The Paradox

Alecto remembered the centurion. He remembered his enormous prick and his cruel hands. He remembered his foul breath and the wretched taste of his mouth as he plunged his tongue into his own little mouth, littler then than now. He remembered that he liked his boys screaming. Compared to his friend, Proximo was mercy incarnate, and the young pleasure-slave’s luckiest day to date was the day that Centurion Muitus had sold him to Proximo.

He shuddered as Muitus leered at him from across the room, beckoning for wine. Proximo’s friends lounged about the room, most looking bored as they waited for the final guest to arrive with the evening’s entertainment. Masking his discomfort, Alec poured the vile man’s wine, and even permitted him to run his hand up his thigh to briefly fondle his bottom as he passed. He had no choice. Proximo would brook no insult to his guests, especially not his friends.

When the anticipated guest arrived, it was another unpleasant surprise for Alec; the man was a slave-dealer, one who had bought and sold him and half-starved him in the process through carelessness. He entered the room with a self-contented swagger, to the obvious disgust of many of the higher class guests. But the murmur of disapproval hushed as soon as his bodyguard entered with what was to be the evening’s distraction.

The boy, tall and powerfully built, entering his late teens but not quite yet a man, had to be bodily dragged in by the bodyguard, despite being tightly bound and gagged. His flaming red hair marked him instantly as a Gaul, and it was by far his finest feature, or at least it would have been were it clean and tidy. Now it hung in rat’s tails about his gaunt face. His skin was pale and his cheeks hollowed out with starvation, but there was still strength and anger in his eyes. He looked at Alecto, only a moment, before his wild eyes darted about the rest of the room.

Without ceremony, the guard tossed him to the floor in the middle of the room. Slowly, the Romans began rising from there seats, circling the captive like vultures. From the corner, the slave-trader was crooning softly to Proximo. Proximo laughed, tossed the man a bag of coins and bid him be on his way.

Suddenly, Alecto was aware of Tertius at his side. The clerk bent down and spoke softly to him, “Go to your quarters and fetch Aulus. If he isn’t there, look in the kitchens, then come back here, quickly.”

Alecto obeyed silently. Just as he was leaving he heard his master’s voice ringing out. “A challenge, gentle friends! He who can tame him; wins this wild flower of the Gauls!” The wild flower must have lost his gag at this point, and his restraints, as a torrent of harsh sounds rent the air, presumably curses, but Alecto didn’t understand the language. But his fury needed no translation, and the ringing sound of spitting rage was the last thing he heard as he stepped out into the courtyard.

Running to their quarters, Alecto met Aulus coming out of the kitchen, followed by one of the girls and one of the old women. The kitchen is large, and part of it backs onto an atrium which is near to Proximo’s guest quarters, and they had obviously heard the noise.

“What in the name of the stars is going on?” demanded the old woman of Alec. This woman, Florentina her name, was a southerner, dark-skinned, and had been snatched from a nomadic tribe many years ago by Proximo’s brother for her skill in fortune telling. When he had died in combat, she had been willed to Proximo and was frequently brought out at dinner parties to entertain guests. She was also as ancient as the hills, with scrawny features and bony hands, like claws.

Alecto, along with the rest of the youngsters in the household, was terrified of her. “The…m-master Proximo is…there’s a boy.” For some reason, he couldn’t find the words. He didn’t quite understand what they were doing himself, not really, for Alecto had never needed to be tamed. “Aulus, Tertius orders you come at once.”

He and the old woman exchanged dark glances, but said nothing, and then she turned and herded the girl back into the kitchen with her. Aulus looked confused, but he put his hand on Alec’s shoulder. “Go to our quarters. I will be back soon.” Then Aulus leaned in close and whispered to him, “Go to sleep. If you are called for, pretend you are too ill to move. Do not come back out again. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Aulus.” Aulus was not usually so commanding towards him, but Alec was frightened by the tone of his voice and the atmosphere of the household, and welcomed the familiarity of the command.

For what seemed to be hours, Alec waited in the darkness of the small room. He lay with his head under the his blanket, trying to block out the light, and then later, the sounds. The cries grew louder and louder, always echoed by the laughter of Proximo’s crowd. It was the crass, indulgent laughter of men and women relishing their own cruelty.

Although he knew they did not, the sounds seemed to grow louder and louder, resonating and echoing about the room. Alec shut his eyes and put his hands over his ears, but it seemed as if the Roman party was just outside.

Breaking through the laughter, suddenly their came a shout, not of anger but of pain, followed by several dull thuds. The laughter had stopped all of a sudden, and had mutated into a low jeer. The changing sound was enough to catch Alec’s attention and he sat up on his pallet, listening.

Suddenly, the door was flung open. Alec jumped to his feet instantly, forgetting that he was supposed to be playing sick. In rushed Farva, a young save and Malakeh’s sister, holing a wooden basin and a yard of linen.

“Alec! Praise be you here!” she said, crossing swiftly to Aulus’ pallet, setting down the basin unceremoniously. “Malakeh has me sent in, soon she knew-”

Farva was younger and her language was not good at the best of times, and now she was flustered. Alec dropped his blanket and crossed the chamber to where she had knelt, knelt by her and demanded that she tell him what was happening.

She looked at him for a second and suddenly, to Alec’s surprise as this girl was not generally thought to be overly emotional, her eyes filled with tears. “It awful. Oh, Alec, it awful. Poor boy…”

“What boy?” Alec asked, eagerly. “The boy they were playing with?”

She nodded. “Boy…boy trouble. He too angry, he not obey. Roman Masters touch him…play him…” she shuddered as she envisioned the hideously invading and violating touches of the drunken hoard of her masters. She was little more than a child, younger even than Alecto, too young to have witnessed the things that go on at Proximo’s parties.

“Someone hit boy. Hurt him. Break him. He go quiet…then…” she took a deep breath, and Alec wasn’t sure whether she was searching for the words or for the strength to say them. “Cent-ri-on Muitus put his prick in boy mouth, and…boy bit. Bit hard.”

Alec stared, mouth-open. He had never herd of such a thing. Had the centurion’s member come off in the Gaul’s mouth? What revenge! But surely now he would pay dearly for it. “What is going to happen to him?”

“Master have him flogged.” She was crying now, in earnest, tears rolling off her rounded cheeks, and when she spoke her voice trembled. “100 lashes.”

“What?” That was virtually a death sentence. The whip would tear off all the skin, and even if he survived the beating, the inevitable following infection would be lethal.

Awkwardly, Alec reached out and sought the girls hand, seeking to offer some comfort in her obvious distress. Farva looked up at him for a second before flinging her arms around his neck and crying against his shoulder. Her little bosom heaved against his own thin chest, and for a second they clung to each other, until she drew back quickly.

“Malakeh say we help him. If he alive, we heal him with bandages, see?” she indicated the linen which she had tossed on the bed. She picked it up and tore it clean in two, biting at it with her teeth. For a child, and a girl-child at that, she was certainly very strong, thought Alecto. “Help me,” she said handing him half of the sheet.

For what seemed like hours, but when he looked back on it like no time at all, they sat silently, tearing the cloth to strips. Farva started singing then, to drown out the sound of the lashes falling in the courtyard just outside the door. The next time the door opened, the boy was being borne in by Aulus, Tertius and Malakeh.

The two youngsters cleared out of the way as they lay the scourged and bloody boy stomach-down upon Aulus’ little pallet. Malakeh reached out to the bandages, but Aulus caught her wrist and shook his head sadly.

Tertius had sat cross-legged on the floor just behind Alec’s pallet. He cleared his throat, and then spoke up. “Out of her now, girls. A man deserves privacy in his last moments.”

Farva looked on the verge of tears again, until Malakeh took her hand and drew her towards the door. No sooner had she shut the door than Alec saw Aulus drawing his knife. He laid it on the ground by the Gaul’s head, in his sight. The Gaul looked at it, then at Aulus. He gave an imperceptible nod, but Alec could not work out what the boy was agreeing too.

“Come to me, little Alecto…” said Tertius, holding out both hands, palms up. Across the gloom of the room, Alec could see his eyes, large and pleading. “Come.” Alecto did. He let Tertius enfold him in his arms and cradle his head against his shoulder, as if he were holding an infant. He could feel Tertius’ hot breath on his shoulders. “Don’t look back.”

When Alecto was finally released to look back, all he saw was the Gaul, dead, a pool of blood about his neck, and Aulus, slipping the dagger into the palm of his lifeless hand.