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Chadara was dead.
The fact resounded in Nasir’s mind, looping over on itself, again and again. He could scarcely blink without seeing her there, blood painting her perfect lips as she choked out her last breath. They had burned her on wet, smoking wood, wrapped in all the rags he could gather. It was the way of her people. Her ashes were gone now, her blood too, washed away by the rain. The only sign she had ever been there at all was the lingering smell of burning flesh.
Nasir knew he was the only one who could properly mourn her, though some of the others tried. But none had known her well enough to truly miss her, save for him. It was guilt that drove their eyes to the ground, that pulled dower words from tongues. It was guilt that had brought his own tears at first, guilt that he could not turn back time, that he had not noticed the change in her, that he had not deciphered her intentions, talked some sense into her before the last.
But in the long hours, guilt had slowly been replaced with anger. Anger at Mira, for the deed done, though he knew it was not her fault. Anger at the men who had taken her to bed, only to deny her basic courtesy once the deed was done. Anger at Chadara herself for choosing to betray. But mostly, the blade of rage was turned inward. He’d spent years of his life with Chadara, they had schemed and fought to keep each other alive. Under the yoke of Rome they been closer than blood, each the other’s only confidant. How had he not seen her struggles? How had he not helped shoulder weight? The tether of slavery was not easily severed, he knew, and yet he had left her to try and break free on her own.
For Agron’s part, he tried to bring comfort, but Nasir could only shrug it away. He didn’t like the way it made him feel, knowing that a single word from his mouth could stay the other man’s hand, knowing he held that man’s heart as much as his devotion, knowing he had the position and respect now that Chadara had longed for, knowing he had the only thing his friend had ever desired. To be held and wanted and protected, that had been Chadara’s freedom. And she had died in search and lacking of it, crushed under the longing to belong.
It was Naevia who came to call Agron away, and part of Nasir was grateful. There was great love in him for Mira, there always would be, but he didn’t wish to look upon her face now, not with memories raw and hurting. Agron slipped away from him and he felt a soft kiss pressed to the top of his hair. He sat alone, until footsteps faded.
He gave a heavy sigh. Now alone, he felt the need to move and, absent his lover’s closeness, he sought out the warmth that wine would bring, what little they had. Perhaps if there was enough left, he could find forgetfulness in it too.
The halls were packed tight and loud with those trying to get out of the rain. Though many hands had been put to work on repairing the roof, the temple was still too small to accommodate so many bodies comfortably .
The supplies had been moved to small side room with the rest of the supplies, a place that stayed dark and cool even in the heat of the day. Nasir was glad for it. He didn’t like the quiet looks of sympathy. He didn’t not want them or deserve them. It was Chadara who should have had their pity, though in life she had deserved and been denied much more.
He growled shaking his head, as if the motion could dislodge thought from mind. His filled his cup with wine and downed it, needing the burn it would bring as it slid down his throat.
“That is one way to mourn,” came an amused voice from behind him.
Nasir turned to see a tall figure there, with fair hair and strong build. The former house slave knew the face, but it took him a long moment to conjure up a name. Vesilus, a Briton who had come to the cause only recently, with a hand full of Gauls and other Britons. He was handsome in his own way, with a flawless smile and smooth rolling to his words. But Nasir had little patience for making friends at the moment.
“Pity though,” the man continued, “She was good.”
The comment brought the fire into Naisr’s blood.
“I am sure you will find other thighs spreading for you easily enough. She was more than a warm body and a willing cunt,” he spat, turning on the stranger.
The Briton’s smile fell and he lifted his hands in gesture of surrender.
“You mistake me,” he said, “I did not know her in such a way. We spoke on occasion, she was good company, far brighter than anyone gave her credit for. She was beautiful too, but we never laid together. She did not suite me.”
Nasir’s anger faltered for a moment.
“You befriended her?”
The Briton shrugged.
“I do not know if it was quite befriending. We enjoyed each other’s company while work was to be done, we talked and ate together from time to time. I would have called her friend, but, in wake of what has happened I wonder if I still carry that right. Would a friend not have noticed her guilt? Not have tried to stop her?”
Nasir’s dropped his gaze to the floor. Yes, a friend would have.
A tall shadow cast over him and Nasir looked up to find the Briton refilling his cup. The Syrian nodded in thanks.
“To Chadara,” the fair haired main said, lifting his glass and taking a long drink.
“To Chadara,” he said, a ghost of a smile on his own lips.
They drank in silence, and Nasir felt the heaviness of anger settle out of him. It was not bitterness now, so much as bone-deep, weary sadness. And guilt. The guilt would always remain. It would lay hard and heavy in his heart, next to the place that remembered the cruelty Naevia had once suffered under his former Domnius, and how Tiberius had stood by and done nothing.
More wine eased the silence, the strange Briton allowed Nasir the luxury of quiet, of staring off into places only he could see, trying to sort out the swirling thoughts and dark memories that filled his head. With the balm of drink and perceived privacy, the Syrian did not notice the way Vesilus crept closer, until the weight of a sword calloused hand landed on his thigh.
Nasir scowled, sliding out from under the hand as he stood. The anger was boiling up in him again.
“I do not care for your hand upon me,” Nasir growled.
The Briton followed him to his feet, lazy smile upon his lips.
“Your tongue claims it, but actions speak differently.” the man said, clear grey eyes rove Nasir’s from. They were sharp and hungry, a look that Nasir...no, Tiberius… had been quite familiar with.
Nasir’s scowled deepened, eyes narrowing dangerously at the Briton, cursing himself for being so quick to sit and drink beside this fuck.
“Then your eyes lie to you,” He snapped, setting the cup down, hard, as he made for the door.
The tall body blocked his way. Vesilus was easily as tall as Agron, though not of the same strong build. Still, he was not a body Nasir could take out by force, not in this small a space.
A big hand came up to cup Nasir’s cheek and the Syrian jerked back.
“Do they,” the Briton pressed, “I see the scornful looks you gave your German this night, how you pulled from his touch. We all know where his allegiances lie, and it is not among house slaves. How often has he spoken concern out loud? That swelling our ranks with common slaves does the cause little good? Do you think if you were not his boy, that he would see you as anything but one of them, no different from Chadara? You seek out a darkness and drink, far from his prying eye, because you know that.”
“I seek only to be alone,” Nasir growled, ducking under the bigger man’s arm again, “With no one but my own thoughts.”
Vesilus was quicker than he appeared. A big hand wrapped around Nasir’s bicep, twisting the arm roughly behind him. Pain fueled panic, Nasir tried to dig in his heel’s, ground himself. But the Briton had weight as well as size on his side, he shoved Nasir hard against the crumbling wall. There was no time to regain his breathe before the body leaned into him, trapping him, crushing him.
“You seek to be desired,” Vesilus crooned, breath hot and rank against Nasir’s skin, “Such a pretty face and a fine body, and you would wield it like a weapon, tempting. You claim innocence, but you know what you do to a man’s desires. I see it in your eyes. I know the games of your ilk and now I would claim prize. One night with me between your thighs and you’ll forget all about that German fuck.”
The rough stone scrapped Nasir’s cheek as he struggled, heart thundering against his ribs. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the Syrian’s first instinct would have been to yield. To let go, release mind, to surrender to the press of the body that trapped him there. Tiberius knew how to pick his battles.
But he was not Tiberus. He was Nasir. And Nasir was no man’s slave.
“You may be small in stature but that is your strength. Your opponent thinks you weak, he will use force to bring you down. Use his body against him, make his size your weapon,” Spartacus had once told him, as they trained in the yard.
A shutter ran up Nasir’a spine, as teeth grazed the curve of his shoulder. He stilled for a long moment, eyes pressed shut as he collected himself.
“Good little pup,” the Briton purred, “enjoy it.”
The rough hand on Nasir’s arm loosened a fraction and the Syrian struck. He slammed his head back into the Briton’s face, hard as he could. Vesilus jerked, snarling abuses and Nasir took the man’s shock to his advantage, using his leg to jerk the bigger man off balance. It worked; and he felt the calloused hand release him as the Briton tumbled to the ground.
Nasir bolted for the door, his body moving ahead of his mind. The store room was small and cramped, not good for the fight the Syrian was expecting. He was smaller, faster, but he needed the space for evasion. He needed to be out in the open.
A hand caught his ankle, and he went down hard, barely able to get his hands out to catch himself. He tasted blood in his mouth, his head jerked back by the hand that yanked painfully at his hair.
“Little Syrian bitch,” Vesilus snarled, all playfulness gone from his voice ,”I’d have been gentle with you.”
Nasir hissed, the fight still raging in him. He drove and elbow into the Briton’s ribs, once, twice, three times, before the man fell back. Nasir made for the door again, swinging out into the hall, Vesilus’s roar of angry echoing behind him.
Legs and mind united in purpose; get to the yard, get into the open, get to a blade. He dodged corners and bodies, heedless of the voices that called his name or the hands that reached to still him. He could the Briton’s thundering foot falls on his heels, shouting as he threw bodies out of his way. The thickness of the crowd would buy the Syrian time, but only a little.
~*~
Spartacus was the first to rise to the sounds of the commotion, brows knit in concern.
“You’d think they’d had enough blood shed for one night,” Crixus growled but there was little of his usual fire behind it. The man looked worn thin, tired, as they all did. Tonight had taken it’s toll on all, with thoughts of betrayal and lose. Gannicus had been his friend once, and now he marked Crixus as nothing but a fool. The mounting weight of what was to come laid heavy on hearts and minds.
Agron nodded, solemn. He could not tear mind from the memory of Nasir, lit by the light of Chadara’s pyre. His dark eyes not full of sadness, but fury instead. The way he had pulled from Agron’s touch, it had unnerved the German, made his heart ache. To be so close and to be able to do nothing to ease his lover’s pain, and the too only so recently reunited. He felt as if he was failing the other man.
But it was Mira’s sudden presence that lifted his head. She was breathing hard, from the color in her cheeks he could tell she’d been running. To the surprise of all, her wide eyes sought out not Spartacus , but Agron
Both were on their feet in a heartbeat.
“Nasir,” she panted.
Agron’s heart stilled in his chest.
“His wound?”
She shook her head.
“A fight,” she huffed.
“Where,” he demanded, large hands coming to grasp her shoulders.
“The yard.”
The German shoved his way out of the door and into the crowd.
Shoving bodies aside to make a path, Agron wove his way through the temple to the courtyard. He could hear shouting, a great number of bodies pressed together, watching what was happening. Nasir, blade in hand, was standing against a tall, fair haired man, a Briton by the name of Vessilus. The man stood nearly Agron’s height and of similar size. Bloody faced, the Briton’s lips were curled back in a snarl as he came at Nasir.
Agron’s hand was on his sword in a breath.
But a tiny hand on his arm stopped him, he turned with a growl to see Naevia there, watching him with pleading eyes.
“Do not interfere,” she said and there was a harsh edge to her voice, “This is his fight.”
“That Briton could kill him!”
“Then step in when that end seems eminent. But I tell you this, if you jump in now, Nasir, though he will try, will not forgive you. He does not need a protector, he does not need someone to fight his battles for him. He needs someone to step aside and understand, to trust him enough to uphold his own honor.”
Agron looked at her with confusion as the words sank in. It took all his strength to remove his hand from his blade but he knew her words were the truth. Nasir had never wanted a protector, he’d wanted a friend, and a lover. And so now Agron was once again learning that it was not always easy to be the latter.
Nasir ducked under the man’s guard, made passing swipe but missed his target, slicking the man’s thigh. The Briton roared with wounded fury, turning on the Syrian again. Nasir got his shield up just in time to ward off another crashing blow but it drove him to his knees. He had to release the shield finally, rolling away from the volley and finding his feet again. He was dodging, evading, but his strikes were too low.
Agron’s muscles were coiled so tightly, he wondered if they would not snap at the tension. Vesilus elbowed Nasir hard in the ribs, right against his wound, as the boy went in for another attack. His sword hand was at the ready and he made a step to join the fight.
But Nasir did something then he did not expect. Kneeling there where Briton’s blow had dropped him, the man leaning over him, Agron could see now what Nasir had been about. Vesilus’ thighs and calved were striped with deep, horizontal slashes. Such wounds made it difficult for a man on one knee, as the Briton was now, to gain his feet quickly. He did not have the time to get his feet under him, to back away, before Nasir stabbed the blade upward into the soft flesh beneath the man’s chin. Nasir had weakened him without him even noticing, had drawn him in, and then destroyed him with his own arrogance.
Agron watched in stunned shock, only to see Crixus at his side, doing much the same. Spartacus however, wore only a pleased smile as the Briton’s body fell to the dirt.
~*~
Nasir sagged to the ground, spent. In the moment, the instinct to survive had spurred him to action. But now it drained from him, new hurts and cold rain making their presence known to him. He leaned over his knees for a long moment, catching his breath.
Familiar hands grabbed at him, one on his shoulder, one under his chin, pulling him from his curled position. Agron’s eyes were wide concern, a look Nasir had seen once before, not so long ago. He graced the German with a wan smile.
“Fucking Syrian’s,” the taller chuckled under his breath, resting his forehead against Nasir's. His breath was warm comfort against the Syrian's cold, wet skin.
“Gratitude, for letting me handle the fight on my own.”
“And risk your bite for my efforts? You think me such a fool,” He laughed, smoothing Nasir’s now drenched hair from his face, “But it is Naevia who you should thank.”
Nasir nodded, his eyes flitting for a moment to the departing crowd. Naevia stood at Crixus side, just out of reach of the rain. He gave her a nod of thanks and she returned the gesture with a smile of her own.
There was sharp pressure on the barely healed wound and he hissed at the sudden jolt of pain. Agron had one large hand pressed against the bandages, now stained with fresh blood. The German’s face had grown tense again, but Nasir pushed at the hand. Agron however, would not relent his position.
“The wound is reopened, we should get you to the medicus.”
Nasir rolled his eyes, but accepted the arm around him as he rose to his feet, not so much in need of support as the warm comfort it brought.
“Barely a flesh wound now,” he argued.
“Still more a wound than I would ever have you bear.”
“Is this my price? I battle a Briton giant single handed only to be returned to the arms of doting wife?” he teased and it earned him a clever smile from Agron. He did not expect the sudden movement that swept him up into Agron’s arms. He made a rather undignified squawking noise, struggling against the arms that held him but Agron was having none of it.
“Wife is it? Then wife I shall be! Pity for you and joyous for me however, you have never laid eyes on women from east of the Rhine!”
Humor eased the space that had formed between them earlier in the night, but as dawn came, thoughts turned to other matters. Naevia and Lucius had seen Nasir well tended and he and Agron had spent the long hours since wrapped in each other’s arms. The touched and talked and kissed, with no pressure or drive to do anything more. Nasir recounted the incident in the store room, which soured Agron’s temper. But he remained silent, letting his lover tell the story in his own words. Conversation eventually turned back to Chadara, back to the empty guilt that had left Nasir feeling the need to be away to begin with.
“You know I had a brother once,” Agron said, after a long silence, “His name was Duro. He was my younger brother, all brass and none sense, as our father would say. Duro died in my arms, because he stepped onto a blade meant for me. I thought that day, that I had died too. It did not feel anything but hatred and anger, and I thought surely these are the things that dead men feel.”
He ran his finger’s through Nasir’s dark hair, and the Syrian closed his eyes, and sighed heavily.
“I blamed myself for Duro’s choices, and it nearly destroyed me. It is only up to each man to decide what he will do. You can not carry the weight of those choices as if it were your own. All you can do is decide what you will do in the moment. Do you know who taught me that?”
“Spartacus,” Nasir said quietly, thinking back to the first night he’d meet either of the men. It was the first lesson Spartacus had ever taught him, though one he’d been quick to forget when the pain of Chadara’s lose was so keen.
Agron caught his chin and lifted his head, their pale eyes meeting dark ones.
“You. Time and again you have done only what you know in your heart to be true, no matter the trouble it is likely to bring you. You do not hold to mind in such times what others would have you do. You do what is right, and to hell with those who won’t.”
Nasir let the words sink in as he lowered his head back to Agron’s chest. There would always be the weight of Chadara’s loss on his heart, but it was different now. It was not position and respect that had set him apart from his friend, it was his concept of freedom. Freedom had never been something Chadara had wanted, something Tiberius had not wanted. But to Nasir, freedom was righting some small measure of the wrong done to those whom could not defend against it. Freedom was proving that every man, even a simple house slave, had the rights of choice and the worth of a human life.