Chapter Text
The clanging of metal on metal, the rough yelling of loud voices and the harsh, acrid black of the furnace’s smoke hit the boy’s senses like a hammer. His nose wrinkled and his feet hesitated. The guild was a hive of activity men darting here and there, carrying large urns or bringing horses through dragging metal scraps. He was not a baby, he told himself. Babies couldn’t save their mothers. He ducked around the Bronze cast of Minerva and entered the smoky hall, swallowing down his trepidation.
A cloak covered his head and small shoulders, but the determination in them was clear. It bellied the softness of his hands and pristine state of his sandals. His arms and legs were skinny with youth, but his hands and feet were large. He darted through the guild past furnaces and hammers, and workbenches. He was looking for the one they whispered about on street corners after dark. The one he remembered watching once, through the blurry eyes of a toddler. Lupus de Nocte. The Wolf of the Night. He could remember the gasps of shock and cheers of the arena. But the face was hazy. He’d find him, he had to find him.
“Ai! You there, out of the way!” The boy yelped and ducked as two men lifted a brazier over his head. Spinning around, eyes wide, he took a deep breath and steeled himself.
“I look for Theodericus,” he declared, the command in his voice lost as he choked on smoke.
“You and everyone else,” a rough voice chided. The accent was thick, harsh. The boy spun around, searching for the source, stopping at a man bent over a red-hot sword, swinging away with a hammer. Smoke and the low, flickering light of the oil lamps obscured his face from view.
“You know him?” he asked, brows lowered in suspicion.
“Aye, I know him. Who is asking?” The accent was so thick the boy could hardly make it out.
“I am. Ascendaeus,” he said, moving closer. He had almost given his full name. That would give away his station, he thought nervously, as if the cloak hadn't already.
“Stigel. Stiles.” The man huffed, muscles glistening with a sheen of sweat, as he continued to pound out the iron.
“I don’t understand. You speak nonsense,” Ascendaeus said, wondering how he could find Theodericus, with men like this blocking his way. He didn't need riddles, he needed to find him. Now, so he could learn how to protect his mother. How to fight like a gladiator. How to win.
“Your name. It means ‘one who rises.’ In my language, we would call you Stigel. Or Stiles. You will climb in your life, like the steps over the highest hill. Your name says so.”
Ascendaeus blinked. Stiles. It sounded odd on his tongue, but he liked it. Stiles.
“Who are you?” He asked curiously, slinking closer to the man. Now that he could see, the man was young, not as old as his voice made him sound. Probably eight and ten years, no more than five and twenty. Soot stained his face, as sweat dripped down his forehead and neck, the cords in his neck straining.
“I am a blacksmith,” he muttered. “And you are a pest.” Ascendaeus bristled, and puffed up his chest.
“I am no pest! I am not a child, either. I come to learn, to train! I will learn to wield a sword, and slay my enemies. I’ll be a finer soldier than the best of Rome. I’ll fight better than the gladiators!” He exclaimed. The man sighed, and paused, wiping his forehead of sweat, before turning to look closer at the boy.
“You are a child, not a soldier. Give me your hand, boy.” Stiles shot out his hand, eager to please this strangely provocative man; eager to prove he’d be the man his family needed. The man grabbed his hand roughly, smoothing his fingers over the boy’s palm, before scoffing.
“You’re no sword bearer. You’ve never wielded a weapon in your life.” The boy’s eyes dropped to the floor, and ripped his hand away. In his village, boys of Stiles’ age would already be using a sword as if it was a part of their arm. His people were warriors, their skin tough and hardened with battle. The boy’s hands were pampered, softer than a babe’s. A patrician.
“I am Theodericus. Derek. I do not train soft hands,” the man declared, turning back to his work and away from Ascendaeus. The boy’s heart dropped in his chest. No! He needed to learn. Who else could protect his mother?
“You have to! I have to protect my mother. You don’t know what he’s doing to her! Please! I’ll work, I’ll learn! I promise! I have to beat him!”
Derek abruptly turned around. “Your mother?” He asked quietly.
“Please, he’ll kill her,” the boy begged. Derek stared at him for a long moment, cursing the gods for throwing the boy his way. One more problem he didn’t need. He chewed his cheek for a minute before deciding.
“I’ll train you when your hands are callused. You need muscle on your arms, strength in your legs, to handle a sword. Come here tomorrow morning, you’ll work as my striker. Be here by the first hour.” Ascendaeus was already nodding, his eyes wide.
“Well, get, boy. You’re not doing anything here, besides getting in my way.” He watched as the boy, still nodding vigorously, backed away.
“Thank you! You won’t regret it!” Aye, he would. Stiles, clever contraptions that allowed only a man to climb a path, not animals. This boy, he would be sly. His emotions played over his face like a tableau, but he would learn to hide them. He’d have to, or more than his mother would be at stake. He whistled to one of the young apprentices, just on his way out the door.
“Five denarii for you to follow that boy home. Don’t let anyone see you. I’ll be here.”
“Si, Peregrinus.”
Derek watched the boys disappear around the corner, and bent back over his work. Darkness was approaching, work would be called soon, but he had no intentions of leaving. Work had to be finished. Foreigner or not, his work sold. After all, it wasn’t like he had anything left to live for.
“Scott! Scott!!” Ascendaeus sprinted into the courtyard, chickens scattering over the red cobblestones. Light streamed through the laundry hanging across the atrium, the boy's voice echoing off the walls as he ran through drapes of fabric and straight into a thin brunette slave, stringing up the wet cloth. It was Malamhìn, Scott’s mother.
“Ach, you’re so loud, Ascendaeus. It’s nae playtime, go on! It’s time for bed, laddie.”
“Sorry, Molly, but I gotta find Scott, I’ve gotta find him now!”
“Ascendaeus, ‘is name’s nae Scott, ‘Tis Scotaidh,” she blustered at him, pulling sheets off the line into her arms and safely out of harm’s way. Of course, Stiles was the harm.
“That’s what I said. Scotty,” he said, finally coming to a halt, effectively confused. No matter how many times they had this argument, he never heard a difference.
“Ach, go on, get you. He’ll be in your quarters, making your bedding up. I’ll be up in the blink of an eye, and don’ you think I’ll nae know if you pretend to sleep.”
“Yes, Molly.” Scott’s mother was terrifying. “And it’s Stiles. Call me Stiles now!” He yelled over his shoulder.
She shook her head as he ran off.
“Wee laddie ‘tis nae right in the head.”
“Scott!”
“What? What?! I’m righ’ here, Ascendaeus, what is it?” Scott was sitting on the mattress; blankets and quilts around his waist as he tied them together, tongue sticking between his teeth. Ascendaeus ran through the room and jumped up on the bed, speaking fast in an excited whisper.
“I found him, Lupus de Nocte! I found Theodericus! Well, Derek, he said he likes to be called. He called me Stiles and said I’d climb things. You wouldn’t believe how huge he is; he’s like a titan. And he was making a sword; he’ll probably use it to chop off a tiger’s head when he joins the games again. He said my hand’s are too soft or something, but we found him. He’ll help us. He said he’d teach me to fight, Scott!” Scott watched with wide eyes trying to follow his friend. They had come up with the elaborate plan with the type of fervor only nine-year-olds could accomplish. It had taken weeks to come up with the information about how to find Derek. If Molly found out what he had had Scott do, she’d string him up by his toes. But he had too. It was for his mother
The excitement of the night didn’t fool Stiles. Scott treated this like a game, so Ascendaeus did, too. He played up the drama of it, the aspects of winning, fighting the enemy. That way Scott would play along. He didn’t know what was at stake. He didn’t know Ascendaeus would put his life on the line when the time came. He didn’t know that it wasn’t a game at all.
“You found him? He’s really going tae teach you? You’ll be able to join the games?”
Ascendaeus nodded vigorously. That was what he told Scott, he just wanted to join the gladiator games. Every boy in Rome wanted to be a famous gladiator, fighting for the Emperor. Not Ascendaeus. No. Not Stiles.
Stiles was going to kill him.
“Villa Domitius, Peregrinus.”
Derek flipped the boy his denarii, wiping off his hands with a rag. Villa Domitius, home of Marcus Domitius, Magnus, legatus of the Imperial Legion. Marcus Domitius, the Great. Derek had faced him seen him in battle once, long ago. A fierce warrior, a fierce leader.
Of course the family was being threatened. Power was a game in Rome, one you had to be present for to partake in. All the military victories in the world wouldn't matter if you didn't come home to claim them. He cursed and whipped the rag aside. The story was evolving much too rapidly for his taste. A man is his position had to tread carefully, or he’d wake up with a dagger in his side, or find himself in the arena once more. He couldn’t afford to help doomed little boys protect their mothers. No one had bothered helping him.
He wiped soot from his brow once more and made to leave. Someone had to watch the kid’s back. Stiles' back.
He laughed once and sighed, blowing out the last lantern. He had known the moment he had spoken his name the boy would be trouble.
“Ascendaeus, slow down, my silly boy, you’ll choke on your bread. Why in the heavens are you in such a hurry?”
Stiles looked up at his mother, pretending not to notice the bruise above her eye or the slight limp in her gait as she entered the room, seating herself across from him.
“I have to be at the market. There’ll be a fight this afternoon, for Senator Gaius Aurelius’ death. I hear there would be ten gladiators in all,” he commented, having thought up his excuse late last night. It was true. There would be a fight. He just wouldn’t be there to watch it. He dipped his roll in honey, and shoved it in his mouth. He couldn’t afford to be late. Derek had to take him seriously.
“You now how I detest those shows, Ascendaeus. You must be careful. You have lessons with Master Tenallus at the sixth hour.”
“He can’t come today. He’s ill of the stomach.” Stiles had fired him a week ago, informing the tutor that his services would no longer be needed, but was offered a hefty sum for the short notice. Stiles really didn’t go to the market as often as he said he did. The plan had been meticulously laid out; from the times his mother would be at the Imperial palace, to the hours he’d need to practice with Derek. No one, not even Scott, had a clue just how much was at stake. Everything had to go exactly according to plan, or it would all fall through.
He had watched his mother slip back into the villa early this morning, before the cocks had crowed, her stola torn in places. Stiles knew he had to act soon. If his father knew what that pig was making his mother do every night, he’d have gutted him already. She didn’t think her son had a clue. After all, why would he? He was just a boy, never able to pay attention to one thing for too long. Especially not his mother. But Stiles had been there that night. He had heard her screams and pleas, and had stood frozen in the shadows, listening as his mother bartered for their lives with a sick and disgusting man. He didn’t understand why, what they had done to deserve this. Why they would be killed at the slightest hint of resistance, but it didn’t matter anymore. His father was the finest general Rome had ever had, and his son wouldn’t sit and stand by. It was time to be a man.
Finishing his breakfast, he drained his goblet of wine, and pocketed the pear to give to Scott for Molly on his way out. Before he left the room, though, he stopped at his mother’s side and kissed her cheek.
“I love you, mother,” he said solemnly. She met his gaze with a tired smile and sighed, kissing his forehead.
“I love you too, Ascendaeus. More than you could ever know.” She ruffled his hair. “Be careful out there, dear. Don’t get to close, alright?”
“Alright! Love you!”
He threw the pear to Scott as he ran out of the courtyard to the streets of Rome, dodging oxen and food venders, prostitutes and soldiers of the guard.
By the time he saw the familiar statue of Minerva, he was out of breath, but that was good. He needed to work on his stamina if he wanted to be able to fight.
Derek was at the same station as before, finishing a course loaf of bread. He nodded to Stiles approvingly, and wiped his hands on his tunic, before pointing to the sledgehammer.
“Grab that with your sword arm,” was all he said before they went to work.
The day was long, and Stiles had to stop at the bathhouse before making his way home, covered in soot and grime from a long day of hard work. His muscles ached like they never had before, and blisters lined his palms, but he hadn’t once complained. This was nothing compared to what his mom went through for him. He would endure it a thousand times over.
After a week, the blisters no longer bled, and Molly stopped asking about the bloodied bandages he shoved into the dirty laundry. Derek taught him why they embedded the blades they forged with steel, and never spoke more than three words at a time if he could help it. Scott covered for him with his mother always telling him he was out at the market or at the baths or trying to sneak a peak at the gladiators.
After a month, he woke up listening to his mother’s tears, and spent the rest of the night slashing up a dummy made out of his pillow with the dagger he had forged for himself with Derek’s help.
His hands were no longer soft. Tomorrow he would learn to fight.
The angry red 'S' on Derek's bicep gleamed as the light from the lantern flickered over it, bouncing off the blades that hung from the rafters. Stiles wiped his face with his tunic, but he held the hammer steady and forged away at their latest sword.
Suddenly, he stopped, and looked at Derek.
"My skin is rough. You said you'd teach me then. It has to be soon," he said seriously, the gravity in his eyes so incongruous with his age. Again, Derek had to wonder what the boy had gone through to take away his childhood so young. He didn't have it in him to pity the child, but he could empathize.
"We finish our work, and then we'll begin."
They still had the same amount of work to do, but only had half the time if they wanted to get any training done. It was no problem though. Stiles would just work harder.
They broke at noon for lunch, eating dried beans from the street vendor across the way. Derek eyed Stiles' arms before picking up one of the lighter blades, and handing it to him.
"That is yours now. Treat it with care," he said, before grabbing one for his own use and gesturing for Stiles to follow. They made their way through the streets and alleys, climbing over walls and up onto the roofs, until they found a spot relatively clear of people, overlooking the streets of Rome. Derek got into fighting stance, and Stiles followed, trying to remember what he had seen the gladiators do. Trying to imagine his father, and how he'd hold his sword.
"Attack," Derek instructed.
So he did. Time after time Derek parried his swings, calling out quick lines of instruction or criticism with each new onslaught.
"Don't attack straight on."
"Don't leave your chest open to attack."
"Never take your eye off your opponent."
"Always be aware of your footing."
For hours they sparred on the rooftops, the unrelenting sun hot on their backs, but Derek never seemed to break a sweat.
"Enough. We'll go again tomorrow." Stiles said nothing as he watched the man hop down over the side of the building and disappear into the crowd. He was riddled with scratches, and his arms felt like lead. As he swung himself down into the alleyway, he remembered he forgot to return the sword to Derek.
That's yours, now.
He smiled, tossing the sword from hand to hand. Wait until Scott saw it.
For months, the routine continued, Stiles slipping away before the sun rose, sword slung in his belt, grabbing a piece of fruit or a sweet roll for Derek. Malamhìn would watch him go, tch-ing at whatever madness she thought he had gotten involved in now. They'd work for hours and then train even longer until the sun began to sink in the sky, and Stiles had to get home. Every day, his hands grew rougher, and his muscles larger. Derek even began to smile at him on occasion. When they had the chance, he and Scott would practice through the nights, Stiles trying to teach Scott the same things Derek taught him each day. When he slept, it was hard and deep, so that he no longer woke to the sound of his mother's tears. Every few mornings though, the bags under her eyes grew larger, and new bruises would grace her fair skin. Even Molly noticed. One night Stiles came home to Molly nursing his mother's face with a cold cloth, and muttering to her. He hid in the hall way and listened as quietly as he could.
"Aemilia, you cannae let this continue! What would the General say if he knew? Your son, you think he does nae know something is amiss?" She whispered fervently, as Aemilia winced but remained still.
"Malamhìn, you know it is not that simple. I haven't a choice in the matter. My son's life depends on it. The General would be able to do something, but he isn't here. He hasn't been here in six years. Ascendaeus can barely recall his face. I cannot rely on him any longer. I'm using the only weapon I have, and at least it has bought us time."
"But will it be enough, lass?"
Stiles backed away slowly, gripping his sword tighter. He wasn't ready yet. He was getting better, but he wasn't strong enough to handle him yet. When he could beat Derek, he would be ready.
It didn't matter though. His mother hadn't been able to buy them enough time.
Derek cursed as the boy laughed.
"My point," he said dancing out of Derek's reach. Stiles was improving much faster than Derek had anticipated. He talked a mile a minute but never let his attention falter, a good tactic for distraction, although Derek highly doubted it was intentional. It worked though, and managed to distract Derek enough that he overstepped, and Stiles landed a blow on his arm.
"'Tis but a scratch, boy. You'll need more to put down an opponent."
"Yes, I know, but it's still my point. You can buy lunch tomorrow," he added, sticking out his tongue. Moments like those were when Derek suddenly remembered just how young Stiles truly was. How high he still had yet to climb.
"Fair enough. Go home, Stiles." He said fondly, ruffling the kids hair with his uninjured arm. He watched the boy dance across the roof and dart over the side, and grabbed his things. He looked over the side and checked the direction Stiles headed in, before following closely behind staying out of sight on the rooftops as he did everyday until the boy got home. He had a feeling Stiles had no clue what dangers he faced.
Stiles headed home his usual way, buying his mother a fresh honey loaf as he neared the villa. Soldiers passed, first a group of two, then a group of four heading in another direction, and another group following behind. His stomach dropped and he picked up the pace running faster. Something was wrong.
He raced through the courtyard and hallway after hallway until he heard it. Molly's sobs coming from his mother's quarters.
"Mother!" He screamed, running up to her room and stopping dead at what he saw.
"No," he whispered shaking his head fervently. Molly was on the floor, cradling his mother's body in her arms, her stola soaked with crimson, still oozing out of the gash across her throat.
"No, no, no!" A sob rent through the air, and Stiles was barely even aware it had come from him. He knees ached, he realized distantly as he crawled across the floor to his mother, reaching out to brush the hair from her face. Tears drenched his cheeks as he dropped his forehead to her chest, clutching at her robes as if that could bring her back to him.
"Stiles," a voice said from behind him. Molly gasped, and he turned, somehow not surprised at all to see Derek there.
"Stiles, we need to leave. Now. They'll come back for you. You, pack up a bag for the two of you," he said, gesturing to Molly. Scott appeared at his side, face ashen white.
"Ascendaeus, there's soldiers on their way," he gasped out. Stiles looked down at his mother, and felt cold numbness settle over him. He pressed his lips shakily to her forehead, and nodded.
"Molly, we have to go. Pack food, and clothes," he instructed quietly, as he backed away from his mother's corpse.
"I know a route out of the city that won't take us past any guards," Derek said, leading him out of the room with a hand at his shoulder. All he could do was nod.
"Ascendaeus, I'm sorry."
The boy stopped and gripped the handle of his sword tightly, responding without looking up.
"It's Stiles."