A Man's Sword

A Man’s Sword

G
ABRIEL
picked up the blade and caressed its unadorned hilt. Definitely of Roman origin, though he’d have to do a bit of research to pinpoint the exact area. Still, it was a heckuva find, especially in a Wyoming antique shop. He’d dropped in thinking they would still have that Civil War sword he’d seen in the window a few weeks ago. They didn’t—it’d been sold only a few days earlier—but this piece, newly acquired, had caught his eye. A bit of haggling and the promise of a lead if he found anything interesting—it helped to know the shop’s owner—and he was in possession of a Roman gladiator’s sword. It’d round out his collection nicely.

How many swords does a guy need?
The sarcastic and catty question from his last boyfriend still echoed in Gabriel’s mind. He surveyed the wall in his basement displaying several choice pieces. A man had to have hardware.

Lovingly, Gabriel caressed the hilt once more, then curled his fingers around the grip. He immediately took up a guarded stance, blade held at the ready. “For Caesar!” He lifted the sword and shook it above his head, imagining himself in the center of an arena, the crowd cheering his name. Thumbs down or thumbs up—which would it be?

For Rome. No one gave a fuck about Caesar.
The voice caressed his ears and sent a shiver down his spine. Gabriel’s cock tightened. For a moment, a hot sweaty body pressed against his back, arms like steel bands around him, and the heavy, thick cock of a gladiator surged against his buttocks. Gabriel bit back a groan at the too vivid image and lowered the sword.

Though you’d do well in the arena.

That voice again. Gabriel turned, though he knew he was alone. “It’s been too long since I’ve gotten laid,” he muttered as he turned toward the display rack and placed the Roman blade on its shelf. He’d had to move his rare
estoc
, a sword used by horseman where Austria and Hungary bordered the Ottoman Empire in the late 1500s. He’d found it for under seven thousand, a steal at that price, and knew he’d have to find a new place to display it soon. Still, this gladiator’s weapon had called to him. Not so much as a collector of rare and fine swords, but as a man admiring the skill and brute strength of another.

The antique dealer had told him a friend brought it back from Italy. He’d love to have a friend like that, especially if he found artifacts like those and gave them up to a dealer. With a grin, Gabriel headed upstairs to shower. He promised his sister he’d make an appearance at her dinner tonight.
And find out which friend she wants to hook me up with next. I’m a little too old for college guys, though they sure are fun.
His cock stirred. Yeah, maybe some young stud might be exactly what he needed to get his mind off a certain Roman gladiator’s sword… and the man who might have wielded it.

T
HE
weapons were unfamiliar to him, but they were weapons. A gladiator’s sword—
his
sword—sat on a display shelf next to more ornate weapons. The polish on the blades showed they were well taken care of, though he doubted the slimmer weapon below his would withstand much heavy use. This place wasn’t home, not his cot in the gladiator’s barracks, where they sweated their asses off in the summer and froze in the winter. He saw no fireplaces, yet warm air moved from a shiny vent above him. The room appeared bright as day, though he saw no obvious source of light. Stairs led somewhere; he knew better than to follow them. How had he gotten here? His head hurt.

He sat on a couch far softer that the one on which he’d fucked the senator’s wife, at her insistence, of course. He much preferred the senator himself. But she was a prideful woman, powerful and prone to believe that she controlled the gladiators, not that he allowed himself to be handled so that he might eventually earn his freedom.

He hadn’t. Not yet, or at least he didn’t think so. An offering to Janus, the two-faced God, made in a temple. He’d been laughed at for offering to any god, least of all one who held little sway over war and battle. Memories of a dark-haired woman, his mother, telling him of the gods, of their powers, filled his mind like wisps of smoke. It had been Janus’s month, and something about the god who looked both forward and backward called to him. With the same instinct that told him to feint or lunge, he’d made the offering. “Find me a doorway out of this life,” he’d said. His guards, duty bound to bring him back to his
lanista
, a manager of gladiators, had only laughed.

His head hurt again. The sword called to him, and he went to the display and removed it from its resting place. Cradling the sword against his chest, he lay down on the fine couch, giving little thought to his grime-covered feet and dirty loincloth. The senators liked his dirt against their finery; it made them feel important and wanted. If no one summoned him, he would recline and rest for a moment. Maybe his head would stop hurting.

The whirring of the warm air stopped. A strange ticking came from across the room, and a gurgling from where a basin and fountain, and bottles of drink were stored. This wasn’t like any senator’s room he’d been in, and yet, he hadn’t seen the palace. Maybe he’d been called into higher circles. With a smile, he rested his head on a pillow far softer than any he’d ever used before, caught the faintest woodsy smell, and waited.

F
OOTSTEPS
echoed in the room. The whirring had come and gone several times; it had been his only way to gauge the passing of time. Water, he thought, ran somewhere above him. The steps came closer now, descending the stairs he’d seen earlier. Servants were housed below, and these were not like any servant’s quarters he knew.

Marius snapped to attention, rising off the couch and standing, sword held loosely by his side. His stomach rumbled. Maybe the senator would be kind enough to feed him.

His breath caught at the sight of the man who’d appeared in the doorway. Marius admired the beauty of an uncovered and sculpted chest. No hair concealed the man’s muscled form, and the desire to touch such smooth skin made him curl his free hand into a fist, lest he reach out and try. Dusky nipples stood erect, clearly visible. The ripples of the man’s abdomen had to have come from long workouts; he’d seen great gladiators look worse. Clean-shaven, the man had dark hair that curled around his forehead and the nape of his neck. A few droplets of water trickled along his ear. He’d been bathed. Maybe two men would provide the entertainment tonight, though the dark-blue covering the man wore from waist to ankles was no robe or loincloth. Instead, it fitted him like a glove from muscled thighs to the bulge of his cock.

The man looked up, his eyes as startling a blue as the fabric over his legs. “Who the hell are you?” He looked to the weapon display. Perhaps this man fought?

He brought the sword up. “I am Cicero Marius.”
And I do not know why I am here.

“How did you get here?”

Belatedly, Marius—he hated the name given to him by the senator who owned him—realized the man spoke in a foreign tongue, yet he’d been able to reply in the same language. This had to be the work of the gods!

“I do not know.” Marius grew tense. Perhaps the senator had thrown them together for entertainment. The garment the man wore appeared to be too confining for fighting, though it certainly would display him well. “Where am I?”

“My basement. How’d you get here?” The stranger pulled a small item from his pocket. “I’m calling the cops.”

The words might be unfamiliar, but their meaning was clear. The magistrate in this area held no love of gladiators. “If you can point me back to Senator Aurelius’s villa, I will be on my way.”

“Hell. You think you’re a gladiator, don’t you? And that’s my sword! Is this some kind of joke? Did Audrey put you up to this?”

“I do not know Audrey. This is my sword.” He turned the grip to show the stranger, though the move put him at a disadvantage. “This happened when I fought Titus in the arena and won.” He pointed out a large chunk out of the hilt. “And this happened when I trained with Tiberius before a match.” He pointed out another, smaller cut in the hilt. “I do not know how you got this sword, but it is mine.”

“I see.” The stranger’s nostrils flared, and a hint of awareness, maybe even desire, sparked in his eyes. “You say you are a gladiator? You certainly smell like one.”

“I may not be perfumed like you.” Now that the man had moved closer, Marius could smell the same woodsy scent as on the couch, only stronger now. Could it be that this man was a senator, and maybe that was why he wore such strange clothing? Marius had more honor than to attack an unarmed man, and the little box he’d slid into a pouch in his pants didn’t look like a weapon. “I made an offering to Janus. Now I am here. I do not remember.” Marius rubbed his temple. “But I am here now, and you had my sword on display. Why?”

“I bought it from an antique dealer.” The man frowned, causing tiny lines to form between his brows. His lips, just full enough to be sensual, pulled down, and then he shook his head. “Considering that my electronics are in place and you don’t look like you’re concealing any of my things, I’ll take you at your word. Just put down the sword.”

“You will not attack? I am a stranger in your home. It would make sense if you—”

“I will not attack.” The stranger cut off his words. “We look about evenly matched, and I do not see any other weapons.”

“I am a gladiator. My body is my weapon.” Indignant, and determined to prove his words, Marius laid the sword on the back of the couch. Out of hand, but definitely within arm’s reach.

“Thank you, Cicero.” The stranger’s lips quirked up into a smile. “That certainly is a Roman name.”

“Marius. Cicero is what senators call their slaves when senators want to pretend they are scholars.” He would have spat, but that would have marred the very fine carpet. In fact, he hadn’t noticed until now, but beneath his bare feet, the soft velvety surface felt far too luxurious for any senator’s home. Then again, he might have to resign himself to the fact that he wasn’t in Rome. How long he’d slept, or what had happened, he didn’t know. But he’d find out soon enough. “What is your name?”

“Gabriel Woodweiss.”

“Gabriel is a Roman name.” Marius grew more relaxed in the man’s company, finding this strange situation less so as time passed. He’d decided this couldn’t be a senator’s home. The big shiny black glass in a darker frame couldn’t be Roman. Nor could the little numbers in another black box. He hadn’t paid attention to his surroundings before, but now, without the threat of a battle, he took stock of the books, many books, on a shelf, and the dots of light, green and red, scattered on various boxes across the room. It had to be the work of the gods. “I do not think I am in Rome.”

Gabriel chuckled, a husky sound that went straight to Marius’s cock. “No. You’re in Wyoming.”

“I do not know Wyoming. Is it beyond Gaul or Egypt?”

Gabriel chuckled again, and as much as Marius loved the sound, he did not like being the object of humor. “Across the ocean from Great Britain.”

“Britain is not great. It is a place of heathens and mongrel warriors. We fight them even now.”

Gabriel sobered. “Britain and Rome haven’t fought for thousands of years. Why don’t we get you cleaned up and maybe some food, and then I can explain things.”

“Thousands of years? It is AD 116 and Trajan is the emperor.” Marius glanced around the room again, aware of how different it looked from his home. The fine weave of the fabrics, the colors, everything appeared so alien. He’d come to the conclusion that the gods had a hand in this. Perhaps he should understand that maybe Gabriel was right as well. “Food would be nice. What do you eat?”

Gabriel asked. “What do you want?”

Marius grinned. Maybe it was time to test the limits of this place. “A nice cut of meat. And good dark bread. Can you do that?”

“Easily. If you can leave the sword down here, we’ll go to the kitchen.”

Gabriel nodded and made a show of putting the sword back on its display case. He knew where it was and it wasn’t locked up, so he could get it anytime he needed. Gabriel hadn’t made any move to attack him. His stomach rumbled; he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. Dinner first. Then answers. And, maybe, a blue garment like Gabriel’s.

He followed Gabriel up the stairs, noting the way the fabric hugged his hips and buttocks. Definitely better than a loincloth. More protective, yet it seemed to show just as much. The building warmed as they ascended the stairs. Once they reached the top, he caught sight of strange rooms. One with big silver boxes and what looked like plates and cups. Could that have been the kitchen? Another room with a long table. Then down a hall, past a huge room with a couch and many shelves.

Gabriel brought him to a room smaller than the rest. There was a basin and many decorative tiles. A white chair and a big glass box were the only other furniture in the room.

“This is the bathroom. That is the toilet. It’s the privy.” Gabriel pointed to a little silver lever. “When you’re done, press this. There’s paper for….” He frowned and pointed at a roll of very fine-looking paper.