A/N: Ok, so a little license taken with canon here. In TBOL, Baldwin is unaware of Ysabeau's being a carrier of blood rage. I've tried to tread a fine line here, in that he is unaware, but both he and Hugh were around when Ysabeau was still a prisoner of her sire. It's still possible that they weren't actually privy to the blood rage - if, as Ysabeau says, there was no one left alive to talk about it when they got there.

Philippe knew how to keep secrets, as we all know. So, bear with me.

Chapter Ten

There was a definite difference between the palace of Alexandria and the quarters provided for Arsinoë here in Rome. For one, she and her ladies, save Sabra, were immediately separated. The others were to be sold as slaves.

"They're resourceful," Lucius said, failing to spot that none of the women seemed in the least bit alarmed. Comfort or kindness did not come easily to him.

Arsinoë gave him a smile and touched his elbow reassuringly. "No need to fret, Maahes. I've agents in the city waiting to buy them. They will see to it that Meysene and Gala come to no harm."

"How could you possibly have –" He shook his head and bent it close to hers. "You should have been named Arachne."

She grinned briefly, apparently familiar with the story.

All levity was gone by the time it came to their parting. Arsinoë would not be kept with other prisoners, and compared with those whose destiny it was to be lion-food, her life would be comparatively luxurious. She would be fed, she would be allowed to keep clean, and she would be given a pair of slaves to tend to her; she would not be free to come and go. She was never to be released from her cell, even to worship. She might be preyed on by those meant to guard her and have no recourse or redress. All these things ran through Lucius' mind as he observed the three bare rooms which were to be the boundaries of Arsinoë's life, but it was the last which caused the most consternation. It was his nature to be possessive and protective to the extreme, and the thought of her here, vulnerable, while he would be forced to return to Alexandria was unbearable. Quite how unbearable became clear when the warder opened the door and shoved her in.

Without being aware of having moved, Lucius had his hand around the warder's throat, pinning him against the wall. Arsinoë was instantly in front of him again, close enough to feel the snarl reverberating through his chest.

"Maahes, stop. It won't help. Stop. Stop." She kept repeating it, the calm repetition doing more to rein in his instincts than all the weapons currently trained on him. Eventually he let go, and the warder (though somewhat purple in the face and now crumpled on the floor) was left alive.

None of the others seemed to know what to do – they were obviously rightfully fearful of Lucius, but equally, he had just attacked faster than could be natural, and suspended a man in the air for nearly a minute without it taking any effort at all. Lucius took advantage of the indecision to pull Arsinoë closer.

"You have to go," she said, breathlessly. She was breathless because his grip was tighter than could possibly be comfortable. He could hear her ribs creaking.

"They'll prey on you," he said.

"They will try," she responded. He knew what she meant. If they attempted to use her, it would be in trade.

"No," he pressed, "you are not a tool. Your body is not a tool to ensure your survival. Promise me."

"Wait for you?"

"Wait for me."

He had no right to extract such a promise, and, knowing Arsinoë would tell him exactly that, pressed his forehead to hers and stormed out of the prison at a ferocious speed.

When Maahes was gone, Arsinoë walked willingly into her cell, biting her lip hard to prevent the sobs erupting. The gods were playing a sick joke. Now? Now, of all times, she had to find him? For twenty two years, she had watched, and waited, for her equal to arrive, for someone her sister could not take – and now?

The cell door clanged shut behind her, making Sabra flinch. Realising how frightened she must be, Arsinoë turned to look after her servant, and found that those Romans not helping the warder to his feet were staring at her in mingled fascination and fear. It was written quite plainly on their faces, the question: what magic do these Egyptian Queens possess, to turn our men to madness?

Arsinoë decided that she could allot herself precisely one night to completely fall apart and acknowledge just how much she had lost. Accordingly, when she and Sabra were alone, she startled the other woman completely, and wept. Her tears flowed freely and tasted bitter.

Caesar stayed in Alexandria only for as long as his son – sickeningly named 'Caesarion' was in the dangerous stage of infancy. Once the child had begun to crawl, the general could no longer justify his absence from Rome. Not least because the Senate demanded his return.

It was a bittersweet day for Lucius. On the other hand, it got him away from Cleopatra's smugness and Caesar's banal adoration of the child. Caesar allowed the boy to play and sleep and scream and shit anywhere he liked, and Lucius was about a week away from throwing him into the sea. The Egyptian campaign had all but collapsed under Ptolemy and there was no other feature of interest in Egypt. The return to Rome was a cause for dread, too, since it drew the triumph, and Arsinoë's execution, all the closer.

They sailed as far as they were able to, so unlike his journey with Arsinoë, it was at least not slow and laborious. Lucius was the first high-ranking officer to land in Rome, which worked out well for him as there was no one to stop him going to Arsinoë's prison. It was past midnight when he arrived, but unlike the first time he had been here, there was no need for violence. His purse was heavy with Egyptian gold, more than enough to bribe the guards to look the other way. Throughout his trip through Rome, he asked himself what was possessing him. Why did he need to see her? Where did said need come from? She was to be executed in a matter of weeks, what could it possibly matter if she was being mistreated now?

Sabra was asleep, when he arrived, on a bed of woollen blankets. A similar bed was in another corner of the room, unslept in. Two slaves slept on the floor. None of them looked in poor health. There was an oil lamp burning in another room, and Arsinoë's scent. He moved silently to stand in the doorway. She was on her knees before a small shrine, tiny soapstone figures of her gods standing in front of the oil lamp. The flickering light made their shadows loom, huge on the walls. Finishing her prayers, Arsinoë picked up the statuette of Isis and kissed it.

Then she stood, turned and jumped out of her skin to see his bulky silhouette in the doorway. He chuckled. "So you can be surprised then. That is good to know."

"Why are you here?"

Her voice was rasping. And under the shadow of her hair, he could see bruising around her neck. Someone had attacked her.

"I ordered it," she said, quickly putting a hand to the line around her throat.

"What?"

"Practice."

He was beginning to absolutely loathe that word. But, since the only person in front of him was the one human he'd absolutely no desire to harm, laughing had to take the place of violence. "Are you mad?"

"Maahes –"

"No. No, Arsinoë, no! Is it not enough that they are going to kill you at the end of the triumph? You must give them the opportunity to rehearse as well?"

"If you've come here to tell me I'm a fool then you may leave!" she snapped.

"You are a fool!"

"What do they look like, the people you kill? I do not mean the ones you kill in battle – those who know their death is upon them, the ones who look at you and feel nothing but terror – what do they look like?"

Lucius wasn't fooled by her sudden change of subject. "Arsinoë."

"Do they have the dignity of people, at the end? When they are pissing themselves through fear, are they anything but beasts to you?" She stepped closer, her anger making her incandescent in the darkness. Her eyes burned. "You can't save me, Maahes. You can't do anything to help me. But I can help myself."

"By deliberately harming yourself?"

"By preparation. There is nothing else to do. I refuse to be one of those beasts. They panic, and they bleat, and they plead for mercy that will never be forthcoming. So during the day, I prepare my body, and at night, I prepare my soul."

"Are you even afraid?"

"I don't know," she said. Then there was a pause. "No."

Silence fell, in which Lucius found he was. He took a step back. "Caesar will be in Rome by the morning. He has been planning the triumph. Craftsmen in the city are already working on a scale model of the Pharo lighthouse. I … believe the schedule is to execute you before the steps of the Senate."

"Well. At least I will be the highlight of the event."

"You will continue in this, won't you?" he asked heavily.

She looked at him, her expression sorrowful. "I have to."

Once more left without words, Lucius turned and left the prison. He went straight to his family's villa north of the city. He was lucky, or unlucky: all of them were there, Philipus, Elena and Justus.

Servants brought him wine and blood, and he found he didn't want either. It was enough, instantly, for Philipus to know there was a problem. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Philipus let that pass, for which Lucius was grateful. It was only a temporary reprieve, because of course it was. He'd never known his father to let anything go. He made an effort to drink something and to make a decent job of his report.

Philipus nodded after he was finished and then asked, in a tone as smooth as butter, "Has Justus shown you the new sword he purchased?"

"No …"

"Come. I think you will approve."

Philipus led his two sons out into the weapons yard and armed both of them. Justus did have a new sword, which Lucius liked the look of. They set to fighting. When legionnaires did this, it was with blunted weapons. Strictly non-lethal. First blood drawn stopped the fight immediately. The fatal stuff was reserved strictly for the amphitheatres and the respective gladiators. But they weren't legionnaires. Leaving aside the fact that Lucius technically had a rank in the army, vampires did nothing without lethal intent. So the sparring match did not begin friendly, much less stay that way. The scents of wood smoke, lilacs, olive oil and horse were soon joined by vampire blood. Justus might be absent-minded and muddled with poetry half the time, but with a weapon in his hands he was as mighty a warrior as Lucius.

Both of them were bleeding, Justus from a stab wound to his left shoulder, and Lucius from a similar one to his right. The injuries had been inflicted at the same time, with identical moves. Philipus, watching, had found it particularly amusing. He waited until Lucius' whole focus was on the match before he spoke.

"How long will the triumph take to organise?"

"How should –" he ducked and rolled to avoid decapitation, then delivered Justus a cut across his upper back as he rose, "– I know?"

"I think you know to the second. How long?"

Lucius grunted in pain as Justus slammed his shield into his face, breaking his cheekbone and nose. He spat onto the ground. "Five weeks. Maybe four."

"And why do you want to stop it?"

Lucius stopped and stared. Justus didn't. There was a gladius through Lucius' thigh the next time he looked. He wrenched it out and threw it at his brother, before answering his father's question. "For one, she is royalty–"

"Triumphs have been tradition in Rome for centuries, you know that."

"You have participated in more than your fair share, no?" Justus asked raggedly.

That was true. Vercingetorix had gone to his death a broken shell of a man, and Lucius had relished in the sight. If he pictured Arsinoë in the Gallic chieftain's place–

Justus' leg swept his out from under his, and only by rolling to the side did Lucius avoid getting an axe through his face. At the side of the ring, Philipus paced, unconcerned. "The fact she is royalty is no obstacle. She shed Roman blood."

He tried again, both with the sword and words. It didn't go well, not least because Philipus joined Justus' side and he soon found two swords either side of his neck. "She is too young to–"

"Old enough to lead armies. This is the first time I have ever seen you squeamish." The blade dug in a little, and Lucius felt blood welling up around it. Philipus' demand was a simple one. "The truth."

Lucius met his father's eyes. "I am not squeamish. I simply don't want her to die."

"Humans die. It's what they do."

"Not her, and not yet."

There was a long moment of silence, in which Lucius felt he may as well name all the unfamiliar fears which Arsinoë stirred in him, since Philipus obviously knew they all anyway. Finally, his father threw down the sword and turned away with a nod. "I will do what I can. It may not be enough. Prepare yourself for that."

Later, his brother found him staring angrily at the night sky. "There's no shame in it, you know."

He said nothing.

"You're hardly the first to fall in love. Look at Philipus."

"Elena was a vampire before they ever met. Arsinoë is a human whom I barely know."

"In my experience that's never been an obstacle to being in love. She's obviously captivated you. Why is that a bad thing?"

"Because of who she is! She will always be a threat to someone powerful, and therefore will always been in danger. Philipus has agreed to pressure the Senate now, as a favour to me – how long do you think that will hold against all the calls for her death that are yet to come?"

"So, you know what to do then."

"Don't laugh at me," he warned.

"I am not!" his brother protested, though there was indeed a smile on his face. "But I must admit, I knew you liked women. I was beginning to think you weren't capable of respecting one. I'm pleased for you."

"You're pleased for me, or you're pleased for your enjoyment of my humiliation?"

His brother sighed. "Lucius, I am trying to help."

"I do not require your help. And I am not in love with her, falling in love with her or anything of the kind."

"If you say so."

"Haven't you got a legionnaire on the go somewhere?"

"As a matter of fact, no."

"No?" Lucius asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No. He's an olive oil merchant, as it happens."

"How convenient."

"It is proving to be, yes."

"I won't keep you from him."

Justus offered a reassuring pat on the shoulder and did leave. For another ten minutes, it was just Lucius and the stars. Then his father's mate arrived in the garden. "He won't do that again, you know," came her soft voice.

Lucius turned to face Elena. "I know."

"You might fob him off once, but your father will want the truth eventually."

It was rare that he and Elena saw eye to eye, and rarer still that he asked for or invited her advice. But she had one crucial advantage over him, Philipus or Justus: she was a woman. Therefore, she might have the tiniest inkling of what was going on in Arsinoë's head, and therefore his own, and therefore, he would be honest.

"That would be fine if I knew what the truth was. It's ludicrous, I haven't even bedded her."

Elena's eyebrows rose. Evidently she could not remember the last time such a thing had happened any better than he could. "Have there been no opportunities?"

"In Alexandria, there were many, but I didn't know what she was then." He opted not to mention their shared not-quite encounter. "Clearly, I spent too long trying to discern her nature."

"Or not long enough."

"We weren't given long enough."

"And what does she know of your true nature?" she asked, sitting on a bench.

"Everything," he said simply. "Perhaps not the exact years of my age, but essentially, everything. I think she knew everything after our first conversation," he added, shaking his head but smiling.

"And she is not frightened."

"Quite the opposite." He exhaled. "I cannot explain it. There is simply a … a …" he cut off with a growl of frustration as words failed.

Elena had them instead. "A clarity," she said.

He stared at her. That was precisely how he felt – clear as glass. "I'm fucked, aren't I?"

She sighed impatiently. "Of course it must be an evil. The idea of another being knowing one intimately cannot be anything but a weakness!" She took a deep breath and attempted to recall her patience. "Lucius, for all the secrets this family has, it is not necessary to embody them. Take it from someone to knows exactly what it is to be intimately vulnerable – having someone who sees everything about you, who entrusts you with the same gift, that is being safe. And safety is strength."

Her piece done, Elena rose and went back inside the villa. He looked at the space she had occupied for a long time. He remembered the day they had freed her. It was mostly a blur of violence and exhilaration and pride that he and Justus were doing something that meant so much to their father. But he also remembered the haunted, raw look in Elena's eyes. Not that she was Elena then. Just a tiny, stick-thin, ragged creature with no dignity and nothing but a spark to show she was even living. It had still been enough for Philipus to fall irreversibly in love. Everything in his life had, from that moment on, been about making Elena safe, and, when safe, cherished. Lucius thought it probably always would be.

A/N: Review please!