Part 11 – Opportunities
Lucius (II) - November 21.
Ten gold cloaks marched in a loose formation through King's Landing around the mounted Tribune and his guide for this business excursion, the rat terrier like Allar Deem; a high priced thug with barely a word of Greek, or 'Valyrian' as they called it in this weird new land. At least the messenger sent by the Master of Coin, riding slightly ahead of his escorts, had, like his lord, a reasonable grasp of the lingua franca of the Middle Sea. Lucius enjoyed the sights of his first trip out of the Red Keep and down into the metropolis below it, but unfortunately had to observe it at only a superficial level. The primary focus of his attention was on replaying the pair of meetings he had already held with Petyr Baelish in the last two days. The negotiation for an agreement on the Legion's service was clearly important, but the haggling down to the last piece of silver lacked a sense of urgency on the Roman's part because ultimately he knew the King coveted the legion, and after his Herculean like outburst upon his wife the day of their arrival, the Rex likely now need them quite badly. The sticking points in the talks were the Romans' desire for land and titles of nobility for the senior officers. Nevertheless the Tribune thought smugly, it was the Master of Coin's responsibility to deliver us to Rex Hercules, or else face his not inconsiderable wrath.
The group of a baker's dozen entered a large square filled full of vendors, customers, gawkers, and scum. The gold cloaks maneuvered their three mounted charges obliquely to the right through the crowd, which separated with gratifying quickness for the city watch, and entered a long street that lead toward the hill crowned by the great collapsed domed building near as impressive in size as the Flavian Amphitheater in Rome. No, the true importance of the today's game was the intelligence Lucius gathered from it about the Seven Kingdoms. Granted so far he had mostly gained just the perspective of one man, but the bureaucrat, despite his casually flippant persona, contained a clever intellect and a deep reservoir of knowledge all wrapped up in an ironic sense of his own superiority. The diminutive man was beholden to the crown for his sinecure, yet by the discreet wealth displayed on his person, he undoubtedly used the position to enlarge himself in this savage kingdom where the demonstration of martial prowess appeared the norm for socially rising above the Head Count and secondary ranks of classes.
As they approached the foot of the hill, the denizens of the street seemed to grow seedier and the gold cloaks became more wary, until after barely setting up the elevation the escort turned left on to a somewhat narrower thoroughfare. Passing along the curve of the prominent rise, the quality of the buildings began to improve until when the other side of the hill was reached, actual villas and small open spaces started to appear, interrupting the monotony of shops and apartment buildings constructed wall to wall. At last Baelish's messenger turned beneath an arch in a wall bordering an immaculate stucco mansion, and trod up a ground seashell path between two fountains spurting water high above an immaculate lawn toward the two story edifice built into the hillside. The gold cloaks, like well-behaved children, lined up against the interior side of the villa wall, taking up relaxed positions, even sitting down, apparently familiar behavior for a place they must frequently visit. Several grooms quickly appeared on the ground seashell path to take control of Lucius' steed, a favor he appreciated, as while riding in a traditional toga was not so difficult, for dismounting unaided, even with the new stirrups, when wearing a toga proved a challenge for maintaining a level of dignity appropriate for a Senator of Rome.
At the front door, guarded by several bodyguards only notable for the aura of brainless toughness they projected, a dapper steward met him and Allar Deem; however, only Lucius was escorted up the brilliant white marble stairs made more vibrant with swirls of grey and green permeating the stone. Nothing he saw while progressing further into the domicile seemed overly garish. Immense wealth shown everywhere, though displayed with a refined elegance from the statues on small tables to the tapestries on the walls and through the delicate mosaics made of subtly colored stone and glass lining the floor. As the steward tapped politely on the door to the inner sanctum of Lord Baelish's mansion, if not his personal empire, the Tribune believed he understood the message being delivered to him. 'What message shall I deliver in return?' he pondered.
"Enter," called the now familiar voice, underlain, as appeared his normal want, with a tone of light amusement at the world. The door opened to reveal a moderately sized room dominated by several sofas and a large mahogany desk strewn with scrolls. The well groomed, exactly tailored Master of Coin stood in front of the desk, waiting to greet him. "Tribune Lucius Pomponius Bassus, welcome to my modest council hall."
"Thank you Lord Baelish. I thought we would meet in the Small Council's rooms again, but I found the journey here stimulating and your home most gracious," the Roman replied politely.
"I thought you might, and our conversation will not be disrupted so by the crash of arms at practice in the keep. The quiet here is more salubrious for the speaking of deep thoughts," the Master of Coin answered with a hint of a knowing smirk.
Lucius tipped his head in acknowledgement that the only spies listening here would be in the pay of his host. He continued the courteous fiction, "My apologies Titus Sidonius and Publius Postumius did not accompany me," for of course Lord Baelish's invitation had been explicitly addressed to just the Tribune, their leader and the only one of the three completely fluent in Valyrian. "They thought it best to stay behind with the cohort and make sure the needs of the men were being met."
"Leadership is a burden seldom put aside," his host agreed.
Lucius nodded and inquired solicitously, "How is the King?"
Lord Baelish shrugged ever so slightly. "He grieves. The Queen's betrayal has injured him deeply, wounded his pride. And to have done so with her own brother, tsk, tsk, tsk; just like the mad Targaryens whom the King fought so valiantly to overthrow, simply scandalous. He may be in his cups for months drowning his sorrow."
The Tribune nodded his head in the appearance of sage, saddened agreement at the statements his host made in self-evident tones of false sincerity. Nevertheless the man's words caused thoughts of how the first Caesar ended the Ptolemies' reign of sibling marriage in Egypt and of how Emperor Claudius, in the time of the Lucius' grandfathers, dealt with the treachery of his wife Valeria Messalina to flit across his mind. "An abomination, no doubt. Incest is a vile crime in Rome, requiring the harshest retribution," he responded sternly. "A ruler needs loyalty. We Romans understand loyalty."
"And are your men's needs being met? Your needs?" the Master of Coin deftly turned the conversation.
Lucius smiled, "King's Landing is much better than sleeping under tents and eating field rations."
"Oh forgive me," Lord Baelish spoke with the sound of sincerity. "I am a poor host. Let us sit and enjoy refreshments." He turned to his desk and picked up a small bell which he rang. A door in the side of the room opened, revealing a brief glimpse of a bed chamber beyond. Two smiling women, one with red hair artfully coiled atop her head, milky skin and freckles and the other of a light bronze complexion with thick luxurious ebony hair swooping to her slender waist, entered carrying a tray with two glasses and a tray with two carafes of wine.
The Tribune allowed himself a smile of pleasure at the contrived act playing out before him, all the while suppressing the urge to laugh in the small man's face at the transparency of his ploy. The two youthful beauties sported gossamer thin robes, more than hinting at the fecund curve of hips and jutting of firm breasts, but outright revealing the shade of their Venus mounds and their denarii sized areolas. Lucius remained flaccid in the presence of this visual assault. The deprivation from over a month's lack of companionship caused by campaigning with the Legion did not even start to dint the armor of his willpower. "Ahhhh," he sighed, reaching out a welcoming hand. "Is this another of that red vintage? What did you call it yesterday Lord Baelish? Arbor? Made from an extraordinary grape, never have I tasted the like." He clasped a carafe and poured a full glass of the maroon shaded wine. He picked it up, swirling it under his nose. The aroma temporarily blocking the delicate, yet pervasive perfume wafting off the servers' nubile bodies. Finally he stared the woman in the eye, saying a curt, "Thank you;" no expression of gratitude in his gaze.
The Master of Coin took a glass himself and they both sipped.
"No, not the Arbor. More earthy, not so fruity." Lucius smiled at his host. "Delicious."
"I am glad you are a connoisseur, Tribune Lucius," he replied, returning the smile.
"I am a man of many tastes, Lord Petyr. Reds, whites. War, peace. Land, fame. Gold, silver. Each offers its own particular enjoyment, but all are rewarding." 'Hook baited. Will he nibble?' the Tribune wondered.
The mark waived his hand at the two minnows he had tried to chum the water with, dismissing them. "Please sit Tribune Lucius. The wine is from Volantis, let us enjoy it while we bargain."
The Tribune took a proffered seat. "Strange names for this strange land we Romans find ourselves in. Hopefully the metal of coins is not so different though. What did you think of the quality of the silver denarii I gave you yesterday."
The Master of Coin reached into a pocket and pulled out several denarii bearing the likeness of the Emperor Trajan, as well as some differently minted coins. He flipped one of the unknown specie over to the Tribune who caught it, seeing the emblem of a stag embossed on the slightly pockmarked silver surface. "That is a 'Silver Stag'," the small man explained. "The difference in weight between it and your coin is only a few drams, nothing of consequence really."
"Yes, but how much does it buy here, in King's Landing?"
"A competent journeyman, depending on his craft, can earn eight to ten stags a week in the city and live decently. Out beyond the walls, several days journey away in a decent sized village, where a journeyman is as good as a self-proclaimed master guildsman, perhaps only four or five, though prices for whatever a peasant deems essential would be much less too."
Lucius nodded his head in understanding at the simple description of markets both rural and urban. "Then ten stags a week per Legionnaire and seven for each Auxiliary seems a reasonable wage for my soldiers," he declared.
"Lucius, Lucius, Lucius, your greed wounds me. You said yourself yesterday your men earn three hundred denarii a year. Being generous, that rates to only six stags a week. Do you seek to rob the King or do you claim each of your cut throats is a journeyman?"
Lucius smiled coldly, though inside he felt pleased at how the game progressed. "Please, Lord Petyr, each one is a master killer on the battlefield. Only in peaceful pursuits do they qualify as humble journeymen smiths, engineers, coopers, millers, teamsters, and the like. Our skills and labor will be a veritable bargain for King Robert. I myself have many talents to offer," he added, putting more bait in the water.
His host stood. "I think we may be bargaining a long time today to purchase this plethora of abilities you espouse. They may be costly, but I must admit I am intrigued. May I pour you more wine?"
November 23.
Lucius felt it in his bones that not only did the limit of the Legion's future success somehow hinge on the evening's coming dinner, but so did the boundary for his own ascendency. He adjusted the purple border of his white senatorial toga against his long, trim torso just so, making sure the folds revealed the lean, well defined muscles of his forearms and calves at their finest. He peered down his aquiline nose at the reflection in the mirror, showing brown eyes and a magnificent head of jet black hair, with the first distinguishing hints of grey at the sides, combed into a virile yet becoming style. From his previous encounters with the man, nothing about the night's host suggested a natural preference for female company. Yet in this strange new world could he be certain of the signals? The quiet gestures common to a secretive legionnaire seeking manly companionship varied in countless ways both subtle and obvious from those of a Palatine Hill voluptuarian or a reserved Esquiline Hill shopkeep or a strapping Subura youth or a mincing actor or a slave seeking favors from his master. Lucius likely risked everything if he guessed wrong tonight.
At last satisfied he appeared every inch a patrician Roman, the Tribune stepped through the curtain separating his tiny cubicle from the common room granted the Second Cohort at one end in the lower level of the gold cloaks' barracks in the Red Keep. He nodded greeting as he passed near to the swarthy, heavily tanned Centurion Titus Sidoniusand a few of the more promising rankers he had made note of on their odyssey into King's Landing. The grapevine worked fast in the tight knit cohort; every legionnaire already knew Lucius Pomponius Bassus job was to negotiate a contract, so no man seemed surprised to see the Tribune exit the barracks at dusk wearing the ceremonial garment that proclaimed him a Roman citizen and by its purple border particularly as one of the six hundred citizens privileged enough to be a Senator.
He climbed the serpentine steps leading from the basement entrance to the barracks up toward Maegor's Holdfast, where Lord Renly kept an apartment. During the ascent he passed several descending minor lordlings, hailing two who he was familiar with. All of them gawked at his classic Roman garb, which amused Lucius for these same men thought nothing unusual at seeing the wildly dyed hairs of one from the Free Cities. Watching the unimpressive display of Westerosi nobility go by, his thoughts next turned to the fact that for all the apparent size of the Seven Kingdoms, its Royal Court seemed extraordinarily small and parochial. Rome, though ruled for over a century by Emperors, nevertheless still surged with a vibrant political life, where factions merged and shifted based on a senator's or magistrate's or knight's personal ideology or coldly calculated self-interest. Yet since arriving in King's Landing, Lucius had discovered paltry evidence of any recognizable partisan groupings. True, with the sudden death of the Queen, many a Lannister supporter now resided in the Red Keep's dungeon or had fled the city outright, but the King's Hand was foolishly not taking an active role in replacing them. In fact the dour lord of House Stark, paramount over one of the so called Seven Kingdoms, seemed to have no clients or even any allies in the city. How foolish! And neither did any of the other Patrician Houses whose names he had soon learned of: Tully, Arryn, Martell, or Tyrell. They all lacked any permanent presence at court. Not a soul to represent their rights and privileges before the King and his Small Council. The Baratheons, or their clients, including apparently the King's hapless friend Stark, dominated the entire Small Council. Tonight's dinner would hopefully be the start of leveraging this imprudent structure of government to the Legion's and his own advantage.
A smile threatened Lucius as he remembered his meeting two days earlier at the villa of Lord Baelish. Oh the Master of Coin, who seemed to grip much of the Seven Kingdom's bureaucracy tightly in his immaculately groomed hands, certainly acted like one wanting to rise as far as Fortune would take him. The Tribune, despite his classic patrician birth and upbringing, would never be so foolish as to scoff at the importance of money, which Baelish evidently managed, and advantageously distributed and redistributed, for Rex Hercules and his own uses. But clearly the grasping little man lacked the lineage and gravitas necessary to make of himself an acceptable ally for any of the Patrician Houses. The nobility viewed him nothing more than an upstart, an ill bred, but occasionally useful Mushroom. Mushrooms only grow well hidden away, Lord Baelish's future was limited the Tribune decided. Though he would conscientiously cultivate that fungus, but make sure it never actually passed his palate, in case the Mushroom proved poisonous.
The nurturing proceeded well so far. In addition to nearly settling on an acceptable financial remuneration for at least five full years of the Legion's service, Baelish had unwittingly revealed many interesting tidbits about the missing member of the Small Council; the Master of Ships, the King's brother and new heir: Stannis Baratheon. A bilious, honor bound, legal stickler, who sounded to the Tribune of similar character to that the tales described for Cato the Younger; of whom the only thing more frustrating than being his enemy was being his ally. And more importantly, he thought, at last reaching the top of the twisting stairs to enter the Lower Bailey and approach the bridge over the Holdfast's moat, a man not well loved by either his elder brother the King nor by this evening's host, Stannis' younger brother, and next in line to the throne after him, Renly Baratheon.
Lucius'stomach knotted for a second as a pretty young squire, skin so soft he mustn't yet shave, opened the door and allowed the Tribune, wearing the mask of a welcoming but not over eager smile, to stride into a sumptuous apartment. Tonight he must tread as surely and delicately as a cat on a battlement strewn with broken glass a full hundred feet above a field of sharpened stakes. 'Let the game begin,' the Roman thought as he etched a short bow, saying, "Lord Renly, a pleasure."
The Westerosi royal prince stepped close, open face smiling broadly. The young man stood a few inches taller than the Tribune, but nowhere near the half foot advantage his brother the King held over the taller than average Roman. The Master of Laws, while undoubtedly solidly constructed, also lacked Rex Hercules' massive girth, wine sodden complexion, and beard. Those differences aside, Lucious imagined Renly bore a freakish similarity to a young, vigorous Robert. Deep blue eyes rested above the man's warm smile. But they were eyes the Tribune couldn't help notice with satisfaction that also took in the expanse of naked, muscular flesh his toga left uncovered. "Welcome to my happy little sanctuary, Lord Lucius," the Young Stag, dressed per usual in green, graciously returned the greeting while extending a hand to him Westerosi style.
The Tribune readily responded to the custom and met Renly's hand with his own. The Young Stag's grip was firm, but not near as strong as Lucius', and seemed to last slightly longer than the propriety of the situation warranted. Westerosi custom again or a more subtle signal, the Roman pondered. Perhaps Renly did not limit his appetite to only beautiful boys like Loras Tyrell or his squire.
"Harbert," the Young Stag called out. "Please check that the dinner is spread out on the server and then bring us two glasses of that sweet Reach red. After, take the rest of the evening off; Lord Lucius and I will gladly serve ourselves."
"A pleasure to have your august figure all to myself," Lucius thanked the Young Stag effusively. Renly grinned boyishly at the praise. "When I received your amiable invitation, milord, I was surprised. I thought you'd surely be spending tonight in celebration with your former squire, brave Ser Loras, before he takes the responsibility on the morrow of becoming one of your brother's trusted Kingsguard."
An indecipherable look quickly passed over the Young Stag's face. Regret? Loneliness? Anticipation? "We seem to have such a natural rapport, Lord Lucius," Renly drawled; "I forget how much you Romans have still to learn about the Seven Kingdoms. Becoming a Kingsguard requires the swearing of awesome oaths before the Seven. Tonight he and his brothers-to-be will share unsleeping vigils in the Red Keep's Sept to cleanse their bodies and spirits in preparation for the ceremony." Renly then chuckled lightly, "Someone as … impure as myself would surely only pervert such a gods ordained purpose if I attended. Oh thank you, Harbert," he said interrupting the gentle mockery of his own piety to accept a glass of wine and drink deeply. "Ahhh, that's good."
The Tribune courteously accepted a glass and took a sip too. He found the wine cloying, but gave a dutiful simper in appreciation of the vintage. "We do have so much to learn about your kingdom. I doubt before long many a Legionnaire will start to worship with you and your Seven. Soldiers are by nature a superstitious lot; and with our … unusual journey to Westeros, I think many of them will feel safer by taking to your godhood, the gods of Westeros."
The Young Stag smiled cheerily at the Tribune's words. Then the outer door to the apartment closed, the squire now gone, leaving the Lucius alone with the second in line to the Iron Throne. "And yourself, Lord Lucius? Whom do you believe in?" asked Renly a tad huskily.
"Why like any proud Roman, I believe in the mysterious elder gods who created the shades of my first ancestors. But because I believe in myself most of all, I worship at the altar of Fortune."
"How interesting," Renly murmured. "Tell me more, Lucius."
"I think you would call her Luck. And while many a man may, for a time, make his own luck; she can be, like many a woman, fickle with her affections," Lucius said with a smile, causing the Young Stag to briefly snigger in amusement. Then his voice turned serious, almost prophetic, "Unless Fortune has marked your soul as one of her chosen." The Tribune emphasized his pronouncement by stepping forward and laying a hand on Renly's chest. The Young Stag made no attempt to break away from the spell the Tribune cast on him.
"But, if I may be so bold, your Grace," continued Lucius, staring deeply into the Young Stag's blue eyes, while raising the hand up from his chest to rest it gently on Renly's shoulder. "I believe this natural rapport you feel between us milord comes from our shared blessing in Luck. Fortune cloaks us with her sign. Declaring us beloved by the gods, superior to other mortals, bound for greatness."
"Yes, yes," whispered Renly in agreement.
Lucius hand slid like a caress along the ridge of Renly's strongly muscled shoulder to the back of his neck and gripped it firmly. "I am chosen. And I chose you because Fortune chose you too."
Renly's eyes grew wide, looking straight through Lucius to whatever visions of the future he had always dreamed for himself. But the Young Stag did not resist the pressure the Roman applied to his neck, drawing his face down toward that of the handsome Tribune's. When their lips touched, Renly gave a small jerk of surprise as his wandering mind returned to his physical body. For a half second he froze, till a surge of passion and need burned through him, and then his hands and lips urgently grabbed back at Lucius in return.
November 24.
The light from the sole candle burning in Renly's bedroom only offered Lucius a shadowy view of the Young Stag's lanky, sleeping body while the Roman carefully wrapped himself in the long cloth his toga. The content smile on the exuberant youth's slumbering face matched the mood Lucius began to hide behind the stoic mask he now reassembled to present the world. Almost two years since he had last indulged this passion, a week before leaving to take ship in Ostia and join the Ninth Spanish Legion. Britannia and legion life, particularly for a Tribune and Senator seeking to rise high in the Empire, had offered no safe opportunity to relax his personal discipline and practice the sensual arts.
'Ah, the sensual arts,' Lucius thought, shivering slightly as he remembered that night on the Esquiline Hill, above Gnaeus Lepidius' modest rug shop; tying the young merchant's slight, boyish body up and owning every inch of his flesh. The Tribune lowered his gaze to see Renly's still half erect cock and restrained a condescending smirk. Rome had much to teach the Westerosi, including how to properly pleasure a man. He could only imagine the awkwardness of the first uncertain, fumbling kiss between a teenaged Renly and his first squire, the extremely pretty, new-to-be Kingsguard; let alone the clumsiness the first time that Flower was plucked. Renly, for all his enthusiasm, which admittedly did count strongly in his favor, truly lacked any sense of sophistication, nuance, or flare for experimentation in his approach to coupling.
Oh earlier that day, when anticipating the possible outcomes of the night, Lucius had seriously wondered who would dominate any carnal activities were it to occur between them. As a patrician and a physically imposing man for a Roman, the Tribune had naturally controlled the pace and roles of his every past encounter with a male partner. But Renly's even more imposing physical and social stature had begged the possibility of the Roman experiencing a reversal to his known pattern, until Lucius' initial encounter with the eager to be loved youth revealed the man-child's inexperience and allowed the Roman to use his hands and mouth to leave the Young Stag gasping in pleasure and a quick release. The muscular lord recovered his hardness with an impressive display of youthful vitality, requiring Lucius to satisfy him twice more before the Tribune could partake of his own fleshly reward; apparently in a way Renly had never received before, though appeared to thoroughly enjoy.
Much quiet talking and wine drinking then took place before the two embarked on their next indulgence of physical delight. Like a neophyte or a smitten child, Renly held back little in his pillow talk; leaving Lucius to the role of mentor and validator. The man behaved much like a lapdog, whoring for attention and the constant reassurance he was loved and special. First the Young Stag, no the 'Young Pup' Lucius decided, as the name seemed more apt to his persona, needed gentle guidance to comfort him that the night's merging of two of Fortune's favorites did not render his love for the Knight of Flowers somehow tainted. So the Roman spun a web of how the Gods clearly demanded this intertwining of their two favorites Fortune laden life threads; and who were they to deny now, or even in the future, what fate ordained. Afterward, the Young Pup unhesitatingly disclosed revealing tidbits about his complicated relationships with his brothers the hero and the scold, his plans to bind Loras tighter to himself through his sister Margaery, the likelihood of war with the despised Lannisters, the release that day of a Raven to Highgarden summoning the Reach's host, and his own schedule for bringing an army of Baratheon, Penrose, Buckler, Errol, Fell, Grandison, and Connington bannermen out of the Stormlands to earn him everlasting glory against the traitors of Casterly Rock.
And whenever Renly's thoughts strayed too far a field or he became over agitated, Lucius' words or fingers or lips kept refocusing him, until in the end the Young Pup simply had to perform some of the new tricks the Roman had so skillfully, so erotically taught him earlier. The Tribune hoped the rest of the barbarian Westerosi would prove as easy to conquer as this ill trained boy. At last satisfied with the dignity of his appearance reflected by the bedroom's vainly over large mirror, Lucius slipped out into the parlor of his host's apartment. As he reached the door leading to the halls of the Holdfast, the Tribune supposed Ser Loras Tyrell would be in for a treat the next time the Knight of Flowers trysted with his Stag. Would the knight guess where his lover's new found skill in playing with blades came from? Opening the portal, he discovered Renly's young squire curled up asleep on the cold marble tile at the foot of the archway. 'Perhaps handsome Harbert will be happily surprised too,' Lucius pondered.
November 25.
The Centurion and the Watch Commander strode up in their gear, still sweaty from having drilled throughout the morning with the Second Cohort.
"Why'd you ask us to this back corner of the Keep, Tribune?" Titus Sidonius grumbled.
"The tower behind me is known as the Kitchen Keep," the Tribune announced.
"I already ate with the men," the Centurion remonstrated, as his classic Roman nose sniffed at the air for any aroma of food.
"No, we are not here to dine Titus Sidonius. We've been invited on a most promising tour of the Keep's hidden treasures by Lord Renly."
"Why?" the Centurion asked baldly.
"Well, Publius Postumius may remember, but during our march to King's Landing, his lordship mentioned that the dynasty Rex Hercules overthrew to become King once owned dragons as pets," Lucius Pomponius Bassus answered with a suggestion of humor in his voice.
"No! Dragons?!" scoffed the Centurion.
"I assure you Titus Sidonius, those were his very words. Weren't they, Watch Commander?" asked the Tribune, amused at the reaction from the stolid, older man.
"Hard though it was to believe him, Centurion," agreed Publius Postumius, "that was in fact what he said. And the giant, ruined amphitheater you can see to the northwest off the parapet is where these creatures supposedly lived." Then turning to address the Tribune, he continued. "I take it the Lord Renly now intends to show us the skulls of these beasts?"
"Exactly," Lucius proclaimed. "I reminded him of his promise last night, during the feast to celebrate his old squire's acceptance into Rex Hercules' Kingsguard. He said he'd meet us here when the sun reached its zenith."
Titus Sidonius squinted up at the sky, looked over his shoulder back through the narrow gap from where in the Outer Yard he'd just come, and finally gazed along the space between the river side outer wall of the Red Keep and the end of the Great Hall. In a disappointed sounding voice, the Centurion muttered "Well if the baby face drinks anything like his brother, we might not see him till dusk."
"That might be so," Publius Postumius conceded. "Was the King there too last night, Lucius Pomponius?"
The Tribune nodded his head yes while his face took on a dour aspect at mention of the King.
"How did Rex Hercules appear?" Publius Postumius continued. "Was he sober? Does he look well?"
For the next few minutes, while they waited to see if their tour guide would appear, the three Romans discussed the apparent deteriorating condition of the King and the threat it presented to assuring the Legion's future. The Tribune reassured his fellow officers that with a war looming, thanks to the Rex himself, their services would be necessary regardless of who was king. At last Lucius spied over the heads of his shorter compatriots a tall green clad puppy and a short mushroom garbed in black carrying on an animated conversation as they passed around the outbuildings constructed into the long side of the Great Hall and approached the so called Kitchen Keep.
Stopping in front of the Romans, Lord Renly's normally open, friendly face announced with some petulance, "Apologies Tribune Lucius for my delayed arrival," and his Young Pup blue eyes momentarily narrowed and darted to the slender presence of the Master of Fungus. "I trust you were not inconvenienced?"
"No milord," the Roman answered smoothly, forcing a cheery smile to his lips. "And a pleasure to see you brought Lord Baelish. As you can see, I too could not resist sharing this momentous occasion without my comrades in arms."
Renly's answering smile was barely skin deep. "Yes, splendid," he replied curtly. "No time like the present then. If you will follow me?" And without waiting for an answer Renly Baratheon's long legs moved toward the entrance of the tower built into the external wall of the Red Keep.
Following directly behind the Young Pup into the Kitchen Keep, Lucius suspected Renly's sulky behavior must come from having his hope of a return engagement between the two, in a secluded locale, dashed by the presence of others. The Tribune hid his smug satisfaction at the thought of how much the boy must crave his cock and tongue. Then he watched as the Young Pup stopped at a niche next to the top of a set of spiraling stairs, picked up a lit taper, and used it to ignite a prepared torch resting in a metal socket above the taper.
Down and around and around the small assembly trod, descending until the stairs brought them into a large cellar which the flickering, smoky flame revealed to be filled with casks. The Tribune stared about, looking for any sign of the long dead mythical monsters, but only noted in the long shadows cast within the stygian cellar a vaulted stone ceiling above and large archways to passageways at either end. The Young Pup paused and clearly considered which of the two corridors to take.
"Oh really, Renly," Lord Baelish sputtered condescendingly, "it's this way." And off the Mushroom decisively walked into the darkness natural to his specie, heading Lucius thought in what might be the general direction of Maegor's Holdfast.
"Very well," the Young Pup whimpered quietly, unhappy to cede leadership of the party to the Mushroom, but following after him none the less.
Lord Baelish counted a loud at each overly large door they passed in the long, dank passageway, at last coming to a halt. The torch light revealed a toothy grin on the short man's ferret like face. He pushed on the wide door and with a creak it swung open. "Behold the lost wonders of the Targaryens," he proclaimed dramatically.
Lucius, as the senior of the Romans, stepped first into the darkness and saw … barely a thing. "Ahhh," he droned hesitantly.
Realizing the problem, the Mushroom sighed loudly. "The torch, Renly. Wouldn't want them walking into Vhagar, or I dare say Balerion, would we?"
The Young Pup cleared his throat, then stepped inside himself, sending light into the enormous storage room and casting shadows of gigantic reptilian skulls and teeth on the walls.
"Jove's hairy balls!" swore Titus Sidonius loudly, drowning out Lucius' own gasp of "Fortuna bless me." Publius Postumius merely whistled in amazement.
Pointing at the largest monster, the Centurion next cried, "That one could swallow an aurochs whole."
Not understanding his Latin, but seeing which dragon drew the Roman's attention, Lord Baelish declared, "That would be Balerion."
"He was the largest of the Targaryen's pets," interjected Lord Renly.
"Those teeth!" the Tribune exclaimed.
"Long as a sword, aren't they?" agreed Renly, gaining a smidge of enthusiasm from the Romans excited reaction to the dragon bones.
"Milord?" the Watch Commander queried with awe and respect. "How long did these beasts grow?"
As if in competition, and Lucius more and more realized the two Westerosi must think they were, Lord Baelish cut in, "Grand Maester Munkin says black Balerion was a hundred feet long and two centuries old when he finally died."
Lucius stepped over to a moderately less imposing skull, but one which could still have gobbled him in a single bit, and caressed a hand along the cool bone. "Our legends say such beasts as these could exhale fire and fly," whispered the Tribune.
Renly stepped next to him, closely. "It's true. On flame and wing did Aegon the Conqueror and his sister Queens Visenya and Rhaenys lead the Targaryen army to victory across Westeros, taking the Seven Kingdoms," he said huskily.
"They flew on the beasts?" Lucius asked with wonder.
"Yes, the dragons liked being ridden," the Young Pup answered dreamily.
With that confirmation, the Tribune felt himself slide into almost a trance as he imagined the feel of a dragon between his legs and the wind roaring in his ears as he soared far above the earth in a sky of cobalt blue. Something started to quiver deep inside Lucius Pomponius Bassus, the eagle in his soul sought to take flight.