Non Sum Qualis Eram [I am Not Such As I Was]-Chapter 6
Title: Non Sum Qualis Eram [I am Not Such As I Was]-Chapter 6
Author:
megyal
Status: Chaptered/AU
Rating: R
Summary: Continuation of the fic that was written for the September 2006 (!!!) challenge, Non-Musical Related Jobs. I had chosen Roman Centurion/Slave.
A/N: Many apologies for the long pause. I have the last chapter almost fully prepared, so there will not be such a long wait.
Chapter 1//Chapter 2//Chapter 3//Chapter 4//Chapter 5
Audi et alteram partem
Hear the other side too
Petronus kept his head straight, ignoring the presence of the warm body seated on the small stool at his feet.
At the very least, he was making a valiant attempt to do so. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fair head turn and gaze up at him questioningly, a hand reaching out to touch the hem of his woollen garment. Petronus turned his head away slightly, glaring at the dressed stone walls of the triclinium and feeling strangely contrary. The rest of the household busied themselves around their island of calm, steadfastly going about their duties as Pete ate his evening meal at the finely carved table, chewing slowly. He was not allowing Patrick to serve him.
"You are angry with me," Patricius spoke up suddenly and Docila, who was pouring a flagon of sweet mulsum, paused in her movements and blinked down at the rigid figure. Petronus continued to dine relentlessly, tearing into slices of circular flat bread. "There is no reason for you to be angry with me. I am not to blame for the death of your father."
Pete felt the gritty bread catch in his throat as he stared down at the servant. Patrick's eyes were downcast, the lashes long and fair, seeming to quiver in the uncertain flickering light of the lamps. It was the first time he had deigned to look directly at Patrick; even when his wounds had been tended to, he had simply pretended that Patrick did not exist. It was childish behaviour, he knew that, but he found no other way to deal with the strange set of emotions he was experiencing.
"How dare you," he said now, his voice dark with displeasure. They were suddenly alone in the eating hall, the rest of the servants fleeing before the impending wrath of their master. "Keep your silence. I did not require your opinion."
"I dare." Patrick's retort was low; even so, it seemed to echo in the room and Petronus found himself gaping at the furious blue eyes. "You think it is unfair that you have lost your father to a war? I have lost my entire house. I have lost my freedom. You Romans think that you are the center of all that--"
"Continue to speak and I will strip the flesh from your bones," Pete hissed and Patrick returned his gaze to the ground, breathing harshly. The loss of his temper was as shocking to Pete as his servant's blatant disrespect and Pete shoved his plate away from himself, far too incensed to eat. He rose, gathering his garments around himself so that the hem of it would not brush his servant and strode out of the room, heading to his sleeping area. He passed quickly through the atrium, hearing the quick rustle of Patrick behind him.
He paused suddenly in front of one of the alae, one of the small alcoves where the wax bust of his father was kept, the plain lines of the familiar face in shadow. There was a scattering of dust on the floor of the ala and he made a mental note to inform Docila to have them all cleaned. He smiled a little at the calm expression on the little statue, a visage he always wore in life, according to Pete's faint memory. His father had always been a laughing man, clever and quiet. He started as a pale hand invaded his line of sight, gently wiping the dust from where the bust rested. Pete stared at the fingers as they brushed fastidiously and he reached out, taking the hand and pushing it out of the alcove.
"Forgive me," Patricius said, sounding far from apologetic. Pete shook his head, closing his eyes. This slave riled him beyond measure; so why did he not trade him? He was staring at the folds of his father's tunica draped over the little wax shoulder, when Patrick spoke up again. "Forgive me."
Petronus finally looked at him, surprised at the near-pleading tone. Patrick never begged; he was proud, more so than Pete himself and even more stubborn, a trait that Pete did not have the heart to strike him for. Secretly, it was a trait Pete himself admired; Patrick would never succumb... or he had thought Patrick would have never reached such a point.
"As my master," Patrick said, cheeks going pink. "You are right in all things. Even if you are wrong." He bit his lip as Pete snorted in disbelief and then forged ahead. "If I must beg you forgiveness to...so that you will treat me as you had before, then I will. Forgive me."
Such a grudging apology. Pete raised an eyebrow, feeling a slow smirk curling his mouth.
"How did I treat you before, little noble one?" He stepped closer, tilting his head to whisper in Patrick’s ear. It was improper, to be standing so close to a slave right here in the open, but Pete could not help himself. He grasped onto Patrick's hand, the same one that he had been using to rid the small alcove of the slight layer of dust, feeling the fingers clench onto his. Highly improper, and Pete wondered what Docila would think if she happened upon them. He found that he hardly cared.
"As if I belonged to you." Patrick turned his head, breathing shallowly as their cheeks brushed. "Do I belong to your house?"
"Is that important to you?" Pete could not resist: he licked the ear experimentally, hearing Patrick gasp. "Yes, you belong to this house."
"And to you?"
The question hung between them and Pete slid his gaze over to the considering face of his father. A Roman did not willingly cavort with his possessions. At least, not in plain view, especially if they were male; no matter if they had soft pale skin and strange eyes.
He is not a possession of mine, Pete thought to his father, feeling Patrick's breath on the side of his face. I never was his master.
"You told the German that I belonged to you," Petronus reminded him, pressing a hand against Patrick's waist, moving his hand down to feel the smooth clothed curve of hip under his rough fingers. He inhaled the slightly smoky smell of the servant, caused by spending so much time in the kitchens. Patrick's hands fluttered over his injured side, finally settling tentatively on Pete's own hip.
"Come," Pete said gruffly, grasping him by the wrist and hurrying him along to his sleeping quarters. Something seemed to crack and then crumble inside him when he realised that Patrick was following him willingly, not dragging his feet or holding his hand at an awkward angle. Whatever strange thing had been between them from the start, slave and master, had changed into something even more strange. Petronus supposed the word he wanted to use was wonderful.
As he arrived at the entrance to his room, Pete realized that his delight was tinged with fear: that once he had found something so perfect, it would be spoiled.
"This... this is for as long as I have breath," he told Patrick nonsensically as they crossed the threshold, Patrick's fingers intertwined in his. He frowned, trying to find the best words. "I can never give you up now."
Patricius gave him a steady look and then pulled away. He walked over to the pallet and sat down, regarding Pete solemnly until a slow smile dawned on his face.
"That is good." He held out a hand invitingly and Pete went to him quickly, gripping onto it and, without even thinking about what he was doing, raised it to press the pale skin against his mouth. "Nor will I."
Pete sighed allowed him to remove both their clothing, Patrick pulling off the material in slow strokes, sliding his fingertips deliberately against Pete's heated skin, until the centurion was half-delirious with want. When he finally found himself wrapped up with Patrick, feeling him tremble under light touches, he thought to himself, I do not have to die to go to that Land in the West. I am already there.
***
"The winds are changing," Patricius said quietly as Petronus was happily eating his breakfast, early one morning in his rooms. As usual, Pete had arranged that Patrick sat close to him as he ate, so that his hand would be resting on some part of Patrick's body at all times. It felt good to touch him.
"What do you mean?" Pete held out a small slice of bread; Patrick gave him a dubious stare and then bent forward for it, slowly. Pete quickly pulled it back and placed it in his mouth so that a piece of it still hung out. Without a pause, Patrick continued forward, biting the morsel that was left and making sure to brush their lips together. Pete grinned. "There is a change between us, to be certain. It is our secret."
"Yes." Patrick's smile was indulgent. Warm... then it faded a little as he turned his head and looked out the window, into the dreamy dusty distance. "Yet, there is more." He returned his gaze to Pete and lifted one shoulder apologetically. "Mayhap I am wrong."
Pete blinked at him and then set aside his plate gently, then took one of Patrick's hands in his.
"At least you are right about me?"
Patricius laughed and Pete smiled at the open cheer.
"Fate gave me no choice, master. And I was wrong about you." He squeezed Petronus' hand. "I'm glad I was wrong."
***
Claudius was claimed Princeps in AD 43, not long after the bloody death of his nephew Caligula. Two years later, he sent four legions to conquer Brittania.
The winds died as Petronus marched to war.
Chapter 7
Other Notes:
triclinium: dining room
mulsum: 4 parts wine, 1 part honey. </small>
Author:
megyalStatus: Chaptered/AU
Rating: R
Summary: Continuation of the fic that was written for the September 2006 (!!!) challenge, Non-Musical Related Jobs. I had chosen Roman Centurion/Slave.
A/N: Many apologies for the long pause. I have the last chapter almost fully prepared, so there will not be such a long wait.
Chapter 1//Chapter 2//Chapter 3//Chapter 4//Chapter 5
Audi et alteram partem
Hear the other side too
Petronus kept his head straight, ignoring the presence of the warm body seated on the small stool at his feet.
At the very least, he was making a valiant attempt to do so. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fair head turn and gaze up at him questioningly, a hand reaching out to touch the hem of his woollen garment. Petronus turned his head away slightly, glaring at the dressed stone walls of the triclinium and feeling strangely contrary. The rest of the household busied themselves around their island of calm, steadfastly going about their duties as Pete ate his evening meal at the finely carved table, chewing slowly. He was not allowing Patrick to serve him.
"You are angry with me," Patricius spoke up suddenly and Docila, who was pouring a flagon of sweet mulsum, paused in her movements and blinked down at the rigid figure. Petronus continued to dine relentlessly, tearing into slices of circular flat bread. "There is no reason for you to be angry with me. I am not to blame for the death of your father."
Pete felt the gritty bread catch in his throat as he stared down at the servant. Patrick's eyes were downcast, the lashes long and fair, seeming to quiver in the uncertain flickering light of the lamps. It was the first time he had deigned to look directly at Patrick; even when his wounds had been tended to, he had simply pretended that Patrick did not exist. It was childish behaviour, he knew that, but he found no other way to deal with the strange set of emotions he was experiencing.
"How dare you," he said now, his voice dark with displeasure. They were suddenly alone in the eating hall, the rest of the servants fleeing before the impending wrath of their master. "Keep your silence. I did not require your opinion."
"I dare." Patrick's retort was low; even so, it seemed to echo in the room and Petronus found himself gaping at the furious blue eyes. "You think it is unfair that you have lost your father to a war? I have lost my entire house. I have lost my freedom. You Romans think that you are the center of all that--"
"Continue to speak and I will strip the flesh from your bones," Pete hissed and Patrick returned his gaze to the ground, breathing harshly. The loss of his temper was as shocking to Pete as his servant's blatant disrespect and Pete shoved his plate away from himself, far too incensed to eat. He rose, gathering his garments around himself so that the hem of it would not brush his servant and strode out of the room, heading to his sleeping area. He passed quickly through the atrium, hearing the quick rustle of Patrick behind him.
He paused suddenly in front of one of the alae, one of the small alcoves where the wax bust of his father was kept, the plain lines of the familiar face in shadow. There was a scattering of dust on the floor of the ala and he made a mental note to inform Docila to have them all cleaned. He smiled a little at the calm expression on the little statue, a visage he always wore in life, according to Pete's faint memory. His father had always been a laughing man, clever and quiet. He started as a pale hand invaded his line of sight, gently wiping the dust from where the bust rested. Pete stared at the fingers as they brushed fastidiously and he reached out, taking the hand and pushing it out of the alcove.
"Forgive me," Patricius said, sounding far from apologetic. Pete shook his head, closing his eyes. This slave riled him beyond measure; so why did he not trade him? He was staring at the folds of his father's tunica draped over the little wax shoulder, when Patrick spoke up again. "Forgive me."
Petronus finally looked at him, surprised at the near-pleading tone. Patrick never begged; he was proud, more so than Pete himself and even more stubborn, a trait that Pete did not have the heart to strike him for. Secretly, it was a trait Pete himself admired; Patrick would never succumb... or he had thought Patrick would have never reached such a point.
"As my master," Patrick said, cheeks going pink. "You are right in all things. Even if you are wrong." He bit his lip as Pete snorted in disbelief and then forged ahead. "If I must beg you forgiveness to...so that you will treat me as you had before, then I will. Forgive me."
Such a grudging apology. Pete raised an eyebrow, feeling a slow smirk curling his mouth.
"How did I treat you before, little noble one?" He stepped closer, tilting his head to whisper in Patrick’s ear. It was improper, to be standing so close to a slave right here in the open, but Pete could not help himself. He grasped onto Patrick's hand, the same one that he had been using to rid the small alcove of the slight layer of dust, feeling the fingers clench onto his. Highly improper, and Pete wondered what Docila would think if she happened upon them. He found that he hardly cared.
"As if I belonged to you." Patrick turned his head, breathing shallowly as their cheeks brushed. "Do I belong to your house?"
"Is that important to you?" Pete could not resist: he licked the ear experimentally, hearing Patrick gasp. "Yes, you belong to this house."
"And to you?"
The question hung between them and Pete slid his gaze over to the considering face of his father. A Roman did not willingly cavort with his possessions. At least, not in plain view, especially if they were male; no matter if they had soft pale skin and strange eyes.
He is not a possession of mine, Pete thought to his father, feeling Patrick's breath on the side of his face. I never was his master.
"You told the German that I belonged to you," Petronus reminded him, pressing a hand against Patrick's waist, moving his hand down to feel the smooth clothed curve of hip under his rough fingers. He inhaled the slightly smoky smell of the servant, caused by spending so much time in the kitchens. Patrick's hands fluttered over his injured side, finally settling tentatively on Pete's own hip.
"Come," Pete said gruffly, grasping him by the wrist and hurrying him along to his sleeping quarters. Something seemed to crack and then crumble inside him when he realised that Patrick was following him willingly, not dragging his feet or holding his hand at an awkward angle. Whatever strange thing had been between them from the start, slave and master, had changed into something even more strange. Petronus supposed the word he wanted to use was wonderful.
As he arrived at the entrance to his room, Pete realized that his delight was tinged with fear: that once he had found something so perfect, it would be spoiled.
"This... this is for as long as I have breath," he told Patrick nonsensically as they crossed the threshold, Patrick's fingers intertwined in his. He frowned, trying to find the best words. "I can never give you up now."
Patricius gave him a steady look and then pulled away. He walked over to the pallet and sat down, regarding Pete solemnly until a slow smile dawned on his face.
"That is good." He held out a hand invitingly and Pete went to him quickly, gripping onto it and, without even thinking about what he was doing, raised it to press the pale skin against his mouth. "Nor will I."
Pete sighed allowed him to remove both their clothing, Patrick pulling off the material in slow strokes, sliding his fingertips deliberately against Pete's heated skin, until the centurion was half-delirious with want. When he finally found himself wrapped up with Patrick, feeling him tremble under light touches, he thought to himself, I do not have to die to go to that Land in the West. I am already there.
"The winds are changing," Patricius said quietly as Petronus was happily eating his breakfast, early one morning in his rooms. As usual, Pete had arranged that Patrick sat close to him as he ate, so that his hand would be resting on some part of Patrick's body at all times. It felt good to touch him.
"What do you mean?" Pete held out a small slice of bread; Patrick gave him a dubious stare and then bent forward for it, slowly. Pete quickly pulled it back and placed it in his mouth so that a piece of it still hung out. Without a pause, Patrick continued forward, biting the morsel that was left and making sure to brush their lips together. Pete grinned. "There is a change between us, to be certain. It is our secret."
"Yes." Patrick's smile was indulgent. Warm... then it faded a little as he turned his head and looked out the window, into the dreamy dusty distance. "Yet, there is more." He returned his gaze to Pete and lifted one shoulder apologetically. "Mayhap I am wrong."
Pete blinked at him and then set aside his plate gently, then took one of Patrick's hands in his.
"At least you are right about me?"
Patricius laughed and Pete smiled at the open cheer.
"Fate gave me no choice, master. And I was wrong about you." He squeezed Petronus' hand. "I'm glad I was wrong."
Claudius was claimed Princeps in AD 43, not long after the bloody death of his nephew Caligula. Two years later, he sent four legions to conquer Brittania.
The winds died as Petronus marched to war.
Chapter 7
Other Notes:
triclinium: dining room
mulsum: 4 parts wine, 1 part honey. </small>