Sharpie

Teutus Quinctilius Varus "Nice and pleasant and quiet and with hips for childbearing," he repeated, pausing for a moment before allowing the smile to appear. "That sounds so dull." Which brought to mind their very first ever conversation. "I wouldn't say no to those things, but all of those together just bring to mind a quiet mousy sort of girl and - don't you find girls like that irritating? I'd rather have someone with some sense, someone I could talk with, maybe. Laugh with, definitely." Why was finding a wife such a complicated business... why was his entire life destined to be complicated? He didn't need someone to run his home for him; he'd only recently found his mother, and she was perfectly good at that. And he didn't want someone who would poke her nose into how he conducted his business. So that probably just left him with the quiet mousy sorts, who would drive him to distraction. "I don't know. What sort of man would you like to marry - don't tell me you want someone as rich as Croesus who's also as old as the hills and will leave you a rich widow within six months of the marriage." Ovinia would not be at all happy to find herself married to someone her father's age, after all - despite everything, Teutus wanted her to be happy. @Sara

Attis put his arm around Metella as she straightened; it hadn't been an easy birth, and while she was recovering, it was a process. Even with their master's liking for children, he was absolutely unprepared for what Longinus did next: stoop to pick the child up and coo over her. He stood there, staring at his master in confused stupefaction, his mouth open. Of all the things he and Metella had discussed, the one thing that had not occurred to him that might happen was Longinus actually picking the baby up. The only name that he'd really thought of was Melita, but that was very close to Metella, too, so probably equally unhelpful. He was too focussed on his daughter lying in his master's arms to recognise that Longinus had asked a question but it wasn't until he got a firm elbow in the side that he realised his brain had stopped working. "Um. B...Beata," he managed, which hadn't been discussed with Metella at all and was likely to get him in trouble later on, but blessed seemed the only appropriate name he could come up with. If Metella didn't like it, he'd be in for a world of hurt later! @Chevi @Sara

Awesome photos - thank you so much!! I think there's a vast difference between knowing Roman homes were decorated so colourfully and actually seeing it IRL... and the mosaics on the floor. Such fantastic pictures, thank you!

Late September 77AD It was nine days for a boy, but only eight for a girl, for reasons Attis found a complete mystery. He had lured the dog into an unused storeroom and shut the door on him - this was no time for the big thing to interrupt and cause who knew what insanity. He'd dressed in his best tunic (not that he had very many to choose from, only being a slave and all). He had mixed feelings on the whole thing, but dealt with them the way he usually dealt with emotions. He flat-out ignored them and refused to admit their existence. "Are you all right?" he asked Metella - he knew she'd had a hard time of the birth, though he didn't know the details and nor did he want to. Whether or not he was supposed to see her before it all happened was another thing he didn't know - but he wasn't the paterfamilias, it probably didn't matter. He hoped it didn't matter, anyway. @Chevi @Sara

Spring had always been a favourite season for Davus, whether that was spring in Egypt which was merely a bit cooler than summer, with the Nile at its low point before the inundation began at some point in June. He didn't really remember much about that - partly because he'd been young and partly because it didn't really matter in Alexandria, where the scholars lived. Scholars weren't farmers, after all, though even scholars appreciated the rich black silt deposits in their fields and gardens. Spring in Rome was different, green rather than black, flowers and birdsong if you were quiet and the master wasn't shouting for someone to come and do something. The master was out and it was someone else's turn to go to the market today and Davus had been assigned to help in the garden, though quite what he was supposed to do was beyond him. He just hoped that the new gardener had more of a clue than he did. "Florus? I was sent to come and help you this morning," he said in his Greek-accented Latin. @Érik

"I don't know what you're used to, but the master here doesn't like tale-telling or that kind of thing - though like I said, if you've got any sort of problem with chores or any of the other slaves that you can't sort out, tell me." There were definitely benefits to being the master's body slave. Attis didn't take it for granted, or throw his weight around needlessly, but he was aware of the privilege of his position and did his best to keep the household running smoothly so that things didn't come to the master's attention that he really didn't need to bother himself with. "We're not going to pamper you, f you're worried about that, but I think we'd rather you didn't make things worse for yourself by trying to do something you just can't manage. I'd keep away from Ismene - she's the master's mother's body slave - but everyone else is pretty level-headed and helpful." What else? "Oh! Ah... the master prefers relationships to be kept in the household and not to interfere with work. Though, if it's one of the girls who takes your eye, you're best off asking before anything happens and she gets knocked up. Metella and me... just because we've been able to doesn't mean that others can, it's kind of... unusual, for us." His relationship with Metella was the closest he'd ever come to lording it over the other slaves in the household, and even he and Metella hadn't dared hope they'd be able to keep the baby until Longinus had actually said they could. @Mobius

Jason clasped his hands so tightly that he could feel the fingernails digging into the palm of one hand and the wrist of the other - marks that would doubtless be visible to his master when Tiberius next required something from him. He was a slave, not allowed the expression of excitement that meant the crowds producing the thunderous roars that all but drowned out the sounds of the galloping horses. There was nothing so exhilarating as feeling the power of the horse under you as it stretched out at full gallop and he blinked as the brightness misted over momentarily at the memory of Burdukhan under him and the wind in his hair, before the present reasserted itself. Tiberius didn't seem as electrified as the other spectators, merely making his observations in his usual calm way, though the others around him seemed more keyed up - and he was sure he'd heard a girl's voice above the general roar of the crowd, urging on one of the other riders. He managed a private smile. Whoever the other rider was, he didn't stand a chance against a Sarmatian born in the saddle. @Sarah @Sara @Atrice@Chevi@Insignia @Jenn

Marcus knew the spot where he could stand and see as much as possible of the race while not being in the way, despite being at track level. The best view of the circuit was, naturally, the Imperial Box, which was draped in purple and had a canopy to shade the spectators there. The heat was beating up from the sands of the track and reflecting off the stonework of the tiered seating; horses and riders would all be in need of a drink when they came off the track, and there were slaves with water buckets already milling around in readiness. But the race was not done yet; Marcus adjusted his pallium, watching as horses and riders approached down the straight in front of the Imperial Box to take the turn - there was an expanse of track between the starting gates and the near end of the spina. None of the milling slaves or other faction people would be in the way, although the officials tried to keep numbers on the track to a minimum. He glanced towards the imperials and senatorial spectators, wondering how many of them had decided to bet on the Whites' newest charioteer. He could recognise talent, and knew that Azarion was likely one of the best riders in Rome, if his heritage had not betrayed him, but whether anyone else recognised that was something only time would tell. It had taken some persuasion and promises for Azarion to be allowed to race on horseback after the previous stunt with the stirrups, but Marcus was not entirely chastised over it. They had needed the shake-up, in his opinion, and although it had taken the warning that if Azarion tried it again, he would be banned from racing on horseback again, he had faith in the young Sarmatian. Time would tell whether that faith was misplaced or not. @Sarah @Sara @Atrice @Chevi @Jenn @Insignia

It was Jason's opinion that Marcus Silanus had drunk far too much already; he could smell the alcohol on the other's breath, but Marcus snatched his arm away as if he'd been burned. At least he didn't then go for the slap, preferring to turn away to the stairs, though he paused to watch Jason, apparently waiting to see if he'd obey the clear order he'd been given. Well, if the other wanted wine, Jason was in no position to deny him. He turned for the service passage to the kitchens - it was only really the second time he'd had any sort of run-in with Marcus Silanus, and he'd been sent for food and drink the last time, too. If his master's friend wanted wine, he'd get some, but he'd bring food as well. Anything to help him regain sobriety sooner - whatever was wrong wasn't going to be helped by crawling into an amphora, after all. And he had no idea what he would tell Tiberius if he was asked, either. It wasn't long before he found himself outside his master's friend's rooms, holding a tray with a jug of wine, a cup, and a plate with olives, grapes and bread. It would probably be sent back uneaten, but the offer was there, at least. He should have sent one of the house slaves up with it, but thought his master would prefer him to do it himself - probably. "Sir?" @Atrice

Teutus Quinctilius Varus "Things nobody else has," Teutus repeated, thoughtfully. Nothing came to mind that would fit her criteria, but that didn't mean he didn't have anything, or wouldn't ever receive such things. From the sound of it, she had in mind the masculine equivalent of things he was already looking out for, for her. Interesting. She was a woman of contradictions, seemingly - she was meeting someone this afternoon who was apparently being considered as a husband, yet she didn't have anyone in mind yet for what he might bring her. Very interesting. He sipped his wine, thoughtfully, before lowering his cup again. "Patricians who have everything are notoriously hard to find novelties for, unless such things are truly exotic - silk from the distant east, ivory from the far south and amber from beyond the northern borders are perhaps my most exotic goods yet, but I will do my best." He sighed. "I am, as of April last year. I haven't found anyone suitable yet - much like yourself, it seems." @Sara

"If things work out between us the way I think we both want them to," Gaius said. "There may well be some sort of resentment - he won't have your complete attention all the time, the way he's been used to." He was not used to children - his brother Lucius had done all his growing up from a child into a young man while Gaius had been away, and it wasn't as though he had any children of his own. Which was one reason why he was here, after all. He needed a wife before he could have children, and this was a step along that path. At least, he hoped it was. He wrapped his hand around his wine-cup but didn't pick it up yet. Something about her words made him frown momentarily. "I heard about that, of course, but no real details." What did she know of it - why did she know of it? "He wasn't a relation of yours, was he, that Senator?" She didn't seem like a woman who was grieving a loss, but he couldn't come up with any other reason for this change of subject. @Atrice

There are far too many people in a small area. If you could speak with one person, who would it be?

Teutus Quinctilius Varus Teutus' expression grew rueful; Charis was somewhat younger than he was, and if Tertius hadn't ordered her to his bed, Teutus might well have had a chance of... something, with her. There had been that morning in the garden, a few precious snatched moments that might have led to something had things not fallen out so very differently. He was not about to spill any of that to Ovinia, however. "The rumours will eventually move on to the next thing, people have such short attention spans for gossip," he said, and sipped his wine. It wasn't the very best vintage - no doubt Ovinius Calpurnius had given specific orders that his very best wine was not to be wasted on some freedman tradesman - but it was more than pleasant enough. "The Ides - I shall lay in some of my good wine for you and scour the premises for anything you might like," he said. "Perfumes, the finest spices from the distant East, beautiful glassware - that one vase might be the first in a priceless collection! What else might you like - I seem to recall that you said you already have enough jewellery?" If he did manage to get some amber from the cold North, he would certainly set it aside for her, though. @Sara

"Till next time, then," he said, extracting his hand from hers, carefully minus the coin - he was owned by not just a Senator, but a relation of the Emperor, he was willing to bet that he got more, and more frequent, peculium than she did. An as was a small enough amount of money to give her - and he was willing that she wouldn't see much more than that from what he'd paid for her time. "I'm going," he said, buckling his belt and ignoring the look on the guard's face. "Surely you don't mind letting customers get dressed after they're finished?" Of course he minded; every moment a man took to get dressed was a moment that the girl (or boy; there were at least two male prostitutes here) wasn't with the next customer. He didn't particularly want to find himself back here again any time soon, but he wouldn't mind seeing Ione again, even just to talk to. She was far too sweet to be here, really. She needed something good to happen to her, though Jason couldn't think what the something might be, nor how to give it to her. An as was nothing, really. He gave her a private smile and slipped out. Tiberius would surely be wanting him soon, and he needed to get the brothel smell off his skin before returning to the villa in the Gardens of Sallust. @Sara

Teutus Quinctilius Varus Teutus clasped his hands around the wine-cup and sat back. "I don't think it's likely to be a very large party, to be honest with you. My father and his wife, my mother of course - I'm sure she would like to meet you, too. Probably some of the people from the insula where I live now." Not at all a large gathering - in all honesty, he didn't have very many people he wanted to invite. His mother might want to invite some friends; she was more likely to have actual friends she could invite than Teutus was, although it was highly likely that some or all of them might be ex-slaves too. He would send the invitation to Ovinia with the full expectation that it would be politely refused on her father's say-so. He smiled at her offer; he would like to consider her a friend, if her father did not object to that as he had objected to Teutus' potential courtship, which had been unlikely to have borne fruit. "We could perhaps do turn and turn about - I visit here one week, and a fortnight later you come to see my latest stock at my warehouse? Just in case I get something in that you would like and which I can't bring to show you. Or that I don't realise you might want to buy." Perfumes and spices and fine glassware and ceramics were all well and good to bring here, but he wasn't going to bring bolts of cloth or the like up the hill just on the off-chance. @Sara

(Make that a three-part story; this was getting long and I reached a good point to end part two. It's not over yet, though!! Also I apologise if the paragraph spacing had gone wonky between copying from Word and pasting here.) AD 72, a farm somewhere in north Italia “Jason!” Tiranês paused to lean on the hoe he was using to weed the flowerbeds as his Roman-bestowed name was called. He turned to see Corvus, the house's steward, who was standing with his arms folded and an inscrutable expression on his face. There was little love lost between him and the Egyptian. “You're to wash and find a clean tunic, the master wants you to help serve dinner this evening, though Isis knows why, especially as there's a guest. Look sharp about it!” And he turned on his heel and left, with Tiranês left gaping after him. There was probably still dirt under his fingernails when he was pushed into position in the triclinium, which was hardly his fault, and hopefully wouldn't be noticed in the light. The tunic he had on now was crumpled and too big, but was the only one he'd been able to find that could pass as clean. He had a wine-jug pushed into his hands and, with the admonition to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut, was told to pour when it was obvious that people wanted their cups topping up. The master's guest turned out to be a man somewhere in his forties or fifties, one of those men who was whipcord thin and tanned by the sun, with dark hair and dark eyes and a serious no-nonsense look to him, a soldier with an upright bearing and easy sense of command Tiranês had no interest in the conversation – his Latin wasn't good enough to follow all of it anyway – and was glad when the master, mistress and their guests retreated to their own rooms for the night, allowing the slaves to clear up behind them. He received a second summons the next morning, this time to the master's tablinum, a summons which sent a spike of fear through him. He hadn't been the perfect slave but didn't think that he'd done anything particularly bad of late, so it was with trepidation that he presented himself, to find the guest of last evening also present. “This is the slave I believe you were enquiring about,” his master said, and the soldier nodded. “Jason, I believe you said his name is?” Tiranês gritted his teeth; he would never get used to being talked about as though he was an animal or inanimate object. “Yes.” And then the soldier looked up at him in a way that made Tiranês wish he hadn't. “Take your tunic off,” he said, in the same sort of tone of voice he might have said 'fetch me a cup of wine' – an order to a slave that signified nothing to the free person. He looked at his master, only for the visitor to speak again, mildly yet with an undercurrent of steel. “I'm not in the habit of repeating a command.” Tiranês swallowed and moved to unbuckle his belt before pulling off his tunic, silently consigning the man to the deepest pit of the Underworld. “And his subligaculum...?” The master sounded unsure and Tiranês went very still at the implication. “Not necessary. Turn around.” Tiranês closed his eyes and turned, hating every second of it. “He was captured, the lash marks aren't from me,” his master said in hasty reassurance. “They don't look fresh,” the visitor observed. “Three thousand is a fair price for a captured barbarian. Especially one who's been whipped.” Shit! His master was selling him! He wondered if Corvus had had a hand in it. It wasn't the humiliation of standing naked on a raised platform in the middle of the slave market, feet chalked white and being examined by any passer-by who chose to stop and look, but it was more than humiliating enough, being discussed as if he were worth no more consideration than the chairs the two citizens were seated in. “All right, three thousand. I suppose I'm making out the bill of sale to you?” “Jullus Flavius Alexander – and you, Jason. Get dressed and if you've got any belongings, go and pack them.” Tiranês didn't need telling twice that he could put his tunic back on. “Yes, uh...?” “Dominus, to you, now.” And fuck you, too, Domine. He managed to rescue his things – he didn't have much, but he did have his small collection of pretty things, one or two from before his capture and the others that he'd acquired in the four and a half years since. A spare loincloth or two, a couple of coins and that was it. Not much to show for twenty summers of life – though he'd lost everything four years ago and the Romans didn't let their possessions have possessions. It all went into a rough haversack and he slipped the strap over his head, nervously presenting himself back at the door of the room his new master had slept in. He was entirely in the power of this man now, and knew almost nothing about him. “Jason – an acceptable name, there's no need to change that.” Tiranês swallowed. Jason was not his name, it was merely what the Romans called him, but it was something, at least. To be forced to answer to something different yet again... “Thank you. Domine,” he managed, his mouth dry, after a moment, suddenly realising from the other man's expression that he was expecting some sort of acknowledgement of his magnanimity. He had no idea what this man was like or what treatment he might receive at his hands, and the uncertainty was a hard knot in his stomach. He followed his new master down to the stable, where his horse was already saddled, waiting for them. There was only one horse. Someone brought out a chain and he froze in uncomprehending disbelief. To be dragged on foot at the stirrup of a Roman – him, the son of a Sarmatian chief! “No,” he managed, silently, the word nothing more than the movement of his lips. It went unheard and unseen – or merely ignored – as the two parts of the neck-ring were placed around his neck, the larger tear-drop shaped link passed through the eye to fasten the two halves together and then the length of the chain fed through the large link, locking it around his neck until it pleased his master to remove it. There was only one neck-ring on this chain, rather than the five or six that had been on the chain used by the slaver who'd brought him into the Romans' territory properly. It would still require having the other end of the chain loose to be able to remove the shackle from his neck, and that was unlikely to happen for a while. The free end of the chain was fastened somewhere on the saddle and his new master mounted – clumsily, with the aid of a stone mounting block! - and turned his horse to the exit of the villa's yard, and the road beyond it, legs dangling in a way Tiranês thought looked ridiculous. He could only hope that his new master wasn't in a hurry; he would not be able to keep up for long if he broke into even a trot, never mind a canter, and would end up being dragged along the stone paving of the road, to end battered and bruised and possibly unconscious or dead. Why he'd been chained was a whole different question – he wouldn't be able to outrun the horse if he'd been unchained and decided to make a break for it. He had no eye for the countryside the road passed through, beyond noting dully that it was cultivated, with fields, meadows and olive groves. There were houses or villas here and there, and gangs of slaves out harvesting the crops of wheat and barley. He tried to appreciate the wide skies above them, but was too full of apprehension to fully enjoy it. The steady hoofbeats of the horse, his own quieter footfalls and the clinking of the chain were all that he could hear, apart from occasional distant shouts and calls between slaves in one field or another, and the calls of some bird or other that he didn't recognise. His new master did at least seem content with the slow pace, despite being mounted on a horse that was much finer than the small sturdy steppe horses Tiranês was used to. It wasn't the slow creaking slaver's wagon drawn by a pair of oxen, either, but then again Tiranês wasn't accompanied by other prisoners, most of them younger than him. He wondered how far they were going, and how long it would take to get there – surely, surely, his master could not be planning to take the entire journey at this slow sedate pace? He was a soldier – he was wearing a soldier's uniform – and though Jason knew little of how the Roman transport systems worked, he knew enough to be aware that military personnel could make use of systems that ordinary people couldn't. He couldn't blame the man for not being willing to put him on a horse, not really – he wouldn't, if their positions were reversed, and while he knew that he was Sarmatian and born to the saddle, his master didn't know that and probably wouldn't ask, either. He didn't know precisely how long they had been on the road but the sun was high when his new master drew off to the side of the road to a stand of trees, and dismounted, somewhat gracelessly in the eyes of one who had been riding since before he could remember. The Romans didn't have stirrups, which was a ridiculous oversight to Tiranês' mind. They made mounting and dismounting so much easier, and gave a far more secure seat – vital for people famed for being horsemen and archers, but apparently irrelevant for the Romans. His master didn't bother unfastening the chain from where it was linked to the saddle, but hobbled the horse and reached into his saddlebag to withdraw a loaf of bread and a wineskin, moving into the shade of the tree and finding a soft spot to sit. It would be easy enough for Tiranês to reach to unhook the other end of the chain from the saddle, but it would be a hindrance while he got away, and it would take precious moments to pull the length of the chain through the locking link and divest himself of it. Anyway, where could he go, around here? He didn't know the countryside here, where he could hide – and although he knew where his homeland lay, he also knew that it would take time to return there, and he had no money to buy food nor any equipment with which to hunt and cook anything. He cursed himself for his weakness and indecision – surely he had not been so indecisive before the Romans had taken him? “Make yourself useful. There's a bag of feed for Aethon behind the saddle, and his nosebag's there, too.” The order was given with a nonchalance that Tiranês had come to expect after four years among the Romans. “Yes, Domine,” he said, hating that the required reply emphasised to both parties that one was the slave and possession of the other. Which was probably the whole point of it, of course. The Romans were about as subtle as a thunder storm. Feeding the horse – a beautiful animal! – was complicated by the chain linking his neck-ring to the saddle, but it was soon accomplished, and the sounds of the horse eating, and watching his master relax, brought his own tiredness and hunger into sharp relief. “You can sit down for a bit,” his master said, as if he'd heard Tiranês' thoughts. “We've got another fifteen miles or so to cover this afternoon. Here,” he added, almost as an afterthought, and tore a couple of pieces of bread from the loaf, tossing them carelessly across. Tiranês fumbled to catch them but he managed without dropping either of them. Tiranês had to move closer to the horse to give the chain enough slack that he could sit more or less comfortably, finding a patch of grass and pulling his legs up to sit cross-legged, before making a start on the bread. There was no olive oil to accompany it, nor any water – he might be allowed a mouthful of wine to wet his mouth once his master had finished – but the bread was fresh, at least. A moment later, his master held the wineskin out. It proved to hold water, rather than wine, which was much better for Tiranês' thirst. “Thank you, Domine.” The rest wasn't nearly long enough for Tiranês, who was already footsore and tired, but was in no position to protest having to start walking again once he'd packed Aethon's nosebag away and cupped his hands to provide a boost so that his master could get back into the saddle once the horse had been unhobbled. That was another thing that roused Tiranês's scorn – no Sarmatian ever needed to hobble his horse, or tie them to a tree. Sarmatian horses were taught how to stand and wait, even if their riders were off swimming or not right next to them for some other reason. It spoke more to the stupidity of the Romans than of their horses, in Tiranês's opinion. It was a long afternoon's walk that brought them to what Tiranês thought at first was another villa a little way from the main road, with a wheel-rutted paved roadway up to the wide high arch in the wall and a soldier standing guard. No ordinary villa then, especially as his master pulled out an official-looking document to show the guard and was waved through, though the soldier gave Tiranês a sour look. There was the familiar smell and sounds of horses, and the courtyard turned out to have several stalls along two sides, with doors to rooms Jason took to be where the soldiers slept, or something, in the long wall to the right, and a staircase immediately to the left, probably leading to rooms over the horses' stalls. There was a long balcony and more rooms upstairs on the right, too, probably accessed by another staircase he couldn't see from where he was standing. His master dismounted and turned to Tiranês who swallowed and nearly stepped back before realising that his master had unhooked the chain from Aethon's saddle and was reaching to remove the iron ring from around his neck. “Bring my things,” he said, turning away, obviously with the expectation of being obeyed. Surrounded as he was by Romans, it wasn't as though Tiranês had any choice, and he hefted the saddlebag to follow his master up the stairs and along a balcony that overlooked the stableyard to a door that opened onto a bare room with one bed and a table in it, leaving the horse in the care of a slave who'd come out from one of the stalls “Put them there and help me with my cuirass,” his master said, unfastening his focale and throwing it on the bed. Tiranês unbuckled the various straps, eventually setting the breastplate aside as well. “Bring a clean tunic and attend me in the bath-house,” his master said again, moving to the door. “You'll find one in my bag, there.” Tiranês wanted nothing more than to sit down and relax, yet had no choice in the matter, hastily extracting a fine woollen tunic and turning to follow his master back down the stairs to the bath-house. He was under no illusion that he was not being evaluated on his tractability and obedience and everything else – and if he was expected to give a massage and everything that was implied by 'attend me in the bath-house', everything else meant personal service. He paused, clutching the wall momentarily and squeezing his eyes shut at the thought of what 'personal service' might entail. “Whoever gets you will get to do this every day, the lucky bastard. You'd better learn to like it...” He shook himself to dispel the memory and the fear, and found the bath-house, where his master was already stripping off, merely dropping his tunic on the floor. Much as he wanted to just ignore it, Tiranês knew this was a test and bent to pick it up and shake it off before folding it to put it into one of the cubbies, with the clean tunic on top of it. He'd received enough beatings in his time and didn't particularly want to earn himself another one. He eyed his new master warily, from the corner of his eye... He seemed to be the wiry sort of strong and Tiranês was willing to bet that he was stronger than he looked. If he was pushed enough to want to administer a whipping himself, it would surely hurt – he didn't seem the sort who'd summon a lorarius to administer a punishment on his behalf. He was tired and hungry and his day wasn't over yet, not by a long way, even as his master found a seat on a bench in the first room, the tepidarium, and lounged back against the wall. Tiranês himself would be lucky to get the chance to rinse the dust of the road off in the horse-trough, probably. “Have you ever given a massage?” He jerked back to reality, trying to work out the safest answer before deciding honesty was probably the best course of action. “No, Domine.” “Pity. Still, there's time yet.” His master adjusted his position on the bench, summoning over one of the mansio slaves, a leathery-looking man in a worn grey tunic, who bent to attend the citizen, leaving Tiranês feeling both relieved and irritated at being ignored. It was something he kept telling himself that he should be used to by now, but it was somehow different being one of several slaves in the background, and being his master's only attendant. Especially when you didn't know the master or his foibles – Tiranês felt more on edge than he had in a long while. He refused to examine his feelings on the matter any further, especially as whatever his feelings might be, they were inconsequential to his master or any other Roman. He would just have to get used to be treated like a piece of furniture that occasionally did things it was told to. It felt like an age before his master was ready to dress again, and go to have his evening meal, clearly expecting Tiranês to wait on him there, too, despite the fact he'd been on his feet all day already and had eaten somewhat less than his master at noon. Who knew when he'd be fed again – he could only hope that his master was sensible enough to realise that he couldn't not feed his new slave, especially if tomorrow was going to be a repeat of today. In the event, he was dismissed after the meal had concluded; his master obviously intended to remain and continue his conversation with the two other officers staying at the mansio overnight. Tiranês found himself seated (finally!) in the kitchen, with a wooden bowl of vegetable stew and a cup of rough wine. Eventually the meal was over and Tiranês got tiredly to his feet amidst the clatter of people clearing the table and making their own way to wherever they spent the night. “All right, you're to come with me,” said the same leathern-faced man of earlier. “Your master's said you're not needed to attend him overnight, but you're to be secured for him.” Tiranês swallowed; that didn't sound at all promising. He found himself in an otherwise-empty stall, again with the hard iron neck-ring around his neck, the other end hooked somewhere out of his reach, and with a rough blanket. There was plenty of straw, at least. The door was only a half-height stable door but with the place full of soldiers he couldn't get away even if he wasn't chained. He wrapped the blanket around him, making a nest in the straw, but the sounds of soft snorting from the next stall made him pause, shifting over until he was sitting next to the rough wooden partition between the stalls. He kept a close eye on the colonnade on the other side of the half door. He could hear movement above him; the wooden ceiling obviously formed the floor of whatever rooms lay over the stables, and from the sounds of it, that was where the mansio slaves slept. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself as best he could although the chain made it harder, and leaned his head against the boards of the partition, hoping that the closeness to a horse might keep the nightmares at bay. “I wish you could tell me what kind of master he is,” he said in his own tongue, speaking softly in case anyone other than the horse should hear him. He wished he knew what might be in store for him with this new master, too, but there was nobody who could tell him that. The hard steel of the collar was uncomfortable and a little tight around his neck, but he'd survived being kept chained with four others for the journey into Roman territory, he could survive a night or two chained alone. He hoped it would just be for a night or two, anyway, though there was no reason to think it might be longer than that – why would his master buy him otherwise? This had to just be for the journey, however long it was going to take to get to wherever they were going. He shifted around a bit in the straw until he was laying down facing east and Sarmatia, and closed his eyes.

"Of course I would like to meet him," Gaius replied. They would have to meet eventually if he married Pinaria, because of course the boy would come to live in his house - even though, technically, he supposed that the boy would come under the auspices of whoever was paterfamilias on his father's side now if that wasn't the child himself. And if Pinaria's son was the paterfamilias himself, there would be trustees and guardians and all of that sort of thing, none of whom would likely want to be involved enough with his upbringing. Better that he stay with his mother than go to live with a complete stranger - and of course Pinaria would want her son to be with her if at all possible. "I'm not going to interrupt his lessons just so that he can meet some strange adult man, there will be plenty of time for that later," he added, and gave Pinaria a curious look; she had sounded a little hesitant, and looked a little worried, though that might simply be an over-active imagination on his part. "There's no need to disrupt his usual routine for me." It would suffer some disruption if he married Pinaria and brought her and her son to live in his house, but that was not a certainty, not yet. She was willing for him to talk with her brother though, so it might become a certainty at some point - he felt more confident of her than he had of the attempted match with Ovinia Camilla. @Atrice

Jason turned his hand to grasp hers. Life wasn't fair, he knew that fact intimately. If life were fair even in the slightest degree, he and Azarion would still be riding free and wild on the steppe and Cinnia would doubtless have a husband and children of her own in her own village in Britannia. "If life were truly fair, we probably wouldn't have ever met, you and me," he told her, putting his thought into words, and shrugged. "Not quite the very lowest of the low - we're personal slaves to members of the imperial family." He gave her a wry grin. "But then, it doesn't matter whether it's made of marble or wood, a table is still a table." And they were both still slaves. He nodded in response to her question. "He won't relish it like some Romans enjoy watching that sort of thing. But he'll want to see it through now that he's part of it and responsible for it, and of course I'll be there if he's there." It would be the only part of the programme Jason himself would enjoy; he was not a bloodthirsty sort of person but he knew how his friend's death had affected Azarion, and he'd seen the results of the monster's attacks first-hand when he'd found Ovinia Camilla and helped her get home. @Atrice

Teutus Quinctilius Varus Teutus had to stifle a laugh at her silent mouthing of 'old'. "If they are all... that, then just how eligible are they, really? And surely your father has more criteria for them to meet than just whether or not they can put the Senate to sleep by droning on." It honestly couldn't be too hard to do that - half the Senate or more must be the same age as their respective fathers. "You are more than welcome to buy as much of my stock as you like, Ovinia Camilla," he told her. He would far prefer to have her father's fortune in his own coffers, after all, and the more money the Senator spent on his daughter, the more money Teutus had for purchasing more stock, or to spend on his own desires. "You can have first refusal of whatever I get in, will that suit you?" He would keep some things back for her, just as he would for his mother, and Charis, although he fancied that Ovinia's tastes were more refined. Varinia and Charis both liked pretty, simple things, Ovinia's tastes were doubtless more showy. She would be unlikely to glance twice at simple ivory hair-pins or a pair of earrings. "I have been busy, though I doubt you'll be interested in hearing about shipping arrangements and the like. I am thinking about house-hunting, though. A few rooms in an insula are beginning to feel a little cramped now. Not the sort of place for a successful merchant with a distinguished clientèle, certainly." He took the cup the slave had poured for him. "If your father will allow it, I will send you an invitation to the house-warming party." @Sara

Suggesting that the vigiles not pay for their rations would probably set the Senate in an uproar, although Gaius could certainly appreciate the sense in the request. He would ask his colleague to carry out a discreet investigation into the quality of the rations supplied, too - if the quality was suspect, that would likewise affect the morale and could easily be another way of skimming money... Declaring that a particular standard of supplies had been purchased while actually buying something you wouldn't feed to your pigs and pocketing the difference... He wouldn't be at all surprised to learn there was some sort of racket of that ilk going on. Gods knew how to put a check on it, though. He'd have to give that some careful consideration. "Why am I not surprised," he said, and reached for a wax tablet and stylus to make some notes. Food, and equipment. "Do you know how often the equipment is inspected, and what happens if it comes up deficient?" he asked. It probably went into a report that was firmly sat on somewhere up the chain of command before it ever reached the ears, eyes or desk of anyone who might be able to do anything about it. Or else it did reach its intended official who then sat on it because he couldn't be bothered to bestir himself to do anything about it. "I can certainly find you an engineer or two to talk with," he said, setting the stylus down with a sigh. "Lucius, you know I hate to say I told you so, but... I told you so." @Chevi

She was talented, he would grant her that - she had better be, for the price this was costing him! Joining her in bed was what he had ultimately come here to do and he had no issue with acquiescing to her request, allowing her to pull him in and down for that kiss. "I didn't come here to find a good Roman woman," he informed her, leaning back as she trailed kisses down his throat and body, her intent clear. She was good, although not at all in that sense of the word... talented, in a way that no virtuous woman would ever be. He had not come here for virtue but for the skill and pleasure of being with a beautiful and very unvirtuous woman. He lay back to enjoy her ministrations, winding one hand into her golden hair, although not with the intent to prevent her from raising her head when she wanted to. @Sara

"He deserved it," Jason said. He'd been a lot closer to the arena than she had - the Imperial Family had their own box, draped with purple. The Vestal Virgins had their own seating, and the Consuls and other officials, and the other senators. The poorer someone was, the further up the tiered seating they sat - as a slave, Ione had probably been way up at the top with a very distant view of the torchlit arena sands and what had transpired there. Why she had been at the Games in the first place was a mystery; she didn't seem at all the sort of person to relish the blood sports that were so popular with the Romans - though not as popular as the races. "If you can visit them, I think you'd like the Gardens of Sallust," he told her. It was where his master had taken up residence. "Just... if you can, wear a tunic. You won't stand out so much, then." He turned his head as he heard the heavy footsteps of what could only be one of the Elysium's guards coming up the stairs, and went to fetch his tunic, fumbling in the folds. He held a coin out - even as a slave, Jason could spare her an as. "It's not much, but this is for you." He'd give his payment for her time to the guard, but she ought to have something before the guard could snatch half or more of the meagre cost of her time. @Sara

It would pay to be cautious around Junius Silanus, Jason was more than aware of that after his last encounter with the man. But he was Tiberius' friend and couldn't be avoided forever, especially now they'd crossed paths again with Silvanus somewhere in the villa. The man looked somewhat the worse for wear, with a dirty tunic and a new scar in his eyebrow. The girls might like that - girls liked the mystery that scars exuded, after all. He seemed somewhat less than sober - and Tiberius hadn't seen him in a while, either. From everything Jason had managed to glean over the past few weeks, he seemed to have been ignoring his political duties, too. Tiberius hadn't said so in as many words, but Jason knew that he was beginning to worry about his friend. "Do you... Would you..." How to offer a supporting hand to the man, who was swaying and didn't seem quite as acquainted with vertical as he should. Jason took a silent breath, knowing he was risking a slap, especially given the other's usual temperament and current state. "Shall I help you to your rooms, sir?" He'd get a very well-watered jug of wine for him afterwards, but he had to get there first. @Atrice

"No, sir," he answered - he hadn't, either; he'd been busy with Tiberius and thought that Silvanus had likewise been with his own master. Tiberius had been worried about his friend, though he hadn't said as much to Jason. Even with things between Tiberius and Jason being a little more equal, it was only a little more and he hadn't said anything to Jason outright... but Jason was in the room often enough to hear when things were said. Not that Tiberius was one to gossip at all; very far from it. But Jason was observant, and Tiberius hadn't exactly taken pains to hide his concern. It wasn't as though Jason could exactly say any of that to the man in question, though - especially after the last time they'd crossed each other's path. "I can look for him if you want," he said - he'd likely get told to whether he offered or not. He very nearly asked if there was anything wrong but managed to bite his tongue before uttering the words. Junius Silanus seemed the type to take it out on slaves who were too observant around him, probably thinking it insolence if not downright disrespect. @Atrice

It was evening, which meant that Tiberius had finished his work for the day and left Jason to do whatever he needed to do before he was needed to help Tiberius prepare for bed. Jason was passing through the atrium by the villa's main door when it opened to admit Marcus Junius Silanus, worse for wear and looking... Well, the expression was a combination of angry and upset and probably some other things Jason couldn't or wouldn't name. He looked somewhat drunk on top of everything else. He was halfway across the atrium, too far from any doorway to duck out of sight - he had been trying to keep a low profile where Junius Silanus was concerned after his first run-in with the man, and didn't think that any further interaction with him was likely to go any better. Well, he was about to find out just how right he was on that score. @Atrice