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  1. Jason Saturnalia 77AD Jason wasnʻt quite sure how he first discovered the place, nor how heʻd missed it before - no, not quite true... He first found the place when returning to the Villa of Sallust after running an errand for Tiberius. Heʻd missed it despite walking the same route numerous times because he was usually one slave in a whole entourage, Tiberius didnʻt generally stop or divert down side-streets, and the thermopolium was in a less-travelled side street off the main Via Lata. What Jason was absolutely sure of, a hundred times over, was that he had to bring Azarion here, once heʻd scoped the place out and found that it was what heʻd thought, hoped, it might be: a hot food bar which offered actual Sarmatian food. And had proper sit-down seating inside for people to enjoy their food in a nice leisurely manner instead of having to lean against a counter or risk burnt fingers and dropped food. He didnʻt tell Azarion where they were going, he wanted it to be a surprise. Last year, Azarion had given him a treat from home (and it had been rather fun to see Tiberius high on hemp, he hadnʻt thought the young Imperial had it in him to relax and unwind, but hemp had always had mystical powers!). This year, it was Jasonʻs turn to return the gift. "You'll like it, I promise," he told his cousin, leading Azarion into the out-of-the-way side street. He'd made certain to check they would be serving today, and hadn't chosen the main day of the festival to bring his cousin anyway. Just in case. @Chevi
  2. 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.
  3. June, 77AD Ione narrowed her eyes on the butterfly in the corner of her cell. It had been in there for a day and a half now and she had no heart to make it leave. It was quiet, at this hour of the day, and so as she led on her mattress, studying its vividly coloured wings she let out a soft sigh and idly imagined the things the little insect had seen in its short life. Arguably more than she had - Kefalonia, to the hull of a ship, to a dominus' house to...here. It had not been a life of adventure for the eighteen year old Ione, that was for sure. She heard the bell - rung by the guard on the door, summoning the available girls (which was most of them) to the recently re-opened receiving room. Armenius' improvements had been considerable in the time he'd been here - he was slowly opening up more floors and rooms; the receiving room and kitchen amongst them. Of course, it was still the Elysium and so the quality of the patrons, workers and cells left a lot to be desired but it was improving. Slowly. Which is why her brows rose as she stepped into the line with the others and took in the man looking at them. She noted the slave collar before she dropped her eyes. Her clients were generally plebs, but occasionally slaves - like Spurius' boys. Some masters were more generous with their peculium than her own, it seemed. "You can take your pick. Cost is the same for these ones." The guard gestured gruffly at the assembled group of seven of them; five girls and two boys. All in toga's - like Ione - or nude. TAG: @Sharpie
  4. Azarion's race was over. Jason didn't know whether his master had purposefully waited until the riders had crossed the finish line or not before sending Jason to chase up the slaves who had been supposed to be bringing the wine up to the Imperial Box, but either way, he'd seen his cousin beat the Red who'd beaten him in the chariot race that Jason had missed, the Equirria races. The tunic he was wearing was a decent rust colour, with two strips of violet cloth sewn to it, obtained by overdyeing red cloth with blue dye (or blue cloth with red dye), a mimicry or mockery of the pristine white tunics with the bright purple stripes worn by the Senators, of whom Tiberius was one. It was enough to mark him out as an Imperial slave, though, which was something because it meant that he reached his destination without too much hassle. If only the slaves with the amphora were there... They were not. "How typical!" @Faustus
  5. March 77AD It was three months since Jason's master had moved to the villa situated within the Gardens of Sallust. Three months since Jason had really had much contact with any of the Palace slaves. It was a bit of a strange feeling, coming back to a place that had been home... Well, no, not 'home' per se, but more... familiar territory, the place where he'd lived, spent his daily life... Tiberius had come to visit his sister, who had stayed in the Domus Augustorum (probably, Jason suspected, because she knew that Tiberius and his friend, being young men, needed their own space. Not that Titus Augustus didn't, but the sprawling Palatine complex was rather bigger than the Villa of Sallust, and that wasn't exactly small). The Palatine complex easily rivalled any of the villages Jason had ever visited before his capture. He wondered if he could make his way to the stables; it had been a little while since he had been there, and he suspected it would be some time before Tiberius needed him. The corridors and courtyards of the Palatine were familiar to him, but he hadn't got far before he saw a familiar blond woman, and changed his plans. The horses would keep, it was equally long since he'd really been able to chat with the woman he had exchanged blood with, his blood sister. "Cinnia!" @Atrice
  6. February 77 Tiberius was studying or reading or something - Jason had had no idea that scrolls could be so endlessly fascinating! - which had led to Jason's being able to take a few moments for himself, so long as he stayed within call of his master's rooms. That was easily done; his master was in one of the rooms off a private courtyard which gave Jason the opportunity to enjoy the outdoor space while still being within an easy call. He had found a patch of grass in the sun where he could lay down and stare up at the blue sky above, trying to pretend he was looking at a portion of the vast skies over the steppe at home. It wasn't quite working, though, he couldn't hear horses from his position, and the grass wasn't tall enough for the wild prairie grass. Nor was the wind the constant fresh breeze of his home. It was all he could get, though, and if the force of Jason's wishes could move the steppe to where he lay, Tiberius would have looked up to find himself surrounded by eternal horizon where the blue sky and the green grass met. @Atrice
  7. Jason's master had taken up residence in the villa attached to the Gardens of Sallust, but he still attended the Senate meetings regularly, and slaves still couldn't enter the Curia. Jason had wandered further, from the Forum Romanum towards the Forum Holitorium, the vegetable market. Why the vegetable market? He had no real idea, except it wasn't the meat market closer to the Palatine and the huge structure of the Circus Maximus. Thoughts of the Circus made him think of his cousin and he wondered for a moment what Azarion was up to right now - though if he went to see him, chances were good that he'd end up spending far too long with him and get into trouble when he finally recalled the time and went to find his master. It wasn't worth the risk, especially as he got to see Azarion on a fairly regular basis now. So, it would have to be apples and carrots and cucumbers and gods knew what else. It wasn't really worth getting any carrots or apples; if he had another chance to visit the Imperial stables, or the new stables at the new villa, the stable master would surely have something to hand. He stepped back from the stall and jostled someone who'd been standing perhaps too close without realising. "Oh - sorry," he said, though it was a little late. @Insignia
  8. Saturnalia, 76 AD Cynane was waiting just outside the palace and hoped that Tiranês would show up soon, as they had decided. It was, after all, Saturnalia! The one holiday the Romans got right, at least. The one holiday where slaves got to feel like free people and could do (almost) anything they pleased. As long as they’d show up for work the next day. Well there was always the next day. Sometimes she’d thought it was a way to mock the slaves, tell them to go and have fun, but remember, you are still slaves. There’s always tomorrow! But tomorrow was not now. She was unsure of where they were going, but her blood-brother said he had a good idea and she’d happily see what he had in store. And keep him safe on the way. She had tried to dress up, but she still didn’t want to look like someone she wasn’t. So she still wore breeches and a thigh-long tunica, easy to move around in. She’d dropped the leather armor for tonight, but she still wore her braids. Maybe a bit fancier than on a daily basis, since it was Saturnalia. She recalled Tiranês speaking of many smaller braids in the hair, she didn’t know if it was a style the women among his people kept, but she’d tried to recreate it. Casually she leaned against the wall, ignoring the stares of anyone passing by, like she always did. If they glared at her and she did look back, they’d wish they didn’t. She didn’t want their attention. All she wanted was the company of someone she liked, and she didn’t like many people in Rome. And luckily, soon enough it was Tiranês who joined her and she greeted him with a smile, “Finally! Shall we go? And... where are we going?” @Sharpie @Chevi ( @Sara )
  9. It was the month the Romans called October, which mean that the city was cooler than it had been, though it was far from being winter - not that Rome had winters like those Jason remembered from his childhood, that forced his people to move for better pasture and when the steppe was covered in snow that meant they were confined far more to the camp. He was in the garden today, the small garden near his master's quarters. Close enough to be to hand if he was needed, far enough away that he could feel he wasn't on a leash, or at least that the leash wasn't as short and tight as usual. Today, he was repairing a belt. Technically, he didn't have to, but it was something he wanted to do, and it was a skill he had, one among many. He'd had so many skills and things taken away he was not about to hand this to someone else to do when he could do it himself. He looked up after a moment to find that he wasn't alone any more. He had been joined by his master's sister's bodyguard, a tall blonde slave called Cynane, who he hadn't really spoken to very much. He wasn't sure if she was sizing him up or merely watching out of curiosity, and offered a smile. "Good afternoon." @Atrice
  10. Two days after the races at the Circus Neronianus (stupid name), and Jason had tracked down the boy he'd seen racing, that he thought looked remarkably like his cousin, last seen being hauled off, kicking and screaming and with blood everywhere, to be sold gods-knew-where to gods-knew-who. How and why he'd ended up here in Rome, the same city Jason was now living in, was a minor miracle. The fact that he'd seen and recognised him was a bigger miracle - how close had they been, for how long? They could have passed one another a hundred times in the Forum or the streets and never seen one another, and for Jason to have seen his cousin racing a chariot for the Whites... He had followed his master home docilely and slipped out to the garden during the night to give thanks to Tabiti for the preservation of his cousin, the last member of his family he had seen and to ask for her continued blessing on the boy (chariots were not horses, but it was closer to actual riding than Jason himself had come for several years), as well as for her favour when it came time to speak with his master. He had left as an offering a bronze coin of indeterminate provenance, whose reverse showed a horse. Tabiti would understand. That had been the night after seeing his cousin at somewhat of a distance. Today, he had permission to come to the Whites' stables to try to see his cousin from a lot closer up. Maybe even to actually talk to him, if the gods smiled on them and Azarion's masters would allow it. He entered the stable-yard and was hit full-force with nostalgia - the layout was all wrong but the sounds and scents were all right. He hadn't been so close to this many horses for the best part of ten years, and had to swallow. "I'm looking for Azarion," he managed in accented Latin, addressing the first person he saw who might spare him enough time to point his cousin out. He was in luck; the other waved him towards a stall where he could see his cousin's dark head as he moved around the horse. Feeling relieved that he'd been right in thinking the boy was his cousin, and somewhat jealous that he hadn't been renamed - though how he would have asked for him if he had been was anyone's guess, he crossed to the indicated stall. He would not interrupt Azarion's work; simply waiting would allow him to spend that bit longer in an environment that took him straight back to his childhood. @Chevi
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