In his twenty-four years, Agron of the Chamavi has killed approximately forty-eight men in battle. He has defeated six in the arena, and claimed victory over an injured four. He has lain with five, and he has loved two.
In his twenty-one years, Nasir-Who-Was-Tiberius has had sixteen cocks down his throat. He has had nearly double that in his hand, and six in his ass. He has only fucked two men, and he is still working out what it means to be in love.
Out of all his siblings, Agron only remembers Aenor's birth, because he is old enough, because it takes nearly two days, because Da comes out after and says he won't be able to see Ma again.
That turns out not to be true, but it takes months for Ma to return to her usual self and Aenor is never really as strong as the rest of them.
Agron does not remember the day Duro was born – he had barely four years to his name, after all – but according to Ma he made grabby hands which turned into fists, accidentally thumped his baby brother on the head, and promptly declared, "Mine." This seems to him a more-or-less current description of their relationship so he doesn't question it.
When he is small, he runs errands for Coquus in town, and the kitchen girls like to hug him and call greetings. He misses his mother and longs for her warm embrace, but Nasir has learned in the short time he has been at the Roman villa not to cry for her, and so he opens his heart to their brief kindness.
One girl in particular, a Numidian called Tullia, sneaks him sweets from the kitchen and brushes his hair back at night after the villa has gone to sleep, her firm, delicate fingers rubbing at his scalp and smoothing his dark hair.
She tells him she will call him Nasir when he asks, but that he must get used to being called Tiberius. She tells him she was once called Lerato, and that he may use that name when they are alone. She rubs his cheek with her darker hand, kisses the top of his head and tells him he will grow up pretty, though she fears this will not serve him well.
Appraising eyes pass through the villa every so often, and each time is a close call. He is still too young, but he will not remain so forever.
Da is a farmer, yet he is no stranger to battle. Othmar, Agron's grandfather, was a general of the Teutones tribe, slain at Aquae Sextiae in the last battle of the Cimbrian War, but only after sending a score of Romans to the underworld and teaching his only son confidence with a sword in hand. It is a lesson the grandsons and granddaughters of Othmar have learned well.
The formidable iron rests heavy in his hand when at last he is allowed to wield it. Duro and the girls look on eagerly as Da places the hilt in their older brother's hand and his own upon the boy's shoulder.
"This is no toy, Agron," he says gravely, clear blue eyes meeting his own. "You do not yet know what it is to rob a man of his life, and I pray to the gods it remain so, yet I am a realistic man. This blade is sharp, and will draw blood quickly – it must be used only in defense, never as first strike. "
"I should wait to be attacked?" he asks, confused.
Da smiles grimly. "No," he replies. "There is a difference between beginning the assault and knowing the time to defend one's own. Never fight without cause."
Duro watches the exchange with bright eyes until Ishild knocks him in the back with her wooden practice sword.
He is old enough now to no longer need Tullia to bring him gossip from the kitchen girls, and by the time he is eleven, Tiberius – who no longer holds onto the flimsy comforts of Nasir and Lerato – knows that no less than six offers have been made for him, and that all have been shot down. The villa is prosperous, yet he knows that as a general rule a common houseboy holds little attraction over the promise of coin within a well-staffed villa.
Tullia explains to him why she feared for him so. She tells him of places where young boys of beauty are taught to please and entice in every move they make, where they learn to serve in ways more delicate than fetching and carrying while their bodies are still pliant. She tells him of other places, less reputable, which operate solely to cater to those of all tastes.
Tiberius understands that he has not yet escaped such places, yet Dominus has so far shown no interests in his sale.
His favorite memory of his siblings is when he is twelve years old. For the first time, he is competing in the top level of the children's tournament at the yearly festival of Donar. It is late in the day, and Gisila has already taken the champion's title at mid-level, much to Duro and Ishild's annoyance, and Aenor has come in beginner's eighth, but they put such grievances aside for the moment.
In the end, when Agron can't see straight and knows he'll be covered in bruises the next day, he smiles stupidly when he is declared second. When the screams and cheers of Duro and the girls threaten to burst his ears, his mouth explodes into a wider grin than he thought possible, and, half-shouting, he tells the burly winner, "That's my brother and sisters."
The boy rolls his eyes and aims an elbow, but Agron doesn't care.
Tiberius is fourteen, the courtyard tiles hard and sharp against his knees, Dominus pushing his head down with his hands so forcefully it hurts, fingers tangled in his long, black hair, yanking on his scalp. It's like he's going in two different directions and doesn't know what to do.
A hand releases the matt of hair it had been pulling only to fall down and grab at Tiberius' collar, pulling him forward. Full speed ahead.
The children of Thancmar and Linza have an odd sense of family loyalty that only really comes out when one of them is in trouble.
Agron hates when it's him who's messed up because he's the oldest and he's supposed to be the one to come running, fists at the ready, when Duro's gotten in a brawl over a snide comment or some fuck gets too handsy with Gisila or Ishild or, Wodan forbid, Aenor. Then everyone gets involved. Agron kind of loves when it's him who's messed up, though, because it reminds him that he needs them just as much as they need him, and then they crack a few skulls – okay, maybe not really – and go laugh about it over drink at the tavern.
Chadara arrives at the villa when he is sixteen and she is about the same, and Tiberius doesn't spare much thought for her, nor the gossip that follows like a bad odor.
"A favored slave, I heard."
"Have you seen the husband of Dominus' sister?"
"The exact reflection, really."
"Amazing it took so long for her to kick her out."
"Perhaps another on the way."
"Compromises must be made sometimes."
"It's clear for all to see she's part Roman," Fabricia whispers in Laelia's ear as they skinned fish, uncaring of the fact that Chadara stands barely ten paces away. "The way she walks about, as though she's better than any of us." Tiberius, who has never much cared for Fabricia anyway, knocks over the bowl of fish skin as he passes.
He does not make a move to speak with her, but instead finds himself in her company later that night when she enters his small chamber. Tiny though it may be, it is his alone, an offering from Dominus more for his own convenience than Tiberius'.
"Gratitude," she says simply. "For this morning."
"None required." Tiberius replies, realizing after a moment that she still stands in the same place, eyes flickering uncertainly from spot to spot. "This is new for you," he says. "Your mother?"
"Something I must put behind me," Chadara bristles, flipping her long, blonde curls in a way so slight Tiberius is certain she is unaware of doing it. "I look now towards what opportunity the future may bring."
Memories of last night are not really as fuzzy as he tells Duro the next morning. Ma's not too impressed with them sneaking off to the tavern when she needed help loading the wagon for market that day, so they've thought it safest to take their beef stew out back. He's sprawled on a bundle of sheep's wool and Ma's voice is probably going to rise to even shriller heights when she comes out and sees, but he doesn't care because he's tired and his arse is fucking sore.
This is what really happened: Entering the laughing, shouting, punching nighttime center of the village, Duro sees Adelais exchanging words with some fuck and goes over to either tell him to piss off or to punch him in the face. Agron can never decide which is about to happen. In any case, with his brother gone to claim his woman – really, though, a mere girl of thirteen – he moves through the crowd and happens upon Gislin and Fulco and Frida and when Raban turns around and smiles that smile for the first time in months he feels his heart jumps up into his throat for a half second.
The order of events from there on is this: Agron sits and listens to Raban's tales of travel across to the lands west of the Rhine with his uncle, doesn't ignore the warm hand on his back, on his shoulder, on his neck as the night lingers on, and ends the night in Raban's bed.
"What occupies your thoughts?" asks his boyhood friend when silence stretches.
Agron says nothing, merely realizes he has been waiting to do this since Raban left and laughs, then twists so their lips might meet once again before they both drift off to sleep.
Tiberius is unsurprised to find Chadara become just as popular entertainment amongst Dominus' guests as he. With her Roman features and cascading blonde curls, she is truly a sight to behold.
What does surprise him is how readily she accepts what is expected of her.
"I was a favored slave in my old villa, not sheltered," she laughs when he voices such thoughts. "I was no virgin upon arrival."
That is perfectly evident in the sinuous motion of her hips just before she is pulled onto the lap of Julius Seneca Scaevola something-or-other.
Later, a praetor has him on his knees, his fingers burning against Tiberius' skin, trailing over his stomach and fitting into the notches in his spine. His mouth is wet against his neck and shoulders as he rams into him. The sweaty hand cupping his balls ensures participation, yet Tiberius thinks of Chadara's tinkering laugh and wonders how she can bring herself to pretend so.
He wonders if perhaps there is something he does not understand yet.
Being Duro's older brother, he gets fairly good at knowing when to help him out and when to let him learn the hard way. Agron will always be two steps ahead of him, fists raised and sword in hand when Da's not looking, when his brother finds himself on one end of a fight, but he makes no move whatsoever to stop him when Duro announces he's going to let Adelais pierce his nose.
When Rufus is discovered laying with Laelia, castrated, and sold, Tiberius knows what is coming. It is almost a relief to be named body slave to Dominus, to list attending to Dominus' needs as part of his duties, rather than a shaming thing to be endured in dark corners, spoken about to no one yet known by all.
Correctly, he assumes that this, too, will mean an end to being passed about for the pleasure of Dominus' guests.
He has risen above such things.
Passing Tullia in a corridor, a silent shadow behind Dominus, she nods at him and offers a tiny shadow of a smile. It is not a complete escape from the things she had feared for so long to be his future, but it is better than anything else he could have hoped for. As long as he is silent, respectful, obedient – all the things he has learned to be – he is safe.
The thing about fucking Leuthar is that that's just it, fucking and nothing else. It was new, and fun, and hurt like hell at first with Ragan, and then it hurt a little less, and then he found out it was fun to switch things up, and Wodan's cock, it's not Leuthar's fault he wants more than fun.
Ma and Da look at each other like they want to swallow each other whole sometimes, and he wants that. Fun is fun but a quick fuck isn't commitment or whatever and Agron doesn't think he's asking for too fucking much, really.
"Come down to the river tomorrow?" he asks, after, while Leuthar pulls on his coat.
"Maybe," he shrugs, then leaves.
Not that it really fucking matters. Leuthar's pretty, but that's as far as his interest goes, and Agron's fairly sure these things have to go both ways.
Tiberius has a box beneath his bed – it's small and chipped and made of rough wood. He's filled it with what little coin he's been able to save over the years, acquired sometimes by random happenstance along corridors or lost in the dusty courtyard, but more often accompanied by an almost-tender pat on the cheek.
Freedom is nothing he's ever considered with much desire, and every once in a while he thinks he should buy himself a trinket or give the money to Chadara and be done with it, but he can't bring himself to actually do so. The next time he sees a glint in the sand, he attempts to ignore it, and fails in that attempt, as well.
When Gislin brings breathless word to the village of the approaching Roman battalion, Ma and Da are visiting Da's family across the Rhine with Ishild, and Agron yells himself hoarse for Aenor to hide in the woods.
"I will not!" she shouts, refusing to allow him to pull the sword from her hands.
"Sister," he pleads, ears straining through the clamor outside for the approach of Roman horses. Gisila and Duro have already gone to aid the defense. "You are no warrior – I will not see you run through by a Roman blade or taken as a slave."
"I shall fall by my own hand, as my Teutones mothers before me, before being made the servant of dogs," she barks. "I am Aenor of the Chamavi, daughter of Thancmar, granddaughter of Othmar, sister of Agron. I will not run from my duty."
Agron recognizes the ferocity of a Germanic warrior in her eyes and the truth in her words. A brief burst of pride in his chest amidst the panic at having been named among her honors, and at long last he releases the sword to her practiced grip.
She nods to him their newfound understanding, which he returns in kind. He claps his hand upon her shoulder, then, "Let's have their cocks."
He rushes to his tiny chamber and slams the door, wishing he could lock it, prevent anyone, everyone, the world from disturbing him. He sits on his small bed, resting his head in his hands. He can't get air to his lungs and he thinks he might be hyperventilating, gasping strongly for a breath, but it's too far removed to really know. His tears burn trails down his cheeks and he reaches up to stop the sound from his lips because he doesn't know how loud he's being, but his sobs seem to echo around him, overwhelming and consuming and fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Because he's twenty years old and he's known loss and he's known separation and this is only the beginning but it's not really because in twenty years he's known more loss than most do in a lifetime.
He hardly registers when the door cracks open and Chadara silently enters, allowing the chamber to close up once more. She crosses the room in one stride, sits on the pallet that passes as a bed, and does not touch him.
"Tiberius – "
"Nasir."
It comes from nowhere and Chadara does not understand.
"She… she… "
He wants to tell her what Tullia called him, but Tullia is gone and no one knows nor cares what name he went by in a past life in a country that was nothing but a passing thought now. No more past lives, no more mothers, no more names belonging to the laughing, free boys of Syria who no longer exist.
He does not know what the day will bring. The ship he and Spartacus move to liberate from Neapolis keep his countrymen in chains, yet it will not return Aenor to him, dead as promised by her own hand. It will not return Gisila to him, borne to Italia more than a year ago by the same ship that carried he and Duro. He tries not to think on her too often. A fierce warrior in her own right, no doubt long-dead in a gladiatrix pit of some godforsaken underworld. Nor will Duro, the most certain never to return to him, be on this ship.
In the cold, blue light that arrives just before the sun, Agron brushes back Nasir's dark hair and runs his thumb behind his ear, gently enough over the bone there not to wake his lover but to feel the touch of soft, dark skin. He sighs contentedly, and slides his arms back down to hold closer Nasir's sleeping form.
He will return someday to the lands east of the Rhine, Wodan blessed if into the arms of Ma and Da and Ishild. For now he has found his place, here in the arms of his little man, an endearment he will from now on keep in his heart, except on the rare occasion he cannot keep it from slipping off the tongue.
He wants to show Nasir the lands that forged him, the forests where he and Duro learned to wield swords, the tavern and the festival grounds and the farm. He wants to adventure forth with his love to Syria, but only if he wishes it. He will not force it, but Agron knows the importance of understanding where you come from, and Nasir has yet to finish discovering who he is.
Agron wants to know his heart, and for his own to be known.
For now, Nasir is still recovering, and he cannot bring himself to wake him. Gently disentangling himself from the blankets of the makeshift bed they have fashioned together, he stands and stretches, a bubble of excitement beginning to twist its way around his insides. With a sudden energy, Agron pulls on his coat, then stops, remembering the darker, waterproof cloaks Lucius has procured for them.
A chill blows through the temple, and with a small grin, Agron removes his coat and tenderly drapes it across Nasir. He kisses one cheek, then the other, and finally lands a soft brush on the lips, allowing the taste to linger a moment before he goes.
When Nasir awakens some time later, he twists around to don the coat, and smiles to recognize that Agron's scent yet remains.