they’ve been hard. They work or they die and if they cause trouble they’re worked even harder and die quicker. Our lot have had it easy and they’re not about to take kindly to what I plan to do. There’s only one way to keep the lid on any trouble. You’ve got to be ruthless. First sign of dissent, you crack down. Kill if you must, but remember slaves cost money.’
‘What about the women?’ asked Charro.
‘Threaten ’em, but don’t touch, that is unless you get any trouble. Then you can do with them what you like.’
Aquila, armed with a sword and shield to add to his spear, acted as a sort of personal bodyguard to Flaccus, so he saw very little of the anguish these orders caused; having given his instructions, the new overseer was content to let his men carry them out. The mercenaries would be brutal, they were being paid for that, but he had no desire to witness what they did. Even Flaccus might have baulked at some of their wilder activities. The ex- centurion rode all over the properties, sketching his plans for the better use of the land and available water. Aquila did not see the women and children torn from their huts, know of the hardships of their march to the inland farm stockade with no food or water on the way, of protesting men hung by the thumbs from trees and flayed till they were nearly dead, or of the fate of the women who fought to remain themselves, victims of the slack observance of Flaccus’s instructions. Some, having serviced the whole band, still had enough life in them to be fetched back to the men’s barracks, with the stark choice of meeting their needs, or the offer of a painful death.
But Aquila saw the smoke of the burning huts on the horizon, looked into the glazed eyes of the men who had now been herded into the wooded compounds, watched as they worked, chained together, saw the vultures in the sky, before they swooped to feed on the bodies of those women and children who had died on the march. He had stood beside Flaccus on the day that those unfortunate men, who dared to protest at their treatment, with precious few tools to dent the solid rock, started on the first of the new irrigation schemes. He knew the inducements they had been offered were a lie; there would be no easy life after the punishment was served. Aquila had been with Flaccus as he drew the plans for the next natural aqueduct. And if they were not broken on that, they would be returned to the land, to ploughing and planting, just as soon as this channel through the hills was complete.
He ate with the mercenaries and listened to their stories, happy to be treated as an equal while they related the more salacious incidents. He was part of the band, accepted since the death of Toger as one of them, and he was growing up, turning from a boy into a man. Aquila was, at last, part of a family again.
‘Time you dipped your wick, boy,’ said Dedon, a remark which the others greeted with a small amount of ribald comment, accompanied by whistling and cheering. Aquila turned back quickly to look at the table, Dedon having observed his eyes locked on to the swaying hips of Phoebe, the youngest of the slave girls. The hut had a dozen such women, who acted as cooks, maids and concubines. Some, like the object of his attentions, were resigned to their fate, accepting the attention of the mercenaries rather than face the alternative; others had taken to it as if born to the life. All ate better than the other female slaves and if the work was unpleasant, it was less arduous than shifting dust and rocks.
They were sitting in the hut, at a long wooden table strewn with the remains of their supper. Aquila, determined to keep up with his new-found friends in the article of wine, was slightly drunk. They had the hard heads of grown men accustomed to drink; he was still a youth, not yet old enough to don his manly gown, so he treated everyone at the table to a knowing look, meant to convince them that the suggestion was way too late.
‘You’ve got a full bush of hair on your balls now,’ added Charro with an exaggerated wink. Then he looked at his mates and smiled. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve been slipping it to one of the girls when we’re not about.’
Aquila leered at him to confirm the truth of the statement, touching the side of his nose with a slow finger at the chorus of enquiries that followed. Dedon responded, his voice jocular. ‘You say he got hair, Charro. How’d you know that? You been having a peek while he washes?’
‘He don’t just wash himself, brother. That eagle round his neck ain’t the only thing he plays with.’
Dedon pretended to be shocked. ‘Is that right! Found a use for his right hand has he?’
Aquila blushed furiously as they all laughed, making gestures with their own hands to illustrate their meaning. ‘I say we should have a look and see what he’s got.’
The others roared their approval. Aquila was on his feet quickly, but the hands of the two men on either side had already taken hold. Vainly, he struggled to get free as more hands grabbed at him as the rest of the band gathered round. A couple of the men took his legs and he felt himself lifted in the air. They laid him, still squirming as hard as he could, on the table, scattering the plates and goblets. He felt the hands at his small clothes and sought to turn as they were torn off, heard the whoops of joy and the ribald remarks, keeping his eyes tightly closed while he was minutely examined. Rough hands flicked at his private parts, with many a reference to size and function.
‘Let’s set him to a woman,’ whooped Dedon.
Roars greeted this. They had his smock off before he was lifted into the air again. The men carried him bodily to one of the rooms at the end, calling out to all the girls to witness what was happening, and they crowded round for a view of this novel event. Only Phoebe stood back, unwilling to participate.
‘Who’s it to be?’ Dedon leered, his finger pointing at those most eager to see. ‘Come girls, off with your shifts and let our hero have a look.’
Two of the girls threw off their clothes and stood naked, ready for inspection. His captors dropped him to the ground, still holding his arms tightly, and made him face the pair, the roars that greeted the beginning of his erection louder than any that had gone before. He tried, but he could not help himself, having spent a good deal of time fantasising about the very act he was being encouraged to perform.
Dedon pointed at his groin. ‘You’re in for some pleasure girls by the look of that, but we still have to decide who’s going to be lucky.’
They pushed him forward until he was standing by the first of the girls, a rather plump creature with huge breasts. Dedon had appointed himself judge, and he crouched down to see the effect this was having on the boy. ‘By the Gods, lads, it’s twitching. Aquila’s prick has a life of its own.’
He was presented to the next girl, older than the rest, who waggled her hips a little to entice him. Aquila had that sensation in his groin, that mixture of pleasure and pain, and it was becoming unbearable. He shut his eyes and tried to think of something else, an act which Dedon misinterpreted.
‘No. This one’s no good.’ The mercenary raised his head to pick out a third candidate and almost immediately his eyes lit on Phoebe, standing well away from the crowd. ‘We’ve been going about this the wrong way, lads. I started all this ’cause our young cock-sparrow has his eyes on a certain swaying arse.’
Phoebe must have known what was coming, for she shrank back against the wall. That only encouraged Dedon, who jumped across the room to grab her. He hauled the girl close and growled in her ear. ‘You’re lucky you’re still here, the way you carry on. Don’t think I haven’t seen you, making yourself scarce at night. Time you earned your fuckin’ keep.’
He started to laugh, the pun being unintentional, then spun round and dragged her forward, repeating his remark to universal acclaim. ‘This is the one for Aquila. He’ll gain an inch, once he catches sight of Phoebe without her shift.’
The women, who knew which side to take for their own well-being, helped Dedon to pull off Phoebe’s clothing. Aquila was shuffled towards her and he knew, even with his eyes still shut, that he was before the slimmest as well as the youngest of the slave girls, a Macedonian about his own height. Dedon was right. It was her hips he had been watching, moving enticingly under her woollen dress, and, to him, part of the attraction was her reluctance to indulge the others. He had had his eye on her for weeks, trying to pluck up the courage to get her alone, his confidence alternately boosted and crushed by the enquiring looks she gave him.
‘Oooh!’ He felt himself jerk spasmodically as her cool hand brushed against him. He opened his eyes. She was standing very close, deliberately not looking at him, her eyes full of tears. Aquila looked down, to see that Dedon had hold of her wrist, and was pushing her hand, so that it rubbed gently against him. He opened his mouth to protest, to ask the crowd to stop, but Dedon spoke first.
‘We best get them to it, lads,’ cried Dedon, mistaking the sad look in the boy’s eyes. ‘I don’t think our novice can hang on much longer.’
Aquila felt himself lifted bodily once more. Phoebe allowed herself to be led, unresisting, to the straw pallet on the floor. The women laid her down, forcing open her arms and legs to welcome him, as his bearers lowered
