"The grapes are plentiful this year, Senator. If the Gods bless us with more of this warm weather, we will have a rich harvest."

Senator Alexander Julius Luthor tightened his grip on his horse’s reins and made it fall into step next to the overseer’s old mare on the unpaved road. The young stallion was only recently broken in, still nervous and edgy, with a tendency to get ahead of itself. After too many months in the city, walking that knife edge of political intrigue which demanded perfect self-control from him every minute of the day, Alexander was eager for this inspection of his estate to be over, so he could let the animal have its will and feel it stretch out beneath him at full speed. The road through the vineyards was dry in the sunlight, and he could already feel how the dust would whirl up around the horse’s hooves and give roughness to the wind against his bare legs as they raced back towards the villa. But not quite yet. This was his first day here since the previous summer, and he understood the value of showing his employees that their work was appreciated.

"I’m impressed, Quintus," he said. "It’s a delight to see how well you run things in my absence."

Not to mention that the proceeds from a large, high quality harvest would come in very handy. He kept this place on the slopes of the Apennines mainly as a summer retreat, a haven where he could get away from the crowded, foul-smelling streets of Rome during the hot months of the year, but if the estate made a profit, he could always find good use for the money. Already he was the youngest man to ever take a seat in the Roman Senate, and he didn’t intend to wait long for his term as Consul. And from there... Well, Rome might be a republic, but there were always ways for an intelligent man to keep his power permanent. He had plans for the future, but politics at this level were kept in motion by an endless stream of quid pro quo, and financial assets were of the essence. If all his agricultural investments paid off this year, it would strengthen his position considerably. He sent a silent prayer to Jupiter that the weather would indeed hold.

"Thank you, Senator," Quintus was saying. "I’m honored that you’re pleased with the changes I’ve made. If you think..."

There was a rustle of leaves by the side of the road, a sudden flurry of motion, and a shadow rushed across their path, inches from their horses’ hooves. Nothing more threatening than a rabbit, but Alexander’s stallion reared in panic and bolted headlong into the vineyard.

Alexander made himself heavy, let the steadiness of his weight tell the horse that there was no need to run. Rows of vines lined their path on either side, determining their direction, and he knew there was no harm the frightened animal could do. He shortened its reins firmly, letting it know that he wanted it to slow down, but he didn’t yank or pull hard enough to hurt it. The animal still needed to learn trust, and he was prepared to let it run itself tired, if that was what it took.

But then he saw the man. Standing right in front of them, one of the slaves working in the vineyard, and he was too close, locked in by the vines with nowhere to go. At this pace the horse would run him over, trample his body into the soil with bone-crushing momentum. Alexander felt his heart hit the back of his throat.

He shifted his weight in the saddle and pulled on the right rein, only the right one, his whole strength behind the move, hoping that brute force would be enough to prevent disaster, willing the horse to turn into the vines that would stop it. He felt the stallion bite down on the bit in its mouth, trying to take his last means of control away from him. The man was backing away now, doing his best to escape, but the distance between them was closing. Twelve feet, six, and Alexander could already feel the impact, narrowed his eyes against it even as the horse gave up, swerving into the bushes and coming to an instant halt that nearly threw him from the saddle.

When he caught his breath and looked around, hands calm against the stallion’s neck now, gentling it, balancing his body to counter the edginess of its nervous movements, he found himself gazing straight into the eyes of the slave.

They really had stopped only just in time. The man was so close that his chest nearly touched Alexander’s leg, and the expression on his face was that of someone who has seen the shores of the Styx and at the last instant been held back from boarding Charon’s ferry. And that face... It wasn’t the face of a man after all, but of a mere boy, much younger than he looked from a distance. Fragile, almost, the trace of a fading tremor lingering on rich, dark coral lips. His skin was a golden tan from working in the sun and his hair had the near pitch black color of most natives to this part of the Empire. The color of his eyes, though, resembled nothing Alexander had ever seen. Wide and open like a wheat field under the sky, an intangible breath of green chasing like a summer cloud across them. The moment was clear and sharp like a shard of glass, every impression heightened beyond reality, but limited, reduced to the rapid beating of his own heart, the stirring of the horse between his legs, and those eyes, opening for him, letting him...

"Senator Luthor! Are you all right, Senator?"

Quintus’s voice behind him, loud and urgent in concern. Instantly the boy ducked his head, lowered his eyes the way it behooved a slave to do.

"I’m fine, Quintus," Alexander called over his shoulder. "The horse is easily spooked, but there was no harm done. Are you all right, boy?"

The slave glanced up quickly, the briefest flash of illusive green, but the moment of shock was past now, and his gaze returned at once to the ground between them. A good slave didn’t look his master in the eye.

"Yes, master."

"Good." Something in Alexander’s chest urged him to say more, but he knew that was a silly notion, nothing but the after-effects of the barely averted accident. "You may return to your work."

This time the boy’s eyes stayed down.

"Thank you, master."

Alexander turned his horse back towards the road, catching a glimpse in the corner of his eye of the slave bending down to retrieve some dropped tool or other, resuming whatever he’d been doing. As he emerged from between the vines, Quintus eyed him critically.

"Are you sure everything is fine, Senator? It looked pretty rough to me. I was certain either you or the slave would..."

"Not a scratch on me, Quintus. No need to worry." They were on the road again now, continuing the tour of the estate where they’d left off, and Alexander’s pulse was slowing to its normal rate. "Tell me," he said, "That boy... He didn’t look familiar to me. Is he one of the new slaves I gave you permission to purchase last fall?"

"Yes, Senator. Got him for a good price from Marcus Publius’s place when he went bankrupt. He’s an excellent worker, very strong. Born free, I think, somewhere far north, but I’ve never had any trouble with him. Does what he’s told."

"A barbarian?"

That would explain those exotic eyes.

"Yes. Captured in some war raid when he was a kid. But you wouldn’t notice, now. Acts as civilized as any Roman born slave."

"I’m sure you wouldn’t have bought him otherwise, Quintus."

And that was the end of it. No reason to dwell any longer on a barbarian slave, pretty eyes or not. For the rest of the ride they talked business, and if his mind wandered occasionally, it certainly wasn’t to the image of that boy among the vines. He had more important things to occupy his thoughts.




The gods must have been favorably inclined, because the sun kept shining down on the villa and the surrounding vineyards, where the grapes gathered its rays and grew steadily towards ripeness and completion. Alexander spent his days riding through the warmth of the landscape, or reading in the shadow of an orange tree in his garden. Through extensive correspondence he stayed in touch with everything that happened in Rome, but even so, there was a stillness here he could never allow himself in the city; a calm he sometimes forgot existed.

During the long quiet of the country nights, he actually found if difficult to relax, the utter silence keeping him awake with its open invitation to dwell on the past and doubt the future. He knew it was a matter of habit and that he would soon adapt, but one week into his stay at the villa, his sleep was still restless and troubled by the hazy shadows of unnamed ghosts.

Waking one morning before dawn, the furniture in his bedroom barely visible in the first traces of gray half-light preceding the sun, he shook his head at his own hopelessness and gave up the idea of going back to sleep. It was a family trait, this restlessness, and unlike others not one he resented. His father had been the same way – equipped with a mind too active to ever slow down or relax. Many of his greatest victories had been planned and orchestrated while his enemies still lay snoring in their beds, and his son had learnt early on that closing his eyes could mean never opening them again. He supposed it was a lesson that had sunk in deep.

Peeling the sweaty sheets from his body, Alexander got up and washed himself, then pulled on a tunic and sandals. The house still breathed the slow breath of sleep, the slaves not yet up to prepare his breakfast.

He passed through the empty rooms to the doors that opened on the garden at the back. From the colonnade beyond them he watched the first shades of rose trickle into the sky above the distant mountains. The air was fresh and fragrant, vibrant with the never-ceasing water-music of the fountain at the center of the garden. Even as he stood there listening, the hesitant voices of a few birds as sleepless as himself were raised in song. Descending the marble steps from the villa, he moved towards them.

The frustration of fitful sleep was still on him, and his body craved motion, not the contemplation for which the garden was designed. When he reached the wall at the far end, he slipped through the gate in it and closed it behind him. On the other side lay the stables, the tool sheds, and the warehouses where the grapes were processed after picking and the barrels of wine stored before being shipped. Here too were the quarters that housed the majority of the slaves. It took quite a few of them to keep the vineyard running – some thirty people living out here, another five who worked and slept at the villa itself. Many of them were born on the estate, others had been purchased at the slave market in Rome or from other farms. Either way, they very rarely caused trouble, and Alexander liked to think this was because of the way they were treated. His slaves knew their place, of course, but as long as they did, there was no need for them to fear the cruelty to which he had seen other masters subject their possessions. As with his horses, he believed that encouragement was more likely to elicit good behavior and hard work from a slave than violence and humiliation, and so far they he had not been proven wrong. Which meant that he got good value for his money.

A soft neighing drifted across the yard from the stable, and Alexander set off in that direction with a vague idea of spending some time with his horses before breakfast. He loved the company of these animals, the heat of their breath on his skin, the volatile energy of hard muscles under sleek fur. He had a slave, Gaius, whose sole job it was to take care of them, but even so, he liked to see to their well-being himself. The certainty that each one of these fiery beasts knew and trusted him made every visit to the stable worthwhile.

There was a well at the other end of the yard, and as he neared the stable he heard a splash of water. Turning to look, he saw a man turning the crank above the well, raising the filled bucket from its depth. It was the slave from the vineyard, the boy he'd so narrowly avoided trampling to death. Without any conscious decision, he changed directions and strolled towards the well.

At first the boy didn't notice him, and Alexander could observe him as he got the bucket up and emptied its contents into another, which he set down on the ground beside him. Strong, Quintus had said, and this was undoubtedly so. The muscles of his bare arms were well-shaped and massive, and the weight of the water clearly caused him no trouble at all. As he turned to drop the bucket back into the well, he caught sight of Alexander and froze in mid-motion, large hands golden against the dark wood of the vessel in his grip.

Alexander smiled, an open reassurance that the boy had done nothing to anger him.

"Good morning," he said. "You start your chores early, I see."

"Yes, master. Watering the animals." Cautiousness in his voice, not sure why he'd drawn his master's attention. It was quite charming.

"Well then, don't let me interrupt." The slave nodded hurriedly and let go of the bucket. As he began to work the crank again, Alexander continued. "You're all right, I hope? No ill effects of our encounter in the vineyard?"

"No, master. I wasn't hurt."

Perfect Latin, not a trace of a foreign accent. Nothing about him at all that couldn't pass for Roman, except perhaps his size. Up close like this, he was far taller than he'd seemed from horseback, half a head taller than Alexander himself, if not more. Broad-shouldered beneath the coarse, gray fabric of his tunic, with narrow hips which melted into long, slender legs. There was a thrill to be had just from watching him work, a perfection in the shape of his body that made the blood stir in Alexander's veins. He must remember to compliment Quintus on the acquisition.

"What's your name, slave?"

"Clark, master."

The bucket was filled again, and he poured it as easily as the first time.

"Clark." The sound tasted different, the unknown flavor of an exotic spice. He wanted to say it again. "Is that a barbarian name?"

The boy straightened his back and looked at him, really looked at him, the way he had out in the vineyard. In the morning shadows, his eyes were the rich, dark green of emeralds in the raw.

"It's the name my people gave me, before they were killed and I was taken away. It's the only thing I have left of that life. It's a good name, master."

An undeniable touch of pride, there, and Alexander felt his pulse quicken in response. Such beauty, paired with a spirit still unbroken. The possibilities were endless.

"I'm sure it is, Clark. And I will be certain to remember it." He deepened his voice for that last statement, making it a threat as much as a promise, a warning to the slave to remember his place. He might enjoy the boy's spark, but it would be a mistake not to keep it in check. "Now, shouldn't you get on with your work?"

Clark's gaze fell away from his face and he moved to pick up the newly-filled buckets. But half way through the motion, he stopped and turned to Alexander again.

"Master...I..." He looked up, eyes traveling across his master's features, reading them carefully. There was an embarrassed blush on his cheeks and it was only seconds before he lowered his gaze again as he ought to, but Alexander could still feel the intense focus of his scrutiny. "Master, may I ask you something?"

Alexander knew what the question was. The same question people always wanted to ask when they looked at him, ever since he lost his hair to a mysterious disease at the age of nine. He was used to it by now, but he preferred to pretend he didn't know what was coming. Somehow that made him feel less of an abomination.

"You may."

The boy took a deep breath.

"Your eyes, master... They are blue. I haven't seen anyone with such eyes since I was brought to this country, and I wondered...if maybe...?"

It wasn't what he'd expected, not what he'd expected at all, and the surprise was enough to draw the answer from him before he realized whom he was talking to, before he could control the emotion in it. And perhaps he didn’t mind that; there weren’t many people in his life he could afford to talk to without keeping his guard carefully in place.

"Yes, Clark, you're right. My mother had Germanic blood. Not an appropriate match for a Roman of noble birth, but my father didn't care what other people thought. She had blue eyes, and red hair like a living flame when the sun caught it. In the city, people would turn and stare as if a goddess walked among them. But she's been dead now for a long time."

Clark nodded, a silent gesture that was somehow vibrant with warmth.

"She must have been a beautiful lady, master."

"She was. Now do your chores before you get behind with them."

This time the boy obeyed, turning his back and walking away towards the stables, carrying the water as if it weighed next to nothing.

Alexander watched until he disappeared from sight before he started back towards the villa. It wasn't often that people managed to surprise him, and even more seldom that he was intrigued by his own reactions to another person. He couldn't shake the thought that this boy might be the answer to his sleeping problems.




As he lay down to breakfast on one of the couches in the dining hall, he summoned Antonius, the head slave at the villa, an old man who radiated that peculiar mixture of deference and authority so often present in a slave who had his master's trust. No broken spirit there either, Alexander reflected, and truly, he preferred that to the near non-existence of a slave beaten into submission. The boy would be a welcome presence.

"Antonius," he said. "There is a slave here, a young barbarian answering to the name of Clark. You will go to Quintus and tell him this boy will no longer work in the fields. Tell him if he wishes, he has my permission to purchase a replacement. You are to bring the boy here and teach him the duties of a domestic slave."

"Very good, master. Is that all?"

"Yes. You may go."

Alexander waved the man away with a sweep of his hand and picked up a peach from the plate of fruit before him. The peel was smooth and delicate like a caress against his fingertips. Its color stirred an image in his mind of Clark's face, flushed with embarrassment, or perhaps with something else altogether.

"Antonius," he said, without looking up, and his slave paused by the door, hand already on the knob. "Don't hide him away in the kitchen, all right?"

The peach erupted like morning sunlight in his mouth.




He had no doubt that Antonius carried out his orders to the letter, and if he had doubted, the curious looks Quintus gave him when they met to discuss business that afternoon would have been enough to convince him. Not that Quintus said anything, of course. Such an arbitrary decision made by a man as powerful as Alexander was not brought into question. Its motives could only be personal – no one would be foolish enough to get in the way of that. Still, another three days passed before he saw Clark again.

He could, of course, have the slave sent directly to his private rooms and have his way with him, but where would be the fun in that? It was the game of seduction he enjoyed, the willing surrender. Besides, he didn’t want Clark to be another in the endless row of nearly faceless lovers in his life; this boy intrigued him too much for that. And so he waited until the daily routines in the villa brought them face to face once more.

He was sitting in his study writing a letter to one of his allies in the Senate, perfecting a plan they had underway to get a common enemy removed from public office by sweeping his support out from under him. It would take time and money carefully spent in wooing the electorate, but together they could do it. And with a more friendly senator installed in the place of Metellus Flavius Creticus, Alexander would be one step closer to being appointed consul. The effort would be well worth it.

Claudius had already set the ball rolling, and when he returned from the country, the time would be ripe for Alexander to do his part. He was just expanding on why it mustn’t be too obvious that they were working together, when he heard someone enter the room and looked up to see Clark standing by the door. Not certain if he dared to enter, ready to bolt like a yearling colt the first time it was approached with a bridle.

Alexander raised an eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"I was told to light the lamps, master."

He had been so engrossed in his work that he hadn’t noticed, but now he realized that dusk had begun to fall and it would soon be too dark for him to see what he was writing. Normally he would barely register the shift from daylight to lamplight, because the slaves would bring it about without drawing his attention. Clark didn’t have that knack of invisibility yet. Perhaps he never would.

"Go ahead."

Alexander returned his focus to the letter, dipped his pen in ink and wrote a few more sentences. Watching the boy would only make him self-conscious and nervous, but if you stayed impassive and seemingly uninterested, in the end even the most skittish colt would gather the courage to come close. Establish trust, and curiosity would always win out in the end.

Clark hesitated a moment longer, then moved to the large table filled with correspondence, paper work and maps of the Empire which occupied the center of the room. Using the burning candle he’d brought with him, he lit the ornate oil lamp standing there. It spread a warm circle of light in the deepening gloom, but it didn’t reach the far end of the study where Alexander was sitting. For actual illumination of the piece of papyrus in his hand, the lamp on his writing table would have to be lit. Which meant that Clark had to come all the way up to him.

He kept his eyes trained on his letter as Clark approached, then touched the flame in his hand to the wick of the lamp, but from the corner of his eye he noted that the coarse tunic he’d had on before had been replaced by the soft, yellow wool worn by the domestic slaves. And his clothes weren’t the only thing that had been cleaned up.

A breath of olive soap hung around him, covering a still lingering smell of sunlight and country air, and, deeper still, the scent of skin, salt and honey-sweet. It took an effort of will not to reach out and grab hold of him.

He needed longer than he should to realize that the boy had done his job but wasn’t moving away.

"Did you want anything else?" He didn’t glance up from his writing to say it.

"I... Master, why did you have me brought here?"

Questioning his place. Interesting.

Alexander put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and looked up.

"Why do you think you were brought here?"

Honest bewilderment on the boy’s face, and an expression of serious thought that made his eyebrows fold like the wings of a bird.

"I don’t know, master. The others... the other slaves... They whispered behind my back, but I couldn’t catch what they were saying. Gaius, the stable boy, put his hand on my shoulder and told me to watch my back, then laughed like it was a clever joke. I didn’t understand what he meant."

The innocence of it would have been amusing, if it hadn’t made Alexander’s bones shiver with anticipation. He would move slowly, allow the trust to build. The first sigh of willing surrender would be a wonderful reward.

"You should pay no attention to what other people say, Clark. It is of no importance."

"Yes, master. But..."

"You want to know why you’re here?" He leaned forward, captured the boy’s gaze in his own, held it steady until he could feel the beat of Clark‘s pulse throbbing in his own veins. "You are beautiful. I like to keep my beautiful possessions where I can see them."

The blush was so instant he had to break eye-contact before he forgot every thought of going slowly.

He picked up the pen again and started to reread what he’d just written.

"Leave me now. I have work that needs to be done."

It was to Clark’s credit that his obvious bafflement didn’t keep him from doing as he was told. As the door closed behind him, Alexander laid the pen aside and smiled to himself. He would make that boy crave the reason he was there like water in the desert before he even understood what it was. And when he did understand... The prospect was enough to make Alexander shift in his seat.




Out of all the rooms in the villa, the library was Alexander’s favorite. To protect the extensive collection of scrolls from direct sunlight it had no windows to the world outside the house, but a set of carved doors opposite the entrance from the study opened on the atrium. At night, after his work was done, he often liked to settle himself on a couch there with an interesting volume and watch the night sky reflected in the shallow water of the impluvium whenever he raised his eyes from his reading. Sometimes when the moon was up, the whole courtyard would glow with a mystic silver light that spoke to him as clearly as any words on papyrus. It happened that he spent entire nights like that.

Other times, he would seek refuge from the sun in the coolness of the library when the afternoon was too hot for him to go riding. When Helios decided to scorch the earth the way he did today, Alexander reflected as he returned to the villa after another inspection tour with Quintus, it was a blessing to have a room that was certain to be cool. He only hoped the slaves had remembered to bring in the fruit and wine he’d asked for – after all that dust out in the vineyards, he was in need of refreshment.

A tray of food and drink had indeed been brought, he saw when he entered the library. By Clark, who was still there. Leaning over the table in the center of the room, body framed by the sunlight that flooded the atrium beyond the open doors. As soon as he heard his master coming he jumped back, but it was clear he’d been studying the scroll that had been left lying there. The speeches of the Gracchi, if Alexander remembered correctly.

"Were you reading that?"

The expression on Clark’s face was as guilty as if he’d been caught stealing.

"I...I’m sorry, master." His head was bent, large hands flexing at his sides. Expecting punishment. "It won’t happen again."

Alexander crossed to the table and poured himself a goblet of wine from the pitcher on the tray. White wine, still cool from the darkness of the cellar. He raised it to his lips and took a sip before speaking again.

"Where did you learn to read, Clark?"

That question took the boy by surprise, and his eyes darted towards Alexander in query before he remembered his manners. The veneer of composure was so thin with this one, his spontaneous reactions so close to the surface. It was easy to imagine how completely open that beautiful face would be in extreme emotion, how every impression would register on those delicate features. The mere thought of it trickled like drops of desire along Alexander’s spine.

"There was a slave, at the place where I was before, an old man who took care of me when I first came there. I was only a child then, master – without him I don’t think I would have made it. Before he was sold to Marcus Publius he’d been a pedagogus, and he had some education. He taught me your language; how to speak it, how to read and write."

A touch of that unsuitable pride in the boy’s voice again, and damn if he wasn’t entitled to it. A slave who could read and write was a valuable item, especially if he could be trusted with his master’s affairs. And to think he had been purchased as a farm laborer. It was lucky Alexander was in a position to rectify that waste.

"You enjoy reading, don’t you, Clark?"

Judging by the boy’s sudden animation, that was an understatement. And by Jupiter, those eyes really didn’t know how to stay trained on the floor.

"Yes, master, I do. I’m sorry I read that volume without permission. I knew I shouldn’t, but it was lying there, and... This room, master... I’ve never seen so many scrolls. It’s... If you’ve read them all, you really must be as brilliant as they say."

Alexander gave a low snort.

"Is that what the slaves say about me? That I’m brilliant? What else do they say?"

A slight pause, but the answer sounded honest.

"That you’re dangerous. That one day you will rule Rome, and then your enemies should tremble."

"Well, let’s hope they’re right about that. And you, Clark? What do you think?"

"I’m not sure, master. You’re not like anyone else. I don’t understand what you want with me, why you’re even talking to me like this, and I know that should scare me. But it doesn’t."

Alexander put the goblet down on the table and looked Clark directly in the eye for the first time since he’d entered the room.

"Good," he said, voice low with meaning. "Fear is not what I want from you."

He could see the shiver that spread across the boy’s skin along with the blush.

Casually, he turned to the open cabinets along the wall behind him.

"I’d like you to read something to me," he continued. "To show how well you can do it. Why don’t you sit down?"

He ran his fingers along the rows of scrolls until he found the one he wanted, then took it down and slid it from its leather casing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clark sit down on the very edge of a chair, hands folded in his lap, carefully not touching the arm rests.

Alexander unrolled the scroll and skimmed through it, searching for the part he had in mind. There were plenty of things in there that might actually frighten the boy, if he weren’t too innocent to understand them at all, but...

"Ah yes. Here we are."

He crossed the room and handed Clark the open volume, before sitting down opposite him on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees so that the distance between them was minimal. Clark held the scroll as if he were afraid to tear it and looked at him hesitantly.

Alexander made a sweeping gesture towards the words on the page.

"It’s a poem by a young writer I’ve met a couple of times in Rome. He isn’t very well-known yet, but I suspect he will be counted among the great. Go on, read it to me."

He gave an encouraging smile and Clark nodded, bending his head to the task.

He read well. Stiffly at first, then with more feeling as the music of the words caught him. His voice was a strange mixture of light and dark that blended easily with the pulse of blood in Alexander’s veins – raw as yet, but with the potential for true beauty with practice. But the real joy lay in watching, and Alexander doubted that he could have torn his eyes away from the boy’s mouth even if he’d wanted to. Lips and tongue curling around the sensuous shapes of sublime words they would never have chosen on their own.

"Lesbia, you ask how many kisses of yours
would be enough and more to satisfy me.
As many as the grains of Libyan sand
that lie between hot Jupiter’s oracle
at Ammon, in resin-producing Cyrene,
and old Battiades sacred tomb:
or as many as the stars, when night is still,
gazing down on secret human desires:
as many of your kisses kissed
are enough, and more, for mad Catullus,
as can’t be counted by spies,
nor an evil tongue bewitch us."

In the silence after the last word it would have been easy to lean through the heavy air between them and claim the first of innumerable kisses promised by the fullness of that perfect mouth. But anticipation was a heady wine best savored slowly, and Alexander had all the time he could wish for.

"Tell me, Clark," he said. "You read this very well. Have you ever known passion like that – insatiable, without bounds?"

If he had thought he’d seen Clark blush before, clearly he’d been mistaken.

"No, master."

"Do you think you ever will?"

"I...I don’t know, master. Perhaps."

"Only perhaps, Clark? Do you then have no secret desires, no yearnings that keep you awake at night?"

The beat of hesitation before his lips parted to form the word ‘no’ was just barely too long.

"Ssh... Don’t lie to me, boy. You don’t have the face to pull that off. And you don’t have to; I won’t force you to name them for me. But you shouldn’t be ashamed of them, either. We all have our secret desires – if we didn’t, we wouldn’t truly be alive." Slowly, he leaned in and grasped the scroll, fingers brushing Clark’s, lips a hair’s breadth from his ear. "I have more than I think you can imagine."

When he pulled away, scroll in hand, it was all the way back, sinking leisurely into the pillows on the couch.

"You may go now, Clark. I will think of a use for your reading skills, don’t worry."

"Yes, master. Thank you."

The intriguing mixture of bewilderment and satisfaction on the boy’s face as he stood and left the room was almost enough to make up for the sharp claws of unfulfilled hunger in Alexander’s gut. Almost, but not quite. Anticipation was all well and good, but it was time to move forward.

That night he instructed Antonius to teach Clark how to prepare his master’s bath.




The entire floor of the bath was covered by a mosaic of the birth of Venus from the waves, and when Alexander entered the room on the following evening, the exquisite details of the image were illumined by a soft, flickering half-light. Not oil-lamps in here as in the rest of the house, but thick candles made from beeswax which filled the air with the fragrance of honey. It was a scent the color of Clark’s skin, Alexander decided, as his eyes fell on the boy waiting for him by the far wall, head bent in respect.

Crossing the room, Alexander took in the tub filled with steaming water, the row of phials and jars with scented oils and herbs standing on its marble edge, and the stack of clean white towels on a table in the corner. It looked as though Clark had done a good job, although, of course, the actual preparations had very little to do with whether or not he would be pleased with his slave tonight. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to compliment him on them.

"I see you’ve done everything the way Antonius taught you. I’m glad you’re adapting so well to your new duties."

"Thank you, master." Slight smile, but also an uncertain shifting of his weight from one foot to the other. "Um... Am I supposed to leave now?"

So new to the situation, not knowing at all what would be asked of him. And there was a rush of power in holding the answers that curved Alexander’s lips into a predatory smile.

"No, Clark. I would like you to stay. There are still many things for you to do tonight. You can start by undressing me. Sandals first."

"Yes, master."

There was a moment’s hesitation, then Clark dropped to his knees. His fingers fumbled slightly with the knot that tied the straps of the first sandal together just below his master’s knee, but then he got it loosened and unwound the lengths of leather carefully, all the way down to the ankle. He held the shoe still as Alexander pulled his foot out, and though their skin didn’t touch, Alexander could feel the warmth of those large hands enveloping him. The chill of the floor was sharp in contrast.

The procedure was repeated, and Clark put the sandals away beside him. He didn’t move to get up, but his eyelids fluttered in the way Alexander had come to know meant that he wanted to look at his master and only managed to check the impulse at the last instant. He didn’t want the boy to hide from him.

"In here, Clark, when we do this..." He reached out his hand and cupped Clark’s jaw, tilted his chin up with a gentle push. "...you’re allowed to look at me. I want to see your eyes."

And as if on cue, Clark raised his gaze and saw him.

It was like that first meeting in the vineyard all over again, the moment sharp as the edge of a sword, clear as raindrops in summer. The slick steam from the bath against his back; each individual piece of mosaic under his feet; the quick, strong rhythm of Clark’s pulse under his fingertips… He was aware of it all, separately and simultaneously, and running through every sensation, infusing everything with a heat he barely knew how to contain, was the sheer openness of those green eyes, the unguarded innocence that somehow seemed to reach deeper inside him than he would have imagined possible. As though Clark saw him differently than he knew how to see himself. There was insecurity in that thought, but also an odd comfort, and suddenly it hit him that he never wanted to let this boy go. The joy of ownership was overwhelming.

With a slide of his thumb along Clark’s jawbone, he released his face. When he spoke again, his voice was deeper, huskier than before.

"Now the tunic."

Clark nodded, but to Alexander’s surprise he didn’t rise as soon as he had the opportunity. Instead he stayed on his knees and reached for the belt around his master’s waist. He leaned so close that warm breath tickled Alexander’s skin through fine fabric as leather slid from around his hips to be folded neatly in his slave’s hand. And then, when the belt had joined the sandals on the floor, Clark’s fingers grasped the hem of his tunic, and as the boy rose to his feet, the garment followed. It was all one smooth, liquid motion, economical and graceful beyond anything Alexander would have expected of him. He lifted his arms and let the light wool slip over his head.

Clark folded the tunic and put it aside over the arm of a nearby chair, then turned back to him. With utter care, he did not look at Alexander’s naked body.

"Clark." The gentle amusement in his voice was more genuine than it had ever been. "I did give you permission to look at me. Don’t let embarrassment stop you."

The blush on the boy’s face now seemed to be permanent, and he was still staring somewhere above Alexander’s left shoulder.

"I’m sorry, master. You... This is all so different. I don’t know what’s expected of me."

Alexander raised his hand to Clark’s cheek, made the boy look at him again. Very lightly, soothingly, he brushed his thumb back and forth along the ridge of his cheek bone.

"It’s all right, Clark. I will show you everything you need to know. So far, you’re doing very well."

It made his heart skip a beat when Clark leaned into his touch.

"I try to please you, master."

Alexander smiled, and he could feel Clark shiver under the sudden intensity of his gaze.

"Then you have nothing to worry about. Now, I should get into that bath..."

He turned and moved to the tub, a large marble basin raised on steps in the center of the floor. From the phials of oil he selected one and held it out to Clark. Judging by the way the boy’s eyes cut to the little glass bottle in his hand, he really had been taking the opportunity to look while his master’s back was turned. Wasn’t that an encouraging thought?

"Pour some of this in."

Clark took the phial and pulled the stopper out, bent over the tub and let the oil run slow and lazy into the water. As it made contact with the heat of the bath, its essence sprung suddenly to life, and the fresh, sparkling smell of citrus rose to blend with the sweetness of honey in the air.

"That’s enough."

As Clark set the bottle aside, Alexander took the few mosaic-covered steps up to the tub and let himself sink into it.

The water was hot against his skin, smooth and fragrant with oil, and he made it take his body slowly, embrace it inch by inch, until he was lying back with his head against the rounded marble edge of the basin. He gave a contented sigh and allowed his eyes to drift shut. His limbs were feather-light under the water, knotted muscles already relaxing, and he could feel the boy so close.

He lifted his hand and patted the broad ledge around the tub.

"Come sit down, Clark."

Rustle of movement and then Clark was right there, the warmth of him just barely out of reach. Alexander opened his eyes, and smiled. Rich, glittering grin laced with invitation. Clark didn’t look away.

"I want you to wash me. Use the sponge over there and start with my back."

Clark looked around, reached back to pick up the sponge, then just sat gazing at him. Nervous, darting eyes, dark in the candlelight and somehow… eager. Alexander swallowed hard as he sat up and shifted slightly to give the boy better access. He held still, eyes fixed on his own feet, and waited once more for Clark to come to him.

Soft splash of water behind him. Clark wetting the sponge, squeezing it, and then there was touch. Gentle moisture moving across his back, sliding over tired muscles, and behind it, underlying the slick cushion of the sponge, the firm strength of Clark’s hand. It felt divine.

When the boy dipped the sponge again and let it trail upwards along his spine, from his loins to the nub at the base of his skull, he couldn’t hold back a low moan of pleasure. And mighty Venus, mother of all carnal joys, Clark must have truly meant it when he said he wanted to please, because he did it again. Slow excruciating caress that set every nerve in Alexander’s body on fire. He wished he had the patience to enjoy that one perfect touch repeated for hours on end, but tonight he had waited too long. He needed to see Clark’s beauty, needed to feel his hands on every part of his skin.

Pulling away from the touch, he stretched out in the tub and leaned back again. Clark’s face looked...worried.

"Master, did I do something wrong? Should I stop?"

Alexander gave a short laugh at the absurdity of that, and reminded himself that the boy needed encouragement.

"No, Clark. That was just right. Do continue."

The boy ducked his head and smiled - a dazzling, half-hidden grin that speeded the beat of Alexander’s heart. And the touch returned. Long, lingering strokes of wetness that made his skin tingle, his cock lengthen and swell. Along his arms, from shoulders to fingertips, across his chest, his belly, the curve of his neck. Even - cautiously, almost with reverence - the naked dome of his head.

By the time Clark started on his legs he was breathing hard, his thighs falling open without thought so that those exquisite caresses could drag up the inside, move in tantalizing circles over the sensitive skin. Closer and closer to where he really needed them. And then Clark stopped. Hand still in the water, resting on his upper thigh. His eyes as he spoke were glued to the rim of the tub.

"Master, do you want me to wash you everywhere?"

A broken, jagged edge of restraint in the boy’s voice - claws of emotion scratching at the walls of self-control. And looking at him, taking in the details of that glorious body perched above him, it was easy for Alexander to see why. Under the fabric of his tunic, he was as hard as his master.

Alexander’s mouth went suddenly dry, and though he fought to keep it away, he could hear a quiver in his voice when he answered.

"Yes, Clark. Everywhere."

The relief on the boy’s face was overwhelming, not least because he could feel its echo in his own chest. The sparks had been there from the first day in the vineyard, and he had been fairly certain that it would be easy to make Clark want this as much as he did, but experiencing it was a different thing altogether. Clark might be a barbarian slave, but there was still a difference between what was freely given and what was taken by force, and he had never preferred the latter. If there was anything he wanted from this boy, it wasn’t submission, but desire.

The kind of desire that made the hand on his thigh tremble as it slipped the sponge higher, skimmed it over the heavy tightness of his balls, the hairless skin at the base of his cock. And then, finally, wrapped it around him.

If he’d thought this had been good before, now it was beyond words. The slick wetness of the sponge sliding along his shaft, encased in the solid grip of Clark’s hand, the motion slow and languid, still keeping the pretence of ablution. Every part of him was melting, rushing into that warm, blessed touch, craving it with a desperate need he would have been ashamed to admit. When his cock jerked with pleasure, Clark’s hand tightened in response, like a reflex made for this purpose alone. He was so close already, and he could have let Clark bring him off just like this, with nothing more than the steady pressure of his fingers. But he wanted this to last much longer, wanted Clark’s whole body tight against him when he came.

He reached down and stilled the boy’s hand, though he had to force his hips not to thrust when the movement stopped. Clark looked at him in surprise that bordered on hurt, and opened his mouth to speak, but Alexander leaned forward and pressed a finger to his lips.

"It’s all right, Clark. But the water is getting cold."

Clark nodded and let go of him, standing up and backing down onto the floor as Alexander rose and stepped out of the tub. For a long moment they stood there looking at each other, Alexander the taller one from his position on the lowest step, the boy’s head tilted up to meet his gaze. If Clark had been embarrassed by his body before, now it was as though he couldn’t stop staring, as though he were Psyche in that moment when the lamp is lit, and he had to drink his fill of the divine glory before Eros wiped the light away forever. His eyes were wide, dark with want and longing, and for a fleeting instant, Alexander saw himself as he must look to the boy. Naked and erect, white skin turned golden in the candlelight, every muscle, every sinew defined in a play of flickering shadows and glittering, dazzling drops of water. Raising his hand, he reached out and cupped the boy’s erection through his tunic. Large, heavy cock straining like a living thing under his fingers, green eyes drifting shut in a flutter of half-moon lashes.

"Do you understand now what the other slaves were whispering about us?"

A tremor in the member in his hand, as though his voice were an intimate caress.

"Yes, master."

"Do you think they were right to laugh?"

Eyes snapping open, finding his again, vast and honest as the sea.

"No, master."

And that was all the consent he needed, the permission necessary for him to finally take what he wanted.

Sinking his free hand into the boy’s hair, he pulled him close, kissed him with the full ardor of his want. A startled whimper against his lips, and then that godlike mouth opened for his tongue, let him explore it, fill it, possess it like a conqueror claiming his rights to a vanquished land. When at last he pulled back, his head was giddy with heat and lust. As he let go of Clark, he noticed with a near savage satisfaction that his damp hand had left a dark imprint on the yellow wool of his tunic, a mark of ownership more intimate than any collar. He wanted to rub the moisture from his body onto every inch of the boy’s skin.

"Come," he said, and walked away towards the door without a glance to spare for the pile of towels. "Bring the candle and the oil and follow me."

There was still a lamp burning in the corridor outside, but his bedroom across the hall was dark except for the deep blue rectangle of evening sky visible through the open window. When Clark entered with the light of a honey candle burning in his hands, Alexander was already waiting for him, kneeling at the center of the bed.

"Put that down on the nightstand and come here. That’s right. Take your sandals off and join me."

A dip of the mattress as Clark’s heavy frame weighed it down, and he was sitting in front of Alexander, all blushing face and long, restless limbs.

"Ssh," he said, running his fingertips down Clark’s cheek, then onwards, down his neck and chest to the buckle of his belt. "I won’t hurt you, Clark, and tonight there’s nothing you can do wrong. All you have to do is trust me, and I will show you things you’ve never imagined."

"I do, master. I do trust you."

The grin on Alexander’s face was like a wolf’s.

"Good."

He undid the belt and let it fall on the floor beside the bed, then pulled the boy’s tunic off and discarded that as well. And merciful heavens, he owed tributes to Venus beyond what any man could pay, because the beauty of this gift she’d given him was surely more than any mortal could deserve. Skin like honey-colored satin stretched over broad, powerful shoulders and lean, tight muscles worthy of a hero like Achilles, or perhaps of that hunter Adonis who had stolen the heart of the goddess herself. And to perfect the image, rising from a wealth of fine, dark curls, a cock to match the proportions of that tall, massive body. His mouth watered with the need to taste it all.

Palms flat against the boy’s chest, he pushed him down on the mattress, draped himself on top of him, slipped his leg between his thighs. The sheer disbelieving wonder in Clark’s eyes as he arched up into the pressure on his cock was almost too much to take, and he had to kiss him again, had to ravage that mouth while he rocked into him, rubbed his own leaking erection against the sharp curve of bone at his hip.

Everything was sensation now, raw and desperate, the drops of water on his skin evaporating between them to be replaced by a sheen of sweat. He couldn’t get enough, doubted that he would ever get enough of the perfection beneath him.

Clark’s hands were knotted tight in the sheets, but as Alexander kissed his way down his throat, licked and nipped at his collarbones, flicked his tongue over the tightening bud of his nipple, this didn’t keep him from writhing, didn’t keep him from gasping and panting and - goddess, yes! - begging when Alexander sucked that nipple into his mouth and sank his teeth into it. The taste and smell of him was the salt of the ocean, the sweetness of an orchard, dizzying and addictive, a drug made all the more powerful by the rapture on his face. He could imagine a thousand ways of taking this boy, but tonight, only one would do.

With his hands he urged Clark’s legs further apart, then settled himself between them. The cry of "Master!" as he bent his head and touched his tongue to the tip of the swollen cock before him was probably loud enough to reach the far edges of the vineyards. With a silent smirk he gripped the boy’s hips to keep him steady and set to work.

It wasn’t appropriate, of course - a free Roman citizen, a patrician and a senator, sucking the cock of a barbarian slave - but he had never cared less. There were other things he would never do with a slave, nor, indeed, with anyone, but this, this was pure bliss, and who would ever know? His need to feel the thick, hard weight of Clark’s cock filling him - the hollow of his mouth, the empty depth of his throat - was like a hunger, a throbbing physical ache he couldn’t deny. And he intended to feed it to his heart’s content.

One hand would have to be enough to hold Clark still, because he needed the other to stroke the length of that iron shaft while he lapped at its head, circled it with the tip of his tongue, teased the slit with short, sharp thrusts that were a perfect counterpoint to the slow pumping of his fist. When he parted his lips and took Clark inside him, he wasn’t sure which was loudest – the constant stream of moans and broken pleas from the boy beneath him, or the muffled whimpers from his own throat. He was dimly aware of his own erection hanging almost painfully solid under his belly, but all that mattered now was the heated flesh in his mouth, the silky texture on his tongue. He sucked hard and was rewarded with the feel of Clark’s cock flexing against the roof of his mouth, pulsing with want. And he couldn’t handle this, couldn’t wait another heartbeat for fulfilment.

Opening wide, he pushed forward, pushed down on that glorious length, and when it hit the back of his throat, he swallowed. Large cock stretching his body to its limits, but he took it all, made himself take it until his face was buried in the dark curls of Clark’s groin. And it fit. It fit so perfectly that he could feel tears forming behind his eyelids. With a deep, steadying breath, he looked up.

And there Clark was, raised on his elbows, staring at him in something very much like shock. Eyes wide with bliss, muscles trembling with the effort not to move, not to do the wrong thing. The self-control was admirable, and it broke like eggshell with the first rise and fall of Alexander’s head on his cock. A fierce gasp and he was thrusting upwards, slamming himself impossibly deeper, claiming what Alexander offered with the relentless force of pure instinct. And, gods, he needed that. Needed the wild, savage power of it, the all-consuming obliteration of any human thought. When Clark came, thrashing in his grip like an untamed beast, he swallowed and drank like one thirsting in the desert. He didn’t let go until he was certain there was nothing left.

The sharp edge of his own lust was somehow blunted by Clark’s violent climax, and when he crawled up the bed to take the boy in his arms, his touch held not desire as much as tenderness, and that peculiar gentleness which springs from pride of possession.

Clark seemed dazed, almost gone from his body, and Alexander had to pry his fingers open to make him let go of the sheet. Coaxing him onto his side so that they lay facing each other, he ran his hand down Clark’s sweat-dampened back to calm his ragged breathing. The boy shivered and moved closer, smiled when Alexander stroked his cheek. A wide smile overflowing with happiness, so vibrantly beautiful that there was nothing he could do but smile back.

"I take it you enjoyed that?" His voice in his own ears sounded raw, well used. Fractured with satisfaction and hunger.

The green of Clark’s eyes erupted in sparks of gold.

"I... Yes, master. I never knew anything could... Thank you."

"It’s not a gift, Clark. This wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t my pleasure."

"I know that, master." A shy glance down the length of his master’s body, unconscious lick of his lips at the sight of his cock that made Alexander’s balls clench in sudden need. "How...?" Breaking off, clearing his throat. "Is that how you wish me to please you?"

Alexander lifted Clark’s hand from where it was lying on the mattress between them, held it before his face. Strong hand, huge but shapely, every sinew and joint perfectly fitted under soft, golden skin. So solid it made his own frame feel ethereal, fragile by comparison. He slipped his tongue out and licked at it, where the first and second fingers met in a delicious v. Clark’s moan hid his own sigh of pleasure.

"What I want is your hand," he said. "Wrapped around me, stroking me. You liked that in the bath, didn’t you, Clark? The feel of me hard and throbbing in your grip. Would you like to please me that way?"

"Yes, master. Please." Not just consent, but devotion. It was a greater high even than he had imagined.

Alexander reached behind him and found the phial of oil on the bedside table. Uncorking it, he held Clark’s hand in his own, poured some of it into his upturned palm. The scent of citrus was between them again, mingled once more with honey and the heady smell of lust. He edged closer, draped his leg over Clark’s hip and guided his hand down, settled it firmly where it belonged.

His need returned instantly, sliced through him like a lightning bolt along his spine. Clark rubbed him, spread slickness and heat over every inch of his shaft, massaged it into the aching head with the pad of his thumb. It was exquisite, being fondled and caressed by careful fingers, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t what he needed. He gripped the back of Clark’s neck, fingers tangling in silken hair.

"Hold still," he breathed. "Let me fuck your hand."

And Clark stopped moving, just held him, tight and steady, and he thrust forward, plunged into the slick heat of that enormous hand, fucked it fast and hard and wanting, took everything, all his body demanded. Precome mixed with the oil, made the slide even easier, and this was Elysium, too good to be of this world. He threw his head back, bit his lip over grunts of ecstasy.

"Master," Clark whispered, awe in his voice. "Yes, master. Don’t stop. You’re so beautiful. So beautiful."

He’d heard that before, of course, more times than he could count, but never like this. Always there had been the undertone of other agendas, a lust for money or power more immediate than that for his body. Or the statement had been dripping with the knowledge that he was a freak, that he was appreciated in spite of that fact, or, in the minds of the twisted and perverse, because of it. But in Clark’s mouth, in his eyes, the words were pure, they meant nothing but what they said. They meant everything.

He thrust harder, pounded himself into Clark, screamed as every part of his being pulsed with fulfillment and he came, staining Clark’s hand and belly with his seed. Then he was kissing the boy, devouring his mouth as the aftershocks surged through him, claiming him as if he couldn’t get close enough. Time rushed past in a whirl of roaring wind, or perhaps it didn’t move at all; he couldn’t tell. He didn’t want to know.

When it was all over, he wiped Clark clean with a corner of the sheet and settled them under it. The boy’s cock was beginning to stir again, but Alexander was tired now, drained from the bath and the bone-deep satisfaction of his orgasm. There would be plenty of time for him to savor the eagerness of his young slave the next morning, or in the darkness of the night if he should wake. There would be all the time he needed.

But Clark was restless, the uncertainty of his place returning.

"Master, are you sure I should stay here? I mean, I have duties, things I’m supposed to do in the morning. And I didn’t clean the bath yet."

Endearing, that he didn’t realize he had other duties now.

"You can clean the bath tomorrow, Clark. Do you want to stay?"

"Yes, master."

"Then you will. Besides, tomorrow will be a long day for us both - you will need your rest. I have things to do, people to see, and I want you to accompany me."

The boy looked flattered, if a bit bewildered.

"Yes, master. But I thought you were here on vacation."

Alexander smiled, wry and humorless.

"A politician can’t afford to rest, Clark. A politician cannot rest, or he will be a dead man. If I choose to keep you close, you’ll learn that soon enough." Clark nodded, appearing to turn that information over in his head. "Now, let’s go to sleep."

Half turning, he blew the candle out and clothed the room in darkness, then sank down on his pillow, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, the other splayed over the curve of Clark’s waist. In the vast country stillness, the slow, rhythmic sound of the boy’s breathing was unyielding and near, enveloping him like the night. For the first time that summer, he slept soundly till morning.