Non Sum Qualis Eram [I am Not Such As I Was]-Chapter 7
Title: Non Sum Qualis Eram [I am Not Such As I Was]-Chapter 7
Author:
megyal
Status: Chaptered/AU [Complete]
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: This is the last chapter. Thank you to all those who have read so far. This is dedicated to Care, who never allowed me to forget; and Sunny, who always remembers; and to those on my f-list who helped out so much. Thanks.
Link to the first chapter: Chapter 1
Non sum qualis eram
-I am not such as I was
***
A war is not fought by the warrior only. It is also fought, year after struggling year, by worried mothers, friends, countrymen. Lovers. Battled in the secret sorrowful places of their hearts, where the only wish is for them, all of them, to come home.
Petronus dwelled on this constantly as his men fought around him. It was a calming notion to hold onto. He was tired; mud and smoke and blood pooled all around and within, seeming as if he had been born to constantly hear the shouts and screams of battle. Yet, he pushed and fought. Pete was not one to give up, and he did not allow anyone else around him do so. This was just his way, he supposed, arms weary from carrying sword and shield, legs cramped behind the greaves. This was the way of the centurion.
The British resistance was fierce, strong, led by two songs of a British king, Cunobelinus. At one point in the months of fighting, the Roman legions were forced back to the Thames, a grim moment where all he did was blink tired eyes at the sky and think of a person who belonged to his house, and had the same shade of eyes when smiling.
"Fight," he said to his men in short, rough tones, as they gathered neatly in the Legio IX Hispana at the banks of the wide river, led by Gnaeus Hosidius Greta, a man Pete admired. Hosidius Greta had almost been captured at a crossing at previous river, called Medway, two days of sheer viciousness; but in a fit of action, had fought back with a ferocity that gained him the respect of the legionnaires. That had been when Pete had been less tired, less anxious to simply run home.
What had Patricius done to him? Now, all he wanted to do was find his way to his familiar, comfortable room and look at him. It was such a strange thing to want, almost irrational in its simplicity. It was a feeling that was a little unwelcome, for he could not concentrate. He found that he gave his orders in a half-hearted, almost desultory fashion; his men did not seem to notice this, for their reactions to him were the same as always: well-trained and without question
Tired. So very tired.
Some of the people he fought against had eyes the same colour as Patrick's, but disturbingly frantic during combat, quite unlike Patrick's aloof, chilly visage; yet, he found he was shaken when their gazes fixed on him, expressions dying with the tip of his sword. He had to remind himself of who he was, who he was doing this for. Rome. Family.
To return to Patrick.
"Fight," he told the men of his centuria. "Fight and let us be home."
***
"Togodumnus has fallen," one of the messengers told him in a scratchy voice shortly after the battle on the banks of the Thames and Pete searched his memory for a reminder of who Togodumnus was, as he and his men crouched in waiting, Quiriac pawing the ground eagerly. Now he remembered: Togodumnus had been one of the sons of Cunobelinus, the now deceased king of the Catuvellauni, who were the people who had been defending their land so ferociously against the might of the Roman legions.
"The other?" Pete asked, referring to Caracatus.
"He is not to be found. The Emperor is on his way. Here."
Pete smiled with a distinct lack of mirth, causing the messenger to scurry off on the excuse of having to deliver more announcements. So, that is why they had halted battle at this time. Their victory had been nearly complete; now, the Emperor’s presence would have him as the conqueror when they marched forward. The leaders speak and the warrior fights, he consoled himself as he gave the order to move out, onwards to Camulodunum.
Onwards, onwards. Camulodunum, where the eleven tribes of Britons surrendered, awed by the display of Claudius' war-elephants and brightly shining armaments, not by the fighting men trudging alongside. Onwards, onwards, even after the new Roman capital had been established at Camulodunum and the Emperor returned to Rome to be safe in his victory; onwards, onwards, subduing even more tribes in the west under the command of Vespasian, onwards with the Ninth Legion, onwards, always in front and to the right of his centuria.
He was weary to his very marrow, the brutal skirmishes against a tribe called the Silures causing him to think that they would never end with this ongoing fighting, that he would never return to his beloved Rome as a breathing man. It was only when they were handed a bound Caracatus from the Briton queen Cartimandua, that Pete made a proper count and realised he had not seen his home in nearly seven years.
***
He saw it so many times in his dreams, that when his home loomed in his sight, he thought he was trapped in his mind again. Here, the comforting walls that loomed over the dusty street as it passed by; and here, the strongly made door that opened and released an anxious Docila, her hair now completely changed from its former black-and-white to a mass of grey. It was shocking to see, but Pete's tired mind refused to absorb anything else but the person exiting after her as he dismounted.
Patricius looked at him with polite interest, as if Petronus had been out for a long walk, instead of years of battle. He looked very much the same and Pete was grateful for that; in the years of his absence, he had been horrified to note that Patrick's face had been fading from his memory; the only details that had been sharp in his remembrance were the bright colour of his eyes.
"Master," Patrick murmured, gaze sweeping behind Pete where small batch of captives had been trailing behind him, looking around themselves in frightened interest. There was a flash of something dark across his features, something Pete could not understand, because it was covered over so completely before he had a chance to really look. It must have been some sort of recall for him, Pete presumed; the memory of when he first came here, covered in dirt and insolence. None of these new servants had dared to speak to Pete as Patrick had, and he had actually smiled in fond recollection at the little patricius that consumed him so. None of them had stipulated that Pete not touch them, none of them had glared at him in spite; Pete wondered if it was the centurion in him that always needed a struggle, something or someone to conquer.
"I shall prepare a bath," Patrick said, inclining his head. His hair shone in the sun and Pete reached out to touch it, forgetting himself completely as the rest of his household tumbled out to greet him. Patrick's eyes flashed at him in caution; Pete rest his hand on Docila's shoulder instead, listening with only one ear to her tearful tirade as Patrick slipped inside the vestibule.
Pete was highly disgruntled to note that instead of Patrick attending to his bath, one of the new servants was sent in. This one annoyed Pete by pouring the water too heavily and using the wrong oils. He chased him out with a bellow, fuming as another servant appeared in the doorway of his bath, one that was not new, but still not Patrick, their hands completely wrong on his shoulders. Pete felt his annoyance grow to a deep simmering rage, because he had not fought for so long to come home to such a rebellious display.
As soon as he was securely wrapped in a toga, the scars on his arms as decorative testimony to his status as a centurion, Pete made his way to the servant's quarters, and was promptly stopped by Aurelia as he passed through the atrium.
"My son!" she cried shrilly, hanging onto the front of his garment as he embraced her awkwardly. Her bracelets bumped against his chest and he tried to pry her off without seeming too keen on doing that, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. Patricius was standing in the shadowed area of the atrium, near the bust of Pete's father. Aurelia held Pete at arm's length, gasping at his plain clothes. "Look at your face. You look like your father, even more so. And what is that you are wearing! You cannot go as such to the victory march. You!" She whirled towards Patrick with the prescience of someone who owned numerous servants and knew that one should be close at all times. "Get him that new one that I brought for him, to celebrate his return. Hurry, now!" She snapped, and Patricius seemed to walk in a manner as unrushed as he possibly could right past them, with his eyes focussed straight in front.
"That one, you must get rid of him," Aurelia said in distaste as Patrick headed to Pete's quarters. "He moves too slow."
"He moves fine." Pete gave her a strained smile. "I see you've missed me."
"But of course," Aurelia said, looking injured. "I have dressed as if in mourning for seven years. I do not know what I would have done," she continued as Patrick returned with another servant following close behind, "if you had gone without giving me my grandchild. Your father's name must continue." Her voice was soft and, for the first time in many years since his father had died, completely sincere. Pete's eyes were fixed on Patrick's, whose face was like a mask carved out of marble.
"I know," Pete muttered.
"There are many Roman women who will be proud to continue that name. I know some! I will tell you who they are." Aurelia sniffed and Patrick's mouth, which was already in a long, thin line, twitched.
Patrick turned and gave the other servant the bundle of fine material, heavy folds falling from his pale, smooth arms into the clutches of the other. Without looking at Pete again, he made his way to the culina. Aurelia turned and snatched the toga, giving Patrick's disappearing figure a sidelong glare.
"I say you must flog that one," she noted imperiously. "And send him away. Far too troublesome."
"Don't tell me what to do in my house, Mother," he responded automatically, but his mind ticked over Patrick's abnormally cold demeanour as they stood watching the victory march a little later in the day; Pete's 'request' that Patrick accompany him to this public display was couched in a threatening tone, to deter any thoughts of sending another servant in his place. Patrick had followed him without any sign of protest, but his expression, which had always been closed and cool, was bordering on completely blank. He stood away from Pete and a little behind as they watched the shouting crowds from the relative safety of the Senate building, a rough open structure that had been erected on the plains to accommodate the parade. He appeared completely deferential to the casual observer; but the wall that Pete felt between them pressed against his bones and burned into his mind.
As he mulled over this, Caracatus was led in front of the Senate with other war-captives, a victory prize to be executed right after this exultant parade. There were a few laughs and many murmurs as the proud man was led in, bound in chains, head unbent in supplication, as the rest of the defeated party were; he walked right past where Pete and Patrick stood, turning his head suddenly to look at them. Pete turned his own head and out of the corner of his eye he could see Patrick standing as tall as his short frame could manage, round chin tilted upward. A wry smile flitted over the otherwise proud face of the Briton prince and he bowed his head as far as he could... not at the centurion, but at the servant beside him, saying something in a low, thick voice, the language unfamiliar.
To the surprised mutters of the Romans around them, Patrick bowed back and replied, and the Briton nodded as he was pulled forward. Pete had not forgotten that Patrick was born a patricius, more than likely groomed to take on a high standing in society, and so knowledgeable in more languages than Pete; still, it was surprising to hear those rare occasions when he spoke in other tongues.
Pete turned on him, hoping his glare was as forbidding as it possibly could be, for he was not particularly angry. He was just as amazed as everyone else, but according to the norms of Roman society, it would not do for a servant to act in such a manner.
"Watch yourself," he warned, his heart not in the snappish tone he adopted; Patrick's eyes flicked to his, glittering before he bent his head again.
The attention of the people around them was now directed to where Caracatus was now speaking earnestly to the men of the Senate, the Emperor sitting and looking at the Briton as if he was some new species of animal, exotic and a little dangerous. Like Patrick when he had first been brought here, Caracatus’ voice in the Roman language was halting, yet proud, words careful and clipped. Pete strained to listen.
"....my present lot, disfiguring as it is for me, is magnificent for you. I had horses, men and wealth: what wonder if I was unwilling to lose them? If you wish to command, does it really follow that everyone should accept your slavery?" His voice was rising even more in the suddenly silent Senate, the roars of the crowds outside filtering into the high-ceilinged space. "If I were now being handed over as one who had surrendered immediately, neither my fortune or your glory would have achieved brilliance. On the other hand, if you preserve me safe and sound, I shall be an eternal example of your clemency."1
He fell silent; his hands, which had been opened wide during this speech, fell to his sides, but his head was still held high, watching as the Senate talked with each other; Claudius had steepled his fingers and tapped the tips of them against his lips.
"What did he say to you?" Pete turned to Patrick and received a weighty look before the servant responded.
"He asked me if I had given up."
"Have you?" Pete tilted his head and considered the flushed cheekbones of his servant; the Briton prince and members of his family were receiving a pardon from the Emperor's tribunal and leave to live in peace in Rome. After such an eloquent address, Pete was not surprised.
Patrick's small smile was brittle. "I told him never."
***
Pete did not speak to Patrick as they made their way home, Caracatus' words echoing in his head. Patrick was true to his word; he had never surrendered, his pride still intact even after years of servitude. But he had remained in Pete's house when the centurion had gone to war, when he could have escaped. He posed this as a question to the servant as his bath was drawn.
"I have no home anywhere else," Patrick replied, pouring the clay pots of hot water deftly. "Except for where I am now."
He turned to exit as Pete slid down into the fragrant water, but Pete reached out and caught him by the wrist, pulling him back.
"Please let me go," Patrick said in a soft voice. "Master. Whatever... whatever we were before, it must not continue." He closed his eyes as Pete's hand raised unheedingly and stroked down the side of his face. "You must start your family."
"That will be a different issue from what is between you and I. It is something that must be done. You and I... that is something I want."
"Then, take another servant. It will be the same. I am no different from the ones you have brought home from battle."
Abruptly, Pete understood, the thoughts and actions of his proud patricius now as bright as the sun, even behind that thoroughly vacant facade; the stung expression in his eyes was what gave it away, hidden behind a layer of stubbornness. Patrick did not know him at all, if he thought he would be so easily replaced, not after seven years of Pete's thoughts constantly bent towards him. This had not been purely physical, not even from the very start. No matter how Patrick tried to hide from him or push him away with that chilly wall, he would not do such a thing; it was nigh impossible.
How could Patrick have forgotten what Pete had said to him? This is for as long as I have breath... I can never give you up now.
"You are wrong," he began slowly, pulling Patrick even closer as he considered what he had to say. "You are different."
"No," Patrick replied, shaking his head and trying to resist even as Pete tugged him into the bath with him, shifting their limbs so that they were tucked close together, Patrick's tunica rough against Pete's bare skin. "No. It was wrong of me to... feel as I did. I allowed myself to expect too much of your return... that you were mine to return to after so long, I am just--"
"I own many servants. But I do not own you. I never have," Pete whispered right in his ear, biting down on the earlobe gently. Patrick shuddered and attempted to arch away. "Patrick. Patrick," and Patrick went still in his arms. "You own me."
There was a tense moment when he feared that Patrick would continue to be as a rock in the circle of his arms, ignoring what he had just said, such a solemn thing for a Roman centurion to claim to a servant. But it was true, and as he pressed his nose into Patrick's cheek, he felt the tension melt out of Patrick's body and his face turned so that their mouths met.
"You are free," Pete said against his lips before his mouth parted and Patrick's tongue slipped hungrily inside, so many years gone from between them as Patrick's hand curled in desperation around the nape of his neck, trying to get closer. "I will free you before witnesses," he vowed between kisses, "and you will become libertus, a freed-man." He tore his mouth away from Patrick's searching one, averting his eyes from the tempting fullness of his lips. "This is the greatest thing I have to give you now. So you will understand how willing I am to let you go, to do what you will as a free person, even though I would have you to stay with me for as long as we both live. This is how I feel. You must understand," he finished gruffly, feeling deeply bereft, as if Patrick had already departed from him; but a promise made is a promise kept. Pete would do all within his power, as Patrick's patron, to guarantee him manumission.
A hand touched his jaw and turned his face to see who he already knew was his beloved. He would take a wife; that was a part of his obligation, something he knew he would have to do, no matter how he disinclined was to the mere thought of it. He would have a child, that was his promise to his father's name, and raise such a child in the memory of his strong parentage; but he had already given the most important piece of himself to the person sitting in the cooling water with him right now.
"I am free," Patrick said in wonder, smiling at him in such an open manner that Pete held his breath and stared. "Then... I am free to stay here with you."
"Yes," Pete exhaled, shaking as Patrick placed a chaste kiss to his forehead, trailing down to put another at the corner of his mouth. He pressed against Patrick, feeling the steady beat of his heart against his own bare chest, even through the layer of Patrick's soaked clothes. "If that is what you choose?"
"That is what I want," Patrick affirmed, hands roaming over Pete's body as his smile grew; until all Pete saw within it was the promise of who they had both become.
They were perfect.
fin
Most of the information used in this came from the internet (Wikipedia, what). Any historical faults are all my own.
1. Speech by Caracatus; Tacitus, The Annals, translated by A.J. Woodman, 2004; see also Church and Brodribb's translation
(http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/cgi-bin/ptext?lookup=Tac.+Ann.+12.37)
Author:
megyalStatus: Chaptered/AU [Complete]
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: This is the last chapter. Thank you to all those who have read so far. This is dedicated to Care, who never allowed me to forget; and Sunny, who always remembers; and to those on my f-list who helped out so much. Thanks.
Link to the first chapter: Chapter 1
-I am not such as I was
***
A war is not fought by the warrior only. It is also fought, year after struggling year, by worried mothers, friends, countrymen. Lovers. Battled in the secret sorrowful places of their hearts, where the only wish is for them, all of them, to come home.
Petronus dwelled on this constantly as his men fought around him. It was a calming notion to hold onto. He was tired; mud and smoke and blood pooled all around and within, seeming as if he had been born to constantly hear the shouts and screams of battle. Yet, he pushed and fought. Pete was not one to give up, and he did not allow anyone else around him do so. This was just his way, he supposed, arms weary from carrying sword and shield, legs cramped behind the greaves. This was the way of the centurion.
The British resistance was fierce, strong, led by two songs of a British king, Cunobelinus. At one point in the months of fighting, the Roman legions were forced back to the Thames, a grim moment where all he did was blink tired eyes at the sky and think of a person who belonged to his house, and had the same shade of eyes when smiling.
"Fight," he said to his men in short, rough tones, as they gathered neatly in the Legio IX Hispana at the banks of the wide river, led by Gnaeus Hosidius Greta, a man Pete admired. Hosidius Greta had almost been captured at a crossing at previous river, called Medway, two days of sheer viciousness; but in a fit of action, had fought back with a ferocity that gained him the respect of the legionnaires. That had been when Pete had been less tired, less anxious to simply run home.
What had Patricius done to him? Now, all he wanted to do was find his way to his familiar, comfortable room and look at him. It was such a strange thing to want, almost irrational in its simplicity. It was a feeling that was a little unwelcome, for he could not concentrate. He found that he gave his orders in a half-hearted, almost desultory fashion; his men did not seem to notice this, for their reactions to him were the same as always: well-trained and without question
Tired. So very tired.
Some of the people he fought against had eyes the same colour as Patrick's, but disturbingly frantic during combat, quite unlike Patrick's aloof, chilly visage; yet, he found he was shaken when their gazes fixed on him, expressions dying with the tip of his sword. He had to remind himself of who he was, who he was doing this for. Rome. Family.
To return to Patrick.
"Fight," he told the men of his centuria. "Fight and let us be home."
"Togodumnus has fallen," one of the messengers told him in a scratchy voice shortly after the battle on the banks of the Thames and Pete searched his memory for a reminder of who Togodumnus was, as he and his men crouched in waiting, Quiriac pawing the ground eagerly. Now he remembered: Togodumnus had been one of the sons of Cunobelinus, the now deceased king of the Catuvellauni, who were the people who had been defending their land so ferociously against the might of the Roman legions.
"The other?" Pete asked, referring to Caracatus.
"He is not to be found. The Emperor is on his way. Here."
Pete smiled with a distinct lack of mirth, causing the messenger to scurry off on the excuse of having to deliver more announcements. So, that is why they had halted battle at this time. Their victory had been nearly complete; now, the Emperor’s presence would have him as the conqueror when they marched forward. The leaders speak and the warrior fights, he consoled himself as he gave the order to move out, onwards to Camulodunum.
Onwards, onwards. Camulodunum, where the eleven tribes of Britons surrendered, awed by the display of Claudius' war-elephants and brightly shining armaments, not by the fighting men trudging alongside. Onwards, onwards, even after the new Roman capital had been established at Camulodunum and the Emperor returned to Rome to be safe in his victory; onwards, onwards, subduing even more tribes in the west under the command of Vespasian, onwards with the Ninth Legion, onwards, always in front and to the right of his centuria.
He was weary to his very marrow, the brutal skirmishes against a tribe called the Silures causing him to think that they would never end with this ongoing fighting, that he would never return to his beloved Rome as a breathing man. It was only when they were handed a bound Caracatus from the Briton queen Cartimandua, that Pete made a proper count and realised he had not seen his home in nearly seven years.
He saw it so many times in his dreams, that when his home loomed in his sight, he thought he was trapped in his mind again. Here, the comforting walls that loomed over the dusty street as it passed by; and here, the strongly made door that opened and released an anxious Docila, her hair now completely changed from its former black-and-white to a mass of grey. It was shocking to see, but Pete's tired mind refused to absorb anything else but the person exiting after her as he dismounted.
Patricius looked at him with polite interest, as if Petronus had been out for a long walk, instead of years of battle. He looked very much the same and Pete was grateful for that; in the years of his absence, he had been horrified to note that Patrick's face had been fading from his memory; the only details that had been sharp in his remembrance were the bright colour of his eyes.
"Master," Patrick murmured, gaze sweeping behind Pete where small batch of captives had been trailing behind him, looking around themselves in frightened interest. There was a flash of something dark across his features, something Pete could not understand, because it was covered over so completely before he had a chance to really look. It must have been some sort of recall for him, Pete presumed; the memory of when he first came here, covered in dirt and insolence. None of these new servants had dared to speak to Pete as Patrick had, and he had actually smiled in fond recollection at the little patricius that consumed him so. None of them had stipulated that Pete not touch them, none of them had glared at him in spite; Pete wondered if it was the centurion in him that always needed a struggle, something or someone to conquer.
"I shall prepare a bath," Patrick said, inclining his head. His hair shone in the sun and Pete reached out to touch it, forgetting himself completely as the rest of his household tumbled out to greet him. Patrick's eyes flashed at him in caution; Pete rest his hand on Docila's shoulder instead, listening with only one ear to her tearful tirade as Patrick slipped inside the vestibule.
Pete was highly disgruntled to note that instead of Patrick attending to his bath, one of the new servants was sent in. This one annoyed Pete by pouring the water too heavily and using the wrong oils. He chased him out with a bellow, fuming as another servant appeared in the doorway of his bath, one that was not new, but still not Patrick, their hands completely wrong on his shoulders. Pete felt his annoyance grow to a deep simmering rage, because he had not fought for so long to come home to such a rebellious display.
As soon as he was securely wrapped in a toga, the scars on his arms as decorative testimony to his status as a centurion, Pete made his way to the servant's quarters, and was promptly stopped by Aurelia as he passed through the atrium.
"My son!" she cried shrilly, hanging onto the front of his garment as he embraced her awkwardly. Her bracelets bumped against his chest and he tried to pry her off without seeming too keen on doing that, catching movement out of the corner of his eye. Patricius was standing in the shadowed area of the atrium, near the bust of Pete's father. Aurelia held Pete at arm's length, gasping at his plain clothes. "Look at your face. You look like your father, even more so. And what is that you are wearing! You cannot go as such to the victory march. You!" She whirled towards Patrick with the prescience of someone who owned numerous servants and knew that one should be close at all times. "Get him that new one that I brought for him, to celebrate his return. Hurry, now!" She snapped, and Patricius seemed to walk in a manner as unrushed as he possibly could right past them, with his eyes focussed straight in front.
"That one, you must get rid of him," Aurelia said in distaste as Patrick headed to Pete's quarters. "He moves too slow."
"He moves fine." Pete gave her a strained smile. "I see you've missed me."
"But of course," Aurelia said, looking injured. "I have dressed as if in mourning for seven years. I do not know what I would have done," she continued as Patrick returned with another servant following close behind, "if you had gone without giving me my grandchild. Your father's name must continue." Her voice was soft and, for the first time in many years since his father had died, completely sincere. Pete's eyes were fixed on Patrick's, whose face was like a mask carved out of marble.
"I know," Pete muttered.
"There are many Roman women who will be proud to continue that name. I know some! I will tell you who they are." Aurelia sniffed and Patrick's mouth, which was already in a long, thin line, twitched.
Patrick turned and gave the other servant the bundle of fine material, heavy folds falling from his pale, smooth arms into the clutches of the other. Without looking at Pete again, he made his way to the culina. Aurelia turned and snatched the toga, giving Patrick's disappearing figure a sidelong glare.
"I say you must flog that one," she noted imperiously. "And send him away. Far too troublesome."
"Don't tell me what to do in my house, Mother," he responded automatically, but his mind ticked over Patrick's abnormally cold demeanour as they stood watching the victory march a little later in the day; Pete's 'request' that Patrick accompany him to this public display was couched in a threatening tone, to deter any thoughts of sending another servant in his place. Patrick had followed him without any sign of protest, but his expression, which had always been closed and cool, was bordering on completely blank. He stood away from Pete and a little behind as they watched the shouting crowds from the relative safety of the Senate building, a rough open structure that had been erected on the plains to accommodate the parade. He appeared completely deferential to the casual observer; but the wall that Pete felt between them pressed against his bones and burned into his mind.
As he mulled over this, Caracatus was led in front of the Senate with other war-captives, a victory prize to be executed right after this exultant parade. There were a few laughs and many murmurs as the proud man was led in, bound in chains, head unbent in supplication, as the rest of the defeated party were; he walked right past where Pete and Patrick stood, turning his head suddenly to look at them. Pete turned his own head and out of the corner of his eye he could see Patrick standing as tall as his short frame could manage, round chin tilted upward. A wry smile flitted over the otherwise proud face of the Briton prince and he bowed his head as far as he could... not at the centurion, but at the servant beside him, saying something in a low, thick voice, the language unfamiliar.
To the surprised mutters of the Romans around them, Patrick bowed back and replied, and the Briton nodded as he was pulled forward. Pete had not forgotten that Patrick was born a patricius, more than likely groomed to take on a high standing in society, and so knowledgeable in more languages than Pete; still, it was surprising to hear those rare occasions when he spoke in other tongues.
Pete turned on him, hoping his glare was as forbidding as it possibly could be, for he was not particularly angry. He was just as amazed as everyone else, but according to the norms of Roman society, it would not do for a servant to act in such a manner.
"Watch yourself," he warned, his heart not in the snappish tone he adopted; Patrick's eyes flicked to his, glittering before he bent his head again.
The attention of the people around them was now directed to where Caracatus was now speaking earnestly to the men of the Senate, the Emperor sitting and looking at the Briton as if he was some new species of animal, exotic and a little dangerous. Like Patrick when he had first been brought here, Caracatus’ voice in the Roman language was halting, yet proud, words careful and clipped. Pete strained to listen.
"....my present lot, disfiguring as it is for me, is magnificent for you. I had horses, men and wealth: what wonder if I was unwilling to lose them? If you wish to command, does it really follow that everyone should accept your slavery?" His voice was rising even more in the suddenly silent Senate, the roars of the crowds outside filtering into the high-ceilinged space. "If I were now being handed over as one who had surrendered immediately, neither my fortune or your glory would have achieved brilliance. On the other hand, if you preserve me safe and sound, I shall be an eternal example of your clemency."1
He fell silent; his hands, which had been opened wide during this speech, fell to his sides, but his head was still held high, watching as the Senate talked with each other; Claudius had steepled his fingers and tapped the tips of them against his lips.
"What did he say to you?" Pete turned to Patrick and received a weighty look before the servant responded.
"He asked me if I had given up."
"Have you?" Pete tilted his head and considered the flushed cheekbones of his servant; the Briton prince and members of his family were receiving a pardon from the Emperor's tribunal and leave to live in peace in Rome. After such an eloquent address, Pete was not surprised.
Patrick's small smile was brittle. "I told him never."
Pete did not speak to Patrick as they made their way home, Caracatus' words echoing in his head. Patrick was true to his word; he had never surrendered, his pride still intact even after years of servitude. But he had remained in Pete's house when the centurion had gone to war, when he could have escaped. He posed this as a question to the servant as his bath was drawn.
"I have no home anywhere else," Patrick replied, pouring the clay pots of hot water deftly. "Except for where I am now."
He turned to exit as Pete slid down into the fragrant water, but Pete reached out and caught him by the wrist, pulling him back.
"Please let me go," Patrick said in a soft voice. "Master. Whatever... whatever we were before, it must not continue." He closed his eyes as Pete's hand raised unheedingly and stroked down the side of his face. "You must start your family."
"That will be a different issue from what is between you and I. It is something that must be done. You and I... that is something I want."
"Then, take another servant. It will be the same. I am no different from the ones you have brought home from battle."
Abruptly, Pete understood, the thoughts and actions of his proud patricius now as bright as the sun, even behind that thoroughly vacant facade; the stung expression in his eyes was what gave it away, hidden behind a layer of stubbornness. Patrick did not know him at all, if he thought he would be so easily replaced, not after seven years of Pete's thoughts constantly bent towards him. This had not been purely physical, not even from the very start. No matter how Patrick tried to hide from him or push him away with that chilly wall, he would not do such a thing; it was nigh impossible.
How could Patrick have forgotten what Pete had said to him? This is for as long as I have breath... I can never give you up now.
"You are wrong," he began slowly, pulling Patrick even closer as he considered what he had to say. "You are different."
"No," Patrick replied, shaking his head and trying to resist even as Pete tugged him into the bath with him, shifting their limbs so that they were tucked close together, Patrick's tunica rough against Pete's bare skin. "No. It was wrong of me to... feel as I did. I allowed myself to expect too much of your return... that you were mine to return to after so long, I am just--"
"I own many servants. But I do not own you. I never have," Pete whispered right in his ear, biting down on the earlobe gently. Patrick shuddered and attempted to arch away. "Patrick. Patrick," and Patrick went still in his arms. "You own me."
There was a tense moment when he feared that Patrick would continue to be as a rock in the circle of his arms, ignoring what he had just said, such a solemn thing for a Roman centurion to claim to a servant. But it was true, and as he pressed his nose into Patrick's cheek, he felt the tension melt out of Patrick's body and his face turned so that their mouths met.
"You are free," Pete said against his lips before his mouth parted and Patrick's tongue slipped hungrily inside, so many years gone from between them as Patrick's hand curled in desperation around the nape of his neck, trying to get closer. "I will free you before witnesses," he vowed between kisses, "and you will become libertus, a freed-man." He tore his mouth away from Patrick's searching one, averting his eyes from the tempting fullness of his lips. "This is the greatest thing I have to give you now. So you will understand how willing I am to let you go, to do what you will as a free person, even though I would have you to stay with me for as long as we both live. This is how I feel. You must understand," he finished gruffly, feeling deeply bereft, as if Patrick had already departed from him; but a promise made is a promise kept. Pete would do all within his power, as Patrick's patron, to guarantee him manumission.
A hand touched his jaw and turned his face to see who he already knew was his beloved. He would take a wife; that was a part of his obligation, something he knew he would have to do, no matter how he disinclined was to the mere thought of it. He would have a child, that was his promise to his father's name, and raise such a child in the memory of his strong parentage; but he had already given the most important piece of himself to the person sitting in the cooling water with him right now.
"I am free," Patrick said in wonder, smiling at him in such an open manner that Pete held his breath and stared. "Then... I am free to stay here with you."
"Yes," Pete exhaled, shaking as Patrick placed a chaste kiss to his forehead, trailing down to put another at the corner of his mouth. He pressed against Patrick, feeling the steady beat of his heart against his own bare chest, even through the layer of Patrick's soaked clothes. "If that is what you choose?"
"That is what I want," Patrick affirmed, hands roaming over Pete's body as his smile grew; until all Pete saw within it was the promise of who they had both become.
They were perfect.
Most of the information used in this came from the internet (Wikipedia, what). Any historical faults are all my own.
1. Speech by Caracatus; Tacitus, The Annals, translated by A.J. Woodman, 2004; see also Church and Brodribb's translation
(http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/cgi-bin/ptext?lookup=Tac.+Ann.+12.37)