I Do What I Must
T/W – Similar to on the show. Coarse language, mentions of sex (sometimes also in a coarse fashion), and mentions of past events containing non-con.
Pietros knows not how long he has been fading in and out of consciousness. He only knows that now his head is clear and the pain in his side is unbearable. It is sharp and unrelenting.
He blinks and begins to recall events that transpired, though the number of days since past remains mystery. It was a fight in the ludus, between two gladiators. Or perhaps more than two gladiators. Pietros thinks it had to do with gambling and coin lost. He believes that Rhaskos and Pollux were involved, possibly Lydon as well. Their argument escalated from shouting to shoving to combat within the span of mere seconds. During his years in the ludus, Pietros has always known well the need to steer clear of such fighting but somehow on that hot afternoon, he wasn't fast enough. He was in the way and wound up taking a blow intended for someone else, and then being thrown halfway across the eating area so that one gladiator could advance upon another. He does, now, remember hearing a distinctive crack.
Pietros remembers little else since then. He takes another breath and has to stifle a gasp at the pain. And then he hears a voice.
"He is awake! Medicus, get your worthless hands back in here!"
It is Barca's voice. Pietros turns his head. Eyesight blurry from the pain, Pietros can make out Barca's form. It dawns on Pietros that Barca has been stationed here for a while. He remembers that a strong hand held his from time to time, and that a solid, silent presence was often near his bed.
Then he passes out again.
Unbeknownst to Pietros, almost two more days have since passed. He is fully conscious now and able to take in his surroundings, able to speak and understand. Medicus says that he believes at least one of his ribs is cracked, and so he has bound them tightly. And right now Medicus, Pietros, and Barca all appear to agree on one thing: Pietros has been given so many herbs and other substances for the pain that his body will require a rest from it.
"Just water. Take some more of it, boy," Medicus says, tilting a mug at Pietros' lips. The room where so many gladiators have been treated smells of iron, blood, and potent substances.
Despite being propped up with pillows, Pietros struggles to gain position where he can take a few sips. Gods, when will this pain dissipate?
Footsteps are heard, and Barca reenters the Medicus. "Hold him up yourself, you lazy shitfuck! He can't drink without help."
"I have labored at your boy's side every waking moment since he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am in such need of food and rest that your threats no longer scare me, Beast of Carthage."
Pietros is surprised to hear Medicus speak in such a way to Barca.
"I fill your purse, you have been compensated well," Barca replies, irritation in his voice. He audibly takes a breath, and Pietros hears something he himself is acquainted with: Barca moving from irritation to softness. "But an exhausted Medicus is of no help either. Go," he commands.
Pietros watches Medicus eagerly scramble out of the room. At last he is conscious and alone with Barca. He wishes that every movement and every breath did not hurt so; otherwise he would sit up and fling arms around Barca. Instead he can only remain lying upon the bed.
Barca takes a few steps closer. He assists him in drinking more water, holding Pietros' back with one hand and the cup with the other. The water is cool and refreshing, though even the act of swallowing brings yet more pain.
"I would clean you now," Barca then says.
Pietros takes note of the cloths Barca holds in his hands, and the full basin of water next to the bed. He forces a smile. "Our Roman masters would not approve of even a mere slave going for so long absent bath."
As Barca dips a cloth into the water, Pietros feels his heart race. "My job is to bathe you," Pietros adds.
"Indeed," Barca says, straightforwardly. "This morning it was Zahur who shaved my back, and he lacks your touch. I batted him away when he tried to put my hair into order." Barca's eyes travel across Pietros' body. "I would start with your face and work my way downwards."
As Barca begins applying the cloth, Pietros is unafraid. He knows what many inside the ludus do not, that Barca's hands can be gentle and kind when he wants them to be. Barca applies them to Pietros now with the same delicate skill he used not long ago to tape the broken wing of a bird, as if Barca fully understands the pain Pietros is in and the need to put aside all of his rough tendencies.
"Gratitude," Pietros says quietly.
Barca only nods in response. By the time he reaches Pietros' feet, he says, "I gave Rhaskos and Pollux a lesson, reminding them to be more careful next time they brawl. A lesson they will not soon forget."
Pietros smiles. He wishes the pain wasn't so intense so he could just savor the feel of Barca washing his feet.
Heavy footsteps are heard in the doorway. "Barca!" Doctore's voice rings out, and Pietros wishes he could snap to command at the sound of it. He has spent almost every waking hour for years anticipating Doctore's needs, and now he can scarcely move. "We have allowed you much leeway over the past few days. Fall to the ludus and spar with Crixus!"
"Yes, Doctore," Barca replies. He looks down at Pietros and smiles. Pietros returns the smile.
As the minutes pass, Pietros listens and becomes attuned to the sounds from outdoors. The clang of wooden swords, the shouting and taunting of men, Doctore's voice ringing out when needed. Pietros enjoys listening to what he can, as he can do little else aside lay upon his back.
After a bit more time, Pietros hears more footsteps enter the room. Disappointed, he can tell easily that they do not belong to Barca. His disappointment turns to a chilly feeling when he hears Ashur's snake-like voice.
"He spends precious coin to pay for your herbs and he risks Dominus' ire by taking time away from his training. He sleeps inside this room. And earlier I see with my own eyes your body being washed by the Beast of Carthage himself. Your skills at cock sucking must be as legendary as your ability to take cock up ass."
Pietros lets Ashur's words fall. What is the man doing here?
A reply finds its way to Pietros' lips. "Wouldn't you love to find out? Of course you know what Barca will do to you if you place even one finger upon me." He wishes he could see Ashur, but unable to turn onto his side absent pain, Pietros can only continue to look up at the ceiling.
"No, my tastes are towards cunt, not cock," Ashur answers simply. "I only wanted to look at Barca's pet and see how he is getting on. And let you know how many tongues have been wagging over the coin Barca has spent on your treatment. It is rare to see a house slave so pampered when he cannot work."
As Ashur speaks, Pietros combs through his mind for a suitable tactic. He decides to try surprising Ashur and forcing a new course. "Did your family have slaves, Ashur? Before you were brought here?"
Ashur makes a clucking noise. "You know I prefer not to share talk of my days before the ludus." And then with a pause, "May your recovery be fast, Pietros."
With that, Ashur is gone. If nothing else, his visit did serve as distraction from the unending pain.
Several hours later, two female house slaves are led into the room, and they assist Pietros in eating and relieving himself. Barca comes in twice, the second time with Medicus. "Stay by his side until the torches are lit for night," Barca orders, and again Pietros has to assume that coin has changed hands because Medicus is unusually attentive. He inspects the bandages covering Pietros' ribs. At some point after that, Pietros returns to sleep.
He wakes up at some point during the night. The pain. It is truly like a knife wound. Sharp, stabbing, and impossible to escape. If only it would end. Pietros remembers his mother and the gentle way she would hold him when he needed it. He hopes she lives on still at Solonius' villa though treated better than she was at the time they parted. Thoughts of her lately bring more comfort than grief, though the sting of separation remains forever.
He reminds himself that he cannot dwell on this. Every slave here has weathered untold losses. Barca was forced to slaughter hundreds of his own people before being set against his father. Barca rarely speaks of him and Pietros suspects they were never close, but still – a crime against nature to be forced to kill one's own father. Barca fell from being chieftain's son to slave. A decorated gladiator, yes but still mere slave. Loss must be simply endured. Pietros latches onto that thought. The physical pain is like the grief and there is nothing for it but to let it run through your body. And survive it. He has heard Doctore tell gladiators to "embrace the pain" before they are whipped.
I do what I must. Pietros remembers that Barca once spoke the words to him before leaving on one of Batiatus' errands. He silently tells himself to take the words to heart.
"Do you wake?"
Pietros startles slightly at the sound of Barca's voice. He had wondered if perhaps his lover was there inside the room with him, but the darkness of the night and his inability to easily turn his body made it impossible for him to determine.
"I would see you sleep in proper bed rather than chair," Pietros answers.
"I have slept upon worse. And your voice cracks with thirst. I will provide water."
Barca gently helps him sit up and presses cup to lips. He waits for Pietros to drink his fill before helping lower him back down. Barca then remains standing next to the bed, one hand lightly upon Pietros' arm.
Pietros is overcome for a moment. That the gladiator legend would take the time to play the role of nursemaid, and to do so when his own waking hours are spent in intense, exhausting activity under blazing sun. That he would indeed sacrifice coin to save him, when any other houseboy here would kill to become Barca's. When, as most gladiators have certainly already reminded Barca, he could easily find another hole.
Emotion takes hold of Pietros' tongue and the words are out before he can stop them. "I love you, Barca."
It does appear he has knocked the gladiator off his feet. Barca groans and then squeezes his arm. "Go back to sleep," he commands, and then returns to his chair.
Pietros does not regret the words.
When Pietros can stand and walk, Medicus officially releases him. It is midday, a particularly scorching one, and a few other gladiators stand outside the medical area, watching. They have finished eating and have not much else to do until reprieve from the heat and Doctore's orders to assemble once more.
As Medicus faces both Pietros and Barca, he orders, "Two bites of this herb per day – no more. No carrying anything heavy." He then points a finger at Barca, "And keep your hands off of him for a few days. Preferably a week. He's still in pain and doesn't need the Beast of Carthage's paws on him."
"I should end your worthless life just for that," Barca says to Medicus.
Pietros observes that Barca is in typical form, as he has been for the past few days. Pietros thinks perhaps his confession of love pushed Barca further than he had wanted. Or perhaps it is due to the gladiators milling about the doorway that Barca adds, "I'll fuck him whenever I want to." A few of the men cheer and make lewd remarks.
Pietros decides to pay the remark no mind. He has heard worse from Barca's mouth. The gladiator has a reputation to maintain. And besides, the pain from his cracked ribs is still intense, still making him gasp for breath at times. He will not let brutish words hurt him.
For the remainder of the day, Pietros performs what tasks he is able. At first, the pain is the same whether he is walking or standing or sitting. He feels confident the first few times he picks up items that need transport. But as the day wears on, his exhaustion grows and the pain intensifies. He sees Barca and Doctore exchange a word with Zahur, the other porter. Pietros is ordered back to the cell he shares with Barca for the reminder of the day.
"I will tend the birds," he tells Barca, before taking his leave.
Nightfall brings relief from the heat, though not from the pain. Pietros strains to hear the sounds of the gladiators winding down their training for the day, and is happy when Barca's return is imminent.
Beds inside gladiator cells are small, even for a decorated gladiator like Barca. When the couple first took up together, Pietros slept on a mat upon the floor. He was used to sleeping upon floor mats. During his entire life, he had only ever touched a bed during those occasions when the brother of his previous Dominus had visited and helped himself to Pietros' body. And then here in the ludus with Barca, Pietros had again touched a bed – or more accurately, his hands and knees had touched it. He would then sleep upon mat while Barca slept upon bed. However, somewhere along the way, he began to share Barca's bed with him during slumber, not just sex. Pietros believes it began one night when Barca had bid him to lie upon his side and had entered him that way. Afterwards, both men had simply fallen asleep. Pietros thinks that from that night forward, the bed was shared. He then corrects himself with a slight smile, a memory suddenly inserting itself. There were words broken upon the subject once. Pietros had made as if to get up from the bed once they were finished fucking but Barca had reached for him and groaned, "Stay." Yes. Since that one-word command had been issued, the bed had belonged to both. It was a tight fit requiring both men on their sides, but it sufficed.
But now Pietros cannot find comfort lying upon either side. He has found that flat upon his back is the least painful position of all. This presents problem. If Pietros remains upon his back, it will not be possible for Barca to fit upon the bed as well.
The door to the cell opens, and Barca steps through. Pietros tries to sit up, but Barca gestures for him to return to his back.
"Did you take herb yet?" Barca asks.
Pietros shakes his head, so Barca reaches for it on the shelf and hands it to him. Pietros does as Medicus instructed and begins to chew the herb. He reminds himself of his duties. He reminds himself of the probable explanation for Barca wanting his pain diminished now.
"Could you take the mat from the shelf and set it upon floor?" Pietros asks. "I will take to it tonight so that the bed is yours."
"Nonsense," Barca responds. "You will not sleep upon the floor. I would do it instead."
Wincing a bit, Pietros counters, "If anyone happens by and looks in, I will not have them see the Beast of Carthage removed from his own bed by mere house slave."
"Anyone who happens by and looks in can go to the underworld and suck on their gods' cocks for all I care," Barca says. "Rest. Recover. What I said before in Medicus was but swagger. I would sleep upon the mat. It is far better than many places on which I've slept." Barca retrieves the mat from its place upon the shelf and begins to spread it up on the ground.
"Barca," Pietros begins softly. "I think there is still a way that we may….take our pleasure. What if I turn towards my side and you stand by the bed? I could take you into my mouth."
"No. I saw you about the ludus today and you still can barely breathe absent pain."
"I believe we could try it," Pietros insists. "I do fear that this bed is too low and you stand too tall. But the bed inside the Medicus is elevated and it might serve purpose. We could assemble there."
Barca walks to the edge of the bed and squats down. He lightly touches a hand to Pietros' cheek. "We will fuck again when you are recovered. I told you, I did not mean what I said earlier. The other men enjoy hearing such nonsense." He adds softly, his voice rich, "You know many of them envy me."
Pietros smiles. "Every house slave within the Roman empire would envy me!"
Barca chuckles deeply. "Cease!" he says, still smiling. He brushes Pietros' lips with his own, a kiss as feather-soft as one of the birds' wings. "And sleep. I will do my best tomorrow to remind Doctore that you require rest and that Zahur is capable."
"He looked as if run ragged."
"Do not worry over him."
Barca then settles down atop the mat and both men fall to sleep.
Pietros wakes in the middle of the night. The pain. Again. It feels as sharp and unrelenting as it did days ago, fierce and undiminished. The stabbing sensations do not allow him to return to sleep. Pietros can only lie back and marvel at the power and intensity of the pain.
Terror follows the pain. Fear at the notion that these pains will never depart, thus rendering Pietros useless. Everyone knows what happens to a slave who can't work. How long will Barca continue to protect him, to spend coin to see that he is treated and not sent to the mines? Pietros' forehead is damp and his heart races along with the thrumming of the pain.
Pietros hears the birds fluttering, and one of them scratches the ground of its cage. He remembers that Barca began to keep them in honor of his fallen lover, Auctus. A gladiator. A strong man who needed no protection. Pietros' mind continues to churn. The birds might hint at something else as well. The fact that the Beast of Carthage does love. He does care for others despite his reputation, and despite the fact that he could not return Pietros' declaration of love when he gave it days ago.
"You are not asleep."
Barca's words interrupt Pietros' thoughts. As always his voice is deep, the words spoken with the ghost of an accent harkening to the faraway land in which he was born.
"I am not," Pietros acknowledges. It is strange hearing Barca's voice from the floor. The cell is tiny, but still – Barca lies upon the floor now, and that feels simply odd and wrong.
"Is it the pain? Do thoughts trouble you?" Barca asks.
"The only thought troubling me is the fact that I interrupted your sleep and took your bed," Pietros whispers back. "Please take to rest, Barca."
Barca is quiet for a moment. "Sleep escapes me as well," he admits.
"I would switch places with you and see you upon the bed in my place."
Barca grunts in reply. Pietros knows that the gladiator does not like to discuss a matter once it has already been decided.
So instead Pietros breaks different words. "These days since I have been injured….they cause me to admire you even more than I did before," he begins. "Your courage and strength. You fight in arena and in practice despite constant injuries. Your injuries have always been far deeper and more serious than mine, and despite them you have had to fight for your very life over and over again. The courage that must require! Me, I am but coward. The pain from this wound alone renders me so afraid."
"You show far more strength than you realize," Barca replies after a moment.
"I cannot see that. I could scarcely complete duties today and I feel such fear for what the days ahead might bring."
Barca's reply is direct. "And yet you do things that terrify me."
Pietros has no reply to that. He has never heard Barca speak of being afraid, not ever. He cannot absorb this statement. He debates stammering out the word 'what?' but finds he cannot even do that.
And then Barca continues, "A few years before you came to the ludus, something happened. Batiatus had been hosting festivities, each more debauched than the last. We gladiators were paraded before honored guests. I was no stranger to being displayed like exotic pet. But this time guests were permitted to….select gladiators the same way they selected house slaves. One of them wanted to couple with me. Before the Roman pulled me aside, Doctore warned me to comply without protest unless I wanted to spend days inside the pit or find myself lashed into senselessness. He need not have reminded me. I knew I needed to submit."
Pietros is surprised to hear Barca speak of this. He remains quiet and finds that he is so focused on the words that he has forgotten his pain momentarily. He knows about the incident of which Barca speaks. Over the years, a handful of house slaves and gladiators have whispered of it to Pietros, hinting that Barca was used "in the way of a girl" at this festivity. But this is the first time he has heard of it from Barca himself.
"I could kill inside the arena without blinking eye, but this night was hideous," Barca continues. "The man pushed me against a column. Pulled on my hair and slapped my ass. Used me against my wishes, with the other gladiators easily able to see all. I could do nothing but bear it and hope it ended soon."
"I hope that Roman's cock shrivels up and falls off!" Pietros proclaims. His fury over what happened to Barca eclipses his confusion as to why Barca is sharing this with him. "Would that I could have somehow traded our places. Not that the Roman would have wanted lowly houseboy instead of mighty gladiator. But if I could have had the powers of the gods to trade our places that night, I would have!"
"That is exactly why I tell you this now, Pietros," Barca says evenly. "An event that disgusted me….that frightened me and that I still think of today….you would have handled without flinching. Absent fear. You are brave. You will be able to handle the pain you are in now and tolerate it until it finds itself gone."
Pietros truly understands what it is like now to lose one's capacity for speech. He cannot believe the words he is hearing, and for one moment even wonders if the last herb he took contained something that causes hallucination.
"Gratitude," Pietros manages at last, his throat dry. "Your words help me."
He struggles with whether or not to say more. Should he reassure Barca that he enjoys their coupling immensely and would see it resume as soon as he is able? Pietros' physical state during their time together always leaves little doubt how much he enjoys their lovemaking. And Barca surely understands the difference between when it is forced upon someone and when someone goes willingly, as Pietros always has with him. And yet Pietros does not want to leave it at that either.
"I always welcome your touch," he says. "You have never hurt me. I would resume our coupling as soon as I am able."
"I would welcome it too, when your pain is gone," Barca says simply. "In the meantime, do not let these worries eat away at you. I have coin and can spend as much of it as needed on herbs and to keep Zahur from complaint over his increased workload. Fear not, my love – you shall recover soon enough."
Pietros smiles. This is the first time Barca has called him "my love". He simply bids Barca gratitude one more time, and then falls to a peaceful and untroubled sleep.
THE END
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