GLAUCUS OF KORINTHOS
Or
The Spoils of War

A Short Story in Two Chapters
Chapter 1: "The Barbarian Brothers"

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 1: "The Barbarian Brothers"

"Where Corinth, are thy glories now...
Thy ancient wealth, thy castled brow,
Thy solemn fanes, thy halls of state
Thy high-born dames, thy crowded gate

          -Antipater of Sidon (2nd Century BC)

All around me my beloved city is dying a brutal death at the
hands of our Roman conquerors. I watch in horror at the pillaging
of our homes and temples and the rape of our women and maidens. I
see our grandparents put to the sword without mercy.  I watch the
desecration of our religious statues and it is even rumoured that
the victorious soldiers are playing dice on one of our most
venerated icons, the Dionysus by Aristeides.

This total destruction of Korinthos by the Romans is
unconscionable; but it is to be matched within a few months by
the destruction of faraway Carthage and the salting of the very
earth on which that fabled city once flourished.

And yet it isn't without precedent. It is only eighteen years
since the Roman Senate ordered the looting and pillaging of
seventy communities in Epirus in one of its `just' wars. Those
towns had been stripped of their wealth and 150,000 of their
citizens sold into slavery.

But why is this happening to Korinthos which, with Athens and
Thebes, ranks as one of the most beautiful, cultured and
wealthiest cities in all of Macedonia?

The reasons are complex and would arguably help to swell the
library at Alexandria with countless scrolls and tablets which
would tell of the political machinations of the Achaeans led by
the Strategos Diaeus and the insatiable greed of the Romans led
by their Consul and General, Lucius Mummius.

Ambitious and greedy, Mummius has seized this chance to add to
his "dignitas" and "gloria" by the total destruction of
Korinthos, the pilfering of all its art treasures and the killing
and enslavement of its citizens. And the Roman Senate will honour
him for his total destruction of the Achaean League and Korinthos
by bestowing upon him the cognomen of "Achaicus"; he being the
first of plebeian birth to be so honoured.

Lucius Mummius will grow immensely wealthy in the process. He'll
carry the riches of Korinthos back to Rome where he'll share them
with his cronies and supporters. And with the crushing of the
Achaeans, it will fall to Mummius to dismember the Achaean League
and re-organise the government of the Hellenes in Rome's
interests. The task will be monumental but he'll be ably assisted
by the historian, Polybius.

Loaded with booty and captives, Mummius will wear the victor's
laurel and triumphantly parade through the streets of Rome to the
hoarse shouts of its citizenry. Soon after Scipio Africanus will
have his moment of triumph too with the destruction of Carthage.
The Roman Republic will reign supreme and her subjugated peoples
will live under the law of the "Pax Romana".


>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Three days ago Diaeus and the Achaeans had met the Roman army in
battle and won a short lived victory. Quickly, the Romans had
regrouped and put Diaeus to flight. Left without a leader, the
Achaeans retreated into the city hotly followed by the victorious
Roman army. It had taken the Romans less than three days to
subdue them and now they sweep all before them.

Later, we are to hear that Diaeus killed his wife and then died
by his own hands after drinking a poison draught.

But today, in the ensuing panic, I have become separated from my
parents and family. I don't know it they are alive or dead and I
worry about my mother and two sisters. Are they too being
despoiled by the Roman victors? I pray to Zeus and the gods of
Olympus that this isn't so.

My name is Glaucus and I am eighteen years old. My father is
Clearchus of Korinthos and his home is on the far side of the
city in that enclave reserved for the city's elite. I am trying
to make my way there through the panic and chaos of a terrified
citizenry. That is where our townhouse is situated and it is
where my father spends most of his time. My aristocratic father
is of the old school that holds a free citizen should not engage
in commerce but work in the public good. Therefore most of his
time is spent in the city's agora debating with friends and foes
alike those issues - both great and small - which affect the
affairs of Korinthos and the well-being of its citizens.

I, on the other hand, prefer to spend my time on the family's
farm just beyond the boundaries of the city. There I supervise
the activities of our agricultural slaves in the growing of
grain, grapes for wine-making and olives to produce the refined
oil for which my family is justifiably famous.

I have always loved the farm. There, life is governed by the
seasons, the planting and harvesting of the grain crops, the
maintenance of the grape vines and olive trees, the wine-making
and the pressing of olives. My true interest is in the good
management of the farm and control of our family's slaves.

For the moment, my father is happy for me to do this. Even though
I have attained my manhood and technically I enjoy all the
privileges of a free man and citizen, he considers me too young
and inexperienced to involve myself in the labyrinth affairs of
the polis. As his only son, he has great ambitions for me and he
has exposed me to the best education and tutors that his
considerable wealth could afford.

I am proficient in several languages including that coarse tongue
Latin, which to my Hellenic ears sound more like the baahing of a
herd of wild mountain sheep and I have studied mathematics, the
sciences, the arts, Homer's poetry and the Greek tragedies. But
arguably, my tutors gave me the greatest gift of all - rational
thought.

I'd watched the Romans steadily advance towards the city and with
just hours to spare, I'd given our slaves permission to flee the
farm and seek sanctuary within the city. I'd stayed behind just
long enough to gather up all our family valuables - jewellery,
cash and documents - and then joined them in my own flight.
Accompanying me was my loyal body-slave, Diagoras and an older
slave, Perimedes.

Diagoras has been with me since my childhood. On my tenth
birthday, my father had taken me to the slave-market where he'd
allowed me to choose a male slave who'd serve me as I journeyed
towards manhood.

I had been with my father to the market before when he'd
purchased slaves to work on the farm. I'd always been fascinated
by the market and, on my father's instruction, I'd watched
intently as he put a slave through his paces. Father's inspection
of a slave was always thorough. Of course the slaves were as
naked as the day their mothers gave birth to them. It was
accepted practice that nothing was hidden from the buyer.

Nudity isn't an issue for me. Indeed, it is the norm. I had seen
my father and his friends naked countless times in the gymnasia
and of course I'd seen naked male slaves serving at symposia. My
own introduction to a symposium took place five years ago when my
father held one at our city home where he'd proudly presented me
to his closest friends to mark my entry into `manhood'. In the
past, I'd been excluded from the symposium because of my age but
I was familiar with the room set apart exclusively for these
events. Father's is large even by today's standards and holds
fifteen reclining couches. The average symposium is furnished
with seven or perhaps nine couches.

I was proud to attend my first symposium and I had ordered
Diagoras to attend me. Like all the other slaves he was naked and
I'd paired him with the older Perimedes to act as one of the two
bearers of the large wine jar or krater. I'm not sure which of us
was the proudest. Was it I because I was attending my first
symposium or was it Diagoras because he was a krater bearer? How
nobly he carried himself and how proudly he disported his massive
erection which was favourably noted and commented on by my father
and his friends. As his master, I watched proudly as Diagoras was
called to a couch where the strength and hardness of his penis
was assessed by an appreciative guest of my father. Diagoras was
truly the envy of his fellow slaves.

But I am ahead of myself and should return to the slave-market
and the day when Father bought Diagoras for me.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The slaves for sale that day were lined up abreast of one another
on a raised dais and even the juvenile ones were restrained by
their chains. Hanging around the neck of each slave was a tablet
setting out the details of age, place of birth, health,
educational abilities, their skills and the length of time they'd
spent in servitude.

That day, most of the slaves on offer had been born into slavery
and were well adjusted to their condition. Even I could sense
their docile natures.  But there were a few who stood out. They
were very different in appearance to the olive complexioned and
dark haired slaves I was familiar with. What made them different
were the milky whiteness of their skins and the golden colour of
their hair which reminded me of sun-ripened wheat. And unusually,
they all had eyes coloured like the blue of the sparkling Aegean
Sea. I was entranced by their beauty; surely they were demi-gods
from Mount Olympus and not slaves.

I asked my father about them and he told me they came from a
misty land far to the north of our most extreme borders and in
all likelihood they were warriors who had been caught up in
border skirmishes with the Roman army. Exactly how they found
their way to the Korinthos slave-market was a mystery to me.

One small boy attracted my attention. He was about my age -
subsequently, I was to find he was slightly more than one year
older than I - and he presented a sorrowful sight with his
hunched shoulders and tear stained face. His widely opened eyes
mirrored the fear he no doubt felt and he sought security by
clutching the leg of a young, adult male slave standing next to
him. To my inexperienced eyes the older slave was aged about
seventeen or eighteen years. I noticed the striking resemblance
between the two and I took the adult slave to be an older
brother.

There were very few slaves of my age for sale that day and those
that were had little or no appeal to me. I was boyishly smitten
by the young, golden haired barbarian from the north. My mind was
made up! He was the slave I wanted my father to buy for me and as
I told my father of my choice, he said we must first examine and
question the young slave.

Father indicated our interest to the slave-dealer who
congratulated him on our choice and ordered the slave to step
forward. I don't know whether it was fear or a lack of
understanding of our language but the slave didn't move; instead
he clutched his brother's leg with both arms and clung on with
grim determination. The dealer tried unsuccessfully to pry the
two brothers apart and when this failed he took to beating the
younger slave with his cane. After several repeated blows, the
older of the two brothers spoke to the younger one in an
unfathomable yet pleasant language. I didn't understand their
strange tongue but I did notice the soothing tone of his words
that were meant to calm his younger brother.

I was an only son and so I was unused to any displays of
brotherly love. And yet even I, a ten years old boy, was affected
by the older brother's concern for the young slave.  There was
poignancy and pathos in the scene being played out before us and
my father was quick to notice it also.

But who wouldn't be moved by the protective stance of the older
slave for his young brother. How could you fail to notice the
love and concern on his face and he lent forward to wipe away his
young brother's tears. What a heavy burden rested on his manly,
warrior's shoulders for surely he knew that his brother was to be
sold and they were to be separated forever.  My heart went out to
the two brothers and that day, for the first time, I felt pity
for a slave. This was a new experience for me.

Tenderly, the older slave placed a protective arm around his
brother and led him to where we were standing. He crouched down
in front of the lad and gently spoke words of encouragement to
him. I don't know what was said but it seemed to pacify the young
slave, who used his arm to wipe his nose and his hands to wipe
away his tears. Then they reached out and clasped each other in a
final, close embrace before the slaver ordered them apart. The
older slave stood and moved to resume his place in the line of
other slaves. As he did so I saw his body convulsed by his silent
sobbing.

Obviously, the slave's devotion to his young brother affected my
father also. He spoke to the slave dealer and asked to inspect
both slaves.

Unexpectedly summoned back to stand by his brother's side the
older slave's face was a study in bewilderment. But then he
comprehended my father's intention was to examine him and
suddenly his eyes lit up with a new hope. Possibly - dare he hope
-both he and his brother would be purchased by my father and they
would stay together. He looked at my father with his pleading
eyes and smiled shyly before lowering his gaze to the platform.

I watched intently as my father inspected the older slave.
Father's inspection of the slave was thorough and followed the
same pattern I had seen him use many times previously. Despite
his tender years, the slave's body had reached full maturity and
quite obviously it was that of a warrior. And yet the
youthfulness of his countenance contrasted with the muscularity
of his frame. This slave possessed the body of a man and the
innocence of a youth. The slave stood proudly erect and his noble
bearing hinted at possible aristocratic roots.

Even through my boyish eyes, I truly appreciated the naked
magnificence of the young barbarian. The slave was tall by our
standards and he towered a head's height over my father. With his
well-defined musculature, the slave reminded me of the marble
torsos of naked athletes that adorned my father's home.

But this slave wasn't carved from cold, inanimate marble.  Rather
he was living, breathing tissue. Oxygen filled his lungs, giving
life to his glorious body and energising his muscles. Blood
coursed through his arteries warming his firm flesh to the touch.

And, like those statues the slave had wide shoulders and a broad
chest which tapered down to a trim, narrow waist. The powerful
chest muscles - each adorned with a prominent red nipple - rose
and fell with the slave's rapid breathing.

His anxiety was all too evident; the fluttering of the sharply
defined abdominal muscles centred on the deep indent of his navel
betrayed his nervousness.  Stoically, he stood still with his
eyes downcast as my father's hands explored his nakedness. And
like an unbroken colt, his limbs quivered from the uncertainty of
his situation.

This slave was truly a creature of beauty. His long blond hair
was tousled and he had the beginnings of manly stubble on his
chin. His chest and limbs were lightly dusted with a soft down
that glinted like fine, golden threads in the sunlight and a
darker line of hair trailed down the centreline of his belly
connecting the chest hair to the thick, golden bush that
surrounded his more than generous genitalia. Two large, plump
balls hung suspended between his strong thighs and the thick
meatiness of his cock rested cheekily on top of them.

As my father continued his inspection of the slave, it did seem
to me that he was taking much longer in this appraisal than is
normal for him. He spent an inordinate length of time inspecting
the slave. I watched - and learned - as he gently weighed the
slave's scrotum in his cupped hand and nodded in approval at his
burgeoning erection.

Father stepped back to watch as the slave's cock lengthened and
thickened until it stood ramrod stiff at a slight upward angle to
the horizontal. Then, as a small, pearl-like gem glistened at the
piss-slit, Father ordered the slave to turn around.

It would have to be said the slave's rear was as impressive as
his front and once again my father didn't hurry in his appraisal.
His hands squeezed the broad shoulders gauging their strength
before sweeping down the gentle concave of the back to the
flaring curves of the buttocks. Again, Father wasn't to be
hurried in his inspection and he lingered over the job in hand.

I was becoming impatient! Father was taking far too long in his
inspection of this slave. This wasn't why we were here. Hadn't
Father promised me a boy slave of my own and hadn't he brought me
to the slave-market for that express purpose. I sighed deeply and
I hopped from foot to foot to show my growing impatience.

It would take years and more maturity than I possessed that day
to understand that my father was infatuated with the young,
barbarian slave. My father had been smitten by his beauty and was
determined to own him.

Finally, to my intense relief, the inspection ended and Father
told the dealer he would buy the slave. Then he turned his
attention to the younger brother.

I'm not sure of the reasons - perhaps it was because of the
slave's tender years - but Father's inspection of the younger
brother wasn't as detailed as the one the older slave had been
subjected to. Basically it was a quick check to ensure the slave
was free of defects or blemishes and once he'd been re-assured my
father bought them both.

When the two brothers realised they'd been bought by the same
master they couldn't contain their joy. They weren't to be
separated.  Both broke into wide smiles and touchingly embraced
one another. Their joy was infectious and I was caught up in it.
I was happy for them. Even Father's customary sternness
disappeared temporarily. They laughed and they hugged and then
the older of the two suddenly became very serious. He spoke
softly to the younger slave in their strange language - how
primitive all other languages sound when compared to the cadence
of our Greek tongue - and they came and knelt before my father
and placed their foreheads to the ground at his feet. I looked at
Father and I saw him look down on them with an uncharacteristic
kindness.  But the moment was brief and gruffly he ordered them
to their feet.

We returned home that day with the two, naked slaves walking a
respectful distance behind us in wide-eyed amazement. The thing I
remember most about that day is the brothers' awe as they saw the
beauty and wonders of Korinthos for the first time. And that
wonderment increased when they beheld the magnificence of their
new Master's home.

They had much to learn and Father wasted little time in training
them. It was very much a case of learn- and learn quickly - or
feel the wrathful sting of his cane. He had little time to spend
on their training and even less patience.

But to their credit, both brothers were intelligent and they made
good students.  Now eight years on, both slaves speak our
language fluently, but with an accent that still sounds strange
to my ears. More importantly, they quickly adapted to slavery and
applied themselves diligently to serving us. The older brother
became my father's body slave and bed companion and in the
fullness of time, the younger slave came to serve me in like
manner.

Their joy at being together ensures their loyalty and devotion to
both Father and me and in truth, we love them in the true sense
of "Greek love."

On arriving home that first day, Father gave me the task of
finding suitable names for them; names that would be engraved on
the collars that were to be fastened around their necks.

I tried to find out by what names they were called in their
native tongue; this proved to be an impossible task given our
lack of knowledge of each other's language and so I compromised.
I had recently been studying poetry under one of my tutors and I
chose the names from those lessons.

The older slave, I named Perimedes after a companion of Odysseus
mentioned by Homer in his Odyssey and the other I named Diagoras
after the great poet from the island of Melos who had found
sanctuary from religious persecution in Korinthos several
centuries ago.


>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Today, as I hurry through the doomed city seeking out my parents
and sisters, Perimedes and Diagoras accompany me.

Then, we turn a corner and suddenly, we are halted in our tracks.
Ahead of us Roman soldiers are manning a barrier across the
narrow street and they are stopping everyone. Quickly, we turn to
retrace our steps only to come face to face with an advancing
group of Roman soldiers heavily laden down with booty. A Decurion
orders us to "HALT!" as he and another two soldiers unsheathe
their short swords and advance menacingly toward us.

We have nowhere to hide and it is too late to flee.  We are
caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

We are trapped!


To be continued..................














