Ave, relentless and patient reader! What better day than the Ides of March to pick up the thread of this story again? Last time we heard from them, Regina and Robin had just begun to acknowledge the sting of Cupid's arrow when an ominous letter called for Regina's urgent return to Rome...
Happy reading, and gratitude for your continued support!
(You can now access this story on A3O as well - 9/9 Muses would recommend due to A3O's lack of censorship of future Erato-approved aka explicit scenes.)
Regina has well and truly walked into a trap. No, not walked—raced headlong into it, for the horses, spurred by Regina's order to nigh flight along the Via Appia, will need nothing short of a miracle to recover.
So, according to the puzzled line of medici coming and going in her parents' house, will Regina's father.
That at least was not a lie, but the realness of his condition is everything but consolation to Regina. The mysterious ailment has yet to be diagnosed in the first place, and a cure is nowhere in sight. Regina can't bear to watch another wise man scratch their learned head for varying lengths of time only to eventually shuffle out of the dim room with a helpless shrug; or another charlatan gambling with her father's health and causing more harm than good. Dismissing the slave girl (they come and go under Cora's iron fist so fast Regina can't keep track of them) mother had stationed by Daddy's sickbed the very afternoon of her arrival, Regina settles into the bedroom to nurse him herself.
Cora appears shortly after, her daughter's disobedience apparently as powerful a magnet as ever.
"Regina, dear, how nice of you to stop by," she says by way of greeting. How typical of her to make even words of welcome a thinly veiled reprimand. "You could have sent word, you know. Or come to greet your mother before you disrupt your father's treatment."
"Treatment that doesn't seem to be working. And you didn't even bother sending word of his illness!"
Regina clenches her fists in an attempt to rein in the rising temper that burst forth so readily. Cora doesn't respond well to such outbursts, even if it's righteous anger, and Regina simply knows that all her indignation will earn her is a withering look and a lecture. She doesn't think she could stand either right now.
Cora gives her an appraising once-over that lingers on Regina's white knuckles before she has presence of mind enough to hide them in her stola, and Regina bites her lip—another mistake—at the realisation that her distress is plain as day to her mother. A knowing smile plays on Cora's lips, acknowledgement of Regina's effort to contain her passions, and Regina hates every moment of this already.
Mother never does shy away from adding fuel to the fire, however, and she hurls another caustic remark Regina's way.
"How would I have known where to reach you when you're neither at one of your husband's many residences nor mine?"
"You know perfectly well I've been staying with Zelena."
"I won't have that name spoken in this house," Cora grits coldly, her eyes hard and flashing dangerously. "I don't know why you insist on associating with her in the fir—"
"She's my sister, Mother," Regina returns on a sigh. They've been over this a hundred times before, and it's of no importance at the moment. All that matters, all that she should be focusing on right now, is Daddy's well-being. "How did this happen?"
"If you'd known your place, Regina, you wouldn't have to ask because you'd have been here. Perhaps then your father wouldn't have gotten himself sick gorging on mediocre wine."
Daddy never drinks wine he himself hasn't produced and mixed. Regina knows that. Cora knows it, too. The sinister smile and dangerous glint in her eye say so, and Regina shudders.
This was a trap just as suspected, only much worse.
Regina knows then that no medicus will ever be able to cure her father, and by the time she figures out a way, he might well be beyond helping.
So Regina turns to an old friend instead.
Mal, may the gods bless her, catches on immediately.
"You think Cora's been poisoning your father."
"It's possible," Regina lets on. After all this time, she's still reluctant to face the reality of just how deep her mother's heartlessness runs. It makes it all worse somehow to voice those thoughts rather than merely think them. But not speaking of it will not make it go away, and she's sworn to herself to resist the instinct to defend her mother—before others as well as herself. And this is Mal—she knows anyway, knows more than anyone else about Cora's depravity. So Regina takes a deep breath and amends: "I do. I do think she's caused whatever is wrong with Daddy to get me to—to return to Rome."
To get me to do what she wants. Because that's what her mother does—manipulate and extort to get her way.
Mal nods darkly, the purse of her lips the only indication of her dismay as she rummages through the cabinet the key to which she keeps hidden in the ornate walking stick that never leaves her side. Her home is as dark and isolated as ever at the end of a blind alley. Mal has a reputation, one that makes most respectable, god-fearing Romans give the place—and the woman—a wide berth. They say she's evil and malicious, a disciple of the ghastly goddess Trivia, whom she allegedly worships at crossroads by the darkest night. The rumours are true to an extent, for Mal certainly does meddle with substances others won't touch, apt like no other at mixing dreadful poisons and devious drugs. But for every poison there's an antidote, and, if so inclined, Mal's skill and knowledge at concocting just the right one is just as unparallelled.
Regina is not an unskilled herbalist herself, much of her prowess owed to none other than Mal, but she knows she's in over her head this time. The stash of hastily collected evidence—sweat-soaked towels, the contents of half-drunk glasses, meticulously noted observations of Daddy's condition on scraps of parchment—lies in a pile on Mal's table, and Regina prays it will be enough. Prays silently, not daring to disturb Mal's concentration as she pulls ingredient after ingredient from the depths of the cabinet: hyssop, fennel, and mallow among them, plus half a dozen others besides.
"It's going to need a fortnight," Mal says at long last, never looking up from the table now strewn with herbs and containers and dusty rolls of parchment.
"But you can help him?" Regina asks, her voice higher than intended, younger—fearful, she realises.
Adding fresh leaves of mint into a silver mortar, Mal wields the pestle with expert precision, her face drawing into a mask of cold determination.
"Oh, I shall certainly try."
What Robin wouldn't give for a moment to himself.
Oh how he misses roaming the streets of Rome, wearing a path in its less explored nooks, sauntering outside the walls, past the seedy shanty towns and into the woods. Nothing like the forest to clear one's mind. The wooded areas outside Rome also provided shelter from hired mercenaries of one rich patrician or another incensed by Robin's deft fingers and brazen courage.
There's no hiding from unwanted company in the ludus.
Robin now has a new cellmate in the person of Little John, and has taken as well as possible to the living arrangements. The dingy cell is barely large enough to allow for two full strides in width and perhaps five in length, and privacy is a luxury they simply can't afford. Such close quarters, Robin had learnt during his career in the legions, either make for fast friends or faster enemies. Despite their rocky start, Robin sure has lucked out with Little John, for they're getting on splendidly. Much of his life is now an open book to the man, and vice versa. But some things Robin can't and won't confide, and these are precisely the ones pressing down on him in a maddening motley that refuses to be untangled within the tight confines of four walls and the accompaniment of Little John's sonorous snoring.
Those treacherous thoughts lead him on a small number of well-trodden paths, to Roland (he's never not thinking about his boy, wondering when he would next clasp him in his arms), to Regina (he hopes her father's health is on the improve, her heart lighter with each passing day) and Henry (bless him for his generous soul and the readiness with which he's embraced Roland as a brother), to the shabby little cubicle ridden with rats that used to be Robin's home (not better by much than this, but at least he'd been free to come and go as he'd pleased). He's spent countless nights devising and revising plans and strategies to achieve his goal and break free from Hades' service, going over new numbers and techniques for upcoming battles, and plain and simple hating the guts of the orchestrators of his downfall (Hades is only a tool after all, the censor and praetor being the true villains).
But tonight he's pondering neither of those things. Tonight Robin's mind is otherwise occupied.
There were whispers that day, whispers Robin overheard. He can't help but wonder that perhaps he was supposed to, that he didn't just imagine Little John's conspiratorial wink or his frown at Robin's lack of response. A single word passed from one man to another with a touch of reverence, a pinch of excitement, and an unmistakably illicit tang to it. Just one word—but if caught by the wrong person, it could end them all in an instant. A name charged with meaning even decades after its rise to fame—or, to some, infamy.
Spartacus.
The wind carried the name like the mischievous vagrant it was, flighty and free to roam wherever it pleased, ever elusive and unfettered. It whispered conspiratorially, as though the name alone weren't enough to doom the lot of them were it to reach the wrong ears. But whose wagging tongue had first given the words wings?
It must have been one of the new ones, those merely passing through the sturdy walls of villa Hades. A host of gladiators from a ludus in southern Campania had been admitted to lodge at the villa to rest and recover on their way to Rome. The first stir came with the knowledge that nigh half of them were no slaves but contracted freedmen selling their prowess and good name for coin and dubious fame. Hades' familia gladiatoria having no such members at the time, the lodgers were quite the curiosity, pestered with jests and earnest queries alike. Robin for one couldn't wrap his head around their motivations, but he enjoyed with a bittersweet stab in his chest the news they shared of life elsewhere. He'd decided it was important, if painful, to remind himself that there was in fact life outside these walls—life he had every intention to return to one day, so he'd do best to keep up with public affairs as much as he could.
So Robin listened—and heard more than he'd bargained for.
About fantastic beasts from faraway lands, atrocious executions and heroic fights, and a curiosity unlike anything Rome has seen before—a female gladiatrix, the first of her kind, entering the field of her own free will.
And then, a fresh breeze, a changing wind to stir the gentle waves into an excited ripple, a surge of water that wasn't a tidal wave just yet but could perhaps foretell a turning tide.
It sent Robin's mind reeling, sloshing over hope and dread and colliding with conflicting moral issues hard to untangle. A single name for now that echoed in his ears, hammered against his skull, and beat against his ribcage:
Spartacus, Spartacus, Spartacus.
Little John's pallet rustles as the man tosses and turns, the absence of his snores drawing a series of fake ones from Robin. He's in no mood to talk just yet, to discuss the matter further. He's yet to figure out just what this could mean—for him, and for them all. There's little doubt as to the intent behind the name's appearance, yet he can't quite fathom the boldness of the plan.
But is there a plan? Or is it just foolish fancy, a half-baked fantasy to lead them to their doom?
Will there, like decades before them, be another revolt? Another bold attempt at freedom from the yoke of peddlers like Hades? Another failed attempt that will see the Via Appia lined anew with dying men and women strapped to crosses?
So many lives would be lost—on both sides.
Robin's heart squeezes at the thought—what would happen to Roland in the city if unrest were to break out? To Regina and Henry? They'd be their enemies, members of that hateful class the slaves had on several occasions before raised arms against. They'd be his enemies.
The jumble of thought Robin's hoped to unravel only tangles up more. He stares into the dark, feeling himself on the brink of a crossroads plunged in blackness.
Where do his loyalties lie?
For hours, or so it seems, Robin weighs his options, views the problem from every which angle, attempts to tell right from wrong, until a very prominent snore rouses him—and he smirks. He doesn't have to make any decisions tonight. Perhaps in the light of day, he will see a clear path before him. Perhaps there's nothing to decide after all. Just a rudis—a simple piece of wood charged with meaning—to strive for for years on end, enduring beatings and burns and shackles.
Robin closes his eyes and hopes for pleasant dreams.
A fortnight is a long time to watch a loved one suffer, and a longer time still to suffer Mother's scheming and controlling tendencies on top.
But Regina will do it—just as Cora knew she would. Cora is skilled after all at wielding Regina's love and loyalty as a weapon, and Regina struggles and fails to silence the echo of her mother's words playing over and over in her head, hammering in that love is weakness, Regina—hating it so much because in a way, it truly is. Cora makes it so, doesn't shy away from hurting those Regina cares about to further her own agenda. Just what that is this time around, Regina has yet to find out.
"Weren't you quite done with breakfast, dear?" Cora admonishes when Regina reaches for a plump red apple.
Regina fights the impulse to withdraw her hand, and makes it a point to flash a defiant look Cora's way before taking a generous bite. It's just as juicy to the taste as it was pleasant to the eye, and damn if she won't enjoy every delicious morsel.
"Don't be such a child, Regina. I have something for us to discuss."
The timing is as awful as they come. Regina has a sick father to tend to and other engagements today of all days. Yet she's finally close to learning just what ambitious goal has had her mother wanting for Regina's presence enough to not merely fabricate a rumour about Daddy's illness, but make sure it's a true one, too. Regina's stomach revolts at the very thought, and the anger floats close to the surface all of a sudden, its silent simmer rising to a boiling rage. She only barely manages to keep it bottled up for a moment longer as she lays her hands in her lap, fisting the powder blue of her attire out of sight of Cora's critical eye.
"What is it, Mother?" she grits through clenched teeth.
"There's a war coming, Regina, and we need to make sure we're on the winning side."
"Rome is always at war," Regina dismisses irritably. Campaigns. Triumphs. Thousands of dead. And then there are the inner squabbles, elections sabotaged and botched and bought with money and blood. Yes, Rome is always at war, always in competition with others and herself. Cora lives for just that though—and ironically, the daughter that takes after her in this respect is precisely the one Cora has cast away. Regina, on the other hand, wants no part in it.
She might not have a choice.
"George and Midas are going to run for consul together."
"Are you sure?" But Regina already knows the answer to that—of course Cora's sure. This is, after all, what she does. Yet Regina can't quite imagine those two as running mates. She's overheard one too many shouting matches Leopold's had to settle. "They hate each other."
But Cora merely scoffs.
"Personal feelings are of no consequence in such matters. You should have learnt that a long time ago."
"Your mother's quite right, dearie."
The very voice of the new arrival raises gooseflesh on Regina's arms. She's heard it often enough, too often even, both as a child growing up in this house, and recently in her adult life, obliged to barter with it.
Leopold, George, and Midas may well be the most powerful trio in Rome, but it is Rumplestiltskin who pulls the strings from his censor's office.
He steps into the triclinium with an exaggerated bow, sending a ripple through the folds of his purple-bordered toga. The feared censor, while most efficient in matters of finance, is a cynic at heart when it comes to his role of upholding morality—one he never hesitates to use to his own benefit. Yet few realise the pathos with which he speaks of morality and tradition is in fact mockery. Regina sees through the act; and surprisingly enough, Leopold must, too, for he certainly detests the imp (which might just be one of the precious few positive traits of her husband).
"I personally despise them both," Rumplestiltskin giggles as he lowers himself onto the unoccupied dining couch and helps himself to food and drink. "But I'm willing to lend a hand. Midas will lend George the money necessary to raise an army, and George will use it to further his fame and improve Midas' chances of winning in the process. The fool can certainly use it."
George, already commanding a substantial private army, is a glorified thug if you ask Regina, and Midas no more than a pompous buffoon whose hunger for gold only grows the more it is fed. It seems the next one will be known as the year Bribery and Thuggery were consuls in Rome.
"What's in it for you?" Regina asks with narrowed eyes.
"That's my business," comes Rumplestiltskin's non-answer accompanied by an odd little wiggle of his fingers.
"You understand of course," Cora chimes in, her tone suggesting how very much she actually doubts her daughter's intelligence, "that this puts your husband in a precarious position. If Leopold wants to run for consul, he may have a hard time beating those two united."
And yes, fine, that does make sense, but: "I don't care about any of that."
"Oh but you should, dearie." Rumplestiltskin's smug, dispassionate face irks—and yes, unsettles—Regina more that she likes to admit. "You wouldn't want to stay married to an exile, now would you?"
"What is it you'd have me do? Divorce him?" she asks with purest sarcasm, for the very thought that Leopold would ever allow such a thing is ridiculous. That option may be available in theory, and it may be fairly ordinary for Roman men and women to marry, divorce, and remarry again for political or economical reasons, but Leopold is a stickler for tradition, and he'd never stand for this. And then there's Henry—
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Regina," says Cora, that reproachful tone permeating her voice again. "Leopold might beat one of them, or even both, to the consulship—in which case there will be no need for that. Now, if he does lose, you will of course want to remarry."
"What?!" Any thought of divorce is absurd enough, but this—this is outright impossible. Regina won't do it. She just won't, couldn't stand escaping one loveless marriage only to enter another. "Mother, you can't just—choose another husband for me. Not again."
"Don't be ridiculous, dear, of course I can. But I haven't—yet. Be a good girl and you may choose for yourself this time if you're quick about it. You're not terribly old or entirely unattractive when you choose to make an effort, and George and Midas are both currently wifeless."
"So those are my options."
Regina's voice is hollow now, controlled. She needs time to process this, cannot comprehend the calamity closing in just yet, much less devise a plan of escape. But she won't give her mother or the despicable censor the satisfaction of glimpsing the way her insides twist and turn with dread and rising nausea.
"Those are your options," Cora deadpans. "Although I'd lean towards George if I were you. We already have money—he can bring glory to our name again. Plus, with all the warmongering, chances are he'll last shorter than Midas. There is of course the unfortunate matter of that thieving slave you antagonised him over—"
"And in this scenario of yours, what exactly happens to Henry?"
She knows what happens well enough—it's what always happens after a divorce. The children are under the authority of the father, and the mother has no legal claim to them. Now, provided that a divorce is amicable, she may well stay a part of their life; if not, well, a grudging ex-husband could make sure she never sees them again. Her mother must be mad if she thinks for a second that Regina would risk being separated from Henry like that. But her mother also won't fight to arrange a better deal for them—a suspicion Cora confirms all too readily.
"He stays with his father of course," she scoffs, and Rumple lets out a strangled, gleeful sound. "I don't see why either of them would even want a disgraced man's child when they can perfectly well produce their own heirs."
"Daddy didn't mind."
Regina's sharp retort—foolish, pointless, but she simply cannot help vexing her mother when Cora just sits there plotting out Regina's life so unflinchingly even after she's already destroyed it—has Rumplestiltskin gasp theatrically with a note of unabashed amusement, while Cora's face goes from utter shock to stone-cold contempt in an instant.
"Enough," she hisses coolly. "We shall continue this conversation once you're ready to behave like a grown woman rather than a spiteful little girl."
Taking her cue and grateful for it, Regina rises from the table and orders Clodia to cancel the litter she had the girl prepare earlier. A walk is just what she needs to clear her head right now.
Regina wanders down tightly packed winding roads, stumbles across dingy alleys smelling of urine and excrement, weaves through the crowds on the Forum. When she reaches Midas' theatre complex, the very first of its kind in the city, her lips curl at the sprawling marble monstrosity with its ostentatious gardens, galleries, and colonnades. Built to impress and ingratiate, the extravagant undertaking for all its bluster managed to accomplish just the opposite—deemed too un-Roman in its excess, it had been snubbed and scorned and ridiculed by the populace of Rome much like the man whose name it carries. The building has since wormed its way into the people's hearts—or at the very least, their lives—but Midas has never quite recovered from the consequences of his spectacularly backfired plan. With his new-man status—forever viewed with suspicion if not contempt by many of the oldest, most respectable Roman families—reemerging into public consciousness just as his military conquests are fading from memory, Midas needs all the backing he can possibly get from his powerful allies.
A shiver seizes her at the thought she's to be one such tool, and Regina strives to shake it off speedily, for she's almost reached her destination.
The shopkeepers occupying the front of the house greet her—Marco the carpenter raises the hand not gripping a hammer, Goldilocks the barber looks up with a smile from sweeping the floor—as Regina enters the large white domus.
"Regina! So good to see you," Snow floats to her side within the blink of an eye, not quite daring to hug but grasping Regina's hands in her own at least. "I was beginning to worry you've worn yourself sick at your father's bedside. How is he?"
Regina smiles. The day hasn't been all horrible, after all.
"Not bad today, actually. I even convinced him to drink all of his broth this morning. Henry?"
"Studying with Archie, as you requested." Snow spills the beans then, her knowing smile more amusement than disapproval. "At least that's what they've been doing since I caught him trying to sneak out after you."
Regina stares.
"He didn't."
"Oh yes, he did. He's a good boy; he just has his own head. His mother's child."
Regina knows her eyeroll isn't fooling anyone—certainly not Snow, who's known her far too long not to see right through it—even as she masks the warmth melting her heart at the simple comment.
"Thanks for having him. And me."
"Please. I'm always glad to see my little brother. And you." Snow sighs as her eyes drift to the door Regina hasn't strayed too far from, her intentions all too clear. "Couldn't you both stay a little longer? You've been neglecting me lately."
Regina bristles, guilt and anger slicing through her. She doesn't like being guilt-tripped. But, though used to getting her way, Snow is no Cora—she doesn't thrive on manipulation. And she's not wrong—Regina's been rejecting invitations and cancelling outings for much too long, only to seek out her stepdaughter the second she needed her help.
"I just have a lot going on these days, Snow," Regina sighs—it's as close an apology as Snow's getting, but she knows it will be accepted as such. "I need to return to Daddy, and Henry has—places to be."
"Someday," Snow lowers her voice to a near-whisper, "you're going to tell me where it is you're taking him that Father can't know of."
"Some day."
Regina resists, though only barely, the urge to press upon Snow once again the importance of speaking nothing of these little episodes to Leopold or anyone else. Snow may have blundered once and betrayed Regina's trust, but that childish mistake when she was but twelve years old took a toll on their relationship Regina knows the woman is in no hurry to repeat. A necessity—that's what had Regina entrust another secret to a more mature Snow. Not all of the secret, certainly, but part of one even Leopold prefers to keep from his precious daughter, denying Snow nothing except the truths he thinks could taint his perfect image in his adoring girl's doey eyes.
Such as the truth about Henry's parentage.
"Can Roland really not come along?" Henry bargains as they walk the streets side by side.
Regina sighs and squeezes his hand. She hates disappointing him, but there's no way around it this time.
"I'm sorry, Henry, but we've been through this. We can't expect Roland to keep a secret like this just yet."
"I already miss him though," Henry shrugs, hanging his shoulders. "I'm used to having him around. It's weird that he's not staying at Snow's with us."
"I know, honey, but Auntie Mal's is closer, so I can check on him more easily—he's not a big boy like you, and you know how he misses his Papa. Besides, Snow has enough on her plate with the baby, and from what I hear," Regina adds pointedly, "you haven't been making things any easier for her."
"Oh." Henry shuffles uncomfortably. "She told you?"
"That you tried to sneak out? She did." She says no more than that, and doesn't need to—Henry's repentant enough under her reprimanding eye.
"I'm sorry, Mom. I wanted to see Grandpa. You said he's doing better—and I miss him."
His words squeeze at Regina's chest, and she stops in her tracks. A man, bundled up to his eyes in a cloak much too thick for the season, bumps into them a split second later and hurries off with not an look to spare. Regina huffs in annoyance—in these narrow alleyways, collisions are unavoidable, but a hasty, muttered apology surely wouldn't hurt—and bends down to her son, cupping his jaw gently and softening immediately as she looks into his imploring eyes.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I know this has been hard on you. I promise—" She swallows the anxiety twisting and coiling at the thought of subjecting Henry to Cora's critical eye and harsh tongue. Shielding her son from her mother meant taking up lodging at Snow White's rather than Cora's, a decision that invoked Cora's wrath and earned Regina a deluge of reproachful remarks without end. But it's also kept Henry from his beloved grandfather, and it seems that won't do. "I promise I'll take you to Grandpa once you're back. How's that sound?"
"Good," Henry says, a smile illuminating his features and dwindling again as he lays a hand on her cheek. "Don't worry, Mom. I can handle Grandma."
Regina blinks. He's nine. Nine. Leopold, and Roman custom, may have other ideas and expectations of boys his age, but he's still a child. He shouldn't have to deal with the mess that's Regina's relationship with Cora—or, well, Cora in general with her over-the-top expectations and questionable values. Or with the cruel farce that's Regina's marriage, for that matter. Moments like this, when her little prince strives to take on the role of her protector, have her heart aching and melting at the same time, wondering how fast time is slipping through her fingers, how fast her baby is growing up, and what a wonderful young man he's getting to be.
"I know you can," she smiles sadly. "But let's not worry about Grandma now, okay? You're supposed to be having fun this weekend—and we wouldn't want to be late for that, right?"
Henry nods and holds out his hand to her as she rises again, drawing her cloak tighter about her. It doesn't quite cover the exquisite fabrics she's wearing underneath, but at least the simple, thin material of the light palla makes her less obviously out of place in these parts. They weave between people hurrying to and fro, take a right turn to avoid an ill-famed brothel, and the closer they get, the gloomier Regina becomes. It's never easy for her to part from Henry, to leave him in the hands of others—even though she's come to trust them, even though he's safe and full of excitement and stories every time she picks him up again.
They're already waiting when Regina and Henry emerge at the four-storey apartment building, the large hound chained at the entrance wagging its tail at the familiar sight of them. Henry skips ahead to greet the man and woman beaming at him, and Regina exchanges a few pleasantries with the blonde before bidding her son goodbye for two excruciatingly long days.
"I'll see you soon," she assures herself more than Henry as she hugs him closer, then wills herself to let go. "Be good for Emma and Neal."
Robin writes by night.
Not with quill on parchment, for he has neither. Instead it's his mind that weaves words together. Not weaves, for he seems to lack eloquence when it comes to this task—stitches them together, and even those arduous stitches aren't particularly neat but rather pinched and uneven, undone and redone time and time again. Letters to…no one, ultimately.
For Robin discards them all by morning, only to go right back to the start.
By day, the ludus' surface of normalcy is rippled by an undercurrent of chance meetings and secret plotting. Even though it lacks substance yet, it might just be enough to get them all killed. And in a place like this, even the walls have ears.
"You're one of us now, you know," John mumbles in the dead of night, his words reverberating in the silence of their cell. "A slave just like the rest. We're no better, and no better off, than those born into the wretched state."
"I know that," Robin hisses, for truly he does.
"Then why hesitate?" John's pallet rustles, and Robin imagines the man must have shifted to prop his head up in his elbow so as to better see him. Robin's been under constant scrutiny these days after all—the supervisors' attentions joined by those of his fellow gladiators, suspicious of Robin's lack of enthusiasm or participation. Yet John's tone is curious rather than accusatory. "You're not a coward, Robin, or a traitor—unless I've suddenly become an awful judge of character."
"You have not."
"Is it your boy? Is this about Roland?" John takes Robin's silence as confirmation, and grunts sympathetically—he's become rather fond of Roland during the little charmer's visits with Robin. "We'll get him out, no worries. Plenty of us have families to think of. Doing it for them as well as ourselves."
Robin makes no response. He doesn't have one for Little John. He's not quite done figuring them out for himself either.
Obviously Roland is always his primary concern, so he could easily say yes and stop there. It would only be part-truth, however. Does he abhor the exploitation of the lowest of the low? Certainly he does, and not only now that he's experienced it firsthand. Do the ties of brotherhood, imposed initially upon them by Hades but given meaning by themselves, bind him to their common cause? Undeniably his own distancing act has him wrought with no little amount of guilt. A shameful little corner of his heart—or mind, rather—is reluctant to fan the flame of resistance so lacking a solid plan for execution. This could perhaps be remedied though. Robin is not too shabby a strategist—he could contribute here, be a valuable asset.
And yet.
How could Robin ever hope to explain the fears and doubts rooted so deep in his heart he can't quite weed them out? He'd already lost Marian while fighting Rome's battles, only to have Rome spit in his face and provide no line of defence in the face of greedy adversaries slowly and sneakily stripping him of land and name. The day is forever etched in his soul when he, released from a decade of military service, had finally stumbled through the threshold of his home only to find Marian on her deathbed and a newborn Roland squealing next to her. Perhaps if he'd been there, he could have helped, and she could have lived. But his duty to his family had had to come second to his duty to Rome.
That was the establishment he'd fight when, cheated out of his property, he turned to stealing and robbery to provide for Roland and himself, as well as other unfortunates whenever he could, until the day he was caught breaking into the aedile's grain supplies.
And now here he is.
It's also the establishment, the very same one, the slaves' revolt would be fighting—and yet Robin's reluctant. In his days as thief, he used to make it a point to work alone, occasionally enlisting the assistance of beggars and pickpockets and entertainers of all sorts, but only to the extent they came to no harm should he be caught. But a feat like this? Too many lives are on the line, too much room for mistake, the potential consequences much too grave. Gods know many innocent lives Robin had extinguished in his military days—either by sword or through the destruction left in the Roman legions' wake—and how often his sleep is haunted by nightmares in which he revisits those bleak times.
No matter the righteousness of the cause, people would inevitably be caught in the crossfire. Roland is in Rome, living in the lap of luxury, under the wing of a woman against whom, on account of her class, Robin's being asked to raise arms, but whose character and actions merit no such fate.
How many more like her are there?
Surely plenty more, reason dictates.
Not a single one, part of him immediately claps back—a part he's been trying valiantly to keep in check. There's no point denying his feelings for Regina anymore. Lying to himself would just be disrespecting his true self, and Robin is an honest man. No one else can find out, of course, for that would bring nothing but doom. But Robin does know, has accepted the ache of missing is no longer solely for his precious boy and for flighty freedom, but also for a stunning woman with dark locks and a heart filled with more light than she knows, and even for a young lad whose heart in turn shines with the purest, truest belief in good.
Robin is afraid for them all.
He may be a thief and a slave, but he has a code, and, now more than ever, he must live by that code. Stay true to it even when the going gets rough. Do what's right, no matter what.
The only question is, what is right, and how does he do right by everyone?
Regina, battling the dejection ever present when Henry is not, wanders through Mal's door the next morning to find the cure ready.
"You're welcome, little one," Mal cuts her off before Regina's gratitude even has a chance to be poured into words, and hands her a stoppered vial filled with amber liquid. When a delighted squeal greets them from the other end of the shaded peristyle, she adds: "On both accounts."
They both chuckle as an elated Roland barrels into Regina's legs, throwing little arms around her and setting her momentarily off balance. He prattles on about Mal's unicorn (a pony she's outfitted with a horn—a trick Henry also used to fall for happily as a toddler), and the dragon perched on top of her walking stick (once a real beast of flesh and blood, Auntie Mal told him, and now her miniature protector), and of the secret cave in the verdure of her cool garden hiding a silver treasure he's been digging to uncover. He looks happy enough, and Regina throws Mal another thankful look, one that's met with a nod and a smile that grows as Mal glances at the little boy, who can't seem to stop gushing about the adventures they've had together. Pulling on Regina's hand, he insists on showing her, and the two women follow him with matching smiles.
"We'll be off in a few days," Regina says even as Mal glares and waves a dismissive hand. "Just as soon as Daddy's well again."
"I already said I'll be glad to watch him, Regina, so please don't act like either of you is a burden. I'm not your bitch of a mother to object to a sweet child because of his parentage or some bullshit criteria of mine he doesn't fulfil. Besides, ever since Lily disappeared gods only know where, I've been—" Mal shrugs with a watery smile before admitting to what Regina already knows, "—well, lonely."
Regina lays a hand on Mal's shoulder—Henry's only been gone one night and his absence is crushing. She can sympathise.
"Have you heard from her lately?"
"Last thing I know, she was about to board a ship bound for Athens—although what she hopes to find there, I'm really not sure."
The obvious answer, the one reserved for the prying public, would be her father, a man long since believed dead after a terrible construction accident at one of his many properties buried half the workers. Mal has confided in Regina that she believes him alive and well somewhere far away, living the good life and caring nothing for the daughter allegedly seeking her roots. Mal now runs the business along with Lily, who's seized the chance to break out of the confines of Roman womanhood and travels around, extending the business by purchasing and renting buildings outside Rome proper. A transparent excuse to elude the status quo, but one that passes thanks to Mal's reputation of a most dangerous woman when crossed.
Regina envies the girl who's managed what she never could.
Something—a twitch of muscle or her wistful look—must betray her sentiment to her friend and mentor.
"Go back to Capua," Mal tells her earnestly. "Rome doesn't become you."
It really doesn't. It's never agreed with her—she'd dreamed of green pastures and tall mountains, of fragrant forests and gorgeous groves, of rivers running for miles upon miles and vast Oceanus encircling the world. A simpler life than the bustle of Rome, the heart of the empire with its rules and regulations made to be bent and broken with cunning and artfulness she's learnt to wield but never to relish, could ever provide.
And, of course, Capua happens to have the added advantage of the person of a certain gladiator constantly hovering at the edge of her mind.
"I will," Regina nods. "As soon as Daddy—"
"With the antidote I fixed him, your father needs perhaps three days of your attention, no more. A full week, and he'll be as good as new. Start packing."
The very prospect has Regina breathing a sigh of relief even as ominous clouds swirl and swarm the blue skies.
Robin pays an exorbitant sum to procure ink and parchment, paying extra for discretion there's still no guarantee of. He's going to reach even deeper into his earnings in exchange for delivery once he finds the right words and right messenger. Correspondence isn't forbidden exactly, but this kind surely would be, and Robin in particular has his privileges curtailed still, cutting him off from the outside world. This must be achieved in secret. Privacy is scarce and so is ink, therefore Robin spends any lull in activity pondering his options and constructing the letter he's decided to pen in his mind.
What does he tell her, and how much? How does he even address her? Not by name, for that would implicate her if something went awry. He can't send the message directly to her for the same reason. He can't sign it with his own name either, for the connections between her and anyone he chooses as middleman—or -woman—would be much too easy to trace.
After much agonising, the wording is settled upon and stored safely in his memory. He finds himself a messenger all right, an errand boy all too happy to earn some coin and see mighty Rome in the process. Late at night, when the darkness is blackest, Robin scribbles his letter blindly in hopes that the scratching of the quill will be swallowed by Little John's hearty snores.
Shortly after dawn, Robin hands this note over to the messenger:
My lady, apologies for being so bold as to approach you in this manner. I've taken every precaution to keep you safe in case my letter is intercepted. There've been recent developments I cannot disclose in writing but would discuss in person. As I cannot come to you, I would ask that you come to me instead. May the roads of Campania treat you well. Signed, —
At dusk, half a dozen guards snatch him from his cell, and he knows the letter will never reach its destination.
Thumbs up? Thumbs down? This bard awaits your verdict with a poised quill. ;)