"So what do you think Creticus will do?" Claudius asked, leaning back in his chair and looking up at Alexander, who sat perched on the corner of his friend’s writing table.

"There isn’t much he can do," Alexander said. There was a small silver ornament in the shape of a wolf on the table beside him, catching the last rays of the setting sun in the finely worked lines of its coat. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. Wet-nurse of Rome, caring protectress of her people. But savage beasts raised savage children - he, if anyone, should know that. "He will try to talk his clients into staying with him, and probably slander us in the process, but we both know how to manipulate the word on the street as well as he does. What it comes down to in the end is money. Money he won’t be able to raise, at least not honestly. And if he tries something less than legal... Well, let’s just say I have people keeping a close eye on his transactions. What bothers me is that he might resort to a more drastic solution."

"You think he’s prepared to use violence?"

"You heard him before: ‘Whatever it takes.’ I’d say it’s a definite possibility. You should make sure you have reliable men guarding your back down in the city."

"The best money can buy, as always. I’m more concerned about your safety."

"You know how I feel about putting trust in others, especially bodyguards. Money can buy a lot of things, but it doesn’t buy loyalty. Besides, up here where I’m likely to see the enemy coming, I’m more than capable of protecting myself. If there’s anything I fear, it’s a knife in the back when I’m walking down Via Sacra, not being smothered in my sleep in my own home. That sort of thing takes too much inside knowledge, and the risk of the assassin being captured alive and questioned is too high. If Creticus is going to try anything, it’s likely to be in the anonymous crowds of the city."

"I hope you’re right, my friend. And come to think of it..." Claudius’s worried expression gave way to a teasing smile that was far more at home on his face. "It will be that much harder to kill you in your sleep now that you don’t sleep alone. Great gods, Alexander, that new boy of yours... You know I don’t share your taste for those things, but even I can see how gorgeous he is. Where on Earth did you find him? He must have cost a fortune."

Alexander put the silver wolf back down on the table, but as he answered he kept stroking it.

"Actually, it was Quintus who found him. Bought him as a field worker at a bargain price, if you believe that. They could have asked triple the money if they’d just bothered to find out that he can read and write, and with his other assets, I know quite a few people who would have been willing to pay outrageous sums."

"Yourself included, I take it?"

"Myself included, of course. I do pride myself on knowing a good thing when I see it."

And it would have been worth every sestertius, just to look into those green-gold eyes, to feel that incredible mouth under his own. He could still taste their parting kiss on his lips, a flavor of sunlight and peaches and the salt of slowly drying sweat. Clark not yet dressed, naked body pressed against his own; warm and solid, filled with promises of pleasure. It had been more than hard to pull away.

They wouldn‘t be apart for long, though. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he recalled how Clark had blushed when Alexander explained how he expected to find him on his return from the party - waiting in his master’s bed, ready to serve him. He hadn’t been sure how such a blatant reminder of the nature of Clark’s new duties would be received, but he had seen nothing on the boy’s face but embarrassed eagerness, and something very much like joy. Exploring that willingness to please held its own peculiar satisfaction, one that Alexander longed to experience again and again. He couldn’t remember his body ever responding to another with such insatiable want - no price in silver or gold would have been too high for what that boy gave him.

"I’m glad you’ve found something to divert your mind from politics now and then," Claudius said. "Gods know you need that. But be careful. Just seeing what your new slave looks like will have people talking, and if you let every comment get to you the way Creticus’s taunt did today, gossip will run wild."

A sliver of that earlier anger cut through him, and his fingers tightened almost painfully around the wolf, before he remembered to relax. There was no call for so much emotion over a mere possession, bought and paid for. His voice as he spoke was nonchalant, unconcerned.

"Everyone in Rome talks about everyone else; gossip is the life-blood of the city. But words can only get in your way if your actions aren’t great enough to overshadow them. I’ve spent most of my life proving that. A few whispers about whom I choose to bed won’t even touch me. In fact, I’m curious to see what thinly veiled threats and insults Creticus will come up with next."

Claudius smiled and shook his head.

"You enjoy toying with your prey far too much. But it is time we went over to the dining hall; Calpurnia and the other guests are probably already waiting. Just try to treat Creticus civilly so we can all enjoy ourselves."

"Don’t worry so much, Claudius; it doesn’t become you. Overt insults will be kept to a minimum in front of the children, I promise. After all, we’re all civilized men here."

But the wolf in his hand told a different story.




Alexander was a frequent guest at the Passer villa, but no matter how many times he saw it, the dining hall never ceased to amaze him. The various homes of the Luthor family all had features that could match it for impressiveness, and the floor mosaic Alexander himself had commissioned for the town house when he came into his inheritance was certain to strike any visitor dumb with awe, but for sheer beauty, there was nothing quite like the mural paintings in this room.

It was like stepping into a garden. Trees and flowers and cascading fountains filled every inch of the walls. There were roses so vivid you could almost catch the perfume of their scent; ripe fruit hung from slender branches begging to be picked; and through it all - sometimes half-hidden by foliage, sometimes spreading their wings against a patch of azure sky - a host of painted sparrows soared, brought to the very brink of life by the singing of their breathing cousins, held in a cage in the far corner of the room, lending their fleeting voices to the never-moving birds of paint.

He always wanted a moment to absorb this room before he was ready to engage with the people in it; a moment he was rarely given.

"Alexander, there you are!"

It was Calpurnia, Claudius’s wife, waving him over to the other side of the room, where she was standing with her two daughters and a middle-aged man he recognized as Plautus, a minor senator who spent more time juggling his gambling debts than contemplating affairs of state. As he crossed the floor towards them, leaving Claudius with a business associate who had accosted him already in the doorway with a suggestion about some contract or other, he could feel all eyes upon him, every person in the room aware of his presence, and knew that none of them could tell the smile on his face from a real one. He might dislike this kind of socializing for political gain, but he was Alexander Julius Luthor, future ruler of Rome, and he had it down to an art form. The trick was to never let the mask slip.

Seeing Creticus engaged in a conversation with Gaius Valerius Catullus, Claudius’s most inspired investment in the arts and a sometime playmate of his own in the nightlife of Rome, he greeted them both with the same controlled nod. Animosity and fondness were emotions best not displayed in public unless your hand was forced. The less people knew about who your friends and enemies were, the better.

"Calpurnia," he said, as he reached her little group, "my apologies for monopolizing your husband with business matters all afternoon. I hope the guests haven’t tried to tear down the house in the meantime."

Calpurnia laughed, and in the glow of the newly lit oil-lamps, she looked every bit the exotic beauty she was said to be, the soft light catching the jewels set in her jet-black curls, emphasizing the peculiar Eastern tint of her skin. The daughter of a Phoenician merchant, her marriage to Claudius had meant a significant step upwards on the social ladder, and it had been something of a struggle for her to be accepted by her husband’s peers as not just a pretty woman, but a true patrician lady. It had taken determination, and Alexander had always admired her for pulling it off.

"Not at all," she said. "They’ve been surprisingly well-behaved. But then most people do seem to find me more intimidating than my husband, though I can’t imagine why. You’ve met Senator Plautus, of course?" Polite greetings, empty phrases that meant nothing. He already knew this man’s weaknesses and was bored behind the mask before she went on. "And my girls you know."

She introduced them both, but the hand on her oldest daughter’s shoulder and the hopeful looks she sent between her and Alexander made it clear that in this context only one of them mattered.

It was evident that Calpurnia had her mind set on ensuring that her children wouldn’t slip back down the rungs of the ladder that she herself had so successfully climbed, and to that end, she was grooming them to become the perfect patrician’s wives. It was also fairly obvious that if she could choose the ideal husband for her eldest daughter, it would be Alexander. And he had to admit that the idea made excellent sense. He had refused several matches arranged for him by his father, meant to consolidate alliances that had fitted Leontius’s idea of what was good for the family, but he wasn’t going to stay unmarried forever. His plans for the future included heirs to carry on his legacy, and for that he needed a wife suitable for taking a place by his side. A family bond with the Passer clan would strengthen the political partnership he already had with Claudius, as well as provide added financial security for himself and his children, facilitating his own rise to power and increasing the chances that his heirs would be able to hold on to that power after he was gone. He could hardly find a more advantageous match.

As for the girl herself, Amelia Passeris the elder had all the makings of her mother’s dark beauty, and despite her nickname Lana - bestowed on her in childhood when she’d insisted on nursing a sick lamb back to health - she didn’t strike him as wool-headed. As far as he could tell through her veneer of impeccably lady-like behavior, she seemed to have inherited some of her father’s business sense, as well as his kindness of heart. On the whole, he could do a lot worse in his choice of future bride. All the same, he was glad that she was still only a child of thirteen and her marriage not yet a pressing matter. It was a relief not to have to make up his mind on the issue.

"Hello, girls," he said. "Are you enjoying your stay in the country?"

"Yes, Senator," Lana said, offering a smile that was both genuine and oddly demure, as if she were wearing a mask she hadn’t quite grown into. He could certainly sympathize with that. "It’s so much more peaceful and relaxed here than in the city."

"Though mother won’t let her spend all her time in the stables anymore," Amelia the younger put in, clearly relishing the opportunity to tease her sister in front of possible suitors.

Calpurnia looked shocked at the idea.

"Certainly not. That’s hardly an appropriate place for a young lady."

Lana lowered her eyes in an attempt to hide the mixture of anger and embarrassment that was starting to show on her face. Alexander felt suddenly sorry for her.

"Gods know I spend more time than I should in the stables, myself," he said. "You know, I drove here in my chariot. Perhaps you’d like to come with your father to see me off tomorrow and say hello to the horses. I’m sure Heracleitos still remembers you from our last visit."

"Thank you, Senator," she said. "I’d like that." And the openness of her smile told him that she really would.

Calpurnia looked happy, too, no doubt considering the offer a first step towards marital bliss. Though, thankfully, she had better sense than to dwell on those hopes.

"Knowing how fast your horses are, Alexander, I was surprised you didn’t get here earlier today. I was hoping we’d see you already at lunch."

"I did hope to come earlier, but I had some unexpected trouble with one of my slaves this morning."

He might as well blame his tardiness entirely on the mess with Gaius; a tale of the other slave who had kept him busy in bed would hardly go down well at the moment.

"Oh?" Plautus said. "What did he do?"

Alexander’s lips twisted into a smile, narrow as the curved edge of a blade.

"Nothing he will ever do again."

"So you’ve taught him a lesson, hm? A good thing, that. There’s nothing like a thorough whipping to show a slave his proper place."

"But Alexander," Calpurnia said, "I didn’t think you believed in punishing your slaves like that."

"I don’t. I prefer more permanent solutions to my problems. I had him sold to the Tavia mines."

Plautus whistled softly under his breath.

"Now, that is punishment. If that’s the way you normally deal with people who offend you, remind me to stay on your good side."

"Don’t worry, Plautus. As long as we’re both in the Senate, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of opportunities for you to demonstrate which side you’re on." They were both smiling, but the flare of apprehension in the senator’s eyes told Alexander that the threat had registered. He let it sink in for a few moments before he dangled the reassuring carrot. "But speaking of horses... Did you hear that Marcus Reticus had to sell his business to cover that...hasty bet he made last month? A life’s work gone in the second it took a team of thoroughbreds to stumble and fall. I’d hate to see anything like that happen to one of my friends."

By the time a slave came up to Calpurnia and informed her that dinner was ready to be served, there was no doubt that Plautus knew how to cast his votes in the future if he wanted to ensure his well-being. There was a certain unmistakable pleasure in steering people’s decisions through that kind of encouragement, but a man like Plautus posed no challenge and was ultimately of little interest.

When they lay down to dinner, Alexander was pleased to find himself in the place of honor next to Claudius, with Catullus on his other side instead of another politician. Much as he enjoyed his games of power, parties were a lot more relaxing when he didn’t have to engage in them the entire time. Though this was Rome, and not even poets could avoid the mesh of political intrigue.

"So, Luthor," Catullus said as the first course was passed around the open circle of guests, "Creticus was telling me that you’ve got a new slave-boy with a face as fair as Endymion’s and a body to rival Adonis. Not that he put it that way, of course, the prosaic fucker, but he seemed very eager to get the point across."

A brief rush of anger under his skin, but Alexander’s hand as he held his cup out for a young slave-girl to fill it with wine was relaxed and steady.

"He did, did he? I suppose he’s hoping you’ll work it into a defamatory poem about me."

Catullus laughed, a sound filled with warm merriment as well as razor-sharp sarcasm.

"Much as I’d find your love-life a fascinating subject for my song, I’d rather write something defamatory about him. Too bad he’s so boring there’s nothing to sing about."

Alexander gazed across the open floor at Creticus, who was talking to Claudius’s business colleague Liquinius and appeared to have no interest in their end of the room.

"Well, if you really wanted to, I’m sure you could always make something up," he said, a diabolical smile lingering on his lips.

Catullus’s expression matched his own.

"Oh, I’m sure I could. If I put my mind to it. But I’m still considering the news about this new plaything of yours. Creticus didn’t make that up, did he?"

Same old Catullus, always zeroing in on the important things.

"Don’t worry, my friend. He is unmistakably real, and he’ll be around long enough for you to get a good look at him, sooner or later. But look is all you’ll get to do - this one I’m not sharing."

"I know better than to touch anything belonging to a Luthor without proper permission. Contrary to popular opinion, I am rather attached to all my body parts. But I’ll be waiting impatiently to see this boy; I can’t remember the last time I saw you looking quite as much like the cat who ate the proverbial canary. Unless it was that night at Lavinia’s place in Pompeii when you disappeared with those lovely Nubian twins. Now, that was something. Skin like the Tiber at midnight, acres and acres of it, and so eager to please. I always wondered what you..."

Alexander couldn’t help laughing, even as he held up a warning hand, glancing pointedly in the direction of the Passer women, who were reclining on the other side of the host. Calpurnia was paying close attention to the wine being poured into her daughters' cups, no doubt making sure it was sufficiently diluted.

"I know, I know," Catullus said. "Not the time and place for that kind of reminiscing." He took a sip of his drink and then continued in stride, true to his loquacious nature. "This room is quite something, isn’t it? I know a lady who would adore it. She’s rather fond of sparrows, you see, and..."

It was some time before Alexander managed to even get a word in edgewise, and he enjoyed himself all the more for it.




It was only when the main course, a creatively seasoned lamb that had everyone in near raptures, had been finished and the guests were washing up that Alexander found himself involved in a conversation he would have preferred to avoid.

They were discussing the war in Gaul, which had been progressing less than satisfactorily lately, when Liquinius turned to him and said:

"But now that your brother has been appointed commander of our northern armies, Senator Luthor, perhaps things will start to look up. I suppose he has some new strategy planned for the autumn campaign?"

"I wouldn’t know. But since he is our father’s son, I’d be surprised if he didn’t."

The icy edge to his voice was clearly enough to warn Liquinius off the subject, but Creticus fastened to it like a leech.

"Oh, that’s right, Luthor. You haven’t spoken to your brother for quite some time, have you?"

The gleeful mock-concern in the man’s voice made Alexander’s palms itch, and he had to forcibly remind himself that he’d promised to keep the evening civilized.

"We haven’t seen much of each other lately, no."

"Not since your father passed away and you inherited everything, if I’m not mistaken. I must say it surprised me to hear that my old friend Leontius left his youngest without a sestertius to his name."

Alexander dipped his fingers in the bowl of water held up for him by one of the slaves, then wiped his hands on the offered towel. A show of calm nonchalance.

"Then you didn’t know him very well."

"Didn’t your father like your brother?" Amelia the younger asked, with all the tactlessness of childish curiosity. Her sister, old enough to realize that the conversation was a quagmire, tried to shush her, but the question was out there, demanding an answer.

"I think he did," Alexander said, directing himself solely to the little girl, keeping his voice soft and thoughtful. "I like to think he loved us both, but he didn’t show it the way other people do."

"But surely," broke in Liquinius’s wife - a meddlesome woman he instantly loathed, "surely he would be proud of you both if he could see you today? You a powerful name in the Senate before you’re even thirty, and your brother Lucius a general at twenty-three. I can’t imagine that even the great Luthor Leo could be less than satisfied with such achievements."

He made sure his mask was firmly in place before he smiled at her.

"My father was indeed a great man, as the Roman people acknowledged when they gave him the honorific ‘Leo’ and let him be known as The Lion of Rome. I’m honored that you believe his children to be worthy of his name."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Creticus smirk, and knew that his enemy had understood the statement to be the hollow lie that it was. He steeled himself for the next assault, but before it came, Claudius was on his feet.

"I suggest that we now bring our offerings to thank the gods before I let the slaves serve our dessert. And then my dear friend Catullus has promised to entertain us with some newly-written poetry. If you haven’t heard any of his work before, it’s about time you did."

"Oh, thank you, Claudius," Catullus said. "We all know that your humble poet only manages to stay upright because he’s glued together with hubris, so why not push him a little closer to the sun? Or the nearest oil lamp, as the case may be. Can we get on with praising the lar instead of me, now? Someone said there would be wild strawberries for dessert."

They all laughed, and there was no return to the topic of Lucius and Leontius, but Alexander found it hard to focus on the events of the party. He wanted to be where the mask could come off.




It was past midnight by the time the party broke up, but there was still a light on in his bedroom, as he’d known there would be. He had told Clark to be ready for him; there was no question that the boy would obey. Yet as he passed through the shadows of the outer room and paused on the threshold, his breath caught in his throat. It had only been hours since he'd last seen his slave, but he wasn’t prepared for the beauty before him.

Clark lay on the bed, splayed on his stomach, resting his cheek on his folded arms. The flame of the lamp on the bedside table cast a flickering light across the planes of his face, underlining the sharp curve of his cheekbone, shimmering in dark lashes fanned out at the edges of closed eyelids. His naked back stretched in a muted glow of skin over muscle towards the swell of his ass, covered by a clinging sheet that didn’t hide as much as accentuate his slightly parted thighs and the tantalizing darkness between them where the lamplight didn’t reach to fall. Alexander’s mouth watered at the sight.

"Hello, Clark," he said, and the boy’s eyes flew open, startled but not clouded with sleep.

"Master," he said, half sitting up and turning towards him with an awkward smile, resting his weight on one hand, pulling the sheet up to his chest with the other. The attempt at modesty was endearing, but it didn’t manage to conceal the source of his embarrassment. "I didn’t hear you coming. You must move like a cat."

Not a cat, Alexander thought. A lion. A young lion clawing his way to the head of the pride. The image was vaguely nauseating and carried memories in its wake that he’d spent most of the evening keeping at bay. Memories that certainly had no place here. Clark was lying in his bed, beautiful and nervous, already hard for him under that sheet, and all he wanted was to enjoy that blessing. He took a step forward, forcing all unwanted thoughts to stay behind.

"Perhaps," he said, moving to the bed, sitting down on its edge with one knee pulled up on the mattress, "you didn’t hear me because your mind was occupied with more interesting things." Eye to eye now, a heat between them like metal on the anvil, ready to be forged. Without looking down, he reached out and grasped a corner of the sheet, pulled it out of Clark’s weakened grip, all the way down. "I take it this is for me?"

A suggestive smile to clarify his meaning, and the boy lowered his gaze, blushing from head to toe.

"Yes, master."

"Mmm. I like that. Do tell me what brought this on."

"I…I was waiting for you, like you told me, and…I couldn’t stop thinking of what you’ve done with me...what you might do next."

There was a quiver in the boy’s voice somewhere between panic and longing, and Alexander knew that asking for details would be pushing it. But he wanted to know, wanted to hear in Clark’s own words what this last day had meant. Reassuringly, he laid his hand on Clark’s hip, stroked gentle patterns with his thumb.

"So what is it we’ve done that makes you hard just thinking about it?"

A shaky laugh, and apparently he had found the right tone, because Clark began to tell him, eyes fixed on the mattress between them, fingers picking at a crease in the sheet.

"Everything. The way you looked last night in the bath... How you felt in my hand... Your mouth...on me. I... Gods, master, I really... I didn’t know. And the way you kiss me...like you want to break me and put me back together again, and I don’t even want to stop you. The way..." A pause, and Clark’s breath was shallow now, rapid beyond the verge of control. Quick, searching glance at his master’s face, and it was clear that there was something here he didn’t know if he wanted to share, something perhaps too overwhelming. Alexander held still and waited, blood rushing in his ears. The confession when it came was barely more than a whisper. "The way you touch my backside."

Oh, blessed Venus.

"You like that, Clark?"

Another brief flash of green eyes, almost black in the low light.

"Yes, master. But... Master, what Gaius said this morning, about...you know. Is that... Do you want that?"

Fear in the boy’s voice, and Alexander wanted to tear Gaius limb from limb for making this sound so shameful. But as he looked down, he saw that Clark was still hard; leakingly so, pearls of moisture glistening on the thick head of his cock. He leaned closer, ran the fingers of his free hand through Clark’s hair, offered protection in his touch. When he spoke, he was so near that he could feel his own breath shatter against the surface of the boy’s cheek.

"Yes," he said. "That is something I want. Does it scare you that you want it, too?" A shiver through the body beside him, and Clark nodded, eyes shut. "You can’t stop thinking about it, can you? You try not to, but your mind keeps returning to it, again and again." He was hard himself now, solid and heavy with lust, and he could hear the dark weight of that longing in the tones of his voice. "What my fingers feel like, stroking your ass, slipping down to caress you where you never dreamt of being touched. And you’re so sensitive there, the slightest brush enough to make you tremble. Imagine what it would be like if I pushed inside, claimed the secret places of your body that you don’t even know yourself. That’s what you’re wondering, isn’t it? That’s what you’re afraid of." A whimper from the back of Clark’s throat, a sound of admission, and Alexander pressed on. "You will break, Clark, shatter from the sheer intensity of what I’ll do to you. But I will be there. I’ll gather up the pieces and hold you while you come back together again. You are going to love it, just like Gaius said, but it will be nothing like what he thinks it is. Look at me, Clark." The boy tilted his head up and opened his eyes. Less fear in his gaze now, but so much naked want it was like a blow to the gut. "Will you let me show you what it’s like?"

Clark swallowed, licked his lips, stalled for time. But the answer when it came was what they’d both known it would be.

"Yes, master. Please."

Falling together then, lips finding lips. Shock of contact like lightning under the skin, everything ablaze with hunger. All physical distance seared away by the flames.

Clark lying in his lap, head bent back to take the force of his kisses, fingers clutching the folds of his tunic. He ran his hand over the boy’s body, felt the caresses reverberate in half-formed moans around his own tongue, deep inside that luscious mouth. Clark’s erection lay flat against his stomach, and when Alexander cupped his hip he could slide his thumb along its underside, touch the pulse throbbing in the swollen vein. The instant arch of Clark’s back was like the curve of a bow the second before the arrow flies, endless force coiled tight with pleasure in Alexander’s arms. He couldn’t see the motion from this angle, but the image was imprinted on his inner eye, sharp like the relief on a newly-minted coin. Blinding in its perfection.

He slid his hand lower, along the sleek muscle of Clark’s thigh, and the boy’s legs parted willingly, spread for him with an unconscious wantonness that made his cock ache in anticipation. Slow glide of fingertips over delicate skin, and then he was right there, stroking between the cheeks of the boy’s ass, circling his opening.

Sudden near-pain of fingernails digging through his tunic, and Alexander had to pull away, trade the bliss of Clark’s kisses for a look at his face. Beautiful features tense with desperate arousal, eyes wide with adoration so deep it knocked the breath out of him. It was a wonder the gods didn’t strike him down for stealing the worship that rightfully belonged to them. But he was a son of Venus, and if his great mother chose to gift him with a lover worthy of her divine self, he wasn’t going to decline. He would just have to remember to bring her the appropriate thanks. And enjoy her gift to the fullest.

He stilled his hand, only to feel Clark push back against it.

"Master? Please don’t stop."

"Ssh, Clark, don’t worry. I don’t intend to stop this unless you beg me to. But there are things we need to make sure I don’t hurt you. I’ll have to get up and fetch it, all right?"

Clark nodded and reluctantly let go of Alexander’s tunic, allowing his master to slide out from under him and leave the bed.

As he crossed the room to where his luggage was standing, Alexander felt lightheaded, out of balance, almost painfully aware of his swaying erection, the tightness in his balls. He would need to keep a level head if he wanted to make this as pleasurable for Clark as he had promised, and he was glad that he had come three times since the night before, that though his own lust was straining at the bit like a racehorse on the starting-line, he would be able to control it, to treat Clark with the care he deserved. It meant something that the boy trusted him, and he wanted to keep it that way.

From the bottom of his bag he retrieved the bottle of oil he wanted and returned with it to the bed, dropping it on the mattress before stripping out of his clothes and settling down next to Clark again. The trepidation was back in the boy’s gaze, and Alexander reached a hand out to stroke his flushed cheek.

"I want you on your hands and knees," he said. "It will be easier that way. But I won’t be able to see your face, so you’ll have to tell me if something is wrong. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, master."

"Good. Then turn around." Dip and rise of the mattress as they moved, and then Clark was on all fours before him. Gently, he stroked the boy’s back, the hollow at the base of his spine, the firm globes of his ass. "You look beautiful like this, Clark. Even better than I imagined. You make me proud."

He picked the bottle up and uncorked it, poured oil over his fingers. He was kneeling behind Clark now, and placed the open bottle between his own thighs to keep it upright. The unglazed earthenware was rough against his skin, the scent of the oil heavy in his nostrils. No ethereal perfume this time, only the thick, dark essence of olives, basic and primal like the act they were about to commit. There was a slight tremor in his hand when he raised it to touch Clark’s opening.

It took patience, the slow work of breaching Clark’s body, but he knew what he was doing, knew how to make that tight, hot space open for him, welcome him inside. Throughout, he kept talking to the boy, encouraging him with soft words, soothing him in moments of discomfort, and when his fingers brushed Clark’s prostate, making him throw back his head in a wordless cry of pleasure, he knew that his patience would be rewarded. He twisted his fingers again, and Clark collapsed onto his elbows, shuddering so hard his arms refused to hold his weight, panting for air like a diver breaking the surface. His inner muscles clenched around Alexander, then relaxed completely. If he wasn’t ready for the real thing now, he never would be.

Alexander used the last of the oil to slick his erection, then lay the bottle aside and slowly pulled his fingers out of Clark’s ass, replaced them with the head of his cock and pushed inside. Pressure from all sides, friction almost beyond what he could handle, despite the oil and the preparations. Virgin boy, and he had to remind himself to be careful, to take it one inch at a time, until the final thrust that buried him balls-deep in that amazing body. It would have been perfect, except that the sound Clark made was not one of pleasure.

"Ssh, Clark," he said, stroking down the boy’s flank, feeling it damp with sweat from the strain. "I know it hurts, but it will pass. Just keep still and let your body adapt. Try to relax for me. You’re doing so well."

He slipped his hand around to grasp Clark’s cock, found it half-wilted from the pain. Rubbing it, slowly bringing it back to life, waiting until the boy’s frightened breathing shifted back into gasps and moans of wonder. Moving then, tiny thrusts that were barely movement at all, yet tore through his nerves like claws of sunlight. Clark was solid in his hand again, panting in time with the beats of Alexander’s heart, and he angled his shaft, searching for that magic spot which would give them both what they wanted most. It wasn’t hard to tell when he found it.

"Master! Master, please!"

Clark pushing back against him, asking for more, and that was the signal he’d waited for, the sign that he was allowed to let himself go.

Long, deep strokes into that glorious tightness, every thrust hitting Clark’s prostate, making him writhe in his master’s arms. Everything was heat now, instinctive motion plunging towards an inevitable end. There was no reality beyond this, nothing but the rightness of their joined bodies, the desperate music of their mingling moans. It was all-consuming, naked down to the bone, and in that moment, all he wanted was to go deeper. Then Clark’s cock pulsed in his grip, and the boy was coming, screaming his climax into the pillow, clutching it with white-knuckled fists. It was too much, too beautiful, and Alexander couldn’t hold himself back. Another jerk of his hips, and his own release was surging through him, rising like the swell of a wave, crashing down in a torrent of bliss. Washing everything away in ecstasy.

Only when he had pulled out and was gathering his shaking slave-boy close into a calming embrace did he realize that his voice was hoarse from screaming. And that what he had cried out, over and over again until the last remnants of rapture had left his body, was Clark’s name.




Caring for Clark came naturally to Alexander, a self-evident responsibility as unquestionably his as the smile on the boy’s face or the warmth of his body. He was the one to leave the bed and pour fresh water into the basin, bringing it back with him to clean them both up, wash dried sweat from Clark’s skin, semen and oil from between his legs. Like wiping down a horse after a hard ride, showing his appreciation in the touch of his hands, knowing that the better he treated it, the more eager the animal would be to serve him. It was a way to build trust, and it kept his thoughts from wandering.

Though in the long run, his mind wasn’t that easily distracted.

Lying in the dark after the lamp had burnt out, holding Clark in his arms and listening to the boy’s breathing even out in the steady rhythm of sleep, he realized that he would find no rest himself. His new slave might be a soothing presence, but the conversation at dinner had cut too close to the bone. The same memories kept circling in his head, the same reminders of the things he wanted least to recall. In the end, he gave up and got out of bed, retrieved his tunic from the floor and slipped it on.

He had a vague idea that he would go downstairs to the library and find something to read, but he didn’t get any further than the outer room of his suite. Moonlight was falling through the window, draping everything in veils of silver, blurring the edges of reality. Without conscious decision, he crossed the floor to look out into the night, breathing in the stillness with the fragrant air. The garden below lay deep in shadows, only the marble slabs of the pathways reflecting the pale light from above. A melancholy view, far less substantial than the thoughts in his head. He sat down on the window sill with his feet drawn up in front of him, leaning his back against the frame, and tried yet again to make sense of his life.

He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there when a voice interrupted his brooding.

"Master?" Clark said. "Are you all right?"

He turned his head to find the boy standing in the doorway, a sheet wrapped around his hips, hair tousled from sleep. In the pearly light, he looked barely more than a child.

"Yes, Clark, I’m fine. I’m just sitting here thinking."

The boy nodded, but it was an expression of confusion rather than understanding.

"I woke up and you weren’t there, and I just wanted to make sure... But if everything’s all right... I didn’t mean to disturb you."

He could tell from the way Clark was standing there like a nervous colt that he expected to be sent back to bed again. And suddenly he realized that he didn’t want the boy to go.

"You’re not disturbing me," he said. "Why don’t you come sit down?"

He motioned in the direction of a nearby chair, and Clark crossed the room, one large hand holding the sheet together at his waist. He turned the chair to face his master, wincing visibly when he sank into it. It was inevitable, of course, but Alexander still didn’t like the thought of the boy hurting.

"Is it very painful?" he asked.

"No, master. It hurts, but it isn’t pain, exactly. More like a burn, I guess. It feels like you’re still there." In this light, the only colors were shades of gray, but Alexander could hear the blush in Clark’s voice. "Will it feel like this every time?"

"No. The first time is always the hardest; from now on, it will only get better."

It seemed Clark had no answer to that, and so they sat in silence for a while, until the boy spoke again.

"Master, what were you thinking about before? I know it’s none of my business, but you looked so sad. Maybe if you told me, I could do something to help."

The idea was so ridiculous that he wanted to laugh out loud. Or alternatively pull Clark to him and kiss him until they were both panting for breath. Instead of doing either, Alexander surprised himself by telling the truth.

"My brother was recently appointed commander of our forces in Gaul. There was talk of him at dinner."

"I didn’t even know you had a brother, master."

Alexander’s lips curled in a bitter smile.

"Maybe I don’t, anymore. Lucius and I haven’t spoken to each other for nearly three years, not since our father died."

"Are you mad at him?"

Such a simple question, almost a mockery when any answer he could give was endlessly complicated. He wondered if all Clark’s emotions were like that – clear-cut and straightforward like the boy himself. The world must look so different from such a viewpoint.

"No," he said. "If anything, I’m mad at myself, for failing to keep him as close as I should have. For letting our father come between us. We have different mothers, and in many ways we’re very different people. I should have tried harder to make him see that we were on the same side."

"You always make it sound as if everything is a battle. Even family."

"Everything is a battle, Clark. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that. Did you know that my father’s nickname was The Lion? That’s what his legionnaires called him, and there was as much fear in the way they said it as there was respect. He was a dangerous man, and he liked to see his cubs sharpen their claws on each other. From the day we were born, he shaped us to be warriors like him, fearless and without mercy. As soon as Lucius was old enough to wield a sword, he made us fight each other. Endless practice sessions under his supervision which lasted until one of us went down and stayed down. I was six years older; Lucius always lost. Sometimes I tried to go easy on him, hold back to make the fight more even, but if there was one thing my father wouldn’t stand for, it was that kind of compassion. You were ruthless, or you were weak – there was no middle ground. And he punished weakness personally."

Alexander kept his voice steady and dispassionate, as though he were telling a story from a book, not memories he had never before put into words. But as his thumb found the scar on his lip, the old pain shot through him. When he continued, he felt as transparent as the moonlight.

"Our father used to take us with him on his campaigns, and often there was an audience for our fights, a circle of seasoned soldiers and expert swordsmen to watch Lucius be humiliated over and over again. He was sixteen the first time he beat me, ferocious and driven by a hunger so sharp it was a weapon in itself. Lying there in the dust, his blade against my neck, I was more proud of him than I’ve ever been of anyone in my life. Our father had one thing to say before he turned his back and walked away: 'Lucius, my boy, haven’t I taught you to fight with your head, not your heart?'

"Lucius tried so hard to please Leontius, and he never got a word of appreciation for it; I did my best to anger him, and when he died, he left me everything. Knowing my father, I’d say that was some perverse kind of test, but whether it was designed for my brother, or me, or both of us, I have no idea. I offered to share the inheritance with Lucius, but I don’t blame him for being too proud to accept. He is a Luthor, after all. But things were said that aren’t easily forgotten, and now we’re so far apart I doubt we’ll ever find common ground again."

Clark had kept very still while he listened to Alexander talking, but now he leaned forward in his chair, his upturned eyes pools of silver beneath the charcoal of his lashes.

"You know, master," he said, "there isn’t a day goes by when I don’t miss my family. If I knew that one of them was still alive, I would do anything to see them again."

"Should I take that as advice?"

The boy pulled back as if burned, lowering his eyes to the floor.

"I’m sorry, master. I know it’s not my place to..."

Before he knew what he was doing, Alexander slid down from the window, crouched on the floor in front of Clark’s chair. The warmth of the boy’s thighs seeped into his palms through the sheet, made him suddenly aware of how cold he was.

"No, Clark. I want you to tell me what you think. Most people who don’t openly hate me are too scared of me to do anything but nod and agree. I noticed you because you dared to look me in the eye and speak your mind. Don’t stay quiet when you have something to say."

A small smile on the boy’s lips, pleased and slightly mischievous.

"In that case, I think we should go back to bed. You told me to take care of your needs; I’m pretty sure sleep has to be somewhere on the list."

Apparently, displays of concern were something he’d have to get used to from Clark. This time, he didn’t fight the urge to respond with a kiss.




"I've never seen a more beautiful horse," Lana said, stroking Heracleitos's head with gentle touches. The stallion snorted softly and nuzzled into the palm of her hand. "Does he run very fast?"

"Like the wind," Alexander said. "But that's not the important thing in a lead horse." They were standing with the harnessed chariot below the front stairs of the villa, Clark and Claudius a few paces away. In the morning sunlight, Lana looked even younger than she had the night before, but she seemed more comfortable, more at ease with herself. "He has to be stable and trustworthy, strong enough to guide the others. I know that I can rely on him in any situation; we're honest with each other."

He had one hand on the horse's bit, making sure that it wouldn't spook the girl, but he raised the other to scratch behind Heracleitos's ear. Behind him, Anaximandros scraped his hooves on the pavement and pushed his nose against Alexander's back, asking for his share of the attention. Soon, he would give all the horses his attention in the form of his hands on the reins as they ran for him. If Lana had been a boy, he would have offered to teach her that joy; he wondered if she hoped that he might, anyway.

"That must be nice," she said, looking up at him with a shy smile. "Unconditional trust."

It was a question, a hope, a promise for the future, and the words made his mind resonate with images from the past. His father, Lucius, every lie he'd told himself.

"Trust should never be unconditional, Lana. It's something you earn. Be careful who you put your trust in; people nearly always let you down."

That was the truth, of course, and she would do well to learn it before she put too much faith in anyone, let alone him. But even as he thought that, Clark caught his gaze over the girl's head, held it steady.

"Maybe you're right, Senator," Lana said, "but aren't there sometimes people who surprise you?"

Looking into green eyes, pale as a river in springtime, he fervently hoped she was right.