"Tell me that you love me." His voice was soft and quiet, breathy and flippant with the air of a satisfied lover seeking only a final confirmation that the world was at rights. The emperor of the Roman Empire traced a golden finger along the slim collar bone of the man beneath him, leaning lightly into the servant's well-formed hips. His smile suggested trivial admiration as his eyes wandered across the other's face.
Cnaeius, as he was simply known, mirrored his smile from below, if not as steady then equally as contented. He cast his pale eyes downward, following his master's ringed finger, drawing himself away from the bedroom and away from the palace with the slow, hypnotic motions. His response was honeyed, creamy, as empty as the request: "I love you." He was exhausted by the emperor's demands, both physical and emotional -- his desire for a willing partner, a caring partner, above all an eager slave required a relentless facade. One slip of the jaw or twist of the lips and his pride would descend heavily upon the unlucky offender; the upkeep of such a mask was far more draining than any bodily performance the emperor could command. Cnaeius had become quite adept.
Commodus sighed and, having pulled himself slowly off of the other man, dealt him a kiss to the temple before nestling into the other side of the bed. His back was turned, and soon he was asleep, half-curled around any number of the cushions that adorned his vast, open chamber.
Cnaeius, who knew his role, stepped silently out of bed and retrieved his tunic. The horror of his position had long ago seared his mind, and now he felt it hardly at all, but tonight something else had slashed at him, something not unlike horror, but more poignant, sweet like rotting fruit. He glanced over his shoulder rather than immediately remove himself, as was his custom, and halted.
The small figure sleeping peacefully was reminiscent of a boy, shrunken into himself, in need ... in need of what? The empty pallet on which he rested was not a barren, frigid platform, as for a moment it had seemed, but the finest that Rome could offer, the wages of a hundred men compressed into one room, one object thought of little if at all by its owner.
The power that it embodied, the power that was the emperor's, was also his isolation. His utter need. And he embraced it with the young and strapping arms that time had not yet been able to corrupt, and he pulled it close to his heart and bound it as tightly as he was able to his being, all the while struggling against it. He did not realize. He would not realize.
Cnaeius left, uncaring and uncared for, unsure.
Cnaeius, as he was simply known, mirrored his smile from below, if not as steady then equally as contented. He cast his pale eyes downward, following his master's ringed finger, drawing himself away from the bedroom and away from the palace with the slow, hypnotic motions. His response was honeyed, creamy, as empty as the request: "I love you." He was exhausted by the emperor's demands, both physical and emotional -- his desire for a willing partner, a caring partner, above all an eager slave required a relentless facade. One slip of the jaw or twist of the lips and his pride would descend heavily upon the unlucky offender; the upkeep of such a mask was far more draining than any bodily performance the emperor could command. Cnaeius had become quite adept.
Commodus sighed and, having pulled himself slowly off of the other man, dealt him a kiss to the temple before nestling into the other side of the bed. His back was turned, and soon he was asleep, half-curled around any number of the cushions that adorned his vast, open chamber.
Cnaeius, who knew his role, stepped silently out of bed and retrieved his tunic. The horror of his position had long ago seared his mind, and now he felt it hardly at all, but tonight something else had slashed at him, something not unlike horror, but more poignant, sweet like rotting fruit. He glanced over his shoulder rather than immediately remove himself, as was his custom, and halted.
The small figure sleeping peacefully was reminiscent of a boy, shrunken into himself, in need ... in need of what? The empty pallet on which he rested was not a barren, frigid platform, as for a moment it had seemed, but the finest that Rome could offer, the wages of a hundred men compressed into one room, one object thought of little if at all by its owner.
The power that it embodied, the power that was the emperor's, was also his isolation. His utter need. And he embraced it with the young and strapping arms that time had not yet been able to corrupt, and he pulled it close to his heart and bound it as tightly as he was able to his being, all the while struggling against it. He did not realize. He would not realize.
Cnaeius left, uncaring and uncared for, unsure.