Chapter Text
The rain continued to pound the cabin. It grew in intensity making sleep, at least for Pietros, impossible. He burrowed deeper under the blankets and inched closer to Agron. “Try leaving only your nose and mouth outside the blanket,” Agron advised one of the children last night. This night, Pietros took the man’s advice. It helped a bit, though he wished he could completely press himself against Agron and fully share the larger man’s body heat. That would keep more of the cold at bay. But right now he dared not risk brushing against Agron.
It felt, to Pietros, like they were at the edge of the world here in the Alps. Of course it had felt that way ever since the rebellion had begun, as Pietros had never left Capua until that fateful day when he, Barca, and all the others had thrown their shackles off and joined with Spartacus. It was, for Pietros, as if the heavens had parted. Each subsequent place they had dwelled in had felt like the edge of the world. Vesuvius. Sinuessa en Valle. Melia Ridge. Each time Pietros would marvel at the vastness of the world, and each time Barca would good-naturedly chuckle and remind Pietros of how endless this realm truly was. Then they had reached freedom and the Alps. Pietros still, so many years later, marveled at it all. A part of him always would remain in Capua, he knew. The dusty, dry city had been the source of untold agony but it had also been where he had met and fallen in love with Barca.
The rain continued on that night. At least the roof and the walls held, keeping the wetness outside, keeping their children dry and safe. Agron and Nasir had, Pietros knew, done an admirable job constructing this place. The cottage was small but sturdy and cozy. A good place to raise the children, with the goat barn and pen just steps away.
Pietros and Agron shared a mat and shared blankets out of pure practicality – the same reason they now shared a cottage. Raising children alone was a most difficult endeavor, and they had needed to join their households in order to survive. It was so strange, Pietros mused often, how the gods had both blessed them and scorned them. He and Barca had made it all the way to the Alps, where they had provided a home to two orphans. But then an old injury of Barca’s had flared up and failed to respond to any of the healer’s remedies, and Barca had passed. Months later it was Nasir who had been felled by an unknown illness, leaving Agron and the two orphans they had adopted alone.
Combining households had been Pietros’ idea. He had reached the corner of frustration and grief one afternoon when he found he could not bring himself to thread a needle and make a repair. He had packed up the children and all their belongings including their soggy tent. They had set out for Agron’s cabin. Agron, still numb, had mutely nodded and stepped aside, beckoning for the trio to enter. That had been that. The families lived and worked together now, tending the goats and tending to the endless array of chores.
Pietros’ daughter and Agron’s daughter shared bedding and a blanket too, sleeping closest to the fire. Their sons grudgingly did the same, though much shoving and twisting seemed to happen each night before bed, along with many loud complaints wishing for spring and its warmer weather.
Agron and Pietros themselves always bedded down furthest from the fireplace, behind a section of the cabin that was portioned off with a curtain, reserved for the adults.
At last Pietros surrendered to sleep on this rainy night. The children were warm and safe. True, the hole in his heart remained, battered and bruised as if by the unrelenting rain. But at Agron’s warm side, Pietros slept.
***
And just like that, another year passed. Pietros’ son now stood nearly as tall as Pietros. The boy was part Carthaginian, one of the reasons Barca had wanted to foster him. Sometimes the boy spoke back to Pietros, but Agron put him in his place, which Pietros appreciated. Fatherhood was not something that Pietros had ever dreamed of – or prepared for. He was grateful for Agron’s help.
And Agron’s eldest, a girl, had already received one offer of marriage - though Pietros had only silently bit his tongue when he had heard the news. Woe be it to any man who tried to wrest the girl away from Agron, and may all the gods help any man who would hurt her. The girl was too young to be wed, in Agron’s eyes, and that was final. Perhaps another brave soul would ask again next year. The girl herself seemed equally attached to her foster father, making Pietros suspect she would not be leaving their household any time soon.
The two younger children were strong and healthy too, and the goat farm thrived, producing milk and cheese which Agron and Pietros sold or traded with their neighbors for any other items they needed. Another winter was on the horizon, and their household’s cellar had a solid store of grains, dried vegetables, and dried meat. Each child had warm clothing, even if the younger ones wore clothing the elder ones had outgrown. They were well-prepared.
And as for Agron himself? Pietros glanced at him occasionally. He was quiet, so quiet, since Nasir had passed. When the day’s tasks were concluded, he would sit silently on the porch, sometimes looking out at the sunset. He wore a necklace that had belonged to Nasir. He kept Nasir’s arm cuffs and clothing inside a wooden chest, and Pietros sometimes saw him take the garments out and inhale whatever scent remained.
What of Pietros and his own loss? Oh, he still mourned Barca, deeply and painfully. He still wore all the adornments Barca had gifted him, even the large, ostentatious earring. But Barca had died a free man, having spent a few years as a rebel and a few more in the Alps – and Pietros was grateful that his lover had lived long enough to experience freedom once more, as was his birthright. Pietros sometimes looked up at the ancient sky and wondered if Barca was there, in the next realm, sitting at Cyprian and Auctus’ sides, waiting for Pietros to join them. The thought made him smile through the tears.
For the first year, whenever Pietros and Agron spoke, it was about the farm or the children or the cabin. Matters of the heart would have to remain until the pain diminished a bit.
***
“Nasir, let-“
Agron abruptly cut himself off. Pietros’ head whirled around, catching Agron’s mistake.
“Apologies,” Agron muttered.
The fact that Agron had called him “Nasir” was of no worry to Pietros. “No need to apologize,” Pietros said softly. “I nearly called you by my former lover’s name a few times.” He forced a shrug. “Before living with you and our children, I used to live with Barca and our children. It is no disrespect to our departed lovers. Only human error.”
Agron grunted in reply. Pietros was content to leave the matter there. He knew that Agron would not want to discuss it further. They each had to find their way out of the grief, which surrounded them like piles of wet, heavy snow.
“I would have us check the goat pen before sunset,” Agron said, a moment later. “Ensure everything is secure for the snowstorm that beckons tonight.”
“Zokerbaal and Idowu are doing so now,” Pietros answered, referring to the eldest two children. “I trust their work.” He tilted his head and allowed something of a smile, thinking of Zokerbaal’s last mishap. “Well, perhaps it could not hurt to double check it.”
Agron nearly allowed a smile. There was a bit of life in his eyes now, Pietros noted, as if something had thawed somewhat. “No harm in doing so,” he agreed.
As they opened the cabin door to the gusts of wind and headed for the goat pen, Pietros glanced at Agron. He looked at him again when he saw how kindly Agron thanked the children for their work to secure the goats and the pen in preparation for the storm. This man had lost so much – his soulmate, his brother, his homeland – and yet he still had room within his heart to care for and encourage the children. To be the gentle but firm father they needed.
Just before sunset, their nearest neighbor stopped by. His name was Drusus, and he was one of the rebels who had fought alongside them. An honorable man, he lived alone. He greeted Agron and Pietros.
“I would ask if you had any food to spare,” Drusus said, glancing downwards for a second. “I had hoped to hunt the next few days but I see that a snowstorm is coming, and I am nearly out of dried goods.” He shook his head. “I know you have four children, and I should have prepared better….” He let his voice trail off.
“We can spare some,” Agron said. He and Pietros had discussed Drusus before. The man had been a strong fighter but he always lacked common sense or the ability to prepare. (“He needs a wife,” Pietros had said one day, with a laugh. “I believe he favors men,” Agron had answered. “But regardless, he needs someone or something, as I do not know how he managed to survive last winter.”)
Pietros prepared a small parcel for Drusus. He felt Drusus’ eyes upon him as he worked. When he handed the man the bag, he felt Drusus’ hand touch his own far longer than needed. And again as they bid their farewells, Drusus eyed Pietros and smiled at him.
Pietros turned away. It was so odd to be wanted again. And yet it was so tempting, even if Drusus were a fool. Barca had had his flaws, but he had always made Pietros feel wanted and had never denied him his touch. That was what Pietros eternally craved. Pietros shook his head. Drusus was a good fighter and his heart had always been in the right place, but Pietros did not want him.
Now with darkness outside, the evening stew was heated over the fireplace, and the children and adults eagerly ate their portions. It was already cold enough that Pietros disliked even having to hold his spoon, He glanced at Agron. One of his hands functioned better than the other, but if he struggled with the spoon, he never showed it. When the last of the stew had been consumed, the adults ushered the children to chew their mint leaves and prepare their bedding for the night. The youngest wanted a bedtime story, and Pietros knew that neither he nor Agron could ever deny her. The three older ones wanted to play one round of a game they had invented which involved a wooden board and game pieces made of stone. Pietros was worried that Agron might deny them that – the hour truly was getting late and tomorrow would be spent doing a lot of shoveling – but he allowed them one game if they promised to get under their blankets right after that.
And then at long last, it was time for Pietros and Agron to retire to their own bedding, behind the curtain. Pietros settled in atop the soft bedding, under the warm blankets.
“I enjoy the game,” Pietros whispered. “The one the children created.”
“They should give it a name,” Agron whispered back. “We cannot keep calling it ‘the game’.”
“Perhaps as we shovel tomorrow we can suggest that they create a name. It would be good to keep their minds off the task.”
“The snow already begins to fall. I hope that fool Drusus made it back to his cabin safely,” Agron scoffed. He then added, “He wants you.”
“I know. I do dimly recall what it is like when a man wants you,” Pietros responded with a laugh. “But he is indeed a fool – and I would not ask Zokerbaal and Portia to move, thus breaking up our family.”
Agron was quiet for several moments. Pietros knew that the other man was not sleeping though. He had shared bedding with him long enough to just intuit his movements.
“But if you did favor Drusus,” Agron began again, his voice tentative, “would you go to him? Would it disrespect Barca?” His voice suggested sincerity and openness, as if he truly wished to know.
“Barca knows I mourn him every day,” Pietros answered honestly. “He watches me from the next realm, and he only wishes for me to find happiness.” He added, with a smile, “And he has Cyprian and Auctus to keep him company until I join him.” He then amended, “Join them.”
“Gods help me,” Agron said, his voice ragged. “Nasir has no one.”
Pietros abruptly turned to face Agron. “That is not true!” he protested. “He has so many people with him. Spartacus and Naevia and Chadara – and your brother too, though they never knew each other in this life. And his own brother and mother. Rest assured, Agron, that Nasir is well as he patiently waits for you. Time passes differently in the other realm.”
“You know quite a lot of this for a man who has never been to the other realm,” Agron observed curtly.
“Barca told me of the Carthaginian gods and what their priestesses taught, and I know it in my heart to be true.”
Agron grunted, a sound Pietros knew to interpret as assent. He knew that Agron might not fully agree with Pietros’ words but that he might be considering them. A loud gust of wind hit the cabin, and Pietros inched closer to Agron.
“Agron,” Pietros whispered. “Place your arms around me.”
For several seconds, Agron neither spoke nor moved. Pietros knew he was taking a large risk and possibly overstepping. Well, he said to himself, if Agron wished to just ignore the command then he could do so.
And yet Agron did as Pietros asked. As they lay on their sides, Agron moved closer and pulled Pietros to him, Pietros’ back to Agron’s front.
“Gratitude,” Pietros whispered. “I do require the arms of a strong man around me.”
“I am not him,” Agron whispered back. “Any more than you are the one I long for.”
“That is true. They are in one realm and we are in another, and there is nothing we can do to change that, as much as we might wish.”
Agron was silent, and Pietros relaxed against the other man. His heart and soul cried out as his mouth remained shut. He needed this. Someone to share his bed and his life, someone to hold him. Someone strong and fierce and caring like Agron. Having the former gladiator’s arms around him was almost too much for Pietros to bear, and he knew that having taken one large risk, he was about to take another.
“I also require your lips on mine.”
Again Agron was quiet for a bit. Pietros then felt Agron reach a few fingers towards his chin. He gently turned it to face him and he placed a kiss upon Pietros’ mouth. Pietros no longer felt the least bit cold – in fact he was hot and a bit enflamed now. He returned the kiss with passion, opening his mouth a little, allowing Agron’s tongue inside.
“And I require your cock inside me,” Pietros rasped.
“By all the gods, are you always so bossy with a lover?!”
“Yes. I always asked for what I wanted. It was I who first approached Barca in the bath, all those years ago.”
Agron grunted. “If you swear to it that our departed lovers will not be hurt….”
Pietros turned to lie upon his back, and he pulled Agron down against him. “They will not,” he breathed. “Now please Agron, do as I ask.”
Agron reached down and covered Pietros’ mouth with his own.
***
The next morning the eldest child, Zokerbaal, muttered the words “At long last!” towards his fathers as they dressed and prepared to confront the outside.
Pietros turned and looked at Agron, guessing the other man was biting his tongue to keep from reprimanding the boy. If Zokerbaal pushed any further than he would, indeed, have to face Agron’s wrath. But for now it seemed that Agron responded with amusement. Pietros’ own heart was warm as he headed outside to begin shoveling.
THE END
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