Io Saturnalia! Corvinus’s household celebrates the ancient Roman festival, and Milo gets a crumb of confidence :3
--pileus: a hat worn by freedman; triclinium: dining room; tibia: double flute--
I couldn’t figure out if slaves joined the Roman citizens in the festival rites in the city, but I think it’s generally impossible to avoid historical inacuracies in historical fiction.
Cheerful chants reached the villa that lay just outside the city.
‘Io Saturnalia!’
Soon enough, Milo’s master had returned, and with him a few of his friends arrived. They were happily chattering. Now that the festival rites in the city had ended, they were ready to celebrate the day together.
Milo took a deep breath.
It was cloudy and cold, but inside was cosy. Everyone- master and slave alike- was wearing dining clothes and a pileus, the headwear of freedmen. Because on this day, everyone was equal.
He hadn't seen master's friends in a long time. They were lying comfortably around the dining table in the triclinium.
Gallicus, a middle-aged man excitedly nodding to everything his companions said, the gel in his hair glistening in the light of the oil lamps.
Valeriana, a distant cousin of master Corvinus’, obsessively talking about her favourite gladiatrix while scratching the wart on her neck every now and then.
Quintus, a younger friend purposefully taking up way more space on the couch than he needed, spitting out jokes at every opportunity, whether they were funny or not.
But those friends weren’t the only ones dining. Each of them had brought a slave, as was custom with wealthy citizens. What wasn’t, was that these slaves were lying next to them, among them. Milo didn’t know these people. They… seemed comfortable. They talked with their masters as if it was normal. As if what they said mattered. Gallicus’ slave critiqued the food, Valeriana’s slave - who wore a cute necklace - gave her opinions on the Neronian games that would be held next year, and Quintus’ slave straight up told his master he wasn’t funny. Milo wished he knew their names. He found their confidence fascinating, and he wanted to remember them.
And then there was master himself. But now, master got up and disappeared for a moment, returning with another amphora. It made Milo’s fingers twitch. He was supposed to serve master. Master always made sure he remembered that. It felt so wrong; the way master poured Quintus’ cup, and then the cup of Quintus’ slave- it was so wrong.
‘Listen, Corvinus, my jokes are funny. Do you know how I know? My wife laughs at them’, Quintus said as he watched master fill his cup. ‘I repeat: my wife.’
‘I’ll tell her you said that when we get home. I’m not sure she will laugh then’, his slave remarked.
‘Whether you’re funny or not, I admire your attempts. But I think it may be the wine speaking for you’, master said.
‘Yeah yeah.’ Quintus made a careless gesture when master was done. ‘Maybe you should give your slave more wine too. He looks like he’s just returned from Tartarus.’
Milo flinched as his eyes met his master’s. Knowing what was expected of him, he held up his cup.
And then fear set in.
Every year his master said that whatever happened on the first day of Saturnalia, wouldn’t have repercussions afterwards. But every year Milo had his doubts. His master was perfect, and Milo wasn’t. And any imperfections showing must be dealt with. It was the only way in which Milo could learn to be perfect too.
He was scared to mess up. All he had to do was hold his cup so master could fill it. Then he had to drink the wine.
The moment master filled his cup felt like it lasted an eternity. And Milo could do nothing as he saw how shaky his own arm was.
When it was over, relief washed over him. He brought the cup to his lips- too quickly. His useless fingers lost their grip and the cup fell onto the ground, the liquid spilling all over the floor.
His heart dropped and he shrunk under his master’s furious face. He was so, so stupid…
‘Io Saturnalia!’, Quintus yelled, throwing his hands in the air.
‘Io Saturnalia’, Valeriana’s slave repeated after him, though with less enthousiasm.
Surprised, master turned towards his friend. He opened his mouth, and Milo recognised the tenseness in his jaw. It meant anger and yelling.
But Quintus reached forward and patted master’s arm.
‘Come on, Corvinus! What is a feast without spilled wine?’
‘He’s right’, Gallicus said.
Master’s expression softened. And then, he… smiled?
‘I’ll get another cup.’
His company cheered. And they cheered again when Milo finally could drink his wine. He relaxed. Admittedly, their happiness was contagious. They joked and laughed around the table, and he started to quietly laugh with them. The more food and wine they consumed, the more he loosened up. He even dared to compliment Valeriana’s slave on her necklace, and learned her name was Ariadne. Gallicus’s slave was called “Mauricus”, and Quintus’s slave introduced himself as Paris. Soon they addressed him as “Milo”, and Milo felt butterflies in his stomach. It felt as if he’d known these people for his whole life.
The night was nearing when a musician provided joyful tibia music. Mauricus complemented the man for his talent and Valeriana clapped in her hands on the rhythm, soon joined by Ariadne.
Milo laughed when Quintus stumbled from the couch and started dancing, his hat falling from his head. When he looked at Mauricus, the slave’s face turned red. Milo laughed again.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder. He looked at his master, who was mumbling something.
‘S-sorry?’, Milo asked.
‘I said- I said I’m happy I bought you, you know? What would I-I do without you? You always give your best, and no other of my slaves does that.’
His mumblings ended in roaring laughter. It was… odd. Milo didn’t know how to react. He patted his master on the back when his laughter turned into violent coughing.
That his master acknowledged his hard work meant more to him than he could really fathom.
He watched as Paris got up to dance with Quintus. He watched Ariadne laughing and clapping for them, and Mauricus burying his face in his arms. And for the first time, Milo wondered if it was even right to crave that kind of acknowledgement.
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A special tradition in Kos that is held on the 1. of September is the Indictus (Ινδίκτου).
In Kos Town, early in the morning, women and children get up before the sun rises and go to the sea, trashing and throwing bunches of fruits and vegetables that has been kept in the houses for the whole year, into the sea. The belief is that all the bad will be taken away by the sea.
Then new bunches of mainly pomegranate (for abundance), garlic (for good fortune), leaves of plane and olive tree and olive (for longevity) and grapes (for joy) is put into the sea to be touched by 40 waves that is also put in a can. The women and children is washing their faces in sea water, and they are gathering 40 pebbles from the seashore to be taken home and put in the four corners of the house.
On the way back to the house, they are passing by the big platano tree of Hippocrates', embracing it to get "strength from his power and age from its age".
The new bunch that has been blessed in the sea is now placed in the house for the new year, and the rooms and courtyards are sprinkled with the water from the sea.
https://www.kosnews24.gr/koinwnika/item/243511-1i-septemvriou-to-ethimo-tis-arxixronias-stin-ko-kai-ta-ypoloipa-dodekanisa
https://youtu.be/qEATsfCxauY
CW: slavery, low self-esteem, whump of minor, whipping mention, whumpee used as footrest
Milo jumped awake. His neck hurt. He was sitting at his desk. Papers and ink were all scattered in front of him. Cold sweat broke out when he realised it was day.
‘There you are! Trying to get out of your daily work by sleeping, huh?’, his master said loudly.
Milo stood up as fast as he could. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry, master!’ He searched the improved letter.
‘The morning greeting has already ended! You’d better have that letter ready!’
Milo picked up a paper and held it out in front of him, his hands trembling. ‘Here, this is it, master.’
Corvinus grabbed the letter and read it. Milo found himself breathing heavier the more time passed. Eventually, his master nodded. Seeming pleased, he said: ‘Look over the letters that arrived this morning. Then you can help the new purchase settle down.’
Milo nodded and left, still nervous and half-asleep, but grateful he wasn’t immediately punished for missing the morning greeting. That meant he was needed today, so he wasn’t all useless! His kind master would punish him in the evening probably. He had to show his absolute best today. Maybe the punishment wouldn’t be so harsh.
He was slowly processing his master’s second order. A new purchase? So, a new slave? He would have to check what they were bought for, and when. As usual, Milo planned out his tasks for the day.
***
The new slave was a boy, barely seventeen. He had a plump face and cute little hands. But most noteably, he had dark blonde hair, like most of the slaves in the villa. The hair colour fitted the decorations master had chosen for it. Milo’s hair and eyes looked pretty with the writing material and the brows and yellows of the tablinum walls. This slave boy was to work in the kitchen and serve, and his green eyes would go perfectly with the green nature pattern in the dining room.
The new boy had already gotten a tunic and a place to sleep. All Milo had to do was tell him a few rules.
‘Welcome to the household of master Corvinus. I am Milo, his secretary slave. You will serve in the kitchen and dining room.’
The boy looked a little bit lost, unsure how to react. He nodded, eyes following the pattern of bruises on Milo’s left arm.
‘I was bad, so I was punished’, Milo explained. ‘I’m very stupid and often make mistakes. You should always do your tasks perfectly.’
‘Is he strict?’, the boy asked.
‘No, master is fair.’
His eyes widened. ‘This is insane! I want to go back home!’
Milo noticed his thick accent. He couldn’t quite place it. He made a mental note to talk clearly and in simple Latin. ‘This is home’, he said.
‘No!’ He took a step back.
Milo was alert. If the boy tried to run, he had to alarm the other slaves. But to his surprise, the boy broke down crying.
‘Ah, don’t cry…’, he tried. He walked closer, uncomfortably, and patted the boy’s back.
‘You will like it here.’
He wasn’t sure if that was right. In a way, he could relate to the boy. Being alone, in a stranger’s house, being forced to do labour you don’t want to do.
‘When I came here for the first time, I was a bit younger than you’, he began. He wasn’t sure where he was going with this.
‘I was angry, and I tried to run…’ He didn’t get far. He was so imperfect at the time.
‘Luckily, people brought me back to master and he flogged me himself. I was blessed to have such a special treatment. And after that I learned how useless I truly was, and how I could be better.’
The boy looked at him, taking shaky breaths. ‘I don’t want that.’
‘Then don’t run’, Milo said. ‘And do what master asks you to do. You are fortunate to be chosen by such an important and wealthy master! So don’t ever be ungrateful.’
He didn’t understand why the boy’s eyes were so full of fear.
***
The same fearful green eyes stared at him that afternoon, when the new boy entered the tablinum to bring a bowl of figs. Milo had only shortly looked at him, before resting his gaze on the mosaic on the floor. He was on all fours, a footrest for his master while he worked. His arms and legs trembled, but he would keep it together. He was sure of it. He whimpered when his master shifted in his seat so the heels of his feet pressed harder onto Milo’s back. I’m so grateful, he told himself. So glad he could be of use.
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Hey! I'm working on a new whump story! It's historical whump, and takes place in Ancient Rome. I'll name it "Indictus".
It's about a young man, Milo, who is a slave of a cruel master, Titus Statilius Corvinus. Milo is a broken whumpee, very insecure and eager to be perfect.
Milo is Isidorus's secretary. Because of this, he knows things that get him into trouble when a conspiracy against the emperor is discovered.
Milo is captured and tortured for information :)
Some general warnings for the series: slavery, captivity, torture, on death row
There's going to be mentions of people who really existed as it takes place during an historical event (conspiracy of Piso in 65 AD) but it's fiction and it's a whump story so it might not be always accurate :')
(tablinum = master’s office; impluvium = low water basin for rain water in the atrium; atrium = kind of the central room where the master of the house meets guests and stuff; tablinum and atrium are next to each other and in this case separated by a curtain) --> I’ll put some explanations between brackets at the start of every chapter where necessary, but I try to explain it in the chapter too without breaking the POV so it should be fine without
CW: slavery, broken whumpee, low self-esteem, self-loathing, perfectionism, cruel whumper, humiliation (lightly), slapping, kicking, pushed into small basin of water, forced to stand in cold, noncon touching (non sexual)
***
Milo was working on lighting the oil lamps and candles in the house, when he was summoned to the tablinum. He swallowed before he pulled aside the curtain to enter the office. He knew he had done something wrong. He always messed up. Too ashamed to look up at the strict face of master Corvinus, he shuffled to his side.
The man was sitting at his desk, tapping his stylus on the wood. He was impatient.
‘Do you know why I summoned you?’, his master said. His voice was low and intimidating.
Milo shook his head.
‘Use your tongue.’
‘Sorry, master. I don’t know, master’, he whispered hastily. Inadequate, he was laughable. How could he forget what mistakes he made? How could he disappoint his master like this?
Master stood up, slamming the stylus down onto the table. He grabbed a piece of paper from the desk and smoothed it out with a rough movement. He held the paper in front of Milo’s nose, barely a finger width away from his face. He pointed at something.
Milo’s breath caught. There it was. A spelling error. So small, yet so stupid.
‘Do you get it now? When I asked you to write down this letter, I trusted you to handle it with the upmost carefulness. Do you understand?’
He could barely manage to squeak: ‘Yes master.’
A slap to his face.
‘Then why do I read this mistake?’
‘I’m- I’m so-’
A kick to his leg. He cried out in pain and immediately clasped his mouth.
‘Dumb slave! This letter is meant for Scaevinus! Do you understand how important this is?! Do you think that, because he’s my friend, you can afford to make mistakes?!’
He grabbed Milo’s wrist and pulled him along. Milo whimpered from the stinging pain in his leg every time he put it down hard. And master was still yelling at him while dragging him to the atrium.
‘Do you know how important it is that he considers me a friend?! Of course you don’t! What does a useless servant like you know about this!’
He was so sorry. Sorry to be useless, sorry to make mistakes. He wanted to tell his master, but tears and a lump in his throat made it difficult to speak.
‘Scaevinus is held in favour by Caesar himself’, master hissed. ‘Therefore, I can’t afford my pitiful slave to make mistakes. Got it?’
‘Y-yes master.’
‘Good.’
His master pulled harder and pushed his disappointing slave from the side of the impluvium, the low water basin where rainwater was assembled. Milo gasped as he fell into the low water. The beautiful tunica his master had spent money on for him… It was all wet and soaking.
Other house slaves stopped their work when they heard the splash. Milo turned red. He knew he was making a fool out of himself, and now was deeply ashamed of his mistake.
‘Tonight, you can stand outside’, master said, his voice back to its normal volume. ‘You can stay outside until you’ve dried.’
Milo’s eyes widened. ‘But- but nights are dangerous-’
Master laughed, and Milo’s entire body was blushing now. At least master was happy…
‘You really are an idiot, Milo. Do you honestly think someone would steal a slave as useless as you?’
‘No, I’m sorry master’, he whispered in reply.
‘I’m sure you are.’
Master walked back towards the tablinum. He halted when he took the curtain, and looked back at his miserable slave.
‘I want that letter rewritten tomorrow morning, before the morning greeting. Without mistakes. Understood?’
He stressed every syllable, as if Milo wouldn’t understand otherwise. The worst thing was that Milo wasn’t even sure if he would. Shyly he nodded.
He’d do anything to make up for his imperfections.
***
Milo was so cold, stumbling inside the house to make his way to his own little room. He had taken the ruined letter with him and now sat at his small desk. He put on a candle, just enough to make out the ink on the paper. On a new sheet of paper he began copying the letter.
Was it normal that it was so cold? He was shivering and he couldn’t seem to stop. He could barely hold his stylus. Before he knew it, he spilled ink onto the paper.
I’ll redo it.
This time, he held the stylus tight and handled it carefully after dipping it in the ink. The words were coming together prettily. Sometimes, master would call his handwriting beautiful. It almost brought tears to his eyes. To think that his work could be worthy of praise…
There he did it again! He messed up! Immediately he grabbed a new sheet of paper and restarted. Don’t think about compliments when you don’t deserve them.
He held the tip of his tongue between his teeth, focusing the most he could to make this letter perfect. Master said it was important. He couldn’t afford to mess it up again. If he kept messing up, he would ruin master’s reputation. What kind of slave embarrasses his master?
Did he just write that word twice? He could kick himself. Another piece of paper it was.
Writing was becoming difficult. His vision was blurry, and the elegant lines he formed the letters with turned into a mess. He started anew. And again. And once again.
Gross sobs erupted from his throat. This was terrible. Why was he so useless? He dropped the stylus and covered his head with his arms, placing it on the desk. He would never be acceptable. Everything he ever did turned out wrong. What could he do now? He couldn’t present himself to his master without a new letter!
He gasped, dried his tears, and started on a new sheet of paper.
Forgiveness is its own curse, you see. I will forgive you all even when you deny what was done, what you did. To learn about permission I had to first drink language. I had to limp in the gullible place of entrance.
