A slave in his late twenties, evidently too old to be of interest to most of the clientele but strikingly good-looking nonetheless, proffered Magnus a tray holding cups of wines. He took one at random as Terentius appeared at the far end of the room.
‘You honour me with your presence,’ the whore-boy master said formally, walking elegantly through the room, one foot placed exactly before the other, dressed in a woman’s stola. His long auburn hair fell loose to below his shoulders, half-concealing two drop-pearl earrings. Kohl lined his sea-grey eyes, rouge delicately enhanced his cheeks and his lips were painted a soft pinkish-red.
Really not bad at all, Magnus found himself thinking as he downed his wine, if you like that sort of thing. ‘Thank you Terentius,’ he replied, placing his empty cup back on the tray and helping himself to another. ‘We have business to discuss.’
‘Come.’ Terentius beckoned with his left arm and inclining his head so that a few strands of hair fell across his face; with an unhurried brush of his right palm he eased them back into place as he turned and walked back the way he had come. His body swayed sensuously beneath the fine fabric of his stola.
Magnus followed, glancing left and right at the whore-boys languishing on their couches and realised that Terentius had not been exaggerating about his taste. They were all exquisite but each in a different way, whether it be skin, hair, or physical build; however, they all had one thing in common: they were undeniably beautiful. Each was immaculately turned out, clean and well-groomed and although the perfumes with which they adorned themselves were thicker and headier than those of women, they were still intoxicating.
Magnus raised his eyebrows and found himself wondering whether he might not take advantage of Terentius’ offer to sample the goods on display. He followed the whore-boy master into a corridor with a slanted ceiling. On one side lay moon-lit windows looking out onto a courtyard garden; on the other, six evenly-spaced doors on with oil-lamps set into a niche in the wall. Four of the lamps were burning.
‘He’s down at the end,’ Terentius whispered.
As they progressed down the corridor Magnus realised that the lit oil-lamps were a sign of occupancy.
Terentius reached the last door and knocked three times. After a brief pause it was opened by the same scarred boy who had delivered the message earlier.
‘Is he still sleeping deeply, Bricius?’ Terentius asked, stepping into the room. Magnus followed him in.
‘Yes Master, I’ve poured a few more drops down his throat and he hasn’t stirred,’ Bricius replied, wincing in evident pain from his wound.
Magnus walked in; the room was of a good size and decorated with homo-erotic frescoes depicting acts between men and youths. It was furnished sparsely but with taste and was dominated by a large, richly covered bed upon which lay the recumbent form of Tribune Blandinus, breathing deeply.
‘You’ve done well, Terentius,’ Magnus said approvingly, patting him on the back.
Terentius looked down sadly at Blandinus and stroked his short-cropped black hair before running his hand over his tanned, high cheek-bones and then tracing the line of his straight jaw. ‘I won’t ask what’s going to happen to him but I imagine that I won’t see him again. A pity – he was always very good to me, never too gentle but never too bestial, I shall miss him.’
‘Yeah well, that’s one of them things,’ Magnus mumbled, ‘Fortuna wasn’t kind to him and he drew the long straw. Nothing you can do.’
‘No, I understand.’
‘Now, my lads are around the back with a cart, I need a couple of them in here to help move them.’
‘Yes of course,’ Terentius replied in a small voice, running his finger along the drugged man’s lips. ‘Bricius, go and fetch them.’
The boy ran off leaving Magnus watching uncomfortably as the whore-boy master continued caressing Blandinus’ face, kohl-stained tears trickled from his eyes.
Fortunately after a few moments the sound of footsteps came from the corridor. Marius and Sextus came through the door.
‘Right lads,’ Magnus said with relief, ‘an arm over each shoulder and drag him out to the cart.’
‘Drag him to the cart,’ Sextus repeated slowly pointing at Blandinus, anxious not to get anything wrong.
‘Yes Sextus, that’s right, the man on the bed.’
‘Right you are Magnus.’
As his brothers lifted the sleeping Tribune, Magnus found himself putting an arm around Terentius. ‘I’m afraid that this comes from people far above us and there ain’t nothing that I can do unless I risk my standing with them; which I wouldn’t do for no one.’