Lads Pissing

Hey everyone, I was inspired by a piece of ancient graffiti to try writing some historical fiction. I don't usually write or read historical fiction, so any inaccuracies are mine alone. But I tried as best as I could to recreate some of the reality of those times, as I imagine it. (Along the way I found myself getting into detail about certain aspects of ancient body image and hygiene, some of it on the earthy side but hopefully not too beyond the pale.)

As always, let me know what you think.

*****

Part 1: The Horsekeeper

VIII.7.6 (Inn of the Muledrivers; left of the door); 4957: We have wet the bed, host. I confess we have done wrong. If you want to know why, there was no chamber pot

Brennus was a sturdy fellow in his mid-thirties, fond of drink and industry in equal measure. The Gauls were known throughout Rome for their imposing physiques, and his was no exception: from his hulking shoulders, to his barrel-chested frame sporting a firm barley-fed gut, and his supple haunches, strong yet well-nourished with a healthy cushion of fat on his rump, Brennus had a physique that bore the labors of farm-tending and horsekeeping with ease. It would support him just as well on his journey into Florence, on a trip to present his horses for trade or sale. On this occasion he was bringing only his finest stallions, likely only within financial reach to the very wealthiest landowners or elite families, who sought after Gaul's renowned breeds of horses for everything from chariot racing to personal use.

Despite the professional purpose of his visit, he was never one to pass up a good time. Journeying through modern-day Lyon, crossing the Alps into Italy and now finding himself in Padua, his fortnight of travel had nearly come to an end. All along the way were no shortage of taverns and inns where he could relax, spend the night, and get his fill of fresh beer while he shared tall tales and played drinking games with the locals. Though tempers occasionally flared as the rugged characters drank into the evening, Brennus was jovial to the last, and exercised a calming influence on his companions. His flowing blonde hair, worn long in the Gaulish custom, fell around his shoulders as his blue eyes shone with laughter. He had an exotic visage which beguiled any Roman who set eyes on him. No one could stay mad with him for long, whether he was engaging in a bit of teasing, or gloating shamelessly as he won yet another round of arm-wrestling or beer-chugging. Even when he felt he was trying a fellow's patience, all it took was one cheeky grin straight into their eyes and a firm slap on the back for them to break out into laughter, despite themselves.

Wherever drink was being taken, nature's call was soon to follow, though Brennus was hardly seen to excuse himself to pass water during the entire evening. Like any warm-blooded Gaul, Brennus savored beer as a staple refreshment, and had plenty of practice in holding pints of the crisp, fizzy beverage. The rustic establishments where he stayed on the way to Florence featured little in the way of toilet facilities. An ample chamber pot in the corner of the main hall for guests to piss in was convenient, but often dispensed with in order to spare the staff the hassle of emptying it, since the beer-drinking clientele would refill it in no time. Instead, visitors were often directed to relieve themselves in a small, walled-off space with a trench, or even simply out in the fields behind the building. No matter where he visited, Brennus was the last to yield to the pressure to urinate. Downing mug after mug and voicing his satisfaction with the local libations in a deep, greasy belch as the suds ran down his beard, only the occasional idle tug at his tackle betrayed any hint of need.

"What are you, a camel," slurred one local once during his stop at Aquileia, the northern Italian city and military base.

"No, no," his friend cut in, "he's holding it all in that great big belly of his."

Brennus smirked at them and uttered a raspy, sonorous "ha!", patting his gut in smug satisfaction. "You never mind where I'm holding it, it's where I let it go that should concern you. When I piss, I piss like the chariot horses I'm keeping in the stable out back, and I don't stop until I'm good and empty. So stand back or you'll get splashed!"

"Whoa man! Then you're liable to burst any second! If that jug overflows, we'll be flooded worse than the last thawing of the Alps!"

"What do you Gauls carry around down there to drain it, anyway? You must need an elephant's trunk to tap that cistern."

"I'm just going to run some water through it now, if you'd like a demonstration." He leaned in and, addressing the Romans in a stage whisper, said, "Tell your wives back home how we northern brutes are hung!"

The locals howled with reproach, Brennus grinning from ear to ear, untying the drawstring on his woolen trousers as he finally ventured out to spill out seven rounds' worth of drinks.

Part 2: Culture Shock

Brennus sighed as he emptied his bladder into the muck and hay of the stable, savoring a moment of quiet during the evening's festivities. The waist of his trousers was hitched down under his crotch with one hand, while he scratched his beard with the other, gazing up at the moonbeams shooting in between the slats of the roof. There was no sound except the breathing of horses, fast asleep, and the horsekeeper whizzing away where his own stallions did the same. In the company of the slumbering beasts there was no virtue in tidiness, and Brennus aimed carelessly. The fat jet of his water squelched as it landed in the mire, saturating the soil until it bored a warm, muddy pocket where it rapidly pooled. If the other guests at these roadside taverns experienced disgust when venturing into the stable, as directed by the staff, to relieve themselves, put off by the musky smell of the animals' slick coats and the damp hay, its aroma at once urinous and grassy, Brennus never hesitated. To him, it was the smell of home.

In truth, although the horsekeeper enjoyed the sights and sounds of travel and endeavored to adapt himself to circumstances, he never quite got used to the city lifestyle. The narrow, crowded streets of the major city centers were not as comfortable for his horses to navigate as the dirt tracks and open fields of the countryside. And his stallions were not the only creatures who felt out of their element.

Bathing in the Gallic countryside was a private, practical affair, meant more for cleansing the grime of a day's work from the skin than for cosmetic purposes. Though he had kept up his usual hygienic routine, it was inadequate by Roman standards. He still recalled, with some embarrassment, the first time that he sat beside a local who commented on his odor. The ale at one tavern had made him drowsier than usual, and he yawned loudly while stretching his beefy arms up into the air. It had been a humid summer day, and the warmth radiating from his chest wafted along the scent of his fuzzy, unshaven armpits. His neighbor at the long banquet bench sniffed and was overpowered by his musk, coughing as he asked Brennus whether he'd been tending goats.

With time, he came to learn about the public baths, and the Roman custom of cleansing with olive oil, applying it copiously before scraping it off with a strigil, and concluding the ritual by applying yet more oils, infused with herbs for their scent. It struck Brennus as excessive, but he dutifully complied, hoping not to offend the Romans' sensibilities. Mastering the process was no easier under the blatant stares of the bronzed, toned locals beholding the nude, husky frame of a Celtic country man, some of whom had never seen a foreigner in their lives. His farmer's tan gave his flesh a two-tone complexion, and his doughy torso and buttocks practically glowed as he strode among the olive-skinned Romans. Nobody would call Brennus a bashful man, but the first time a stranger gawked at him at the baths, he couldn't help blushing.

It was at a large municipal bathhouse in Rome, where Brennus was taking a break to unwind in the steam room. A young accountant in his twenties was sitting next to him, trying to steal glances while remaining inconspicuous and totally failing at it. His eyes kept meeting Brennus' as he beheld his long, damp mane, the coarse scraggly texture of his beard and armpit hair, and his hairy gut, dripping sweat down a mat of fuzz which thickened as it approached the navel.

Finally, overcome by curiosity, the accountant pointed at him and asked in broken Latin, "You — Gaul?", hoping to be understood.

Brennus stared at him for a few moments, his arms folded over his belly. He didn't say anything. "By my pasty Celtic ass," he replied in correct, if accented, language, swearing an oath that made the accountant leap back in surprise.

Perhaps strangest of all was getting used to Roman toilet habits. In roadside settings, where people took their cues from rural practices, this presented less of a problem. But the cities had communal latrines as well as public baths, and Brennus was astonished at how casually Roman citizens of every rank and background sat along the stone benches, holes carved out for draining into the plumbing system, while relieving themselves. It was one thing for him to answer nature's call in the stable, with no one around but his horses and assistants, or in the bushes while out on the road. But emptying himself right next to total strangers felt immodest. For that reason he was always grateful if the town where he found himself featured public urinals for use, where he could at least take care of the small need without having to use the commode with dozens of strangers.

In the lodgings provided by the inns along his route, he was introduced to another peculiarity of Roman bathroom practice, the chamber pot. Brennus was inclined to piss outdoors in any convenient location, and often did so after a night of drinking before he retired to his sleeping quarters. But the steady, delayed filling of his bladder as the beer continued to work its way through his system meant that occasionally, after getting changed for bed or awaking in the middle of the night, he would need to urinate again. Walking all the way outside in his nighttime clothes was a hassle, and even in his woolen trousers and cloak, the chill as winter turned to spring was often an unwelcome slap in the face in his drowsy state. For those reasons, he usually opted to sleep through it, though if his chambers had spare piles of straw lying around the room, he wasn't above hosing down the dried plant matter and leaving it for the attendants to rake over the next day, if it meant he could sleep undisturbed.

One night after a particularly long drinking session, he was getting ready to sleep when he felt the familiar need. Unsure whether to venture outside or try sleeping through it, he was suddenly distracted by the rattling sound of fluid ringing against metal. He turned to locate the sound coming from the guest in the next bed over, a middle-aged Greek merchant yawning as he filled the matella provided to him. A matella was a narrow, jug-like vessel similar to a flagon, which the inns often provided to their male clientele as a concession to biological need, an aid in holding their fluids when their own cups ran over. The merchant sat at the edge of his straw mattress urinating into the vessel, which he grasped by the handle as he dangled his member down its extended neck.

"What are you doing," Brennus asked, his eyes narrowed almost shut in drowsiness.

The merchant looked over at him, scrutinized him, and then smiled. "You'll start springing leaks when you're my age, young man."

"You mean ..." Brennus redirected his gaze to the matella. "You use those to piss in?"

The merchant now understood the barbarian's perplexity, and chuckled. "Did you think the pot next to your bed was for decoration?"

Brennus looked around his own bed and quickly spotted his own appointed vessel, which he held in both hands uncertainly. The idea of sleeping next to a pot of his own fluids felt strange. He rarely peed in a vessel set aside for the purpose except on long carriage rides, during inclement weather, when time was of the essence, and stopping the carriage to satisfy the need on the roadside entailed exposure to falling rain or snow. Even then Brennus did it reluctantly, preferring to avoid riding with a bucket of his own spent fluids sloshing about and making a mess he'd later have to clean.

He could always try holding it overnight, he thought. He was jiggling his left leg absentmindedly. He recalled the last mug of beer that the innkeeper had offered him, "one for the road", flagging him down with a "Hey blondie!" as he was proffered the dregs of a barrel that was just running out. Brennus had knocked it back in three gulps and thanked him. The recollection caused him to squeeze his thighs together and wince with discomfort ...

He looked around the room, where the other men were either fast asleep, changing for bed, or trickling into their own matellae. Hitching up his tunic to bare his crotch, he gripped the handle and aimed into the vessel, imitating his neighbor's posture, and then, once he was certain he wouldn't miss, freed the knot of tension holding back his bladder. He gazed down at the matella awkwardly, the high-pitched ping of his stream against the empty bronze pot mellowing into a deeper gurgle as its contents increased in volume. Suddenly a sense of relief kicked in, his quizzical expression changing to one of animal contentment as he arched his brow, caught off guard by the pleasure. Slouching down a bit, he was momentarily beside himself, surprised at how badly he'd needed that.

The merchant caught a look at Brennus' peaceful expression, his eyes now shut with bliss, and chuckled once more. "Sleep well, friend," he said, and pulled his covers tight as the scruffy barbarian exhaled, spurting a few final times before carefully setting the filled pot back down and turning in for the night himself.

For a moment, pissing in a pot indoors next to his bed felt strange. But only for a moment. If anything surprised him, it was how quickly he got used to it. He soon came to expect the complementary urinal as part of his standard amenities as a lodger, and used it eagerly, a new step of his bedtime routine. Saving it for last once he had changed and prepared his bed, the slackening of bodily tension as he passed water from the warm, fleshy pitcher below his navel to the inert, manmade one that he held between his thighs was often enough of a nightcap alone to take him from lying down in bed to a deep, peaceful slumber in just minutes.

Part 3: The Blacksmiths

On his last night in Padua, Brennus had splurged on a stay at an inn with private rooms, wishing to get an especially sound rest before finally reaching Florence. He was grateful for the heartier fare on offer: in addition to freshly baked bread served with cheese and honey, savory lentil soup and roasted pork, seasoned with cumin and rosemary, made for a filling dinner. He was sitting across the table with a couple of blacksmiths, Marcus and Lucius, also in their thirties, their hands and arms streaked with the shades of soot from years of work. That evening, the tone of conversation in the dining hall was amicable, yet subdued.

"Those beasts in the last stall yours, Gaul?" said Marcus. "You've got the look of a man who knows his way around a stable."

"That they are. Fine horses, bred in the north where the air's crisp. Carry me farther than I'd care to walk."

"Hopefully no farther than their shoes will hold! You've never had a horse come up lame on a long road, have you?" said Lucius.

"More times than I'd like. Lucky for me, I know the basics of fitting a shoe. But it's you folks that keep men like me moving."

"A horsekeeper who knows his metalwork! Don't hear that every day. You Gauls any good with iron, or is that all Roman work?" asked Marcus.

Brennus paused from quaffing his ale to feign mock offense. "Good with iron? We've been working it since before your forefathers learned to hold a hammer. My people forge blades that can split a Roman spear clean in two."

"Is that right?" Marcus posed a question between bites of succulent pork: "Tell me something, what do you think's harder to forge: a good sword, or a shoe that won't bend under a draft horse?"

Brennus thought for a moment, chewing a mouthful of tender, spongy bread. "Both are hard enough, but at least a horse won't try to stab you if the shoe's ill-fitting."

Lucius laughed, well-pleased with the Gaul's response. "You come to us, you'll never worry about either. We work clean, eh, Marcus?" His companion nodded. "Next time you're passing through, let us handle your beasts. We'll set them up right."

"Sounds like a deal," Brennus said, raising his mug. The three men toasted and drank to the verbal agreement, then Brennus set his mug back down and exhaled with refreshment. "Brothers, I'm going for a piss. I'll be back in a moment."

"We'll go, too. Once Marcus breaks the seal he needs to siphon one off every two drinks or so, anyhow!" Lucius said, teasing his coworker. Marcus laughed sarcastically, swearing at him in the local dialect as the three walked off to the outbuilding. The inn offered a semi-private latrine with brick walls, reaching just to shoulder height but no taller. The gap between the limit of the walls and the ceiling allowed for air circulation. A simple wooden panel swung open on basic hinges: since the latrine was intended for use by multiple guests at once, there was no latch to lock it with. A guest walking through the entrance would have seen a wooden bench with holes to his left, while on the right a stone slab ran down to the floor, sloped at a slight angle, where it ended in a crude gutter diverting fluids to a ceramic vessel, collecting the urine to be used for leatherworking and fulling. Brennus, Marcus and Lucius stepped up to the trough urinal, loosening their belts as they approached so they could move their tunics out of the way, grab themselves, and begin splashing away.

"I'd wager the smith who made that door hinge's as green as a sapling," Lucius observed. "Squeals like a pig every time it opens."

"Better than a pot scraping against the floor, I figure. How on earth do they lift those heavy chamber pots when they need to empty them? A man could throw out his back!" said Brennus.

Marcus roared with laughter at the mental image. "A country fellow like yourself doesn't have much use for those back at home, eh?"

Brennus was propping himself up against the wall with one hand while aiming with the other. He watched his piss cascading down the slab and pooling in the gutter. "Nah. Why would we, when we can just water a tree or squat somewhere in the field? Why, I sat my fat ass down on one of those large pots of yours on a January morning once, and the damn thing was so cold I crowed louder than the roosters outside!"

Lucius was furthest away from Brennus. He looked up to gaze at Brennus directly in the face. "You mean that thick hide of yours didn't keep the chill out?"

Brennus chuckled and shook his head. "Even I don't have enough blubber for that, man!" he said, arching back in order to look across the room and return his gaze.

All three were now laughing so hard they had to take breaks for breathing. Their beer breath hung in the air, humid and treacly with malt. It was a clear night, and beams of moonlight shone in under the ceiling, falling on the three men's turned backs. Some of the moonlight caught Brennus' bushy beard, streaked with stray red hairs. Their streams shot forth in languid arcs, clear and crystalline before landing on the slab and falling in thin fluid sheets.

"Still, don't tell me you're too proud to use the piss pots that the inns set out for you at your bedside?"

"A beer-swilling hick like myself? Maybe at first, but you get over that when the choice is between that or walking all the way down the hall." Brennus paused. "Who decided they had to be metal, anyway? Couldn't a man piss just as well into wood?" he said, turning to face Lucius.

Lucius waved off the suggestion with a hand. "Wood? It'd stink to high heaven in a week. Metal's clean, doesn't soak up the smell. You get yourself some brass, copper — easy to shape, and it lasts a lifetime, supposing you don't smash it over someone's head."

"Yep. A good matella is a blessing to any man with a full bladder and a warm bed," added Marcus.

"And how. There's one custom I wouldn't mind bringing back home." Brennus shook off and tied the cord around his trousers back up.

"Well if you do, thank us Roman smiths for that. There's no job too big or too small for us." Marcus finished urinating as well.

"Just don't blame us the first time you tip one over in the dark!" said Lucius, his arms folded as he waited for his companions to finish attending to their needs in the dark, quiet latrine.

Part 4: Trouble

Well fed and tipsy from a few rounds spent in good company, Brennus was drowsy and ready for a peaceful night's slumber. He had only to get ready for bed. He removed his hooded cloak and hung it on a peg, then took off his belt with a pouch and various small tools attached to it, which he kept by his bedside for safekeeping. Finally stripped down to his innerwear, he grabbed his outer woolen tunic where it came down to his knees, pulling it up and above his head in order to free himself from the garment. He was now almost changed to go to sleep, needing only to unfasten the little knots on the side of either hip which kept his leather loincloth fastened and held up against his bare undercarriage for modesty. Once untied, the T-shaped piece of leather, softened and warped in the front from years of use, landed between his feet with a dull thud. Brennus picked it up and placed it with his outer tunic, also at his bedside. Then he placed both hands on his hips and yawned loudly, a deep moan that rang through his chest as he flexed backwards from the waist.

There was just one thing left to do, he thought, reaching his right hand under his light linen tunic, which came only halfway down his thighs. His tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth as he gazed into the middle distance in mental effort, he fished down under the tunic for his hosepipe. The organ in hand, he sighed gratefully in anticipation of relief while he scanned the room for the matella.

But it didn't seem to be anywhere near the bed. Where was it, then? Brennus paused, idly holding himself between his thumb and index finger while he glanced first at the windowsill, then under the small table where attendants placed basins for the lodgers to wash their face in the morning. The table now had nothing on it, or under it. Hmm... He tapped his left foot absentmindedly, lost in thought.

All right, he thought, pulling his tunic back down as he stepped into his sandals and opened the door to his private room to venture into the hall. There must have been a unbooked bedroom that he could borrow the matella from. Hoping to locate a spare pot to drain himself in, he searched along the hallway, which was lit dimly by several oil lamps spread out along it. The rooms nearby all either had shut doors, or doors open revealing travelers in the middle of their own bedtime routine. Brennus couldn't bother any of them and ask to use their piss pot. They would certainly want to keep theirs around in the night in case they needed to pass water themselves, and besides, he would have felt ridiculous lumbering over to another grown man and asking to borrow something of theirs to tinkle in. He walked down the rest of the hall in search of what he desired, but came up empty. He was now gripping lightly at his crotch through his tunic, his bladder beginning to press on him in anticipation of its habitual bedtime release. He reached the end of the hallway, obliged to turn back, his search unsuccessful.

All the larger inns usually keep a larger chamber pot around in a corner or separate room, he thought, walking back in order to check the opposite end of the hall. In the middle of the hall, a doorway permitted passage between the dormitory section of the inn and the larger common spaces, such as the dining hall. Brennus walked past it to the end of the hall left unused for lodging, hoping to find somewhere to take his accustomed piss before bed.

At last he came to a stop, standing in front of a room sealed off by a flimsy door, reaching up only to Brennus' shoulders. Through the gaps between the flimsy planks bound together by iron to make a door, he could make out the shape of a large alloy pot like a cauldron, fit for seated or standing use, locked away for the night. He tried the handle, normally first, then with several firm pulls which only caused the lock to jiggle. In order to prevent thefts, it seemed that the inn had opted to secure the unglamorous device, nevertheless valuable for its constituent metals, past a certain hour of the night. Security from thefts and break-ins also was the reason why the exit door, letting out into the fields behind the inn, was locked.

"Damn it," he swore, acutely feeling the need to urinate now that there was no place for him to go. "Can't even go outside to piss in the dirt ..." Bobbing up and down slightly to hold himself in while he paused in thought, he finally gave up his search and walked back to his room.

As he sat on his mattress, about to blow out his lamp and go to sleep, he took a deep breath and sighed. I've managed all my life without the damn jugs, he thought. I'm sure I can hold it until morning. Then I'll wake up, march back down the hallway and piss in the first place I find, he consoled himself, chuckling as he lay down and pulled his sheets over his body.

By that time of night he was usually ready to drift off, the hearty fare in his belly and the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream knocking him out cold, snoring his way through the night until the sun's rays announced the arrival of a new day, which Brennus met slobbering in a puddle of his own drool. Tonight, however, Brennus struggled to find a position which was comfortable, his thick thighs fidgeting under the covers. Hanging down from the inn's roof, icicles formed from the refrozen run-off of melting snow were themselves now melting as the milder breezes of spring began to blow. One icicle the size of a spear was dripping down past Brennus' window, the moisture landing rhythmically into a puddle in clear, resounding plops. Brennus felt the contents of the muscular pouch below his navel stir with every landing drop. He tried to ignore it, but eventually groaned in frustration and took himself back in his hand, tucking the organ between his hairy thighs in an effort to quell the urges and dam up his stream. He breathed deeply once more and, somewhat calmed by his emergency measures, managed to drift off.

Part 5: The Roman General

Brennus was wandering through a residential neighborhood, hopelessly lost as he tried to locate the city center. The whitewashed stone and brick walls of innumerable, nearly identical one-family homes shone blindingly in the midday sun, beating down on Brennus' reddening nape and forehead. They lay in terraced rows, uneven lines hewing roughly to the degrees of altitude along the hilly region's great mounds of earth, interrupted only by narrow, winding streets with little in the way of awnings or overhanging roofs to provide sorely needed shelter.

The Celt panted as he mustered every last fiber of strength to continue his journey on foot, unaccompanied by horse or man. His calves and thighs trembled with effort, plodding up and down the steep inclines of alleys, no landmarks visible to judge his progress closer to or further from the market. If only he could ask somebody, anybody which way to go ... but despite the languid, humid atmosphere in the dog days of summer when the villagers are given to killing time outside their homes, in hundreds of little recreations and gossipy chats, there was no one to be found. Not on the streets, not peering through the wooden slats or parchment outside the homes' windows.

He was nearly at the point of total physical exhaustion, not only due to the taxing journey on foot, but also the goods he was carrying. The outlines of his deltoids and biceps were discernible on his arms, dripping with sweat while they struggled to hold up a large amphora, terra cotta painted with matte black bands of paint around the neck and near the base for decoration. He had to make it to the market before the sun began to set and the throngs of curious passersby who might purchase his wares, heading home or to their various set appointments, began to dwindle in the forum. So he stomped along, the precious fluid sloshing about in the amphora nearly the size of his own torso, his breath burning through his lungs and throat. Brennus was certain if he sat down now to catch his breath, he would never complete his journey. The fatigue which he was desperately staving off would fully set in, every muscle becoming rubbery and rendering him incapable of motion.

Suddenly a voice called out before him. Seven houses ahead of him at the end of a block of homes, an elderly yet vivacious man craned his head out of his window to shout at the foreigner. "Who goes there!" cried the retired general. His hair, grayed nearly to total whiteness, was closely cropped, accentuating the angular features of his harsh gaze.

"S- Sir," began Brennus, gasping for air to finish his sentence. "I need to go to the market. I- I—"

"Why does a Celtic marauder stagger through the streets of my town?"

"N- no! I'm not a- I'm here on business! Please, c- can you —"

"Present yourself at my doorway!" barked the general, before retreating back inside. The street which briefly rang with the sound of their dialogue now fell silent again. Brennus hesitated, but realized he had no choice. He could already feel himself getting a sunburn. Despite his hostility, the grizzled veteran was his only hope of finding his way, his only chance if he didn't want to succumb to heat stroke alone in the vacant town. With every last ounce of strength, he stomped over to the veteran's home, his face contorted with pain. When he made it just outside the doorway, the veteran was waiting for him. As Brennus came to a standstill, he nearly fumbled the amphora, just rescuing it from falling and shattering at the threshold of his home, in the grasp of his sweaty palms.

The general said nothing, sizing up Brennus and examining his features. "By Jove," he finally spoke, "a flaxen-haired brute as I live and breathe."

Brennus attempted once more to explain himself. "I've come with goods to sell at the market. But I don't know where— "

The general raised a hand, silencing him as he shook his head with bemusement. "Your name?"

"B- Brennus, sir."

"Germanicus," said the general, stating his granted honorific by way of reply. He gazed at the amphora in Brennus' trembling grasp, and scowled. "Have you stolen this?"

"N- no," Brennus shook his head desperately. "It's mine alone. S- such brine can't be got from another, given or stolen."

Germanicus arched a brow in perplexity, peering down in the vessel. Approached, the general sniffed at the fluid as he gauged its level by the reflection of the sun along its shimmering surface. His nose wrinkled slightly at the scent it cast. Then he gazed back up at the barbarian, looking in his affrighted sky-blue eyes.

"You're wasting your time, going to market with that. Wait here," and the veteran disappeared back inside his home a second time. Brennus was now coursing with sweat down the hulking triangle of his upper back, pacing anxiously in place between one foot and the other. Why had he come here, and what was this bigoted Roman elder about to do here? He longed more than anything to abandon his mission, pitch the jug's contents out before him and retreat with the pottery to the nearest tavern that would serve him in this barren, suspicious town. But he summoned all manly courage, standing up straight and grimacing as he continued to pace about impatiently.

Germanicus returned with a jug of his own, identical in size and appearance. This he carried with ease, his gaunt frame belying a supreme ease of strength and movement. "This should set you right," he declared as he lifted the jug. Brennus watched in horror. He dreaded what was to come, but dared not move. "Here you'll be nice and topped up for the marketplace," and the general began pouring it into Brennus' amphora. The level inside grew higher and higher, the Celt buckling at the knees, anticipating disaster. His fingers shuddered individually, straining under the weight of more and more brine until at last the amphora overflowed. Brennus lost all composure, grunting from weakness as the amber fluid cascaded down the outside of his great pitcher. Sheets of it crashed down and soaked his sandaled feet, while small rivulets trickled onto the spot where he was standing, the dry soil soon growing damp and squelchy there.

Soon his horror gave way to surprise as he regained his bearings. No longer bracing himself mentally, he opened his eyes and his surroundings came rushing back in his field of awareness. For the first time that day, his arms, though sore, were no longer weighed down, and his calves were no longer on the verge of cramping. He panted as he recovered physically. The feeling of water splashing against his leg hairs, pooling around his feet, was refreshing, and the respite from the overbearing heat made him smile. Then he startled at the gaze of Germanicus, whose presence he'd forgotten under the intensity of his private experience. The veteran had stopped pouring and removed the jug, yet Brennus' amphora continued to spill forth at the mouth, unlimited in its volume.

"You'll go left until you reach the courthouse, then keeping going right until you get to the forum," Germanicus said, pointing as he gave directions.

Brennus was stunned. He didn't know what to say. "M- my lord, I am ashamed," feeling his display of relief before the esteemed elder was indecent. "Don't judge harshly. I'm but a Gaulish country—"

Germanicus shook his head again, waving his apologies aside. "Every Celt I ever met in battle displayed his mettle as he bled out before me in defeat. But your innocence shines forth as gold merely upon the sight of you. Carry that well," pointing at Brennus' amphora, "and take care," he said before returning to his quarters for the last time and shutting the door behind him.

Despite having been dismissed, Brennus continued to stand there, the heaving of his chest at last beginning to slow as he stared at his pitcher with a befuddled expression. His feet were now nearly submerged, and his tunic was damp at the crotch. He merely stood there and enjoyed the mounting sensation of wetness, cooling him as he tried to remember, through a mental haze, where to go next ...

Part 6: Awareness

Brennus' satisfaction was cut short when he awoke with a start, snorting in alarm as he jumped up slightly from his reclined posture and returned to the dark, slightly chilly room at the inn. He looked around, trying briefly to locate whatever caused him to jolt awake until a warm feeling invaded his awareness. Then he looked down: pooling in the spot where his round behind indented the mattress, and totally saturating his sheets and night clothes at the crotch, he felt and smelled his own warm piss flowing out of him. "Shit," he gasped, grabbing his member shut as his eyes widened in shock. Soon it was obvious what had happened. "Tch," he sucked his teeth in a moment of petty frustration, untypical of Brennus. The shame and astonishment of realizing he'd wet the bed at one of the nicer lodgings at Padua came to the fore as he pulled aside his sheets to inspect the damage, the realization cutting through his residual grogginess.

Despite the soaking he'd given the mattress, he wasn't fully relieved yet. He got up from his bed, some urine dripping from his tunic as he stepped into his sandals and marched over to the furthest corner of the room. There, he stepped his feet apart past shoulder width, hiked up his tunic and took his pipe in hand as he aimed and finished urinating, splashing away for half a minute as the puddle gathered on the floor and started to spill out over the stone material, having nowhere to be absorbed. "At least at the cheaper places they'd have straw lying around ..." he grumbled, shaking off his male organ and then his right sandal as he looked down and noticed he'd stepped in some of his own puddle. Carefully backing away from the corner, he stood in the middle of the room as he assessed the condition of the tunic he was wearing.

It was not only thoroughly soaked in the crotch, but damp enough wrapping all around his waist along the hips and backside, and from the waist on down, that trying to go back to sleep in it would have him shivering with cold. He stripped, the draft from the window itself causing him to shiver slightly as he exposed his bare flesh. He looked down at his naked body, feeling along his navel and pubic hairs with his fingers. The finer pelt of blonde body hair on his belly and thighs was slicked back against his clammy, moistened flesh, the scent of its moisture wafting up to him. He took the light linen garment and used it to dry off the urine as best as he could, as one might use a towel after bathing. Then he set it on the table. He'd have to hope it dried out enough overnight that he could take it with him, without it getting his other belongings wet. Then he returned to his bedside, put on his outer tunic as a replacement, and beheld once again his pissed bed.

"Son of a whore ..." he tossed the pillows aside and flung the soaked inner blanket somewhere across the room, then flipped the mattress on its other side, exposing a dry surface for him to sleep on. The upturning of the mattress caused the urine to spill out onto the floor, running over the elevated wooden platform where it lay. The outer blanket was still usable, only slightly damp in one spot. Replacing the pillows so that he could tuck himself back into bed, he decided he'd have words with the proprietor of the inn next morning.

THE END

I love it! Very well written, and I could picture it all from the detailed descriptions.

Yes, very well written and a truly wonderful piece of work. I have to say I was a bit confused when I got to part 5, puzzled at what Brennus appeared to be doing now without his horses, until all became clear in the final part.

I agree with Fred that the wonderful detailed descriptions give the reader a vivid picture.

Fred wrote: ↑11 Jan 2025, 12:38 I love it! Very well written, and I could picture it all from the detailed descriptions.

Glad to hear it! I was afraid some of it might drag on.

Brian wrote: ↑11 Jan 2025, 19:09 Yes, very well written and a truly wonderful piece of work. I have to say I was a bit confused when I got to part 5, puzzled at what Brennus appeared to be doing now without his horses, until all became clear in the final part.

Thank you, sounds like that twist had the intended effect

Interesting story.