GLAUCUS OF KORINTHOS
Or
The Spoils of War

A Short Story in Two Chapters
CHAPTER 2:  "Face to Face with the Romans"


This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over
the age of eighteen years

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) May 2011

The characters and ideas contained in this story are the writer's
and shouldn't be used without permission. Please respect the
integrity of the story and don't rewrite."

Chapter 2:  "Face to face with the Romans"

"There's not a ruin left to tell
Where Corinth stood, how Corinth fell
The Nereids of thy double sea
Alone remain to wail for thee"

         - Antipater of Sidon (2nd Century BC)

We have been stopped in our tracks. I watch as the Roman Decurion
and his two companions advance toward us. Using their unsheathed
swords, they gesture for us to stop.

Desperately, I look around for a means of escape. But there isn't
any. They stand before us halting further flight while behind us
a Roman patrol has set up a blockade preventing anyone from
escaping the clutches of the marauding bands of soldiers.

All around me are the terrible sounds of pillage and rape; the
sorrowful cries of a city in its death throes. I hear the
terrified, panic-stricken citizenry confronted by a triumphant,
merciless enemy. I listen to the pain filled screams of people
being put to the sword, the vain begging to be spared, the
pitiful pleading of our virtuous matrons and maidens to the gods
to spare them the shame and horror of being raped. I hear the
sounds of smashing from within the houses as they are looted for
valuables. I hear the angry shouts of the marauding soldiers as
they seek out the bolt-holes of men, women and children trying to
hide themselves from a wrathful enemy.  And I watch in horror as
all the comely, young men, women and children are dragged away to
slavery and uncertain futures.

I am filled with panic and dread; I don't know what to do. I look
to Perimedes and Diagoras for support and instead I see their
ashen faces and fear filled eyes.  Already, once before, they
have lived through these terrible events when their home had been
destroyed and they'd been hauled away into slavery. For the two
brothers there is a sense of deja-vu and of history repeating
itself.

Over the years, I learned something of their background. And
Father had been mistaken in thinking they'd come from some
mysterious land to the North. They belonged to a mysterious
people called the Keltoi who dwelt in a fertile, green land
beyond the river well known to us as the Rhodanos. I know of this
area and its history through the scholarship of my tutors. They'd
told me that Hellenes from Phocaea had journeyed there some four
to five centuries ago and established a trading colony on the
coast at a place now called Massalia which is famous for two
exports; its excellent wines and prime slaves to meet the
insatiable demands of its Roman allies.

Massalia's existence had long been threatened by the
Carthaginians, the Etruscans and the Keltoi. In order to survive
Massalia had entered into an alliance with the Roman Senate and
people and enjoyed the protection of the Roman army.

Even now I know that Rome is locked in a bitter war with the
Carthaginians for political and economic control of the Middle
Sea and that a fierce war of attrition is being waged by Scipio
Africanus at the very gates of Carthage itself. And like
Korinthos, it too will fall to the might of the Roman war
machine; her buildings and temples levelled, her culture trampled
underfoot, her treasures and wealth carried off to Rome and her
people put to the sword or enslaved.

Once Perimedes had tearfully told me of his family who lived in a
Keltoi settlement which had been overrun by the Romans and their
allies from Massalia. The attack on their settlement was
unexpected and undertaken as an offensive action by the Romans
who'd quickly triumphed over the numerically weaker Keltoi.

Roman justice is swift and without mercy and what followed is now
being repeated all around me in Korinthos.

And as always, following closely on the heels of the Roman army
were the vile jackals who feast on human misery - the
slave-traders. These pariahs have a nose for a bargain and with
fat purses attached to their belts; they soon had their slave
coffles full for the return journey to Massalia.

Perimedes was distressed as he told me these things and not
wishing to add to that distress, I'd not pushed him for more
details.

However, I did hear that the family had been sold in the slave
market at Massalia. His mother and two sisters had been separated
and sold to different owners, his father and older, warrior
brother had been bought by a low grade lanista from Nimes to
train and fight as gladiators in the provincial arenas of Gaul.
And despite their adversities, the gods of fortune smiled on
Perimedes and Diagoras allowing them to stay together. Bought by
a travelling slave-trader, they'd found their way to the
slave-market at Korinthos and into my father's household.

Despite my panic, I try to stay outwardly calm. I am after all
the master - albeit a very young one - and I must assume
responsibility for my slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras. I am
fortunate that I speak fluently in Latin, a vulgar language that
I truly despise. It had been a constant source of friction
between my Latin tutor and me; I'd not always applied myself
diligently to my Latin studies but he'd persevered and I did
eventually learn to speak it flawlessly.

I regard Latin as a barbaric tongue spoken by a coarse, common
people whose aristocratic elite have discarded in in favour of my
own beloved Greek; the language that lends itself to logical
thinking. Can the Roman tongue express itself as eloquently as
Greek in the fields of the sciences, the arts, poetry, theatre
and rational debate?   Of course it can't!

But now I am glad that I speak Latin. I can at least converse
with these three Roman soldiers who now confront us with their
swords pressed against our bellies. But suddenly, my courage
deserts me and I am lost for words. Like Perimedes and Diagoras,
I quake from sheer terror. Will the Romans slaughter us and take
our valuables as booty of war?

I listen as the Romans discuss us not knowing that I can
understand their every word. I struggle inwardly to speak and to
reason with them but something about their demeanours cautions me
to keep a still tongue in my head. I decide this is a time when
discretion is indeed the better part of valour.

The Romans are delighted with their catch and I hear myself
described as a "snotty-nosed Greek brat just ripe for fucking' as
they begin to rough handle the three of us up. Their venom is
directed at me more so than at Perimedes or Diagoras.  Quite
obviously, the Romans recognise them as slaves and I as their
Master. Certainly, I take the brunt of their abuse. I'm roughly
manhandled one to the other and my head is viciously cuffed by
all three. They are joined by their companions still struggling
under the heavy loads of their loot; quickly they encircle us
like ravenous wolves ready to pounce on their helpless prey.

The Decurion speaks to his men and they seize the valuables that
we are carrying. It is useless to protest and anyway my fear
prevents me from doing so. The soldiers are unaware that I speak
Latin but I have to confess I am having difficulty in
understanding them. These are rough soldiers, recruited from the
dregs of Roman society and they converse in Vulgar Latin which is
so different to the language that I'd learned from my refined,
Latin tutor.

However, I understand enough of their obscenities to know they
don't bode us well. I listen in horror as they describe
Perimedes, Diagoras and me as `three young assholes" begging for
an injection of a good, Roman cock. They leave no doubt in my
mind that the three of us are to be raped.  Quickly they strip us
of our clothes and naked, we are forced to our knees. Futilely,
all three of us struggle, but we are no match for the burly
Romans. I forget about Perimedes and Diagoras; they can fight
their own battles. My only thought is for my self- preservation.

My shoulders are seized and my head is roughly forced to the
ground so that my ass is elevated. I continue to struggle
uselessly but I am no match for the combined strength of my
captors. My legs are kicked apart and self-consciously, I'm aware
of a new sense freedom as my balls hang low and my sphincter is
stretched open.  From the corners of my eyes, I see that
Perimedes and Diagoras struggle as vainly as I do. The thought
races through my mind. Did they endure this same treatment at the
hands of their Roman conquerors eight years ago? They have never
spoken of it, but then would they. Who could blame them for
keeping their disgrace from my father and me?

My mind is a blur; it is a fog of confusion and humiliation.
Questions tumble through my fevered brain. How many soldiers will
rape me and what will become of the three of us when the Romans
have had their way with us? Will they put us to the sword? One
part of me sees that as preferable to living with the shame of
having being used by these Romans as a male whore. Yet another
part of me doesn't want to die. But if I survive, what will my
life be?  However, I already know the answer to that question. I
know it will be as a slave to the Romans. This prospect fills me
with dread yet I want to live.

Slavery is preferable to death!

Behind me I hear the fumbling of our abusers as they prepare to
rape us. Looking back between my legs I see the lower body of a
soldier but I'm not able to see him as he unties the knots of his
linen subligaculum allowing his rampant cock to spring free. I
listen to the ribald comments of his comrades as they urge him on
- no doubt impatient for their turn to use me.

Then, as I brace myself for the worst - salvation! A voice, heavy
with authority, calls the soldiers to order. I hear the clatter
of their armour and weapons as they snap to attention and in
unison; they shout their salute to a superior officer.

"Hail, Tribune Flaccus Marcus Bruscius!"

Silence now replaces the soldiers' unruly behaviour. I kneel with
my forehead still pressed to the cobblestones; too scared to
move.

"Who are these men?"

The voice is deep and well-modulated - I estimate it as that of a
young man in his mid -thirties - and spoken with a refined
accent. It is similar to the Latin with which I am familiar.

"Tribune," the Decurion answers, "it's only a young Greek and his
two slaves. We stopped them trying to flee the city."

"I see! And were they carrying anything with them? Do they carry
any documents or other valuables?"

"They carried only these, Tribune!"

Still on my knees, I don't see the Decurion pass my confiscated
papers and other family possessions to the Tribune.

"Get them to their feet!"

Perimedes, Diagoras and I are ordered to our feet not by words
but by well-aimed kicks to our asses with metal, hobnailed
caligae or marching sandals. Hastily, I scramble to my feet and
try to cover my naked shame with my cupped hands.

Curious, I look to see who our saviour is and I am confronted by
a tall aristocratic Roman - and I am correct - he is aged in his
mid- thirties. He wears his uniform with pride and if I knew
Roman customs and army rankings I would see by the wide purple
stripe on his tunic that he is "tribunis laticlavus" - the
senatorial tribune and the most senior of the six tribunes in a
legion which places him second in command of his legion. Later, I
will learn that his name is Flaccus Marcus Bruscius.

The Tribune's eyes bore into me and as they slowly rove over my
naked body I blush profusely. As a Greek, my nakedness doesn't
normally shame me. But always my nudity has been at my
instigation. This is different; my present nakedness is not of my
choosing. I have been stripped naked and now stand before this
Roman as naked as any slave on a display platform. And I have the
sense that he sees me in this light.

"Is that true, Greek? Were you trying to flee the city?"

He asks the question in flawless Greek and emboldened, I answer
him in flawless Latin.

"No sir!" Despite my loathing at addressing him as "sir", I
decide that I should maintain a certain civility towards him.
After all he holds all the cards. "I was trying to return to my
father's house on the far side of the city."

"You speak Latin? Obviously you are well educated.  What is your
name boy?"

I bristle at his use of "boy" in addressing me. Through my Latin
studies, I know the term is often used in a demeaning manner
reserved for slaves. Many Roman masters will give a "special"
slave a name that is a corruption of their own names and "puer"
the Latin word for boy. For example should a master be called
Lucius or Marcus he'll name his "special" slave Lucipor or
Marcipor - literally Lucius's boy or Marcus's boy. Is this how
the Tribune sees me? Does he see me as "his boy"?

"I am Glaucus, son of Clearchus of Korinthos." I answer proudly.

"Tell me Glaucus, son of Clearchus of Korinthos." Is he mocking
me I wonder? "Who are your companions?"

"They are my slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras."

"I see! And where is your father's house?"

"It's on the far side of the city, sir."

"Then Glaucus, you will take me there. And your slaves will
accompany us."

He turns to the Decurion and instructs him to.

"Bind their wrists behind their backs and fasten them by the neck
one behind the other with Glaucus, the son of Clearchus in the
lead."

"But Tribune! We don't have any cord to bind them."

"By Priapus, man. Improvise! Use their clothing to make their
bindings. They no longer have need of clothing."

"Tribune!  What of the valuables we took from them? What do you
want done with those?"

"Give me all the documents they were carrying and keep the
trinkets to share among you. You keep them; they are legitimate
spoils of war. Just as these three are. I claim Glaucus, son of
Clearchus together with all his father's possessions and his two
slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras as my "spoils of war".  All three
are now to become my slaves."


The End













