The Spanish Prince of Grapes

It is his duty to represent his house in a foreign, barbaric world. Rome holds Theó's fate in a tight grip, and he must serve.

The wine was bitter on his lips, a deep red plucked from the vines of his house. “The Mencía.” He announced as he swirled the cup and sniffed, just to be sure. Sweat beaded beneath his thick bangs of dark ash, and mustered at the stubble of his chin. The Hispania heat was testing him harshly. He set the cup down on the balcony and moved to a second cup. This one was a shade lighter. Its sweet aroma seemed to draw more flies than dung. He plucked the cup and sniffed, closed his eyes and let memory seep in. Grilled plum. He recalled, Juniper… Gently he took a smallish sip and smacked his lips together. Crushed gravel and weeping reds. He set the cup down and turned towards his father. “Fine Garnacha.”

“Yes, Theó.” His father was a slender man and stern. He stood straight-stiff with hands at his back. The maroon jerkin he wore was slashed with gold thread and a symbol of a rearing great stallion sat on his right breast. “You’ve managed to get only two,” he threw up a hand, with only his index and pointing finger drawn like forks to the sun. As if a Theó did not know how to count “Two samples, out of nine wines that our house is most prominent for.” With a sigh, his father approached him and took him by the shoulder. Very lightly he pushed him to the back of the line, where seven more cups stood. “Again…”

“But papá, my senses are already dulled. A second round will do no good.” Theó protested and huffed.

“You will learn them all.” His father insisted coldly. “You will learn each and every one of the reds, the whites and the fiery golds that the house of Espánosa produces for the richly parts of Rome.” He plucked the first cup and pressed it towards Theó and nodded his head. “Again.”

Theó took the cup reluctantly and tried once more. He swirled the blood-red and brought it to his nose. He focused harder this time and let the anxiousness lie still as the smell of the wine brought him back to the fisher village of Peña. Candle light flickered like little serpent tongues and licked at the shadows of the smallish grass hut. Ema, the fisherman’s daughter would always wait for him, placing a white silk outside her hut to let him know her father was at the river crossing that day. She’d wait on the sheets in the furthest corner of her housing and wear only the rags she’d used to dry herself after a lavender and oil bath. Theó would sneak into the hut and with him he’d carry a wine bottle, stolen from his very own cellars. They’d drink and make love and eat figs and grapes and laugh about recent jests they’ve heard on Cesar’s failings. What was the name of the wine? He never cared about the production his father partook in, but a sudden spark of ill-fate made mock of his ignorance. It was always her favorite. He sighed and took a sip. Cherry… He recognized. Black Cherry from the south. He took one more sip and smacked his lips together again. Cocoa, Green-Herbs-Of-Lísbon… His eyes shot open, “The Bobal Red.” He announced and threw his head back, gulping down the rest of the glass. “Sweet as love making.” He chided with a grin, setting the cup down with a shrill clank

“That is correct.” His father, nigh impressed scratched at his black beard and yawned. “Must it take you five minutes per cup? At this rate, your campaign in Rome will be well expired.”

“Shipping me off to Rome will not solve your problems of me.” Theó threatened. “I’ve done nothing to deserve this.”

“And pouting will not solve your problems of rebellion.” His father mocked, “You will fulfill your duty of this familia. This ludis is a growing re-birth of the gladiatorial games. You need understand that your partnership with this roman girl and our production of wine is the thing that will help us thrive; prolonged. You should seek pride over humility in this.”

“Send Marcos, or Bentos. Send even Esmé, the Romans are accustomed to same sex practices such as that. Why must it be me?”

“You are young and ripe, and would be freshly plucked from the vine.” Theó rolled his eyes at that. “You are of age with her, and you are not a horse master like Marcos. You do not work the casks like Bentos and you do not spin silk like Esmé.” His father paused and heaved a heavy sigh. He approached him and gripped his shoulders. “You are my son, Theó. You still have yet a purpose in this world. You are not meant be a child forever. I love you, just as much as your bothers and your sister. But our family is an important family. We are an aristocratic family to Rome, and we must serve. Those richly clothes on your back are nigh from visiting pillow houses and sharing a bed with a fisherman’s daughter. You will help this girl run her father’s Ludi and you will gain our house respect in the further reaches of Rome. You are the key to our familia’s reign in Hispania.” Theó grasped his father’s eyes with his own and frowned. I hate Rome. he thought, but braved a fake smile.

“At least,” he began. “Is she beautiful?” He smirked and dipped his head to laugh nervously. He had not wanted to be devoted to only one woman. Like wine, there are so many delicious and bold beauties to try. He’d care not about the name of the wine, nor what they were made of. More so the taste it left on his tongue when he was finished. But Ema. He thought. There was always something special about the dark beauty with deep brown eyes and wide hips. She held heavy breasts that were so soft and he’d squeeze them so, making her squeal with laughter. She had a strong laugh, and a deep husky voice. His father he knew would never allow him to proceed relations with a low born girl. I promised her a belly full of children and a villa in Lisbon.He remembered. But my mind was full of boyish dreams, and her wits were dancing with sweet reds. He had to forget her, at least until he returned to Hispania. Visits would always be welcomed, he assumed.

 Amor patriae ducit...

TThree months were spent since Theó had uplifted his rebellion against his father’s wishes to leave Hispania for Rome. On the leave tiding, he was already drunk and expired of wits. He donned the velvet jerkin of his house and miss laced it at the chest. His leather breeches were backwards and he had a hard time atoning his cape of shadow green. He laced his boots as best he could and stumbled from his chambers for lack of balance and nearly tumbled down the cobble steps into court. Luckily, he’d forgotten that his company would be gathered in the vineyard and not the court, so his embarrassing entrance would remain unnoticed. I will not remember leaving my home. he insisted the night prior as a cup or two or five filled of wine helped him forget what was to come. He didn’t even visit Ema to say goodbye. She’ll have tears for me. He knew. I’ll have none for her. He promised himself. Gathering himself from the cobblestone he unstuck his cheek from the ground and made his way towards the vineyards. Upon entering the sun scorched outdoors he winced after being blinded and erupted with nausea from the heat. Flies were already on him, and his pits began to burn with sweat. His hair was a nest of black tangles and his dark skin dappled with beating sweatlits. With a moan, he trudged on and kicked at the dirt road feebly.

There was a caravan stationed at the vineyard as three and thirty wagons were being loaded with casks of their freshest product. The reds were loaded up front behind the score of men that would accompany he and his father to Rome. Each wagon carried their standard at each end; a brilliant red flag with a golden stallion rearing proudly. They flapped at the high winds, the legs seemingly beating at the air. He took a breath and tried to fix himself before appearing before his company. Yet, as he paraded down into view, the lot of them giggled lightly as he found walking a strict challenge. He swayed a few times and tripped over what he swore to be a rock. though it were his own two feet and not to mention the mess of attire he’d allowed himself to appear in.

His father was checking over parchment lists of their inventory when Theó trudged up and leaned atop a cask. “Are you prepared?” His father questioned without looking.

“That I am. Though I don’t see why I need noble Spanish clothes in Rome.” He hiccupped. “They’ll dress me in robes.” He scoffed. “What sort of man, wears robes?” He slipped off the cask and unto the dust and rubble. His father turned and frowned.

“Your wits will be ablaze on horseback. This will not make for a pleasant ride, Theó. I do not know why you must make bold choices at important times.” He bent over and pulled his son up. “Drunk or not, you will ride with me to Rome in an hours’ time.” His father grinned mockingly at him and brushed passed. Gently he found himself walking out of the Vinyard house. His eyes found La Villa de Espánosa towering over the fields of the Vineyard. It’s rough stucco, like an ivory palace against the vibrant orange and pinks of dawn. He’d miss of coarse the water gardens where his sister loved to feed the wild cats, and the sparse wooded area where he and his brothers would hunt for stags. He’d miss the rolling hills of Hispania where he and Zio his black stallion roam like kings. There are no kings in Rome. he remembered. There are politicians, and generals, and me. He groaned as his head began to take pain and throbbing. I do make bold choice. He agreed. I’ll forever be bold…

Water was a powerful ally in this case. He sucked at it from his water skin like a newborn babe hungered the teat. Sweat was his enemy, as it dripped from him. The hour he had left was nearly spent and the company readied themselves for departure. Theó mounted Zio and leaned upward, resting his torso and cheek against his crest. The stallion knickered with mockery and plodded at the ground with his feathered hooves. His brothers sat on their own horses behind him. They would see Theó and his father off at the Bridge of Guadiana river. His sister Esmé waved at them from the sidelines. There was a strange moment of silence as the heated wind presed his bangs back and whipped some of Zio’s mane into his face. Theó peered up, everything seemed cold for a moment and he glanced back at his villia, my home… His father then pressed his mount onward, and Zio knew to follow. They were off…

The road was bumpy. And I feel sick. Theó now regretted jeopardizing his father’s plan. They would travel across country and cross over the Guadiana river before spilling into the outer reaches of Rome. There his caravan would rest and refresh for the three week journey into Capua. I hear it smells of piss and worse. And the gladiators are beasts and even worse than the actual beasts they fight in the pits. One thing, he did look forward too was trying a new woman. Robes on a woman does not seem so bad. They dip themselves in gold and favor many and more baths. He was a romantic by nature, but getting accustomed for the both of us may take some time. He wanted Ema that moment. He wanted to feel the silk of her hair and smell the lavender on her skin. I didn’t say goodbye. he thought and groaned as the pounding in his head became present again. He closed his eyes and slept against Zio’s crest again. Night was cooler in Hispania. The crickets woke him and the company was still at their brisk pace. Most other things were quiet save for the creaking of wooden wheels and plodding hooves. Somewhere behind him two men laughed at each other’s whispers. Spanish nights are peaceful. He spilled a secret smile and found that the pain in his head was gone. The smell of him though, was awful. He’d be sure to bath at the next village they pass.

One the third day they had reached the bridge of Guadiana. He said his goodbyes to his brothers and promised to write. Departures were not meant to be long and drawn out between men, but he wished he would’ve given his sister a hug. But no, I was drunk and ignorant. He made himself forget bitter what if’s and decided to give being excited about this new journey a chance. The gladiatorial Games are said to be most entertaining. Theó had not been accustomed to violence, but he had seen the war spill into his country, and when Cesar had ‘Romanized’ Hispania, he heard tales his brothers told of fighting in the Roman battalions. He’d also, himself slew a brigade of bandits that tried to raid their stables. He was finely trained at melee and hand to hand combat. Strict teachings of his father to keep bandits and rebels out of their vineyards. ”We are loyal to Rome.”His father would remind them ”We will have many enemies.” And so they did, and Theó practiced his curtsies with sword and fist.

Three days unto Rome they rode. Capua was almost within reach. Rome looked no different than Hispania at first. Then the dead lands scarred from battle left a haunting impression in Theó’s thoughts as dead sentinel trees and carcasses littered parts of the landscape. There was no joy in those sightings. But some parts were peace full, like the smallish vinyards and the plum gardens of hollowing villages. Capua though was a city, and cities were new to Theó. He was in awe as they entered. Buildings stacked atop one another, and the marketplace full of chaos and crowds. They had to leave their litter outside the city gates to unload their stock to the vendor keeps. He and his father, accompanied by four of their men entered furthest into the city and up towards the ludi. Theó’s heart pounded. The journey made, was fading breath. He and his father crept up the steps of the villa. I will serve my family well. That is why I am here…

A Small Taste of a romance series to come...

Author's Note

This drabble was sparked while listening to the soundtrack from The Mask of Zorro. I may potentially extend it into a bigger novella, or even a trilogy if I have the courage to dive deep into the histories that will shape it. :D