Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  He laughs as Diana stands on the ledge of the bath to pour water over his hair. That wound on his shoulder’s healed well. The doctor who dressed it did a good job.

  Why’s Diana giggling? What’s this? She titters as she squeezes the cloth and rinses the dirt from his stomach like she’s caressing a lover. I’ve warned him about mucking about with the girls. Biblos is no nursery.

  ‘Shush, you noisy nymph. Take off your bangles. You jingle like a cow with bells on, dear.’

  Aeson stops laughing and shifts the weight to one leg, hip thrust forward. I do believe he’s posing for me.

  Two of my own body slaves stand either side of the shelved-wall, stacked floor to ceiling with fresh white towels.

  ‘Chop chop, dears. You’re masseurs, not statues.’

  Their movements are languid like all Egyptians, but these two look good.

  ‘Feeling revived now, dear?’

  Aeson’s preoccupied with the bust I had commissioned back in the Spring – like Narcissus staring at his reflection in an enchanted glade, serviced by my nymphs.

  The bust my mentor had commissioned of me in my sixteenth year stands on a plinth in the alcove next to his. That marble cost a fortune to import from Rome, but I like a bathroom to sparkle white like a Greek temple. It was worth every solidus.

  ‘How’s your shoulder, dear?’

  Aeson looks at me, as if he had been staring at something far away and needs to adjust his focus. Has he been on Turk’s Desert Honey again?

  ‘Don’t ’urt no more.’

  Why, oh why does he still clip his ’aitches like a street kid? Resist correcting his gutter Greek, Rufius. Nagging makes his cock soft. That reminds me – I must get the sculptor in to cast Aeson again, full body this time. The Emperor Hadrian was wise enough to document every alteration of his beloved Antinous’ growth: each changed line of the lip, hardened chest muscle, hollow beneath his cheekbones… only weeks ago his cheeks still had a childlike roundness.

  Capture beauty while it ripens, my mentor advised me. I laughed at him back then. If only I knew what I possessed before it wizened and drooped. This boy lives each day like an immortal, the way he climbs and jumps without a thought for his safety. Sketch this to memory, Rufius: the way his hair glistens jet, his skin is taut across his athletic chest, and torso tapers to his groin.

  ‘Don’t worry, Rufius. The shoulder’s fine.’

  He senses me watching him.

  Diana lifts his foot on to her knee. No tight pout like when she works on my hooves. Fussy wench. The Nubian squeezes a cloth against Aeson’s inner thigh. The sight of his hardness sends a faint pulse through my groin. By Bacchus, that’s a rare sensation! Perhaps Turk’s Desert Honey has aphrodisiac qualities?

  ‘Diana, give me that cloth. His face is filthy, and you tend his feet!’

  ‘Tut. He dirty alright!’ Diana’s giggle is followed by a snort from the slaves by the towel shelves.

  ‘Quiet slaves!’ They lower their heads.

  ‘Rufius, ’ave you been on Turk’s Desert Honey again? Diana washed my face.’

  Desert Honey usually dulls my temper. Why am I so irritated today?

  ‘Have you. It’s have you. Attic Greek pronounces the ‘H’, dear. I’ll tell Apollinos to increase the elocution.’ Aeson’s ’aitches are non-existent.

  ‘But Rufius, I do an hour elocution everyday!’ His neck bends backwards for me to wash him.

  ‘Dear boy, your face is filthy.’

  ‘Rufius, if you take too much of the stuff it gives you visions. Go easy on it.’

  ‘You both at it. Aeson’s doing big stares for weeks, and you, master, you see things that not there.’

  ‘Diana, you’re not part of the conversation. Insolent wench!’

  My snap put a shake through her small body.

  ‘Rufius, calm down. Diana’s right. Been spooning too much of it, we ’ave.’

  ‘We have been. It’s WE HAVE BEEN!’

  I stamp my foot, and slip on my heel. The Nubian grabs me before I fall.

  Aeson holds his stomach, tries his hardest not to laugh. The Egyptians keep their eyes on the floor, but their shoulders judder. Diana’s having a shaking fit. She’s not even trying to hold in the hysterics.

  ‘How funny, dears! The master slips and breaks his neck and we all piss ourselves laughing. Ha, bloody ha!’

  It’s Diana’s bloody fault the floor’s wet.

  ‘I’ve had it with your brazenness, girl.’

  They’re still shaking like a bunch of schoolboys at the theatre. I’ll put an end to their collusion once and for all. It’s time Aeson learnt to be Roman.

  ‘Whip!’ I hold out my hand and the Nubian passes me the coil of leather.

  ‘Kneel, Diana. Dress off. Quickly.’

  Without looking at her bare back, I strike. That’s better. More effective than aromatic oils to calm the nerves: a just whipping.

  Aeson flinches as the lash slaps her back. Can’t bear to watch, boy? This will not do. You’re a Biblus Catamitus now.

  ‘Your turn.’

  I toss the whip at his feet. Aeson stares at it, coiled like a snake over manicured toes.

  Time for my massage. Face down on the couch, cheek against soft Egyptian cotton, I motion the slave to start.

  ‘Aeson dear, it’s time you learnt to administer punishment.’ The ultimatum is clear from my flat tone.

  Yes, that’s it: pick up the whip. His chest rises, but does not fall. Oh no, don’t you dare let that sob out. Aeson, don’t you dare!

  ‘We’re all waiting.’

  The slaves keep their gaze focused on the floor.

  Diana whimpers but does not dare turn her head.

  The whip, wet now, hisses through the air.

  Thwack! Thank Bacchus he kept his nerve.

  Aeson passes the whip back to the Nubian and climbs on a massage couch.

  ‘Slave, massage me.’ Aeson’s voice is muffled by the towel. That’s it, wipe those tears away.

  The Nubian masseur responds without hesitation: as it should be. Aeson will be treated as the master’s son by this household; he’s no playmate. His past is irrelevant, as is the cut of our relationship.

  Diana doesn’t dare move. Good, the skin on her back’s not broken.

  ‘Go to your quarters, Diana.’ Aeson mimics the flat Stoic tone I use with disobedient slaves. Voice, being the only aspect of the Stoic’s dull attitude worth mimicking. Austerity revolts me.

  Diana tilts her chin up as she leaves. Cleopatra wouldn’t have managed such poise after a whipping. Little minx. She’ll be fine by the morning. I might even let her bathe in here.

  Has he had her? There’s a spark between them.

  ‘Pretty little thing, Diana.’

  ‘S’pose so.’ He mumbles into the massage couch.

  ‘I didn’t think you were into girls.’

  ‘Depends.’

  Don’t close down on me, Aeson. A sulk is a bore.

  ‘Screaming brats are not welcome at Biblos.’

  ‘What?’ That sullen snap is back in this voice.

  ‘One echo chamber is as good as another, dear, if that’s your preference, but some holes have consequences.’ No point raising an eyebrow – Apollinos wiped off the kohl before I entered the bathroom. ‘Look at me, Aeson.’

  Short dark curls edge the nape of his neck – Medusa’s masculine counterpart. Those sapphire eyes have the power to turn me cold as stone if they do not look on me kindly. He’s not happy. His head’s turned from me like a disappointed dog.

  ‘There’s no harm shagging the slaves, dear, but I don’t want Diana out of work for months.’ I’m trying to protect her fate. The dear girl has far too much personality for a slave.

  ‘We ’aven’t…’

  ‘Just be careful what street you take, that’s all, dear. And it’s haven’t with an H.’

  Wet curls fall forward as he pushes himself up from the couch and turns to face me.

  ‘Ain’t shafting
Diana, I ain’t. Not up the butt, and not…’

  ‘This plebeian talk won’t bloody do. Bahh! Where were you last night? In The Honeypot with that street scum?

  He eyeballs me. ‘You said after dinner is me own time.’

  ‘Wherever you were you’re squawking like a street urchin again.’

  So what if he’s banging Turk’s rent boys. He likes to penetrate – and slaves and boys are for penetrating. Aeson’s too responsible to get the girl pregnant. So what’s irking me?

  The constant gurgle from the waterspout makes the bathroom’s silence oppressive.

  I know what it is. The same vexation I’ve lived with everyday of my life since acquiring the full beard of manhood: ridicule. Beneath the calm, beyond the aromatic scents the joke loiters in the steam; odourless spite lurks like an ambush. Even if they don’t come right out and say it, it’s implied. Cinaedus. I’ve never understood what’s so bloody amusing about a man who bends over. As long as he holds his own in public – and on that count, no one could suggest otherwise. Julius Caesar had to put up with it. He took the gossip and graffiti on the chin. So do I, but I’ll not be ridiculed in my own home.

  ‘Harder slave. Increase the pressure, or you’ll be flogged too.’ Best toss my head away from Aeson to hide my anger.

  ‘Shafting slaves don’t do it for me, Rufius.’ The sulk’s disappeared from his voice. I turn my head back to face him.

  ‘You’ll have to remind me what does, dear.’ I try a smile but the golden glow of Desert Honey has worn off.

  The masseur adjusts to work on my lower back. Vertebrae click as they’re snapped one by one.

  Aeson gives me a look. No boy stirs me like he does when all his focus is on me. Looking into those sapphire eyes is like floating into another world, a realm of peace.

  ‘What does it for me is a soft man.’

  He can change my mood in an instant. His voice is gentle like the oracles at the temples of Antinous. They always choose boys to utter the prophecies from behind the statue of the god.

  I need a bit of herbal assistance. Let’s see if Turk’s aphrodisiac claims make my erection last longer than the last spoonful.

  ‘Slave, bring the pot of Desert Honey.’ The slave standing by the pile of towels is by my side instantly. ‘It’s in a small glass pot on my writing desk in my library.’

  Aeson doesn’t need an aphrodisiac. A perpetually prepared cock is another memory that fills me with nostalgia. Stay in the moment, Rufius. Aeson leans up on his elbow, lifts a leg, wiggles his toes over the massage bed and orders, ‘Slave, pour the wine.’

  He takes another spoonful of Desert Honey and washes it down with a beaker of wine. I do the same. I like this shared ritual of ours.

  ‘Off you go.’ I wave away the masseur, pull myself up and sit beside Aeson on the massage couch.

  ‘Sweet boy.’ A stray hair on his leg prickles my palm… he’ll be a hairy man. Don’t think of what he will become, Rufius.

  For the first time an unprompted hand strokes me.

  ‘Not if you don’t have the strength, dear boy.’ Lately he’s complained of tiredness after school.

  ‘Leave us,’ he orders the slaves. How assertive his voice can be… Oh Eros, I am mush!

  His hand finds its way without me steering it. That’s it, Aeson. Don’t stop. Stroke me as I like, just the right pressure around the shaft: perfect grasp, perfect pace. I’d like to believe I’d been his teacher, but Aeson never had a virgin’s grip.

  Don’t stop.

  That’s it, just like that.

  Every inch of my body is a soft shudder… except the only bloody bit of me that counts! Turk’s Desert Honey is no cure for this cursed impotence. Even if I don’t need to use it, the way it flops in his hand isn’t encouraging – especially when he’s doing such a splendid job… more worrying, Aeson’s a touch flaccid.

  ‘Play with yourself.’ That will harden him.

  His low sighs send my blood rushing to where it should be.

  ‘That’s it, dear.’ You like an audience, don’t you? Apollo having a wank wouldn’t look as hot. Droplets of water fall from his curls and trickle down his face as his gaze falls to his work. His eyes close onto a scene I cannot share. Who does he see behind those perfect eyelids?

  ‘Bend over, Rufius.’

  Oh, my dear boy! My rectum is a slave to my boy’s cock. Let’s slip off this couch and turn my arse towards him. Getting in position is so inelegant… if I lean forward and rest my palms on the cotton sheet covering the massage couch that will support me.

  ‘How may I be of service, dear?’ My voice is a croak, the words stilted with lust.

  His hands either side of my hips tilt me into position. His scent is like leather and sea salt. No matter how much the slaves scrub him, an undertone lingers. It makes me think of sailor boys and undiscovered horizons.

  ‌29

  Aeson

  What’s that whiff Rufius gives off when he sweats? That posh oil he rubs into his saggy skin don’t hide it. A dusty pong, like old rugs. Like it: reminds me of my old home with Dad and Dera.

  His back’s fat with flesh, can’t even see the knobbly bones of his spine… but there’s something hot about having a rich Roman bend over, like he’s my body slave.

  The masseurs are watching through the gap in the bathroom door. Whatever they call Rufius behind his back, they can’t accuse me of not being a man. Never bent over to nobody, I ain’t.

  Eyes closed. Must keep them closed. Going soft on him ain’t an option, not the mood he’s in today. Poor Diana.

  The towel I chucked on the floor to stop me slipping’s soaked. Let’s snatch a dry one from the massage couch. That’s better. Feet firmly planted; now let’s get this over with.

  Clap: loose skin slaps against skin. Don’t look down at his old rump. Whatever you do, don’t touch his flapping skin.

  That’s it. He’s nearly there.

  ‘Master. O, master.’

  You’re right about one thing, Rufius…

  ‘Ah, don’t stop. Master.’

  … one echo chamber’s as good as another.

  ‘Slowly. Please, master.’

  Nice and slow. Ah, yes. Dead right: a hole’s a hole. Hot as on a night with Croc on Venus Street, I am. Need to keep a firm grip on his love handles; our skin’s slipping. Rufius has every last hair plucked. Makes him as smooth as a baby, but his skin’s way too slippery when wet.

  ‘Yes! Master!’

  Master! Wait ‘til Croc hears about this. He’ll die laughing. Don’t laugh, Aeson. Whatever you do, don’t laugh. Think of something sad: Dad dying. No! Sad will make me soft again. Picture something hot: Venus Street. Tunics pulled up, cheeky voices calling down to me from brothel balconies. Saved. That’s better, ain’t it, my old honey-nose?

  ‘Oh, mas-ter.’ His voice jerks.

  My cock jumps at the word. As long as I don’t think about Rufius’ flabby arse, and the excess space inside his well-used arsehole, there’s something hot about being called master. My balls clench and lift, buttocks tighten at the title.

  ‘Master-r-r!’ His high-pitched lisp sings his climax.

  Hold it, Aeson. He’s nearly finished.

  His arse muscles spasm, here he goes.

  ‘Master-r-r!’

  And there I went.

  Would a goat do it for me just the same if I kept my eyes shut?

  ‘Thank you, master.’ Pleasure cracks on this voice. Bent over the massage couch his upper arms wobble and strain to hold himself up now passion’s left him. White skin flaps under his arms like dove wings.

  It’s over.

  Not sure how much longer I could’ve kept it up today if he hadn’t started that master stuff.

  ‘Scandalous talk from a Roman, Rufius!’ He twists round and slumps onto the massage couch. Looks ready to keel over, he does. ‘Here.’ Can’t help grinning as I pass him a towel and over-emphasise the H.

  ‘I’ve always been this way, dear.’ He’ll talk wi
th a pant for a bit now. He nods at his glass of wine.

  We go back to our roles straight away. I’m only master when he wants some. Better add water to his wine.

  ‘Thank you, dear.’ Rufius gulps like it’s an effort. Tired him out, I have. ‘Perhaps it’s having control in every other area of my life that makes me want to submit.’

  Bad enough taking it – don’t tell me he wants to talk about it too.

  ‘They laughed at you, the street kids, when they found out.’

  ‘Dear boy, the whole Empire laughs at passivity in its thoroughbreds.’

  ‘Don’t it bother you?’

  ‘Doesn’t…’

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less, dear.’

  Good for you, Rufius. Spunky honey-nose, Rufius is.

  He swivels round on his arse and dips his mustard-coloured toes into the bath. The rattle of his breath slows. He’s got that free look like a kid left school early. Not ’cos he’s dropped his load. It’s the satisfaction of having what you want, how you want it that money gives.

  ‘It’s about time I had the hard-skin scraped off my hooves. It’ll give Diana something tasty to suck on!’ He laughs to himself.

  We both look at his mustard toes.

  Smile, Aeson: corners of mouth up. That’s it. I hope he’s joking. Poor Diana. I’ll go and see her later – check she ain’t too sore. Tried my best to be light with the whip… what choice did I have?

  I look away from his feet to the marble bust. He’s sharp, he is. Need to hide that his toes make me want to throw.

  ‘Is that you, Rufius?’

  ‘Yes… vain little beauty.’

  He was. Pay him a compliment, go on: ‘You were.’

  He raises an eyebrow – a bald brow. No kohl today. It’s funny when it runs down his face, like black tears.

  ‘Beautiful, I mean.’

  ‘And vain. Pass me the pot will you dear?’ He points at the small glass pot of Desert Honey.

  Fingers dip in and he sucks off the pale honeyed paste, looking up at me as if to say: how’d you like me to suck your cock like this? How do I tell the old man that look ain’t a turn on? Makes me feel like I do when I look at his toes.

  ‘Want some, dear?’

  I suck the mixture off his fingers, and eyeball him back.