Chapter Text
Chapter 1: A Place in This World
Upon moment shackle and collar had been placed about limbs, Tiberius had recognized that to live as Roman slave was to survive.
As he had been born to the harsher climes of Assyria, survival was a thing familiar to him and even at the young age he had been when brought to this new land he held no doubt of his success in adapting to such life. Through first year of standing as slave, the young Syrian had made discovery of all which would be sacrificed for his survival. For sake of life, many things were cast aside.
His first sacrifice had been his language, the tongue understood by none around him and so he was made to learn new words with great haste.
The next thing to be given was memory of his homeland, of the traditions and beliefs he had known with such familiarity. He had to learn of gods beyond count and meaning they held to those of whom place faith in them. He held no belief in these deities, yet he bore witness of the many ways in which they were used against others.
The last thing he had been made to sacrifice - and he despaired over this loss - was his name. While he had never broken words of his identity to any within these lands – his refusal to answer when asked was accepted with but a shrug of indifference and it was his first master who had called him Tiberius, claiming the beauty of his flowing hair was deserving of attention as naught else of his inadequate stature – it was still difficult to part with even the thought of the name he had been given at birth. It had been his and now he had no use for such a thing if he truly held desire to live.
In his hesitation to give up the one thing he held ownership of in his identity, “Tiberius” became more than the word the Romans called the Syrian slave boy. The word became as a shield in which to hide his heart and soul behind while mind became the guide in all his actions. Tiberius soon became as its own identity, one of cold nonchalance to all around him. While he maintained fair treatment of other slaves – the one part of his nature which could not be concealed in entirety – he made no attempt to form bond of any manner with those who shared his fate.
There stood only one to come into his life after years of slavery and serving his only Roman master who would not accept that he truly held no desire of friendship with any: Chadara. She was a favored slave to bed and she accepted this position and the protection it provided her absent words of discontent. When the Syrian had been sold to their master, eyes of Roman looked upon future and beheld beauty the small boy was likely to become and he knew lust to claim ownership of Syrian who would be envied by others of position. It was understood by all that only question of time remained of when the boy would be bedded. Chadara had possibly known enough of the dominus in that his attentions would not wane as he waited for the boy to gain in years, for as he grew she took action to see the Syrian remained well. Protecting him gave assurance of her own position and as he rose in prominence she would as well. Her first years of effort had been ignored with ease enough. Yet as the Syrian grew from child to youth and approached age of Roman man, purpose to be found in her actions appeared to alter. In place of making offer of skills and knowledge to better his value, she began merely breaking words of her thoughts. It was this which allowed Chadara to at last gain response from the Syrian and deep friendship found place between them.
As years had passed, Dominus had indeed began favoring the Syrian’s body when cock was of preference to Chadara or another cunt. However, the young slave had served his Dominus in other manner of running the villa where others had proved incompetent. When the Syrian reached the age of manhood in Roman eyes, he was elevated to position of body slave and ear was pierced with wooden stud to display status as branding was not preference to Dominus.
Taking Roman words and name as his own had been important in his survival, yet they were not what earned him position of prominence with Dominus. Truth of elevation lay in skill he could not break word of to any, a thing known to his family long lost: an ability possessed to know intentions and unspoken words of those around him. It was a thing he had made attempt to banish from himself yet had never known success. When he came to Rome, it had been his means of learning language foreign in finding manner of understanding what was desired of him and making connection to words broken. Once language was learned, he had again made attempt to strike words not of his mind from being heard yet never knew success until he began growing in favor of Dominus. The man had often made intention known after purchasing Tiberius that he held no desire to part with such possession yet it was only after many years which the Syrian truly gained proof sufficient to place belief upon claims and understood his path: Dominus was key to his survival. He saw how value to Dominus meant protection – Chadara’s favor was proof of such – and so gift became focused upon knowing every need and desire of Dominus. Once skill was harnessed to purpose, it was brought to command and Tiberius heard no words or intentions of any but Dominus.
As months passed serving desire of Dominus alone, Tiberius was trained in duties beyond that of mere house slave – he was trained to understand numbers, finances, inventory, position of Roman names within society, and responsibilities of all within the villa – which his quick mind absorbed all instruction and his elevation of position was granted.
Recognizing that other slaves might hold dark feelings for one so young to be granted coveted position, the Syrian made effort to keep all from fate of the mines and assigned tasks which were well suited to each person. Desire to assist others was recognized and respect was earned. Efforts were of great success, only failing once in keeping those he stood responsible for from cruel end.
Memory of that day haunted the Syrian and he was forever determined to never again fail in protecting those relying upon him to be kept safe from such undeserved fate.
Such desires appeared as though fated for failure as Spartacus and his rebels laid waste to villa.
Tiberius and Chadara were spared sight of attack as she provided pleasure for Dominus and he remained near to be of use if called upon. When commotion was heard and order given to retrieve Dominus’ robes, Tiberius was distracted by a thing he had never felt from the man who had kept him among the living for so many years: fear. The Roman was uncertain of his life and that feeling birthed the same uncertainty in the Syrian even as he moved to follow command. Chadara moved to replace her own clothing as room was invaded by men towering over Tiberius in height and muscle. Hands reached out to him and clamped about his arm to push him from the room with Chadara following behind to steady him before command was given them to go to villa entrance to receive instruction from Spartacus. The name caused further panic in Dominus and Tiberius struggled to maintain control of his own reaction.
When they came upon entrance, blood staining the walls around people gathered – ones unknown stood throughout the villa and fellow slaves were gathered in a small clutch in center of courtyard – Tiberius was parted from side of Dominus and lost all which gave him meaning in the world he had adapted to. He did find relief in realizing that all house slaved he had worked to protect were yet among the living and he moved to stand among them. He allowed his small stature to shield him from gaze of most unfamiliar men and women surrounding him as he finally became aware of a voice breaking words of freedom and choice.
Dominus’ voice shouting command to all slaves aided in bringing Tiberius’ mind to task and control lost from confusion was regained.
Control did not remain though as Dominus was pulled from courtyard and Tiberius could do naught but listen to the Roman’s increasing panic and need for aid. The constant calling for help brought pain to the Syrian’s head and he touched fingers to his temple in attempt to relieve sting until many minutes passed and his mind went silent.
His hand fell back to his side as he held realization his mind had never been absent words of others within it. Years of training had left his own mind absent unbidden thoughts. The silence was suffocating and unwelcome and brought about an unavoidable understanding: his means for survival was now dead.
He no longer knew what he was to do in order to survive.
“Your mind wanders,” Chadars’s whispered words called his attention and his eyes focused on the woman before him. While his fellow house slaves were still mostly gathered in the same area, they had spread out to sit and reflect upon what had just befallen their home. Tiberius had remained and was now even further parted from those he knew except for Chadara who yet stood at his side.
She looked toward the villa and followed the retreating form of the one Tiberius guessed to be Spartacus. The man stood with such authority that all about him responded to, however Tiberius could also recognize respect within gaze of all rebels who followed the man. In the stead of fear and submission as he was accustomed to seeing, he witnessed alone the desire to offer all that was to be had.
“The Bringer of Rain releases us from life as slave,” Chadara appeared to not break words for sake of gaining response, but was merely giving words to thoughts.
That he did voice response caused her to startle and turn gaze to him in shock, “He releases us from all we have,” his voice was quiet, reflecting of his unsettled mind. Such was sure to cause greater concern in Chadara as she had never heard such tone from him in the many years they had served together.
It also revealed to one already well versed in conversing with him his discontent in night’s events.
“Then new position must be found before opportunity passes.” Chadara walked away, her intentions to find one among the gladiators to offer her protection clear to Tiberius. The option did not appeal to the Syrian – hands of others upon his skin had never been favored, only tolerated by Romans for survival – and so he dismissed it as means of adapting to new situation.
Hearing crashes and calls of excitement from within villa, he made assumption that the gladiators were going through the villa’s supplies to celebrate their victory this night. Also assuming that the strong fighters would claim the comfort of the villa to take rest, he moved to gather blankets from stores for his fellow house slaves – freed men – to use that night.
He took the opportunity to observe those around him and what they did, utilizing his many years of servitude to notice mannerisms that separated the gladiators from other slaves. The sheer volume of activity surrounding him exceeded all he had ever experienced and it was only through years of training which allowed him to focus enough to take in names and positions of those within the rebellion.
He had yet to reveal his position as body slave to any within the rebellion and that allowed him opportunity to move about as another newly freed slave absent attention. He had already made request of Chadara to allow him to remain unknown, to which she agreed absent question.
Tiberius had taken notice of how liberated slaves turned to one called Mira, who appeared to have mind well attuned to keeping track of supplies and assigning tasks. She had already given task to Chadara that would have been better suited to Tiberius, but his friend had nodded acceptance absent delay and ensured he remain from Mira’s attention as was desired of him.
It seemed, however, as though he could not escape attention of all as he was approached while he was assisting those familiar to him in finding place to sleep by a gladiator he had identified as Tychos. The man looked over those just freed and called out to Tiberius and other men who stood in better health to follow behind him as he led them toward the villa. He indicated for them to step upon wooden planks bordering the building and they were lined up, causing memory to rise within Tiberius of when he had bore witness to slaves being placed on display for purchase. He was positioned at one end and he noticed Spartacus approach with another of the gladiators that Tiberius had seen always near rebel leader, though he did not know the man’s name.
Not knowing what was expected of him, the Syrian held his posture rigid and fixed his gaze straight ahead in position of one awaiting instruction. The other men beside him assumed similar position, obviously as uncertain of what to do as he was. He could hear discussion between the two approaching gladiators and took notice of how the unknown man was obviously in disagreement with Spartacus. That he was voicing such opinion so openly with rebel leader was a thing Tiberius could not understand.
His face was made as blank mask as he allowed his mind to pull from surroundings to work through confusion.
Did Spartacus not stand as master of this rebellion which had struck fear into Capua and its surrounding land? It was his name spoken in shaking voice by Romans after destruction of Batiatus’ ludus. Even in the short time since Tiberius had first laid gaze upon the man, he had commanded the people he lead with authority of Dominus. What meaning was held in that those he held command of spoke against him so brazenly?
Was this to do with the freedom he spoke of? It was a simple word, yet Spartacus said it with such emotion that response from deep within the Syrian was brought forth.
A sudden pull at his neck caused Tiberius to come off balance, a quick shift of his weight all which kept him from falling into Spartacus who now stood before him. Bringing his full attention to his surrounds, Tiberius made realization that Spartacus now held his collar within his grasp, having pulled the worn leather from the Syrian’s neck. Realization evoked thought that rebellion had taken yet another thing familiar from him.
Tiberius lifted his hand from his side to brush against sensitive skin now exposed without cover of slave collar. Such sensitivity was unfamiliar to the body slave and his discontent grew ever stronger toward this man before him who sought to lay claim to him under guise of granting freedom.
“Join your brothers and take up just cause,” Spartacus’ words reached the Syrian and he knew what was being commanded of him. Spartacus confirmed his thoughts with next words broken, “We will see the Romans bleed for taking us as dogs, to be yanked by the leash at their command.” He then called to two nearby gladiators and gave order for weapons to be placed in hand of the four standing before him.
Tiberius noticed displeasure upon expression of the gladiator standing behind Spartacus as gladius was held out for him to take.
As he looked down to weapon presented, an unexpected notion rose within him: refuse command.
When the grip of the gladius was pressed into skin of his stomach, his hand rose to take it on reflex and he held the unfamiliar thing within tight grasp. This was not a thing which should be touched by slave hands, he realized. Even his Syrian mind cried out that had he not been taken from his land, he was never born to be a warrior as his size and quick mind dictated. Yet this man, Spartacus, was placing weapon into such hands with orders to raise opposition against Rome absent thought that doing so meant death.
However, the Syrian was a survivor and his mind was already working to search out path that would allow him to continue living. To accept blade and battle would bring about his death as he knew not how to fight. To refuse would also bring about his death, either for refusing command given or by Roman hands for standing as slave to Dominus struck down by slave hands. Other skills he had gained through his life would not hold value with those such as Mira already within rebellion with such talent. Finally, the talent he had told no other of had remained silent since Dominus fell and would therefore not benefit him in gaining value with other masters.
So there stood no path before him absent his death, Tiberius concluded. Realization did not cause him despair as he held expectation of, but he was instead filled with somber acceptance that not all things could be survived and he had but found his limits.
However, the survivor in him retreated enough for him to decide that if death was all that stood before him, he would not waste away under command of Spartacus. He would embrace single thought he could claim as his own in many years: he would refuse to raise sword for rebellion. He would defy them and in doing so force Spartacus to distrust allowing him to live. He would strike out and see Spartacus subject him to Roman law.
This was his freedom: choosing his death.
He would fucking embrace it as rebel leader had asked of him.
Agron could not understand this fucking little man, regardless of attempt made to do so.
When Mira had first called on him the previous night with news that freed slave had made attempt on Spartacus’ life, Agron had not expected to be faced with the dark-skinned figure he now observed. He had taken notice of the slave when he had been presented as one able to bear sword, the man standing closest to him and his height and stature bringing question as to why he was thought able to be trained as warrior. He was well groomed, his ebony hair flowing down over dark-skinned shoulders, some pulled back in a twist at the back of his head. The cloth covering him at the hips was of better quality than those standing beside him. Such difference indicated favor from the Dominus, which Agron suspected was attributed to the boy’s obvious youth. He had probably seen no more than twenty years and to see one so young already so affected by Rome was cause for anger to rise.
Now as he looked upon the boy, each arm held by gladiator who towered above him, he was finding it difficult to match the slave he had seen earlier with the little man standing before him now with such fire in eyes and fight in body against those holding him. His dark eyes were alive with hatred as he silently observed Spartacus, Crixus, and Agron discussing his fate in answer to his assault.
A small measure of respect rose within Agron as the little man responded to being struck by Crixus by gazing directly into the Gaul’s eyes with unrestrained hatred for spilling his blood.
It was the next morning when they were to begin training newly freed slaves that Agron - still uncertain of Spartacus’ decision toward the dark-skinned man - decided to better understand his brother’s choice.
He approached Spartacus as the man watched those gathered and breaking words in hushed tone as they made preparation to train. The German moved to stand at his side, his eyes seeking out the little man and finding him breaking words with another slave freed the previous night, a woman with long flaxen hair who appeared distressed with subject discussed between them.
“I question fucking intent to train one who has already taken up sword against cause,” Agron spoke quietly.
Spartacus’ eyes turned to him briefly before laying on the boy in discussion. “I hold doubt he believed he would succeed in taking my life. When attempt failed, he told me I should kill him for his actions.” Spartacus took pause as he turned back to face Agron, who waited for his brother to continue. “He does not realize he had already stepped from beneath control of Rome. Others hold sword because we asked them to do so, yet he denied instruction of what may be envisioned as another master and made first choice.”
Agron sneered at revelation. “His choice was to die.”
“Not all men hold strength enough to choose path to their death. Even we fight so that our lives may continue toward greater end. I would see what other choices we may invoke in this one.” He paused again as he turned once more toward the little man, who now stood alone, his eyes keenly observing all occurring about him. “I would also know how one so young gained position held as body slave.”
That revelation brought Agron to pause. His belief that the boy had been merely favored by his master was an acknowledgement of his beauty and his smaller size would have appealed to many, yet to stand as body slave meant he held intellect. His mind also turned to their search for Naevia and what she had been made to endure because of her position and he wondered if Spartacus was also searching for such pains inflicted upon this one.
Now Spartacus trained with the boy and it was proving difficult task for Agron to keep his eyes from the pair. Before training had begun and instruction was given to all, Agron found it difficult to now believe blank expression and cold eyes he witnessed belonged upon same visage as the wild dog he had faced upon the previous night. While being addressed, the boy’s posture remained rigid though shoulders dropped in manner that made him appear even smaller and his eyes remained fixed straight ahead.
It was gaze and position of submission, Agron realized. As gladiator, he had never been given instruction to lower eyes in such manner except to Dominus as his purpose was to be likened to a god of battle, yet he had witnessed similar posture from Mira and Naevia while enslaved. This boy seemed to embrace vacant gaze in its entirety though and in doing so kept all at a distance. Even those from the same villa kept from approaching him for more than brief exchange of words.
Yet when he was called to begin training and Spartacus took position across from him, the little man gave evidence that such distant appearance held no meaning to actual state of mind. He had obviously absorbed all instruction given and responded to attack with constant adjustment to accuracy. As training progressed and Spartacus continued to give instruction to the boy, Agron noticed increasing moments of the fire he had witnessed upon previous night emerge once more.
There was particular moment of frustration from the boy when strike was evaded and followed by the sting of Spartacus’ blade across back that caught Agron’s attention. He looked over to witness the resentful gaze that had been directed at Crixus the previous night now set upon Spartacus himself. However, words the Thracian broke next caused such expression to fade and Agron witnessed the intelligence of the boy take command over his actions. Spartacus continued instruction through much of the day, the boy never calling for rest or water. Correction to form was given often – as the boy’s own words claimed his inexperience with holding weapon – yet the same advice was never required more than once and by training’s end he gripped sword with greater confidence.
The boy did indeed learn with haste and it was no of greater ease to believe that one of such young age became body slave.
However, once blade was removed from grasp and breathing was calmed, fire was once more suppressed and blank gaze again stared upon them. Spartacus passed Agron closely, indicating of him to follow so that next move of rebellion could be discussed. As they sought out Crixus, the Thracian broke words of his new opinion of the boy, “He fights war of his own. Slave mind battles to remain in control while fire of heart burns to be released from shackle.”
It was such observation which brought forth in Agron the urge to learn something of this boy by his own words. It was in answering such urge which guided the German later that night with drink in hand.
He was surprised upon approach to see the boy’s expression alive with anger aimed toward Spartacus and Agron held hope meaning of such was cause of defense about the boy’s mind failing against Spartacus’ tenacity.
“You press fortune, glaring so at the Slayer of Theokoles,” Agron broke words to announce approach, habit of never making approach unknown upon back deeply ingrained as a gladiator.
Response given was quick and cold, “His victory but proving even giants fall.”
It was harsh observation to have made, yet it spoke of a truth not many within rebellion seemed able to consider. Even Agron found the thought of Spartacus falling in battle amusing and he did not make attempt to keep chuckle from sounding. After all, it had been many weeks since anything had truly brought him amusement and he felt no desire to keep it from showing.
He reached out with one hand, presenting the cup he held to the little man, and dark eyes looked between his face and the offering quickly before reaching to accept it. The little man’s mind indeed worked swiftly and Agron realized how careful in approach he would require to hold success or opportunity would be lost.
He moved forward another step and dropped down to a crouch beside the other man, making attempt to minimize difference of height between them. “What name do you go by, little man,” There was brief flash of annoyance in the boy’s eyes as he turned to face Agron, but control was regained swiftly as he seemed to search for reason the gladiator held in making such request. “So I may properly mourn your passing.” He was aware that none within the rebellion had asked the boy of his name and hoped that gesture of doing so would give the former slave reason to relax guard.
“I am called Tiberius,” the response was given quickly enough, yet Agron found himself disappointed that answer given was that of a Roman name.
“Tiberius? You are far too dark to have such a fair Roman name.” He played the fool, as he knew it stood as common occurrence for slaves to be given names by their masters to better suit position, but the German followed opportunity to learn more of this young man.
“I am more Roman than Syrian.” This new revelation was of even greater disappointment to Agron as his mind turned to Ashur and all that fucking Syrian had done to bring pain and death to the ludus. It made him even less certain of Spartacus’ choice to train the boy to fight.
Certain that his deep hatred of Ashur was now reflected in his gaze, he turned away from Tiberius and looked to where Spartacus still stood with his eyes upon the pair. Agron took notice of satisfaction in his friend’s eyes and that gave him needed encouragement to continue breaking words so. He was, however, uncertain of how to proceed with what he had just learned and held no expectation that the other would give him more absent question given voice.
Feeling as though explanation of his reaction to the boy’s words may aid in gaining his trust, he spoke, “There was a Syrian at our ludus. A treacherous fuck if ever there breathed.” At the edge of his sight, he saw anger once again cross the expression of this Syrian as his jaw tightened briefly before control was once again recovered. “You had family there?” He watched as eyes became distant, yet in manner differing from what he had witnessed to this point in the young man and an emotion new to dark eyes appeared: sadness.
“I only recall a brother.”
Agron nodded as his thoughts turned to Duro and the loss he had yet learned to bear. Trying to keep his grief from claiming command over him, he pushed forward with remembering that intent held in breaking words was to form some manner of connection with the little man. Now such was presented though not as he had anticipated. Yet he admitted that he had never experienced a thing as strong as loss of blood kin and he yearned to hear of another having endured a thing. “I too had a brother.”
Dark eyes turned to him once more at revelation. “No longer?” the question was voiced softly with solemn inflection. The emotion displayed caused small measure of hope for this conversation bearing results despite pain Agron was now making attempt to push through.
Agron shook his head, the act as much to answer as to prevent memory from taking hold. “He was struck down by the Romans.”
Tiberius’ eyes darted downward quickly and it appeared as though the reminder of the Romans also reminded the former slave of his own position and all emotion was quickly banished from sight. When dark eyes again met Agron’s, there was no hint that the Syrian had stood anything but slave. “When you turned sword against them?”
Agron’s temper – always of ease to rise and even more so since the death of his brother – came to surface as he turned to look upon the fucking Syrian. He did not strike out as he desired though he would not stand capable of providing answer as to why he restrained himself so. Tiberius’ words gave insult to Duro’s sacrifice as none within rebellion – even Crixus – would dare to. Perhaps he held hope of maintaining some progress made with the boy. He even found himself able to smile, though it was absent humor and pained him to do so. “As you shall one day, if you hold any fucking sense.”
His control held limitation though so he stood and parted company from the little man without learning of response given to his words.
Deceiving guards was of no concern to Tiberius. He had known that morning when blade had once again been placed in hand and instruction given of its use that his desires still did not matter to any. Command was given and he would follow as he had done for most of his life. He settled into familiar pattern as day continued and when Spartacus called him and gave command to not give Romans cause to suspect presence of rebels he but nodded understanding and prepared reason for Dominus’ absence. Tiberius was keenly aware of Crixus’ disapproval of him being given such task, the Gaul’s distrust of him yet strong. The German – whose name Tiberius had learned to be Agron – did not reveal his thoughts upon plan, simply nodding and moving to take defensible position in stores. As for Spartacus, Tiberius could not determine if task was appointed to him to test his loyalty or for more practical reason.
Regardless of reason, he was to make attempt to keep rebels from engaging guards if not necessary and he held intention to see task to successful completion. For success meant survival and Tiberius would survive.
However it was not to be so as missing collar was noticed just as guard turned to depart. Realizing his error at once, Tiberius’ mind searched for explanation to cover his mistake but failed to discover solution except to break words which would bring rebels from hiding to strike down threat. Knowing rebels would not know his actions were not ones of betrayal, he held expectation of first blood drawn to be his own. He was unprepared for hand to take hold of his shoulder and pull him away from the guard and toward villa so he had no chance to catch his balance and fell backward as battle erupted around him.
Tiberius recovered position enough to support weight on the balls of his feet and hands, crouched low in attempt to remain from notice while allowing him to move quickly should need arise. His eyes swept over fight taking place – one he had caused – before coming to rest on the ground before him.
A gladius from fallen guard lay within reach.
Spartacus’ words from previous night came forth in mind: he was presented choice of submitting to Rome or bearing arms against them. His first response to such choice had been reflection of his belief that one such as him held no more value in this new world. He had cowered in the face of choice in attempt to cling to the familiar, dictated by Dominus. A man now gone to the afterlife and his voice forever silent from Tiberius’ mind…
A silence that had yet to be filled by another, leaving only thoughts suppressed through years of servitude: those of a Syrian who had done all to preserve self behind mask of Roman name. Mask that was no longer needed if Spartacus and those who followed him were to be given trust.
Eyes rose from beckon of blade to take in state of fight once more, coming to rest on the aggressive form of Agron. The gladiator had been the only one – with exception of Chadara long ago – who would not accept his silence. He alone had asked the slave of his name. He had made attempt to learn more of the body slave than any others that had come to the villa…ever.
Punch landing strike upon Agron’s face and bringing forth blood from mouth brought Tiberius’ attention to focus as he realized that such strike bore strength enough to force the German from balance and Roman gained opportunity to end his life. Though in looking beyond Agron, Tiberius realized another target to be revealed: Spartacus’ back was presented as he disposed of his own opponent. The guard – Tiberius recognized him as the one he had broken words with – moved to strike fatal blow.
Was Tiberius worth keeping alive? Did his life truly bear meaning now Dominus was gone from this world? Did he deserve to draw breath while one who spared him fell?
Hands moved to purpose, decision made from beyond Tiberius’ control. Legs pushed him to action and his hand took hold of sword, gripping hilt as Spartacus had instructed, and he thrust blade through back of Roman guard before strike against rebel leader could land. Body fell to death, revealing Spartacus’ shocked expression as he looked between fallen guard and former body slave. The Syrian’s face remained blank as he considered what action to take next.
One side of Spartacus’ mouth turned upward and an expression of pride – a look unfamiliar to the former slave – passed his gaze. Before response could take form, hand closed tightly about the smaller man’s throat and sensitivity of the skin caused panic to rise. His back was forced against pillar of the villa and dark eyes looked to face Crixus’ rage.
The Syrian struggled to regain control of panic as Crixus argued with Spartacus over purpose of his actions and yet another choice was presented: allow Crixus to take his life for betrayal as he had desired upon previous night or reveal truth which would shore commitment to freedom.
Choice was made as quickly as it had been presented: “His eyes fell to my neck. He saw the absence of my collar. If I had not invited him in, he would have returned with more men.” Had such occurred, the rebellion would have fallen and the Syrian did not desire for such to occur, even if it was only now that his feelings stood so.
Crixus’ grip on his neck loosened at his words then released him, relief flooding the smaller man as the threat – as well as undesired touch – passed. He had never found satisfaction at touch upon him and would never again allow such a thing absent his permission. His eyes burned with his displeasure as he locked gaze with the Gaul, who had stepped away yet appeared baffled at such expression from one so recently absent emotion.
Spartacus approached and extended hand to touch in attempt to gain his attention, but dark eyes turned to him before contact was made and the smaller man moved his arm away to further ensure touch did not land. “You did well, Tiberius,” he gave compliment many different actions in those few words, but the Syrian only heard Roman name.
Tiberius had been born of the Syrian’s desire to survive and had taken form beneath rule of his master. He had lived to serve desires of men who held no concern for his fate past how it gave them benefit. They held no thought to the man behind name inflicted upon him. Name had become the Syrian’s identity, yet true purpose was that of a shield of one no longer in need of protection.
It was the one protected who had chosen death the previous night, one who could now come forth and reclaim life. Tiberius could pass from this world alongside the Roman master he had dedicated all to.
“Nasir,” the name held no familiarity, having not been spoken or deeply considered for years beyond count, yet the Syrian could not avoid speaking it in the accent of language he had turned from. Spartacus looked back to him in confusion, but the Syrian focused beyond the man to lock gaze with Agron – the one who had reached out to him and reminded him that Tiberius had not been the only one to protect him. There had been one who had given all upon distant lands to keep the Syrian alive many years past. “My brother called me Nasir.”
Agron remained silent yet nodded his acceptance of what the Syrian was offering: a gesture of friendship.
He could not yet claim the name to be his own – Nasir had only just been given life one more and the Syrian did not know what form of a man would take shape – but he could not deny anticipation beating along with his heart for the first time since collar had taken hold upon his life.
Villa had fallen to silence once Roman bodies had been stripped and disposed of. The day had been long and eventful for many – especially newly freed slaves who were unaccustomed to such activity – and rest had been the only desire upon mind. Even a great number of gladiators took to bed to prepare for next day’s coming, where they were to depart for the next villa in search of missing woman, Naevia.
The Syrian former body slave was tired as well, yet mind could not find peace enough to take to sleep. Once many had settled within the villa, he had moved to the entry where he had conversed with the guard he had struck down and found his thoughts unsettled by question of what he was now to do. While he had taken life of the guard with haste and ease in moment passed, he held no confidence of standing capable of such a feat again. Was he truly best used as warrior when his mind had been so well honed to use in other matters? His mind had also remained silent of unspoken words and while he held confidence in his skill of observation of others, he had grown to rely upon what he alone heard and would struggle for some time to adapt to action absent such aid.
Silence within mind alone was unsettling as it was a thing which had been with him since birth. Such gift had been of great assistance to him in proving worth to Dominus, yet now that position was unknown, he stood abandoned by the one thing he had always claimed as his own.
Thoughts brought forth sigh of frustration as he made attempt to calm racing mind: Nasir was proving to be a confused man absent control of the one who had earned position of body slave by his fifteenth year. Perhaps Tiberius had been discarded with too great of haste and should remain as shield until Nasir had opportunity to take shape in such dangerous life.
“Do you take guard of us so soon, little man?” familiar voice called out to him from within the villa. Steps approached him and the Syrian’s body tensed slightly as the warmth of Agron’s body settled at his side. That he straightened back and clasped his hands together before him now that another’s eyes were upon him was action born of habit practiced over many years.
“Sleep would not come,” he gave simple answer. “What of you?”
Agron leaned back, bracing weight on his hands resting behind him. The Syrian took notice that the gladiator had cleansed all blood from fight from his body, leaving his tanned skin clean.
The former body slave took opportunity to take in details of the German and he found himself in admiration of the man’s appearance. His body was solidly built, shoulders broad and strong and towering over Nasir even seated as they were. His hair was shorn short roughly and piercing green eyes looked about their surrounds at all times as though to ensure safety. Yet it was in his eyes that the Syrian saw the pain Agron had broken words of concerning his brother’s death and it became obvious that the man struggled in that he drew breath while his kin had fallen.
Beyond the pain was a myriad of emotion, the man was apparently an expressive individual unaccustomed to restraint of action. Such great contrast to the former body slave’s withdrawn nature was of deep interest to the Syrian and he held wonder at how friendship could take form between two with such difference between them.
“Painful memories come to me in sleep. Once upon me, it is difficult to remove from fucking mind.”
That Agron’s voice held such pain and frustration brought forth regret within the Syrian’s mind as he recalled words broken in answer to learning of the gladiator’s loss. “Apologies for words spoken against memory of brother,” words came forth before consideration could be had of why it was of such sudden importance to make amends with Agron.
The German appeared to have held no expectation for such response either as he simply stared back at the smaller man for a few moments. When response was made, it took form as the spread of a grin across his face, the expression bringing such life to the man’s demeanor.
“Posture and folded hands implied regret of actions against the fucking Romans, yet you speak of guilt for harsh words broken to one who stands as stranger. You are certainly not the man one expects, Nasir.”
To hear another speak given name was as unusual as it had been for him to reveal it, yet the Syrian was satisfied regardless. To once more hear name given him by loving family instead of commanding master aided his struggling mind in finding calm, therefore allowing him to know some measure of confidence in choice to lay Tiberius to rest.
“Pain from words may yet remain while Roman lays dead. Apology to him would be wasted effort,” the Syrian gave reply, his lips lifting slightly in response to Agron’s amusement, which had erupted into a low chuckle at Nasir’s words. The man’s open emotions were difficult to ignore though the Syrian held growing certainty that he did not desire to deny humor as he had for many years.
He became aware of Agron’s attention upon him increase but the man did not voice response and the Syrian felt as though further explanation may be necessary for understanding. “I understand now what your brother gave his life for and would not have memory shattered by words broken absent concern.”
Agron continued his observation of the Syrian, though it was unclear as to what he was searching for. Uncertainty brought forth yet another habit and the former body slave’s expression fell into a vacant gaze.
“How do you manage such a thing?” the gladiator questioned mere moments later, his voice somewhat bewildered.
“What do you speak of?” the Syrian’s tone was as blank as his expression, betraying nothing of his emotions until he held better understanding of what Agron found so curious.
“Eyes as dull as the ground we stand upon and voice so empty of emotion words may have been broken by the dead.” The manner of the description disturbed Nasir. “I have never before encountered one who keeps such guard raised while among allies.”
Dark eyes turned to Agron and gazes locked briefly, only for the Syrian to quickly turn again toward villa entrance. “Tiberius called none his ally,” Nasir revealed quietly. He could feel Agron’s confusion at his words but the gladiator again remained silent, possibly in attempt to give the Syrian opportunity to reveal more absent further question. “Life lived under Roman name was one of survival. Such a thing is easier accomplished if attention is not distracted by unnecessary attachment.”
“You consider bonds with others to be unnecessary?” Agron requested clarity.
“Tiberius believed it to be so. I stand uncertain.”
“Your words bear less sense with each fucking moment passed.”
The Syrian considered dismissing conversation at Agron’s lack of understanding, yet he still felt the urge to hold bond with this man and so continued explanation of how he had known success in surviving to this day. “You carry shield made of steel and wield it with greatest accuracy to stave off harm. Shield I carry is one of my own creation, given form in Tiberius. Protection provided was defense of Syrian mind and heart by taking all harm inflicted upon flesh.” Dark eyes turned to Agron once again as the man shifted his position to straighten posture. His expression was drawn and jaw was clenched in obvious struggle to suppress angry reaction, though the Syrian did not understand what had given cause for such response.
“You made choice to discard such protection for freedom. What shall guard you now?”
Anger rose within him with such intensity that it could only be Nasir coming forth for Tiberius only survived and existed as he had because of foundation of skills possessed and learned by Nasir. The Syrian was not one absent fucking strength and would not be treated so.
“I would not see you fall before new shield is found.” Anger faded as the Syrian was again uncertain of Agron’s meaning. The man was proving difficult to hold conversation with. “I would see fire in eyes burn all who oppose you. Yet path to such strength is long and I would lend aid.”
The Syrian hesitated before surrendering to curiosity toward Agron’s desire. “I heard words broken to Spartacus. You hold belief that house slaves are of no value with sword in hand.”
Agron raised his hand and touched dark skin at side of neck where skin was yet discolored and sensitive from years of collar pressing into flesh. Feeling the initial displeasure at being touched, the Syrian began motion of pulling away yet managed to halt action. Such contact seemed to come naturally to Agron – and many of the gladiators – and malice found when such action was taken by Roman was absent.
“Perhaps you may prove me wrong, little man.” The hand withdrew and lowered to rest upon Agron’s thigh as the two fell to silence for many moments.
Silence gave the Syrian opportunity to consider what had just been offered to him. Agron wished to see the Syrian continue to train with weapon. He held desire for him to fight back against Rome by taking command of what strength in him had emerged when he had made attempt on Spartacus. And he stood willing to act in the smaller man’s defense if needed. Agron made choice to offer these things to him and the Syrian would not deny the man such action as long as more than he was willing to give was not desired.
Relaxing his rigid posture, the Syrian’s hands touched the ground behind him and he leaned his weight back – similar to how Agron had been positioned earlier – allowing his spine to curve in relaxation. His gaze rose to look upon the sky and he breathed deeply. “To speak name given to me at birth stands as the first time since coming to this land and you are the first to call me such. I admit it does not yet seem to be my own.” Agron was again watching him with care, green eyes soft with many emotions. “I would hear it again until time comes when I may claim the name as my own and know of whom I have given introduction.”
A wide smile spread across Agron’s face at the Syrian’s words. “And I shall be there to give such a man proper fucking greeting.”
Nasir’s face relaxed into a small smile.