Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Saint Elmo’s Fire

I.

Agron’s eyes always darted to the hips first.

In battle the hips tilted the direction a man would move, leaving no surprises for him as to where his opponent would go. By the swing of a man’s hips Agron could tell whether they sought words or fists, whether they were battle-hardened or had never held blade in their lives, what cocks lay heavy in subligaria. Women’s hips—rarely as he saw them—only caught his interest when they approached him with that predatory thrust to the side, as if hinting at lewd thoughts; that was his cue to escape.

So when a crop of new bodies were brought to the house of Batiatus, Agron placed himself lazily amongst his brothers in front of the line of new slaves and glanced at their hips before he even looked at their faces.

There was some promise there, some who would survive the sands, just as there were men who would become fodder for the tip of his blade. A familiar body molded to his back, sinewy arms crossing over his neck halfway through his assessment and he smiled softly over at his brother Duro.

“Anyone who can best us?” He asked.

“Never.” Agron replied. “Nothing but pups in need of severe training, lest they wish to meet their fucking makers.”

“Truly, you inspire confidence, Agron.” Duro yanked on one of Agron’s short dreadlocks, always mischievous. “So long as the Romans slake their lust for blood and it comes not from our hearts. At least Pietros will be pleased he is no longer the only errand boy in the ludus.”

“Your meaning?”

Duro looked back at the group of men. “It appears as though Batiatus' fortunes have risen. With more gladiators he has gotten Oenomaus another messenger boy. The boy must hope for so, or I fear he will die within the week as he is much like dear Pietros.”

Agron did not let it show on his face but that little revelation had his interest more than anything else.

Pietros was one of the few in the ludus who was not expected to fight in the gladiator pits. Batiatus had given the boy to Oenomaus as a helper of sorts: fetching supplies, drawing water, delivering messages and, on occasion, stitching up wounds with slender fingers. It was the only touch most men in ludus could ever hope to receive from him.

By virtue of being the youngest and having the sweetest face, it was a necessity that Pietros have a guardian and a strong one at that to keep him from being essentially the whore of the ludus. Agron would not have been opposed to an arrangement had he entered Batiatus’ house earlier but Pietros had already chosen well in Barca, the undefeated Beast of Carthage, before Agron’s arrival. So savage in the arena, so favored by Batiatus, even Agron deferred to him.

For the exclusive use of Pietros’ ass and mouth, Barca kept him safe from any unwanted attentions from the other gladiators.

If the new pup was of a form or fair of face, he too would need someone to lay claim to him.

Agron pushed Duro off of him and flicked his eyes back down to the hips of the men in front of him. What he searched did not come to his gaze until the last body in line. With only a strip of white cloth to protect modesty, the last hips were finer and slimmer than the rest; unsuited to be a gladiator in any case.

He looked up.

Agron thought the owner of said hips only a boy until he saw the faint dark stubble on his jaw. Like Pietros, his face was too sweet for the ludus—one might even go so far to call him ‘lovely’—and smooth, dark skin was more suited to being a body slave. A dark collar of leather lay heavy at his neck confirming Agron’s guess that he had once held spot close to a wealthy Roman. His long dark hair could not completely hide his features and the young thing showed remarkable calm as those beauty-starved beasts of the ludus around him prowled him with hungry eyes.

Oenomaus would allow no one in his presence to voice aloud what they would like to do to that pretty mouth, but Agron could feel their thoughts throbbing in the air, salivating behind wolfish smiles.

Though most here preferred the company of women, desperation in the ludus made any readily available mouths and behinds of comely young men equally as appealing as lush curves.

Oenomaus came to him first, asking questions in a low voice, the boy responding in single syllables and soft motions of his head. Agron watched the fall of his hair as he shook his head.

“Pietros,” Oenomaus called to his assistant without looking over his shoulder, “show this one to empty chambers.”

Pietros moved forward then, ease in his step. Perhaps he felt a burden lift; no longer was he the only sweet mouth in the ludus. As their hips brushed together, Agron felt that his ease was misplaced as the two paired nicely when pressed together. Doubtless many were of the same mind.

He watched carefully as Pietros placed a hand on the newcomer’s waist—the action of an innocent, of that Agron was sure, though other spectators would be inclined to disagree.

There were breaths like dogs in rut and some mad fuck behind even had the gall to hiss, “Closer,” as if expecting them to fuck in the training sands for amusement. Agron might have looked behind to silence said interloper with a glare had he not been transfixed by the unfamiliar sight of unscarred skin. Even Pietros had been branded but this one was unmarred.

The new one walked with a smooth gait that Agron knew would make him soundless on marble floors and once again his eyes latched onto the movement of those hips, irritatingly hidden behind so insignificant a piece of cloth. The movement of his legs rippled up his body and his hips tilted hypnotically.

The hips of dancer, Agron realized. The lands he had come from were not known for the skills of their dances, but coming to the house of Batiatus had opened his eyes to the appeal of men who could roll their hips like whores.

He watched quietly as the two disappeared into the depths of the ludus and Duro helped break the spell that had been cast on him.

“What say you, brother?” Duro laughed as he latched onto Agron’s back again. “Do you think the little one more promising than the future gladiators?”

Agron shrugged.

He did not like to discuss these matters out in the open, for fear some unsavory character should overhear. If he had weakness, save his brother, he did not want it widely known. And speaking of unsavory characters…

Gannicus sidled next to the two of them, smile, as always, burgeoning on wickedness. “Best to lower cock and eyes before Oenomaus or Barca take notice. Barca will have your cock if he thinks you favor his boy.”

Agron hissed at him, wishing the mad Celt would lower his voice. “You must not favor your own if you single me out.”

Gannicus lounged against a pillar with little concern towards Agron’s bark. “Sharp words only serve as kindling to my suspicions. If you are of a mind and favor the boy you ought to break words and tell him of your intentions as soon as possible. Before nightfall tomorrow at least.”

“An entire day? Have you begun to woo slower yourself, Gannicus?” Duro remarked, no doubt recalling the purchased whores and requested slave girls Gannicus bedded with practiced ease. Gannicus pushed Duro for his fool tongue and ignored Agron’s protective snarl.

“I have not even half the rivals your brother might now possess.” His grin was beguilingly sweet but Agron knew better than to trust his expressions. “And you are fool to think that Pietros will be long away from Barca’s side. I think…perhaps only one night spent in company of the new boy before he is left alone in fate’s hands.” Agron did not allow his expression to change but that thin white cloth came to the forefront of his mind.

“If you hold such concern, perhaps you should offer protection.” Agron retorted.

Gannicus rolled his eyes. “I should not attempt to reason with wild dogs. The advice was kindly meant. But I have not…the inclination nor the reputation that would convince anyone in this ludus I favor the boy.” He waved dismissively to the German brothers as he wandered off to his shady practice spot. “Best to hope then his room is nowhere near yours or you will lose sleep to his cries.”

“Smug fucker.” Agron hissed at Gannicus’ retreating back.

“He boasts the gold to fuck as he pleases,” Duro laughed, looking back where Oenomaus was already beginning to order the new recruits about, “but his words bite of truth. When was the last time you sated, dear fuckless brother?”

Agron elbowed Duro hard in the flank as the fool poked his subligaria and Duro laughed as he rolled to the ground. Despite Gannicus souring his mood, Agron could not help but smile at his beloved brother.

“How can I hope to provide protection for another when all senses must be trained to keep you from trouble?”

“Trouble? Never.”

Agron snorted, shaking his head in hopes of clearing the strip of white cloth from his mind. He tried not to, but his eyes revolted and watched carefully as any of his ‘brothers’ who tired of Oenomaus’ inspections wandered back to the inner ludus.

Pietros was not fool enough to leave the boy alone, he assured himself and immediately cursed the gods for doing so.

“Let us find Donar for practice and give that fucking Celt something to sweat over.” Agron hoisted Duro to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder. Strike those hips from mind and see energy put to good use.

Agron swiped his favored gladius from the rack of weapons near the practice sands and felt adrenaline course through his muscles.

He was a gladiator, a monster, a god of war and death.

There was no room in that sea of blood and bones he called home for some body slave in need of protection. No matter the fact that those hips burned into his memory rocked at the same pace as his pulse.

Pietros smiled near-constantly; more than Nasir had ever seen a slave smile before.

But rather than being unsettling, Nasir found it a comfort in this new and unfamiliar environment. Nasir, in his years of slavery, had never set foot in a ludus before and Pietros served as an invaluable guide.

He reminded one of a chick.

He chattered constantly, bead-black eyes shiny with excitement, and his fluffy black hair bouncing with his exuberant movement. Nasir, calmer by comparison, found himself smiling for the first time in weeks as he was led around.

“Naturally I will be by your side for first days, but if you were body slave once,” dark eyes glanced unsubtly to his collar, “then you should not struggle in learning the ludus. Medicus is down the hall and room for cleansing is opposite,” he leaned closer, his dark skin warm from sun and excitement, “some gladiators know not said room even exists.” And laughed at his own gall and the idea of someone being so filthy. “Sleeping chambers are here.” His tone changed then, becoming more serious. “Take care to remember which is your own.”

Behind a wooden door, Nasir was shown to a simple room in the belly of ludus.

Though not as clean as his shared room in his previous dominus’ villa had been, the pallet was large enough for two of those massive gladiators and he had been provided with a rough-hewn table, a pitcher, a cup, and a small bowl. He had no possessions of his own, save the simple bracelets on his wrists.

Pietros bounded to the pallet—probably the one they would be sharing—and pulled Nasir along with him, the questions beginning as soon as Nasir’s backside touched blankets.

“Speak freely, for no Roman listens here. What is your name? Where are you from?”

“Ti—,” Nasir almost gave the name his dominus had called him by, but then he remembered Batiatus would not care what he was called. “I am called Nasir. Born of Syria but brought to Rome before memory begins. I served as honored body slave since the growth of manhood.”

Even Pietros knew the honor afforded to such a position and his jaw dropped accordingly. “And yet you stand here? In the ludus?”

“Not by choice.” Nasir admitted sadly. “The fates took choice from all hands.” It was not a memory he liked to revisit as it brought him no small amount of regret; but Pietros seemed a kind and attentive listener. “My dominus fell into debt only repaid by the selling and gifting of his estate. As dominus found me valuable, I was given to Batiatus in settlement.” He left unsaid that Batiatus himself stood displeased by the bargain, in possession of finer body slaves already, and had sent Nasir to the ludus after only a cursory glance. A bitter fate indeed for one who had been helpless to cushion a fall.

He started as Pietros patted his shoulder, a look of dismay foreign on his face. “You hold yourself well for one so burdened. I will do all I can to help you find happiness in these halls, Nasir.”

“Gratitude.”

Pietros’ smile was back. “First, we must find you proper clothes.” His calloused fingers stroked the material at Nasir’s waist. “Though this is fine cloth…we must take care to cover legs and waist.”

Nasir stood surprised. “Many of the men in the sand wore little more than subligaria.” He believed the only problem with his current wrap was that the white would soon be caked in dirt.

“It would serve to keep hands at sides and tongues in mouths.” Pietros responded with the confidence of someone with unfortunate experience. “Fetch water in that and find it poured down your chest to slake another thirst.” Nasir flushed at the thought and Pietros noticed. “With your previous dominus…there was no fear of such things? Wandering hands?”

“Not without dominus’ permission.”

“Luck favors you then.” Pietros responded and such remarks only served to strike terror in the most secret confines of Nasir’s heart. Favored by his dominus as he was, such unwanted situations had been rare and brief.

“The men are as bestial as they appear?” He took care to keep his voice light and unbothered.

“Some, not all. Though blood and battle gives them the appetite of ten men beneath the sheets.”

“You speak from experience?” Nasir was aghast though his practiced tone came out playful. So lean, he could not imagine gentle Pietros under the hands of one of those giants he had seen earlier. More surprised that the man spoke with ribald joy in his tone.

“Of course! You have not been trained in battle, Nasir?” Nasir confirmed he had not. “Then you must do as I have and find a partner who would lay claim to you as his own.”

“That I cannot!”

“You must!” Pietros insisted, his serious expression back. “The ludus will be easier to you in ways than what was required of you as a body slave. But you are slim of form, fine of face, and easily found.” He gestured to the door—lacking a latch, Nasir noted—which suddenly seemed so flimsy to his eyes. “Better to find one man to claim your services than have them claimed by many.”

“You…speak wisely,” Nasir finally found strength to respond. “I shall think on it.”

Pietros touched his shoulder in a show of support and rose from the pallet with easy grace. “Worry not. I will stay with you, as I can,” Nasir’s heart plummeted, knowing that at some point he would be left alone while Pietros saw to his own protection, “and tell you of which men to avoid.”

Nasir squeezed the kind fingers on his shoulder and smiled up at this one ray of sunlight the gods had seen fit to grant him. “Again. Gratitude.”

Pietros smiled until rude words from the hall interrupted their conversation. Three men passed in a group and one saw fit to yell, “All the gold from my next victory to watch you bed each other.”

Whip-quick, Pietros removed his hand and turned on his heel so that he was blocking Nasir from view. Nasir was impressed that—though he was half the size of the smallest of the men—he did not flinch. His protector must have truly been a marvel to inspire his confidence.

“Move toward destination or see it be changed to Tartarus.”

They smiled, amused by Pietros’ confidence. “Always a pleasure to see your balls on display, Pietros.” But when the words did not cow him, they did pass on, though Nasir could feel their hungry eyes upon him.

When he looked up, Pietros was staring at him with obvious relief. “Avoid them.”

Nasir was shown around the rest of the ludus and found himself pleased when more adequate clothing was located and donned. His ‘new’ trousers, by far the poorest quality garment he had worn since becoming a body slave, fell to his knees and kept any bold passersby from attempting to lift his skirt.

With Pietros as guide, he sought to acquaint himself with the veritable army within the stone walls.

“Though Batiatus is our dominus now, in these sands we answer to Oenomaus first. No order need be carried out unless it passes from his lips. He will keep eyes and mouths off of you whenever you are in his presence.” Nasir raised eyes only briefly to watch the doctore with the whip look over his charges with an eagle’s eyes.

“And who do you answer to…in the nights?”

Pietros smiled softly, unwilling to let foreign eyes see his joy. “He is there, by Crixus. Barca is his name.”

Nasir could see immediately why the lustful men did not move to touch Pietros. The man who had claimed his friend radiated ferocity even standing still. His muscular body was a patchwork of scars and Nasir could fail to discern any gentle nature or potential loving touch from a face like a mask of death and hands that gripped a wicked blade. But…Nasir was ignorant to an intimate relationship bearing such happiness.

“He is…certainly of a form.”

“He remains undefeated in the sands.” Pietros said proudly. And then quieter. “He seeks to buy us both to freedom…when coin is ample.”

Nasir could make no response, as the thought was unimaginable to him.

“Gannicus,” Pietros continued with pointing out the sweat-burnished bodies leaping through the sands, “he is as a god in the arena, and a wicked fucker if ever there breathed. But you need not fear his desire. He brings in women with his winnings.” As if he could hear Pietros speaking of him, the man Gannicus glanced up and grinned wide, winking at the two of them from where he practiced in the shade.

“Spartacus and Varro are the ones who break words. They are also good men and will do you no harm.” His mouth twisted as he pointed out two men squaring off in the sand, “Dagan and Gnaeus. Those two you must avoid, though your countryman is of the better choice for company. Gnaeus will put violent hands on you if given opportunity.”

“Noted,” Nasir took care to commit his face to memory. “And the three beyond them?”

“Germans.” Pietros responded. “Donar and the brothers, Agron and Duro. They keep to themselves unless thirst runs high.”

“The tall one stares.” Nasir pointed out. All the men were taller than he, but only one seemed to be glaring in his direction. “He finds disfavor in my waist.”

“Or fights attraction of your ass.” Pietros pointed out.

Nasir glared at the man before he could help himself and the offending eyes were averted. For his lack of focus, he almost collided with another giant rounding the corner.

“Apologies,” He stepped back immediately and allowed the other man to pass.

His apology was met with only a silent nod from the man, and Nasir looked to Pietros after he had passed. “Segovax. He too only speaks for want of water.”

“So many men…”

Pietros nodded. “A hundred at least. Batiatus is a wealthy and powerful man to afford so many champions.” Nasir wondered for a moment if he would be able to recall the names and temperaments of them all but confidence took hold. He had once been a most honored and trusted body slave, in charge of his dominus’ entire estate. A hundred names and faces were simple by comparison.

“Is the ludus equipped with storerooms?” He asked, suddenly inspired of a way to be useful.

Pietros was only too pleased to show him to said storerooms and—as Nasir had suspected—they were in no discernible order. He did not blame the house slaves in charge of them for taking little interest, save to restock, as it seemed anyone who did not know how to defend themselves ran the risk of being eaten alive by one of those monstrous men.

“I will amend this mess.” He insisted, weaving through the haphazard mountains of supplies.

“Oenomaus and the medicus will thank you.” Pietros said and nearly jumped from his skin as a man appeared silently in front of them. Nasir clenched his body tight to keep from doing the same. “Ashur, the gods give you steps silent as breath. It steals mine from chest when you appear as you do.”

“Apologies.” The man wore gladiatorial garb but something about his manner did not strike Nasir as similar to his brethren. There was something quick in his eyes. “I will relieve you of company so that you may acquaint the new recruit.”

He patted Nasir’s shoulder as he passed, the touch non-predatory.

“Ashur?” He inquired once the man was to be safely out of earshot. “He is of unique bearing.”

“He holds ear of our dominus.” Pietros explained. “Rarely is he allowed to step on the sands.”

“And he is trustworthy?” Nasir asked.

Pietros paused as they reached the back of the storeroom and he bit his bottom lip. “He has given me no cause to tremble nor spoken of me in crude terms. But…Barca advises me to never trust the man. So there must be something unknown to me of his character. I keep my heart shrouded…as should you.”

Just as always—in the villa or in the ludus, no matter how his fortunes rose or fell—Nasir knew to tread carefully.

Chapter Text

II.

“Water!” Agron called, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

His training gladius sheathed by his belt to free his hands, he waited to hear footsteps behind him before turning to face that which would quench him. His expression did not falter as he found the sight of Pietros holding out a brimming cup.

“Gratitude.”

“You have been of a rare thirst brother.” Duro had enough common sense to speak their native tongue in front of Pietros, though his tone was thick with implication.

“Even the fucking sun in Capua seeks to bring my death.” He grumbled in reply.

Only two nights had passed since more men had been added to their numbers and Agron’s words about them held true. The best among them were inexperienced; the worst would not survive a month. He avoided them on whole, in both the practice sands and inside the comfort of the ludus. The little man fared better than the lot of them.

He knew not how such information had become common knowledge but the words of others had put history and name to face.

Nasir of Syria—for his kin being Ashur, Agron was tempted to distrust him immediately—had once been a treasured body slave to a shamed dominus. What he had been required to do for said dominus was a favorite topic of debate when Oenomaus was out of earshot.

Agron saw him sparingly in that time; he moved silent as a specter through the halls of the ludus, eyes moving to no man, ears hearing no slight. Pietros still tended to the needs on the sands and many were sour for it. When that Nasir was forced into the company of other men, it was always with Pietros or Oenomaus by his side. Let us hope mind remains quicker than the hands of others.

“Agron!” Immediately jerked from foolish thoughts and turned to see who would break words with him. “Duro!”

Spartacus, a man Agron could stomach the company of, called to them from the halls of the ludus, beckoning with one arm. Agron disliked being ordered about but Spartacus meant not to establish dominance and Duro, the fool, had already hastened step towards the promise of shade.

“What would you ask of us?”

Spartacus, ever calm, ignored any edge of Agron’s and explained as he moved. “The storeroom is near to clean but I would ask assistance of you and your brother.”

“Are we to scrub floors now?” Duro asked, dodging a disgruntled-looking house slave as he passed by them. Spartacus laughed before solemnity could catch him.

“Not exactly.”

Agron hardly recognized the place when he entered it.

Usually it was Pietros who frequented said stores and the few times Agron had glimpsed the innards it appeared as though some steward had gone mad. Things were jumbled haphazardly on shelves and floor alike; location of a desired object seemed nigh impossible. But…someone had taken time to clean and organize the place. His mind did not have to linger long on who had done such a thing as Nasir greeted Spartacus upon arrival. For Agron and Duro he spared what might have been a suspicious glance on a less guarded man, but then a respectful nod for their seniority over him.

“What would you have us do?” Spartacus asked without preamble.

“See shelves moved to the far wall.” Nasir responded with all the authority of the body slave he had once been, though lacking the white garment he had worn upon arrival.

The shelves were heavy; even with a man at each corner, they had to set it down several times before reaching their destination. Nasir did not utter a word of complaint as he assisted as best he could. When their task was completed, Agron’s hands were nearly numb from the effort.

“We would have water for gratitude.” Spartacus suggested before their slender companion could offer thanks.

Nasir did not argue for his own exhaustion, but nodded as though he were delighted to serve them. Agron turned to Spartacus the moment he had gone.

“Surely there were others better equipped to such fucking task.”

“Yet not the only one I would ask of you.” Spartacus admitted. “Duro, a moment with your brother?” Duro looked to Agron, gauging if he saw threat, and slipped outside when Agron indicated it wasn’t so. Spartacus blue eyes sparked with seriousness. “Barca has noted Pietros’ absence from his side.”

“Two nights.” Agron feigned amazement. “The man’s patience is remarkable. The fuck does Barca’s lust concern me?” The foolishness of his question struck him the moment he gave it thought.

“Because it will call Pietros from guise of protector to protected. And thus leave another unarmed. I would not see it so.”

“You would ask me to lay claim before another does.” Agron’s tone was sharp due to the simple fact that he did not like being told what to do. “I have not the interest to provide protection for another.” His excuse was weak as Duro was more in need of guarding upon the sands than in sleep.

“Which is why I trust you to leave him untouched.” Spartacus retorted.

Agron balked at the very idea but made his words quick for fear of imminent return. “Your voice sounds eerie of Pietros. Does Nasir,” the name tasted odd when spoken aloud, “share opinion on this arrangement?”

Spartacus’ look darkened for only a moment. “I have heard…he does not savor sharing his pallet with a gladiator.” Agron rolled his eyes.

“He seems of a mind on the matter.”

“I’ll not have anyone be raped in these halls.”

“Then you fucking take helm. Or Varro. I remain unmoved.”

“No one will believe us of a mind to favor him,” Spartacus took his arm with intent and Agron cursed himself for allowing Spartacus to see the glance of Segovax he had taken in the past. “Discuss the matter with him if you must, but do not turn blind eye, Agron.”

Longing to be free of the discomforting situation, Agron waved his hand dismissively. “I will think on it.”

“Discuss it with him.” Spartacus implored as Agron turned to leave.

“I said, I will fucking think on it.”

In his haste to leave conversation behind, Agron nearly collided with both his brother and Nasir, the latter balancing full cups in his hands. Water staunching annoyance, Agron raised the cup offered by way of thanks and stared unblinking at the man until it was empty. Nasir did not balk from his gaze but returned it with level expression; it was almost as if he knew what Agron was thinking as he stared, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he took back the empty cup. There was defiance in those eyes.

Against his best judgment, Agron thought seriously on Spartacus’ request.

Dinner in the ludus would seem to the outside eye a tavern brawl waiting to happen.

Crowded around rough-hewn tables, the gladiators barely had enough room to spoon their meal to mouths without elbowing the brother sat next to them. There was no wine but their meals were more substantial than many of the poor Romans in the city, as healthy, well-fed gladiators were more successful in combat. Conversation was loud and bawdy on the best of days: hailing victors and ribbing losers, oftentimes puzzling aloud if skill on the sands correlated to the size and working order of one’s cock.

Agron felt a shift in mood for some that evening.

Obviously Spartacus was not the only one who had heard news of Pietros’ highly anticipated return to Barca’s arms, because Agron felt eyes cast over his shoulders to where they were sitting with that sharp-eyed Nasir. Men often called for water—a task the ludus slaves would have to pause their meal to see done—but Nasir only stood for those trusted by Barca and Pietros—Oenomaus, Crixus, Spartacus, and Gannicus—while Pietros attended to all others.

None so starved of touch would dare put hands on Pietros with Barca in sight; those two were doing all they could to keep others from doing what Spartacus feared. It seemed a waiting game until the sun had gone down.

Why could Barca not claim him? Agron ate without tasting, such were the depths of his bitterness on the subject, surely he had the rapport and the appetite for two. Save Pietros from limping about the sands with well-loved ass. And such exaggerations! That Nasir was not a god brought to earth…

“You would think many of them have never seen sweet lips on a youth before.” Donar grumbled in their native tongue as he scanned the crowd of men. “No better than animals, the lot of them.”

Duro shrugged. “Let someone have him loudly and see tongues stilled.”

Agron cuffed him a bit harder than he normally would. “I tire of this subject. Move talk toward another subject and see conversation more warmly met.” Donar was all too ready to turn talk towards future battles in the arena but Duro shot Agron a knowing glance; Agron had a lingering suspicion that his brother did not truly harbor such callous opinions.

To throw off any further unfounded suspicions, Agron threw himself into heated debate over who would emerge the victor in their next bouts in the arena. Conversation only paused for a moment when that Nasir had finished his meal and stood to wash his dish.

Agron spared a glance then and saw a slave with perfect form—wasted on the ludus—going about his work as though dozens of eyes were not trained upon him. To stand alone must have taken some considerable strength of mind.

Agron had little time for men who could not wield weapon.

However, he was not completely absent heart and Spartacus’ honest plea rang unrelentingly in his mind. Though he inwardly groaned and cursed all who would drag him from his carefully cultivated apathy, he would do this for Spartacus in hopes of favor repaid in the future.

He only hoped his actions didn’t start a feud in the ludus over a boy with Venus’ mouth and a dancer’s hips.

When the young man left the dining area, Agron cleared his bowl, taking care to maintain a leisurely air so as not to inspire suspicion. He ruffled Duro’s hair as he passed, stating loudly in the common tongue, “I am to relieve myself, brother. Do not start quarrel in my absence.” Duro snarled at him.

Agron walked quickly through the halls hoping that anyone who saw him would not discern his destination and set tongues to wagging.

The door he sought was not the bars that caged he and his brothers; bars were needed for rabid wolves but not for pets, obedient little dogs. The ludus slave’s quarters only required a wooden door, dangerously unlocked, he noted with some alarm as he slipped inside without courtesy of warning.

He could see the form inside was not that of Pietros, but that was all he could discern before a pitcher was launched at his head and the sound of hissing filled the room.

He caught the pottery before it shattered against his face and lowered it before a cup sailed to do what the pitcher could not. Another hiss, a serpent’s warning, and Agron called out before the next weapon made a favorable connection with its’ intended target. “Fuck the gods! Wait!” A pause and then another entreaty, “Wait.”

“I will not be taken by a shit east of the Rhine.” His voice was cool and even for one set upon unawares and Agron lauded him his courage…even if his words did reek of the Gauls’ opinions.

Agron lowered the crockery to find Nasir with plate in his hand and defiance in his eyes. Agron did not linger long on a rapid pulse that raced under dark skin and tried to smile in offer of reassurance. “You tempt fate, little man. Attempting to kill a gladiator with ceramics.”

“I attempt only to have you make presence known before entering chambers.”

Agron took a single step forward and the plate was raised threateningly. “My presence has been duly noted then. Is this how such things were taught in former residence?” He’d heard of dominus’ that brought slaves to heel through violence, but usually such tactics only inspired timidity, not this fire.

“I will not be taken.” He repeated.

“Such is not my intent,” Agron assured, setting both pitcher and cup on the stone floor, “though I would seek to break words, not crockery, with you little man.” Part of him wished to be gentle, if aloof, but the other parts of him rebelled. Instead of returning to a respectable distance, he boldly tossed himself back onto the pallet Nasir would have shared with Pietros, allowing his limbs to stretch out. Hiss at me again, little thing.

Nasir did not bare his teeth, but it was clear he was displeased by this recent turn of events as he kept the plate tight in hand. “And what do you seek from me?”

“An offer.” He said, hating himself as he said it.

Nasir looked at him with another hiss threatening his lips. “Speak your mind.”

“I will be blunt,” Agron began, as if he were ever anything less, “I would have an exchange with you. I would keep your body safe in exchange for a favor from you.” He nearly laughed at the disbelieving expression on Nasir’s face. “The idea was not my own, I swear.”

“You have not revealed to me the favor you would ask.”

“I have not thought of what I would yet ask of you.”

Nasir crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive position. “I do not want to find myself in debt to a gladiator. Your offer does not move me…Agron.” It was the first time he had heard his name from that sharp little tongue.

“My reputation precedes me.” He smiled in a way he knew did not help his assurances of not wanting to bed the wild dog.

“Pietros told me your name.”

Agron leaned forward, still smiling. “And you have committed it to memory.”

Nasir’s returning smile was as sharp as the edge of Agron’s sword. “It is highly prized in a body slave to be able to memorize the names and faces of those who surround me. Even if they are…beneath attention.” Agron was close to asking if being a sharp-tongued little shit was also a requirement for being a body slave. He should watch his mouth before someone in the ludus made good on their word to ream it out. He shook the thought from his mind before the gods sought to provide him with an image of such an event.

“That is my offer, in any case.” He shrugged. “I would have you aware in case…less tempting ones are put forth. And I give all assurances: I have no intent to ‘take’ you as you seem to think I might.”

“Duly noted.”

Agron stood then. He lurched up from Nasir’s bed with the feline grace that had kept him alive for so long in the arena, towering just close enough that Nasir could clearly see his superior size and strength. Nasir had to turn that glare a long way up as Agron plucked the plate from his hand and set it back on his small table.

“A final thought,” Agron placed a hand on the table for a split second longer than normal and this time a smile came easy to him, “you ought to wield spears. Your aim would prove true and the results more satisfying than clay pottery.”

Nasir could not hide his expression and he smiled in spite of himself.

Nasir had been anxious all day—kept in secrecy due to his considerable control over his expression—but the unprompted visit by that gladiator did not help him to keep calm. It was stark reminder that the entire ludus was lying in wait until he had been left alone.

They would find him no easy target.

Even so he was a little astonished by the sheer size of the men. Barca was one of the tallest of the gladiators and Agron was nearly his equal in both height and musculature. Nasir found it cause for concern that he had to look up so far to see that maniac grin, to discern intentions from eyes that glinted green as the emeralds in a Roman lady’s diadem. No good could come from a man with eyes of that wicked color and Nasir allowed himself congratulations for refusing a bargain he might have considered, had he been weaker in spirit.

He retrieved his cup and pitcher from where they had been set on the floor and twisted his lips when he recalled how easily Agron had snatched them from out of the air.

While he was sure he could find ways to slip out of hands with wicked intentions, he did not want to be cornered again…

There was a soft noise behind him and Nasir spun, already on edge. He wondered if Agron had returned to continue his antagonisms and felt his fingers curl around the lip of the cup. He almost hoped the man had returned; at least he had not done anything other than stare and loom.

“Nasir.”

“Pietros,” the fear that had swelled unknown under his adrenaline now rushed from his body, leaving him hollow and weak-kneed in relief. The cup clattered to the table from his shaking fingers. “I thought you were to Barca.”

“I am.” Pietros walked forward and righted the cup before offering up his disarming grin. “I had to return to retrieve something.” He moved toward their shared pallet and dug around beneath the blanket-covered straw before holding a clay vial aloft victoriously. “I must prepare for my time with Barca so…perhaps averting your eyes might make the experience more comfortable for the both of us.”

Nasir realized as Pietros uncorked the bottle and smelled the familiar odor of olives, and Pietros laughed as Nasir turned away to give him some privacy.

“Fortune favors you,” Nasir said as he waited, “to have a lover that cares for your comfort.” He could practically feel Pietros freeze in the middle of his…preparations and cursed himself for speaking so candidly.

“They did not allow you to?”

“Sometimes.” Nasir amended, keeping the memories deep in the haze of his former life. “Though oil in the house smells of flowers and fruit.” He could not imagine Barca cradling a blossom in his calloused hands.

Pietros patted his bare shoulder with a non-slicked hand. “You are welcome to use mine, should you ever feel the need. I have a friend close to our dominus who supplies me with oil in exchange for information about one of the men in the ludus.” It was Pietros way to help in any case…if there were no other alternatives…

Mention of information about men in the ludus had him remembering twin flashes of green.

“Pietros, a moment. What more do you know of Agron?”

Over his past few days in the ludus, Nasir had accepted any information of the men who would help or hurt him; Agron had thus far remained distant from conversation.

Pietros shrugged as he smoothed the front of his trousers, making sure no oil stained the back. Crixus and his Gauls spoke loudly of their disdain of Germans, Spartacus deemed him reliable but Nasir trusted Pietros to provide an unbiased opinion.

“He is a good fighter, though not the best in the ludus. He mostly keeps to himself though he will break words with other Germans and Spartacus. He has beaten men for slights perceived against his brother, Duro, whom I believe him to love above all others. And he is not unfortunate to look on. Why Agron?”

“He called on me after dinner.”

Pietros took Nasir’s hands, dark eyes wider than usual. “He did not make advances?”

“Not exactly.” He had been surprisingly vehement to the opposite as a matter of fact. “I refused him in any case.” He would not sell himself so cheaply…as his former dominus had.

“I am not so close to him,” Pietros added thoughtfully, “But know that if he is trusted by Spartacus then he is most likely a good man. I would not be so quick to dismiss him if he offers friendship, though not to share a bed.”

Conversation trailed off into nothingness after this short detail of Agron’s character. Nasir felt the return of that gnawing feeling of anticipation that had dogged him from the moment Pietros had broken news that he would not be sharing their quarters this evening.

The eyes had followed him with more burning ferocity than the sun itself.

Pietros squeezed his hand again for reassurance and Nasir marveled at his companion. Pietros’ had had to face this pit on his own and carved his own place, just as the gladiators had. Nasir envied him the secret strength it must have taken.

“If…you find yourself in need of…my assistance,” he paused to put his thoughts as diplomatically as possible, “A firm call will bring me hasten to your side. I swear it on my honor.”

Nasir smiled carefully as he discerned the true meaning.

Barca’s room was close enough that a scream would carry to Pietros’ sensitive ears and he would run to Nasir’s rescue if some man tried to break into his rooms. If he could find the time and strength to cry out then his body would be safe for another night at least.

“Go, Pietros.” He insisted, after embracing the man. “Find comfort in the embrace of your lover.”

Pietros only cast him one last concerned glance before exiting their room and leaving Nasir alone with little more than his thoughts. He sat on his bed and attempted to avoid looking at the door, but his eyes inexorably wandered to that flimsy barrier between himself and the outside world.

He did not intend to sleep that night.

Too often he had been roused from sleep in ways that made his skin crawl and he was not about to experience it under a gladiator’s calloused hands. Besides, he had never needed too much sleep to begin with.

As the candles were snuffed and the blue-black haze of night became apparent under his doorframe, Nasir began to question his earlier actions.

He wondered if he had been too hasty in refusing Agron’s offer.

The man was obviously wicked—no one with a smile so wide or eyes so fiery could be anything less—but he was tall and strong and intimidating…and not so unattractive, as Pietros had kindly pointed out. He certainly had a clever way with words, which Nasir was still deciding if he liked or not.

His pride made it difficult to accept such a vague offer, but each moving shadow, every sound outside his door had him debating on whether he wanted to bolt to the Germans’ room and rescind his refusal.

Exhaustion, warm and insidious, crept up on him as the hour grew late.

He could not lie down for fear of nodding off and his eyes began to water from staying focused on the door. Even water was beyond his reach as he refused to wander alone in the dark halls to quench his thirst. Though not strong of body, Nasir was relying on his quiet stubbornness, the strength of his resolve so unattractive in a slave.

And victory was indeed sweet as dawn broke and Pietros returned to him with the boneless exhaustion of pleasurable exercise and a strange sort of twitch to his obviously sore hips. He was alight with a flush under his skin that Nasir saw rarely in slaves.

When he caught sight of Nasir—lips parched, eyes red, and body close to slumping onto the bed—Pietros frowned. “Nasir, have you yet not found comfort in sleep? Your eyes are ringed with darkness…”

Pietros’ beloved, rough fingers were warm on Nasir’s face. He smiled and hoped it contained even half of the wild satisfaction he had seen in Agron’s grin when the man had suggested he take up a spear.

“No.”

Chapter Text

III.

Agron could tell of Spartacus’ intent without even glancing to the man’s hips. With a lift of his eyes heavenwards, in silent prayer that the fucking gods above might heed his plea, and a soft groan he was able to smooth his expression to appear civil. He hated talk; he was a man of action.

“Agron, a word?”

“My suspense is that you have more than one in store.”

Spartacus smiled softly at Agron’s sharp response. “Then perhaps we should move our conversation to a place offering more comfort.”

“Highly unlikely in this fucking place.”

Still, as Spartacus turned away, Agron placed his practice sword to the side and followed the man into the shady halls. The familiar path to the storeroom gave them an excuse for rest and privacy in any case. Spartacus turned to him the moment the door was shut behind them.

“I am concerned for the Syrian’s condition.” Spartacus began without preamble.

Agron groaned aloud this time.

He had lasted longer than anyone—including Agron—might have expected. Four days had passed since Pietros had gone back to Barca’s rooms for the man to have him moaning. Agron was pleased he and Duro were sleeping nowhere close to Barca’s room, what with his birds and his wailing boy.

It was clear Nasir was keeping the watch and had not found peace in sleep since the moment Pietros had left his side.

Agron saw him rarely enough but even as little as he cared he could not help but notice the dark circles that deepened daily under the young man’s eyes. Or the way when he blinked his eyes stayed closed for a few moments too long. Or how his gait had gone from being lively and quick to a slow trudge, too tired even to knock aside unwanted hands. Most were understanding, allowing him to catch moments of sleep when assistance was unnecessary but he could not survive forever like that with the ludus growing as it was.

He was a stubborn little thing.

“I feel persistence might only encourage wariness.” Agron pointed out before Spartacus could suggest another angle to the arrangement. “He was most determined in his refusal.” Spartacus closed his mouth to advice unspoken.

“Surely there must be an alternative.”

“Do not lose sleep over the plight of others and let the boy seek protection of his own volition.” Agron suggested knowing that Spartacus would not be so willing to let anyone in peril remain unbothered.

“Perhaps if I spoke to Mira…”

Mira was Spartacus’ eyes and ears in Batiatus’ household, often bringing up small pleas and favors on his behalf. Agron was unsure of what Mira received in turn as the man was still utterly devoted to his missing wife, blind to the charms of all others. Nor did he care in any case.

But if it would get Spartacus to leave him be, then he would grasp at any straw.

“Fucking speak to her then. And vex me no longer.”

Spartacus heard the half-joking tone in his voice and laughed to himself in disbelief. “I begin to find it no small wonder that the young man refused any offer of yours. Perhaps he might think you none so gentle a bedmate.”

“Cease fucking talk or find yourself parted from tongue.” Agron hissed a joking warning before slipping from out of Spartacus’ grasp. He moved quickly back to the practice sands knowing that the next day would have the lists posted for the next bouts in the arena.

Oenomaus did look at him with a sharp, questioning eye, as he returned to his practice gladius, and Agron responded by nodding toward Spartacus.

He would talk to a young thing with wide eyes for Spartacus but he’d not take a lashing from Oenomaus.

It took him a moment to locate Duro and Donar on the sands and, on finding them engaged with other opponents, Agron sought out someone skillful and semi-tolerable to fight with. No fucking Gauls, no fucking Gauls, he prayed silently. Luckily, Varro, Gannicus, and Lydon were all in need of a sparring partner and Agron lost himself in the familiar motions and feelings of a fight. His skin was soon slippery with a fine sheen of sweat.

As a testament to his skill, only Gannicus was able to best him, and the man was nigh undefeated. Though smaller than most of the other gladiators, he had a raw sort of agility to him and Agron wondered if the man was progeny of Ares the third time Gannicus knocked him flat.

At least the mad Celt was amiable as he helped Agron back to his feet with a grin.

“Eyes are attempting to burn a second brand.” Gannicus joked, glancing back toward the ludus halls.

Agron turned slowly, disliking the man’s tone and saw Nasir in the warm shadows within, his dark eyes seemingly locked on their group of four. But Agron clicked his tongue as he saw the haze veiled over those intelligent, dark eyes. “The boy is in dreams while on his feet. Oenomaus will lash him with tongue if he finds tasks unfulfilled.”

Gannicus smiled until a group passed behind Nasir and one of them slapped him on the ass; Gannicus’ cursed moral compass was shaken. That jerked Nasir into wakeful motion though he had not the strength to turn and snarl at the men. They could see his weakness pouring from weary face.

“It seems a torture to stay so long barren of sleep.” Varro said in his soft voice.

Did the entire ludus conspire to make him conscious of that Syrian boy? Agron grumbled inside of his own mind. To draw his eyes and feelings toward that prickly little thing…

“If it concerns you, see him spared for a moment.” Agron said to no one in particular. “I intend to put him far from thought so that I will not fall in the arena.” Stoic Lydon took him up on his challenge while Varro looked away from the inner ludus to watch them spar. Only Gannicus left them in favor of stalking toward the inner ludus with an expression like thunder. Agron did not envy the next man to vex him.

He practiced with ferocious relish, knowing that Batiatus and the crowds of fucking Romans packing the stands liked having wild Germans in the arena to snarl and howl like wolves. He anticipated he would be painted in a fine layer of blood by the weeks’ end.

His skill and intensity proved painful for Lydon in any case, as their practice ended swiftly when Agron’s practice sword landed hard on his wrist. Though Lydon showed only a grimace, Agron knew it was unspeakably painful; he could feel the hit shake his blade and rattle the bones of his hand. He stepped back.

“Apologies.”

“No.” Lydon raised his uninjured hand. “The mistake was my own and effectively learned. Better to suffer this than the loss of a hand in the arena.”

Despite the truth of his words, Agron still sought to make amends and called Pietros to bring ice as he made way to the medicus in search of a compress and bandages to wrap the injury. He did not like to think of the wrath he might endure if Lydon was put out of commission for the arena…

“Fuck the gods,” Agron hissed his favorite curse under his breath wondering why Fate hated him so.

Crixus—a fucking Gaul he would not think twice about slaying if given ample opportunity—sat outside the medicus with a blade in his hand. With patient precision and an unerring hand, he cut a shallow, intricate design onto one of the wide leather straps on his wrist.

He looked focused on his task, his posture that of careless ease, but Agron knew better.

Crixus was coiled tight, something about him pulsing with aggression, and it was clear that anyone who attempted to get into the medicus was going to find themselves at the tip of Crixus’ carving blade. Agron, still sore from his earlier bouts, made sure to tread carefully. Despite the joy he would find in being rid of the fucking Gaul, he had to admit the man was deadly even with such a tiny weapon.

Crixus narrowed his dark eyes in that feral, dangerous way of his when Agron was close enough. “You are injured?” His tone sounded hopeful and Agron curled his lip.

“Hardly. Lydon…blocked poorly and is in need of clean linen.”

Crixus looked at him with open suspicion and Agron curled his lip at the challenge. “Wait here.” Fucking Gaul, Agron wanted to shout at him as he turned into the room with silent steps, who was he to become the guard of the medicus?

But Agron preferred his teeth in his mouth and let Crixus fetch the materials for him without complaint.

When Crixus returned, he was looking unsubtly over Agron’s shoulder, a small roll of clean linen in his hand. “I am to Lydon.” Before Agron could argue with him, he had already pushed past and was calling out instructions over his shoulder. “I have remained too long seated. Take my watch. And allow no one in until my return.”

“Fuck you.” Agron called out to him and Crixus ignored him.

Agron took the seat Crixus had vacated and wondered who had called him from the sands to keep watch over the medicus. Agron pressed his ear to the door, praying Oenomaus had not been granted a moment of privacy with his wife, as he did not want to hear her cries through the door nor have Oenomaus discover him listening to their intimacies. But all he could discern was silence.

There was a cold feeling in his gut, wondering for a moment if someone had died.

Praying to the old gods of his homeland east of the Rhine that no one he considered a brother had fallen in a freak accident, Agron opened the door a crack and peeked inside.

The medicus was by no means a pleasant room, as the iron-salt smell of blood and sundered flesh could never be completely scrubbed from the flagstones, even when there were no patients within. However, someone had recently scattered herbs by the doorway, organized the shelves of salves and poultices, and put clean blankets and straw on the simple pallets in preparation for the display in the coming days. It did not take long to discern who was responsible.

Nasir was curled up on one of the pallets in a small, slender ball, one arm dangling off the plank entirely. His dark hair slithered down his neck and jaw, dark as blood, and he looked even younger in the throes of sleep.

Agron’s fingertips twitched with the irrational desire to move the hair from Nasir’s face and he clenched his fist.

Pietros, Barca, Gannicus, Spartacus, Oenomaus, and even fucking Crixus and Donar were hell-bent on coddling this little man. No one else would be allowed to take such precious rest during daylight hours. And to look so—Agron had to avert his eyes before he could fall prey to whatever madness had gripped his brothers.

He shut the door without a second glance and made no mention to Crixus of what he had seen in the safety of the medicus, though Crixus glared suspiciously as if some incriminating message had been branded across Agron’s forehead.

Agron did not feel himself again until he dunked his entire head and most of his shoulders in the barrel of drinking water left by the practice sands.

Nasir dreamt rarely and vividly.

He dreamt of some small delights. He could feel the hot, packed earth of his long-forgotten homeland under bare feet. He could feel someone stroking his hair and did not know whether to pull away in disgust or lean back and melt. He could feel fine silk on his skin, sweet juice on his lips, and the warmth from a properly maintained coal brazier. Those things were like warm embraces, so simple and precious.

As there was balance to the world, however, so too were there contents of his dreams. And there was enough darkness to last him several lifetimes.

Cold and fear, running from things unseen or being lashed to things familiar; he could see the faces of men who had brought him pain and cringed away from them. The worst were hands and eyes tracing familiar paths that seemed to melt through his skin into his muscles and bones. Hatred and fear and disgust and deep-seated sorrow mixed into a bitter amalgam in the pit of his heart.

He gasped for air as if drowning when a firm hand shook him into wakefulness.

But there were none of the villains that haunted him in sleep. He was in the ludus medicus and Crixus looked at him with an expression of stone but kindness and concern set deep in his dark eyes. He touched Nasir’s shoulder in simple camaraderie so as not to inspire alarm.

“The hour grows late and you will soon be missed.”

“Gratitude.” Nasir woke easily and slid off the pallet so he was standing next to the giant Gaul.

“I will walk with you to take our meal.”

Nasir would happily accept his companionship and protection. Nasir had been in the medicus earlier when Ashur had joined him with greed in his bead-black eyes; Nasir was eerily reminded of some of the socially hungry Romans he had encountered and balked at the man immediately. Though Ashur made no overt offers, it was clear some of the other men had given him clear incentive to proposition Nasir. Even with all the horrible things men called aloud in the dining area, Nasir found this approach the most insulting,

He refused to be a ludus whore and had been about to tell Ashur so, when Crixus had appeared, as if sent by the gods.

Though Nasir had been told Crixus was a good man and a better fighter, he could not reconcile that opinion with Crixus’ terrifyingly grim appearance. However, Ashur vanished from the room the moment Crixus laid eyes on him, his face ashen and deferential at Crixus’ expression.

“Gratitude.” Nasir had been swaying on his feet he was so tired and he did not even flinch as Crixus rested a calloused hand on the crown of his head.

“Sleep pup. I will guard the door and wake you before you are missed.”

That short hour of sleep had been precious to him, and though he still ached from exhaustion he felt that he might be refreshed enough to stay awake for most of the night. Pietros would return as close to dawn as he dared and Nasir could sleep an hour or two then as well…

He almost collided with Crixus, he was so hazily focused on the idea of getting rest. “Apologies,” he murmured and his voice sounded slurred as if he had taken too much wine. He had not taken more than one glass since his boyhood; he had learned his lesson with alcohol.

Crixus’ expression did not change, but Nasir thought he detected concern and even a hint of sadness from the man. Crixus gently patted him on the back, making sure to drop his arm the moment decorum would permit.

“The ludus is cruel to us all,” was his only response.

It was a warm night and Nasir felt himself struggling to keep his eyes open.

Pietros had left only moments before and the bed, which he had first considered to be wildly uncomfortable, now felt like paradise under him. He could not even find the strength to stand and avoid its’ tempting promise of rest.

The flame of the single candle that lit his room seemed to sway in tune to his heartbeat and Nasir felt himself becoming transfixed by the movement. His whole body swayed to the single flame and the next time he blinked he could not find the strength to open his eyes.

His last rational thought before his back hit the bed was that Crixus was not guarding his door. And then he dreamed.

He was braiding Chadara’s long golden hair. The two of them envied each other of their hair; Nasir loved the color and silken feel of hers while she envied the thickness and shine to his dark locks. He ached when he saw her.

“Where have you gone, Nasir?” She asked in her sweet voice. “Where have you gone?”

Chadara had cried openly their last night together, and she was normally so cynical. They had been friends for years, sharing secrets and gossip and comforting one another when their dominus was in a foul temper. Of all the people Nasir had met in his life, she was the closest thing he had ever had to a close friend.

Now their original household had been broken up, the both of them sent away to new homes, and there was the very real chance they would never see each other again. Nasir treasured the familiar touch of her hair, the sound of her voice, the sheer comforting presence of her, even though she kept asking him where he had gone.

He put his hands on her shoulders to cease her questions and she turned to look at him.

“Chadara.” He smiled at her familiar, beloved face, “I am far away in Capua. In the house of Batiatus, serving his ludus. I can only hope you are safe.” He knew this was simply a figment of his dream and this Chadara would not recall anything he told her. But it still soothed him to do so.

Her blue eyes were wide and beautiful; he could see how they could bewitch men.

“He is coming Nasir.” She whispered suddenly in the cold, tense tone they had always affected when their dominus called for them in the night. “He is coming for you.”

“Who?” Nasir felt his heart seize in his chest, the feeling of his emotions becoming a stone in his chest. “Who is coming for me?”

She gripped him tight then, her hands digging into his arms, and Nasir knew he must have winced in his sleep. She cried out to him then. “You must wake up Nasir! You must! He is coming for you! Wake up! Wake up!”

Her voice was fine silver clattering to the floor and Nasir was so unnerved by her tone that it yanked him from his dreams.

It took him a moment to come to his senses and take quick stock of his situation.

He was flat on his back on the pallet, arms and legs splayed wide and his room was dark, the candle having been snuffed out. The pressure from Chadara’s hands lingered on his arms and he quickly discovered why.

A dark form—only large enough to be that of a gladiator’s—was arched above him, straddling him and pressing him down so escape was impossible. Though Nasir could not discern his attacker’s identity, he still tried to take in any features he could. He too was frozen, having seen that Nasir was awake and Nasir felt panic sweep through him in a swift wave.

He was not going to be taken.

Though he could not fight the mystery man atop him, he could certainly make things very difficult and attempt to get help. Before the man could move to stop him, Nasir inhaled deep and began to scream as Chadara had.

Words came out in a steady stream of names: the men he knew would come to his aid if they saw him in danger. Spartacus, Crixus, Barca, Oenomaus, Gannicus, Pietros, he called for them all, attempting to wrench away as he did.

His attacker recovered himself not long after and attempted to press Nasir down and cover his mouth. Nasir bit hard on the calloused, dirty fingers that were attempting to silence him and smiled as he heard the man above him curse in pain and fury.

Nasir hissed, baring his teeth, as he tried to pull from the strong grasp and his legs kicked instinctively at that tender spot between the gladiator’s thighs. Unless ordered by his dominus, he would not be taken like this.

A practiced fist connected with his face and Nasir yelped as his skull throbbed and pain blossomed just below his eye. The socket would be black and swollen tomorrow, of that he was sure.

Only sheer adrenaline kept him from twisting in on himself from the pain.

The hands that had held him down and hit him now yanked at the waistband of his trousers and Nasir’s hiss turned into a snarl of fury and fear, his skin turning cold with the familiar feeling of having someone distasteful undress him. He began shouting for everyone and anyone who might take pity on him; every other name was that of Pietros.

There was the sound of ripping cloth and Nasir kicked with all his intensity, trying to keep his trousers at his waist. Something yanked hard on his long hair and his hiss finally took on the edge of a scream that only seemed to enflame barbaric men. To hide his panic and pain he continued to fight and shout.

He would not be taken like this.

The door flew open and a familiar, slight form ran into the room calling for him.

Pietros looked as though he might have been naked and his curly hair was a wild tangle. When he saw the hulking form over Nasir, he screamed for Barca, and—ineffective as the tactic was—did not slow and simply collided with the man on top of Nasir. Pietros seemed to bounce off the hulking gladiator, falling hard on his ass. In the confusion, Nasir reached for flesh and bit hard again on what felt like a forearm, causing his attacker to howl with pain.

Pietros scrambled over the floor, still calling aloud for Barca, and Nasir heard the sound of his pottery shattering as Pietros grabbed their table and attempted to throw it at the man.

Pietros’ wild weapon, Nasir’s sharp teeth, their combined noise, and the threat of Barca coming to defend his boy must have been enough to deter even the bravest men of the ludus.

He launched off of Nasir with surprising agility for one so large and pushed Pietros’ table with such strength that Pietros fell backwards and yelped. The wooden door was blasted back against the stone wall with a bang and the man disappeared at a run into the dark labyrinth of the ludus.

Nasir allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, his heart thundering with all the adrenaline. It felt a little like he was still in a dream.

“Nasir!” There was a clatter and Pietros yelped before leaping onto the bed. Nasir flinched only a little as one warm arm wrapped around his neck, the other squeezing his waist.

“Pietros?” Nasir’s voice did not sound like his own and he gripped Pietros just as tight.

“Gods above, I heard your cry. You are unharmed?” Pietros sounded more anguished than Nasir and Nasir patted the soft tufts of his hair. He could not find the moment to reply, as the room was suddenly bathed in light and Nasir and Pietros could take stock of each other.

Pietros was completely naked, such was his haste to run to Nasir. He had long red scrapes on both elbows, a bleeding foot from where he had stepped on a jagged piece of broken pottery, and most assuredly a bruised ass. Nasir knew from his throbbing face that his cheek and eye would be rapidly reddening and there would be bruises on his arms and his stomach. At least his pants remained on and he looked to the source of the light.

Barca stood in the doorway with a torch in his hand. He was dressed hastily and his expression was that of barely restrained murder. Nasir shrank back behind Pietros as Barca surveyed the damage to the room and to the two of them.

“Pietros.” With the ease of an athlete, Barca leapt past the overturned table and the shattered fragments that littered the floor so that he could kneel by the pallet. Nasir saw the forms of Spartacus and Gannicus come into view by his threshold, as Barca covered Pietros’ modesty with his own garments and gently cradled Pietros’ bleeding feet in his hands.

Pietros began to babble to near-incoherence the moment Barca touched him and his safety was assured. “Forgive me, I heard your commands that I wait but I could not remain unmoved when I heard him call my name. Forgive me Barca, I a-attempted to defend but I have not your skills and the lamps were unlit. No man, save you has seen me unclothed.” Pietros seemed to take Barca’s inability to get a word in edgewise as anger and he whimpered as he pressed his head to Barca’s shoulder. “Forgive me but I c-could not stand idly by as—.”

“Your heart is tender.” Barca responded, using strips of his own clothing to dab away the blood from Pietros’ feet and Pietros seemed to melt in relief over the pride in Barca’s voice.

Nasir watched them in quiet contemplation; he had never seen slaves so openly adoring of one another. Batiatus must have truly favored Barca or was uncaring to the fates of his ludus slaves to allow this.

Nasir jumped as a hand touched his face.

Spartacus, expression grim with concern, paused so as not to cause fear before softly tilting Nasir’s face to the side. Nasir lowered his eyes for shame as Spartacus surveyed the damage to his face, taking care to avoid the swollen bits. His voice was level when he found words.

“Nasir. Who has done this to you? Did you see him? Speak from your heart.”

Nasir adopted the voice of Tiberius, the body slave who could bear any insult without change in expression or tone. Tiberius made of stone or wood or shattered pottery as he thought of the nightmare of a man who had pressed down on him in the dark.

“I do not know who has done this.”

He did not know what was more terrifying: that he did not know the specific man who had laid hands on him or that he knew several men who had threatened this very thing. The ludus was cruel to them all.

Chapter Text

IV.

The lists for the next games had been posted and Agron stood impassively as the names were read aloud to the entire ludus. By virtue of his superior speed and strength, as well as his ability to pander to an audience, it came as no surprise to Agron that he was called to the arena.

Duro’s eyes glimmered with good-humor and only a pinprick of jealousy as he slapped his brother on the back. “The gods piss on me again. A chance for glory and coin and wine and they see fit only to call your fucking name.”

Secretly, Agron was relieved.

He was the better fighter and, if he had his way, he would never hear Duro’s name called again into the arena. Batiatus had called forth his finest men, so Agron was sure someone very important was coming to see the display. There was a crackling of energy in the air, the scent of upcoming battle heavy in the ludus.

Donar joined him, appearing silent and dangerous at his shoulder. “Word from the house, from Pietros: many wealthy Romans are to Capua for the summer months for wine and festivities. No word on how long they intend to stay.”

Duro scoffed. “They have not drink and death aplenty in Rome?”

“Perhaps something in that fucking house draws them here.” Agron offered, knowing that the whims of fucking Romans were a mystery he did not care to explore. “Gods fucking forbid we will not also be drawn there.”

Agron did not yet have the fame that might see him called into one of the parties held after the games but he had heard rumors and would not relish an invitation.

Batiatus’ man returned with Oenomaus into the ludus and the short silence that had gripped the men was broken. Men talked of the upcoming bouts, expressed relief over being chosen or excluded from the arena, and even took to sparring again in preparation. Agron looked at the uniform, frenetic tilt to their hips until he came to a pair slim and unmoving in the shadows.

Even as cold as Agron made his expression, he could not help but cringe when he took stock of Pietros and Nasir.

Pietros’ wounds were deeper but Nasir’s were more noticeable. No matter what the medicus had on hand nor the dark color of Nasir’s skin, there was no hiding the painful swelling of his left eye and the dark purple marks on his arms. And the stubborn little thing kept a calm, gentle expression as though nothing at all were amiss.

It was no small wonder that this extraordinary serenity coupled with the way he and Pietros had clawed against their fate had every decent man in the ludus burning with rage.

Agron had not slept for the commotion of the night. He did not call your name.

“Your face withholds nothing, brother.” Duro said and Agron became acutely aware that he looked to be snarling as he gazed at the pair. “You aim to spar with them?”

“Fucking idiot.” Agron said about no one and everyone. He was burning and could not discern the source of the flames. Still, when Spartacus caught his eye and gave that grim look of concern Agron was becoming woefully familiar with, he nodded in return, giving his silent understanding.

Those bruises needled him more than he would ever admit aloud and he heard clearly Spartacus’ silent plea to push his suit again. He watched the two of them carefully and prepared to follow them to whichever task required their immediate attention.

He got no more than a few steps across the sands before a familiar commanding voice called to him from across the sands. “Agron! A word.”

Though Oenomaus probably did not appreciate the glare Agron shot him, his expression remained smooth as he waited for Agron to heel; Agron did so, albeit reluctantly. It looked like his conversation with Nasir would have to be put on hold until after he was chastised.

“You have words to break, doctore?” He said it with such unthinking sarcasm he cursed his own tongue. Oenomaus narrowed his eyes and Agron took care not to glance at the whip at Oenomaus’ dark hip. It would not be the first or the last time his mouth had gotten him in trouble.

“I do. In the coming days you are expected to return to the arena,” though he knew he would never return to the arena, as he was far too valuable for training future gladiators, Agron never heard any envy in Oenomaus’ tone, “and I have heard Batiatus has plans for your first bout of the season.” Agron did not like the sound of that and his frown deepened as Oenomaus continued his explanation. “You are typically given the helm of the Murmillo in the arena but…our lanista has such confidence in your skills against Vettius’ men that he has ordered you to go into this first battle in minimal armor to showcase…your Germanic savagery.”

Agron ground his teeth so hard together he thought they might shatter.

He could seemingly do nothing right in the fucking ludus. If he did nothing to improve his standing, then he would be sent to the Pit or the mines. But if he showed off his skill, he was presented with a shit situation where he would not be properly armored in the arena. And he could not refuse.

A pestilence on Batiatus, his foolhardy confidence, and his entire fucking house, Agron thought as he forced a brittle smile.

“Whatever my lanista,” the word was bitter on his tongue and no amount of years would warm him to them, “commands of me.”

His scarred face finally showed some emotion and Oenomaus clapped him on the shoulder in a show of their camaraderie, though his eyes had sympathy for Agron’s plight. “May the gods give you speed and strength in the coming days.”

Agron snorted and Oenomaus seemed taken aback by the noise. “The gods can fuck themselves for a change and spare me a sore ass.” It did not occur to him until after the words left his mouth that very few ever dared to speak directly to Oenomaus with such uncouth language.

But Oenomaus surprised him by laughing aloud and clapping him again. “You speak truly. Perhaps Batiatus was right in giving you only sword and shield. Perhaps you can tear your opponent to pieces with little more than your tongue.”

Agron opened his mouth wide in a playful snarl that showed off his offensive tongue.

“I will train with you personally. I’ll not see one of my brothers dead in the arena.” Oenomaus assured when his laughter subsided and cruel reality set in. Despite Agron’s insistence to remain apathetic to the relationships of the ludus, he realized how valuable Oenomaus’ tutelage might be. He had survived a bout with Theokeles and helped mold Spartacus into one of the most deadly men in Batiatus’ employ. It was not an offer to be lightly taken.

Fool, do not turn from this, Agron’s mind pushed as his eyes rebelled.

Nasir and Pietros had disappeared from view in the time that Agron had taken to speak with his doctore. It took some effort to harden his heart to the memory of those deep violet-black bruises and the bandages tight on Pietros.

But he had to make decisions to stay alive in this shit ludus and Oenomaus’ offer kept him out of petty ludus feuds more so than running off to offer protection for a hissing slave. He steeled himself.

“Gratitude, doctore. I will gladly accept your training.”

Oenomaus gripped his forearm in a show of alliance before presenting him with the practice gladius and Agron smiled in preparation for the challenge. Apologies, Spartacus. Apologies Nasir.

The first day of the games, Duro kissed Agron’s forehead and whispered a prayer to their old gods in their mother tongue for speed and strength, safety and glory. “May the gods return you to me, Agron.”

The fact that Duro would be spared of these games, had Agron relieved even when he was handed only his sharp gladius and the ludus’ best shield by way of protection. Despite his lifetime of fights and bloodshed, Agron had to admit that there was nothing truly like the feeling he got from the roar of crowd, the shaking of the timbers under the arena from a thousand stomping feet.

They were waiting for him. They wanted him wild and drenched in blood. A god of war, chanting his name; he could hear it in the beat of his blood: Agron, Agron, Agron…

The cluster of them sat silent as they waited by the gates to be called into battle. Only Batiatus’ best were in attendance: Spartacus and Gannicus with their twin swords, fucking Crixus, Barca with his eerie calm, Gnaeus with his trident and net, Alexos and Remus with the sort of regal calm that only came about after a lifetime of victories.

Agron was no longer sore from his bouts with Oenomaus and the gladius felt light as a feather in his hand. He grinned suddenly overcome with the certainty that his opponent’s blood would wet the sands on this day.

Gnaeus was called first from the depths of the arena and Agron listened to the familiar swells and screams of the crowd, as the battle was under way. The Roman fucker they were entertaining must have had some champions of his own, as Gnaeus did not return quickly.

It would not be a sad day to see the man gone from this world, Agron thought callously as he recalled the man’s penchant for taunting losers and the oily way he had stared at Pietros in the past. The screaming…

But after a particularly loud cheer, he stumbled through the gates, in need of the medicus, but still alive.

From the neck up he was bathed in blood, there were long gashes across his chest and legs, and bruises that littered his forearms. Agron hoped Gnaeus’ opponent had gotten a few bites in, just to salt the wound. No one moved to help him, save their Roman guards.

“Agron! Come forth.” Came the call from outside the gates and Spartacus nodded in silent camaraderie as Agron stood. He grinned in reply.

“The gods favor me.” He called back, feeling the lust of a fight burn in his blood. “I plan to tear out their fucking throats with my teeth!” Gannicus grinned at the idea of throat ripping while Crixus rolled his eyes at the needless theatrics.

Agron refused to let Crixus’ stoicism dampen his mood and sprinted into the light, snarling like a madman.

Even though he was not part of the main activities in the house, Nasir was still run ragged in the days leading up to the month of massive spectacle in the arena.

He had restocked the storeroom and the medicus, cleaned and sharpened weapons, polished armor, and helped bandage minor injuries. Pietros carried water almost unceasingly; Oenomaus barked new commands before they had finished their first task and the both of them nearly fainted into their bed each night after all was finished.

A small blessing, his attacker must have been equally exhausted from training, because he remained unbothered during the nights he spent alone. The last night had been such a night as Pietros liked to spend the nights with Barca before he was to fight.

Sure that his dear friend was in the throes of unconsciousness from a week of hard work and the persistent attention of Barca, Nasir had taken most of the morning responsibilities once Oenomaus had left for the arena. He currently had an armful of bandages, freshly boiled, dried, and folded, to take to the medicus as bloodied men were carted in.

Nasir struggled not to leap into the air as slender, hesitant fingers tapped his shoulder. “Gods above,” came the soft cry of surprise when he turned and the one behind him saw the violet-yellow bruises that lingered on the skin around his eye. Nasir too could not keep the shock from his expression.

The young woman before him seemed too delicate and lovely to be in a place as rough and filthy as the ludus.

Her dark skin smelled of lavender oils and was unmarred by any unsightly brands; her cloth dress, though revealing, was of such fine quality Nasir immediately determined that she was body slave to the domina of the house. He smiled in comfort, the way he did for Pietros and had done for Chadara and the other girls in his previous house.

“You are the new ludus slave.” She said, obviously unsure of his name. “I have been looking for you—.”

“Nasir.”

“Naevia.” Her smile was soft and unsure. “Apologies, I…did not mean to startle you.” He noticed that she took care to avoid staring at his bruises.

“The ludus is a dangerous place.” Nasir echoed the familiar sentiments of many of the gladiators within. He smiled widely despite knowing the mess he presented. “It is no place for the honored body slave of this house. You said you have come for me. Why is this?”

A blush stained heavy and pleasing on her round cheeks. “Guests exceed expectation and extra hands were requested. Domina said you had practiced hands…and skills befitting a great house. And…” she looked slightly embarrassed to bring it to light, “you do not bear…unslightly marks of the ludus.”

Nasir would argue against the idea that he bore no unslightly marks, but he knew the only one that mattered was the lack of a brand on his arm.

All men considered worthy of the brotherhood bore the scar, most were gladiators but the iron had kissed Pietros as well. Nasir had traced the raised ‘B’ on his dark forearm on one of their evenings spent together.

“It hurt as a kiss from the underworld itself,” Pietros had admitted, “for several days. But never have I felt such pride upon seeing marks on my skin.” He had blushed. “Not even the ones that Barca gives me.”

Nasir had laughed softly at Pietros’ ribald tongue. “But…you have never once fought on the sands. How did they deem you worthy of such marks?”

“Nearly every man in this ludus owes me his life. They come at the brink of death and I…am weak of heart.” Gentle, Barca had called it. “Even Spartacus, our champion, is beholden to me. Though…I would never seek to claim favor from any of them.” Pietros’ fingers had touched Nasir’s smooth skin. “One day they may find you worthy of it.”

There was still a lump of something very much like jealousy in Nasir’s heart when he looked at his unblemished arm. He wanted that acceptance that Pietros had achieved with his gentle hands.

“If it pleases domina, I shall be glad to assist in any way they see fit.” He inclined his head to Naevia respectfully. “Though…I feel preparations for so fine an event may be necessary.” He was filthy and sure he smelled of sweat and dirt and hay, so sweet in the ludus but offensive in a fine villa.

“Of course.” She said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as if assessing the work before her. “There is time yet. Follow me.”

As she turned, her robes swirled around her shapely brown legs in wisps of pale blue and he saw the delicate butterfly painted in black on her shoulder. Despite the fact that he was her height and the most slender of men in the ludus, he felt the urge to protect her from this place and keep unwanted eyes from her form; his lip curled in preparation to snarl and threaten to tear out throats with his teeth. Luckily, because of the games had only just ended, men were scarce in the training field and gave them little trouble.

They only crossed paths with the returning champions as they returned to the ludus, thoroughly begrimed in blood and dirt, pulsing with the kind of energy that only came from spilling blood.

Naevia ducked her head at the sight of them but Nasir smiled and called out to Gannicus the moment he caught sight of the mad Celt. “The gods see fit to have you live another day.”

“I am bathed in their favor, little man.” He laughed, hoisting high a leather purse that jingled with golden tones.

Barca latched dark eyes on him as well, the tips of his hair still dripping red. “Pietros?”

Nasir sighed. “He awaits you…in your room.” He left unsaid in front of doctore that Pietros had failed to leave said room since dawn and was sure his friend would not cease to limp for a fortnight at least. Barca’s eyes were fiery with anticipation and gave only a nod by way of thanks.

“Naevia. Where are you taking our Nasir?” Oenomaus asked in a tone that was unusually gentle for him. He too angled himself so Naevia was blocked from immediate view.

“Domina asks his skilled hands for the glory of our house.” She replied.

“Then,” Oenomaus stepped back and gestured her past, “by all means. Have a messenger sent when he is to return. I will not have you wander these halls in the darkness.”

Naevia nodded. “Gratitude. Nasir?”

Her arm looped through his for support; fear was well hidden but still present, and he squeezed her hand in reassurance. All that were left to pass were Crixus, Spartacus, Varro, and Agron; he was sure that the first three would cause them no harm. He was reasonably sure Agron would not be so foolish, but then…such things were never guaranteed.

Crixus stood directly in the path and they struggled to pass by him without being smeared in blood and mud. Naevia’s pulse quickened and Nasir almost looked up and asked him to move. He felt a gaze burn hot on Naevia and himself, though he refused to look up and discern lustful gazes.

The guard outside the gates ushered them through to the place where the villa stored wine and where the steps were of fine marble. Nasir felt the stone underfoot with the strangest of feelings.

He was going back to where he belonged…but then, he was not the same man who had gone down into the ludus.

He gripped Naevia’s arm, glad for her support.

By the time night fell, the skilled hands of the domina’s body slaves had returned him to a state acceptable for a fine house. The gentle, smiling forms of Naevia, Mira and Diona had seen his body cleansed and anointed with scented oil, his hair similarly handled, and his waist wrapped once again in lengths of fine white cloth. They had tried their best to cover his bruises with swirls of golden paint but there were hopes the low light would assist them in making them appear as shadows. While such intimacies were carried out, Nasir looked at his surroundings in hopes of memorizing them before the festivities.

What he saw was familiar to him.

It was a house that had, by his experienced eyes, only recently recovered from the brink of ruin.

The decorations were lavish but could not hide the telltale marks of a rise to fortune. Some parts of the villa were very new and in the latest fashion, yet unstained with the fragrant smoke of incense, while others showed the very recent years of neglect and disrepair yet to see the hands of fine craftsmen. Nasir had seen the opposite of such a thing in his previous house when his former master’s fortune had bitterly waned.

The domina herself, Lucretia of Capua, also bore the marks of a woman desperate to show off recent wealth. When Nasir was brought before her for inspection, he could not help but notice her fine jewelry and dress, but she wore them with an edge of insecurity that made the finery suit her ill.

She quickly looked Nasir up and down with harsh, nervous blue eyes and pronounced. “He will have to do. Show him the kitchens and the stores,” as if she were bitter over being unable to procure more appropriate help on such short notice.

“Yes, domina.” He echoed, out of habit, and followed the women around the villa.

The tasks and layout were so familiar, that he found the work easy as drawing breath even when the festivities were under way and a horde of wealthy Romans poured into the villa.

Nasir had been stationed close to a small pool in the atrium—some of the mosaics chipped, he noticed—a bowl heavy with fruit in his arms.

In this spectacle and place of high visibility, he soon became thankful for the bruise on his cheek. For when those wealthy, oily men, so free with their hands and rough with their cocks, approached him with vile intent hidden under the guise of seeking fruit, they saw the imperfection of his features and turned away in distaste. They would be forced to find solace between the thighs of some other serving boy and Nasir would be free of his least favorite orders and simply watch the proceedings with a practiced eye.

There was a novice’s hand at planning the event and slaves woefully unprepared to serve such a large group with precision and skill.

He saw clearly when wine and food went unfilled for too long, when calls for assistance went unanswered, and—despite his orders to stay put for fear of offending—he decided to make amends. With swift feet and blank expression, he dipped through the crowd without once brushing shoulder with his betters or interrupting conversation with his presence.

He never once stopped moving, carrying food around the atrium, replacing wine when stocks ran low and providing assistance to whomever called out to him. It came second nature to him: the quick, tireless pace of a trusted body slave.

He locked eyes for a moment with the domina and her husband and made sure they took note of his usefulness.

The moon was high in the sky by the time most of the guests had taken their leave and Nasir could take a moment to rest his feet, yet some men still lingered in the halls. He caught hold of Mira as she passed, her look somewhat dark.

“Why do guests overstay celebration?”

Her dark eyes flicked to curtains of gauzy white that billowed soft and sensual in a nearby antechamber. “They are most honored guests.” She whispered in such low tones that Nasir knew he was probably going to witness something unpleasant. “Invited to stay and…indulge in vices not offered to all.” She slipped away without offering further detail and approaching figures caught Nasir’s eyes. He recognized one from his bearing alone and smiled hesitantly.

“Gannicus?”

He was hardly recognizable, clean of dirt and sweat, slickened with oil and clad in only subligaria.

The man only offered the briefest of smiles, so unlike him, before smoothing his expression into blank disinterest as he passed. It was so startling, Nasir was immediately alarmed. His curiosity would not remain unsated, as he was called in immediately after Gannicus entered. He hurried after the man into the little bower that had been created, finding Gannicus in the center, Romans reclining around him. He looked impassive as a marble god, but his body was tight with obvious discomfort.

“You are the new ludus slave, are you not?” His dominus asked on his arrival, waving dismissively. “You are quick with your attentions. I would have you here in case there is need of wine.”

“Dominus.” He ducked his head and caught sight of Naevia and Mira across from him, also looking as nervous and uncomfortable as Gannicus. He quickly found out why.

These wealthy and powerful people had come to see a champion, to touch a god in the flesh. His scraps of clothing were removed and he stood bare and coiled tight for their scrutiny; privately Nasir thought the Romans fools for it seemed they did not pet a tame dog but a beast caged and cornered. If he chose, Nasir knew Gannicus could rip them all to pieces before a single guard could be summoned.

One of the men spoke of a demonstration—his meaning made clear from his position behind Gannicus—and Nasir felt a rush of sickness for the man he called friend. It appeared that even these strongest of men were helpless as house slaves against the endless Roman need to subjugate. He turned his gaze to the floor in solemn refusal to watch the man be so dishonored.

Thankful to the gods above, the man decided he much preferred to watch and took his place back on a lounging chair, leaving Gannicus unmolested.

Instead, a female slave was selected from within the room: a lovely woman with dark hair, full lips, and a look of distinct horror on her face as she realized what would be required of her. She looked toward her domina, who also looked equally displeased with her guest’s choice, but gave a small shake of her head as if to say the matter was out of her hands. Nasir kept his eyes down as she disrobed with slow motions; perhaps she hoped mercy would be shown and the order would be rescinded. They all knew in the darkest part of their hearts that it would not…

He tried to memorize the veins in the marble as the noises began.

The slapping of flesh against flesh first drowned out all other sounds but then he could hear familiar sounds: the sound of a man’s labored breathing, the soft cries of a woman, the rustle of fine silk and murmurs of approval as their audience found their own pleasure at the sight. Nasir took care to keep his hands relaxed as the sounds crescendoed and he felt sickness deep in his stomach.

At once it was over, the sounds merely echoes of a cry against the marble and both Gannicus and his partner had clothed themselves. The woman excused herself almost immediately, her serene expression crumbling as she exited their canopy. Nasir’s heart ached for her; he knew of the pain and shame she had endured but his words would offer pale comfort and unwanted attention.

“A good show!” Batiatus praised, clapping Gannicus on the shoulder as if they were brothers. “You are free to return to the ludus, Gannicus, and take some well-deserved rest. Take the boy with you.”

“Dominus.” Gannicus voice sounded oddly hollow without its’ normal rakish good humor. Nasir blended into his shadow, following Gannicus at his heel the moment he passed by.

There was silence between them, Nasir unable to find any adequate words of calm or comfort. He wondered if it was a common occurrence in the household and—after recalling the expressions of every slave present—determined that it was. He prayed such a fate would not be visited on him…

The guard unlocked the metal gate that led to the ludus and left the two of them to continue to their rooms alone. He was glad for Gannicus’ company in this case; he had never been in the ludus halls so late at night and the poorly lit corridors were ominous.

“I will take you to your rooms before I retire.” Gannicus offered when the hall forked. “See you to safety.”

“Gratitude.” Nasir responded and his tone was strained.

“Forgive me,” Gannicus whispered as they turned down the hall together, “I did not mean to disdain you on entry. If they thought I favored you…then it might have been you beneath me.”

“You feared you may not rise to occasion.” Nasir responded in monotone and Gannicus ruffled his hair at the jest.

“I would not dishonor you.”

“And I will not for you.” Nasir returned the kindness in turn. “I will tell none of what I have witnessed this night.” The hand on his head turned immediately gentle, patting him rhythmically.

“Gratitude.” Then, softly, “You are too good for this ludus, Nasir.”

The two of them halted steps and conversation upon coming to the halls of their rooms as a lone figure blacked the path. There was flash of green and Nair curled his lip instinctively as Gannicus stepped in front of him. Agron did not move and looked at their polished and perfumed bodies with a judgmental gaze. Nasir did not care for the look as it made him feel naked.

“Agron.” Gannicus’ voice was deceptively light. “You remain awake at such an hour?”

Agron turned back to the night sky in apparent disinterest, “The halls are loud with wine and the howling of whores. You can hardly expect me to sleep at a time such as this.”

“I forget that you do not favor cunts.” Gannicus grinned.

Agron grinned back, though his was feral. “And yet I find myself in constant company of them.”

“We would seek equal peace.” Nasir responded with fire.

Gannicus looked between the two of them. “I believe he wishes you to move.”

“Then pass, and leave me to my thoughts.” Agron said dismissively, moving from the door. “And take care. The men are fucking wild from victory.” Gannicus elbowed past Agron and took Nasir to the very threshold of his room; of course Pietros was not within.

“Rest.” Gannicus ordered kindly. “Anyone who spends more than a moment in that house deserves it.”

Chapter Text

V.

Thanks to the immense skill and victories attained by Batiatus’ champions in their first games, the second events were planned to be even larger and more lavish. A boon for lesser fighters like Donar and Duro, who would fight in small groups in between the main events. Agron was disquieted by the entire thing: the ludus thrown out of its’ schedule into chaos, the fear for Duro, the constant concern that he might be called into that fucking house, as other champions were…

He had glanced to the empty balcony and given a sour expression.

Gannicus and Crixus were called the most often, and never did they appear to relish the order. But most champions had been called up at some point and he knew it was only a matter of time until his presence would be required. Best to hope the fucking rumors of those ‘parties’ were just that. Rumors…

He had seen Gannicus and Nasir polished and perfumed like proper house slaves. It would not suit him to be made so pretty.

But after his most recent victory, where no less than five opponents fell under his blade and the crowd nearly fell to frenzy over him when he removed his helmet and snarled at them all. He did not want godhead; he was a wild beast and he wanted blood.

His winnings had tripled in a single bout and Batiatus was obviously well-pleased with all of his champions as they were summoned to whatever party he planned for the evening, Agron included.

A few hours before nightfall, the lot of them were led first to the baths and then up to the villa in a silent, glowering line.

Despite his want to remain apathetic to any excessive finery so favored by the Romans, it was the first time Agron had been allowed into into the house and he could not help but glance about. It was an affront for the eyes.

In his lands east of the Rhine, their homes were decorated sparsely but with meaning: animal pelts tacked to the walls to keep out the chill, herbs hung over the doorway to welcome the old gods, and perhaps a carving or two on the wall to invoke luck or keep out ill fortune. Nothing like the draped, frothing rooms he was confronted with. You have increased fortunes in this house indeed, he thought, when confronted with a marble carving that had probably equaled the cost Batiatus had paid for every man present.

The Roman guards serving as their shepherds led them into a quiet antechamber where a small group waited in anticipation of their arrival.

Agron recognized Mira with her quick, intelligent eyes that never wavered from Spartacus, as well as the slim, dark form of that girl who had come to the ludus a few days earlier. Nasir was there as well, looking serene and unconcerned despite the fact that he and the other young men present wore less clothing than the women around them. They all clutched pots that shimmered gold and Agron had a feeling of nausea deep in his stomach.

“Remove all garments.” Mira ordered in her even voice and it seemed as though she were speaking only to Spartacus.

Agron was far beyond feeling discomfort at being nude in front of his brothers but he did not particularly care for unwanted hands upon him. As his subligaria fell away he silently felt impressed by the blank expressions of the house slaves, as they did not even glance in curiosity.

There was some sort of tension in the air and it took Agron a moment to realize that some of his fucking brothers were excited by the idea of such beauties swiping delicate fingers across bared skin.

There must have been anticipation of such emotions, because the guards had remained by the door and the women looked to Nasir. Nasir, who knew the men in front them, perhaps better than they knew their own natures, began directing which slave should apply the golden paint to which gladiator. Not one of them would suffer any embarrassing rising of desires with the one opposite them.

The tension quickly lapsed into annoyance at Nasir’s capable hand, save for Gannicus who was laughingly cursing the boy for not pairing him with one of the beautiful female slaves. Nasir himself applied the paint to Gannicus and smiled softly at his bluster.

Agron was paired with a silent wisp of a girl who kept a careful mask of apathy and moved her hands as though she painted on the fucking walls; there was no fear of a wayward cock with her.

When she stepped back to make sure the coat was even, Agron finally looked down and stood markedly displeased with the result.

Paint should only be applied to the skin of whores and woe to any Roman who thought him a whore.

The guards led the men from room as the house slaves and Nasir rushed to clean the gold from their hands. As the gladiators lined up in front of the pool in the atrium, Batiatus came gliding into the room still steaming with the stink of his recently applied perfumed oils.

Despite Spartacus’ and Oenomaus’ sound advice to remain as statues in the face of Roman shits, Agron could not help but narrow his eyes when he saw the fucking weasel he was forced to call ‘dominus’.

His fucking eyes glittered with hungry greed as he saw his prized livestock painted the same color that they won him in the arena; there were glints of gold on his fingers. He clapped his hands together the moment he saw them, apparently well-pleased with thr image presented before him.

“Very good, very good!” He spoke the praise to no one, or perhaps to himself. “Our esteemed guests will find no such display in any other house in Capua.”

“Or even Rome.”

Batiatus’ snake of a wife had a voice that was all oily whispers; it had all the sound of desperate seduction and Agron shuddered whenever she opened her mouth. She draped across her husband but he saw the tilt of her hips toward the line of Agron’s brothers, as though she aimed to mount them all.

“They cut an…impressive form.” She stroked her husband’s ego with practiced words. “But it will not serve us well to have them run wild as they do on the sands. Are you sure they pose no threat to honored guests?”

No.

“Yes.” Batiatus dismissed her concerns with his foolish confidence. “Not one will lay hands on Roman necks…unless I order it done.” He smiled then, in a way Agron hated: as if the shit thought himself a god on high, a commander of tame wolves. He did not think their bite could be turned on him.

“Your words stir confidence,” she purred, “and it lifts spirits to see carefully-laid plans come to fruition. I would our fortunes rise even further.”

“May the gods piss on your plans,” Somone—probably Varro—whispered under his breath once their dominus and his wife were too far for hearing, and Agron finally managed to crack his expression. He allowed himself a brief smile as the dissenting voice was shushed.

No more attention was spared toward them until the deep brass lamps were lit and the house slaves stepped quickly to their positions.

Agron heard Barca’s voice and his curiosity caught. “Keep out of reach, little man.” As Agron turned his head slightly, he saw Nasir paused by Barca’s side. He carried a lit torch in his hand and the fire cast a warm tone over him. Despite the calm of his expression, Agron could see his small muscles coiled tight and his hips unnaturally still.

“I will be as a shadow.” He promised.

As he passed, Agron caught a glimpse of Nasir’s expression and realized that Barca’s fears were misplaced. Nasir had affected the expression of determination that many men wore upon entering the arena. It was a sure sign he would live to see the following morning.

He melted into the shadows with ease Agron could only envy and the front doors were thrown wide open in anticipation for the arrivals.

Agron was unsure of normal Roman festivities but the number of guests seemed surprisingly sparse. They glittered in the low light, their steps slow and deliberate as if weighted by all the gold and stones on their soft, pale bodies. Batiatus and his insipid wife followed some chosen favorites like vultures circling carrion.

It gave him cruel pleasure to see Batiatus and his wife ignored by their guests, the bitter sting of rebuke obvious on their faces.

It did not take the honored fucks long to move forward and appreciate Agron and his naked brothers up close. The first were a group of young, foolish women, so slender and insignificant Agron could kill them with one hand.

Their eyes were both frightened and curious, but their hips spoke of the slow roll of seduction; for these bitches, there was probably a delicious thrill in the idea of appealing to these men who were at once gods and beasts. They would find him unmoved.

“Even the brush of gold cannot hide the blood.” One of them spoke as she regarded Gannicus. “I find the images from earlier games branded in my mind as such.”

“They are the greatest in all of Capua.” His domina responded.

“And they obey all commands? They bend to will as do the common house slave?” Agron ground his teeth together, wondering what shit they would request of him.

“Of course.”

“They are safe to touch?” Do so to me and find yourself absent hands.

“Of course.”

One of the women with pale hair and a sharper expression than the others, immediately latched interest onto Spartacus. Her hands did not tremble and her friends gasped and giggled at the scandal as she put a palm directly over Spartacus’ heart.

Spartacus, the most controlled of all his brothers, did not flinch or lean into her touch. He remained very still and gazed at her with level, blank eyes as she traced the muscles of his torso and arms.

When she pulled away, there was paint on her hand and her friends swarmed her.

“Ilithyia, you tempt fate!”

“How does it feel to have put hand on such a brutish beast?” The young woman shrugged in response as if she had merely stroked a length of fabric and not one of the most dangerous men in the Roman Empire. Agron tired of their lack of awareness and turned his attentions to the rest of the festivities.

His eyes fell to rest on Nasir, who was still tucked into the shadows.

Breath and the faint flutter of eyelashes were the only signs that gave evidence to the fact that he was a living man and not some finely-made statue. In Agron’s homeland, his mother had often told him that green eyes were in possession of greater heat than eyes of any other color, and Nasir must have felt the flames for he looked up after only a moment.

He did not avert his eyes, but stared Agron down in stubborn refusal to break contact first. He is admirable in that as well. A stubborn spirit and fine eyes…finer hips…

He was jerked from that dark gaze when there was a movement too close to his right side.

He could not hold back and snarled a little as he turned his gaze to the one who sought to ambush him. There were the high-pitched shrieks of frightened women as the slim woman in front of him shuddered at his expression. Batiatus’ wife’s face was the color of the marble floors, such was her horror.

Fuck the gods, he thought with dread and regret at his own volatile nature, I am to be flogged in the future then…

“Licinia, sincerest apologies!” His domina recovered and her face had taken on the same fucking absurd red of her fake hair. “I will have him taken back to the ludus immedi—!”

Before the bitch could call any guards to drag Agron from sight, the woman he had frightened simply held up one hand for silence. Serves the bitch right, Agron thought with venomous joy on seeing his domina’s expression, see how you like it, being fucking ordered around like a dog.

The woman who shushed her gazed at Agron with keen interest and even some measure of respect.

“I saw you in the arena this day.” She spoke directly to him, something highly unusual among high-class fucks who usually spoke of gladiators as if they were soulless objects. “You are Agron, that wolf in the arena who can fight without armor and live to snarl at the gods.” He remained silent until she realized. “Speak gladiator. You are Agron, no?”

“I am.” He responded, refusing to break gaze. “And I will bare teeth again. Until life’s blood spills to a worthy opponent.”

It seemed the right thing to say, as the woman smiled.

“I quite like him.” The she announced, placing a jewel-encrusted hand over her breast as she turned her attentions from Agron to her group of astonished friends. “He does not hide his nature as the others do; a true gladiator and a warrior even surrounded by marble instead of blood and shit. I look forward to seeing this wild one in the arena again. Perhaps I should bring my husband next time. He likes barbarity as much as any gladiator.”

Batiatus’ wife looked overwhelmed with such an offer. “It would be our distinct pleasure to host your esteemed—.”

The woman cut her off mid-sentence, by continuing on to Rhaskos at Agron’s left, making some other comment to her friends. Agron breathed a sigh of relief at his small bit of good fortune and slowly returned his eyes to that dark corner he had been so transfixed by earlier.

Nasir was still looking at him, his fists clenched on the thin white cloth that wrapped around his hips. It could have been a trick of the flickering shadows, but Agron thought he saw Nasir give a small nod of his head, as if acknowledging Agron’s blessing of fate.

Then the boy looked away, steeling himself again for whatever the night held for him.

Survive.

Nasir breathed a sigh of relief as every honored guest bid farewell to his dominus and retired to their own accommodations in Capua. The relief was spared for every man he considered a friend amongst the champions and every female house slave who was kind to him, that they would not be forced to do anything other than stand in a golden tableaux and stare ahead with unseeing eyes.

Despite his bone-tired exhaustion, he moved swiftly to help Mira clear away the empty goblets and dirtied plates. No matter if he had arisen before dawn, he would not be allowed to return to his bed until all signs of a party were cleared away.

He envied Pietros his bruised ass and freedom from such drudgery.

He passed by the gladiators as they were on their way to the baths to scrub off their golden paint when a firm hand gripped the upper part of his arm and pulled him to a halt.

It was Crixus and Nasir took a breath to steady his frightened heart.

“You would break words?” He whispered, hoping the guards would not notice Crixus lagging behind.

“Quickly broken.” Crixus whispered with all urgency. “If they return us to the ludus before your duties have finished, I will have someone stand by the gates to return you to your rooms untouched.”

“Gratitude.” Nasir smiled quickly before the two broke apart and Crixus walked towards the baths. In his haste, he nearly collided with Naevia and caught the fine bowl in her arms before she dropped it to the floor. Nasir allowed himself a moment of good humor at the sight of Crixus struck to wordlessness in the face of Naevia’s blush and wide, warm eyes. It was a rare thing indeed, to see a gladiator caught off his guard.

His body worked absent his mind as he set the villa’s atrium to order.

His focus—or lack thereof—almost caused him to miss the call of his dominus. Only a sharp elbow from Mira had him at attention and brought him scurrying to Batiatus’ side before the man was forced to call for him a second time.

“Dominus?” He asked, bowing his head submissively as he entered into one of the more private rooms, a room for documents and sums by the sheer amount of paper on the tables. He bit back surprise when he noticed Ashur’s familiar form lurking in the corner. “You called for me?”

“I did,” Batiatus responded with all the authority of a man who had just mingled with the echeleons of high society. “You have proved yourself adept in the needs of great houses and important functions.”

It was meant to sound as a compliment to Nasir but Nasir could detect the acknowledgment Batiatus sought: for Nasir to name his house as great and important. He had to answer carefully.

“It…it is an honor to serve.”

Batiatus set his papers to the side and stood. He had already changed from his lavish crimson and gold robes into simpler garments that were obviously preparation for bed. Nasir breathed evenly, hoping that Batiatus did not find baser comforts between the legs of young men.

He let no emotion show as he was inspected.

“Gladiators,” he spoke after giving pause, “appear to the common man as gods. But in the House of Batiatus, we are under no such misconceptions. Gladiators bleed like any other man, grow weak as the common man, and can even be brought to heel in the face of Roman wealth and might.” He lifted Nasir by the chin, searching his face for something and looking mildly displeased when it did not reveal itself immediately. “In any case, I never want it to be said that I am not a lanista who disregards the…needs of his champions.”

When the silence continued at length, Nasir felt as though an answer was expected of him. “I…Forgive me, how am I to be of assistance in this?”

Batiatus sighed in annoyance and strode back to his desk. Nasir heard the telltale sound of heavy coin and then an order. “Ashur. Let the whores in and see the rest paid.”

“Dominus.” Ashur said in his oily way, and he laughed under his breath as he passed Nasir.

Batiatus sat again before addressing Nasir. “The hour grows late so I will be brief. After these games, the men are supplied with wine and whores as supplementary prizes to gold. One champion has expressed interest towards having you join him in the night.”

Nasir’s breath froze in his throat. “And who would seek to ask such a thing of me?”

He could think of no man from whom he would relish the invitation but Batiatus’ answer made him feel as though he had dropped into the infamous Pits. “Gnaeus, my prized retiarus.”

Nasir knew of him and Pietros had put the fear of the gods into Nasir’s heart when it came to the man.

Pietros had been tying back Nasir’s hair with gentle, quick hands when the man walked by outside of their door and locked eyes with Nasir. Though his eyes were dark and devoid of any good humor, he at least kept his hands and tongue to himself, content it seemed to merely stare.

When Gnaeus had moved on and Nasir admitted as much, Pietros had gripped him by the shoulders and explained the violence in that form.

He had told Nasir of the time Gnaeus had bought the services of a Phoenician boy-whore after his first major victory in the arena. How the young man had screamed so brutally, his cries so chilling that Gannicus—with his firm moral compass and respect for prostitutes—had been unable to stand idle. He had relieved the whore of Gnaeus’ company.

Gannicus did not give explicit detail as to what had been done, but his expression upon return was implicit.

Gnaeus caused pain for the pleasure of the power he felt, Pietros said. He was cruel in nature and Nasir recognized the chilling symptoms of other wealthy Romans he had had the displeasure of meeting. Such men would not be content unless their bedmate, bought or willing, was in some form of distress.

It would not be enough to lie back and remain blank for such men. They would not be sated unless they heard screams and saw blood and tears on their fine sheets.

Nasir had embraced Pietros in thanks and understanding, avoiding Gnaeus like the plague afterwards.

But now all warnings were to shit.

Batiatus was waiting for an answer and Nasir found himself absent words or even the ability to speak. In his desperation, he felt a lie fall to his lips, willing to risk being beaten if caught. Such a fate was preferable to being beaten and raped in a single night.

He bowed his head so his eyes did not give him away.

“Forgive me Dominus, but another has claimed my attentions for the night.”

“I had not heard.” Batiatus sounded slightly displeased; perhaps even though he had forgotten of Nasir’s existence, he did not relish the idea of him making choices in the ludus absent his master’s permission. “And who is the champion who would seek your service?”

Nasir forced his mind to work very quickly.

He would have to name a champion stronger and with more value than Gnaeus. Someone who was not known to favor women, but would not touch him. Someone who was mad enough to remain uncaring in the face of his dominus’ potential displeasure. A name jumped to mind immediately alongside those feral green eyes and he gritted his teeth.

“Agron, dominus.”

Chapter Text

VI.

Agron had quite a long list of people he hated. Unfortunate day indeed, to have to deal with dominus, Romans, shit-Gauls, and guards all in the same day.

He had been prone in his cell as his brother and Donar drank piss wine, and attempted to drown out the moaning of whores. Despite the fact that he was clean and scrubbed of paint, he still felt dirty from the very gaze of Rome and could not wait to greet the next day with sweat on his brow and blood on his hands.

It was here that the guards found him.

“You are Agron, no?” One of them asked in a commanding tone. Agron only opened one eye by way of response, his lips curling in distaste.

“Who asks?” Duro blustered, alcohol giving his already uninhibited tongue a dash of liquid courage. He yelped in anger as the guard pushed him back by the chest and wine sloshed onto the floor. Agron snarled fully and got to his feet, towering over both guards.

“You’ve been summoned.”

Agron clenched the bars of his room, wishing he could rip them from the wall. “By whom?”

Fucking guards, weak as they were, liked the power to ignore the gladiators and order them about, and these ones simply rapped the bars with the hilt of their gladius’ as if rattling a wolf’s cage.

“You’re to come with us, fucker. If you’ve plans to be difficult, abandon them now.”

“Watch my brother.” Agron requested from Donar, who could handle his wine better than Duro.

The doors to the room were unlocked and Agron was flanked on either side by the shit guards. He found the arrangement rather amusing, as he was taller and stronger than the both of them. He could have their throats open in half a moment but he was curious to see where they were taking him.

A familiar path, Agron felt something like disbelief, victory, and nervousness brewing deep in the pit of his stomach as he was led closer and closer to the ludus slave room.

Before Agron could truly process where he was, the door was wrenched open and he was pushed inside. The guards made some sort of lewd comment, but Agron did not hear it as he was transfixed by the other person in the room.

Nasir was tucked in the corner of the room furthest from his bed, still in his insubstantial garb from the party; he was tense, the lean muscles of his body coiled tight. His dark eyes were lined with darker kohl and Agron finally realized that the effect, so commonly employed by whores, was used to make the eyes wider. Nasir’s eyes appeared enormous as they darted between Agron’s form and the closed door. He looked exhausted.

And scared. He looks fucking terrified.

“What is this?” He asked, taking care not to curse. But even so, Nasir could not hide a shudder that rippled swiftly through his arms. Agron felt immediate guilt. Me. He is afraid of me. “Why have I been pulled from slumber and brought here?”

Despite his obvious terror, Nasir composed his expression into something calm but still defiant.

“I…had wondered if your offer still stood.” When Agron did not respond—it was due to disbelief and not forgetfulness—Nasir colored deep in his cheeks and gave further detail. “Within my first week here, you offered to…you offered protection under guise of being bedmates. I had wondered…if you were still of a mind.”

Agron thought for a moment, his mind quicker in lack of anger than many gave him credit for. Nasir must have been truly gripped by desperation to accept such an offer, and this meant that someone must have forced his hand.

You are the preferable choice, and he felt a bit of anger burn wondering who the other fuck was who sought the boy’s company.

“It does.”

“Then I accept it.”

Agron nodded slowly, his exhausted mind struggling to keep pace. And he took a step towards the bed.

Nasir pressed himself back tighter in the corner, as if he intended to sink into the rock and plaster. His expression remained defiant but the tremor in his voice was unmistakeable. “No.”

Agron paused. For some reason, he disliked the idea of fear on this boy. He would see it soothed if he was able; he was not known for his tact in speech. “I seek sleep and nothing more. And my right hand is of the sweeter temperament when it comes to the care of cock.” It was the wrong thing to say as Nasir’s eyes narrowed over the jab at his fiery nature. Agron quickly tried to make amends as he inched towards the bed. “Little man, I swear on the old gods of my homeland, on my life, no harm will come to you this night. Not by my hand or any other.” He made a sign over his chest with his hand as the people did in his country when sealing an oath. “In my village if shit bastards fuck with a woman unwilling they will find themselves absent hands or cock.”

“A thing taught from experience?” Fiesty shit.

Agron felt a liquid bit of fire in his chest that was not entirely unpleasant. “You must be absent eyes if you saw me unclothed and think me anything less than perfect in…form.” He smiled at his own wild confidence and the look of baffled embarrassment and anger that it caused Nasir. Leap from that wall and tear at me with your claws, little thing.

Instead, the fear became more pronounced in his wide eyes and Agron cursed his fool attempt to charm; he and Duro were not known for skill with their tongues unless it was between a lover’s legs.

“My mother.” He amended. “My mother told us only cowards and monsters used violent hands for…fucking. I would not see her disappointed this day…or any other.”

Before he could judge Nasir’s reaction to this reassurance, Agron felt shame for having revealed something so close to a stranger. Duro, his language, his homeland, his past…such things were preciously guarded and he felt himself a fool for baring them so quickly in the face of wide eyes and a pleasantly sharp tongue. He rolled over on the bed so he was facing the wall, leaving plenty of room so Nasir could lie next to him without touching him.

“I am to slumber. Join me if you wish…or sleep in the corner. I care not.”

Agron did not fall asleep as swiftly as normal as he listened for any sound of movement from the corner but it did come eventually. His back relaxed, his limbs going slack and he began to breathe at a steady, even pace.

He had almost fallen to slumber when the bed creaked under the weight of another body and he could feel the warmth coming from bare dark skin.

Nasir gave a small sigh and curled up so that not a single part of him touched Agron.

But it was a victory in any case and Agron smiled before surrendering.

The ludus slaves had a better bed than what was given to the gladiators, or perhaps…it was more likely his brothers were a great deal less gentle with their things than Pietros and Nasir were and that space was so scarce when sharing a room with four large men. And Agron had been of the very helpful constitution since the bloom of manhood that he could sleep deeply when laid across a flat surface but wake up into alertness at the slightest commotion.

And this silence, devoid of deep snores and moaning and hushed conversation, was of the gods.

And it was so pleasantly warm, not drafty in the least.

Agron nestled deeper into the bedding and did not wake until his body was rested and knew instinctively that dawn was fast approaching. He stretched out his arms and legs and took a moment to gain his bearings.

He was facing the stone wall and there was a great deal of heat concentrated on his lower back. Remembering the events of the night, Agron turned slowly and looked behind him to see what kind of snarl would be awaiting for him.

Great was his surprise when he glanced over his shoulder and saw Nasir curled up behind him, still deep in the throes of slumber.

His face looked even younger in sleep and, though he was close enough for his heat to soak Agron, he was strategically positioned so that not a single part of him, save the long strands of his hair were touching Agron’s bare skin.

The boy is not so unpleasant when given to slumber and his body would fit pleasantly in larger arms....

His fingers itched to clear the dark strands from Nasir’s eyes but he would not risk waking him and incurring both wrath and distrust. This arrangement had to be handled with utmost care and he took care to remember that he was promised a favor in return. It would take a great deal of effort on both of their parts to make the arrangement believable to hungry eyes.

He thought long on this, alternating between glancing at the boy behind him and watching the crack under the door grow steadily lighter with the approach of dawn.

Because he was watching the door, he noticed when it slowly creaked open, someone attempting to enter.

The sensible side of Agron’s mind, small though it was, immediately realized that any interloper would think them to be in the hazy, boneless aftermath of fucking and the fact that they were both clothed would arouse suspicion. In one swift motion he slipped the subligaria from his waist, tossing it to the floor, rolled so he was facing Nasir, and roped his arms round the slim body, turning himself so Nasir was shielded from view.

It was rough enough motion to pull Nasir from dreams and he began to fight a little against Agron’s grip.

But Agron was too busy to notice.

The rest of his mind was consumed with liquid-hot fury. He held no claim to Nasir other than this relationship of protection he had offered but…he meant as he said and he was a protective man by nature. Whichever fucker sought to put hands on the Syrian man in his arms would soon find themselves mired in piss and shit. They will not even fucking lay eyes on his body.

His voice was the growl of a beast, such that even Nasir went still and silent in his arms.

“See yourself away from sight or find yourself absent teeth.”

“My brother would take offense to such threats.” Came a familiar voice and Argon looked over his shoulder to see Duro peeking around the doorframe. “Threats made less intimidating when one’s entire ass is bare as a whore’s.”

“Duro. What presses you to arrive before the sun?”

“The others are waking. Your absence will soon be noted.” Duro knew how much Agron disliked being at the center of attentions in the ludus. “And…” His eyes flicked to the dark hips barely visible behind Agron’s massive form, “I have questions, obviously.”

“See yourself to the grounds,” Agron hissed, although there was no bite to it, “I shall join you and Donar shortly.”

Duro smirked victoriously as he left the room, always pleased when Agron found a pretty, pliant boy to share his bed. Agron only hoped his foolish, beloved brother did not start a brawl for the sake of a few more moments of intimate companionship.

His form is made all the more pleasant when pressed closer.

Agron looked down to his arms and met eyes that were now wide-awake, filled with annoyance that had replaced the fear. His skin was warm and dry, soft from the oils of the party the night before. “Apologies for waking you.” Agron murmured in his most gentle tone though he did not relinquish Nasir.

“Your brother speaks truly.” Nasir’s voice was still thick with sleep and discomfort. “It would do no good to unduly arouse suspicion…” He attempted to push away from Agron, perhaps just now noticing that the very impressive body holding him still was devoid of clothing, as his blush was very pronounced.

Agron’s arms remained unflinchingly in place and Nasir looked up at him in alarm.

Agron was feeling unusually bold after such excellent rest. “If we are to have the ludus believe you share my bed…I would ask some things of you.”

“Water!”

Nasir ground his teeth as he heard the familiar voice call to him. He wished desperately that he could ignore the command but his brief discussion this morning made him think that this could help their foolish façade. Pietros looked at him in confusion as he stood with a clenched jaw and fists.

There was a rush of breath and Nasir could feel the eyes of a hundred men on his bare back as he ladled fresh water into one of their simple clay cups.

It took everything in his power not to slam the cup onto the table and he took a deep breath to steady himself as a warm, heavy arm draped across his waist.

“Gratitude.” Agron smiled softly into the cup as he drank it all in one motion.

Nasir privately wished the man would choke on his drink and that Donar would pick up his jaw from off the table. He snatched the empty cup back the moment it was offered and had to keep from turning to smash it into Agron’s face when he felt a light slap on his ass by way of farewell. The man took liberties with so fragile an alliance…

The looks on the faces of the men who shared his table were almost comical.

Barca had a smirk as if he had expected this outcome while Pietros was looking at him in bald-faced shock. Gannicus, who refused to trust in coincidence, glanced from Agron to Nasir as if trying to discern when affections had so drastically changed and Crixus glared at Agron with an expression that could optimistically be called disgust. Spartacus and Varro carefully avoided staring.

The moment the meal had concluded, Pietros had yanked him off to collect bloody, filthy clothes for the wash and to question him at length.

“Nasir, you said you had no interest in taking gladiators to your bed and yet you find favor in Agron? I thought you to hold the man in disregard.”

Nasir refused to meet prying eyes as he attempted not to think on the foul stains on many of the garments he collected. “A relationship borne of necessity and he was as a god in comparison to the alternative.” Grudgingly Nasir admitted to himself that Agron was not difficult to look at in comparison to some of his brothers…

Pietros, the oracle he should have been, was somehow able to divine thoughts from Nasir’s expression. His tone was light, deceptively so. “He does possess a pleasing smile and a rare form. His eyes too are of unique coloring…”

“Do not try to warm me to the man!” Nasir threw some rag at Pietros. “Your imaginings would have you in a state if Barca overhears.”

“My lover is not here and your evasion only feeds curiosity.” Pietros, wicked beneath his sweet exterior, was trying to goad him into giving detail. “Tell me, was he…of a size? Thighs so firm are sure to have an equal between them.”

Nasir flushed then remembering that he had been witness to the man’s naked body twice in a single day.

He had spared it no more than a glance during the painting inside the villa, as each gladiator was muscled heavy. But it was something else to ignore when ripped from dreams and find oneself crushed up against it.

His arms were inescapable, his chest massive enough to shield Nasir completely from view, and…a cock was difficult to ignore when pressed firmly against his bare thigh…

Nasir did pity whichever poor, foolish boy fell prey to those fiery green eyes and that heavy cock. The ache in his hips would rival the ache of his mind when having to deal with the man’s whip-quick, lewd tongue.

“He did not fuck me, Pietros.” Nasir sighed, already tired at the very thought of his new bedmate. “Nor will he ever, if I have any say in the matter.”

Pietros shrugged at Nasir’s stubbornness. “In any case, if these garments are example,” he held up a particularly horrifying one between his thumb and forefinger, “you may find the man a more pleasant bed companion absent subligaria.”

Nasir could not choke back a laugh and the two fell to helpless laughter.

That evening after Pietros had slipped to Barca’s side, Nasir stood with his back leaning against his door glaring as Agron lounged across his bed. At least Nasir felt more comfortable when escape was so close.

Agron stretched, his muscles flexing under sun-darkened skin and looked up at Nasir with his serious green gaze. When he stood in that alarmingly quick way of his, it seemed as though his form took up the entire room and Nasir wished for a moment he could melt into the wood grain of the door. Out of habit, his lip curled.

“You would break words in regards to our…” he did not want to give the man even a glimpse of hope as to their situation, “arrangement.”

“I would.” Agron grinned in that manical way of his that made Nasir think every suggestion would benefit the man in some way. “I keep Batiatus in such coin that he seems to find no fault in me sharing your quarters. But if my brothers are to believe that you are kept by me, then precautions are to be put in place or I will be fighting every fuck who is after your ass.”

“And your recommendations?” Nasir hissed.

Agron appeared delighted to explain. “Attend me first in any request: water, food, company…Trot after me as obedient dog. If disbelieving fucks still provide trouble then add kisses to completed requests. Withstand my own roaming hands and I swear none other than mine will trouble you. I take such liberties only out of obligation.”

“I am to play as delightful whore then?” Nasir could not help but snarl at such a distasteful set of rules.

“Play as Pietros,” Agron corrected, not losing his smile, which somehow irritated Nasir even more, “whenever Barca has him at heel. Limp in the mornings, follow my form with your eyes, put your hands on me at any opportunity. And fuck the gods, look not so bitter when sharing company.” With a quick hand and a firm grip, Agron held Nasir’s jaw and pushed up at the corners of his lips to simulate smile. Nasir ached to bite him and Agron laughed at the expression.

“You need not pretend now. I find dog’s bark charming.”

“And of the bite?” Nasir shook his head so Agron released him.

“Something to be remedied later. Commit to memory that my brother I hold more dear than my own freedom. If given choice, I will choose him without sway.”

“You make heart clear.” Nasir responded. “Should Duro be in peril, I will take care to make myself scarce.” Then came the part he dreaded more than any other. “And as to your side of the bargain…”

“I will wait to ask anything of you…Nasir.” His name sounded odd from Agron’s mouth. “Do not think to cross me on this.”

“You find me so dishonorable?”

Agron chewed thoughtfully on the nail of his thumb. “Opinions cultivated of Syrians as a whole…” Ashur, Nasir thought, though the name remained unspoken. “I swear as before that if you do as I ask then I will see you safe from harm so long as I remain in the ludus.”

“You are fool to think of leaving.” Still, his utter sincerity was a relief and Nasir felt his tension uncoil and release his muscles. He even felt safe enough to smile to himself.

Of course, Agron, wicked as he was, would seek to throw him into the pits of anger again. His cheek dimpled as he grinned.

“If your lips are so quick with a hiss, I wonder if there is any sweetness to them at all.” Nasir opened his mouth to argue back when Agron closed the gap between them with alarming speed.

Agron filled his senses.

The smell was mostly clean, the slight tang of sweat and the earthy smell of sand clung to him but it was not unpleasant. A rumble echoed through his massive chest down Nasir’s spine, like the purr of a giant cat. Green eyes, glinting fire filled Nasir’s vision, and the taste of the gladiator’s mouth filled his as Agron tilted his chin up with one gentle hand and kissed him full on the mouth.

Nasir had honestly never been kissed before.

It was something only freemen were promised: to kiss a parent, a spouse…a lover. Something slaves were not often allowed. It was warm.

His body froze and his mouth opened in a gasp that let a slippery tongue dart past his teeth and lap at the sensitive flesh on the roof of his mouth. He could feel Agron smile against his lips and the soft warmth turned to a blaze of hot fury.

With all his strength, all his fury, Nasir put both palms flat on Agron’s chest, fingers grazing a smooth crescent of scar tissue over the man’s heart, and pushed.

Normally Agron would probably be as unmoveable as the stone walls themselves but he obediently allowed himself to be shoved backwards. His quick tongue ran across his bottom lip as though he were tasting whatever was left of Nasir on his lips. His smile was victorious.

Nasir was shaking with fury. “Have you lost fucking mind?”

“At least you kiss like a man and not a boy.” Agron shrugged.

“Do it again and find yourself absent tongue by way of my teeth.” Nasir was so angry he felt as though he could he could kill a gladiator in that moment. It did not help that Agron continued to smile at him. A cat toying with a mouse.

“For appearances, I would see skill increase.” Agron waved away Nasir’s concerns with one large hand. “And…for anyone who would disturb us in dreams or before the dawn…another precaution.” Nasir felt his brow furrow in disbelief as Agron turned his back and his hands went to his hips. In a few tugs his subligaria fell to the floor and Nasir was faced with an annoyingly muscular back and ass. Agron was not self-conscious in the least as he kicked his garments aside and lay in their shared bed. “To make convincing lovers I would have others see us in passionate embrace.”

“Absent clothing.” Nasir said slowly comprehending his fate.

“Falsehood made believable with protection of my arms.” He commented as though remarking on the weather. “I swore, I wil not lay lustful hand on you. I would not break trust on second night spent together.”

He sounded so very sincere but Nasir could not reconcile that with the way the man stared so openly. Only Romans had ever stared so.

Nasir snuffed the largest torch, leaving only one small candle burning by way of light, before he slipped the trousers from his waist and stumbled to his bed. Despite the lack of light, he still felt that green gaze sinking into his bare skin, as if the man before him was as a god and could truly see in the dark.

Chapter Text

VII.

Agron tried not to be too pleased by the arrangement.

But it was difficult when the man in his arms had a body warm as liquid sunlight. Even more difficult when he remembered that he had not had someone sweet in his bed in so long…

The wide, wicked streak in him liked to call the young man over in the sands to watch his hips twitch in annoyance and see the smile like poisoned wine as Agron pulled him close. He did not often kiss Nasir but had been so long and he so liked needling the Syrian boy that when he kissed him, Agron gently nursed Nasir’s bottom lip with his teeth. He smiled when Nasir bit hard at his quick tongue. The displays were such that even Spartacus looked as though he were questioning the sincerity of the relationship.

“Skill has much improved.” Agron commented against Nasir’s lips after he had reached one arm through the bars of the door and pulled that slim form to him for show of a potential last meal.

“One of us had to.” Nasir responded, smile gentle but eyes burning with the injustice of his situation. He glared at none and all as whistles and shouts of encouragement rang wicked from Agron’s brothers.

Another fucking day to fight in the sun…and he to Roman beck and call.

Surely Batiatus would soon run out of ‘worthy’ fucks for the lot of them to kill or his guests would grow bored of overripe attentions. The sooner then that his panic for Duro would wane and things in the ludus would return to as they were.

“Return to bed the moment they release you.” Agron spoke loud enough for any bold fucks to hear. “I shall have great need of you when heat rages from wake of battle.” Only he saw the snarl that curled at Nasir’s kiss-swollen lips.

“As you say.”

He spared no second glance for Agron as he moved past the gates to where the dark-skinned house slave waited to escort him to the villa.

If the Syrian is lucky then dominus will notice his skills and take him where he fucking belongs. Out of this ludus and far from sight and mind. He rubbed the lingering moisture from his lips and pretended he did not see as Nasir subtly wiped his own lips with the back of his arm.

Though the kiss and Nasir’s cheeky reaction kept him in good humor during his own bouts in the arena, all lightness in him was rapidly extinguished when Duro took to the sands.

By the grace of the old gods, he missed the swing of an axe only to stumble backwards as the edge of a shield was smashed firmly into the tip of his nose. Agron saw the spray of beloved blood and felt the roar echo from his toes as he attempted the wrest the iron bars from their moorings.

Spartacus and Varro attempted to pull him back, but Agron would not be moved until he saw Donar slay the man advancing on his brother.

He embraced Donar upon the man’s return, uncaring of the blood that stained his skin. Donar pushed aside any thanks that Agron could offer—“I would slay any who lay hands on my brothers”—as Duro stalked past the both of them in a foul temper. Agron caught up to him in the halls and startled back as Duro refused touch of camaraderie.

“Do not offer fucking hollow words.” Duro hissed in frustration.

At first Agron had wanted to offer words of relief that his brother had survived another afternoon on the sands absent his help but any argument raised his hackle and he felt himself losing what little patience he possessed.

“If you do not keep your fucking temper then the next bout may see head parted from shoulders.”

“I would rather die in glory of battle than be returned to suckle teat as you would wish of me.” Duro spat a mouthful of blood to ground. Agron felt rage war even harder with his love and relief.

“I wish to see you live another day when you fight absent my help! Pull head from ass and—.”

“I am not mere babe or unbroken boy!” Duro interrupted, wiping the blood from his lips and chin. “I do not need you to fight battles for me. If you seek to shelter helpless boys, turn to your Syrian bedwarmer. I am to women and wine for the night.” There was no surer way to alert Agron that his company was not welcomed in their shared room: he hated when Duro and Donar brought perfumed whores into their shared room.

He stood agog as Duro strode quickly from him, back to the baths and Donar lamely patted his shoulder.

“He envies your skill and ease of battle. A night apart spent in sweet company will thaw ill feelings.”

Though Donar spoke the truth, Agron was still bitter as he made his way to Nasir’s little room. His only reason to fight as he did was in the hopes that he and Duro could be freed. Duro was his only reason for living and it was difficult to maintain hope when his brother seemed intent to be slain on the sands of the arena.

Nasir had not returned to their shared room yet and Agron tossed himself back on their shared bed and attempted to calm his temper before the boy returned.

Agron must have nodded off but jolted from the bed as the flimsy door was thrown open without even the courtesy of a knock. He was pleased in himself for not pre-emptively removing his subligaria as he found himself staring at one of the most distasteful of his brothers.

Ashur smiled pleasantly, a Roman smile that belied greed and wicked intent. For that alone, Agron was disinclined to like the man.

But his fury truly rose to a fever pitch when he saw the man had Nasir by the forearm, dragging him along as if he were a petulant child. Agron would have broken his fingers to see Nasir released if Ashur had not tossed him roughly into the room.

Nasir stumbled over an uneven stone, but Agron was quick enough to catch and steady the man, glaring over his head at the Syrian rat.

Ashur folded his arms. “I’ve returned your whore.”

Agron pushed Nasir behind him while taking a menacing step toward the man so bold to test his barely recovered patience. He would find it a shallow pool indeed. “He is no whore.” He snarled, rage burning behind his eyes when Ashur merely smiled at his threatening posture.

“Otherwise I would speak to you of my missing payment.” Nasir hissed in response and Agron had to fight very hard not to have his lip quirk up in a quick smile. By gods, his tongue is faster than doctore’s whip.

But Ashur was not to be undone.

“I judge not by coin collected but by the amount of cocks forced between fucking lips.”

Nasir outright hissed, but Agron felt him flinch from such poisonous accusations. As he deciphered the play of words through his haze of anger, the rage only seemed to grow as he did not care for such insults. He stepped quickly to the door and glared down at Ashur.

“See yourself from sight or find tongue deservedly ripped from fucking mouth.”

Though his mouth could keep pace with Nasir’s, Ashur was the weakest of the brotherhood and he damn well knew it. His smile faltered as Agron towered over him, his face a twisted mask of fury. I could kill you and it would be fucking simple. Not a soul would mourn your loss, Syrian cunt.

“Of course.” Ashur took a step backwards and Agron slammed the door in his face before he could open his poison mouth again.

He whirled back to face Nasir and did not like what he saw. Though that pretty face was still openly defiant and glaring, his arms were crossed over his chest to provide pale protection against words that probably sliced deep. The shadows hid any pain or shame in his eyes but Agron was sure it was present. They did what they must to survive…but it does not sting any less.

And speaking of fucking shadows…

Agron saw the shadows linger under the doorframe and recalled how Ashur liked to linger in the darkness and listen for things that did not fucking concern him. Agron wanted him away immediately so that he and Nasir could speak without fear.

Nasir yelped as Agron snatched him by the arm and tossed him to their pallet; it creaked as though it might break under his weight. Agron leapt on top of him before he could recover and attempt to escape. Nasir looked as though he might scream and fight, so Agron pinned him, covering his quick mouth with one hand.

“Trust me.” He hissed to Nasir, and met with narrowed, distrustful eyes.

The moment he released Nasir’s mouth, the boy did exactly as he had expected and began to curse at him, demanding to be let free. Over this racket, Agron began to move his body in a rhythm, causing the bed to creak accordingly and Nasir yelped again as Agron flipped him onto his stomach, adding his own grunts to the cacophony.

Listen carefully you Syrian shit and keep your filthy hands off what I’ve claimed as mine.

The shadow moved under the door and Agron swore in his native tongue. “Wait here.” He ordered, tossing a blanket over Nasir’s hips before kissing his open, outraged mouth so deeply that it stirred in his hips.

He leapt from the bed, covering half the distance to the door in one lunge, and tossed his subligaria to the corner of the room. If need be he would bludgeon Ashur to death with his cock.

The man smiled at Agron’s fury though it faltered a bit at the size of Agron.

Agron grinned back, knowing that he looked absolutely insane as he did so. “If you value promise of tomorrow, see yourself from sight.” There was a cruel sort of elation in his chest as he watched Ashur scurry away back into the darkness where he belonged. Far from Agron’s sight. Far from us both.

Nasir decided that he hated Ashur.

If not for the way he lapped at Naevia with his eyes or stared with soft, cruel delight as Mira was pulled reluctantly into some dark, secluded corner, then for the way he glared in judgement as Nasir returned to the main atrium wiping his own lips or the way Ashur manhandled him back to the ludus. It seemed he held himself in higher esteem than the other slaves in Batiatus’ house as if he himself were not also enslaved.

When he attempted to order Nasir to do something he found distasteful and Nasir told him as much, he received a hard elbow to the gut and a rough escort back to his room.

His anger and bitterness that he shared common lineage with such a man was lessened slightly when Ashur cowered away from Agron’s furious form.

It was such a satisfying feeling to watch the coward run from the scent of challenge that Nasir could almost be tempted to forgive Agron for tossing him back onto the bed and pretending to have him loudly. Almost.

Nasir averted his eyes as Agron slammed the door shut and turned, uncaring that he was nude and partly aroused; he did not pause to scoop up his discarded subligaria either. The anger had left his features and now he simply looked tired as he ran his hands through his hair.

Before he could sit back on the bed, Nasir suddenly remembered the foul taste in his mouth and ached to have it gone. “Have we any wine?” Agron looked at him as though he had forgotten Nasir’s presence. “Or water?”

Agron blinked before plodding over to the small table and pouring Nasir a cup of water.

“Gratitude.”

Nasir kept his eyes downcast as he drank and Agron sighed. “The gods shit on the both of us, apparently.” The bed creaked under his weight. “Had I known that Syrian fuck would be the one to bring you back I would have kept my blade. Apologies for…my earlier deception, if I was rough. I only wished him gone from sight.”

A large hand touched his shoulder and Nasir flinched from the contact. His face had healed back to its’ former ‘glory’ and some in the banquet had taken distinct notice; he had had quite enough touch for the evening. He moved so quickly that the new soreness in his stomach—courtesy of that Syrian bastard—pierced his organs and he curled in on himself.

Agron, with his chilling reflexes, caught the cup before it shattered on the floor.

“You are hurt?”

“It is nothing.” Nasir amended quickly. He did not want to subject himself to further scrutiny and risk more embarrassing wounds to be displayed. “It is as you say: the gods see fit to wound us both this day.” Now that his cup was emptied, all he wished to do was to curl up on his side and fall to slumber but he had inadvertently sparked Agron’s dogged concern.

“Let me see.”

“It does not concern you.” Nasir hissed, annoyed for no reason other than he wished to be left alone.

“It should if you seek to retain me as guard.” Agron insisted in a voice that was eerily calm for him. “Give balm to my worry or honor binds me to find the fuck who put hands on you and put the fear of the gods in his heart.”

Nasir ground his teeth together but he did not relish the idea of being left alone. Or being called back up to that fucking villa to answer for violence not of his own doing. He lay back on the bed.

Agron crouched beside him and Nasir quickly swiveled his eyes away. “Shameless fuck. Can you not fetch subligaria when cock is at eye level?”

“Worry not.” Agron laughed softly. “Your tongue wilts cock to submission. Be still.”

“You play medicus now?” Nasir hissed through his teeth as rough fingertips pushed down on his stomach. Agron removed his fingers after judging the size and pain of the bruise that was sure to appear the next day.

“It is good that our fucking dominus did not summon me this day. Added to prior slights, I might have seen back subject to a whip’s attention had I gotten hold of the man who did this. It will bruise for a week; discomfort will last two nights at most.”

“Would that it lasted longer.” Nasir murmured to himself, ignoring Agron’s offered hand as he sat up.

“Dominus would scarce be pleased if you scarred as gladiators did.” Agron responded, moving to snuff out the torch. “You would never escape to the comforts of the fucking villa with marred skin.” Nasir moved from the bed to remove his wrap and undo his hair as the room was plunged to darkness; he desperately hoped that the stink of perfumed oil did not linger telltale on his body.

A breeze brushed his bare skin and the pallet creaked under substantial weight. Nasir felt a little safer in the darkness.

“I find…the ludus offers protections not admitted in the villa. A slave is a slave whether he kneels on marble or on sand.”

It took Agron a moment and all he could offer was a stiff, “Oh,” in realization.

Nasir groped in the darkness for the edge of the pallet as his eyes adjusted and Agron must have seen or felt the shadow of his fingers as one quick hand snatched his fingertips and guided him forward. Nasir made sure to dig his knee into Agron’s flank as he rolled over him.

“Fuck the gods…” Agron grumbled as Nasir settled next to him, making sure not to touch a single inch of his bare skin.

“Your brother vexes you?” Nasir guessed before he could stop himself.

Agron’s massive body stiffened next to him and Nasir cursed his inability to hold tongue around the man. He could not care—he did not care about anything other than his safety. And though he had never hurt him and Nasir was beginning to trust that he never would, Agron was volatile.

“How did you know?” Agron merely sounded tired.

“You said yourself he was dearer to you than foolish dreams of freedom. What could cast you into such spells of despair but a brother who wields tongue with less skill than sword?”

Nasir expected reprimanding for his quick mouth but Agron did not move to hurt him.

“If he should fall under collar of slavery, I would see this house razed to the ground.”

“It is known amongst house slaves and body slaves alike that it is impossible to protect all.” His cynical view, harsh as it sounded, came from years of seeing valued allies used and abused and sent to the mines. “Gladiators seem unable to grasp such simple concepts.”

“You hold so little faith in me?” Agron laughed in disbelief.

Nasir rolled to face him and he swore he could see Agron’s eyes glowing green in the darkness. “I cannot place trust in men who can only find glory and honor in death and bloodshed. If you were so much as injured in the arena…I would find unwelcome shadows in my room that very night.”

Agron lay quietly for a moment, obviously considering the truth of Nasir’s words before he offered something that no one had ever offered to him before. “I could teach you to bear arms.” He shook his head as though he did not believe his own words or that Nasir could be capable of such feats. “Not enough to defeat a gladiator but enough for ample surprise and a moment of escape. Consider it…in any case.” Nasir nearly slid backwards as his bedmate rolled over.

It was a dangerous proposal indeed.

Batiatus might find displeasure in the idea that one of his gladiators was training a body slave to fight; if he were to agree to such a thing, it would have to be done in the utmost secrecy. Not even Pietros could know.

But it was something very appealing: the ability to protect oneself even a little.

In the villa, his ability to sink within himself and remain as impassive as a soulless husk was his greatest weapon but such things would not serve him as well in the ludus. These men would not be deterred by a razor wit or a pliant personality. But they did understand the power of pain and raw physical power.

Nasir made his decision as he nodded off to slumber.

When he awoke as dawn was filling their room. Agron had rolled over in his sleep and was curled up on himself, a little like a child might sleep, one arm tossed carelessly above Nasir’s head. His bright eyes cracked opened as Nasir sat up, uncaring if he jostled their pallet.

Nasir looked down at him and Agron, still hazy with sleep, smiled in that cheeky, disarming way of his. Nasir took a deep breath.

“Teach me to fight.”

The next few days passed somewhat uneventfully.

The bruise on his stomach darkened to an ugly violet-yellow that kept Batiatus from calling him back up to the villa for any festivities, something he actually thanked the gods for. The injury clearly bothered Agron just as much, as his intense eyes followed Nasir’s stomach any time he came close.

At least he seemed to have made amends with Duro.

The moment he saw the three of them—the brothers and Donar—together again, Agron grinned in delight and bit Nasir’s bottom lip in his excitement when he pulled Nasir in for a kiss. “If that cunt, Ashur, lays finger to you again, tell me immediately.” Nasir could only manage a half-hearted glare as the giant German slapped his bum again.

That evening the cunt in question was sporting what looked like a broken nose and two black eyes; Nasir, who was perched half on Agron’s lap, smiled privately to himself, comforted by the first tangible sign of his protection within the ludus.

And that night Agron slipped away for a moment into the darkness of the halls, returning with a wooden gladius and a long stick for approximation of a spear. Agron was grinning like a fool, his cheeks dimpling deep.

“Something with impressive length is better suited for one with a form so slight.” He teased lightly, pressing the spear into Nasir’s hands.

“Make jest of my size and you will regret gracing my hands with weaponry.” He threatened as Agron adjusted his hands on the spear. “And such a stick hardly inspires fear.”

Agron’s mouth must have been only a breath from Nasir’s ear and there was a smile in his voice. “I did not refer to the spear in your hands.”

Nasir, for the first time, was unable to help himself and laughed as he elbowed at the gladiator behind him.

Chapter Text

VIII.

Nasir was a quick learner.

Though he would never learn true skill given the tiny dimensions of his quarters, it was enough for him to surprise an attacker and run. Agron switched the weaponry to keep Nasir on guard, forcing the Syrian to defend himself with sword, spear, and fists in turn, using anything withing reach to his advantage. His bite was indeed as ferocious as his bark, as Agron found out when challenging Nasir to escape from beneath him in one of their practice scenarios. Nasir had bitten him hard enough to draw blood and Donar and Duro spoke endlessly of what wild love they had been making; Nasir smiled wickedly as if he had indeed been fucked to satisfaction when Agron knew it was because the bite had fucking hurt.

In any case, Agron was well pleased and found himself harboring even greater admiration for the boy’s tenacity…even though he cursed himself for not remaining aloof to the Syrian’s plight.

His skill was reminiscent of Agron’s own as a boy. His speed and sheer desire to land hits were his greatest strengths and Agron called upon memories of his former fighting teacher—his and Duro’s father—for a firm hand that did not crush all desire to learn.

It was often that he knocked Nasir back on his undeniably fine ass but he was just as quick to give compliments to a well-held form or a skillful blow. Agron remembered the praise that had made his chest swell as a boy and lavished it on his student.

Though Nasir did not scamper around and boast as Agron and Duro had, a fierce sort of happiness radiated from his slender body and he smiled whenever praise was given. There was something satisfying at seeing someone desire to fight absent fear of a whip or death.

“Is it difficult?” Nasir asked, thoughtfully judging the gladius in his hand; despite the lengths of cloth Agron had procured, Nasir’s hands had blisters growing from their near-daily practice. “To rob a man of life?”

He was naturally a curious little thing when not on edge, and Agron took no offense to the inquiry, which might have disturbed men like Varro and Spartacus.

Agron shrugged. “It is none so bad. Blood has stained my hands since thirteen. I no longer feel sting of humanity in the face of blood and battle; those who do do not last long on the sands of the arena.”

“So young to kill.” Nasir murmured.

Agron did not know how long Nasir had himself been in service to the Roman fucks and he was in no position to ask. And his form is so fine to hint at a lifetime of servitude.

“It is common amongst our people. We must fight the cold and the creatures and the invaders…” He thought of blood spilling on the snow and shook the thought from his mind. “Savage lands breed savage peoples. But it is all nothing to these fucking Romans.”

Though he might not have realized it, Nasir flinched slightly at the venom in his tone and Agron sought to make amends immediately.

He ruffled his hand through black silk hair, smiling wide as strands dangled haphazardly from every angle. “Let us turn mind from dark thoughts and back to practice.” He put both weapons aside and braced himself to grapple with the young man.

The fire returned to Nasir’s eyes and Agron saw one hand slowly close over the earthenware cup on his table.

Surely it would be difficult the next day to explain how he received a bump on his head from lovemaking.

A howl of pure and utter pain cut through the deep of night and tore Agron from slumber.

Nasir sat up the moment Agron threw back the blankets and exited the bed, his hands groping for his discarded subligaria. Agron, blood burning from the apparent commotion outside, placed a hand over Nasir’s thundering heart, holding him in place.

“Do not move from this room.” Agron instructed. “I am to Duro and to find the cause of—“ Another cry cut the air and Nasir gripped Agron’s wrist with both hands. Agron cursed every god he could think of before pulling Nasir from the bed and placing that slim body behind his back; if they were under attack…he could not leave the little man defenseless. “Stay behind me and do as I say,” he ordered and Nasir was too startled to argue with him.

The two of them exited the room to chaos in the halls of the ludus but it was not as Agron expected.

Nasir clenched his arm tight as the scene unfolded in front of them: Oenomaus, their normally calm and proud doctore, knelt on the stone floors, his head thrown back in agony and Gannicus at his side looking grave. Gladiators, including Donar and Duro, appeared from the shadows of their rooms to find the source of the noise and Nasir unthinkingly dug his nails into Agron’s back and arms. Agron inhaled swiftly when he saw the two Roman soldiers in front of Oenomaus, stone-faced and bearing a stretcher; he recognized the woman they bore, even though her skin was ashen and dark liquid stained her mouth and chin.

She was obviously dead.

Gannicus knelt by Oenomaus as he once again cried as if his body were being torn asunder. Agron lowered his eyes respectfully, as he could only imagine the man’s current pain.

“Melitta.” Nasir whispered with the sort of sorrowful tone that hinted he was acquainted with the woman. “How? W-why is she—?”

The Roman soldiers placed the stretcher on the ground and Oenomaus nearly prostrated himself, pressing his face close to hers. Gannicus’ hands were clenched to fists and Agron steeled himself before breaking the terrible truth to the Syrian man at his back.

“Melitta is Oenomaus’ wife.”

Due to Oenomaus’ high standing in the ludus and the gruesome nature of his wife’s death, Batiatus allowed the gladiators a day of rest to prepare for the funeral pyre. The same luxury was not afforded to Pietros and Nasir as they had been granted the unenviable task of cleaning her so that their domina’s body slaves could weave flowers into her hair and anoint her with oil in preparation for the afterlife.

Tears rolled freely down Pietros’ cheeks and Nasir allowed him to prepare the lavender water while he would clease the blood from her face and chest.

Nasir tried not to think of her lively steps and private smile as he wiped the blood from under her nose and mouth. He cleared the hair from her face and felt a little ill. “How…how could this have happened to you, Melitta?”

“The wine was poisoned.”

Nasir jumped and turned to see Gannicus standing stiffly by the door; his expression was torn between deep, heavy pain and appearing as though he wished to be anywhere else. Nasir tried not to think, tried not to remember her form beneath Gannicus’, writhing and moaning for Roman eyes.

It was disrespectful to think of the dead in such positions.

“It is believed the poison was meant for dominus.” He explained in a flat voice. “As soon as the fires are lit, he intends to investigate. I am here…because I discovered her…body. And I will help carry her to honor my friend.”

Nasir nodded and did not question the Celt’s motives further. But he sensed there were half-truths being told.

“With so much blood…” Pietros shuddered, his tears following into the bowl of red water, “I pray to the gods she passed with no pain.” Gannicus sounded as if he had been physically wounded but Nasir steeled himself to comfort his companions. It was here he needed his reserve of strength from years as a body slave.

“Surely the gods would not be so cruel to one they made so lovely.”

He held Pietros’ shoulders as Naevia, Mira and the other female slaves from the villa were escorted in, bearing baskets of flowers and reddened eyes. Naevia’s lip trembled on seeing the body laid before her and Mira averted her eyes. He could not imagine the pain they felt on seeing one they regarded as sister laid out for her funeral pyre.

The preparations were not completed until sundown and Nasir watched from the halls as Oenomaus placed his beloved wife gently onto the pile of kindling he and his brothers had accumulated during the day and set it ablaze. A small group of those closest to Oenomaus stood watch and others kept a respectful distance but stood with their doctore through his pain.

Pietros stood with Barca close to the fire and Nasir felt a weight lift knowing his friend was better comforted in the arms of his lover. Always calculating, Nasir turned to look for his own ‘lover’ and saw him staring ahead with a grave expression on his face. His eyes flashed orange and green by turns.

Agron did not even flinch as Nasir took up place next to him and Nasir tried not recoil as Agron slowly pulled him against his side. They stayed a moment in silence before Agron whispered to him.

“You do not shed tears in her memory?”

“If I were to cry for every fellow slave I have known and lost, my tears would never cease.” Nasir responded, his heart clenching as he spoke. He tried not to think of Chadara surrounded by flowers with blood pouring from her mouth…

He was squeezed a little tighter against Agron’s flank.

The next time Agron spoke, it was in his mother tongue, low and gentle with the cadence of poetry. He heard Donar and Duro murmur it as well, a harmony of rough German, gentled by the air of sorrow in the ludus. He did not even need to ask what had been said.

“We speak to the old gods to bring her home to safety.” Agron whispered. “And rejoice that her pain is no more. She is free.”

Agron patted Nasir’ head with one hand, causing his long hair to obscure his face. Nasir was glad for it as the deep and dark stores of pain he kept sealed in his heart spilled over for only a moment and two rebellious tears slid down his cheeks.

“You are warming to him.” Pietros murmured as he and Nasir went about their duties in the medicus, grinding dried herbs into powders and boiling rags in hot water. “Before you looked as a man taken with the barest scrap offered but now you watch him with gentle eyes.”

Nasir smiled to himself.

Pietros probably took the smile as delight in thoughts of Agron, but really he was amused by Pietros’ vested interest in his ‘relationship’. It was only mostly true in any case; now Nasir simply took Agron as someone to be trusted, someone like Spartacus or Crixus, who would defend him if need be.

“Now is hardly the time Pietros.” Nasir scolded him without any real hackle. “The ludus in mourning and you wish to talk of my own happiness?”

Pietros stopped grinding the pestle and his shoulders and curls drooped a little. “Death clings to the gladiators. It haunts the ludus and comes as no surprise when one falls to blood and glory. But…” His dark shoulders trembled slightly and Nasir hastened to throw his most recent bundle of bandages into the scalding water so that he could place a comforting hand on Pietros’ back. “But Melitta sh-she seemed a good woman,” Nasir bit his lip in memory of the time he had seen her on display with Gannicus, “and yet she has passed to the afterlife and left doctore a broken man. I-I grasp onto what little happiness I can.”

“I am…well pleased with my choices.” Nasir finally replied, squeezing Pietros’ shoulders in a swift embrace and going back to stir the boiling cloth with a long wooden plank.

It took a moment for Pietros to calm himself enough to return to the prior topic of conversation. And even then his voice was a little touched with tears that had been wrestled back.

“He is gentle to you then? Agron? He treats your body with respect?” It seemed as though Pietros could not imagine such a relationship where beds were shared absent fucking. He was simply worried and Nasir decided to stretch the truth, if only to put his dear companion at ease.

“Yes, he is gentle,” Nasir thought of the exuberant praise of his skillful punches, the way Agron grinned wide when Nasir sat close to him during the meals, the crushing hugs he had been subjected to as of late, “…in a way.”

Of course Pietros was not content to let things lie with so few lascivious details.

Barca’s lewd mouth had rubbed off on Pietros’ and Nasir sincerely hoped he would not begin to adopt Agron’s mannerisms as Pietros finished grinding herbs and came over to help extinguish the fire.

“Is his loss felt in the bed?”

Since Melitta’s death, all in the ludus had been give strict orders to stay within their own quarters in hopes that the perpetrator who poisoned the wine would soon be found. But such rules had only lasted the better part of three days and already the guards were becoming lax with the gladiators; Nasir thought it only a matter of time before Barca reclaimed Pietros and Agron meandered back to Nasir’s side.

Pietros was a much cleaner and softer bedmate but Nasir slept less soundly for fear of being attacked again.

“In…a way.”

“You are too coy!” Pietros bumped his hip into Nasir’s. He squatted on the ground and tilted his head sweetly. “Tell me Nasir; joy is so rare to find here. I would share in yours.”

Nasir bit his lip as if considering the request when really he was attempting to come up with a believable response. Never once had he been intimate with someone and enjoyed the experience; his times in contrast to Pietros’ descriptions of his lovemaking with Barca seemed as incomparable as life of a ludus slave to that of a wealthy Roman’s.

His only hope was to describe what he might one day desire for in a man who shared his bed and his heart. And surely Agron would be pleased that he made their situation more believable.

“He is gentle to me Pietros. If…if I wish to pass the night unmolested then he sees it done. And he does not strike me if I lay teeth or nails to his skin.” Nasir smiled upon remembering Agron’s loud complaints when Nasir landed good hits or bit down on available flesh. Even more ludicrous ideas appealed to him and he almost hoped Pietros would betray such intimate conversations so that Agron could hear of his new reputation. “He shudders when his hands are placed on my skin and,” such whispers would cause scandal, “he even kneels before my cock.”

Pietros stifled a gasp. “No! It is unthinkable! That those men proud as gods would suck the cock of a ludus slave.” By virtue of their slimmer forms and ‘gentler’ temperaments it was generally assumed that the two of them would be the ones on their knees.

Nasir shrugged. “You need only ask Barca and he might indulge you.” He knew such things to be true and felt a small pinprick of jealousy that Pietros might experience the heights of pleasure from beloved lips. “Say you have missed his presence around you, the feeling of his lips…”

Though Nasir had often been accused of seduction, it was all lies.

But Pietros looked thoughtful. “Words ring of possibility, “ and then he flushed red to the roots of his curly hair, “I may…if courage is in ample supply.”

“The ludus is cruel to us all.” Nasir repeated the familiar mantra. “Wrest what joy you can while—.” He thought of Melitta and of the few times he interacted with her. He could not bring himself to finish his sentence. He did not want to even consider the thought of Pietros’ mortality.

The two of them moved past the conversation, that was lewd and somber by turns, as the water lost its’ boil and they were finally able to collect the clean bandages and load them into a tattered old basket.

Nasir carried the basket as the two of them walked to hang the cloth to dry. That was until a voice rang out from the sands.

“Pietros, bring me water while you stand!”

Barca smiled at his boy and Pietros returned the warmth though he hesitated to part from Nasir’s side.

“Go to his side.” Nasir urged, bumping Pietros’ ass with the bottom of the basket. “I can pin these alone. Slake your lover’s thirst.” Pietros kissed Nasir’s bare shoulder by way of thanks before trotting to Barca; surely the man was itching to have Pietros naked before him after three days of abstinence.

He balanced the basket against his hip and kept walking along the halls parallel to the sands.

“No water for me?” Came a familiar voice and Nasir smiled quickly at the ground before looking up. Agron was leaning against the low wall next to Varro and Lydon and he did not take his eyes from Nasir.

“Pietros is just there.” Nasir made his smile full of challenge, “Take him from Barca’s arms if you think your cock is of a size. I have other matters to attend to.”

“You know my cock is of a size.” Agron’s eyes glittered as he laughed. “I would take your lips in lieu of drink.” Varro rolled his eyes and Lydon laughed at Agron’s apparent persistence. Nasir was surprised in himself that there was no rush of fear; he was realizing the man was all for show.

Nasir moved to him quickly and gave only the lightest kiss on his ‘lover’s’ stubbled dimple. “If only to shut your mouth.” He whispered before dodging Agron’s hands as the man attempted to grab him by the waist. His smile was triumphant indeed as he heard Lydon and Varro tease Agron’s slow grasp and a green gaze burned into his back.

It was honestly fun to playfully taunt the German and know he would not be punished for his quick tongue later in the night. The most Agron would do would be to ruffle his hair and chastise him.

Such thoughts faded from mind as he reached his destination.

The area where the laundry was aired was in a small, sunny alcove close to the gates leading up to the villa and someone had already hung up long white sheets to be bleached by the afternoon sun. Usually quite deserted, Nasir quieted his steps when he heard the cadence of human voices coming from one of the darker corners. His ears were deceiving him or…

One voice sounded like that of a woman’s.

There was no mistaking it. A moment later, there was a soft, muffled cry, undeniably feminine and Nasir moved on instinct. The basket he tossed to the side, careful not to have the fresh linens spill to the ground so he would not be forced to wash them again, and he pushed past the dried sheets. He knew not how a woman had been smuggled into the ludus—perhaps one taking advantage of Oenomaus’ mourning— but if she were in distress, he did not plan to stay idle.

He drew breath in preparation to shout for help and felt the names bubble to his lips the moment he saw the bare, muscular body tucked into the corner.

“Ag—!”

The figure in front of him turned and the call in his throat died, as did Crixus’ murderous expression. He looked at Nasir with nothing less than profound shock and Nasir knew such expressions were mirrored on his own face. He took a step back for fear of the consequences of what he had witnessed.

“Nasir!” He gasped, seemingly unsure of what to do with himself. He tried at once to cover his wilting arousal and shield the one who had caused cock to stand in the first place. “What brings you to this place?”

Nasir could not find the words as he was transfixed by the delicate form propped up in Crixus’ massive arms. There could be no mistaking that flawless dark skin, those wide, hypnotic eyes…Though she had been caught in the act, she twined her arms and legs around Crixus as if to physically shield her lover and herself.

“Naevia…” Nasir clutched his collar, wondering what kind of madness had gripped the ludus and everyone within.

Chapter Text

IX.

It irritated Agron to no end that his thoughts were so occupied with someone he had been determined not to become enraptured with. But it seemed as though the fucking gods themselves sought to make him overtly aware of Nasir.

That worried furrow between his brows ached to be soothed away and his dark eyes grew wide with what looked like alarm whenever someone called out to him. His hips tilted away as if he might try to run whenever anyone approached him. It only made the wide protective streak in Agron want to pull the young man to the quiet safety of their shared room and see if he could offer any words of comfort.

Donar coughed, pulling Agron away from his thoughts and from the beacon of Nasir’s hesitant form.

“Brother, you grow fonder of him by day.” Duro elbowed Agron hard in the side, his smile wide. “At first I thought you just wanted warm comfort for your cock,” he yelped as Agron caught him round the neck, “but you watch him with care. And I saw you hold him close when—.”

“Choose your next fucking words carefully, pup.” Agron warned in German, less concerned with someone overhearing than with the fact that Duro’s simple mind often cut to the core of issue. Agron did not think he could hear the truth from Duro’s lips.

“He has been troubled as of late.” Donar commented in his most neutral tone.

Agron frowned.

“Perhaps his ass aches from lover’s cock.” Duro offered, earning himself a light punch from his brother. “Those house slaves are of a softer constitution than warriors. Show him some small kindness, brother, and find yourself in possession of the best sucked cock in the ludus.”

“Be grateful you are my brother or I might find offense in such words.” Agron snarled releasing Duro. “And I am kind.”

Both Duro and Donar snorted is disbelief.

Agron was filled with indignation and it must have shown on his face, as Donar moved to a diplomatic explanation. “It is hard to find kindness on a face so often frowning. Have you asked him what ails him?”

Agron bit his lip.

No matter how he explained to Duro and Donar that his arrangement with Nasir brought him nothing at all other than a sweet form to watch, occasional dangerous kisses, and a massive headache they would only see what they wished. Surely no one as virile and stubborn as Agron would leave someone so desirable untouched. And Agron could not explain that he was not at liberty to know the young man’s most private thoughts.

“The inner workings of his mind remain a mystery to me.” He admitted quietly.

Duro groaned aloud as if he had expected such things. “The fact that such things provide concern show that you favor more than just his ass. Show a favored whore a bit of kindness and loosen lips.”

Agron did not have the energy to scold him or correct him, though he was privately glad Nasir was not close to overhear being called a ‘whore’.

“Fuck!” He snarled; it would make things so much easier if he could just give the boy gold. Instead he threw himself into training in hopes that the gods might reveal something to him. It wasn’t until Barca had challenged him and knocked him around in the sands that Agron thought of a way he might be able to discern a way to bring some measure of joy back to Nasir’s expression.

Agron had managed to push Barca off of him, though he was drenched in sweat and half-coated in sand and dirt and his hands and knees were bloodied to near unrecognition. An impressed gleam flashed briefly in the man’s eyes—which made Agron wonder briefly if Barca found favor in his form—before there was a familiar call for water.

Pietros was kind enough to bring a cup for Agron as well and Agron was struck by a moment of brilliance. Followed by a motion that lacked fucking sense: he grasped Pietros by the hand, halting the boy in his tracks.

It was only thanks to his finely honed reflexes that he was able to move in time before the heavy base of the wooden practice spear nearly smashed into his knuckles.

“Fuck the gods!” Agron hissed.

Pietros yelped.

Barca had snatched him and was using his own body as a shield to keep Agron from touching Pietros again. His expression was smooth but his eyes flashed with a dangerous sort of possessiveness. “Do not presume to put your hands on my boy.”

Agron snarled at him. “Phoenecian bastard! I have no quarrel with you! I seek only to break words with Pietros. You fuck; my hands could have been broken!”

“And the lesson learned.” Barca shot back.

“You waste precious water.” Pietros mused sadly, touching Barca’s bare shoulder as he looked at the two cups spilled on the ground. “He meant no harm…”

“State thoughts quickly and then see yourself from sight.” Barca ordered, no longer in an indulgent mood. Pietros looked apologetically to Agron but he knew better than to move when Barca was in such a state. Agron did not relish baring his thoughts before the man but he swallowed his discomfort and looked to Pietros’ sweet, honest face.

“I would ask your assistance with something.”

Agron did not know how such things were done but it seemed as if by magic that Mira appeared out of the shadows of the staircase leading up to the ludus bearing a small basket and the remainder of the coins Agron had passed to Pietros.

“Do not ask more of me than this.” She warned passing him the items. “Ashur is a better tool to see needs met.”

Agron grimaced in the approximation of a smile as he checked the contents of the basket. “The fucking Syrian is not so sympathetic to my needs at the moment. He caused offense so I saw fit to lay fists to the man.”

Mira smiled before she could catch herself. “The man does not inspire good humor.”

“Gratitude.” Agron murmured before turning away from her level, dark gaze. He spared her no further thoughts as he made his way back to Nasir’s room. The halls were somewhat abandoned and he was glad for it, so that he did not have to explain the parcel in his arm.

Nasir jolted as Agron entered; he was seated on the pallet, gazing at his own lap, and his eyes were wide and shining with something much like fear. Agron took care not to scowl at the idea that the boy held such terror over unspoken secrets. He would seek to assuage such fears if only he were trusted.

“I’ve returned.”

“Such a thing is readily evident.” Though his words bit with teasing, his smile showed that it was not cruelly meant.

“If you bait me so, I will not share my bounty with you.” Agron warned.

Always curious, Nasir looked at what Agron held in his hands and even moved over to give the Agron room so he could sit down. Agron smiled to himself as Nasir’s dark, attentive eyes never left the small basket in his hands; at least this curiosity was preferable to his former anxiety.

“Your bounty?”

Although the expression of curiosity lay sweet on his features, Agron would not torment him. With fingers still raw from his practice earlier in the day, he pulled back the ragged linen to reveal a small treasure of fruits. Such foods were rare in the ludus and Mira had managed to find him a few fat violet figs, some early apples, handfuls of dried dates, and two dark plums.

Pietros, the brilliant boy, explained that body slaves were occasionally given some of the fine foods served daily to the Roman fucks and that Nasir was probably unused to the simple and bland fare in the ludus. He seemed pleased, his eyes shining with want. A dark pink tongue darted out to wet his lips and Agron smiled wider.

“You would share with me?” Nasir asked, unsure but wanting. It was not in his nature to trust a gift freely given.

Agron removed a small carving knife and halved one of the figs first, offering one half to Nasir. He took it slowly, as if to compensate how much he actually wanted to eat.

“It has been so long…” He murmured appreciatively after his first bite.

Personally, Agron was not fond of the overt sweetness; he ate half a fig and one of the apples before spending his time in silence, carving the fruits before handing them to Nasir. The young Syrian must have been desperate for such foods, as he did not notice the constant resupply Agron provided him with. A few coppers well-spent for the joy clear in his eyes, ten times sweeter than the fruit.

Agron was so focused that he did not notice as fruit juice began to seep into his cuts.

He snarled and dropped the knife as his cuts stung and reached for the pitcher of water.

“No, wait.”

Nasir stood, wiping his hands on his trousers before holding them out expectantly. His hands were small and more calloused than any body slave’s should be, but he was very gentle as he looked at the open wounds on Agron’s palms. His hands were as curious and cautious as his eyes.

“Barca.” Agron said by way of explanation.

“I see.” Nasir twisted his lips in something like displeasure and Agron fought a smile. “Wait here.” Agron was about to protest as Nasir disappeared into the darkness of the ludus hall, but he decided to follow orders unless he heard hell out in the halls. His concern was for naught as Nasir reappeared moments later with thin rolls of cloth and a dark bottle.

Agron’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the bottle until Nasir uncorked it and the smell of medicinal herbs filled the room.

“You will attend me carefully medicus?” Agron asked, unable to help himself.

Nasir smiled at him. “Would that I had brought lemon water.”

It was not lemon water, thank the fucking gods, but the oil did tingle a little as it pooled in his scraped hands. Nasir wordlessly wrapped the linens around Agron’s palms and Agron watched him wordlessly, for fear of breaking his concentration. Though the wounds still irritated him, Agron looked at his bandaged hands with a small measure of joy when Nasir had completed his task.

“Gratitude.”

“You were kind to share your gift.” Nasir shrugged, once again in stubborn refusal to accept any favor for free. “I merely return the favor.” He moved to discard the empty vial and the fruit skins; his hips swayed hypnotically and Agron’s mouth moved before his mind did.

“The gift was meant for you.”

Nasir froze by the doorframe, anxiety and tension rolling off of him immediately. Agron stood slowly and tried not to boil to anger in thoughts as to why the little man distrusted such simple gifts. His muscles were coiled tight perhaps in memory of their lessons on hand-to-hand combat.

“Why?”

With one rough, slightly oiled thumb Agron rubbed the furrow from between Nasir’s eyebrows. “I would not presume to ask for your thoughts. But my own thoughts are lightened when your expression is not burdened with concern.” He was able to turn away and let the boy be before he truly did something foolish.

Nasir tried not to appear concerned but thoughts weighed heavy on his mind.

He could not help but remember the determined set to Naevia’s kiss-swollen mouth as he attempted to find out what madness had gripped her. Crixus had left the two of them alone after a kiss and a whispered promise from Naevia, bashfully refusing to meet Nasir’s eye, and Nasir was shocked at the expression on the man. Usually Crixus was assured enough to meet any man in the ludus with an expression of steel and his head held high. It was alarming that the threat of a mere ludus slave could have him act so cowed.

“Do not judge me so, Nasir.” She insisted, crossing her arms over her chest after she had righted her clothing. “So long I have held myself aloft of my desires; I have wanted nothing more than to serve domina and bring this household glory. Surely there is nothing wrong with having one thing I desire in my grasp. Should I not grasp such joy when it is freely offered?”

Nasir longed to correct her.

They were slaves; even their lives could be taken from them at a moment’s notice. He could not imagine so sweet a beauty as Naevia surviving more than a few days in the mines. They were not even allowed one small selfishness, much less taking a gladiator to bed without permission.

“Crixus is favored by domina, is he not?” Nasir tried to make her see her folly without crushing her. He knew as well as any other house slave in the villa that Lucretia often called on Crixus for intimate demands.

Rage flashed brief in Naevia’s dark eyes and Nasir’s stomach dropped. It was apparent she was set in her decision.

“A favor undeserved.” She hissed.

Before she could speak foolishly, Nasir gripped her gently by the shoulders. “Think clearly, I implore you! If you were to be caught, I fear the punishment you would be forced to bear! Think of Melitta—.”

Pain replaced rage and if Nasir’s grip had allowed, she might have stepped away from him. “Thoughts of her have haunted me every day since her passing. The fear of death hangs heavy in the villa. If I were to pass as she did and not once know the feeling of loving hands…”

She trailed off then and tears trickled down her cheeks at the painful memories. Nasir was weak to the tears of those he cared for and he pulled her against him in a gentle embrace. It was hard to deter one the gods had made so sweet and beautiful. “Naevia…”

“Please Nasir,” her voice was a whisper against his chest, “please do not chase me from his arms. The gods could not have made him more perfect than when he delights in me. Please…”

Nasir sighed and patted her black curls. “I will not betray your trust…know that any word of this affair comes not from my lips. But I cannot condone this…nor can you expect me to help you in this.”

She pulled back from him and her look was almost of disbelief.

“You take joy in one of the men and yet…?”

“With dominus’ permission.” Nasir bowed his head, “And absent all choice.” He felt a bit of guilt when remembering Agron’s gentle lessons, the fire-bright intensity of his smile. “Wrest what joy you can from Crixus but I beg you…caution…”

Despite her assurances that no one would discover Crixus in her embrace, the thought of knowing so great and terrible a secret tormented Nasir. He could not even bring himself to speak with Crixus in the following days. Knowledge weighed heavy on him as did the fear that any moment the guards would come in to pull him away for questioning.

No one would be able to help him then, no matter how high they stood in the hierarchy of ludus.

He must not have realized that his expression was so easily recognizable as anxiety until Agron brought him the fresh fruit and made comment on the fact. Though his actions were meant to soothe, Nasir was struck with new worry.

He felt as though he might be relaxing too much himself.

That protective façade he had adopted as Tiberius was slowly melting in the heat of ludus; under the tender friendship of Pietros and the female house slaves and the seemingly impenetrable barrier of the gladiators around him, Nasir felt as though he losing his ability to protect himself.

“Nasir! Water?”

He was jerked out of his thoughts by a familiar voice and Spartacus hailing him from the training grounds where he had been sparring with Gnaeus.

Feeling safe in the company of the Thracian champion, Nasir brought a cup for Gnaeus as well and simply ignored the predatory way the man stared at him. Spartacus on the other hand clapped him on the shoulder and greeted him with a brilliant grin.

“You seem to be of a rare mood.” Nasir noted. “The gods saw fit to bless you?”

Spartacus could not withhold and joy burst from him in an unstoppable torrent of words. “A blessing indeed! My Sura, my beloved, has been found by Batiatus and she is to be returned to my arms after the final arena bout of the summer. I come one step closer to being free of this place and returning with her to our homeland.”

Nasir panicked inwardly, wishing the man to lower his voice, lest they be overheard by someone who would take offense to such plans. But Spartacus’ joy would not be contained and he continued.

“Batiatus has sworn it to me as an oath of honor. I will see the crowds chant my name in glory for when I am reunited with my heart.”

He was so delighted that Nasir did not have the heart to destroy Spartacus’ joy as well as Naevia’s. He merely smiled and accepted the empty cups.

“I am…pleased for you.” He offered diplomatically. “I wish her a safe journey back to your side.”

Spartacus embraced Nasir quickly and Nasir thanked the gods his next words were whispered. “Would that the gods would see you and Agron soon from this forsaken place as well.”

He was so unsettled that he nearly threw a punch as Agron grabbed him round the waist and pulled him close as he walked past. Agron laughed and easily kissed his temple. “Settle, little man. I mean you no harm. I only seek what you have freely given Spartacus.” Gannicus, Varro, and Duro laughed and whistled at his jealousy and Agron used the noise to whisper to him. “Gnaeus watches you with a gaze I do not care for. I’ll release you when he turns eyes aside.”

His voice was a near snarl and one arm snaked protectively across Nasir’s shoulders, pulling him flush against Agron’s chest.

The feeling of safety coursed through him like the warmth of wine and he could glare levelly at Gnaeus until the man averted his eyes. He had a god of blood and battle at his back.

When Nasir turned to look, Agron was grinning down at him.

It seemed nearly impossible not to smile back and Agron pressed lips to his forehead before releasing him. The lightest slap on the bum and Nasir yelped. “Be not so sweet to men I have no hopes of defeating.” He joked loudly as if Spartacus had been the one to arouse his jealousy.

The laughs at Agron’s expense and his returning fire were enough to make Nasir feel light as he stepped back into the comfort of the ludus halls. A glance back and he felt a rush of camaraderie that caught him by surprise.

He pondered these feelings as he waited for Agron to return to the room that night and cradled one of the remaining figs in his hands.

They were his favorites from when he had been a body slave and wondered how the man might have divined this. In all probability it was Agron’s innate and unnerving ability to catch Nasir off-guard.

He had seen recently how Naevia, Crixus, and Spartacus were risking their good fortune and their lives for the fool pursuits of the heart.

He, for one, would not die for it.

The man had been gentle to him and had shown him the basics of defense. When he came back to their shared quarters, his cheek dimpled with a smile and his eyes glittered with that green fire and Nasir could not help but smile back; Agron’s good humor was infectious.

It was dangerous to be friendly with the gladiator aside from convincing the others in the ludus. That night, after his lesson had concluded and Agron had praised his increased skill, Nasir turned toward the wall and steeled his heart.

He had to survive. He could not show weakness.

Chapter Text

X.

The end of summer blazed without restriction and rain and Oenomaus called the entire ludus onto the baking hot sands for an announcement of utmost importance. Though he had returned to his duties with normal vigor, after the death of Melitta he was much slower to smile and laugh even with his closest friends; Barca and Spartacus spoke of it in worried tones while Gannicus simply watched his brother with a furrowed brow.

“In a week our lanista’s guests will return to Rome for the autumn and winter months.” Oenomaus began when he had the attention of all the gladiators and his tone was that of a man who had lost all joy. “Batiatus plans to host a week of festivities to garner favor and there will be arena battles throughout that time. We will bring honor to this house and our dominus.”

“He lacks conviction.” Donar murmured in German.

“Absent the name of a murderer.” Agron replied. Talk of finding the culprit who had laced drinks with poison had evaporated as swiftly as the rain, and the slight was felt for all who knew Melitta or held care for their doctore.

“Speaking of murder, are there any worthy opponents left in this fucking shithole?” Duro asked in casual arrogance. “One might have thought us to slaughter them all this summer.”

Duro’s sensible question was answered not a moment later.

The finest champions would be brought in from Rome to fight Batiatus’ stock; it was sure to be the spectacle of the decade, what with the reputations of Gannicus, Barca, Spartacus, Crixus and Agron. Most of the men looked to them with the greed of gold in their eyes, perhaps wondering how much of their meager fucking funds they would wager on their brothers.

More than gold or glory, he worried for Duro, as usual, pitted against the well-seasoned warriors from Rome.

Fuck the gold, he knew he would not be able to fucking relax for a moment so long as Duro was on the sands. All the gold in Rome would be useless if his brother was torn from his side. His expression must have been truly thunderous because he felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

For a moment he hoped it was Nasir.

The boy’s hands were somehow smooth and warm, despite the new callouses from sparring and Agron was having some alarming feelings in the mornings when he woke before the stubborn Syrian.

He saw the smooth muscles growing under skin the color of teak wood and he longed to leisurely feel it beneath his hands. He had touched it briefly when he pulled Nasir against him, and it felt like warm silk beneath his fingertips. He wished to do so for longer intervals. He wished for it, like his mouth ached for the sweetness of wine after battle.

Recently Nasir had allowed him to cradle and bandage his hands when the callouses broke open from a day’s work, but other than those small, quiet moments of intimacy, the young man had been a little cool as of late. Even Pietros gazed after him with curious eyes when he cut conversations short and Agron wondered if his gift had put Nasir on edge.

Even now that fine form was far from him, arms crossed defensively across his chest.

The bitterness of defeat was foreign to him, but he could not dwell on it long as he locked eyes with Spartacus and the man nodded by way of summons. Agron moved from Duro and Donar’s side, swiping a gladius as he took to the sands.

It wouldn’t hurt for more practice.

Seeing how this was to be the most lavish celebration his oily fuck of a dominus would have hope of hosting in the foreseeable future, every gladiator who had put forth a good display for the final games of the summer was summoned to the villa to stand as glaring statues. Such was the scale of said event, that Nasir too had been summoned to help, leaving only a few in the ludus; Agron had overheard Barca telling Pietros to hide in the room where they kept their fucking birds until Barca returned to fetch him.

Once again, he and his brothers had to bear the indignity of being stripped naked and washed of blood and grime, painted gold, and arranged in pleasing positions, though this time the gladiators were spread out across the rooms like a pantheon of breathing golden gods.

Luckily they were not the only form of entertainment for the evening.

Naked women who might have been slaves or whores had also been painted gold and were writhing against each other in the pool; men who had been wrapped in silver chains and affixed with faux horns like satyrs carried about silver flagons of wine. They all looked the type to be thrilled and doe-eyed at any invitation their hosts might extend to them.

Duro and the other, lesser fighters had been placed somewhat out of sight to give the champions center stage; Agron located Nasir next and found the young man pressed deep into the shadows of a pillar, his eyes wide and unseeing, his clothing leaving little to the imagination.

Agron took this cue as the best method of keeping his temper, and copied his little bedmate as wealthy Romans began to arrive in the villa for the festivities and attempt to vex him.

Most of the fucking Romans were content just to admire his form, comment on the size of his cock, and speak of his victories in battle before moving on. Very few had the gall to reach out and touch him.

Only one deigned to speak with him.

“Ah it’s you.” Came a familiar voice, calm and lightly amused. Agron glanced over to see the slim, blonde Roman woman who had, months ago, startled him and then prevented him from being punished for the mistake. “The Wolf from East of the Rhine. Agron was it?”

Agron nodded curtly.

He sincerely hoped she did not seek to bed him. She might be sorely disappointed to find that his cock would sooner stand for her cup of wine than her bony, pale body. He caught Ashur, the rat fuck, tucked in a corner staring at her and then Agron with a slight bitterness to his smile.

“I wagered coin on you this day.” She spoke lazily as if talk of gold did not affect her in the least. “And I am pleased you did not disappoint. You made a fine show of it.”

“Gratitude.”

Agron’s lack of conversation had her quiet for a moment in search of a new topic of interest. “They say many men here wagered and won gold enough to buy themselves free. Are you amongst them?” Her tone was deceptively light but Agron knew not to be drawn in; he did not know if even having the means to buy himself free would be seen as treachery.

“I aim only to fight and bring glory to my dominus.” He lied smoothly, hoping that the gods would be kind to him and relieve him of her company.

But the gods heard his pleas and must have aimed to shit on his good humor, that a flash of black silk might catch his eye.

All other aspects of the fucking party and anything the woman had to say, faded to insignificance when he saw Nasir’s head jerk up, his body going rigid from a split second before it relaxed into practiced obedience, chin tilted towards the floor in a pose that did not suit him. He should have been glaring in open defiance, those eyes crackling with fire.

There was a strange ringing in Agron’s ears, like he had been clouted upside the head with the hilt of a gladius and he could not tear his eyes from the unwelcome form of the Roman man who had cornered the Syrian against his shadowed pillar.

How dare he? The boy is under my protection. It is well known amongst the hardest and bloodiest fucks in the Roman Empire, amongst gods of war that anyone who lays hands on him other than me will find themselves absent cock. Speak to him, stare at him, touch him and I am honor-bound to kill you, you Roman shit. I will kill you.

Agron was at once irritated and thankful that he could not hear what was being said.

He could not hear what the oily fuck was saying, but his smile and the way he leaned was more than enough to indicate he was not interested in any simple service. And if Agron could hear what the fucker was saying, then he was sure he would not be able to sit idle and would probably end the night with a bloodied back. It took all of his shallow self-control not to leap from his spot when ringed fingers circled around Nasir’s dark forearm.

He saw it all and did not like a moment of it but he was as helpless as if he were chained to the floor, like an animal.

As helpless as if he were a body slave, as Nasir was, unable to do anything more but move from his corner as he was pulled to serve. It was agony.

Nasir must have felt him wavering on the edge of madness because he glanced up for only a moment. The only light in his dark eyes came from the reflection of the torches rather than from within. There was a sort of resignation and calm there of a man sentenced to die.

Stay still fool.

“Gladiator?”

He gasped, a shudder running under his skin as he felt a hand on his own sweat-slick arm. The Roman woman.

Her wine-dark eyes were wider than usual and it took him a moment to realize that two other bitches were at her elbows, gazing at his form. He felt drunk with rage and helplessness, wondering for a moment if the entire scene had been a dream of fevers sent from the fucking gods.

When he glanced back to the shadows of the pillar, he could not find Nasir’s familiar form and panic seized his heart.

“Order it of him Licinia.” One of her fucking friends goaded her, oblivious to Agron’s discomfort. “’Tis our last night in Capua and we deserve entertainment out of reach in the sensibilities of Rome. Lucretia will deny you nothing and Batiatus’ man himself swore we could indulge however we like.” One pale arm waved out toward the sultry halls and Agron could not conceal his snarl as he saw Ashur slip away into one of the dark rooms. Fucking rat.

“I am not of a mind—.” She began stiffly.

“Have one of the slaves service him then.” The other suggested, her hip slithering to the side to match the purr in her voice. “I have heard that Batiatus—uncouth and uncultured as he may be—offers sights unparalleled when gladiators are paired with house slaves.”

I will kill Ashur slowly. The Syrian will taste his own seed when I kick his balls into his fucking throat.

When she took to long to respond, her ‘friend’ with the wickedness in her hips took control and dug her fingernails into Agron’s jaw, twisting his gaze to meet hers. He ached to break her wrists.

“Illithiya, do not antagonize the man.”

“He’ll fucking heel if he values his head. You have astonishing eyes…” She insisted giving a smile that was eerily reminiscent of Ashur’s. “Aemilia, have Lucretia fetch one of her bitches.” The woman with the dark hair grumbled at having been given the unenviable task of talking with his fucking domina. She was about to turn away when Agron realized Mira would probably be called for the kind of display these bitches had in mind.

Not even the wine could make him hard for her.

“You go to a fools’ errand.” He said, jerking his chin from the snake-woman’s grasp.

She laughed derisively as though she did not believe him. “You expect me to believe you are above having your cock sucked.”

Agron glared at her levelly. “Domina’s body slaves are of no fucking interest to me.”

Her laugh came out in a cruel burst. “You are unmanned?”

Agron could have snapped her neck in that moment but by the grace of the gods he kept his body in place and his mouth shut. He hoped she would either let the matter fucking lie and find some other bastard to pester or get quickly to the root of the matter.

It was Licinia, the one who did not seem at all keen on the idea, who made the logical conclusion with a bit of astonishment in her voice. “Your reserve your affections for men?” He did not confirm or deny her suspicions, but the one with dark hair and the handsy bitch latched onto the idea with barely concealed delight.

“So scandalous, Illithiya!”

“We’re far from the rigid morals of Rome. Aemilia fetch the house slave Batiatus’ man pointed out earlier. The one Clodius took aside earlier—don’t worry about him taking offense, just tell him we have greater need of him.”

Agron now knew he would rather die in the Pit than live one day as a body slave.

The Roman bitch who he had considered none so bad for sparing him a whipping, simply averted her eyes at her friend’s machinations and sipped her drink quietly as he was led away to one of the inner rooms where the lights and smell left no guessing as to what it was used for. He hoped her wine had been poisoned as well, as he had never felt like more of a soulless object in his life. Like a piece of art or a prized bull to be passed around to the highest bidder, all of his training and battles and gold were useless in this exact fucking moment.

Some people he passed followed the women in hopes of a show, the men gazing at his form with a keen mix of appreciation and jealousy. I could break all their necks like snapping twigs.

But nothing, no feeling of rage or helplessness or disgust, could compare to his feeling when he was greeted with the man that had been chosen to service him. He realized that Ashur had taken his time with his revenge for the beating Agron, Duro, and Donar had laid on him…and the man was going to die for it. Nasir’s normally assured step wavered and he balked at the door when he locked eyes with Agron, something like horror flashing across his fine features.

Not this. I would prefer Mira to this. I would rather kneel before a shit Gaul than have this done.

The blonde snake of a woman who had ordered this done lazily took up the prime spot on a low lounging couch, her friends following her, as she grinned at the two of them. “Service him then.” She ordered Nasir without an ounce of shame in her tone and the other Romans laughed nervously at the gall of this well-bred lady. “And do make it last. “A good fuck, like a good gladiatorial fight should be long and titillating.”

Agron looked to Nasir who had cast his eyes down and refused to look up. He was wound tight and Agron knew his pride would be warring with the heavy weight of collar and command. He obviously hated every moment of this.

But the fear of reprisal must have won out over his unwillingness to service a gladiator. He sank to his knees on the fine marble in a motion that seemed far too fluid for someone who had never done such things before and Agron’s quick flare of anger did not help.

He has beautiful hair…would that I could touch it…

He wondered if he would be able to restrain himself, to become as cold and immovable as the frozen winter lakes of his homeland. But he was undone the moment Nasir opened his mouth.

“Fuck the gods…” He hissed.

Nasir walked so swiftly that he practically ran through the gates that separated the halls of the ludus from the villa’s storerooms.

He was upset without knowing why, angry with Agron for something that had been absent choice from them both, and several other emotions he could not name all roiled together in the pit of his stomach until he could not decide if he wanted to be ill, to scream, or to stab something. Perhaps he would do all three.

And to think, for a moment he had been relieved when Illithiya, the illustrious wife of a praetor and highly esteemed by his domina, had called him away the moment he had crushed himself enough to kneel on the marble floors, before he was choked by the burden around his neck. He had relished the disappointment in the man’s expression when Illithiya pulled rank and he fell in line behind her.

But it was worse, so much worse, when he saw Agron standing there in the center of the room.

Romans were ogling him, drinking him in like he were made of sweet wine, his form naked and golden beneath their eyes. But the look in his eyes was that of deep and utter resignation. It was as if he was begging Nasir to know that his power was useless here.

And Nasir could do nothing more than to lower his eyes and get to his knees in front their most unwelcome audience.

What happened afterwards, he could not even dwell on.

The weight of Agron, the size of him, the noises that echoed down his skin into Nasir’s cheeks, the taste as—even now his jaw ached and indignation burned hot in the center of his chest. He had sworn to himself that he would never kneel nor spread his legs for a gladiator but he had been brought so low this night.

He wanted to blame Agron but…

Heavy steps fell behind his, as if someone was trying to catch up to him, and he hastened his step until he reached his room. Without looking behind him, he slammed the door and sank against it, holding it shut with the weight of his body.

“Nasir…”

He could feel Agron on the other side of the door.

The man’s forehead must have been pressed against the wood, his muscles coiled in want to break it down, though he never would. He would never push himself like this on Nasir. He could taste the man still on his tongue and in the back of his throat—he shook the thought from his mind as swiftly as it came, though his chest squeezed tight.

“Nasir, I—.”

His whisper came in a plea through the door and Nasir decided that he first wanted to scream. He wanted to be selfish for once. And he did not know who else deserved his anger other than the man on the other side of the door.

“Leave me in peace,” He demanded, “I have no words to break nor any desire to see your face. I wish to be alone with my thoughts.”

“Forgive me for the slight.” Agron insisted, unwilling, as usual, to let things lie. “I could not…” There was the soft thump of either a fist or a forehead hitting the door. “Forgive md, Nasir. Please…let me in and—.”

Nasir balked again. “No. No, I wish to be alone this evening. Do not press me for this.”

“I would not see you in danger.”

That feeling of sickness and rage and those feelings he could not name raced to his tongue and the words spilled out before he could stop himself. “For what purpose? I have already been violated this night.” He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, as he did not believe them for one moment.

“Nasir…” It could have been a figment of his imagination but his tone was pained.

Despite the regret he felt, Nasir moved from the door to his bed without response. He knew despite the lack of a blockade against his door, Nasir rested easy, knowing that Agron would not force his way inside. Instead, he would grow annoyed and return to his shared room with his brother. The fates would decide all else as Nasir fell into the hazy, bliss of dreams. He prayed to any god listening that his dreams not be haunted by the memory of foreign hands on his skin…

At least in this respect, the gods were kind to him.

He slept dreamlessly until close to dawn and guilt struck him as a taste both stale and bitter in his mouth when he work. A glass of water did not help the feeling and he realized his cruel words had left him with this foul feeling.

Agron. He wanted to find Agron.

Yanking on his trousers, Nasir made for the door and slipped out into the silent gray halls. He nearly tripped and fell on his face.

His bare feet caught on the long, immovable legs that stretched across the length of the hallway and he pitched forward towards the flagstones with a high-pitched gasp. Serpent quick, arms wrapped around his waist and chest, pulling him to the side so he did not hit the floor. Instead he was pressed tight against a body that was lounging on the floor right outside of his door.

In any other circumstance, he might have panicked. But he knew this form pressed firm and sleep-warm against him. He knew it and he hated that it was comforting and familiar to him.

“Nasir.” The word pressed intimately close to his ear; his face must have been nearly buried in Nasir’s hair. “You are unharmed?”

Nasir turned and began to melt under the intensity of those bright green eyes. Words evaporated; he was just too warm.

“Forgive me…” Agron murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

He must have spent the entire night in slumber outside the threshold of the room to prevent any drunken, wayward gladiators from seeking Nasir’s company. He had slept on the cold, uncomfortable flagstones for the sole sake of honoring his vow to Nasir. It was enough to rob one of breath.

With a hesitant hand, Nasir touched the dark circles of a sleepless night under Agron’s eyes. “I regret words spoken in anger.” He admitted and Agron leaned his heavy head into Nasir’s hand, as a favored hound might.

“I regret that…” Even in his exhaustion, some anger seeped into his tone, “I regret that I cannot prevent Roman shits for using y—us as sport.”

“We are absent choice.” He found himself surprised that he sought to comfort the man. As if sensing this, Agron held him a little tighter. Nasir contemplated how comfortable this position was and—in a moment of weakness—wondered why he had not had the giant German hold him every night in this fashion.

“I would see it undone.” He murmured.

Before Nasir could fully comprehend the treachery of what Agron spoke of, there was a scream, high-pitched and pained, not unlike the one Oenomaus had let loose upon hearing the death of Melitta. Nasir was crushed even tighter against Agron but all comfort and warmth had fled from the position. Nasir’s hair stood on end; no one screamed this way unless death was certain. He had only heard it’s equal from Oenomaus and those who learned of their destiny to the mines.

Agron moved quickly, all exhaustion seemingly fleeing from his form. He bolted to his feet with Nasir still pressed tight against his chest so that Nasir was dangling a few inches above the ground, his breath knocked from his lungs.

Agron did not even bother to set Nasir down in his haste and simply carried him through the halls until they encountered the new source of the cries.

“Fuck the gods…” Agron whispered and Nasir wrenched himself from the man’s grip. Agron let him go without protest and Nasir nearly fell and scraped his knees and palms in his haste to sprint across the room.

Not this…not this…

More men had come but Nasir did not see them or hear them. His arms wrapped around his friend and pulled him close as if to comfort or hold them both back before they crumbled into agony.

Pietros cried openly, his fingernails digging deep into Nasir’s forearm as Barca’s lifeless, bloodied form was carted past to the medicus. Chaos was frothing around them as the other gladiators saw their fallen brother.

Nasir only focused on the subtle rise and fall of the gladiator’s broad chest.

The man was alive…but only just.

Chapter Text

XI.

Though Agron was not as close to the man as many of the others, he had strong enough position in the ludus that he could enter the medicus with the others closer to Barca as they gathered round to discuss what manner of thing had befallen the man.

Spartacus, Crixus, Oenomaus, Gannicus, and Agron packed into the tiny room that stank of iron and salt.

Barca lay prone on the table before them, his eyes closed, dark skin alarmingly pale. He had been washed of blood and bandaged but his breath was shallow—like a man on the very brink of death. Though Barca kept to his own  he was still one that Agron called brother, and he could not remain hard of heart when he remembered Pietros’ anguished cry.

The boy had not been allowed in, despite his status as lover of the Beast of Carthage. He was in Nasir’s capable hands.

“What madness has caused this?” Crixus asked in disbelief.

Oenomaus, normally so calm, now bore an expression of thunder and vengeance. “Dominus believes another assassin, sent to finish what…previous men had failed.” The voice of Melitta, the feeling of her hung tangible in the air. “And now the fucker aims toward one of our own.”

“What of his fucking chances?” Gannicus spoke up. Severity suited him ill.

“Not good,” the medicus responded with his usual fucking tact. “The wounds are large and deep. Only the gods will see him through the night.”

“A miracle then.” Spartcus whispered.

“Who is the fuck who seeks blood against this house?” Crixus demanded, slamming fists to the table. “Will any more of us die while we stand fucking idly by?”

“We are not gods.” Spartacus was fucking fool enough to attempt and soothe the man. “Surely all secrets will find themselves revealed in time. My concern is with the skill of one who was able to take a champion such as Barca unawares. Surely such a man is not one to be taken lightly…”

Agron had a thought in his head that did not bear repeating but his fool mouth was quicker. “What if it was one among us?”

All eyes turned to him and he cursed himself for not holding fucking tongue.

“What are your thoughts, Agron?” Oenomaus asked and there was an edge of accusation to it. “Speak truly.”

Agron clenched his fist before explaining himself. “Who better to know a man’s weakness than one who observes him daily? A shit who walks beside him and watches.”

“A fuck who hides in plain sight.” Gannicus agreed. “Such a man could easily hide within these walls and…”

“We can only pass judgment when the man has woken. Hopefully he has memory of his assailant so we do not cause grievance to innocent men.” Spartacus offered sensibly, perhaps smelling bloodlust in the air. “We can only pray that the gods see him through the night. At present the most we can do is keep eyes and ears to task and hope that the fuck slips up.”

Oenomaus gazed at the champion with narrowed eyes before sighing. “Spartacus speaks truly. It would do us no good to hurl falsehoods. We will wait. Dismissed.”

Agron attempted to leave without rousing notice, sparing only a brief smile to Pietros who had somehow managed to escape Nasir’s side and had been crouched outside the medicus with bleary eyes. He ran past all of his brothers into the medicus and the thin wood of the door could ill-conceal the soft cries of pain that echoed from within.

“Agron, a word?” Shit.

He waited until they were in the shadows far removed from sight before he turned to face Spartacus. “Share thoughts quickly. I would return to Nasir with haste seeing how we have an assassin in our midst.”

Spartacus’ gray-blue eyes did not flinch. “Your worry lies not with your brother?”

Agron cursed his quick mouth and the fact that the ludus slave was the first concern when pressed. He shook his head to chase the thoughts from his mind. “Donar remains with him. And his fists are called to purpose with the same speed as the boy’s tongue. Quickly.”

“Recent events trouble me.” Spartacus’ eyes darted furtively to the ludus sands, his hips tilted as if in hopes for escape, immediately putting Agron on guard. His voice fell to hushed whispers. “I hoard all coin in hopes of purchasing freedom for myself…and my wife. You would do well to consider the same. There is something going on in this ludus.”

Agron considered his and Duro’s combined coin and did not know what that fuck Batiatus would demand for the two of them. And if Nasir, as a ludus slave, would be unable to earn his own coin so Agron would need—

His own thoughts shocked him.

He had forgotten again that their relationship was one borne of convenience for Nasir. He owed the boy none of his coin but…

The thought of him abandoned in the ludus, absent Spartacus to aid his cause and Agron to shield him in the nights, had Agron feel something like a hot coal burn in his throat. They will tear him to pieces in a single night. Truly you become a monster if you leave him to such a fate.

“Gratitude for honest words.” He murmured. “I would not see my brother or myself under mantle of slave for much longer. It only remains to see if fucking dominus would allow us free.”

Spartacus’ eyes became set with a look Agron was beginning to fear as realization that the man had made a decision and the gods themselves could not sway him from it. “He will accept coin to see us free or we will wrest it from him with bloodied hands.”

“A dangerous notion to speak aloud.” Agron thought of Oenomaus and his hard line on attempted escape.

“We live in a dangerous place.”

More dangerous if you are a small, slender Syrian with warm eyes and lovely hips and a quick mouth.

He must have looked like a mad man to Spartacus as he shook his head to clear the thought from his mind. Returning to the sands, his eyes moved quickly to find the brand of his thoughts and found Nasir carrying buckets of water to replenish their stores before the noonday sun rose.

He looked a little paler than usual, his cheeks a bit sunken from a long a night.

Nasir jumped a bit as Agron moved up behind him and placed a steady hand on his hip. Only Agron’s quick hands prevented the precious water from spilling to the sands.

“I came to offer assistance. And apologies interrupted from this morning.” He whispered.

“One more welcome than the other.” Nasir replied and Agron panicked a bit until Nasir turned his head and gave a thin smile. “I am perfectly capable of lifting a bucket of water. If not your spirit.”

Agron watched the water pour into the enormous ceramic cistern. “I swore I would not force you to such things…”

“And you did not. It is an order Roman masters often make on my behalf.”

That made Agron unreasonably angry. He was glad he did not have a weapon in hand or a sparring partner ready at hand or he might have killed someone. Instead, he had to content himself with merely clenching his fist and pressing a gentle kiss to Nasir’s temple.

“Know that I would not have had it so.”

“I know. And I would not have seen you whipped for refusal.”

Agron kissed him again and fought down his guilt. “Gratitude.”

He could not consider spiriting another person out of the ludus. It was too great a risk. He could not entertain the thought for a moment. Theirs was a simple agreement and he would honor it as such. It was the proper thing to do. Nasir would do the same in his position. It was nothing…nothing.

He did not heed the ache of guilt as he walked away.

With doctore’s permission, Nasir took on his and Pietros’ duties for the day and was subsequently run ragged as his closest friend cared for his invalid lover. He had never appreciated Pietros skill before this day and he nearly collapsed from the heat and the exhaustion when there was a break.

He nearly stumbled on a loose cobblestone and arms circled round his waist, steadying him.

“Are you all right?” Duro released him without issue and stepped back. “I would not see my brother’s boy harmed.” Nasir was about to argue against being called ‘Agron’s boy’ but the open, honest look in his dark eyes made Nasir reconsider the correction.

“I am fine. Gratitude for concern. And quick hands.”

“It is nothing.” Duro, sheepish, scratched at his coiled hair. “You make my brother happy and I would see you safely to your destination.” Nasir was flushed with embarrassment at his incorrect assessment.

In the medicus, Duro seemed overcome by awkwardness at the sight of Pietros with eyes swollen from tears and he quickly removed himself. Nasir moved inside without question and his heart broke a little as he took Pietros in his arms and felt his friend tremble.

Clearing the tears from his dark cheeks, Nasir offered him a wan smile by way of further comfort. “How fares Barca?”

The man had been stabbed four times and it seemed as though only a mercy from some benevolent god had kept him from succumbing to his wounds or bleeding to death during the night.

“He yet breathes.” Pietros sighed, looking to where Barca lay. He had been cleaned of all blood, his wounds had been stitched, and he might have looked to be in the throes of a very deep sleep. The only thing that gave hint as to his condition was the deathly pallor of his skin and the shallow breaths he took. “Though he has not yet opened his eyes and I still fear for his life.”

“He will yet live.” Nasir promised with utter conviction. “Such a man is too stubborn to die. Dominus and the medicus do all they can. And the gods will see him flourish under loving hands.” He kissed Pietros’ water-cracked hands.

“I…plead to the gods not to rip him from my arms…though he would tell me to grab hold of my cock and be a man.”

“And I would tell you to rest. Surely no good can come from you finding yourself laid beside him for exhaustion. Come to our—.”

Pietros stepped away from him, his lip quivering. “I cannot. I cannot be from his side for a single moment…or I fear the one sent to rob him of life will return to finish what he could not. I will hold vigil until Barca is strong again.”

Nasir saw he would not be moved and his heart seized in his chest. “I fear it would serve only to have him greet you in the afterlife.”

“Your concern is well received.” Pietros said, one rebellious tear sliding down his cheek. “But I will stay this night. And the next. As many as are necessary.”

Nasir moved so that they stood hip to hip and he sifted gentle hands through Pietros’ curls as he whispered. “I can see you are set in your mind. Absent protection, I fear for your safety. You need only call my name and I will hasten to your side.”

“You bring me great comfort.” Pietros whispered and kissed Nasir’s temple. “I will not forget it.”

“Rest.” Nasir insisted before turning to leave.

He made quickly back to his own room and startled upon Agron already waiting inside, his enormous form draped across the bed like that of a lazy cat’s. He smiled wide as Nasir hissed his curse and clutched his thundering heart.

“Fuck the gods, you startle even when still!”

“He did not wish to move from the medicus, did he?” Agron asked, already knowing the fucking answer. Nasir glared at him as he made room on the bed.

“Truly you see all.” Nasir responded and Agron laughed again at his sharpness. “He wishes to stay with his man to make sure shadows that consumed Melitta do not soon see Barca to the afterlife.” He did not realize but his hands moved absent thought and clutched at his forearms as if there was a chill to the room or a blow was expected.

Agron frowned.

His hands tugged the fingers free and gave the slightest of nudges until Nasir was lying beside him. “Recent event have turned thoughts to darkness, but chase fear from your mind this night. It is one thing to poison a house slave in a vast villa. Another thing entirely to kill a brother of the gods in their own home. Surely such a man’s cock would rival Jupiter’s.” Nasir rolled his eyes at the man’s penchant for making jokes in such a somber time but he did smile, in spite of himself.

And sleep did not come easy.

He was so worried for Pietros’ safety that he could not fully relax, even after Agron had doused the torch and fallen to rest beside him. Even when Nasir closed his eyes, his ears refused to rest and listened carefully for any call of his name in the silence of ludus. He knew the next day he was going to be sick with exhaustion but he owed Pietros after his friend had run to his side during his own assault.

He must have been rigid in the bed because a few hours into the night, rough fingers touched his cheek, just below his eye.

“Sleep yet eludes you?” Agron asked.

Nasir unthinkingly leaned into the warmth of his palm and a thumb stroked the length of his cheekbone. The heat liquefied him and made sleep all the more enticing.

“Sleep.” Agron insisted, his voice that of the god Hypnos. “I will take the next watch and rouse you if I hear any commotion.”

“Gratitude.” Nasir whispered.

“Who will fetch me water if you stand dead on your feet?” Of course the man spoiled any sweetness with his poorly timed jokes and Nasir lazily pushed Agron’s chest with his fist. Agron laughed low. “Sleep.”

There was a soft, brief pressure against his forehead and Nasir was lulled to dreams by the steady heartbeat felt through the tips of his fingers.

It was a lucky thing that Agron was paired with Duro the next day, as Nasir could see the sluggishness of his movements and the way Duro landed hits that normally would not find marks.

Agron was rubbing his bruised flank and growling in German at his over-zealous brother when Nasir came to bring them both water.

“If outcome is not a figment of the sun, perhaps I should entreat the protection of the younger brother.” He joked lightly and Duro laughed while Agron shot him a look of baffled betrayal.

“One day I slip from form and you both descend on me as wolves.” He complained, yanking Nasir to him and ruffling his hair before kissing him. “Do I prove so ineffective a threat that you do not even attempt to bite at my tongue?” Nasir smiled up at the fool.

“Your movement betrays exhaustion. If I were to rob you of you tongue, what methods would you have to attack the men of the ludus?”

“All I hear are complaints and wheedling for attentions of a small Syrian, brother.” Duro responded, not repentant in the least. “I would see steel to match your bluster.”

“Nasir, take these back will you. I wish to have my brother eat his words.”

Nasir skillfully dodged Agron’s attempt to slap his ass and his smile was victorious as he walked away. “Save your quick hands for swordplay. You’ll not catch me unawares.”

Nasir replaced the cups and followed doctore’s order to go fetch the dried wash from the atrium. He was surprised to find Naevia standing within, perusing the selection of wine to bring back up to the villa. He waited until her hands were clear of the fragile ceramics before announcing himself.

“Naevia.”

She turned then and Nasir was slightly alarmed by her appearance. She too looked haggard, as though she had not slept well and her smile lacked its’ usual easy innocence.

“Nasir, you startled me!”

“Forgive me. It was not my intent.” She helped him with the linens and he took extra care not to mention her apparent exhaustion until the subject of Barca came up in conversation. “We all in the ludus have been distinctly on edge as of late.”

“How fares Barca?” She asked, averting her eyes.

“He rests on the edge of the afterlife. But he is being coaxed back into this life with loving hands. Every man in the ludus is hungry to put hands on the man who has done this.”

Naevia’s shoulders stiffened. “Gods willing.”

Nasir knew when slaves were on edge. He had seen the nervous fidgeting of female slaves who had taken a lover absent permission, the anxious energy of children who had sneaked sweets, and male slaves who plotted escape or had filled their domina’s bed. Nasir was familiar with the sight of a woman who had seen or heard something that she should not have.

He thought of Barca and his wide smile and the way he held Pietros close in their quiet moments and the way he had run to aid Nasir when someone had attacked him in the dead of night…

He would not let things stand as they were.

“Barca must have lagged behind after the celebrations. I wonder what reasons he might have for doing so…” Naevia seemed to clench at the mention of Barca staying behind and Nasir knew she must have known something. “You…wouldn’t have witnessed the man’s actions that night, would you?”

“Please…” She whispered, clutching the hem of her skirts. “Please do not make me say it Nasir.”

There could be no doubt now and Nasir gently gripped her by the shoulders. “Naevia if you know who has done such a thing…give voice to burdened thoughts!” He had hoped that his words would offer some comfort but—quite the opposite—her eyes blazed deep with fear and indignation.

“Broaching such topics puts me in unspeakable danger!” She hissed, her eyes darting around as if expecting someone to be listening in the shadows.

“Give voice to fear and see it vanished.” Nasir insisted, now truly alarmed. “Shared burden on the shoulders of a friend.” He embraced her lightly. “Fear paralyzes the soul. Surely any scrap would soothe anguished thoughts.”

She was tense as if the gods had turned her body to stone or wood.

When she finally shared thoughts in her softest voice, Nasir almost wished he had remained ignorant. “Speaking of such things alone puts me in danger. Barca lagged behind to discuss buying himself and Pietros freedom. And the gods nearly kill him for his designs.” She pushed back out of Nasir’s arms and moved towards the steps. “Please, I beg of you, do not ask more of me than this. I fear it might see us both to the afterlife.”

And she was gone, just as swiftly as Nasir’s last scrap of ease. He hoped his persistence and curiosity would not kill him.

Chapter Text

XII.

Agron liked returning early from meals to the room he shared with Nasir so that the two of them could speak away from cunning ears. It was something that got him through the baking afternoons and the pain of blows. His interest was even more pronounced whenever Nasir looked upset. And tonight was no different.

The young man was not himself. It seemed as though he wavered on the border of indecision.

“Your expression begs interrogation.” Agron offered, sitting next to Nasir and yanking at his toes. “What troubles you?” He tried to keep his expression serious as Nasir bit his bottom lip.

“I worry for Barca and Pietros.”

“A worry shared by us all. But he yet lives.”

“If the man recovers…will he be able to fight again? Can he—?” Pietros’ name hung unspoken in the air and Agron, as always, was stunned by the protective streak in his young Syrian bedmate.

“Our fuck of a dominus cares only for money.” Agron admitted. “Others sustaining grievous injury were sold to lesser lanistas or put to the Pit in hopes of recouping losses.” Agron almost wished he had remained silent on the subject as Nasir could not hide the brief look of horror and pain in his features. Agron squeezed Nasir’s slim foot. “But Barca is a champion of rare value and a stubborn fuck if ever there lived. He will not so soon fall from favor.”

“The Pit…have you seen what lies within that horrible place?” Nasir asked.

Though Agron disliked this topic of conversation, he knew Nasir would be kept awake at night unless assuaged. “I have not been myself. But I’ve heard the stories. Fucks too rebellious or weak to survive are sent there in hopes of garnering some small coin to purchase…more promising men. Most do not survive the week.” Nasir nodded, his eyes startlingly blank.

“It is much like the mines then.”

“A place you have been?” Agron found that he disliked the idea of Nasir pressed in the filth of Pit or the mines with eyes downcast and body coiled tight with fear that he could be next if he displeased his dominus.

“My dominus…he…on occasion…I…” The darkness of these memories was clear on his handsome face.

In one smooth move, Agron stretched out so he was lying next to Nasir and he smiled when he rubbed his fingers along the faint stubble of Nasir’s chin. “You would mourn for me if dominus sent me to the Pit to fight?”

His bluster worked and Nasir smiled in disbelief. “You are also too stubborn to die.”

“You would miss me if…I bought my freedom?”

Nasir’s reaction surprised him. His eyes grew wide with concern and he touched both hands to Agron’s chest without realizing. “You cannot! You cannot breathe a word. Not to me, not to anyone! Please…speak no more of this where anyone can hear you. I cannot—.”

He was in such a state, that Agron cupped his forearms to hold him steady.

“Apologies.” He responded. “I did not…mean to alarm.”

“Speaking of freedom is what b—it gave dominus cause to send men to the mines. I fear hearing such things would put your life in jeopardy. If Ashur—.”

Agron felt flame in his chest, a blaze of fury when he thought of that smug Syrian fucker and his machinations. Even now, days after those Roman shits had forced his cock into Nasir’s mouth, Ashur had still not shown his fucking face in the ludus. He probably knew that Agron would break his bones and then spit on his fucking sniveling form.

“Such thoughts grace your ears alone. Ease your mind.”

“It is…no easy thing to see a companion to slow and certain death.”

Agron did not consider himself so bold to ask how many friends or lovers Nasir had seen to the mines and he tilted the young man’s chin up so they were looking at one another.

“Apologies. I meant only to lift your spirits. And I find…careless words have only increased sorrow.” Agron’s pulse skipped a beat as Nasir smiled softly at him.

“Your concern is well-received.”

Even though Nasir did not want to hear such treachery spoken aloud, Agron prayed to the old gods of his homeland in the quiet recesses of his mind. He prayed that this young man would find peace and know the sweet taste of freedom. Unbidden, the idea of his dark, elegant form in the forests east of the Rhine jumped to Agron’s mind and he found that he liked the imagery.

Dark skin, so used to sun and summer, would be even sweeter in the winter, pressed close for warmth.

They sat in silence for a long while, Agron watching as Nasir’s eyes grew heavy from exhaustion. He had been trying to keep Pietros from being too far from the medicus at any given time and surely his penchant to worry taxed his mind as well.

“Stay.” Agron murmured to Nasir as he got up to douse the torch. Nasir sighed appreciatively and rolled over onto his side.

When Agron returned to the pallet, he stretched his arms out and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. With one finger he traced protective runes in the air, the same as his mother had done when he was a child, hoping for peace and the defense of the old gods.

Nasir rustled next to him and Agron held his breath as he felt long hair on his forearm. He waited for a few moments and the gods must have fucking heard him for once in his miserable time in the Roman Empire.

Nasir moved so that he was pressed flush against Agron.

And immediately, Agron knew sleep would not easily find him that night. Not when he was coiled tight, his skin waiting for ever more precious contact. When he moved, it was slowly, to hesitantly touch that long, silky hair. And when Nasir shivered in his sleep, either from nightmares or cold, Agron put his other arm round Nasir’s shoulder and pulled him close to his chest.

It felt…right.

Somehow Agron felt more rested the next morning than he had ever been since arriving to Batiatus’ ludus.

“You move with purpose, brother.” Duro hailed him as he, Gannicus, and Donar walked across the sands toward him. “Do you find yourself light of cock?” Duro yelped as Agron caught him around the neck and tripped him to the ground.

“More than likely he is light at the thought of wine.” Donar joked, clapping Agron on the shoulder. “Enough to raise the spirits of the entire fucking ludus.”

His surprise at such news must have been readily apparent because Gannicus, always delighted at the prospect of wine, was more than willing to explain. “Spartacus has used windfall of the arena to bless us all this evening. Wine enough to get well and truly drunk! The gods will celebrate our fucking victory and fucking gods willing, bring his wife to him.”

Though wine was a welcome prospect, something smelled of suspicion and Agron looked to where Spartacus was listening to Varro speak passionately about something. It was clear Spartacus was not listening; instead, he looked around the ludus with a careful eye as though…as though a general, planning to breach the walls.

What in the name of the gods is that mad Thracian planning?

Nasir wound through the sea of inebriated gladiators, trying to remain light on his feet and unobtrusive. Though he was not afraid of wine and parties, he was hesitant around these gladiators. Gods knew what kind of hell they would raise when deep in their cups and he did not want to see if their cocks could still stand after several cups of cheap wine. Wine made even the most stately of men forget themselves and who’s protection he was under.

Still, he was in good humor in the crowd.

Of course, Gannicus was the first to claim his attentions and toasted with Nasir over their good luck. Wine always put him in a good mood. Crixus too pulled him aside for a quick, shared drink before the other Gauls began to go wild and needed his attentions. Even doctore, normally so formal and reserved, deigned to take a cup for himself.

Spartacus himself was at the center of the entertainment, his eyes shiny as if with drink, but the surety in his step that belied only a few sips.

Nasir could not dwell too long on what was going on around him, as he had promised Pietros he would feed Barca’s pigeons and wanted to do so before things got out of hand. There was no question in his mind that things were going to devolve into madness; it was just a question of when.

Men hailed him as he passed through, raising their cups in cheers to him, and Nasir grinned at the camaraderie he had built up with some of the gladiators.

He scarcely startled when someone grasped him by the waist and pulled him close. He knew this chest, this healthy heartbeat and he melted into it.

“You escape from me so quickly?” Agron whispered in Nasir’s ear before kissing it.

“I must see to the birds. I’ll return to your arms when they are seen to.” He turned and ignored the whistling and howls of approval from onlookers as he easily kissed Agron’s dimple and extricated himself. “And I’ll not carry your form to bed if you find your mind addled by wine.”Agron smiled at Nasir's quick tongue before Nasir ducked into the quieter halls. 

Barca’s room was tucked into the depths of the ludus where it was quiet and there were windows with a view of the road. Usually the first thing one heard upon approach was the gentle cooing of the pigeons but Nasir paused when he heard what sounded like someone muttering.

With the hair on his arms standing up, Nasir decided to trust his gut and walked silently as he had when he lived as a body slave so that he could peek inside the room.

Revulsion filled in Nasir’s chest when he saw Ashur rifling through Barca’s room.

Ashur had not been back down to the ludus since the events during the party and it was probably to avoid the many men—Agron and Nasir included—with whom he had caused offense. But it was clear something had been important enough to risk a trip down while his ‘brothers’ were occupied and Barca was still incapacitated.

The pallet had been overturned, the wooden frame moved as he had been rustling through them. The birds too looked ruffled, several of their cages ajar as if someone had been looking inside of them. It looked as though Ashur was desperately searching for something.

As Nasir watched, the man even checked the walls as if the thing he sought would be hidden behind one of the stones.

And the whole time Ashur was cursing to himself, his normally slick and oily demeanor, marred with tremors of fear and fury. It was evident that he was on-edge and Nasir did not relish the idea of the man seeing him when he was in such a state. Though Nasir knew Barca had sent that Roman shit at the party in his direction and he relished the idea of breaking the man’s teeth, he knew Ashur had dominus’ ear and could probably visit hell on Nasir.

He decided to care for the birds in the morning and disappear from sight.

Nasir slipped through the halls, hoping that his footsteps were quieter than his heartbeat.

What in the name of the gods had Ashur been doing in Barca’s room? Was he stealing from the man? If so what was he stealing? It put him distinctly on edge and he wondered who he should tell. Crixus might know of Ashur’s secrets but he is volatile and might take fists to the man. Gannicus would do the same. Perhaps doctore or Spartacus…Agron will only tell me to remain impartial in this…

He was so deep in thought, so disturbed by Ashur’s actions that he did not pay attention to where he was going. His face bumped into the solid, warm wall of a man’s chest.

“Apologies, I—.”

He looked up and any words of apology strangled in his throat.

Gnaeus looked down at him with bleary drunken eyes, a hungry sort of smile on his face as he blocked the path back to the Atrium where the party raged on. A shudder rippled through Nasir’s body as he realized the hallway was terrifyingly empty and the noise of drunken gladiators would drown out any cries for help.

He took a step backwards and his heart seized as Gnaeus advanced.

“I did not see you.” He finished, the cold fear making him calm.

“You are not with your German shit.” Gnaeus said, his voice steady for a man who had been drinking. He loomed over Nasir, a shadow threatening to swallow him. Nasir glared and felt his fist coil up.

“He awaits my presence by his side.” Nasir tried to be diplomatic, tried to use the approach that sometimes deterred handsy Romans from pressing their suit further. But Gnaeus was no Roman, he had no sensibilities, and his eyes were dark and empty as pits. Not even the fire from the torches could see light to them.

Nasir tried to use speed and surprise to his advantage, attempting to duck to the man’s side and sprint through the hall but it must have been expected.

A thick arm caught him around the waist and yanked him backwards, and he yelped as he was literally pulled off of his feet.

All lessons with Agron flew from his mind as swiftly as he was dragged into a dark corner and crushed against a wall. Agron’s name was in his mouth but Gnaeus must have expected it because his filthy hand clapped over Nasir’s mouth. Even though he was at a disadvantage, he still fought, his arms and legs flailing in hopes of landing a hit and he hissed and screamed in fury.

There was a flash of motion to their left and Nasir jerked his head over, desperately praying to the gods that someone had come to help him.

He narrowed his eyes at the sight of Ashur. Fucking Ashur.

The man stared at Nasir and Gnaeus with a level gaze and something of a wry smile on his lips. Gnaeus must have disliked his prying gaze because he snarled at Ashur. “If you have words, break them quickly. I would have privacy.”

Nasir jerked, hoping Ashur would find some humanity deep in his black heart.

But he simply averted his eyes and his grin widened. “Apologies, I am merely passing through. Far be it from me to deny my brother time with the ludus whore.” Fury raced through Nasir’s veins and he screamed obscenities at Ashur as he left Nasir to his fate.

The moment he was gone from sight, Gnaeus resumed his assault and Nasir attempted to wrest free. Gnaeus’ free hand was clumsy from the alcohol as he attempted to pull and tear the waistband of Nasir’s trousers; it all felt eerily familiar to that first assault in his room…

Fingers shoved into his mouth so deep, Nasir almost vomited and he saw his chance.

Gnaeus yelled in pain as Nasir bit down until he tasted blood and the hands dropped from his mouth and his hips. Now the lessons flooded back to him. Nasir turned on his heel and ducked immediately, expecting the wild punch that Gnaeus threw at his cheek.

The man howled as his knuckles scraped the stone walls and Nasir moved quickly.

His fist crashed hard against Gnaeus’ ear and took off running, his heartbeat and adrenaline making it impossible to know if Gnaeus was chasing him. When he reached the fringes of the party, he trembled with relief.

Even so, there was only way to feel truly safe amidst the madness.

Agron nearly dropped his cup of wine as Nasir collided with his flank; he was in a light mood from the drink and did not seem at all upset at the exuberant greeting. His arms wrapped easily around Nasir’s shoulders and pulled him closer.

“Little man, your heart is racing.” Agron commented into Nasir’s hair. Nasir could not respond immediately as he was watching the crowd for Gnaeus’ furious form. Agron gripped him a little tighter, perhaps feeling Nasir’s distress. “Is everything all right?”

The man did not appear and Nasir’s heartbeat slowed.

A gentle hand pulled his chin up and Agron’s green eyes filled his vision. “Is everything all right?”

Nasir knew Agron’s temper and knew the man would not be above starting a fight during a party. He would tell Agron later. “Nothing. Nothing. Wine and revelry gives the heart cause to race.”

“Would that it were the sight of me that made it so.” Agron joked and pressed a kiss to Nasir’s temple. It was better than having his heart race; being with Agron calmed him until he felt safe again, the phantom hands gone from his skin.

Nasir walked slowly back to the medicus, taking extra care to watch the shadows in case one of the gladiators were lying in wait for an opportune partner. One face haunted him in particular.

Luckily, Gnaeus had not shown his unwelcome face since Nasir had bitten him and punched him in the ear.

Dark thoughts, best to be pushed from the mind…

In any case he hoped the small amphora of wine he had set aside would lighten Pietros’ mood. He would offer his friend a moment of comfort, perhaps have a drink with him where Barca could not, before returning to the safety of his own bed. Agron had seen his drunk brother to bed and promised to keep the candle burning until Nasir returned. A welcome thought…

He rapped his knuckles on the door and heard a small noise from within. “Pietros?”

Shifting the ceramic jug to his hip, Nasir pushed the door inward and stepped into the dim room. The jug slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floors, the cheap wine appearing as blood on the flagstones.

Gnaeus looked at him and his eyes were black pits as before.

He must have nursed Nasir’s firm and violent rejection with more wine and then remembered Pietros was alone and unguarded in the medicus. He was a predator of opportunity, Nasir realized with sick fury. The room was in obvious disarray from his hunt.

Pietros had not fared so well as Nasir had. Though it was clear Pietros had managed to keep the struggle clear of Barca’s lifeless form, he had been less successful in defending himself. Through the flickering orange of the firelight Nasir could see that Pietros was crying from a fresh black eye and his lip was split and bleeding. He was on his knees in the corner and Gnaeus had him by a handful of his fluffy hair.

The terror on his face was profound and Nasir wondered for a moment how long Pietros had been holding him at bay.

They all remained frozen, as if transfixed by the gods but Pietros broke out of his stupor first. “Na-Nasir!”

There was a shriek and a thud, but Nasir did not pause to see what Gnaeus had done to Pietros, as he was too busy turning toward the door, rushing to call for help. For Gannicus, for Crixus, for Spartacus, for Agron. Agron. Agron.

His torso was out of the room before a long arm wrapped around his waist and yanked him backward. Nasir hissed and elbowed hard at the man’s head but he was thrown to the ground in a move that made him scream aloud with the pain and the way it made his head spin. Past the ringing in his ears, he could hear Pietros calling his name and he too kept up the noise.

“Syrian slut!”

Large hands closed around his throat, squeezing tight and Nasir’s body immediately began to fight against the strangulation, even with the heavy body pressing him down. His legs kicked uselessly at Gnaeus’ stout form and his hand scraped for something, anything. Any sort of weapon.

Gnaeus grinned above him and he looked like a monster, a man with no soul.

Oh gods, I am going to die in this ludus… I do not want to die. I want…green…

His vision began to go black and the gods must have heard his plea because his hand closed over something sharp and wet. Using every last bit of strength in his dying body, Nasir coiled his arm and brought it up into flesh.

Gnaeus howled and a blow collided with Nasir’s face as he gasped for air.

The adrenaline was such that he did not even feel the pain. He continued to stab, over and over. Just as Agron had taught him.

Chapter Text

XIII.

Agron had only run as fast once before in his life.

When he had seen those Roman fucks put hands on Duro in their homeland, it was as if the god put wings to his heels. That fury and exhilaration had never once come back to him until the moment he heard screaming coming from the general direction of the medicus. He barreled through the door of Nasir’s room, barely feeling the impact of the wood on his shoulder, as he elbowed aside and outstripped the other men rushing toward the commotion.

It felt as though his heart would fucking stop in his chest.

You should have gone with him, you fucking fool, you should not have let him from your sight, you should not have let him alone with an assassin in the ludus, you fucking idiot, if you’ve lost him…

Outside the medicus he stepped in a tepid, dark liquid that looked a lot like blood and was seeping out from under the door. If someone has put violent hands on him, they will fucking die this night.

He hardly noticed the other men clustered behind him as he ripped the door open.

It was chaos inside the room.

It looked as though a fight had broken out within with empty tables overturned and pieces of pottery shattered on the stone floor; at least Barca looked as though he had been untouched. In any case, it seemed as though the fight had ended near the threshold of the door, judging by the large puddle of dark red liquid he stepped in, snapping him back to his senses.

Pietros looked up at him from where he knelt in the pool, his sweet, dark eyes enormous with terror. His face was a mess of fresh bruises, his hands coated in blood as he attempted to pry one man off the floor.

Agron recognized Gnaeus’ form hunched over on the floor and made sense of where Pietros had gotten his beating.

But the true rage set in when he saw the slimmer dark form in Gnaeus’ shadow, the long, dark hair appearing to turn into the veins of blood that had seeped into the cracks between the stones.

Agron was duly aware that he was howling in fury as he too wrenched Gnaeus from Nasir’s form.

Fuck the gods, there is so much blood…

Gnaeus’ hands were still clawed as he rolled to the side and he coughed blood in a snarl as one last act of defiance. The light left his eyes not a moment after. Agron’s fury at not being able to kill the man himself was tempered by seeing the deep gashes that littered the man’s neck and chest and hearing Nasir gasp for air the moment Gnaeus had been ripped from him.

Pietros, Barca, Gnaeus, his brothers, all those paled to insignificance in Agron’s mind. The ludus could be burning down around him and he would not notice it.

With hands now equally coated in blood, Agron cupped Nasir under his neck to lift his head from the floor and took quick stock of the the little man. Nasir’s long, dark hair was slicked wet, his face and body were streaked with blood, leaving the whites of his eyes stark in contrast as he looked around in a panic. A shard of something sharp and red was clutched tight in his hands. Agron recognized the look of a man still deep in the throes of animalistic survival and he handled his bedmate very carefully.

German was better for this, better for soothing.

He whispered a prayer to the gods for safety and a quiet mind before addressing Nasir specifically. He spoke in low, gentle tones that Nasir was in no danger now, that Pietros was in no danger, to drop the shard and breathe. I am here. Breathe. Drop your guard. I am here.

“Agron.”

The word sounded as though it had been pulled from the very depths of him but dark his eyes had stopped looking for the threat. He looked only at Agron. As it should be.

“Agron…Pietros.”

“Safe.” Agron assured, despite the fact that he had not been paying attention to Pietros at all. His free hand covered Nasir’s fists and he felt a surge of alarm when he felt the strength of the grip. “Reliquish grasp and see heart eased.”

Nasir nodded in understanding but his fingers did not yield the shard of pottery until Agron gently pried his fingers loose. It was with Agron’s help that Nasir sat up and he shuddered at the sight of Gnaeus’ bloodied, lifeless form.

Nasir sitting up also helped to break whatever spell had been cast on Agron.

The room was in chaos.

Donar and Varro were actively barricading the door and were staring down the hall of the ludus; Crixus could be heard from some distance snarling at some drunken fool who dared to come close. Spartacus and Gannicus were sidestepping the pool of blood and wine to inspect Gnaeus’ dead body; Lydon was helping Pietros to his feet and inspecting the bruises on his face.

Nasir has killed dominus’ prized retiarius. The punishment would…

Understanding the severity of their situation, Agron did not pause to allow Nasir to get to his feet. Instead, he scooped the Syrian up under his arms and set him on his feet. Heedless of the blood, Agron pressed Nasir’s slim form tight against his side. He would act as an impenetrable wall.

Spartacus looked over the scene with careful eyes; Gannicus, more impatient was the first to speak.

“What in the fucking hell has gone on here?”

“It is clear to see.” Lydon responded. “Gnaeus always watched this one,” he casually motioned to Pietros from where he was perched by Barca’s body, crying silently, “when opportunity and wine presented, it is no small wonder he forced his attentions on the boy. Your Syrian sought to share wine and comfort and came to the aid of a brother.”

“Vengance.” Nasir spoke again. He sounded on the brink of…something. “The man put fucking hands on me. Three times.” Agron would have pissed on Gnaeus’ dead body himself, had Nasir’s fists not clenched in anger. “I was absent choice.”

“We do not begrudge you.” Varro responded. “Gnaeus was more beast than man. But…” It remained unspoken but hung heavy in the air.

A decision had to be made about what to do with Gnaeus' body.

Somehow, Oenomaus had not been roused by the ordeal so the men looked to Spartacus and Gannicus with next highest level of seniority. It was Spartacus’ calm but vengeful demeanor that came up with their solution.

“Set the medicus to rights and see the amphora pieces over the cliff. The body will follow soon after.”

“Drink and a poor spot chosen to piss…the gods saw fit to seal the fate of a fool.” Gannicus murmured, nodding in agreement as he thought over the plan. “I shall not fucking feel the sting of his departure.”

“The fall and impact will obscure the true cause of death. The truth of the deed will remain unspoken. You need not fear the threat of the mines.” Spartacus assured Nasir as if he could feel the tangible terror of such a fate. “You have rescued our brother, Pietros, and we hold you in the highest esteem.”

Nasir nodded slowly, the god of fear still holding him in his sway.

“Varro, join Crixus and see that no prying eyes would observe us. I will have Mira come down to help scrub the blood from the floors.” Spartacus ordered to his friend and Donar looked to Agron to see what his role would be in this situation.

“Join Varro.” Agron agreed. “And if you see that fuck Ashur, kill him on sight.”

Gannicus laughed at that and moved with Spartacus and Lydon to hoist Gnaeus aloft. Agron moved to help them and was a little surprised when Nasir moved with him. He looked down and knew the question was bold on his face.

“I will see this through.” He murmured by way of reply.

The four gladiators hauled their dead ‘brother’ through the silent, wine-soaked ludus, each man hoisting the dead weight aloft with one of Gnaeus’ limbs. Agron felt not the slightest bit of regret as he hurled the man over the lip of the cliff, watching his pale limbs flutter uselessly until he was swallowed by the darkness.

He touched Nasir. Tried to hurt him to strangle him, tried to kill him. Unforgivable.

Nasir had followed behind them, small, silent, and still drenched in the dead man’s blood. But his eyes were blazing as he tossed the shattered amphora off into oblivion along with what was sure to be a small part of himself.

Donar had roused a semi-drunken Duro and the two were keeping watch outside the room where the gladiators cleansed themselves after a long day in the sands.

No one would notice extra blood pooling in the drains that spilled from the ludus.

Divorced from the events and the adrenaline that had taken him in the medicus Nasir was in a small form of shock, it seemed, as his eyes darted around swiftly, perhaps trying to be ready for another attack, and his bloodsoaked hands were shaking like dessicated leaves. Agron pulled him forward with firm, gentle hands and began to wash the blood from his dark skin.

With a wetted cloth, Agron wiped the blood from Nasir’s face and neck and leaned the young man back so his head was nearly submerged in the water. Crimson blossomed out of his dark as Agron pulled his hands through it.

The arms and hands he saved for last.

Nasir jerked as Agron turned his hands quickly and Agron shushed him. “Be still, little man. No one else will hurt you this night. Let me see if I should bandage you.” He murmured, not realizing that his gentle reassurances were in his native tongue and useless to Nasir.

There was so much blood, he could not tell whether the shard of pottery had cut Nasir or not.

Agron poured the water very slowly, knowing intimately the pain of having water poured too quickly into an open wound. Blood thinned with water dripped into the drain below, and Agron breathed a sigh of relief when he saw no gashes on Nasir's palms; the shattered amphora had left him uncut and unscarred. Agron ran his thumbs over the skin. 

"The gods leave you unscarred." He said, trying not to let relief seep into his tone. 

"Wounds given are not so easily seen." Nasir replied and the lifelessness of his voice was alarming. Agron tilted up his chin and saw that finger marks were darkening to an angry reddish purple that would surely retain color for days on end. He snarled at the sight of them.

"Would that I had the power to take a man's life twice."

"The gods find one death an ample amount." Nasir said with a thin smile. Agron was not surprised when the little man slumped over a moment later, his head resting on his knees. Agron crouched down and began to stroke the raven silk of Nasir's hair, the way his mother had to soothe him when he was a boy. "I have seen many man to an unneeded death. And yet...the man most deserving in my eyes gives heart pause..."

“You protected Pietros and yourself.” Agron argued. “There is not a man in the ludus who would not do the same.”

“But—.”

“It is I who should feel the burden of a heavy heart.” Agron said, taking Nasir’s clean hands in his own. “I should have gone with you. I would have…”

The gods saw fit to pause fucking heart when I saw his body on yours. When I saw his hands at your throat. I would have killed a brother for his slights to you.

He could not say what he kept close to heart. It was too much for a wolf, a savage, a beast of the arena to even dream of.

Instead he could only offer a wan smile and pressed Nasir’s wrists to his forehead. “I can only now bear the greatest pride, that my lessons have seen a monster to the afterlife and you safely to my side.”

They sat quietly, Nasir’s hands resting against Agron’s forehead, until the last of the blood poured away.

Nasir felt as though his mind was rebelling against him.

He could not close his eyes without seeing Gnaeus’ snarl above him, without feeling the hands around his throat. But it was nothing, nothing in comparison to the fearful anticipation over the eventual discovery of Gnaeus’ body. He could feel the cunning eyes of his dominus boring into him, peeling him apart until the truth was exposed. And then?

The mines.

Nasir would prefer death. He had seen the spindly bodies that had been forced to haul heavy loads day and night with no food, water, or rest. He had seen the gaping maws of the tunnels that swallowed all slaves who entered. He had seen the death and despair.

Not even the strong circle of Agron’s arms could protect him from such a terrible fate. He rested fitfully until morning, trying to match his breath with Agron’s.

The fear was driving him to madness and it was not helped by the crack of thunder that split the grey dawn and roused Agron from slumber. He was slower to wake and seemed ready to slip back into dreams until he noticed Nasir’s stiffness.

“You did not sleep, Little Man?”

“The storm comes. As does Spartacus’ wife.” He replied, his voice sounding wooden to his own ears.

“Fuck the gods,” Agron murmured, sitting up, “the man’s joy shines bright as the sun. One can only hope not to be burnt by its’ rays. Push dark thoughts from mind and let us prepare for what is sure to be a lengthy day.” Attempting to lift Nasir’s mood, Agron tilted Nasir’s chin up and gave him a crooked, dreamlike smile. Nasir offered a weak reply.

He forced his worry down. What fear should he have when a god stood by his side?

The heavens had finally split and rain poured from the skies with such intensity that Batiatus had seen fit to relieve the men of their duties for the day. To sleep off their hangover…and to mourn.

When he closed his eyes he could still see the beautiful woman pour from the back of the wagon into Spartacus’ arms. And there was nothing that could be done. Her throat and chest were a sheet of red as she died in his arms and when Nasir looked at his own hands he swore he saw blood in his fingernails.

Spartacus, a god of the arena, could only hold his heart and watch it slip away to the afterlife, his scream choked by rain.

Gnaeus’ disappearance had still not been noted by their dominus or doctore.

Nasir felt as though he were unraveling. He was not himself, he did not feel safe, he was turning into a man he could not recognize or control. He pressed himself against the wall and closed his eyes hoping that he could come to his senses and calm his thundering heart.

Instead…

Gnaeus eyes…his hands…a black form over Nasir’s body. The mines swallowing him whole, Chadara crying. A body exploding in blood on the rocks below, blood pouring from the Sura’s chest and Melitta’s mouth, blood raining from the skies. The gods tormented him.

It was green, the color of plants and Agron’s eyes that brought him back from the brink of madness and he continued to make his way to the medicus.

Pietros jumped at the sight of him and ran to embrace him, Nasir pressing his face into his friend’s nape. “Oh gods, oh gods above Nasir. I owe you a great debt. Y-you saved me.” Pietros whispered, squeezing him around the back and waist. “I swear to you—.”

“You need do nothing.” Nasir insisted, pulling back to assess his friend’s wounds. Pietros’ eye was nearly swollen shut and he had the shaky, frightened look of someone who had been assaulted; Nasir hoped the look was not mirrored on his own. “I killed a monster under the guise of a man. Better to keep you untouched.” Hands unbloodied.

“And how do you fare?” Pietros asked, guiding himself and Nasir to sitting stools.

Nasir hated lying but he did not want to burden sweet Pietros with his pain. Especially not with his lover in the throes of a fever and having nearly been raped the night before. “I am…I find comfort in the arms of my…of Agron.” The lie made his tongue as lead, but Pietros seemed not to notice.

“I…never thought I would find myself jealous of such a thing.” Pietros admitted. “Barca would have killed Gnaeus in your stead.” Blood on the rocks, blood in the wagon, blood on his hands. “Nasir…you tremble.”

Nasir reached for an explanation, “S-Spartacus’ wife is dead.”

Pietros gave a small gasp of pain before bowing his head. “May the gods take her in their comfort…and give our champion peace.” His tender eyes flicked to Barca. “I would not wish this pain on my bitterest enemy.” Nasir doubted Pietros had a single person towards whom he felt ill intent.

“Barca will come back to us—to you. Though I fear having one cherished by the heart is a dangerous thing in this ludus.”

Pietros touched Nasir’s cheek and his smile was surprisingly peaceful. “You need not fear this, Nasir. I—even if Barca returns not whole as he once was, I will still lo—I will care for him. I will care for him for all of my life.” In the house of his former dominus, Nasir would have felt a rush of indignation akin to anger if one of his fellow house slaves admitted such a thing to him. Now…he only felt fear and that feeling of madness that had gripped him as of late.

His mask of serenity slipped, and Nasir bowed his head so his hair obscured his face. “Pietros, I feel as though I have lost mind.” He felt warm arms wrap around his shoulders.

A kiss on his temple. “You need not fear the madness of it. You have strong allies here. You have my adoration. You have Agron.”

Agron.

Agron was already asleep when Nasir returned to their room long past moonrise.

He supposed it was to be expected since Agron had been drinking the night before, spent much of the time afterwards caring for Nasir’s mistake, and then dealing with the chaos in the ludus that afternoon. And Nasir had been long in the medicus with Pietros.

Even gods must rest, he thought to himself fondly as he removed his bracelets and trousers for the night. The candle was blown out and Agron did not stir as Nasir slipped into their shared bed. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness, keeping them clear of the insidious shadows by studying Agron as he slept.

A god in repose, he truly wasn’t terrible to gaze upon.

But Nasir preferred him awake. As gentled as he was by sleep, there was something missing from his face when he was not conscious. His wicked smile at odds with the childish dimple in his cheek, his quick, tender hands, and his eyes.

By the gods, his eyes.

Crackling green fire, those eyes could shine in the dark, burn fear to ash and root a man to the spot.

Without thinking, Nasir placed his hand lightly on Agron’s cheek and the man twitched under his touch. He must have truly been exhausted, because he did nothing more than to sigh in contentment and lean into Nasir’s hand; his eyelashes did not even flutter.

“Agron.” He whispered.

The effect was instantaneous. Agron’s whole body seemed to shift, curling around Nasir, and one long arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him up against the gladiator’s broad chest.

“Mnasr…”

Nasir looked up slightly and saw Agron’s face close to his. He felt warm. He felt safe. He never felt safe.

Slaves were never allowed this. Stamp such thoughts from mind. Nasir heard his former chastisements to house slaves in his head. He knew the rules. He knew the cost, but for once his mind and body rebelled. He had never wanted anything so much before and the world was in a shambles. Fuck the gods, I will seize this with my own hands.

He pushed his whole body up before he could change his mind and put his lips to Agron’s.

They were smooth and warm. The stubble of Agron’s chin scratched Nasir and he could feel the soft breaths of sleep brush against his lips. He had never chosen to kiss anyone before; slaves were not allowed to have this. And though it was nothing to the swift, fiery kisses Agron pressed on him daily…it was not unpleasant.

Agron gasped gently through his sleep, sucking the air out of Nasir’s lungs.

Nasir began to pull away, reluctant to catch his breath, when a hand pressed into his hair and brought him back. Agron’s lips were parted now, moving against his. The warmth had returned but it was different now. Nasir felt it rising in him, like a god breathing life into creation.

He thought for a moment Agron was still in the throes of dreams, until the words between kisses echoed through his lips into the core of him that was buried deep behind walls.

“Nasir…Nasir…Nasir…” Every breath was a whisper of his name.

Agron’s eyes were open; they flashed green even in the dark. And Nasir was helpless to them. He had been since the moment Agron looked at him.

Chapter Text

XIV.

At first Agron thought it was the sweetest of dreams.

He thought the lips were just a figment of his imagination but as he came awake he could feel those familiar lips on his. Quite instinctually, he dug his hands into warm hair and pulled that familiar slim body close to him.

Agron opened his mouth and there was a sweet little noise from the one who kissed him. Those little noises were what he loved about kissing virgins and he felt desire pooling hot in his chest.

It has been so long since I had someone sweet in my arms. Not since I lived in the forests east of the Rhine. And none so welcome as this…

With the ease of a man who had spent a lifetime wrestling, Agron used the warmth suffusing into his limbs to cradle Nasir—it was Nasir, he realized with no small amount of joy—and flip himself on top of the young man.

The closed-mouth, chaste, and curious kiss that Nasir had initiated evaporated under Agron’s considerable skill in the act. Agron cupped his cheeks and kissed him properly, kissed him the way he had always wanted to. A gentle savoring of the feeling, of the taste and of the way Nasir began to warm under his lips. Nasir had never been a rigid kisser but now…now he was responding, copying Agron as he began to let his tongue make slow, intimate explorations.

Nasir’s tongue was cool and quick as it flicked out and caught Agron under his upper lip.

A groan of approval slipped from Agron’s mouth into Nasir’s before he could help himself. He nearly lost control as Nasir mirrored the sound, a quiet mewling of delight.

Agron was only duly aware as his knee pressed firmly between Nasir’s smooth legs and felt the warm crux of him settle firmly on the right thigh. Agron exulted, driving his fingers deep into the dark, warm waves of Nasir’s hair as the young man rocked his bare hips against Agron’s leg. The hips of dancer…

Kisses sweeter than wine, sweeter than air, Agron wished never to cease the movements of his lips.

He could feel the quickening of Nasir’s pulse through the fine skin of his throat and the very obvious ‘interest’ that grew firm and heavy against Agron’s thigh. Agron’s own delight in the activity was becoming readily apparent and their movement against one another became markedly slick.

“Wai…wait.”

Nasir gasped into Agron’s mouth and Agron separated himself reluctantly.

Even in the dark, Agron could still make out the black splash of raven hair over the rough mattress and the shining, bead black of his eyes. Surely his lips would have a twin gloss from Agron’s mouth and the thought was enough for Agron to nearly forget the soft ‘wait’.

Nasir reached out a hand to touch Agron’s jaw in the spot where his cheek dimpled and the young man’s breath shuddered as he tried to catch it. “You cause sense to flee from mind.”

“You will find my thoughts on the subject similar.”

A thumb brushed Agron’s lower lip. “I thought you deep in dreams.”

“I thought you did not favor me.”

Nasir smiled softly, a brief crescent of white in the darkness. “You gaze on a man bewitched.”

“And yet you stop my mouth from moving to purpose.” Agron said, tilting his head as dog might. “You interrupt a taste sweeter than freedom to break words?”

“I beg of you…wait.” Nasir implored and Agron’s head fell to the mattress beside Nasir’s. Agron felt hands in his hair and he felt lulled into a feeling like melting under the sun. “I…I have never been kissed like this. I have never…felt desire such as this…I…”

Agron understood.

He understood now the constant fear and degredation faced by body slaves and could see why Nasir was overwhelmed with the sudden desire and stimulation. He cursed the fucking Romans for putting hands on the lovely Syrian.

His former dominus, that fucker, and any of the Roman guests forced him to bud too young, didn’t cultivate him with sweet words and tender touches. I must take care to make amends. Slowly, slowly…

He took a deep breath and kissed the tip of Nasir’s nose before rolling to the side. His cock was not pleased to have his leg removed from its’ proper place. He ached feeling the heat of Nasir’s desire gone from his skin. Instead he ran his hands down the smooth olive skin of Nasir’s chest and arms. His heart was still racing.

“Speak from your heart without fear. I am no fucking Roman and I will not put violent hands on a lo—on you.” He would not be so bold as to presume that they were…lovers…yet. He kissed Nasir’s forehead. “I will not push you on this, I swear.”

“Thank you.” Nasir whispered and kissed the curved scar over Agron’s heart.

Agron allowed himself a moment to calm his lower half before pulling Nasir close again. Their legs intertwined and they snuck quick kisses; Agron peppered them on Nasir’s dark head and smooth forehead, Nasir placed them on Agron’s neck and chest and once—daringly—on Agron’s chin.

Agron thanked the old gods of his homeland for his good fortune in this. The beautiful Syrian in his arms held his adoration and wanted his kisses. Surely there was no man in the Roman Empire so blessed.

When Nasir fell to slumber again, Agron stroked his hair and listened to his precious measured breaths. He could be patient, he would wait for Nasir to be ready. But there was a lovely dream of it: someday soon he would have the young man panting beneath him, breathless in the greatest pleasure.

Agron could not remember the last time he had felt such excitement and desire.

He allowed himself one last kiss before falling to sleep, clutching his lover close.

It was doctore who finally took note of Gnaeus' disappearance and once the word reached the ears of Batiatus, the entire ludus was put on lock down and the gladiators were confined to their rooms until Gnaeus' whereabouts had been discovered. Agron smiled over the idea that their oily fuck of a dominus was ranting and raving floors above him under the impression that one of his prized beasts had escaped without a trace during the madness of the party or the following morning while Spartacus mourned his wife.

Not many of the men could claim Gnaeus as a close friend, but the Gauls were as 'friendly' with him as any and they were called forth first. Rhaskos complained upon return that Batiatus seethed as Oenomaus questioned them at length over when they last remembered seeing Gnaeus amongst their numbers. Then Agron ground his teeth seeing Pietros and Nasir being escorted to the villa to be questioned; he could smell fucking Ashur's hand in this. 

Nasir only nodded quietly as he passed. 

His bruises had not yet faded and Pietros' eye was still swollen from where Gnaeus had beat him. Agron thanked the fucking gods above that Nasir had had the foresight to provide the two of them with an alibi. Nasir's bruises had come from Agron choking him in their moment of passion, Pietros' black eye came from Barca thrashing about in the throes of a fever. That would explain the screaming as well. Agron only hoped Pietros could lie through his fear. 

Nasir smiled at Agron softly as he was returned and Agron took that as a cue of confidence. It came as no surprise to Agron when he, Duro and Donar were called up next.

Duro and Donar’s interrogations were over relatively quickly and Agron envied their ease in simply saying that they had fallen to slumber after drinking wine, only rising to relieve themselves during the night. They were no friend to Gnaeus and had no clue as to his whereabouts.

Agron was called next and kept his expression flat as he encountered the wolves.

Doctore was calm and stone-faced, as usual, Ashur grinned at him from behind Batiatus’ chair—Agron’s lip curled on instinct—and Batiatus prowled, unable to keep the fury from his features.

“Dominus.” Agron said by way of greeting.

Batiatus waved his hand impatiently to Oenomaus to begin the line of questioning.

“Agron, one of your brothers has gone missing. Can you account for the whereabouts of Gnaeus?”

“I cannot.” Agron admitted, without breaking eye contact. “I had not seen him before the wine was given and all the better for the both of us.” He let disgust creep into his expression. “I found cause for offense when I discovered he had tried to put hands on my Syrian bedmate; the boy suggested…alternatives to soothe thoughts of anger. You no doubt saw my marks of claim on his neck.”

“And on the day of the bitch’s death?!” Batiatus slapped his hand on the table, obviously annoyed with how slowly things were progressing. “Find your tongue! Every moment you waste fucking time, that fucking Dacian finds way further from Capua!”

“We yet have no proof of this.” Oenomaus cautioned. “Agron, and the day of Sura’s death?”

“After the woman’s death, I comforted Nasir and spent the rest of the day amongst my brothers until the call to rest.” He opened his palms in a gesture of peace. “I hold no secrets before you.”

Oenomaus stared at him, eyes black and intense as the pits, as if he would draw the secrets from Agron by his gaze alone. Agron stared back, knowing his green eyes were equally intense when he wanted them to be. Oenomaus sighed and turned back to Batiatus.

“I know Agron and he speaks the truth. His temper would be such that any offense would have him beat the man before all others. This is my honest thought, dominus.”

Batiatus glared, unable to find a proper outlet to vet his anger. “Fucking take him back then! And bring me Lydon and the Hispanics next. I would have Gnaeus found by sundown!” Ashur looked as though he were being forced to suck shit.

Agron stared at the Syrian fuck, hoping that he could see that Agron was going to shove a wooden gladius up the ass the moment he set foot in the ludus.

Just according to plan, it was Spartacus who revealed during his questioning to Batiatus that he had seen Gnaeus drinking as he pissed over the edge of the cliff. Immediately, Batiatus sent a contingent of men to the foot of the cliff to search and see if he had fallen.

From what Agron heard from Spartacus, Batiatus had destroyed half of his study upon hearing that his prized retiarius had lost footing under the influence of wine and the bloody patch of him was being picked apart by crows and vultures at the foot of the cliff.

Nasir had called on the unshakeable calm and cool gaze of Tiberius as doctore and his dominus questioned him at length over his knowledge of Gnaeus and his whereabouts.

Nasir mostly told the truth: that he had been warned of Gnaeus’ violent hands and avoided the man whenever possible. And when Ashur smilingly brought up how Nasir had been cornered by him the night of the festivities, Nasir smiled until his teeth felt as though they would crack and informed him that it was a common skill amongst body slaves to be able to repel such men.

His answers and alibi must have been satisfactory because he was escorted back to the ludus immediately.

Now that he had been questioned, he was no longer confined to his room and…it seemed an instinct or the will of the gods that his legs carried him back to the iron gates separating the ludus from the wine cellar. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips as he touched the cool metal.

Agron…Agron was upstairs. So close. Gods bring him back to me. Quickly, quickly…

His heart was now fluttering in his lower lip and the feeling was so foreign to him that he nearly missed the person that moved in the shadows near the shelves where the wine was kept.

“Naevia?” He whispered and the figure jerked. “Naevia, come out.” His heart felt light wanting to share his newfound delight with her. She would surely understand his joy.

Great was his shock when Naevia sprinted from the shadows, racing up the stairs with her hands covering her face. She did not even glance back at Nasir or offer an explanation. Cold concern dampened his joy and he pressed his face close to the bars, as if to hope she would return.

When she did not, Nasir turned from the bars. Agron would be returned to him, he was certain of it.

However, he could not find the man in the entire ludus and even those closest to Crixus could not account for his absence or his whereabouts. Unsure of what to do next, he simply returned to his room and waited, wondering what was ailing Naevia. Perhaps she was simply frightened that the assassin had struck again.

Maybe Agron could offer wise counsel on the matter.

They were not able to speak intimately until well past sunset.

By the graces of the gods, Agron was returned to the ludus with that wicked grin causing his cheek to dimple. Nasir felt a swell of heat in his chest, burning away his concerns. How quickly the spark of annoyance had become something so intense that it both thrilled and terrified him.

He hardly cared about his dominus’ foul mood—first over Gnaeus’ disappearance and then over finding his body—or how he seemed to instruct doctore to drive the gladiators harder than usual. Nasir merely carried out his duties and…if anyone noticed that Agron’s thirst was more intense than usual or that their kisses lingered a little longer…they kept their observations to themselves.

The moment they returned to their room that evening, Agron immediately bent down so that Nasir could loop arms around his neck.

Nasir gasped as his back hit the wall and Agron took the opportunity to slip his clever tongue inside. When breath became scarce, Agron took his attentions to Nasir’s neck and kissed the tender bruises there.

“Is it imagining?” Nasir gasped, weaving his hands through Agron’s hair, “Every moment absent your lips is spent wondering when I shall next feel them on me.” Agron looked up at him, delight clear on his face. “You mad German, what spell have you laid upon me?”

“A sentiment shared.” Agron replied, indulging him not long after. “The fucking gods heard my pleas then, to have my love taste of nectar and ambrosia—.”

Nasir laughed and smacked his chest. “You speak with the tongue of a man with a cock unrivaled.” Those green eyes caught fire.

“I—.”

“Yes, yes, your cock swings to rival Ares himself.” Nasir laughed, rubbing the stubble of Agron’s chin with his thumb in hopes the man would not see his blush. “Now…I would see skill continue to improve.” For some reason it sent a need to best Agron coursing through his chest. The man was, annoyingly, more skillful with his lips and it had Nasir nearly come undone with each kiss; he would have liked to know he held such sway over the warrior. Nasir had never felt a rush of competition so strong before.

Agron looked delighted, but he did not move to kiss Nasir again.

Instead he pulled wooden daggers from the hips of his subligaria and held them aloft. Though Nasir did enjoy the power he felt from sparring, he tried not to let the bitter sting of disappointment creep into his expression.

“I praise myself as a god for teaching you well.” Agron kissed Nasir’s knuckles as he pressed the wooden knife into his hand.

“Only you would be so bold.” Nasir found himself delighted as their cutting banter had taken on an easy, loving tone. It felt warm. He would never tire of it.

Agron looked at him again and his expression had taken on a measure of concern and severity that did not suit him. “My only regret is that I could not kill the man myself…”

“Perhaps I should praise you in turn.” Nasir offered, only wanting to see that expression gone. It seemed to work to the proper effect and Agron kissed the corner of his mouth before assuming his defensive stance.

Nasir practiced his methods of attack and defense first, flushing with pride whenever Agron praised him. But his real joy came from Agron’s invitation to spar and Nasir was able to press close to him, beading with sweat, breathing heavily, and feeling the heat pouring into his limbs.

"Tell me of your homeland." Nasir prompted in a whisper as the wooden daggers collided in front of him. He felt a bead of sweat drip down his temple and wondered if at any point, he could make Agron feel a moment of physical exertion.

Agron smiled as he parried the thrusts, his voice and breath barely even labored by movement. 

The land east of the Rhine, according to Agron, was savage, dark and beautiful—much like Nasir, he joked, and Nasir blushed and landed a hit to Agron’s flank. Mostly forests, lakes, and mountains, the land was silent but somehow still frothing with life. It was not uncommon to be wandering amongst the trees and see a stag standing rigid in the shadows or to see a pack of wolves race through the mountain passes. In the winter the entire land was blanketed with snow and the only way to survive was to stay indoors and ‘make vigorous love under the furs’.

Nasir laughed at that and his defense dropped enough that Agron disarmed him and pulled him so close and tight that Nasir could not move.

“Do you yield?” He asked so softly that Nasir felt his hair stand on end. The man was baiting him.

“If I do not?”

Agron thought for a moment. “Surrender arms, Syrian rebel. Otherwise, I will spirit you back to my lands eat of the Rhine, never to see this fucking place again.” He kissed the side of Nasir’s neck; surely he could feel Nasir’s rapid heartbeat through his skin…

Nasir shivered as the words bubbled out of him. The illicit feeling of fighting, of speaking of rebellion, of a lover’s kiss was so…

“My desire…is great for such things.”

“Gods willing, you will.” Agron kissed him again.

Chapter Text

XV.

On the sands in the morning, Oenomaus delayed their normal start to training and looked over his charges. He cast Spartacus a particularly furtive look before clearing his throat and making his announcement. "Gladiators!" His bark was enough that it stopped Pietros in his tracks and Nasir nearly bumped into him with a full ewer of water; he had been too busy watching Agron with something like hunger in his eyes and Agron had to hide a smile behind his hand at the young man's blush.

Unperturbed, Oenomaus continued. "Today, into this honored ludus we welcome the most noble guests of Rome." Perfectly timed, Batiatus and his wife appeared at the balcony alongside another couple. "Legatus Gaius Claudius Glaber and his esteemed wife will—."

Agron was duly aware that Spartacus had come alive at the mention of these people.

The man had been in a stupor, his energy a hollow shell of his former glory upon the death of his wife. To any creature with a heart, it was clear to see that he had lost his reason for living, though his ferocity with a blade had not waned. But now this Roman fuck had piqued his interest and Agron could understand the sentiment. He too was having a difficult time keeping his lip from curling at the sight of the blonde bitch looking down at them. 

He recognized her and wondered if she remembered him and how she had forced Nasir to kneel before him. He wondered if her husband knew if she liked slaves to service gladiators in front of her. Agron was so concentrated on his seething hateful stare that he did not realize Oenomaus had finished his speech and was now waiting for them to fall to line. 

Donar must have noticed Agron's limited attention, because he pulled him over to where many of the champions were assembling. Duro gave them both a cheeky wave as he fell back but Agron could see a chip of resentment in his dark eyes.

"It would serve you well to pull head from ass." Donar remarked. 

"What do they call us for now?" Agron asked, ignoring Donar's cautioning. 

"Dominus calls his finest men to stand attention before this Legatus."

"One wonders then why you were called." Agron joked and Donar elbowed him hard in the flank. 

"Save your good humor for your little lover." Donar retorted. "I doubt this man is much given to jest."

"Pity," Agron took stock of the situation, noting with relief that Pietros and Nasir were not being called to come with them but that Spartacus' intense gray gaze had never left the balcony. "It seems Spartacus might have something more to his liking." 

Donar looked to their champion and his look of exasperation was brief but profound. "Gods fucking willing we all survive whatever dominus has in store for us."

With Crixus and Spartacus taking the lead, Agron lagged back, hoping doctore and the Roman shits guarding them would not notice as a small, slender Syrian tucked in at the end of the line to have Agron kiss him.

"The gods favor you when your mouth remains closed."

Agron's mouth was open, still hungry as Nasir slipped back into the shadows of the ludus walls. Despite the shit situation, the thought of Nasir could bring him joy. "The only god I care for will beg me to my knees for an open mouth." Should he die in the villa, Agron had a fond final memory in the deep blush that stained Nasir's dark cheeks. 

Agron could tell from a cursory glance at the Legatus' hips that he was a man brimming with irritation and was clearly in no mood to fucking waste time. It was also readily apparent that he was a military man, itching for a fight with every quick twitch of his muscles. And thank the fucking gods, it was not him under the Legatus' particular attention.

That 'honor' had been bestowed on Spartacus and everyone could smell the bloodlust in the air.

Agron almost wished for a moment he had been placed next to the mad Thracian so he could caution him in hushed tones. Spartacus, a man with nothing to lose, could not be trusted to keep himself steady in the face of a man who had obviously dealt with him before. At least let the Roman shit deal the first blow, he begged with every fiber of his being.

A small mercy, the insipid blonde wife stayed out of the confrontation.

She had innocently smiled at the warriors, as if she had never seen them before, but the moment she met Agron's eye, there was a brief flash of horror before she averted her gaze. At least she would not bother him.

And his dominus buzzed like a gnat around the Legatus, blind to the man's obvious irritation. Unclear and uncaring as to the official hierarchy of fucking Romans, Agron had enough sense to realize that Batiatus wanted something from this bloodthirsty shit.

Agron ignored them as they talked near ceaselessly and only came to attention when Spartacus was called forward into the pool in the center of the villa. The tension in the air was tight, Batiatus' eyes glittering with greed, and the fucking Legatus looking as though he had just been allowed to piss on every enemy who had ever challenged him. Agron and his brothers took a step back to allow space as the Legatus' guards were called forward with swords drawn. A hollow shell of a man since his wife's death, Spartacus' eyes were the hardened blue-grey of the steel he was tossed. Hips went rigid in preparation for a fight, knuckles tightened, and Agron's pulse and breath slowed as it always did the moment before he faced an opponent on the sands. 

Spartacus was truly a champion. 

Even outnumbered seven-to-one as he was, even encumbered by the slosh of the water against his legs, he moved with the purpose of a man enflamed. This was a personal fight. 

The Legatus' men fell as wheat, whether injured or killed, and the clear water blossomed crimson with Roman blood. As easy as breath, Spartacus had defeated all who rose against him and Batiatus looked as though his piss had suddenly turned to liquid gold. The Legatus looked a little less than impressed. 

Their dominus could not resist a fucking chance to boast, despite the clear hostility in the air. "Have I not told you I possess the finest champions in all the empire? They obey my every order! Their only match is a brother trained under my own roof!" Agron froze in horror, realizing the deadly mistake as it was put in that Roman fucker's mind. 

"Let us have true competition then." He suggested, his look of vague, cruel delight returning to his features. "Illithiya," he turned to his wife who seemed just as surprised and delighted as Batiatus to have the man's attention, "you have spent time in this blighted villa. Choose a man you consider...a worthy opponent of the champion of Capua." 

Sidestepping the splashes of blood as easily as if it were not even there, she stepped over the marble floors and surveyed the choices of warriors provided. Agron held his breath; he could feel the dark tendrils of the afterlife creeping towards them and wondered if it was he alone who felt such things. Luckily, she only regarded him for a moment before passing by, her cheeks a little flushed at the memory of what she had done. Though she seemed careful in deliberation, her gait gave her away and Agron knew she walked with purpose to a pre-selected choice. 

Great was the surprise of everyone within the room when she pointed, not at the impressive forms of Crixus or Gannicus, but to Varro. 

Agron did not hear anything past the sound of his own breathing at that point. He knew what was coming as surely as if the gods had whispered it in his ears.

It was a fearsome battle, with no man giving quarter, and Varro was a fine warrior. But Spartacus was their champion and Varro was disarmed within minutes of the battle's start. And Batiatus' face went grey-white as the Legatus gave the order. The afterlife had laid claws to its' victim and Spartacus' hand shook on the hilt of the sword. Are not your men the finest in the empire? Do they not obey every command? I command death.

Nasir walked through the halls, nearly tripping over an uneven flagstone, such was his flushed state.

That German fool, that wicked fucking—

Nasir could not even imagine such a thing, such a promise. He had always been made to kneel in the presence of stronger, more influential men. Never had any of them offered such a thing to him. It was a matter of subjugation, of taking pleasure whilst offering none. It was a common chore for a body slave in an illustrious household.

No one had ever offered him such a thing and he did not think he could bear the thought of it.

He did not think a champion of the arena should stoop to such a thing for a ludus slave…for him. Agron had done no more than kiss him. Unbidden, the phantom feeling of Agron’s lips trailed from his lips, down his throat, and he imagined…what it might be like…

The swift, hot rush of arousal, quite rare for him, raced to hips and he nearly doubled over.

He had to pause and allow time for his cock to settle in his trousers, lest the men left behind tease him for the rest of his days in the ludus. When the fabric settled to flatness, Nasir pushed all thoughts of Agron’s sultry promises from his mind though the fire of his green eyes stayed emblazoned in Nasir’s pulse.

Someday…someday…

He moved quickly, smiling at Duro, as he made his way to find Pietros. He tried not to think if Barca had serviced his friend in such a way. He could feel his face burning with blush as he ducked into the medicus. Pietros looked up at him in delight from where he was wringing out a damp cloth.

“Gods be praised, Nasir!” He exclaimed, dropping the cloth in favor of running over to squeeze Nasir’s hands. His eyes were alight with joy. “After so much time, Barca’s fever has broken!” He looked over to where Barca was resting, “My delight is unfettered…”

Nasir touched his forehead to Pietros’. With so much sorrow and tragedy visited on the ludus as of late, it was kind of the gods to show them both some measure of joy and love.

“And the gods willing he will soon wake.”

Pietros looked over to his lover, obviously alight from the idea.

They did their chores around the ludus till near evening and even then, the men called to the villa had not reappeared. Nasir tried to keep the concern from his features as they went about their duties but it was difficult.

Still nervous without their respective lovers, they took their meals in the medicus and they chatted amicably, avoiding all topics of Gnaeus, Sura, or what might be happening within the villa.

“How fare your birds?” Nasir asked, knowing of Pietros’ fondness for the noisy creatures.

“They are well,” Pietros smiled between bites and bumped Nasir’s shoulder, “No thanks to you.”

“It was unavoidable.” Nasir said, carefully joking. He did not like to think of that night with Gnaeus and Ashur—it hit him suddenly that he had never mentioned Ashur ransacking Barca’s room during the festivities. By the time Pietros had seen the mess he had probably attributed it to the drunken foolishness of one of the gladiators or the rampage during the search for Gnaeus. “When I went to feed them, I saw something that held cause for alarm. Ashur was Barca’s quarters making attempt to search for…I know not what.”

Pietros’ eyes became very wide at this revelation and he was opening his mouth to speak when—

There was a sharp gasp that cut through the momentary silence, as if a man was surfacing for air after a length of time underwater. In the same moment, Barca jerked forward and Pietros moved.

Nasir was a little slower, not letting his bowl clatter to the flagstones as Pietros’ had. When he arrived to the table were Barca was laying, Pietros had one hand on the man’s bandaged chest and the other on his scruffy cheek; Barca was looking at him with a mixture of confusion, pain, and fondness.

“Jupiter’s cock, I ache.” He complained.

Pietros’ laugh was watery with relief. “If your first mood upon waking is to spare complaint, then my mind is at ease. Surely any man with such energy is destined to survive against all odds.”

“Such energy, eh?” Barca smiled at him. “Mock me so and I will be fucking you before the sun has—fuck!” He must have moved in a way that caused pain to his healing wounds, and Pietros went into a panic trying to get him to relax whist finding the source of the pain.

“The gods have called your bluff.” Nasir said with a smile, moving to the tincture for numbing pain.

“I see that German fucks’ cock has not pounded your mouth to submission.” Barca was whip-quick. “It was your voice that brought me from the depths of slumber, boy. Tell me, what terrible fucking things have befallen this ludus as I was near the afterlife. Am I to be sold to a lesser lanista?”

Nasir and Pietros told him in turns.

Pietros told Barca of how he had used every spare moment to slip away and care for him. Of the party and of Gnaeus, whereupon Barca turned, eyes glittering with malice, demanding further explanation from Nasir. Nasir had continued, telling him of the death and disposal of Gnaeus, the murder of Sura, the arrival of the Legatus, and the sight of Ashur digging amongst Barca’s possessions.

“Syrian fuck.” Barca hissed and then caught himself. “The rat, Ashur.”

Nasir smiled, sharing the sentiment. “Gratitude.”

“For what reason did he search?” Pietros asked. Nasir could tell from Barca’s expression that he was reluctant to share these details with someone so innocent. He braced himself for something shocking.

Barca did not disappoint.

Barca turned his attention back to Pietros and took him by the forearm, his weakness from injury causing his hand to tremble. "Pietros, did you do as I asked? Did you hide my winnings?" Pietros glanced nervously to Nasir; Barca had obviously put the fear of the gods into him to keep the location secret but Barca assuaged him. "Speak truly. If this fucking Syrian can kill a man and keep silent, he can surely keep lips sealed about a stash of gold."

You have no idea, Nasir thought to himself as a veritable phalanx of filthy secrets from his former home came to mind. 

Even so Pietros kept his voice at a hushed whisper. "I have placed your winnings with Spartacus, the champion. He has no love of gold, his room is to himself and no one would dare cross him save Gannicus or Crixus." And they had enough gold themselves.

"Praise the gods, you clever fuck." Barca said by way of compliment. 

It occurred to Nasir then how such unrelated topics could be in close range of conversation. 

He spoke before thinking. "When Ashur was searching your room...he was looking for your saved winnings." Though the idea would seem unthinkable coming from another brother, Ashur was such a case that Nasir felt confident stating rather than questioning. 

Barca's eyes glittered with fury that Nasir had only seen once or twice before. "The man owes me a sum long past being repaid. I placed wise wagers on the battle of Theokeles." Nasir felt his mouth go dry at the thought of the staggering amount; it was no wonder Ashur was struggling to pay him back. It would be enough to...

"You could purchase freedom."

"Such was my intent." Barca agreed. "Mine and Pietros'. It was for that reason I lagged behind after the festivities had ended." Nasir felt a rush of dread at the very thought of discussing freedom with a dominus but he allowed Barca to continue uninterrupted. "Though chance was never fucking realized. That treacherous fucker, Ashur, laid knife to me and left me for dead. I wonder if he too is the fucker what killed Melitta."

Pietros, incapable of believing that people were anything less than good and gentle, turned to gauge Nasir's reaction. He was decidedly less shocked. 

"Ashur tried to kill you."

"The gods fucking astound that he did not return to finish the job." Barca admitted.

"Agron." Nasir murmured under his breath and then clarified when they looked at him for explanation. "Ashur is avoiding the ludus in face of Agron's wrath for a slight that very same evening. It may be imaginings but he was probably avoiding the threat of violence." 

"Cowardly shit." 

"We must tell the others," Pietros insisted, "Doctore and dominus and—"

"Such action would only hasten me to the afterlife." Barca interrupted. "Dominus would sooner part with his flimsy cock than allow that Syrian shit to answer for his crimes. No, for the moment, I would have only those that must know I am still in this life. Crixus. Gannicus. Spartacus. Fuck, Agron as well since I may have him to thank for every fucking breath." 

“We can keep your condition secret.” Nasir promised, “But secrecy cannot be prolonged indefinitely. I fear dominus would lose faith in recovery.”

“Two more nights would be ample fucking time and then maybe I could stand on fucking feet.”

Nasir was nursing his bottom lip with his teeth when he heard a commotion outside the walls. He narrowed his eyes, no longer trusting the sounds of an anxious or upset crowd within the ludus. Perhaps the gods would be kind to Barca and grant everyone a blind eye.

“I will stay with him.” Pietros said. “I shall wait by the door…”

Barca nodded in assent before falling back against his pallet. He seemed very relieved to do so and Nasir felt that most of his perceived recovery was due to bluster and stubbornness. His healing would take more than two days.

Nasir peered out and saw quite a crowd assembling in the sands.

But he truly went cold when he saw the two wooden pillars being erected directly below the balcony of the villa. He had seen such things before when his former dominus wished to discipline any unruly working slaves. The lashes of angry red were nothing in comparison to the cries of pain that came from some deep primordial spot inside.

Agron, what if it is Agron?

He panicked, unusure if he could see such a thing being done, and began to try and push past the spectators. Most seemed reluctant to move for him and potentially lose sight of a brutal punishment. But gods save him, his persistence was rewarded by way of a man grasping him through the crowd and yanking him close.

His sigh of relief brushed Agron’s chest. “The gods return you to me unscathed.”

“A small Syrian spoke of keeping my mouth closed.”

His words were meant as a quick jest but his tone was haggard and devoid of his normal fire. “Who?” He whispered, wondering if he was better off not knowing what ill had befallen them in the presence of the Legatus.

“Crixus.”

Chapter Text

XVI.

Agron stood with a set jaw, unable to tear his eyes from the spectacle.

Though he had never held much love for the fucking Gaul, it was always a difficult thing to watch a brother be whipped. Crixus was bound by his wrists to two massive poles driven into the ground, his ankles lashed likewise so that he could not even flinch from the bite of the lash. 

Agron took no notice of their dominus’ posturing, of whatever shit poured from his mouth to justify the brutality of his punishment. No, Agron saw only the anguished desperation on Crixus’ face, almost as if he were begging for mercy, and felt the slight tremors that rippled over Nasir’s silky skin. Agron held him tighter.

The little man, in his defense, did not shy away or avert his gaze as doctore’s whip fell and Crixus howled as an injured wolf might. Blood sprayed in fine red arches, each man counting the cracks as they could not help but imagine the pain. One...five...ten...

It was fifteen agonizing lashes before the voice of their dominus gave call to cease the torture and the men of ludus could breathe again. 

The firm voice of the legatus echoed with displeasure from the balcony as the men moved carefully closer in hopes of seeing their brother cut down. Not men easily frightened, it must have been something to see as they all startled, caught by hooks of memory or simply unnerved, when a high-pitched cry of agony cut through the heat of the evening. Surprise was great amongst them all--save Nasir who tensed even tighter against Agron's flank--when they saw a small, dark form attempt to break rank between two guards and make a run for Crixus. He did not recognize her until she was hauled back by her escort and the light of the torches caught her bruised, tearstained face: Naevia. Agron, never one to mingle with the female house slaves, barely recognized her. Her smooth, dark skin was covered in scratches and dried blood, her right eye swollen to the point where she would not be able to see from it. Her hair--which Agron had vaguely recalled being long--had been hacked short past her ears so that she looked like a boy in a dress. With the way she sobbed, the way she leapt toward Crixus, there could be no doubt as to what had happened.

Even more astonishing was the way Crixus shattered as old amphora and wept as doctore begged them a moment together. 

The fool has plucked a flower from the body slaves. And now they pay the price for being caught. He cursed himself a moment after for is callous thoughts. As if you would not do the same...

Nasir watched the lovers with unwavering, unblinking eyes, watched as Naevia pressed frantic kisses to Crixus' face, watched as they whispered fool promises until the hysterical Naevia was dragged from the ludus. 

Surely in that state no kind fate awaited her on the outside. 

Agron had heard the whispers of body slaves, the fear that tremored in their voices, and the look of deep disquiet that came over Nasir whenever someone mentioned the mines. For the brothers it was the fear of being sent to the Pits, but there was always the glimmer of hope that a man of some skill and determination could claw his way out. Agron had the distinct feeling the mines were another beast entirely. If Nasir, with his endless calm from years of slavery and his newfound strength, could be so unsettled and fearful of the mines, Agron could not imagine how someone as fragile and helpless as Naevia surviving in such a place.

Gannicus and doctore moved to the front of the posts as two fucking Gauls came to cut down their leader. Agron pulled Nasir close, wanting to spare the little man Crixus' groans of agony as they cut him down from his posts.

"Water will settle a disquiet mind." Agron whispered gently as they pushed through the crowd of dispersing brothers. Wine would be better.

He had thought it would be calming to drink something and then retire to the comfort of the bedroom, but the gods sought to piss on his plans. 

Standing by the water barrel and looking deep inside, with blood still on his hands, was Spartacus. If the man had been a hollow shell of himself when his wife had perished, then he looked like a haunt, a shade that would wander the forests of his home and slay any unwary soul fool enough to cross his path. He had yet seen fit to cleanse the blood from his arms and he did not remove eyes from his reflection, even as his brothers milled around him in a state of distinct horror. 

"What ails our champion?" Nasir asked unwilling to disturb his tortured reverie. 

Agron did not know how to explain what had gone on before Crixus had lost his mind in the villa. Even he had difficulty coming to terms with what he had seen. And the fucking gods seemed to want to piss on the will to live that had dulled so low after he had lost his woman.

At least he was spared from finding the words adequate to explain what losses had been suffered as a group of soldiers from the house traipsed into the ludus.

Amidst their forms was a firm white sheet that curved around the body within and dripped red in soft splatters onto the flagstone floors. It was a testament to Nasir’s training as a house slave who had seen any number of other horrors in a villa that he did not react as the body was carted past him.

Varro’s face was the gray white of marble, nearly statuesque in repose, save for the angry crimson wound that cut deep into the base of his neck.

Though they had never been close friends, Agron still felt a little ill upon the recollection of their horror on hearing the order for death. The constant companion of Roman fucks.

“No…” Nasir said, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.

“Yes,” Agron pulled him close against his chest, holding his head and shielding him from any further cruelties. “Orders given from that Roman fuck so beloved by our shit dominus.”

Nasir leaned into him and Agron felt a fierce rush of protective adoration. He wanted this gentle young man out of this hell hole. “Because…we are piss and shit in their eyes.” He had thought he would shoulder any indignity so long as Duro lived but now he felt like he would tear the heavens free of the earth if any further shit were wreaked on his sweet Syrian lover. “They make to play fucking games with our lives and I would see them cease.”

He guided Nasir away from the body of Varro, his brother, and left the last of his sentiments unspoken.

I am not the only one who feels this way. And we intend to fucking do something about it.

Nasir tried. Gods help him, he tried to make a good show of being as pliant and calm and obedient as always, but inside it was as if someone had shaken a nest of wasps and let it loose inside of his head. Naevia was gone. Sting. Crixus was shattered and split open in the medicus. Sting. Varro was dead and his little wife's screams had rattled the teeth. Sting. Ashur had tried to kill Barca. Sting. Spartacus was...sting, sting, sting. 

Was he truly the only one going mad in the entire place? Everyone else seemed dead and resigned to the fact that death could have them all in a fucking moment. 

He was buzzing with energy. With the desire to live. It surprised him. 

Though he did not want to, he tore himself away from Agron's side to find them all and bring them to the medicus. 

Perhaps it was that they saw no escape of their own misery and smelled death in the future or maybe they saw that Nasir was desperate and burning with the will to do something, to live, but they followed him without question. Doctore, Gannicus, Spartacus, Lydon. These gods followed a mere body slave without a word of complaint. Agron and Donar needed no convincing as well.

The group of them walked through the silent, tense ludus until they reached the final members of their little council, waiting in the medicus.

Crixus groaned as Mira dabbed the blood from his back, Pietros watching on with fear etched on his sweet face. Nasir did not even flinch as someone took him by the shoulder to demand explanation, ignoring Agron's grimace of dislike. 

"Nasir, what is the meaning of this?" 

Their faces swam before his eyes so that he could not even tell who was speaking. He only saw eyes blazing with dim torchlight. The shafts of the mines, the pits of Tartarus, the glint of tipping scales. Ah, he thought wryly, so this is what is meant by feeling the hand of fate. He turned back to Pietros; they had not noticed that Barca's cot was empty and the man came to his defense not a moment later.

"The boy brought you here on my command."

Crixus groaned as he turned his head to see and Barca's other close comrades rushed to his side to see if this was not some cruel figment of their grief-addled minds. 

“Cease fucking hysterics,” Barca said gruffly, brushing his friends aside, “I am alive and in no need of racket. If I cared for noise, I’d have my birds here or have Pietros across my lap.” Pietros blushed furiously.

“We thought you for the afterlife, you wicked fuck.” Gannicus responded to his bluster with carelessness and a clap on the shoulder.

“As did I.” Barca turned to Agron and gave a smile that was more a baring of teeth. “I suppose I have you to thank for that, you wild German fuck.” Agron looked surprised and then a little unnerved, burgeoning on the expected anger as he might have thought Barca was blaming him for the incident that had put Barca in the medicus.

“What is your meaning?” Oenomaus asked sensibly, eyes darting from Agron’s growing fury and Barca’s approximation of a smile.

“This shit from east of the Rhine has kept death from my fucking door.” Barca continued. “The fuck who tried to rob me of life is terrified of Nasir’s wolf.”

“Who is the fucker?” Gannicus asked.

“Ashur.” Nasir hissed and all talk ceased.

Fury reigned on familiar faces and Crixus was the one who broke the shocked silence with a groan that sounded like it had been meant as a scream. Mira ran for the medicine but Crixus stopped her with another howl.

“Leave it woman! Herbs…will not heal what has been done…” It seemed to cause him horrible pain to even speak.

“Ashur tried to kill you?” Oenomaus was shocked but steady.

“The fuck owed me money.” Barca admitted. “I meant to collect the night I was stabbed. I raise doubt he had fucking funds to give me. So death it was meant to be. Shit at murder, as with everything else.”

“You were to beat him for his…slight to me.” Nasir told Agron, whose fury was quickly abating. “It is the fear of you that kept him from further attempt on Barca’s life.”

“I would slay him for revealed transgressions.” Agron swore.

“You…will not!” Crixus bellowed, trying to lean up on his elbows. “The man’s life is…mine for the pain he has caused…Naevia.”

Nasir felt a swirling mix of sickness and fury. “What has he done to Naevia?”

The truth came out then about what had gone on immediately after Varro’s death. With Spartacus on his knees and their dominus gloating about the obedience of his prized fighters, Ashur had antagonized Crixus, knowingly laying hands on Naevia. Chaos had erupted when Crixus lost mind; Spartacus had nearly slain the legatus and the man had left in a fury. Their secret affair was revealed to all.

Their domina had particularly taken offense that her own body slave had taken a gladiator to bed without leave. There was only one destination.

“The mines…” Nasir whispered and Mira’s serene veneer cracked for only a moment.

Oh gods, give her a swift and painless death, Nasir prayed, take Naevia away from this world of piss and shit…

Crixus howled with the pain of his back and the pain of having his very heart ripped from his chest.

Barca gave him a moment to compose himself before continuing. “The Syrian has given us all reason for fucking murder but I have further cause for dismay, given what I have overheard while ‘dead’.”

Truly none of the gladiators could have expected what information Barca would give them from his sickbed.

“Should you be shaken to faintness at blood, you may want to join Crixus on his bed.” Barca joked callously. “Especially you doctore and our champion.” Spartacus’ eyes flashed gray-blue fire, in no mood for jokes. “Your wives…they both died coated in blood?”

Oenomaus looked away, fighting back the pain that was evidently still fresh. Spartacus wore his openly, almost daring Barca to joke about his pain. “Yes,” his voice was raw with it.

Barca nodded. “Yesterday I heard our fucking domina discussing with the medicus about the fucking plots and plans of the House of Batiatus. Did you know that they brew poisons in the cells?” All the men present looked shocked. Mira was the only one who remained cautiously unmoved, though her fists clenched. Barca smiled at her. “Ah you know, girl. You’ve probably been ordered to see drops into a disfavored goblet haven’t you?”

Mira held her head higher, refusing to back down to his baiting. “I must do all that domina asks of me without question. You know as well as I do that to deny her pleasure is to court death. If I…if I do as commanded without question then I live another day.”

“You selfish…bitch!” Crixus spat blood. He groaned in pain as Mira tossed the bloodsoaked towel onto his ravaged back.

“As if you would not do the same!” She spat. “You kill men at the crowd’s behest to further your own life! Rest your heart easy that all she has killed thus far have been Romans who displease our dominus.”

“Not so.” Barca said. “Melitta drank poisoned wine by accident. It was forced down the throat of Spartacus’ wife.” Spartacus and Oenomaus tremored with shock and fury. “They spoke lovingly of it and plan to use it against a senator who has caused slight as of late.”

“They…have played us as fucking fools.” Gannicus whispered.

“Such a betrayal to me—to my wife’s loyalty.” Oenomaus was overcome and had to look away.

“Sura…” Spartacus whispered, bowing his head and Mira finally looked less defiant.

“What shall we do?” Pietros spoke up, his voice shaking with latent fear. “If two of our own have died and countless others have perished at our dominus’ hands, what is keeping him from killing more of us. When we bargain for our freedom?”

Barca looked as though he might kill anyone who would contemplate such a thing.

The others were equally easy to gauge.

Nasir too looked back at Agron and saw his anger and fear for Duro, for himself…Possibly for me?

Lydon and Mira were the only ones who showed hesitancies. Crixus, Spartacus, and Oenomaus had been so utterly betrayed, had so little left to lose that revenge was burning up from their skin and eyes. Gannicus would follow his friends and the scent of wine and gold.

“What shall we do?” Pietros asked again.

Spartacus needed no further prompting. He was their champion after all. “We are going to rain fire and blood on this fucking ludus.”

They were in too deep.

I care for them now. I cannot turn away from this.

Not even the fear of the mines could turn Nasir from becoming implicit. Freedom was as tangible as the smell of blood in the medicus.

Nasir did not feel vindicated or wary of the future. 

He still felt as though his skin would burst from his form and spirit would explode outwards as an errant star. His hands trembled as he thought of Naevia being dragged to the mines...

"See hot wax spilled on adored hands if tremors continue." Agron chastised. He wrenched the shuddering candle from Nasir's hands just as a drip of liquid hot wax raced down the side onto his finger. Agron hissed from the slight pain of it and Nasir moved to action. 

"I beg forgiveness." He whispered as Agron placed the offending candle on their small table. "Events of late have given...cause to tremble."

"You need not apologize...or tremble." Agron assured though he offered his hand for inspection. Nasir cradled it in his own hands, marveling at the large calloused fingers before peeling off the drying piece of wax. The skin beneath was a little red and Nasir unthinkingly brought it to his mouth, his tongue soothing the spot. 

Agron's breath came in like a whistle and Nasir looked up, worried he had caused further injury.

Rather, Agron's lovely green eyes had become hazy.  

Nasir did not break eye contact. Perhaps that had laid explicit his most private intentions because the air was gone from his lungs as Agron engulfed him, pressing him gently against the plaster of their wall. His muscles liquefied from the moment Agron’s lips crushed against his.

Nasir was so ready for it, he suckled Agron’s tongue; he wanted Agron more than air.

His skin prickled with the feeling of hands on him and every place Agron touched him was exactly the spot he wanted most. His mouth opened wider as one of Agron’s hands lightly rubbed one of his nipples. His own hands were woefully unoccupied, so he ran them over the hard curves of Agron’s abdomen.

When he encountered the pliant cloth of subligaria, Agron pulled back, scanning him carefully.

“Nasir…”

“Have you lost mind?” Nasir whispered tenderly, “Why have you ceased beloved caresses?”

Agron, unable to help himself on the best of days, leaned forward to nuzzle the base of Nasir’s neck until he shuddered with wanting. “You tempt me as the nectars of the gods. Push me back now before you find my mind lost to the gods of desire. I…fear I will lose all will but to have the taste of you on lips and tongue.” As if to showcase the seriousness of intent, Agron began to suckle lightly, biting gently the skin of Nasir’s nape and the areas around his nipple.

The thought of him ceasing such divine activity was more than Nasir could bear.

He cradled Agron’s jaw in his hand and lifted his head so that he could see those beautiful green eyes.

Nasir realized then why his body had seemed not his own. Why it felt ready to burst and he felt a thrumming need for something inside himself. He did not want to die without feeling this completely. He wanted Agron in his arms, in his bed.

Desire, was that what everyone waxed poetic about? Was this what men sought with utter desperation, with intense hunger? Enough to risk freedom for?

He wanted it badly.

Nasir pressed a soft kiss on Agron’s half-open lips and leaned closer for a lover’s whisper. Agron smiled when Nasir finished explaining in hushed tones and Nasir laughed, half in surprise, half from nerves as Agron hoisted him up into the air and brought him to their bed.

Chapter Text

XVII.

Agron had always dreamt of this.

A silly thing, that he, the wolf of his village, who was legendary for fucking so wild and intense that his lovers raked their claws down his back, would find untold sexual joy simply running his fingers through the lush dark tangles of Nasir’s hair. He was gentle, so gentle; he didn’t want to tear out a single strand.

They were lying on Nasir’s pallet with their limbs interlocked, flesh moving to purpose even though they had not yet even removed their clothing.

“I had…” Agron pulled his lips from Nasir’s throat so that his lover might find voice and was well-pleased with the view. Lying atop him with their single candle ablaze, all of the handsome planes of Nasir’s face were gold and orange. He was unspeakably fine.

“Give voice to private thoughts,” Agron encouraged in a whisper, delighting in the slight tremble of skin as he ran his lips along Nasir’s collarbone.

“I had thought…you a rough lover.”

Agron leaned up so that he could bury his face in Nasir’s hair, kissing from his scalp down his jaw and back down his throat. “Can a wild beast not be gentled?”

“I have never—I’ve not…” His voice became even softer, softer than the darkness, “I have never been with a lover before.” His head ducked and Agron remembered that Nasir had been a body slave, chained to all the unpleasant shit that entailed. “I hope to the gods I can please you.”

One hand stayed in Nasir’s hair while the other trailed down to the slight curve above his hip. “A worry misplaced. Save sweet nectar of freedom and fond memories of the lands East of the Rhine, it is you I desire most in this world.” Nasir curved into him, kissing the scar above his heart.

“You need not seduce with sweet words. We are slaves; beyond such things.”

“Strike me down, gods of my homeland, for lies. I desired you from the moment you stood on those sands. With hips so fine…I was not the only fucker with eyes held captive by the fruit of Syria.”

Nasir looked overwhelmed. “You hold heart captive.”

Agron cupped his cheeks and kissed Nasir’s lips. “And I seek to treat it gently.”

Tender kisses turned to shallow gasps against Agron’s skin as Agron began to explore Nasir’s body with calloused hands. He spread his palms across Nasir’s shoulders, traced the length of his spine—groaned a little as Nasir rubbed against his subligaria—and paused at the waist of Nasir’s trousers.

Agron, that wolf of the arena, a god of blood and death, felt his hands tremble with anticipation.

Nasir whimpered a little, sliding himself along Agron’s body, as Agron’s hands slipped beneath the fabric and grasped the hips and ass that had caught fucking eye from the very first day. Kisses became stolen between Nasir’s gasps as Agron traced the curves of him, clutched him, explored…

Gods, never had he held a man sweeter.

With the impatience of a virgin, Nasir tugged at his trousers and Agron smiled as he heard a small tear of fabric. It enflamed him that he would cause his lover such desire to rend cloth from body.

Nasir’s skin was burning below the surface as Agron easily hooked his thumbs on Nasir’s waistband and slid the offensive clothing off. The both of them groaned in ecstasy as Agron slipped off his subligaria and pressed his body tight against Nasir’s back.

His lips easily found Nasir’s as he rubbed himself between those buttocks he had always admired from afar. He thrust his hips with intent; he wanted Nasir to feel what he did to Agron. His cock stood to task, leaking as if he were a green youth about to bed his first lover. Nasir gasped as his flesh became slick and movement and he seemed to grasp desperately at their rough spun blankets.

“Just the feel of me brings you to such heights?”

“Hardly,” Nasir smiled, kissing Agron so desperately that he missed lips several times. “I seek assistance necessary.”

When Nasir’s searching arm emerged, Agron smiled up seeing the small bottle of oil he held aloft as victoriously as a winning gladiator on the sands.

“A gift from Pietros?”

“A necessary thing for a man of…your size.”

Agron groaned into Nasir’s neck. “You enflame me with your flirtations. I will worship Pietros as a god for all he has provided assistance.”

Their hands were shaking so badly that, once unstoppered, their hands became slick and coated with oil.

Nasir arched against him, muffling his cries against Agron’s chest as Agron massaged the oil into his backside, caressing the muscles and sliding his fingers over the spot he was going to attend to all night.

His longest finger dipped inside Nasir and they groaned at the same time.

The arrogant side of him reveled that he could cause such pleasure with only a lone finger. But he was well and truly fucked as well; Nasir was tight around him. Quite instinctually, Agron began to run his lips down Nasir’s jaw, kissing his earlobe, and murmuring words of love and encouragement in his native tongue.

“Gods…please!” Nasir cried as Agron found a rhythm the young man liked, his fingernails digging into Agron’s scalp and wrist.

Agron did not slow, wanting to savor the sweet look that overcame Nasir’s face as the god of pleasure took him. He planned to become intimately familiar with the expression and nuzzled against Nasir even closer as his grinned and gasped his way through the first of many waves of pleasure.

The lean body trembled with aftershocks in his arms and Agron kissed the wiry muscles of Nasir’s shoulder that he had spent many nights growing to firmness. He knew in what was left of his heart that he was well and truly fucked.

He had not even slid himself inside Nasir and found his own pleasure, but he found himself enchanted, glowing in a softer version of the heat that blazed in him after battle.

Agron wanted to see Nasir on the cusp of pleasure again.

He withdrew his fingers, sliding them leisurely over his cock making sure that oil and his pleasure dripped from the tip. His own breath flushed his face as he made intent known.

“Nasir…will you let me,” he almost spoke of it as an ‘honor’; for him it was more of an honor to take Nasir in his arms than it was to fight and bleed on the sands for fucking Romans, “will you let me have you?”

For a moment Agron was struck with panic that Nasir would turn him away, but Nasir grasped Agron, pulling him close.

“I desire you body and soul but…grant me one selfishness.”

“Anything.” Agron gasped. He would pull stars from the heavens to give Nasir what he desired.

The tops of Nasir’s cheeks were flushed. “Often with…former dominus—.”

Agron growled. The mention of another man in the bed would have him in a state but the shit Roman who had first taken Nasir to cock without care to age or desire had him burning with rage. “That fuck has no place between us—.”

Nasir silenced him with a gentle kiss. “Past memories are oft-not forgotten. But they flee in the circle of beloved arms. All I ask is that you do not take me from behind tonight…I have never…had a lover wish to gaze on me during…”

Agron was overcome, the blaze of anger settling to a flicker in his gut.

He kissed Nasir’s temple. “My gaze will never waver from you.”

Though Agron had always preferred taking lover from behind with firm, deep thrusts, his hands gripping slim hips, he liked the idea of resting his forehead on Nasir’s, holding the young man’s torso so that all of his weight was rested on Agron’s cock.

The idea was such that Agron moved immediately so that he was kneeling at Nasir’s hips with Nasir’s legs resting on his shoulders. Nasir laughed, covering his blushing face with his hands and it was infectious. Agron laughed into Nasir’s thigh and nibbled at the soft skin there.

“I would see you wracked with pleasure.” Agron insisted, “Please tell me if I cause you discomfort.”

“You truly believe your cock is of a size?”

“You know it is.” Agron smirked at him and pressed the top of his cock against Nasir’s entrance. Nasir gasped softly but did not tense. His body went lax around Agron and the second push had the tip of Agron sliding inside.

Agron had to pause, nearly spilling inside with just that simple push. His arms shook with exertion and Nasir did not help when he pushed his hips forward so that Agron slid deeper.

Nasir’s arms pulled Agron down so that there was no space between them.

“All right…” he breathed in Agron’s ear, “You speak the truth. Your cock is unlike any I ever—.”

Agron groaned, pushing in even further so that he was buried to the hilt inside Nasir. They had to stop for a moment just to allow Nasir to adjust to having Agron inside him.

The moment Agron began to thrust Nasir raked his nails down the canvas of Agron’s back, causing a delightful sting that had Agron thrusting back in deep. Nasir sobbed Agron’s name, the pleasure too intense to moan anything else; Agron whispered in German his praise and love, his body so close to completion.

He was going to finish quickly, gods help him.

Nasir smiled up at him, his eyes hazy, and he kissed the tip of Agron’s nose.

Agron shuddered. He loved this man. He was never letting him go.

Gods, it was beyond imagining.

Nasir had never known such pleasure and now he understood. He understood them all. Why Pietros would not stay more than a few days from Barca’s side. Why Spartacus was hellbent on bringing his wife back to his side. Why Naevia and Crixus risked all for precious moments together.

There was nothing like the finding of pleasure in the intimate embrace of a lover.

Even long moments after Agron had collapsed on him, holding Nasir as if the intent was to shield him from the piss and shit just outside the door, Nasir felt his heart tremble from the feeling. He stroked Agron’s sweat-soaked hair feeling joy that he had given cause for a god of the arena to drop guard and lie tame in his arms. Agron’s seed was pooled inside him and Nasir clenched tight to hold every precious drop inside.

All other experiences with dominus and former Roman guests paled in comparison to Agron.

At this moment, he would not envy the wealthiest Romans or the most revered of gods.

“Am I not the greatest lover to worship your lovely hips?” Agron asked, his tone smug as he alternated between catching his breath and kissing Nasir’s nipple. Nasir’s cock was stiffening a little each time Agron kissed him.

“It is you that seems to desire praise.” Nasir flicked Agron’s ear. “And I have often felt wicked green gaze lingering on my back.”

“Your hips were what I desired.” Agron admitted. “From your first day in the sands I took notice. We all did.” His expression became tinged faintly with jealousy and Nasir tried not to laugh aloud.

“You have me in your arms, in your bed. You need not care for the gazes of those who remain outside.”

“You are my lover.” Agron insisted and Nasir leaned forward to kiss the top of his head.

“Yes…I am.”

“The gods of love have blessed you and I would relish the fruits of their bounty.”

“You are not yet sated?” Nasir still felt as liquid sun. He wished to bask in the feeling a little longer but would open himself again if Agron desired him. Agron kissed the corners of his mouth.

“Let me…indulge.”

Nasir smiled, throwing his head back to allow Agron to suckle his throat and lay kisses across his shoulders. It was tender delight to not be sent away immediately after completion but to stay and be licked and suckled. A lazy, rough thumb rolled his nipples in circles, the feeling so soothing that Nasir closed his eyes and allowed himself to sink into the feeling.

Rather than abating, the warm feeling remained, growing under Agron’s hands until…

“You cannot!” Nasir gasped as Agron’s lips trailed lower, brushing the crest of his hip.

“You would give command? Speak your desires and see them done. Yours is the only command I follow with joy.” He rested his chin on Nasir’s navel and gave that bright, disarming smile of his, his cheek dimpling deep. “I am yours.”

“Y-You want this?” Nasir was astonished. He and Agron had joked about such acts but never had he thought them to come to fruition.

“You have done the same for me under the gaze of fucking Romans.” His expression darkened for only a moment before he became thoughtful and tender again. “Should not the one I hold precious also experience such heights of pleasure?”

Nasir touched Agron’s jaw and Agron leaned into his hand. “Offer is kindly met. But you need not force yourself.”

Nasir knew the ways of the world.

It was the slim boys, sweet of face and temperament who were forced to their knees and those with power who stood waiting for open mouths. This was all wrong though…he would be lying if he claimed to lack desire.

“Force? Gods fucking willing I would have your cock in my mouth until doctore drags me from this bed. I will raise you to heights beyond imagining.”

Nasir shuddered, feeling his cock stiffen in interest simply looking down at Agron’s eager expression.

“I…if it brings you joy, then…please. I trust you.”

Agron kissed the hot tip of him and Nasir groaned, pushing his hips up unthinkingly. His length parted flesh into the very entrance of Agron’s mouth, pressing against teeth and he pulled back in case Agron found the feeling distasteful.

“Hold tight to my hair if you must.”

Opening cleverest mouth, Agron descended on Nasir. The whole of Nasir’s cock could fit inside and Nasir arched his entire back off the pallet to bury himself deeper, his vision spotting white.

He felt a warm, firm hand pressing his stomach back down as Agron’s tongue set to task.

With flat and tip, Agron traced the length of Nasir, tracing him from the root and suckling with exaggerated care. Nasir’s legs shook and his heels braced the blades of Agron’s shoulders; he took advantage of Agron’s offer and fisted one hand in the bedding, the other grasping a huge handful of Agron’s hair.

It was joy unlike any he had tasted before.

With body constrained to helpless jerks, Nasir voiced pleasure without shame; he cared not if the entire ludus heard of Agron’s skill. Perhaps they would envy him of his pleasure, of Agron’s skill on the sands and on the bed.

A tongue wrapped around the tip of him and Nasir hissed between clenched teeth.

He moaned aloud as the tongue flicked so low as to brush his swollen opening. Agron sensed his joy and lapped at him again; Nasir could only dream that one day Agron would lick him so low again.

And gasps turned to words, garbled to prayers of love, as Agron began to swallow. “Gods! Oh gods, no! Oh gods!” Such pleasure was unimaginable and his other hand curled into Agron’s hair so that there was no space between Agron’s lips and the skin of his hips. Nasir cried for the only god he worshipped, his toes digging into the muscles of Agron’s wide back. “Agron! Agron! AGRON!”

Gone were his inhibitions. He was too lost in the waves of delight to worry about pulling his cock out and he found pleasure in the back of Agron’s throat.

Agron, his lover, his god, held him steady and made a growl of delight deep in his chest as Nasir let the tremors pass. His tongue made lazy swipes, milking Nasir of what was left.

Nasir made a helpless noise between a sigh and a whimper as he felt Agron swallow and withdraw, only pausing to kiss the wilted tip yet again.

Along with seed, it seemed as though Agron had swallowed his bones and muscles for all Nasir could put up defense. He was utterly limp from pleasure as Agron slid up his body and kissed him slow and deliberate. Nasir tasted himself on Agron’s lips and felt a low burn of possession and pride. He would put out the eyes of anyone who sought to share this precious attention.

“You need not have swallowed.”

Agron nestled his face into Nasir’s throat and seemed thoroughly pleased with himself. “As if I would spit the nectar of the gods to the dirt. I’ll not waste you.” And then, with a tone that might have bordered on shy had it come from a lesser man. “Did boasting live to heights reached?”

Nasir did not know how to respond.

How could he explain that he found fucking a distasteful chore before this very night? How he dreaded sinking to his knees or removing garments? How he had never felt so much a free man until this very night found him in the arms of his most beloved? How he would trust himself body and soul to a gladiator with wild green eyes and a gentle, clever mouth?

“Comfort found in your mouth and arms are beyond all pleasure I have ever known.” He whispered and Agron seemed to almost purr in approval. “I wish never to be parted from them…”

“The gods themselves could not tear you from me.” Agron promised.

It was a beautiful dream.

The darkness and silence of the ludus began to creep around them, lulling them to slumber and Agron shifted so Nasir was resting his head on Agron’s chest, rising and falling along with his breath. In that moment, he could pretend.

Nasir could imagine that he and Agron were free, bodies beholden to no one beyond the walls of the ludus.

But when morning came they would be pulled apart by their dominus or death. It was almost too much to bear, imagining the hands that did not belong to Agron that would pull him close and pry him open.

He had hoped that finding this solace in the arms of his lover would give clarity to his mind and it had. Nasir knew that his view of the world was forever changed and he was calm in it.

He was going to follow what these mad gladiators had planned.

Chapter Text

XVIII.

It was a matter of weeks after he had first made love to Nasir that Spartacus called them all together again in the medicus to discuss just how they were going to rain piss and shit upon the house of Batiatus.

Agron had actually been stealing a moment with Nasir when the summons came for them both.

Agron had come for water and seen Nasir come for a similar purpose.

The slight sway of his slim hips, the sight of dark perspiring skin had Agron salivating at the memory of Nasir’s taste. His cock grew hard in his subligaria as he remembered the snug way he fit inside Nasir. The moans and sighs of the previous night had rushed around him like wind sent from the gods and Nasir had smiled up at him in that small, private way as if the same thoughts had come to pass in his mind.

It could hardly be helped.

Both cups fell to the dirt as Agron hauled Nasir to the closest dark corner and put his hands and lips to work. Nasir raked his nails down Agron’s bare back.

“One wonders…” He gasped when Agron deigned to let him up for air, “if this desire should ever abate.”

Agron had been wondering the same thing.

His lovemaking to Nasir had not dulled his passion in the least. Rather the desire grew to epic proportions each time he saw his lovely Syrian. It was torture to practice on the sands with cock drained and yet somehow… He wanted more, always more, like some great beast in the wilderness.

He could only grip Nasir through his trousers and hope that it was sufficient response.

“Agron.”

It was Oenomaus who caused them to separate, Agron with a glare. And though he had been lax with the gladiators now more than ever, his expression was still disapproving.

“ Doctore .” Nasir answered when Agron was too irritated to respond. “Do you have need of us?”

“Spartacus seeks to break words with the champions after the evening meal. Apparently he has been told of an event that may serve our purpose well. Catch your breath and return to the sands.”

Nasir nodded and Agron grunted by way of response.

But as soon as Oenomaus was out of earshot, Nasir peppered Agron’s face with light kisses. “So soon.” He whispered, voice husky with excitement. “So soon and we shall taste the sweet vintage of freedom and be free of this fucking place…”

“And I might never leave your arms again.” Agron stole one last kiss before he let Nasir slip from his arms and he went back to the business of murder.

He worked like a soul possessed, the thought of freedom shared with Nasir spurring him to ever greater feats of strength. A quick word of German to Donar and Duro over their evening meal and his two brothers knew enough to provide alibi if asked. Agron would explain to them under the cover of night.

The sky darkened as Agron and Nasir slipped away from the other gladiators and into the medicus that had become their regular meeting place.

Crixus, steadier on his feet but with a haunted look in his eye, stood guard inside but let the two of them without so much as a sneer. Though the plan of Spartacus’ gave him hope, it was chilling to see the man so robbed of his former fire.

Barca too had been recovering, but since he had Pietros within arm’s reach, he was not nearly so diminished as Crixus.

Agron held Nasir a little closer.

Gannicus and Spartacus were the last of the group to arrive, both of them fiery and full of purpose. Spartacus, that mad Thracian fuck, needed no prompting.

“Mira has told me Batiatus will hold a gathering in a fortnight’s time, asserting his place amongst the lanistas . I believe he is also making bid for a higher position but he will not live long enough to see his ambitions realized.”

There was a murmur of assent from amongst the others.

“What must we all do?” Crixus asked, his voice hollow. “Command it of me and see it done.”

Spartacus looked to him levelly and explained what Mira had obviously relayed to him. “Batiatus will wish to entertain honored guests with a show of wealth and power; the wealth is ready enough the villa itself but the show of power will obviously be a display of his champions. I would not be fucking surprised if he ordered it to the death.”

There was a long moment where everyone in the room was measuring up who would be called forth for these deadly games and Agron was sure he came to the conclusion as everyone else.

Of course Batiatus would call on his champion, Spartacus, and Agron was sure Batiatus and his snake wife would try to rid themselves of Crixus in the way that would profit the most.

“I would be your match.” Crixus said, still furious. “I would tempt fate itself for a chance to end the life of our fucking domina .”

Agron frowned. “Two sharpened swords is fucking death in your hands; are the rest of us to grab cocks as weapons and pray.”

He felt Nasir shake a little next him as Crixus glared at the interruption.

But Barca nodded as if in agreement. “The fucking German speaks with sense. Though my cock could beat a shit Roman to death with ease, I would much prefer a blade, if only for the sake of Pietros’ asshole.”

“I will handle the weaponry.” Oenomaus said. “I am the only one in the ludus with the key.”

“Mira has agreed to open the gates to the the villa.” Spartacus offered. “Allow our brothers access to what is so greatly owed.”

“And if she should be...waylaid?” Gannicus asked.

“I will intervene.” Nasir offered boldly and Agron felt a soft sinking sensation in his stomach. Although he wished Nasir would sequester himself somewhere safe away from the bloodshed, he knew his fiery Syrian lover would not cower away. “I’ll not sit idle.”

“It is decided then.” Spartacus said with a nod. “Oenomaus will hide caches of weapons around the ludus . It is important now that you alert your countrymen to where the weapons are hidden.”

“Tell them to seal fucking lips for fear of Ashur.” Lydon added.

“I will handle that snake, Ashur.” Crixus added mercilessly. “Aside from that fuck, we will need each of our able brothers to fight for our freedom.”

“Save Pietros.” Barca insisted, cupping Pietros’ chin. Agron scoffed; as if anyone would expect sweet Pietros to take up a blade. “You will stay hidden.”

“I would ask for arms as well.” Nasir said softly and tilted his chin up defiantly as the gladiators gaped at him. “Agron has taught me defense under the cover of night and...though I have yet to know battle, I have no fear of joining the cause.”

Gannicus grinned bright. “You brave little Syrian, join us in this and you’ll have your mark for our brotherhood.”

Nasir flushed with pleasure and Agron hugged him a little closer.

“And what then?” Pietros asked, his tone a little fearful of what was to come. “What are we to do after the house of Batiatus crumbles around us? When our masters are dead?” Nasir clutched himself and Agron remembered that he and Pietros would have never known a life outside the confines of Roman walls.

It must have been daunting.

Spartacus looked at him with a gentle expression Agron had not seen on his face in ages. Not since before his wife had perished. “We will live as the gods intended.”

The moment their illicit meeting had finished, Agron had taken Nasir by the hand and led his beloved Syrian back to their shared bed. His thoughts of the two of them walking free under the trees and stars of his homeland, waking late and making soft, gentle love under the furs at their leisure had him in such a state that Nasir raked long lines down his back.

Failure did not even cross Agron’s mind.

Even as he told Donar and Duro of the plans in their native German, even as he saw Oenomaus slipping through the halls of the ludus with some bulky parcel by his side, he did not consider failure.

Freedom was so close, he could feel the cool air of his homeland on his skin.

A fortnight could not pass quickly enough.

On the night before their dominus ’ fucking party, Agron kissed Nasir until his lips felt as bruised fruit and he remembered the gift he had given while he courted the young man, so long ago. Nasir’s legs were wrapped around his and Agron’s hands were in his hair.

“The clearest waters that have ever passed your lips.” He whispered, describing where he was going to take Nasir when this was all over. “The softest, most fertile earth, black as your hair and your eyes. I cannot wait to bring you home.”

Nasir remained quiet as he brushed his fingernails over the scar on Agron’s chest.

Agron leaned up on his elbows and looked down at the man who held his heart, the single greatest gift that had come from the whole fucking ludus . “Nasir?”

He looked up at Agron, liquid warm eyes shining in what little light streamed in from under their door. “All of my life, I could never have imagined the gods would bless me so in a villa known for blood and death. But I find...even after so short a time...I cannot stomach the pain of a life absent your touch.”

“And you shall never know it again.” Agron swore, kissing Nasir’s hands, his fingers, his palms.

“Be safe.” Nasir whispered desperately, showing a fear he did not often allow himself.

Thinking quickly, buoyed on his adrenaline, Agron pulled Nasir out of their bed, heedless of their lack of clothes. When the moonlight illuminated the fine planes of Nasir’s face, Agron could have fallen to his knees to thank the fucking gods for his good fortune.

Naked and quiet, the two of them walked to the edge of the cliff that bordered the edge of the ludus and stood on the tip of the world. Agron held Nasir’s shoulders, keeping that small beloved body warm and safe against his.

“This night sky, the next time you see it, we will be fucking free. I swear it to the gods.”

It was a new kind of pain for Nasir to wrench himself from Agron’s embrace the morning that Spartacus’ plan was to take shape.

The two of them had made vigorous, desperate love the whole night and only now, looking at Agron’s beloved form melting into the crowd, did he realize why he had forgone sleep.

There was no guarantee that he would hold Agron in his arms again.

He did not like to think of their plan ending in failure--moreover what the punishment for failure would entail--but the small cautious voice of the body slave Tiberius always jumped to the most dire of conclusions.

He felt a little ill as Mira came to fetch him from the ludus .

As she helped him wash and braid his dark hair, Nasir was sure she could feel the tremors under his skin. Amazingly, she did not seem to falter. “Hold steady Nasir.” She murmured.

“Gratitude.” He said and clutched his arms. “The thought of...foreign hands upon me has never been more distasteful.” He knew he need not hide this from her; surely, Mira knew the pain of unwanted touch.

He had refused the oil many of the male slaves put between their legs because he did not even want to consider one other than Agron touching him there.

“Amongst other things.” She said knowingly. As her fingers ceased movement, Nasir was going to turn to thank her but Mira stopped him. She pressed something cool and metallic into his hands. “I am to unlock the gates to the ludus . Keep this in case all should fail.”

Mira was evidently just as cautious.

When Nasir opened his hand he found one of those small, sharp knives that women often used as hair ornamentation. Though Agron had set aside a short sword for him to use once the rain of shit began, Nasir realized that there was no guarantee the sword would reach his hand. And he fully intended to jab the sharp hairpin in Roman necks if the plan soured in any way.

“Gratitude.” He whispered again, sliding the pin into his braid.

When Nasir was made as presentable as any body slave could be, Mira embraced him quickly. “I hope the gods will see us free of this place soon.” She said. “Stay safe Nasir.”

“And you, Mira.”

It took him a moment to calm his expression before he left the room where the house slaves were preparing themselves. Secrecy weighed heavily on him and he was sure the entire plot was laid bare on his face. Better to stare at the ground if that was the case.

He exited the room and took up post as close to the balcony as he dared so that he could look out and see the ludus as he pleased. His heart raced whenever he caught a glimpse of one of the gladiators in the sands below. He barely noticed as the Roman fucks, draped in their expensive finery, began trickling into the villa as if they had not a fucking care in the world.

The first Roman to caress the skin of his collar and grab the meat of his ass had Nasir biting his bottom lip near hard enough to make it bleed.

He offered up no resistance but in his mind he longed to thrust the sharp pin back through the fucking Roman man’s eye. Freedom and the warmth of Agron’s embrace were so close and not worth him destroying Spartacus’ carefully laid plans. He allowed himself to be groped within an inch of his life before excusing himself to the kitchens for some reason or another.

He errantly wondered if this was how Agron felt before he went out on the sands to a possible death.

But underneath it all was an undercurrent of something sharp and desperate.

Hope .

It happened so quickly that Nasir might have missed it if he had but blinked.

At one moment, Spartacus was racing towards Crixus as if to impale him and then he was at level with the balcony with sword drawn back to cleave Batiatus’ head from fucking shoulders. Nasir felt the Roman guard tense up in horror behind him and Nasir did not hesitate.

His hair fell loose around his shoulders as he wrenched the blade from his hair and jabbed it to the hilt into the guard’s eye. He screamed, though it was lost in the chaos behind Nasir, as Nasir ripped it out and stabbed down with all his strength into the guard’s meaty neck.

He felt no regret, only the white hot pulse of adrenaline, over killing a shit Roman.

His hands were slippery with blood and a Roman woman slammed into him as she fled. The knife was knocked from his hand and he heard it clatter to the marble floors but he did not pause to look for it.

The plan had begun in earnest and Nasir needed to be in the ludus .

Still, the chaos inside gave him just a moment of pause. Wealthy Romans screamed and ran deeper into the villa while slaves cowered in whatever dark corners they could find. Spartacus was not within and Batiatus was trying to calm his guests but Nasir did not see Mira either. The marble was slick and red with blood and Nasir nearly slipped as he found his legs and ran down towards the entrance of the ludus.

He heard them before he saw them.

Mira had been successful and he raised his hands protectively in front of him. “It is Nasir!” He cried out the moment he saw the gleam of blades sharpened in secret. Large hands took him by the shoulders, moving him out of the way.

“Little Syrian, you yet live!” Barca roughly kissed his forehead before pushing him through the incoming throng of gladiators. “Keep Pietros safe for me!”

Nasir nodded, his hands shaking as he did not see Agron amongst the fighters racing into the villa. But his duty was not to find Agron; he had to go to the medicus and keep Pietros from harm.

The short spear was waiting for him, as promised, hidden behind a heavy canvas and it felt comfortable, natural in his hand.

The first guard he encountered did not even need the attention from tip of his blade as he almost staggered into Nasir. He clutched his throat but it did not stop the blood from running through his fingers. Nasir fought horror and pushed past him into the chaos of the ludus .

At a cursory glance he saw Oenomaus and Gannicus laying waste to the guards that had been called out from their barracks and Donar bashing in a man’s head with a rock in lieu of alternate weapons. He heard high-pitched, frenzied screams from where he had just come in the villa and prayed to the gods for the safety of the house slaves.

As he ran to the medicus he saw a centurion about to deal a fatal blow to one of the gladiators and he did not even pause to consider the danger. Using all the wiry strength his beloved Agron had cultivated in him over months, Nasir stabbed the spear down between the chinks of the shit Roman’s armor, severing something vital.

The centurion collapsed and Nasir saw it was too late for the gladiator he had attempted to save. Death lay heavy on the sands today and Nasir would not see it take Pietros.

He kept running.

The door to the medicus was barred before him and he all but slammed his body against the door, calling for Pietros until his friend swung it open wide. His eyes were enormous, face white with fear but he embraced Nasir’s blood-stained body all the same.

“Nasir, Nasir ! You yet live!”

Nasir was all but gasping for air and blood smeared across Pietros’ cheek as Nasir held him close. “At Barca’s c-ccommand, I am here to keep you safe, f-fucking safe, I swear to the gods!”

Pietros saw the bloody spear in Nasir’s hands and he began to tremble. “Help me barricade the door!”

They had just begun to slide the heavy table that had once held the broken bodies of gladiators into place in front of the door, when Nasir saw someone trying to push the door in from the outside. He and Pietros dropped their work immediately, all but screaming as they slammed their combined weight against the door.

“Hold it Pietros!” Nasir yelped over the chaos that was raging outside.

He leapt away for only a moment, his hand closing around the shaft of the spear as the door blasted inward.

Chapter Text

XIX.

Agron knew he was about to enter into the haze of war.

It was a common occurrence during his time in the arena, when the blood and the heat filled his vision and his nostrils and he could taste the iron and salt of blood and sweat. Soon the god of war himself would seem to have overtaken Agron until he was moving on animal instinct, death pumping through his body faster than blood and air.

He would wake from the haze to the cheer of the crowds and would find himself victorious, up to his knees and shoulders in red.

The moment Spartacus had leapt from Crixus’ shield and Agron’s hands were freed, he had felt the heady wash of freedom within reach and he felt it rising within him. His vision darkened; the only thing anchoring him to the earth was the feeling of his blade in his hand. 

He and Duro had freed their hands and launched themselves at the first Roman guard that appeared sufficiently unaware. Agron sliced his hands free and wrestled free a bloody gladius for Duro. 

They were beset on all sides, but Agron trusted his brothers to handle a couple of shit Romans. He had only one concern, save the safety of his own hide and that of Duro’s. 

“Find Nasir!” He called out to Duro.

He knew that it was Nasir’s duty to open the gates to the ludus and then move to the medicus to protect Pietros. He knew Nasir was strong and stubborn and capable, but yet he worried with his heart exposed to this chaos. He needed to know that Nasir was safely out of that fucking villa and in the safety of the medicus .

Duro nodded, hacking and slashing at random as he ran through the battle raging around him.

He had trained Nasir himself and even though Duro was not the best fighter in the arena, he could take on a sea of Roman soldiers, their blades like that of a child in comparison to his practiced hand. Agron had done all he could.

He had to trust that his brother and his love would be alright while he dealt with a more imminent concern. 

A semicircle of Roman guards had appeared in the sandy practice grounds to take back the ludus . Several of the brothers had already engaged them, including Oenomaus and Gannicus. Normally those two would be enough, but Batiatus seemed to have hired a small army for his festivities. 

Agron screamed like the god of war and launched himself, blade first, into the fray. 

At the first sight of crimson and the scent of iron, Agron fell deep into the fog of war.

His blade moved on instinct, cleaving through flesh indeterminately. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought that these Romans sold their blades so cheaply. For only the promise of a little gold, they’d die by his hand. 

Agron fought for his freedom, for his home with clear skies and dark, rich soil, for his brother, and for Nasir. 

His freedom smelled of salty blood and the earthy dust of sand. 

He had something worth living and fighting and dying for.

When he allowed the haze to fall away, Agron was surrounded by bodies, the sand dark and wet under his sandals. Uncountable bodies were carved into chunks around him and yet the fighting still raged on in the ludus . 

Only the strongest of the Romans were left and the fighting was confined to small groups in the corridors. With a moment to breathe, Agron remembered that Nasir was barricaded inside the medicus and he was overwhelmed with the need to make sure his Syrian was in one piece. 

He jogged to the medicus , his skin tingling from adrenaline and a surprising rush of fear. His arms ached for Nasir and his legs and heart moved faster as he saw bits of splintered wood near the door to the medicus . 

The door was split nearly in half, creaking on its ancient hinges and the medicus was empty. 

There was a single Roman soldier, dead on the ground, blood pooling around his neck and torso but Nasir and Pietros were nowhere to be found. 

Delaying his panic, Agron looked carefully to see if he could find more blood: evidence of another injury or of someone being dragged away. There were no other bodies and no other signs of blood, which was promising. Though he was concerned--burgeoning on fear--that he did not know where Nasir was, at least he was fairly sure that his Syrian was alive. 

Agron just needed to find them. 

He sprinted back through the halls, thinking on his feet.

He encountered a Roman centurion and made a decision as he slashed the man diagonally from neck to navel. There were too many enemies in the ludus to risk Pietros’ safety so Agron turned toward the stairs leading up to the villa.

He dodged a slave girl crouching terrified and eyes wide and white through the blood that coated her face.  

The inside of the villa was awash in blood.

There was blood on the walls, crimson was congealing in shallow puddles on the ground, and the pools dug into the marble were now watery scarlet. Agron stepped nimbly over the broken bodies of the wealthy Romans who had once been the esteemed guests of his lanista , their blood soaking through and staining the fabric of their fine garments until every one of them appeared to be bathed in scarlet.

Agron could give less of a shit about the lot of them. He would mourn the loss of the colored silks more so than the fucks who wore them.

There were still fights breaking out sporadically throughout the once lavish halls but Agron did not waste time intervening. He was looking for his brother and for Nasir. He’d burn the villa to the ground if he found either of them amongst the dead.

Screams echoed from down the halls and Agron followed the source. 

It was Barca he found. The man was drinking deep from a flagon of fine wine, the droplets of wine making rivulets through the gore that coated him. There was blood dripping from the tips of his hair and he hardly jolted as he saw Agron approaching him.

“Ahh, Agron you German fuck! Have the sands been cleared of the Roman fucks?”

“Hardly. But Oenomaus and Gannicus are more than enough to keep them occupied in my absence. I seek Nasir and my brother.”

“I know nothing of your fucking pup of a brother but Nasir was alive when he left these halls. He returned to the ludus to keep guard on Pietros.” Agron sighed in relief that Nasir had been unharmed last Barca had seen him but he did not want to say that the medicus was empty of both their lovers.

Instead, he nodded as if nothing at all was amiss, before making his way back down to the chaos of the ludus . 

Despite his fear, he kept his sanity close; the ludus was a massive place and it was likely that Nasir had found a new spot to hide until things became calm. Agron felt a little like he was in dreams as he reentered the ludus and found it still in the grasps of chaos.

He lost a little of self-control the moment he dispatched the first surviving Roman fool enough to challenge him. With his brother and Nasir missing, he was in no mood to be trifled with. And yet there were ever more Romans who tested the limits of his sanity.

Oenomaus and Gannicus had fucked off to gods knew where and some of their weaker brothers were struggling in their place. With a scream and a leap over a chunk of meat that might have once been a human, Agron re-entered his fog of fire and fury, feeling his blade bury in flesh. Warm blood sprayed across his chest and his arms.

He fought as a man possessed. 

The sooner he killed every last Roman in the ludus , the sooner he could look for Duro and Nasir and he went at the task with relish. He could only hope that those who stood before him were not his brethren; at this point, he honestly could not tell the difference.

Only one thing pulled him from his bloodlust.

Agron felt a body press against his back and he saw a flash of long, black hair somewhere below his shoulder. 

His relief was instantaneous. 

It was a good thing that Nasir had not always prescribed to Agron’s habit of hacking first and finding out who he murdered later. His half second pause allowed him to see Duro’s bloodstained but delighted face peering in from where he had wedged the door open. 

“Duro!” Nasir gasped, shoulders sagging in relief. 

Duro kicked the door halfway closed before he moved forward to embrace both Nasir and Pietros, thoroughly coating them in drying blood. “Nasir, Pietros you yet live!”

“Agron would say I am too stubborn to die.” Nasir responded. 

“Then you are a match made by the gods. My brother is slaying Roman shits as we speak and wanted me to see to your safety. It is still…” Duro and Pietros both jumped as it sounded like someone was killed right outside the door of the medicus . “ Fuck !”

It appeared that the one who had been slain was one of their brothers because a Roman guard almost split the wood of the door in two as he put his shoulder to it. Pietros yelped in horror as the Roman shit advanced toward them with blade drawn but this time Nasir did not hesitate.

Duro launched himself forward, his sword screeching as it glanced against the Roman’s, while Nasir jabbed his spear at the man’s torso. Though it didn’t pierce the thick Roman armor, it was not pleasant either and startled the guard just enough that Duro could jab his blade between the armor and the man’s neck.

“Fucking Romans.” Duro said derisively without bothering to wipe the blood from his blade, “one might think they piss on their feet for all they can wield a blade.”

Nasir jumped a little as he felt a hesitant touch on his arm. 

It was Pietros, his eyes wide over the violent murder. “The door is…” he swallowed, “the door is broken. We should find another place to hide.” 

“I agree.” Nasir said, squeezing Pietros’ hand for a moment to reassure him.

“Well best to decide on these things quickly.” Duro responded. “The Romans will not find fucking pause.”

Nasir thought quickly. 

It was a long and perilous run back up to the madness of the villa and Nasir was not sure he wanted to subject Pietros to the vicious slaughter that was likely going on inside. No, they had to remain in the ludus , and the idea of the perfect spot came to him immediately.

“Follow me!”

Nasir hesitated by the threshold, waiting until there was a slight lull in the noise outside of the medicus and then took Pietros by the hand. Spear in front of him and Duro protecting them from the rear, Nasir ran out into the heat and the light.

The air already smelled thick of salt and iron and the hot rot of meat and Nasir forced himself to keep his eyes straight ahead on the wooden door. He could not look around or see if he could spot Agron amongst the chaos. His goal was to get Pietros safely across the blood-soaked sand.

Pietros yelped as Duro pulled him back, out of Nasir’s grasp, before a Roman sword could slice him through at the wrist. 

Nasir hissed in fury, stabbing his spear into the man’s extended arm. He pulled it out raggedly, relishing the Roman’s scream, and hoped that the wound would distract him while they escaped.

He laid shoulder to the door with all his strength and it gave way.

The three of them spilled into Spartacus’ private room, Duro slamming the door shut behind them. Nasir jumped as the man put a hand on his shoulder. “You fight admirably for one not forced to the sands.”

Better than being forced to the knees , Nasir thought, his heart still hammering. “My instructor was of considerable skill.”

“May he have lips at his cock nightly,” Duro said and his subsequent smile made Nasir think that he knew exactly who it was who taught Nasir to fight. “Pietros, best stay clear of the window.” He cautioned.

“I will stay clear from sight,” Pietros promised, ”but I wish to see to Barca’s safety if he remains on the sands.”

Nasir felt his heart clench in his chest and, though he knew it was a foolish to possibly give away their position, he was filled with the immense desire to look out onto the sands at his leisure and make sure that Agron was unharmed. Ignoring Duro’s advice and the sensible, soft agreement of Tiberius, Nasir inched closer to the slit that served as a window so that he could see the madness going on only just outside the safety of the walls.

Amazingly there were still Roman guards fighting and Nasir realized, with the sickening shock of adrenaline, that likely only a few minutes had passed since he had run down from the villa. His mind moved as if thickened by wine and honey, taking in minute details like a golden bracelet spattered in dirt and blood even as he could not really hear any sounds of fighting.

Gods, we are awash in blood . 

Despite how he scanned the dead, they all seemed nondescript and uniform in patches of white and scarlet. There was a shout that pierced his fog and Nasir looked to the left. His breath caught as he saw a man standing on the sands closest to the hall leading to the villa entrance.

It was Agron, alive and snarling as he faced down a fresh squadron of Romans. 

Never had Nasir seen Agron fight a true battle, face twisted in fury and body almost completely coated in blood. For the Romans, he was surely a harbinger of death but Nasir had never felt desire flame more acutely. He had never felt a greater desire to hold Agron close. 

The spear in his hand pulsed not unlike… 

Nasir knew he would not stay and hide while his heart stood alone on the sands. It was a direct defiance of his orders but then--Duro yelped as Nasir ran from the room--who amongst a group of rebelling gladiators would try to shame him for it.

He felt right, free, with the sand under his feet and the sun hot on his back.

Nasir watched the graceful arc of Agron’s blade, followed swiftly by a twin crescent of crimson, and he moved without thinking. The fucking gods themselves would not see him parted from Agron’s side, let the Roman guard try.

He felt at ease the moment his bare back touched Agron’s and his spear was out in defense.

No one would touch the man who held his heart.

Agron breathed out, almost a sigh of relief, and circled to keep Nasir away from direct danger. 

He was quick, Nasir feeling Agron lunge forward with speed that left Nasir breathless, even if he could not see. It was no small wonder that there was a circle of dead guards around the patch of sand he had chosen to fight.

Nasir moved with him, defending as he lunged, and attacking when Agron pressed up to him again. Though he often felt his training was minimal in comparison to the gladiators, Agron had taught him well enough to dispatch a handful of Roman guards. 

He exhaled in disbelief as the last of them fell in front of Agron and then he was crushed up against Agron’s chest.

“Nasir.” Agron groaned. Nasir felt his joy and relief as it was mirrored in his thinner chest. “Fuck the gods , hope all but fled on finding the medicus empty.”

“Hope never failed.” Nasir kissed the scar on Agron’s chest. “The gods are not half as stubborn as the man who holds my heart.” He did not mind in the least that Agron was smearing blood all over him.

Agron’s kiss to Nasir’s forehead was sloppy. “We’re so close.”

Nasir tilted his head up so he could see the blazing, beautiful green of Agron’s eyes. It could be chaos and death around them, but Agron’s eyes would always make him feel alive. 

It was only because of this that Nasir saw the bloodied Roman guard, his face twisted in a snarl as he stabbed downward at Agron’s bare shoulder.

“ Agron! ”

Nasir screamed without meaning to, his ankle twisting painfully as Agron pushed him aside. He landed on his shoulder, unable to break his fall, and the wooden shaft of his spear knocked him so hard in the temple that the world spun.

Though he knew he needed to move, it took Nasir’s vision a moment to recover. When he sat up, his ears were ringing from the blow.

He first groped for his spear and--after gripping the warm wood--he reached for Agron. The skin he held was slippery with blood and--

He heard Agron--he would know Agron by the sound of his breathing--howl like a creature wounded in the soul and there was nothing that could pull Nasir from his pain faster. He turned and felt his own sweat turn cold on his skin. 

He dropped the arm he thought was Agron’s.

It was not Agron’s arm; it was Duro’s. 

He was slumped over in his brother’s arms and Agron was howling at the sky and the gods and the blade that was buried in his brother’s chest. Duro was still alive, somehow, but was clearly not long for this life. 

Nasir heard shouting from the balcony that the Romans were dead and the villa was theirs; he could not seem to get enough air. 

He watched as Duro spoke to Agron, blood bubbling from his mouth. Agron looked up at Nasir, his very heart breaking in his green eyes, and he realized over the sound of his brothers cheering that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

Chapter Text

XX.

Agron’s step was muffled on the fine layer of leaf litter that covered the forest floor and immediately winced as a loud crunching followed immediately behind him. There was soft cursing that immediately followed and Agron glanced over his shoulder.

Nasir and Pietros were behind him, the enormous length of a woolen cloak draped across both of their shoulders to keep them warm. So used to the summer heat of the Roman empire, they had been pressed together the moment autumn had set in to share all the heat in their slim brown bodies. Nasir looked unflinchingly at Agron and stepped lightly on the leaves. 

It was Barca who was the problem. 

He strode through the trees with his heavy, confident step and naturally the forest reflected it in response. He cursed softly--which was a vast improvement from the loud cursing he had done when they had first started their voyage--whenever he stepped on dry leaves or twigs, potentially scaring off any game in the area. Agron rolled his eyes and Pietros laughed. 

“Barca, tread softly lest we go hungry tonight.” Pietros said sweetly.

“Fucking lay me across your back then if I am to walk without noise.” Barca hissed in response. “This forest and this cold is a blight.”

Agron rolled his eyes again but wisely kept his mouth shut. He was getting better with tempering himself and he was rewarded with a smile from Nasir for his efforts. The smell of rich, dark earth and browning leaves made him feel bittersweet. Home, he was coming home .

Nasir, Barca, and Pietros were some of the only brothers still living who had decided to take up Agron on his offer to come back to the lands east of the Rhine after Spartacus’ valiant but failed attempt to topple the entire Roman empire. He had shaken the fucks in Rome at least, but so many had not lived to see another sunrise, Spartacus included. What little had remained of their army scattered to the four winds, most of them returning to their homelands.

Pietros, the rebel’s most trusted medicus , was distraught at being parted from Nasir when Barca had come to Agron. 

“We will follow you back to your godforsaken homeland.” He said, without prompting. “Carthage is no more and I have no desire to return to the fucking ruins of my homeland. Pietros was born and raised in Rome and knows nothing of his homeland. So we will follow you and grant Pietros some comfort in Nasir.” 

Agron merely nodded; Barca’s mind was made up and he would follow Agron and Nasir east, regardless of their wishes in the matter. And Nasir was gladdened to tears to have Pietros by his side. 

And so the four of them set off eastward, over the mountains to the clear lakes and black forests of Agron’s home. 

And Barca was alerting every animal in the forest that they were coming. 

“I fear we will be in this forest until we wither away to husks and Rome is but a patch of dust on the earth.” Pietros said jokingly, pulling the cloak around his head like a hood. 

“I know this forest, we--I grew up here.” Agron said, touching by habit the small leather pouch he kept close to his heart throughout his entire journey home. “My village lies just southeast of this forest; the dawn of morning will see our journey to an end.”

Home .

The thought, after years of hell in Rome, was almost foreign to him.

Freedom and Duro and his abject hatred used to be the only things that kept him alive and fighting but the past year and a half, he had tired of war, tired of seeing his friends die. Though he was unlikely to be a hand at herding sheep or tilling fields, he ached for home. 

Moreover, Nasir had never had a home in the real sense of the word and Agron was determined to give it to him. 

It was no small surprise that he was several paces ahead of Barca, Pietros, and Nasir. 

He saw the stag before his other companions--a proud, red beast that would have graced any wealthy Roman’s dinner table--and drew the bow across his back. The weapon was almost in splinters, the arrows coated in the blood of the dead Romans Agron had yanked them from. Thankfully, Barca’s eyes worked better than his fucking feet and he fell silent behind Nasir. 

Thought his hands still ached from injuries that had healed ages ago, Agron drew back the bowstring with the experience of years of use and counted his breaths and the flutter of the stag’s auburn eyelashes.

He wanted Nasir to eat well tonight, to taste the savory meat of the deer of his homeland. They had gone hungry so often and Agron swore that once they set foot into his homeland that Nasir would not go hungry ever again. 

He let the arrow loose and stepped closer. 

The small shack that was serving as their shelter for the night was missing large chunks of the thatched roof and Agron sincerely hoped that the accommodations in his village were more substantial. There was no question in his mind that the village itself still existed; the loss of Agron and Duro would not cripple such a hardy people like the villagers of the land east of the Rhine.

Nasir shivered and Agron held him closer.

If not for the cloaks and furs and the massive frame of Agron draped across him, Nasir would have been positively freezing. Agron was completely at ease in the chill of autumn and was lazily rubbing circles around Nasir’s nipples to keep him from being too annoyed. 

With Barca and Pietros curled up so close for warmth by the fire they had stoked in the crumbling hearth, it was difficult to find the privacy for intimacy but Agron was nothing if not skilled.

He had clamped his mouth on Nasir’s other nipple and was suckling the chill from Nasir’s skin. His thigh was firm between Nasir’s legs and Nasir was bucking against him, trying not to rustle their blankets. Agron was astonished that Nasir and Pietros tried to maintain secrecy when it came to being intimate. Barca had no qualms about groaning loudly when Pietros rode him to completion. 

With his free hand, Agron wetted his fingers in his mouth and slipped them to Nasir’s backside. His sweet Syrian was more than accommodating, lifting his hips up so Agron could push his fingers inside. 

The shifting of hips became more intense and Nasir actually guided Agron’s hand from his nipple to his mouth, effectively silencing him. Agron ignored his own arousal as he felt Nasir moaning into the cup of his palm. 

They had made love so often that Agron could feel when Nasir was close to pleasure. 

He tightened his hand on Nasir’s mouth and pushed his thigh and fingers forward. Nasir hissed and his eyes closed in exaltation. Agron kissed his dark nose and relaxed his hold on his lover. He swore he heard Barca chuckle as they settled into their blankets.

“Warmer now?”

“You tease me.” Nasir sighed.

“You all are soft southerners and I look to the bite of winter to see you latched to me at all hours.” He saw Nasir’s glare through the dull glow of the firelight. 

“Tell me more of winter.” Nasir said, ducking his head down so his cold face was pressed into Agron’s warm chest. “So I may prepare myself for the inevitable.”

It was more than that.

They were not used to the silence. After years of living in bustling Roman homes, staying in the chaos of the ludus , and traveling--and sleeping--with an army of thousands of boisterous former slaves and gladiators, silence was a rare commodity. Even sleeping hours were punctuated with the whispers of guards, the moans of lovemaking, and the snores of men.

It was hard to sleep in the silence when the four of them were used to years of cacophony. 

Agron’s speaking softly in the darkness was a welcome change from the unbearable silence, punctuated with occasional pops from the hearth. Also, likely a welcome feeling was Agron scratching Nasir’s scalp, letting that long, dark hair slide between his fingers.

“It is a small village, set in a valley where our people tend their fields and their beasts. The homes are built of wood taken from this forest and stones we retrieve from the local riverbeds. In spring it smells pleasantly; there are wild flowers that bloom violet and when it rains--”

Nasir had closed his eyes by that point, his breathing soft and steady, but Agron kept talking until he too had fallen asleep. 

His heart was so light.

He was almost home.

Nasir had been listening, long after Agron thought him asleep.

His heart was fluttering constantly at the thought of seeing the place where Agron had grown from boy to man, the hills and forests where he had cut his teeth and become the absolute terror of Rome. 

He had already imagined the village--his future home--in his mind and he could scarcely sleep for excitement, knowing they were so close to his new home.

The next morning, despite the chill and the frost that already touched the edges of the browning leaves in the forest, Nasir and Pietros led their merry band of four southeast. Halfway to afternoon, a worn dirt path revealed itself and Nasir felt his heart beat faster when Agron said that it was the path the elderly and children used to forage for wild mushrooms. 

They had tried to avoid the roads close to Rome, in case it was also being used by a marching garrison, but this humble path was luxuriously safe. And it was pleasant not to have to worry about tripping over errant tree roots or having toes find the firm edge of a stone.

Pietros was laughing and Nasir gripped his warm hand, the two of them running as they saw the very edge of the forest. 

Nasir, though he was shorter, was stronger and he tore free from their shared cloak so that he could be the first to see. His hair fell free of its braid and fell in his eyes as he broke through the final line of trees. 

It was all he had ever dreamed of in the crumbling villas and barren vistas provided by Spartacus’ army. 

The hills were lushly green, even in autumn and the soil of the small fields tilled there looked richly fertile. 

The cottages that dotted the valley were tiny in comparison to what Nasir was used to, humble stone and wood to the fine marble of Roman villas. But Nasir had not wanted something so much in quite some time. The last thing he had wanted so desperately was--

A calloused hand rested on his waist, somehow managing to find a sliver of bare skin to caress. 

Nasir smiled; he no longer had to fear touch for there was only one man who could stroke him in such a way and not lose hand for his boldness. Agron grinned down at him, his green eyes all but crackling with the fire of delight.

There was the sound of German--a few words Nasir could recognize, but he was going to get better with the language--and villagers stopped in the middle of their daily routine to gaze with wonder and some trepidation at the four weary travelers that had come from their forest.

“Steel your heart,” Agron whispered, “they shall love you as I do.”

“Only one man bears the honor of my heart.” Nasir responded, leaning his head into Agron’s arm. “We have come so far. Let us finish this journey.” His heart swelled with excitement as Agron bellowed in German--names, greetings, promises that he had come home to stay--and their people came towards them to welcome everyone home.

Home .

There was a small hill near the small cottages the village had repaired for Agron and Nasir and Pietros and Barca, a hill covered in small white blooms that looked like the star-shaped pins some Roman women would wear. Nasir and Pietros liked to pick handfuls of them on occasion and lay them in fragrant piles over their hearths. Though Agron let the small cluster of goats they had bartered roam to most places close to their tiny cottage, he always shooed them away from that hill in particular. Nasir saw Agron’s beloved form standing at the crest of the hill, staring over the valley where they had chosen to live the rest of their days. 

Nasir walked up the hill as quietly as he could manage but Agron did not even flinch as Nasir leaned against him. He feared he would never be able to sneak up on Agron. 

“What force takes you from the side of the one whose heart you hold?” Nasir whispered, slipping his hand into Agron’s. Freedom had not lessened Nasir’s hunger for having Agron pressed up against him. 

Agron smiled down at Nasir and showed Nasir what was in his hands.

The leather pouch looked as though it was ages old, as if it had been through a journey across the Roman empire and through a war. He opened the drawstrings carefully and saw a dark coil of something tucked inside. When he poured the contents onto the palm of his hand, he recognized them as two thick coils of dark brown hair. 

“I could not bury my brother. Nor could I carry him home,” Agron admitted with sorrow deep in his eyes; it had been years but the memory of Duro still weighed heavy on his heart, “but I thought to bring a part of him back so his spirit can rest at ease.” Nasir nodded in understanding. He was still familiarizing himself with the gods of Agron’s land, a wild pantheon if ever there was one, and they seemed pleased so long as their people curated the land and gave passing consideration to them on any occasion to grieve or celebrate. 

“I thank the only god I kneel to that we could return.”

“Which fucking god is that?” Agron asked, squeezing Nasir closer. His jealousy was still endearing after all these years. 

“You, naturally.” 

Agron flushed, clearly remembering when Nasir had knelt in front of him in the soft darkness of their bedroom. “Let us worship properly again once the night falls. But first…” 

Using his clever, calloused fingers, Agron carved a small hole into the soft, dark earth of the hill and accepted the two locs of Duro’s hair from Nasir. Nasir realized that the hair was the same color as the dirt, as if Duro was the product of the land itself. Agron whispered in German, perhaps a prayer to his brother and covered the hair with soil, leaving a small bare patch surrounded by the white flowers.

Nasir stayed silent as well, giving his own farewell to the people he had known and had fallen far from his embrace. He said farewell to Tiberius, burying the last vestiges of the slave boy with the slim hips who had come so far and lost so much.

Agron kissed his forehead and some of the sadness fled him.

He had gained so much as well. 

The two lovers stood silently for a few moments longer, a gentle silhouette on the hilltop, before turning back and walking for home.

Home .