hard, muscular bodies drenched in sweat, gleaming in the dancing light of torches surrounding them, their skin red with exertion. Another man stood off to the side, a whip in hand, observing the men as they rushed at one another with savage tenacity, the shields crashing together.
This was a training ground for gladiators.
The heat of the collective bodies gathered close together, the strong smell of their musk, washed over Cato. His desire for men could never be satiated, and being surrounded by the powerful gale of testosterone caused his thick cock to throb beneath the cloth covering it. Despite the foolishness of this endeavor, his mind wandered away from caution and to thoughts of these beasts of men undressed, sucking and fucking with Cato among them, his tongue and cock deep within their plump asses.
As he surveyed the scene before him, Cato caught sight of the ward sitting on a small wooden chair behind the throng, a worn little book in his hand, taking no part in the revelry of the fight below.
Next to him, hand on the back of the chair, was another great beast of a man, not far from the size of Salvator himself; his height comparable, his powerful, half naked body not quite as chiseled, but no less impressive. He looked to be of Norse descent; One of the giant, fair haired Varangians from what Cato could surmise. A rare sight in Rome, the blonde of the man’s ropey hair, shaved on both sides of his tattooed head, and short beard, despite being unwashed, was an unmistakable sign of his ancestry. A mug of drink in his hand, the man wore a grim expression, though Cato, always the keen observer, could see amusement at the spectacle below within the crinkle of his eyes.
“Aye there! Boy!” A deep voice barked. Cato was taken from his thoughts, his cock remaining half engorged. The source of the voice was a man tan of skin, with a barrel chest covered in the black hair similar to a great beast, with huge arms, no neck, and a full, scraggly beard. “Are you lost? Wander off from the servants quarters to gawk at the animals?” Like the Norseman, this man held a mug of drink in his hand; the red faced merriment of having already drunk multiple cupfulls glazed across his face as he guffawed with a few other men.
“I’d say he has.” Another man with long brown hair called out with a laugh. He was leaner than the first, and short in stature when compared to most others there, but was still much thicker in muscle than Cato. He sauntered over, and without warning, reached down and gave Cato’s semi-erect cock a few light slaps. “Look at the fucking cock on this young bull. I think he’s taken a liking to what he sees.” Cato backed away, his face burning, his heart pounding. “Aye, no worries young master. The arena has been known to get the blood flowin.” The long haired man said, putting a hand on Cato’s shoulder, guiding him forward toward the edge of the balcony. “Come and see the spectacle in all it’s bloody glory.”
The fight below had become brutal, and though neither man landed a blow that would seriously injure the other, they both bore cuts and bruises. Cato in no way was aroused by the violence. His only thought now was to escape back to the Equites’ office.
Coming here was a mistake.
He looked back behind him to see the ward looking in his direction, his handsome face conveying some confusion with Cato’s presence. The Norseman’s attention had been drawn to him as well, a hint of curiosity within his otherwise placid, icy blue eyes. Cato had never seen eyes like his before, as blue and clear as gemstones placed within the grisled, handsome face. Not a moment later, they left Cato, coming upon something that took all the grimness from the Norseman’s expression, replacing it with a sudden light of happiness.
Cato followed his gaze where he saw Salvator standing within the threshold of the balcony entrance, his smile unlike anything Cato could have imagined him to own. The two giant men came together, their playful shoving, laughter, and embrace displaying the kinship of a long-term friendship, Than to Cato’s astonishment, as unmistakable lovers. Their foreheads came together before sharing a kiss, filled with deep affection and longing. As their lips parted, smiles of joy only love and admiration could bring, came with their faces as they talked and laughed, acting as if nothing and no one else were present. It was, in fact, quite a sight to see these two gruff beasts of men sharing such tenderness with one another.
It didn’t take long for others to notice Salvator’s arrival, and many men went to greet him merrily, clapping his shoulder, and welcoming him back from what must have been a long time away with Waxon and his tour of his lands. The ward had risen from the chair, coming to them, but standing apart from the rest. Like Salvator, for the first time he carried a smile, if ever so slight, on his face as he watched the reunion of the two men.
When the crowd moved back to watching the fight below, the ward approached them, his diminutive frame more pronounced than ever before amongst the two giants. Putting his thin hand on Salvator’s arm, momentarily taking his attention from his lover, the ward said something into his ear. Both he and Salvator looked upon Cato, as did the Norsemen, his curiosity peaking. Salvator’s expression returned to the hard stone Cato was familiar with.
His stomach lurching, Cato did his best to appear undaunted.
After a few more brief words with the Norseman, whose own face darkened as he listened intently, Salvator went to Cato.
“Master Quirinus.” He said, his accent thick with the sharp lilt of his Persian homeland. “What brings you here to the gladiator’s training ground? Are you here on behalf of my master?”
“I…” Cato began, but stopped to clear his throat. To Cato, Salvator was a different man than what he had been back at the baths. He was speaking more than three words, and his display of loving affection toward the Norsemen was, at the least, wholly unexpected.
Cato began again, keeping his words clear and plain. “I am a guest, invited by the Equites on business. I was looking for the…I was taking a tour of his home. Your master is busy with another, unavoidable matter.” Salvator spared a glance toward the ward and Norseman, then it returned to Cato, his expression dubious.
“And you made it all the way here, deep within the slave quarters before realizing you may have lost your way?”
“I never claimed to be lost.” Cato said, his defenses rising.
“And yet you are.” Salvator said, a thick black eyebrow rising.
Not letting Cato speak again, Salvator turned his back to Cato. “Come, I will guide you back to the Master’s study.”
Deciding it was best not to object, Cato followed close behind.
“I must return Master Quirinus to Waxon.” Salvator said to the Norsemen, gripping his arm, his expression softening.
“Aye, how much longer will you keep our bed cold?” The Norseman said, bringing his face close to Salvator, a smile in his teasing words, His own northern accent as prevalent as Salvator's eastern accent.
“I won’t be long, Osman.” Salvator said, his words filled with apology.
“So you say.”Osman said, with a sigh, and the roll of his remarkable blue eyes. “A’ight. Be quick. I have plans for these next few days to have your cock fully used to my satisfaction.” A devilish grin came to Osman's face, as he reached down and gripped Salvator’s enormous cock beneath the loin cloth, having no care that he had an audience.
“I will guide him back.” The ward chimed in. Cato and the two men turned to him. He looked up at them, the same serene smile on his handsome, young face for his enormous companions. Cato, taken away by his smile, found his gaze lingering on it longer than he meant before quickly looking away. “I insist.” The ward continued. “You have been apart for too long. Go and be together. I shall see you both in the morning.”
Once again, Salvator’s actions contradicted Cato’s impression of him. His hesitancy to let the ward go on his own was apparent on his broad face, his objection coming to his lips before Osman spoke first.
“Say no more Auri.” He said to the young man, as he held Salvator from moving forward.
His name was Auri?
That was an unusual name. Cato could only guess that it was the short version of a longer name, though he could not imagine what it was.
A meaningful look passed between Salvator and Osman, Salvator’s hardened resistance falling and finally giving way to Osman’s reassuring gaze.
“Aye…” Osman growled, overtaken with the precocious enthusiasm of a young boy. He grabbed hold of Salvator’s ass and pulled him in close, burying his face in his lover’s thick neck, kissing it again and again before pulling him toward the door leading out.
Before being dragged fully away, Salvator stopped and looked at Cato.
“Go straight back to Waxon’s office.” He said. His expression was as serious as death. “And don’t let anyone see you. If you find that the Equites has already returned to his office to find you. Lie. Do not tell him you came here. Do not say you were wandering the grounds…looking for him.” His glare went to Auri the ward, whose annoyance toward Salvator’s accusation made him go rigid. Cato, mortified by the comment, had a mind to throw himself off the balcony and be skewered by one of the men fighting below. Yet, a more powerful feeling came to him.
Fear.
Had Waxon seen Cato’s eyes linger on his ward?
Was this the reason why Cato was invited? To be punished like the man who attempted to touch Auri in the bath house.
With these last words, Salvator and Osman took their leave, and Cato led him away.
Having gathered his sandals and tunic from the hidden corner and redressed, Cato followed Auri from the gladiator's training ground and out of the slave quarters. They walked at a brisk pace, Auri stopping now and then to check if anyone was present.
Cato’s desire to speak pressed in on him.
Say something. Anything.
“I…apologize if I have brought any potential trouble upon you.” Cato said, his tone low and tentative.
“I’m not the person you should worry about.” Auri said.
Cato understood, and the two young men made a swift pass across the lawn back to the corridor where Waxon’s office was. Auri stopped just short of the door, saying nothing as he let Cato pass. Cato kept his eyes down so as to not look at him.
“I may soon be employed by your master. I believe it’s the reason why he asks me to come and see him.” Cato said. Auri’s response was to remain silent.
“If so…I look forward to seeing more of you…Goodnight.”
Cato then slipped into the study, and to his undying relief, the room was empty.
