Trigger warnings: neglect of a minor, dub-con
-o-
The scent of earthy loam filled his nostrils as he dug his fingers into the packed walls, toes wedged into a little divot, bad leg dangling uselessly. His entire body quivered with the effort as he eyed the deceptively smooth surface above his head, searching for his next hold—there, a bit of root jutting out from the wall. He took a breath and lunged for it quickly, fingers closing around it—vertigo and he fell to the ground with a jolt, pain shooting up his leg as his ankle banged against the floor of his prison. Maponos sobbed and threw the loose bit of root aside, leaning back against the dirt walls, staring up at the sky.
The pit was deep and narrow, just wide enough that a grown man could stand with his arms outstretched and just barely brush the walls with his fingertips. Maponos didn't know quite how deep, only that half way up the wall was easily twice his height, making his repeated falls not likely fatal but decidedly painful. Two days of climbing and failing, and he was beginning to think that escape wasn't possible.
He picked at the dirt ground beneath his nails, toyed with loose threads on his make-shift ankle wrap, torn from the bottom of his tunic in a rough imitation of how Mama did it. He hadn't seen anyone either, since they dropped him down the pit. Occasionally he would hear people pass by, the muffled conversations, the clink of armour, but no one paid him any attention, not even when Maponos screamed himself hoarse, demanding they let him out. Nothing. The idea that he had been totally forgotten was even worse than the thought of no escape.
Night came much faster in the pit, the steep walls preventing even the midday sun from fully penetrating the damp gloom. Maponos huddled against the wall, cloak wrapped tightly around him, and tried to will himself into sleep as his stomach loudly reminded him that he hadn't eaten in almost a week. The miserable reality of being awake was being to take its toll: a steady headache drummed inside his skull, and a deep exhaustion was beginning to settle in his bones. He started having nightmares: he saw Lugurix and the others killed, their blood dying the leaves red; the soldier with the crooked nose returned, with his lurid, sickening grin; he found Mama hacked to pieces on the battle plain, her head lost among the corpses; Rome hunted him through the woods, running him down until Maponos was cornered, Rome advancing with a club in hand. He woke up terrified and shaking, whimpering at the sounds emanating from the shadows, knowing that something lingered just out of sight.
The first day he yelled for them to release him, climbing and falling, collapsing exhausted at night. The second day he simply climbed, and fell, and slipped into a restless sleep that left him anxious and uneasy. The third day he stayed curled up in his cloak, and hoped against all odds that someone would let him out. That night the nightmares were vivid, and the next morning he begged anyone he heard pass by for water, for food, but no one answered and he wildly began to think that maybe Rome would simply let him slowly starve to death. As sunset fell he heard a soft, incessant whisper from somewhere in the pit; he covered his ears and hid under his cloak, whispering 'dissimiis luge' until he thought it was safe. When he looked up, his mother's rotting corpse stared back at him, maggots crawling out of her flesh, and he screamed. His mother lifted him out of the pit with rotting hands and dragged him onto the battlefield, heedless of the bodies that squelched under foot, deaf to his cries of panic, and showed him a corpse, bloated and bursting with pus, bright blue eyes eaten away, blond hair matted with half-congealed blood and he was that corpse, he could feel the worms writhing inside him, crawling under his flesh and all he knew was screaming.
In the morning the pit was empty save himself. He sobbed, shaking violently, and begged, shrieking, for someone to get him out. Eventually his voice cracked, and he continued his plead, whispering to himself as he trembled.
-o-
Six days after Rome ordered the boy to be dropped into the pit, and one day after the screaming had stopped entirely, Rome gathered two guards and one translator, and went to check on the child. He crouched by the edge of the pit and leaned over; the boy was tucked up by a wall, head buried in his arms, unmoving.
"Hail, child!"
His entire form jerked, frantically looking around the pit. Rome snorted and called again, and the boy finally looked up. The bafflement and raw hope on his face, even at this distance, plucked at Rome's consciousness but he shrugged it off with practiced ease.
"I, the Roman Republic, in my infinite mercy, have seen fit to forgive you for your misdeeds and offer you pardon, with the understanding that you have come to realise the error of your actions and have resolved to forgo any such further behaviour."
Rome watched the boy as the servant translated; he saw understanding dawn, and the child began babbling, the desperation evident without the translation. Rome looked to the servant for confirmation, who nodded. The nation smiled and signaled to the soldiers, who lowered a rope in to the pit, a stick tied at the end to form a rudimentary seat.
"I am sending down this rope. Sit upon the seat at the end, and you will be lifted out."
The boy stood, wavering, and swung his legs over the stick seat, clinging to the rope. He was silent as the guards hauled him up, a darting, worried look on his face, and when he neared the top of the pit he scrambled for the edge, clawing his way out, whimpering in sheer relief as he collapsed on the ground.
Rome tried very hard not to smile, and scooped the boy up in his arms. The child clung to him, trembling, as Rome carried him back to his private tent, where a hot water bath had already been drawn by the slaves. He kept his movements slow and unthreatening as he stripped the boy of his filthy clothes, frowning when the child cringed and tried to draw away, his body language making Rome crossly wonder which of his men did it. But he shushed and soothed and spoke in low, gentle tones, coaxing the boy into the metal tub and scrubbing the grime off himself, the servants attending only to fetch him bath salts and oils and salves as needed. The dirt washed out to reveal golden, sun-kissed hair, and Rome was again struck by his assessment that the child was both healthful and beautiful. Definitely one who would grow up to wreak havoc on women's hearts.
The boy was through all of it silent, still cowering at the world. The possibility existed that Rome had waited too long, had pushed the boy too far, and while a mute, listless servant was still a useful thing, having the child animate and aware suited Rome's needs much better. He lifted the boy from the tub, dried him with soft cloth and rubbed scented oil into his skin until he positively glowed, expertly tending to his ankle and minor wounds. He pulled a clean tunic over the boy's head, fastening a new cloak at his shoulders with a fibula of bronze. From there he carried the boy to the table, laid out while he was bathing with roasted venison, freshly baked bread, fruit bursting with sweetness, soft cheese and wine carefully transported from the capital. The scent and sight of so much food roused the boy; Rome grinned as he watched the boy wolf down his food with that ravenous appetite that only comes from having nothing for days. He slowed only after having consumed a half loaf of bread, all of the grapes, a quarter wheel of cheese, and most of the leg of venison. Rome wasn't the least bit surprised when the child promptly threw it all back up; he expected as much, but knew better than to get between a starving man and his long-awaited relief. When the heaving stopped, he pulled the boy into his lap and fed him, some bread, some meat, a half an apple and some cheese, explaining as he helped the boy support the heavy weight of the wine goblet that there would be plenty more food later and he didn't have to make himself sick.
The boy's hunger waned, and exhaustion crept in. Rome gently pried the goblet out of his hands and set it on the table, standing with the boy in his arms. The child reflexively rested his head on Rome's shoulder, and a surge of bemused familiarity passed through the older nation. He shook it off, tucking the boy into his own bed and staying with him until sleep dragged him down, the wine speeding his course.
Rome lingered a few minutes, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. He missed Hispania, left behind in the capital while Papa went out to war. He had two letters safely tucked away in his things, lonely Hispania wondering when he'll return, hoping he'll come back soon, shyly hoping for a present, maybe, upon Papa's return. It occurred to Rome, as he sat on the edge of the bed, that he might have another Hispania here, another son to bring back to the capital and raise in proper Roman ways. He'd be lying to say that he didn't want another son, someone for Hispania to play with, another child to take after their new father.
It would have to wait, he concluded, standing and slipping out of the tent, a guard moving in to stand watch. He knew little about the child, though what he had seen—a brief and furious escape attempt, on a broken ankle no less—was promising. It showed that the child wasn't a coward, wasn't afraid of pain when it came to achieving his goals. Still, he'd have to see how the boy progressed over the next few weeks; if he remained a mute, flinching creature, he would join his tribesmen as slaves.
Rome pushed his musings of fatherhood aside. Where he was heading, sentiment would be his weapon.
-o-
Gaul looked up when Rome entered, watching him set his helm aside in its usual place. She stood, body aching, from her seat on the floor by the unlit hearth and waited until Rome looked at her.
"Good afterno—"
"Let me see my son," she demanded firmly.
Rome ignored her. "The guard sent word last night that you wanted to see me. I had hoped your diplomacy had returned. But if not—" He turned to leave.
"Wait—" Gaul jerked a step forward, stopped and held her ground. Rome paused, looking back. She took a breath to steady herself, before calmly stating, "I wish to discuss the terms on which I may see my son."
Rome faced her again, expression carefully blank. "Speak then."
She pushed aside the flare of fury at the lack of respect, and continued. "I know what it is you seek, and I am willing to give it to you, if I may then see my son."
His head tilted, very slightly. "Is that so," he murmured, gaze traveling the length of her body before catching her eyes.
Gaul met his stare evenly, head high, refusing to acknowledge the disgust that crawled over her skin. "Yes."
Rome reached up and undid the clasps pinning his red officer's cloak in place, folding it once over his arm. "Show me, and then we shall see about your son," he said with a smile, tossing his cloak over a lower beam.
Gaul clenched her jaw so tight she wondered if her teeth would crack, but gave a brief nod. Rome's smile stretched wider, and he snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, kissing along her neck.
Gaul let her eyes fix on his blood red cloak and envisioned her own hands stained that colour, as Rome's hands wandered down over her body. The image was only a small comfort.
-o-
Solitary confinement is a vicious torture-yes, torture-that can result in visual and auditory hallucinations, hypersensitivity to noise and touch, insomnia and paranoia, uncontrollable feelings of rage and/or fear, distorted perceptions of time, increased risk of suicide, and PTSD. These effects can appear after as little as twenty-four hours in solitary confinement. Generally speaking, even if one was in good mental health going into solitary, one will not be coming out. It was a horrendous thing for Rome to do to young France, in the hopes that by depriving him of human contact, food, water, and shelter, the child would be more malleable and view Rome as the "good guy" from whom France receives food, companionship, and safety.
This fic will be updated on a Monday-Thursday schedule, so check back Thursday for the next chapter, or add this fic to your Alerts. Feel free to ask a question, make a comment, or offer a thoughtful critique in the reviews.