Sands of Fate: The Wrong Side of History

Chapter 38: Porcius’s House of Pleasure

The doors of "Porcius’s House of Pleasure" swung shut behind the men of ludus Ignatius, and the world of Rome; the noise, the distant clatter of carts and the shouting of merchants, vanished like a held breath released.

The interior was a labyrinth of silk and shadow. Thick curtains of deep crimson and gold hung from the ceilings, dividing the vast space into chambers within chambers, each one a pocket of flickering lamplight and muffled sound. The air was hot and heavy, thick with the mingled perfumes of jasmine, myrrh, and something darker beneath—the raw, animal scent of bodies in heat. Incense curled upward from bronze burners, twisting through the air like ghosts.

Everywhere Alex looked, there was flesh.

A woman with skin like polished ebony lay sprawled across a mound of velvet cushions near the entrance, her legs spread wide, her head thrown back in theatrical ecstasy as a man knelt between her thighs, his face buried in her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her moans rising above the low thrum of the lyre music. The slick, wet sounds of his mouth on her were audible even from where Alex stood.

Beyond them, on a long couch draped in leopard skins, two men were entangled with a single woman. She was on her hands and knees, her breasts swaying with each thrust from behind, while the second man knelt before her, his hand fisted in her dark hair, guiding her mouth onto him. Her whimpers were muffled, rhythmic, matching the slap of flesh against flesh.

In the center of the main hall, a fountain burbled quietly; a marble statue of a nymph pouring water from an endless urn, but no one was watching it. The couches around it were occupied by bodies in various states of undress.

A woman straddled a gladiator’s lap, her hips rolling in slow, grinding circles, her head tipped back, her lips parted in silent pleasure. Another woman, her stola long since discarded, lay on her back while a man’s tongue traced a slow line down the inside of her thigh, stopping just before the place she clearly wanted it most.

The sounds were everywhere; moans, gasps, the wet rhythm of skin meeting skin, the creak of wooden frames beneath the weight of moving bodies. A man’s low groan somewhere in the shadows, followed by a woman’s satisfied laugh.

The men of Ludus Ignatius scattered like children in a sweetshop.

The lean man from the infirmary—the one Gaius had insulted—was already being led upstairs by the copper-skinned woman from the courtyard. She had his hand in hers and was walking backward, her hips swaying, her teeth catching her lower lip as she pulled him into the darkness of the upper chambers. He looked back at his brothers once, grinned like a man who had won a second lottery, and disappeared.

Oseka stood frozen beside Alex, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. He was staring at the pair on the leopard-skin couch; the woman on her hands and knees, the two men, and was completely flushed.

"I need a drink," he said hoarsely. "Several drinks. And then I need..." He gestured vaguely at everything. "...this. All of this."

"Go," Alex said. "Before you combust."

Oseka didn’t need to be told twice. He vanished into the crowd, making a beeline for a serving girl carrying a tray of wine cups. She smiled at him, and the cups rattled as he approached.

Spartacus was already seated on a low couch near the fountain, his injured arm resting comfortably on a cushion. A cup of wine was in his good hand. A woman—small, dark-haired, with clever eyes—had curled up beside him and was whispering something in his ear. He wasn’t reacting. He was just listening, the faintest ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The patient calm of a man who had seen it all before and was in no hurry.

Alex stood alone in the center of the hall.

The gold was heavy in his purse, the women were beautiful, the air was thick with sex and perfume and the promise of pleasure. And he had absolutely no idea what to do with any of it.

A serving girl brushed past him, bare-breasted, a tray of wine balanced on one hip. She smiled at him; slow and deliberate, her eyes tracing the white hair that marked him as the Ghost, and let her free hand graze his arm as she passed. "You look lost," she murmured. "Want me to help you find your way?"

"Maybe later," Alex managed.

She laughed, low and throaty, and disappeared into the crowd.

He kept walking. Past the couples tangled on the couches. Past a woman on her back, her legs wrapped around a man’s waist, her nails raking down his spine. Past a group of men and women sharing a pipe of something that smelled sweeter than tobacco, their laughter loose and dreamy. The lyre music swelled and faded, matching the rhythm of the bodies around him.

This was Rome, this was the reward, this was what men dreamed of when they fought in the arena—survival, gold, and the warm embrace of willing flesh.

And Alex felt utterly, completely out of place.

He found a quiet bench near the far wall, half-hidden by a curtain of hanging silk that swayed gently in the warm air. He sat down, and let out a breath. The gold pouch pressed against his hip, still heavy, still unspent.

Then suddenly, two women came for him like a double-edged temptation. One tall and honey-haired, her sheer gown clinging to the heavy swell of her breasts, the dark circles of her nipples visible through the fabric. The other sharp-cheeked and dark, her fingers tracing Alex’s jaw before she even spoke.

"The pretty white ghost," the tall one murmured, pressing against his shoulder. Her warmth seeped through Alex’s tunic.

"Your hair gives you away," the darker one added. "Like snow, like the moonlight."

"For a face like yours, we wouldn’t even charge."

Alex opened his mouth. Words failed him.

They laughed, low and throaty.

Alex swallowed hard.

Around them, the brothel pulsed. The moans from the woman on the nearby couch where a man’s head was buried between her thighs rose, her fingers clawing at the cushions.

A nude serving girl walked past with a tray of wine, her hips swaying, unbothered by the couple rutting on the floor beside her.

Then... the commotion erupted.

A man’s strangled shriek cut through the noise.

Alex turned.

A servant in a modest blue stola had just driven her knee into the groin of a broad-shouldered nobleman, who folded like parchment and crashed to the marble, clutching himself. Wine pooled around the shattered cups at her feet.

"You bitch!" he wheezed. "I am of House Cornelius! I’ll have you crucified!"

The woman; dark hair, grey eyes, no fear, looked down at him like he was an insect.

In an instant, the manager materialized: silver-streaked hair, burgundy stola, her strides hurried. And with the practiced calm of someone who had pacified a thousand powerful men, "Please forgive her, sir. She’s only a servant girl. Your night is free, whatever you desire. But the girl is not to be touched."

"How am I supposed to enjoy anything with a broken tool?" the man whimpered from the floor.

A laugh; short and sharp, escaped Alex before he could stop it.

No one noticed, except the servant.

She turned, her grey eyes met his. For a single heartbeat, she held his gaze; curious, unreadable, utterly unimpressed. Alex felt his heartbeat spike.

Then she walked away through a swaying silk curtain.

Alex stared after her.

"You like her," the tall lady teased.

"N– No?" Alex stumbled on his words. "B– But, who is she?"

"Julia," the darker one said. "A servant girl."

"Then, why would she do something like that?" Alex asked. " Wouldn’t doing that get her in trouble?"

"That one’s done way worse to men who couldn’t keep it in their loincloths," the tall one said in a scoff. "The Patriarch keeps her out of bounds. She’s not just a servant girl."

Alex’s eyes stayed on the curtain. Something about her—Julia—intrigued him.

The brothel pulsed back to life around them; moans, skin, the raw rhythm of pleasure, but all he could see were those grey eyes, holding his gaze for just a heartbeat.