Warrior Games
Part One: "All this and more for a groat"

Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slave Markets
Summary:
Notes: A groat is a coin, representing a sum of currency so small, that it was often offered as an insult to merchants. I could not find the exact denomination it represented, but it was roughly 1/100th of a cent.

The little islands were set like tiny jewels in the great Ionian Sea, perched between Greece and the peninsula that would one day be the heart of the mighty Roman Empire. They were, for the most part, too isolated to be considered as part of one or the other, and their people were not truly of one culture or the other. The affairs of Greece and Rome were of little interest or indeed consequence to the three islands. Greece and Rome returned the indifference, despite the fact that one of the islands, Shalva, produced warriors of near-mythic greatness. This fact would have proved more intriguing, were there more of these warriors, and the island not so dangerous to reach, guarded by strange currents and, some said, beasts.

The second island, Azlybia, was primarily inhabited by peaceful folk, who asked little of the world around them, and preferred to pursue learning and the arts to war. The largest of the three islands was named Icaria, after ill-fated Icarus. Though it was quite far from Rome, it did a lively business in trade with the great city, selling strange wild creatures and slaves for those who could afford them. However, for the most part, the little islands were of no consequence to their mighty neighbours. In a few centuries, they would quietly sink beneath the sea, unremarked and unmourned, save for the ramblings of a handful of scholars, largely considered mad.

For now, however, Icaria was above the ocean’s surface, and her inhabitants thrived in her small cities and towns. The sun rose, and the market place filled, the air turning golden with dust from weary oxen, disgruntled, over-heated market-goers, and slaves, shining with sweat as the summer sun heated up and beat down upon them. And in the crowd, Atoninn, along with his favorite slave Darith, had arrived just in time to see the first of the slaves brought onto the auction block. Darith shook his head at the sight of the very first man to come onto the platform.

“By all the gods, what did they do to him?”

Atoninn looked the man over, and slowly shook his head.

Ruined. Absolutely ruined.

The words ran through Atoninn’s mind as he watched the young man loaded onto the auction platform like a cow. His blue khiton was stained and torn, the once-fine fabric clinging to his dirty legs and body. He was sweating heavily, as were many of the crowd, for it was indeed a hot day, and the smell of the slave and animal markets was enough to fell a man. But Atoninn did not think the youth’s sweat had to do with heat so much as with fever and sickness. He was starved, scrawny, with weeping sores on his body, which the flies, drawn by the stench of filth and death, now explored. Judging from the limp, and the way he stood, he had a badly injured leg, possibly even a fracture. His long hair was matted with the choking dust that rose from the ground, and fell forward over his blue eyes, which stared at the platform, glazed and unseeing.

“Pretty,” commented Darith.

“Used to be, anyway,” remarked Atoninn. “What a mess. What do you think he was?”

Darith studied the standing wreck on the platform that used to be a man. Despite being a slave himself, he was in the fortunate position of belonging to a master who valued and respected him. “Blue khiton, looks like gold trim…. If he’d put his head up I could see if he has a tattoo.”

“What would the tattoo tell us?” asked Atoninn.

“Well, there is a small chance he is one of the warriors of Shalva.”

Atoninn gasped, then glanced around to see if anyone had heard the interaction. He took Darith’s arm, pulling his favorite slave and cohort close. “What does this mark look like?”

Darith fluttered his eyelashes, and grinned when his master feigned smacking him across the head for his nonsense.

“’Tis a beast, with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle.”

Atoninn nodded, and dug into his money pouch to give Darith a few coins. “Go get us some crumblie bread and meat, and some water. Bring them to the wagon and wait for me.”

Darith nodded, then went to do as he was bid. Atoninn turned his attention once more to the young man on stage, balancing carefully on his good leg, head down, hands bound behind his back. He eyed him as one did a horse, trying to determine his potential. The warriors of Shalva were near-mythic in their prowess as fighters, to the extent that those who had never met them in battle did not believe they existed. Never had one been brought alive to the auction block, for if they were defeated in battle, they killed themselves rather than return home disgraced. Not that defeat came to them often. Atoninn could not imagine how he came to be in this filthy market, covered in flies and dust, so broken in spirit he did not protest as the slave dealer yanked his mouth open to show his good white teeth.

Atoninn made up his mind to purchase him. Even in his current shape, he could teach fighters, if he could no longer fight himself. The trick now was to show no great interest, for Atoninn had grown wealthy off his ability to judge fighters. If he was bidding on this mess, folk would wish to know why. With feigned carelessness, he picked the smallest coin out of his pouch, inspecting it as the slave dealer waved his whip for their attention.

“What am I bid for this fine young specimen?” he cried. The crowd howled with laughter.

“I’m not paying money for that!” shouted a voice that Atoninn recognized as Merdine. He rolled his eyes. Merdine would not know a good fighter if one bit him.

“Am I bid nothing for this handsome young lad?” asked the dealer. “A little food and water, and you will triple his worth.”

“From less than nothing to nothing,” said Merdine. “Kill him and bring out something worth our while!”

“I’ll give you a groat for him,” said Atoninn. The slave dealer turned to him, insulted and well-nigh apoplectic.

“A groat?!”

“A groat,” said Atoninn. “That’s what they charge for dog meat, and that’s what he is. Dog meat.”

The crowd howled again, and the slave dealer shrugged, admitting defeat. “A groat it is. Shall I send for the butcher?”

Atoninn shook his head. “No, it’s two hours to my estate, the meat will have spoiled and be covered in dust. Not that there’s much meat on him.”

Merdine watched Atoninn closely, knowing the man had an uncanny knack for picking quality fighters at the slave market. He then scrutinized the upright disaster his rival had just purchased.

“I’ll give you a silver for him,” said Merdine.

Atoninn chuckled, his outward appearance giving no indication he was concerned about Merdine’s bid. Inwardly he was outraged at the gall of the man.

“Bidding is closed,” said the dealer haughtily. He looked at Atoninn and held the leash out to him. “Your dog meat, sir.”

Atoninn climbed onto the platform and picked the young man up, slinging him across his shoulders, and walked away. Once out of sight of the market, he broke into a huge grin. Beneath the long dirty hair of his recent purchase, emblazoned on his throat, was a blue tattoo: a beast with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle.

He reached his cart, and paused to glare at Darith, nibbling meat as he sat on the hay.

“The meat was for MY dinner.”

“Was it? Then you should ask for your money back, it was terrible.” He daintily licked gravy off his fingers.

Atoninn placed the young man down on the hay in the back of the cart. “Darith, who is master in this relationship?”

“You are. Actually I have been meaning to talk to you about your lack of authority.”

Atoninn growled. “What possessed me to purchase an Azlybian, I shall never know.”

“Because we are known for our wit, and our charm, and refinement, and you needed me to teach you to impress a lady.”

“Fat lot of good you did me.”

“Is it my fault you got drunk and decided to amuse her father by setting your unwelcome nether winds on fire?”

“Yes. You are the slave, I am the master, and that means everything is your fault.”

“I shall have myself flogged forthwith.”

“See that you do.” Atoninn climbed onto the seat of the cart and picked up the reigns, shaking them to wake the horse and let the beast know it was time to go home. “How is my newest acquisition?”

Darith stroked back the long hair, looking at the tattoo. “Most admirable purchase. There shall be much screaming and rending of hair and gnashing of teeth when word gets out that you bought a Shalvan warrior.”

“Aye, for a groat.”

Darith laughed. “A groat?! You jest!”

“I do not. I said I wanted him for dog meat.”

“You may wish you had used him for dog meat. When his health recovers, you are going to have a very proud, disagreeable and highly skilled fighter on your hands, with no love of slavery.”

“Be that as it may, we shall deal with that issue when it arises. In the meantime we have a long drive ahead of us. Be sure to get some water into him, and if you left any food, try to encourage him to eat. Is that leg broken?”

“I cannot tell. There is an ugly bruise here, though. He’s been in a battle, and recently. His hair is matted with blood, the dust hid it. Likely that was how he came to be caught. He must have been left for dead.” He shook his head. “I do not know if we can mend him. By the time we reach home, he may well be dog meat.”

“Do what you can for him.” Atoninn urged the horse to move a little faster.

***---***

They arrived home, and Atoninn carried the young warrior to a bedchamber, while Darith ran to fetch another slave, named Lion. Atoninn had bought Lion many years ago, and the great black warrior had won for him so much gold that Atoninn gave him his freedom, as well as wealth enough to buy his own home. Lion however chose to remain on the estate of his former master, and served now as his most favoured and loyal captain of the guard. He had traveled a great deal after Atoninn granted him his freedom, and knew many things. He was often called upon to share his knowledge, and it was for this reason he was summoned now. He had been among the Shalva, and knew something of their ways.

Atoninn glanced up as the enormous man strode into the room, his hair braided and held in place with small bands of gold, his powerful body clad in leather armor decorated with images of great beasts. He very much resembled the animal whose name he bore.

“What have you here?” he asked, walking over to the damaged young man on the bed.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” said Atoninn.

Lion seated himself on the bed, carefully moving aside the dirty hair. “You have a young Shalvan here. They tattoo their youth thusly.”

Atoninn felt his heart sink. “Not a warrior?”

“The Shalva have many tattoos, that mean many things. They are a people of few words, but much imagery. The tattoo says he is of their nation. The blue khiton tells me he was likely a warrior, or training to be a warrior, and the gold pattern upon the hem says he already belongs to a warrior house. To learn what he is, we must see what is tattooed upon his breast. If there is no tattoo, that means he has only just begun training. If there is a coiled serpent, then you have a problem, for that will mean he is the catamite of a powerful warrior, and well trained in the ways of poison, and the assassin. The warriors keep them behind the battle lines to pick off enemy archers. If he bears the sign of the flaming winged horse, you also have a problem, for that means he is himself a powerful warrior, and not likely to take his new living arrangement with humour.”

Atoninn swallowed nervously. “Open his shirt then, let up see how much trouble I am in.”

Lion nodded, and carefully slid the top of the blue garment off. The trio stared in silence. Before them was the coiled black serpent, poised to strike. And above was the rearing black horse, wings spread, flame billowing from its mouth and nostrils.

“You have a problem,” said Lion.

Darith gasped. “Master let him die. Give him a draught of hemlock and let him pass. If he gets well he will kill us all.”

Atoninn swallowed. “No. No I will not do that. I have bought and trained slaves for both the circus and for my own guard, and never have I slain one for what he may do. He may be a warrior but he is still a young man. I will not kill him.”

Lion nodded, and smiled. “You are a good man. But if you wish to be his friend you had best return his jewelry to him.”

“Jewelry?” said Atoninn. “He had no jewelry.”

“You have a problem.”

“Will you please stop saying that? What problem do I have?”

“As a catamite, his lover would have awarded him a gold collar, very special arm bands of silver, two silver chains, and silver bracelets. Did he not have a silver case of cosmetics and kohl?”

“No. And yes, I know! I have a problem!” He sighed heavily. “Very well. Darith, stay here and see to my Shalvan. Lion, let’s you and I go have a word with a certain slave dealer. Bring your sword.”

***---***

The days passed, warm and fair. It was early summer, and there was much to be tended to on the estate of Atoninn. There were animals to care for, slaves to train, and a household to run. Darith had no shortage of things to do. But despite his workload, there was always time to retreat to the training field, or into the cool depths of the villa, to flirt with Lion. The powerful warrior did not seem particularly responsive to Darith’s advances, but he never told him to get lost, either. At worst he was amused by the little man, whose skull he could crush with one mighty hand if he so chose.

Currently, Lion was seeking some relief from the midday sun in the fountain in the main hall, the cooling water trickling over his polished dark skin as he stood naked in the silvery liquid. It was doubtful Atoninn would have approved, though he tended to just let Lion do as he pleased.

“Never let it be said I am in the habit of pulling the tails of lions,” he was often heard muttering.

Darith watched the great warrior cool his muscled body, feeling his heart race and his throat tighten as the droplets lovingly licked their way down Lion’s back, tracing paths over his buttocks and down his powerful thighs. He was about to say something, when he saw Lion pause from his bathing, his dark eyes fixed on something down the hallway. Darith came to see what had attracted his attention, and felt his stomach knot. About halfway down the hall was a small figure in a blue khiton, trimmed in gold.

“By all the gods why is he awake?” whispered Darith.

“It was bound to happen,” said Lion softly. “Atoninn has been seeing he gets the best care.”

“I applaud his soft heart, but question why he must needs a soft head to go with it. I would fear a mad bear less.”

Lion stepped out of the fountain and dressed in his simple white garment, then picked up his spear. “Let us follow him.”

Darith slid his hand into Lion’s. The large man paused and looked down at Darith, who blinked as cutely as he was able. Lion rolled his eyes in exasperation, and the two followed the Shalvan warrior.

The young man limped along slowly, pausing now and then to gather his strength, or to gaze about at the beautiful mosaics and frescoes of Atoninn’s villa. The household slaves who came upon him in the hall tossed down their pots and laundry and retreated back the way they had come. One young maid screamed and threw her apron over her head, then fled shrieking, running face-first into the buttocks of a marble centaur and knocking herself cold. The Shalvan warrior pulled his poisoned stiletto and looked around for what could be frightening the slaves so. His eyes met Lion’s, and the two stared at each other.

“The master let him keep his weapon?!” exclaimed Darith.

“He thought he would feel less threatened with it,” said Lion.

“That’s it, I’m running away. There is no law says a slave must stay and serve a moron.”

“I will protect you,” said Lion. “I am not afraid.”

The Shalvan hissed, raised his dagger, and suddenly lunged for the pair. Lion tossed aside his spear and fled, dragging Darith with him.

“I thought you said you did not fear him!” cried Darith as the huge man pulled him down the hall at top speed.

“I also remembered that one should not ask a Lion to do battle with the Hound of Hades!”

Atoninn stepped into the hall, his attention drawn by the commotion, his sword at the ready. He stared as Lion and Darith tore past.

“It’s awake!” shouted Darith.

Atoninn turned to see what they were fleeing, then glanced back at the rapidly retreating men.

“Coward!” he shouted at Lion.

“LIVE coward!” retorted Lion as he disappeared around a corner, Darith virtually blowing behind him.

Atoninn stepped before the Shalvan, spreading his arms. He braced himself, awaiting the lethal thrust of the dagger to the throat. He was not a timid man, but he closed his eyes, dreading his own death.

He heard the skid of sandals sliding to a halt on the stone floor, the heavy huff of breath from one who was angered. But he did not die. He opened his eyes slowly, one at a time, and stared at the Shalvan. He slowly lowered his sword, staring into the blue eyes, which were wary and cold.

“So the leg was not broken,” Atoninn said softly.

The young warrior stared at him fixedly, panting, sweating. He was on his feet but he was not well. Atoninn sheathed his sword, his movements slow and non-threatening, then he spread his hands once more, showing he no longer held a weapon.

“I am not your enemy, son of Shalva.”

The young man made a noise; very soft, very threatening, much like the hiss of an angry serpent. Atoninn had no doubt this man was every bit as lethal. His hair hung loose and wild over his pretty face, but there was something about the stance that made Atoninn think perhaps this fighter was not as capable as he looked. For one thing he was beginning to shiver. He was far from well.

“Let me return you to your bed.”

“Tell me your name,” snapped the youth.

“I am Atoninn, this is my home. You are my guest.”

The Shalvan seemed confused. “Your… guest? I heard the household slaves say you bought me.” The eyes narrowed in outrage. “For a GROAT!”

“Yes I did, and if you had seen yourself, that’s all you would have paid also!”

The blue eyes blinked in surprise. Plainly the young man was not used to being talked back to. “I am Cyrek.”

Atoninn smiled. “You are indeed. Your name suits you well. It means ‘Lordly’.”

“Flatter me not. I am no Lord.”

“You are from a land of great warriors, and due respect. But now you need rest. Let me take you back to your room.”

Cyrek considered, then sheathed his dagger. Atoninn reached out to take his arm, but Cyrek pulled away, his movements like a wild horse. Atoninn brought back his hand quickly, and smiled.

“Perhaps your father should have named you Buccephalus.”

Cyrek shot him a look, his lip curling slightly. “Well if you wish to ride me then you shall have to do far more than turn my head into the sun to vanquish my shadow.”

Atoninn raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps some sugar then, to make you take the bit.”

Cyrek gave him a sidelong glance and a low snort of derision. Atoninn found himself getting mildly annoyed.

“Or I could just use a whip to settle you.”

He never did find out exactly what Cyrek did, only that the young man seemed to levitate, and there was sudden violent blow to his chest. Atoninn fell backwards and hit the floor hard enough then he slid a few feet before coming to a stop. He shook his head, then stared, dumbstruck at Cyrek’s back as the Shalvan continued his slow way down the passage.

“Horses kick, you know,” he muttered to Atoninn from over his shoulder.

***---***

A groat had been far too much to pay, mused Atoninn as he stood on the balcony of the upper floor of his grand villa. He was flanked, as always, by Lion and Darith, and all were watching Cyrek prowl the training ground.

His health was returning, and he was growing stronger. The leg had fully mended, and he could move as easily as a man who had never been injured. He was a glorious sight in his blue sparring garb, his jewelry glittering across his throat. The hair that had been so crusted with blood and dust now shone gold, and though he was still not fully healed, none of Atoninn’s other fighters wished to do battle with him.

In the pit, Cyrek paced alone, like a panther of blue and gold, his sparring partners hiding.

Atoninn shook his head, then shouted to those behind the gates below; “COWARDS!”

He received a wave of acknowledgement. Atoninn ran his hand over his face, then looked to Lion. “Go fight with him. You are brave.”

Lion addressed him in his native tongue, and Atoninn puffed up with anger.

“You do TOO speak Latin, and better than I! Do not pretend you do not understand!”

Lion sighed, and, with exaggerated dejection that would have had theater-goers howling with mirth, made his way down to the pit.

“I am surrounded by humorists,” muttered Atoninn.

“My champion!” shouted Darith, clutching his heart as Lion entered the pit. The large black man showed him a gesture that needed no interpretation.

“Again your love is flung back at you, like dung in a sling,” said Atoninn.

“He adores me,” said Darith, “he just forgets.”

Atoninn snorted with amusement, then sighed as Cyrek ignored Lion to go after the other fighters in the pit, scattering them like leaves and sending them over the wall in fear for their lives. They were not cowards, but they preferred battles they had a chance of winning.

Lion reached out and tapped Cyrek with his speak, antagonizing him. Cyrek spun and slashed with his sword, then attacked, giving Lion no chance to recover. He was small and fast, and Lion’s great spear was no deterrent. Darith cried out as Cyrek nearly managed to gut the huge man.

“Master he is not playing!”

“No indeed he is not.”

Atoninn turned and began running through his great house, heading for the training field. A short time later, Darith saw him appear in the pit, and by now another fighter, Marc, had appeared to render aid. He had been trained in net and trident, and he tried to catch Cyrek and contain him, but the small Shalvan dropped low and spun, driving his blade into the man’s groin. It was a cut felt by every man in the pit, but deepest by Marc and his lover Antonius, who was now heading for Cyrek with a blade in his hand and blood in his eye. The two squared off, and prepared to lunge just as Atoninn flicked out his whip, cracking it loudly. Antonius grudgingly backed off, looking from the master he respected to the Shalvan he loathed.

“Take Marc to the barracks, I will send the physician,” said Atoninn.

Antonius growled and looked once more to Cyrek, and for a moment Atoninn feared that Antonius would head for Cyrek anyway. Spartans also took insult with ill humour.

“Take him to the barracks,” he said softly, and at last Antonius began dragging his maimed lover off the field.

Atoninn had never flogged a slave in his life, and was frequently made the butt of jokes for his methods of using kindness and respect rather than the whip to get his fighters to listen. But as he looked at the pool of blood now soaking into the sand, and thought about Cyrek’s vicious intent and nature, he was sorely tempted to do so now.

“Do you know what you have done? The damage you have just caused? If he lives he’s ruined.”

“You put me in here to fight. I fought. Do not cry to me now that your man is as ball-less in body as he was in heart.”

Atoninn showed Cyrek the whip, his white teeth grit in anger. “Do not make me use this, boy.”

Cyrek stared back at him, his eyes fixed and cold. “I dare you.”

Atoninn did not hesitate. It was well and good to use kindness, but in this situation, to have not responded would have cost him much power and loyalty, as well as the respect of his men. The whip snapped out, lashing across Cyrek’s face and throat. The young man backed up, the metal tips on the scourge cutting his golden-tanned flesh. Plainly he had not expected this master to be capable of harsher methods to make his point.

“Go to your chambers,” he snapped, and, quietly, Cyrek obeyed, leaving the field, his bluff called. Atoninn watched him depart, then looked at Lion.

“My words were brave but my knees were water.”

“You stand well for a man with no knees.” He placed a huge hand on Atoninn’s back. “But now you have a problem. You cannot fight him if you cannot train him, and you cannot train him if none with practice with him.”

The two began walking towards the villa. “I do not wish to fight him, I wish to use him to train my fighters. I cannot teach him anything, he is already trained in both forms of Shalvan combat.”

“But how competent is he?”

Atoninn looked at Lion. “Well you saw what he did to Marc!”

“Yes, but I see other things too. The Shalvan people despise servitude, yet here he is. You do not cage or chain him, you do not deny him his weapons. It would be no feat for him to steal a horse, yet he sits in his room and goes nowhere. Yet you do not wonder why? I do not think it is because he would feel guilty for costing you your groat.”

Atoninn paused and looked at his friend, staring into his wise brown eyes. He gave Lion a pat on one strong shoulder.

“You go for the physician, my friend. I shall talk to our Shalvan.”

***---***

He found Cyrek in his room. Atoninn had a barracks for his fighters in training, but had decided early on that it was better to befriend this Chimera in blue than cage him. Atoninn was no fool – he knew his chances of keeping his prize would lessen with every insult. And Cyrek was not a man to take kindly to poor treatment. At present he was seated on his bed, using the small mirror he had in his personal effects to check his injuries.

“You are in deep trouble,” said Atoninn. “Antonius will not forget what you did to his lover.”

Cyrek curled his lip slightly. “I do not fear the tarts of net-fighters.”

“He is Spartan.”

“So he is a Spartan tart. If he can do no better than a net-fighter, I see no reason to fear. Let him sulk like Achilles in his tent.”

“Cyrek, I am not a cruel man, but if you continue to cause trouble, I shall have to sell you. You are of no benefit to me if you ruin good fighters and insult their lovers. And I promise you, as miserable as you are here, you will be FAR more miserable with Merdine.”

Cyrek’s head snapped up, and for once Atoninn had the arrogant warrior’s full attention. “Merdine?”

Atoninn blinked in surprise. “You know him?”

“I know he is the one who destroyed me. I know that one day I shall see the eagles eat his heart out of his shattered breast while he screams to me to kill him!”

Atoninn backed up as the mirror Cyrek held suddenly snapped in half with the force of the hand clutching it. A silence fell in the room. Cyrek stared at Atoninn for a long moment, then looked to his hand, and began carefully picking bits of silvered metal out of his flesh. Atoninn seated himself on the one wooden chair in the small room.

“Tell me what he did to you.”

“He did not do it alone. I had been the lover of one of our greatest fighters. His name was Augustus, and I loved him deeply. He was a man of much arrogance, and indeed even cruelty, prone to drunken whims of violence and evil, but still I loved him, though there were times he treated me as less than his lowest slaves. But he demanded the best from all around him, and I was no exception. It was he who insisted that I be trained in both the ways of assassin and warrior, and I soon became famous for being one of the handful of our warriors proficient in both styles of fighting. My fame began to attract wealth, and we were doing very well. I was content.

I had a slave in my possession. She was really of no use anymore, but she had been one of my most trusted confidants, and her prophecies had ever proved useful to us. And I was fond of her. Her name was Lydia, and she was of great age, and blind. She could not do much more than sit, and made it a point to sit in the hall, eating nuts and chastising the younger slaves to hasten at their duties. One day she took it into her head to go for a walk. I do not know what possessed her to do such a thing, but I think perhaps her mind had at last failed her. She had not gone far when she was run down by a merchant. He carried her back to my house with the intention of paying for her loss, though there was no amount of gold that could replace her tongue or her nut-shells in my hall. I was deeply saddened.”

“The merchant…”

“Was Merdine,” confirmed Cyrek. “The first of the insults he dealt me. But at least he had the good grace to try to make amends. Augustus would have tossed Lydia to the crows, but I insisted upon a decent burial for her, and a new slave. Merdine agreed to such, and promised to return the next day with slaves for me to choose among.”

“Did he return?” asked Atoninn.

“He did,” said Cyrek. “The slaves he brought were of no great quality, but from his point of view I had no right to demand an eagle to replace an old crow. They were all flawed, but good enough for what their duties demanded. But there was one…”

Cyrek fell silent briefly, his mind far away. “He was so lovely. I never saw any like him. A dark beauty, with black eyes, and long black hair, skin the colour of gold. He was tall and slender, and intelligent, trained as a scribe for a royal house that had been destroyed in battle. He had been rendered mute, so that he could tell none of the secrets he overheard at his duties. My dark beauty. Never had I seen any so fair, and I was utterly smitten the moment I saw him. He was for me, but I did not get him. Augustus purchased him from Merdine ere I laid eyes on him, and my Lydia was replaced with a similar old crow. She was a dear old hag, and amused me with her antics, but I desired the beauty.”

“Had he a name?” asked Atoninn.

Cyrek narrowed his eyes. “Augustus gave him a name, which I will not utter. That pig, he looks upon grace that could only have been crafted by Venus herself, and he gives it a name that would not be uttered by the crassest of sailors. I called him my Dark Beauty, and I loved him, and he, me. I could not stomach to see what Augustus would do to him, for well I know how he treats the young men in his power. I made up my mind to take him, and flee. So, that night, we fled.”

Cyrek shook his head, eyes full of pain, and there was no hiding the sorrow in his voice. He clenched his bleeding fist and pounded it upon the bed.

“I should have known! I should have known he would come after us. They caught us at a narrowing of the passage that led to the harbour. We were surrounded, my Dark Beauty was captured, and I was beaten nearly to death. But they did not lay a hand on my love, for Augustus wished that pleasure for himself. I do not know what he did to him. I do not want to know. Then we were both handed over to Merdine. I was to be sold at market, and my Dark Beauty handed over to someone more foul than Augustus for the crime of not wishing to be mounted by a pig. Now I can never go back, for to do so would be to risk being slain by my own people. I was kept as a slave. It does not matter I was so ill that, by the time I knew what had become of me, it was too late. A runaway slave who was once a warrior, who permitted himself to be defeated in battle by any means other than death, is not welcome on Shalva. And now you know my tale. I am utterly disgraced, and have not even the comfort of my dark one.”

“Does he live?” asked Atoninn.

Cyrek seemed utterly drained by his outpouring, and he lay down on the bed. “I do not know. I almost hope not, for to think what he is enduring otherwise makes me ill.”

Atoninn left Cyrek to sleep, making his way to the garden to think. The day had grown old, and now darkness was slowly creeping into the heart of the villa. He seated himself beside a pond, staring down at the little fish that darted and flashed around the small statue of Venus, sitting nude and demur on a stone, braiding her hair in the reflection of the water. And he thought.

If Merdine knew Cyrek, and knew his story, then why did he stand in the crowd and pretend he did not? Had he been ordered to make certain that Cyrek was sold, or at the very least had met some sort of end? Atoninn had said he wanted Cyrek for dog meat, and certainly implied that was what had become of him. But Cyrek lived, and recovered, and told his tale. He had been robbed of his status, his wealth, and nearly his life. Then there was the one loss that mattered most to him.

The taking of his ‘Dark Beauty’.

Beauty or not, a trained scribe was valuable. Merdine would wish to get his money’s worth out of the man. So who was in need of a scribe? No, that was not the question. Who was in need of a scribe who would be sure to make this young beauty’s days naught but evil, pain and despair?

Atoninn rose and went in search of Lion.

***---***

Darith scowled at the backs of the two horses pulling the cart, trying to ignore the sun that pounded on the back of his skull. Beside him on his fine white horse rode Atoninn, looking no more happy about the cruel heat of the day. The dust coated the legs of the horses, and lodged in the throat, making conversation difficult.

Their ruse was a simple one. Atoninn had made arrangements to view some fighters that Merdine owned, and possibly purchase. It was not an uncommon thing for him to do, though usually once Atoninn arrived at Merdine’s estate he would find little more than mangy, lame gladiators whose fighting days were well past. Merdine traded mostly in easy kills for young, up-and-coming gladiators, and for patrons who wished to make their own mangy lame gladiators look good. Atoninn would usually buy a couple out of pity and find some use for them, and Merdine could brag he had sold warriors to the great Atoninn himself. Atoninn’s only real reason for keeping up the relationship was to spare himself the feud that would surely erupt if he told Merdine what he truly thought of the stinking wrecks he liked to call fighters, but today at least, it served a useful purpose.

Today Darith would creep about and see if he could locate Cyrek’s Beauty.

“Master?”

“Yes, Darith?”

“How will we know if we have found Cyrek’s Beauty?”

“I should imagine he would be rather distinctive, Darith.”

“I am not so certain about that. Do you recall the ‘luminous image of Venus herself, crafted and made flesh’ that your brother came home with?”

Atoninn flinched. “Augh. Harpies have fairer visages.”

“And sweeter voices. I am sure they are more fragrant. But he adored her, and to him there was none fairer.”

“So you are saying that Cyrek’s Beauty may well be another harpy.”

“It is a possibility, master.”

“Well harpy or no, he will be literate, and mute, and his hair will be black. So keep an eye out for such a man.”

“Yes, master.”

They reached Merdine’s villa, and were warmly greeted by the fat slob himself. Then, as Atoninn was led off to view the fighters, Darith slipped down from the cart and went in search of Beauty. No sooner was he out of sight than something shifted in the hay, a man whose presence had been undetected by both Atoninn and Darith. The hay moved aside, and a stealthy form clad in blue made his way towards the villa.

***---***

“Tell me true!” said Merdine as he and Atoninn stood on the training field, “have you ever seen a sight such as this?”

Atoninn surveyed the standing wrecks that Merdine called fighters. ‘Aye,’ he thought, ‘Alexander’s troops after a war.’ Still there were a couple that perhaps could have been turned around, and one that Atoninn decided to purchase just to give him a decent funeral. Then there was a little blond with the hell-green eyes. A few good meals, a bit of rest and a bath and he could probably give Lion a run for his money. He walked over to the blond, not liking the gleam in his eyes. He was shaking, though with rage or fear, Atoninn could not tell. He was like a dog that had been beaten far too often. Atoninn raised his hand to pull back the pale hair and look at a scar on his face, and the man flinched. He may even have growled. Atoninn looked towards Merdine.

“This man’s nerve is gone.”

“He’s just shy,” said Merdine dismissively, draining his goblet of wine and shouting for more. The blond flinched again, the wild eyes staring sidelong at Merdine.

Atoninn leaned close, and said softly “I’d like to kill him too, but then Rome would be denied the shit she needs to grow her crops.”

The warrior behind the blond lowered his head, hiding his grin, shoulders shaking. Atoninn looked him over. Handsome lad, big-boned, strong. He would do well. Atoninn singled out the ones he wanted, and had them sent to his cart to wait for him, the edgy blond along with them. He turned to Merdine and was about to speak, when he heard a familiar voice calling to him.

“MASTER!”

Atoninn turned to see Darith running towards him. He came up and grasped his arm, gasping, then drawing a breath.

“Master, Cyrek is loose in the villa, he is screaming for blood!”

“Go back to the cart, Darith. Wait for me there.”

Darith nodded, and did as he was told. Then Atoninn turned to Merdine. The man was wide-eyed, his fleshy jowls quivering as the colour drained from his face.

“The warrior you and Augustus tried to destroy is back, Merdine. I suggest you give him what he wants.”

Merdine’s expression became outraged. “I did no such thing! I am an honest merchant!”

Atoninn looked over his shoulder at the sound of scream of pure rage and hate. “I do hope you did not harm his Beauty, Merdine.”

Merdine swallowed. He was beginning to sweat. “His beauty? I have no idea what you are talking about!”

“A dark beauty, silent, with black hair, and skin the colour of gold. A former scribe of a royal house.”

“Atoninn this is all nonsense! I have no such beauty, and I demand that you contain this mad man of yours before I call upon my fine fighters to slay him!”

Atoninn smiled. “You are right. Of course. How rude of me.” He turned towards the villa, hearing Cyrek tear through the place like a lion through a pottery shop. “Cyrek! Cyrek I demand that you come out here to the training ground right now and apologize to Merdine!”

There was a silence, and Atoninn turned to Merdine. “Death approaches, Merdine. Have you pennies for the ferryman?”

Merdine was white as his robes, and he watched with horror and fear as Cyrek emerged from the villa like a fury, blade drawn, heading straight for him.

“Kill him!” Merdine screamed.

An arrow came from one of the guards walking the walls around the training field, ill-aimed and of no intent. Merdine was not beloved by his men. Suddenly he was facing the consequences of his treatment of his own slaves. Desperate, he shouted: “I’ll free the man who kills him!”

The arrow was well aimed and sure this time. It sank deep into Cyrek’s flesh, and the warrior tumbled into the dust and was still, his blood seeping from his side. Atoninn turned to Merdine and snarled into his ear: “You may be able to kill him but you cannot kill me, and of the two of us I’ll wager mine is the better reputation. Now how would you like all your little cheats and games to become public knowledge? I’ll wager there are some wealthy customers of yours who paid good money for a well-trained house slave, who got some wretch dying on his feet of typhus, but could not prove he did not catch it on the voyage from this island to Rome.”

Merdine stared at him. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh by the fates and gods and furies I swear I will. You give me Beauty. You keep your holdings. I go home. All are happy.”

Merdine threw up his arms. “What is one pretty scribe to me. I will have him brought to you.”

Merdine sent a slave to fetch Cyrek’s Dark Beauty, while Atoninn ran to his fighter, kneeling in the dust beside him and taking his hand. He was surprised to see him still drawing breath, but Atoninn knew he would not be for long.

“I’ll never see him again,” said Cyrek.

“You will. I swear to you, you will see him. Do not lose hope, Cyrek. You came all this way.”

“You must keep him for me. You alone are the only honorable man I have met,” said Cyrek, closing his eyes.

“I will keep him for you, I swear. I will keep him safe.”

Atoninn was gently pushed aside, and someone took Cyrek’s hand from him. Atoninn rose to his feet and stepped back, and knew that he had to be looking at Cyrek’s Beauty.

He was tall and elegant, slender, his skin a delicate gold. He was lithe and muscled, a perfect blending of strength, grace and beauty. His black hair hung in loose curls over his shoulders, framing his large eyes and fine high cheekbones. He held Cyrek’s hand between his own, and Atoninn turned to wave off those standing near at hand.

“Give them this time alone,” he said softly.

Their time together was brief indeed. Atoninn did not know what Cyrek said to the lover he had come to save, but when he passed, the beautiful man he loved rose slowly to his feet and walked over to Atoninn. The huge dark eyes glittered wetly, and tears made trails in the dust over his aristocratic face. He extended a long, elegant hand to Atoninn.

“Cyrek told you that he wished for me to care for you?” asked Atoninn.

The man before him nodded, weeping silently.

Atoninn took his hand. “All will be well,” he said softly. “I promise.”

***---***

Beauty, it seemed, did have a name. He wrote it out for Atoninn on the grim ride back to the villa, with Cyrek’s body in the cart, the newly purchased slaves following behind as it moved at a stately pace. His name was Hesperos, which meant ‘Evening Star’. It was a far more fitting title than the crude moniker Augustus had given him.

Cyrek had a proper burial, his jewelry and few possessions passed on to Hesperos. Atoninn gave the beautiful young man a position of dignity as his personal scribe, and Hesperos settled into his new life. However his grief did not leave him so easily. Many nights he would sit in graceful silence upon the stone lid of Cyrek’s crypt, eyes closed, as unmoving as the marble monuments around him. The other slaves began to fear that he may be a spirit or sorcerer, and they avoided him during the hours of darkness.

The Evening Star shone alone.

The days turned to weeks, and then to months. The nights became cold, but still Hesperos slept on Cyrek’s stone slab, leaving only when the household awoke in the morning, and it was time for his duties to resume.

“The other slaves say he is some form of sorcerer,” said Darith as he walked alongside Atoninn on their way to the bathing chamber. “They say his father was Hades.”

“His father was a Greek sailor and his mother was an Egyptian slave girl,” said Atoninn dryly.

“Well I didn’t say that I believed it. But it is strange the way he insists upon sleeping on Cyrek’s grave.”

They entered the bathing chamber, Atoninn removing his clothes and tossing them aside before stepping into the great heated bath, the sides of the square pool decorated with mosaics of fish and wading birds. “He grieves. There is nothing odd about it.”

Darith seated himself at the edge of the bath, dangling his feet in his master’s bathwater. “I suppose not. But it has been six months.”

“Let him grieve, Darith.”

“He’s going to make himself sick. Besides, folk from the village have seen him. More and more when I go to the market, I am questioned about the beautiful one who sits alone.”

“What do you tell them?”

“What can I tell them? I tell them that he is yours, and that you choose to let him sit there. Oh! I am reminded, a man begged me to give you an audience with him tomorrow. He wishes to buy Hesperos.”

“Hesperos is not for sale, I gave Cyrek my word.”

“So I told him, master, but he would not take my word for it. He will be here tomorrow afternoon.”

Atoninn sighed heavily. “This is the twelfth in two weeks.”

“Perhaps you should change his name to Penelope?”

“Darith, you are the most magnificent example of a Stupidus I have ever known.”

“Thank you master. Now what shall we do with Penelope? Brave Odysseus shall not come save his fair love from the suitors.”

Atoninn sighed heavily. “I know, Darith, much as I wish he would. Much as Hesperos wishes he would.”

Darith raised and eyebrow and smiled. “Well, Cyrek did give the fair one to you.”

“He is lovely, but he will not give me sons.”

“Nor will any other man, and I have noticed that, despite your brief forays after the fairer sex, they are not your preference.”

“Yet sons I must have. Who shall look after my interests when I am old? Who will look after you when I die?”

“Hmph,” pouted Darith. “I shall have to tend to my own needs. Lion does not want me.” He slapped at the water. “He likes that…. SPARTAN!”

“Antonius?”

Darith nodded. “After Marc died of that injury Cyrek dealt him they have become very friendly. Cretin.”

“Spartan.”

“YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!”

“Well why do you not court Beauty?”

“Why do goats not court antelope? Besides, my heart does not yet forget Lion.”

“Well may the gods grant that his heart remembers you.” Atoninn watched a figure silently, gracefully, pass by the chamber, clad in a white khiton, making his way to a certain stone slab for the night. So fair, so very, very melancholy, like an image out of myth, he passed like a faded shade. Perhaps it was time to address the matter.

“Hesperos.”

The elegant beauty stopped, raising his head and looking towards Atoninn.

“Come here and sit, we must talk.” He looked towards Darith. “Bring us some wine, would you?”

Darith nodded and went to do as he was bid. Hesperos walked into the room, passing Darith as he made his way to a low stone bench, seating himself. The dark eyes were like wells of unspoken grief, silent as the grave, yet full of poignant meaning. Atoninn felt his heart ache for him.

“Beauty, you cannot sleep the rest of your life upon Cyrek’s grave. He did not bid you quickly follow him into death. He asked me to look after you. Does that not tell you he wished for you to live on, and be happy?”

Hesperos looked aside, unable to meet Atoninn’s gaze. Darith returned with wine and goblets, then slipped something towards his master – a blank scroll, and ink and a pen. Then he quietly left the chamber. Atoninn smiled. Dear Darith always thought of the details. He picked up the scroll and held it out to Hesperos.

“Let’s you and I have a conversation.”

Hesperos smiled, very faintly, very briefly, like a faint flickering reflection of happier times. He slid gracefully off the bench and onto the tile floor, taking the ink and opening it. He dipped the pen into it, and wrote: “What shall we talk about?”

Atoninn poured them each a glass of wine. He passed one goblet to Hesperos, who sipped it. Then he sighed, not liking what he was about to say.

“I must ask you not to sleep on Cyrek’s crypt any longer. It frightens the slaves, and tales of a lone beauty, more fair than any mortal, grieving his lost love, are bringing more suitors asking for your hand than I have ways of dismissing. There is one arriving tomorrow, in fact.”

Hesperos’ large eyes grew frightened. “You will not give me to him, will you?”

“No, of course not. Not unless you wish me to.”

Hesperos shook his head, and wrote with great haste. “No. I do not wish to go with anyone. I wish to stay here. I will not sleep on the crypt if it displeases you but do not make me go.”

“I will not make you go. Hesperos, I made a promise to Cyrek, and he may have been my slave but he was a most worthy man. I will not break the vow I made. But it does still leave us with the question of what to do with your many suitors. Darith thinks we should change your name to Penelope.”

Atoninn smiled as Hesperos exuded outrage. He looked towards the door, plainly wondering what the punishment would be for hunting Cyrek down and giving him a thrashing. Atoninn’s expression became puzzled as he looked at Hesperos’ neck.

“Cyrek said you were rendered mute to keep you from telling secrets of the royal house in which you worked, yet I see no scar.”

Hesperos returned his attention to Atoninn, and wrote; “That is a story concocted by my first master, to make me seem more exotic than I am. I was born mute. He would have been more pleased had I been born a eunuch.”

“Ah! So he had a daughter, did he?”

Hesperos nodded. “I was purchased to teach her to read and write. He was most displeased when the lady got with child.”

“So that beauty of yours works on the fair ladies as well as the young men. So tell me, what do you prefer?”

Hesperos smiled slightly, and scratched on his scroll. “I find both enchanting, but confess I find long curls and a full breast less charming than strong hands and a firm thigh.”

Atoninn raised as eyebrow as he sipped his wine. “Indeed. So what became of your child?”

“Children. Twin sons. They were sold with me, to keep the lady from shame. Long I carried them as we trudged the road, and a hard fight it was to keep them. They are at the home of Augustus now, so far as I know. Cyrek and I tried to take them with us, but…”

‘Twin sons,’ thought Atoninn. “They are with Augustus?”

“So far as I know.”

“And you would like them back?”

Hesperos nodded.

“Then I shall seek out this Augustus, and claim them for you.”

“But he will not part with them!” Hesperos wrote. “Merdine will have told him by now of what you have done, and will know you take them for me. He will not let you have them.”

“We will find a way,” said Atoninn. He reached out and placed one wet hand on Hesperos’ long, gracefully turned ankle. “Do not fear.”

Hesperos gazed at Atoninn with dark eyes, his long hair framing his noble face. He set his scroll and pen aside, then, much to Atoninn’s surprise, slid into the bath with him, his white flowing garment turning translucent as it became soaked.

Atoninn had been unwilling to let his mind dwell upon Hesperos’ beauty, or to let his eyes linger too long upon his body. He did not know why, but he had felt as though he was dishonoring him by desiring him. Hesperos did not seem to agree. He was slightly taller than his master, and the water had caused to kohl around his eyes to streak, giving him an intense, feral look. He could speak no words, but the black eyes conveyed whole tomes. The forsaken lover, it seemed, had found his Odysseus.

Atoninn reached for him, but Hesperos did not give himself easily, and certainly not in the main bathing chamber. He turned and stepped out of the bath, black hair hanging down his back, his exquisite body on full display through the dripping fabric that clung to him. He paused, looking over his shoulder at Atoninn, then stepped away, bare feet making no sound, the water marking a trail on the tile floor as he walked.

Atoninn leapt out of the bath, not bothering to cover himself. He stepped into the hall, spying a fleeting glimpse of golden flesh veiled by translucent cloth. He went after him, eyes narrowing as he realized that Hesperos was not going to his own humble room in the slave’s quarters. He was going to his master’s bedchamber.

“I’ll have to watch this one,” muttered Atoninn. He caught up with Hesperos, standing like a living god of beauty in his bedroom. He walked over to him and took him by the shoulders, looking into the intense eyes, reading the expression, and the slight, wicked smile.

“So is this how the game is played. You give me your sons, and you put yourself in the marriage bed. Wicked little vixen, aren’t you? Strange how Cyrek thought he had to protect you. I day say you would have made Paris forget Helen.”

Hesperos stepped back, the dark eyes glittering, whether with mischief or malice, Atoninn was not certain. What he did know was that he wanted him.

“Do not make me chase you.”

An eyebrow twitched, and Atoninn had the feeling he had just given him an idea. He darted forward and caught Hesperos, feeling himself become hard as the beautiful young man melted against him, their bodies separated only by a thin layer of wet cloth. Atoninn slid his hands over every curve and line of Hesperos’ form, savoring him, then caught hold of the wet skirt of the khiton, pushing it up over Hesperos’ thighs. His hands slid up to grasp his buttocks, and Atoninn’s stiff shaft nudged its way between Hesperos’ legs, stroking the hot flesh between them.

“No you don’t,” said Atoninn as he felt Hesperos stiffen, possible preparing to bolt. Beauty briefly pouted to have his game ruined, but allowed Atoninn to stroke him, touch him, finally kissing him. Hesperos once more became soft and inviting in his master’s arms, pressing close, almost submissive as he felt his disconcertingly large penis thrust slowly between his thighs. He closed them, holding the huge cock captive, and pressed close to the other man as he heard his passions rise. The black eyes glittered, listening for a particular level of frenzy in Atoninn’s breathing.

Then he bolted, leaving his master alone, cold and wet, both Atoninn and his penis completely outraged.

“SON OF A BITCH!” He began limping slowly after him, his stiff prick threatening to snap off with every step. He was met at the door by Lion, who was holding Hesperos in his arms. Hesperos was the picture of innocence, eyes bright, arms about the warrior’s neck, ankles coyly crossed.

“Did you lose this?” asked Lion.

Atoninn ground his teeth. “Give me that. Then fetch the tanner. I’m going to skin the little harpy.”

Lion passed Hesperos to Atoninn. “Just think. All this and more for a groat.”

“Never was one man more haunted than I am by that damned groat!”

Lion bowed politely, then turned and departed, chuckling. Atoninn looked at the fair beauty in his arms, all sweetness and feminine gentility now. Atoninn growled and carried him over to the bed, tossing him onto it, then leaping after him, pinning him down before he could change his mind. Hesperos rolled his eyes as though he could not possibly imagine what his master was so irked about. He wrapped his long arms around a pillow, settling himself as Atoninn sat, straddling his upper thighs, his penis resting against the cleft of his buttocks. He blithely passed Atoninn the pleasure oil he had been seeking.

Atoninn was in no mood for niceties or love-making. All he wanted was the release this fair offering promised. He stroked oil onto himself, then used his slick fingers to delve down into flesh. He was careful not to cause Hesperos any real pain, though he was less gentle than was his custom. He thought he felt the younger man shift beneath him, and immediately clamped one powerful hand around the back of his skull, pinning him, while he used his other hand to guide himself into his depths. He felt the blessed tightness as the head of his penis slid into his tight hole, then moved his hips forward, pushing himself deeper. He let his head fall back, moaning in pleasure, then lay across Hesperos’ long, graceful back. He pulled the long black hair back from his aristocratic face, and grinned as he saw the dark eyes sparkling with mischief back at him.

“You, my friend, are a naughty boy to torture your poor master so.”

Hesperos kissed him, all kitten-soft and submissive now, his body language indicating that Atoninn had no need to worry: his beauty would not pull another trick. Atoninn stroked the soft hair, his motions softening from wanton coupling to love making. He felt Hesperos stir, and pulled back, allowing him to roll onto his back. Atoninn smiled at him, gently picking the wet khiton from Hesperos’ dark flesh, removing the soaked garment and dropping it to the floor. He lay down again, wincing as his body met cold flesh, but Hesperos soon warmed, his long arms about his master’s neck, breath shivering in pleasure as Atoninn moved inside of him. They seemed to merge as the evening fell gently, silently around them, becoming less like two bodies and more a fluid extension of each other, mimicking the tale of Aphrodite and Hermes and becoming one. Even when dawn at last came seeking them, the sun found them tangled together in the damp and rumpled sheets, each having filled the other with his passion to complete their union.

Disclaimer:

All original fiction and the characters, places and situations with them are copyright Alyx Shaw, and may not be published, copied, distributed or archived without the author's prior written consent.

The characters, places and situations described in these stories are fictional unless otherwise stated in the story headings.

(C) 2008 Alyx Shaw