Taken to Rome

Closed for EesomeBeastie and JewelSkye

Setting: Rome, AD 106 (in the reign of the emperor Trajan)
Name: Lucius Tadius Aelianus
Age: 27
Note: the above name is formed of Lucius as his given name, Tadius as a clan name and Aelianus as a family name. He’d be called simply Aelianus by friends, or slightly more formally Tadius Aelianus or Lucius Tadius (especially if there was a chance of mixing him up with others called Aelianus). Lucius on its own would be used by very close family in private. The full three names would be used in formal situations. This three-name system only applied to male citizens – a freeborn women usually only had two names, derived from her father, slaves went by a single given name and freedmen (freed ex-slaves) created a name based on their given name or nickname and usually their ex-owner’s name (as he was still considered their patron and them a member of his extended family).

Description: 5 foot 8 tall, and of medium build, with short light brown hair and blue eyes. He tends to have a serious, even brooding, expression.
http://static.tvguide.com/MediaBin/Galleries/Shows/M_R/Ri_Rp/Rome/season2/rome39.jpg
In this pic he is wearing an everyday tunic rather than toga (more practical for travelling in) with the stripes indicating he’s a member of the equestrian rank (ruling families who monopolised most public offices and the senate).

Bio: Aelianus is a senator’s son, but a third son who is probably not destined for high public office, though so far he’s managed to get elected to a minor magistracy in Rome. He’s resisted his parents’ entreaties to marry and has moved out of the family home to avoid their nagging. Luckily a friend of his has obtained a quaestorship (high financial office) in Spain and is letting Aelianus house-sit his comfortable town house in the city. This includes most of his slaves, though Aelianus has brought his personal manservant slave Marcus from his parents’ house and his friend has recently recalled his superb cook to serve in his new Spanish residence. It’s this latter that has brought Aelianus to the slave market in Ostia in search of a replacement.

* * * * *

It was her ginger hair that first caught his attention. She looked scared, ill and miserable standing there in line on a slave dealer’s platform in Ostia, Rome’s great port. He, Lucius Tadius Aelianus, had made the trip here to find a cook, and in that he’d succeeded, having selected a portly Gallic woman who came with good references from her previous owner. He didn’t need another slave, but there was something about this short, thin girl on the trader’s stand that made him stop on his way back to the stables where he’d left his hired horses; stop and have another look.

He wandered over to the roped-off area where the slaves were displayed. The slave dealer recognised the hint of interest in his gaze and rushed over to greet him smarmily.

“Good day, Sir. Can I interest you in any of my merchandise? I have everything you could want here. Strong Germans taken in battle to work the fields, boys to run errands, educated Greeks and Egyptians to keep your records, cooks, cleaners, Spanish dancing girls to show off at your dinner parties, or to entertain you privately…” He leered and winked at this last.

Aelianus looked over them all, trying not to show particular interest in any. When he reached the girl with the wavy red hair he casually asked “Where’s she from, then?”

The slave trader looked surprised that he’d asked about such a miserable specimen. “Ah, a discerning gentleman, I see, with an eye for beauty! She’s from Dacia, brought back by our gallant legions from the Emperor’s conquests there.”

“A bit seasick from the voyage, but she’ll soon get over that,” he added, lying through his teeth. In fact he’d had the girl a week and her chill was deepening into a fever. Let her become someone else’s problem before he had a corpse on his hands.

Aelianus wasn’t sure why his heart went out to the poor, ill girl. As a magistrate he’d seen plenty of suffering, and indeed one could hardly live in Rome without seeing unfortunates at every turn. So why should he be drawn to this wretch?

The slave trader pulled her down off the platform and out of his compound to him. Aelianus walked around her, studying her. She was slender, emaciated even - he assumed she'd lost a lot of weight on the way here. But she looked like she would fill out nicely with a few months of decent food. She had the breasts of a curvier woman - breasts which were barely covered by the revealing tunic the slaver had dressed her in to attract attention from the more lecherous clientele. Her legs were straight, with no sign of rickets, though her skin was pallid. What really caught his attention, though were her eyes. Close up now, he could see that one was blue and the other green. How unusual!

Between those curious eyes and her ginger hair he spotted tiny drops of sweat beading her forehead. He’d be mad to take her home in case she was infectious, but he felt compelled to do so anyway.

“800 denarii,” he offered. The trader didn’t need to feign astonishment as this was less than half the normal minimum price for a female slave. He countered with 3000 denarii, but Aelianus was having none of that.

“Come on, man,” he chided. “She’s ill and we both know it. I’ll give you 1000 denarii and not a sestertius more.”

They haggled over the girl right in front of her, as if she wasn’t there, though she could probably barely follow their conservation anyway as she presumably spoke very little Latin. They eventually settled on 1200 denarii and Aelianus went over to the trader’s trestle table to sign the papers.

He decided to take the girl with him immediately. He’d asked for the cook to be delivered to his house, so he could ride back to Rome with his manservant slave Marcus, on the two horses they’d hired, but he wanted this girl resting as soon as possible and seen by a physician if necessary. He left her with Marcus whilst he wandered the marketplaces looking for suitable transport. Eventually he found a carter who was taking a load of hay into Rome who would be willing to let the girl rest on the hay and carry her to the city gates for a few brass sestertii. He and Marcus could ride alongside. Carts not being allowed into the city until after dark, he’d get her a litter from there.

The arrangements made, he returned to the slave market and the three of them made their way to the stables, Marcus supporting the girl with an arm around her shoulders.

The journey had been treacherous... and the fall of her home had left it's deep emotional scars... but all of that seemed to take a back seat to to way she felt. Her body ached, she felt hot one moment, cold the next, and her head felt stuffed with some soft, fluffy material that mucked up her thought process and made it hard just to see straight, let alone try to understand what those around her were doing and saying.

She was a slave... that much she'd known since before she'd gotten sick. Despite this, however, the trip had thrown her into this miserable state... she'd been unable to hold any food, she'd grown thin and weak, and was growing weaker by the day. Perhaps this was the God's way of releasing her from what she was certain would be day after day of a life of beatings, servitude, and worse. She'd been standing there in the compound, watching others sold off, barely registering when people would approach to inspect the "merchandise". Everyone overlooked her, so it was with great shock that she stumbled off the slight platform she'd been on and stood on tired, aching legs while a man she vaguely recognized as handsome inspected her.

She was sure he'd see the illness and pass her over, but after a long time of listening to him speaking in a language she barely understood a few syllables of on a good day, she was swaying in place until an arm wrapped around her slender shoulders. Tilting her head back, the petite woman looked up into the eyes of Marcus, though she didn't know that was his name. He seemed to try to offer a reassuring smile, and though she tried to return the gesture, she was fairly certain she failed miserably.

By the time the man she took to be her owner returned, she was barely keeping herself upright, and hugging herself against the perceived cold, though there was none. They lifted her into a cart filled with hay, and soon she was drifting in and out of sleep, slipping off into the dark of rest until the cart would hit a bump and jolt her awake. Often, her eyes, mismatched and glassy as they were, would lift to look at him... her owner. Did he realize he had bought a girl who was dieing?

Every so often on the trip Aelianus looked over at the girl he’d just bought and he was alarmed to see her become more and more comatose, only seeming to jerk into even a semi-conscious state when the cart hit a particularly harsh pothole. When she did so, her eyes fluttered open, though he wasn’t sure whether she was even registering what she was seeing. It did let him get a closer look at those intriguingly different coloured orbs, though, and he felt himself being drawn in.

The jolting was so bad that he asked the driver to slow down even further, offering him more money in compensation for arriving later at the gates and being near the back of the queue of carts that waited for the daytime curfew on heavy carts being lifted at dusk.

Arriving at the gate, he quickly found a two-person sedan chair for hire and had the girl bundled in. He got in beside her, to support her and the four burly slaves lifted the contraption up and walked briskly in the direction of his friend’s house, where he was living at the moment, directed by Marcus who walked alongside.

The journey was slow, the milling pedestrians parting only reluctantly for the chair, and Aelianus chafed at the delay. But at last they arrived and he had her lifted out and into the grand town house, carried to one of the guest rooms and laid on the unmade mattress of the wooden-framed bed.

She looked very ill indeed, now. Her face was almost white and sweat beaded her forehead, her sweat-soaked hair plastered to her head. He had planned to call on the herbalist at the nearby market, describing her symptoms and getting something for a fever, but now he realised that a house call was needed. He sent Marcus running to fetch her.

The herbalist arrived a quarter of an hour later, a plump woman, a no-nonsense freedwoman who had been a slave assistant to a famous physician before she was freed in his will on the old man’s death. She sold herbs from a stall and also acted a midwife for the district. She was grumbling about being called away from her stall, but she stopped immediately on seeing the girl lying on the bed.

“You did the right thing, insisting I came round. This looks serious.”

She peered into her new patients eyes and mouth, felt her throat, then began to strip her. There was no suggestion that Aelianus leave the room. The girl was a slave, with no right to privacy, and it was only to be expected that a concerned and prudent owner would want to see that the medical examination she was being subjected to was thorough and worth the money.

Aelianus watched, fascinated, as the body of his newest possession was revealed. She had fair-sized breasts, but her ribs showed lower down, mute witness to a significant loss of weight. He wondered whether that was from her illness or from maltreatment on the journey to Rome, or both. Further down still, sparse ginger curls over her mound showed that she was a genuine redhead, not one created with a dye bottle by a slave trader eager to add a hint of the exotic and so bump up her price.

The herbalist listened to her breathing and her heart, pressed on the girl’s stomach and sides to check for swelling of her organs, and sniffed at her crotch and the dirty loin cloth that she’d removed to check for urinary tract infections. Satisfied, she called for warm water to give the girl a bed bath, then pulled a clean sheet up over her nakedness.

“Tonight will be critical,” she declared. “If the fever does not break tonight then she will die. I will stay here and look after her.”

The woman named a price that made Aelianus wince, but he agreed and made arrangements for a chair and second bed to be dragged into the room for the herbalist to use, some food and drink to sustain her through the night, and clean rags and cold water to mop the girl’s brow and fight the fever. Finally he called his new cook in for instructions on how to brew and infuse the herbs the woman had brought with her to combat the fever.

Having done all he could, he retired. He found he was barely able to eat the excellent meal his new cook had prepared and he went early to his own bed. Why was he so worried about this girl? he wondered. What had gotten into him?

OOC: yes, I know the timestamp suggests I'm posting at 5:15am UK time. That's correct. Woke up early, unaccountably, but too early to go padding round the house waking everyone else.

Her eyes wouldn't open... but she could hear them moving around her at times, when the fever didn't drag her back into sleep. The woman was gentle, but at the same time firm in her ministrations and there were moments when the girl let out a gentle whimper or groan of pain. Her eyes only managed to flutter open once, and through the haze hanging around her, those mismatched eyes found his face once more. She could only seem to see him clearly, everything else blurring around him, and there was a curious look in his eyes as the portly woman said something to him. He seemed... concerned. But that couldn't be right... why would a Roman slave owner care about the fate of a sick and dieing girl?

That was the last thought to filter through the fog that mucked up her mind before she slid back into sleep, her breathing shallow and her heart fluttering lightly in her chest, like an injured sparrow's wings as they try desperately to lift the bird off the ground before a predator can get to it.

By midnight, the girl's fever was at it's highest, and her sheets were being changed, not for the last time that evening. She was fighting the sickness, that much was obvious... but was she strong enough to pull through? Even the herbalist had her doubts that one so frail could have the strength needed to come out of such a state. Still though, the girl seemed to be fighting like a wildcat to stay alive. The herbalist could only wonder at why... the girl was a slave now, and most would think death a welcome release from the life so many slaves, especially pretty young women owned by men, lived.

Truth be told however, this was instinct, and the look in the man's eyes that she had glimpsed just before she'd passed out for the night. He was worried, and he cared about what happened to her... but why?

By just before dawn, the girl's sheets had had to be changed three times, her body bathed from head to toe in cool water to help cleanse away the infection before she was promptly covered back up. As the first rays of sunshine were peeking over the horizon, a scream echoed through the house, the sound pained and coming from a throat that was dry and weak with lack of use. The fever was breaking, and she would likely live... but as with so many fevers that reached such a deadly point, when the breaking came, it brought with it dreams and nightmares to haunt the one barely living, almost taunting them to give up and die.

The girl flailed, struggled, kicked and cried out, tears sliding from the corners of her closed eyes as she screamed in her native tongue. To those who were educated enough to know her language, the words would be painful to listen to. Begging, pleading, sobs of loss and regret... all accentuated by the feel that the girl was reliving things... her reactions were too realistic to be in response to something she couldn't honestly know the horrors of. The question, of course, would be just what she was reliving.

Worry about the girl gnawed at Aelianus and he couldn’t get off to sleep at first. He was unsure whether he should be checking on her during the night, but decided that he should let the healer do her thing in peace. She’d be better served anyway by him getting some rest so he could see she was cared for when the herbalist left in the morning.

Some owners cared little for their slaves, but he wasn’t like that, or at least he hoped not. The relationship between master and slave was such a variable thing and in his time as a magistrate he’d seen every possible arrangement. On the big rural estates, a landowner might never see some of the farm labourers he owned. In the confines of a town house, that wasn’t possible but even then the relationship could vary from treating them as if they were invisible, through all shades of cruelty and kindness. Sometimes friendships could develop, or love. A literate slave could even become trusted with his master’s business. A favoured slave could be free and would often keep working for their ex-master, or if the relationship had been of a more intimate nature she might marry him. Whatever the relationship, slaves were not so cheap that any but the most wealthy could afford to completely neglect them or kill them for the fun of it. But the law that he upheld recognised none of that: slaves were property, pure and simple.

But this girl was special, not least because she was only the second slave he had ever bought. And that on impulse too! Marcus had been assigned to him by his father, and all the others were part of the household he was living in, not really his but his friends’. He still didn’t know why he’d suddenly decided to purchase her, and he didn’t know what he’d do with her when, or if, she recovered.

He felt like he’d only just got to sleep when he was awoken by a scream that broke off into a choked cry. What in Hades was that? Realising it was the girl, he yanked on a tunic and dashed through to the guest room where the herbalist knelt by her bed, haggard, mopping her brow.

She was thrashing about now, babbling and crying in a strange barbarian language, either lost in a nightmare or feverish hallucination, or maybe reliving some horror from her past. Aelianus put his arm across her thighs, pinning her down lest she throw herself off the bed, and started to stroke her damp hair, whispering calming phrases in her ear.

After several minutes, she calmed down and looked at them both, seeming to see them properly for the first time since she’d been laid on the bed. Aelianus called for a slave to bring a bowl of warm porridge, sweetened with some honey, and a beaker of milk.

“Can you hear me?” he asked her, wanting to find out whether she was properly lucid yet, but not knowing if she even understood this very basic Latin.

Those mismatched eyes flew open even as her hands came up in front of her face as if to ward off a blow. She was breathing heavily, panting and showing the exertion of all that movement. When her eyes met with the man who was her owner's, she lowered her hands slowly and gave a few long blinks. He was standing over her, and he looked concerned. It wasn't a heart breaking concern, but it was definitely there.

She was caught up in his gaze when he spoke, and it took a long moment for her to be able to translate his words in her head. She even repeated them a few times as she turned them over in her mind, going over them carefully and trying to make sense of them in her still somewhat dazed state. Can you hear me?... Can you hear me...?

It would be a few long moments before she'd be able to make sense of the question, and then she nodded before speaking slowly, her mouth clumsy around the words, but she tried her best to speak them clearly enough that he could understand despite her thick, exotic accent.

"I... can... hear... yours" OK... so her attempt to answer wasn't perfect, but what do you want from someone who's half asleep and isn't a native speaker to begin with, let alone someone who hasn't spoken it hardly ever in their lifetime. Honestly, she was a bit surprised she remembered any of it at all. She whimpered and rubbed her forehead. Her head ached and she was still covered in sweat, which made her feel disgusting.

A shudder ran through her... the fever was still breaking, but it was lowering slowly but surely. She looked at the herbalist, then back to her owner, and lifted a trembling hand to point at him as she searched for a word. "M-master?" she finally managed to get it out as she stumbled over both syllables. Was he? Or had he just bought her for someone else?

“Yes,” Aurelius replied, tapping himself on the chest. “Your master. You will live here now.” He spoke slowly and clearly, pleased she knew some Latin but not wanting to make it difficult for her.

He turned to the healer. “Can she eat now?”

On being told that since she was lucid enough to be able to talk then she could, and indeed should, eat, Aurelius took the porridge bowl from the slave who was standing behind him with it. He placed spoon in the girl’s outstretched hand but kept his over the top to help her guide it to her mouth. Her hand was still damp with sweat, but a lot cooler than before. A good sign, surely. And it did feel rather good to hold her hand...

In between mouthfuls of the sweetened porridge he asked her, “What’s your name?” He knew the name on the papers he’d signed was most likely one given to her by the first slaver whose hands she’d passed through, not her real name.

The name on her forms was Eylia, but that was nothing compared to the name the girl gave him. For a long moment she paused, once more taking time to slowly go over his words, translating them in her head. When what he said made sense, she answered simply. "Ambrosia."

It would seem oddly fitting that her name was that of the nectar of the gods. Perhaps the gods would find her pleasing, once she was better and had gotten her form back. Already she was starting to look a bit healthier. Her eyes were more aware, not glazed over anymore, and they shone bright even in the dim light of the room.

She ate her porridge quietly, accepting his help but not fighting against him at all. Some might have found her lack of struggle surprising, but she was exhausted and he'd made sure she lived... he'd made sure she didn't die. She wasn't sure how exactly to show she was grateful, so for now she simply went along with whatever he seemed to wish of her.

When the food was gone, she leaned back into the pillows and looked up at him through tired, but very aware eyes. She reached out for a moment, touching his hand with gentle, shaky fingertips. "Thank... you..." she managed to get out with a soft smile. She was fighting to keep her eyes open, trying to stay aware in case he wanted to talk more to her.

Aurelius couldn’t quite make out the foreign name she whispered. It sounded a little like ‘Dak...thala’ with a ‘g’ or ‘p’ in between and something on the end he didn’t catch at all. But then after a pause she came out with ‘Ambrosia.’ This seemed like a translation. So her given name meant ‘nectar’ in her Dacian tongue, he presumed. Ambrosia it would be, then.

“Sleep now, Ambrosia,” he whispered to her and laid her hand back over her chest.

“She seems over the worst,” the healer said to him. “I have to go now and catch some sleep if I’m going to be able to open my stall this afternoon. Give her hot, simple food and make sure she drinks a lot. If she gets feverish again, call for me.”

Aurelius thanked the woman and led her to the door, paying her on the way.

He was still concerned for Ambrosia, though, and since he didn’t have any legal pleadings to handle that day he decided to stay at home and make sure she was alright. He fetched a scroll of Greek poetry from his small personal library and took it to the guest room where she lay, settling down in a chair to read and watch her sleep.

* * * * *

Aurelius only left the room to have a snack for lunch and answer calls of nature. Ambrosia woke briefly that afternoon and had some more porridge and a large beaker of very watered wine, then fell asleep again. But in the early evening she woke again, this time seeming a little stronger. He had something more substantial brought for her to eat: a fish and vegetable stew.

She looked grubby and unkempt from the sweat of her fever. Maybe she would feel better for having a good wash, Aurelius thought, so once she’d emptied her bowl of stew he asked her, “Can you walk? Would you like to come to the bathhouse for a wash?”

This town house had a small bath suite, just one hot sauna room and warm and cold plunge pools barely big enough for three or four people to sit in, but still quite a luxury for a house in the city.

The tiny woman slept soundly, her hair tangled and matted against her head and no doubt dirtying the pillows her head rested upon. Despite this however, she was unable to summon the strength to so much as apologize for that unintentional transgression... dirtying his linens. She slid off into a dreamless sleep once more, and did not wake until some time a good deal later.

Still he was there, as if he hadn't left at all throughout the day. Of course a glance at the window and the sky outside told her he had to have left at least briefly a few times. Again she was fed, this time stew and the warm food filled her belly, which for the first time in quite some time, felt truly full by the time she finished eating.

When he asked if she wished to bathe, her face showed confusion at first. She understood the word walk, and though fatigue was heavy in her limbs, she was determined to do as he asked, simply because without him, she'd have been dead by now. If he wanted her to walk, then by the gods she would walk! Pushing the blankets back without knowing what this other word... this... wash... meant, she stood.

The movement was too quick, however, and she very nearly went tumbling at first. Her arms flailed at her sides as she struggled to catch herself before finally managing to regain her balance. Her eyes were wide, panic on her face before she was able to lower her arms slowly to her sides and stand normally again.

The head rush over, took a few wobbly steps forward, her hand reaching out to brace on the bed as she moved, using it to keep her balance as her legs trembled some beneath her. Looking back at him, she nodded slowly. "I walk."

Aurelius watched her stumble and stepped forward instinctively to help her, but stopped when he saw the determination on her face. She regained her balance and managed several steps, looking up at him with satisfaction as she told him, “I walk.”

She’d surely not manage the length of the corridor to the bath house, though, so he moved to assist her. Standing beside her, he put his arm around her waist and lifted her hand to his shoulder. Guiding her down the passageway, one side of which was open to the small courtyard garden, they made their way slowly to the entrance to the bath suite.

He took her into the small changing room and helped her down to sit on a bench. There was a wooden slatted shelf with fresh towels piled neatly on it and he took one down. Turning his back to her, he unbelted his tunic and pulled it over his head. Then he removed his loincloth before wrapping the towel around his waist.

Taking a second, larger, towel down from the shelf, he motioned her to stand up and turn with her back to him. Then he bent down to take the hem of her tunic and lift it up to undress her. He hoped she wouldn’t panic at this, but she’d been very accepting of all he’d done so far.

As her tunic slid up over her buttocks, Aurelius drew in a deep breath of admiration. She’d lost quite a bit of weight, but she still had some figure left and it was all he could do not to take the twin orbs in his hands and stroke and squeeze them.

Trying to ignore his growing erection, he lifted her sweat-stained and filthy tunic up and over her head, leaving her naked back exposed to him. He could see her ribs at her sides, where privation and illness had stripped off the pounds. Across her back were almost-healed welts of a whip. What had she done to deserve that, he wondered? Or had it been mindless cruelty or sadism on the part of one of the men whose hands she had passed through on her way to Rome? He wanted to reach out and run his finger gently along the stripes, but it would be wrong to take advantage of a girl who was weakened and scared.

Instead he took the towel, shook it out and wrapped it around her from behind, covering her from mid thigh to her shoulder blades, then tying it in a loose knot above her breasts. He lingered maybe a litter longer than necessary with his arms around her, her buttocks pressed against his thighs and his erection in the small of her back. It felt so right to hold her like this and it was only with the greatest reluctance that he let go.

OOC: I hope I’ve not manhandled your character too far through the process, rushing past a point where you’d want to react? If so, PM me and I’ll edit.

Ambrosia moved with his aide to the bath house, her eyes slowly adjusting to the changing lights as they moved along. Once inside, he sat her down and turned his back to her. Her eyes went wide as she watched him strip, briefly revealing his backside to her before it was covered by the towel he wrapped himself in.

When he turned back to her, he'd find her blushing deeply and looking down, looking unsure and scared as he took the steps toward her. She stood and turned her own back to him with the guidance of his hands, and gasped softly, body going stiff as he began to pull her tunic up and off of her slight body. She didn't fight him, but a tremble had already begun to pass through her after he bared her to him. Tension singing in her already tired form, she waited for what she knew would come next... hands.

Not a single man who'd had possession of her since her capture had kept his hands from her form, and so she was naturally shocked when he draped the large towel around her a few moments later. He tied it above her breasts, effectively hiding most of her form from his view. She noticed the way he lingered, but didn't lash out of him or try to pull away... Trying to get away from your fate is what brought the lash of a whip against your back.

When he pulled away, she let out a soft breath and turned back to face him, still blushing. She didn't meet his eyes, only glancing at his face briefly before looking down, one hand holding onto the knot to make sure it would stay closed, the other lower, holding the two sides of the towel closed at her middle, to hide her most private of places from him. She was obviously confused by this new turn of events, and even as she continued to blush. Why wasn't he touching her? Did he not wish to inspect her? All the others had... some more thoroughly than others.

An uneasy feeling settled itself into the pit of her stomach and she swallowed back the sick feeling, looking down. What if he was already regretting buying her? What if she wasn't what he expected? What if he'd already decided she wouldn't suit whatever use he'd had in mind for her? "Do not like?" she asked timidly, her voice quiet, her Latin thick with that accent, but clear enough to be understood, especially when it was taken into consideration that she only said a few words.

At her timid query, he rushed to reassure her. He turned her around and lifted her face up gently with a finger under her chin – tilting her head back to look directly up at him.

“I like,” he replied, matching her simple Latin. “Like very much.”

He took her by the arm and led her out of the changing room and straight through the hot room. He’d normally linger here to make himself sweat and clear out the pores, but he didn’t think she’d stand the intense steamy heat for long in her weakened state without becoming dizzy, so he guided her straight into the warm room beyond.

This was a small room with a stone bench along one wall and a warm plunge pool big enough for a handful of people to sit or stand in. He guided her to the dry stone bench against the wall and sat her down, then reached for his cleansing equipment intending to demonstrate to her what to do. He took a jar of olive oil, scented with bark, and rubbed it into his arms, legs and chest, rubbing hard to loosen any grime and dried sweat. Once he was well oiled, he took down his favourite bronze strigil, a dull curved blade, and drew it down his limbs to scrape the oil and grime off, onto the floor near the drain hole. Then he took a jug of warm water and rinsed himself. Then he repeated the process a second time so that his limbs were red from the friction but sparkling clean.

Having shown her what to do, he handed her a second jar of oil and a strigil that was kept clean for guests.

“You now,” he told her.

Ambrosia was surprised by how quickly he moved to assure her that he was pleased with her. A deep blush colored her cheeks at his words, and as soon as he released her chin, she looked down again, bashful now that he was so close to her.

He didn't give her time to be truly nervous, however, as he was soon sliding an arm around her shoulders, guiding her through the bath house. The hot room made her blink and she found herself vastly uncomfortable with the heat until he had her in the next room. Grateful for the bench, the girl sat and watched as he began to clean himself. Of course she wasn't sure that that was what he was doing at first, until she put the word 'wash' in his language and his actions together.

Insecurity was apparent on her young face as she sat there, watching him but feeling like she shouldn't have been at the same time. A few moments later, however, he was handing her her own jar and strange blade, indicating with both words and gestures that she should clean herself next. Blinking slowly, the girl hesitated for a long moment, looking from the objects in her hands, then up to him.

Standing, she began to mimic his actions of earlier, rubbing the bark and oil onto her skin, leaving her pale ivory colored skin to glisten through the stuff. Handling the blade in one careful hand, she began to scrape the stuff away from her arms first, then began the work on her legs, her towel falling open at one point, providing a long glimpse of her young sex before she noticed and quickly moved the towel back into place with a blush.

She began on her next bit of oil and scraping after that, not daring to look up at him, instead concentrating on what she was doing, terrified she'd drop the blade or cut herself.

Seeing that she’d got the hand of the process, Aurelius turned his back to her once more and continued with his own cleansing. He removed his towel completely and oiled and scraped the front of his thighs, then put each foot up in turn on the bench so that he could reach round to do the backs of his thighs and his buttocks.

That left his back, and he couldn’t do that himself. Normally, he’d have brought his manservant slave along to do all this for him, but he hadn’t wanted a second man present in case it scared Ambrosia. And also he wanted to keep the sight of her naked body all to himself, he admitted wryly.

Turning back to face her, he saw that she’d almost finished carefully scraping her arms. Her towel swung open, and for a few moments he got a superb view of her belly and sex, before she realised what had happened and yanked the towel tightly around her again. He smiled at her prudery – the normal rules of decency didn’t apply in the bath house. Men and women bathed at different hours in the public bath houses, true, but in private households it wasn’t unknown for all to bathe together. Or at least all citizens – slaves were only present to help their masters. Even a liberal master like Aurelius only normally allowed his slaves to use the bath suite first thing in the morning, before the furnaces had got the place up to a decent temperature. He was making an exception for this young girl, though he didn’t suppose she understood well enough to realise it and be grateful.

The sight of her body had brought his earlier erection back to full strength and it jutted out before him proudly as he called for her attention. Setting his oil jar and strigil down on the bench he said to her in slow clear Latin, “Wash my back, please,” pointing to the implements then tapping his back to reinforce his words.

As he turned away from her again, he wondered what her hands would feel like on his back. Would she be light and fluttery, nervous of touching his bare flesh, or would she be able to set that aside and give his back the good strong rub he desired?

The girl was working diligently on cleansing her body, though it hardly felt clean to her. She wanted water... hot water... and a rough rag to scrub herself with... but such wasn't the way here, apparently. She was just finishing working on her visible body parts when he stopped in what he was doing and spoke to her. The words 'back' and 'please' were the only words she understood at first, having been caught off guard by him talking to her.

She could only stare at him for a long moment until he gestured to the bathing implements, then to his back. Even after this, however, she didn't move right away. She seemed confused, before suddenly she blinked, realizing what he wanted. A deep blush colored Ambrosia's cheeks, even reaching so far as to touch the tips of her ears as she moved over to him.

Her hands were shaking some as she poured the oil into them, not touching him until her hands had the oil on them. She didn't want to touch him at all... but what he commanded, she would do... she had no choice. The memory of the whip coming down hard on her was enough to dissuade any thoughts of going against whatever wishes he asked her to fulfill for him.

Hands moving up to his back, they were light and gentle, unsure at first. After a long few moments, though, his back was coated and she realized that it would take a firmer touch to really make the bark in the oil effective. Blushing once more, she pressed her hands fully to his back, applying as much pressure as her weakened state would allow and she began to use the oil to scrub his skin clean.

His back was strong, she realized halfway through what she was doing... Strong and powerful. It was all she could do to keep from staring at the way his muscles rippled beneath the skin. Her hands lingered perhaps a bit longer than was necessary, but it would be easy enough to explain that she'd simply wanted to be thorough to please him, or to say that she was so new to what she was doing, she wasn't sure how long to continue.

The dull blade was brought over his skin, cleaning him carefully before she stepped back, laying the blade down and turning her back to him, hiding her body from view so she could clean such places as her thighs, stomach, and undersides and between her breasts without him seeing her.

The firm kneading and rubbing motions of her hands on his back were both soothing and arousing at the same time: soothing in that she was massaging away the aches from having sat too long in that chair watching over her, but yet arousing because the girl doing it was his - his absolutely, to do with as he pleased. Legally, he could turn around and take her and she would have no more right to complain than would a chair of his for being sat on.

The thought both excited and repelled him. Of course he knew that some masters used their slaves sexually against their will, either by forcing them physically or by threatening them into compliance. But he’d never done that, and until now hadn’t even thought about it, except maybe in his darkest fantasies. His only sexual relations with a slave had been with the kitchen skivvy of a friend, and she had eagerly submitted to his advances, as his friend had suggested she would. So why was he now thinking of bending this girl over the bench and fucking her as if she was a creature with no free will? His thoughts about her up until now had been so tender and caring, so now to think of her in this way...

With an effort of will he forced himself to think of something neutral. He counted the tesserae that made up one of the dolphins in the bath house mosaics, and despite her manipulation of his back his erection slowly subsided. Before he even knew it, she’d finished rubbing in the oil, had scraped his back down and had turned away from him to continue with her own cleansing.

“Thank you,” was all he managed to say.

Aurelius poured another two jugs of water over himself to wash away the last of the oil then looked over at Ambrosia. She was scraping her inner thigh, her towel completely removed but her back to him. With her foot up on the bench and her back bent over, the curve of her spine swept down between her buttocks and he could just see her anus, her sex hidden from view beyond the curve of her crotch. The sight might have aroused him again but for the welts across her back. How could he even have thought of abusing a girl who had already suffered so much at the hands of his countrymen, even if it was within his rights to do so?

He stepped up behind her and took a handful of oil from the pot beside her, oil scented with flower petals rather than the more masculine bark fragrance he used. Laying his hands on her shoulders, he ignored her brief start and began rubbing the oil in, carefully working around the stripes of damaged skin for fear of hurting her.

OOC: happy St Patrick's Day (from a Celt, albeit one of the Scots breed rather than Irish!)

Ambrosia had been working on some of her most delicately skinned areas when he stepped up behind her, and she was grateful that the blade moving over her skin was dull, or else she’d probably have cut herself when she jumped at the touch of his hands. At first, she was stiff and still, hardly breathing as he moved his hands over her back, working the oil into her skin. She bit her lip as his fingers slid over her slickened skin, waiting and praying he wouldn’t slip and hit one of those injured stripes of skin. To say that she was nervous he wouldn’t be careful with her was an understatement... she was terrified she would be punished via the pain for one misstep or another that she’d taken without meaning to.

But his fingers were gentle and careful... every move was precise as he cleaned her back, his hands far stronger than she’d expected. He seemed so well-bred and wealthy compared to the few men she’d ever felt the hands of (all of them traders and soldiers along the route from her homeland to his), her understanding was that he would be more... delicately made. She’d expected his hands to be less strong... with fewer calluses. Not to say that he was as rough around the edges as any of the men who’d touched her before him... but he certainly wasn’t quite what she’d expected.

Blushing deeply at the thought that he was standing behind her so close while she was naked, Ambrosia brought one hand behind her head, using it to lift the locks of red hair out of his way, exposing her slender, delicately formed neck to him. There was a small black mark at the base of her skull, just below her hairline, a brand to show she was a slave... property... nothing. Her fingers had briefly brushed over the still somewhat tender blackened skin, and a tiny whimper had sounded in the back of her throat, but she cut the sound short when she realized she’d uttered it aloud.

Her eyes lowered then, her other arm crossing over her breasts, hiding them from view even though he wasn’t in a position to see them except from above her by looking over her shoulder. Biting her lower lip, she let out a shuddering breath as his fingers moved over the skin that sat taught over her strained muscles. The arm crossed over her breasts held the dull blade he’d need to scrape her back clean in its hand, the fingers only holding it loosely for the time being, waiting for him to need it.

Eyes on the floor still, she spoke in a soft voice. “Th... Thank you,” she said softly, but her thanks weren’t because he was cleaning her back... It was for much more than that. “Save me,” she added, so he’d know just what she felt the need to thank him for.

“Th... Thank you... Save me.”

What did she mean by that? He assumed that she thanking him for buying her from a cruel master and for being kind to her, and it gave him a warm feeling in his belly that she was grateful, sending another wave of tender protectiveness running through him.

Now how to scrape the oil off her without inflaming the welts on her back? He hit on an idea and wrapped the blade of his strigil in a towel and tried that. She scarcely winced, so he assumed it must be bearable. Either that, or she was being stoic. Then he poured warm water from the jug down her back to wash away any remaining oil.

Aurelius left her to finish her own front and stepped down into the small warm pool to soak. He sat on the ledge that ran all the way around it, just under the water, and leaned back, arms outstretched on the side of the pool, the water coming up to just above his belly button. This was the part he really liked – letting the warm water soak away his cares. His eyes closed for a moment as he savoured the sensation of warm water on skin sensitised by being scraped. On days he had no business to take care of he could spend a full hour going through the complete bathing sequence, with leisurely intervals in the pool between stages.

He looked back up at Ambrosia to see her finish scraping herself clean and stand upright once more. Her back was still turned to him, to shield her modesty, so he called out to her and waited until she turned her head.

“Ambrosia, come join me in the pool,” he urged her, pointing at her and then the pool to make his meaning clearer.

He grinned and put his other hand over his eyes, making a game of her prudishness and pretending that he wouldn’t sneak a look between his fingers the moment she turned round completely. Not that the water would cover her breasts once she was sat on the ledge anyway...

Ambrosia turned her head when he called out to her, but didn’t turn to face him until he pointed her and to the water. She didn’t understand most of what he said, but the gestures said enough without the aid of words. Grabbing her towel, she wrapped herself up before turning to face him. The sight of him sitting naked in the pool made her eyes go wide, and immediately look away, looking at everything but him in the bath house.

He wanted her to join him... but she didn’t want to get the towel wet... that would require taking it off and climbing into the water to keep him happy. Could she really do that? So blatantly show herself in front of him? He’d been nothing but kind to her... he’d not tried to take advantage of her, but still... to show herself so openly...

The thoughts warring in her mind showed clearly on her face and in her eyes, and Ambrosia hesitated, looking at the water, but not at him. Memories of the last time she’d been naked in front of a man came flooding back and she had to shut her eyes, taking several steadying breaths. He hadn’t done anything to suggest he’d do such things to her, and she opened her eyes, looking at him warily before moving over to the pool slowly. Lowering herself into the water, she lifted the towel as she sank into the water, her legs closed together tightly before she finally peeled the towel away.

She was slightly shaky as she lay the towel aside with one hand, her other arm wrapping around her chest, hiding her breasts from view. Her opposite hand now free, she brought it down and used it to obscure the view of her sex as she sat there, her eyes down, focused on the water in front of her instead of him, her hair falling into her face.

Aurelius was slightly disappointed that she’d been prudish enough to cover herself with the towel as she climbed into the pool, and that she now tried to cover her modesty with her hands. Disappointed, but not really surprised.

There was an awkward silence. To fill it, Aurelius started talking to her. He didn’t really expect her to understand much of what he said but was really just talking to break the silence.

“So what shall I do with you when you’re better, then? I don’t really need another slave, but I suppose the cook could do with as assistant. Or you could be a chambermaid – take some of the load off the cleaner. Or maybe a personal servant.” He liked that last idea. It would be nice to have her bring him his meals and fetch various things for him as needed, as well as bring refreshments for guests when he had them round. Her hair and her mismatched eyes would certainly be a talking point.

As he talked to her, he occasionally splashed a handful of water over his torso. Suddenly a playful idea occurred to him. Noticing that he’d left his towel on her side of the pool, he deliberately splashed a handful of water so that some went onto his face, then asked her to pass his towel over.

“Towel, please” he demanded, miming drying his face. She’d have to stand up and remove at least one hand to be able to pass it over to him, and he also planned to flick some water at her face to see if that would catch her out and make her pull her hands away!

The girl had been sitting there in silence, eyes averted from him, a perpetual blush seeming to sit on her pale cheeks. Her arms and hand seemed rooted to one spot, and she seemed almost like a statue, with her hair falling into her young face.

When he first began to splash water on himself, she let her eyes flicker up to look at him, mostly out of skittish fear and habit, only to blush deeply once more and avert her eyes again. When he spoke, she was forced to look at him again, having to take his visual cues to realize he meant for her to pass him the towel sitting near by.

A small, brief nod was all she gave before she shifted to move. That was when it occurred to her he'd be able to see much more of her body, because she'd have to drop at least one arm and stand to grab the towel for him. Moving at a brisk, but somehow graceful pace, she stood and leaned over the edge of the deep tub, giving him a brief view of her curved backside. The cheeks of her ass parted as she bent and leaned forward. The action briefly showed off the soft pink skin of her sex between her lets, and the puckered back door of her ass before she stood again, her body righting itself into its graceful lines and curves.

Turning back to him, she kept one arm crossed over her chest, though her sex was now exposed to his view, soft red curls over her small flower. After handing him the towel, she sat quickly once more, covering her sex again with her hand and looking down.

OOC: I’m back from my hols now. Had a great time with my folks in Scotland, but raring to get going again on my SRP threads!

- - - - -

“Thank you,” Aurelius said as she handed him the towel. And he was thankful – though more for the superb view she had offered him than for the means to dry his face. Yes, he’d seen her naked when she lay feverish and ill in bed, being treated by the apothecary woman, but that had been a matter-of-fact nakedness. This, with just the two of them, was much more intimate, and he was surprised by the strength of the lust that surged through him when he glimpsed her anus and her sex, gently opening as she bent over, almost begging for his attention. Then when she turned round and gave him a full view of her mound, covered with soft curls that matched the superb colour of her hair ... well, words couldn’t describe the feeling that grabbed him.

He’d had his little game, but it was he who was the loser. She’d shown dignity in the face of his teasing, and his physical reaction to her had been so strong that now it was he who would have difficulty exiting the pool without blushing with shame. How could he have behaved so to a young girl who was still quite ill?

He stood up and managed to turn his back to her quickly enough that she’d only get the most fleeting glimpse of his unfortunate erection. He wrapped the towel around him, covering his bare buttocks and tied a knot at his waist before stepping out of the small pool.

Stepping towards the shelf with the towels, he took another one down to dry himself, and a larger one which he threw down at the edge of the pool for her to use. He stood sideways on to her so that he wouldn’t seem to be watching her as she climbed out and cause either of them more shame, nor would he seem to be ignoring her by turning his back.

The shift in his mannerisms was subtle, but still noticeable. Ambrosia watched him as he stood and quickly left the pool. His movements were so suddenly she only caught a glimpse of his erection, and even then she wasn't sure of what she'd seen. He'd moved so fast, after all, that she wondered if it wasn't simply a trick her tired eyes were playing on her. She waited while he moved away and wrapped himself in his towel and began to dry himself off.

When he brought her her own towel, he tossed it beside the pool and she wondered if perhaps he was angry at her... he'd been rather accommodating until that point... now he almost seemed dismissive. Perhaps it was because the process was over with and he was eager to get back to his own life, now that he'd taught her his strange bathing ritual.

Climbing from the water, she wrapped her wet body in the towel after taking the time to get as much of the water off of her as possible. Looking up at him, she seemed to hesitate before reaching out and touching his arm gently with her fingertips. It wasn't so much that she was trying to get a message across, as she wanted to see how he'd react... if he'd turn away or yell or smile and be kind as he had been before.

Lifting her eyes, she looked at his face, not looking down the length of his body, and waited, her fingertips resting against his elbow. Why did she feel the need to be reassured by the man who'd bought her like cattle? Not even she could have explained it... perhaps she'd become conditioned to this way of life. Perhaps she realized that she only had value if he was pleased with her...

Perhaps she really truly hoped the kindness he'd shown wasn't a fleeting thing.

Aurelius’ first reaction was one of sheer shock. For a slave to touch him uninvited? It was presumption of the highest degree. He tensed, but then realised that she was probably very scared and unsure having been plucked from her home and thrown into situations and customs she didn’t understand. Why should he expect her to know not to do this?

Some owners would have slapped her across the face to teach her a lesson in a way that transcended all language barriers. But he wasn’t like that. He’d only beaten a slave once, and that was for ... well, he’d didn’t want to even remember that incident.

He turned and smiled at her, and very gently removed her fingers from his arm.

Then he put his hand on the small of her back and guided her back through to the changing room. Their dirty clothes had been removed and there was a clean tunic and a simple white dress for her, both folded neatly on the shelf. Aurelius smiled. The staff in this villa that was temporarily his were so efficient – they’d realised his needs and slipped in with clean clothes whilst he and the girl were in the main bathing rooms.

He unwrapped his towel casually and pulled the clean tunic over his head. His erection had partially subsided now and he was careless of letting her see it. He half turned so that she could get dressed with a degree of privacy.

Once they were both clad in fresh clothes, he guided her back to the guest room he had her recuperating in. She was flagging a bit now, and he was pleased to see that the bed linen had been changed in their absence. He led her back to the bed and indicated for her to lie down. He mimed the action of eating from a bowl to her and then went to the door to call for a slave to bring a hot broth.

Once he was sure she was fed and comfortable, he left her alone to sleep if she needed to.

* * * * * *

Aurelius sat on the porch overlooking the small courtyard garden of the town villa, deep in thought. He mulled over his feelings for his new slave. On the one hand he wanted to nurse her and care for her as he would a younger sister. On the other hand she aroused desires in him that were far from those he’d feel for a sister. Put simply, when he saw her naked he wanted to bend her over and fuck her like he was a stallion and she a mare in heat.

He distracted himself with some paperwork for most of the day and only went back to visit his convalescing slave when it was early evening.