Date: Fri, 16 Jun 2017 20:55:53 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: The Heathens 22

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/historical/the-heathens/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between young-adult and adult men. Go away if any of that is against your
local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but
flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

*****

He turned me then and pointed to his dick which I fell upon like a moveable
feast. This is when I learned what discipline meant. My incredibly virile
and vocal master made not one sound even as his neck exploded in cords and
his body bucked and arched his cock deep into my throat as he came and came
and came. The eruption seemed even more intense and satisfying to me for
its silence. When he fell, spent, I curled into him and sighed. This was
where I wanted to stay for the rest of my life.

*****

The Heathens 22: Kneadful Things

By Bear Pup

*****

The next morning was, frankly, a riot of confusion for me. Harcos let me
drain his piss, but not his balls which wrong-footed me from the
start. Then that FUCKING uniform. Ghamad was trying his best to help, but
without speaking it was damnably hard to figure out what he was trying to
tell me. He finally took the cuirass from my unprotesting hands and his own
agile fingers flew in rearranging and fastening the various Glories. When I
finally got onto Harcos, he was impatient to leave. He did, however, have a
final, quick instruction for me as they left.

"Kucuk, we need you and Volot faster and stronger, and quickly." He thrust
a pack into my hands. "Until I tell you otherwise, you wear this on all
errands and whist working in the quarters, and you run everywhere. Volot
has one like it. The same rules for him. Be strong. Be fast. Be good. Be
silent. Be safe." He leaned into my ear and I flushed in delight. "Be more
than my Kucuk this day; be my Dasqas, my jewel."

With that he was gone. I lifted the pack and 'oofed' loudly. I looked
inside to find a half-dozen waterskins. I was supposed to *wear* this? And
then I was supposed to *run*??

I didn't have a lot of time to consider that problem since the boys had us
out the door almost as soon as our masters' footfalls faded from the
hallway. Volot was, indeed, saddled with a pack like mine, only quite a bit
fuller. And apparently our own compatriots were in the know as they set a
running pace to the corner of the camp where we'd bathed the night before
and would be baking bread today.

I thought I was going to die as I sucked gasping breaths, Volot with hands
on his knees beside me huffing just as loudly. The sun was just at
true-dawn and I was already exhausted. We both moaned piteously when the
other boys cajoled us, packs and all, into the fires of hell. I mean the
bread-kitchen.

Rack after rack of loaves stood rising or resting, and the amazing smell of
baking bread almost bowled me over. It was a beehive of activity down the
middle between the ovens and the racks, though. A mean-looking and very
rotund man at the far end tended an unbelievably-large metal pot, easily
the largest single piece of metal I've ever seen. He would occasionally
throw in a handful of ground grain or a spoonful of water. A long line of
servants, mostly young men, waited as another man would dip a ladle into
the pot and pour some of the mixture into their cupped hands.

The servant would then race (carefully, so as not to spill the gummy
liquid) to a table where another had just dumped two small piles of flour
from wooden scoops before racing away. The servant with the goo would pour
it into a well formed in the centre by the mixer. A second at the table
would scrape any residue off with a tiny strigil before the goo-deliverer,
too, raced back to his line.

The mixer would then begin to carefully incorporate the flours into the goo
while the other drizzled salted water from an ewer, slowly and carefully,
the two communicating more with head movements than sound due to the
roaring of the ovens and the general clamour. When they were satisfied, the
mixer would scrape the up dough with a piece of metal and throw it to the
next person, almost always a young woman, who would knead it carefully and
gently for some minutes. A companion on the other side of the table was
there to sprinkle flour as need and prepare a terracotta platters with
coarse meal.

When satisfied, she'd shape the bread into a ball and place it on prepared
clay. She would spread the dough until it was about two fingers tall and
perhaps a cubitus across. She'd turn and slide the clay and dough into a
waiting rack behind her. The lines seemed almost magically syncopated as
each step seemed to take the same amount of time. When she turned back,
another ball of fresh dough awaited her gentle ministrations.

When a rack was full, two large men would hoist it, clay, bread and all, to
a spot against the wall. When they got a signal from an overseer, they
would rush to a different rack that the man indicated and hoist the
now-risen dough next to another table. Again, teams worked in pairs. One
would tie a sting around the circumference about halfway up the
four-finger-high loaf while the other made slashing cuts into the top
anywhere natural cracks had not already formed, then transfer the clay and
bread to a rack on the other side. Some minutes later, as oven space freed
up, a group of bakers, mostly large, older, strong men, would shift the
clay into an open oven as another team removed a batch from the next oven
over.

Remember that I am seeing this scene through much older eyes. At the time,
what I saw was a furious, impenetrable, confusing anthill of activity with
no seeming rhythm, purpose or cause.

Furge, the oldest of the guys, turned and said, "What can you each do? We
will need to get a woman for the kneading, of course, but-- Yes, Pyrkagia?"
Our diminutive friend mimed the kneading process and Furge frowned. He took
our old-young friend's hands then felt the forearms and stepped away
surprised. "Okay then. I will tell them we have a full team." Ghamad ran to
the goo line and Furge told Volot to grab two of the scoops and quickly
join the flour line. Lavic accompanied him but Grubo told me to wait. Furge
ran to a man in a Prefect uniform who pointed to an empty table and the
rest of us headed there.

"Watch the line for the flour, friend-Kucuk," Grubo said in his low
voice. "When Volot is about halfway to the front, about where the tall,
dark man is now, run and join the queue just as I will run to the biga
queue." The word threw me, as it was the same word Harcos had taught me
when a two-horse chariot passed us on day.

"Biga?"

"It is the pasty glue that makes Romans' bread rise so perfectly. You do
not have to wait for the right vapours to impregnate the dough." Meanwhile,
the rest of our team were preparing as if for battle. Billen had run to get
an ewer of water and a basin as well. When he returned, Furge and Pyrkagia
slowly washed, mouthing a prayer of some sort that, apparently, everyone
who did these chores knew by heart. Watching Pyrkagia's silent lips, Furge
finally started to relax, knowing that the apparent-boy had the skill
required.

About then, Volot's beautiful frame could be seen reaching the halfway
point and I ran to the flour queue as Grubo went to the other. Volot and
Lavic smiled at me a few minutes later when they passed, each carrying two
huge scoops of slightly-different flours. The next hour and a half was a
blur of running, fidgety waiting and running again. Furge and Billen had
long worked together on the mixing-pouring, and shyly-chattering Lavic was
the perfect partner for the silent Pyrkagia as he kneaded and formed the
loaves.

A horn blasted about a half-hour in and a few runners left the various
queues. Crews worked in hour-and-a-half shifts with a half-hour break. When
our break came, scoops, ewer and basin were returned and we all trooped out
the gate into the lesser heat of a late-summer day. We all sat, Volot and I
exhausted. Lavic began to massage the arms and shoulders of Pyrkagia,
getting a rare and spectacular smile from the thirty-two-year-old little
boy. Billen rubbed the shoulders and lower back of the tall Furge, getting
a sigh of contentment. Grubo and Ghamad sat quietly trying to extract
stubborn bits of biga from the crevasses and nails of each other's hands.

Grubo's low and husky voice told us that we would have three such shifts
each day to the complete horror of Volot and myself. We watched a steady
stream of servants and slaves rush into the antechamber of Hell and gather
anywhere from one to four loaves. The string tied round each loaf showed
its purpose; a loop-knot made it simple to carry any number of loaves.

At midday (hours changed through the year; midday was always the end of the
sixth hour of the day, so the shifts really were longer in that late summer
heat) we finally were free to go back and... *start* working on our
masters' behalf. The guys did relent and carry our bread for the two of us
in the weighty packs. When we got back to the quarters, my legs were
trembling so hard I sat involuntarily as the pack dragged my body to the
floor.

My legs had just stopped their quaking and I could stand again when a loud
rumbling as that of an approaching herd of great beasts shook the
barracks. Ghamad saw two looks of terror on my face and Volot's and burst
into raucous laughter. It was then that I finally understood what Lavic had
said when asking if Pyrkagia was silent because he was 'like
Ghamad'. Easily half of his tongue was missing. I tried not to show I'd
noticed but the sad look he gave me a moment later showed that he knew.

The thunderous noise was the return of our Century and thus our
masters. The four of us waited to find out what was in store for our men
that afternoon, as it changed what we did for the uniforms and
equipment. Pyrkagia, with the benefit of the almost supernatural language
of looks and movements he shared with Stelio, was the first to react,
followed by Ghamad moments later. We copied their motions, removing the
armour and shields, brushing them thoroughly, and getting our masters into
camp-shirts. Ghamad used a small bowl of water to carefully,
almost-lovingly, wash the feet of Say'f who smiled contentedly.

As I bustled, Harcos told me that they would train with their own weapons
as an As today, in an area outside the gates. Volot and I would join them,
as would Lavic and Billen; the other boys would stay to cook and do the
other needful errands. Harcos told me what to wear and which weapons to
bring, as well as what he would wear that day.

It was very similar to what he wore on the road, but with additional armour
at chest, waist and legs. Volot and I were to wear what we had on the night
of the wolves. I would carry Harcos' pilum (capped with a soft wood called
suber), a wooden sword and my Agyar. Volot carried Pameten's shield and a
longer, broader sword as well as his own dagger.

Our masters, though, were armed with real weapons of war. Stelio had his
bracelets, hand-tridents and a set of small knives with heavy-looking
handles lining a waist-clout. Pam had his adzes, a very long sword at his
hip and a set of heavy darts. Both Volot and I stopped to stare, and even
Pyrkagia blinked in surprise at Say'f. He was dressed in a robe almost like
a toga, but it was gathered tightly to him by what appeared to be a
weighted net. Where Pameten had his two terrifying adzes, Say'f had a pair
of massive curved swords. Even the sheaths looked lethal (we'd find out in
time that they were. Ghamad fought with them when defending Say'f's back,
using them as both arm-shields and cudgels).

"Keep time with my steps," Harcos said as he adjusted the straps on that
accursed pack. "It is a different kind of gait, and one that our As can
keep up for most of a day." With that, we set out on what the men seemed to
think a light excursion and Volot and I considered a death march. The
cadence at first was gruelling and unnatural. I saw Volot stumble slightly
and his head came up. Suddenly, he was almost smiling. Suddenly, just like
that, everything clicked for me. The damnable pack seemed even to help me
move. We paused only to move single-file through the soldiers at the gate
and check with the Prefect before falling back into the cadence. Don't get
me wrong, I was sore, irritable and exhausted when we finally stopped, but
it wasn't hideous.

We travelled two abreast and six deep. Say'f and Skink led, followed by our
masters; Volot behind Pam and me behind Harcos. Behind us were The Cat and
Handart followed each by his own servant, Billen and Lavic. Sziklak (the
giant who, like Harcos had come from the Barbarian North) and Stelio
brought up the rear. It allowed each of us boys to watch and learn from the
way our masters moved. It also put me in the musk of my adored master's
wake and I fought mightily to stay soft, or at least soft enough it
wouldn't show as we ran.

A light breeze, utterly absent within the walls of Winter Over, blew across
a stretch of water. Winter Over sat within an encirclement of water in a
perfectly-dug trench. But it also had additional protection provided by
nature created by the One True God. In this place, He had let the
meandering river twist and loop across the landscape, changing its path
each spring. This let huge swoops and arcs of water long-since disconnected
from the river's flow. Winter Over sat within one such loop, and another,
older one nearly closed it. Other than two causeways, anyone approaching
would have to slog through muddy, murky waters of the lakes to even reach
the trench-protected walls.

We reached an area where straw bales and piles were scattered. As all four
of the servants caught our breath, we took in the other warriors. One, the
large, placid master of Lavic, was attired in the habitus of any other
soldier and bore the shield, pilum and short sward of the Legion. Billen's
master, Cat, had a pilum but nothing else obvious on his person. Sziklak
had his shield and pugio, as well as a long piece of iron with a heavy,
round-bladed head at the end that he called a screptum. The last of them,
Skink, had an odd bow and quiver as well as his shield and pugio.

The four masters came over and set us to our tasks. I was initially to
fight the beauty, Lavic, while Volot sparred with Billen. Lavic held a
wooden short sword as well as his master's shield and I was to fight him
with only my sword, which put me in an even fouler mood. Volot would start
with shield only, to his dismay, opposed to Billen with a cork-tipped
pilum. What made matter immeasurably worse for Volot and me were the
hell-born packs, the weight of which threw our balance completely off.

The battles were ferocious, if we'd intended to look like sad little
kittens. I realised why Harcos had not given me a shield or second
weapon. Trying to protect himself and also strike me left Lavic open to any
number of attacks. I could get around or under his shield whereas he had to
keep hold of it as he tried to attack. That's if I didn't fall on my face
when I overbalanced with that fucking pack!

Volot, with shield only, was holding his own with the javelin-wielding
Billen. There seemed few chances to get the tip to do more than scratch
Volot, but my friend's strength turned the big shield into a blunt weapon
that frequently put Billen in his ass, occasionally with Volot and the
heavy pack landing atop him to Billen's furious and vocal displeasure.

We paused, truce agreed, and turned for a bit to watch our masters work as
we caught out breath. In pairs or triads, they would describe opponents and
agree on the foe's position, health and weaponry. Some hay piles would be
fortifications to be overcome, others would be warriors. Unlike the
sparring of Harcos and Pameten on the trail, the objective that afternoon
was to learn and leverage each other's skill.

Stelio, since he was new, passed frequently from group to group. His lethal
bullroarer bracelets got a lot of comment. Using Sziklak's shield, he
showed how, if he had a completely clear field to either side, he could
easily kill a man behind a shield, tree or stone. The chains sang and
whipped, wrapping around the obstacle with lethal velocity and killing the
opponent in the back. He then set about explaining how to avoid someone
(unlikely as it was) using a similar weapon.

I was most amazed by Say'f and Cat. Say'f, like Pam, fought with a weapon
in each hand. They whirled and flashed, scything through hay like it were
mist. Cat, though, Cat astounded me. His pilum was no different than any
other, but he twirled it and used it like a cudgel as well as a shield and
a spear. If it was lost (for instance, stuck in the pile that represented a
fallen foe), two long, thin, sharp daggers that he called stilettos
appeared as if by magic, and it was clear that he was just as lethal with
them.

The men set us against each other again, shifting the weapons and opponents
frequently. After long and painful combat, Harcos came over and called a
halt. Harcos, Sziklak and Say'f sat near us, watching the other
four. Harcos explained that the others would now practice with distance
weapons. All of the shields came into use then as ranged targets.

Skink went first, placing an arrow in each of the five shields unerringly.
It was clear that he would have to be well back, however, since drawing and
aiming the bow too much longer than the attacks his compatriots
used. Pameten stepped forward with a set of lethal darts. He scored on four
of the five, but did so very, very quickly. Volot was nearly beside himself
with reflected pride and beamed at his grinning master.

Stelio stepped forward with a set of throwing knives, which explained the
short blades and heavy handles. He, too, scored four of five. Billen froze
and held his breath as his beloved Cat stepped forward. He held a strip of
cloth and Volot and I shared a puzzled look. I sucked in my breath in awe
as I realised that he, like the great warrior David of my own faith, was
wielding a sling. He was the slowest of the men, but the effect was
impressive. He hit only three of the five, but every single struck shield
toppled over from the force of the impact.

The calm, quiet Handart came forward. Lavic was literally chewing on his
hand with worry. The big man said, "I'm afraid I only have the one. By the
way, Sziklak, you never did pay your dice losses last night..."

Sziklak, for a man even bigger than my Harcos, was on his feet
instantly. "NO! You wouldn't. Handart! No -- no-no-no-no {indecipherable
cursing that had Harcos rolling in the dust}!!!" The pilum was now
vibrating, driven straight through the shield, having caught the top of the
painted Athena's helm and bored a hole through the shield.

The furious and often unintelligible grumbles of Sziklak was the music to
which we ran back to the camp. The rest of the guys, including all of the
servants, thought it was hilarious. We walked into the Quarters and Furge
took one look at the giant hole in the shield and sighed deeply, "You
didn't pay him the dice, did you?" Everyone erupted in unbridled mirth --
except, of course, for Sziklak who couldn't really decide who to glare at
more.

All of us served out the phenomenal stew that Furge had made from the rib
bones and meat of the previous day's beef. A wide variety of vegetables and
grains were there as well, making it one of the most-succulent stews I'd
even eaten. The amazing bread we'd helped make that morning was incredible
with it, and Grubo got wide praise for wheedling a small tub of
insanely-rich and salty butter as well. Skink pulled the ruggedly-handsome
youth to him and they touched foreheads, eyes locked and I could see Grubo
was about to rip his camp shirt with the blunt club of his sudden, raging
erection.

Cat and Billen were redressed and gone in an instant for his nightly
bath. I shuddered at the thought.  Our compatriots were looking at us with
real pity and volunteered to do the clean-up. Volot and I were... frankly
pathetic. I hobbled like an old man and Volot moved with a distinct
limp... in both legs. I honestly didn't know how one would do that, but he
managed. Pameten and Harcos were both amused, but understanding.

They had low words with Say'f and Stelio/Pyrkagia who announced they would
go next door to speak as a group about Stelio's tactics, as both Harcos and
Pam had already worked with him, they'd stay behind. We heard Lavic's quick
feet moments later headed to the room of the As next to ours, heard loud
laughter and then heard him return across the hall. These were background
sensations, though, as Pam and Harcos led each of us into our niche and
twitched the curtains closed.

Harcos pulled me into a long, tender kiss. He divested me of the accursed
pack and lifted me, grunting pain, to lay me face down upon the bed. He
pulled off my camp shirt and told me to leave my arms where they laid, up
above my head. He slipped a wide bar of leather into my mouth and nudged me
to bite down gently. He knelt beside the bed, then, and leaned into my ear.

"You have been brilliant this day my Dasqas. You fought well, and I hear
that both of you kept up with the other boys, no mean feat; even my Strasta
had trouble moving at their pace. And you did not once complain," I grunted
and he chuckled and modified his statement, "not once complain when *I
could hear* about the pack or the pace. This is your reward, my Dasqas. But
it is also training. You will have to do this to me many times after
battles or bad marches. So, relax, but learn."

I turned my head to look at him and gasped. Even in the feeble lamplight,
he glowed like saint, each of those fiery red hairs seemed to have an
aura. I was shocked to the core by an echo of dream-Strasta's words from
the night before we met Pameten and he-who-was-Zajak. Dream-0Strasta,
surrounded by the Heavenly Host, told me that Harcos "is His holy soldier,
sent to heal the Word and the World." The light around my master, my
barbarian warrior, my Harcos, my Aldus-which-means-Salvation, was nothing
short of true benediction.

Or maybe just a pain-induce hallucination as his hands began to work my
muscles like Pyrkagia worked dough, just not as gently. I bit hard into the
leather so my howls emerged as snuffling moans and groans, the sounds of
tormented ghosts forever denied the surcease of Heaven. I would find out on
the morrow that Lavic had gone to the other room to tell them (somewhat
exaggeratedly) that today had been our first day of real training and that
he and Billen had beaten the fuck out of us, and our masters were working
that out. Thus, expect some extremely painful noise for a while.

I tried, I really-really did try, to pay attention to how Harcos was
untying the knots in my back and sides, but nothing but blinding agony was
there when he got to my thighs and, worse still, my calves. He worked his
way back up, hitting all the major muscles -- claves, thighs, ass, back and
shoulders, before leaning in to whisper again. "I know it hurts, my jewel,
me Dasqas, but it will make it better. This is the pain that soothes. Let
me distract you a little before we do more."

I had no idea what he meant, and probably was barely conscious of the
words, but I heard a gasp and a terrifying moan come from the next niche as
Pameten did something to Volot. I imagine that Pam and most of the camp
heard my own sound, leather bit or not, as my master forced my legs up like
those of a frog and entered my most-private place with his probing
tongue. When his tongue speared my hole and began to wriggle. I bit down so
hard that I heard my teeth make groaning, cracking noises.

At some point, I can't recall when, his tongue left me shivering and
quaking and Harcos resumed his muscular dough-making. I didn't particularly
care though. Those merely-physical sensations meant little now compared to
the wet and slippery ass I felt as he moved my ass and upper thighs around.

I screamed into the bit when he flipped me. I could not make my legs go
straight and they bent to either side and up a bit. My Aldus, my salvation,
chuckled, "Ah, my puppy, I see you do not entirely hate this." I puzzled
for a moment about what he meant before I felt the warm wetness of his
mouth engulf my forgotten (by me) but rampant and leaking prick. With the
bite and the bit, the sound came out as a puppyish keening, a plea and
demand for satisfaction.

What came next was an exploration in the world of wondrous pain and
torturous pleasure. He worked the front of my thighs and those, other than
the claves behind, were the worst part of my entire body. I was literally
crying with pain, but I knew already that my Aldus was right. The constant,
feverish ache in the places he'd kneaded had been burned away in the
furnace of quick pain, leaving no pain at all in its wake.

I nearly screamed aloud in shock when I felt a finger at my nether
passage. Harcos worked the pain in my thigh as that damnable, glorious
finger wormed inside, joined soon by another. He leant in and kissed me
hard just as he began to massage that sacred spot deep within me. I
screamed through the bit and into my master's kissing mouth as I
erupted. When the vocal phase of my orgasm passed, he went back working my
muscles with one strong hand as the other continued to tease and probe my
ass.

He worked that divine nubbin of flesh inside in the same way he worked the
muscles of my legs and sides, my arms and chest. His strong hand kept the
massage up as it hit every painful muscle on the front of my body. Over and
over his made me whimper with pain at the same time that I whined with
pleasure. At some point, a third massive finger joined the party in my ass;
all I felt was delight. It drove me frankly insane as it ramped up and up
and UP, each stroke or probe driving me further into new planes of
sensation.

With a suddenness that (luckily) took my breath away, Harcos once again
swallowed my prick and redouble his efforts, inside and out. I screamed
around the bit as I came again, age pasign as I unloaded every single seed
in my body. I finally fell limp and lifeless on the bed. I barely felt my
salvation, my Aldus, my Harcos, my beloved barbarian join me, curling my
body into his. The covers cloaked us just as the darkness claimed me. I
realised I was still crying as Harcos kissed my hair and petted my side and
belly. I did not know before that moment that there was such a thing as
tears of utter contentment.

*****

BTW, I know it's just porn and details don't really matter, but the bread
making process (and recipe) is very close to what was actually baked in the
Roman Army's fixed camps and forts. The two flours above would likely have
been spelt and common (or "campaign") wheat in Kucuk's case; other parts of
the Empire would likely have used different ratios, especially the cities
fed by the granaries of Ægyptus (the Nile valley, aka the Breadbasket of
the Empire). Check out the British Museum's 2015 recreation of a loaf found
in the ovens of Pompeii: https://youtu.be/DYTuNXq1eBk

<eof>

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The Heathens: 22 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/
Lake Desolation: 14 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
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