Sharpie

"I belong to a man called Tiberius, he's a senator," Jason said, unconsciously careful of giving his master's full identity away in a place like this, even to a girl as sweet and innocent as Ione. Even after half a lifetime, the words 'I belong' and 'my master' tasted bitter in his mouth. He was the son of the steppe, his father a chief, he should not belong to anyone except himself, despite the bronze tag and the iron collar.

He couldn't help chuckling at her words, glancing at his discarded tunic. Right now, at this present moment, he wasn't finely dressed, or not finely dressed; he didn't have a stitch on him. The tunic was an ochre colour with two violet stripes sewn to it, of blue cloth overdyed with red (or red overdyed wit blue) in mockery or mimicry of the fine deep purple stripes of his master's senatorial tunics. Not at all what he would have chosen to wear, given the choice, but he could allow that it might be a finer cloth than Ione's few bits of clothing.

"It's horribly busy here, all the time," he said in agreement, and shook his head. "No, not at all busy - Sarmatia is a vast grassland plain and wide blue skies and an endless horizon." And he missed it every day, but it was an old sadness now.

He could make a guess at how and why Ione had come to Rome - he had heard Tiberius and others decrying the pirates that raided villages around the deep blue Mare Nostrum, selling their freeborn captives into slavery.

"So, what's your favourite place in Rome, if you have one?" he asked, trying to move them past the heartsickness of remembering home.

@Sara

Well, she was a prickly one and no mistake - he wondered how on earth she hadn't ended up in the same predicament as Azarion had, unable to speak at all. Perhaps the Romans dealing with her had all been deaf or something.

He didn't have anything to apologise for, but saying as much would get them thrown out on their ear and that wouldn't do anyone any good. He hadn't been any more rude than she had, after all - less, in fact, because she knew their names but they didn't know hers. He'd ask Azarion what he called her - but once they were out of here with their hemp. She could read his signs just as well as Jason could, after all - another piece of information to file away.

As for hearing their story, she could remain in the dark about that.

"I apologise for my tone earlier," he said mildly, in his own version of the trade dialect, rusty though it was. I'm sorry you're so crabby you'd take exception to anything I said.

She had switched from Latin to a dialect they spoke mostly with the Dacians - some of her words were the same as the Sarmatian, but with a different emphasis or pronunciation. She was Dacian, then. Yet another nugget of information to file away.

@Sara @Chevi

"I have a couple of things," Teutus replied. He wasn't sure of the suitability of either, though - she had struck him as someone who liked simple things rather than the display of wealth that wives of Senators usually bedecked themselves with. She didn't really wear her hair up in the complex styles of most married Roman women of the Senatorial class, so she probably wouldn't appreciate the ivory hairpins he currently had - he would set those aside in case she would, though. And again, he had a thought that she preferred rosewater or lavender scented water to the richer scents from Egypt and the east.

"She wears earrings, doesn't she?" he asked, though again he wasn't sure - he had always been more interested in her than in how she bedecked herself... and it wasn't as though she had been able to wear jewellery as a slave, when he had been living in the same house.

"I'm not a jeweller but I do have some things she might like," he said. There was a strongbox in his office where he kept the smaller valuables he received, and he led the way back there, opening the box and laying out a pair of earrings on his desk. They were simple drop earrings with a small pearl and larger lapis lazuli bead which would go with the various shades of blue and green that she wore most often.

@Atrice

Aulus noticed the slight squeeze his wife gave her brother's arm. He couldn't begin to imagine the pain of losing his wife, and Publius and Lucia had been as suited for one another as he and Horatia were. Publius' son and daughter no doubt would find it hard to accept another woman running their father's house, but they would adapt - life would go on as it always had.

"You may count on my support, of course," he said, as if that had ever been in doubt. "And if you need anything else from me, you only have to ask."

He and Publius had been friends since before he'd married Publius' sister and both friendship and family links meant that he would help in whatever way he could.

It occurred to him that of his small inner circle of friends - himself, Titus Sulpicius Rufus, Lucius Cassius Longinus and Publius, he was perhaps the most happily married. Longinus seemed to be seeking some sort of understanding with the niece of Tertius Quinctilius Varus, and now Publius, also widowed, would be looking to remarry.

"Remarrying doesn't mean replacing Lucia in your affections, only filling the role of the mistress of the house," he added quietly. He loved his sons and daughter equally but in different ways because they were all different people, and surely it would be the same for Publius and whoever he took to be his wife.

He wondered for a moment if Publius would appreciate an introduction to his sister Calpurnia Praetextata, although she might be too old to bear children by now - although she was only a few years older than Horatia. Calpurnia would surely appreciate the role of mother to children who had lost their own.

He would speak with Horatia about it before suggesting such a meeting to either Calpurnia or Publius, though.

@Sara @Sarah

"They're worth going to at least once, and if you like reading, there's a very fine library attached to them." Rumour had it that the library had been the request of the ex-Consul's wife. He didn't know whether Pinaria liked reading or not, or if she preferred listening to someone reading aloud. "You keep a very fine home," he added, although again, how much of it had been Pinaria's own responsibility was unclear - wasn't her brother married?

His own home needed a feminine touch. He hadn't realised how much it needed that until walking through the atrium here and noticing the flowers in various places to brighten it up.

"It is very good to see you again, likewise," he added with a smile. She seemed very much more comfortable in these surroundings - as she should; this was her own home, after all. "How is your son doing - I presume he is with his tutor at the moment?"

@Atrice

Teutus Quinctilius Varus

Sitting at his own table in his own home with his mother and a guest had been something that Teutus would never have dreamed might happen, once. Looking between his mother and Charis, he was struck again by how similar they looked - both dark haired and light-eyed, though Varinia was taller than Charis. As he'd told Charis, once, he'd got his own height and build from his mother.

He could see why Tertius had found Charis attractive... Had she reminded him, even vaguely, of Varinia? Possibly, maybe even probably.

He smoothed the tunic over his knee a little self-consciously; he was wearing the garment in question; it was worth more to him than any tunic of fine linen or Seres silk imported from countless thousands of miles away could possibly be.

He couldn't help the slightly smug feeling that Peregrinus would likely never treasure anything quite so deeply

"My work's been keeping me busy, but not so much I can't spend time with my friends." he said. Not that he really had many friends, and he wasn't entirely sure how close he and Charis were any more, not since their argument over nothing, and everything that had happened since. He leaned forward, a little self-consciously, and broke off a sprig of grapes. "You'll get used to it, eventually. Though I can't say I'm totally used to it myself yet."

@Sara @Sarah

Jason shrugged. Tiberius had, slowly, been teaching him to read, but he didn't want to rub yet another thing in Ione's face - they might both be slaves but their lives were very different from one another. Despite everything that had happened to him, Jason was very aware that he had ended up in a place that other slaves might envy - and really, it wasn't all that long ago that words written on inscriptions and scrawled on walls had been a puzzle to him. He'd been shown his slave tag before they'd put the collar on him but the only reason he knew what it said was because they'd read it out to him.

"I don't know what I'm going to do for the rest of the day - probably go back to my master's." He shrugged. These days, he'd spent time with Azarion - if he could, if his cousin wasn't racing or otherwise busy - but it hadn't been all that long ago really that he hadn't known what to do with festival days either. Though he'd usually had some money to spend and he didn't think Ione had even that.

"There's plenty of things to look at - I don't suppose you've ever been to any of the forums? Though maybe you don't like crowds - there are so many people in Rome, aren't there?" Even an Imperial slave like Jason didn't find it easy to get away from people when he wanted to, when he was allowed to.

@Sara

Tiberius was giving the new stirrups the most dubious doubtful look Jason thought he had ever seen his master give anything, and hid a smile as he tightened all the necessary straps and everything so that the saddle was secure and would not shift under his master's weight.

He stepped back and smiled as Tiberius took hold of the reins and gave a gentle pull on the reins, apparently unconscious of the movement of his head and shoulder that he would give Jason or anyone else as a nonverbal cue to follow him to wherever he was going. He thought for a moment that Ignis might toss his head and refuse the request - apparently he had been wilful when any of the stable hands had tried to do anything with him - but the gentle pull did not become a more vicious tug, and he responded by stepping forward, following Tiberius into the yard.

"That's good, that's very good," he said, replying to Tiberius' suddenly shy smile with a slow smile of his own. "I know you haven't seen these before, Domine," he added, coming to stand beside Ignis so that he could show Tiberius the stirrup. He unconsciously rested a hand on Ignis' neck so that the horse knew where he was without having to look round, though he did anyway, seeming to want to join the conversation.

"It's like... It's like sitting in a chair. You want to have your feet on the ground so that you can stand up or lean forwards or make yourself more comfortable. Stirrups just... give you a bit of ground when you're in the saddle, Domine. That's all they are, really, a place to rest your feet. I can show you, if you like?"

@Sarah

"You're welcome," he repeated, and nodded at the food-stall owner. "Two of your sausages in pastry," he said, finding the coins to pay. It was a simple enough lunch that he'd been able to indulge every so often even as a slave himself, and he nodded as the man held out two of his speciality, each wrapped in a vine-leaf to help prevent burnt fingers.

"It's hot, don't burn your fingers," he said to Jannus, indicating that he should take one. The sausage was good as ever, lightly spiced, and the pastry was just the right sort of sweet to off-set the tang of the pepper.

He thought he ought to check on the warehouse, but there wasn't a delivery due for a few days and his agent and Olipor were quite capable of dealing with any customers who might show up today. He wondered whether he ought to begin some sort of booking system for buyers to arrange an appointment so they could be seen by Teutus himself; he wanted to be exclusive and not just a run-of-the-mill sort of shopkeeper.

Something to think about - and maybe consult with his mother about.

@Insignia

Gaius tried not to smirk. Lucius had attempted to wriggle out of being tied to a desk dealing with paperwork and had seemingly failed and taken a lower status. He hoped his brother was enjoying it.

"A raise of a third again what they're making... Hmm." It sounded a lot, but put next to everything they were responsible for, it was little enough. "Seventy-five denarii four times a year. Three hundred denarii a year." Which was less than one denarius a day, which was what day-labourers could expect to be paid.

He wasn't sure he could wrangle a raise to seventy-five denarii five times a year, but there was a good case for it - and it was likely that bringing a case for that higher amount would see at least something granted, if presented well. "I will ask a colleague to investigate the procurement of the rations, that is not in my purview, and I am sure the senate as a whole will be interested if their money isn't going where it ought to be. What about the other equipment?"

The vigiles were there to protect property and lives, if they were relying on old equipment that was past its best, then something ought to be done about that, too. No senator wanted to hear how his expensive domus might be at risk of burning down because the local vigiles couldn't put the fire out because their fire buckets were full of holes and their esparto mats had all been eaten by mice, after all.

@Chevi

"Arrogant and jumped-up?" Jason let his eyebrows twitch. She ought to know sarcasm when she heard it, judging by her own words - pity she couldn't take what she could dish out. It seemed he'd hit a nerve.

People like them, foreigners and barbarians in Rome, couldn't afford to get riled so easily. People made mistakes when they let themselves be baited and judging from Azarion's reaction, she just had made that mistake.

"We're hardly the most arrogant people in Rome. Quite the opposite, in fact."

What was she - probably not Sarmatian, although she seemed someone who was familiar with Sarmatia, at least in passing. Parthian, perhaps, Thracian or Dacian. It didn't really matter. She was the same as them, a slave, whatever she had been and wherever she'd come from.

"Our money's as good as anyone else's." He shrugged. "If you keep turning away customers, it'll just take you even longer to save for your freedom."

@Sara @Chevi

"Well, obviously wherever you're from is somewhere they don't value manners," Jason said, returning Azarion's eyeroll with one of his own. "As for how we got here... that doesn't matter. We're here, that's the important thing."

Really, he ought to stand back and watch Azarion and the nameless woman go toe-to-toe in trying to out-do one another in sarcasm. She was good, but Azarion was better, even labouring under the difficulties imposed by having had his tongue cut out.

"Hello, Sarmatian. You've figured that out, at least. Our people have been smoking it since before your mother gave birth to you!"

And what on earth did it matter to her whether they smoked it, chewed it or fed it to their livestock? She'd be making money out of them either way.

"I was told you had the best hemp in Rome. I'm beginning to doubt that."

@Sara @Chevi

Jason glanced at his cousin, whose expression and gestures were non-committal.

"If we wanted charity, we'd be looking elsewhere," he said with a shrug. "I'm Tiranês, this is Azarion. What's your name?"

She'd shown no sign that she was familiar with any of the signs Azarion was using, but that didn't necessarily mean anything; some of the signs were Sarmatian hunting signs, some of them were used between their people and others that they traded with along their migratory routes. It would be possible that this woman came from a part of the empire where she would be familiar with the Sarmatians as a people but hadn't actually met or interacted with any - and there were many peoples whose womenfolk wouldn't be involved in trading at all.

If she had any intention of getting either himself or Azarion in trouble, the Romans would have to first locate him, and as they knew him as Jason, that wouldn't be easy.

It would be easier for them to find Azarion, but his cousin was spirited and sarcastic enough to take care of himself. Mostly - if he'd behave any better nowadays than when he was younger, it would be a miracle. He certainly hadn't lost his sarcastic bent at all in the intervening years.

@Sara @Chevi

"Well, if you didn't stop in the damn doorway like an idiot foal..." Jason grumbled good-naturedly at his cousin. From Azarion's signs, the one who actually dealt in the hemp was the woman, who was swathed in a cloak just as he and Azarion were. She clearly knew Azarion, and knew enough about him to know that he was Sarmatian.

There weren't many people in Rome, all told, who knew about Sarmatia. Tiberius did - but he was a prince and liked to wear his eyes out reading scrolls and letters and dispatches from across the Empire; Jason would be astounded if he didn't know about Sarmatia.

The lady's Latin had an accent, one not too dissimilar from his own, and she sold hemp. He wondered where she might be from.

"My cousin tells me you're the one to buy hemp from," he said in his own accented Latin, unwilling to give too much away just yet, even if she did know Azarion was Sarmatian and could thereby deduce that he was, too.

@Sara @Chevi

If Tiberius ever caught wind of what Jason was up to, there would be bound to be words. Probably. He did at least have some sort of freedom to move around the city, although the collar around his neck reminded him uncomfortably that it was only at the discretion of his master and if he turned up in the wrong part of the city at the wrong sort of time, he'd be bound to get marched unceremoniously back up to the Palatine. "'Ere's yer slave! Found 'im loiterin'," were not exactly words he was eager to hear announced, after all.

He pulled his own cloak tighter around himself - and walked straight into Azarion's back; his cousin had stopped dead right in front of him.

"You could have warned me to stop," he muttered into his cousin's ear in Sarmatian, trying to peer over his shoulder into the dark room to discern why Azarion had stopped dead.

@Sara @Chevi

Teutus watched his slave's face, though out of the corner of his eye, choosing not to discomfit him more than he had already. He was used to watching without the subject being too aware of it from his time as a slave, although probably another slave would recognise they were being watched.

The selected stylus was bronze, like Teutus own preferred writing tool, but plainer, a straight engraving tool with two bands around it where the stem flattened and widened into the erasing end. A sensible choice, much like that of the tablet. Both were practical and unostentatious enough for a slave, without being so cheap that they would be worn out and useless after a few short months.

"Another good choice," he said, and requested some sealing wax and papyrus for his own correspondence, paying for them before holding the newly purchased tablet and stylus out for Jannus to take.

He led Jannus back out into the bustling Porticus Liviae and paused before turning towards a hot food stall he liked.

@Insignia

"Much warmer than it was," he said in agreement. Indeed it was - it had begun warming, and then the previous week had been colder again, as if winter was clinging on to its domain, trying to remind people not to be too hasty in discarding their layers and warm fur-lined woollen cloaks.

He took the offered seat and nodded at the offer of wine, taking the cup the slave poured and sitting back.

"I have been well, thank you. Occupied with trying to keep the worst of the graffiti under control, and the temples in decent repair." He wouldn't elaborate on that unless asked; he didn't wish to go off on a ramble about civic matters and risk boring Pinaria to tears. Some women would be interested but some would not, and he wasn't sure which camp Pinaria fell in. "How about you - have you tried the new Calpurnian Baths yet?"

@Atrice

She offered him some wine - it was all but vinegar, really, but it was doubtless all that was allowed to her and the others here, and it wasn't as though the wine that Jason was allowed was much better. It was still rough, possibly actual vinegar, even, but it was at least liquid. He passed the cup to her after taking a mouthful or two.

"He's... I don't know. He reads a lot." He read entirely too much, in Jason's opinion - but then, Jason came from a people for whom reading wasn't a thing that was necessary, save reading the signs left by animals when they passed, or the tamgas one clan left for another. "I don't have all day, though I've got a while before I'm expected back." He shrugged; he might go to the baths - Tiberius probably wouldn't appreciate his body slave smelling of sex and such a cheap brothel as this, but it was hardly something to tell the girl you'd just been with.

@Sara

It had been a pleasant surprise to receive an invitation to Pinaria's home - well, the home of her brother, where she currently resided. He wondered if this meant an introduction to her son - if things continued progressing as they had, surely he ought to meet the boy sooner rather than later. It must be easier to be a father figure to a child than to his own brother - he had made a complete mess of that, though Lucius had contributed to the failure.

He was wearing an embroidered green tunic and had foregone the formal toga for a pallium in a sand colour. It had taken a while to decide, but overall the effect was pleasing - or at least, when Cassander had shown him the two garments together, he'd liked the effect.

Cassander accompanied him to the house on the Aventine, where he was admitted with little fuss and shown through to a shaded room opening on to the peristyle, with a view of the garden that the colonnade surrounded.

His prospective bride was already seated, apparently waiting for him, and he crossed to her with a smile.

"This is much nicer weather than the last time we met. I hope you are well?"

@Atrice

"I'm not sure Tiberius appreciated being dragged into it like that," Jason said wryly, and shrugged with a lop-sided grin. "Though I think they'd have found a way to speak to him anyway." Some of them had links of one sort or another to Tiberius, and it would only take a petition to make an appointment to be heard.

But none of them would have been able to go right into his private room and wake him there and then. Something Tiberius definitely hadn't appreciated at the time, and Jason didn't think he was happy about being forced into making a decision without a trial.

"I hope he does, too. I hope it's painful." Azarion had gone through too much and this was the only person who'd hurt him who would likely ever get punished for it (though the execution wouldn't be because he'd hurt Azarion but because he'd hurt a bunch of free women and killed a senator. Still, it was something).

He'd surprised himself with the viciousness of his words and let out a breath. "It doesn't seem fair, at all, that nobody ever suffers because they made us suffer, but only because other Romans did."

It wasn't fair that he'd hurt Ovinia, twice. It wasn't fair that Azarion's friend had been killed and nobody had done a damn thing about it.

He was tired of life not being fair.

"It's going to be at the Cerealia games. I don't know what they'll come up with, but they're bloody inventive enough." It wouldn't be crucifixion, though. That particular indignity was reserved for people who weren't citizens.

@Atrice

She didn't belong here. Again, the picture of a tiny, delicate flower struggling to grow between flagstones came into Jason's mind. If she was here too long, she would break,  or - he didn't think she would die a physical death, but something about her would, surely.

It was hardly perfect, but he returned her grin with a slow one of his own, responding as she moved to kiss him. He didn't think that was something she offered many of her patrons, not genuinely, openly, like that.

"I can't promise to be back, but... if I do come, I'll ask for you." It was something he could do, a tiny thing that did lay within his power. It might matter to her - he was sure he wouldn't forget this encounter, although perhaps not for the reasons Ione's minders might like.

He sat up, again, drawing apart from her a little. "Am I going to be chased out soon by one of the bouncers, or do we still have some time?" he asked.

@Sara

This is more of a two-part fic than an RP thread. It's not a happy story so don't expect a happy ending.

AD 68, the river border somewhere between Pannonia and Sarmatia

It had all been orchestrated, planned. Not the raid, or incursion, or whatever it was that had meant the Roman camp turning out to beat back the Roxolani or whichever tribe had crossed the river. The response, once the Romans had regained control of their side of the river, was conducted in a way that led Tiranês to suspect the garrison commander had already made his plans.

The hostages – there were a number, from various of the Sarmatian tribes – were gathered together and brought down to the river. He could see signs of a camp on the other side, and hoped that it was not one of his own tribe's encampments.

Soldiers moved among the group of hostages, forcibly lining them up, separating the younger ones from the older ones.

“I always knew we shouldn't have had some of these, what use are they?” one said, shoving Tiranês so that he stumbled.

“They're all good for examples,” someone else rejoined. “What about this one?” He poked Tiranês hard in the shoulder.

“He's what, sixteen? We'll sell him – someone'll get some use out of him.”

Tiranês was frozen in horror for a moment before the scene coalesced in front of him – the Romans were systematically stripping each of the older hostages before nailing their outstretched arms to a heavy wooden beam, the cross-piece of a cross. Three long iron nails – the third in the feet – and then each was lifted and dropped into a prepared hole, leaving each naked prisoner writhing in agony, unable to do much more than gasp for air. Other soldiers were going through their clothing, taking anything of value and piling everything up in a heap that someone then set on fire.

He turned away, finding his younger cousin and pressing Azarion's head close to his chest. “Don't look – better that you don't look.”

“Where's that lippy little shit? It's about time we taught him to hold his tongue!”

He instinctively tightened his grasp on Azarion, only for a Roman soldier to forcibly tear his cousin from his arms, leaving him helplessly grasping at air as someone else took hold of him from behind.

“No! No – Azarion – leave him alone, you bastards, he's just a child!”

“Shut up, you. You'll have your own problems to think about soon enough.”

“Let him go, he hasn't done anything to you!”

A fist connected solidly with his solar plexus at that point, winding him and leaving him gasping even as he was unceremoniously pushed to his knees, with a hand sliding into his hair and using his own braids to wrench his head up. He scrabbled for leverage but that hand was far too tight in his hair and then there was the whisper of cold steel at his throat, making him jerk back from the threat of the blade.

“Leave him alone – he's only a child, he hasn't done anything!”

“He's been a lippy little shit for far too long, and lippy little shits need to learn to hold their tongues,” said the man above and behind him, the voice seeming to relish what was happening.

There was the flash of steel from in front of him and a scream that seemed to go on for far too long. Tiranês tried to turn his head to one side or the other but the hand in his braids was holding him far too tightly.

They were... they were... “No – no – he's just a child...”

“He'll be a lot quieter without his tongue. He might fetch a decent price somewhere if he can't gossip or answer back. If he survives that long.”

The shriek cut off abruptly and Tiranês twisted futilely in the grasp of the man above him, as much as the painful grip in his hair would let him. “You murdering bastards!”

The grip of his hair was released, but before he could respond a hand between his shoulder-blades shoved him forward, and he landed hard on his hands in the dirt. At least, he thought it was a hand, it might just as easily have been a foot.

There was a scrabbling at the fastenings of his trousers and he twisted, trying to kick out. Someone cuffed him around the head, hard, and the next thing he felt was cold air on his ass and thighs.

He watched a soldier drag Azarion's limp, unresponsive body away – he could not tell whether his cousin was alive or dead; there was blood all over his clothing, and the soldier's armour.

“Hold him still!”

He was brought back to his own predicament as someone grasped his wrists in a crushing grip and someone else spread his buttocks, pouring a cold trickle of something liquid over him before ramming his cock in hard and fast which made Tiranês let out a wordless shriek of his own even as the soldier above and behind gripped his hips tightly and set up a punishing pace, thrusting in and out with no thought at all for his victim, merely chasing his own pleasure.

“Gods, you're tight. Ugh, so good – you could have his mouth, Sextus.”

“And risk him biting my cock off? No damn fear – his ass'll be good enough once you're through.”

He tried to pretend it wasn't happening, but the firm grasp of his wrists, the bruising grip on his hips and the grunts and groans of the soldier abusing him, the cold sharp spikiness of the grass, the chill of the spring air on his exposed thighs and cock, the the painful rhythmic thrusts, the hot puffs of air on his neck and in his ear... He felt sick.

And then he was retching and heaving, and brought the remains of his meagre breakfast up, emptying his stomach into the grass, where the smell of bile added to the pall of blood and smoke that hung over the area.

But it wasn't stopping; it was just going on and on, the panting of his violator loud and hot in his ears until there was a series of hard thrusts and then smaller shudders that were still just as deep and the man collapsed over him as he scrabbled futilely in the other soldier's grip, clawing at the ground as the liquid proof of the man's completion dripped from his ass and down his thighs.

“So good... so tight... you'd think he was a virgin,” the man said, his breath hot on Tiranês' neck.

“My turn, Gaius,” the other said, letting go of his wrists, though he couldn't go anywhere, couldn't get away from the weight of the man on top of him, pressing him into the dirt, his nose full of the scents of grass, damp earth and acidic vomit.

“In a moment, let me get my breath back.”

“You'll want to be careful here, the stupid barbarian's thrown up.”

“Shift him to a clean spot, then.”

He was dragged a few feet to the side where the two Romans rearranged themselves, his first rapist coming to hold his wrists as the other man sank his dick in up to the balls. Tiranês retched again, dry heaving, as the man set up a pace every bit as hard and fast as his friend's had been, though it was easier now with whatever body fluids – probably including Tiranês' own blood – providing lubrication along with the earlier trickle of oil.

Someone grabbed his hair again, dragging his head up until he met the eyes of the soldier in front of him. He tried to spit but his mouth was dry, and he received a hard slap that knocked his head to the side.

“Good slaves don't do that – whoever gets you will get to do this every day, the lucky bastard. You'd better learn to like it.”

“Fuck you,” Tiranês managed weakly, though it just made the two soldiers laugh.

“You're the one getting fucked, barbarian, I hope you like it.”

Tiranês spat out a mouthful of invective that just made them laugh even as he scrabbled and writhed, desperate to stop them using him for their own sick pleasure. It was all to no avail and his ass was again filled with the hot liquid evidence of a Roman's orgasm.

Eventually the man pushed him down to the ground, pulling himself free of his ass and leaving his ass and thighs bared to the cold spring air. His hands were wrenched behind his back and tied there, so tightly that there would be no possibility of being able to work his ways out of the bonds. And then there was a hand in his hair, again, just as tightly and painfully as the first time, pulling him back up to his knees solely by the grip on his braids.

“He's going to a proper slave market, we ought to make him look more like a proper slave and less like a barbarian,” the first one said, using his grip of Tiranês' braids to give his head a hard wrench to the side. He staggered on his knees, hands tied behind his back and his lower legs entrapped in his trousers.

“You hold him, I'll cut them, then,” the other – Sextus? – said.

“The only thing these are good for is as a grip to hold him by,” the first one said mockingly, using his tight grip of Tiranês' braids to give his head a shake, as a dog would do a rat, and making him cry out with the pain of it.

“Best gag him first, he's only going to protest like the stupid barbarian he is,” the other one said, producing a length of rope from somewhere and tying a knot in the centre of it.

Tiranês balked as it was pressed to his mouth, then one of them pinched his nose, forcing it into his mouth when he could no longer hold his breath. The ends of the rope were tied tightly at the back of his head, the knot mostly filling his mouth and preventing him from saying anything other than a few muffled sounds.

The Romans kept their weapons sharp and it didn't take long for the pair of them to hack Tiranês's braids off using Gaius' short dagger, the hacked-off braids left in the grass at Tiranês knees as he tried to contain his fury and humiliation. He couldn't fight back, tied up and half-naked as he was; the two legionaries were older and brawnier than he was, and there was half a cohort of soldiers milling around anyway.

“Prisoners are to be stowed in the cages there,” someone said once the two had finished their self-imposed task. The messenger looked Tiranês up and down. “Doesn't matter what state he's in, he's still breathing, there'll be a good profit there.”

The cages were crude things, made of iron bars and barely chest-high. Tiranês was dragged stumbling over to one that was already occupied, and shoved inside, still with his hands tied and the improvised gag in his mouth.

It was a cold miserable and uncomfortable night; he couldn't tie his trousers with his hands roped behind his back; the makeshift gag was rubbing at the corners of his mouth, his head was cold without his braids, he ached in places he had never ached before and every time he closed his eyes, that afternoon replayed itself again and again in his mind, not helped by the audible sounds of the dying hostages on their crosses only a few yards away.

He must have eventually dozed off, fitfully, because he was startled awake by someone clanging a heavy stick against the bars of the cage.

They were dragged out and lined up, the line of crosses on one hand and the river on the other. Some of the crucified hostages were still groaning and whimpering and he tried not to hear or see them – they were friends and he could do nothing for them.

Rough hands, pushing him into a line with the others who were still alive. Somewhere in front of them, the clothes of the crucified hostages still smouldered, the smoke hanging heavy in the damp chilly morning air.

“Strip them!” A moment later the same voice added, “They can keep their footwear.”

There was nowhere to run – he couldn't run anyway, his hands were still bound behind his back. There were enough soldiers to deal with the remaining hostages swiftly and efficiently. Clothes were cut from those who resisted, and from Tiranês and others who were bound. A few soldiers started adding their clothes to the smouldering fire of the previous day, picking them over to take anything valuable for themselves.

It wasn't long before they were left naked and shivering in the cold morning air to see what horrors would be inflicted on them next. A soldier – one of the two from the previous day – stopped in front of Tiranês and drew his dagger. Tiranês shrank back, but the man only raised the weapon to cut away the improvised rope gag from his mouth.

He spat dryly.

Instead of receiving the dagger to the gut (which he had half hoped, half feared that he might get), he received a stinging backhand across the face which snapped his head to the side.

“Any more of that and you'll get a proper whipping, slave.”

His mouth was too dry and he hurt too much to make any sort of reply and the soldier moved down the line, apparently satisfied.

His scalp still hurt from having his braids wrenched the previous day, his head was cold, his wrists were raw, he was sore in places he hadn't known could get sore, and he was so heart-sick he was numb from his cousin's death and the cruel humiliating deaths of his friends.

A man dressed in civilian clothes was making his way down the line, accompanied by a group of guards or enforcers or something – burly, no-nonsense, grim-looking men.

“Male, aged approximately fifteen...” A hand squeezed his upper arm. “Good condition. Teeth?”

Someone – a soldier – the cold armour pressed against his bare skin – pinched his nose and grasped his chin, pulling his mouth open.

“None missing or cracked. Add him to the others.”

He was pulled out of the line, stumbling. His hands were untied, or the ropes cut, but he didn't have time to rub his wrists. A small pile of rough cloth was deposited in his hands.

“Get dressed!”

The cloth turned out to be a tunic – or the threadbare, ragged remains of a tunic – in a rough, undyed wool worn thin in places. He pulled it on, grateful for the fragile covering. There was no belt nor any undergarment.

Someone else took him by the shoulder, forcing him down to his knees, the grass cold and spiky against his bare legs. Cold iron closed around his neck and there was the rattle of chain under his ear momentarily. The collar was not so tight that he couldn't breathe, but was tight enough that it would not pass over his head.

He was linked by the neck with five or six others, the chain then being fastened to the slavers' wagon. There was another row of slaves also chained to the wagon, and soon it began to roll, forcing them to walk behind it, or be dragged, more of the slavers' men on horses around them, heading to a dark uncertain future as slaves in the territory of their Roman enemies.

A private person, and a devout one... Gaius was beginning to have a sneaking suspicion why Lucius had engineered this meeting. It seemed that despite their very different ideas of duty, Lucius was a perceptive man. He needed to give his brother more credit - which was easy enough to do when Lucius was absent but irritatingly hard to do when he was present thanks to his immense irreverence.

"Extremely well," he said, returning her smile with one of his own.

They were interrupted by her slave before he could add anything further. Either she had told the slave to interrupt after a decent interval, or the girl was protective of her mistress and had given them enough time before coming to get her mistress. Either spoke to Pinaria's care and caution.

"I'll walk you to your litter," he offered. It was the proper thing to do and a nicer conclusion than just letting her go off on her own.

@Atrice

"They are underpaid? Or underfunded?" The distinction was not merely a difference in words; if they were funded properly yet still underpaid, that likely meant that someone, somewhere, was siphoning funds into his own pocket. Perhaps more than one person.

If they were underfunded, that would require a different approach, and very likely a Senatorial debate in order to provoke better funding better allocated to them.

Gaius could see why Lucius had come to him. It would be a good thing all round if the vigiles were better paid, and if Gaius were the one to ensure that.

"Do you have figures to hand - what are they being paid? What sort of pay would they need?" He gave Lucius a frank look; his brother was not one to quibble about his own funds or lack thereof - or at least, he hadn't been, and he should still be able to command some sort of peculium of his own, even if the source was not his adopted paterfamilias. The Mani-Victorii were not low-income plebeians, after all. To hold the rank of equite required an income of 400, 000 sestertii - just under half the amount required to be a senator, but not exactly the wages of a day-labourer, either.

@Chevi

Her breathing was fast in his ear, as if she had been running... It was hard for him to catch his breath, too. It had been a while - long while, indeed, since he had done anything of this sort, and something about Ione was what he had needed. She was not the sort of person who would flourish in a place like this. She reminded him somewhat of a weed that would struggle to grow up between flagstones and yet would have the prettiest of flowers in the harshest of places - he did not think she would like the comparison if he told her, though.

Her motions beneath him were matching his own and it was only a moment after she spoke that he did indeed spill, unable to keep from doing so even as she pulled him down, closer against her, keeping him inside even as his movements gentled.

 "Did you... Are you...?" he said, and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, looking down into those wide guileless eyes.

@Sara