A/N: You have all asked about the "prequel" to Not Alone, so here it is. Fated to Pretend will follow episodes 3x01 – 3x06. Not Alone follows 3x06 – 3x10.
This story is written because of CarolCB and gannicusmelitta. Like me, like all of us, they cannot let go of Gannibyl. Love eternal ladies.
As always, I love hearing your thoughts/take on scenes. Don't be afraid to leave your comments.
Enjoy.
Gannicus stood beside Spartacus and grinned broadly as they watched their Roman enemy, Cossinius and Furius flee battlefield like fucking cowards. For months since Glaber had fallen at the hands of Spartacus, freed slaves joined ranks to rain blood and chaos upon the mighty Roman Empire.
Standing amid the battlefield, bodies lay where they had been struck down, parts severed, hacked and maimed in glorious victory. Blood muddied ground; the smell of death mingled with earth heightening senses in almost grotesque splendour.
"Roman dogs live to face us another day," he said to Spartacus who stood beside him. Their leader gave no response, brow furrowed as it was oft likely to do. At his side, Saxa appeared, her face covered in blood and dirt. He chuckled with wild abandon and pulled her near, their lips mashing.
"We make drink and fuck," she offered against his lips, her legs already snaking around his waist.
"A thing I hold no objection to." He smiled in return, pleased that she understood his needs. They had become partners in pleasurable pursuits. She stood an uncomplicated woman who made no demands upon him, as he made none upon her. They shared common interest in wine, women and the thirst for Roman blood.
He did not always understand sentiment shared or words uttered. But it mattered not. They had a common language in the way their bodies fit together. It was all that stood of importance. They fought and they fucked. Such arrangement was blessed by the gods. And if it was not, it was of no importance. He held no love for deities.
"Let us make retreat and ready self," ordered Spartacus. "I would strike again to give further warning to fools yet within Rome who strive to grind us beneath heel."
Gannicus turned to leave, Saxa on his arm when he heard his name called.
"Gannicus, Crixus, Agron. I would have your report upon return."
He waved his hand in response, mind already occupied with thoughts of more pleasurable pursuits. Spartacus would have him aspire to loftier title - a thing he had no ambition for. He had made promise to beloved friend. Reason for fighting in this rebellion was to honour Oenamaus. In any matter which deviated from that purpose, he held no interest.
Hours later, Gannicus sat among his brothers, sharing drink and swopping stories of battle. He had already had more than his share of wine, yet he would have more. His mind was clouded, senses dulled. It was how he preferred to stand – the alternative would be to allow self to recall memories better served forgotten. It was by such means that he had managed to navigate life since leaving Batiatus's ludas behind. He had no wish to try any other method.
"There is more wine?" He looked up to see his German companion enter the tent. "My friends are of thirst."
Two girls he had distant recollection of stumbled in as well, making way towards him. By look of them, they had already engaged in drink and passionate encounter, no doubt with Saxa. He grinned. Her tastes ran in multiple directions. A thing he had no objection to. They fucked. They fought. They were even friends upon a day.
"Out!" he shouted to the two rebels who moments before he had been sharing tale with.
"This is my fucking tent!" one returned, outraged.
Gannicus laughed and bellowed in return. "Out!" He would share women with each other, but he would not share them with men. He took a large gulp from the jug of wine yet in his hand as one of the girls reached him, her breasts already exposed, hands reaching for him.
This was who he was; meaningless connection a thing he desired, perhaps even deserved. It was all that mattered. His tongue met hers in a kiss that was as deep as it was vulgar. He laughed. Just the way he liked his women.
Beside him, Saxa appeared, her own hands roaming across his body. "Spartacus seeks you," she cautioned, baring her body for his perusal.
"Let him seek a while longer."
The sex, like the wine, served purpose. It satisfied base needs, was fast, rough and over quickly. It aided in ensuring that mind had no cause to dwell in unpleasant thoughts that always waded too close to the surface. For a moment, thought of his shadowed past faded into drunken pleasure.
In a town not far, but yet unknown to the rebels, a female slave knelt upon the floor, her wooden idol gripped in hand. She was slender, with long dark hair tied in a braid which rested across her narrow shoulders. With smooth skin and wide green eyes, she projected an innocence and purity that was not far from truest nature. She had once stood as object of her Dominas's attention. But once he had put sunder to her virginal innocence, she had been thankfully forgotten.
The idol now upon her hand was only possession that held any familial meaning. It had belonged to her mother, given her when she was taken and sold into slavery. Her life had never been an easy one, but since entering the house of Laurus, she had known no measure of peace.
Her Dominas was a cruel man, no remorse at punishments he dealt out absent cause. She had learnt to make self small, to go about her duties as unobtrusively as possible in attempt to try and escape his notice. It mattered not. He would find way to punish all his slaves. It felt at times as though he had a schedule upon mind where each slave – irrespective of whether they deserved it or not – would find punishment as consequence to simple action. She later understood it was a way to ensure his slaves lived in fear - and in cultivated state, purchase their loyalty.
She rubbed her idol in familiar fashion, sending prayers to the gods. Diotimos, her only friend, called her a fool for her beliefs. But it was all she had left in the world. And she would not surrender it, or lose her faith in the face of what seemed to be insurmountable cruelty. Daily, she sent prayers, fierce in her belief that it could not go unheeded forever. The gods will listen, they had to.
"If it is your will, I make solemn plea to be delivered from this house. If slavery is my fate in this life, I would have it be so in kinder circumstance," she whispered. There were Domina's within the city who showed their slaves some measure of compassion, treating them as people; not animals to be choked upon leash.
Diotimos.
She felt tears sting her eyes. He had left their house, run away to join the swelling army of the rebel leader, Spartacus. There were rumours of an uprising in the republic, but any word of it that carried to her Dominas would mean cruel punishment. Death would be a kindness.
He had begged her to come with him. But she knew that chance of both of them slipping beyond grasp stood impossible. He had made vow that he would return for her. She prayed it was so.
She closed her eyes tightly, uttering prayer once more, adding another towards Diotimos's fate and continued safety.
When deed was done and passion sated, Gannicus rose, placing a playful slap upon Saxa's arse. She grinned and turned her back to him, moving closer to the two bodies lying beside her. No complication existed in their relationship – or any of his relationships.
He did not bother with clothing as the hour was already late, and chose to only cover the parts that were most necessary. With loin cloth to cover his cock, he collected the last of his wine and went in search of the rebel leader.
"You summon me!" Gannicus realised that he had not managed to clear fog from mind completely. Instead, a pleasant buzz still rattled his brain. He knew morning would bring the wrath of the gods when his head would pound, but at present, he felt blissfully dazed.
Before him, Spartacus looked displeased; the oft present frown prominent as he stared at him.
"I would not have had to if intentions were heeded days ago." His displeasure was evident even if his tone remained measured.
"Attention summoned by pressing matters."
"Of women and drink." A beat. "Days cannot pass after battle without your report."
"We fought. We won. That covers needed ground." Gannicus took a seat opposite Spartacus. He did not see the necessity of speaking over much of battle strategy. Matters in his mind were simple.
"You have proven valuable asset against the Romans. Yet I would have you stand more than just another sword. Take rightful place beside Crixus and myself as a leader."
Gannicus failed to keep disgust from his voice. "I give life to your cause in honour of Oenamaus. I may even believe in it myself upon a day. But I am no leader. Nor seek to be one." In this matter he stood clear.
"There are many who already look to you as such," Spartacus pressed. "A greater number still would follow you in battle."
"You mean die for me?" He gave wry smile, the thought distasteful upon tongue.
"For the cause." Spartacus clarified.
"I would not be thought upon by my brothers to be greater than I am. As many begin to think of you."
"I do not wish it."
"Yet it is so." This time Gannicus held higher ground in argument. "They begin to speak of you as a god and may react poorly when you prove yourself mortal."
"Victory against the Romans is my only concern."
"And how is that defined?" Gannicus felt anger build inside of him. "Cossinius and Furius are struck from this world. You know that will not be the end of it. Rome will send more and more in their wake."
"Then they too will fall." He spoke absent pretence and Gannicus envied such simple philosophy. Yet he would not be dissuaded.
"And when we have laid waste to the mighty republic? Who will you lay your wrath upon then? The men who set you on this path, who took your wife from you? They are gone. Their wives too." He would add, how far would we go in search of your vengeance? but thought better than to utter sentiment.
"A thousand lives would not equal Sura's." Passion sparked to life in Spartacus's eyes, an edge in his voice.
Gannicus felt the fire extinguish within him. Spartacus fought for the love and memory of his wife. There were not enough deaths, not enough fucking Romans who would bring peace to his breast. He felt his own mind glaze over with memory he made daily attempt to supress.
Absent thought, confession spilled from his lips. "I dared to love a woman once." Gannicus poured wine, painful memory surfacing now without effort. "When I was yet to slave to Batiatus."
"She yet draws breath?" He saw the surprise on Spartacus's face. It had not been the words he had been expecting.
Image of Melitta appeared before eyes; as if it were a thing recently occurred. She stood as vivid in memory of death as she had been in life. His chest constricted painfully.
"I would give the world to have it so." His eyes met Spartacus's momentarily before lowering in guilt. "I had my vengeance," he confessed. "Just as you have. And it stood as empty. Till Oenamaus forgave betrayal.
"Oenamaus?" Brows raised in confusion.
Gannicus made no attempt to mask the shame that clouded voice. "It was his wife I lost heart to. Even when freedom remained, shackles of those I had harmed with what I had done remained. With final breath, Oenamaus struck chains that bound me."
"There is not one I hold to heart left to break such heavy words."
"Absent such, a man must speak it to himself." Gannicus did not know if he felt relief or greater shame at the judgement that stood absent from Spartacus's gaze. But the gods knew no hate from any other would surpass the loathing he held towards self.
"Words also denied me. I could not save my wife. But I can fight to see a day when no innocent life is so easily disregarded. A day when the Romans and their cruelty are but a distant memory."
Gannicus stood moved by passionate declaration. "May you find peace in its arrival brother." He felt weight of words and memory. But he could not wade among it a moment longer. "Let us share wine, women and set aside such heavy fucking thought."
He poured drink and offered Spartacus a cup so they might partake together. Politely, the bringer of rain refused. This time, Spartacus's small smile carried a measure of pity. With keen insight, he knew the other man knew the reason he chose to bury self in faceless women and endless supply of drink. He would not have it so.
"Then I will drink and fuck in your name." Gannicus rose and made way outside. "Fight when called upon to the very steps of the Roman senate if that is there your madness leads." He raised cup and left.
Outside, he spat out the mouthful, taking deep breath. It had been a long time since he had spoken word of Melitta to anyone, save Oenamaus. He did not know if it was imagined, but upon his breast, he felt invisible binding lesson their stranglehold, allowing his chest to rise and fall a little easier than it had in years.
A thing not earned. He clenched jaw, mind clear of drinks haze, memory rising to provide fresh torment.
Diotimus, once slave to a master, spat a curse as he butchered a horse. The animal had been wounded badly, death a kindness in such eventuality. With the meat, he had fed the children and some of the women within camp. There stood no part of the animal that willing souls would not attempt to eat. It broke spirit and saw his disgust towards the rebel leader Spartacus rise. The man fed their hopes with words of victory and yet did nothing to feed or clothe those who flocked to join his cause.
"I begin to question turning from the calming breeze and the safety within with city's walls in Sinuesa en Valle," he muttered to himself as he cut flesh from bone.
His thoughts turned to those he had left behind.
Sibyl.
A small smile touched his lips as her face passed before him. Sibyl and her faith in the fucking gods. Where were the fucking gods now when he toiled among piss and shit? She stood as sister and he had made vow he would return for her. But with life among the rebels turning to shit, he knew that at present, such action stood no more than a dream.
That night, Spartacus and his generals – with Gannicus nurturing drink – made decision to act upon intercepted message and strike Cossinius and Furius from this world.
"A few men might penetrate force absent discovery," Spartacus said watching as Gannicus's lips curved towards the heavens. He knew the man loved any challenge, especially one where the odds were not of a favour.
"A few against many. Much as the old days." Gannicus raised his drink in salute.
Under cover of darkness, they made attempt to penetrate the villa where their Roman nemesis resided.
"Move swiftly, before men are discovered from their posts," Spartacus ordered.
"We do not know how many await us inside," said Crixus, doubtful of plan as he swung rope in attempt to scale wall.
"Let us pray they are not too few," Gannicus whispered, a large smile upon his face.
Spartacus was aware of the almost reckless energy that radiated off the Celt, understanding now that the clash of steel was all that gave his life purpose. He would plant seed and hope it took root. He had faith in Gannicus. Even if the man did not yet have it in himself. He would urge him to look beyond immediate desires and search horizon for contentment in the longer term.
"I am in circle with mad fucks. I begin to count myself as one," said Crixus, his own excitement now bubbling to the surface. The Gaul and the Celt shared a look, both in natural element.
"The gods favour us," said Gannicus. Spartacus was not sure whether he actually believed his own words. He held suspicion he did not.
Crixus echoed sentiment. "Spartacus holds no belief in them."
As he made move to climb the wall he said, "perhaps this night may prove me wrong."
Gannicus realised that the gods might actually be paying attention to their cause. He held no real love for deities, but he could not argue that since campaign began, they had been blessed and cursed in equal measures. When Spartacus beheaded Cossinius and Furius, it were the rebels they favoured, not the fucking Romans.
Upon the ridge overlooking the rebel camp, Spartacus stood with Agron, Gannicus and Crixus at his side. Living conditions were poor and they could not sustain any more joining cause in already pressing space.
Spartacus shared thought. "Our numbers have swelled beyond wildest expectation. Yet winter would soon be upon us. To face hunger and cold, as well as Crassus, threatens certain doom. We must seek advantage of supplies and shelter. One that can be defended if set upon till spring draws breath."
"There is not a villa in all the lands that could hold such numbers," said Crixus.
"No there is not." Spartacus paused and Gannicus felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise at next words. "Only a city can hold us now." He turned to look at Agron. Their faces mirrored similar look. Their leader had lost all fucking sense. "And we shall tear one from the heart of Rome. Rub salt upon mortal wound with blood and death."