A/N.

Hey everyone, so next here's the next chapter.

With much love to all you that help me, not only with writing but get through every day.

Thanks for all your reviews, every single one makes me smile, and brightens my day.
Special mention and receiver of shinny gold star (lol) this chapter goes to 'drum roll'… Anja25 who was super fast in getting that first review in.
Knowing that people are out there reading and hopefully enjoying makes all the difference.

So without much further rambling...

Onwards...

To keep a secret
- Chapter Two

Antony lay in his lover's arms and looked out to the midday sun. Rome was hot. Hotter even, or so it seemed to him, than Egypt or Syria where he had broken his journey on the way back, and even the fan boy standing in the shaded corner of the room could do nothing to disguise that fact.

He had arrived back late yesterday, the dry and dusty air of the city quickly removing all memory of the damp but eventless boat journey he had just completed. Receiving word of his return, Atia had wasted no time in receiving him and reintroducing herself to his body.

Even now he could feel her fingers trailing up and down his chest.

He had no doubt that his latest title helped to sharpen her appetite. Master of the Horse, the most powerful position after consul, the most powerful man currently in Rome – his chest puffed out just a little as he thought of it. He wasn't un-fond of power himself.

Still, he hadn't liked leaving Caesar in Egypt, especially with so few men.

The news he had received upon landing at Brundisium had done nothing to quell his unease at the situation. The palace was under siege. The boy king, not having taken too well to his sister's return, had escaped one night, and now had an army gathered behind him, determined to return him to the throne. The men – his men – would be outnumbered by an enemy far more accustomed to the conditions they would be fighting in.

"Where are you?" Atia snapped, her ministrations for the last few minutes provoking no response from the man.

"Hmm?" Antony finally pulled his eyes away from the sunlit window.

Atia pressed her lips to his chest. "Where," she asked, as she slowly dragged them up and across his nipple, "are," eventually stopping to nip at his neck, "you?"

Antony stirred instantly, his hands moving automatically to her hips, and with little effort pulled her atop of his waiting hardness, which only grew as she gasped in delight.

"I think you can see," he growled as she began moving, "where I am!"

Atia giggled. She did so enjoy having Antony back. She may have had others that could satisfy her, but none she cared about like the man below her. He gave her security and power, everything she craved. At his side she was the prima donna in Rome, right at the top of the social ladder, and she loved it there.

As she rode her lover like a prize stallion, she couldn't help but imagine the look on Servilia's face when she heard he was back, and with a new title to boot. It would be priceless. Perhaps she should throw a welcome back party? She could invite the old hag and tell her the news herself!

Lying back lazily, Antony's mind moved straight back to Egypt. There would be a hell of an encounter, of that he was sure. That is until something, as it inevitably did, broke the deadlock. The conditions would be tough, the decisions to be made harder, and yet he couldn't silence the voice inside him that wished he was there. Instead he had to stay in Rome, play nice with the other senators and make sure all was ready for Caesar's return. Despite the difficulty of the situation he faced, Antony was convinced Caesar would win, and return to Rome with ease. After all, the man had escaped tighter traps, and with less reliable men under him.

Growling again, Antony thought of the man he had left in charge under Caesar. Loyal? He had made sure of that. Capable? More than. Yet when Caesar had asked which such man he should make camp prefect upon their arrival, and only one name had jumped to mind, Antony had faltered in saying it, knowing full well it meant he would remain in Egypt as long as Caesar did.

"Him!" Antony argued his own reasons speeding his words, when the name had finally been spoken. "But you cannot trust him. Let me take him to Rome."

Caesar's eyes had narrowed in the darkened room, surprised at the opposition. "He has always fulfilled all I have asked of him in the past. He will do fine."

"But…"

"It is my choice, Antony," Caesar reminded him in a voice that would not stand to be argued with.

Antony shrugged. "Your choice," he admitted.

Although he had not liked it at the time, Antony knew it was the right choice. He could think of no one he would rather have under him or supporting Caesar – other than himself of course.

Gripping Atia he rolled her over and slammed her into the bed, speeding the rhythm and depth to his now raging appetite and forcing her previous gasps of delight into howl's of pleasure.

As his name ripped screaming from Atia's throat – how he liked hearing it best – and echoed through the hallways of her villa, alerting anyone of the household that did not already know that he was home, he realised that being in Rome did have some benefits after all.

III

The Praefectus castorum barely felt it when the sweat on the inside of his heavy helmet condensed into a droplet, and skittered down his neck.

The metal was so hot crushing against his temples, if asked, he would be prepared to swear it had come straight from the forge furnace, and despite the layers that protected his skin from its scorching metal rings, he knew the chain shirt was branding its pattern into his back. So deep they would not be gone by the time he had to fasten on his armour the next day.

The burning sun beat down with all the might of the Egyptian summer, and the Roman couldn't help but wonder briefly if Ra, the Egyptians' hawk-headed sun god, was favoring his children and punishing the invaders with his fiery wrath.

The heat was certainly not helping his own men any, most of whom were reluctant to stray out of the cool shadow of the palace walls that they guarded.

He need no more reason than that, but owning many, to try and keep the direct fighting to a minimum. However, on some occasions like today, when a messenger weighed down with important reports – his own to Mark Antony included – needed to escape undetected, it was unavoidable.

Looking along the line to faces as flushed as his own, he knew the sooner this was over the better, so before taking another breath he gave the order.

"Forward!"

His voice hoarse from giving a hundred orders a day moved everyone including his own feet, and despite Caesar's direct instruction not to, he led his men to the battle.

III

Servius grunted as he felt a large body ram into his back.

"Forward!" his centurion growled furiously in his ear, reporting their commander's order as he shoved him again, and Servius swore below his breath as he was pushed further towards the enemy line.

This was not what he wanted, what he deserved. He should be the one behind, ordering the men, not the one bathing his sword in blood with every thrust. Twisting and turning desperately to avoid the sharp swords that were intent on finding a new home in his body, he stole a look across the crowded battlefield, and somewhere through the mass he saw the flash of red of their camp leader's helmet. He would be quite happy to bathe his sword in that man's blood.

He had worked hard to gain the rank that had been so callously stripped from him, months back in Greece, and he was not ready to let it go just yet.

Moving automatically, defending himself and defeating his enemies in front of him, Servius' mind began to wonder to happier times back when he was in charge, and silently he vowed to do anything he could to find that happiness again.

III

The sound and sight of the battle now raging around him was so familiar to the commander, he barely even registered it, his body moving more out of habit than any willing of his own. But as the heat washed over him again, all the men moving around him blurred just for a second into meaningless shapes dancing through the dusty haze, before he shook them into focus, just in time to hear his name.

"Vorenus, Sir," the first spear appeared at his side and whispered a report that lightened his heart. "He's free."

Fumbling quickly for the whistle around his neck that had been there for longer than his closest friend, Vorenus pushed the metal object to his lips, breathed deep and –

Felt his lip split as one of Ptolemy's men's well-aimed elbow landed on his jaw.

Spitting the metal and blood to one side, he spun with a growl escaping his throat and fire burning in his eyes, to see the man that had hit him.

Only for the man, a cocky smile frozen on his face, to fall forward and land at his feet, sliding off the sharp blade of Titus Pullo.

Just for a second everything around him froze as Pullo shot him a grin that sent a shiver down his spine, and a longing he would never admit pound through his veins because even in the heat of the battle he could see sparkling eyes that spoke of a secret they had shared accompanied it.

Ripping his eyes away from the intense gaze of the man he trusted more than any other, and the memory of a night he had sworn never to think of again, he saw a sight to make his blood run cold. Moving without thinking, his hand gripped Pullo's shoulder just as Pullo's hand landed on him, and they both spun each other out the way of two swinging blades neither could have seen. With a quick gaze to make sure the other had stayed on his feet, no words of thanks needed, their contact was broken and they both dived deeper into he crowd.

Instantly in soldier mode, Vorenus ensured that at least four of the enemies advancing on him fell to his sword, before reaching once more for the whistle. Forcing the dirty metal into his mouth, ignoring the throbbing pain from his swollen lip, he blew into it heavily.

Three sharp blasts on the whistle and even as they fought on, every Roman ear on the battlefield was turned to him, waiting for the order that was coming.

"RETREAT!"

III

Servius' ear was one of those that were tuned. As great as his hatred for the man might be, it did not override his training. When the command came he automatically felt the pressure of the man behind him ease on his back, and his feet tried to step back. Fighting against his instinct he took a step forward, closer to the enemy.

"SERVIUS!" Manius Fulvius' voice quickly reached his ear, as his centurion noticed his lack of compliance with the order.

Smiling, he took another step forward as the rest of the men dropped further away.

"Servius!" Fulvius called again as he followed his legionary. He was proud of his new job, and protective over his men. He knew Servius was not happy, but that didn't mean he was going to let him go. He hadn't lost anyone from his cohort yet, and he wasn't planning on doing so today. "Come on, back to camp Servius!" he ordered as he landed his hand on the man's shoulder. "They'll still be here tomorrow."

Spinning, and feigning surprise at Fulvius closeness in case anyone was looking,

Servius' blood-hungry sword quickly found a new soft belly to rip through, as he pulled the centurion towards him.

"Oh." Fulvius gasped in surprise as the unexpected pain ripped up his spine, and he fell forward in to Servius' arms.

"I'm sorry," Servius whispered as he pushed the man off his sword and dropped him to the ground, ripping the centurion mark from his chest as he did so. "But that's my job."

Reaching out with the last of his strength Manius Fulvius gripped Servius' ankle and tried to pull him back to the advancing enemy.

"No," he gasped. He knew his chance at life was slipping past, but his last thought was that of stopping this traitor returning to the camp, to his friends.

Looking to the gate that was beginning to close, Servius had no time for this. Slashing once more with the tip of his sword, he opened the man's wrist, freed his foot, and without a second thought began to run towards the closing gate. He knew that being last man in would mean he would be first on guard duty, but he didn't care. It had been worth it.

Tightly he clutched the small metal centurion crest in his fist. Shooting a smile in Vorenus' direction as he slid past the closing barricade, he made it inside the palace grounds, just as the giant door slammed with an almighty creak of wood.

Leaning back against the closed door just for a second, Vorenus paused to get his breath back.

All his men in front of him were doubled over, panting hard as they tried to do the same; each and every one of them boasted various different battle wounds, some more vicious than others. The months under siege from the former king's supporters had been tough on everyone, and encounters like today didn't help. The small half a legion of men had only grown smaller as the days passed.

"Pullo?" he called as he stood up and began to look around him. "Take the…" He paused; his second was nowhere to be seen. So used to the man being by his side, Vorenus paled a little when he realised that he wasn't. "PULLO?"

All the centurions around him looked up as Vorenus' loud voice commanded their attention, and demanded an answer. Slowly they began to look around at themselves, and the realisation that the legionary wasn't there to answer whispered through the assembly.

"PULLO!"

A/N. ohh is that a mean place to leave it? Where is one half of our beloved Vullo?

Tune in next time to find out.

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