He noticed me in the line up and winked, smiling.

Then he moved on to greet the rest of the men.

But when we returned to our fires, his equerry came, panting:  
“Come son, he wants to meet you, come now.” 
I’m a farm boy and I know what’s what but I was shocked

by this directness. The man didn’t seem to care about everyone

watching us, even though my compatriots laughed and jeered: 
“Keep your back to the wall boy, don’t let him get behind you.”
The equerry dismissed them with a contemptuous hand, pulling

at my sleeve with the other. I burned red, but I went with him anyway

and walked through the huge throng of men, lazing in the purple evening,

swilling new wine given to them as reward for a long campaign.
Finally, we reached the main tent, as big as a Roman villa and ringed

by braziers, guards’ faces bronzed and shining in the heat of a score

of torches. He was inside, tended by slaves. I found him reclining

on a divan, chewing at a leg of rabbit: 
“What’s this?” he said as we entered. “Ah yes, my fair boy. Come sit with me, eat.”
I took the couch next to his and was given wine and food, but I watched him

even as I ate. His face was tanned from the march, his eyes keen, in wrinkled

pockets of dry skin, like agates in dust. And he watched me too, curious

and enjoying the novelty. 
For me, used to hard bread and barley porridge, the scent

of rabbit and olives and good wine was almost too much,

I forgot myself and my nervousness and ate greedily,

rich juices streaking my hands and my face. 
After a while, filled with wine and food – then carefully

washed by his slaves – I went to work on him, sweating. 
He wanted soldier’s cock, so he had mine. It was awkward

and shuffling at first and he was not interested in returning

pleasure, all he wanted was to be turned over and fucked

but we managed it. And after I did him, like a sheep,

he seemed satisfied enough. 
Later, I went back to my platoon and to my pallet and slept,

but restlessly, my head was still dizzy with wine, my hands

remembering the dry and sinewy touch of him. 
During that long march home, he called me back

many times and I became used to the equerry’s near-nightly

nudging to leave my comrades for my commander’s bed.

(And, you should know, in exchange for these services,

I was given money and promised more). 
One night my friend Lepidus, a handsome young legionnaire

from Osteia, about my own age, was invited to join us,

so we both fucked him, slaves watching while we took turns,

the stars and moon wheeling above in the night as if in a great, black cave. 
But now, home again on my mother’s farm, I wonder what the point

of it all was. I fetch water for pigs, chop wood for her poor fire and yoke

the bull to the plough and it’s as hard as ever and thankless. 
He’s dead, murdered they say, by his friends in the senate,

my hopes with him. The stupid fuck, who couldn’t see

what would happen if he called himself Caesar?