The Trident

"A few."

"Why?"

"My father taught me that one cannot be a man until he has learned to face death. Lucius, my philosopher friend, doesn't care for the arena. But until one can face death, how can he face life?"

"But death in the arena seems cruel."

"Not so. Those condemned are rebellious slaves, prisoners or traitors who deserve their fate."

"But women . . . and children?"

"Only those who deny our Roman gods; this new Jewish sect that some call Christian, for example, refuse to be integrated into our society. Such can't be allowed to survive."

"But didn't their leader, the one they call the Christus, teach love and work miracles, healing the sick and raising the dead?"

"So it is said of Apollonius, too, and a dozen others. It's all quackery for the gullible. The Christus was no savior. He was a Zealot whose goal was to overthrow the empire and declare himself king. These fucking Jews cannot be trusted to live in harmony with others. They are subversive. They claim they are the chosen people and the rest of us are destined to be their slaves. How can such people be tolerated?"

Their litter stopped where other litters were unloading their wealthy occupants in front of a huge bronze gate.

As they stepped out slaves rushed to hold umbrellas over them. Beyond the gate stood a three story mansion fronted by a wide paved travertine court yard and around this a portico from which hundreds of lamps glittered in the gathering darkness as the first pale stars began to peek between the clouds.

"It's so beautiful," Messalina said.

The courtyard was connected to rolling gardens and terraces by winding pathways through clusters of arbors and trimmed evergreen shrubs. Thousands of rose bushes perfumed the air. Occasionally a silent, gold flicker of lightning would thread purple clouds on the far horizon.

Rich beautiful young couples mingled among expensively decked out older couples. But none were as beautiful as Messalina and Gaius who drew many admiring and longing glances.

Slaves poured out effervescence wines from gleaming silver flagons into sparkling crystal goblets. Wandering musicians played lilting melodies along the porticos, and naked prepubescent boys and girls, with painted lips and golden wreaths on their heads, frolicked in the saffron-scented waters of marble fountains while above them a larger-than-life bearded Neptune held up a silver trident.

From a side entrance Oppius Petillius, a portly man dressed in a shimmering blue toga with a gold wreath on his head, came into the courtyard preceeded by a retinue of torch bearers, naked nymphs, strewing rose petals along his path, and trumpeters to announce him.

Behind him came Castor and Pollux in gold robes. Both men had scarred faces above the full beards they wore. Misshapened noses and cauliflowered ears, flattened against their heads, were testaments to the numerous blows inflicted by spiked gloves -- lethal, hard leather strips fitted over a boxer's fists called cesti.

Behind them slaves carried these spiked gloves on gold cushions. Eight women dressed in silver armor and carrying gold spears flanked them, four on either side.

As the entourage passed, the spectators filed in behind and followed them to a small semi-circular theater with a velarium stretched over marble tiers provided with cushions.

Being of senatorial rank, Gaius and Messalinus were seated in the orchestra along with other dignitaries.

Castor and Pollux took off their robes revealing naked muscular bodies. The provincial lanista who owned them gripped the two men in a quick embrace, then hurriedly walked away with his face down cast, for the two fighters were to fight to the death.

The rules were simple in a normal bout: no tripping or wrestling. But in a private bout to the death there were no rules.

As soon as their attendants had strapped the cesti to their hands, the two men touched each others forearms in an offhanded manner, then assumed crouched positions.

Each man kept his left arm up to protect his head while keeping his right arm cocked to deliver blows. The strategy was to remain on the defensive and wear out one's opponent while avoiding his blows.

Castor made several jabs at Pollux to judge the striking distance. Pollux easily avoided them by maintaining a distance just far enough back to force Castor to step in closer if he wanted his punches to connect.

As Castor did so Pollux fired an uppercut from a crouch, straightening his legs and rotating his hips and torso to maximize the force of the punch. Castor diverted with his left hand just enough to keep it from connecting with his chin, but the brass spikes of Pollux's cestus tore a line of flesh from the edge of his jaw.

Recovering, Castor jammed the palm of his hand against Pollux's elbow turning him off balance and fired a savage blow to his kidney. In intense pain Pollux dropped his guard for an instant and Castor rammed his fist straight into his mouth. Pollux, backing off, spitted blood and teeth, then wobbled and dropped to his knees. Castor charged, but Pollux rolled to the side and struck out with a leg tripping Castor.

Jumping to his feet Pollux attempted to kick Castor who rotated his body so that Pollux's foot slid off his ribs harmlessly. While Pollux was off balance Castor regained his feet and resumed his stance.

More wary now the two men circled each other looking for an opening.

Pressed against him, Gaius could feel the rise and fall of his stepmother's breathing. Her moist eyes were fixed trance-like on the naked fighters, her cheeks flushed. Unconsciously, her hand sought out and gripped Gaius' muscular thigh.

Behind them young couples fucked with their clothing thrown up over their hips. Wet, slurping sounds came from naked boys and girls, on their knees, servicing old men, red lips impressing fat bellies at the base of hard cocks.

Gaius took her hand and placed it on the bulge of his cock.

Castor made several jabs to keep Pollux back out of range, then feigning a jab to Pollux's solar plexus he lunged forward bringing his arm upward with the weight of his body behind it connecting with Pollux's chin. The man's head snapped backwards with an audible crack as his broken jaw flopped down on his neck.

Desperate now, Pollux jabbed frantically at Castor. If he couldn't score a telling blow soon he knew his strength would fail him. Castor closed in throwing a series of jabs and Pollux knew he was being set up for a cross. In a mere split second, Castor gave it away by raising his shoulder against his chin to protect it against a counter punch.

As Castor threw the punch Pollux bent his legs ducking the arm and came up on the outside. The whole side of Castor's head was unprotected. Pollux threw all his weight behind his punch. The spiked cestus sank into the skull as if it were a melon.

Castor dropped to the ground dead.

Facing the tiers, Pollux raised his arms in triumph, but few noticed. Bets were being collected while others, drunk on wine, continued fucking oblivious of the world around them.

The lanista, and a medicus surrounded Pollux. The medicus took a strip of linen from his bag and looped it over the fighter's head pulling the slack jaw back up. An aid draped a robe around him and helped lead him away.

Several spectator came out on the arena and looked at the dead fighter. One man poked his toe against the head which flopped over. Already flies had been drawn to the bloody mat of hair that hid the fatal wound.

Gradually the spectators, sated and bleary-eyed, rose from their seats and left. The dead fighter was carried off on a litter, perhaps to be buried by family, if he had any, or to be tossed unceremoniously in a garbage dump somewhere beyond the Servian Wall.

Y

Justina lay in the dark on the second floor of the townhouse where the slaves had their quarters. She listened to the rain splatter on the window sill and remembered a time that seemed almost like a dream when she was a young girl, called Iolitha, living with her parents on the bank of the Lippe.

Her father, Adolwolf, had been an outstanding Marsi warrior, a member of the one hundred, which was composed of only the best warriors of the tribe. Some Marsi lived within walled compounds in tents made of animal hides. Others, as Justina's family, lived in isolated wood huts with clay coverings. Each tribe had a chieftain in nominal control. The people decided in the end whom they would follow. A leader was always chosen for his proven courage and intelligence -- not for his lineage. They lived by hunting, raising corn and cattle. Work was done by the women. And when not engaged in warfare, the men spent their time playing dice, sleeping or making a cheap beer out of barley. Children went naked. Men and women wore animal hides while some wealthier women wore linen dresses. In most villages one could find one or two specialists such as potters, tin and silver smiths, jewelers, or textile workers.

Justina's memories were of nights spent crouched on the hearth before a fire. Her father, drunk, snoring loudly on his cot, her mother, Aleit, sewing hides or preparing dinner which consisted of wild fruit, fresh game and curdled milk. Days were spent wandering through the forests and swamps that surrounded her village gathering nuts and berries with her dog, Gerulf; or hauling wood or water from a nearby spring and helping her mother gather grain or tend to the cattle, as well as many other endless chores.

She remembered the night the Roman soldiers came on a punitive raid in revenge for incursions by one of the German tribes on a Roman outpost along the Danube. They surrounded her village on a night when the Marsi were celebrating a festival with drinking and feasting. The men were killed outright, the women raped and killed along with most of the children.

Soldiers bound her up and put her on a vessel destined for the Roman port of Ostia, along with other prisoners, and sold her into prostitution while still prepubescent. She clenched her eyelids tightly as she tried to blot out the memory of the years that followed, the men who used her . . . . and only succeeded when she heard the clank of the entrance gate being opened. She rose from her straw mattress and peered out the window.

Gaipor, shinning a lantern, was opening the gate for Gaius who was holding Messalina with his arm around her narrow waist. Both staggered along the travertine path to the vestibulum.

Justina saw the golden hair reflected in the light, so like her father's, the handsome face, the broad sloping shoulders over a muscular chest. Next to him, Messalina was as beautiful as a goddess. No woman could ever hope to compete with her. Certainly not a slave. Life, Justina had learned in her short life, was unfair.

Going back to her mattress she turned on her side, drawing her legs up, and closed her eyes. There would be no childish dreams or hopes. It wasn't that kind of world. The child in her had died long ago.

Y

Gaius pressed her against the wall in the atrium. His hands roamed eagerly over her lithe body. He kissed her neck, her cheeks, her lips, her hair, pulling her close, their excessive lust palpable between them.

"Gaius, don't. Someone will --"

"Shut up; the servants are all upstairs asleep."

He licked her neck, pulled the strap of her stola down and the linen strophium that formed her bra and sucked on her nipples.

Her fingers intertwined behind his head holding him, her hot and swollen nipples so taut they hurt. She didn't resist when he picked her up and carried her to his cubiculum where he threw her on the bed and jerked her stola down and off.

In the light of a single lamp her naked white figure was like a perfect marble sculpture on a sarcophagus. He stripped out of his toga, his cock swollen into a full erection. As he straddled her, she gripped his cock with both hands and guided the head into her mouth where she began to lave it.

Leaning forward, Gaius went deeper, then moved back and forth. Her nimble tongue worked magic on his shaft. Her warm tender lips nibbled at his sack, her wet mouth sucking and kissing, her teeth biting his thighs and belly, her fingers tracing the hard waves of stone hard abs.

He moved down dragging his wet cock between her breasts and over the belly and rested the head on the tight swollen mound of her cunt. She waited for the thrust and squealed when it came. Warm spurts of come splattered her belly and thighs as his cock slipped in and out.

Y

A flicker of lights played across the ceiling as Justina lay on her mat. The sound of hobnailed boots scraping on cobblestones woke her just as she had drifted off to sleep. Metal clanged against metal. Justina moved back to the window and saw a detachment of hooded men in the light of lanterns. Swords hung at their waists. These were, she knew, the secret police newly created by Domitian, the frumetarii, called 'soldiers without uniforms'.

One of the these was striking his sword handle against the bronze gate. In a moment Gaipor, somewhat hesitant, came out of the gatehouse and went to them.

"Open up, porter," the man banging the sword commanded in an stentorian voice.

"By who's order?" Gaipor asked.

"Under orders of his imperial majesty. Now open this gate you impudent fool or I'll have your head on a stick."

"I must get the master first," Gaipor answered in a wavering voice.

Shuffling through dimly lighted halls he came to Gaius' bedroom and drew back the curtain. The young master and his stepmother lay naked on the bed asleep or, more likely, passed out. He came forward and shook him.

"Master, Master, wake up. Soldiers of the princeps peregrinorum are at the gate demanding entrance."

"What do they want?" Gaius asked, raising up on his elbows and blowing a breath of air with enough force to make his lips vibrate with a sound.

"The soldier in charge demanded entrance in the name of the emperor."

Gaius glanced at his stepmother, shaking his head sluggishly. He could only vaguely remember fucking her. His mouth was sour from too much wine. He felt nauseous as he sat up, feet on the floor.

"The secret police," he muttered. "This can't be good." His thoughts went back to the letter written by his father criticizing Domitian. But surely they wouldn't have waited until now if agents working for the emperor had knowledge of its contents.

Gaipor handed him a fresh tunic from the trunk at the foot of his bed.

Confused, Gaius was only vaguely aware of the rain that began to soak him as he stepped outside onto the travertine path and walked bare foot to the front gate.

Already two soldiers had climbed over the wall and were trying to pry open the gate with their swords. One broke the point of his jimmying the lock and cursed.

"What's the meaning of this?" Gaius asked.

"Are you Gaius Antonius Saturninus?" a soldier asked who was standing outside the gate.

"Yes."

"Open up."

Gaius nodded to Gaipor.

When the gate swung open the soldier swaggered in. Gaius figured the man to be a sergeant since the frumetarii were composed mostly of noncommissioned officers. They were under the command of a centurion, stationed at headquarters, who held the title princeps peregrinorum and was subordinate to a praetorian prefect who served under the emperor.

The sergeant nodded toward Gaipor. "Grab that man," he barked at the two soldiers who were already inside.

In his hand he carried a section of the bell rope that he had cut off.

"Tie this around his upper arm."

He hefted his sword.

"Hold his arm out."

"Noooaah!" Gaipor screamed.

Two more soldiers rushed forward to hold him.

"What do you think you're doing?" Gaius shouted, but as he attempted to grab the sergeant a soldier placed the point of his sword at his throat.

The soldiers holding Gaipor extended his left arm. The sergeant lifted his sword and brought it down. Gaipor's shrieking screams echoed off the walls of the townhouse. Whimpering in pain his legs buckled; he would have collapsed had not the soldiers held him up.

The sergeant picked up the severed arm and waggled it in front of the porter.

"That's what you get, cocksucker, for not obeying me when I told you to open the gate."

He ground the bloody end of the arm into Gaipor's face, then tossed it to the side.

"Lift his other arm."

"Gaipor's eyes became crazed with terror."

The sergeant lay the razor sharp edge of his sword on the arm.

"Tell me you love me."

A look of wild disbelief and incomprehensible anguish ravaged the porters face.

"Wha -- what?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Gaipor squirmed in the iron grip of the grinning soldiers.

"I . . . I love you."

The sergeant turned and grinned at Gaius who glared at him.

"You should love me, but, you know, you hesitated to say so, and that makes me think you're lying."

Turning back he swung the sword lopping off the other arm.

Gaipor's squeal was hideous. The soldiers released him, and, with hollow eyes, Gaipor staggered toward Gaius, who was still being held at sword point.

"Help me, Master, please."

He dropped to his knees, blood gushing from the stumps.

A woman screamed. Porcia rushed from the house to Gaipor and cradled him in her thick arms sobbing and stroking his bald head like a mother trying to comfort her baby.

"What have they done? Oh, what in the name of the gods have they done to you, my sweet one? Oh, great Jupiter!"

"They've killed me, Porcia."

He closed his eyes listening to the last at the thrum of her soft murmurings, feeling her warm caress slip away into everlasting darkness.

"You son of a bitch!" Gaius shouted. "Give me a sword, and fight like a man."

"Oh, you wouldn't like that, poet. I'm very good with this thing."

"Then what are you afraid of?"

The sergeant, a young man with dark bangs, smiled.

"Certainly not of a poet. But, you see, I have no orders concerning you -- so don't push it, pretty boy."

"Orders? What damn orders?"

The sergeant tapped his bloody sword against his thigh like a swagger stick.

"Ah, it seems your father, at the head of a couple of legions, attempted a coup and was executed. My orders are to confiscate all his properties: the townhouse, the villas and all his slaves. The urban prefect has attached all his investments and bank holdings. In other words, pretty boy, you're broke -- not even an as to your name."

Gaius felt something go out of him. In an instant all that gave his life meaning was gone. He was hollow; his father a traitor . . . executed. He looked at Porcia sobbing, arms cradling the body of Gaipor. Hatred for the sergeant was the only living thing within him.

"Now you've got two choices, pretty boy: either you walk out of here on your own or I tell the soldier to run that sword through your neck."

Gaius stared into his glassy eyes, and knew the man wouldn't need much of an excuse to kill him. For a moment, he visualized placing his hands around the arrogant young man's throat and strangling him, but not now if he wanted to live.

Gaius nodded curtly.

"Very well; let him go."

As he walked to the gate a few soldiers, laughing, spanked him on the butt with the sides of their blades.

Y

Justina rolled up her blanket and slipped off the pillow case. Holding on to these she made her way down the long hall. All the rooms joining the hall were empty, the slaves downstairs having heard the commotion.

She snuck into Porcia's spartanly furnished room, as were all the slaves' rooms. A small icon of the goddess Fortune stood in a niche. A blanket was thrown back on the bed, the pillow indented where Porcia's head had impressed it.

Justina was hoping Porcia hadn't taken her house keys with her. In the empty room the only place they could be was in the wooden trunk at the foot of her bed. But an iron padlock, in the shape of a bull, hung from a staple protruding through a hasp.