Disclaimer: I do not own HSM. Clearly.
AN: This is to be a five-shot. What started as a oneshot turned into a monster. Although you don't need to know history, I do plan to explain some things along the way to make it clear for those who did not study classics for four years as I did. All you need to know for now is that in 270AD Rome was still an empire and Christianity was still in its infancy. Persecution was rampant amongst the people and the government. Judaism was also unwelcomed, however tolerated as long as they kept to themselves. It will be another 200 years before Rome is in ruins. Enjoy it, review it, and don't throw rocks.
~Van
Esto Perpetua
("Let it be forever")
PART I: 270AD, Kalendae Ianuariae
The sun is at its highest, the rays heating the tiles of the square until they seared the heels of the barefooted slaves' feet. A humming comes from the market stalls set up along the outer edges of the crowd, the vendors making good business as the people rush to ensure a good site of the platform built in the center of the open space. All around, faces and bodies press against one another, only deferring to those in higher stations, as the heat rises and the officials fidget. No birds have settled on the surrounding rooftops or float in the cloudless sky. They could be seen as omens and therefore slaves were probably been ordered to make them scarce. Spotless, the forum has been swept clear of debris and cleansed by the priests in preparation for today. It's not every day Rome executes nobility.
He is beside me. The light reflecting off metal jewellery and adornments in the crowd and highlighting the russet tones in his hair that remind me of the clay on the potter's wheel and the bronze shields of the soldiers. His head is bent in custom prayer, but I feel his gaze on my feet and the hem of my dress, and I know his eyes are the same blue as the Aegean Sea. His hands are behind his back, tied with leather thongs. Mine are bound in the same fashion.
I risk a glance to see his face, to capture every detail and match them to the memories I already have. His strong jaw and perfect cheekbones. His skin tone that speaks to a foreign mother and unknown gods. My eyes soak in his image, trailing down to see the sweat glistening on his bare shoulders and exposed back. He has been beaten. Bruises cast black shadows along his shoulder blades and chest, a well laid hand has split his eyebrow and the lower corner of his mouth, but he is still beautiful to me. I settle my gaze on the ugly black mark of our demise.
The day he was branded is burned into my mind for it was the day that the tattoo artist killed my dreams with his needle and art. The pattern of olive branches entwining a torch is etched into the skin on his right shoulder, the ink slightly faded from years of bathing and wear. The letters are so tiny that they were only drawn on for symbolic purposes. No one could look upon his brand and question the owner. He is Claudius' property. So am I.
We have committed a sin, he and I, and we shall both die for it. Today, on this platform, my husband will make an example of us. He will exercise his right by law to reclaim the respect that our deeds have taken from him. He will restore his dignity. He will hold fast to his iron grip on power. The people will cheer for our blood. Priests will pray for our soul although without the grace of the Emperor, I am to believe their prayers do us no good. My lover will pray to his own God. Perhaps his deity is mightier than Juno and will grant us both respite from the pain that is my only fear.
I wish to touch him one last time, to feel his hands on my body and his lips on mine. If I had known our last time would be the end of us, I would not have changed things, but I would have savoured it more. Perhaps a more plentiful sacrifice to Venus would have bought us a night from sunset to sundown. I shall never know. My memories are all that keep me standing rigid on this platform, this stage. They keep me from flinching as I see the Emperor's primus pilus grip the handle of his sword with two hands, the point aimed towards the ground.
The priests are nearing the end of their incantations, their words filling my ears like the buzzing of bees. The sun is burning the flesh on my back that is turned away from the crowd. I am suddenly aware of this. Chanting from the crowd has been carried away on the wind, nothing reaching my ears but the heavy soles of the centurion's sandals and my own breathing. My nails dig into my palms, leather chafes my wrists. The plait of my hair swings forward and gives the man a clearer view. Beside me, my beautiful Greek boy is staring at me, his gaze steady and a calm washes over me.
A flash of iron and the sword sweeps through the still air.
