Glaucus of Korinthos

or

The Spoils of War

Part 2: “Face to Face with the Romans”

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years. 

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)  

“The characters and ideas contained in this story are from the writer’s imagination and shouldn’t be used without his permission. Please, respect the integrity of the story and don’t do any rewrites, make alterations or add other people’s pictures.” 

Chapter 2: “Face to face with the Romans”

Chapter 1 was posted last December. I hope to post more chapters soon. 

We have been stopped in our tracks. I watch as the Roman Decurion and his two companions advance toward us. Using their unsheathed swords, they gesture for us to stop. Desperately, I look around for a means of escape. But there isn’t any. They stand before us halting further flight while behind us a Roman patrol has set up a blockade preventing anyone from escaping the clutches of the marauding bands of soldiers. 

All around me are the terrible sounds of pillage and rape; the sorrowful cries of a city in its death throes. I hear the terrified, panic-stricken citizenry confronted by a triumphant, merciless enemy. I listen to the pain filled screams of people being put to the sword, the vain begging to be spared, the pitiful pleading of our virtuous matrons and maidens to the gods to spare them the shame and horror of being raped. I hear the sounds of smashing from within the houses as they are looted for valuables. I hear the angry shouts of the marauding soldiers as they seek out the bolt-holes of men, women and children trying to hide themselves from a wrathful enemy.  And I watch in horror as all the comely, young men, women and children are dragged away to slavery and uncertain futures. 

I am filled with panic and dread; I don’t know what to do. I look to Perimedes and Diagoras for support and instead I see their ashen faces and fear filled eyes.  Already, once before, they have lived through these terrible events when their home had been destroyed and they’d been hauled away into slavery. For the two brothers there is a sense of deja-vu and of history repeating itself. 

Over the years, I learned something of their background and Father had been mistaken in thinking they’d come from some mysterious land to the North. They belonged to a people called the Keltoi who dwelt in a fertile, green land beyond the river well known to us as the Rhodanos. I know of this area and its history through the scholarship of my tutors. The tutors had told me that Ionian Greeks from Phocaea had journeyed there some four hundred years ago and established a trading colony called Massalia on the Mediterranean coast which today is famous for two exports; its excellent wines and prime slaves to meet the insatiable demands of its Roman allies. 

Massalia’s existence had long been threatened by the Carthaginians, the Etruscans and the Keltoi. In order to survive, Massalia had entered into an alliance with the Roman Senate and people and enjoyed the protection of the Roman army. 

I know that Rome has been locked in a bitter war with the Carthaginians for political and economic control of the Middle Sea and soon a fierce war of attrition will be waged by Scipio Africanus at the very gates of Carthage itself. And like Korinthos, it will fall to the might of the Roman war machine; her buildings and temples will be levelled, her culture trampled underfoot, her treasures and wealth carried off to Rome, her people put to the sword or enslaved and the very earth on which she once stood will be salted. 

Once Perimedes had tearfully told me of his family who lived in a Keltoi settlement which had been overrun by the Romans and their allies from Massalia. The attack on their settlement was unexpected and undertaken as an offensive action by the Romans who’d quickly triumphed over the numerically weaker Keltoi. 

Roman justice is swift and without mercy and what followed is now being repeated all around me in Korinthos. 

And as always, following closely on the heels of the Roman army were the vile jackals who feast on human misery – the slave-traders. These pariahs have a nose for a bargain and with fat purses attached to their belts; they soon had their slave coffles full for the return journey to Massalia. 

Perimedes was distressed as he told me these things and not wishing to add to that distress, I’d not pushed him for more details. 

However, I did hear that the family had been sold in the slave market at Massalia. His mother and two sisters had been separated and sold to different owners and his father and older, warrior brother had been bought by a low grade lanista from Nimes to train and fight as gladiators in the provincial arenas of Gaul. Despite their adversities, the gods of fortune smiled on Perimedes and Diagoras allowing them to stay together. Bought by a travelling slave-trader, they’d found their way to the slave-market at Korinthos and into my father’s household. 

Despite my panic, I try to stay outwardly calm. I am after all the master - albeit a very young one – and I must assume responsibility for my slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras. I am fortunate that I speak fluently in Latin, a vulgar language that I truly despise. It had been a constant source of friction between my Latin tutor and me; I’d not always applied myself diligently to my Latin studies but he’d persevered and I did eventually learn to speak it flawlessly. 

I regard Latin as a barbaric tongue spoken by a coarse, common people whose aristocratic elite have discarded in in favour of my own beloved Greek; the language that lends itself to logical thinking. Can the Roman tongue express itself as eloquently as Greek in the fields of the sciences, the arts, poetry, theatre and rational debate?  Of course, it can’t! 

But now I am glad that I speak Latin. I can at least converse with these three Roman soldiers who now confront us with their swords pressed against our bellies. But suddenly, my courage deserts me and I am lost for words. Like Perimedes and Diagoras, I quake from sheer terror. Will the Romans slaughter us and take our valuables as booty of war? 

I listen as the Romans discuss us not knowing that I can understand their every word. I struggle inwardly to speak and to reason with them but something about their demeanours cautions me to keep a still tongue in my head. I decide this is a time when discretion is indeed the better part of valour. 

The Romans are delighted with their catch and I hear myself described as a ‘snotty-nosed, Greek brat just ripe for fucking’ as they begin to rough-handle all three of us. Their venom is directed at me more so than at Perimedes or Diagoras. Quite obviously, the Romans recognise them as slaves and I as their master. Certainly, I take the brunt of their abuse. I’m roughly manhandled one to the other and my head is viciously cuffed by all three. They are joined by their companions still struggling under the heavy loads of their loot; quickly they encircle us like ravenous wolves ready to pounce on their helpless prey. 

The decurion speaks to his men and they seize the valuables that we are carrying. It is useless to protest and anyway my fear prevents me from doing so. The soldiers are unaware that I speak Latin but I have to confess I am having difficulty in understanding them. These are rough soldiers, recruited from the dregs of Roman society and they converse in Vulgar Latin which is so different to the language that I’d learned from my refined, Latin tutor. 

However, I understand enough of their obscenities to know they don’t bode us well. I listen in horror as they describe Perimedes, Diagoras and me as ‘three young arse-holes’ begging for an injection of a good, Roman cock. They leave no doubt in my mind that the three of us are to be raped.  Quickly they strip us of our clothes and naked, we are forced to our knees. Futilely, all three of us struggle, but we are no match for the burly Romans. I forget about Perimedes and Diagoras; they can fight their own battles. My only thought is for my self- preservation. 

My shoulders are seized and my head is roughly forced to the cobblestones so that my arse is elevated. I continue to struggle uselessly but I am no match for the combined strength of my captors. My legs are kicked apart and self-consciously, I’m aware of a new sense freedom as my balls hang low and my sphincter is stretched open. From the corners of my eyes, I see that Perimedes and Diagoras struggle as vainly as I do. The thought races through my mind. Did they endure this same treatment at the hands of their Roman conquerors eight years ago? They have never spoken of it, but then would they. Who could blame them for keeping their disgrace and shame from my father and me? 

My mind is a blur; it is a fog of confusion and humiliation. Questions tumble through my fevered brain. How many soldiers will rape me and what will become of the three of us when the Romans have had their way with us? Will they put us to the sword? One part of me sees that as preferable to living with the shame of having being used by these Romans as a male whore. Yet another part of me doesn’t want to die. But if I survive, what will my life be?  However, I already know the answer to that question. I know it will be as a slave to the Romans. This prospect fills me with dread yet I want to live. 

Slavery is preferable to death! 

Behind me I hear the fumbling of our abusers as they prepare to rape us. Looking back between my legs I see the lower body of a soldier but I’m not able to see him as he unties the knots of his linen subligaculum allowing his rampant cock to spring free. I listen to the ribald comments of his comrades as they urge him on - no doubt impatient for their turn to use me. 

Then, as I brace myself for the worst – salvation! A voice, heavy with authority, calls the soldiers to order. I hear the clatter of their armour and weapons as they snap to attention and in unison; they shout their salute to a superior officer. 

“Hail, Tribune Flaccus Marcus Bruscius!” 

Silence now replaces the soldiers’ unruly behaviour. I kneel with my forehead still pressed to the cobblestones; too scared to move. 

“Who are these men?” 

The voice is deep and well-modulated – I estimate it as that of a young man in his mid –thirties – and spoken with a refined accent. It is similar to the Latin with which I am familiar. 

“Tribune,” the Decurion answers, “it’s only a young Greek and his two slaves. We stopped them trying to flee the city.” 

“I see! And were they carrying anything with them? Do they carry any documents or other valuables?” 

“They carried only these, Tribune!” 

Still on my knees, I don’t see the Decurion pass my confiscated papers and other family possessions to the Tribune.  

“Get them to their feet!” 

Perimedes, Diagoras and I are ordered to our feet not by words but by well-aimed kicks to our arses with metal, hobnailed caligae or marching sandals. Hastily, I scramble to my feet and try to cover my naked shame with my cupped hands. 

Curious, I look to see who our saviour is and I am confronted by a tall aristocratic Roman – and I am correct – he is aged in his mid- thirties. He wears his uniform with pride and if I knew Roman customs and army rankings, I would see by the wide purple stripe on his tunic that he is ‘tribunis laticlavus’ - the senatorial tribune and the most senior of the six tribunes in a legion which places him second in command of his legion. Later, I will learn that his name is Flaccus Marcus Bruscius. 

The tribune’s eyes bore into me and as they slowly rove over my naked body I blush profusely. As a Greek, my nakedness doesn’t normally shame me. But always my nudity has been at my instigation. This is different; my present nakedness is not of my choosing. I have been stripped naked and now stand before this Roman as naked as any slave on a display platform. And I have the sense that he sees me in this light. 

“Is that true, Greek? Were you trying to flee the city?” 

He asks the question in flawless Greek and emboldened, I answer him in flawless Latin. 

“No Sir!” Despite my loathing at addressing him as ‘Sir’, I decide that I should maintain a certain civility towards him. After all he holds all the cards. “I was trying to return to my father’s house on the far side of the city.” 

“You speak Latin? Obviously, you are well educated.  What is your name boy?” 

I bristle at his use of ‘boy’ in addressing me. Through my Latin studies, I know the term is often used in a demeaning manner reserved for slaves. Many Roman masters will give a ‘special’ slave a name that is a corruption of their own names and ‘puer’ the Latin word for boy. For example, should a master be called Lucius or Marcus he’ll name his ‘special’ slave Lucipor or Marcipor – literally Lucius’s boy or Marcus’s boy. Is this how the Tribune sees me? Does he see me as ‘his boy’? 

“I am Glaucus, son of Clearchus of Korinthos.” I answer proudly. 

“Tell me Glaucus, son of Clearchus of Korinthos.” Is he mocking me I wonder? “Who are your companions?” 

“They are my slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras.” 

“I see! And where is your father’s house?” 

“It’s on the far side of the city, Sir.” 

“Then Glaucus, you will take me there. And your slaves will accompany us.” 

He turns to the decurion and instructs him to. 

“Bind their wrists behind their backs and fasten them by the neck one behind the other with Glaucus, the son of Clearchus in the lead.” 

“But Tribune! We don’t have any cord to bind them.” 

“By Priapus, man. Improvise! Use their clothing to make their bindings. They no longer have need of clothing.” 

“Tribune!  What of the valuables we took from them? What do you want done with those?” 

“Give me all the documents they were carrying and keep the trinkets to share among you. You keep them; they are legitimate spoils of war. Just as these three are. I claim Glaucus, son of Clearchus together with all his father’s possessions and his two slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras as my ‘spoils of war’.  All three are now to become my slaves.”

The artwork is by the incomparable Baron who interprets slavery in the Ancient World so erotically beautiful. The text is mine