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  Casca had to agree with Sicarus's analysis of Hrolvath. He was getting a bit concerned about where the boy was. He, too, was developing the same protective attitude that most of the other mercenaries felt toward the lad.

  Sicarus ordered one of his squad leaders to go look for him, saying that the last place he had been sent was the warehouse to see if a shipment of spears and arrowheads was ready to be loaded.

  It was full dark by the time the squad leader reported, slapping his fist against his chest in salute. "Sir, Hrolvath is not on the waterfront. The last anyone saw of him, he was heading to inner city."

  Sicarus's brow wrinkled in concern as he turned to Casca. "Did he say anything to you about going into town?"

  Casca shook his head. "Not a word." He thought a bit and then asked Sicarus, "Did he say what it was that Pompeianus spoke to him of?"

  Sicarus said with certainty, "No! I wasn't aware they had even spoken together. Why?"

  Casca shook his head. "I don't know, but before we left the garrison headquarters, I saw Pompeianus pull him over to the side and talk with him for a moment. I thought perhaps the praetor had a message to give you that he didn't want me to hear."

  The squad leader cleared his throat to attract his leader's attention.

  "Do you have something you wish to say?" Sicarus demanded.

  The man cleared his throat again, thinking how best to phrase his thoughts. It wasn't normally very wise to say anything about your social betters, but then, he had been asked. "Sir, I don't know for sure. It may only be waterfront bullshit, but ..."

  Sicarus rose from his chair, seeming a bit pissed. "But what, you ape? If you've heard something, then out with it, and now!"

  Taking on a wounded look, the man finished his story: "It has been said by several of the soldiers stationed here that the easiest way to a promotion is through the bedroom of the garrison commander, especially if you're a young pretty boy."

  Sicarus's face clouded. "He wouldn't dare leave the docks without my permission. He knows that my rules apply to everyone. I don't care how much I like him, I will not tolerate willful disobedience." He was working himself into a rage.

  Casca tried to cool him off a bit, saying gently, "Take it easy. You know Hrolvath too well to think he would just take off for a rendezvous with a puffy pervert. If he's gone to Pompeianus, there has to be a good reason for it."

  At that thought, Sicarus was ready to call out his men, arm them, and storm the city if need be to get his man back. Casca cooled him down again.

  "Why don't you just let me go in and look for him? Remember, there's still a contract to be fulfilled. You don't want to screw things up right now. You would fail in your word to Belisarius."

  With some reluctance Sicarus agreed to Casca's plan but warned him that if he failed, the mercenaries would feed the praetor's body to the seagulls an inch at a time, contract or no contract. His first obligation was to the men who served under his command, and they would never be able to say that he had deserted any one of them for any reason.

  Casca returned to the galley just long enough to arm himself with a breastplate, which he concealed under his tunic of gray homespun, and his sword. Heading back into the inner city, he stopped to ask a member of the vigils patrolling the waterfront where the house of the praetor Pompeianus was. He received his directions, with the warning not to turn his back on the praetor if he valued the ability to sit down without pain, for the praetor's favorite move with his personal weapons was the butt stroke.

  With that bit of humor, Casca picked up his pace to just short of running.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cornelius Pompeianus, praetor of Cyrene, had spent the rest of the day after the mercenaries left preparing for his meeting with the young savage. After his bath, he had his body slaves perfume his body and curl his hair, scenting it delicately with precious oils. The quality of his household slaves had been remarked on often by men of taste. He took great pride in them. All were young males whom he had selected himself and had personally trained in their duties. Men were so much more conscientious than females.

  He had learned how to initiate them into his lifestyle by using a variety of techniques, and most had been grateful to him for the new awareness he had brought into their lives. True, there had been a few who were incorrigible, and those had to be disposed of. It would not do to have slaves who had once been close to his person living in another household where they could speak ill of him.

  For his wardrobe, he selected a knee-length, loose-flowing tunic of emerald with traces of gold thread woven into the fabric.

  Once his toilet was complete, he admired the results in a mirror of rare Persian glass. The results pleased him. He looked, in his eyes, to be noble yet understanding, a soldier who had known battle but had not lost his sensitivity.

  He hoped the boy wouldn't be a disappointment, as had been the case too many times in the past. Sighing, he reclined on a couch of Greek fashion in his garden to wait for the golden child to appear. He closed his eyes to let his imagination add spice to the adventure he was planning. He knew that the boy would be grateful to him after he had initiated him into the pleasures that only one man can truly give to another. Not the shallow sweating and grunting of women, who had no true understanding of a man's needs. They were fit only for the rearing of children; after that they served no real purpose.

  The Greeks, whom he greatly admired, had proved the value of love between men, even going into battle with their lovers as shield mates. It thrilled him to think of the glory of standing side by side with one you loved in the heat of battle. If his lover fell, he would wreak terrible vengeance upon those who had killed the boy. He would fight like a demon, a man possessed taking vengeance for the beauty the enemy had taken from his life. The beauty and tenderness of the thought brought a single tear to the corner of his eye, which he delicately removed with a silk kerchief.

  He called for wine to be brought and spring water with which to cut it. Cloves were set by the tray to freshen the mouth. It wouldn't be much longer. He shivered with anticipated pleasure, recalling the manner in which the cheeks of Hrolvath's butt moved with such firmness when the boy walked, the manner in which he held his head, so straight and proud, the golden hair and the lips which he was certain were full of sleeping passions, waiting only for the right teacher to awaken them to their full glory.

  What was taking the boy so long? It was already dark. The sun had set in the sea over half an hour ago. Perhaps the boy saw my desire and wishes to tease me a bit, to make me worry so that I will appreciate him even more when he does appear, he thought. He drank half a glass of wine without cutting it with water, not displeased at the idea.

  He heard the rapping of the bronze knocker on his gate. A shiver ran over his thighs. He was here! Rising from his couch, he rearranged the wine bottles, taking care to set the one of Falernian near where he would have Hrolvath seated, just in case the boy was a bit shy or recalcitrant.

  Hrolvath was shown into his presence by a Nubian servant who gave Hrolvath a dirty look when he was dismissed from his master's presence, leaving the two alone.

  Cornelius walked rapidly across the garden to greet his guest, wrinkling his nose a bit as he neared. The boy smelled of sweat and salt air. He could fix that later; first things first.

  "It is so good of you to come, young man. Now sit and take some wine. You look to be a bit dry from your day's labors."

  Hrolvath refused the wine, saying, "I have to return to my ship soon. What is the warning you have to give me for Sicarus?"

  Cornelius smirked inwardly. So that was it! The boy admired his commander. A father figure perhaps, or was it that the child admired those of a martial nature? If that was the case, he could play the game as well as the vulgar mercenary.

  "There is no need for us to rush. I will tell you everything in a few minutes. But please at least permit me to be a decent host." It was time to be careful. He would have to guide Hrolvath carefully.

 
; Hrolvath was too well mannered to refuse the offer of hospitality. "As you wish, sir, but I am in a hurry. My comrades will be wondering where I am."

  That pleased Cornelius. The boy had told no one where he was going. In that case, if things did not go well, the boy could just disappear, and none would be the wiser. His slaves would never speak, for they had been involved themselves in such a circumstance more than once. If he was questioned, he would claim ignorance of the boy's whereabouts. But he would naturally offer every aid to their search. That could only last, at most, two days, and then they would have to take ship. After that, there would be no more inquiries.

  Cornelius led Hrolvath back to the garden, where the scent of night-blooming flowers sweetened the desert air. There he sat heavily on the cushions of his divan, showing the world-weary aspect of a man who has been beset with great responsibilities and has done his best to live up to them, even though his efforts have never been truly appreciated. Hrolvath was sympathetic and couldn't refuse the glass of wine offered him in the spirit of comradeship.

  Cornelius poured him a draught of the Falernian in a goblet of cut crystal. He knew the way to break down the barriers to his desires. The wine had an additional spice in it that had never failed him. It would not make the young man completely unconscious, but it would reduce him to a state in which he would not be able to resist that which Cornelius wished to do with him. The only bad side effect was that Hrolvath would not be able to be fully involved with the pleasures that were planned for him, but he would make it up to the boy later.

  Hrolvath tried to get Cornelius to tell what he had summoned him for, but it was so difficult to form the words. A strange heated flush ran over him, settling into his head. His arms and legs felt heavy, distant from the rest of his body. He couldn't move them properly. He tried to apologize for the wine he spilled when the glass fell from his loose fingers, but his tongue couldn't form the words.

  Cornelius called for his servant to assist him. The Nubian and a dusky seventeen-year-old boy of indeterminate origins responded to their master's commands. In his stupor, Hrolvath was stripped naked and then bathed. His body was anointed with perfumes and oils. Soft silks of many colors were draped around his loins to add a bit of color and spice. Cornelius decided to be generous when he saw the pouting lips of his two body servants. He would permit them to join him in the initiation of Hrolvath to their little world of pleasures. Carefully, they strapped Hrolvath's wrists to the head of the couch on which they had laid him on his belly. Then his ankles were tied with strips of soft leather to the legs of the couch in order to keep them apart.

  Cornelius was pleased; there was something tremendously exciting about having the fate of the beautiful boy in his hands. He could take him, use him, love him, or kill him. It really didn't matter which he did as long as it satisfied the need that ate at his soul, the need to be fulfilled. In this moment, he had the power of a god over the sweet flesh waiting for him. He removed his own robe, exposing his soft, fleshy body to the new moon rising over the walls of his garden.

  The time was growing near. Soon Hrolvath would be nearly completely out of his drugged stupor. That was when he would take him. He would be first, and then he would permit the others to enjoy the golden body of the youth as he watched and renewed his strength and vitality. Hrolvath began to moan softly, shaking his head from side to side, trying to get some control over the whirlpool that was his mind and body. In a haze of twisting forms, the naked bodies of Cornelius and his servants swam in and out.

  Cornelius was about ready. The passion, building to a crescendo in his loins, threatened to set his entire being on fire if he didn't quench the flames in the body of the helpless boy before him. Gods, it was fantastic to have such power! Cornelius prepared to lower his body over the back of Hrolvath.

  "What the shit do you think you're doing?"

  Cornelius jerked back at the interruption. The sight of the ugly brute with the sword in his hand caused his swollen manhood to shrink and become flaccid, the better to retreat back up into his groin, seeking shelter.

  Casca had come over the garden wall. It took a second for him to realize what was going on. Then it hit him. Cornelius was going to rape the boy.

  Cornelius put on an air of indignation. "What do you think you are doing invading the privacy of my home? Don't you know that I can have you imprisoned or put to death?"

  Casca snarled as he walked nearer them, his knuckles tightening on the grip of his sword. The two house slaves cowered behind Cornelius.

  "I don't think you are going to do anything to anyone, you slime ball." He placed the point of his sword against Cornelius's Adam's apple. "Do you think you can take one of ours and get away with it? If you had hurt Hrolvath, there would have been no way to keep Sicarus and his mercenaries from pulling this house down around your ears and feeding you your balls one at a time."

  Looking down at Hrolvath, lying there naked, his butt exposed to the night breeze, he turned on Cornelius. "You seem to have a thing for bare fannies." He sliced the cords restraining Hrolvath, setting him free. Cornelius started to move away but was halted by the return of the point to his throat.

  Hrolvath slid off the couch, groggily getting to his feet. He had to lean against a pillar to support his weight, shaking his head to clear the last of the mist from his mind.

  Casca turned his attention to the two slaves, who were still cowering behind their master. "Tie the praetor up the same way he had Hrolvath," he commanded. They hesitated till he laid the cheek of the seventeen-year-old open to the bone. "I mean now."

  He jerked Cornelius by his hair, dragging him over to the couch on his stomach. A slap with the flat of his blade across the back served to keep the praetor from getting back up. Casca pointed to the cords. The slaves anxiously did his bidding, tying their master to the couch, afraid of what they were being forced to do but more afraid not to do it.

  Once they had finished, he froze them in their steps by glaring at them, growling, "Don't you move a muscle, or I'll split you open like ripe melons!"

  They believed him. The whites of their eyes were wide with fright, and they kept their feet firmly in place as he moved around the garden till Casca found what he was looking for, some nice green saplings, half the thickness of his wrist. With a single sweep, he cut two of them and stripped them of their branches. These he put in the hands of the two slaves. Then he walked around in front of Cornelius, whose head was dangling over the edge of the couch. Casca took one of Cornelius's silk kerchiefs and stuffed it in the praetor's mouth. "I wouldn't want you to upset the neighbors," he commented. The slaves he placed near the head of Cornelius, facing his rear, the thick switches in their hands.

  Casca ordered them to strike the buttocks of their master. When they hesitated, a gentle prod from the point of his sword provided them with all the impetus they needed. The thick switches sliced through the air, striking the exposed pale flesh. Another gentle prod and they repeated the process. Casca told them to keep it up till he gave them permission to stop. If they turned to speak, he would slice their throats. The slaves obeyed; in fact, they began to enjoy being the ones who did the beating for a change. It was thrilling to have the master under their power, to watch him jerk and twitch in pain.

  Casca could see that they were getting into what they were doing. It was time to take Hrolvath and leave, after he performed one more chore. He raised Cornelius by the hair till the neck was extended, the tendons raised under the strain. Casca could see that the eyes were getting glazed. He wondered if it was from pain, or was the praetor getting off on pain? He hoped he was. Taking his small knife from his belt, he set the point gently against the side of the throat. Then, with the certainty of a surgeon, he pressed the point in, opening up small hole in the carotid artery. It was just large enough to permit each beat of the heart to send out a thin red spurt.

  He set Cornelius's head back down. The sound of the open artery couldn't be heard, but Cornelius knew that he was going to di
e. He tried to drum his feet against the end of the table. His actions excited his slaves, who obeyed their orders from Casca with renewed vigor, applying the switches till the skin of Cornelius's ass blistered red, swelling till the skin was near the bursting point.

  Casca gathered Hrolvath's things and took him by the arm to lend support as he gave a last warning to the slaves. "I'm going to sit down over here by the wall and watch. The first one of you who stops or turns to look at me dies. Is that understood?"

  The anxious bobbing of heads confirmed that they did understand.

  Casca took Hrolvath from the house, walking alongside the garden wall. He could hear the rhythm of the switches striking the skin of Cornelius, whose life blood was pumping from the hole in his neck. Hrolvath was getting his legs back. Casca helped him get dressed and then led him down the street toward the docks. Near a wine shop, he saw a couple of the city vigils standing idly by.

  As they neared, he called out to them: "Hey! I heard a cry near the house with the big wall around it. Sounded like someone being killed. I heard a couple of voices saying they were getting even with their master for something or other. Maybe you should check it out!" Casca gave them a bit more, incentive to do so. "I'll inquire tomorrow with your centurion to see what it was all about."

  The vigils knew what house the scar-faced man was speaking of. They didn't really want to go there. More than once, screams had come from that house. As it belonged to their superior, they had made a point of ignoring anything that came from behind those walls. But if what the man had said was true, there might be trouble with the slaves. If they didn't check it out, what would they say to their commander in the morning when the scarface asked him about the incident? There were no options; they had to go see what was happening.

  By the time Casca and Hrolvath reached the entrance to the port, Hrolvath was in full control of his faculties again. He told Casca how he had been lured to the home of the praetor and had to be stopped from making an embarrassing outburst of emotion to Casca for saving him.