In the year of our consul duo Flavius Maximus and Gaius Fabulus, on a sultry afternoon that misted the terracotta rooftops of Rome with the languor of unspent passions, there dwelled in the barracks of the Praetorian Guard a soldier of no mean reputation. His name was Aelius Brawnus, known throughout the Seven Hills for his rippling muscles carved like the statues of the gods, a jaw line that could cleave the Appian Way asunder, and a laugh that rumbled like Jupiter's thunder when amused. Now Aelius, burly and bronzed from his campaigns in the far-off lands, where he had won laurels and hearts alike, had amassed not a collection of spoils or golden laurel wreaths, but rather a harem of delightful, cherubic-featured twinks. Each as comely as Ganymede himself, they were the talk of the Tiber, and their skin was the envy of maidens from the Palatine to the Subura. In the heart of Aelius's opulent chamber--bedecked with the finest purple tapestries and plump with cushions stolen from a score of conquered lands--the twinks reclined in luxurious indolence. There lay young Narcissus, his pearly complexion glowing like the moon's caress, cheekbones sharp enough to etch the stoic face of Minerva upon a Roman coin. His rump was pert as a ripe peach, a triumph of the sculptor's art that would have left even Praxiteles in awe. Beside him sprawled the roguish Fabius, as graceful as a panther and just as mischievous. His tresses, golden as Ceres's prized wheat, streamed over the silken sheets. Smiling with lips curved in the eternal promise of amorous escapades, he winked with lashes that could coax secrets from the Sphinx. At the center of this sybaritic tableau was the languid Tiberius, whose limpid azure eyes were deep enough to drown an unsuspecting heart. His alabaster skin shone with a soft luminosity, his form slender and nimble--a splendor of svelte beauty. His derriere was a sculpture that rivaled the marbled domes of Rome's grandest basilicas. As the carefree lads indulged in a banquet of treats scattered like jewels upon their bed--a platter of figs, honeyed dates, and goblets of Falernian wine--Aelius turned his ardent attentions to the fortunate Tiberius. The bed groaned beneath their commingled weight, the creaks keeping rhythm with the insistent cicadas thrumming outside like a choir of Cupids heralding the deeds of Venus. "By Hercules' club, Aelius, your ardor doth test the very craftsmanship of this bed!" quipped Narcissus, as he popped a grape into his mouth and watched with amused marvel at the feat of lovers synchronized to the venerable bed's symphonic protests. "Not all aspire to conduct wars, my dear Narcissus," Aelius panted as he paused to cast a wink, his muscles rippling like the Tiber in flood. "Some of us are destined to choreograph movements of a more... tender variety." The twinks tittered like sparrows at dawn, their laughter weaving through the heated air. Fabius, with a flick of his wrist, sent a date spinning into the air, landing squarely into the goblet of wine with a dainty plop--an oracular sign of Dionysian delights. The very walls, it seemed, swelled with the strains of this comedic symphony of creaks, laughter, and teasing jests--a vignette so vivacious that even the stoic spirits of Rome's virtuous forebears could hardly refrain from a chuckle at the irony of it all: the mightiest of soldiers, enwrapped in a tangle of twinkling twinks. As the sun dipped low behind Venus's velvet curtain, Aelius Brawnus and his harem of twinks reached the crescendo of their merriment, immortalizing their joy in the annals of Empire--a footnote of revelry among the triumphs and tragedies that are the brawn and beauty of Rome.