Robert Fabbri: The Dreams of Morpheus

A shudder went through those of the Suburra closest to Rufinus’ century as they saw the threat just paces from them.

Magnus signalled his brothers to withdraw, filtering back through the looser edges of the melee as, with a change of timbre to the roars, a section of the Suburra split off to attack the century that had formed up as if on the side of their opponents – just as they had been told it would.

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?’