"Surely he took up our infirmities..."
by Street Howitzer
On any other day, he would have loved a walk through Capernaum--especially when he'd only just returned from a campaign. Other men in his position were fond (overfond, he would say) of staying in their garrisons, spending all their free time with their fellow citizens and soldiers, in the baths or in the dining-halls. Tiberius had never seen an advantage to that. His legionaries respected, feared, and obeyed him, even when he was not present; lounging around with them in the baths, as if they were casual friends, would send them all the wrong messages. And besides, his garrison's purpose was to protect Capernaum, both from outer invaders and from any Jewish rebelliousness that may ferment. How could he watch over a city if he spent all his time outside of it?
The Jews of his town (and Tiberius did think of it as his town--he had spent all of his career in this sector of the province) were easy enough to handle. They were reasonable enough to allow Gentiles to walk their streets, and seemed to tolerate the crowds of travelers on their way to Damascus rather well. For his part, Tiberius didn't understand the centurions who had troubles with controlling peregrini. All the Jews needed were a few simple concessions, ones that did not weaken the power of Rome in any fashion, and they were perfectly willing to live peaceably under Roman law. The synagogue that Tiberius had built for them a few years back had done that job neatly, but he never would have known of how much the Jews needed such a temple if he'd stayed shut up in the garrison.
It was by walking the narrow streets of Capernaum that he'd learned. His presence had, at first, frightened the Jews and impressed all the many travelers who stopped there. But, once the locals had seen that he wasn't the sort of centurion who'd strike off the heads of anyone who spoke to him out of turn, their elders had approached him about finally getting a temple. Tiberius, who had only the fuzziest of notions on how the Jews worshipped, had initially been revolted at the idea of building a temple which he could not enter for a God he did not recognize. But their elders were gently persuasive, and now that it was built, there was no sign of Capernaum's Jews being anywhere near as discontented as they were elsewhere in the Empire. A small concession, in Tiberius's eyes, that had a huge payoff--and all because he'd made himself more available than other centurions.
This town of his was pleasant to walk through, for other reasons. The fishermen were always working the shores of Galilee; walking one of the roads near the docks allowed him to take in the cool smell of the water, and the stronger salt of fish that had been caught and immediately prepared on deck. He could also, if he so chose, observe whether the tax collectors were culling all of their fees from the fishermen (who were lucky, being allowed to fish in Herod Antipas's sea). The markets were always filled to bursting with whatever the traveling merchants had in their carts, and whatever the fishermen pulled out of the Galilee in their nets. Tiberius enjoyed Capernaum, in a way that a proper Roman should not enjoy a backwater village so far and removed from the alabaster glories of Rome. But then, he had not even seen Rome since before his appointment as a centurion--and, apart from a brief return to collect a few letters of recommendation for that appointment, he'd spent nearly half his life in and around this town.
This day, though. This one was different.
Tiberius wandered down the short streets, weaving between squat basalt houses with no rhyme or reason to his movements. He could not bring himself to approach the busy markets, nor the peaceful shores of the sea. All that beauty was too much for him to take. Any time he even thought of nearing the docks, he would think of how Kyros would never see those waters again--and that was more than enough to cure him of going to Galilee. Indulging in something that Kyros could no longer do felt wrong to him, and somehow blasphemous. He almost couldn't bear the walk itself, save that remaining at the garrison and listening to Kyros's ever-fainter cries was worse.
Oh, that was a misery! When he'd first returned home, his pais's screams of agony were such that no one quartered near him in the garrison could sleep. Now, of course, all the nearby soldiers were getting their full night's rest--but that was only on account of the stillness that was overtaking Kyros's body. Not only could he no longer walk, but vital tasks--eating and breathing--were increasingly beyond him. The paralysis was settling down on his chest, making each breath he took a battle, one that he was steadily losing. When Tiberius last saw him, his lips and tongue had turned a frightening shade of blue, and Kyros could only manage the faintest of whispers.
He was a coward. He should have stayed there. But, just as he could not endure the sight of Galilee, he could only tolerate being around his dying pais for so long.
Dying. Probably dead, in a few hours' time.
Tiberius stopped. He was standing in an alley between two fenced-in dwellings, too close to the market. From here, he could hear the din of hawkers, shoppers, and their animals all talking, lowing, or tramping about at once. The smells of the market--olives, bread, fruit, breads, too much fish--were overwhelming. Not far from where he stood, he could see one of Capernaum's central roads. It was lousy with overstuffed carts, people leading their animals to buyers, dirty pilgrims, and cleanly-dressed locals. It didn't feel right--nothing should be the same as always, not with Kyros fighting to take in the slightest breath of air.
Not fighting--dying, he thought, against his will. Dying alone, while you cower in an alley, too afraid to stay by his side when he meets Mors.
If any of his legionaries could see him now--leaning like an old man up against a stone fence, hands cupped over his face, as though he were weeping--none would have recognized him.
*~*~*
And, if he were to look three years into the past, he might not have recognized himself.
Centurios Tiberius Marius Hadrian, of the Legio VI, was one of the most successful centurions in his legion--primarily because, after years of service, he was still alive. He spent half his life, sixteen glorious years, in loyal service to the Empire. He worked his way from being a simple legionnaire to becoming Gaius Nerva's optio; when Nerva was killed, as men of his sort often were, Tiberius stepped into his place. And, after a year, he was still in that place: no one had struck him down in the few battles that the Ferrata had to wage, and he was perfectly suited to keeping discipline among his ranks. In his short time of control over his century, Tiberius had broken many staves on the backs of his soldiers, and had executed several of his men for various offenses.
His contract with the military was set to run out on his thirty-fifth birthday, but anyone who knew him could see that Tiberius wasn't the sort who wanted to leave as soon as his term was over and scamper off to the Senate. He had signed on for twenty years, instead of ten, so that (as he'd told Phaidros at the time) he'd be certain to remain in the army long enough to lead a century. And he reveled in being in control of his own garrison, and all the little luxuries that came with it.
Though Tiberius did not seek permission to marry, he was granted the privilege of keeping his slaves in Capernaum's garrison. As a result, Phaidros--who, until then, had served as his master's major domus in Rome--found himself packed up with an armed caravan, traveling farther than he had ever gone in his life, until they finally reached Galilee. Once there, Phaidros was pleased to find that being a major domus in Capernaum was not altogether different from being one in the cradle of civilization. The only real difference between the two was the number of soldiers he saw on a daily basis. And, naturally, Tiberius's lodgings in the garrison were nowhere as spacious as his actual home.
Phaidros was happy where he was--the Galilee charmed him, just as its bright beauty had seduced his master, and there was something to be said for living in the countryside. He'd never had the chance to do that before. His father was one of Iunius's slaves. Iunius therefore owned all his father's children. He had consequently lived and worked in Rome for all his life--first, for his father's master, and later, for his master's son. He hadn't thought that being gifted to a boy four years his junior would be beneficial; but here, he found a quieter life than he'd ever expected.
The only time he'd ever had to leave was when Tiberius wished for a pais.
Prior to the purchasing of Kyros, Phaidros had procured many things for his master, up to and including other slaves. He had a fairly good eye, and could tell who was going to slouch on the job, and who was going to do more than his share, with a few seconds of quiet examination. But Kyros wasn't destined to be a house-slave or a major domus. A pais was something altogether different. And, at first, the notion that Tiberius would even ask for one was stunning. This was a man who had, per the regulations of the army, refrained from any thoughts of marriage until he retired. And had, per the special regulations placed on centurions, refrained from any sort of affairs for a year.
His surprise made him, for one of the only times in his life, question aloud an order that was given by his master. "Lord, I don't think I understand you. Do you mean a--a pais, as in a child? Another servant?"
"A specific sort of servant, yes." Tiberius was sitting at his work-table, as though his request had something to do with his job. Several maps papered over the surface of his table, with various Latin notations scribbled on them. Being who he was, Phaidros could read what they said, but he never made the mistake of trying to do so. "I'll pay you extra for taking the trip, and if you do well, you'll get a bonus."
"Lord, I--of course I'll do it. But," and he hesitated, stepped back a little. Tiberius glanced up at him for a moment. His rust-brown eyes conveyed both curiosity and an edge of a threat. "When you say 'pais', are you asking for a man or a woman?"
"My Greek's always been a little shaky, but my understanding is that a pais is a male servant."
"You understand the laws of Rome better than I, Lord. But even I'm aware of the Lex Scantinia. Citizens can't--"
"Have relations with other citizens who are the same as they. And, the last time I consulted the law, a slave is not a citizen."
Phaidros folded his hands together. Part of his job was to always appear calm--to never give a hint of anger, frustration, or dismay to his employer. This sometimes required little tricks. Folding his hands, he found, was a wonderful way to mask the urge to make a fist. "Citizens can't defile themselves with res, either. Taking a slave like that--it's--why would you want that, Lord?"
You may as well ask me to buy you a dog, and for the same purpose, he thought. And, wisely, left unsaid.
"I have no patience, Phaidros." His master looked up fully from his work. He rested his hands on one of the maps, visually obliterating all of the Dead Sea. "I'll serve my Emperor until I'm thirty-five, at least. Perhaps longer, if that's how it plays out. The Lex says I can't marry. It says that I can't have any open relationships with a woman--it would set a bad example to my men, and any children she had would be bastard non-citizens until I retired. It says that I can defile any female slave I like, but I'd get no pleasure from a woman if she wasn't my wife. And I don't care for the idea of my children being born out of wedlock."
"What about one of the legio--"
"Absolutely not." His master's voice turned to serrated steel, the voice that Phaidros nearly never heard--Tiberius saved it for those unlucky men who were on their last warning. "I would never ask one of my men to do that for me. That isn't fair to them, and it conveys the idea that I'm some erastes whose favors can be bought."
"I see, Lord," he said promptly. "Far be it from me to instruct you in anything. I was merely worried."
"You're right to be. It's simply the best of a few bad options. I... don't want to wait anymore."
For a moment, Phaidros wondered at whether this was as simplistic as a need to find release. Tiberius didn't sound or seem frustrated; his major domus was familiar with his moods, and could see that Tiberius was somehow sad. But he'd already pushed his master, by asking him questions. Commenting on his emotional status might not be the wisest thing to do. "Very well. What, ah... what am I looking for when I get there? Should he be tall, or short?"
"Not taller than me," Tiberius said. He then enumerated a list of things which his pais must have, and all that he must not--a list which couldn't have been made up on the spot. The sort of list that (or so Phaidros thought) a man might think up on a night when he was especially lonely, and sleep was too long in coming.
*~*~*
As he traveled to the markets to which he'd been directed, Phaidros did not think that he could find anyone who was even within reach of his master's exacting standards. This one was too tall; the next was too pale; the following was either blond hair, or brown like his own; and the next was too rounded. He didn't find Kyros until he'd crossed into the borders of Greece, many a parasanges from where he'd started. At that point, buying Kyros was nothing but a relief--he was done, he could go home, he would soon be unbothered by this traveling and hunting nonsense. It didn't occur to him to think any different until they were both packed up in the caravan and heading back to Capernaum, when Kyros asked what would be required of him.
"You'll be taken into my master's house--Tiberius Marius Hadrian, although he'll skin you if you ever call him that. Once there, you'll be fed each day, and your normal needs will be seen to. You'll receive a peculium, which you can save to buy manumission or citizenship, or spend it on whatever you like--"
"And what will I be doing?" the youth repeated. Truthfully, Phaidros was somewhat in awe of his find. Kyros fit neatly into his master's list: he was tall without being too tall, he was young--seventeen years--without being a child, his hair was a lustrous black, his eyes were brown (a golden shade, one that he thought his master would like), and his frame was tone, without being too thick or bulky. If he'd casually bought a slave like this to work in the house, Phaidros might have been tempted--but he wasn't foolish enough to touch someone meant for his master.
"You will stay in his room each evening. You'll do anything he asks you to do, and sleep where he bids you to sleep."
Kyros looked mildly puzzled, but only for a few seconds. "Am I that sort of slave?"
He nodded. "Part of your peculium involves your silence. He'll pay you more not to speak to anyone about what you do, and take it out of your pay if you break your promise."
"Is... is he..."
"Our master is a centurion in the Galilean province. He beats his men fairly frequently, but he's never raised a hand to a slave. If you're good to him, he won't harm you."
"That's not what I wanted to know." Kyros paused, lowered his gaze. When he spoke again, his words were hushed and in Greek. "He's not old, is he? Or fat?"
Phaidros chuckled--the idea of a slave being picky about the appearance of his master was an amusing one. He gladly switched back to Greek, the language his parents had taught him when their masters weren't around. "I don't find myself attracted to him, but our Lord is neither old or fat. He's thirty-one, and he's a soldier. He doesn't have the time to gain much weight."
"Ah. Well, I think I can stomach that."
"You'd better be able to. You don't exactly have a choice."
Kyros smiled--not an expression of happiness, but of resignation. "And he's a centurion? Are you sure I'm not in any danger?"
"I wouldn't have bought you if I thought he was going to be violent," Phaidros said, and meant it. There were many citizens of Rome who, in his estimation, did not deserve their slave labor--men and women who treated their house-servants with the same callous cruelty that was traditionally saved for the field- and mine-slaves. If he had worked for one of them, he would have deliberately returned empty-handed from the markets, and never mind whatever violence they'd visit upon him. "My family has belonged to the Marius clan for two generations. I don't know that I would hope for him to ever free you; but he won't treat you like one of his legionaries."
"And they have it badly?" Now, that smile was fading, and was slowly being replaced by something like dismay.
"To my knowledge, sixteen of his men have been executed for treason in the last year." Phaidros did not hide the warmth of pride in his voice. "The usual offenses--sleeping while on guard duty, failing to report on time on multiple occasions, failing to learn a new exercise in a reasonable amount of time. The sixteen who replaced them have not made the same mistakes. I don't think he's had to strike someone down in three months, although our Lord is strict with the vine staff."
"But--he won't free me?"
"I can't say that he would. He's never seen an issue with buying and keeping res. If he were to submit anyone to manumission, it would have been me; but here I am. And, even if he did free me, here I would stay. I'm afraid I don't know how to do much else."
The youth sighed, as though his heart were breaking. Phaidros found that confusing: the idea of ever being freed wasn't something he'd thought about. "Well. I hope that I can please him."
That was something the major domus was concerned with, as well--if he'd spent his master's hard-earned denarii on a pais he did not favor, Phaidros wouldn't get paid for a year.
When their caravan returned to Capernaum, their Lord was at the garrison, which saved them the tension of waiting for him to return from a campaign. And when Phaidros first introduced Kyros to his new master, he thought that this was going to go well. Tiberius was almost a stoic about it--he performed the brief, routine examination of his purchase with the same dispassionateness that he showed towards all his slaves. But Phaidros knew his master's moods, and he could see the nervous purse of Tiberius's lips, and the way that the centurion could not take his eyes away from Kyros. When the exam was done, Tiberius cupped his hands against the youth's face, tilting it upwards, letting him check over his dark complexion, Grecian nose, and golden-brown eyes.
This was passing strange, for Phaidros--his master had never needed to check a slave's face, for until then, that sort of thing had borne no relevance. The strangeness was forgotten the next day, when he received his peculium three weeks early, and with the largest bonus he'd ever received in all his years of servitude.
*~*~*
Kyros thought he had a right to be afraid of his master. During the trip to Capernaum, his mind was a whirl of fright and despair. Although the major domus had tried to reassure him, he could not shake the mental image of Tiberius being either hideous, or old (and thirty-one was ancient, to him), or a gleeful sadist. What sort of man had to buy a lover? Why couldn't he find one on his own? That meant there had to be something wrong with his Lord, regardless of anything Phaidros had said.
And what if Tiberius did not like him? Would he take that frustration out on his new pais? Or would he be sold to someone else? That could certainly happen. Anything could happen. If he'd ever been the master of his own fate (and the gods would have something to say about that), that was no longer the case. By the time they arrived in Capernaum, Kyros's mind was filled with awful visions--Tiberius would bleed him to death, or whip him and laugh at his cries of pain. He would greet him with a slap across the face. He would use his vine staff on Kyros, the way he used it on his men; then, after Kyros was beaten so that he could no longer move, he would be ravished.
His first surprise, upon meeting his new Lord, was that Phaidros had not lied about his appearance. True, Tiberius was older, but he was handsome, for a Roman. He was tall, as befit a man of leadership; and he was strongly built, as befit a man who was spending his life in the army. He had several scars, on his arms and his neck. When he first touched Kyros--to properly examine his face--the youth found that Tiberius's fingers were hard and rough from decades of handling weaponry, and that he had another, small scar running across his right palm. But, in spite of all these outward signs of his stature, his Lord was both demure and gentle. He certainly did not strike Kyros, when they first met, or later in the evening.
Though their meeting lacked violence, the pais was still nervous and frightened when the evening turned to night. As Phaidros had bade him to do, he'd spent the afternoon first bathing, then resting from his long journey in Tiberius's bedroom. This room--where, he presumed, he'd be spending most of his time--wasn't a bad place to be, but it was still unfamiliar. The walls were carved of slate-gray basalt, as was every building in or around Capernaum. The roof was densely thatched. There were two small windows in the outer wall, providing enough light to see by during the day. He did not dare to touch his master's bed without permission, but the sheets looked both warm and soft, and the mattress looked as though it were stuffed with feathers, instead of reeds. Tucked into the far corner was a pallet which Phaidros informed him was his. When he laid on it, he found that the sheets were clean, if not as nice as the ones on Tiberius's bed, and that the mattress was filled with sweet-smelling hay.
But it wasn't home. No one here but Phaidros spoke any Greek. While Kyros could speak Latin, he found it to be an ugly language, and didn't care for hearing it wherever he went. The sheer number of rough-talking, strutting soldiers was dismaying to him. He'd always been taught to run if he were ever surrounded by this many Roman soldiers, and being in the baths surrounded by them worked his nerves. He didn't want to languish in Tiberius's chambers, but he didn't want to know any of the eighty-odd men living in the garrison. Tiberius had no other slaves, other than Phaidros and a silent Macedonian woman who cleaned his domicile. And, although he had not spoken to any of the help here, Kyros got the impression that he wouldn't be looked on fondly by them. He wasn't here to do real, honest work, was he?
His homesickness, and his still-lingering fear of his master, left him a near-wreck by the time Tiberius came to bed. Kyros laid on his pallet, listening as his Lord walked to his own bed and settled down into it. His heart nearly leaped out of his chest when he heard the centurion call his name. He walked to Tiberius's bed--slowly, he might shake too hard if he moved too quickly--and when he tried to lie down, he was stopped by his master's hand, coming to rest over one of his own.
"Undress for me," he murmured. "I did not get to examine you as thoroughly as I'd have liked."
"Yes, Lord," Kyros said promptly, as Phaidros had encouraged him to do. He stood up fully and slipped out of his clothing, until he was wearing nothing but the darkness of the shuttered bedroom. He shut his eyes, waiting to be struck, or bitten, or whipped--then he gasped, in pure surprise, when he felt Tiberius's scarred hand gently drifting over his body.
"How old are you?" Tiberius said, as his fingers stroked across his pais's chest.
"S-seventeen," Kyros replied. His fright had begun to melt away, to be replaced by another sort of trembling--but that question made him worry all over again. Was he too old? For his own part, Kyros was nowhere near a virgin, and in his own estimations, he was a man. Had Tiberius wanted someone less experienced, or someone who was on the younger side?
"I don't believe you."
"What?" But he did not get a spoken answer. Instead, he felt Tiberius's hands encircling his hips, guiding him forward until he was lying in the bed. Once there, he knew what to do. His Lord did not direct him much. He accepted Kyros's kisses, and gave his own, without asking for them; he allowed Kyros to touch him where he willed, and took the same privilege. Were it not for how it ended, Kyros might have believed that he were having an affair not unlike the ones he'd had already--but once Tiberius had exceeded by his hands, he sent Kyros to his own pallet without any reciprocation.
For several weeks, this was his life: he would wake later in the day than the other soldiers and slaves, and after breaking his fast, he would help Phaidros in is usual management duties. This would last until the evening, when he would retire to his master's chambers and wait to be called to Tiberius's bed. Once he was called, he would please his Lord in whatever way seemed best--often with his hands, and sometimes with his mouth--until he was sent back to his pallet. It continued in this way until Phaidros (who, before this, had been silent on the nature of Kyros's other duties) presented him with his peculium. The elder slave watched as Kyros counted out his pay--not because he didn't trust his betters, but because he could hardly believe that real money was in his possession.
"You've done well with him," Phaidros observed, speaking in Greek, as they did when they were in private. "He didn't ask me to withhold any of it." He cleared his throat, and looked away from Kyros, focusing instead on the floor. "Is he treating you as well as I'd promised? You can tell me if he's hurting you."
"Oh, he hasn't hurt me at all," Kyros said. "But--I don't know that I should speak to anyone about it. I'm being paid to keep his privacy."
"There's little about our Lord that I don't know."
"Well. It's that... I suppose I was naive. He treats me sometimes as though we're having an affair. Like I'm not a slave. But he doesn't touch me often, and he never tries to satisfy me. Though if that doesn't please him, I guess I shouldn't expect it of him."
"He will give you more if you give him more," Phaidros said, and nodded towards the door.
Kyros didn't think much of what his fellow Greek had said until that evening. Then, when he was called to Tiberius's bed, he did not (as was now his habit) disrobe before climbing in. His master frowned, and started to ask him to remove his robes. But before the words were fully formed, Kyros reached for his Lord, stroking over his wide shoulders. The muscles beneath his dark skin were tense, like cable that had been stretched to the point of breaking.
"You're tired and strained all at once, my Lord," the pais said quietly--all of their bed-talk was composed in spare whispers, for fear of being overheard by one of Tiberius's men or enemies. "Let me care for you before we begin."
Tiberius gave him a wary sideways glance. But he allowed Kyros to turn him until he lay on his stomach, and he permitted Kyros to straddle over his lower back; and when his pais began to work, methodically and thoroughly, on the knotted muscles of his back, he cried out more loudly than he had any of the times he'd climaxed. He moaned--and nearly purred--from all of the attention he was paid. By the time Kyros thought he was done, most of the cramps had been worked into nothingness, and those that remained had been beaten down to insignificant spasms. When he rolled off of Tiberius and onto the mattress, he thought that his Lord was asleep, and that he would send himself to his pallet. But when he tried to rise, Tiberius seized on his wrist, all but dragging him back down.
"I did not dismiss you," the centurion growled in his ear. They were flush against one another, and Kyros could clearly feel the hard definition of Tiberius's sex against his stomach.
"I'm sorry, my L--" Kyros began. It was difficult to speak--Tiberius had never spoken to him with such a desperate tone, and it was intoxicating. And when his master began to lick over his throat, and nearly rip his clothing right off of his frame, talking became impossible.
*~*~*
Part of his peculium involved his silence, but even if Kyros had told Tiberius's men about his lover, none of them would have believed it.
How could they? The centurion they knew was unbelievably strict--a man who brought out his vine staff at the slightest hint of discontent or disorder. He was brave enough to lead his men from the front lines of battle, and cunning enough to avoid the usual bloody fate of his fellow centurions. When he was wounded (though Kyros hated to think of it), he only stopped fighting if it was impossible for him to stand. Instead of allowing himself to be taken to a tent to rest, he would sit near the edge of the battlefield as his wounds were dressed--showing his men that he was still there, still watching and commanding their performance. He did not have to often fight campaigns; battles were almost unheard-of in Capernaum, and his century of the Ferrata were only sometimes called away to other, bloodier places. But when he did, his courage and skill went unquestioned, as did his vicious requirements of his legionaries.
No one, Kyros thought, would have understood the Tiberius he knew. For one, he went by Hadrian while he was at work, and My Lord while he was at home--but, after a year of their entanglement, his master had given him permission to call him Tiberius when they made love. For another, his master was loud and rough with his men, but exceedingly careful with Kyros, as though he might bruise at a firm touch. Whenever Tiberius touched him, with his hands or his mouth, Kyros felt as though he were being worshipped. This adoring deference was nothing like he'd expected from his owner, or from the Hadrian that the soldiers in the garrison spoke of--the man who, from what they said, should be splitting him in half every night. Instead, Tiberius sometimes drove him insane with how chary he could be.
Then--then, there were times when they coupled, when Tiberius was in the act of completing him, when Kyros would forget that he had ever been purchased. He'd become overwhelmed by the quick, almost frantic place that his master needed to set; he'd lose himself in how Tiberius would moan his name--not pais or my servant but oh my Kyros; he'd relish the way that Tiberius would fall silent as he climaxed, as if he were lost as well, as if he were a lover who was finally finding release in his beloved.
That was all fantastical enough. Then, after two years of faithful service, Tiberius allowed Kyros to complete him. His servant had not asked permission--he had been thinking of doing such a thing for some time, and when he thought that his Lord would be understanding, he turned Tiberius to lie on his stomach. His master had yielded entirely, in a way that Kyros wouldn't have believed, had Tiberius not done it for him. When he felt Tiberius tighten, heard his breath hitch and his body arch up, Kyros understood that he wasn't a slave, not to Tiberius. In that moment, he was his Lord's entire universe.
And when his Lord (after nearly three years in Capernaum) finally accounted for why he'd first asked Kyros's age, the reason was sheer whimsy. "I couldn't believe that you were anything but an immortal," he explained, his voice dark with embarrassment. "I thought you were too lovely to be anything but a god."
Who would understand that? Who would think he was anything but a liar if he'd spoken of it?
*~*~*
In Hadrian's thirty-third year, his century left Galilee for nearly a month. Aretas IV was beginning to voice his extreme displeasure over his daughter being divorced and cast out by Herod Antipas. And, more tawdry than that, she'd been cast out so that Herod could marry his own niece. This, in combination with the usual border disputes between Iudaea and Nabataea, required a brief show of force. Herod, being the legatus over the sixth legion, sent all of the men under his command to the border--not to start a war with Aretas, but to preemptively warn him against challenging the might of Rome. After a few minor skirmishes against the Nabataeans, Hadrian and his century was sent back to their home-base.
On the way back to Capernaum, Hadrian's optio was flagged down by a Galilean messenger. Cicero had been trained to not permit his leader to be disturbed by anything but a military emergency, and therefore barred the man from speaking to Hadrian directly--but, as it happened, the messenger was more of a delivery-man. His news for the centurion came in the form of a letter. As Cicero did not think that handing this note to his leader was a breach in protocol, he dismissed the messenger; then, he delivered the Galilean's letter that evening, after Hadrian had begun to prepare for bed.
A man of Cicero's station had power over mere legionaries, but as Hadrian's second-in-command, he was at his leader's beck and call until one of them was dead. (Hopefully, that would be Hadrian--Cicero didn't want to die an optio.) When he delivered his note to the centurion, he remained knelt at his side as he read it over. He had not breached his commander's privacy, and therefore hadn't read it; but he could watch Hadrian's face for some hint of what it contained. The messenger hadn't looked like a dignitary from Rome, but suppose that it was? What if those words were new orders--perhaps from the Emperor, he hadn't checked the seal--that he'd unnecessarily delayed?
As he watched, he saw little hint at what the letter contained. His leader's eyes widened, once, towards the beginning, but apart from this, there was no outward indication that anything was amiss. He was therefore surprised when, once it was over, Hadrian glanced over at him and said, "Cicero, which of our horses do you think is the best-rested?"
"Sir?"
"I'm riding ahead. Tonight. I may stop at mid-night, but only for a short time. I need a horse that can still go for a few more hours without dropping dead. If you don't know which that is, I'd appreciate it if you found the answer."
"Yes, sir--but why are you leaving? What has happened, if I may ask, sir?"
"I..." Hadrian paused for so long that Cicero became convinced that he wouldn't say what the note detailed. "There's... something has come up at Capernaum. I need to be at the garrison sooner than I originally intended. It's got nothing to do with you or the century. I expect for you to substitute for me, and for you to execute my duties at least as well as I."
Cicero bowed his head. Externally, he was calm. Internally, he didn't like that Hadrian had used the word 'execute', especially when he had his cudgel still on his belt. Cicero had seen Hadrian commence several group executions with that very club, not to mention the times when his commander had simply bashed in someone's brains. "Yes, sir. Do you wish us to return at the same pace we've taken so far?"
"Yes, that's fine," he said, but Hadrian did not seem to be listening anymore. His mind was probably already in Capernaum. After he rode off, Cicero took his leader's tent for his own, and found that the centurion had thoughtlessly left the letter behind. By this time, the optio's curiosity had turned to a mild obsession: what private business could Hadrian be on? He usually supposed that "private business" meant business with a wife or a mistress. To his knowledge, Hadrian had neither, but perhaps he was simply circumspect about it.
And, really, if Hadrian didn't want someone reading his personal notes, he shouldn't have left it behind.
Cicero picked it up. The script was in Latin, which was lucky--if it'd been something in Greek from one of Hadrian's barbarian servants, he wouldn't have understood it. My Lord, it read, The most precious servant is gravely ill. He has been ill for some days, and it has only gotten worse. Your presence during this difficult time would be a great relief on all of your servants, Kyros especially. If possible, return with all haste. Below all of this was, by way of signature, the letter P.
The optio tried to reconcile the Hadrian he knew, with the Hadrian who (no--was it possible?) had ridden off in the middle of the evening to watch over a sick servant. After a sleepless hour, he gave up.
*~*~*
Tiberius arrived back in Capernaum a full day before his century returned. He accomplished this by only sleeping in short shifts, and by wearing his horse almost to death. Even if he'd rested the night through, though, he wouldn't have found much sleep. His thoughts about Phaidros's message were a storm that flooded the whole of his mind, until even thinking of sleep seemed impossible. When he arrived at the garrison, he didn't make any of his usual stops--the baths, the dining-hall--and instead, he all but ran to his own chambers.
Phaidros, of course, was waiting for him by the door. If there was anyone else in his rooms, he did not see them when Phaidros opened the door for him.
"What's wrong with him?" Tiberius asked, as he strode inside.
"Lord, you should sit down and rest," Phaidros said. His servant first shut, then turned the lock on the door. "You look like you're fairly sick, yourself. You don't have circles under your eyes--you look like you've been punched in--"
"Phaidros, I hoped you wouldn't make me ask you a second time." But, if only to humor his wan major domus, he walked over to his work-table and sat in his chair. "You said he was ill. What's he sick with? Is he any better?"
"No. He's not better. Did I say he was ill, Lord?" Phaidros folded his hands for a moment, then cupped one of his hands over his mouth. At that, Tiberius's sick worry began to shift into something darker, more frightful. Phaidros only ever folded his hands when he wanted to stop those hands from doing something else; and whenever he hid his mouth, it was because he wanted to stop someone from seeing his expression. Not laughter, it couldn't be laughter. Some sign of misery, then? "I did say he was getting worse, didn't I? I don't have it in front of me, but--"
"Yes. You said both."
"Ah. Well, Lord, he hasn't gotten any better. He's been seen by a few doctors. When none of the ones in the garrison could help, I paid for two others to examine him. Travelers. It's not good, Lord."
"What is it?" Tiberius wanted to reach out and throttle Phaidros for being so vague, but if he did, he might never get any information out of him. "Leprosy? It's not leprosy, is it?"
"We don't know what it is, Lord. I'm sorry. I first noticed it a week and three days ago. He hid that he was vomiting, but he couldn't hide the way he was slurring his words, and fumbling everything he tried to touch. I sent him to bed, thinking that it was the fever. It wasn't. After a few days passed, he could no longer stand up without help. Then he seemed to lose all control of his legs--he hasn't been able to stand up since then. Then he started losing control over his arms. He can still move them, and his head, but most of his body is divorced from his mind."
Phaidros paused--but if he thought that his master would say anything, he was mistaken. Tiberius didn't think he had the will to speak, or weep, or do anything but stare blankly at his servant. Phaidros might as well be claiming that the city of Rome was burning to the ground.
"This morning, he began to have trouble with chewing his food," the major domus slowly continued. "Lord, that's a terrible sign. If he can't control his mouth, his throat might be next--what if he can't eat at all? And, well, he may be having a few problems with breathing. His chest doesn't rise and fall as it should. My Master, I'm sorry. I've been tending to him here, and I haven't done a single thing you commanded me to in your absence--"
He doesn't want to say it, Tiberius thought. Neither did he, but someone must: he had to know if he was, blessedly, mistaken. "He's dying. Is that what you're trying to say, Phaidros?"
His servant did something that, in their years of living together, Tiberus had never seen before. He bit his own lower lip. Then, he said, "Yes, Lord. That's the prognosis. He isn't expected to last another week--either from pain, from lack of breath, or lack of nourishment. We don't know which."
*~*~*
And, on the third day, Tiberius went to Capernaum, fleeing the garrison as though he were fleeing a wrathful Jupiter's lightning-bolts.
All he had wanted was to be alone--just for a few minutes, and only so that he could reconcile himself with being alone for the rest of his life. After knowing Kyros, the idea of marrying a woman was nonsense. Living as a celibate would present its own set of problems with the Empire, but they were bearable. He could remain in the army. He'd meant to retire next year, but what would be the point of retiring?
As such, he did not hear it when a quiet uproar broke out in the nearby street. And he didn't notice when a man slipped away from the crowd, and stepped into the same alley as Tiberius. This man walked directly up to the centurion; Tiberius only knew that he was there when he heard the man kneel down beside him.
"Is--" Tiberius began, dropping his hands from his face. He turned to look at who had knelt near him, expecting a messenger bringing him news of Kyros's demise. But if that were so, it was no messenger Tiberius had ever met before. He was a short Jewish man, made shorter by how he was sitting. He was dressed in peasant's robes which, when they'd first been made, might have been blue. Though Tiberius thought he knew everyone who lived in his town, he didn't immediately recognize this man. "What are you doing here?"
"Hiding," the Jew said. He spoke Greek, with the slight hesitancy of a man speaking something other than his first language. The centurion couldn't see his face, but he heard a smile in the man's voice. "I can barely get out of the house without being mobbed. If I stay here long enough, they may give up and go about their business."
"Who--who are they?" For the first time in days, Tiberius's thoughts were not completely dominated by Kyros's illness. He leaned down a little, trying to get a clearer look at this man and sort out who he was. "How long have you been in Capernaum?"
"Oh, I've only just come back," the Jew said. He glanced up at Tiberius. Although he was looking directly into them, Tiberius could not tell the color of his eyes--only that their expression was careful, and gentle. "Some of my friends and I were discussing the Law outside of town. That was yesterday. Before that, we were around the Jordan. It's been a while since I was last here."
"Ah." He hadn't heard of any such discussion. That didn't mean that it hadn't taken place--he didn't know of anything that had occurred outside of his own bedroom in days.
"Centurios, are you feeling well? Men of your sort don't normally need to hide in alleyways."
"I'm not hiding." The Jew smiled at this denial. After a moment, Tiberius looked away, feeling strangely ashamed of himself. "Well--not from anything that can be rightly avoided. Nothing I can fight."
"The weapons for that battle are not ones you can handle."
"Perhaps not. Listen, I don't think I recognize you--have we ever met?"
"Once or twice. My mother calls me Yeshua."
"That isn't familiar." And besides, his mind was beginning to turn from the diversion of placing the face of this Jew. (Conversing in Greek forced his thoughts to turn back to Kyros: was he dead already? Would he die soon? Would that be before Tiberius could return?) "It doesn't matter."
"It might, one day." The Jew straightened up. As Tiberius had suspected, Yeshua was fairly short--perhaps two handspans shy of the centurion's own height. "I can wait. When you're ready to speak to me about what you want to ask, you will."
"I don't know what I'm supposed to ask."
"Not yet," Yeshua agreed. He smiled, and Tiberius stepped back--the expression was inviting, which made him immediately suspicious. "You don't recall me, but I do recall you, centurios. You're the reason why we have the synagogue."
"I arranged for it to happen." And some good it had done him. The Hebrew's God wouldn't think to save his Kyros--an abominable infidel, from what he knew of the Jews' faith--and the gods of Rome had chosen to let Kyros expire.
"And paid for it. Farther than most in your position would have gone. That was good of you. You were willing to listen to foreigners you'd conquered and give them something they wanted. I like that. And it's a fine place to teach."
"Oh--are you a rabbi?"
"I am a teacher, yes. Is there anything you'd wish to ask me, centurios?"
He did not understand why, but for a few seconds, Tiberius entertained the idea of asking the Jew about Kyros. That was madness, of course. No rabbi would care about an unbelieving pais, especially one who was dying; one of the many reasons why Kyros was paid for his silence was that, if the local Jews knew of Tiberius and his slave, they would no longer respect his authority. "No, nothing."
"Very well." The Roman watched as Yeshua walked towards the main road once more. He walked slowly, his faded peasant's robes dragging their hems in the dirt. And which teacher had he been? He'd said something about being around the Jordan, hadn't he? For reasons he couldn't explain, Tiberius found himself dwelling on that last point. The only new teacher he'd heard of in this area was a healer, not a proper rabbi. He'd heard rumors of a Jewish magician who struck sickness out of the bodies of his followers--but, surely a magic-worker of that caliber wouldn't be so plainly dressed, or careful in his tone.
He saw Yeshua step onto the main road--and he heard a sudden explosion of conversation, cries of the Jew's name, and other titles he did not understand. Was that who he was, then? That healer?
Is there anything you'd wish to ask me, centurios? Never calling him Lord, never recognizing his authority beyond his military rank. And what could he ask of Yeshua, anyhow? Even if he had power over sickness (and the thought was tantalizing, as no doctors or priests had yet held any power over what was stealing Kyros from him), he wouldn't use that power for his pais.
But he had laid his hands on lepers, from what he'd heard of the healer's exploits in Iudaea. A man who was willing to do that might be willing to help anyone who crossed his path. He might care more about the paralysis than about the paralytic. If it would help his case, he could simply lie--call Kyros his friend, or his servant, or his son, anything but his lover. And if it worked, well.
Tiberius--unmindful of the audience, or who might recognize him--started out of the short alleyway, as quick as the Jew had been slow, trying to catch him before he was totally swallowed up by the crowd. He had to push his way through the people on the street. A multitude (the same mob who followed Yeshua whenever he left his home, Tiberius assumed) had gathered, slowing traffic in the market to a crawl.
When he glimpsed the Jew--speaking to a small knot of his followers, unmindful of the throng that had surrounded him--his first instinct was to call him by name. That might be disrespectful, though, towards someone he needed to ask a favor. If he called him Rabbi, the local elders might have something to say about that. And showing too much deference would be humiliating, for a centurion. He was a man whose very presence caused the crowd to part. Everyone in Capernaum knew him, and feared the power the Emperor had bestowed upon him. He was--
Unable to do a thing to stop Kyros from dying, he thought. Yes. That was the trouble. All his strength meant nothing, now, when it should have mattered the most. If Yeshua could fight the battles that Tiberius could not, he guessed, there was no harm in recognizing that superiority.
"Lord," he said. His voice was almost silent, and Yeshua's followers all seemed to be talking at once, but he was heard. The Jew turned from those who he was speaking to, and faced Tiberius. His gaze (and the Roman still couldn't tell the color of his eyes) was quiet, and somehow, invitational. This expression reminded Tiberius of how he'd felt ashamed over not confessing why he was hiding in an alleyway. Lying no longer seemed merely wrong; it seemed impossible.
"I--that is, my most precious pais is lying paralyzed under my roof. He's in terrible pain, at the point of dying."
Yeshua nodded. Tiberius felt his heart spinning in his chest. This teacher had to know what he meant by 'pais'. Yeshua knew of him, and he would therefore know that the centurion had no children in his care. He'd also know that he had two male servants, a major domus and a doulos. Calling either of them a pais was not an unsubtle change, judging from the pained expressions that were crossing the faces of several of his followers. Was he actually going to--
"Very well. I will go and heal him. Under your roof, you say? At the garrison?"
The centurion felt dismay being to poison his hopes. No Jew had ever set foot inside of the garrison. It was a Gentile dwelling, and he knew enough to understand that the elders thought this made them unclean. "Yes."
"Let us go, then."
"No, Lord," Tiberius said. The confidence with which Yeshua spoke, and his willingness to sully himself in the dwelling of a Gentile, helped Tiberius to begin to understand. Was he not willing to go wherever his men may be, in order to reward them or punish them, as needs be? If this Jew could control disease, would he not be willing to go wherever illness was in order to throw it out? And would his physical presence even be necessary? "Don't trouble yourself. I don't think I'm worthy to have you under my roof. But if you say the word, he'll be healed."
"What causes you to say that, centurios?"
"Because I'm a centurion. I'm like you--a man set under authority, with soldiers in my command. If I tell a legionary to go somewhere, there he goes; if I tell another to come into my presence, here he comes; and if I tell my doulos to do something, he does it instantly. If you tell my pais to be healed, then he will recover."
Yeshua stared at him for a small eternity. The gathered crowd had hushed, curious to know what their leader was going to do. For Tiberius's part, he felt his confidence in his own words going to war against his fears of being written off as a foolish pagan. Then, after the eternity passed, a smile touched Yeshua's dark face, one that made Tiberius think of the awe he'd felt in the temple of Jupiter as a child. Awe he hadn't truly experienced again, until he heard the Jew say:
"Truly, I tell you all, I haven't seen a faith like this in all of Israel. Go home. Let it be done for you as you believed it would be."
*~*~*
He returned home to a sober Phaidros. His major domus let him in without saying a word--he'd made his disagreement over Tiberius's leaving very plain earlier, and he was likely still not happy with his master. When the Greek did not immediately inform him that Kyros had died (which would, at least, have given him time to hunt down that cursed Jew and kill him for his cruelty), Tiberius immediately moved towards the bedroom. He did not get a chance to open the door, though--before he even got there, Kyros had flung it open. Kyros--no longer suffocating, now flush, and happy, and moving, and alive--cried out Tiberius's name, and threw his arms around his lover's neck. Tiberius pulled his pais closer, and began to cry.
Phaidros (who had never heard anyone call his master Tiberius, nor expected to see Kyros alive again, nor seen the centurion cry) collapsed in his master's chair, in a gray faint.
-end-
~Before judging these characters too harshly, I'd like to point out (as one of my favorite history teachers told me) that the past is like a foreign country: they do things differently there.~