Come Away To The Water (heroinebigbang part ii)
Title: Come Away To The Water
Rating: r
Word Count: 7,279 (2/4)
Summary: Come away, little lass, come away to the water. Away from the light you always knew. We are calling to you...Naevia was born, and then lived her whole life.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's Notes: Oh, this has been a labor of love. And I would be remiss in not thanking quite a few people. First of all, this all began to really form after a conversation with selonbrody where we both thought that Pietros and Naevia had been brother and sister during the first few episodes of Blood And Sand, and I swear, I only meant to write a prequel. lexiesloan took a look at this and offered such wonderful encouragement. And abvj has been invaluable, with hand-holding, suggestion and support. You will notice key lines of dialogue from the show, and my own tweak on certain scenes, and it is all a respectful homage to Stephen DeKnight and his writing team. And of course, a very special thanks to kymericl, who did the lovely artwork (link in master post).
part i
“And what of you, little flower?”
Naevia’s hand paused over the platter of fruit she had been arranging to bring to Domina’s bedchamber. Fruit had been rare in the house these many weeks, with the drought, and she longed to keep a peach for herself but she did not dare. She turned, holding the platter in her hands in front of her, before Ashur, the Syrian, could step too close to her.
“Domina awaits,” she said, eyes lowered, hoping that he would just let her pass. She could not look at him without hatred; Melitta had called her little flower, her and Diona. She did not know how he would know such a thing. But he seemed to know all of the secrets in the walls of this house, and she knew him never to use his ways for kindness.
But he did not move out of her path. “Please, I must go.” Her throat felt dry and dusty, she was so very thirsty, but there would be no more water rations until the next morning.
He was smiling, his teeth a brilliant white in his swarthy face. She had heard several of the bathslaves whispering at how handsome he was, despite the burns and the crippled leg, but such talk quieted after a few moments in his company. He was cruelty and evil, this Naevia knew, as she had always seemed to smell it. “Come now, you have no wager for the night of the test? One of the few games Dominus allows for us, you must join in the fun. Might I suggest placing a bet on the local boy, with the golden curls? He has much potential, and after all, he’s one of the few who knows what to expect in the arena.”
The local boy, Varro. He had a wife and small son, she had seen them in the marketplace, the woman (hardly more than a child herself) doggedly trying to bargain the grain merchants down one denarii further. What could bring a man to these walls of his own accord?
Naevia shook her head. The test. Three quarters of the men brought to the ludus never even lived to see it, and only half passed. All she could do was her best to not watch, and not hear. “I have no coin,” was all she said.
He lifted an arm to block her path sideways. He did not touch. Even he did not dare that far. “None is necessary.” And then he let his eyes lower, taking her in. She could not escape invisible this time.
“Ashur.”
The Syrian’s slick smile disappeared quickly at the deep voice and he turned to where the ludus’s fearsome doctore stood. He narrowed his eyes coolly. “Dominus sends me to fetch you. He is not pleased to find you absent from your post.”
Ashur spared Naevia a quick glance before he hurried away, and she let out a shaky breath that she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. Doctore still stood in the doorway, hand at his whip until the sound of Ashur’s footsteps disappeared in the distance. “Gratitude,” she breathed out, but he stepped closer, leaning in his head towards hers to speak softly.
“Listen carefully. I will not always be able to shield you from Ashur- and he is not your only danger in this house.” He paused, not saying word of Diona. Though she saw him quite infrequently, she knew that he never spoke of the past. “You approach an age where more will be required from you than bringing wine and helping Domina to dress.”
Naevia’s lip quivered. “What can I do? In this house, we...we do what we must.”
Doctore sucked in a quick breath and they both stood still, silent for a long moment. “And I will do what I can, for you. Stay safe, if you are able. And ask the gods for shelter.”
He turned to go, but Naevia called softly to him. “Please, Doctore? Tell my brother, I...” But she had no words. He nodded in understanding. And as she watched him go, she spoke again, under her breath. “Gratitude...Oenomaus.”
*
It was hidden jewel. Naevia had to suppress a sound of pleasure when she lifted the necklace and laid it against her skin. Cool and smooth and the same gray as her mother’s eyes. Holding it against herself, she remembered how Diona had tied string around a stone just like it to fashion a much cruder piece of jewelry, and how she laid it with such care next to her mother’s cold body in the ground.
“Too common,” Domina dismissed the bauble with a sneer of her lip and the necklace was set aside, for a heavy gold and emerald piece, gaudy and cold around her throat. And Naevia’s robe was pushed from her shoulder. Domina did this quite often, as she had trouble envisioning the jewels against such a rough, plain background, and it did better to see them only on bare skin. But ever since Oenomaus’s warning, Naevia cringed and did her best to not fly her hands up to cover herself.
Price settled with the jewel merchant, Domina headed back into the villa, leaving Naevia naked on the balcony. And she had broken the rules. She had been seen. With one glance over her shoulder, she could not escape the eyes of the champion of Capua.
She knew him now, and he knew her. At least twice a week (or more often, depending on Dominus’s absence) she met him below stairs, to escort him to Domina. He was lightning quick on the sands of the arena, but she felt his steps slow behind her of late, asking questions- how she fared, had she seen his last victory. He even stepped close often, to catch a scent of the lamiaceae oils, even though Domina was bathed in the same, and he would be in her arms soon enough.
And these were the things she knew of him: that he saw her, that leaned closer to her, but did not touch, that he chattered nonsense to hear the sound of her voice.
“Domina awaits,” she whispered, too ashamed to meet his eyes.
*
“Perhaps this gift can explain where words fail.”
And then he was gone, silently retreating into the shadows.
His hands on hers- she had never felt such a touch, rough hands moving so gently, she found her skin burning long moments after, especially once she saw what was in the wrappings that he gave her, warm from his own skin and carrying the particular smell that she placed with him alone- sunshine and the heavy oil the gladiators were scraped in and something else that she could not name, but craved.
It was the hidden jewel, the necklace that Domina had deemed too common, the necklace that was the same color as her mother’s eyes and had been Diona’s treasure.
Naevia clutched it in her hands, squeezing her eyes and mouth shut against any oncoming cry and breathed to herself.
I live for them all now. To stay alive, a slave girl must be nothing.
*
She watched Domina and Crixus from the shadows. He had a name, and she thought it his right to be called by it, even if it was only in her thoughts. He had not always been the champion of Capua, he had once been a boy in Gaul, and he had a name.
And he was in her thoughts.
Even from a distance, she could see the pale silver glint of the necklace against Domina’s skin. She heard his grunts and the words that spilled forth from him. His voice...not roughened in passion, but nearly...dead. No fight, no will.
She had watched Domina couple enough times to know that it was not the same for a man and woman. It was not for Crixus as it had been for Diona. He did not suffer as she had. And yet...
No fight, no will.
Even the champion of Capua was still a slave.
Domina kept the necklace, the gift that had been meant for her, for Naevia. Not the slave girl, not the nothing. Naevia’s eyes were always upon it, and she cursed herself for not thinking in the moment. Who knew the villa better than she did? She had been there the longest, she and Pietros. She had had many hiding places where she could keep a hidden treasure.
But now it was too late, and Crixus would not meet her eyes, did not slow his footsteps to ask silly questions when he was summoned. She wished she could speak to her brother about it, the only person who yet cared for her, and at least he knew something of men. But Pietros hardly ever strayed upstairs. When he had a free moment, he would go swiftly to Barca’s arms, and she would not take that time away from him. She stayed alone upstairs, in her nothing world.
*
Naevia could not breathe. Not from dust and the heat this time. She could hardly keep her legs under her and stay standing, could hardly keep her heart from pounding out of her chest, and her lips, how they burned...
He had kissed her. A real kiss, a kiss she had never seen him give to Domina, had never seen the likes of before, ever, had never imagined how this would feel. All of her body, all of her heart so engaged, with the sensation lingering, rolling through her, and warmth. Such warmth.
Not warmth. Heat.
He was too much, too much male, skin and heat and low voice in her ear, saying her name.
He was too much and she was nothing.
Naevia touched a finger to her trembling lips and tried to remember her rule, first and only, to stay alive.
And for the first time in a very long time, she longed for something more.
*
“Pietros,” she whispered at the gate, and then said it again a bit louder. She had but a moment, and feared her brother would not come.
But then he was there. He always knew when she needed him.
“Sister, what are you doing here?” His eyes were etched with concern, hooded with sleep. He touched his hand to the bars of the cage, reaching through to join their fingers. She pressed her waterskin into his hands, but he shook his head refusing to take it. “No, I will not have your ration.”
“Please,” she insisted. She had kept a cup for herself and there would be more water in the villa tomorrow. But her brother toiled all day on the sand, running about and carrying weapons. He had a greater need than she.
But he still hesitated. “Take it. Please.”
Pietros looked down at his feet, toeing the sand in front of him. “Barca’s fortunes grow.”
Naevia nodded. “He is a great gladiator.”
Pietros still looked down. “He moves to secure freedom.”
Freedom. Naevia sucked in her breath. She hardly ever dared to even form the word in her mind. “He...would leave you?”
Pietros finally looked up. “He saves enough for two.”
It took her a second and she felt her heart plummet.
You are my whole world.
They won’t part us.
“I won’t go,” he said, very quickly. “I couldn’t. Sister, I will never-”
“You must!” Her voice had raised and she immediately cowered, glancing behind her. There was no activity. The house was quiet. Her brother was looking at her with wide eyes and she clasped his hand through the cage. “When your man has saved enough coin, you fly this house, and do not look back.”
“But you-”
“You are my heartbeat, and I will not have you break under this roof.” As all the others have, she did not say.
Pietros set his mouth in a tight line. “Perhaps with a bit more time, there could be enough to-”
“No, it would take too long.” She shook her head. She would not have it. If her brother had a chance...there would be nothing else.
They both heard it -- the clink of keys meaning a guard would soon pass by, and she waved him off with one last look. He took the water.
*
Crixus was hers.
This was her first thought when she saw the woman from Rome, the senator’s daughter, trail her delicate fingertips all over his skin.
Naevia nearly gasped out loud at this thought. She had never laid claim to anyone or anything, in her whole life, but venom rose, tasting bile and bitter when she saw another woman’s hands on him. It was ridiculous, as she had been witness to him laying with Domina- always from the shadows, but it was still not a new thing.
He is mine.
She fought against the voice, the greedy urge to cross the room and clutch him to her, to put her hands all over him as the Roman woman did. She fought, and lost.
He is mine.
*
He had broken her first rule.
If he did not stay alive, what was there after that? What could there be?
It was different for men, she knew this. It was different for the gladiators. They longed for blood and sacrifice, and a glorious death.
Naevia must live for everyone else. She knew no other way.
“Still a fool,” she said, quietly, through tears she could not hide, as Crixus reached for her and brushed them away with his thumb. He bore her back against the wall. No, it was not him that moved, but her own feet, drawing him into the shadows, where she finally laid her own trembling hands on him. He was sun-heated marble, hard and warm, under her fingers.
When he lowered his mouth to hers for the second time, she knew once again, she had been wrong. Not only was he hers, but she was his, bound to him with chains so much stronger than the ones that bound her to Domina and this cursed house. No matter what happened, her heart would always be with him. Stay alive, she thought desperately.
But it was no longer her first and only rule.
She melted under his touch, and Crixus, the Gaul, the warrior, the man, knelt before her, still dwarfing her with his size and strength. “Please,” he murmured, his voice so wrought with longing and desire, she wondered what it was that could render such a man so weak and humble.
With a shaky breath she replied, “I thought you said that love drains a man.” It was what he had said to Domina- for once avoiding her advances, and she in turn, for once, relenting. Naevia did not stop touching him as she spoke. She had never known such heat as his skin.
With gentle pressure, he drew her down to him, cradling her between his legs. He surrounded her, too much male, skin, and heat, and she...was far from nothing. “In the right arms, it can give him hope.”
*
“Not him, do not take him, not him!”
Melitta’s words sounded in her ear, for the second time she had stood in this very pulvinis. But it was not a ghost, not a presence that she felt this time, not a spirit. It was not a memory of a woman, her friend and sister, who had watched her own man fall to this giant.
The voice was her own.
All in the pulvinis were shouting, cheering, over wagers won and lost as the Thracian continued to take on Theokkoles himself, and her strangled cry was lost in the commotion, but Naevia clamped a hand over her mouth, as if she could take back her words, her plea. This was not her way, she did not move to passion. She stayed alive.
Stay alive, stay alive...
But the words had no power here, not where she had seen Diona fall, not where she had first worn Melitta’s cloak. And she found she could not release him as she did Diona, she clung to his fragile spirit from the pulvinis.
I am bound to you, you have my heart, you cannot leave this world.
And then Naevia felt rain.
Exultation swept through the arena, and she glanced to the side where Theokkoles, the giant, had fallen, absent his head. Dead.
Crixus lay still on the sand, bloody and...Naevia looked closely, squinting her eyes through the raindrops. His hand moved, slowly, over his chest, resting on his heart, and Naevia wept, her tears mixing with the rain, and she whispered in gratitude.
Stay alive.
*
The rain drowned them all. Days passed so swiftly, and all there was, was the rain, rain, rain. Sweeping away all of the dust and the blood and the stench and the dry, creeping death that had hung over the countryside throughout the drought.
Days passed...and she watched Crixus struggle and gasp and tremble and waste away.
Every morning, when Dominus left for town (and he was always in good spirits, as he had much business to attend to now, with his new champion), Naevia and Domina would swiftly go to the medicus, and they would inquire over Crixus. Domina would yell and scream and threaten the old man who had been there for three generations, and had seen it all. Crixus’s wounds were not exotic to him, and he did not shrink as Naevia did, ashamed as she was to admit it. The room stank of putrid, unwashed flesh, and burning herbs, and this man who had so recently been so strong and vital and alive (and hers) had shrunken away, his brown skin a pallid gray. And still, he clung to life- whatever fragile hold he had on it.
She watched him fight, the once champion of Capua, the undefeated Gaul...the warrior, the man, her man.
And she could not plead with him to do more than that.
*
Something was wrong, so very, terribly wrong. It was her immediate thought when she saw Pietros in the villa, dripping in rain and the wine the gladiators celebrated with belowstairs. He was escorted by a clutch of guards, and she had never known him to have such great importance by the masters of the house. But when he saw her, she could see that he smiled, with such joy, as she had not seen since they were children.
He is leaving me.
Her heart at once flew to the heavens- Pietros would be free, he would leave this place, live a life with his man, and never again feel the whip at his back, never again obey a command that was not his own wish. Even as the tears spilled over her eyes, she could not mistake the feeling of peace and gratitude. And once again, she felt her mother with her. He is our heartbeat. It goes with him. Joy.
“Sister!” He ran to her, even as the guards grumbled for him to move along. They were little better than slaves themselves, though they so loved to wield their power. Dominus would have their lives for any minor infraction, and they took it out on those beneath them.
“Back to the ludus, boy,” Hector, one of the particularly cruel, grunted, his voice slurry with drink.
“A moment, if you please,” Naevia sneered. Her voice sounded nearly as icy as Domina’s. She wondered if her mistress would be proud of that.
“Sister, I...” He stopped in front of her, and she took him in, how much he had grown. She had too, she supposed, but it was always so much clearer when she gazed upon her beautiful brother. He was strong and healthy- not as large as a gladiator, of course, but he would always be able to find work, with his man at his side. He would have a life. A good life. “Oh, fuck all,” he muttered and threw his arms around her, sweeping her up over the floor.
Naevia clung to him for life, memorizing everything about this moment, the feel of his arms around her, and the earthy, sunshine scent of him. My heartbeat, my whole world. Do not look back. She drew back and kissed his bow-shaped mouth, giving him the goodbye she had not been able to bestow upon Diona, Melitta, Esyilt, or their mother. “To say that I have loved you would never be enough,” he whispered in her ear. “I take you with me, dear sister.”
“Always,” she whispered back.
*
Everything was wrong, so very, terribly wrong.
This house had meant loss and suffering all of her life, but Naevia had never seen it so close and personal and...Barca. Pietros.
Naevia crouched in her childhood hiding spot, and waited for her brother. He always knew when she needed him. And he needed her now, so very badly. Why did he not come?
Domina had struck her when she stood staring at Barca, the great Beast of Carthage (Barca, the warrior; Barca, the man, her brother’s man), cut down by their own Dominus, his weak hand slashing across the great gladiator’s throat. The pool running red with his blood. Domina struck her again for good measure. Naevia wondered if she remembered whom her brother was, how they had been allowed to stay together as children because it was a crime against the gods to separate two who had shared a womb.
Or if it did not matter at all, a slave’s life, a slave’s heart.
Barca, Pietros, Diona, Melitta, Esyilt...their mother. These people, the masters of this house, had taken them all.
And just this morning, the Thracian, pulling his woman (his wife) from the cart, bloody and dying, drawing her final, ragged breath, with the small mercy of looking upon her love one last time. She was beautiful and young, as Melitta had been. (As they all had been.) And Domina and Dominus walked away, with small, secret smiles, that sent chills down Naevia’s spine.
And she realized...they had done all of this.
All of the evil under this roof, inside these walls, came directly from their hands. She would never be safe. She, Pietros...Crixus. They would all fall, eventually. There was no escape from this house, all who were young and innocent suffered.
Stay alive, she tried to sound it in her head, but it felt so weak, her own thoughts were so very far away. She had to tell him. This could not stay silent, it could not...
What would he do?
Would he live through it? Could his tender heart survive such a thing?
“Pietros,” she whispered, as loudly as she dared. Why did he not come?
*
When her mother had been sold, taken from this house, from her and her brother, she had said nothing. She watched her walk away, and did not utter any words of goodbye, did not run after her for one last time in her arms. She clung to her brother, made him her heartbeat, and stayed alive.
What was left of her heart now?
She had begged Domina to allow her to lay him underground, with Esyilt and Melitta, and perhaps, they would be able to guide him to their mother, and to his man.
He is our heartbeat. It goes with him.
They won’t part us, sister. I won’t allow it.
You fly this house, and do not look back.
Domina had struck her for her tears. “You are not Celts. We won’t have any of this foolishness.”
But they were not Romans either, and she did not want his ashes scattered to the wind.
He burned, of course, salt and smelt spilled over the ground to wash away the bad omens of a slave taking his own life under the roof of the house of Batiatus. He would not be forgotten so easily. She went by herself in the night, through the gate, the same way Diona had when she had been such a small child, taking one of his pet birds. She sang to it, the soft, sweet melody she remembered in sweet dreams, being sung by her mother’s lovely voice. And as the last note hung on the air, she broke the gentle bird’s neck.
She buried the thing he loved, digging at the earth with her fingers (there was ample rain to wash all dirt and blood away in the villa) and whispered out loud, “Be free.”
Slipping back through the gates, the way she came, undetected, back to the medicus cell. She was meant to be watching over Crixus, while he recovered from the fevered dreams. More often than not, he slept, and she watched him breathe. But he was awake when she returned, eyes sunken with worry and pain. “Where did you-” he began, but she held a hand to stop him, quickly glancing around to see that they were completely alone.
He reached for her hand, caked with dirt and blood, but she did not answer his silent questions, instead laying her lips on his brow, soothing back his hair. You are my heartbeat now, stay alive.
He waited patiently, and finally she opened her mouth to speak. “I was seven when my mother was sold...”
*
“There are few of us left.”
Naevia looked up from the bird she held in her hands, to Doctore standing in the arch of the cell where Barca and her brother had slept. “Apologies?”
“Few of us who have survived this house for as many years as you and I,” his mouth tightened into a firm line, and it was as close as Naevia had heard him reach to say Melitta’s name since her death. “Your brother’s delicate heart. Barca - I never knew him to be careless with it.”
So few of us left. Naevia longed to spill all of the secrets she knew from the upstairs world, to the one person who had known and seen all the ones she loved from this life. “Domina awaits,” she whispered, before fleeing the cell.
*
Naevia learned that Crixus, too, had brothers.
He had four of them, and four sisters and she smiled when he told her that he had been the smallest, and the youngest. She thought of him a little boy with laughing dark eyes, falling asleep in fields of lamiaceae, happy and free. He had been ten when the Romans came, his father and oldest brothers killed trying to defend their village, and the rest sold off and scattered. His mother and sisters were raped by the soldiers before they were sold off, too. He had told her all of that in a whisper so quiet, the memory turning his eyes cold, the horror still too near. It would always be too near, this she knew.
But he had happy moments to recall as well, roaming free in the dark, cool forests of Gaul, the grandest of villas for a young boy. She listened, her face resting on her palms as she sat by his bedside, loving the sound of his voice, the sweet ache of happiness in his words. And she told him, of her whole life within the walls of this house, of Pietros and Diona and Melitta and Esyilt. Her mother, her gladiator father, what little she knew of him.
And then he would be summoned by Domina, and all of their fragile little worlds of childhood memories and hushed voices, stolen brushes of fingertips would crack and shatter all around them.
He did not lay with her. They had not but that last night before his battle with Theokkoles, and the memory of his hands upon her, inside of her, burned through the long, empty nights. And she stifled tears when Domina lay her hands upon him, though sometimes he could not make his cock rise. He blamed his still healing injuries, but Naevia couldn’t help a thrill of greedy satisfaction that he would not perform.
See nothing. Be nothing.
Still other times, it could not be avoided. Afterwards when she brought him back to the ludus, he would not raise his gaze to hers, his face crossed with shame, and she remembered the same look on Diona in her final days in this house. When she could, she would take his face in her hands, kissing him fully on the mouth, trying desperately to wash away all shame, all the pain, and give all of her heart, all that she had to give.
*
Sold.
Naevia had frozen, unable to breathe when she heard Dominus utter the word and Domina had been too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice until she was halfway across the house and then screamed for the girl to make haste. The news had seemed to give Domina a frightful headache, and all she required for the remainder of the afternoon was rest, while Naevia waved a fan over her. She had done this task since she was a small child and it allowed her to get lost in her thoughts, the dark, dark future of this house without Crixus in it.
For what had she stayed alive for, all these years, for everyone -- everyone -- to leave her all alone in this house. Sold off, dead, dead, dead, dead. Sold.
“How can Quintus do this, Crixus is mine,” Domina moaned in her own despair, and Naevia knew that she was not expected to respond but she did, in the quiet of her own head.
He is mine.
Mine.
Mine.
*
He was not sold.
She did not thank the gods that Lucretia prayed to, she did not think of her mother, who had been silent since her brother left this world.
She touched him through the bars, fingertips only, and wept.
*
The house of Batiatus grew rich under by the victories of Spartacus, the Bringer of Rain. Naevia had not seen such finery since the very early days, since Oenomaus himself had been champion.
Naevia spent much time in the ludus, under the guise of helping the medicus with Crixus’s healing, and she could only smile when he grumbled at how he longed to return to training. She did not. She would keep him far from his sword forever if she could.
“Do you understand that my only worth is the glory I can bring to this house?” He had said, and she could not answer at first, knowing how close he came to being sold.
“Your worth is all that I have, all I can give, and all that I am,” she answered, stealing a moment to kiss his mouth, in their own world.
New slaves were brought in. Carpenters and stonecutters to make improvements on the house, and new cooks for all of the entertaining Domina was doing, and so many new girls for this purpose as well. One of the girls was named Mira.
Naevia was afraid to speak to her, for a time. She was used in the same way Diona had been and so many others. Naevia feared what she would see in the girl’s eyes: no fight, no will.
But her voice was not cowed, was not dead, even though she said yes, Domina without a hint of defiance, Naevia dared glance at her. She was not dead. Mira was of an age as her, and...It had been so long since she had another girl to talk to.
*
You are my heart. I will never doubt the beating of it again.
Naevia could not help the smile on her face as she returned to Domina, her man’s words still in her head, his touch lingering on her skin. There has never been such a man as Crixus.
The man who saw her, who was her heartbeat.
You hold all of my heavens and earth in your hands, he had whispered desperately against her mouth. All that I am, you are everything. There is no world without you.
A slave girl must be nothing.
You are everything.
*
Naevia tried to put it from mind -- she had stolen before and it had led to tragedy. But this was different. She was not trying to escape, not trying to push her man from these walls. Instead, she clung to him, would not let him go. She could not live without his touch, and she would not waste more time or opportunity with anyone she loved.
And Hector -- she had seen him use the girls cruelly, place blame on other guards for duties not being carried out when the fault was his own. Everyone under this house stole, master and slave alike.
And Crixus was hers. Every moment between them belonged to them alone.
*
The house was under a hush.
Straight after the magistrate and his family left, Dominus cleared out the rest of the guests and took to his bedchamber. Domina had followed him, insisting on privacy and Naevia managed to run to Crixus’s side before he and the rest of the brotherhood were brought back to the ludus.
“He was a child,” Crixus had said, his voice shaking in a way she had never heard before, even through the gravest of his own injuries. “He was cut down by the whim of a child.”
Naevia pressed herself into him, wildly grateful that it was not her own man who had been cut, deeply ashamed for feeling grateful at the blood and death of another man.
They were nothing, all were nothing to the masters of this house. Even the prized gladiators who brought honor, glory and wealth, who were proudly called titans by their master and put on display for admiration amounted to no worth as human life.
Mira, the new girl, had the task of cleaning the blood from the floor before it dried and stained. Naevia knelt to help her and wash this night away so that they might both sleep for a few untroubled hours, but the girl threw down her brush and soap, letting it clatter on the floor. “Fucking monsters,” she spat, and Naevia raised her eyes in fear. The house was yet silent and still.
“He was a man,” she continued, angry and careless. “Just two nights ago, I brought his wife to him, full of hope for the future. Tomorrow at first light, Domina sends me back to her, to tell her that her husband is dead.”
Naevia thought of this woman she had seen in the market so long ago, and the small boy with his father’s golden looks. “Monsters,” she repeated, under her breath and Mira paused, one eyebrow raised. She was quite pretty, even beautiful, even if she did have a frighteningly hard look in her eyes.
“So you do have a voice,” she finally said, but Naevia put her head back down.
A slave girl is nothing.
Stay alive.
*
Her man was a fool.
A slave must always be nothing, but for a gladiator...
She had half-hoped he would never be well enough to return to the arena. Domina would find him a place in the ludus, she would never let him go, and Naevia would always have him close, safe, alive.
Still, her heart contracted with fear, stopped beating entirely for a second, and she gripped his face tightly in her hands. “You must stay alive,” she swore, searching his dark eyes for any sign of fear, any hesitation at all. There was none. He was a fool.
But he was so alive, and she could not help pulling him back closer, for another kiss. “I know the love of a goddess,” he said, against her lips, his voice low as he chuckled. “And I am only a man. I must strive to be a god myself.”
*
Stay alive, alive, alive.
She had not stopped repeating the words over, and over, since turning her back on Crixus in the sand, following Domina out of the arena and back to the villa. Once she had helped her undress and to bed, she waited on the balcony, for any sign of a cart on the road. None came. Only the men, all walking, and she could hear Rhaskos and the other Gauls singing, lauding their once champion, that old song. My cock rages on, my cock rages on...
He lived.
And when the house was dark, Naevia sped to her man’s arms, and as he held her against him, she felt his heart beating next to hers. You are everything.
“Ten,” he said. “Denarii. The winner’s purse.”
“And what would you buy with your fortunes?” Naevia asked softly. “Women and wine?” They both laughed, and he shook his head with a smile, only for her. He had settled her across his thighs, and she ran her hands over the muscles of his chest and arms, still rippling with the day’s excitement. She had once been so shy to touch him, and now they both delighted in it.
He held her hand against his mouth, kissing each fingertip softly. “Freedom. For us both.”
Naevia stilled in his arms, looking him in the eye. There was no jest, no doubt. Once again, her heart stopped beating. She had seen what happened to too many who had tried to leave this house.
But her man...he was everything.
For what else had she stayed alive for all these years?
“All that I have, all I can give,” she began to say, but he interrupted.
“They will never part us.”
*
It was a curious thing that, after so much loss, so much death, Naevia could still know such happiness. Always with one ear cocked for any sign of danger, always poised and ready to take flight. But always, always, every chance she had, she was with Crixus. His fortunes grew quickly, with Dominus and Doctore placing him in lower matches where he was easily the victor. The primus of the games was still saved for Spartacus, who remained champion of Capua.
In secret, Naevia was grateful for Crixus’s position as second best. The most important thing was, as always, to stay alive. But she knew that he wished to regain his title before he left this house, so Naevia added to Bringer of Rain to her prayers, that he would stay alive and keep all as it was.
With his labors in the arena, Crixus’s lovemaking took on a new, fierce urgency that left Naevia weak at the knee whenever she thought of the last time they were together, the next time she would be in his arms. One night, after he had wrenched himself from inside of her, spilling his seed on the sand at her feet, he was quiet for a moment, all shuddering breath and quivering, trembling muscle. “Someday,” he said, brushing his lips against her damp brow, and she struggled to regain her normal breathing as well. “Someday, I will put a child in your belly. And he will be free, far from this place.”
A child. It was a wish that she had never allowed to linger, but when he spoke the words, she thought of a free boy in Gaul, wandering through dark cool forests. She thought of Pietros, hot under the Capua sun, bearing the mark of the ludus on their tenth birthday.
A child. A free child.
Stay alive.
*
“Where do you take me?” She asked the guard, and he did not answer, and when she asked his partner, he struck her across the face with the back of his hand. She did not ask again. Her face was swollen on one side, and her abdomen ached where Domina had kicked her over and over.
“Did you hope he would get you bellyful? I will whip that child from your filthy slave cunt.”
When Mira was asked to bring a knife, Naevia could not even form the words in her mind, the will to live, and she did not breathe as Domina sliced the hair from her head with rough, uneven slashes. “Your betrayal, you little bitch...I should have sold you off with your whore mother, and now I set you on her same path.”
Naevia tried very hard to hold the image of her mother’s beautiful face, but all she could see was Pietros, cold on a wooden slab in the medicus. Diona and Melitta, their pretty faces distorted with blood, and Esyilt, wasted away by fever.
And Crixus. Limp and defeated, and hanging from his wrists, his powerful gladiator’s body whipped raw, still with foolish thoughts of freedom on his lips.
I will find you.
You are my heart.
You are my whole world.
Our heartbeat goes with him.
They will not part us.
No. NO. Too many broken promises from these walls, all of the will to stay alive for nothing. There was no life; there was no place for a slave girl in this world. No fight, no will.
Ashur, the evil Syrian, had been the one to put her to cart, and when she saw the smile on his face -- she knew that he was happy, he had intended this all along. “All for Crixus?” she said, with pain from moving her unhinged jaw and just saying her man’s name.
“Yes,” he answered, without any of his usual tricks and riddles. No longer anything to conceal. “Crixus was the one who betrayed me, made me half a man.” He reached out a hand to touch the feathery remnants of her thick, dark hair. He had looped his fingers in it the night before, saying that he had never touched anything so soft, and she thought he mistook her sobs for tears of modesty. “My designs were all for him.” He dropped his hand away from her.
“You are nothing.”
part iii
<<<333
Rating: r
Word Count: 7,279 (2/4)
Summary: Come away, little lass, come away to the water. Away from the light you always knew. We are calling to you...Naevia was born, and then lived her whole life.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's Notes: Oh, this has been a labor of love. And I would be remiss in not thanking quite a few people. First of all, this all began to really form after a conversation with selonbrody where we both thought that Pietros and Naevia had been brother and sister during the first few episodes of Blood And Sand, and I swear, I only meant to write a prequel. lexiesloan took a look at this and offered such wonderful encouragement. And abvj has been invaluable, with hand-holding, suggestion and support. You will notice key lines of dialogue from the show, and my own tweak on certain scenes, and it is all a respectful homage to Stephen DeKnight and his writing team. And of course, a very special thanks to kymericl, who did the lovely artwork (link in master post).
part i
“And what of you, little flower?”
Naevia’s hand paused over the platter of fruit she had been arranging to bring to Domina’s bedchamber. Fruit had been rare in the house these many weeks, with the drought, and she longed to keep a peach for herself but she did not dare. She turned, holding the platter in her hands in front of her, before Ashur, the Syrian, could step too close to her.
“Domina awaits,” she said, eyes lowered, hoping that he would just let her pass. She could not look at him without hatred; Melitta had called her little flower, her and Diona. She did not know how he would know such a thing. But he seemed to know all of the secrets in the walls of this house, and she knew him never to use his ways for kindness.
But he did not move out of her path. “Please, I must go.” Her throat felt dry and dusty, she was so very thirsty, but there would be no more water rations until the next morning.
He was smiling, his teeth a brilliant white in his swarthy face. She had heard several of the bathslaves whispering at how handsome he was, despite the burns and the crippled leg, but such talk quieted after a few moments in his company. He was cruelty and evil, this Naevia knew, as she had always seemed to smell it. “Come now, you have no wager for the night of the test? One of the few games Dominus allows for us, you must join in the fun. Might I suggest placing a bet on the local boy, with the golden curls? He has much potential, and after all, he’s one of the few who knows what to expect in the arena.”
The local boy, Varro. He had a wife and small son, she had seen them in the marketplace, the woman (hardly more than a child herself) doggedly trying to bargain the grain merchants down one denarii further. What could bring a man to these walls of his own accord?
Naevia shook her head. The test. Three quarters of the men brought to the ludus never even lived to see it, and only half passed. All she could do was her best to not watch, and not hear. “I have no coin,” was all she said.
He lifted an arm to block her path sideways. He did not touch. Even he did not dare that far. “None is necessary.” And then he let his eyes lower, taking her in. She could not escape invisible this time.
“Ashur.”
The Syrian’s slick smile disappeared quickly at the deep voice and he turned to where the ludus’s fearsome doctore stood. He narrowed his eyes coolly. “Dominus sends me to fetch you. He is not pleased to find you absent from your post.”
Ashur spared Naevia a quick glance before he hurried away, and she let out a shaky breath that she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. Doctore still stood in the doorway, hand at his whip until the sound of Ashur’s footsteps disappeared in the distance. “Gratitude,” she breathed out, but he stepped closer, leaning in his head towards hers to speak softly.
“Listen carefully. I will not always be able to shield you from Ashur- and he is not your only danger in this house.” He paused, not saying word of Diona. Though she saw him quite infrequently, she knew that he never spoke of the past. “You approach an age where more will be required from you than bringing wine and helping Domina to dress.”
Naevia’s lip quivered. “What can I do? In this house, we...we do what we must.”
Doctore sucked in a quick breath and they both stood still, silent for a long moment. “And I will do what I can, for you. Stay safe, if you are able. And ask the gods for shelter.”
He turned to go, but Naevia called softly to him. “Please, Doctore? Tell my brother, I...” But she had no words. He nodded in understanding. And as she watched him go, she spoke again, under her breath. “Gratitude...Oenomaus.”
*
It was hidden jewel. Naevia had to suppress a sound of pleasure when she lifted the necklace and laid it against her skin. Cool and smooth and the same gray as her mother’s eyes. Holding it against herself, she remembered how Diona had tied string around a stone just like it to fashion a much cruder piece of jewelry, and how she laid it with such care next to her mother’s cold body in the ground.
“Too common,” Domina dismissed the bauble with a sneer of her lip and the necklace was set aside, for a heavy gold and emerald piece, gaudy and cold around her throat. And Naevia’s robe was pushed from her shoulder. Domina did this quite often, as she had trouble envisioning the jewels against such a rough, plain background, and it did better to see them only on bare skin. But ever since Oenomaus’s warning, Naevia cringed and did her best to not fly her hands up to cover herself.
Price settled with the jewel merchant, Domina headed back into the villa, leaving Naevia naked on the balcony. And she had broken the rules. She had been seen. With one glance over her shoulder, she could not escape the eyes of the champion of Capua.
She knew him now, and he knew her. At least twice a week (or more often, depending on Dominus’s absence) she met him below stairs, to escort him to Domina. He was lightning quick on the sands of the arena, but she felt his steps slow behind her of late, asking questions- how she fared, had she seen his last victory. He even stepped close often, to catch a scent of the lamiaceae oils, even though Domina was bathed in the same, and he would be in her arms soon enough.
And these were the things she knew of him: that he saw her, that leaned closer to her, but did not touch, that he chattered nonsense to hear the sound of her voice.
“Domina awaits,” she whispered, too ashamed to meet his eyes.
*
“Perhaps this gift can explain where words fail.”
And then he was gone, silently retreating into the shadows.
His hands on hers- she had never felt such a touch, rough hands moving so gently, she found her skin burning long moments after, especially once she saw what was in the wrappings that he gave her, warm from his own skin and carrying the particular smell that she placed with him alone- sunshine and the heavy oil the gladiators were scraped in and something else that she could not name, but craved.
It was the hidden jewel, the necklace that Domina had deemed too common, the necklace that was the same color as her mother’s eyes and had been Diona’s treasure.
Naevia clutched it in her hands, squeezing her eyes and mouth shut against any oncoming cry and breathed to herself.
I live for them all now. To stay alive, a slave girl must be nothing.
*
She watched Domina and Crixus from the shadows. He had a name, and she thought it his right to be called by it, even if it was only in her thoughts. He had not always been the champion of Capua, he had once been a boy in Gaul, and he had a name.
And he was in her thoughts.
Even from a distance, she could see the pale silver glint of the necklace against Domina’s skin. She heard his grunts and the words that spilled forth from him. His voice...not roughened in passion, but nearly...dead. No fight, no will.
She had watched Domina couple enough times to know that it was not the same for a man and woman. It was not for Crixus as it had been for Diona. He did not suffer as she had. And yet...
No fight, no will.
Even the champion of Capua was still a slave.
Domina kept the necklace, the gift that had been meant for her, for Naevia. Not the slave girl, not the nothing. Naevia’s eyes were always upon it, and she cursed herself for not thinking in the moment. Who knew the villa better than she did? She had been there the longest, she and Pietros. She had had many hiding places where she could keep a hidden treasure.
But now it was too late, and Crixus would not meet her eyes, did not slow his footsteps to ask silly questions when he was summoned. She wished she could speak to her brother about it, the only person who yet cared for her, and at least he knew something of men. But Pietros hardly ever strayed upstairs. When he had a free moment, he would go swiftly to Barca’s arms, and she would not take that time away from him. She stayed alone upstairs, in her nothing world.
*
Naevia could not breathe. Not from dust and the heat this time. She could hardly keep her legs under her and stay standing, could hardly keep her heart from pounding out of her chest, and her lips, how they burned...
He had kissed her. A real kiss, a kiss she had never seen him give to Domina, had never seen the likes of before, ever, had never imagined how this would feel. All of her body, all of her heart so engaged, with the sensation lingering, rolling through her, and warmth. Such warmth.
Not warmth. Heat.
He was too much, too much male, skin and heat and low voice in her ear, saying her name.
He was too much and she was nothing.
Naevia touched a finger to her trembling lips and tried to remember her rule, first and only, to stay alive.
And for the first time in a very long time, she longed for something more.
*
“Pietros,” she whispered at the gate, and then said it again a bit louder. She had but a moment, and feared her brother would not come.
But then he was there. He always knew when she needed him.
“Sister, what are you doing here?” His eyes were etched with concern, hooded with sleep. He touched his hand to the bars of the cage, reaching through to join their fingers. She pressed her waterskin into his hands, but he shook his head refusing to take it. “No, I will not have your ration.”
“Please,” she insisted. She had kept a cup for herself and there would be more water in the villa tomorrow. But her brother toiled all day on the sand, running about and carrying weapons. He had a greater need than she.
But he still hesitated. “Take it. Please.”
Pietros looked down at his feet, toeing the sand in front of him. “Barca’s fortunes grow.”
Naevia nodded. “He is a great gladiator.”
Pietros still looked down. “He moves to secure freedom.”
Freedom. Naevia sucked in her breath. She hardly ever dared to even form the word in her mind. “He...would leave you?”
Pietros finally looked up. “He saves enough for two.”
It took her a second and she felt her heart plummet.
You are my whole world.
They won’t part us.
“I won’t go,” he said, very quickly. “I couldn’t. Sister, I will never-”
“You must!” Her voice had raised and she immediately cowered, glancing behind her. There was no activity. The house was quiet. Her brother was looking at her with wide eyes and she clasped his hand through the cage. “When your man has saved enough coin, you fly this house, and do not look back.”
“But you-”
“You are my heartbeat, and I will not have you break under this roof.” As all the others have, she did not say.
Pietros set his mouth in a tight line. “Perhaps with a bit more time, there could be enough to-”
“No, it would take too long.” She shook her head. She would not have it. If her brother had a chance...there would be nothing else.
They both heard it -- the clink of keys meaning a guard would soon pass by, and she waved him off with one last look. He took the water.
*
Crixus was hers.
This was her first thought when she saw the woman from Rome, the senator’s daughter, trail her delicate fingertips all over his skin.
Naevia nearly gasped out loud at this thought. She had never laid claim to anyone or anything, in her whole life, but venom rose, tasting bile and bitter when she saw another woman’s hands on him. It was ridiculous, as she had been witness to him laying with Domina- always from the shadows, but it was still not a new thing.
He is mine.
She fought against the voice, the greedy urge to cross the room and clutch him to her, to put her hands all over him as the Roman woman did. She fought, and lost.
He is mine.
*
He had broken her first rule.
If he did not stay alive, what was there after that? What could there be?
It was different for men, she knew this. It was different for the gladiators. They longed for blood and sacrifice, and a glorious death.
Naevia must live for everyone else. She knew no other way.
“Still a fool,” she said, quietly, through tears she could not hide, as Crixus reached for her and brushed them away with his thumb. He bore her back against the wall. No, it was not him that moved, but her own feet, drawing him into the shadows, where she finally laid her own trembling hands on him. He was sun-heated marble, hard and warm, under her fingers.
When he lowered his mouth to hers for the second time, she knew once again, she had been wrong. Not only was he hers, but she was his, bound to him with chains so much stronger than the ones that bound her to Domina and this cursed house. No matter what happened, her heart would always be with him. Stay alive, she thought desperately.
But it was no longer her first and only rule.
She melted under his touch, and Crixus, the Gaul, the warrior, the man, knelt before her, still dwarfing her with his size and strength. “Please,” he murmured, his voice so wrought with longing and desire, she wondered what it was that could render such a man so weak and humble.
With a shaky breath she replied, “I thought you said that love drains a man.” It was what he had said to Domina- for once avoiding her advances, and she in turn, for once, relenting. Naevia did not stop touching him as she spoke. She had never known such heat as his skin.
With gentle pressure, he drew her down to him, cradling her between his legs. He surrounded her, too much male, skin, and heat, and she...was far from nothing. “In the right arms, it can give him hope.”
*
“Not him, do not take him, not him!”
Melitta’s words sounded in her ear, for the second time she had stood in this very pulvinis. But it was not a ghost, not a presence that she felt this time, not a spirit. It was not a memory of a woman, her friend and sister, who had watched her own man fall to this giant.
The voice was her own.
All in the pulvinis were shouting, cheering, over wagers won and lost as the Thracian continued to take on Theokkoles himself, and her strangled cry was lost in the commotion, but Naevia clamped a hand over her mouth, as if she could take back her words, her plea. This was not her way, she did not move to passion. She stayed alive.
Stay alive, stay alive...
But the words had no power here, not where she had seen Diona fall, not where she had first worn Melitta’s cloak. And she found she could not release him as she did Diona, she clung to his fragile spirit from the pulvinis.
I am bound to you, you have my heart, you cannot leave this world.
And then Naevia felt rain.
Exultation swept through the arena, and she glanced to the side where Theokkoles, the giant, had fallen, absent his head. Dead.
Crixus lay still on the sand, bloody and...Naevia looked closely, squinting her eyes through the raindrops. His hand moved, slowly, over his chest, resting on his heart, and Naevia wept, her tears mixing with the rain, and she whispered in gratitude.
Stay alive.
*
The rain drowned them all. Days passed so swiftly, and all there was, was the rain, rain, rain. Sweeping away all of the dust and the blood and the stench and the dry, creeping death that had hung over the countryside throughout the drought.
Days passed...and she watched Crixus struggle and gasp and tremble and waste away.
Every morning, when Dominus left for town (and he was always in good spirits, as he had much business to attend to now, with his new champion), Naevia and Domina would swiftly go to the medicus, and they would inquire over Crixus. Domina would yell and scream and threaten the old man who had been there for three generations, and had seen it all. Crixus’s wounds were not exotic to him, and he did not shrink as Naevia did, ashamed as she was to admit it. The room stank of putrid, unwashed flesh, and burning herbs, and this man who had so recently been so strong and vital and alive (and hers) had shrunken away, his brown skin a pallid gray. And still, he clung to life- whatever fragile hold he had on it.
She watched him fight, the once champion of Capua, the undefeated Gaul...the warrior, the man, her man.
And she could not plead with him to do more than that.
*
Something was wrong, so very, terribly wrong. It was her immediate thought when she saw Pietros in the villa, dripping in rain and the wine the gladiators celebrated with belowstairs. He was escorted by a clutch of guards, and she had never known him to have such great importance by the masters of the house. But when he saw her, she could see that he smiled, with such joy, as she had not seen since they were children.
He is leaving me.
Her heart at once flew to the heavens- Pietros would be free, he would leave this place, live a life with his man, and never again feel the whip at his back, never again obey a command that was not his own wish. Even as the tears spilled over her eyes, she could not mistake the feeling of peace and gratitude. And once again, she felt her mother with her. He is our heartbeat. It goes with him. Joy.
“Sister!” He ran to her, even as the guards grumbled for him to move along. They were little better than slaves themselves, though they so loved to wield their power. Dominus would have their lives for any minor infraction, and they took it out on those beneath them.
“Back to the ludus, boy,” Hector, one of the particularly cruel, grunted, his voice slurry with drink.
“A moment, if you please,” Naevia sneered. Her voice sounded nearly as icy as Domina’s. She wondered if her mistress would be proud of that.
“Sister, I...” He stopped in front of her, and she took him in, how much he had grown. She had too, she supposed, but it was always so much clearer when she gazed upon her beautiful brother. He was strong and healthy- not as large as a gladiator, of course, but he would always be able to find work, with his man at his side. He would have a life. A good life. “Oh, fuck all,” he muttered and threw his arms around her, sweeping her up over the floor.
Naevia clung to him for life, memorizing everything about this moment, the feel of his arms around her, and the earthy, sunshine scent of him. My heartbeat, my whole world. Do not look back. She drew back and kissed his bow-shaped mouth, giving him the goodbye she had not been able to bestow upon Diona, Melitta, Esyilt, or their mother. “To say that I have loved you would never be enough,” he whispered in her ear. “I take you with me, dear sister.”
“Always,” she whispered back.
*
Everything was wrong, so very, terribly wrong.
This house had meant loss and suffering all of her life, but Naevia had never seen it so close and personal and...Barca. Pietros.
Naevia crouched in her childhood hiding spot, and waited for her brother. He always knew when she needed him. And he needed her now, so very badly. Why did he not come?
Domina had struck her when she stood staring at Barca, the great Beast of Carthage (Barca, the warrior; Barca, the man, her brother’s man), cut down by their own Dominus, his weak hand slashing across the great gladiator’s throat. The pool running red with his blood. Domina struck her again for good measure. Naevia wondered if she remembered whom her brother was, how they had been allowed to stay together as children because it was a crime against the gods to separate two who had shared a womb.
Or if it did not matter at all, a slave’s life, a slave’s heart.
Barca, Pietros, Diona, Melitta, Esyilt...their mother. These people, the masters of this house, had taken them all.
And just this morning, the Thracian, pulling his woman (his wife) from the cart, bloody and dying, drawing her final, ragged breath, with the small mercy of looking upon her love one last time. She was beautiful and young, as Melitta had been. (As they all had been.) And Domina and Dominus walked away, with small, secret smiles, that sent chills down Naevia’s spine.
And she realized...they had done all of this.
All of the evil under this roof, inside these walls, came directly from their hands. She would never be safe. She, Pietros...Crixus. They would all fall, eventually. There was no escape from this house, all who were young and innocent suffered.
Stay alive, she tried to sound it in her head, but it felt so weak, her own thoughts were so very far away. She had to tell him. This could not stay silent, it could not...
What would he do?
Would he live through it? Could his tender heart survive such a thing?
“Pietros,” she whispered, as loudly as she dared. Why did he not come?
*
When her mother had been sold, taken from this house, from her and her brother, she had said nothing. She watched her walk away, and did not utter any words of goodbye, did not run after her for one last time in her arms. She clung to her brother, made him her heartbeat, and stayed alive.
What was left of her heart now?
She had begged Domina to allow her to lay him underground, with Esyilt and Melitta, and perhaps, they would be able to guide him to their mother, and to his man.
He is our heartbeat. It goes with him.
They won’t part us, sister. I won’t allow it.
You fly this house, and do not look back.
Domina had struck her for her tears. “You are not Celts. We won’t have any of this foolishness.”
But they were not Romans either, and she did not want his ashes scattered to the wind.
He burned, of course, salt and smelt spilled over the ground to wash away the bad omens of a slave taking his own life under the roof of the house of Batiatus. He would not be forgotten so easily. She went by herself in the night, through the gate, the same way Diona had when she had been such a small child, taking one of his pet birds. She sang to it, the soft, sweet melody she remembered in sweet dreams, being sung by her mother’s lovely voice. And as the last note hung on the air, she broke the gentle bird’s neck.
She buried the thing he loved, digging at the earth with her fingers (there was ample rain to wash all dirt and blood away in the villa) and whispered out loud, “Be free.”
Slipping back through the gates, the way she came, undetected, back to the medicus cell. She was meant to be watching over Crixus, while he recovered from the fevered dreams. More often than not, he slept, and she watched him breathe. But he was awake when she returned, eyes sunken with worry and pain. “Where did you-” he began, but she held a hand to stop him, quickly glancing around to see that they were completely alone.
He reached for her hand, caked with dirt and blood, but she did not answer his silent questions, instead laying her lips on his brow, soothing back his hair. You are my heartbeat now, stay alive.
He waited patiently, and finally she opened her mouth to speak. “I was seven when my mother was sold...”
*
“There are few of us left.”
Naevia looked up from the bird she held in her hands, to Doctore standing in the arch of the cell where Barca and her brother had slept. “Apologies?”
“Few of us who have survived this house for as many years as you and I,” his mouth tightened into a firm line, and it was as close as Naevia had heard him reach to say Melitta’s name since her death. “Your brother’s delicate heart. Barca - I never knew him to be careless with it.”
So few of us left. Naevia longed to spill all of the secrets she knew from the upstairs world, to the one person who had known and seen all the ones she loved from this life. “Domina awaits,” she whispered, before fleeing the cell.
*
Naevia learned that Crixus, too, had brothers.
He had four of them, and four sisters and she smiled when he told her that he had been the smallest, and the youngest. She thought of him a little boy with laughing dark eyes, falling asleep in fields of lamiaceae, happy and free. He had been ten when the Romans came, his father and oldest brothers killed trying to defend their village, and the rest sold off and scattered. His mother and sisters were raped by the soldiers before they were sold off, too. He had told her all of that in a whisper so quiet, the memory turning his eyes cold, the horror still too near. It would always be too near, this she knew.
But he had happy moments to recall as well, roaming free in the dark, cool forests of Gaul, the grandest of villas for a young boy. She listened, her face resting on her palms as she sat by his bedside, loving the sound of his voice, the sweet ache of happiness in his words. And she told him, of her whole life within the walls of this house, of Pietros and Diona and Melitta and Esyilt. Her mother, her gladiator father, what little she knew of him.
And then he would be summoned by Domina, and all of their fragile little worlds of childhood memories and hushed voices, stolen brushes of fingertips would crack and shatter all around them.
He did not lay with her. They had not but that last night before his battle with Theokkoles, and the memory of his hands upon her, inside of her, burned through the long, empty nights. And she stifled tears when Domina lay her hands upon him, though sometimes he could not make his cock rise. He blamed his still healing injuries, but Naevia couldn’t help a thrill of greedy satisfaction that he would not perform.
See nothing. Be nothing.
Still other times, it could not be avoided. Afterwards when she brought him back to the ludus, he would not raise his gaze to hers, his face crossed with shame, and she remembered the same look on Diona in her final days in this house. When she could, she would take his face in her hands, kissing him fully on the mouth, trying desperately to wash away all shame, all the pain, and give all of her heart, all that she had to give.
*
Sold.
Naevia had frozen, unable to breathe when she heard Dominus utter the word and Domina had been too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice until she was halfway across the house and then screamed for the girl to make haste. The news had seemed to give Domina a frightful headache, and all she required for the remainder of the afternoon was rest, while Naevia waved a fan over her. She had done this task since she was a small child and it allowed her to get lost in her thoughts, the dark, dark future of this house without Crixus in it.
For what had she stayed alive for, all these years, for everyone -- everyone -- to leave her all alone in this house. Sold off, dead, dead, dead, dead. Sold.
“How can Quintus do this, Crixus is mine,” Domina moaned in her own despair, and Naevia knew that she was not expected to respond but she did, in the quiet of her own head.
He is mine.
Mine.
Mine.
*
He was not sold.
She did not thank the gods that Lucretia prayed to, she did not think of her mother, who had been silent since her brother left this world.
She touched him through the bars, fingertips only, and wept.
*
The house of Batiatus grew rich under by the victories of Spartacus, the Bringer of Rain. Naevia had not seen such finery since the very early days, since Oenomaus himself had been champion.
Naevia spent much time in the ludus, under the guise of helping the medicus with Crixus’s healing, and she could only smile when he grumbled at how he longed to return to training. She did not. She would keep him far from his sword forever if she could.
“Do you understand that my only worth is the glory I can bring to this house?” He had said, and she could not answer at first, knowing how close he came to being sold.
“Your worth is all that I have, all I can give, and all that I am,” she answered, stealing a moment to kiss his mouth, in their own world.
New slaves were brought in. Carpenters and stonecutters to make improvements on the house, and new cooks for all of the entertaining Domina was doing, and so many new girls for this purpose as well. One of the girls was named Mira.
Naevia was afraid to speak to her, for a time. She was used in the same way Diona had been and so many others. Naevia feared what she would see in the girl’s eyes: no fight, no will.
But her voice was not cowed, was not dead, even though she said yes, Domina without a hint of defiance, Naevia dared glance at her. She was not dead. Mira was of an age as her, and...It had been so long since she had another girl to talk to.
*
You are my heart. I will never doubt the beating of it again.
Naevia could not help the smile on her face as she returned to Domina, her man’s words still in her head, his touch lingering on her skin. There has never been such a man as Crixus.
The man who saw her, who was her heartbeat.
You hold all of my heavens and earth in your hands, he had whispered desperately against her mouth. All that I am, you are everything. There is no world without you.
A slave girl must be nothing.
You are everything.
*
Naevia tried to put it from mind -- she had stolen before and it had led to tragedy. But this was different. She was not trying to escape, not trying to push her man from these walls. Instead, she clung to him, would not let him go. She could not live without his touch, and she would not waste more time or opportunity with anyone she loved.
And Hector -- she had seen him use the girls cruelly, place blame on other guards for duties not being carried out when the fault was his own. Everyone under this house stole, master and slave alike.
And Crixus was hers. Every moment between them belonged to them alone.
*
The house was under a hush.
Straight after the magistrate and his family left, Dominus cleared out the rest of the guests and took to his bedchamber. Domina had followed him, insisting on privacy and Naevia managed to run to Crixus’s side before he and the rest of the brotherhood were brought back to the ludus.
“He was a child,” Crixus had said, his voice shaking in a way she had never heard before, even through the gravest of his own injuries. “He was cut down by the whim of a child.”
Naevia pressed herself into him, wildly grateful that it was not her own man who had been cut, deeply ashamed for feeling grateful at the blood and death of another man.
They were nothing, all were nothing to the masters of this house. Even the prized gladiators who brought honor, glory and wealth, who were proudly called titans by their master and put on display for admiration amounted to no worth as human life.
Mira, the new girl, had the task of cleaning the blood from the floor before it dried and stained. Naevia knelt to help her and wash this night away so that they might both sleep for a few untroubled hours, but the girl threw down her brush and soap, letting it clatter on the floor. “Fucking monsters,” she spat, and Naevia raised her eyes in fear. The house was yet silent and still.
“He was a man,” she continued, angry and careless. “Just two nights ago, I brought his wife to him, full of hope for the future. Tomorrow at first light, Domina sends me back to her, to tell her that her husband is dead.”
Naevia thought of this woman she had seen in the market so long ago, and the small boy with his father’s golden looks. “Monsters,” she repeated, under her breath and Mira paused, one eyebrow raised. She was quite pretty, even beautiful, even if she did have a frighteningly hard look in her eyes.
“So you do have a voice,” she finally said, but Naevia put her head back down.
A slave girl is nothing.
Stay alive.
*
Her man was a fool.
A slave must always be nothing, but for a gladiator...
She had half-hoped he would never be well enough to return to the arena. Domina would find him a place in the ludus, she would never let him go, and Naevia would always have him close, safe, alive.
Still, her heart contracted with fear, stopped beating entirely for a second, and she gripped his face tightly in her hands. “You must stay alive,” she swore, searching his dark eyes for any sign of fear, any hesitation at all. There was none. He was a fool.
But he was so alive, and she could not help pulling him back closer, for another kiss. “I know the love of a goddess,” he said, against her lips, his voice low as he chuckled. “And I am only a man. I must strive to be a god myself.”
*
Stay alive, alive, alive.
She had not stopped repeating the words over, and over, since turning her back on Crixus in the sand, following Domina out of the arena and back to the villa. Once she had helped her undress and to bed, she waited on the balcony, for any sign of a cart on the road. None came. Only the men, all walking, and she could hear Rhaskos and the other Gauls singing, lauding their once champion, that old song. My cock rages on, my cock rages on...
He lived.
And when the house was dark, Naevia sped to her man’s arms, and as he held her against him, she felt his heart beating next to hers. You are everything.
“Ten,” he said. “Denarii. The winner’s purse.”
“And what would you buy with your fortunes?” Naevia asked softly. “Women and wine?” They both laughed, and he shook his head with a smile, only for her. He had settled her across his thighs, and she ran her hands over the muscles of his chest and arms, still rippling with the day’s excitement. She had once been so shy to touch him, and now they both delighted in it.
He held her hand against his mouth, kissing each fingertip softly. “Freedom. For us both.”
Naevia stilled in his arms, looking him in the eye. There was no jest, no doubt. Once again, her heart stopped beating. She had seen what happened to too many who had tried to leave this house.
But her man...he was everything.
For what else had she stayed alive for all these years?
“All that I have, all I can give,” she began to say, but he interrupted.
“They will never part us.”
*
It was a curious thing that, after so much loss, so much death, Naevia could still know such happiness. Always with one ear cocked for any sign of danger, always poised and ready to take flight. But always, always, every chance she had, she was with Crixus. His fortunes grew quickly, with Dominus and Doctore placing him in lower matches where he was easily the victor. The primus of the games was still saved for Spartacus, who remained champion of Capua.
In secret, Naevia was grateful for Crixus’s position as second best. The most important thing was, as always, to stay alive. But she knew that he wished to regain his title before he left this house, so Naevia added to Bringer of Rain to her prayers, that he would stay alive and keep all as it was.
With his labors in the arena, Crixus’s lovemaking took on a new, fierce urgency that left Naevia weak at the knee whenever she thought of the last time they were together, the next time she would be in his arms. One night, after he had wrenched himself from inside of her, spilling his seed on the sand at her feet, he was quiet for a moment, all shuddering breath and quivering, trembling muscle. “Someday,” he said, brushing his lips against her damp brow, and she struggled to regain her normal breathing as well. “Someday, I will put a child in your belly. And he will be free, far from this place.”
A child. It was a wish that she had never allowed to linger, but when he spoke the words, she thought of a free boy in Gaul, wandering through dark cool forests. She thought of Pietros, hot under the Capua sun, bearing the mark of the ludus on their tenth birthday.
A child. A free child.
Stay alive.
*
“Where do you take me?” She asked the guard, and he did not answer, and when she asked his partner, he struck her across the face with the back of his hand. She did not ask again. Her face was swollen on one side, and her abdomen ached where Domina had kicked her over and over.
“Did you hope he would get you bellyful? I will whip that child from your filthy slave cunt.”
When Mira was asked to bring a knife, Naevia could not even form the words in her mind, the will to live, and she did not breathe as Domina sliced the hair from her head with rough, uneven slashes. “Your betrayal, you little bitch...I should have sold you off with your whore mother, and now I set you on her same path.”
Naevia tried very hard to hold the image of her mother’s beautiful face, but all she could see was Pietros, cold on a wooden slab in the medicus. Diona and Melitta, their pretty faces distorted with blood, and Esyilt, wasted away by fever.
And Crixus. Limp and defeated, and hanging from his wrists, his powerful gladiator’s body whipped raw, still with foolish thoughts of freedom on his lips.
I will find you.
You are my heart.
You are my whole world.
Our heartbeat goes with him.
They will not part us.
No. NO. Too many broken promises from these walls, all of the will to stay alive for nothing. There was no life; there was no place for a slave girl in this world. No fight, no will.
Ashur, the evil Syrian, had been the one to put her to cart, and when she saw the smile on his face -- she knew that he was happy, he had intended this all along. “All for Crixus?” she said, with pain from moving her unhinged jaw and just saying her man’s name.
“Yes,” he answered, without any of his usual tricks and riddles. No longer anything to conceal. “Crixus was the one who betrayed me, made me half a man.” He reached out a hand to touch the feathery remnants of her thick, dark hair. He had looped his fingers in it the night before, saying that he had never touched anything so soft, and she thought he mistook her sobs for tears of modesty. “My designs were all for him.” He dropped his hand away from her.
“You are nothing.”
part iii
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