NCTS Ch 2

“The jewel of the Mediterranean is not Sicilia, but Neapolis!”

Neapolis was a city so extraordinarily beautiful that such whispered claims felt entirely fitting.

Situated on the blue waters of the Mediterranean, this city bore a rather unique history. Originally a city of Greek civilization, it now belonged to the Roman Empire. The island, while not a Roman province, possessed a distinct culture unlike that of the mainland.

In other words, the citizens of Neapolis resembled Greeks more than Romans. They traditionally worshipped Poseidon rather than Neptune, and while they used both Greek and Latin, Greek was more widely spoken in conversation.

And off the coast of Neapolis lay an island with a similar culture: the island of Iscaria, famed for its pristine white beaches and scenic beauty.

Unlike other Mediterranean resorts like Capri, Iscaria was not only blessed with stunning landscapes but also substantial infrastructure. Its size was significant enough to warrant its own administrative division separate from Neapolis, fostering the development of a rich internal culture. While not comparable to Sicilia, the largest island in the Mediterranean, Iscaria was roughly five or six times the size of Capri, a renowned retreat for Roman nobles, and about half the size of Neapolis.

Separated from the mainland, Iscaria had, over nearly two hundred years since the founding of the Roman Empire, developed a distinctly insular culture, unlike Neapolis, which was gradually absorbing Roman influences. The people of Iscaria preserved their Greek traditions.

The isolated island environment preserved their heritage, and thus the people of Iscaria spoke Greek, enjoyed Greek-style banquets, and ate Greek food. They took pride in their Greek ancestry and strongly asserted their Greek identity.

However, this did not mean they entirely shunned Roman culture. Certain Roman characteristics persisted among them, one of which was a fondness for bloodshed and entertainment, and even more so for the combination of the two.

The islanders of Iscaria particularly enjoyed the refined, ancient Roman pastime of gladiatorial combat. They relished gladiatorial matches even more than the people of Neapolis, frequenting the arena as if it were their own home.

This enthusiasm grew over time, to the point where they began importing gladiators from the mainland. They reveled in the blood-soaked spectacles, and gladiatorial combat gradually became a cornerstone of Iscarian culture.

By now, Iscaria boasted three gladiator training schools, and the quality of its matches rivaled those in Rome. At some point, gladiatorial combat, alongside the island’s breathtaking Mediterranean scenery, had come to define Iscaria.

For this reason, Iscaria was home to many gladiators and arenas. It produced numerous famous gladiators as well. Among them, the most renowned was the “King of Iscaria.”

The King of Iscaria!

This title referred to the legendary, undefeated gladiator who had achieved an unbroken winning streak for three years in Iscaria, the holy land of gladiators.

“Couldn’t Acheron easily defeat the likes of Cartes or Fusilius from Rome?”

“They’re retired, so comparisons are impossible. But can anyone deny that Acheron’s record is more illustrious?”

“I’d bet half my fortune that Acheron is not just the greatest gladiator in Iscaria but in the entire world.”

Even in Rome, a gladiator maintaining a three-year winning streak was rare.

In Rome, exceptional gladiators were awarded a rudis, a wooden sword symbolizing freedom, and retired upon reaching the pinnacle. Acheron’s seven-year winning streak was unprecedented, a near-miraculous feat.

Acheron was, without question, the pride of Iscaria.

People hailed him as the “reincarnation of a legendary hero,” and Acheron enjoyed immense, indescribable popularity among the Iscarians. Romans revered martial prowess, a trait shared by the people of Iscaria, so it was only natural that such an outstanding gladiator would be revered.

Moreover, the people reacted with even greater fervor to Acheron’s appearance.

A noble face. Striking, chiseled features. A remarkably well-trained body, a high-bridged nose, and prominent brow bones that gave him an aristocratic demeanor. In short, Acheron was undeniably a handsome man. When his cool navy-blue eyes gazed impassively at the crowd, people felt a dignity unbefitting a slave and shivered with awe.

The King of Iscaria, though a slave, carried himself with such grandeur.

Far from being unsettled by him, the islanders admired him and showed him favor. Some even harbored desires to take him as a lover. Indeed, there were those who acted on such desires.

“I can offer you not barley but the tongues of flamingos, Acheron!”

“If you become my lover, you can escape that filthy pigsty of a training school at once, Acheron. How long will you keep acting so haughty?”

“Oh, please, just strike me once with that hand.”

It was common for gladiators to receive patronage. Yet Acheron rejected such offers without a moment’s hesitation.

Some were irritated or angered by his stubborn attitude, but most believed he had earned the right to such arrogance. Even if others could not, a gladiator who had achieved the miracle of a three-year winning streak was justified in his pride.

The only slave to earn the respect of free citizens, Acheron had amassed achievements great enough to have his audacity forgiven, and his fame in Iscaria grew day by day.

Many sought to purchase him, but his owner, Marcus Hertius, a wealthy magnate from Iscaria, dismissed such offers outright.

Why would he slaughter the goose that laid golden eggs?

Marcus was a shrewd man who had earned vast sums by leveraging Acheron’s fame. With that wealth, he had risen to the position of consul at a remarkably young age and continued to reject offers summarily.

And then, a shocking event occurred.

Beyond Acheron, Iscaria was home to another famous landmark.

It was the Roman-style villa perched atop a cliff where waves crashed.

A mansion built in the style of the Roman mainland stood on the cliff, its grandeur and splendor captivating onlookers.

Constructed from white marble, the villa shimmered brilliantly on sunny days. Nestled beside a quiet, lush olive grove, it inspired awe with its beauty. Passersby could not help but utter words of admiration for the elegant villa’s scenery.

As is the way of things, beauty demands commensurate wealth.

People speculated that the villa likely belonged to one of Rome’s wealthiest elites.

As if to confirm this, carriages laden with wine, silk, and foodstuffs entered the Roman-style villa. Testimonies also emerged of an indescribably splendid garden within the estate.

Naturally, people grew curious.

What was the source of this wealth? What was the origin of its owner?

Yet, unlike the sociable Romans, the villa’s owner lived a reclusive life, and people knew not even a single strand of his hair.

Whether the owner was male or female, young or old, a widow or an orphan—none of this was known. As a result, rumors began to spread across Iscaria.

“They say it’s a hideout for a noble ousted from Roman politics?”

“Nonsense. I heard from someone in the know that a prominent republican has recently been put on a wanted list. They say he was spotted at a port heading to Neapolis—could he have come here…?”

“No, I heard it’s the villa of the emperor’s mistress? They say she fled here because Augusta was jealous…”

Amid such rumors, news about Acheron emerged that was shocking enough to stun the island.

“What? The King of Iscaria was sold to the Roman villa?”

They had some sense of the astronomical sums Acheron earned in the arena.

To put it simply, hadn’t Marcus, his owner, used the political funds amassed through Acheron to become consul at the astonishingly young—almost childish—age of thirty?

For this reason, Marcus had no intention of selling Acheron. No matter how exorbitant the sums offered by those coveting Acheron, even when Roman tycoons, smelling profit, offered astronomical amounts, Marcus remained unmoved.

Just how much money had been offered to sway Marcus, who hadn’t budged even for the vast sums proposed by Rome’s elite?

And soon, the whispering crowds shifted their focus to another question.

“But why on earth did they buy him?”

Why would a reclusive figure, whose identity was unknown and who remained cloistered in the villa, purchase the King of Iscaria out of the blue?

“The guy’s ridiculously good-looking, isn’t he? I told you, it’s common for Roman senatorial families to send their lascivious daughters to the provinces.”

“Lucky Acheron. He’ll get to spend every night with a Roman beauty.”

“How do you know it’s a beauty?”

“Haven’t you been to Rome? Roman women are all beautiful.”

“Well, my friend, speaking of the emptiness of rumors, they say the men of Iscaria are strong and handsome… You do look in the mirror, don’t you?”

“What, you bastard?”

Meanwhile, some offered more novel speculations.

“Why assume it’s a woman? Traditionally, our Achaean ancestors loved handsome men without distinction.”

“Our ancestors settled in Iscaria a thousand years ago. We’re Romans, you traitor. I’ll report you to Caesar.”

Of course, there were young men who courted Acheron, but would someone really pay such an exorbitant price for that purpose?

These were merely the amusements of gossipmongers, idle talk driven by curiosity.

Even Acheron, sold to the villa, didn’t believe such rumors and was curious about the identity of his new owner and the purpose of his purchase.

“So.”

But, unexpectedly…

“As of today, you will serve me at night.”

Regrettably, those baseless speculations turned out to be true.

“What did you just say?”

“From today, until the day my breath stops, you will hold me.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Shall I repeat myself? I said to serve me at night.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Surely I don’t need to explain the implications of ‘hold’ or ‘serve at night’ to you?”

Acheron replied with an impassive face.

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

That was when it happened.

“Look here, Acheron!”

The young man’s beautiful brow furrowed, and irritation flashed across his face. The youth, who had been playing with the sadly meowing cat’s front paws, withdrew his hand from the pet and sat up.

“Will you stop evading? I have no intention of retracting my words. I didn’t buy you to hear such songbird responses, Acheron ‘Iscariucus’ Victorius.”

At those words, Acheron’s face darkened rapidly.

This was no jest.

The moment he realized this, words surged to Acheron’s throat: “For a free Roman to submit to a man is tantamount to social suicide.” Questions about the ominous phrase “until my breath stops,” and the fact that they were meeting for the first time today, also clamored to be voiced.

The youth resumed his languid posture, playing with the cat, while Acheron glared at him with sunken eyes for a long while.

“Come here.”

The gentle hand stroking the white-furred cat between its perky ears was utterly serene.

“Your hand. If you give me your hand, I’ll give you two pieces of sardine today.”

Facing him, Acheron was realizing something.

Why the villa was built in a secretive, secluded place. Why its master never ventured outside. The reason for it all.

A faint trace of contempt flickered across his stoic face.

When Acheron looked at the youth again, the young man was gazing at him with an innocent expression. Calm, mysterious eyes.

Acheron’s face, regaining its usual calm, was an inscrutable labyrinth, as always. The honey-blonde hair. The breathtakingly beautiful youth blinked slowly, waiting for Acheron’s response.

A voice, as if submerged beneath the water’s surface, slowly resonated through the room.

“If it is an order, I will obey.”

The youth, resembling Cupid, stopped stroking the cat at that moment and smiled silently.

His striking amethyst eyes sparkled like jewels, and his flowing locks, covering his rosy cheeks, glowed warmly under the sunlight.

The lovely youth, who seemed as if he might melt at the touch of water, moved his pink lips and spoke slowly.

“My name is Lucius.”

He uttered these words while looking at Acheron’s faintly hardening face.

“Come to my room starting tonight. I have neither the patience nor the time to wait any longer.”

Vulgar.

Swallowing the words caught in his throat, Acheron struggled to compose his expression.

“Do you understand me…?”

“Yes.”

The villa’s structure was not that of a villa but a domus.

The entrance, adorned with mythological frescoes, was striking. From the moment he stepped inside, Acheron had taken note of the atrium. The grand living space, with its open roof and artificial pool, was quintessentially Roman. Passing through the study and crossing the peristyle surrounded by colonnades, he became certain that his master was a Roman noble.

The villa was perfectly Roman, unmistakably imbued with Roman character. The only difference was that, while Roman villas favored red, this building used a blue more suited to the Mediterranean coast.

Walking down a marble corridor that gleamed silver in the sunlight, Acheron was lost in thought.

A Roman noble.

In August, with the leaves lush and green, he passed through the inner courtyard and arrived at a residence that hardly seemed fit for a slave.

“Do all the villa’s slaves sleep in places like this?”

The rooms on either side of the atrium, veiled with thick curtains, were where the master slept. The inner quarters near the peristyle housed children, women, or slaves.

Knowing this well, Acheron had expected to be led to a slave’s quarters within the peristyle.

But contrary to his expectations, he arrived at a single room of considerable size. A beautiful residence with ample sunlight and a panoramic view.

“This is a separate annex. You are special.”

The male slave who had carried Acheron’s belongings and was unpacking them in the residence responded curtly before resuming his work. Acheron, momentarily taken aback by the words, let out a wry smile.

He read a certain message in the slave’s polite demeanor.

‘The master’s lover, is it?’

Acheron let out a sneer and moved. Though it was now a rather meaningless act, he was driven by his habit of inspecting the place where he would reside.

As he explored the residence, a look of surprise briefly crossed Acheron’s face.

‘This is…’

He was taken aback by the structure of the annex.

It wasn’t that he disliked it.

The residence was sparsely furnished but incomparably cleaner than the training school. The pillows seemed stuffed with goose feathers, soft and plush, and the bedding was made of fine linen, pleasant to the touch.

A single room, with warm sunlight streaming in through a large, open window. The view outside, faintly revealing a peristyle, was lined with lush green trees, creating a beautiful scene.

In front of the window stood a desk made of oiled oak, upon which ink and parchment were neatly arranged. A spacious wardrobe was also present, as was a chest of drawers.

As Acheron opened the wardrobe door, he let out a soft groan at that moment.

Inside, neatly organized tunics and palliums were stored. Discovering an intricately crafted brooch in the drawer compartment at the bottom of the wardrobe, Acheron had to pause in silence for a moment. After some time, he closed the wardrobe door with a complex expression and turned to survey the room once more.

His gaze, as he took in the annex, was tinged with mixed emotions.

By a curious coincidence, the room, graciously bestowed upon him by the generous master, suited his tastes to an almost alarming degree.

The plain white tunics, occasionally interspersed with red garments, were just so. The simple but neatly arranged bedding was just so. The desk positioned by the window was just so, and even the height of the bed was without fault.

Acheron, who had been scanning the room with darkened eyes, glanced at the ink bottle on the desk before lifting his gaze to a wooden plaque hanging on the wall above the window.

[Ignoramus et Ignorabimus]

Silence lingered, and at some point, Acheron let out a short laugh and lowered his head.

‘Hmph.’

With icy eyes, Acheron stared at the room bathed in the afternoon sunlight, then turned and stepped out of the annex.

The Roman-style mansion, perched atop a cliff where waves crashed, was indeed as splendid and beautiful as the rumors suggested.

Acheron had sensed its extraordinary nature from the moment he entered the entrance. And he could not help but marvel at the interior of the mansion, which was as elegant, if not more so, than its exterior. Even for someone like him, who was not particularly sensitive to outward beauty, the mansion’s grandeur was astonishing.

The mansion was constructed entirely of white marble, as if it were a temple, exuding an almost otherworldly refined atmosphere. The interior walls were adorned in vibrant blue, and elegant decorations filled every corner.

Emerging from the annex situated along one side of the peristyle, Acheron crossed the long corridor surrounding it, heading in the opposite direction from where he had entered.

It was toward the cliffside.

Passing through a colonnaded space (portico), Acheron came upon a dazzlingly beautiful white balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea and stopped in his tracks.

Beyond the balcony, a breathtaking vista unfolded, one that could stir even the heart of a hardened man.

His navy-blue eyes gazed at the deep blue sea, as profound as his own eyes. Standing on the balcony, where willow branches draped over the railing, Acheron slowly blinked at the golden sunlight blazing in the distance, his face momentarily blank.

Under the sunlight, the marble mansion shimmered with a silvery glow, while the white sandy beach stretching below the cliff gleamed golden.

The sound of waves crashing against the cliff roared refreshingly in his ears, and when the wind blew, the faint rustling of zelkova trees could be heard. The pristine beauty of the Mediterranean island, likened to Capri, the jewel of the sea, was laid out before him.

He had not fully appreciated this beauty until now. Only in this moment did Acheron recall that he was standing on the renowned island of Iscaria.

Gazing at a pleasure boat drifting leisurely against the blue sky in the distance, he stood motionless on the balcony for a long while. Clutching the marble railing, warmed by the scorching sun, Acheron let time slip by, unaware even of his hands burning.

It took quite some time before he turned and left the balcony, retracing his steps.

‘An excessively beautiful mansion.’

As he walked through the long corridor, Acheron sank into thought.

‘What kind of wealthy heir would build such a mansion in a remote place?’

Even in Latium, there could not be many who could afford such a residence.

The abnormally extravagant mansion, unbelievable for a place like the backwater of Iscaria, left Acheron with questions.

Lucius.

Mulling over the name that rolled off his tongue like a wave, Acheron suddenly realized something and furrowed his brow.

‘To give only a false name…’

Only a praenomen, and one that felt like an alias at that.

If he were a member of a prominent family, he would have taken the name of a great ancestor or a hero for his praenomen. While Lucius was a popular traditional Roman name among commoners, it was not particularly favored among Roman noble families.

‘Is he truly a descendant of a reclusive republican family? Or perhaps…’

Recalling the rumors, Acheron suddenly pictured Lucius’s face as he had spoken his name, his expression growing complicated.

In that moment, he considered another possibility—that the name might not be false.

‘Or perhaps he was abandoned.’

Acheron’s eyes darkened.

It was a conjecture he had formed from the slender nape he had noticed at first glance.

In that captivating young man, there was a shadow of death that could not be concealed by his splendid appearance.

His cheeks were so pale that blue veins showed through, and his long, shadowed eyes bore a sickly pallor. Even when he smiled, a faint trace of pain lingered, and Acheron could discern his frailty just from the soft, listless tone of his voice.

Mumbling as if submerged underwater, pausing to catch his breath, Lucius did not appear normal at a glance.

His height barely reached Acheron’s collarbone, his frame half as broad. His limbs, slender and elongated like a deer’s, seemed as though they might snap at a touch, and the delicate nape revealed through his tunic was elegant yet evoked pity.

His bony frame, with protruding joints like knees and ankles, looked too frail to bear clothing, a sight uncommon among Romans who valued health.

Thus, Acheron could easily surmise.

Many nobles scorned sickly children.

Among Roman nobles, more than a few considered a frail child a disgrace. Acheron knew of many who, unable to tolerate a blemish on their lineage, would attempt to kill their own offspring. While not as customary as in ancient Sparta, there were still many Romans who practiced ‘culling.’

A sickly child, abandoned by parents, given a perfunctory name, and exiled to the frontier for some eccentricity—a disgrace, a stain on a noble family.

As Acheron speculated on such circumstances, he suddenly shook his head.

Since when had he been so concerned with others?

He realized something strange.

Had he not long since ceased caring about others? Had he not lived thinking that if he died today, so be it, and if tomorrow, then tomorrow?

Yet here he was, troubling himself over the name of his new master.

‘The proposal must have been quite a shock.’

Even though he had accepted the suggestion to serve at night, deep down, he had been profoundly shaken by it.

In truth, he had not fully accepted Lucius’s words. He had merely been avoiding them.

To become a base creature, satisfying some debauched young master, earning a living day by day through acts in bed—Acheron had felt a chill wind blow through his heart, his blood running cold.

But what could he do?

He no longer had the authority to decide his own life.

Having lost the most precious freedom of a Roman citizen long ago, the only path left to Acheron was to live shamefully as a slave.

That was the path he had chosen that day.

‘People will now call you Germanicus.’

In that moment, a scene flashed before Acheron’s eyes, and a hallucination echoed in his ears.

It was from a place filled with the stench of blood, screams, and shouts.

Memories of the madness of the arena, the desperate obsession of the training grounds, and the dishonor of a soldier.

He was recalling an event from seven years ago in the forest.

Memories tied to his dishonor.

It was then.

“Acheron.”

A soft voice suddenly broke through his reverie.

A voice that seemed to seep into his skin rather than his ears. As clear as the sound of waves crashing below the cliff, it was enough to pull Acheron from his thoughts. The man looked up, gazing at the one who had spoken.

A figure standing at the boundary between boy and youth stood in the corridor, looking at Acheron with moist eyes.

“…So here you are.”

Acheron, at that moment, wore an odd expression.

The young man, dressed in an ivory tunic that revealed his ankles, blinked at him. His frail frame, clad in plain-colored clothing, drew Acheron’s gaze with its pitiful air. His honey-colored curls slightly obscured his gaunt face, but they could not hide his pale complexion. His sharp elbows, slender wrists, and nearly straight legs all spoke of his frailty.

Breaking the subtle silence, a languid voice flowed.

“The servant said you left your room, so I wondered where you’d gone. Were you exploring the mansion?”

“…”

“You seem to be adapting quickly.”

Speaking calmly, Lucius gave a small smile, and at that moment, Acheron furrowed his brow.

Lucius whispered.

“Can’t you hear me?”

There was no reply, but Lucius steadfastly continued.

“What were you doing here?”

Acheron answered in a hoarse voice.

“I was looking at the courtyard. It’s beautiful.”

At his words, Lucius nodded slightly and turned his head. He surveyed the peristyle garden, and Acheron, following his gaze, turned to look at the beautiful garden shimmering in the sunlight.

As he said, the Roman-style mansion with Greek influences boasted an exquisitely beautiful garden.

Though summer was nearing its end and the flowers were fading, the lush greenery of the garden had a refreshing charm. An artificial lake flowed with clear, transparent water, surrounded by a majestic fig tree. The lawn was dotted with small, white wildflowers, and patterned butterflies fluttered gracefully among them.

Gazing at the lake for a moment, Lucius slowly parted his lips.

“Shall we dine together?”

Acheron turned to look at Lucius. The gentle voice continued.

“For dinner, there’ll be goat stuffed with figs. I plan to add cinnamon to Sicilian wine… I’d like to treat you.”

Lucius spoke lazily, like a sluggish donkey.

“You can look forward to it, Acheron.”

As he finished, Acheron replied in a similarly slow voice.

“I am a slave.”

At his indirect refusal, Lucius looked at him for a moment before chuckling.

“And I am the master.”

At his indirect command, Acheron quietly nodded in response.

The meal was as lavish as Lucius had promised.

‘Impressive.’

The mansion’s grounds were abundant with fig trees, and the peristyle, adorned with roses, featured an artificial lake. In the center of the lake stood a small marble pavilion, and in a spot with a clear view of this scene was a dining room using porcelain imported from the distant East.

The slaves carrying the dishes were all strikingly attractive, healthy, and reserved. Well-trained, they moved with the decorum of a noble Roman family and were astute.

Recalling Lucius’s words as he walked through the corridor—“The bathhouse in my mansion is as splendid as Rome’s public baths, so I hope you’ll relax there this evening”—Acheron let out a wry laugh.

Rome’s public baths were the epitome of Roman architectural art.

If this mansion’s bathhouse was comparable, then who could the master of this place possibly be?

Even seeing such an opulent mansion, it was hard to believe he was just another noble. Thus, Acheron could not help but wonder.

‘Which family could afford to give such a mansion to a mere debauched young man?’

As far as Acheron knew, only a few families had such wealth: the imperial Julius Caesar family, the Claudius Nero family, the Arcadius Fulcer family, the Livius Drusus family, and the Junius family.

All were deeply rooted noble families, intertwined with the imperial bloodline.

And Lucius, at least in appearance, carried himself with a dignity befitting such a lineage. His “outer shell” was far from the decadent or licentious Roman nobles; it was impeccable.

In truth, he looked like the scion of a prestigious family, with flawless manners. His soft-spoken pronunciation was elegant and pleasing, and his behavior was mature beyond his years.

‘Is he a member of a great family?’

It was then.

“Is the food not to your taste?”

A cheerful voice suddenly settled in Acheron’s ears. Startled, Acheron turned toward the source.

“Why are you clicking your tongue?”

Lucius, his golden hair loosely tied at the nape, reclined on a long couch.

His slender calves and slightly fuller thighs, revealed through his ivory tunic, were on full display as the young man gazed at Acheron with cat-like, sparkling eyes.

At his brazen demeanor, Acheron faintly grimaced but soon regained his impassive expression.

“No, it’s not that.”

Thanks to Lucius’s hospitality, Acheron, despite being a slave, was using a triclinium, a reclining couch, in an extraordinary privilege. Unlike Lucius, who lay fully reclined, Acheron sat in an awkward position with one leg bent, chewing on hard bread.

Lucius, eyeing him, extended a plate with deer meat, tempting him.

“If the goat isn’t to your liking, try the deer stew. It’s quite good.”

An indescribably fragrant aroma tantalized his senses.

Reluctant to indulge in overly luxurious meals to avoid becoming soft, Acheron froze for a moment at the sight of the deer leg Lucius offered. Though his body was more at ease than during his gladiator days, Acheron was keenly aware of his status as a slave stripped of freedom.

A dog tethered by a collar becomes all the more dangerous when tamed by a piece of meat, does it not?

Knowing this, Acheron feared what might happen if he let his guard down.

Yet…

A flicker of hesitation crossed Acheron’s stern face.

Taking the plate from Lucius, Acheron paused briefly before reaching for the deer stew, its brown, viscous sauce glistening. Licking a finger as the liquamen (Roman fish sauce) dripped, Acheron bit into the tender meat with his molars.

The rich flavor of liquamen filled his mouth first, followed by the savory, melt-in-the-mouth taste of the deer stew. Both the deer meat and liquamen were robustly flavorful, and before long, his tongue tingled, craving the next bite.

“How is it?”

At that moment, Acheron’s face took on a complex expression. Glancing at the table, he hesitated before speaking.

“It’s fine, no…”

While he didn’t subscribe to the Spartan notion that luxury weakens a person, he was wary of becoming accustomed to it.

“It’s delicious.”

But this was a feast too lavish to dismiss with such resolve.

Acheron’s composure crumbled.

Goat stuffed with figs, butter-roasted squab, Sicilian red wine spiced with cinnamon, deer stew with liquamen, and thinly sliced pork belly bacon were the main courses. Fresh goat cheese, honey, fig pie, cherries, peaches, and almonds served as side dishes.

Romans reveled in gastronomy, and dinner was a reflection of their status.

The evening banquet, revealing the master’s prestige, was as splendid as the opulent mansion.

With a conflicted expression, Acheron shoveled deer stew into his mouth, chuckling inwardly.

‘Planning to become a fattened pig, are we?’

Yet the food was undeniably delicious, and he could not resist the temptation.

The sensation of tender deer meat sliding down his throat, leaving a salty tang and rich flavor, was euphoric.

The wine’s fragrant aroma and gentle warmth loosened his heart effortlessly. Swallowing one bite after another, Acheron soon abandoned restraint, attacking the food with reckless abandon.

Whatever resolve he had before entering the dining room was gone, as he ate as though he would die if he stopped.

‘Must I worry over every little thing like this?’

Disgust welled up.

Already at rock bottom, what did it matter if he fretted over every morsel? If this was a life to be severed, so be it.

No, if he were to be tamed by carrot and stick, he would have succumbed back in his gladiator days. Men are weaker to the whip than the carrot, after all.

Recalling the faces of his first master and the slave trader who wielded the whip, Acheron sneered.

Come to think of it, if his fate was to be tamed by mere food, he might as well die.

Tearing into a goat leg beside him, he cast off the last remnants of unease.

When Lucius, spreading goose liver pâté on bread, noticed Acheron’s frenzy, he was sipping cinnamon-spiced wine and picking at the last scraps of goat meat from the bone.

Lucius, wearing a dazed expression, couldn’t take his eyes off Acheron for a moment before bursting into a soft laugh.

“You eat well. It’s nice to see.”

Turning at the breezy voice, Acheron looked at Lucius, hesitating. Lucius, with a smile as clear as a breeze, sipped his wine and continued leisurely.

“I can’t eat much. Greasy food doesn’t sit well with me, and if I eat too much, I vomit and collapse. Purgatives are unthinkable. My body’s ill-suited for fine dining.”

Speaking calmly, Lucius playfully waved his arm in the air. Acheron’s gaze was drawn to his thin limbs.

The calves, visible beneath his tunic, were sharply contoured. His ankles were so slender they resembled a flamingo’s. The protruding ankles, flushed pink, looked rather charming, and his feet appeared soft.

Lucius’s body was unlike anything Acheron had seen before, and he stared unabashedly for some time.

As a clear laugh spilled from Lucius’s lips, Acheron snapped back to his senses, hastily averting his eyes.

His senses, clouded by indulgence, returned, and the man regained his cool composure. Lucius wiggled his foot, which had drawn such intense scrutiny, and reached for more food.

“Try this too. It’s not just any squab. Raised on grain soaked in milk and cooked in butter…”

With a gentle voice, Lucius spoke and extended his hand to offer a plate. Acheron, momentarily gazing at the bony fingers gripping the plate, awkwardly clutched it. Lucius smiled, seemingly pleased that Acheron readily accepted his gesture.

“This is a fig pie with a crispy exterior. It’s not made from the figs in the garden. The Parthian figs had particularly sweet flesh this time. I have a sweet tooth, so I topped the pie with honeycomb syrup.”

“These are green grapes harvested directly from Neapolis. They have a crisp texture and a refreshing taste.”

“Honey cheesecake. The creamy texture of the cheese is blended with honey and shaped. It’s a sacred food that the Greeks offer at their temples.”

Then, with his long, elegant fingers, Lucius picked up a piece of cheesecake wrapped in a leaf and brought it to Acheron’s lips.

“I’m just…”

Acheron froze, staring at the delicate fingers before him. He stiffened his lips, trying to avoid the gesture.

As if intent on personally feeding him, Lucius leaned in closely. Acheron could smell the faint, sweet fragrance of fruit emanating from him.

Unconsciously shaking his head, Acheron froze the moment he met the face of the young man before him.

On the pale, bloodless face of the youth, a faint smile lingered like honey. His strikingly bright blonde hair cascaded over his delicate neck, shimmering.

“Come now, Acheron.”

The moment those pale pink lips moved slightly, Acheron felt a chill run up his spine and held his breath.

“Go on.”

Lucius did not withdraw his hand.

A suppressed sigh escaped, and as if resigned, Acheron moved. His eyes darkened gloomily as he bit into the cheesecake dangling from the slender fingertips. Staring at Lucius’s calmly smiling face, Acheron recalled the cool touch of the fingers that briefly brushed his lips, frowning.

‘Disgraceful.’

Even though it was a fleeting touch, it felt as if a mark had been branded on his lips. Unconsciously, he touched them.

The soft cheese melted on his tongue, and Acheron turned his head away from the youth smiling seductively.

The meal continued in silence.

[Ignoramus et Ignorabimus]

Returning from the dining hall to the annex, Acheron gazed at the wooden plaque hanging above the window.

Did that boy know the meaning of those words and hang the plaque there?

Words ill-suited to the situation, a maxim ill-suited to the boy’s age. To the lofty arrogance of the Romans, unchanged even after seven years, Acheron could only laugh.

Opening the wardrobe, Acheron took out a thin tunic that covered his thighs. Embroidered with red thread and gold at the sleeves and collar, the tunic was incomparably softer than the one issued at the gladiator school.

Holding the tunic, Acheron stepped outside at the sound of movement. There stood a dark-haired male slave, appearing to be in his mid-thirties, standing respectfully.

The slaves of the estate were all strikingly beautiful, and this one, seemingly Greek, was no exception with his wavy curls and olive-green eyes.

“I’ve been instructed to guide you to the bath. Please follow me.”

Acheron nodded.

“Here it is.”

Arriving at a building where the sound of warm water could be heard, the slave spoke cautiously to Acheron. Perhaps under Lucius’s specific orders, he spoke politely, using honorifics despite being a fellow slave.

Glancing at the Greek, Acheron spoke in a calm voice.

“Thank you.”

Hearing the familiar informal tone, the slave’s expression turned peculiar. Acheron’s eyes wavered, realizing his mistake.

Even if Acheron received special treatment, they were both slaves. No matter Lucius’s orders, their relationship wasn’t one where casual expressions of gratitude were natural.

Flustered by the Greek’s odd gaze, Acheron soon regained his usual composure. Turning his gaze away, he resumed his stoic expression and nodded curtly.

He knew that the more he spoke in such moments, the more trouble he’d invite. Choosing silence, he was relieved when the Greek slave gave a small bow and left the bath, sparing him from further awkwardness.

‘Where was my mind?’

Sighing, Acheron tilted his head back, surveying the bath. Feeling weary after the small incident, he couldn’t help but sigh at the opulent bath before him.

The bath was grand enough to make him forget the earlier episode entirely.

The ceiling was painted blue, adorned with gold leaf murals. Depicting a scene from the Gallic conquest, the mural of Romans battling foreigners was a favorite subject for Roman wall art.

A square opening in the ceiling allowed ventilation, positioned above the marble tub, letting some of the rising steam escape.

A lavish bath rivaling those of Rome.

After a moment of taking in the interior, Acheron moved. His tunic fell to the floor, revealing his sturdy frame as he stepped toward the tub filled with hot water.

The moment he submerged himself in the scalding water, Acheron couldn’t help but let out a groan as a languid warmth spread from his toes.

Sinking deeply into the bath, he sighed.

Steam lightly clouded his vision, and the warm water enveloped him. Overwhelmed by the languorous sensation washing over him like a tide, Acheron surrendered to it helplessly.

This luxurious bath, a rare indulgence, brought him indescribable joy tinged with disbelief.

Was this truly reality?

He couldn’t imagine enjoying such luxury again.

It felt like a dream.

At the training school, he had to wash his dirtied body in lukewarm water alongside dozens of others. Standing barefoot in muddy water, exposed to countless gazes, he’d scrub himself, then wrap his body in worn cloth and sleep in the communal dormitory.

A life little better than that of a beast. He had thought he’d live and die that way.

Yet now, the sweet scent of perfumed oil teased his senses, and the sensation of melting muscles dissolved his mind in this extravagant bath.

More intoxicating than the lavish meal, this was pure bliss.

The pleasure surpassed fine dining or any luxurious lodging, and it was only after some time that Acheron realized this life of indulgence was the “price” he’d paid, like a courtesan selling his body.

Through the dizzying steam, his piercing blue eyes slowly opened.

In that moment, what flashed through Acheron’s mind, amid the hot steam, was the frail youth who seemed as though he might collapse and die at the slightest touch.

Acheron recalled the beautiful blonde youth, dressed in a white tunic revealing half his thighs, adorned with a golden belt of fine fabric, with a complex mix of emotions.

Acheron had lived an ascetic life.

Whenever Marcus, his generous master, sent prostitutes to the gladiators’ quarters for “morale,” Acheron would untangle their arms from his neck, steadfastly refusing them.

He had similarly avoided noblewomen offering sponsorship, living as chastely as a Vestal Virgin for the seven years he’d been a gladiator.

Thus, the fleeting interest he’d shown in Lucius was something foreign to him.

Berating himself for being swayed by carnal desire, Acheron gave up resisting and leaned against the bath’s edge, letting his body relax.

‘What does it matter anyway?’

Succumbing to the languid sensation melting his body, he grew complacent. His body had already succumbed to indulgence, and Acheron no longer wished to think deeply.

In truth, he had no answers.

His life was not his own—what was the point of lamenting?

For an unbelievable seven years, he had clung to life, but he sensed his time was nearing its end. Most gladiators perished within two years, a dangerous trade. Acheron had endured countless injuries and brushes with death.

Whether by misfortune or fortune, he had survived seven years without permanent injury, precariously.

Yet, even as Iscaria’s renowned fighter, Acheron never forgot that his own sunset would come. He awaited death without fear.

He hadn’t expected to escape his fate this way, but Acheron was casting his life aside.

Would the humiliation of becoming a young noble’s plaything be worse than the brutal, dehumanizing life of a gladiator?

No, Acheron knew the truth.

‘What nonsense…’

Becoming a gladiator, the lowest of slaves, was already the most wretched thing in this world.

Bitterness spread across his face.

He had committed countless dishonorable acts.

He had killed a senior gladiator who spoke kindly to him by striking a vital point. He had spilled the blood of countless comrades with whom he’d crossed wooden swords. He had ignored the pleas of those begging for life and ended them.

Though he knew their lives would be more wretched than death, the desperate faces still haunted him.

He had already fallen to the depths.

Down, and further down.

Acheron continued his self-deprecating thoughts with a blank expression.

‘Perhaps it’s better to let even my soul become a slave. The die is cast, and my life has already plummeted beyond the abyss.’

Then it came.

“I waited, but you didn’t come.”

Didn’t come, come, come…

Acheron froze as the voice echoed through the vast bath, his body jolting against a pillar. The sound of fabric rustling followed.

A soft voice continued to settle in his ears.

“There’s only one bath… forgive the intrusion.”

At the languid voice, Acheron let out a groan. When he looked up, Lucius stood there.

It was a beautiful sight.

A dazzlingly white, almost marble-carved, slender body flickered through the misty steam. As Lucius shed the tunic draped over his arm, stepping on the white fabric caught at his ankle to reveal his bare form, he approached the tub.

The moment his elegant, sculpted foot touched the clear water, Acheron clenched his teeth.

The delicate ankle and gracefully curved calf were like a statue. Acheron’s gaze unconsciously rose, taking in the body through the hazy steam.

Flushed redder than usual from the heat, the soft body glistened. Bright, vivid blonde hair clung to flushed cheeks. Lips reddened.

Acheron’s face slowly darkened.

‘The face of disgrace.’

Then it happened.

“Hm.”

A faint groan faintly echoed through the bath.

Acheron froze. He belatedly realized the water was still scalding. Recalling Lucius’s delicate skin, he instinctively checked on him.

Looking up, Acheron froze again as he saw Lucius fully submerged in the hot water.

Droplets of dew clung to his lowered eyelashes, and languor filled his eyes.

In that moment, Acheron felt as though the hot water wasn’t just at his chest but rising to his throat.

Caught in a suffocating tightness, Acheron furrowed his brow. For some reason, embarrassment stirred, and he hardened his expression.

Then it came.

“Disgusting?”

Acheron took a moment before responding.

“What do you mean?”

“Your expression was dark throughout the meal.”

Lucius leaned his head against the bath’s edge, blinking like a cat. Acheron slightly narrowed his brow at the playful demeanor. Lucius continued in a calm voice.

“Among Romans, pederasty is considered almost a requisite for social grace.”

Acheron asked slowly.

“A boy?”

His mature aura and dry gaze suggested he’d undergone his coming-of-age ceremony, yet his youthful face and tunic-clad appearance made Acheron unsure of his age.

“You don’t think I look like an adult? I had my coming-of-age ceremony three years ago.”

Lucius answered with a short laugh. Raising a slender arm above the water, he spoke as if to himself.

“Looking like this, I’m often misunderstood. My limbs are thin, my appearance frail.”

Water droplets slid down his smooth skin, glinting in the moonlight.

Lucius wore an enigmatic smile.

The sky visible through the open ceiling had darkened, a purple veil studded with stars like grains of sand on a beach. Venus shone with elegant light.

His white arm gleamed silver in the moonlight, and his blonde hair radiated an entrancing glow beneath the night’s curtain. As soft starlight streamed through the small window, crossing the tub, Lucius gently rubbed his hands as if touching the starlight, then sat up and gazed calmly at Acheron.

A low voice resonated through the bath.

“But does it matter if I’m an adult? To the eye, a robust older man like you guiding a frail, inadequate younger man like me in your arms—it’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

A dry voice responded.

“Pederasty is a depraved custom that ruins youth…”

In that moment, contempt flashed across Acheron’s face.

A faint smile curved Lucius’s lips. Despite the blatant displeasure on Acheron’s face, he seemed unbothered, gazing at Acheron with curious eyes.

A voice so soft it could be missed without focus echoed through the bath.

“You dislike it?”

Acheron asked in a low voice.

“Why do you do such things?”

His words carried raw disgust and scorn. His cold, navy-blue eyes glared at his master with contempt. He understood the implications of sharing a bath with his master. It made him all the more wary of Lucius.

The night he dreaded hadn’t even arrived, yet Lucius was already so brazen?

A cold gaze swept over Lucius’s face, and Lucius, receiving the blatant scorn, let out a faint smile.

“Such things?”

He spoke with a tone that was either mocking or innocently unaware.

“If you can’t hide your true feelings, what will you do? This world is full of cunning, twisted people.”

Acheron’s face twisted for a moment.

A young man, only three years past adulthood, was saying such things to him?

Lucius looked at Acheron with reproachful eyes and let out a worried sigh.

Then, suddenly, he reached out and touched Acheron’s thick forearm.

It was an action that startled Acheron.

“What are you doing!”

Grabbing Lucius’s wrist in an instant, Acheron growled.

Flickers of anger glinted in his eyes. Yet, facing the threatening gaze of the imposing man, Lucius responded with a pure smile. Displeased by Lucius’s reaction, Acheron glared at him with an even harder expression.

A grim voice followed.

“I asked what you’re doing.”

“Let go.”

But Lucius did not yield to the slave’s words.

“It’s an order, Acheron.”

Acheron glared at him murderously but released his grip. He let go of Lucius’s hand as if discarding trash. The pale, jewel-like hand bore red marks like an ornament.

It looked like it might bruise—any more force, and it could have broken.

Seeing this, Acheron briefly regretted not controlling his strength, but he froze as an astonishing act overwhelmed his regret.

A beautiful hand, as if carved from ice, touched his chest.

“Sturdy.”

A slow, soft voice echoed through the bath.

Acheron tried to push him away, but the hand reaching for the back of his head clenched into a fist, trembling with tension, then retreated.

Acheron let out a suppressed sigh. Leaning his arm on the bath’s edge, he relaxed his body, looking like a man who had given up.

“Hm.”

Under Acheron’s passive gaze, Lucius’s hand slid down his skin, delicately exploring the firmly built body, boldly pressing here and there. The soft hand swept over every part of Acheron’s body, caressing and pressing gently. Each time, Acheron’s closed eyelashes trembled faintly, betraying his agitation, but he no longer resisted. He had realized resistance was futile.

The act of the soft hand, like silk gloves, caressing his upper body felt almost like intense affection. Feeling the blood rushing to his lower abdomen, Acheron held his breath to suppress the desire spreading from there.

“It doesn’t feel like human flesh.”

The voice was laden with moisture.

“No matter how much I press with my fingers, it doesn’t give…”

Murmuring in a small voice, Lucius’s hand was stroking Acheron’s chest.

His hand lingered briefly on the thickest part of the upper body. As his fingertips grazed the skin, Acheron’s Adam’s apple trembled faintly.

The hand eventually moved from the chest to Acheron’s forearm. Playing with the iron-hard muscle as if molding clay, Lucius soon placed his other hand on it, grasping it as if measuring its girth. It was the delicate touch of an artisan handling a statue.

After a moment of handling his arm, Lucius looked up at Acheron with an innocent face.

And then.