Day 23 - Pre-21st Century (Spartacus AU)
A/N: The prompt was for "Pre-21st Century" – I went a little overboard and settled for 1st century BC… Just because I've always wanted to write a Spartacus AU. I hope you enjoy it even if you're not familiar with the show.
The new recruits were brought in just after noon. Margarita watched from the balcony as Dominus and Doctore took them to their quarters, down in the courtyard. Three of them altogether. She wondered whether any of them would make the cut and become gladiators. The first two didn't look particularly promising, scruffy low-down scum from Gaul, the dregs of the slave market. But the last one, the tall one with the dark hair, he seemed to have the spark.
She had seen so many of them come and go, ever since she'd become a house slave at the ludus, almost five years ago. Most of them never even made it to the arena, coughing out their miserable lives in the sand of the courtyard during training. But, now and again, one of them would come along and have the potential to become a true champion.
Naevius chose that moment to glance up at the balcony from his corner of the courtyard where he was resting after this morning's exertions in the arena. When he noticed her, a rare smile spread over his dark, roughly handsome face. Shyly, she smiled back, her heart beating faster at the thought of being sent down to pleasure him later tonight. He'd been victorious again, of course, and richly deserved his reward.
"Margarita!" Domina had stepped out next to her, inspecting the newcomers with a critical eye. "Is that the new lot? My, but that last one is big." She laughed coyly.
Margarita kept silent, knowing full well that no answer was expected from her.
"You can help Ocris with the new recruits. No need to come back upstairs afterwards. Valeria will see to my dress." She smiled at her personal body-slave, a tall, blonde beauty who graciously inclined her head.
Margarita didn't need to be asked twice. She much preferred to be out of sight downstairs, even if the gladiators were a rough lot. As the gate fell shut behind her, she quickened her steps, nodding respectfully at Loukianos in passing. He had been Doctore for as long as she could remember, and no gladiator would ever dare question his authority. His lined face remained impassive as usual but, when one of the gladiators whistled after her, his hand went to his whip in a clear warning and the man immediately fell silent.
Ocris was busy chatting to the new recruits when she arrived. She smiled affectionately at the sight of his rotund belly and his flaming red hair. The Hibernian was no longer fit for the arena after a fight that had cost him half his left foot, but he had made himself useful at the ludus ever since, and was well-liked by everyone.
"Margarita, my beauty. Come to help me?" His speech was slightly slurred. He must have had some of Naevius' victory wine earlier on. When he turned to face the recruits again, he was swaying slightly. "Jupiter's cock! You lot stink like pigs. Can you get us some oil for these unwashed barbarians, honey pie?"
"Of course." She went to find oil and strigiles.
When she returned, they had all stripped down to their loincloths and wandered over to the steam bath. Yes, the dark-haired one was in fine form. Idly she let her gaze travel over his muscular body while he scraped off the grime. He had wide shoulders that tapered off to a slim waist, strong legs, and a flat, hard stomach. His skin was tanned a deep brown from the heat of the sun down here in Capua, and covered in an assortment of fine, white scars.
"So, what do you think of them?" she asked Ocris, carefully keeping her voice down.
He snorted and spat on the floor. "The Gauls are fucking dead as soon as one of them gets paired with Naevius or Androcles. Him, though…" He tilted his head toward the third guy. "He's from Britannia. I bet he knows how to fight."
"From Britannia, you say. What is his name?" Margarita's curiosity was piqued.
"They call him Caratacus." The man's head flew up at the mention of his name, his expression grim and sulky. "Well, isn't it true?" Ocris raised an eyebrow.
"That is not my name." He was practically growling, but his brown eyes, firmly fixed on Margarita, were soft like a girl's, with long lashes and a sadness inside them that made her swallow. "Caradoc. That's what my father called me."
"Well, you will be Caratacus here in this ludus." Ocris was less than impressed. "No Roman will bother to learn a barbarian's name. Most of us no longer go by the name we were born with." He chuckled. "I remember when Naevius first arrived here. The current champion of this noble house," he added by way of explanation for the new recruits. "Freshly arrived from Syria, hardly spoke a word of Latin. Called himself… what was it?"
"Naveed." Margarita smiled to herself.
"Well, you would know." Ocris winked at her. "Well, go on, off to his quarters with you. Look at her, boys. This is what your shrivelling cocks have to look forward to once you become champion. Not that it's fucking likely in your case."
"Stop teasing them." She jumped to her feet. "Sure you don't need me anymore?"
"I told you, be gone. Can't wait to be with him, eh?" Ocris' words were accompanied by an exaggerated leer and an explicit hand gesture, but she didn't mind. She knew he had a kind heart under all that bluster.
"Gratitude." She turned to go.
But, as she crossed the courtyard, she could feel Caratacus' eyes on the naked skin of her back, hot and intense. He was definitely someone to look out for.
Naevius was in his cell, trying to clean a small scrape on his upper arm.
"Let me help you with that." She took the gauze from his hand and set to the task, frowning when it came away smeared with blood and sand.
"Don't look so angry." Naevius ran a hand down her back in a gentle caress, letting it come to rest possessively on her hip. "One of Batiatus' men caught me unawares, but he won't do so again. Ill-trained fool." He still had a trace of an accent, even after all these years, and she loved the sound of his voice, rough and raspy.
"It still needs to be properly cleaned." She wiggled out of his grasp, reaching for the wine amphora.
"Hey, you're not wasting that on my wound," he protested.
"Do you want to lose your arm?" She put on her best strict face, but he only laughed and pulled her close again.
The gleam in his eyes indicated he'd already had his fair share of the wine. Or maybe he was just drunk on battle lust. They all got like this after a fight, flushed with their victory and ready to lose themselves in a haze of pleasure. It was probably natural, considering they'd faced death only hours before. Secretly, she loved it. Naevius – Naveed – was usually so very controlled. His restraint in the arena was legendary. He could never be taunted into making a false move. Tonight, with her, however, it was a different story.
"Gods, you are so beautiful." There was a tremor in his voice that told her he was close to losing control.
Carefully he lifted her, arranging her legs around his waist, and carried her over to the narrow bed, kissing her deeply. He tasted of wine and something else, a faint metallic tang, and she couldn't get enough of his mouth, his hands on her breasts, his hard, muscled torso pressed against her as he lowered her to the mattress.
"Naveed." She breathed his name, tracing his lips with her fingers, and he shuddered, his eyes drinking in her face.
There was no talking after that, just his weight on top of her, his hands spreading her wide, his cock deep inside her, the sinuous movement of his hips as he made her come over and over until he found his own pleasure, collapsing on top of her with a strangled cry. He held her afterwards, his hand tangled in her hair, but he was staring blindly at the ceiling, unsmiling.
"What weighs on your heart?" She turned in his arms, resting her head on his chest, trying to read his mood.
His arm tightened around her. "What if Dominus decides to give you to another man tomorrow?"
She sighed, drawing a pattern on his skin with her finger. "What is this foolishness? You are the champion of this house. He won't give me to anyone else."
"What if he wishes to sell you?" His face hardened. "How would I purchase your freedom? Or even find you again?"
"I'm yours." She shook her head. "This is not like you. What could be gained from thinking such morbid thoughts?"
"I can't help them." He sat up, visibly agitated. "I can't help loving you. I did not choose love. It claims each man as it will." He swallowed. "There is no life absent your touch."
"Then make love to me again." Embracing him, she caught his gaze. "Whatever tomorrow brings, we have this night. We should make the most of it."
"Truth." He kissed her again, hard and deep. "My heart is yours, Margarita. Always."
She swallowed back a sob as she kissed him back. We have this night.