by Rob Rosen
Gerung crouched behind Lucanus and cut the straps from his wrists and tossed the knife aside. “Will you now run or will you fuck me instead?”
Panting, Lucanus turned and seized Gerung in his arms, pulling the other man to him. They kissed, at first affectionately and then deeply, lustfully, falling into a heap on the grassy floor of the tent. Lucanus’s hands glided down Gerung’s back, finding purchase on the twin hillocks of the barbarian’s ass.
“I would only run if you were running with me,” Lucanus said, kneading Gerung’s firm buttocks, “and only after I fucked you.”
Gerung growled, grinding his body atop Lucanus’s. Their cocks rubbed together, sparking a heat that was hotter than any fire. Gerung raised his hips and reached for Lucancus’s engorged cock, pulling it forward until it was between his thighs and pressed between his asscheeks. He rolled his hips, massaging Lacanus’s shaft with his butt.
Overcome with lust, Lucanus grabbed a fistful of Gerung’s hair and pulled it, like the reins of a horse, raising the warrior’s face so he could kiss him again. The kiss was harder this time, and Lucanus could feel Gerung trembling on top of him.
They pulled their mouths apart, both men gasping for breath. Lucanus slipped his fingers into Gerung’s mouth. Gerung sucked on them as adeptly as he had sucked on Lucanus’s prick. When the Roman withdrew his fingers, they were dripping with the barbarian’s spit.
His hand went immediately to Gerung’s ass, wet fingers sliding between Gerung’s buttocks. His fingers easily entered, probed.
Gerung closed his eyes and let out a low groan. He raised his ass and leaned into the Roman’s fingers, squeezing the digits with the muscles of his ass. Gerung muttered something in his native tongue, the harshness of his language softened by his low, breathy voice.
A moment later, Gerung sat up. He spit in his palm and wrapped his hand around Lucanus’s cock, making it slick. Slowly, he lowered himself onto Lucanus, pausing at the moment of penetration, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. On their first encounter, Gerung was hesitant at allowing Lucanus to fuck him, claiming he was too big.
It was now Lucanus’s turn to do the teasing. “The brave barbarian is not afraid of being pierced by a sword, but withers at a cock?”
Gerung responded with a smile—a smile that became a grimace as Lucanus’s cock disappeared inside of him. A moment later, the smile returned, joined with a sigh.
The full length of Lucanus’s member was deep inside him. The barbarian’s pulsing, dripping cock showed his pleasure to great effect. The sight of it made Lucanus’s prick throb inside. Slaves and prostitutes were merely acquiescent; Gerung actually took joy in getting fucked.
Gently undulating his hips, Gerung closed his eyes and uttered more unintelligible words in his own language. Lucanus gripped his thighs and thrust into him, shuddering as a warm, tingling sensation buzzed through his body.
The captor leaned down to kiss his prisoner. The Roman’s strong arms encircled his body, holding Gerung against his broad chest. “Tu es pulcher,” he whispered in Gerung’s ear, driving his cock deep into the young man’s ass. Gerung’s response to being told he was beautiful was a terse grunt.
Lucanus dug his fingers into Gerung’s ass and rammed his cock even deeper. Gerung groaned and rolled his hips, his body twisting and sliding against Lucanus’s Herculean form. He lapsed back into his native language, and Lucanus thought he heard the Vesi’s word for love, but it could just as easily have been an obscenity. Regardless, it was poetry once uttered by Gerung.
The two men writhed on the tent’s floor, their sweaty bodies shimmering in the amber lantern light. Their breathing became heavy, their movements more forceful, almost violent. They spoke in grunts and groans, and then sudden cries of ecstasy that were silenced with long, probing kisses. At last, Gerung’s cock spurted onto Lucanus’s taut belly, his seed forming a sticky seal between their bodies.
Lucanus’s body quivered. Pressing his hands into Gerung’s back, he made an anguished, gasping cry as his own seed gushed into the barbarian’s guts.
They lay together, still joined and pleasantly spent. Lucanus sighed and stroked Gerung’s hair. This was a new experience, this lying together and luxuriating in the afterglow instead of hastily disappearing into the night. Lucanus would, at those times, return to Perusia to tell his father he had been riding; Gerung, in turn, would try to kill a rabbit or bird, claiming to his father that he had been away hunting the whole time.
That night, for the first time, the barbarian and the Roman— the captor and the captive—slept in each other’s arms.
A man’s shouting woke them at sunrise. Lucanus opened his eyes, then immediately sat up, startled to discover the man was in the tent. It was Asbad, the warrior who discovered him in the forest on his way to meet Gerung, the same one who shot an arrow through his horse’s neck. Gerung was up, struggling to get into his braccae, yelling at Asbad to get out.
“Romans,” he spat, leveling his hateful glare at Lucanus. “They’re just over the hillside.”
Gerung’s father, Valimer, entered the tent at that moment, shouting orders. He also cast an angry gaze at their prisoner, though Lucanus was certain it was because he was the enemy and not because Valimer suspected Lucanus had been fucking his son.
“You said he would be more use alive,” Valimer snapped. “Now let’s see how much leverage the son of a nobleman has with Honorius’s army.”
Fear flashed in Gerung’s eyes, but he accepted his father’s command. Satisfied, Valimer left the tent, ordering that Asbad follow. Asbad obeyed, snarling a few choice insults at Lucanus as he pushed through the tent flaps.
Gerung threw a musty brown tunic in Lucanus’s lap. “Put that on.”
“What are you going to do?” Lucanus asked.
“I do not know.”
Lucanus had just pulled the old tunic over his head when he heard the commotion outside the tent. Women screamed. Children wailed. Men shouted. War cries ended with final breaths. The air was suddenly thick with smoke.
Gerung had his sword in one hand and grabbed the Roman’s arm with the other. “I think I know how we can end this.”
Outside the tent, they were confronted by the carnage of the attack. Bodies were scattered about. The barbarians were succeeding at keeping most of the Roman soldiers to the edges of the camp, though a few got past to slay any Vesi tribe members who had the misfortune of crossing their paths, be they man, woman or child.
The Roman and the young barbarian walked toward the fighting, Lucanus now holding Gerung’s sword. Gerung’s hands were tied behind his back.
As they approached the combatants, Lucanus shouted out in Latin: “You need not kill them all when capturing one will do!”
One of the Romans in command heard him and demanded to know Lucanus’s identity.
“I am Lucanus, son of Trajan Papirius of Perusia. Last night I was taken prisoner by these savages—”
“Savages?” Gerung said indignantly.
“But now, as you see, my fortunes have changed,” Lucanus said, waving the sword. The Roman soldiers laughed.
Not laughing, though, was Asbad, now on his horse, his shoulder bleeding profusely. “I should have killed you and spared your horse!” he shouted, struggling to brace an arrow with his one functioning arm.
Lucanus brought the tip of the sword to Gerung’s cheek. “Are you sure it will be me who takes your arrow?”
Valimer rode up then, shouting at Asbad to stand down. Directing his attention to Lucanus, he said simply, “Spare my son.”
Upon realizing Lucanus had the son of the Gothic chieftain, the Roman soldiers raised their spears.
“Put those down,” Lucanus said. “We will not kill this man’s son. He will come with me as my prisoner.” Looking directly at Gerung, Lucanus said, “He will be more use to me—to us—alive.”
Gerung bowed his head, barely able to suppress his smile.
A LONG WAY HOME
Richard May
I walked among the Persian dead, stepping carefully. They were smaller on the ground than when facing me, mouths and eyes screaming, spears and swords in hand. I looked for someone I might have known, peering into brown faces becoming browner still in death. When I gazed across the former battlefield, the scene was as if an army had gone to sleep, not died.
“What then, priest? Are you giving blessings to the enemy?”
Aristedes’s hand was on my shoulder. Together, we watched the dead, remembering our survival. We had fought back to back yesterday and saved each other’s lives several times.
“No blessings,” I replied, thinking but not saying that Persians and Ionians are not likely to bless one another. In any case, these dead were nonbelievers, at least in Greek gods; my blessing would do them no good.
Aristedes kept his hand upon my shoulder. “Will you bless me, priest?” I gave him a kiss, which is what he wanted. He reached under my battle tunic and squeezed my ass, as one pats a dog one owns. “Shall we continue walking?” he asked and dropped his hand. I looked at him in surprise. He was not much given to walks or reverie. He waggled his eyebrows comically to make me laugh. “There may be some treasures missed. Ah!” he yelled and bent quickly to one of the small prone figures. “A ring. Gold, I’ll wager.” He bit it. “Yes, gold. Would you like it?” He always thought I should have presents for my sleeping with him. I hadn’t yet convinced him I already had the only present necessary.
“No, you keep it.”
He threw an arm around my smaller shoulders. Thracians are huge, also hairy and tattooed, nothing like us more compact, more refined Ionians. In some ways we Greeks of the eastern shore are more like Persians. Our blood has undeniably mixed with theirs during so many decades of defeat. We have been won and lost, won and lost. Now Alexander has come, and we are Greeks again.
Aristedes and I entered our tent. “Let us bathe,” I suggested.
“Let us not,” he replied, guiding me onto the bed. Aristedes was always ready for sex but especially after battle. He had plunged his sword into so many soldiers and now he wanted to plunge a different weapon into me. He removed my tunic and ran his fingers across my chest.
“You have a beautiful chest, priest.” He pinched a nipple and pulled the other, making me gasp. “Lie down,” he said, in a voice already hoarse with sex, and followed me onto the bed, pushing my legs back and entering me quickly. While his fat cock stabbed me repeatedly, I listened to his deep grunts and thought of home. His huge, stinking body disgusted me, but he was a friend of our commander. His access to Alexander was the gift I wanted.
I massaged his back and ass as he liked and moaned a little to make him think I liked his fucking. He came quickly with grunts and roars. It was just as well. I could hear someone clearing his throat outside our tent. I tried to stand.
“Now you, beautiful.” He pulled me back down, taking my cock in one rough hand and manipulating my chest with another. Before long, I was truly moaning as quietly as I could, writhing beneath him. I spurted into his hand, trying not to shout. “That’s better,” he said in a self-satisfied coo.
The voice outside cleared itself more loudly. The messenger could tell we were done. He became brave enough to speak.
“My lords, King Alexander requires your presence for council.”
“Tell his majesty we will be there immediately,” I called to him through our thin canvas walls. I heard his footsteps hurry off. Aristedes and I washed quickly and rushed into cleaner clothes. We checked the state of each other’s hair and headed toward the meeting.
Our lord and god incarnate greeted us. “Ah, the Ephesians and Thracians are here at last. Don’t tell us why you dallied; we can guess.” He teased us while we found our seats, me with the other Ionians and Aristedes among his blue-tinctured Thracians.
Alexander thanked us for his victory and asked how it went with our men, how many killed, how many wounded. The reports were good. We had lost relatively few, and they were already buried in this strange land. I had said words over as many as I could. Soldiers seemed better comforted by a soldier-priest than the temple kind. I had wanted to be the temple kind, but it was my bad luck to be born a prince.
We discussed our next move or, rather, Alexander spoke and we listened.
“The Persians are routed, but they will reassemble. Thousands were killed, but there are tens of thousands more. Reports say they are moving here.” Alexander stabbed at a name on the map. “We will confront them again there. Another victory, and Persia will be ours.” I liked Alexander. He always said ours, not mine.
I knew my Persian geography. “Sochi,” I said aloud.
“Yes, Sochi,” Alexander confirmed. I made my face impassive, but he saw something in it still.
“Speak, Ephesus.”
“It is a narrow way, my lord.”
“It is the closest way.” His expression forbade any further discussion. If his Macedonians did not object, why should the rest of us?
We received our individual orders and a fine dinner of lamb stewed in cumin, cilantro and caraway, with rice steamed in saffron and eggplant broiled in basil and pistachios, all served on gold plates taken from some previously conquered town. From north to south and west to east, gluttony decreased and table manners improved. The Macedonians, Illyrians and Thra-cians crammed meat and bread into their mouths as fast as they could. They were sick of fish. Aristedes joined them in their rush, even though he had eaten better at my table. I tried not to be disgusted by him.
After dinner, we said our good nights and went to see about our men. Neither Ionians nor Attic Greeks would be happy to hear we would be on the march again so soon.
When I came into their campfires, my Ephesians were drinking red Ramian wine and parading silk caftans taken from deserted Persian camps. Their commanders called them to attention and I gave them the news. There were groans and grumblings, but I fired their minds with martial speech and allusions to even greater booty on the road ahead. I know what motivates men.
I sat and drank with them awhile, sure that Aristedes would be doing the same with his Thracians. But at a relatively early hour I got to my unsteady feet and told them all to go to bed. Of course, they laughed good-naturedly at me and ignored my words. I wobbled my way to our tent. How it became a mutual dwelling I remembered clearly. After Ephesus was liberated, Aristedes had appeared and all thoughts of my wife and children had momentarily vanished with the look in his eyes and the touch of his hands. The next morning, when he told me of his connection to Alexander, I began to make my plans. I would be more than a noble nobody in the dust of Alexander’s column.
At our tent, when I opened the entrance curtain, he was already there and naked. He was as drunk or drunker than I, but still demanded I undress and lie beside him. Yes, he is a little rough and, yes, uncouth, but I never expected a philosopher. I lay down as he demanded and his thick, hairy arms and thicker, hairier body enveloped me. His cock was hard and urgent. With few preliminaries—barely a kiss—he entered me, ready to fuck. He could come several times a day, sometimes several times in succession.
I played with my chest and jerked my cock, Aristedes holding himself upright above me, watching me writhe. He began to move again inside me, slowly at first—at least for him—then more aggressively. His thick cock sliding in and out of me felt a little less abhorrent. I closed my eyes with simulated delight. Each time I opened them, Aristedes was smiling down at me, his cock pneumatic in my ass.
We came in a cacophony of his groans and my moaning, my seed melding us from two into one. He pulled out of me, gave me a kiss and rolled onto his side, an arm and hand supporting his woolly head.
“Sing for me, priest.”
His favorite songs were about love and birds and gentle longings. I had learned them all. He needed songs sometimes, when his brain ran on and his heart pounded, especially in the middle of the night when the nightmares came. Then, it was my arms that surrounded him and my body that comforted his.
T
he next day, we roused ourselves and our men, broke camp and began a new day’s march. Aristedes’s Thracians marched out of order with us Ephesians near the rear of the column, at my bedmate’s request and Alexander’s acquiescence. Aristedes had been an exiled prince at Philip’s court in Macedonia and learned words and fighting from the same teachers as Alexander. He helped his friend defeat his Thracian uncle.
Scouts said the Persians were not amassing ahead after all; they were behind us. The Greek army turned to meet them at Issus, a town of no importance on a stream barely qualified to be called a river. Aristedes and I grew excited. This would be our chance. Ionians and Thracians were now the head of Alexander’s army. We would defeat the Persians and I might kill one in particular. My blood raced and my mind whirled. Darius, where was he?
Aristedes and I drove our men hard into the dust now raised by churning masses, stabbing at every small body wearing pants. Persians fell like rain, a red flow that stained the trampled ground around us and settled the dust.
Aristedes and I stood back to back, although my head came only to his shoulders and his ass nestled above mine. I could feel sweat coursing down my back and didn’t know whether it was mine or his. We slashed and cut, hacked and tore at Persians lunging at us from all sides. More than once I had to use a foot to pry my weapon out of a man. My arm was stronger pushing the sword in than pulling it out. Once I caught Aristedes looking over his shoulder at me, laughing at my predicament.
Bodies carpeted the ground around us. When the Persians broke and ran, we chased after them across this carpet, adding more bone and blood to the weave. At some point I stopped chasing after the cowards and looked for Aristedes. He had found a toy and was bringing him to me. The terror in the young man’s eyes did not affect me. His fathers and grandfathers had enslaved mine. He would have killed me—or Aristedes—today if he could have.
