Work Text:
"Fate leads the willing and drags along the unwilling." -- Seneca
Judea
c. 62 BC
Mark Antony left his tent shortly after dawn, squinting in the already bright sunlight. He strode through the camp, sparing a kind smile for the men who greeted him, although in truth, he was in a foul mood, not at all aided by the climate of the accursed place. Sparse scrub and few trees, even close to a waterhole, left little but heat and dust. Outside less than two minutes, and he was covered with sweat.
Entering the stables, he found his horse and clicked affectionately at the stallion. "I won't have him out long," Antony said to the groom as they walked outside. "Too fucking hot." The groom nodded in agreement and scurried back to the shade.
Antony walked the horse, skirting the camp's perimeter. It was busy for the moment, his men occupied with routine tasks, but those would be quickly accomplished before the day grew even more unbearably hot. There was sentry duty and the work required to keep the camp running, but Antony asked little more of his well-trained men in this heat. To do so would worsen morale even further. Later he would circulate through the mess, to backslap and tell stories and try to raise his men's spirits along with his own.
He cursed his restlessness and his so-called superior, the proconsul of Syria. Gabinius had brought Antony here for an important task, or so he'd said, which turned out to be the restoration of some Judean priest to the throne in place of his rebellious brother, or some similar intrigue. But thus far Antony had spent most of his time near the Egyptian frontier, to hold the rebels, Gabinius said, if they fled south. Antony could not have cared less about the politics involved; he only wanted to fight. His cavalry regiment was equipped and ready, and they had nothing to do but wait and watch in the desert heat.
Shielding his eyes from the bright sun, he checked the sentries, who were right where they were supposed to be. He looked west, fancying he could see as far as the sea. Three months ago he had been enjoying the comforts of Athens, studying rhetoric when not partaking of the city's amusing diversions. Now he was here, on the outer reaches of civilized influence, in this sorry excuse for a kingdom, waiting and watching. He was very, very bored.
Antony swore under his breath, as frustrated as he was disheartened. It wouldn't do for his first command to be anything but a success, even if all he succeeded at was following absurd orders.
He had turned his horse back for the stables when he heard shouting. Frowning, he turned toward it and clicked at his horse to increase the pace.
As he approached the large tent from which the shouting originated, he recognized it as belonging not to his own men, but to a training detachment sent from Rome. These young legionaries had been identified as having potential, and were sent to various posts for advanced training and to have their leadership qualities assessed -- qualities which, at the moment, were highly suspect.
Antony swung off his horse and entered the tent. He found a brawl in progress between two of the men, both of whom carried daggers; they swiped at each other clumsily while hurling insults. Several dozen other men were watching rather than moving to break up the fight, testing Antony's temper. He had only just taken in the situation when a third man pushed through the crowd, attempting to separate the brawlers. One of the combatants lashed out with his knife, and the newcomer took a cut to his head for his trouble.
"Halt!" Antony's voice rose over the considerable noise in the tent, and the melee quickly ended, the brawlers retreating. "What is the meaning of this?" His tone was stern and cold as his gaze shifted between the two. "Drop the knife, you fool," he spat at the man still holding a weapon.
The man did so, but actually had the temerity to begin to speak. "Sir --"
"Silence." Antony's tone was one of quiet fury. "Were you not sent here to demonstrate your talents for leading men? Is this how you display your abilities?" He looked around the tent, but only one face lifted to meet his -- that of the legionary who had stepped between the other two men. He was pressing a hand just above his nose, staunching the flow of blood.
Antony stepped toward the young man, his voice softening as he moved the hand pressed against the wound, examining the cut. He tore a strip of linen from the bottom of his tunic and handed it to the legionary. "Press hard with that," he said. "Head wounds tend to bleed like the Furies, and you might have a small scar there, but it will heal, I think." The young man merely nodded.
"What's your name, legionary?"
"Lucius Vorenus, sir. Thirteenth Legion."
"Well, Lucius Vorenus, Thirteenth Legion, you seem to be the only one showing command potential this morning. Do you know why these men were fighting?" Antony's gaze held the young man's uncommon blue eyes, seeking the truth from him.
The ease with which the young man returned Antony's best officer's stare was vaguely unsettling, sparking his curiosity. "I do not, sir," he answered calmly. "They were fighting when I came in."
"Very well. Off to the healer's tent with you." He looked around. "You," he pointed at one of the non-combatants, "go with him. And you," he pointed at another, "go and find the optio responsible for this sorry excuse for a company."
Fifteen minutes later, Antony was finished with the company's junior officer and his two very contrite men, who were to be drummed out of the detachment and sent back to the legions after a public flogging. The rest of those present, save Vorenus, would receive extra duties for observing the fight rather than intervening, starting with additional watches that very night.
Antony had only one further order for the optio: "Send Vorenus to me after evening mess," he said, taking his leave. "I wish to speak to him."
~~~~~~~
After nightfall, the relief from the sun and heat, temporary as it was, lifted morale. The camp was more active and noisy, as men exercised or just sat outdoors. Antony returned to his tent from the officers' mess and summoned his body slave, gratefully stripping off his tunic and allowing the boy to wash and rub him down.
His Greek slave had excellent hands. He had bought the comely boy at a bargain price from an Athens brothel for which, at the age of seventeen, the boy had grown too old. "Excellent, Dictys," he said.
"As it pleases, sir," the boy replied in accented Latin. Antony had no desire to make use of him after the manner of his previous vocation; the boy was too slight for his tastes, too soft after a life spent indoors, although that was slowly changing. This suited Dictys well, for in his few short years he had apparently been fucked enough for a lifetime. He was shaping up well as an officer's servant, however, keeping Antony's field quarters clean and orderly, and maintaining his clothes and armor. He also had truly excellent hands.
As Dictys massaged his back and thighs, Antony's mind drifted to the pending interview with the young legionary. He was not quite sure what had possessed him to summon the young man; Antony's praise in front of his comrades was reward enough for his actions, but something about Vorenus had intrigued him. It wasn't the legionary's appearance, as striking as it was -- fair hair and pale eyes were rare, but not unheard of, among the sons of Rome. It was something about his manner, a quiet self-possession that belied his years. Antony did not find it at all surprising that he had been singled out as a potential junior officer.
"That's enough, Dictys," he said softly, rising from the couch. He stood while the boy wiped him down, removing the excess oil from his skin, and pulled a fresh tunic over his head. "Leave some wine, and you may find your bed for the night when the legionary arrives." The boy nodded and went to follow his orders. A moment later, he handed a cup of wine to Antony and set the flagon and another cup on the low table between two couches. As Antony relaxed, the boy made himself busy until they heard footsteps outside the tent. He ushered Vorenus in, and with a nod from Antony, took his leave.
The young legionary stood just inside the tent's entrance, glancing at his surroundings and looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"Come in, Vorenus," Antony said, reclining on one arm. "Sit down." He indicated the opposite couch.
"Thank you, sir." Vorenus sat, perching on the edge of the couch uneasily.
Antony tried, with only partial success, to stifle a grin at the young man's discomfit. He reached forward to pour wine and hand it to Vorenus. Finally, he took pity on the young soldier. He lifted his own cup and nodded at him to drink. "Be at ease, Vorenus. You were not brought here for reprimand."
Which truly begged the question -- why had he brought Vorenus here? While he was known to drink with the men and share their mess, it was not his habit to socialize with them privately. He was not in the habit of bedding them, either. Yet as he looked over his cup into Vorenus's rather striking blue eyes, he admitted to himself that was exactly what he wanted, what he had wanted since first encountering the young man that morning.
This was the kind of man that appealed to him -- not lithe and anxious to please like his slave, but strong in body and mind, Roman through and through. Antony let the silence stretch as his eyes wandered down Vorenus's body: the broad shoulders, arms and chest strong from weapons training. His thighs, just visible beneath his tunic, were hard and muscular from marching and time spent on horseback. His pale looks lent him an air of the exotic, but the true appeal lay in the qualities Antony had first noticed that morning -- the quiet self-assurance, his calm even in the face of an uncertain situation. Yes, this was the kind of man that could spark desires in him that were usually reserved for women.
He smiled. Mark Antony usually got what he wanted.
But this was no slave to be taken on a whim; Vorenus was a Roman citizen and soldier, whatever his class or subordinate status. His body must be freely given. Well, more or less freely.
Antony considered his approach, letting silence fill the long moment before he spoke. "I am glad your injury does not seem too serious." He nodded at the small stitches above Vorenus's nose.
"No, sir. The healer said it was minor."
"That is well." He refilled Vorenus's cup, which was no more than half-empty. "Tell me, how has your training been thus far?"
So began a course of easy questioning that Antony kept up for the better part of an hour. He imagined he was learning nearly everything there was to know about Lucius Vorenus -- his father and grandfather's service, his childhood in the north with his mother's people. He was proud of his heritage and his people, and ambitious in his desire to live up to his family's standards.
Antony reciprocated little, as was his habit, offering only a clever anecdote here or there to set the young man at ease. He continued refilling Vorenus's cup with wine, and Vorenus continued drinking obligingly. He was not drunk; not yet, anyway, but his tongue had loosened notably. The young man had finally allowed himself to recline on the couch. Leaning on one arm with his legs curled under him, his eyes reflecting the low lamplight, Vorenus was laid out like a tempting dish, and Antony felt heat stir between his own thighs.
After a moment's silence, Antony asked, "What do you aspire to in the legions?"
Vorenus hesitated. "I am not yet certain, sir. But I think I might wish to become a scout."
Antony lifted an eyebrow. "A scout? That's a great deal of responsibility... and danger."
"I know, sir," Vorenus said, nodding. "But I think I could do it."
"I imagine you could," Antony replied. "Scouting work is only entrusted to the most reliable of men. And I think a commander would find you very reliable, Vorenus."
A half-smile lifted Vorenus's lips for a brief moment. "Thank you, sir."
"Of course, if you wished for such a position, it could not hurt to have a recommendation from one of the commanders of your training detachment."
Vorenus's eyes lit, and he stood, nearly stumbling. He was clearly a bit unsteady from the wine. Antony laughed, sliding to his own feet as he reached for Vorenus's arm, steadying him. "Truly, sir?" Vorenus asked, smiling at him. "I would be most grateful."
Antony stepped closer, maintaining his hold on Vorenus's arm. "Of course," he said lightly. "I am always pleased to help the career of a worthy man at arms. There is much that can be attained with the sponsorship of someone more senior, you know." He kept his voice low, intimate, and set his other hand on Vorenus's shoulder. "Desirable assignments, promotion... even dispensation to marry, if you wish, once you've gained some seniority."
The two men were of a height, and Vorenus looked directly into his eyes, his gaze steady despite the flush in his pale cheeks. "And in return, sir?"
They were standing nearly thigh to thigh now, and Antony could feel the heat of the young man's body. "Why, I ask nothing more than that you perform your service admirably, in the tradition of your great family," he said. "And I ask your loyalty."
"My loyalty... to Rome?"
"To Rome, first and foremost. And to me," Antony said. "It will be rewarded."
Vorenus opened his mouth to speak, but Antony had had enough, and he claimed what he had desired since he first saw Vorenus that morning. Antony kissed him harshly, as he never would kiss a woman. Rough, almost bruising, he demanded the young man's mouth, his arms tightening as Vorenus tried to pull away.
They both gasped when he finally stopped long enough to let them breathe. Vorenus again tried to free himself from Antony's grasp, not truly fighting his superior, but struggling. "Sir... this is improper..."
Antony pushed back until Vorenus was pressed against the work table, holding him there with his thighs, which freed his hands. He pushed the tunic up, his hands finally exploring the muscle and sinew of the strong, young male body pressed against him. "What's improper, Vorenus?" he asked, his voice low, urgent. "Do you not know what soldiers do together when there are no women around? What many men do for simple pleasure?" He moved his hands roughly over Vorenus's chest and arms, biting his neck.
"Yes, but..."
Antony stopped nipping at the young man's skin long enough to meet his eyes, lifting an eyebrow in amusement. "You've never been the younger partner, eh? It has pleasures of its own."
"But--"
"Do I seem diminished to you, as man or soldier?"
Vorenus hesitated only a moment. "No, sir."
"Then trust me. And enjoy." He cut off further objections with another kiss, stopping only long enough to pull Vorenus's tunic over his head, followed by his own. This was so much better... skin against skin, and he pressed Vorenus back until his upper body was spread across the table like a feast. He used one hand to hold Vorenus's arms above his head, and the other to wander downward, grasping his half-hard cock.
"Sir?" Vorenus squirmed underneath him, but the token resistance only stirred him further. He continued to bite and lick his way down Vorenus's chest.
"Shut up, Vorenus," he said lazily. It didn't take long to stroke him to full hardness, though Vorenus kept his eyes tightly closed. Very well then, let him pretend he didn't want Antony's touch... the hard cock in Antony's hand said otherwise. Unable to resist the temptation, Antony released Vorenus's arms before sliding his mouth further down, taking the head of his cock into his mouth.
Vorenus's eyes opened wide, staring down at Antony, who looked up with a smile around the cock between his lips. Vorenus groaned and lay back, and Antony continued to lick and suck the head while stroking the shaft. He reveled at the power this gave him, the power to halt the young man's weak objections, the power to make the strong body beneath him shake and tremble. He increased the pace until he felt Vorenus's body tighten, then he quickly let the cock fall from his mouth, moving to slip an arm under Vorenus's neck as Antony kissed him again. Vorenus was gasping now, his body lifting from the table as it tried to press against Antony.
His own body's urgency quickly climbing, Antony pulled Vorenus off the table, roughly turning him around as he reached for the oil his slave had used for the earlier massage. He pressed against Vorenus's back until he had him bent over the table, his hard cock bobbing just beneath its edge. Vorenus was quite a sight to behold -- his legs trembling, his body glistening with sweat. Yet there was no time to linger, for he didn't wish to give the young man time to think.
He dipped his fingers in the oil and slipped them between Vorenus's cheeks, pressing his body against Vorenus's as he pushed one, then two fingers inside. Antony kept the other hand firmly on Vorenus's shoulder, keeping him still as he struggled against the initial penetration. "Easy... easy..." he whispered against Vorenus's neck, his voice straining with his impatience to start fucking. "Just breathe."
Antony felt Vorenus's body relax slightly, just enough for him to press further inside with the help of more oil. He moved his fingers about, seeking...
"Oh, fuck! Mother of Juno, fuck!" Vorenus bucked beneath him.
Antony smiled, releasing his grip on Vorenus's shoulder, moving that hand to stroke the young man's cock instead. His fingers continued stretching, occasionally dragging over the spot that drove Vorenus half-mad. Unable to resist, Antony bent over and turned Vorenus's head so he could kiss the young man once again. He sucked and bit at his lips before licking at Vorenus's face, tasting sweat mixed with tears. Antony drew a deep breath, intoxicated with the taste of Vorenus's desire and his fear.
Unable to wait any longer, Antony drew back, quickly slicking his cock with oil. He pressed inside steadily, unwilling to stop even when he felt Vorenus tighten once again. "Breathe," he commanded, reaching for Vorenus's cock. He pulled back, tilting the young man's hips as he pressed in, and smiled as he felt him buck and relax when Antony's cock hit that same sweet spot inside him. Thank the gods, for he could hold back no longer. He began to thrust hard and deep, demanding more than he ever would from a woman, even a whore. He grunted with the force of it, reveling in the heat, the tightness, Vorenus's gasps and struggle for breath.
Antony grasped both of Vorenus's hips, too tightly, he knew; soon Vorenus's pale skin would show bruises. He did not care, and he thrust in bliss. He bent to lick more sweat from Vorenus's back as he reached for the young man's cock again, stroking it in time with his thrusts. Antony knew he wouldn't last for much longer, and as he felt himself start to come, he swore loudly, thrusting harder, deeper. He stroked Vorenus's cock roughly, determined to bring him off, and it was only seconds before he was successful. Vorenus shouted and gasped as he came, spurting over Antony's fingers.
Vorenus sagged in his arms almost the moment his climax ended, but Antony steadied him with his own weight against the table, withdrawing and reaching for a cloth to wipe his spattered hand. Vorenus was still panting. "Easy now. Just breathe." Antony's tone was soft, speaking as he might to a nervous colt. Steadying the young man, Antony led him to the bed, and his eyes closed immediately, his breath still uneven.
Vorenus appeared worn out, exhausted, rather than unconscious from drink. His cheeks were flushed, and he looked very young. Antony lay down beside him, pulling the blanket to their waists. He watched as Vorenus's breathing finally calmed, his skin still glistening with sweat. He would have to send Vorenus away before dawn, he knew, but perhaps he could have him again first, he thought, his eyes trailing down Vorenus's back, imagining it beneath him, the strong thighs spread for him, once more...
"Sir!" Dictys's voice came from just outside the tent's entrance.
"What is it?" he called, pulling his tunic over his head. He glanced back at Vorenus, who was dead to the world, and pulled the curtain that separated his bed from the rest of the tent.
"A courier, sir!"
Antony's eyes narrowed; a courier in the middle of the night was highly unusual. He pushed aside the tent flap and snatched the message from Dictys, unrolling it and reading quickly. They were summoned north, finally, to fight and put an end to the civil war. At last, he thought, an opportunity for Mark Antony to make himself known, for his own advancement, and, of course, Rome's greater glory.
He sent Dictys to wake his officers and returned inside. His mind turned over questions of tactics, of logistics. He noticed movement behind the curtain, reminding him of Vorenus's presence. Antony drew the curtain back and shook him awake.
"We go to war, Vorenus," he said.
Vorenus opened his eyes and sat up rather slowly, his head no doubt aching from the wine. "Sir..." he began, his voice unsteady. For the first time, his self-assurance seemed shaken.
Antony had no time for him now. "Return to your tent, and sleep while you can," he said, tossing Vorenus's tunic at him. "We will be on the move in a few hours."
Vorenus's gaze, which had been so confident earlier, betrayed his confusion. And his blush indicated his embarrassment, his shame. "Sir, I... we..."
Antony allowed himself a moment's compassion, the edge in his voice softening. "Nothing unbecoming happened here tonight, Vorenus. But go now. I must prepare to leave."
Vorenus said nothing further, simply nodding as he quickly dressed. As he turned to leave, he glanced at Antony again, his face still flushed, though with the wine or embarrassment, Antony could not tell.
Their eyes met as Antony spoke. "I meant what I said. Loyalty will be rewarded."
The young man's blush deepened as he nodded again, then he slipped out of the tent. Antony turned away, reaching for a map of Judea, his mind already on the battle to come.
~ end ~
Historical Notes:
As a young cavalry officer, Mark Antony served in Judea during the campaigns against the Judean king Aristobulus. Pompey (of all people!) was a key figure in this war, which signaled the end of Judea as an independent client-kingdom. Most everything else here is pure fiction, including the tactical situation and the concept of young legionaries being identified as officer material and receiving extra training. The timeline is also somewhat fluid, depending on how old you believe Vorenus is at the time the series beings in 54 BC.
Plutarch's Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans (sometimes called Parallel Lives or just Lives) is a great resource for information (and learned speculation) about Mark Antony's life and character.
The story's title, Qui Tacet Consentit, means "silence gives consent" or "he who is silent, agrees."