The prefects purse 1 : The rose house

Of the ten bodyguards accompanying Valerianus Gratus, Prefect of Judaea, only one was more or less my height, the others towered over me. It didn’t intimidate me though. No matter how much finery they paraded, I’d seen them all naked in the public baths. So had Rudio, and he assured me none of them was a match for me. Workouts at the gym together with the games held at base camp had given me their measure, and I wasn’t overly impressed.

Still, they were a fine bunch of good looking guys and, professional jealousy aside, I knew they could beat the slow death-rattle out of Caesaria Maritima any time. 
This little watering hole had the appearance of a petty tyrant’s plaything; which was, after all, why it had been built. But Herod the Great was long gone and his boys were pretty much at Rome’s beck and call. To the north Antipas had Tiberias in Galilee, then there was Philip’s Caesaria further up by the heights of Gaulanitis, and his long stretch of quiet little one-horse towns running along the Jordanis river. And, finally, falling away from us to the south there was the almost Herod-free tinder box of Samaria and Judaea proper. 

So, for better or worse, I sighed to myself, here we all were, eying the locals suspiciously, and all too aware of the political wrangling that had dragged us into this bloody backwater.

‘Centurion!’ called a fairly cultured Greek voice, slowly becoming the focus of my thought. ‘Centurion, you are Lancianus of the second cohort, third Gallica?’ The voice quizzed rhetorically as it approached me from among the Prefect’s followers-on. Along with the voice came a picture of youthful beauty, personified in flesh; light olive in complexion, and brushing back folds of black curls on his head, he had the softest dark eyes and the most flawless smile I had ever seen. ‘Perhaps I am mistaken,’ he said. No doubt misreading my stony silence for lack of interest.

‘Sir!’ I snapped to attention, for the Tribune P. Junius Lollius came toward us at speed.
‘Stephanus!’ He cried. ‘My dear chap, how are you?’
‘Lollius!’ They embraced, and the Tribune tried to steer the vision of beauty back to the clucking brood. ‘We must chat,’ Stephanus said, ‘but first I must thank this officer.’
Tribune Publius Junius Lollius gave me a withering look.
‘He prevented a simple misunderstanding from blowing into a gale of chaos.’ 
Again Lollius’ glance would have shrivelled a more delicate soul.
‘And I have a message of personal thanks for him,’ the vision of loveliness patted the Tribune’s chest then waved him away with a flick of the fingers.

Stephanus turned to me, his face changing from delightful engagement to dark seriousness. ‘We must speak,’ he said. ‘Not here though.’
‘Sir?’ I was at a loss but intrigued, and hopeful.
‘Meet me at the Rose House. It’s opposite the Synagogue on the street of the Coppersmiths, the same side as the Apollo gymnasium.’ 
‘Why?’ I asked, my suspicion getting the better of my hopes.
‘I need you,’ he answered. ‘You know where it is?’ He asked.
‘I can find it.’
‘Good,’ Stephanus nodded, then turned with a wave to Lollius. ‘The tenth hour, during the afternoon rush at the baths.’ He reached out an arm to me as he walked away, ‘Come alone.’ Then the vision was gone, wrapped once more in the arms of his adoring comrades.

‘Centurion Lancianus, my cousin Marcus Octavianus Alcibiades,’ I was introduced by Stephanus when his slave whisked me up a dark stairwell into a dingy lamp-lit second floor apartment in the Rose House. Still unsure what the youth wanted, or why I had agreed to come, I kept up my guard.
‘What do you want of me?’ I asked. The cousins merely looked at each other, as if silently debating what to say, or whether to say anything at all. I drew my sword and raised in into the air, the cousins drew back slightly. Then I laid its tip on a table near Stephanus, toying with the handle so that the room’s expensive oily light flickered menacingly across the blade. ‘Well?’ I challenged them.
‘If you are willing,’ the cousin spoke first, ‘we need your help.’ He wasn’t as immediately impressive as Stephanus, older for sure, and rather more rough-hewn, but still he held a fascinating depth of beauty all his own. 

‘Alcibiades and I heard how you aided Jaminus outside Berytus,’ Stephanus explained. ‘Jaminus thought you might be of some use to us.’ The youth produced a money pouch, and placed it carefully on the table beside the tip of my sword.
With a swift flash I grabbed Stephanus’ slave boy, holding him fast by an armlock about his neck. And I pinned Stephanus against the wall, my blade pressed to his throat. The room was quiet apart from the whimpers of the slave and the spluttering of the oil lamps. But there was no sudden in-rush of accomplices, as I half-expected. Nor a curse of frustration from some unseen agent.
Alcibiades spoke, his voice calm like his posture, ‘Centurion, relax. We mean you no harm.’
‘Explain yourselves properly,’ I said. ‘No bribes, no sweeteners, just the truth.’
‘You ask an explanation of “truth” from a Hellenist?’ Alcibiades smiled, joining his hands together and patting his fingers thoughtfully before his mouth.
‘OK, the bare data or some constructive facts will do to get on with.’ I smiled too.

After the slave boy had brought out stools, drinking bowls and some fine wine, I sent him down to find the lads I had brought with me in case of trouble. ‘Tell my boy Rudio to wait for me, but let the others go on,’ I spoke gently, for he feared that I might reach out and snatch him once more.
‘Make sure he has heat, light and some refreshment,’ Stephanus added as his slave left.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘I want to know what is going on here.’
‘Sub rosa,’ Alcibiades pointed to a small pot of roses placed on shelf above our heads.
I bowed my head and touched my sword, accepting his knowledge of formal Roman etiquette. ‘It will go no further from me.’
‘There is a plot against Valerianus Gratus,’ Stephanus said matter of factly.
‘There are always plots,’ I replied. ‘Why should another one interest you so much?’
‘This one could have serious consequences for the whole region,’ Alcibiades informed me.
‘So why not report it to the chief of the Prefect’s staff or the Senior Guard?’ The cousins looked at each other again, and again said nothing. ‘You think they are involved?’
‘I know it,’ Stepahanus said with grim certainty, ‘but I cannot prove it.’
‘How do you know it?’
‘We,’ Alcibiades rapped the table, ‘have access to people.’ He glanced at Stephanus, who dropped his head in a shy blush, then Alcibiades turned his knowing look on me.
‘Yes, I’m sure you do,’ I said, wondering who had access to what. ‘I still don’t see how I can help, other than reporting vague accusations through the proper channels to my commander. And you know what he’ll do.’

‘Report it to the chief of the Prefect’s staff.’
‘And,’ said Alcibiades, ‘he’ll laugh it off as a joke with Gratus. Which is why we want you.’
‘To do what?’ I asked in mock anger.
‘Nothing,’ Stephanus grinned, ‘not yet.’ 
‘Say only you accept our intentions are good, and that you will help to try and divert a bloodbath.’ Alcibiades reached out his right hand for mine.
‘I do accept it and I will try to help.’ I grasped Alcibiades wrist while Stephanus placed his hands over our grip.
‘Now Centurion, fancy a late dip in Herod’s baths?’
Stephanus gave Aclibiades a rueful dig, as we let go our grip. We all knew what Herod’s baths meant this late in the day. ‘Won’t Miriamne be expecting us?’ Stephanus inquired.
‘She will, but,’ Alcibiades winked at me, ‘I want a dip.’ 
‘I haven’t been in Herod’s baths yet,’ I said.
‘Settled then,’ Alcibiades patted my hand. ‘You go home, if you please, Stephanus.’ He stared straight at me when Stephanus went to call for his slave boy. ‘I think we can get along just fine, don’t you Centurion?’ 

‘I’ll get one of the slaves to come with tapers,’ Stephanus embraced his cousin as we left the apartment block. He reached out a hand to me, and embraced me too.
‘The baths,’ Alcibiades told me, ‘though built by Herod the Great, were refurbished and opened to the public free of charge by Gratus.’

It was only a short walk, and the evening slowly settling in. Still the sweat seemed to pour of us as we entered the grandeur of the baths. Alcibiades tossed some coins at an attendant to fetch fresh warm towels and aromatic oils as we stripped and stored our gear. He watched me as I eased out of my clothes, and he made no secret of enjoying the sight. 
‘That’s interesting,’ he said, leaning over to run his fingers across a scar along the outside flank of my left thigh.
‘Armenians.’ I patted the faint remains of a long healed wound.

His body was covered in firm well proportioned muscle. Holding himself taught as he stripped, he showed off each aspect to its best, as only a gym trained Greek can do. And his skin glistened smooth when slaves approached us with more lights; he ran his hands across his shaved chest then down along his waxed legs, and he smiled at me.
Rudio handed us the towels and oil phials, then stood watch over our stuff as finally we peeled out of our loin cloths.
A delighted smile crept across Alcibiades’ face, because I unwound my loin so that he could get a good look, then I hitched one leg up on a bench to toss my cloth at Rudio. Alcibiades slithered out of his cloth and sat on the bench to kick his cloth toward Rudio, and to cop a sleeked feel of my sticky lowhanging package.

‘Let’s go,’ he suggested. He touched my elbow as we headed from the changing area. ‘But not straight to the baths.’ He pointed to one of the service alcoves just beyond the entrance to the hot room. ‘It’ll be crowded,’ he told me in a whisper, leading me toward a narrow opening, ‘but I can’t wait. Besides,’ he said giving me another wink and leery look, ‘I like it sleazy.’
The alcove he chose was deeply recessed and black as a moonless night. As I adjusted to the feel of the narrow passage I became aware that there was a slight turn, then the faint hint of light. A few dim smoky lamps spotted a cavernous store. Even in this dank, steamy darkness it was obvious there was a heaving mass of sex lurking in every available space. Occasionally I bumped into bodies, usually engaged in sex, but often no more than slaves hurrying passed with supplies. 

‘Here,’ Alcibiades slid into a space between two stacks of wooden shelves. ‘This is my favourite spot, obscure enough to be private but with just enough light to make things interesting.’

He was already rampant, his thick rock hard cock pressed against me. I took hold of it and squeezed the circumcised knob lightly. Before I could do anything more he pushed me back to the shelving, he went down my torso, licking the sweat from my armpits and chest. Hugging in tight to me he hunkered into my groin, sniffing and kissing me. Then, with a worshipper’s sigh, he eased over my foreskin. Pulling it to its full length he licked and sucked at it as though he’d never be parted from it. Looking up at me, he sucked the middle finger of his right hand, he reached between my legs, found my arse and finger-rimmed it to ecstasy. Easing away from a gagging deep-throat suck, he swallowed his finger once more, and launched back onto my dick. This time his fingering went further. As he fought the need to gag while twisting his head on my cock, he pressed his spit-lubbed finger daintily into my hole. For a while I rode his warm mouth and the slight searing of his finger, the connection driving me to ever harder thrusts. 

Just as his gagging became explosive, I pulled out, tugged him to his feet and turned him round. ‘My pole should slide in nice, its moist enough for you.’ Alcibiades arched his back, shoving his arse out to meet me. I grabbed his waist with my left hand and, bending at the knees, I used the right hand to locate his ready pucker. It felt tight, really tight. And the moans were close to screams as I broke into him. He threw his head back to breathe, then bent to bite on his arm. ‘You OK with this?’ I asked, not stopping my driving insertion but slowing it. He nodded and gasped.
‘Don’t stop,’ he sighed, ‘Don’t talk. Do me, hard, now.’

(Part II: The Sewer)...