Caesar watched. He did it with the kind of concentration that hurt, where red pain spiraled behind his eyes, down his spine to his balls. His body tensed, which only hurt more, and he stood quivering, cock achingly hard, glad for the heavy cloak. At a silent command, ten soldiers from the Vi Ferrata moved with perfect symmetry, all but two forming a single line at the bed's foot. The roaring hearth fire breathed over their bronze armor, catching the wolves that snarled across the helmets and the nine shields lined against the wall. Under the wolves: the inscription, Fidelis Constans. Loyal and steady, words the poets said Ares -- or Mars, as he was now known -- spoke at Troy in defense against his father's attack.
Tonight, disloyalty punished with steady strokes. No one organized a rebellion against Rome and lived, especially some provincial upstart nursed at the imperial breast. Imagine this pathetic little Gaul thinking he could defeat Caesar, ruler of the known world. With his Icarian ambitions, Orgetorix brought death to the other Helvetii. Because of him, crows feasted on a hundred bodies crucified along the Rhine's grey shores. Nothing could save Orgetorix now, not even the fool's divine protector, a thousand leagues away, distracted by a battle between the Sequani and Roman troops. Caesar had seen to that.
His eyes never wavered from the traitor's face, hypnotized by it, but with his right hand, he caressed the mural at his back. It dominated the room, covering the whole wall behind Orgetorix's bed, a vast, colorful depiction of Ares and Aphrodite in bed. Only the goddess lay behind Ares, on her side, and appeared only as a smooth curved hip that could've been anyone, including a handsome young Gallic soldier. Caesar knew what part of the god his fingers touched: the thick cock this upstart Gaul had sucked to get this far.
The tight clenched fist of jealousy hit him again. No one ignored Caesar. Kings went down for him, emperors, generals. Everyone but this damn god, who never once came to him. Then to find out that Ares was fucking this barbarian, after everything he'd done to court him... It was an insult. He'd rededicated the god's temple on the Appian way, offered his sister's son to the flamen martialis, presided every year at the festival of Mars Invictus. His apartments both in Rome and Vesontio were filled with tributes to the god: mosaic images on the atrium floor, busts in every niche, and statues by Quintus Bassus guarding both bedrooms. Around his neck, under his tunic, he wore a necklace, and hanging from it, the sword and shield, symbols of Ares. Every night he lay awake, waiting, and every night no one came to him, until he called one of his own men just before sunrise. Things were about to change. Ares just needed incentive.
"Now," Caesar said softly.
Orgetorix widened his eyes, but couldn't scream against the gag, couldn't struggle with his arms bound under him. His naked body, smooth in the Roman way, gleamed ivory under the tigered light, but Caesar's men, well-trained, showed no lust, even as the two flanking the bed each took a pale leg and tugged the traitor open. The first of the seven stepped forward, tucking his leather tunic into his belt. His cock, long and red, hung between his thighs, and he stroked it a few times, then spit on his hands. Orgetorix craned his neck to see Caesar, eyes flaring anger.
He smiled down at him and caressed one shaven cheek. "Begin," he told the men, keeping his hand there to feel the shudder as the soldier rammed his cock in. "I think you'd be used to it now, Orgetorix, given your little deal with Mars. Oh, you didn't think I knew about that?"
Another shudder as the guard forced himself deeper, growling at the strain. Behind him came the slap of leather, as each man bared his cock and prepared to do his duty for Rome. The scene whispered ‘familiar,' but Caesar locked down the memory and instead continued to teach Orgetorix his transgressions, while the guard punished him for them.
"Yes, I know you whored your pretty virgin ass to him so he'd help you defeat me. But I bet you didn't know it was your wife who told me. At first, I didn't believe her. You know how she convinced me? Went down on her aristocratic knees and sucked my cock. I had her suck one of my consuls, too, just to be sure. She hates you that much for betraying her."
The soldier was gasping now, pumping hard, his thrusts echoed by the clank of his sword's pommel against the bronze scales of his cuirass. Somewhere outside a bird cried, and Caesar had a man fix the shutters more tightly. This was private, this war between him and this weak slut, who needed a god to help him win his battles, unlike Caesar, who didn't need a god at all.
"He won't save you, either," he said to Orgetorix, whose skin was clammy now, oiled with sweat and pain. "I made sure of that. No one will save you. But don't worry. You might even enjoy the next few men, now that the first one has loosened you up. How does it feel to have his come in your ass? Does it feel different from a god's?"
The guard pulled his leaking cock out and went to the end of the line. A second soldier took his place up Orgetorix's ass, sliding in with wet sticky sounds on the first man's come. He took longer and went more slowly, and Orgetorix made low, desperate sounds against the gag.
"Don't get too excited," Caesar said. "We've only just started. This is going to last all night, or until you die. Whichever comes first."
With a loud, satisfied grunt, the second man grabbed the spread thighs and squeezed hard enough to leave purple bruises. Caesar had already noticed matching bruises on the inside of Orgetorix's arms, as though two thumbs had pressed down there. He'd left marks like that on a thousand men after he'd fucked them. A flesh-brand of sorts. Did Ares do that to all his lovers, or just this one?
Finished, the guard wiped his wet cock against the sheet between Orgetorix's legs, then moved back for the next soldier. This one had a cock thick as a fist, and even with the semen spilling from Orgetorix's ass, he had to thrust with violent force before he got it in. Orgetorix began to moan, and tears watered his cheeks.
"That's all it takes before you're crying like a woman?" Caesar twisted a long dark curl around his finger. "Three cocks inside you?" It was nothing, and Caesar knew it. Knew it well. Captured by pirates near Pharmacussa and held for forty days before his men paid the ransom, he'd taken it up the ass every night from dozens of men, but fed himself on plans of vengeance. Those nightly assaults turned him from a bookish virgin to the greatest ruler in history. Yet Orgetorix, not him, received divine favor. "What could a war god possibly see in you? You're handsome, but nothing special." Caesar bent down, peering at the white face, with its narrow chin, long nose and slanted blue eyes, but saw only hatred and pain. No answers. "You're weak. You're no one."
He remembered an uncle who'd cut open his mother's womb to understand who he was, where he came from, and thought of cutting Orgetorix to see inside him, see what Ares loved and wanted. But that was too barbaric. He was a civilized man, after all. "I bet you think it's because you led a rebellion against me, and Mars liked the odds: a few provincials against the imperial army. But that doesn't make sense, does it? He should admire me for what I've done." With his fingernails, Caesar scratched at the mural, taking off flecks of paint. To his men: "I want two at a time now."
They had to flip Orgetorix onto his front, but Caesar didn't care anymore, just wanted to see him ruined, fucked to death like the little traitorous slut deserved. He gave up his position and walked down to see that god-fucked asshole destroyed by his men. One cock was already inside Orgetorix; the second man wrapped his arm around the other's waist and eased his own stiff cock next to his companion's. In tandem, they began to rut, and Orgetorix screamed through the cloth on his mouth, muscles taut against the pain. He didn't scream again.
Death beat dawn. Sometime in the middle of the night, long after they'd propped Orgetorix into place with silk pillows, one of the men noticed that he'd stopped breathing. Caesar's erection had flagged with his captive's life, and he'd drifted to the window, looking out into nothing. There was an orchard, invisible in the dark; he and his men had hidden there behind the grey trees, rotten apples soft under their boots. That's when he'd seen the shrine: a splash of white between the trees' grey carcasses. Orgetorix's wife said she'd seen them there that first time. She'd known the figure pounding into her beloved husband was a god from his size, even without her husband screaming his name. Peering into the night, he thought he could see the temple, the marble ghostly under the relentless black sky.
"Dress him, then take him to the river," he said, turning from the window. "Tell the people he killed himself, ashamed that he'd fought against me. Make sure no one sees you, of course. And torch the shrine." He left his men to clean up the mess and headed out into the night.
A layer of snow covered the brown earth, and a few flakes still swirled down from the dark sky, glittering like diamonds. His horse stood shivering beside a tree, and Caesar patted the animal's flank before mounting it. Settling his fur-lined cloak around him, he clicked his tongue and set off for his winter-quarters in Vesontio. The wind stung his cheeks so he tucked his head low, close to the horse's warm neck. Hard not to miss the warm Roman sun, the laurel trees and golden wheat fields.
Here, everything was grey and muddy, the trees stripped of leaves, the gardens of flowers. He'd be glad when this conquest was over, and he could enjoy the Gauls' tribute from his palace outside Rome. Not that Rome was any safer than this desolate hell, but there, at least, the struggle played out on a much smaller scale, with a subtlety his Gallic encounters lacked. In sunny Rome, the Senators smiled, threw dinner parties, and tried to poison his wine and sleep with his sister. A neater game, with careful rules of play. In Gaul, the barbarians sometimes looked like Romans, but fought like animals. His favorite general and sometimes lover, Cassius Scaeva, lost an eye and his arm below the elbow to a some hairy brute with a two-headed ax. He'd hung the man upside down from an oak and castrated him for what he'd done to Cassius, but the damage was done.
Caesar rode his horse harder, digging in his heels, and arrived home just as the sun turned the winter sky pale lemon. Not ready yet for sleep, he soaked in the hot springs, then lay flat on a narrow table while a servant rubbed oil into his tired muscles. The scrape of a bronze strigil over his skin woke him, and he nearly called a second slave over to suck him. But the situation really demanded control, so he stayed still, his cock hard against his thigh, while the man cleaned him. Another dip, this time in cool water, then he wrapped himself in a robe and went upstairs. He ordered two bottles of wine and two glasses, folded his robe and climbed into bed, arms raised above his head, thighs spread.
And he waited.
Nothing. He opened his eyes in the dark room, knowing he'd slept the day away, that nothing had happened. No one had come. Furious, he stormed the bathhouse, calling for Xanthus, a Greek slave with narrow hips and curling dark hair. He made the boy shave him and clean him everywhere, including his cock, which turned stiff and hot under the blade and the boy's careful hands. Ignoring his reaction, he forced himself to sit afterward in the hot green water, watching the puffs of steam rise beside him to purify his scraped skin. It was the Roman way.
Later, as Xanthus dried him tenderly, Caesar asked, "You find me attractive, don't you?"
"Of course, Caesar. Do you want me to show you how much?"
"Yes," he said, and asked for a whip. He stripped the boy, then leaned him against the slick tiled wall, his face pressed against Ares' painted thigh. "I'm doing this because I know you love me, Xanthus. When you tell me to stop, that's when I'll know how much." His first strokes were light, almost playful, the leather bouncing off the smooth bronze skin of his lower back. They left barely a mark, only a slight redness, like a finger had pressed down, that faded quickly, like everything else.
His testing fingers found Xanthus' cock hard and leaking, which annoyed him, and he cracked the whip with deliberate force against the rounded curve of his ass. The leather bit this time, and a red welt formed. Others followed, forming a red-veined map, and Xanthus said nothing, just sucked in air and clawed the wall. Another test of his cock found it even harder, and Caesar, covered in sweat and fury, walked away, back down the steps to the cool green water.
He sat there catching his breath and watched Xanthus rub himself against the cool marble, trying to mate with Ares, it seemed. "If you come," Caesar told him, "I'll kill you. Now go to the kitchen like that. No clothes, and your cock all hard. Get some pears and bring them to my room."
Returning upstairs, he decided that everyone was depraved. It was a curse of mortality, and it sickened him. He tossed his robe onto a corner and poured himself a glass of wine — the one thing these barbarians could do reasonably well. A second glass revived him, and he sat on the red silk divan, crossing his legs. To hell with Ares. He'd have the slaves toss the statues and pull up the mosaics, replacing them with ones of himself. Why not start now?
The bust in the niche beside his bed had wide eyes and full lips. He'd had an artist speak directly to the flamen martialis for a description of the god, and supposedly this captured Ares perfectly. Well, fuck him. It smashed into the wall and exploded into dusty fragments, leaving a crack in a goddess' green gown. Yes, he thought, that's it. Liberation. And when Xanthus showed up, he'd fuck that tight bruised red ass all night long. Now, some more wine.
The knock interrupted him. It was Xanthus, his face shiny and red as his ass, holding a bowl of polished green-gold pears. "Your pears, Caesar."
Caesar took them, but blocked the entrance with his body. "Bend over," he said.
"Here?" Xanthus glanced toward the guards who stood sober and blind at the end of the hallway.
"You still have some shame? Well, this should cure it. You love me, after all, don't you?"
"Yes, Caesar." And he bent, offering his ass.
The bruises showed vivid blue now under the red stripes, which pleased him. "Is it hot?" he asked, touching his handiwork. "It looks hot."
A nod, as Xanthus splayed his hands on the tiled floor for balance, expecting a cock. His own had hardened again. Shame never lasted long. One of the constants he'd learned.
"Do you want to come, Xanthus?"
Urgency melted the single syllable, and Caesar barely heard it. Not that it mattered. The little whore's cock said it all. "First, I want you to walk around the palace with this inside you." He took one of the pears, had Xanthus lick it wet, then worked it carefully up the tight ass, the narrow end first, deeper, until only the rough round bottom peered out. "That's to get you ready for me. Go, and make sure everyone sees you. Bend over whenever you run into someone." He kicked the door shut and turned back--
The blast knocked him back into the door, and his head struck the gold frame. From the floor, dazed, blood snaking down his cheek, Caesar stared up and smiled. "You." Finally. A hand big as a Titan's hauled him up by the chin, and another blow landed, this time on his jaw. His head snapped back, and it hurt -- oh god, it hurt -- but the fingers held on tight. His teeth ripped through his tongue, spilling salty blood. "I didn't know you cared." Ares, dark, a giant, hit him in the stomach, but let go of his chin, so he careened back into the wall. He must've blacked out, because when he opened his eyes, Ares had him spreadeagled on his bed, hands and wrists bound to the four posts. He almost came, looking at him.
"I should bring an army in here and have them rape you, like you did to Orgetorix." A rumble, deep as thunder, threatening and hot.
His stomach knotted, but he smiled again. "If you're not man enough to do it yourself." His only regret: that he couldn't hide his erection to prove his disdain for the violence, the anger. But no marble bust or statue could've prepared him for this. It wasn't just the beauty of that perfect skin, those long hard limbs. It was the heat Ares gave off, the musky perfume of war and sex, like he bathed in blood and come. Maybe he did.
"You think I'd put my cock in a piece of shit like you? I've got other plans for you, Caesar."
The slap rocked his head, sent him a fistful of stars, and he wondered if Ares planned to kill him. But the god moved, and Caesar saw his profile, saw the huge cock tightly outlined against the leather. How beautiful to be a man and have a body that never lied. "I can see that."
"You're such a smug bastard," Ares said. "That's why I've left you alone. That, and you're just not my type."
"No, you like little Gallic pussies who'll bend over without a whimper. You know that I didn't even fuck him? Couldn't be bothered. He wasn't worth it."
"You think you're any better?"
"I know I am."
"Caesar, you're the emperor of pussies. The only difference is you won't admit it. But I know a weak slut when I see one. You're no different than your slave. I could stuff a pear up your ass, and you'd love it. I could whip your ass black and blue, and you'd come for me. You lie here night after night, hot for me. You're pathetic."
"Don't feel too flattered, Ares. Remember, I don't know you. I just wondered what it'd be like to fuck a god. Apparently, I picked the wrong one. I offered you a challenge, and instead you went sniffing after that ineffectual Gallic bitch, who couldn't find his dick with both hands. And the way he moaned while my soldiers fucked him... Sounded like the first time he'd ever been properly fucked."
"I should kill you right now--"
"If that's the best you can do--"
"But I think I'll show you just how much you want my cock. I'll have you begging for it."
"You can try, but I doubt you've got the technique."
"The thing is, you imperial whore, you don't need technique. That's just a lie you feed yourself. You want it hard and violent and painful. Like those pirates did to you."
Caesar froze. How could he know...? No one knew about that. He made sure of it. Two dozen pirates tongues hanging below two dozen crucified bodies. "You're wrong."
"Didn't think I knew about your gangbang? Oh yeah. But that's not what started your need for it. You've always been a submissive little cock-sucker. And I'm going to prove it. First, I'm going to fill your holes." A massive ivory dildo appeared in each hand. "Open wide." He pried Caesar's jaw apart and jammed one halfway down his throat, then replaced it with the other one. "Suck that while I fit this one up your ass." The ivory cock felt cool against his hole as Ares began to work it in. "Haven't had anyone there since your highseas adventure, have you? But you dream about it. A big juicy cock up your tight ass, taking you hard. A big juicy cock like mine."
Ares' leather clothing vanished, and Caesar saw his cock for the first time. Huge and smooth, black hair tangling around it — the same black hair that covered his hard body. His ass tightened around the dildo, and Ares laughed.
"Yeah, it's a nice one. Don't worry--I'll let you suck it later. You like having a big cock in your mouth, don't you? It's been too long."
This wasn't what he wanted. Ares wasn't playing by the rules. He was supposed to come here and... And what? What had he expected? That Ares would offer up that beautiful divine ass for his cock? That he'd open those pouty lips and blow him? Fuck, fuck, fuck. And what really burned, what really crawled inside him and bit, was how goddamned good it all felt. But there was no way he'd let Ares know. He'd die before he came for this conceited, violent prick.
"What's the matter, Caesar? Things not going according to plan?" Ares pushed the dildo deeper into his ass, stretching him wide, pushed deeper still until it hit the spot, and his body quivered.
Caesar had learned about that sweet hot spot on the ship. One of the pirates, a Phoenician named Marcus, liked to finger-fuck him, and he'd found it first, stroking it until it stayed swollen all the time, so when the men fucked him, they never missed it. They called him their Roman whore because he came so often for them. The hold stank with his come, with theirs. After his release, he'd gone after their ship and killed them all, and bathed three times a day. But that spot stayed hot and swollen for months after.
When Ares began to fuck him, watching his face with a big, feral grin, Caesar fought the slow heat seeping through his body. When he closed his eyes, Ares pulled the cock from his stretched ass, and Caesar thought he'd won, especially when the ropes vanished. Instead, Ares rebound his wrists and used a second rope to bind Caesar's arms to his sides, wrapping it tightly around his biceps and chest. The rough cord scratched his nipples, made them stiff and sore almost at. Ares shoved him back down and bent him until his knees nearly touched his chin, his head resting against the twisted bedsheet. The position left his ass open and vulnerable, and he sucked on the second dildo in his mouth.
Ares sat on the mattress beside him and spread his long legs, one hand gripping Caesar's left ankle. His huge wet-tipped cock bobbed near Caesar's filled mouth, jutting from that silky black fur, while the exposed end of the dildo just reached his ass. "Your hole's all red and angry right now," Ares said. "Just like you."
Above him, Caesar heard a slight flare, like a taper being lit, then smelled sweet candle wax. The first burning drops landed in the crack of his ass, but dried before they trickled inside him. More wax splattered him, hitting both cheeks. He started to sweat, and bit down on the ivory to stifle his moan, which made it wiggle against Ares' hole, almost penetrating him. Before he could give it that extra push, a river of wax flowed from the base of his spine down his ass, and he twisted against it. Ares' cock jerked, and Caesar realized that his reaction was getting the god off. The next time the hot wax connected with his skin, in the line between his balls and ass, he moaned, and saw that big cock move again. The head, silvered with precum, rubbed against the flat planes of Ares' stomach, and he thought about it in his mouth, leaking onto his tongue. Not that Ares was right. It's just that his cock was so big and beautiful; it deserved the tribute of his mouth.
"You like it, don't you, you sick fuck," Ares said, and dripped wax onto the head of Caesar's cock.
He used the reactive shudder to push the dildo harder, and when the end actually slipped inside Ares' hole, he shuddered again. Ares had to know, had to feel it. He fucking had to. But the bastard just kept dripping wax on him, in stinging rings around his asshole now. He moaned again, and rocked the dildo deeper. Maybe Ares didn't know he was doing it on purpose, and was just getting off on the feeling of having his ass stretched. Caesar wanted to know that feeling, too, and didn't repress the quivering. Again, Ares' cock jumped against his chest, and the bright light of the candle disappeared. A warm wet tongue started probing him, licking and tasting his ass, so the dildo slid deeper. Cause and effect. A neat little law with mathematical precision. A fucking orgasm of a law.
"You're going to come for me, aren't you, you little slut? Like you came for those pirates? Like you came every time you fucked one of your men on the battlefield or in your tent? Every time you went to a brothel, or seduced a senator's wife? And every time, it was for me, wasn't it, you dirty imperial bitch?"
Fingers tight around his cock now, teasing the head. Caesar writhed and couldn't stop, but used it to work the dildo far into that beautiful divine body, until Ares was impaled with it, and he was cheek to cheek with him, staring at the wide hole swallowing the ivory cock like a hungry mouth. Then the fingers shifted to his ass, slipping inside to stroke that spot until it was swollen and Caesar whimpered.
"What was the best fuck you ever had, Caesar? Marcus, on the ship? Or maybe Cassius Scaeva, before the barbarians got to him? You loved his mouth, didn't you, you hungry bastard? You made him suck you all night once, after the battle of Dyrrhachium, just couldn't stop coming. And it was for me. Every fucking time, it was for me."
Caesar, not thinking any more, pulled off the dildo, leaving it buried inside Ares, and sucked the big god-cock into his mouth. Once he started, he couldn't stop, and sucked so hard that he barely noticed when Ares did the same to him, except that he came, hot streams of white pleasure. Cause and effect. He was still gasping around the cock in his mouth when he was knocked on his back, and his legs wrapped around Ares' waist. "Fuck you, Ares." His voice sounded raw, scraped. "Fuck you."
"Yes," Ares said, and rammed his cock inside him.
It hurt. It hurt so much he cried out. It hurt so much his cock got hard again. It hurt so much he thought he'd die from it, if he didn't come first. He kept his eyes open, though, because he had to see Ares' face, had to see him lose control. It didn't take long. A few powerful thrusts, a few curses, and Ares' teeth sank into his shoulder and the big hot body on top of him rumbled and shook. Then: "That'll teach you, Caesar."
"No. You haven't taught me anything, you stupid bastard." He worked out the words around his panting. "You think one fuck's going to change anything? You think you've won--"
But Ares' cock was in his mouth again, already hard, and he started sucking.
"You know what you need, Caesar? My mark on you. To remind you of your place in the universe. As my whore."
There was a terrible bright pain on his wrist, still bound under him. Ares came in his mouth at the same time, and he drank eagerly. Afterward, when Ares moved, Caesar sat up, the ropes falling off him and onto the sweat-soaked sheets, and looked at his wrist.
Under the shield and spear were blue-burned the words: Fidelis Constans.