An
old, bearded man with a long stick, who Billy identified as the gladiatorial
version of a referee, stood meekly at a distance from the combatants. Billy
looked towards him with eyes full of pleading. “Come on ref, do something!” He
knew he wasn’t going to do anything. “Aw, fuck it…”
The
demon gladiator shambled forward, slowly raising his mighty blade. Meanwhile,
Billy reached into backpack to withdraw his mighty…smart phone. “Okay, this is
just like fighting the first boss in Demon Shadows, ‘The Unflinching
Executor’…who I died to like twenty times after breaking my controller in
frustration.” Billy dropped his bag to the sand and held up the device, praying
he wasn’t about to alter the course of human history in the process.
“Say
‘cheese’, SpartaCUNT.”
Click!
WHOOSH!
The
gargantuan Gorgon swung his broadsword, just as the camera flash went off,
temporarily blinding him. The sword missed Billy by a hair, landing with a thud
in the sand beside him. Billy didn’t waste the moment. He slid his phone into
his pocket and charged forward.
“I’m
a brave boy!” he cried out, tapping into his extremely limited athletic
ability. He forced his body forward, diving down into a penetration step.
Come on high school wrestling, don’t fail me now! Screaming in an embarrassing high pitch all the while,
Billy—well-beyond his ‘skinny twink era’—wrapped his arms tightly around
Gorgon’s meaty legs (his weak point) and pitched his body right, driving his
head into the demon’s hip.
It
was a clumsy, wobbly, inelegant dance. Nevertheless, it did the trick. Gorgon
fell sideways, into the sand, out of the reach of his sword. Billy couldn’t
believe he’d nailed it. Neither could the hollering crowd. Suddenly, Billy’s
inherent narcissism superseded his fear. With a smug expression, he extended
his arms outward in the victory pose of one of the heel pro wrestlers who’d supplied
Billy’s (many) gay awakenings.
“That’s
right! Take a good look at the greatest there ever WAS! Call me motherfuckin’
Theseus, ‘cuz I just slew medusa.”
“You
mean Perseus…”
A
scowling, beefy, freckle-dappled redhead slammed his trident into the sand at
his feet. He gave Billy a hard look with his emerald-green eyes. “Theseus
slayed the minotaur. You need to brush up on your lore.” The young warrior
sported a loincloth, some shoulder padding, and precious little else.
Which
was just fine by Billy, who couldn’t believe how swiftly fortunes turned in
this arena. “You…could literally kill me,” he squeaked, more of a request than
an observation.
The
redheaded gladiator smirked. “But I won’t.” The handsome, short-haired fellow
reminded Billy of an Irish rugby player…that had also served as one of
Billy’s gay awakenings in his teenage years.
“Your
single leg takedown needs work,” the ginger stud sniffed, shifting his green
eyes between Gorgon, flat in the sand, and the two other gladiators struggling
for supremacy a few feet away. “And you’re wearing way too much clothing for
wrestling, anyway.”
If
he weren’t such a fine piece of white meat, his ceaseless criticism would have
bothered Billy. “Brother, I just got here!” he barked back. “Ugh, and I
got sand in my sneakers…”
“I
am not your brother. I am Brennus, the Celt. You do not look like a local boy.”
“A
Celt!? No way, me too! Well, descended anyway. I’m Billy. I’m from Boston.
Well, Revere, but close enough…”
This
meeting across eras was interrupted by the groans of metal and man. Gorgon
slowly towered back onto his feet.
Buff
Brennus spat in the sad and pulled his trident free. He pointed at his neck,
mirroring where Eros’ special chain-and-lock remained fastened to Billy. “You a
slave, Billy?”
“Only
consensually, and only in certain scenarios. Not big on the whole enslavement
of other people thing.”
The
trident-wielder gave him an odd look but smiled all the same. “Then you’re in
the wrong territory, Billy of Boston. And that’s an odd sort of jewelry you
wear around your neck. A chained man you are, aye, but not one of bondage?”
“Again,
it depends on the night…”
Brennus
looked like he had more questions, but he didn’t have time to ask them The Gorgon
pulled his sword from the sand, his sights set on slicing.
“Duck!” Brennus commanded. Billy ducked.
Bren jumped. Both cleared the swing of the broadsword, but Billy feared his
luck was trickling closer to dry.
“I’m
a freeborn Celt,” Bren said, as if the two of them were icebreaking over
coffee, and not staring down death in the middle of a crowd of a thousand or
more. “But that doesn’t mean much around here.”
“Wait,
so you’re a gladiator voluntarily?” Billy examined Bren’s attire. Unlike the
hefty murmillo warrior who’d saved Billy’s skin several minutes earlier,
Bren’s armaments were that of a retiarius, a gladiatorial class reserved
for the lithe and nimble of build. In modern, wrestling parlance, he was
positioned as a jobber; fresh meat to be thrown at the bigger brutes to make
them look better.
Still,
Bren was obviously no pushover. He jumped straight over The Gorgon’s sword
swipe and planted his trident directly into his foot (feel free to imagine how
that looked).
The
crowd reacted with shock, and Billy tried awfully hard not to puke. The ref,
who no longer needed to fear Gorgon’s retaliation, accepted the injury as
defeat and signaled to Brennus, raising trident triumphantly over his head as
the unexpected victor.
“Phew.
Rome is exhausting.” Billy looked up at the higher stalls and saw a bunch of
stuffy, older men in togas exchanging frustrated glances with each other. Likely,
they had just lost a bet on Bren’s life. The assemblage looked important, or
rather they looked like they thought of themselves as important, anyway.
Billy sensed they were the ones running the show, either as editors
(promoters and managers) or by their patronage.
Bren
and Billy’s fight was over, but the fish-faced gladiator—who had swapped out
his broken spear for a pair of hard cesti—was still punching away at the
murmillo, deflecting his strikes with his gladius.
“Don’t
try to leave,” Bren warned through his teeth. “While I personally find you
strangely amusing—kind of like a clown—the editors will seek your head for intruding
on a match.”
Billy
thought it best to take Bren’s words as truth, especially as Billy locked eyes
with an intense man in a lavish toga glaring at him from the ‘VIP’ section of
the stands. Billy felt the aristocrat’s gaze burn into his flesh. It made him
shiver.
Breaking
his staring contest with the creep in the stands, Billy nodded towards the
tasty piece of pancetta who’d saved his twenty-first century behind. “Who’s the
big guy over there that I owe my life?” he asked Brennus.
Bren’s
eyes softened. His whole posture changed, and Billy even noted a tinge of red
in his cheeks. “Sergius Sextus,” the young fighter said, like a prayer. “The
bravest fighter to ever grace these sands, and a teacher of many a fierce
gladiator himself. He’s the reason I’m here.”
Billy
didn’t need a degree in history to figure this one out. “He’s…your
lover?” Bren was likely in his late teens or early twenties, which was more
acceptable an age limit by Billy’s 21st century standards, but
certainly pushing ‘over the hill’ in the customs of gay, ancient Rome.
“Gods,
I wish.” Bren scratched his head and leaned against his trident, all the while
watching Sergius and his opponent clash iron. “I’ve sacrificed to the gods to
be taken on as his apprentice, but I think he often forgets that I even exist.
Then again, unless he’s trying to cut your arms off, Sergius isn’t the most
observant man Rome has to offer.”
“Oh,
so he’s a himbo?”
“Er…no…I
think he’s from Campania.”
Billy
turned his head towards the fray. “Hey, Serge!” he shouted. “I bet you’re
really hot with all that armor off, sexy.”
The
big man easily deflected his attacker with his gladius, not missing a beat to
answer Billy. “I am quite warm under this helmet, yes, but that’s why I
always make sure to drink plenty of water!”
“Yeah,
he’s my people.” Billy was satisfied. And smitten.
“GRAH!”
Serge found his opening. In a flash of iron, he cut the bladed portions of his
opponent’s gloves off in a single blow, leaving the warrior defenseless.
Shit, is he gonna’ lob
his head off? Billy wondered if he should avert his
eyes. Billy had already accepted that the distant past was more barbaric than
the twenty-first century…but experiencing it in person was much more
confronting than he’d imagined.
Fortunately, reality was
also more arousing. In an act that would have drawn boos from any other
gladiator, but cries of adulation (and lust) from the audience, Sergius reached
up and tore off his own helmet in one smooth motion.
If Roman gods had
Instagram, his face would belong to a particular handsome Mars, with a
shortly-trimmed beard and an expression that was both fiercely enthusiastic and
approachably soft—like a golden retriever trapped in the body of a hulking
warrior. His hair was dark and cropped close. Billy could have easily imagined
him go-go dancing on the blocks at a leather party. He would have gladly shoved
dollars down his thong too.
The handsome gladiator
clasped his hands behind his head, giving the audience—and his opponent—a
fantastic view of his biceps, with peaks as tall as Olympus, and triceps even
Hannibal would find too large and imposing to surmount with his elephants. All of
that was delicious enough, but it was Serge’s chest that he weaponized
best. With a flirtatious wink, Sergius began flexing and pumping his pectorals,
which nearly defied physics in their bounciness. Billy thought he felt the
earth shake.
“Don’t look directly at
them,” Bren cautioned.
The ‘pecquake’ culminated in
Serge’s opponent buckling to his knees, struck down and totally knocked out by
the power of Serge’s titan tits. The referee checked the fallen gladiator, and
then held up his thumb to the stalls, which all erupted in rapturous applause.
Bren stabilized Billy,
ensuring he didn’t fall prey to the second-hand effects of Serge’s finishing
move. “They say his chest can fell an ox at fifty paces,” he explained to the
newcomer. “They say he challenged Hercules himself to a flexing contest, nearly
won, and then bedded the god as a consolation. It was the god of muscle who
taught Sergius the technique.”
No
matter the era, everyone had an obvious ‘tell’ when it came to their favorite
crush. Billy couldn’t fault Bren. His taste was damn good. “So…if you like him
so much, why not skip the coy ‘apprentice’ overtures and just ask him to seal
the deal?”
The
nimble warrior Billy had fought alongside, mere moments ago, reverted into a
red-faced schoolboy. “N-n-no, I couldn’t possibly. What if he says ‘nay’?”
“Like…a
horse? Well, sounds pretty kinky, I dunno…”
Bren
glared. “No, I mean if he should refuse me. It would shatter my heart.” Bren
clutched his trident. “I would rather be cut down on these sands! And, by the
gods, may Serge by the warrior to do it!”
Translation: that stud over there could literally kill me. Wow,
ancient gays really were fuckin’ nuts. Still, Billy
understood what it meant to both ‘desire’, and fear rejection. “It sounds like
you’re down bad, Bren,” he said to his new buddy, with a nudge and a flirty
wink.
The
slang did not translate. “You…would tell me to go to the underworld?”
“What,
no! I’m saying I hope he takes you on as his student.” Billy glanced
over at Serge, doing his victory lap around the ring, flexing his muscles—by
request—for any swooning fan who asked. “Though I’d like to take him on
myself.”
Bren
arched an eyebrow. “In a fight, right?”
A
hush over the crowd prevented Billy from answering. One of the stuffy
officials, a squat, red-faced man that Billy surmised was the editor,
approached the preening giant with a crown of laurel. The man bent over, only
highlighting his enormity, and received the wreath around his head.
Then,
the editor called out to the crowd. “Will the conqueror grant mercy to the
conquered?”
That
Billy was about to watch a man enthusiastically murdered in front of his eyes
hit him harder than an amphora filled with lead. Granted, that same man had
also tried to kill him…
The
death blow and ensuing geysers of blood did not come. Instead, Serge placed his
hands over his wide, Mediterranean hips and scowled downward at his dazed foe.
“Hmm! It is no mercy having to live all your days knowing you’ve fallen at the
hands of I, Sergius Sextus! AM I RIGHT, ROME!?”
Rome’s
spittle-spraying cheers and shouts answered Serge in the affirmative. Billy,
unobservant at the best of times, suspected that Serge’s ‘playing to the
audience’ was a deliberate, tactful defense of his opponent’s life.
“Then,
let us spare the man that he might live to taste defeat at my hands yet again!”
Everyone
liked that. Everyone, Billy noted, except the scary noble who’d previously glared
at him from the stands. He saw him whisper a command to a man wearing segmented
armor, a plumed helm, and a sword at his hip—a praetorian guard.
Bren
and Billy looked on while Sergius showboated for the crowd. The arena staff
helped both Gorgon and his monstrous partner onto their feet, escorting them to
the infirmary. “He spared another life,” the trident-wielding fighter whispered
to Billy. “During all the times I’ve fought alongside him, I’ve never
seen Serge kill an opponent in my presence.”
Before
Billy could further analyze Serge’s motives, the rugged shout of “YOU!” split
the air. Having received the brunt of that particular tone from many different
exes over the course of his life, Billy knew the ‘you’ in question was him.
The
stern guard pushed past the ref. Bren flashed Billy a look. Don’t say
anything stupid, it told him. Billy, naturally, had already prepared at
least five stupid things to say.
“On
the honor of the Praetor, you are to be put to the sword for your interference.
We demand your head!”
Ugh, cops. “Which…head?” Billy asked, primed
to blast house music from his smart phone; the tried-and-true ‘make them think
you’re a god’ gimmick. And shit, which Praetor!? His eyes turned upwards
to the creep in the toga, but the man had already fled the scene, leaving his
guards to deal with the rabble.
The
guard narrowed his eyes, as if he couldn’t decide if Billy were mad, or a
moron, or a bit of Ionic column A, and Doric column B. “On the orders of his
supreme augustness, Lucius Cornelius Sulla Felix.”
Sulla? Oh, he’s a bastard—a tyrant who loved his coups. History
hasn’t changed much since.
As
always, Billy did not understand the depths of the deep shit in which he stood.
And, as always, Billy was rescued by an inordinate amount of underserved luck,
and a man who could bench press him.
Serge
came marching over, kicking sand in his wake. “WAIT! Wait, my good man! I claim
the miscreant as my prize.”
“Miscreant?”
the time traveler balked. “Prize? Buddy, I am not just some object to
be—”
Billy
found himself in Serge’s shadow, which likewise dwarfed even the praetorian
guard. Serge leered down at him, with an aura of discipline and menace. “You defy me, boy?”
Billy
puckered (and not just his mouth). “No, sir.”
With
that, Serge picked Billy up from beneath his legs and scooped him into a
princess carry, already hauling him towards destination unknown. The praetorian
guard looked as if he wanted very much to say something. For that matter, so
did Bren, who reluctantly handed Billy his backpack before it was left behind in
the dust.
This is so wicked awesome that this keeps happening to me, Billy thought, as he tried very hard not to drool all over himself. Only his last remaining shred of situational awareness reminded him that he’d been literally swept off his feet in front of the man who admired Serge most. Granted, Billy had only known Brennus for exactly five minutes, but the code of homosexuals transcended time and space—and the highest edict was this: spilled tea was thicker than blood. Billy was many things, but a man-stealer he was not!
Then again, a little horseplay in the hypogeum isn’t
exactly stealing now, is it?
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