The Dreams of Morpheus (6 page)

Now it was time to fight for the head.

Ushered by the Urban Cohorts, the crowd dispersed, falling back from around the altar, allowing the massed Brotherhoods from the two contesting areas to line up facing each other with a hundred paces between them. Both contingents were several hundred strong, although the Suburra looked to be slightly larger than the Via Sacra; neither side had any obvious weapons other than cudgels and knuckledusters. Magnus saw Grumio in the front rank of the Suburra, looking suspiciously towards Rufinus'
Urban Cohort century and others beyond that had finally been freed from the press of crowds round them. Signalling his brothers to follow him, Magnus moved towards the centurion as the priests began to carry the severed head between the two competing sides, holding it aloft for all to see.

‘Have you tried to sell that resin yet?' Magnus asked in a hushed voice as he sidled up to Rufinus.

‘Why do you ask?'

‘Because the Urban Prefect has now heard about it; it's probably best to keep it hidden for a while.'

Rufinus raised his eyebrows, betraying mild alarm, whilst watching the priests place the head on the ground. ‘I've asked an intermediary to make some enquiries.'

‘Well, stop him.'

Rufinus nodded as the priests hurried away. ‘It's the first thing I'll do once I've earned it.'

The Flamen Martius raised his spear into the air and called on the deity to bless both sides in their sacred struggle to win through to their respective goals; and to entreat him that, whoever won, Rome would be seen as having discharged her duty to him.

He brought the spear down and with a mighty roar of violent anticipation both sides flung themselves forward to meet head on like two warlike tribes of the most primitive nature.

And the people of Rome cheered themselves hoarse.

Blood, teeth and screams flew through the air within an instant of the collision. The front two or three ranks – if they could be called that – of either side melded into a free-for-all that lost direction so that men fought towards all points of the circle and, with no uniforms or identifying marks other than facial recognition, lashed out at anything standing with brutal intent.

The area where the head had last been seen was more compact and a giant scrimmage had formed; it heaved back and forth as the participants within grappled and wrestled, trying to wrest possession of the head of the once-proud beast that had been declared the greatest horse in Rome.

As he watched, telling himself to concentrate on the business
in hand and not be carried away by enjoyment of the spectacle, Magnus slowly led his brothers round the flanks of the Suburra contingent.

The scrimmage eased south, towards the city – the direction of both sides' objectives – leaving a trail of unconscious and wounded participants in its wake. The spectators moved with it, as did the various centuries of the Urban Cohorts in order to keep the fight out of the grand buildings that lined its route through the Campus Martius.

Magnus and his brothers began to infiltrate the Suburra faction, keeping towards the edges.

‘Hand me a measure,' Magnus said, holding out a hand to Cassandros.

The brother dipped into his sack and brought out a bronze modius.

Magnus weighed it in his hand and smiled with narrowed eyes. With a straight arm, he hurled it high into the air over the Via Sacra contingent. He did not see it land but he knew it would cause grievous injury or maybe death. Looking to his right, he saw that Rufinus had brought his men closer. ‘Right, lads, five left; hurl them all at Rufinus' boys.'

Within a few moments five bronze missiles had landed amongst the Urban Cohort century, bringing two down, despite their helmets, shields and chainmail, and cracking the bones of a couple more. The response was instant. Shields came up, lines formed and swords were drawn, and left legs stamped forward as they faced the source of the attack: the Suburra faction.

A shudder went through those of the Suburra closest to Rufinus' century as they saw the threat just paces from them.

Magnus signalled his brothers to withdraw, filtering back through the looser edges of the melee as, with a change of timbre to the roars, a section of the Suburra split off to attack the century that had formed up as if on the side of their opponents – just as they had been told it would.

And, just as Magnus had expected, the century took two paces forward, stamped their left feet down and slammed the bosses of their shields up and into the faces of their attackers, driving them
back, bloodied and broken, before following up with the hilts or the flats of their swords to crunch down on the crowns of unprotected heads. Seeing their comrades under attack, other units of the Urban Cohorts came to the aid of Rufinus' men, protecting their flanks so they would not be swamped as violence repaid violence in a sudden escalation that fed upon itself.

‘That should do it,' Magnus muttered to himself as he watched the scrimmage for the severed head split off from the newly instigated riot in the direction of the city walls. He turned to his brothers. ‘Right, lads; we split up and walk away from this nice and slow, disgusted that such a sacred occasion should end in an attack on the city authorities.'

Pleased with his day's work so far, Magnus walked up a set of three stone steps and rapped on an iron-studded, wooden door; an erect phallus painted above it advertised the type of business transacted within. A viewing slot slid back and the cold eyes of a man whose living was earned by the threat of violence stared through.

‘Evening, Postumus,' Magnus said. ‘Me and the lads are here to see Terentius.' He indicated back to Marius and Sextus who stood on the pavement; behind them the street was choked with wheeled vehicles, banned from the city by day, taking advantage of the fall of dusk to make their deliveries.

The door ground open; Magnus and his brothers entered past a hulking man who grinned with broken teeth. ‘I'll send one of the apprentices to find him for you, Magnus.' He closed and bolted the door before leading Magnus through the vestibule into a sweetly perfumed and subtly lit atrium. ‘Galen, the master's steward, will look after you whilst you wait.' Postumus indicated a middle-aged man of refined, well-preserved looks that were obviously enhanced with cosmetics.

‘Masters, you are welcome; please, follow me.' Galen led them off as Postumus called a small boy of eight or nine to him and sent him on an errand.

Delicate chords of two lyres, ascending and descending in slow rhythm, thrummed in the background over the gentle
patter of the fountain in the centre of the impluvium at the heart of the chamber, beneath the rectangular opening in the roof. Around the pool were set many couches upon which languished scantily dressed youths, each of a different combination of skin tone and hair and eye colour, but all possessing a beauty and allure not to be ignored, and Magnus found his eyes roving as the steward led them to a group of tables at the far end of the room.

‘Some wine, masters?' Galen suggested as he bid them recline at a free table. ‘And perhaps some pastries?'

‘Just wine.' Magnus set himself down, glancing left and right at the other tables; they were occupied by groups of men sipping from finely worked bronze and silver cups and nibbling at small delicacies laid out on platters before them, whilst examining from a distance the merchandise for hire. Here and there a client had a youth reclining next to him for closer perusal or to ascertain areas of expertise before coinage changed hands.

‘You won't have time, Sextus,' Magnus warned with a grin as his brother gawped, open-mouthed, at the feast of lithe flesh displayed all about. ‘We're just here to make a pickup and then we're back to the tavern; you can have a whore or two there if you fancy.'

Marius took a cup from a tray proffered by an effete man in his late twenties, who had evidently outgrown the desires of most of the clients and been relegated to waiting upon them. ‘We don't really have to hurry back, do we, Magnus? I mean, well, I'm surprised by, er … how nice some of them look. Not all of them, mind you.'

‘No, no, of course not.' Magnus took a large swig from his cup. ‘But I'm afraid this is far too refined a place for you two to frequent, lads; Terentius wouldn't like you soiling the goods, Marius, and he certainly won't be best pleased if our oversized friend, Sextus, caused unpleasant damage to one of the boys in his enthusiasm.'

‘I'm sure they'll treat my boys with the greatest respect, Magnus.'

Magnus looked up; Terentius stood before them, hands clasped at his chest. His long, auburn hair had been dressed and
woven in intricate coils on top of his head, held in place by jewelled pins and partially covered by a woman's crimson palla; gold earrings dangled almost to his shoulders, exposed by the extended neckline of his ankle-length, pleated midnight-blue stolla. He smiled, his painted lips contrasting with whitened teeth and his eyes peering out through rims of kohl.
Very nice
, Magnus mused,
if you like that sort of thing
.

‘They're welcome to enjoy themselves as my guest, Magnus, whilst I offer you some hospitality in my private chamber and discuss a business proposition with you.'

Magnus looked back at his two brothers and shrugged. ‘Well, if you really are interested, lads?'

Marius and Sextus nodded with ill-concealed eagerness.

Terentius signalled his steward to join them. ‘That's settled then. Galen will help you make your choices; he'll know just what is best if it's your first time.' He leant down and took the cup from Magnus' hand. ‘You can have something of a far superior vintage if you follow me.'

Leaving Marius and Sextus to make their choice of entertainment with Galen, Magnus followed Terentius as he sashayed from the atrium, out into a surprisingly large courtyard garden imbued with the scents of damp, autumnal vegetation, then on round the colonnaded walkway, past curtained-off doorways that blocked the sights if not the sounds of passion, and finally to a set of double doors at the far end.

Terentius ushered Magnus into his private domain, which was everything that could be expected of a successful master of a respectable male brothel: a fine mosaic floor depicting numerous positions of male congress; frescoes of a similar nature but with famous lovers of Greek antiquity as their subjects, and furnishings of a lavish, but not vulgar, disposition.

‘Make yourself comfortable, Magnus.' Terentius plumped up the cushions on a white-linen upholstered couch.

Starting to wonder as to his true motives in coming here, Magnus settled on the couch, resting an arm on its raised end and enjoying the fumes of whatever it was that had been sprinkled on the mobile brazier nearby.

‘Leave us,' Terentius ordered as he poured two glasses of wine from a deep-blue glass decanter whose elegant long neck seemed too fragile to support its bulbous belly.

Magnus turned in surprise and saw an old slave leave the room; he had no recollection of noticing him as he entered.

Turning back, he accepted a goblet of matching glass to the decanter from Terentius who then sat in a high-backed, wicker chair draped with a deep-red damask cloth; he adjusted his palla so that it fell to either side in a manner that any Roman matron would have approved of.

‘To us and business, may the gods of this house look down kindly on us.' Terentius raised his goblet and poured a small libation on the floor and then another on to the brazier before taking a sip.

‘Us and business,' Magnus repeated. He tasted the wine, fragrant with fruit, rich and full as it assaulted his palate with a succession of flavours and hints of more, and he knew that although it was wasted on his rough tastes, Terentius had not misled him: it was one of the finest of vintages. ‘Very nice.' He immediately regretted such a crass remark and covered his embarrassment by taking a whole-hearted gulp. ‘So, Terentius, what business have you in mind?'

Terentius ran his finger round the rim of his goblet, looking at Magnus as if trying to decide how best to approach the subject. He crossed his legs and raised his finely plucked eyebrows. ‘The tablets that you gave into my safekeeping.'

‘What about them?'

‘I know what they are, Magnus, and I know what they are used for.'

‘So?'

‘I also know what they can be used for; the potential that they have. I don't mean their medical potential; I mean their potential in furthering the art of love.'

‘The art of love?'

‘Yes, Magnus. The resin in those tablets can unlock realms of pleasure known only to Morpheus himself; realms so large that a man could lose himself there for days on end.'

‘Really?'

‘Really, and I want to purchase some from you. With those tablets I could offer an experience so intense that no man having undergone it would want to seek his pleasure anywhere else but here. I would make a fortune and you would share in it, Magnus.'

Magnus drained his goblet and held it out for a refill. ‘What do you mean?'

Terentius picked up the decanter and poured. ‘I have heard stories from the East, from beyond the empire, of how to augment the senses by using this resin. It's not how our doctors use it, made into a potion or just chewed; it's a different and far more efficacious method.' He placed the decanter back on the table, rose and walked over to a chest at the far end of the room. He removed one of the sackcloth-wrapped tablets and two broad-bladed knives before returning to his chair. ‘I'll show you.' He exposed the edge of the tablet, shaved off a sliver and then put the points of both knives into the brazier.

Magnus watched with interest as Terentius worked the sliver into a ball, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. He then handed it to Magnus and removed both knives from the fire. He held one out. ‘Put the resin on the tip of the blade.'

Magnus obeyed; Terentius pressed the second blade down on it. Immediately fumes spiralled up; Terentius leant over and inhaled, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs. ‘Your turn,' he said with a tight, almost choking voice.