Chapter 11
"An Insult Between Men"

It was twilight. That pivotal juncture between night and dawn where time took a breath. Sleep dissolved from her mind, allowing her consciousness to seep through her pores and into her body, and gradually she recognized the leaden weight of her limbs and their position tangled within his. Her face tucked upon his chest lay heavy and comfortable, and his naked skin seared her with the fire captured between them. She was drugged with his scent –the mixture of long days, desert sun, and his own flesh. Her eyes blinked to stare at the angles of his bones protruding through the muscle and skin, and a disarming sensation of calm swept through her. He had infiltrated her defenses so seamlessly that she was stunned to discover her own contentment at his side like he had been there all along beneath her blind eyes. In the night, his flesh had been her pillow, his bones her bed frame, and the heat of his skin against her own chased away the chill of the desert night. She had not slept as soundly since he last left, and such a simple change in her body's rhythm left her uneasy. His presence made the days without him feel like a nightmare, something intangible and wispy that she could awake from, as if she had fallen to sleep after their first time together and imagined the dinner with Faustus and the fear that followed. The possibility confused her, the lingering weariness made her mind too lethargic to untangle, and she realized her hand on his chest only when it curled in agitation.

"I don't hate you," his rough voice spoke, echoing within the cavern of his chest and vibrating against her ear and face, as he answered a conversation they had had weeks prior, but one she remembered well. Their exchanges too often exploded into fiery words so that any calm, honest discussion between them was not easily forgotten. She wasn't startled to discover he was awake, only aware that she had somehow, intuitively, known it all along. "Romans… we are bred to conquer."

"I am bred to fight," she answered, unfamiliar with the barren, scratchy tone of her voice waking in her throat.

"And so you have…" Her fingers found the interruption in his skin, that linear incision stretching across his chest given to him days ago, and her eyes followed. Her lips met its smooth edge and traced the healing wound. "You left your mark," he commented as his hands buried in her hair, massaging at her scalp, her neck, shoulders, and back.

"It is healing," she murmured, and her eyes flickered shut indulgently as his callused hands worked against her skin. "There will be nothing left."

He smiled and countered, "Then you should have made it deeper."

"Don't tempt me." Her head teetered atop her chin on his chest as she circled her finger idly in the dark hair trailing down his abdomen, and he yawned loudly, sending her body rocking with the swell of his chest. When he settled once more, she shifted with him so deep and tangled in each other's limbs. Her mind was too heavy a burden for the time, and she laid her head onto him once more, eased by the steady drumming of his heart.

He watched her peaceful features for a moment, stroking the ends of her hair around her lower back, and wondered, "How have you learned Greek?"

"My mother." She licked her lips anxiously as she pictured the woman behind the blacks of her eyes and asked the question which sent tremors to her sleep, "Is she alive?"

He thought of that night when their women were divided among the Romans. Her mother had been given to Cassius, but his slaves were not stolen during the extraction. "I don't know," he admitted earnestly.

"She was from the north –from these lands." She readjusted her body, sliding her leg across his waist to ease the tension in her back. "Her name is Asma, from our word sama for sky... She was the daughter of a wealthy merchant and was tutored in all subjects. When she was barely my age, my father stole her." She sat up abruptly, agitated with thoughts of her mother even as his hand traced her naked leg, and she faced the darkness hanging thick inside the tent like that were the fear she was answering. "She taught me all that she could. She understood the world was changing. I would need skills beyond what the tribe could offer."

"Women lead?"

"No," she answered in a soft tone. It was a topic that consumed her thoughts too often, and unconsciously she recounted a worn tale, "There was a time when our ancestor Ayyub al-Sakhtiyani fell ill with a sickness that paralyzed his limbs. Your Emperor was marching on our lands. The cities of the north had fallen. We were to expect that we would be next in line, but al-Sakhtiyani's wife was brave and clever. She gathered her husband's forces under her command and rallied them with a great speech of the power of their courage and spirit. They followed her into battle."

Through the feint light of morning, her eyes shone with admiration and passion, their dark depths abruptly bright and aware, and he was drawn into her tale. "What happened?"

"With her guile, they held back the Roman forces for nearly a month while reinforcements marched from the south. They did not arrive in time. Her forces were ambushed in the next attack. They cut the legs of her camel when she tried to retreat. She called for the men to remain strong, to fight until the end." Her tone seemed at once desperate and resolute though she unraveled the details as if she had told the tale a thousand times. "The Roman general killed her before her men." She looked dismally at her leg where his hand sat heavy, cupping her thigh and tracing his thumb across the wound free of its stitches. "They lost the battle. All the men were slain. Before she was captured, she sent a messenger to intercept the troops marching north and inform them of the battle. He was the only to recount the battle and the feats she accomplished as a woman leading in the stead of her husband… But we do not have her name. It was not written down. It was not passed through the ages."

She grew silent, long enough to concern him, but when he parted his lips to speak, she finished, "My father told me this story when I was a child, young and full of hope. I accepted it as some divine direction –that I should one day be as great as she was, and my name would be remembered."

His palm was warm on her shoulder, sweeping up to brush his knuckle along her jaw, and she caught his hand and opened his fingers to consider the scars and calluses. They were worn, the long fingers slightly swollen from years of use and muscles gained, the palm wrinkled with lines of his life. She traced one with the edge of her nail, wondering about the memories that made up this man, and swiftly his fingers caught her as though the gentle touch tickled him. She smiled briefly, finding any sensitivity on his part amusing, and wondered, "Do you have a wife?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He closed his eyes and angled his head deeper into the pillow as though to dismiss the question, which only intrigued her further. "It doesn't matter," he murmured lazily and released her hand.

"Do you Romans not marry?"

His brow knit with mild irritation, and he grumbled, "Of course we marry."

She pursed her lips in thought and dragged her fingers lightly over his chest, enjoying how the uneven skin felt beneath her tips. "You are a general," she said and glanced about the tent. "You have wealth enough…" Her gaze returned to his features looking increasingly sullen in the growing light, and she continued in a low tone, "You are not unattractive." His eyes flickered open with renewed interest, and she clarified, "For a Roman… Have you no one to arrange a match?"

"Leave it," he commanded brusquely.

One brow arched, and she chewed briefly on her lip before offering, "I was betrothed before you took me." He was silent, but she accepted his lack of input as space to fill the void in conversation though she wasn't sure why she wished to speak with him at all. It eased her anxious spirit to simply release all the words swirling through her mind for weeks. She felt like she had been silent for years. "He was son to the leader of the Hawazan tribe."

He stared at the canopy of the tent, frowning slightly as he considered some train of thought, and at length, he recalled, "The man called you a traitor."

She inhaled all the air that would fit into her lungs only to release it in one, short breath. "I'm not… I am the one who has been betrayed."

"That is why you left," he assumed.

"If I had stayed, they would have imprisoned me and killed me…" Her eyes flickered to his face as she realized she had traded one prison for another, and a rush of guilt flooded her for enjoying his company no matter how briefly.

"Why did you not offer my life to save your own?"

She considered her hand, so small amid the expanse of his barrel chest and etched out by her darker skin tone. "My mother told me Romans were wolves hunting in the night." She bit her tongue for the flash of pain it caused, feeling flustered with its lose nature as she admitted, "But you were kind to me."

Silence plagued them once more, and she regretted speaking so openly as if she had brandished her wounds and asked for another lashing. It left her vulnerable to his attack, and she waited for his forces to swarm her through his negligence and fury. Then, inexplicably, he said, "My father died in battle when I was young… Each man in my line has gone to war since my great-grandfather Quintus Sertorius."

His tone swelled with pride as if often did whenever he spoke of his name or his pedigree, though never had he revealed so much to her despite the few words. Her face lit with interest, and she wonderd, "He was a great warrior?"

"Yes… He was a statesman and a general. All knew him for his strategies and his unyielding bravery." Maximus paused and considered the vacant canopy as though searching through his memories, and she waited expectantly for him to continue. "But most remember him for fighting against Rome."

"He was a Roman," she said, her brow knit in confusion.

"It is complicated," he settled suddenly and looked to her at last with a hollow expression, raw only in its absence. "They know I am his descendent."

"This is why your proconsul speaks to you like you are a servant?"

"Faustus is a fool and an ass." The crass words unlocked her smile, and one corner of his lips pulled into a smirk.

"He claims you have no power to defy him," she suggested if only to provoke his tongue against the praetor she so despised.

Maximus snorted at the thought. "The man has not battled a day in his life. He won't dare to insult me."

"Hasn't he already?"

His blue eyes met her gaze and narrowed subtly. His fingers found her chin, angling her face to catch the light as he inspected her large eyes, slender nose, round lips, fine jaw… "I should call you Helen –for the way men betray each other in your presence."

She frowned in confusion, not understanding the allusion he presented, and the horns were blown to wake the camp and interrupted their exchange. The general slipped from his bed to find his tunic, and Arwa realized the cool embrace of the morning air sweeping around her in his absence. Gradually sounds of the men waking outside infiltrated the peaceful silence inside his tent, and she surrendered the brief understanding shared between them as he began dressing in his armor, like the man she surrendered to the soldier. The comfort in her naked skin waned once she was standing, inexplicably balancing on the front of her feet across the cold ground where the rugs gave way to the dirt outside. She swept her dress from the floor, swiftly stepped into it, and drew it up her body. The weight of his eyes found her back, and she gathered her hair over one shoulder while glancing coyly back at him to feign a courage which failed her. Though his features were stoic as usual, his eyes were warm with amusement at her sudden bout of shyness, and it only encouraged her to feel further inhibited as she slid her arms through the shoulders and settled her dress across her body.

Once clothed, she turned to face him and noticed his attention concentrated on the lacing of his wrist fenders having tangled during their last, abrupt removal. His large hands were not meant for the delicate work of untangling something so intricate, and his patience was too short to attend it much longer before he ripped the leather strips all together. Her slender fingers pushed his hand aside and aptly unwound the snarled leather straps, and she tightened them as she had seen him do each morning and tied off the edges.

Watching her comfortably and knowledgably attend to his armor, he recalled the first time they had ever met though he was not aware of her identity at the time. "Was it your brother's armor?"

With the task completed, she looked at him, momentarily confused by the question, but with her understanding, a sly smile hiked up her lips. "No… It was mine."

A mixture of surprise and doubt contorted his brow, but he addressed his other wrist fender, wordlessly dismissing her to disappear through the partition in search of breakfast. He followed with his shin guards to be attached at the table and found her inspecting one of the fruit from the platter under her intent gaze.

"What do you call this?"

"Malum," he answered and frowned when his mind couldn't locate the Greek equivalent. He settled into one of the seats and began lacing his shin guards. At length he remembered, "Apple."

"Malum," she repeated instead, similarly fascinated by the Latin word as she was by the foreign fruit. "It is from Rome?"

"I doubt it travelled so far. There are orchards further east of Rome."

"And this?" she asked while plucking the knife from the table as well and brandishing it for him to see.

"A knife," he replied incredulously, and she waved it with an irritated air.

"Yes, but in your language?"

He smiled slightly and recalled, "You said you speak Latin."

"I said I speak very little Latin," she corrected and sliced a wedge from the apple to chew on as she leaned against the table. "It was long ago that my mother taught me, and she would only practice Greek with me."

"Ferrum," he said and took the apple from her hand, biting a large chunk from the side and then holding it between his teeth as he finished lacing his left shin guard.

Slightly vexed and disgusted, she tore the apple from his mouth, leaving a large hunk still in his bite. "You Romans have no manners," she commented, and he chuckled to himself while chewing. She eased into the chair beside him and turned the apple to cut off a wedge from the side he had not eaten. While slicing, she caught the smile poised in the edges of her lips and realized the light air between them normally so fraught with tension and a battle of wills. Was it possible for them to share a morning together without her wishing to turn this knife –ferrum– on him?

He tore off a piece of bread and stood to leave. Usually he would have departed by this time, but she supposed she had distracted him with their brief language lesson. While turning toward the door, he commented casually, "Be ready come evening… Tonight we dine with Faustus."

Her lips parted with a dissent at her tongue, but she was so genuinely taken aback by the command that he disappeared through the threshold by the time she realized what she wished to say, or do rather –and it involved the blunt knife.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Leave it, Maximus," Hadrien admonished, the wrinkles gathering in his face as he frowned, and the air about him aged instantly.

"If I allow this insult to fester, the infection will spread," the other general mused in a decided tone.

"Faustus is a fool whose fortune comes from a sickly hand. Verus backs him and feeds his gluttony, but all know Verus' power is a podium of sand… In time, he will fall and all those who cling to his robes as well." Hadrien exhaled shortly as he realized that his words were landing on deaf ears. "Besides she is a slave-"

"It is an insult among men," Maximus snapped irritably.

"It is only an insult if you wish to take it as such… Those who fight beside you –these other generals, lieutenants, and officers– all respect you, Meridius. You have nothing to prove that you have not already won through battle."

"Gossip of this affair will spread."

"Rumors follow any man in power, and those who trust them are fools." Maximus did not respond, and at length, Hadrien settled into the seat across from the young general, assessing his brooding air. "It is the woman." Maximus scowled as though offended by such an assumption, but Hadrien wasn't led astray. "She is your slave… Restrict her to your tent and your bed if you so wish."

"Faustus is not the first man to enjoy her behind my back!" the general growled suddenly with a rush of annoyance like the sharp crack of whip, and Hadrien's features grew somber.

"Watch your words, my friend. What you suggest are dangerous charges."

"I would not speak them were I not certain."

"Explain."

"The night she was given me… The guards," he paused to swallow the anger coating the back of his throat, "enjoyed her without my consent."

"She murdered Gaius before all gathered," Hadrien returned with a dismissive shake of his head. "They were impassioned."

"She was not theirs to possess." Despite his efforts to remain calm, his voice subtly quaked as he pressed, "She was untouched."

The other general stiffened abruptly as surprised by that as Maximus had been. "You're certain?"

"I saw the blood, the mess they made… I've forgotten who the barbarians are." Seething, he settled deeper into his seat, eyes flicking irritably across the space. "Should I expect men to stroll into my tent and steal the food from my hands and money from my pockets? …An example must be made."

‡ ‡ ‡

Her heart thundered in her ears, but Maximus seemed deaf to its sprint. His face betrayed no inclination as to the thoughts swarming behind his blue eyes though she religiously checked for the slightest disruption. His calm front was infectious albeit irritating, but she soon discovered that for her fiery nerves, her demeanor was unapologetically controlled. Even as they entered the Praetorium, Maximus with his burly stature guiding her way, her guise did not slip. She was certain of a private affair –of some communication or pact or decision made without her knowledge or consent. She was at once terrified and resigned to accept her fate with a brave face, the one aspect of her life she had any control over. Perhaps Maximus had found a bid worthy of her exchange, or worse, Faustus had discovered the weak point in the general's armor and dug his greasy thumb into the wound for Arwa's release. She fought away a shudder at the latter.

The dining room was crowded with the officers called to join Faustus at his table, and the praetor made no attempt to draw from his seat and welcome those entering. Laziness or drunkenness, Arwa could only surmise. A large, off kilter grin overtook Maximus' features as he greeted his comrades and weaved his way toward the table, and Faustus eyed his approach over the lip of his cup looking insulted that he was not addressed first. At last, the general seemed to remember his proconsul and addressed Faustus with the same warm tone as his friends which made his sharp blue eyes cut all the more dangerously.

"Proconsul," he said as he took the seat to the right of the man and abandoned Arwa to stand uneasily at his side where Faustus could examine the length of her openly and hungrily. "Our men will never win this war if you reward our failures with feasts."

Faustus sneered, all stained teeth and thin lips, as he said, "I bore witness to your failure when questioning the prisoner –even with her tongue at your call." His features shivered with unvoiced thoughts about the use of her tongue, and she had the sensation of her dress melting from her body. "But the other men have brought me no dishonor." Faustus motioned for Arwa to take the seat at his left, and she reticently complied, now faced with the disjunctive picture of her keeper's deceivingly amiable grin and furious eyes across the table. Confused and agitated, she searched his face for the secret it housed.

"And yet you continue to invite me to dine at your table..."

"Fortunately I believe in the power of morale, and I trust you will not fail me again, General."

Maximus subtly bent his head, but it seemed anything but acquiescent. "You are a more forgiving man than I."

The words lingered in the air. Arwa could almost see them snake through Faustus' balding head where they found a raw nerve. Oil crawled into the crease in his brow, and he looked abruptly insulted. Maximus smiled but gazed idly toward the other officers at the table while relaxing back into his seat. The words evaporated, but the effect remained. Faustus features crawled with annoyance, his beady eyes flickering too often toward the general who was now laughing loudly with his comrades, but he found distraction in the companion at his left. When his hand fell onto her upper thigh, she didn't hesitate to readjust her legs, causing the fatty fingers to slip away.

"You are angry I have not called on you…" Faustus mistakenly assumed while sneering with pleasure.

Arwa did not respond though her mahogany eyes pierced his face in a fixed stare.

"I have not forgotten you," he promised, and an uneasy sigh shuddered through his torso and buried between his legs. "You will have your turn, girl." His fingers found her again, digging in deep this time, until she felt the pressure of the bone beneath the layers of sagging flesh. Her teeth gritted, and her tongue curled with the threat.

"Proconsul," he interrupted, and Arwa's attention snapped toward Maximus. Faustus' gaze lagged behind, lethargic to abandon its prey, but his handle on her thigh remained with his thick thumb circling across the fabric and making her skin crawl beneath. "What say you?"

The praetor appeared at once vexed and discomposed by the eyes turned curiously his direction. "Of what?"

"Life at war," Maximus responded and smirked.

Faustus at last released Arwa's leg to grasp his cup and quipped, "I am content to allow your men the glory at battle. I shall keep my seat in the Senate." He sipped from it, feigning an amiable air to dismiss this vein of conversation.

"It is far more comfortable than the pain of a blade," one officer commented, and Faustus' regard was warning when it fell on this man.

"It is good to be Praetor," Maximus agreed. "You remain within the safety of the walls, have the wine and grain at your call, the slaves we gain from battle serve you..."

"Emperors Verus and Aurelius are generous to grant me this position, but like all men, I miss my heart, my soul, my home: Rome."

He lifted his cup, and all men joined their Proconsul with a united "To Rome!"

Arwa sat stiffly in her seat, meeting Maximus' gaze over his lifted cup, and in his blue orbs she caught the briefest flicker of some thought. Before she could chase it, she was distracted by the sweaty palm on her knee once more, pushing back toward her upper thigh and taking the edge of her dress with it. She caught his hand and buried her nails into his fatty flesh. The prick of pain did little to distract his intentions, and rather, his fingers felt greedier trying to force their way higher, deeper into the valley between her legs. He was losing his control.

"Distracted with my slave?"

Faustus nearly growled beneath his breath as he faced the general and said, "Perhaps she entertains me better than your ridiculous conversations."

"I've heard she entertains you regardless of our conversations... You call her from my bed while I am protecting Rome's borders."

"What are you suggesting, Meridius?" he challenged angrily, voice sliding low toward a hiss.

The lethal smile remained since the moment he stepped through the doorway, and he bent closer to Faustus, seeming at ease where the proconsul looked increasingly agitated. "Your desires stretch beyond your reach..."

"My reach extends far past your own, Meridius."

"Do not mistake me for one of your Senators... I am not restricted by the same obligations." Faustus' eyes narrowed, then flicked toward the knife rolling between Maximus' fingers as if understanding fully the threat he presented. Without warning, the knife was buried into the wood of the table, and the Proconsul flinched at the reverberating sound. Furious, his glossy eyes turned on Maximus. The table was silent. Faustus' greasy hand released Arwa a final time and snaked away.

Author's Note: Hey lovelies! I apologize for the delay in uploading this, but I've been dealing with a bit of a personal matter as of late. Hopefully this chapter made up my absence :)

Thank you to Miss Lynxx and KingofTraunds for the sweet reviews!

Miss: Lardy sex craving monkey hahaha Omg you kill me with these descriptions of Faustus! I think you do better than me :D Yea Arwa and Maximus' relationship gets more tangled and complicated with time haha but as for Maximus and Faustus shit got real! No dismembering or disemboweling... yet anyway :) Just some fun masculine back and forth haha I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you liked this chapter! xoxo

King: Egads! You're so sweet to say you teared up a little! It was a bit of an intense chapter, and I'm pleased to some degree to see it came across as such. There was definitely a sad discrepancy between what Arwa expected and what in fact happened. SO here is the confrontation between Maximus and Faustus! Is it finished? Hm... we'll see :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter! xoxo