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The Senate hearings on the Catilina affair promised to drag on past the end of the year. Uncle Cato thought Marcus would find them edifying; he had, for the first two weeks. Then it turned into Julius swaying the Senate towards clemency until Cato whipped them back towards execution, repeated daily. Marcus was starting to find the wool of his toga more interesting than his uncle’s feud with Julius.
His toga could stand for a little bleaching, actually. The senators from the lesser gens were equally bored and had taken to gossiping in the shadier spots of the Curia. Julius had just started to read a private message when Cato’s flat voice moved up a pitch.
“And now Caesar is reading messages from his fellow conspirators in front of us! What are they bribing you with this time? Cheap real estate?”
Julius didn’t lift his eyes from the note. “If you’re going to keep me here all day, I have my own affairs to keep up with. At least I’m not eating my lunch like the senators near the door.”
“If you have nothing to hide, let me read the note.”
“You’d rather you didn’t,” Julius said.
“Just let him read your household inventory, Gaius,” Crassus said.
Julius handed over the note with a grin. “I’m always honest, Cato.”
Cato was so eager to humiliate Julius in public that he read it out loud. “My dear Gaius, my body trembles with the memory of our last meeting.” Cato’s voice lowered in tone as he continued, propelled by awful curiosity. “Your crashing sword against my loins quickens my blood as if I were still a young girl, ignorant of the joys of grown men. I want to take you in my mouth and let you conquer my throat with your thighs as if I were a wanton Gallic maid. Signed, your most tender Servilia.”
Uncle Cato went red and threw the note at Julius. “Keep it, you profligate!”
“I’ll put it with the others,” Julius replied.
Marcus was mortified. Julius took pity on Marcus (he always did, since he was so attached to Servilia’s bed) and motioned for the hearing to end for the day. For once, Cato agreed with him. Marcus tried to sneak out before either Cato or Julius could get to him. Julius deftly excused himself from his cronies and put an arm around Marcus, hustling him out of the Curia.
“Marcus Brutus, your mother is a noble woman,” Julius said. Servilia Caepionis may have been a proper Roman lady many years before Marcus was born, but Julius had made that time impossible to imagine. “You can’t do anything to her reputation she hasn’t done already. She’ll be happy to get more party invitations.”
“That’s how I’ll turn it. You’ll make a good politician if you learn to control your mouth better.”
Julius hadn’t meant anything by it, but Marcus had the feeling that he’d blushed at the suggestion. Fellatio wasn’t something ever talked about in the Forum and it was Marcus’s mother, after all. “Let me treat you to some wine as an apology,” Julius added.
“I won’t talk about my uncle no matter how drunk I get,” Marcus replied.
“I’ve always been flattered by Cato’s high opinion of me. He thinks I’m the man who’ll destroy the Republic. I’d bet on Mithridates instead, if Pompey lets him get his barbarian horde through the Apennines.”
“I’m sure Pompey’s absence grieves you and Crassus.”
“Deeply. We’d wear our togae pullae but they’re being laundered.”
The wine-shop was run by a gap-toothed Phrygian. Julius led Marcus upstairs to a well-kept little room and pressed a cup of unwatered Galatian wine into his hands. He was either sorry, or trying to pump him for Cato’s plans. Probably both.
“I haven’t seen much of you since Catilina,” Julius said, pouring himself a generous portion and sitting in the room’s only chair. That left Marcus the lectus, which was large enough to sleep in comfortably. “Have you forgotten about your Uncle Julius?”
Marcus snickered and took a deep swallow of the wine. “I thought the rumor was that you were my father.”
“I’ve never liked that one,” Julius replied. “Though you do your father credit.”
Marcus raised one eyebrow. “What do you want from me?”
Julius never attempted any transparency when he needed something. “I want Cato to marry Porcia to Hortensius Hortalus.”
Hortalus was an old man and Marcus’s cousin Porcia was half Hortalus’s age. The marriage made no sense, even if she weren’t already married to Bibulus. “Why do you care where Hortalus puts his aging prick?”
Julius sipped at his drink. “Hortalus has been a good friend to me.”
Hortalus had successfully defended Nicomedes of Bithynia’s claim to his kingdom, before Julius was sent on a diplomatic mission which stretched months past the expected time. Being the “Queen of Bithynia” had followed Julius’s entire political career. Marcus hadn’t ever given much thought to it – or the rest of the rumors about Julius’s tastes. It seemed silly when he’d grown up in a house where Julius let himself in by the servant’s door. Julius hadn’t even cared when that spindly-legged poet had written a poem about Julius being Mamurra’s catamite. But mentioning Nicomedes always infuriated him.
Julius started on a long story about his friendship with Hortalus. It got more believable the more Marcus drank. His mind kept wandering back to the Senate hearing and that cursed letter. Julius was an aspiring despot and his mother’s lover, but that didn’t make him any less attractive. He was thirty-seven and fitter than a man half his age, though he got little of his exercise at the gymnasium. Marcus wasn’t often interested in men (or even boys – the Greek way didn’t appeal to him), but Julius was an aggravating exception. Marcus sometimes worried if it was some sort of juvenile competition with his mother. Or perhaps it was because Julius could tell a good story, even if Marcus was listening more to Julius’s tone of voice than anything else.
Marcus got up to leave. He didn’t want to do something regrettable. “I’m feeling ill. I’ll think about Hortalus.”
Julius drew too close to him, his expression concerned. He felt Marcus’s forehead. “You don’t feel feverish. Are you sure you’re not just drunk?”
“The wine hasn’t helped,” Marcus said.
Julius’s hands felt hot on Marcus’s arms. “I’ve brought you here on false pretenses. Marcus, I know we’ve barely spoken since the Catilina affair, but I’ve known you since you were a child. Of course you’ll side with Cato – that doesn’t mean I can’t speak with you.”
Marcus’s blood was torn between rushing to his face or his groin. Julius was so much taller than Marcus when he stood close to him. “I’m fine,” Marcus muttered. “I just need some air.”
“What’s wrong? You’re flushed.”
Sod his complexion. “Must you touch me?”
Julius gave him a measuring look he usually reserved for his political enemies. Marcus felt more exposed than in the public baths. “I don’t think you mind,” Julius said.
“It’s unmanly.”
“I’m sorry I misinterpreted you,” Julius said, beginning to turn away.
“Please don’t.”
Julius smiled wolfishly. “Pardon?”
His throat felt dry. When had the afternoon turned into this? Julius dragged one hand up Marcus’s throat, resting his thumb on Marcus’s chin. Marcus swallowed; Julius’s eyes were so dark in the room’s half-light. Julius pressed his lips hard against Marcus’s mouth and nipped at Marcus’s lower lip until he opened himself to the other man’s tongue. He still hadn’t let go of Marcus’s jaw, tilting his head upwards until Marcus had to lean forward on the balls of his feet. Julius moved his free hand to cup Marcus through his clothes, as insistent there as with everything else. Marcus found himself pushed against the lectus as he grabbed on to Julius’s tunic just to keep his balance, letting out a groan before he could control himself.
Julius said the unspeakable in Greek.
“You can’t,” Marcus whispered.
“I want to,” Julius said, kissing the pulse on Marcus’s neck. Of course Julius Caesar couldn’t stop using his cursed mouth.
“Gaius-”
Julius stood up, leaving Marcus suddenly cold. “Strip,” he said, using the same tone of voice he used for command. When Marcus looked at him cow-eyed, Julius’s expression softened. “I’ll go first, then.”
He’d seen Julius naked before. But he’d never seen Julius naked and completely hard. Marcus tried not to stare, directing his gaze upwards to the light dusting of hair on Julius’s muscular chest. He’d barely had time to strip perfunctorily, aware he must be putting on a poor show before Julius was forcing him down fully onto the lectus. Julius dragged his nails lightly against Marcus’s nipples, making him gasp and fist his hands in Julius’s hair. He kissed his way down Marcus’s stomach, using his teeth and tongue and pressing down on Marcus’s thighs so he couldn’t move.
“Beautiful boy,” Julius murmured, letting his skilled tongue trace the bones of Marcus’s pelvis.
Marcus moaned when he felt Julius’s mouth on his cock. He wasn’t drunk enough for this. Julius tongued Marcus’s shaft as if he didn’t… Jupiter Optimus Maximus, he kissed senators with that mouth. He performed holy offices. No man, no proper Roman, had ever done that to him. Marcus couldn’t even speak Latin while Julius took his entire length. Marcus found himself sighing “ὦ, ὦ,” as if Greek made it acceptable. He thrust into Julius’s mouth, certain he’d have bruises on his hips from the way Julius was holding him down. He felt overwhelmed.
“Please, I can’t last, it’s too much,” Marcus said.
Julius wrapped one hand around the base of Marcus’s cock and sucked harder. Marcus bucked against him, desperately wanting to come, wanting to make Julius choke and lose one small part of his composure.
“You bastard,” Marcus hissed through his teeth. “You utter bastard.”
Julius released him abruptly to stand over him. He roughly dug his fingers into Marcus’s hair, forcing Marcus to look him in the eye. “Is there something more you want from me?”
“Tyrant.”
Julius laughed and rested his hands on his hips. “I’ve never had to resort to violence, young Brutus.”
Brutus asked for what he wanted in Greek.
“Say it in Latin.”
“Did Nicomedes?”
Julius slapped Marcus’s cheek with enough force to make his ears ring. “Any more talk like that, brat, and you’ll be left with only your hand to abuse.” He said it calmly, as if he were chastising a slave for bringing him the wrong pair of sandals.
Marcus was painfully hard. Decency could get fucked. “Te pedicare volo.”
“Foul language from an optimas,” Julius said.
“Not as foul as your mouth,” Marcus said before he could stop himself. He expected another slap; instead Julius pulled him upwards as if he weighed nothing and kissed him forcefully. Marcus was so startled he pressed Julius too far back and nearly knocked him over.
“Your eagerness is flattering but try not to kill me,” Julius said. He reached into a nearby chest of drawers and took out a small pot of oil. He laughed when he saw the scandalized look on Marcus’s face.
“Oh, I don’t normally bring people up here. This is for when I need to wank in private,” Julius said. “So I can nap afterwards.”
“You took me to your secret nap den to discuss marriage arrangements?”
“I anticipated wanting to sleep afterwards, yes. If I’d known you’d start making eyes at me I’d have brought you somewhere far grander.” Julius glanced down at the pot and raised one eyebrow. “Have you ever arsefucked anyone before?”
Marcus couldn’t stop himself from blushing. Julius had a way of always making him feel so small. “Only women.”
“You’ve done nothing with men?”
“The thighs,” Marcus mumbled. Curse Julius’s curiosity. Julius had no need to know that it’d been Cassius who’d first held Marcus down and fucked him when they were both only boys.
“So that damn rumor about Bithynia put the thought in your head?” Julius seemed less disposed to slapping people when he brought up Nicomedes himself.
“You being yourself put it there,” Marcus replied. “Now lie back or you’ll die of old age before I finish.”
“Yes, little master.” Julius stretched out on the lectus with an enviable lack of shame. He took one of the pillows and fluffed it before placing it behind his head with a self-satisfied grin. “Do you need me to show you?”
Marcus ignored him and took the oil, putting a generous amount on his fingers. “Spread your legs.”
Julius silently did as he was asked for the first time that day. Marcus rested one hand on Julius’s thigh, suddenly aware that Julius had touched Marcus almost everywhere and yet he’d barely done anything to the man. Julius pulled him downwards for another kiss while shifting Marcus’s hand between his thighs. When Marcus forced one finger inside him, Julius took in a sharp breath.
“You’re tight as a virgin,” Marcus said.
“Cato’s the only man in Rome who regularly tries to fuck me,” he replied.
Somehow, that was the most surprising thing Julius had said all day.
“You redden so easily,” Julius said, stroking the faint freckles across the bridge of Marcus’s nose. “You have the most honest complexion in the Senate.”
Marcus bit the skin of Julius’s shoulder to avoid any further compliments while Julius had the nerve to chuckle and tousle his hair. Marcus added another finger, stroking upwards against the slight bulge until Julius finally gasped and wrapped his legs around Marcus, controlling even while panting like he’d just run a race.
“Where did you learn that?” Julius asked.
“A Spanish prostitute.” He’d been too embarrassed by how quickly he’d finished to go back to her, but he had a good memory.
“Bless her,” Julius said, arching his back when Marcus began to stretch him further. “Eia, Marcus. Immortal gods, I’ve wanted you for years.”
“How long?”
Julius rocked himself on Marcus’s fingers, exposing the long line of his neck as he pressed his face against the pillow. There was a faint scar beneath his ear; Julius had once told him it was from a pirate’s knife.
“How long, Caesar?”
“Since you developed that insolent cast to your mouth,” Julius said. “And your-” Marcus cut him off with a rough thrust, making his words fade into a groan.
“My what?” Marcus laved the knife scar with his tongue as Julius twisted under him.
“Your arma virilia, you vain creature.”
Marcus withdrew his fingers and sat up, watching how Julius’s gaze drifted down his body to settle on his groin. He’d probably never be able to look Julius in the eye again without remembering the feel of his full attention. Marcus’s skin felt prickly with it as he worked oil over his length, fixating on the fact that the cover was going to be ruined and that Crassus was probably going to pay for the damage without knowing the cause.
“Come here, mi carissime.”
Marcus bristled at the endearment but allowed Julius to pull him closer. Julius pushed Marcus on to his back, taking the equestrian position.
“You didn’t think I’d let you mount me like a common slattern, did you?” Julius asked.
“I had my hopes.”
Julius was heavier than he looked; his trimly muscled build gave Julius a deceptively slender outline in a toga. A bruise was forming where Marcus had bitten his shoulder. He reached up to brush the edges of it with his fingers, strangely pleased at having marked him. Marcus held Julius by the hips, guiding him upwards until his cock was pressing against Julius’s entrance.
“Are you ready?”
Julius winked. “I’m not getting any younger.”
He never got to argue the merits of politeness because Julius sheathed Marcus fully in one slow motion of his thighs. Julius only winced once.
“You grew up well,” Julius said.
“How can you even think?”
Julius laughed softly. “Am I too much for you?
“Too slow,” Marcus replied, even if he was trying to bring up his most un-erotic memories of Lupercalia rites to make himself last longer. Bony magistrates running through the streets in goat skins usually worked well.
Julius grinned and held Marcus’s wrists above his head with one hand. Julius was strong enough to make it hurt, grinding the bones together with every quickening move of his hips.
“Better?” he asked.
Marcus wanted to shove Julius against the side of the lectus and fuck him properly. Marcus was acting like a passive because Julius simply felt too good – he’d never be able to stand an apathetic whore again after the suffocation of Julius’s interest.
“Please, I can’t-” Marcus said.
“You’re so much more polite when you’re close,” Julius said, squeezing Marcus’s wrists harder. The cursed reclining position Marcus was in made it impossible for Marcus to have much control.
“Gods take you!”
“Not yet.”
“Bastard,” Marcus groaned, shutting his eyes.
Marcus’s head spun with festivals but Julius was in all of them. On the days of the Lemuria, Julius had been the one to throw beans over his shoulder as he tread through Marcus’s home. Marcus remembered hiding in his room, convinced that his father’s ghost would come for him because he was an awful child who disrespected his mother and cursed his uncle. Julius had sat on Marcus’s bed, his toga dyed black for the holiday and told him with the utmost seriousness of the paterfamilias that “hostiles linguas inimicaque uinximus ora.” Marcus had only recently heard the same invocation from a shriveled crone selling charms in the Aventine. Her terrible croaking evoked that night of the Lemuria, when Julius was only the poor son of a dying gens, the tall, dark-eyed man who told the best stories but had fraying thongs on his sandals.
He could barely feel Julius running a hand through his hair, tilting his head so he could kiss Marcus’s neck. When had Julius wormed his way into the affections of the son as well as the mother? It seemed unfair and unwise.
“Relax, Marcus,” Julius whispered.
Marcus’s orgasm felt like it was torn out of him. Julius rode him through it, only just starting to sweat from the effort. Marcus was still weak with his climax when Julius took himself in hand, leaning over Marcus to finish on his chest.
“Was that necessary?” Marcus said, glaring at the mess.
“Prude. Stay there and I’ll get something to clean up with before we head to the baths.”
He had turned Marcus into a woman. Julius was the one who’d been penetrated, but Marcus was the one lying around stunned and unfortunately damp. Julius wrapped his tunic around his waist and padded downstairs to exchange a few words with the shopkeeper, coming back up with a bucket of water and a damp rag. He tossed the rag at Marcus.
“Don’t say whatever’s on your mind, you look so charming right now and I’d hate to ruin it,” Julius said.
Marcus held his tongue for reasons he wasn’t sure he wanted to parse while he cleaned himself.
“The shopkeeper congratulated me, by the way. Said I was lucky to have such a pretty little patrician arse-up.”
“I wish he were wrong,” Marcus said.
“He’ll be even more in the right later.”
Marcus threw the filthy rag and managed to get Julius’s hair.
“Vae mihi, you’ll make me go bald,” Julius replied.