Sarah

“The touch of your hand says you’ll catch me, if ever I fall.

You say it best, when you say nothing at all.”

He could have said something, he could have pushed for more, or railed at the injustice, or pressured her to let him go, but he felt that he already knew what the answer would be. And such a request would not be received well. Somehow it wasn’t needed, that moment of connection was enough, one gain however small, towards seeing the Romans as human, and being seen by them as human. It wasn’t what he wanted, what he yearned for and wept over in the depths of the night, but it was something. Sometimes the best reply was silence.

She looked away then, wiped her eyes carefully in a delicate gesture. It was a different side of her, one he hadn’t seen before, and it piqued his curiosity. Her presentation and mask had been so perfect when he’d arrived, was it her youth that meant it had cracked so easily? Or was it something else. He didn’t know, not being much older nor an expert in manipulation, but he did watch people, and those blue eyes watched her now as she composed herself. She had the front of a confident woman, yet it seemed to him that it was armour for the vulnerable girl who lived just beneath. Whether or not he was right or very wrong, only time would tell.

She was a few years younger than him, he judged; behind her make-up was the blush of youth. Yet when she drew herself up and her mask slid back into place she was as regal as any chieftain. It was an impressive transition, and he had yet to learn how rare that glimpse of her had been. Still, her words were unexpected. The last he'd been told was that he would be a gladiator, his purpose to bring glory to his mistress, and that if he died in the ring no one would mourn.

Yet suddenly a different fate was being set before him, and blue eyes looked up at his mistress, trying to fathom her intent. Word had it that the best gladiators could earn their freedom, but it was no certain path. Never the less, he'd hoped to walk it. Now she was setting him on a different one. 'Bodyguard' wasn't a term he'd heard before, but the words 'body' and 'guard' were known, and the combination was fairly obvious, especially when Corinthia described his duties. She wanted him as a ghillie, protector and attendant. He wondered who specifically might want to harm her, or whether such a role was common in Roman society, and whether there would be a chance to earn his freedom in that role. There would certainly be the opportunity to learn his mistress better.

Of course, informing him was merely a formality in this structured society. "Yes, Domina." He said simply, then cocked his head slightly in curiosity. Who would want to harm her? Perhaps time would tell. "I guard."

@Gothic

The slave carrying the basket bowed as Pontia placed her hand on the basket, and stepped aside, leaving Tiberius to accompany the head Vestal to the quite alcove with it's bench and potted plants, as private as one could be with a consecrated servant of the Gods. Sworn virgins, any hint of scandal could be the downfall of one of these sacred women, and the punishment for suspected indiscretion was severe. Yet even more severe were the repercussions for Rome herself, should one of Vesta's sacred servants fail in their vows. Ever mindful of the future of the Empire, Tiberius held no interest in even tempting such.

Settling onto the bench at a close but discrete distance, Tiberius considered his words. He knew what he wanted to say, this was no idle visit, but sometimes the 'how' was as important as the 'what'.

"I will be embarking on the Cursus Honorum this year." He began simply. It marked his transition from the traditional education of childhood into the training that would set him on his future path in adulthood. "I do not expect any particular trouble, but I am aware that the will of the Gods is unknown, to most of us." The last was said with a faint, wry smile. "I wish to ensure that, should anything happen to me, nothing will be left to chance. I would lodge a will in your keeping, if I may."

Not that Tiberius owned a great deal himself, being largely provided for as a member of the Imperial household, but he might acquire some possessions over the next two years. He doubted that Quintus would tolerate any loose ends and would no doubt tidy things up himself if necessary, but the young prince would prefer not to leave any, should the worst befall him.

@Gothic

The slave trader chuckled when Tertius suggested that he might be almost to eager to rid himself of the female slave. "If I sell her, I make money. If I don't, she costs me money." He said with simple honesty, and shrugged. "Of course I want to sell her." It came down to basic economics. A commodity did a trader no good until he sold it, and livestock needed feeding. No doubt Tertius understood such things, he looked like a man who had seen much of the Empire. In fact, he looked slightly familiar.

"If she were damaged I would have sold her to the ludus for the gladiators, but she will do far better than that." He opined, taking the opportunity to have a second glance at Tertius's features, trying to place him. "She's learned some Latin, but would benefit from being in a Latin-speaking household. If you want her to cook she'll have to be taught proper Roman food. But she can clean and tidy very well, is quite strong and does as she is bid as long as she understands." That was always the difficulty with fresh barbarian slaves; the language barrier meant that one had to take time to train them. Of course, that was why they were significantly cheaper. For someone inclined to put in the time and effort, the right one could be a very savvy investment.

Definitely not a recent customer, the vague recollection felt older than that, and it really only left one possibility. "I trust you'll forgive the presumption, but I don't suppose you also served in the legions?" Spurius asked, casting a sidelong glance at the other man.

@Atrice

Focusing on the sparring he was involved in - the back and forth, give and take, defend and attack - mindful of his opponent’s willingness to take advantage of any opportunity. It wasn’t until the doctore who oversaw the sparring paused the bout that Aeneas heard his name being called. He glanced in the man’s direction and gained a slight nod of permission, so Aeneas bowed to his opponent and returned his weapon and shield to the rack with all due care, before he approached the stands where the familiar form of Gaia stood next to a man he did not know.

“Domina.” He said politely, with a bow of acknowledgement, blue gaze moving from her to her unknown companion and back again. He breathed deeply, his muscles gleaming with the sweat of exertion, though he was no titan in build. Long and lean, he was a man of endurance rather than strength, and the armour he wore was minimal in order to show off his exotic white skin and blue tattoos.

@Atrice@Gothic

On 4/1/2019 at 2:00 PM, Sydney said:

Hey Sarah! So I have a couple options for our characters to meet/thread. If you have any ideas, let me know! 

Oriana & Tiberius: So they are both upper class, and Oriana throws a lot of parties. She's very *pretend* nice to nobles, but he might attend a party of hers. 

N'tombi & Aeneas: N'tombi owns a bar and serves anyone, whether they're slaves or royalty. He might be able to stop in for a drink if he's allowed, maybe after a gladiatorial fight or something.

Spurius & Justinia: Justinia is a slave prostitute that works at Domus Venus, but it's possible that they probably have run into each other one time or another. She was just sold, so there might've been a time when he was the one trying to sell her. 

These are very basic drafts of a thread, but let me know if you want to thread with any of these ideas!  

Hey Sydney!

I'm up for all sorts of shenanigans. I love the idea of an upper class party, maybe we could even get a few of the upper class characters attending? Tiberius would be there.

Aeneas is moving towards being allowed out, so something at the bar could be an option in the near future. Spurius could also drop into N'tombi's bar.

Spurius and Justinia could be an option. He could have sold her, he could even be a patron, I haven't really thought about what he does in his spare time yet!

@Sydney

March 74

The inside of the warehouse was built into what looked like a comfortable stables. It was meant for livestock, but not of the four-legged variety. Several large cages were floored with warm straw and occupied by barbarian slaves of various ethnicities. They had simple tunics and blankets, and a bucket in the corner. Most sat around, looking bored and irritable. Further along were smaller rooms where the more civilised or valuable slaves were housed, with pallets of their own to sleep on and only a few per room. All were kept warm in the cooler months by fireplaces which warmed the building; Spurius insisted that his stock were well kept and fed, ready to be taken to the markets or available for more private viewings.

One of his factors had found a handful of new stock for him, all Roman-born slaves, some from a deceased estate and a couple from elsewhere. They were ordered into a line on the open area of floor in the middle of the building, and a tall man with a few age lines on his equine face limped up to them, leaning heavily on his staff, and ran an expert eye over them.

Each in turn was commanded to stand up straight, to present their hands for inspection and to show him their teeth. Spurius insisted in inspecting his purchases personally, and experience had given him both good judgement and a knack for finding the value in slaves that others couldn’t see.

The old man was a tutor, well learned, but should have been living out his twilight years in the home where he had given faithful service; his bent back might stand against him. A pain-numbing tea and a firm board under his pallet would straighten him out for sale as much as was possible, and maybe he would find a forgiving master.

The young woman with the baby in her arms was weak and pale, having bled after the birth. Before that she'd been a household slave and cook. She looked fearful when Spurius took the child from her arms, but he only inspected it’s gaze and grip, twitched it’s cloths aside to confirm it was a boy, before handing it back. “Liver and greens for this one.” Were the order to his factor as she was led away.

The young man was of some northern barbarian descent but apparently Roman born. His Latin was fluent and he’d likely go quickly for his exotic looks and lack of need for training. The girl beside him was well versed in cosmetics and hair styling, she’d be snapped up quickly.

Finally he came to the last in the line, another young woman. “Stand up straight.” Spurius commanded, running an expert eye over her figure, registering not the slightest bit of interest beyond the professional. “Show me your hands.” He always checked hands; broken hands could render a slave useless. “Show me your teeth.” Rotten teeth were a liability.

“What are your skills? How did you serve your last Dominos?” They were all the same things he’d asked of the last four slaves he’d inspected, and the mild look in his hazel eyes suggested that Spurius didn’t expect to find anything out of the ordinary in the fifth.

@Jenn

Spurius had been leaning on his staff, watching the passers by with a keen gaze, when he spotted a well dressed fellow of about his own vintage approaching at an oblique angle, pausing by one of the cages of western barbarians to look them over with an evaluating eye. They were a mixed lot, some destined for a quick death as a gladiator, some might be turned to more profitable futures. The man’s gaze seemed to linger on one, the quiet woman at the back.

“You have a good eye.” Spurius complimented, limping over with the aid of his staff. “She’s quiet and makes no trouble, that one.” He said with a nod in the woman’s direction. “She’ll adapt very quickly.” Seeming to sense their gazes on her, the woman looked up through her dark hair, odd blue eyes turning in their direction without seeming to really register the pair. She looked healthy enough, if a bit wan and dispirited.

“She lost her child on the journey over but is well in herself, and will benefit from having work to do.” He added by way of explanation for her lacklustre spirit. Some preferred a bit of fight in their female slaves, others didn’t have the time for such nonesense. Turning away from the cage, the salesman gave his visitor his full attention. “Spurius Antius, at your service.” The slaver bowed, a wry smile on his horsey features that didn’t quite reach his hazel eyes.

@Atrice

The young woman who approached and took a chair next to him exuded the easy confidence one expected in the best courtiers, as well as a casual elegance, the blues of her clothing offsetting the rich browns of her hair and eyes. She was also familiar, in the vague way of extended family, being the stepdaughter of his cousin, Flavia Juliana. Juliana of course was older than Tiberius, he was closer to Caecina’s age.

“Salve, Caecina.” He greeted her with a genuine, boyish grin as she settled next to him. Tiberius was maturing every day, and dressed in a fine linen tunic and toga with an edging in purple silk and gold thread the resemblance to this father's family was stronger than ever, but there were still moments when he seemed very young, on that awkward cusp. “Have you been well?” He asked, genuinely interested.

He had vague memories of her from his life before the purges; her father had served his, before his world had been turned upside down. But it wasn’t really until Juliana married Tuscus - likely in part as reward for his loyalty - that Caecina had come back into their circle again.

@Echo

Thank you, it's great to be here.

I have walking teacosies (complete with fuzzy nuggets):

And stupid skittish things that lay blue eggs:

I'm also a cat mum and adoptive dog mum (they came with the husband). And we have Persian sheep!

Hi Everyone!

I'm a thirty-something government servant with a master's degree and a background in bioscience. I'm also Australian; what is it with Aussies and ancient Rome?

Hubby and I live on a hobby farm just outside of the city. I have too many hobbies but they include breeding and showing chickens, cutting gemstones, computer games (currently Far Cry Primal and Oxygen Not Included) gardening and cooking. I also brew my own alcohol.

I love writing and also write for a Star Trek RPG. I'm up for most characters and storylines so feel free to drop me a line in my plotter.

Glad to be playing with you all. 

I'll volunteer Tiberus as tribute. I think it would be funny. 

1 hour ago, Jenn said:

Hey Sarah- awesome character choice We need one of those around here. Tacita is still available for ownership- not overly picky regarding owner. Slavery is the only life she has known and because of her 'deficiencies' she has no desire to be freed.

He's been in my head for a while, started as an NPC who sold Aeneas to Gaia and Corinthia, but I enjoyed writing him. Also I couldn't see any other slaver characters. He's not a cruel man, to him it's just a job, though he dislikes foreigners after nearly dying on a battlefield in Brittania. I think it would be fun for Tacita to become one of his house slaves; I'm sure he could see the use in a slave who doesn't speak.

@Jenn

The flood of barely tamed gladiator material from Brittania had slowed to a trickle now that the legions were consolidating their holdings in that region. He still had stock from there of course, some strong young men, a couple of lively women whose fine white skin he endeavoured not to mark when they were disciplined for being unruly, and an old fellow who might perhaps be put to work on someone's farm for a few years until he died. Caged strategically next to them were a pair of black-skinned youths traded all the way through Aegyptus from the lands far to the south; they made quite the contrast next to the northern barbarians, and the various others in the cage behind.

Standing next to these were a couple of good, Roman slaves. The simple fact they needed no cage spoke of their quality. Spurius used only Roman slaves himself, but there was a definite profit to be made in trading barbarians to the right people, particular the Ludii. And perhaps there was a small measure of cold revenge in that preference as well. Keeping an eye on his charges, Spurius limped from one end of the cages to the other, watchful gaze ensuring that none of his merchandise had been injured in transit, nor were up to mischief.

My slaver character Spurius has just been approved. Maybe he could either be Tacita's new master, or be selling her if she's up for sale once again?

Below on the sands the gladiators trained, men - and the occasional woman - from across the Empire, mostly captives, a very few free, but not free to dally or be distracted when in training. One amongst them stood out; outlandishly tall, pale beneath his freckles and rangy, with blue tattoos marking the bare skin of his chest and upper arms, visible where his armour didn't cover them.

Aeneas had blocked out the sounds of those who were idly watching the sparring, at least until a familiar voice called out an unfamilar name. He resisted the urge to turn and look, but even so his partner took advantage of the momentary lapse of concentration to press the attack.

Blocking with his scutum, Aeneas took a wide step to bring his gladius round towards his opponent's exposed flank, and at the same time bring that section of the stands into view. Gaia's visits were infrequent but always welcome, his mistress's youthful mother a far more kind and pleasant presence than Corinthia herself, even as he was learning the young woman behind the haughty mask.

Spurius Antius Claudus

41 | 12 April 33AD | Plebeian | Slaver | Heterosexual | Original | Tobias Menzies

Personality

Sometimes it is difficult to know the real Spurius. To the world he is the perfect salesman; polite, charming, sympathetic and silver-tongued; always ready to do the right thing by his customer (and by himself at the same time). Amongst his friends he is genial and something of a raconteur.

At home, the man behind the mask is rather different. Somewhat soul-tired, he appreciates the finer things in life but moderates this with a certain austerity, despite his commercial success. He prefers a simple life, using few slaves of his own, all of which are good Roman slaves and which he treats and cares for like good furniture.

Although successful now, Spurius has regrets in his past which have jaded him, and he worries that the repercussions have ruined him for the future. He particularly dislikes barbarian foreigners, likely why he mostly trades in them. He has a shrewd eye for a bargain and excellent business sense.

Appearance

Tall and lean with mousy, mid-brown hair, Spurius is neither handsome nor ugly. Tanned from time out of doors, he has the physique of a retired soldier; reasonable muscle and the beginnings of a gut. Shrewd hazel eyes watch the world from under heavy brows and the frown lines between those brows are deep, as are the others that mark his long, somewhat equine face.

Usually dressed in a fine linen tunica and toga of undyed wool, Spurius is the image of a Plebian on the up and up, a successful businessman. Unusually, he always carries a heavy staff, the end carved into an ornate hook not unlike a shepherd's crook. He uses it to moves slaves around, but he also leans on it heavily, and walks with a distinct limp.

Family

Father: Marcus Antius

Mother: Ovidia Juliana

Siblings: Gaius Antius (b. 31), Antia Marcilla (b.35), Antia Julianilla (B. 37)

Spouse: None

Children: None

Extended family: Julius Antius (Uncle)

Slaves: Tacita, Romulus, Remus, Corva, Linus

Other:

History

CHILDHOOD [36AD-46AD]:

Spurius's childhood was simple if relatively uneventful, growing up with his older brother Gaius and sisters Antia Marcilla and Antia Julia. Their father Marcus was a trader in exotic goods from across the Empire, particularly south to Aegyptus, and was often absent for months at a time, but when he returned he would always bring his wife and children little gifts, and spend time with his sons. Their mother Ovidia was a warm and caring woman, if a little saddened every time her husband left on his travels. They were comfortable if not fabulously wealthy, and Spurius recalls a house full of odd little trinkets brought back from distant lands. Spurius was a cheerful child, winsome and interested in the world.

These years saw the death of Caligula and the rise of Drusus Claudius Sabucius as Caesar, as well as the death of his first son and heir, Gaius. Being only young at the time, Spurius doesn't remember the politics of the time affecting him much.

TEENAGE TO EARLY ADULT [46AD-54AD]:

Spurius's early teenage years were still relatively peaceful and prosperous, and he was an apt enough student both in grammaticus and in his father's business. Marcus was keen to see that both his sons learned the trade, as he saw horizons to expand into and wealth to be made. His younger son particularly seemed to inherit his charisma, developing into a warm and charming personality. His father foresaw success in the family business, even though his mother thought he was a gentle soul and might do better in academia. Spurius however was on his dad's side and his first opportunity to accompany his father on a business journey south was one of his happiest. He recalls the marriage of Caesar Claudius to Lucilla in those years.

Regretably, that golden age was not to last. Revolts in Aegyptus and Achaea cut off trade routes for months at a time and significantly damaged business prospects. As Marcus primarily traded to the southern provinces, the family's financial situation began to sour. Perhaps the Empire itself was souring, as Claudius was poisoned and his adopted son gained power, only to be exiled when Caesar awoke.

The Imperial Legions finally quelled the uprisings and occupied Achaea, but Marcus Antius's trading position was weakened, and his collateral reduced from supporting his family through those hard times. At the same time Marcus's brother Julius gained both wealth and fame in the legions during that action, and it was he who sent word to his brother that the routes had opened again, giving him at least something of a head start.

YOUNG ADULTHOOD [54-64]:

As times became tougher, Marcus focused his time on Gaius, his elder son, taking him on longer trading journeys and teaching him the languages of the south and what wares sold best where. Spurius was keen to learn as well, but with their prospects reduced, Marcus encouraged his younger son to look elsewhere for his life's work, leaving Spurius feeling disappointed and somewhat abandoned. Marcus's wisdom was proven however, as a revolt in Judea that coincided with Emperor Darius's passing causes further difficulties.

Their Uncle Julius on the other hand prospered in the strife, and both he and Marcus encouraged Spurius to follow in his footsteps and join the legions. Spurius had never had any military leanings, but he saw the sense in the advice and swore service even as the Empire seemed to be dissolving into chaos, the life expectancy of a Caesar short indeed, until a Dictatorship was declared. Whilst the Legions were not his first choice, the pragmatism that Spurius would show in adulthood acknowledged that his prospects were better there. Twenty-five years of service could even see him made an Equite.

Perhaps it was for the best, for amongst the chaos Spurius found himself heading west for the fabled Brittania, and with any luck gold and glory. The thought of coming home with well earned salary and a little treasure to start his own business, buoyed him along, particularly if he could manage to find some trade contacts on the way. He proved a satisfactory soldier, and their initial engagements are successful; the wisdom of his father and uncle's advice seem clear. His first foray to Brittania proved profitable, and during a brief return to Rome and with coin in his pocket, Spurius enjoyed a success and popularity that he had only dreamed of. He began courting Antonia, whom he had known since childhood and had transitioned from friend's annoying younger sister to teenage crush to possible marriage prospect. She herself seemed pleased at the idea.

Campaigns into Judea saw more successful battles, Spurius advanced within the ranks of the infantry, and when the Legion once more returned to Britania under Caesar Junus, it seemed that the advice of his father and uncle had been wise indeed.

That was, until a dying barbarian warrior plunged a dagger into Spurius's thigh as he was crossing the field of the slain, nearly adding him to their number.

He wasn't expected to survive, but the legion's crotchety old field medicus was amongst the best, and survive he did. Not without a price, the wound was high, deep and initially infected, and it become clear that though he'd live, Spurius could no longer march with the Legions. He was honourably discharged and sent back to Rome to recover, but not before taking his pay in captured slaves. He was, after all, a trader.

ADULTHOOD [64-onwards]:

And he was a good one, he'd learned well from his father and seemed to have a particular eye for the barbarian 'merchandise'. With the start provided by his service to the Empire, he was able to set up a successful business. Yet those who had known him when younger noted the change his time in the Legions had wrought. Cheerful and charismatic in public, what had been his nature had become a mask, and he became quiet and even bitter in private.

Neither unnecessarily cruel nor particularly kind, he cared for his slaves like the livestock they were, knowing that those in good condition would sell well, and he gained a reputation for his quality and trustworthiness. He traded in slaves from all areas, even good Roman slaves with valuable skills, but mostly in captured barbarians, including contracts to the Ludii for the games. Yet success was not enough for some; Antonia's father turned him away, preferring an undamaged man for his son in law. He didn't speak to them again, turning his attention whole heartedly to where it was wanted.

He was particularly successful, earning a modest wealth and becoming well known around the great market, marked out by the staff he carried, like a large shepherd's crook, and his distinctive limp. His fellow merchants gave him the agnomen 'Claudus', meaning 'the lame', which he accepted with a kind of grim pride, as gifted by Fate itself.

Sarah | GMT+10 | CONTACT

@Gothic

"Ave, Vestalis Maxima." The young man replied with a respectful bow, as the seniormost of the Vestals approached him. Tiberius was well aware of the sacred trust guarded by these consecrated women, that in turn safeguarded the Empire from within. Vesta, goddess of the hearth, was one of the oldest gods, and the most central to their wellbeing. If one's house was not in order, how could anything else be?

He wore several tunics in the cold of the turn of the year, but the toga he wore over the top was of the finest linen with a border of dyed silk and gold thread. Not that he was particularly fond of ostentation, quite the opposite, but he understood that such efforts denoted respect.

At a simple gesture the slave who had accompanied him within the atrium stepped forward and held out the basket he carried. It contained a generous quantity of dried fruits, fresh baked flat breads, nuts and a jar of salt; simple but welcome sustenance in  the cold of the year. "Tiberius Claudius Sabucius brings an offering for Vesta, and I hoped we might speak privately." He said simply. The Vestals were themselves a powerful cult, supported by the Imperials. He assumed that she would know who he was.

@Gothic

Tracking post moved to tracking thread.

His blue gaze followed her gesture, seeing that she already had all that she needed. Dried fruits and soft bread on a fine metal platter, wine in a pitcher with glasses. Glass was something he had only encountered in the smallest, most expensive beads in his homeland; it was fine jewellery. To see so much, and turned into a household utensil, had initially been a shock. But he had come to understand that the household was wealthy, and glass was a sign of that wealth. At the Ludus he drank out of wood or rough ceramic. Why were there two cups? Was Corinthia expecting company? Or was that simply what had been left?

For a moment he'd expected her to say she needed nothing, and send him away, but instead she indicated that he was to bring that which had been set, in words that were spoken unusually softly for his mistress, her voice sounding strained and weary, accompanied by a sigh. He nodded briefly and rose to his feet again, pondering the items before carefully tucking the pitcher into the crook of his elbow so that he could carry both the glasses in one large hand, and the plate in the other. The corner of his mouth quirked where she couldn't see as she chivvied him, he would have sworn that she did it out of habit.

There were those at the Ludus who spoke to the slaves in soft voices, who wore smiles and easy manners, yet who he knew took pleasure in seeing the slaves hurt, sometimes in hurting them themselves, under the guise of some necessary punishment. Aeneas knew that the other household slaves disliked Corinthia, but for all that she snapped at him, shouted at him, sent him away at times, she had never hurt him. The only time she had laid her hand on him had been gentle, and she'd never ordered him beaten. As far as he cared, she could snap at him all she wanted.

Turning with the items carefully balance in his arms he bowed slightly and raised dark brows, awaiting her command.

@Gothic

Aeneas was a practical man. The forge was unforgiving of the hot-headed and easily frustrated. He could recognise when a fight couldn't be won, and bide his time until it could. Some saw this as a weakness, some had even called him weak. Many of those no longer walked this earth, and not through any doing of his. That didn't mean that he didn't feel anger, didn't feel pain; but he harboured them away until the time was right. Might he have been so sanguine about his situation if Eoife and Fiachu had been taken alongside him and separated from him? Probably not. He remembered the Brigantean men who'd fought as their wives and children were taken elsewhere by the slavers.

But he wasn't in that situation. However much he missed them, however hard it tore his heart to think of his son growing up without him, at least they were free. They would be provided for, there was a place for them in the village. At least, he assumed they were free; in his darkest nightmares the Romans pushed further north and conquered the lands of the Caledonii, and his own family were taken as well, or killed. But from what little he'd heard the Romans were consolidating what they had rather than pushing further, and in truth they might find that land of high mountains and deep snows hard to take, especially from a people who were accustomed to lightning raids and mountain tactics; they'd had enough time to practice on each other.

He hadn't spoken of those he'd left behind to his captors; they were uninterested in anything that he had to say that didn't indicate acquiesence. Gaia had been the only exception, but in the public space of the Ludus was hardly conducive to in-depth conversation. Dwelling on the pain gained him nothing, whilst inattention during training gained him bruises and short rations, so he'd buried it deep. But talking about his homeland, his kin, brought everything to the surface. How could these people be so heartless? These Romans, did they not understand what they did? Or did they not care? They seemed to think they had some right over others. At least when his own people feuded it was out of spite, or anger, or revenge, not some idea that one tribe was intrinsically better than others. Prisoners might be taken, but they could be ransomed back. He'd never seen any indication that Romans were interested in ransom.

Or in pity. But he couldn't help it, perhaps deep down he wanted one other person to understand what had been taken from him, even if they didn't care. When she looked away, he half expected her to order him sent back to the Ludus, uninterested in his personal trials. Aeneas was aware of Barbus standing behind him, but his focus was on his mistress. She who was the only person with the power to set him free, not that he expected it. Hoped for certainly, but he didn't expect. He was, after all, a practical man. Why bring him all this way to show a sudden moment of humanity? He shouldn't have spoken, but he couldn't not.

She turned back, and he expected that angry dismissal, that petulant pout, but no, she looked down. The dark lashes of her kohl-rimmed eyes gleamed wetly, and in a move that shocked him more than if she had slapped him, one tanned, perfectly manicured hand came to rest on his freckled shoulder. She understood. He lowered his head for a moment in emotional acknowledgement and took a deep breath, then glanced up. There was no hope in that glance, no pleading, no anger, just the frank acknowledgement of something that bridged the gap between their peoples and cultures; something they both understood. That unexpected moment of compassion had more effect on Aeneas than any number of months of harsh words and beatings. Truly, one caught more flies with honey than with vinegar.

@Gothic

It was a time of celebration, of liberation, and naturally of libation. Slaves feasted, masters served, and in the dark of the year society turned upside down in recognition of the fact that they were all as equals before the Gods, and lesser to them. Let that please Saturn and Apollo Helius and lengthen the days once more, lest the year fail to turn and the world descend into darkness.

The Imperial family had attended the rite at the Temple of Saturn, watched the priest with his head oddly uncovered as he said the ancient words and made the sacrifice. The banquet had been well underway for some time and even Tiberius had indulged in some wine and a little too much food, after the palace slaves had eaten.

Now he was sitting by the window, looking out over the city and pondering the future. This was the turning of the year, and the new year would bring the first steps into his adulthood, marked by the beginning of the cursus honorum. Titus, who was of age with him, was facing the same, but he was making a thorough enjoyment of the evening, if Tiberius's last glimpse of him was anything to judge by.

The young Imperial, last son of Caesar Claudius, glanced up with a slightly sheepish smile at the approaching figure.

(OOC: Particularly open to Imperial and Senatore youth)

His Latin was bad, but his opportunities to practice it were few, and given that he'd never really heard the language before his capture, it was at least an improvement. And he tried, he did genuinely try to describe his homeland for her. It was only the barrier of language that stunted his poesy, not lack of love or beauty. And he answered her questions honestly, which was why he was a little surprised when she contradicted him. Why bother to ask his name and then tell him no? Or was it his poor grasp of the language; he hadn't mastered tenses yet. Not that that would have changed his answer; the Romans could call him what they wanted, he knew what his mother had named him. Thus he accepted the correction with equanimity and the slightest of shrugs; to argue would both have caused trouble, and made some acknowledgement that they had any right to name him. He knew his name.

Instead he sat patiently, silently, whilst Corinthia tapped her exquisitely manicured nails irritably on the arm of her chair. There was no point in pre-empting her, not when he didn't know her well and guessing incorrectly would lead to further trouble. Indeed, there was something almost easy about not having to think ahead, only doing as he was told and speaking when spoken to. And so he was content to wait on his mistress. Wait, and observe.

At last she spoke, and posed another question. Politics? Now that was unexpected. Was she looking for tactical information? Or was she simply curious about how a different society worked? "Have Clan Chief." He said after a moment's thought on the wording. "Clan like large family. All distant family. Also smaller septs within Clan. Like village, with chieftain." He tried to explain. "Clan Chiefs make... friend? with other Clans? Also fight. Big fight, long time." What was the Roman word for fued? Did  she want to know about local politics? "Make trade between clans and septs. Make marry. I smith, make tool, weapon. Important for village. My wife Eoife, she daughter sept Chieftain." He said quietly, yet with no less furvour. "My son Fiachu maybe Chieftain one day." 

His son. His pride and joy, and hope for the future. He remembered the day he'd put his arm around Eoife as she'd held their newborn son to her breast. Remembered the tight grip of that tiny fist on his finger, those big blue eyes looking up at him, the knowledge that he would do anything to protect his child as he grew. And now he couldn't. Because he was here, because of the Romans.

As he spoke those deep blue eyes watched Corinthia, watched her expression, the flicker of her own dark gaze. Did she understand what he had been taken from? What she was keeping him from? Did she care? He had a family; a wife who likely thought he was dead, and a son who was growing up without him. "My son not know me now." He said bitterly, the words escaping before he could really think about them. If she couldn't care about him, could she feel for the little boy, growing up without his father?

@Gothic

Woot!

It was the nature of the Imperial family that they were always on their guard, whether it be for politics or personal safety; often both. And what's more they had to be so whilst appearing to be entirely at ease, a manner which became second nature to them. But it was pleasant to be able to relax as much as they were able, amongst their peers.

Tiberius had eaten well and drunk a modest amount of wine. Just enough to feel relaxed, but he wasn't the sort to overindulge. The ebb and flow of conversations and people had left him momentarily on his own and he reclined at his ease, a cup of fine, deep green glass in his hand, on which had been painted stylised lillies and reeds, romantically remniscient of the borders of the Nile in Aegyptus. Likely the artist had never been to that far province however. He nursed the wine in it, taking advantage of the momentary lull to people-watch. It was a careless individual that did not take not of who spoke with whom.

A slave passed by with a bowl of grapes and the young man helped himself to a handful with a nod.

(OOC: Open to anyone who might like to join him.)

Tracking post moved to tracking thread.