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A/N... I might have played with the canon timeline just a little (or gotten it wrong in a different point of view! Laughing) but hey...It's my story!
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Cassius had seen much since they had been brought here, the sight of that man crucified against a wall, his cock sawn from his body while he still lived, still conscious had given him nightmares but, he decided, he hated this day most of all.
The newest recruits were being put to the test. Men had died which was nothing unusual. He had never been bothered about another's life ending, still remembering the trips to the arena, but then he had not had the onerous task of attending to the practice sands, to handing out, collecting and cleaning weapons, to helping the others of his role in dragging the dead from the sand. His stomach lurched as he turned to pick up the hand and forearm that has been severed and left behind as the body was dragged to the side to be thrown from the cliff. No funeral pyres for these lumps of flesh.
There were only two left now from a group of five which had been training for the honour of dying later in the arena rather than here. One dead, two destined for the mines as they had failed the test. Life was brutal. Nothing he had not realised from a distance growing up. Everyone was aware that just to leave the house held its dangers but he had never had it thrust in his face like this. Never had to hold it in his hands.
There were jeers and he turned from looking out over the cliff as the last of the candidates climbed up onto the platform to face Barca. It should have been the Champion but he was having his fresh wound attended to, the one that would earn the new 'brother' his brand this night. Crixus still was smarting at the wounds he had received to rob him of the title so the task fell to Pietros' lover.
He glanced over to tall lean boy and felt again the mix of emotions. Gratitude for what the youth tried to do to make his life a little more bearable, jealousy and envy that he had what he himself needed, a sheltering protecting pair of arms.
Moving back to the steps, he stood just inside the shade, as far in as he could manage without censure and watched with the others as the fight began. He had begun to take an interest and actually watch the men at practice just as Spartacus had advised. He had realised on that first morning that he would never be able to use any of the 'battle' moves that they practiced but it had been in the afternoon, under the blazing sun, that he had understood what the man meant. Yet another tussle and fight had broken out between two of the fighters. These were the things he had taken note of.
The man up on the platform was holding his own, the jeers becoming cheers as the others showed signs of begrudging respect as the man managed to keep his feet under the continued assault of the larger man. Cassius did not know his name but he knew his eyes. They had been on him frequently over this last week. The closer to the test, the bolder the previously hidden glances had become.
The slave had never approached him. Cassius may have been passed around amongst the gladiators, but they would not have tolerated sharing him with one not yet of the brotherhood. If this one passed this test, as he appeared he would, Cassius knew that he would just be another bastard putting cock to his arse.
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Finally being given leave to retreat to his room, Spartacus entered allowing himself a sigh of relief. He had come so close to killing the woman. A woman had died this night but not the wife of his most hated enemy. Not Glarber's wife, Ilithyia. He had done as he was bidden. Had brought pleasure to the rich woman hidden behind the mask not knowing or caring who she was. Only caring to give his master the service he demanded by giving the slim pale, he had to admit, beautiful woman a night to remember.
Then he had seen her face.
Standing here, he knew that he had been used once more in the machinations of, if not his master, then the Domina. He had been rebuked, punished and apologised to all in the same night for the same thing. He would never be able to understand that man. The man that owned him so completely now that he had become the weapon he had been moulded into. He had given his word. He was no longer the Thracian warrior, no longer the husband or even the slave. He was gladiator, weapon of his Dominus.
But stood here, he felt used, soiled. The sex had been fine, easy, pleasurable even once he had conditioned himself to believe that his body was not that of the husband of Sura. It was the Bringer of Rain. The ferocious killer of the sands that the woman had requested. As soon as he had seen her face though he knew, he knew that he was not. He was a used whore, just a pawn in his master's games.
Moving to the small table, he poured himself some of the watered wine that had been left as usual for him and lifting the cup took a drink. As he turned into the room his eyes widening and the cup, thrown from his hand landed on his thin pallet bed as he prepared to defend himself form the shadowed figure crouched in the corner.
"What business do you attend here?" he spat out, angry not only that there was an uninvited presence in his room, but that it had been witness to his moment of weakness as he had thought himself alone. The figure pushed itself from the shadowed corner, the effort looking pained. Spartacus relaxed his stance as he saw the youthful figure of Cassius take a step towards him. He let his shoulders sag. He was tired and in no mood for more advances from the boy. "Depart," he instructed. He needed sleep. He would be expected back on the practice sands in a few hours and knew better than to waste them.
The dejected figure that was hunched in on itself with arms wrapped around the narrow waist, moved slowly to do as commanded. Cassius had sort refuge here having no where else to turn and had just wanted to be able to rest, to be left alone if only for a little while. No one would dare to enter the champion's room. As he passed by the larger figure, his head bowed in grim acceptance, a hand held his upper arm halting his slow movement. The other hand grabbed his chin, turning his face into the scant light and he heard the man curse as he saw the fresh bruising, the swollen eye and bitten lip. Gnaeus loved to leave his mark on him for all to see.
"You did not attempt to fight him off." It was a statement, not a question. Maybe he should teach the boy a few moves, tell him which were the vulnerable spots no matter the size of the opponent.
Cassius sneered bitterly. "I attempted. He did not like it."
In trying to help in what little way he could, Spartacus supposed that he had made it worse for the boy. He moved and retrieving the thankfully unbroken cup, refilled it with wine and thrust it at the youth. "Go on," he encouraged, nodding with his head as Cassius looked at the cup as if it were poison. As the boy drank with shaking hand and a wince as the liquid caught the split on his bottom lip, Spartacus conceded. "You can stay. Sleep quiet in the corner. Make me forget your presence." With that, he threw himself down onto his narrow pallet and turned to the wall expecting the youth to heed him or leave. He wondered at his decision but the answer came quickly. He too this night had been used. He did not look as the youth did but still he felt soiled. It would cost him nothing if the boy stayed for one night.
As painlessly as he could, Cassius retreated to the corner where he had been hiding and, pulling his knees up, he curled against the rough plaster and closed his eyes wondering just how much more he could or would have to take of this before he died.
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T.B.C...
