The Dreams of Morpheus

by Robert Fabbri

  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.

  Magnus opened his mouth and sucked in the white trail emitting from between the blades. He felt a harsh rasping in his throat and a warmth in his chest.

  ‘Hold it in,’ Terentius said, his voice higher from having held his breath.

  Magnus did so for as long as he could, then exhaled a thin stream of smoke. He looked at Terentius. ‘Well?’

  ‘Give it time, Magnus; Morpheus needs to be woken from his slumbers before he will show you his realm.’

  Magnus took a sip of wine and waited, contemplating the beauty of the glass. And it was beautiful, intensely blue in a way that he had never seen before; the bluest of blues. And yet, where the reflections of the brazier’s red glow played on it, the blue deepened into purple, flickering across the surface, picking out the fine engravings of grape-laden vines; imperial vines, he mused. He smiled to himself, enjoying the thought, then realised that red grapes were often purple in hue and was about to make a connection with … but then the goblet’s stem caught his attention: thin blue glass, so blue, but right at its heart a very fine line of purple; again, that must be a reflection from the fire. He looked across at the brazier, still smiling, yes, it was glowing; so comforting. His eyes rose to meet those of Terentius; they were wide open but their pupils had contracted to pinpricks, and he too was smiling. Magnus was about to say something but then the calm of the moment prevented him; it would be wrong to break so peaceful an atmosphere with harsh talk. His gaze drifted down. He discerned, with a widening of his smile, that the blue of Terentius’ stola matched that of the goblet – if it was held at certain angles. He experimented with the position of the goblet, looking between it and the stola. He noticed Terentius rise and walk past him; he heard the door open just as he discovered a fascinating new angle at which to hold the goblet. Then voices, followed by the soft click of the door reclosing. Terentius swished past him, a blur of blue motion – so beautiful, blue. The decanter glided towards him, it tipped; the glug of pouring wine so slow and regular. The taste of the wine, sublime. He looked up to thank Terentius; Terentius smiled down, his hands touching Magnus’ shoulders. His palla was gone; there was no crimson, only blue. And then there was no blue, just cream flesh, and Magnus understood. He heard the door creak open and soft voices approached from behind him; he felt his belt being unfastened. He raised his goblet and finished the last of the wine; it was taken from him as he sluiced the liquid around his mouth and allowed his tunic to be pulled over his head. A soft hand on his chest eased him back on to the cushions on the couch – soft, smooth and warm, so warm. He felt the hand stroke his hair and he opened his eyes; Terentius stood over him, his skin sheened with the glow of the brazier, and then he sat, revealing two more figures, lissom and delicate, one blond and one dark – both naked. One held out the knives; Magnus sucked in the spiralling smoke, holding it deep. As he laid his head down, feeling the sweet touch of multiple caresses, he saw the gates to the realm of Morpheus open and, with absolute calm and contentment, he floated forward to sample the dreams therein.

  A damp cloth, warm and fragrant, dabbing his brow brought him back. For a while he did not open his eyes, content to enjoy the sensation of being cleansed.

  ‘What did you think?’ Terentius whispered.

  What did he think? He cast his mind back: the images, the colours, the acts, the abandon, the release, the pleasure; all as he had never experienced before. ‘Well, it weren’t natural and yet it seemed to come so easy, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘I do, Magnus; and now do you see how so much money could be made out of this?’

  ‘Fortunes.’ Magnus opened his eyes; Terentius was dressed and his hair pulled back into a ponytail. ‘But I doubt that you’d be able to afford even one tablet.’

  ‘How much are they each?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, but more than gold. I’m going to—’ He sat up and looked around; early light crept in through the window. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Halfway through the first hour of the day.’

  ‘Shit! Where are my clothes? And get me one of the tablets. Are Marius and Sextus still here?’

  Terentius handed Magnus his tunic, belt and loincloth. ‘Yes, I’ve had them woken and they’ve been served breakfast.’

  ‘Served breakfast? They don’t have time for that.’

  Within moments Magnus had dressed, strapped on his sandals and, with a tablet wrapped in sackcloth under his arm and Terentius following behind, was walking at a rapid pace through the garden. ‘Come to the tavern at dusk and I’ll have a reasonable idea as to how much the tablets are worth; meanwhile you work out how much you think you can make from each one; then we’ll know whether it’s viable.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Terentius confirmed as they passed through into the atrium.

  ‘No time for that, lads,’ Magnus said, grabbing a hunk of bread from the table at which Marius and Sextus were breaking their fast in delightful company. ‘We’re almost late.’ He hurried on through the room and into the vestibule. Postumus opened the door and Magnus stepped out into the street with his brothers following. As he headed at a brisk walk towards the Caelian Hill and the meeting at the House of the Moon in the stonemasons’ street, he addressed Marius and Sextus without looking at them. ‘I think it would be best all round if we didn’t mention where or how we spent last night.’

  Finding the House of the Moon had been easy, with a carving above the door of Luna, the divine embodiment of the moon, cloak billowing behind her in the shape of a crescent moon as she rode in her oxen-drawn chariot. What had not been easy was concentrating on business and Magnus found his mind wandering as he sat opposite a brown-skinned man in his thirties with a thin face and lips, a sharp nose and tight curly black hair; Egyptian, Magnus had assumed when the man introduced himself as Menes.

  Menes sniffed the tablet and looked across the table at Magnus, his dark eyes glinting with barely restrained greed. ‘How many these you say your patron had, my friend?’

  Magnus hauled his attention away from some vivid images of the night before and focused on one of the two thickset bodyguards standing behind the Egyptian. ‘I didn’t.’

  Menes grinned in a manner that totally failed to convey any charm or warmth. ‘So, my friend, how much you want for this?’

  Magnus took a moment to register the question. ‘Offer me a price.’

  ‘How can I make an offer when I don’t know how much is
for sale? If I take a lot you make me special price.’

  ‘There is no special price, my friend; whoever makes the highest offer gets to purchase as much as they want at that price. No discounts, understand?’

  Menes’ grin widened into an obnoxious leer, which, by his manner, he evidently deemed to be a winning smile. ‘My friend, I make you good offer: three thousand denarii a tablet.’

  Magnus almost choked with shock at such a high figure, but managed to transform it into a growl of indignation and, grabbing the tablet from Menes, pushed back his chair. ‘If you start so low, then I’ve wasted my patron’s time in coming here.’

  Menes was on his feet quickly, his hands in the air, palms towards Magnus, laughing, cold and forced. ‘My friend, my friend, I see you are serious man of business; sit, please, sit, we have wine?’

  ‘No wine, Menes,’ Magnus said, pulling his chair back to the table, ‘and no jokes, just the right price.’

  ‘Yes, yes, right price.’ Menes sat down again and made a show of thinking for a few moments. ‘Three thousand, five hundred denarii.’

  ‘That’s enough of this nonsense.’ Magnus got to his feet, toppling his chair.

  ‘Five thousand!’

  Magnus paused and looked at Menes. ‘Five thousand a tablet?’

  ‘Yes, my friend.’

  ‘There are twenty-three more.’

  Menes’ eyes widened with unbridled greed. ‘I take them all, one hundred and ten thousand denarii; I can have the money in gold by dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘I need to consult my patron; you’ll have the answer by tonight.’ Magnus turned to go. ‘If you try to have me followed, the deal will be over as will be your life. And, my friend, there’s no special price. It’s one hundred and twenty thousand for all twenty-four; which in gold aurii is …’ He did a quick mental calculation, dividing by twenty-five. ‘Four thousand eight hundred.’

  ‘There is no doubt in my mind that this outrage was sparked by a growing mistrust within the more ignorant sections of the city’s population of the trustworthiness of the measures used in distribution of the grain dole.’ Gaius Vespasius Pollo was adamant and the force with which his right arm sliced down from above his head on the final word emphasised the fact. ‘Why else, Conscript Fathers, would the Urban Cohorts be attacked with bronze modius measures? Modius measures that had been fitted with false bottoms to make them one sestius short. We are all aware how much grain could be skimmed off and hoarded if just a tenth of the modius measures in the city were a sixteenth light. Not that any member of this house would organise such a thing, Conscript Fathers, for by the sacred law of the ways of our ancestors we in the Senate are forbidden to partake in trade.’ Gaius looked around the Senate House, his face flushed with exertion and righteous ire conjured up for the moment; many of the senators seated in rows on either side of the house nodded in agreement at this timely reminder of the ways of the ancestors. ‘But the equestrian class is not so tied and for a very few of them the making of money is a pursuit that they follow with no consideration for the consequences.’ He puffed himself up. ‘And we saw the consequences yesterday at the Festival of the October Horse!’ This time his right arm soared above his head, fist clenched, excess fat on his upper arm wobbling. ‘Conscript Fathers, we cannot allow the Emperor’s peace to be disturbed so. We must beg Cossus Cornelius Lentulus, the prefect of Rome, to organise an inspection of every modius measure in the city; only he can avert the oncoming crisis.’ With another powerful rhetorical gesture and a flurry of spittle, Gaius underlined the final word. ‘And I move that we write to the Emperor and thank him for his wisdom in appointing Lentulus to the post.’ With a final, outraged glare round the chamber, he walked back to his place, to the rumble of agreement, and sat down on his folding stool which strained beneath the pressure of his ample behind. His colleagues surrounding him patted him enthusiastically on the back, congratulating him loudly – all, no doubt, jealous that they had not taken the opportunity to so ingratiate themselves with the Urban Prefect.