Decus Et Tutamen [Ancient Rome AU] Chapter 3/?
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Title: Decus Et Tutamen
Chapter: 3/?
Rating: NC-17 for themes and later chapters.
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Prompt: Two politicians die suddenly in the same week, and Lestrade - the captain of the city watch - suspects foul play. He consults Sherlock Holmes, a Roman aristocrat whose boredom with the hedonism of wealthy society drives him to study the anatomy of crime and corruption. Sherlock quickly figures out there is a deeper conspiracy at work and hires John Watson, an ex-soldier turned gladiator, as his constant bodyguard and slave -
Chapter One
Chapter Two
A/N: plot twist: I actually update?!
I'm so sorry, especially to the original prompter. A lot has gone on (I've moved to England (though only from Wales, really) to study, for one, but it's mostly been other things that have caused the delay) but I won't deny that if I had really forced myself then I could have worked through those. So I'm not going to pretend that I can really offer an excuse that completely validates the delay here. I can only promise that it shouldn't be as long in the future.
In reference to this chapter, just understand that the Vigiles are separate from the Urban Cohort, and the UC are the closest equivalent Rome has to a police force, though it's not really the same as the modern force. Also, I have changed Gregory to Gregorius for Lestrade. Did you know that Gregorius means watchman? Also, the Chief Superintendent we all know and hate is mentioned as Antonius Pittus. I don't know the character's real name, but the actor is Tony Pitts, so, well.
This is not an action chapter; it's just developing the story. The slow pace is meant to reflect John's sentiment that nothing happens to him, though of course that's not true. This chapter has been split into two because it was too long, which means I have a solid start on Chapter Four, so I'm hoping that won;t take me long. Anyway, you've waited long enough - I'm still not happy with this chapter, but here goes nothing :)
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Over the next six days, in the course of a monotonous and dull existence, John’s blood boiled and bubbled beneath his skin.
“Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end,” the man had warned him - and for the most part, it seemed to be true, apart from the occasional unprompted, irritable declaration.
“I’m bored,” Sherlock would announce to the air, at random intervals, whilst slicing open something that John was fairly sure looked like eyeballs, or after carefully measuring out a small vial of blood into a dish and mixing it with dust. “Bored, bored, bored.” And he would flounce off, tunic swishing around his lean thigh muscles, into another room, and John would drag himself behind him, leg aching and sore after hours of simply watching Sherlock think.
What is it that you actually do? John wanted to ask, several times - but the tight, oppressive silence held him back. Sherlock seemed distant, disaffected; as cold and inaccessible as the frescoed images on the walls.
Even between fights, in the most dank, fetid holding cell of the ludus, John had had company. None of them had spoken his own language - Publius had been careful about that, if nothing else - but generally they had communicated with him in looks and words and broken Latin. It had never been friendship, or brotherhood, but there had been an unspoken solidarity between the condemned; a mutual respect, at least, if not trust.
Sherlock simply ignored him.
The salutatio each morning was the most bearable part of the day. As a Patrician, dependents who regarded Sherlock as their patron would in the first few hours after dawn; generally they were shabby, badly-dressed lower-class citizens who brought pieces of information that made little or no sense to John, such as, “The cobbler said he sold three large pairs to a lady with light hair, sir, but only one to a dark-haired gentleman,” or “She ain’t seen nothin’, but the baker down the road said ‘is slave come in for few loaves after the last festival.” Sherlock listened to them with a bored expression, occasionally picking apart facts such as the state of the edge of a girl’s stola, or the colour of a man’s ring, before nodding to John, who would mutely hand over a few cheap coins and walk them to the door before ushering in the next one.
“They’re so boring,” muttered Sherlock, once, afterwards, drawing his knees up to his chest and rolling over on the lectus so that his face was pressed into a stuffed cushion, toes flexing and stretching restlessly.
It was dull, John agreed, privately, but it passed the time, and it was better than the cold, crushing silence that filled the room whenever they were alone. At night, when John lay on the scratchy straw pallet that Caudex, the head of the household slaves, had made up for him just inside the entrance to Sherlock’s cubiculum, the night pressed blackly in on him like a blindfold, a gag. Even Sherlock, in his rare short bursts of sleep on the ostentatious, bronze-framed bed, was almost mute, his breath even and shallow.
And almost entirely alone in the darkness, his body stretched out along the scratchy straw pallet just inside the doorway of Sherlock’s bedchamber, John burned.
*
Each day was hell. John had nothing to say, and Sherlock was only insistent that he be with him constantly, except for John’s meals or when he sent him to fetch something from the main bedroom or from the library adjoining the side-chamber. He asked for no entertainment and provided none. The man’s apparent familiarity with his past had been unsettling; a personal invasion - the kind of thing these Romans did best, he thought, bitterly, and he spent the first few days in fear of another excavation of his mind.
It never came.
He was relieved, really. But an invasion, at least, would have meant a battle - a declaration of conflict. It would have been something to cling to, like another round in the arena; another enemy on the in the sharp fells and valleys of his own country. He had no idea how to deal with a man whose attitude was so thrumming with focus; even at night, when the man lay down on his large bed, he would not sleep; he immersed himself in scrawling notes and sealing them with wax, until he seemed to tire of it and turned to the kithara, strumming lightly on the fine strings with a shell-like plectrum. In those minutes, John would lean back on his own bedroll and simply watch the master at work; not even John could deny that the music was beautiful, if a little odd; clear and sweet and piercing, swelling through the room.
Eventually, inevitably, Sherlock would put it aside and snap his fingers for John to fetch the scroll with the odd numbers on it. He seemed able to absorb himself in it for hours, mulling over it in silence for a further few hours whilst John sat awkwardly at his feet, counting the tiles in the mosaic floor.
Of course, it was natural that a member of the aristocracy would spend his days lazing away. But Sherlock seemed so full of pent-up, angry energy that the air fizzed and crackled with it, like lightning above the hills, that John could hardly stand it; the man clearly needed something, but what was it?
From the little things the citizens who came to the morning salutatio said, John began to understand that Sherlock was some kind of - what? He struggled to find a word; it seemed at times as though he might be one of the vigiles, the watchmen; at other times he seemed like an advisor. Several times, people came to ask him questions about stolen property or missing papers; John was never sent out of the room, though the clients almost always requested it, and from these interviews John realised that the man who had bought him had a truly exceptional mind, though a shrewd and cool one. He could solve their problems with a few simple, direct questions, and the time between them entering and the clink of coins that accompanied the close of the meeting was always short. In those minutes, however, John caught fleeting hints of the man's brilliance, and he was ashamed to admit to himself that those glimpses piqued his interest. Whatever else Sherlock Holmes might be, it had to be admitted that he was clever, and sharp as any of John's spears had ever been.
Most of the time, however, he was silent and unmoving, lying as though unconscious on the lectus in the atrium, his fingertips steepled on his chest, or his palms together as though in supplication.
When Sherlock worked in the side-chamber, the tablinum, it was a little easier; John amused himself by staring out of the open archway into the private peristylium, the garden attended by a dark-haired, half-Minoan slave-boy with tanned arms and skinny hips. Birds came and went freely in the garden, and a breeze wafted in and ruffled the master’s hair; these were the only things in the household that seemed to change or move without Sherlock’s instruction. The garden-slave would whistle, sometimes, until Sherlock growled at him to shut up, in the name of Hercules, and the boy would disappear towards the kitchen.
It was lonely.
“Nothing happens to me,” he complained, once, to the lares, the twin statues of the household gods, kept in the near the kitchens. In most houses of Rome, they would be revered; here, the other slaves respected them, but Sherlock ignored them almost entirely.
The lares stared impassively back. John watched them for a moment, brooding, then shrugged and turned his back.
Why should a pair of Roman gods have any interest in him, after all?
*
In Marcus Gregorius Lestrade's personal opinion, he was good at his job.
Rome had seen a dip in crime since he had been promoted to the position of one of the six Centurions charged with the care of the First Cohort of the Cohortes Urbanae. Usually victims were supposed to seek out help and justice through a network of familial connections, and the Urban Cohort involved themselves only in investigating political crimes, or threats against the people of the state. The Vigiles were even less helpful; their job, it was generally acknowledged, was to control riots and put out fires; anything else was above and beyond the call of duty, and therefore unnecessary.
In Lestrade's view, one's duty was the bare minimum one could do; there was no maximum limit. There was no all or nothing; there was only all. Citizens respected him; his attitude was well-known and well-admired in the city. Though not the Prefect of the Cohort, he was the favoured port of call for the public during a crisis - during an outbreak of burglaries, for example, or when street gangs were growing at an alarming rate. His short, efficiently-kept silver hair and his unshakable assurance in the ground beneath his feet inspired a public confidence in him afforded to few in Rome.
Now, however, standing in front of the pillared barracks of the First Cohort, staring out at the crowd of gossipmongering plebeians swarming the street, he wished he had a less prominent position within the force of the cohort. Half of Rome seemed to be demanding answers, and he had at his side only Anderson - a man of his own Cohort, at least, but not a particularly useful one when faced with the inquisition that was the Roman public.
"Centurion, is it true that the recent deaths of the two magistrates in two different temples are linked?"
"Centurion, is it true that there was no blood?"
"Centurion, was it poison?"
"Centurion, do you think it's true that they were struck down by the gods?"
"Centurion, was it suicide?"
The tirade of questions grew more and more tumultuous; rising to a loud, rumbling clamour of cacophonic sound that filled the street, until no one voice was distinguishable from the rest.
When it became too much, Lestrade squared his shoulders and took a breath. “Right,” he murmured to himself. “Crowd control.”
“The Lady Fortuna be with you, sir,” muttered Anderson.
Lestrade nodded and raised his voice, lifting his palms to appeal for peace. “Silence!” he called out, voice loud and firm, but placating. It was his crowd voice; the cool, stoic authority he knew the public liked to see, rather than the angry, bull-like bellowing of his bloated superior, the Tribune Pittus Antonius. “I want silence!”
It took a minute, but the noise slowly shrank to manageable proportions, dwindling away to discontented mutterings and a few Lestrade sighed. It would have to do, he supposed.
“Right,” he said, tersely. The hot afternoon sun beat down on his forehead, and he prayed he wasn’t flushing. “I understand that you’re worried.” That was step one with placating a rabble like this; acknowledging the issue. “The magistrates are usually safe, especially within the sanctuary of a temple. I’m sure you’re all wondering how this happened.”
“Too right!” yelled someone, and there was an outbreak of nervous laughter.
Lestrade waited until the quiet had resumed. “Now, we don’t have all the answers yet.” He held up a hand. “Wait. I can assure you we’re working on it.”
“Or your dear friend Holmes is,” muttered Anderson. “What’s it been, a week? He’s losing his touch. If he ever had it.”
Lestrade ignored him. “We don’t believe this is the work of the gods,” he continued. “The magistrates are not known to have been impious; let’s not insult Minerva and Apollo, children of Jupiter, without due cause.” That was step two. Nobody liked to provoke divine fury. There were a few nods amongst the crowd members, and one or two made the sign against misfortune.
“So you’re saying that it’s a man doing this?” someone piped up. “Killing men without leaving a mark? Is a serial murderer on the loose?”
“A serial murderer?” Lestrade attempted to sound dismissive. “Please, citizens. There’s no clear evidence that the two deaths are actually linked; this could be coincidence.” There were several disbelieving snorts, and Lestrade frowned. “I’m not implying that it is. But these deaths were clearly not violent.”
“So it was poison?” a voice demanded. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Lestrade repressed an urge to find something to hurl at them. “It’s not impossible. In that case, the poisons were likely self-administered.”
“Suicides?” demanded several voices. “Both of them?”
“Perhaps.” Lestrade’s voice was tight with restraint.
“But you can’t have serial suicides!” someone called out, and there was a loud rumble of assent.
Lestrade clenched a fist behind his back. “Well, it seems you can.”
“Sir,” warned Anderson.
Lestrade took a deep breath. “My fellow citizens.” That was always a good one for a crowd, he thought; they liked to have an acknowledgement of their status. “Let’s not get excited. Two deaths hardly makes for a serial anything.”
“But what if this is the beginning?” A redheaded, nervous-looking man stepped forward. “How are we supposed to stay safe?”
“Well, don’t commit suicide,” bit out Lestrade.
There was an immediate uproar.
“Backtrack!” hissed Anderson. “Backtrack!”
Lestrade glared at him, but raised his hands for the third time. His popularity and consequent authority seemed to be proving useful, at least; the angry roar shrank once more. Step three, he thought, and he summoned the last reserves of his patience before he began to speak again.
“Obviously, this is a frightening time for the Roman people. However, all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be. Thank you.” He saluted and turned away. The vigiles would deal with dissipating the crowd; his job was to make sure there would be no need for another one.
Please, Sherlock, he thought. Think of something soon.
*
It was barely dawn when John awoke, stiff-limbed and taut from dreams of the arena and the long road in chains through Britain; the first moments of consciousness were tangled with dream-images of swords slashing close to his face, of the burning pain of stumbling along with blood dribbling from his shoulder, head bent under the cruel high laughter of faceless Romans shouting abuse at him that he could barely understand.
Slowly, shifting into consciousness, he began to realise that it was Sherlock who loomed over him, grim and pale as temple marble, hissing his name; Ioannes, Ioannes. Briefly, he had no idea where he was; then, the darkness swam into a dim light and he realised he was lying on the scratchy bed-pallet of straw that one of the hundred or so slaves had pulled up for him inside the door of Sherlock’s cubiculum.
“Awake, I’m awake,” he muttered, dully, the Latin thick and badly-pronounced, as it always was before he could properly wake and adjust himself to Rome. “What is it?”
“Get up, and get dressed,” Sherlock ordered. “I need you to shave me, then fetch yourself a spear from the armoury. We’re going out.” His nose was almost touching John’s - no damn respect for personal space, thought John - and then, abruptly, it was not; Sherlock was across the room in a few long strides, pulling on a soft, well-made tunic and girding it with a short cord, so that it pulled tightly across his chest.
John struggled to stand, nightmares still fading, and bent to lift his own tunic from where he had folded it beside his own bed, pulling it quickly over his head and moving to open the shutters as he did up the belt-cord. The pallid light of dawn washed over the room, cold and grey. It was a relief, almost; Rome was too hot, in the daytime, when surges of warm bodies rolled like a wave through the city - ordinary citizens going about ordinary lives, hustling and bustling in the never-ending throng of people.
A silver basin of hot water stood ready on a table at the foot of Sherlock’s ostentatious, bronze-framed bed, and with an imperious flick of his fingers Sherlock indicated that John should wash his face. There were no shaving tools laid out, and John felt Sherlock’s stubble under his fingers as he lathered up the man’s cheeks with the fat-soap, the warm, foamy water trickling down his high cheekbones and narrow jaw line until he was ready to be shaved.
The sharp, curved razor lay beside the basin of water, the hook-like bronze handle shaped like some winged beast of Roman myth. John picked it up, weighing it in his palm; it was heavy as a large pebble, but the iron was expensive; well-made and hammered flat and sharp. He lifted it, an uncomfortable tingle running through his It was odd, like this, holding a blade so close to the master’s throat, but Sherlock lifted his chin impatiently, offering his neck with no thought of the risk that a slip would present to his jugular vein. He was, John realised, completely vulnerable. His pulse quickened with temptation; it would take so very little, really, to slit his throat and run.
He became aware, suddenly, that Sherlock was watching him with quick, pale eyes, lips curved gently upwards. Did he know what John was thinking? Surely he would have stopped him by now, if so. No. He was simply enjoying his power as a master.
John could do it, easily. One quick thrust of the blade, he thought. That would be it. Over.
But where would he go? He barely knew his way around the city, much less across Gaul, and beyond the furthest coast lay a sea that he would have to beg, bully or barter his way across, with nothing to recommend him but whatever money he could steal from Sherlock’s room before he ran, with Rome ever at his heels.
Killing him will put me in a worse position than ever, John reminded himself, sharply, and set to work, dragging the blade warily over the Roman’s skin.
It would have been intimate, perhaps, except that Sherlock fidgeted and ran his own damp hands through his curls and over his face to hurry him, like a child at the barber for the first time. Twice John had to pull his hand away, so that he would not slice the man’s face open; the gods knew all deserved it, but a whipping would earn him no favours. All the same, Sherlock seemed recklessly unconcerned by the sharp iron - and there he was, twitching restlessly again…
“Keep still, before I cut off your damn ear by mistake!” John snapped, at last, frustrated - then froze, alarmed, the words idiot! idiot! thundering in his ears.
But Sherlock only raised an eyebrow. To John’s surprise, he actually subsided, although his fingers twitched at his sides, and eventually he folded his arms, and stood quietly, eyes closed.
Somewhere downstairs, the shouts of the head slave began to sound, and the slow footsteps of groggy servants hurrying back and forth began to sound on the tiled floors. Outside, the peal of iron against bronze rang from the distant metalworkers, setting the birds screeching in protest, and all the while John’s fingers were steady on the sharp flat blade, scraping away the dirt and short beard-growth.
He looked younger without the beard, John mused, swiping his thumb over the soft skin of the man’s cool cheek to check for stray lumps and ingrown hairs. There was something of the Greek in him; his nose was small and neat, not the Roman nose, nor his skin the tanned golden-brown of an outdoor worker. In John’s own country, he would have been too soft to last more than a winter in the great snowy mountains and rugged moors. Here in Rome, however, with her great straight roads into the fortified city, he was coldly beautiful.
“That’s enough,” said Sherlock, at last, irritably, jerking away John’s arm and dipping his face into the basin, so that he came up like a wet dog, fresh-faced and clean, though his short Roman curls clung to his forehead. John resisted a strange urge to reach up and unplaster them from his skin. If he wanted to look like he’d been swimming, let him.
“Put on your shoes,” Sherlock ordered. “We’re late as it is.”
“Where-” began John, already fumbling with his sandals - but Sherlock was gone, his footsteps muffled by the long, lush rug of the corridor that ran along the upper floor of the great villa.
“You’re welcome,” muttered John, rinsing the shaving lather from his hands - presumably someone else would come to fetch the bowl, he thought, and felt a tinge of alarm that he had not woken up when it was brought in - and went to find a spear.