Gladiators
Title: Gladiators
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Nathan/Peter, ensemble (like a dozen more peeps)
Rating: NC-17 for descriptions of gore and sex
Wordcount: 7,938
Spoilers: There are characters from S3, and one small plot point from S3 (Peter’s new version of his power), other than that, no specific spoilers.
Warnings: Gore, slash, consensual incest, situational racism, situational classism, slavery, blackmail, polytheism, and rampant abuse of the historical record.
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al. I don’t own “Rome” or “Gladiator” either.
A/N: This was written for brighteyed_jill’s personal kink meme. But it was a little too long to fit into the comment-style of the thread, so here it be! Inspired partly by the series “Rome” for historical underpinnings, partly by the movie “Gladiator” for spectacle, and partly by my own fevered imagination of what I think is cool. You might want to brush up on your Roman pantheon before diving into this story. Or not. ;-) Thanks to redandglenda for betaing.
Summary: An AU where Nathan, Peter, and many other “gods-touched” are part of fighting stable of gladiators in ancient Rome. When a horrible fate is to befall one of their own, the two brothers must use their hard-earned fame to gain the influence they need to spare one of their brothers-in-arms…
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The roar of the cheering crowd above was muffled by the heavy stone walls and thick wooden ceiling. The air in the staging area was thick with the stench of dust, sand, oil, sweat, and blood, a choking miasma for those that did not live in it daily. Footsteps drew nearer to the holding pen, and the waiting gladiators tensed as the door rattled, opening.
“It’s time.” The stable owner himself, Bennet, had come to take them out, a lucky sign. They could use all the luck they could get, especially with a new gladiatrice on the team today.
“Peter, make your choice. Betting is heavy today,” Bennet said tersely, eyes cast upward as he gauged the mood of the crowd from their sound alone.
Peter stood to face his fellow gladiators. He did not look like much of a fighter, few of them did, despite their fitness. Most of them were shorter, slighter, prettier, younger, or older than most other fighters. Their worth in the arena crowd did not come from their sword arm as much as their gods-touched powers. If they all hadn’t been born slaves or freedmen, a bare step above slaves, they might have been powerful noblemen, skilled soldiers, or even priests. But slaves and former slaves of Rome, touched by the gods or not, could only earn their worth through labor, rarely aspiring to a higher station. In the case of gladiators, their worth came only through the bloody rites of battle on the arena sands.
For gods-touched gladiators, to use their powers outside the arena floor or training grounds was worth beating, flogging, or even death. But on the arena floor, they provided the greatest spectacle in the city. Through that, they earned their comfort and their protection.
Slaves that did well, that earned back the price of their purchase and training, which pleased their masters, could be freed. Bennet himself was a former gladiator, and though stern, had always treated his stable with fairness and his own kind of generosity. He was also a very practical man, who had warned his freed slaves about the fate that awaited them outside the arena walls.
Gods-touched gladiators, either slaves or freedmen, could earn a comfortable and prosperous life in the arena, and even have a goodly amount of influence amongst the people. Those that chose to go their own route no longer had the protection of their stable. With no knowledge of a trade other than fighting, many had died lonely and wretched deaths in the slums, or out in the wild fringes of the provinces, killed by the fearful and the godless.
Even though almost half the stable had earned their freedom, they stayed with Bennet, most of them knowing no other life than the roar of the crowd. Peter had been captured with his brother at the tender age of six; he only knew how to fight. And as much as Bennet tried to protect his stable, wanting to earn their loyalty honestly, there were certain conventions even he could not flaunt. Holding his stable back from the most dangerous fights was one of them. The crowd cheered loudest for blood, and while Bennet tried to keep his stable out of death matches, there were always lucrative demands for as bloody a battle as could be had.
And today the Emperor was attending, which meant the betting would be particularly intense, for no one knew who might survive. The Emperor had first pick of the losing gods-touched, and if he desired their power, he would wrest it from the loser in his own way. Emperor Sylar was double, triply blessed by all the gods in his abundance of powers. He was as Jupiter, the chief of the gods, and would remove the blessings, and the lives, from those gods-touched that proved themselves unworthy of their blessings.
The stable could not afford to be less than spectacular today, not with one of their own needing to prove herself.
Peter walked amongst his fellow fighters, his family, trying to make his choice for today, a choice to help their newest fighter. Peter’s own gift was to use the blessing of another. There was always heavy betting on what power he would first choose to display; it was part of the draw of Bennet’s stable.
By preference and nature, Peter would have liked to choose his brother Nathan’s power of flight above all others. But it was an obvious choice, and not one he could repeat too often in an opening fight, lest the crowd become bored.
He turned to the rest of his family. Three of them had been taken from Africa only a handful of years ago, and still were marked as slaves. Knox, who gained strength from fear, had the most kills in the stable. Monica, who could fight in any style, with any weapon, had a natural flair for the dramatic that made her a crowd favorite. Hawkins' ability to walk through walls and let weapons pass through him as if he were smoke would seem, at first glance, to be a man no prison could hold. But he had the honor of a soldier, and once given his word not to escape, would not. Besides, his fame had netted him the favor of an expensive, flaxen-haired courtesan, and a child had resulted. Hawkins would not leave Rome while his son lived.
The other four gladiators were from Gaul, in the north, pale-haired and fair-skinned. Daphne, their trickster, who had the speed of Zepherus, and feisty Elle, touched by Jupiter’s power of lightning, were both still marked with slave collars. Meredith and her brother Flint, the other two freedmen in the stable aside from Nathan and Peter, flung Vulcan’s flames in red and blue.
It was their shared bond of having a brother or sister at their side that had first led Vulcan’s children to become friends with Nathan and Peter, back when Bennet had first bought them to form his stable. For Meredith and Nathan, it had briefly become more than friendship. Slaves could not marry, and when Bennet had found out, some fifteen years ago, that Meredith had been carrying Nathan’s child, they’d feared for their lives.
As newly-purchased slaves, Bennet could have had them killed, or their child taken. But instead he’d given them their daughter’s life in exchange for their loyalty. That was why they’d kept themselves in fighting form well past the age some gladiators would have given up; they had something to fight for. If their daughter Claire could have a good first few fights, if the odds and gods were with her, then Bennet would free her too. As freedmen, they could negotiate more of their own favor and influence, eventually amassing enough wealth to retire.
The whole stable viewed Nathan and Meredith as parents, and Claire was everyone’s daughter. They all had reasons to stay loyal to Bennet, but they would also all do their best to see their ‘first family’ free. Especially Peter. To be able to live out his days in comfort with his brother and his family would be a gift from the gods.
Peter wanted something unexpected for Claire’s first fight, something to protect his fellow fighters, but nothing that would overshadow her natural talents, well-earned from growing up in the arena. He finally stopped in front of Knox and put his hand on the African’s shoulder. Peter wanted strength to counter any threat to his brother’s child.
Knox nodded solemnly and cracked his neck, taking in a deep breath like he was breathing in the fear around him. Peter echoed him, feeling fear surging into him from nearly every fighter in the arena, including his family. Especially his family. And with the fear came strength like Hercules.
“Claire, Peter, Nathan, Monica, Hawkins, first group. Elle, Daphne, Flint, Meredith, Knox, second group,” Bennet said, waving his hand to separate them. Wisely, he’d moved those with flashier powers out of Claire’s group so hopefully she could stand out. “Now, weapons!” Bennet barked.
Some stable owners never came near their stock while it was armed for fear of retribution; a slave would die for killing his owner, but the owner would remain just as dead, and a slave had nothing to lose. But Bennet had given his stable no reason for violence except in front of the crowds, and reaped the rewards of loyalty given.
The women took spears, decorative bronzework gleaming even in the dim light, while the men took swords, shields, maces, and tridents as their fighting styles dictated. Nathan, their eagle, took a weighted net to trip and entangle their foes.
Bennet outfitted his stable in the best to highlight their beauty. They were all skilled enough fighters to have avoided the marring scars common to others in their profession, which made them yet again more popular. Some had traded on that beauty and fame to gain privilege and favor from nobles and others who took a shine to them. But as Hawkins had proved, sometimes that could backfire.
None of the stable was interested in fame for fame’s sake, and favor only lasted as long as having a gladiator was fashionable. It had to be handled carefully while it lasted. Clever wins on the sands were the only thing that truly mattered; those well-worked bouts with skillful wagering would eventually buy their freedom and retirement from this dangerous life.
Claire smiled tremulously at her father and uncle as they gathered at the doors to the arena. Monica and Hawkins echoed her smile, clapping her on the shoulder in solidarity. Bennet caught their attention one last time as they milled before the doors, the sounds of the crowd and the muffled shouting of the announcer drowning out everything else.
Bennet made a faint slashing gesture and held up a single finger, waving it at all of them. The fight was to first blood. The first group to bloody every member of the opposing group, whoever they might be, would win. More surreptitiously, Bennet drew back his elbow, like he was drawing a bow. Arrows. The opposing group had arrows. Nathan squared his shoulders and firmed his jaw, mentally preparing himself for the assault. Bennet wasn’t supposed to warn them about that in advance, but no owner would let his property go out blind.
Outside, the cheering rose to a crescendo, and the doors were flung open. Running into the brilliant hot sunshine, blinking to let their eyes adjust, the gladiators quickly oriented on the Emperor and bowed to him. He was very close to the action, closer than some might have thought wise. But the Emperor had more guards upon his safety than just his soldiers and his own array of powers.
The dark-haired twins at his side, brother and sister, were his protectors. The common folk called them the Spanish twins, for the simple reason as that was where they were from. The gladiators called them by a different name: Children of Proserpina, the Queen of the Dead. With a thought, they could poison those around them, or cure them of it, leaving their victims on the edge of death. Useful for stopping unruly gladiators, or anyone else who opposed the Emperor. As gods-touched slaves, Peter would have thought they might have made a bid for their own freedom long before now. But no, they were purely Emperor Sylar’s creatures. Those in the Emperor’s personal service ended up dead or devoted. There was no middle ground.
On the other side of the arena a group of tall and brawny fighters bowed in unison towards the Emperor. Three of them were on horseback, and the other seven were much more heavily armed and armored than anyone in Bennet’s group. Apparently this fight was meant to be particularly vicious. Two-to-one odds with superior armaments was tough even for the gods-touched.
The trumpets blared, and the two groups sprang into battle, the crowd cheering them on. Nathan took to the sky, his heavy, furled net ready to trip the first one rash enough to try to charge them. As always, there was a thin, strong net strung across the top of the inner arena walls to keep Nathan contained. It was more for show than anything; Nathan couldn’t leave his family behind.
Monica and Claire went back-to-back, spears at the ready, as Hawkins and Peter spread out, trident and sword gleaming. It was meant to be tempting, and their opponents took the bait, charging them with blood-curdling battle cries.
Two of the horsemen were the archers Bennet had warned them about, and they shot arrow after arrow at Nathan’s flying form. He rolled in mid-air to avoid the deadly shafts, and flew across the length of the arena with the speed of a shooting star, drawing applause and cheers from the crowd. The remaining horseman charged right for Peter, easily outdistancing the running fighters.
The horseman’s spear gave him the advantage of reach, and his seat gave him the advantage of height. Peter, armed with only a sword and shield, would seem to have no chance. Or so everyone thought. Peter deliberately dropped his weapons as the horseman closed in on him, lunging into his attack, dodging hooves, spear, and booted feet to grab onto the horse’s bridle and girth. He had to find some way to take out the archers so Nathan could join the fight instead of just flying to stay alive, and this was the only way he could think to do it.
With a yell, Peter used all his borrowed strength to hurl horse, rider and all, halfway across the arena, slamming man and beast into the two horse archers. All of them ended up in a broken heap, screaming in pain. The crowd went insane, and Monica and Claire shot him wry expressions.
“Show off!” Monica called.
“Your turn!” Peter warned, grabbing for his sword and shield again as the charging fighters reached them.
The two women lashed out with their spears, pricking apart the charge and making their opponents wary. They moved like twins, light and dark, whirling like a dust devil through the larger men. Monica ducked and dodged like an acrobat, avoiding blows adroitly.
Claire was less cautious. She didn’t need to be when she could not truly be hurt, and put herself in harm’s way to strike hard and deep at the men that sought to harm her. She knew her value to her stable lay in the crowd’s love of bloodshed. She could feed their frenzy for violence without dying. Claire had taken her first toddling steps on the arena sands, had wooden practice weapons for her only toys, and fought with every one of her family over and over again. Fighting was in her blood, and she was spectacular at it.
Monica separated from her, lashing out to give her room, letting Claire have her head. On opposite sides, Hawkins and Peter were slashing and stabbing at men who thought to flank the women, keeping them from amassing a deadly charge. Above them, Nathan whipped out his furled net to trip those who were foolish enough to separate from the group. None of them could lay a blow on Hawkins, and those who faced Peter found their weapons and shields cloven from his immense strength.
Finally the last of the opposing gladiators had been driven back, and as they circled to regroup, Peter called out, “All right?”
Reassurances came from everyone in Bennet’s stable. Too soon spoken. The arena doors opened again, and over a dozen men poured out, scarred and dressed in motley armor, black headbands around their brows. Condemned men all, their only hope of life a good performance in the arena. They would fight to the death, their only alternative far worse.
Peter stole a glance at the Emperor, and shuddered to see the small, cruel smile on his lips. He had decided to make this a death match whether Bennet willed it or not.
Peter saw Claire set her stance, her eyes hard and set. She always knew she’d have to kill some day. She’d known it all her life; all of them had killed at one point or another…
A bright glint drew Peter’s attention to behind the mass of condemned men. There were leather-clad gladiators behind the criminals, professional fighters, all of them armed with javelins.
“Nathan!” Peter screamed, and held up his hand, dropping his sword. Two archers were one thing, but a half-dozen javelineers was another entirely. They had to give them more targets to choose from, and Nathan knew it. Nathan dove in fast, grabbing Peter and transferring his flight to him. Peter leapt for the sky, and the crowd screamed their appreciation. Despite having to change things up for the beginning of the fights, the crowd still loved to see the two brothers fly together, almost as much as Peter did.
Below them the condemned clashed weapons with Monica, Hawkins and Claire, roaring in mindless, desperate fury. Peter and Nathan ducked and dodged the rain of javelins, darting down to trip or bludgeon their enemies where they could. A few times they plucked the flung javelins out of the air, drawing more applause, and flung them back at their foes. Peter hated to kill professional fighters; they were all on the same side, but these men had been paid well to kill them. To hesitate in the arena was to die. Peter held back pity as one of his return javelins hit its owner in the chest, transfixing him to the arena wall.
The crowd was going berserk below them. Most of the condemned had managed to surround Claire, despite Hawkins and Monica’s best efforts, and she was already badly bloody from the swords, flails, and spears.
But each seemingly mortal wound gave her no more than a moment’s pause. She dropped her spear for a sword, easier to use in the close quarters of the crush around her, as the condemned tried to close in for the kill.
“Get the javelineers!” Claire screamed as she spun, bloody and beautiful in the midst of death. Monica and Hawkins roared as they turned to follow her lead, running to tear into the men trying to bring down Nathan and Peter. The javelineers, seeming to know their lives were coming to a fast end, hurled their deadly missiles faster and faster, forcing Nathan and Peter to concentrate only on defending themselves, rolling and darting to avoid being impaled.
They could only spare Claire a few glances, catching bits and pieces of her fight: forcing back some tall brute with fast, precise sword-work, whirling with her blade extended to give her some room, taking a thrust through the shoulder and using her opponent’s momentum to hurl him through another. The condemned fell one by one, as fast as the other gladiators were felling the javelineers.
Two condemned men remained on Claire; as she slashed open the one in front of her, the one behind her lunged, his spear going right through her back to exit out her belly. With a scream, she grabbed the spear and pulled it through herself, her knuckles tight on the blood-soaked shaft. Screaming, she turned and returned the spear to its owner, thrusting it squarely through his chest. The final condemned died, choking on his own blood, as the rest of Bennet’s stable, javelineers now dispatched, surrounded Claire, weapons at the ready.
The cheering of the crowd was deafening; they loved them, loved her, and Peter could see Claire’s smile of triumph through the red painting her face.
The Emperor stood, staring at Claire, and finally raised his hand in a symbol of approval.
The roar became nearly unbearable, and the gladiators were glad to see the door open to let them out. Slaves swarmed the sands behind them to haul away the dead as they retreated into the dim lower reaches of the arena.
“Fantastic! Better than I could have hoped for, even with the surprises,” Bennet said heartily, a rare smile on his face as they walked into the staging area. “Good job Claire, you’re made us quite a bit of money today. It won’t be long before you’ve bought yourself free at this rate.”
Claire ducked her head, pleased as her family gathered around her, hands clapping her shoulder, her mother embracing her in pride.
“All right, second group, let’s move!” Bennet barked to the others, and the rest of the stable, led by Meredith, disappeared up the stairs to win their own gold and glory.
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It was much later that evening, after darkness had fallen. After they’d had time to cleanse the blood and sweat and dust from their bodies, to recount every move and cheer, to heap praise upon each other, and laugh at the fact that they were still alive. It was like that, cheerful and happy, that Bennet found them, looking as if he’d seen an evil spirit. He held a scroll in one hand, red and purple ribbons dangling from it, and by the way they shook, Bennet’s hands were trembling.
Bennet’s hands never trembled.
“I have news,” he announced, his voice hollow. Everyone looked up, going silent. In the torchlight, Bennet’s face looked wan and wasted. “Emperor Sylar has asked Claire to join his personal service.”
Everyone paled, involuntary protests coming out of every throat. Those in the Emperor’s personal service ended up feeding his appetite for power, sooner or later. Or else they lost their wills, becoming his willing slaves, like the Children of Proserpina.
“No,” Meredith whispered, eyes haunted. “No…”
“He can’t-,” Nathan started.
“He’ll kill her,” Knox said flatly, saying what no one else wanted to.
Claire had gone completely white. Her first fight had been meant to establish her reputation, not to cause her own death.
“Can we do anything?” Peter asked desperately.
Bennet held up the scroll, holding Peter’s gaze squarely. “Maybe. The high priest of Jupiter has asked for you and Nathan to come to his home tonight.”
Bennet hadn’t wanted his stable to get too deep into politics and power plays, to use their fame to garner themselves trinkets or ephemeral pleasures. That would lead to debts, throwing matches, or more serious complications if hearts, pride, or children got involved. But for slaves and freedmen, using a noble’s fascination could be their only real power. The high priest of Jupiter held great power, or at least great influence, over the Emperor, for even he had cause to fear the gods. If the priest were indulged, Nathan and Peter could ask him to intercede to save Claire.
The brothers exchanged a look, coming to an immediate agreement. They could no more let Claire go to the Emperor than they could lay down their own lives.
“We’ll do it.”
The others heaved a sigh of guarded relief.
“And if it doesn’t work?” Daphne asked, ever practical.
“You have all served me with loyalty and honor,” Bennet said firmly, looking straight at Hawkins. The implications were clear. If Nathan and Peter couldn’t convince the priest, Bennet had just given them all tacit permission to run.
That would have to be a last resort. Running brought its own problems: lack of food, clothing, or shelter for one. Being constantly on the alert for soldiers, with no real place to live, and having no trade but fighting to sell for their bread. Even the older gladiators amongst them could barely recall their old trades. True freedom would be bittersweet misery. They would all be together, but hungry, alone, and hunted.
The arena was where they belonged. Rome was their home; they would do everything they could to stay here and stay free.
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It was a bare hour later by the time Bennet had delivered Nathan and Peter to the high priest’s villa. The painted walls, beautiful with colorful frescos, managed to look more intimidating than the arena walls. Peter was afraid to touch anything, lest he dirty it, despite the cleansing and fresh clothes Bennet had forced on them. It felt so strange to be out of armor, or the loose, shabby tunics that they always wore. So strange to be in what had to be the most expensive quarter of the city. Strange to be in the place where the air was cool and smelled of flowers and perfumes instead of dust, oil, sweat, and blood.
Nathan put his hand on Peter’s arm in reassurance as they waited for the door to open. Peter took a steadying breath and smiled back at his brother, determination in the set of his jaw. They had to be pleasant, kind, to acquiesce to what the priest wanted. Women and men of wealth often paid a great deal for the company of famous gladiators, and usually that company was amorous. Nathan and Peter knew full well what they were getting themselves into. Romans as a whole were decadent, and Bennet’s stable was a direct seller of one of the most decadent forms of entertainment in the city. What they had been asked to do tonight was no less morally depraved than what they did on a daily basis on the sands. And it would spare Claire a terrible fate. It was worth it.
The doors finally opened, and Bennet reluctantly let Nathan and Peter go, his pale eyes like stone as they disappeared into the depths of the building. Inside the villa was by far the finest building the brothers had ever seen. They had been in nobles’ homes before, but those abodes had been to this home as the arena slave quarters were to a typical villa.
Nathan and Peter didn’t recognize many of the exotic treasures that decorated the entry hall, only that they were of the finest workmanship, and probably imported from some distant land at great expense. Even the household slaves and servants wore costly silk, an unbelievably expensive luxury even for the astronomically wealthy.
They were bid to sit in the atria, the garden-like room at the middle of the villa, and lounged ill at ease on silk cushions amongst exotic blossoms. They sipped rare iced drinks and attempted not to offend the so-superior servants with any manners they had not acquired in their profession. They were on their own here; Bennet had not been granted entry, and had to wait for them outside like a common messenger slave.
Nathan and Peter dared not speak unless spoken to, afraid the tiniest wrong word or gesture would somehow imperil Claire. This was not the time for arena brashness. They had to have caution in the extreme.
It was more long moments before the high priest arrived in a flurry of slaves, his steps rustling embroidered silk robes and softly jangling the expensive chains around his neck. The priest was tall, dark of hair and eye, and was starting to let his soft and luxurious life overcome his health. But he was not yet so grossly fat as some prosperous priests, and was handsome enough to look upon. What he had asked for would be no great hardship.
“Lord high priest,” Nathan and Peter said in unison, dropping to their knees in respect for his station. He didn’t speak, not for long minutes, only crossed to them and laid a hand on each of their heads, as if in blessing.
Peter tried to remain still as Nathan, but it was hard. He wondered what the priest would want of them, why he had picked them, and why he was willing to pit his influence against the Emperor to try to help a single, young, gladiatrice…
“The young gladiatrice… is your daughter, yes Nathan?” the priest said suddenly, almost as if he had been following Peter’s thoughts.
“My daughter Claire,” Nathan confirmed, still keeping his head bowed. “She’s the newest member of our stable.”
“I see you keep things a family affair,” the priest said, chuckling slightly.
A shard of ice lanced across Peter’s gut at that statement. How did he know? Swallowing, Peter mentally shook his head. The priest couldn’t know. Nobody knew, Meredith didn’t know, the rest of the stable didn’t know, gods, Bennet didn’t even know, and he knew everything about them.
“She’s made me and her mother very proud,” Nathan was saying.
The priest lifted his hands from their heads. Given that tacit permission, both Nathan and Peter looked up. The priest’s eyes were knowing and dark, and there was a faint smile on his lips.
“And you cannot be a proper family if she’s whisked away to the Emperor’s service. I care a great deal for family. It is the most sacred bond, and one that should not be lightly thrust away at even the Emperor’s whim.”
Neither of them spoke, and the priest took a step back, gesturing at them to rise.
“Please, sit. I have to speak with you.”
Nervously, they perched on the cushions, trying to look interested, rather than uneasy.
“Emperor Sylar is vastly powerful, but he is only one man, and eventually all men must die. Someday he will be gone, and the Empire will be a very different place. But… I know the Emperor’s mind, and he believes with young Claire’s power that he will be able to live beyond the span of mortal men. Perhaps even forever.”
“He can’t-,” Nathan started, and then quieted himself abruptly.
“He could, but I don’t believe the gods would condone it. The Emperor is not balanced, and living forever might push him over the edge. All auguries done indicate something very unfortunate will happen should he gain Claire’s power. I must tell the Emperor this in the morning. He will not like hearing it, and things could go quite poorly for me. I need to know if following the will of the gods is worth it,” the priest said archly.
Now comes the price, Peter thought cynically. The reason they had been brought here was clear now. Not just to indulge the priest’s whims, but to prove to him that he was justified in following what should have been his true calling. Peter and Nathan had to show what they offered was more than enough to compensate for the Emperor’s anger.
As they began to stand, intending on getting right down to business, the priest waved them down again, standing up himself and walking to stand right in front of them, staring down at them like a statue. The expression on his face, a superior, vaguely predatory smile, had Peter’s gut twisting in unease. Something was very wrong here…
“I know what you are. Leaders of your stable. Best friends. Brothers,” the priest paused dramatically. “Lovers.”
Peter felt all the blood drain from his face. How had he known? How?
“I too am gods-touched. This is why the Emperor listens to me. Not only can I interpret the will of the gods, I can interpret the wills of men.”
The priest leaned forward, confident and arrogant, put his mouth between Nathan and Peter, and spoke in a bare whisper for their ears alone.
“I know what you’re thinking. When you fly together in the arena, I can hear your thoughts as if they were spoken aloud. I know what love you hold for each other, like a man for his wife.”
Fear was replaced by profound shame, and then by fear again in dizzying succession. The Romans might be decadent and free with their loves, but a few taboos they clung to with great strength. What Nathan and Peter had done, still did, to love one’s brother like one would a woman, was punishable by death.
Despite the fact they knew the consequences very well, they had loved each other for years, since Meredith. Since Claire. Since Nathan had vowed that he would father no more children to be brought up as slaves, since Peter had heard his brother desperately trying to purge his desires in the dark of night. Since Peter had climbed into his beloved brother’s bed, desperate to help, wanting to feel him relaxed and happy, loving him too much to feel shame for desiring for his brother's hard body, beautiful and strong…
“He is beautiful Peter, isn’t he?” the priest said.
Peter’s eyes widened with shock and his mouth dropped open.
“And you wanted to punish yourself for desiring your sibling, but couldn’t stop yourself, could you? You didn’t want to,” the priest continued relentlessly, staring now at Nathan. Muscles jerking, Nathan seemed to shake his head against his will.
The priest stepped backward to settle back upon his own bench, reclining against the cushions and taking up a goblet of wine without a sign of distress.
“I did desire your company this night, but not for the reasons you imagine. I did not want your amorous company for myself. A single sexual romp would not give me sufficient reason to put myself in peril to save a slave,” the priest said, sipping his drink.
Ice stabbed at Peter’s gut again, and he tried to protest, only to find himself mute and helpless with shock.
“Pleasure alone is not enough incentive to take this risk. Secrets, on the other hand, are my stock-in-trade. Secrets of the gods, secrets of men, secrets that can crush a life, or spare it. Secrets that can raise a god-emperor to the throne, or see him tumbled down off it. Your secret is far more potent than most. But I wish more than just seeing your memories.”
No… no… Peter begged mentally. Please don’t…
“I wish to see your affection. Your love. Here, now, tonight.”
Nathan and Peter froze, panic holding them entirely helpless. They’d said they’d do anything to save Claire-.
“You’d do anything to save Claire,” the priest said, and the thought seemed to echo in their minds, firming Peter’s purpose.
But all these people, the servants and slaves…
“They won’t see you. Only I will see you.”
Still they hesitated. This had always been the most private of things between them. Displaying something so intimate, so forbidden… Peter didn’t think he was even able to kiss Nathan like this.
The priest heaved a great sigh of impatience and stared at them both with an intensity that could have cut through solid stone.
“You desire him, your brother. You must do this, even though it shames you. Claire’s life hangs in the balance, so know that she will be dead and bleeding before sunset tomorrow if you stop. You must do this, you must,” he commanded.
The priest’s thoughts went straight through Peter’s resistance, spearing into him deeper than any wound, and he knew his eyes were thick with tears as Nathan tenderly lifted his jaw to kiss him.
This was familiar, welcome, and Peter tried to lose himself in the feel of Nathan’s lips on his, strong and commanding. His breathing began to grow ragged as Nathan put one heavy arm around his back, pulling him flush, letting him feel Nathan’s urgent arousal. Moaning, Peter slid his mouth down Nathan’s neck, ghosting his hands up Nathan’s thighs to-.
A sound intruded, a satisfied sigh that was not in Nathan’s timbre. Peter’s hands kept up their unhurried caresses as he pulled himself away from Nathan’s mouth to look. The priest was lying on his side amongst the pile of cushions, sipping his wine and looking as if he were enjoying the show. An arrogant smile was on his lips and Peter felt himself flushing with shame. A dozen slaves were attending to the priest’s needs, and though they did not seem to see them, their presence was impossible to forget.
Even so, even with shame darkening his cheeks, Peter felt his body respond. It was as if every shameful thought, every foreign glance was heightening his desire. Heat radiating from his face, a wanton moan coming from his throat, Peter desperately pushed aside Nathan’s tunic, seeking his growing hardness.
Nathan’s hand slid through Peter’s hair, guiding him firmly over his shaft, red and radiating a fever heat. Again Peter shot a glance over to the priest, and Nathan pulled him closer.
“It’s just us Peter. It’s ok. No one’s here,” he said firmly. Peter’s gut clenched when he realized Nathan had been blinded, unable to see how he was displaying himself before everyone. He was only ever this commanding with his younger brother in the most private of moments. This was the intimacy the priest had demanded to see.
Bowing his head, fear and shame making his body and senses sing as if he were fighting a dozen men in the arena, Peter gratefully took Nathan’s shaft into his mouth. The taste of him, the slick slide down Peter’s throat, the high heat and powerful little twitches, Nathan’s quiet noises of pleasure, all of that together let Peter put the priest out of his mind. Despite the eyes burning into his back, he concentrated on only one thing, Nathan.
If their love, twisted and wrong, strong and pure as it was, would win Claire’s life, then Peter would do this. He would accept this shame; he would give himself away in front of one of the most powerful men in Rome.
Groaning around Nathan’s hardness, Peter swallowed just to hear Nathan moan, and then to hear his breath hitch as Peter’s hands kneaded into the hard muscles of his thighs. Over the long thin scar from a flung spear, the deeper puncture from a dagger, and the five small burn scars in the shape of a woman’s grasping fingers. Hidden from casual view, the few scars were potent reminders of past failures. Peter hooked his fingers into the burn scars, and Nathan inhaled sharply as Peter punctuated that move with a flutter of his tongue.
Growling, Nathan pulled away and tackled Peter almost playfully on the cushioned divan, pushing a thigh in between Peter’s legs and rocking it in an unbearably teasing friction. Strong hands, calloused from years of flinging his weighted net, divested Peter of his new clothes until he was as naked as a babe. Peter could only cling to Nathan as he bent his head to torment one part of his body, then another, kissing down the line of his throat, licking across the planes of his chest, suckling briefly at a nipple until Peter was mewling and writhing, head lolling off the divan.
Against his will, his eyes met the priest’s, who was smirking and nodding, as if appreciating some clever move in the arena. Peter wanted to close his eyes, but Nathan pulled him up in the next moment to kiss him, and Peter didn’t want to do anything less than give him his full attention. He wrapped one leg around Nathan’s waist to anchor himself as Nathan’s hands started where his mouth had left off, in caressing and awakening every inch of Peter’s body.
Rarely had they ever had the luxury of time for such foreplay. Like much of life in the arena, even love had to be snatched in brief, intense moments. Though feeling like this was almost foreign, it was also welcome. Peter gave himself up to it, bending and moving like Nathan wanted him to, letting himself be positioned so Nathan could take whatever he wanted.
Hazy with pleasure, it took Peter long moments to realize there was a faint background murmur of voices. Eyes fluttering open, Peter stared around him, realizing the formerly unseeing slaves were now staring at him, chattering amongst themselves and pointing at him and Nathan. The priest was smiling more broadly now, staring at them with triumphant eyes.
“Nathan-,” Peter whispered, breath hitching as Nathan’s hand slid up his thigh. He wanted to voice a warning, to make Nathan see what he did.
“I wouldn’t do that,” the priest said casually. Peter wanted to turn and look at him, but Nathan captured his lips again, and he could only listen. Listen to a voice Nathan couldn’t seem to hear. “You can handle this reality Peter, this desire of mine. You can stand it, and still remain… potent.”
Peter flushed under more than Nathan’s skilled tongue as he felt himself throb at the priest’s words. Being watched and silently condemned for what he was doing had driven him to a pitch of excitement he wasn’t sure he could stand much longer.
“But Nathan does better when he plays to an audience; he always has. I’ve seen him at practice matches, and it doesn’t nearly match his skills in the arena. Now all he sees is an appreciative audience, a loving audience, one that won’t condemn him for what he’s doing to you.”
The priest stood and walked up right next to them, holding out a jar to Nathan. He took it, unable to see anything but what the priest had placed in his mind, and slicked his fingers with the scented oil inside. Peter wanted to voice a protest, but couldn’t. Not because of any mental chicanery on the priest’s part, but only because he didn’t want Nathan to stop.
Never had he felt so alive, so loved as he had right now, and even with shame churning a storm in his gut, he couldn’t find the will to wrench Nathan back to a cruel reality. Instead Peter only moaned, long and low when Nathan’s fingers breached his body, slicking him up inside. The sound echoed around the room, making the slaves gasp and the priest smile again.
Body clamoring for more, Peter rolled in the pile of silk cushions and pushed himself back like a she-wolf whore. Nathan slid his slick hand into him again and again, making Peter writhe and toss his head back before finally collapsing on his arms, presenting himself desperately.
“Nathan, please,” Peter almost sobbed. He’d been toyed with for too long, caressed and kissed and aroused to the point where he’d do anything for release, despite, or because of, all the avidly watching eyes.
“Surrender, Peter?” Nathan whispered in his ear. Peter swallowed hard, eyes wet when he belatedly realized the stamp of Nathan’s foreplay. The light strikes, the teasing pushes, submission threats… all exactly what Nathan did in the arena. He’d taunt and push, trip and humiliate his opponent until they begged for mercy. Just as Peter was now.
“Yes, yes, please,” Peter gasped. “Anything!”
“Ah… beautiful,” the priest whispered. Peter kept his eyes shut tight, unwilling to see the priest leering at him.
“Beautiful Peter,” Nathan crooned. Peter’s sweaty fists crumpled the expensive silk as Nathan pushed into him, a welcome pain, a desired invader, their secret shame that was now something they craved together. Thin, high-pitched moans were muffled in the cushions as Nathan thrust into him, deep and slow, so much more deliberate and careful than anything they’d been able to do before. This was not a stolen moment behind a barred door, or a frantic bracing against a rough wooden wall, sounds desperately muffled.
This was a languid, loving act, what Peter had always wanted from Nathan.
“No woman ever had more love on her face than you do right now,” the priest murmured. Peter’s eyes flew open as Nathan suddenly pulled him up, hips moving at a new angle as he kept a thick arm around Peter’s chest, inadvertently exposing him to the priest’s delighted gaze. Peter’s own member was desperately hard and throbbing, but he only clung to Nathan’s arm and tried to move with him, take him deeper, harder, needing the pleasure to overcome his memory of being taken apart by this stranger…
“I… Nathan, I-,” Peter gasped, turning his face back toward his brother, still completely unselfconscious of what was happening to them.
“Tell me what you want,” Nathan commanded, his other hand coming up to pull Peter’s head back, making him expose his throat. Vulnerable from all angles, the appreciative audience of slaves gasped and some broke into applause as one of Nathan’s thrusts drove him to arch his back, making his muscles glisten with sweat.
“I want-. I need you-,” Peter moaned, eyes rolling back in his head. Jolts of pleasure were sparking through him in a steady, rising storm, and he couldn’t hold back much longer.
“Say it!”
The barked command was combined with a calloused hand suddenly sliding along his most intimate flesh, stroking in firm, steady pressure, and Peter began to fly apart.
“I love you!” Peter’s cry was sealed with an urgent kiss, an expression of loving devotion he would have never shown another living soul. Screams muffled in Nathan’s lips, Peter’s body trembled through its release, Nathan breathing harshly as he let go deep inside his brother, a moan rumbling deep in his chest.
Around them, the crowd went wild.
Nathan pulled back with a pleased expression, almost arrogant and smug, the way he won the arena crowds. Pushing Peter’s hair back into place with his hand, he slowly pulled away, unseeingly accepting damp cloths to cleanse them both.
“I would venture to say I have seen no love as strong as yours,” the priest murmured, as Peter quickly pulled on his clothes, and tried to smile at Nathan as if nothing was wrong. As if Nathan hadn’t just performed what should have been secret in front of a crowd, as if they hadn’t sold the last private part of their souls to save Claire.
“Such love should not be torn by grief, not even for the wishes of a god-Emperor,” the priest proclaimed, his voice ringing as if making a pronouncement from the gods.
Nathan blinked, seeming to come to himself as the slaves handed them fresh goblets of wine. The priest waved at them to sit again, and smiled indulgently.
“I am quite satisfied. The gods have shown me the correct path, that the Emperor must live out his days as a mortal man. He will not desire her again, I swear it to you on Jupiter’s Stone.”
Nathan and Peter bowed their heads again in respect as the priest dismissed them. Walking carefully, Peter followed Nathan out, unwilling to show his face until he’d regained equilibrium. Bennet was still waiting for them outside the villa, his expression tight and set.
“Well?” he asked.
“He’ll save her,” Nathan said positively. “He swore it.”
Bennet heaved a sigh of relief and wiped a hand across his brow. “What did he want from you?”
Nathan’s brow furrowed for a moment, as if trying to remember something. Peter opened his mouth, and then shut it again.
“He wanted to talk with us about Claire, how she grew up. He said he had no family, and wanted to know what it was like to have that kind of love.”
Bennet raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s all he wanted? To talk?”
“And the usual,” Nathan added, making a rude gesture. “The most powerful men have the strangest fantasies.”
Peter grit his teeth against a scream of rage as Bennet chuckled. Nathan only remembered what he could live with, but the priest had made him forget the one and perhaps only time him and Peter had been able to love each other as they had always wanted to. Not with the crowd watching of course, but as careful and loving partners.
“But it was worth it?” Bennet asked carefully.
Peter swallowed, and concentrated for a moment on the memory of Claire’s bright smile and cheerful laughter. On Nathan’s loving caresses and powerful affection.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Peter put his arm around Nathan’s shoulders as they walked through the streets of Rome, and tried to remember and forget at the same time.
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On to the sequel: The Glory of Rome
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Nathan/Peter, ensemble (like a dozen more peeps)
Rating: NC-17 for descriptions of gore and sex
Wordcount: 7,938
Spoilers: There are characters from S3, and one small plot point from S3 (Peter’s new version of his power), other than that, no specific spoilers.
Warnings: Gore, slash, consensual incest, situational racism, situational classism, slavery, blackmail, polytheism, and rampant abuse of the historical record.
Disclaimer: Heroes belongs to Tim Kring, NBC et al. I don’t own “Rome” or “Gladiator” either.
A/N: This was written for brighteyed_jill’s personal kink meme. But it was a little too long to fit into the comment-style of the thread, so here it be! Inspired partly by the series “Rome” for historical underpinnings, partly by the movie “Gladiator” for spectacle, and partly by my own fevered imagination of what I think is cool. You might want to brush up on your Roman pantheon before diving into this story. Or not. ;-) Thanks to redandglenda for betaing.
Summary: An AU where Nathan, Peter, and many other “gods-touched” are part of fighting stable of gladiators in ancient Rome. When a horrible fate is to befall one of their own, the two brothers must use their hard-earned fame to gain the influence they need to spare one of their brothers-in-arms…
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The roar of the cheering crowd above was muffled by the heavy stone walls and thick wooden ceiling. The air in the staging area was thick with the stench of dust, sand, oil, sweat, and blood, a choking miasma for those that did not live in it daily. Footsteps drew nearer to the holding pen, and the waiting gladiators tensed as the door rattled, opening.
“It’s time.” The stable owner himself, Bennet, had come to take them out, a lucky sign. They could use all the luck they could get, especially with a new gladiatrice on the team today.
“Peter, make your choice. Betting is heavy today,” Bennet said tersely, eyes cast upward as he gauged the mood of the crowd from their sound alone.
Peter stood to face his fellow gladiators. He did not look like much of a fighter, few of them did, despite their fitness. Most of them were shorter, slighter, prettier, younger, or older than most other fighters. Their worth in the arena crowd did not come from their sword arm as much as their gods-touched powers. If they all hadn’t been born slaves or freedmen, a bare step above slaves, they might have been powerful noblemen, skilled soldiers, or even priests. But slaves and former slaves of Rome, touched by the gods or not, could only earn their worth through labor, rarely aspiring to a higher station. In the case of gladiators, their worth came only through the bloody rites of battle on the arena sands.
For gods-touched gladiators, to use their powers outside the arena floor or training grounds was worth beating, flogging, or even death. But on the arena floor, they provided the greatest spectacle in the city. Through that, they earned their comfort and their protection.
Slaves that did well, that earned back the price of their purchase and training, which pleased their masters, could be freed. Bennet himself was a former gladiator, and though stern, had always treated his stable with fairness and his own kind of generosity. He was also a very practical man, who had warned his freed slaves about the fate that awaited them outside the arena walls.
Gods-touched gladiators, either slaves or freedmen, could earn a comfortable and prosperous life in the arena, and even have a goodly amount of influence amongst the people. Those that chose to go their own route no longer had the protection of their stable. With no knowledge of a trade other than fighting, many had died lonely and wretched deaths in the slums, or out in the wild fringes of the provinces, killed by the fearful and the godless.
Even though almost half the stable had earned their freedom, they stayed with Bennet, most of them knowing no other life than the roar of the crowd. Peter had been captured with his brother at the tender age of six; he only knew how to fight. And as much as Bennet tried to protect his stable, wanting to earn their loyalty honestly, there were certain conventions even he could not flaunt. Holding his stable back from the most dangerous fights was one of them. The crowd cheered loudest for blood, and while Bennet tried to keep his stable out of death matches, there were always lucrative demands for as bloody a battle as could be had.
And today the Emperor was attending, which meant the betting would be particularly intense, for no one knew who might survive. The Emperor had first pick of the losing gods-touched, and if he desired their power, he would wrest it from the loser in his own way. Emperor Sylar was double, triply blessed by all the gods in his abundance of powers. He was as Jupiter, the chief of the gods, and would remove the blessings, and the lives, from those gods-touched that proved themselves unworthy of their blessings.
The stable could not afford to be less than spectacular today, not with one of their own needing to prove herself.
Peter walked amongst his fellow fighters, his family, trying to make his choice for today, a choice to help their newest fighter. Peter’s own gift was to use the blessing of another. There was always heavy betting on what power he would first choose to display; it was part of the draw of Bennet’s stable.
By preference and nature, Peter would have liked to choose his brother Nathan’s power of flight above all others. But it was an obvious choice, and not one he could repeat too often in an opening fight, lest the crowd become bored.
He turned to the rest of his family. Three of them had been taken from Africa only a handful of years ago, and still were marked as slaves. Knox, who gained strength from fear, had the most kills in the stable. Monica, who could fight in any style, with any weapon, had a natural flair for the dramatic that made her a crowd favorite. Hawkins' ability to walk through walls and let weapons pass through him as if he were smoke would seem, at first glance, to be a man no prison could hold. But he had the honor of a soldier, and once given his word not to escape, would not. Besides, his fame had netted him the favor of an expensive, flaxen-haired courtesan, and a child had resulted. Hawkins would not leave Rome while his son lived.
The other four gladiators were from Gaul, in the north, pale-haired and fair-skinned. Daphne, their trickster, who had the speed of Zepherus, and feisty Elle, touched by Jupiter’s power of lightning, were both still marked with slave collars. Meredith and her brother Flint, the other two freedmen in the stable aside from Nathan and Peter, flung Vulcan’s flames in red and blue.
It was their shared bond of having a brother or sister at their side that had first led Vulcan’s children to become friends with Nathan and Peter, back when Bennet had first bought them to form his stable. For Meredith and Nathan, it had briefly become more than friendship. Slaves could not marry, and when Bennet had found out, some fifteen years ago, that Meredith had been carrying Nathan’s child, they’d feared for their lives.
As newly-purchased slaves, Bennet could have had them killed, or their child taken. But instead he’d given them their daughter’s life in exchange for their loyalty. That was why they’d kept themselves in fighting form well past the age some gladiators would have given up; they had something to fight for. If their daughter Claire could have a good first few fights, if the odds and gods were with her, then Bennet would free her too. As freedmen, they could negotiate more of their own favor and influence, eventually amassing enough wealth to retire.
The whole stable viewed Nathan and Meredith as parents, and Claire was everyone’s daughter. They all had reasons to stay loyal to Bennet, but they would also all do their best to see their ‘first family’ free. Especially Peter. To be able to live out his days in comfort with his brother and his family would be a gift from the gods.
Peter wanted something unexpected for Claire’s first fight, something to protect his fellow fighters, but nothing that would overshadow her natural talents, well-earned from growing up in the arena. He finally stopped in front of Knox and put his hand on the African’s shoulder. Peter wanted strength to counter any threat to his brother’s child.
Knox nodded solemnly and cracked his neck, taking in a deep breath like he was breathing in the fear around him. Peter echoed him, feeling fear surging into him from nearly every fighter in the arena, including his family. Especially his family. And with the fear came strength like Hercules.
“Claire, Peter, Nathan, Monica, Hawkins, first group. Elle, Daphne, Flint, Meredith, Knox, second group,” Bennet said, waving his hand to separate them. Wisely, he’d moved those with flashier powers out of Claire’s group so hopefully she could stand out. “Now, weapons!” Bennet barked.
Some stable owners never came near their stock while it was armed for fear of retribution; a slave would die for killing his owner, but the owner would remain just as dead, and a slave had nothing to lose. But Bennet had given his stable no reason for violence except in front of the crowds, and reaped the rewards of loyalty given.
The women took spears, decorative bronzework gleaming even in the dim light, while the men took swords, shields, maces, and tridents as their fighting styles dictated. Nathan, their eagle, took a weighted net to trip and entangle their foes.
Bennet outfitted his stable in the best to highlight their beauty. They were all skilled enough fighters to have avoided the marring scars common to others in their profession, which made them yet again more popular. Some had traded on that beauty and fame to gain privilege and favor from nobles and others who took a shine to them. But as Hawkins had proved, sometimes that could backfire.
None of the stable was interested in fame for fame’s sake, and favor only lasted as long as having a gladiator was fashionable. It had to be handled carefully while it lasted. Clever wins on the sands were the only thing that truly mattered; those well-worked bouts with skillful wagering would eventually buy their freedom and retirement from this dangerous life.
Claire smiled tremulously at her father and uncle as they gathered at the doors to the arena. Monica and Hawkins echoed her smile, clapping her on the shoulder in solidarity. Bennet caught their attention one last time as they milled before the doors, the sounds of the crowd and the muffled shouting of the announcer drowning out everything else.
Bennet made a faint slashing gesture and held up a single finger, waving it at all of them. The fight was to first blood. The first group to bloody every member of the opposing group, whoever they might be, would win. More surreptitiously, Bennet drew back his elbow, like he was drawing a bow. Arrows. The opposing group had arrows. Nathan squared his shoulders and firmed his jaw, mentally preparing himself for the assault. Bennet wasn’t supposed to warn them about that in advance, but no owner would let his property go out blind.
Outside, the cheering rose to a crescendo, and the doors were flung open. Running into the brilliant hot sunshine, blinking to let their eyes adjust, the gladiators quickly oriented on the Emperor and bowed to him. He was very close to the action, closer than some might have thought wise. But the Emperor had more guards upon his safety than just his soldiers and his own array of powers.
The dark-haired twins at his side, brother and sister, were his protectors. The common folk called them the Spanish twins, for the simple reason as that was where they were from. The gladiators called them by a different name: Children of Proserpina, the Queen of the Dead. With a thought, they could poison those around them, or cure them of it, leaving their victims on the edge of death. Useful for stopping unruly gladiators, or anyone else who opposed the Emperor. As gods-touched slaves, Peter would have thought they might have made a bid for their own freedom long before now. But no, they were purely Emperor Sylar’s creatures. Those in the Emperor’s personal service ended up dead or devoted. There was no middle ground.
On the other side of the arena a group of tall and brawny fighters bowed in unison towards the Emperor. Three of them were on horseback, and the other seven were much more heavily armed and armored than anyone in Bennet’s group. Apparently this fight was meant to be particularly vicious. Two-to-one odds with superior armaments was tough even for the gods-touched.
The trumpets blared, and the two groups sprang into battle, the crowd cheering them on. Nathan took to the sky, his heavy, furled net ready to trip the first one rash enough to try to charge them. As always, there was a thin, strong net strung across the top of the inner arena walls to keep Nathan contained. It was more for show than anything; Nathan couldn’t leave his family behind.
Monica and Claire went back-to-back, spears at the ready, as Hawkins and Peter spread out, trident and sword gleaming. It was meant to be tempting, and their opponents took the bait, charging them with blood-curdling battle cries.
Two of the horsemen were the archers Bennet had warned them about, and they shot arrow after arrow at Nathan’s flying form. He rolled in mid-air to avoid the deadly shafts, and flew across the length of the arena with the speed of a shooting star, drawing applause and cheers from the crowd. The remaining horseman charged right for Peter, easily outdistancing the running fighters.
The horseman’s spear gave him the advantage of reach, and his seat gave him the advantage of height. Peter, armed with only a sword and shield, would seem to have no chance. Or so everyone thought. Peter deliberately dropped his weapons as the horseman closed in on him, lunging into his attack, dodging hooves, spear, and booted feet to grab onto the horse’s bridle and girth. He had to find some way to take out the archers so Nathan could join the fight instead of just flying to stay alive, and this was the only way he could think to do it.
With a yell, Peter used all his borrowed strength to hurl horse, rider and all, halfway across the arena, slamming man and beast into the two horse archers. All of them ended up in a broken heap, screaming in pain. The crowd went insane, and Monica and Claire shot him wry expressions.
“Show off!” Monica called.
“Your turn!” Peter warned, grabbing for his sword and shield again as the charging fighters reached them.
The two women lashed out with their spears, pricking apart the charge and making their opponents wary. They moved like twins, light and dark, whirling like a dust devil through the larger men. Monica ducked and dodged like an acrobat, avoiding blows adroitly.
Claire was less cautious. She didn’t need to be when she could not truly be hurt, and put herself in harm’s way to strike hard and deep at the men that sought to harm her. She knew her value to her stable lay in the crowd’s love of bloodshed. She could feed their frenzy for violence without dying. Claire had taken her first toddling steps on the arena sands, had wooden practice weapons for her only toys, and fought with every one of her family over and over again. Fighting was in her blood, and she was spectacular at it.
Monica separated from her, lashing out to give her room, letting Claire have her head. On opposite sides, Hawkins and Peter were slashing and stabbing at men who thought to flank the women, keeping them from amassing a deadly charge. Above them, Nathan whipped out his furled net to trip those who were foolish enough to separate from the group. None of them could lay a blow on Hawkins, and those who faced Peter found their weapons and shields cloven from his immense strength.
Finally the last of the opposing gladiators had been driven back, and as they circled to regroup, Peter called out, “All right?”
Reassurances came from everyone in Bennet’s stable. Too soon spoken. The arena doors opened again, and over a dozen men poured out, scarred and dressed in motley armor, black headbands around their brows. Condemned men all, their only hope of life a good performance in the arena. They would fight to the death, their only alternative far worse.
Peter stole a glance at the Emperor, and shuddered to see the small, cruel smile on his lips. He had decided to make this a death match whether Bennet willed it or not.
Peter saw Claire set her stance, her eyes hard and set. She always knew she’d have to kill some day. She’d known it all her life; all of them had killed at one point or another…
A bright glint drew Peter’s attention to behind the mass of condemned men. There were leather-clad gladiators behind the criminals, professional fighters, all of them armed with javelins.
“Nathan!” Peter screamed, and held up his hand, dropping his sword. Two archers were one thing, but a half-dozen javelineers was another entirely. They had to give them more targets to choose from, and Nathan knew it. Nathan dove in fast, grabbing Peter and transferring his flight to him. Peter leapt for the sky, and the crowd screamed their appreciation. Despite having to change things up for the beginning of the fights, the crowd still loved to see the two brothers fly together, almost as much as Peter did.
Below them the condemned clashed weapons with Monica, Hawkins and Claire, roaring in mindless, desperate fury. Peter and Nathan ducked and dodged the rain of javelins, darting down to trip or bludgeon their enemies where they could. A few times they plucked the flung javelins out of the air, drawing more applause, and flung them back at their foes. Peter hated to kill professional fighters; they were all on the same side, but these men had been paid well to kill them. To hesitate in the arena was to die. Peter held back pity as one of his return javelins hit its owner in the chest, transfixing him to the arena wall.
The crowd was going berserk below them. Most of the condemned had managed to surround Claire, despite Hawkins and Monica’s best efforts, and she was already badly bloody from the swords, flails, and spears.
But each seemingly mortal wound gave her no more than a moment’s pause. She dropped her spear for a sword, easier to use in the close quarters of the crush around her, as the condemned tried to close in for the kill.
“Get the javelineers!” Claire screamed as she spun, bloody and beautiful in the midst of death. Monica and Hawkins roared as they turned to follow her lead, running to tear into the men trying to bring down Nathan and Peter. The javelineers, seeming to know their lives were coming to a fast end, hurled their deadly missiles faster and faster, forcing Nathan and Peter to concentrate only on defending themselves, rolling and darting to avoid being impaled.
They could only spare Claire a few glances, catching bits and pieces of her fight: forcing back some tall brute with fast, precise sword-work, whirling with her blade extended to give her some room, taking a thrust through the shoulder and using her opponent’s momentum to hurl him through another. The condemned fell one by one, as fast as the other gladiators were felling the javelineers.
Two condemned men remained on Claire; as she slashed open the one in front of her, the one behind her lunged, his spear going right through her back to exit out her belly. With a scream, she grabbed the spear and pulled it through herself, her knuckles tight on the blood-soaked shaft. Screaming, she turned and returned the spear to its owner, thrusting it squarely through his chest. The final condemned died, choking on his own blood, as the rest of Bennet’s stable, javelineers now dispatched, surrounded Claire, weapons at the ready.
The cheering of the crowd was deafening; they loved them, loved her, and Peter could see Claire’s smile of triumph through the red painting her face.
The Emperor stood, staring at Claire, and finally raised his hand in a symbol of approval.
The roar became nearly unbearable, and the gladiators were glad to see the door open to let them out. Slaves swarmed the sands behind them to haul away the dead as they retreated into the dim lower reaches of the arena.
“Fantastic! Better than I could have hoped for, even with the surprises,” Bennet said heartily, a rare smile on his face as they walked into the staging area. “Good job Claire, you’re made us quite a bit of money today. It won’t be long before you’ve bought yourself free at this rate.”
Claire ducked her head, pleased as her family gathered around her, hands clapping her shoulder, her mother embracing her in pride.
“All right, second group, let’s move!” Bennet barked to the others, and the rest of the stable, led by Meredith, disappeared up the stairs to win their own gold and glory.
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It was much later that evening, after darkness had fallen. After they’d had time to cleanse the blood and sweat and dust from their bodies, to recount every move and cheer, to heap praise upon each other, and laugh at the fact that they were still alive. It was like that, cheerful and happy, that Bennet found them, looking as if he’d seen an evil spirit. He held a scroll in one hand, red and purple ribbons dangling from it, and by the way they shook, Bennet’s hands were trembling.
Bennet’s hands never trembled.
“I have news,” he announced, his voice hollow. Everyone looked up, going silent. In the torchlight, Bennet’s face looked wan and wasted. “Emperor Sylar has asked Claire to join his personal service.”
Everyone paled, involuntary protests coming out of every throat. Those in the Emperor’s personal service ended up feeding his appetite for power, sooner or later. Or else they lost their wills, becoming his willing slaves, like the Children of Proserpina.
“No,” Meredith whispered, eyes haunted. “No…”
“He can’t-,” Nathan started.
“He’ll kill her,” Knox said flatly, saying what no one else wanted to.
Claire had gone completely white. Her first fight had been meant to establish her reputation, not to cause her own death.
“Can we do anything?” Peter asked desperately.
Bennet held up the scroll, holding Peter’s gaze squarely. “Maybe. The high priest of Jupiter has asked for you and Nathan to come to his home tonight.”
Bennet hadn’t wanted his stable to get too deep into politics and power plays, to use their fame to garner themselves trinkets or ephemeral pleasures. That would lead to debts, throwing matches, or more serious complications if hearts, pride, or children got involved. But for slaves and freedmen, using a noble’s fascination could be their only real power. The high priest of Jupiter held great power, or at least great influence, over the Emperor, for even he had cause to fear the gods. If the priest were indulged, Nathan and Peter could ask him to intercede to save Claire.
The brothers exchanged a look, coming to an immediate agreement. They could no more let Claire go to the Emperor than they could lay down their own lives.
“We’ll do it.”
The others heaved a sigh of guarded relief.
“And if it doesn’t work?” Daphne asked, ever practical.
“You have all served me with loyalty and honor,” Bennet said firmly, looking straight at Hawkins. The implications were clear. If Nathan and Peter couldn’t convince the priest, Bennet had just given them all tacit permission to run.
That would have to be a last resort. Running brought its own problems: lack of food, clothing, or shelter for one. Being constantly on the alert for soldiers, with no real place to live, and having no trade but fighting to sell for their bread. Even the older gladiators amongst them could barely recall their old trades. True freedom would be bittersweet misery. They would all be together, but hungry, alone, and hunted.
The arena was where they belonged. Rome was their home; they would do everything they could to stay here and stay free.
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It was a bare hour later by the time Bennet had delivered Nathan and Peter to the high priest’s villa. The painted walls, beautiful with colorful frescos, managed to look more intimidating than the arena walls. Peter was afraid to touch anything, lest he dirty it, despite the cleansing and fresh clothes Bennet had forced on them. It felt so strange to be out of armor, or the loose, shabby tunics that they always wore. So strange to be in what had to be the most expensive quarter of the city. Strange to be in the place where the air was cool and smelled of flowers and perfumes instead of dust, oil, sweat, and blood.
Nathan put his hand on Peter’s arm in reassurance as they waited for the door to open. Peter took a steadying breath and smiled back at his brother, determination in the set of his jaw. They had to be pleasant, kind, to acquiesce to what the priest wanted. Women and men of wealth often paid a great deal for the company of famous gladiators, and usually that company was amorous. Nathan and Peter knew full well what they were getting themselves into. Romans as a whole were decadent, and Bennet’s stable was a direct seller of one of the most decadent forms of entertainment in the city. What they had been asked to do tonight was no less morally depraved than what they did on a daily basis on the sands. And it would spare Claire a terrible fate. It was worth it.
The doors finally opened, and Bennet reluctantly let Nathan and Peter go, his pale eyes like stone as they disappeared into the depths of the building. Inside the villa was by far the finest building the brothers had ever seen. They had been in nobles’ homes before, but those abodes had been to this home as the arena slave quarters were to a typical villa.
Nathan and Peter didn’t recognize many of the exotic treasures that decorated the entry hall, only that they were of the finest workmanship, and probably imported from some distant land at great expense. Even the household slaves and servants wore costly silk, an unbelievably expensive luxury even for the astronomically wealthy.
They were bid to sit in the atria, the garden-like room at the middle of the villa, and lounged ill at ease on silk cushions amongst exotic blossoms. They sipped rare iced drinks and attempted not to offend the so-superior servants with any manners they had not acquired in their profession. They were on their own here; Bennet had not been granted entry, and had to wait for them outside like a common messenger slave.
Nathan and Peter dared not speak unless spoken to, afraid the tiniest wrong word or gesture would somehow imperil Claire. This was not the time for arena brashness. They had to have caution in the extreme.
It was more long moments before the high priest arrived in a flurry of slaves, his steps rustling embroidered silk robes and softly jangling the expensive chains around his neck. The priest was tall, dark of hair and eye, and was starting to let his soft and luxurious life overcome his health. But he was not yet so grossly fat as some prosperous priests, and was handsome enough to look upon. What he had asked for would be no great hardship.
“Lord high priest,” Nathan and Peter said in unison, dropping to their knees in respect for his station. He didn’t speak, not for long minutes, only crossed to them and laid a hand on each of their heads, as if in blessing.
Peter tried to remain still as Nathan, but it was hard. He wondered what the priest would want of them, why he had picked them, and why he was willing to pit his influence against the Emperor to try to help a single, young, gladiatrice…
“The young gladiatrice… is your daughter, yes Nathan?” the priest said suddenly, almost as if he had been following Peter’s thoughts.
“My daughter Claire,” Nathan confirmed, still keeping his head bowed. “She’s the newest member of our stable.”
“I see you keep things a family affair,” the priest said, chuckling slightly.
A shard of ice lanced across Peter’s gut at that statement. How did he know? Swallowing, Peter mentally shook his head. The priest couldn’t know. Nobody knew, Meredith didn’t know, the rest of the stable didn’t know, gods, Bennet didn’t even know, and he knew everything about them.
“She’s made me and her mother very proud,” Nathan was saying.
The priest lifted his hands from their heads. Given that tacit permission, both Nathan and Peter looked up. The priest’s eyes were knowing and dark, and there was a faint smile on his lips.
“And you cannot be a proper family if she’s whisked away to the Emperor’s service. I care a great deal for family. It is the most sacred bond, and one that should not be lightly thrust away at even the Emperor’s whim.”
Neither of them spoke, and the priest took a step back, gesturing at them to rise.
“Please, sit. I have to speak with you.”
Nervously, they perched on the cushions, trying to look interested, rather than uneasy.
“Emperor Sylar is vastly powerful, but he is only one man, and eventually all men must die. Someday he will be gone, and the Empire will be a very different place. But… I know the Emperor’s mind, and he believes with young Claire’s power that he will be able to live beyond the span of mortal men. Perhaps even forever.”
“He can’t-,” Nathan started, and then quieted himself abruptly.
“He could, but I don’t believe the gods would condone it. The Emperor is not balanced, and living forever might push him over the edge. All auguries done indicate something very unfortunate will happen should he gain Claire’s power. I must tell the Emperor this in the morning. He will not like hearing it, and things could go quite poorly for me. I need to know if following the will of the gods is worth it,” the priest said archly.
Now comes the price, Peter thought cynically. The reason they had been brought here was clear now. Not just to indulge the priest’s whims, but to prove to him that he was justified in following what should have been his true calling. Peter and Nathan had to show what they offered was more than enough to compensate for the Emperor’s anger.
As they began to stand, intending on getting right down to business, the priest waved them down again, standing up himself and walking to stand right in front of them, staring down at them like a statue. The expression on his face, a superior, vaguely predatory smile, had Peter’s gut twisting in unease. Something was very wrong here…
“I know what you are. Leaders of your stable. Best friends. Brothers,” the priest paused dramatically. “Lovers.”
Peter felt all the blood drain from his face. How had he known? How?
“I too am gods-touched. This is why the Emperor listens to me. Not only can I interpret the will of the gods, I can interpret the wills of men.”
The priest leaned forward, confident and arrogant, put his mouth between Nathan and Peter, and spoke in a bare whisper for their ears alone.
“I know what you’re thinking. When you fly together in the arena, I can hear your thoughts as if they were spoken aloud. I know what love you hold for each other, like a man for his wife.”
Fear was replaced by profound shame, and then by fear again in dizzying succession. The Romans might be decadent and free with their loves, but a few taboos they clung to with great strength. What Nathan and Peter had done, still did, to love one’s brother like one would a woman, was punishable by death.
Despite the fact they knew the consequences very well, they had loved each other for years, since Meredith. Since Claire. Since Nathan had vowed that he would father no more children to be brought up as slaves, since Peter had heard his brother desperately trying to purge his desires in the dark of night. Since Peter had climbed into his beloved brother’s bed, desperate to help, wanting to feel him relaxed and happy, loving him too much to feel shame for desiring for his brother's hard body, beautiful and strong…
“He is beautiful Peter, isn’t he?” the priest said.
Peter’s eyes widened with shock and his mouth dropped open.
“And you wanted to punish yourself for desiring your sibling, but couldn’t stop yourself, could you? You didn’t want to,” the priest continued relentlessly, staring now at Nathan. Muscles jerking, Nathan seemed to shake his head against his will.
The priest stepped backward to settle back upon his own bench, reclining against the cushions and taking up a goblet of wine without a sign of distress.
“I did desire your company this night, but not for the reasons you imagine. I did not want your amorous company for myself. A single sexual romp would not give me sufficient reason to put myself in peril to save a slave,” the priest said, sipping his drink.
Ice stabbed at Peter’s gut again, and he tried to protest, only to find himself mute and helpless with shock.
“Pleasure alone is not enough incentive to take this risk. Secrets, on the other hand, are my stock-in-trade. Secrets of the gods, secrets of men, secrets that can crush a life, or spare it. Secrets that can raise a god-emperor to the throne, or see him tumbled down off it. Your secret is far more potent than most. But I wish more than just seeing your memories.”
No… no… Peter begged mentally. Please don’t…
“I wish to see your affection. Your love. Here, now, tonight.”
Nathan and Peter froze, panic holding them entirely helpless. They’d said they’d do anything to save Claire-.
“You’d do anything to save Claire,” the priest said, and the thought seemed to echo in their minds, firming Peter’s purpose.
But all these people, the servants and slaves…
“They won’t see you. Only I will see you.”
Still they hesitated. This had always been the most private of things between them. Displaying something so intimate, so forbidden… Peter didn’t think he was even able to kiss Nathan like this.
The priest heaved a great sigh of impatience and stared at them both with an intensity that could have cut through solid stone.
“You desire him, your brother. You must do this, even though it shames you. Claire’s life hangs in the balance, so know that she will be dead and bleeding before sunset tomorrow if you stop. You must do this, you must,” he commanded.
The priest’s thoughts went straight through Peter’s resistance, spearing into him deeper than any wound, and he knew his eyes were thick with tears as Nathan tenderly lifted his jaw to kiss him.
This was familiar, welcome, and Peter tried to lose himself in the feel of Nathan’s lips on his, strong and commanding. His breathing began to grow ragged as Nathan put one heavy arm around his back, pulling him flush, letting him feel Nathan’s urgent arousal. Moaning, Peter slid his mouth down Nathan’s neck, ghosting his hands up Nathan’s thighs to-.
A sound intruded, a satisfied sigh that was not in Nathan’s timbre. Peter’s hands kept up their unhurried caresses as he pulled himself away from Nathan’s mouth to look. The priest was lying on his side amongst the pile of cushions, sipping his wine and looking as if he were enjoying the show. An arrogant smile was on his lips and Peter felt himself flushing with shame. A dozen slaves were attending to the priest’s needs, and though they did not seem to see them, their presence was impossible to forget.
Even so, even with shame darkening his cheeks, Peter felt his body respond. It was as if every shameful thought, every foreign glance was heightening his desire. Heat radiating from his face, a wanton moan coming from his throat, Peter desperately pushed aside Nathan’s tunic, seeking his growing hardness.
Nathan’s hand slid through Peter’s hair, guiding him firmly over his shaft, red and radiating a fever heat. Again Peter shot a glance over to the priest, and Nathan pulled him closer.
“It’s just us Peter. It’s ok. No one’s here,” he said firmly. Peter’s gut clenched when he realized Nathan had been blinded, unable to see how he was displaying himself before everyone. He was only ever this commanding with his younger brother in the most private of moments. This was the intimacy the priest had demanded to see.
Bowing his head, fear and shame making his body and senses sing as if he were fighting a dozen men in the arena, Peter gratefully took Nathan’s shaft into his mouth. The taste of him, the slick slide down Peter’s throat, the high heat and powerful little twitches, Nathan’s quiet noises of pleasure, all of that together let Peter put the priest out of his mind. Despite the eyes burning into his back, he concentrated on only one thing, Nathan.
If their love, twisted and wrong, strong and pure as it was, would win Claire’s life, then Peter would do this. He would accept this shame; he would give himself away in front of one of the most powerful men in Rome.
Groaning around Nathan’s hardness, Peter swallowed just to hear Nathan moan, and then to hear his breath hitch as Peter’s hands kneaded into the hard muscles of his thighs. Over the long thin scar from a flung spear, the deeper puncture from a dagger, and the five small burn scars in the shape of a woman’s grasping fingers. Hidden from casual view, the few scars were potent reminders of past failures. Peter hooked his fingers into the burn scars, and Nathan inhaled sharply as Peter punctuated that move with a flutter of his tongue.
Growling, Nathan pulled away and tackled Peter almost playfully on the cushioned divan, pushing a thigh in between Peter’s legs and rocking it in an unbearably teasing friction. Strong hands, calloused from years of flinging his weighted net, divested Peter of his new clothes until he was as naked as a babe. Peter could only cling to Nathan as he bent his head to torment one part of his body, then another, kissing down the line of his throat, licking across the planes of his chest, suckling briefly at a nipple until Peter was mewling and writhing, head lolling off the divan.
Against his will, his eyes met the priest’s, who was smirking and nodding, as if appreciating some clever move in the arena. Peter wanted to close his eyes, but Nathan pulled him up in the next moment to kiss him, and Peter didn’t want to do anything less than give him his full attention. He wrapped one leg around Nathan’s waist to anchor himself as Nathan’s hands started where his mouth had left off, in caressing and awakening every inch of Peter’s body.
Rarely had they ever had the luxury of time for such foreplay. Like much of life in the arena, even love had to be snatched in brief, intense moments. Though feeling like this was almost foreign, it was also welcome. Peter gave himself up to it, bending and moving like Nathan wanted him to, letting himself be positioned so Nathan could take whatever he wanted.
Hazy with pleasure, it took Peter long moments to realize there was a faint background murmur of voices. Eyes fluttering open, Peter stared around him, realizing the formerly unseeing slaves were now staring at him, chattering amongst themselves and pointing at him and Nathan. The priest was smiling more broadly now, staring at them with triumphant eyes.
“Nathan-,” Peter whispered, breath hitching as Nathan’s hand slid up his thigh. He wanted to voice a warning, to make Nathan see what he did.
“I wouldn’t do that,” the priest said casually. Peter wanted to turn and look at him, but Nathan captured his lips again, and he could only listen. Listen to a voice Nathan couldn’t seem to hear. “You can handle this reality Peter, this desire of mine. You can stand it, and still remain… potent.”
Peter flushed under more than Nathan’s skilled tongue as he felt himself throb at the priest’s words. Being watched and silently condemned for what he was doing had driven him to a pitch of excitement he wasn’t sure he could stand much longer.
“But Nathan does better when he plays to an audience; he always has. I’ve seen him at practice matches, and it doesn’t nearly match his skills in the arena. Now all he sees is an appreciative audience, a loving audience, one that won’t condemn him for what he’s doing to you.”
The priest stood and walked up right next to them, holding out a jar to Nathan. He took it, unable to see anything but what the priest had placed in his mind, and slicked his fingers with the scented oil inside. Peter wanted to voice a protest, but couldn’t. Not because of any mental chicanery on the priest’s part, but only because he didn’t want Nathan to stop.
Never had he felt so alive, so loved as he had right now, and even with shame churning a storm in his gut, he couldn’t find the will to wrench Nathan back to a cruel reality. Instead Peter only moaned, long and low when Nathan’s fingers breached his body, slicking him up inside. The sound echoed around the room, making the slaves gasp and the priest smile again.
Body clamoring for more, Peter rolled in the pile of silk cushions and pushed himself back like a she-wolf whore. Nathan slid his slick hand into him again and again, making Peter writhe and toss his head back before finally collapsing on his arms, presenting himself desperately.
“Nathan, please,” Peter almost sobbed. He’d been toyed with for too long, caressed and kissed and aroused to the point where he’d do anything for release, despite, or because of, all the avidly watching eyes.
“Surrender, Peter?” Nathan whispered in his ear. Peter swallowed hard, eyes wet when he belatedly realized the stamp of Nathan’s foreplay. The light strikes, the teasing pushes, submission threats… all exactly what Nathan did in the arena. He’d taunt and push, trip and humiliate his opponent until they begged for mercy. Just as Peter was now.
“Yes, yes, please,” Peter gasped. “Anything!”
“Ah… beautiful,” the priest whispered. Peter kept his eyes shut tight, unwilling to see the priest leering at him.
“Beautiful Peter,” Nathan crooned. Peter’s sweaty fists crumpled the expensive silk as Nathan pushed into him, a welcome pain, a desired invader, their secret shame that was now something they craved together. Thin, high-pitched moans were muffled in the cushions as Nathan thrust into him, deep and slow, so much more deliberate and careful than anything they’d been able to do before. This was not a stolen moment behind a barred door, or a frantic bracing against a rough wooden wall, sounds desperately muffled.
This was a languid, loving act, what Peter had always wanted from Nathan.
“No woman ever had more love on her face than you do right now,” the priest murmured. Peter’s eyes flew open as Nathan suddenly pulled him up, hips moving at a new angle as he kept a thick arm around Peter’s chest, inadvertently exposing him to the priest’s delighted gaze. Peter’s own member was desperately hard and throbbing, but he only clung to Nathan’s arm and tried to move with him, take him deeper, harder, needing the pleasure to overcome his memory of being taken apart by this stranger…
“I… Nathan, I-,” Peter gasped, turning his face back toward his brother, still completely unselfconscious of what was happening to them.
“Tell me what you want,” Nathan commanded, his other hand coming up to pull Peter’s head back, making him expose his throat. Vulnerable from all angles, the appreciative audience of slaves gasped and some broke into applause as one of Nathan’s thrusts drove him to arch his back, making his muscles glisten with sweat.
“I want-. I need you-,” Peter moaned, eyes rolling back in his head. Jolts of pleasure were sparking through him in a steady, rising storm, and he couldn’t hold back much longer.
“Say it!”
The barked command was combined with a calloused hand suddenly sliding along his most intimate flesh, stroking in firm, steady pressure, and Peter began to fly apart.
“I love you!” Peter’s cry was sealed with an urgent kiss, an expression of loving devotion he would have never shown another living soul. Screams muffled in Nathan’s lips, Peter’s body trembled through its release, Nathan breathing harshly as he let go deep inside his brother, a moan rumbling deep in his chest.
Around them, the crowd went wild.
Nathan pulled back with a pleased expression, almost arrogant and smug, the way he won the arena crowds. Pushing Peter’s hair back into place with his hand, he slowly pulled away, unseeingly accepting damp cloths to cleanse them both.
“I would venture to say I have seen no love as strong as yours,” the priest murmured, as Peter quickly pulled on his clothes, and tried to smile at Nathan as if nothing was wrong. As if Nathan hadn’t just performed what should have been secret in front of a crowd, as if they hadn’t sold the last private part of their souls to save Claire.
“Such love should not be torn by grief, not even for the wishes of a god-Emperor,” the priest proclaimed, his voice ringing as if making a pronouncement from the gods.
Nathan blinked, seeming to come to himself as the slaves handed them fresh goblets of wine. The priest waved at them to sit again, and smiled indulgently.
“I am quite satisfied. The gods have shown me the correct path, that the Emperor must live out his days as a mortal man. He will not desire her again, I swear it to you on Jupiter’s Stone.”
Nathan and Peter bowed their heads again in respect as the priest dismissed them. Walking carefully, Peter followed Nathan out, unwilling to show his face until he’d regained equilibrium. Bennet was still waiting for them outside the villa, his expression tight and set.
“Well?” he asked.
“He’ll save her,” Nathan said positively. “He swore it.”
Bennet heaved a sigh of relief and wiped a hand across his brow. “What did he want from you?”
Nathan’s brow furrowed for a moment, as if trying to remember something. Peter opened his mouth, and then shut it again.
“He wanted to talk with us about Claire, how she grew up. He said he had no family, and wanted to know what it was like to have that kind of love.”
Bennet raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s all he wanted? To talk?”
“And the usual,” Nathan added, making a rude gesture. “The most powerful men have the strangest fantasies.”
Peter grit his teeth against a scream of rage as Bennet chuckled. Nathan only remembered what he could live with, but the priest had made him forget the one and perhaps only time him and Peter had been able to love each other as they had always wanted to. Not with the crowd watching of course, but as careful and loving partners.
“But it was worth it?” Bennet asked carefully.
Peter swallowed, and concentrated for a moment on the memory of Claire’s bright smile and cheerful laughter. On Nathan’s loving caresses and powerful affection.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Peter put his arm around Nathan’s shoulders as they walked through the streets of Rome, and tried to remember and forget at the same time.
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On to the sequel: The Glory of Rome