Chapter Text
Sadly, the next two days see Bellonus busy enough that he can't very well disappear by himself into the streets of Pompeii; it would be noticed.
There are more well-wishers, and then a message comes from Caecilius; his funds, at last have arrived, and he spends the morning and most of the afternoon at Caecilius' house, discussing how best to transact the purchase of the farm. He signs the contracts, and Caecilius smiles happily as he does so. He is another satisfied client, he supposes.
The banker and he share a celebratory cup of wine, and Caecilius' young son joins them as well, he who is to someday inherit his father's vast businesses. The boy is quick-witted and has a pleasant streak of nobility in his bearing, notable in one but two generations removed from slavery; Caecilius' father had been a freedman. For all that slavery in Rome can be cruel, it can raise people out of it to wealth and prominence with astonishing quickness; he wishes once more that Deomiorix would let him show him that.
After their business is at last concluded, Bellonus goes to the baths alone, but quickly runs into Atellus, and there thanks him for all the help finding the farm. That evening, his cousin wishes to honour him at dinner, too; it is only expected.
"I've bought a farm," he says, "after all."
"Philippos," his cousin says, "that is excellent news, but what do you know about farming?"
Bellonus blinks. That, he never actually considered. His cousin laughs and summons a slave to bring him scrolls from the office, the works of Cato, Varro, and Columella on farming for him to read tomorrow, in the daylight. They discuss the size of his farm, how many slaves he thinks he will need to buy, for they do not, after all, come with the property. That is another cost he had not considered, as well. For although slaves for the field are cheaper than most, he will of course need a cook and a scribe and various other skilled positions for the house. Bellonus shuts his eyes, thinking of the one slave he wants to buy, and cannot.
"I have enjoyed your company," Marcus says, "and I am pleased that you will live in this area; you are of course welcome to visit at any time."
Bellonus smiles. If it were up to him, he would come every day, to see Deomiorix. "I am hardly moving so soon; I have only just met with the banker and given the money over. And you are most welcome to visit me, cousin, once I have moved there."
That night he dreams again of Deomiorix holding him, and this time in the dream there is the warmth of a fire at their backs, and all is right with the world.
In the morning, he sits and reads the scroll of Columella's writings on farming until Caecilius' messenger comes in the afternoon, and from there meets Sertorius again, to finally agree upon the contract. The land is his.
Annalis and Macula find him in the baths, and there persuade him to go to their house already, so early in the evening. It is lucky that the wine is so watered, else Bellonus would probably let slip so many things he dares not talk about.
They all recline on the three couches, giving Bellonus the favoured spot, and they toast his success and the victories of the campaign. Bellonus swallows the wine and tries not to think about all the bodies.
"Ah, was it not glorious in Britannia?" Annalis says. "All the fighting. And you led well; it is fitting that the emperor will honour you."
Macula, a little more drunk already, laughs and raises his cup, wobbling. "And the women were glorious too, were they not? I developed quite a taste for them."
Murena laughs. "You and your womanising. Philippos, here, has always been so much more restrained. I'm sure you hardly saw him chasing after Brigantian women. He rarely did when I was posted with him."
Yes, Bellonus thinks. It is because I was chasing after the men. Or with Athanasios, a few of the years. He was always careful, always discreet, and he made sure to take a few obvious female lovers, lest anyone suspect. His friends certainly never have, clearly.
Macula snorts. "It is only because after all that commanding of his, he did not have the energy left to take the women by force!"
Bellonus snorts. "It is much easier when they go willingly, if you ask them nicely in Celtic."
Annalis laughs. "But who knows that barbarian tongue, eh?"
"Philippos does," Murena says. "The first couple years, he was running around, dressed like a Celt himself, speaking Celtic with everyone."
"Those were my orders," Bellonus points out. Never mind how much he enjoyed it, how much he wishes the queen had not been deposed and Brigantia had remained loyal. He had been happy then, as happy now as with Deomiorix, before the battle against Boudicca came and shattered everything, and that only the start of his career.
"So they were," Murena admits.
The rest of the night is spent laughing and chatting about this battle and that, all sorts of old reminiscences. Bellonus drinks more and smiles, knowing he is with friends. He pretends they are the friend he wants.
That night his streak of peaceful dreams is broken, as he dreams of his first battle.
They are ordered away from Isurium Brigantum in haste, by messengers in the night. Boudicca and her Iceni are attacking Camulodunum, the word is. They must go south, now.
He remembers looking at Murena for one long instant as they pack up camp, hurriedly, shivering in the autumn chill. Murena is a little older, has seen battle before, but Bellonus has not. And he knows, somehow, from Murena's face, that this will be something awful.
Cerialis marches them as fast as they can, but they are too late -- the warrior queen has taken the city. They are outnumbered and fighting from a position of weakness. Nonetheless, he gives orders, and Bellonus rides back and forth behind his cohort as they make the line, the shield-wall. He is terrified, even though he knows he will have to do none of the fighting himself. He has a distinct memory of sitting his horse -- it was some mare, not Boukephalos then -- and waiting.
After that, none of his memories make sense. Iceni and Trinovantes, thousands upon thousands, break the line, screaming obscenities and cries of battle. It is nothing like the peaceful life he has had for two years among the Brigantes. He has memories of galloping through a field covered in blood and shattered skulls. He remembers watching one of his men, a veteran soldier, years older than him, take an arrow in the throat and go down. The blood splatters on his hands. He remembers stabbing a man with his sword, watching him die. The first man he has killed. He thinks perhaps he kills others, in the thick of the fighting, where an officer like him should not have ended up. He can't remember much more.
His men fight valiantly, but they are up against too many, and Cerialis orders a retreat. He remembers being covered in the blood of others, drying, as his winded and fearful horse gallops along the road toward the camp, in the direction of safety. His horse's sides are lathered with sweat. He can barely hold on himself. If he falls from his horse he will die too, trampled. No one will stop for him.
At the camp that night, five hundred men stare at each other numbly, and he is one of them. They had five times that number in the morning. It is mostly the officers who survived. And though Bellonus knows he should not, he sits by the fire and cries. The tears wet his mask of blood and dirt. It is not fair, none of it, that he should have survived when others did not. He is only seventeen. His first battle should have been noble, should have been a victory. It should have been nothing like this.
Murena finds him still awake, sitting by the burnt-out ashes of the fire at dawn. Welcome to war, he remembers Murena telling him.
Bellonus wakes and almost wants to cry again. It is as if his career, for all that he is being honoured for it, has cursed him from the very start. He knows this. The dreams didn't start then, of course; no, they took years to build up, ambushing him in peaceful times, when he only wished to relax. It was the talk of the past last night that did it, he knows. He has no wish to be reminded of much of it.
He must go see Deomiorix today, he decides. Even if they don't talk about it, it will make Bellonus feel better, and he can feel the nightmare begin to recede just at the thought of seeing him. Surely he can be spared a few hours today?
As soon as he can decently excuse himself, Bellonus practically runs to the brothel that morning. He is going to see Deomiorix; though he has only been denied his company for a few days, the ache within him is almost overpowering.
Past the doorkeeper, the woman looks up, and he puts the usual two sesterces on the desk.
But this time, the woman shakes her head, sadly. "I am sorry, but Britannicus is not available. May I interest you in another choice?"
Not available? Well, he did say he was still getting work. Bellonus frowns. "All right, I'll wait."
The woman tilts her head, giving him a quizzical look, and a frown. "Sir, he's no longer here. He was sold yesterday morning."
Sold? The world spins dizzily for an instant, and Bellonus clutches the desk for support. This is a possibility he had never considered.
"They got a very fine sum for him," the woman says. "Two thousand denarii. Of course, the owners could not refuse. We'll all miss him, you know."
Bellonus tries to make the words make sense. Two thousand is more than anyone would pay for a slave with no listed skills, as Deomiorix has. Two thousand is more than almost anyone except senators can afford to pay. Two thousand is exactly what a senator like Crassus would pay, to show that he could. Oh, no. No, no, no, no.
Suddenly Crassus' bizarre behaviour at the baths the other day makes sense. Bellonus now has something Crassus wants, the ultimate sign of favour the man will never earn. In return, in his twisted jealousy, Crassus will make sure Bellonus never sees Deomiorix again. He wants to cause him pain? This will wound him, and Crassus knows it. And Deomiorix will die, sooner or later. Probably sooner.
"I suppose you'll tell me," Bellonus says weakly, "that it is the senator Publius Crassus who bought him."
The woman nods. "Indeed." She looks afraid. "It is said that he doesn't treat his slaves well, but he has money, and that's all the owners care about."
He pushes the two sesterces at her anyway. "Can you tell me where he lives?"
Crassus' house in town is large and richly appointed, with no visitors this early, but filled with a great many slaves scurrying to and fro, looking cowed and beaten, as he would expect. None of them are Deomiorix. What if he's beaten Deomiorix already? What if he's killed him?
No, Bellonus knows, he won't kill him first. He'll have waited. He's waiting for at least this, waiting for Bellonus to suffer.
"Sir," a slave at the door says politely, in good, if accented, Latin. "Have you an appointment with the senator?"
"Tell your master," Bellonus says, voice icy and commanding, like the one he uses with the rawest recruits, "that Gaius Bellonus wishes to speak with him about one of his recent purchases. He will see me immediately."
The slave escorts him into the atrium and then darts off, presumably to fetch his master.
Crassus shows up in a few minutes, rubbing his hands together and looking positively overjoyed. "Ah, Bellonus!" he says. There is a wide, gleeful smile on his face. Bellonus imagines breaking the man's jaw. "I was wondering when you would come."
Bellonus tries to smile; it comes out as gritted teeth. "Where is he?"
Crassus laughs. "Missing your whore, are you? Don't worry; I have him here. He was quite unwilling to leave. I'm afraid I've had to keep him chained up in the meantime."
"I'll pay you the two thousand denarii you paid for him," Bellonus says, desperately. "I'll pay you four thousand. Whatever you want. Any amount of money. Name it." It's only money.
The man only laughs harder. "He's not for sale at any price. I have become quite enamoured of him, you see. Would you like to see him?" He calls to one of the slaves, scurrying about. "Fetch the new Celt."
Deomiorix is barely recognisable as he shuffles slowly into the room, wrists and ankles chained. He is dirty, his tunic is ripped, and there are shadows of bruises beginning to form on his face. He doesn't look up. But at least he can walk, still, and his gait doesn't look pained. He is safe yet, and that is perhaps the only thing Bellonus can find to take comfort in. Something within him twists.
"No," Crassus calls, impatiently. "Faster. Attend me, whore." Bellonus clenches and unclenches his fists. If he were not in Crassus' house -- if there were not so many who would intervene -- he would kill him. Right now, with his bare hands. Then Deomiorix would be safe. Bellonus would be tried and executed, of course. He'd trade his life for Deomiorix'.
Deomiorix, finally reaching Crassus' side, looks up, and that is when he meets Bellonus' gaze. Bellonus can see the hope in his eyes. He is not broken, not yet.
Deomiorix speaks rapidly, in Celtic, almost too fast for him to follow. "He hasn't hurt me yet, much," he says, quickly. "Don't worry. I'm all right. And I--"
Whatever else he was going to say is cut off when Crassus lazily backhands him across the face. "Do not speak any of your filthy barbarian language, whore, or I will have your tongue cut out."
Deomiorix staggers, but stays upright. The blow has cut his lip, and there is blood on his mouth now. "Yes, domine," he says, quietly. Cowed. Pretending to be cowed.
"Is he not beautiful?" Crassus says, reaching out to trace a finger possessively along Deomiorix' face. "He is prettier on his knees, though. He has a sweet mouth, does he not?"
Bellonus glares. "If you hurt him--"
"If I hurt him, what will you do?" Crassus asks. Taunts. "He is mine now, to do with as I wish." It is an act of madness to buy a slave just to kill him, a waste of money at least, though it is certainly possible and more or less legal. And, unfortunately, Crassus is not quite sane.
"Please," Bellonus says. "I beg you. I'm begging you now to spare him. Anything you want." Deomiorix' life is more important than his pride.
Crassus steeples his fingers together. "You, Bellonus, are beneath me. You are an equestrian. You are a Greek. You are a cinaedus -- oh, yes, I know." Bellonus doesn't even bother trying to deny it. "And yet you are receiving the favour of the emperor, the triumphal regalia, the greatest honour any of us can hope for. I detest you."
"If I could I would give the regalia to you," Bellonus says, "if it's that important to you. His life is worth that to me." It's the truth.
"But you cannot," Crassus says. "So you will have your regalia, and I will have your whore, and then, perhaps, you will feel as you deserve to feel, cinaede."
"Don't do this," Bellonus says again, desperately. "I beg you."
"Ah, but begging is exactly what I want from you," Crassus says. "This is most excellent. And, as you see, I've hardly had any amusement out of your whore yet. It is so difficult to be undisturbed in the city. I'm taking him to my villa tonight, in the country. Much quieter there. Many fewer wagging tongues."
Bellonus swallows. Deomiorix has until tonight, then, and from the look on Deomiorix' face, he knows it.
Crassus leans in closer, pitching his voice so only Bellonus can hear. "I'll send you his head when I'm done with him tonight, eh? You'll have something to remember him by." He smiles.
Bellonus looks at him bleakly, unable to form words. This can't be happening. What is he going to do? He can do nothing to stop any of it. Deomiorix is going to die.
"And now," Crassus says, still smiling, "I think you should leave. I am a very busy man, you see. Congratulations again on your great honour," he adds.
Deomiorix' eyes are wide and terrified, but he stands tall and unbroken. He will go bravely, and Bellonus knows he would not go any other way. His face is the last thing Bellonus sees before the slaves escort him out.
Bellonus has to do something, he thinks, as soon as he is in the street again. He has to get Deomiorix away. The consequences would be minimal for him -- theft, if Crassus prosecutes, which he would not, because then he would have to explain the entire situation -- but much more severe for Deomiorix, if they are caught.
All they have to do is not get caught. It is like one of his old scouting missions. This is his last mission. Bellonus' mouth quirks, as the idea occurs to him.
The problem, unfortunately, is that the empire is quite good at the business of catching fugitive slaves, especially here, so near the heart of it. There is nowhere anyone could run. Fortunately, for him, he has resources most fugitive slaves do not -- such as money, which will take them far.
He practically runs back to his cousin's house, stripping off his toga in the cubiculum, finding an old plain tunic, shrugging off the odd looks Felix is giving him. People see the stripe of his tunic more than they see him. In a plain tunic, he is anonymous. Or more likely to be so.
Bellonus takes a dagger for his own protection, before heading out alone to the seedier areas by the harbour. People will do anything for enough money. Someone will do this for him.
Eventually, after an hour of pressing coins into people's palms -- so long! he has so little time! -- Bellonus finds a man who will do what he wants. A man who owns a ship and will set sail to Britannia. No questions asked.
"How many passengers?" the man says, roughly, "and when?" He has not given his name; he has not asked for Bellonus', either. Good.
They are in the darkened corner of a tavern, a place no good equestrian should ever set foot in. This is, in a way, a good choice -- he would never be thought of as one who would come here. Perhaps later, Crassus will not think to look here.
He could send Deomiorix home by himself, but -- no. He is going with him. He has to. He could not leave him now, never to see him again. So much for his plan to settle down in Pompeii. Besides, he always liked Britannia.
"Two. Myself and another man," Bellonus says, quietly. "Leaving tonight, or sometime early tomorrow morning."
The man names a price that is outrageous, or intended to be so, but Bellonus nods. "You'll have it when you set sail, no sooner." Bellonus thinks about the money he has at home. Yes, he has enough for that.
The stranger grins happily. "I'll see you at the docks."
It is easy enough, and for even less money someone tells him where Crassus' villa in the country is. Bellonus looks up at the sky in alarm; it is almost midday, and the man's villa is a long ride north, near Herculaneum. He must reach it before tonight, and there is so much to do first.
He packs efficiently -- one of the things the army teaches everyone -- and he knows exactly what he needs to buy. Blankets, in case they are necessary to warm him, if he's lost blood. Hooded travelling cloaks -- Deomiorix' hair is, unfortunately, distinctive. A tunic and sandals for Deomiorix, because he fears by the time he finds him they will have divested him of his. Bandages. A pot of salve. He already has some food in his saddlebags -- dried meat, but it will do. Water. Money he has aplenty, for paying his way on the ship. He retrieves his funds in a quick stop back at his cousin's, where he picks up his spare dagger.
He already owns weapons, of course. There's probably no use in bringing a sword, which would stand out far too much, but a dagger or two would not go amiss. The point, after all, is not a battle -- it is a rescue. In and out quickly, after Deomiorix is there but before Crassus has begun torturing him, so they will have a head start on their pursuers. They will have to move fast. It is not as if Crassus will not have any idea who might have stolen his slave, after all.
If he gets there after Crassus has begun -- Bellonus does not know what he will do, but it will probably end in someone's death. He hopes for Crassus'.
He goes to where Boukephalos is stabled, and ponders buying another horse. He doesn't even know if Deomiorix will be able to ride in his condition, whatever it will be, and without a rider, another horse would only slow him down. And -- he looks up at the sky again -- there is hardly time to buy one. Crassus himself has probably left already. They can ride double, then. He's done it often enough on campaign to know that Boukephalos can handle two, with supplies and armour.
Boukephalos whinnies and stamps impatiently as Bellonus saddles him; it is as if the horse thinks they are riding off to war. Which, in some sense, they are. He packs everything neatly into his saddlebags, weapons, clothing, and all, and rolls the blanket on top, behind the saddle.
He is ready.
By the time he arrives at Crassus' villa, it is nearly dusk, and the general amount of the activity lets him know that the senator must be there already. The place is huge, of course; the man needs to display his wealth.
He dismounts from Boukephalos some distance away, leading him off the road and into a small stand of trees that probably marks the edge of the property. He ties him down and Boukephalos instantly starts munching on the patches of grass he can find. Hungry thing. Bellonus pats him roughly on the neck in gratitude. Good horse. He dares not unsaddle him; they will, he hopes, be leaving soon -- and quickly.
Time for the plan. He pulls a bundle out of his saddlebags. Tunic, sandals, bandages, daggers. Hopefully all he needs. It is small enough; let them take it for his meagre personal effects. For Gaius Bellonus is now Philippos, the new slave.
He walks quickly up to the villa, entering through the slave quarters in the back. No sign of Deomiorix. Crassus must have him somewhere else. In the crowd, no one notices him, just another slave. There are so many. Elsewhere in the house, he can hear sounds of laughter from what is probably the triclinium. Crassus must be enjoying a meal, first. Good.
But now where to look? His thoughts are interrupted by someone calling.
"Hey, you!" a man calls out in rough, coarse Latin. "You, blue eyes! Come here."
Him, then. Bellonus turns to see a tall, craggy-faced man. He must be an overseer. Bellonus hopes he looks appropriately servile, and ducks his head a little more.
"What's your name?"
"I am Philippos," Bellonus says, hesitantly, as if he doesn't quite understand Latin and this is the only sentence he has thus far mastered.
"I don't recognise you," the man says, suspiciously. "Are you one of the new slaves delivered today?" Oh, this is good fortune indeed. Crassus must have bought others.
Bellonus nods a few times, slowly, as if he still doesn't understand, and puts on his thickest Greek accent. "Sir, please, the master gave orders, but I do not understand where I go."
The man rolls his eyes. "Another Greek? Can't he get ones that speak good Latin, at least? Very well, what did he say that you should do?" A pause, as Bellonus pretends not to understand, and the man sighs and rephrases. "What orders?"
"Sir," Bellonus says, politely. "The master said, I guard a slave, but I do not understand." He hopes that Crassus is the sort of person who would order this. Please, please let him be this paranoid.
"Guard a...? He must have meant the new Celt. Odd job for a new slave, but I suppose you look strong enough," the man says, more or less to himself. Then, slower. "There is another building. If you go out the door there and walk straight ahead, you will see it. It is small." He pauses, to make sure Bellonus understands. "Eh, Philippos? Do you understand?"
He pretends confusion. "There I... guard?"
The man sighs, clearly harried. "They have the Celt already there; all you have to do is watch the door until the master is done with dinner and ready for him."
Bellonus blinks a few times. "I watch the door?"
The man nods again. "Yes. That way." He turns Bellonus, gives him a hard shove on the shoulders. "Off with you."
That, Bellonus thinks as he stumbles out the door, was entirely too easy.
Unfortunately, as he walks to the small building, set apart from the villa, set far back -- Crassus must want his privacy, oh yes -- he sees there is another man there, outside the door. Well, he couldn't expect it all to go as smoothly.
"Hail," Bellonus says, cheerfully, still with a heavy accent, acting for all the world as if he is supposed to be there.
The man at the door eyes him warily. "Who are you?"
"Philippos." Bellonus smiles brightly. "I'm new, and I was told to guard, but I don't understand what's going on here."
"You must be really new, eh?" The man sizes him up. "You look to have some strength in you; you'll need it for this."
"Eh?"
The man chucks his thumb at the closed door of the building. "The master likes to have his fun with new slaves, occasionally, ones he buys specially. He's got some Celt in there, tied up with some rope. Right now we don't do much except wait. Sometimes he wants us to go in and check on him, make sure he hasn't passed out or got loose or anything, give him water. The Celt's got to stay alive and awake until the master's ready for him. The master likes when they can think about what's coming."
Bellonus pretends more confusion. "What's coming?"
The man laughs broadly. "What do you think? I hear this one used to be a whore, but he sure doesn't go along easily. So sometimes, the master will want to untie them, and we have to help him hold them down. It's not too bad, unless you get one who bites. Mostly we just stay out of the way, make sure he doesn't get loose and harm the master."
Bellonus feels sick. Crassus has a routine. He's done this more than once. Many times, from the sound of it.
"All right," he says. "Should we go check on him now?"
The man shrugs. "Sure, but it's almost time. But we might as well be certain he's ready, eh?"
He turns to open the door, barely pushing it open, and that is precisely when Bellonus slides the dagger out of its bag, reverses it, and slams the man in the skull with the hilt. He crumples, satisfyingly, to the ground. Bellonus checks the pulse at the man's throat. Good. Unconscious. He won't be a murderer, at least, not unintentionally. And he doesn't have much time anyway. He drags the body inside, pushes the door shut, and only then takes a look around the small room.
The walls are covered with whips, sticks, swords and daggers of varying sizes and styles; it's like an armoury, more than anything, the purpose of which Bellonus tries not to ponder. It is an armoury, he tells himself. Except for the centre of the room, where there stands a raised platform, the length of a man. Deomiorix is lying face down on it, naked, hands and feet tied to the corners with rope. Bellonus gives silent thanks that it is only rope and not shackles. And at least he looks unbeaten so far.
Deomiorix turns his head at the sound, and only then does Bellonus see that he has been blindfolded. Crassus no doubt wants him to contemplate his fate in darkness.
Bellonus runs to his side, laying his hand on Deomiorix' shoulder, and under him Deomiorix jumps and takes a terrified half-breath. Bellonus hates to think of what the other guards have told him that make him act like this.
"Shh," he says. "It's all right. It's me; it's Philippos."
Deomiorix' voice is hoarse, raw. "Philippos? It's really you?"
Bellonus undoes the blindfold, and Deomiorix' terrified eyes meet his. "It's really me," he says, moving to pull out his dagger, work on the ropes binding Deomiorix' wrists. The skin is a little abraded under them -- he must have struggled. "I'm here to rescue you. Or steal you. Whichever."
Deomiorix sits up as Bellonus unties his feet, and his eyes are suddenly angry. "And you think I am not so beautiful that I would look so much prettier with an F branded into my face? Or an iron collar? I know what they do to fugitive slaves. Not to mention Crassus will certainly kill me when he gets me back."
"He's going to kill you tonight," Bellonus says. Why is Deomiorix fighting this? "He told me so; he said he would send me your head. And, believe me, I would rather have you alive. Come with me."
Deomiorix looks over at the downed guard, then back at Bellonus, face pale. "You're mad. We're in the middle of the empire. We can't get anywhere from here. Crassus will know. He'll find me. He'll know you were involved."
Bellonus snorts. "All we have to do is ride back to the city on a fast horse. My fast horse. There's a ship waiting to take us to Britannia; we'll be at sea before he can get there and figure out what we're up to. I did plan this, you know."
"Us?" So he did notice the pronoun, there.
Bellonus nods. "I did tell you I'm not leaving you, didn't I?" He makes it sound casual.
Deomiorix looks up at him and finally, finally smiles, a brilliant, crooked smile. "I don't think you did, but I'm beginning to get that impression."
Bellonus pulls him to his feet and holds him briefly in his arms, feeling the warmth of Deomiorix' body against his. They can be together; Crassus cannot separate them any longer. But now they have to go. The time for embracing is later. He pulls back, fishes the tunic and sandals out of his pack. "For you."
Deomiorix slips the tunic over his head quickly and begins pulling the sandals on. "Thank you. For all of it. I owe you my life."
"Did you think I would leave you to die?"
"I dreamed, I hoped--" Deomiorix' voice breaks off, and his eyes are shining.
Bellonus takes his hand. "Come on. We've got to run. Would you like a dagger?" They are partners together in this mad endeavour; somehow Bellonus feels they should be equally appointed.
Deomiorix grabs the offered dagger -- his extra one -- expertly in his free hand. "Delighted."
"Let's go."
They step out the door as one, armed and holding hands.
It goes remarkably well, at first. No one notices anything suspicious about two slaves, walking about, when there are already so many here. They are almost to the stand of trees where Boukephalos is waiting for them. Bellonus smiles. This is going to work after all.
Halfway down the slope, next to another tree, Deomiorix stops, suddenly, with a grave look of concern on his face. "Wait."
"Are you injured after all?" Bellonus sees no blood, but it could be something internal.
Deomiorix is shaking his head. "I have to go back. I've forgotten something."
Bellonus gapes at him. "Are you mad? They'll know you're missing, soon enough. Whatever it is, it's not worth your life."
Deomiorix meets his eyes, a challenge. "It is the only thing I have left of my people. It is irreplaceable. I hid it, up by the villa," he points, "earlier, when no one was watching. I have kept it all these long years, and I will not lose it now."
Before Bellonus can say anything, Deomiorix turns and runs up the slope. Mad, stubborn Celt. He hopes he'll be all right. Bellonus ducks behind a tree and waits.
An agony of waiting later, Deomiorix appears again, clutching a small, dirt-covered sack in the hand that isn't holding the dagger, picking his way nimbly down the slope. Bellonus can't help but admire his grace -- and then gasps when he sees the two men pursuing him, armed as well. Oh no. They are too late.
As he watches, one of the men closes on Deomiorix, who promptly kicks him hard in the groin, then the face, as the man doubles over and collapses, unconscious. Bellonus smirks to see it. Deomiorix fights dirty, all right, but whatever wins, he can support. Just let them both get out of here alive.
The other pursuer is more of a problem, as Deomiorix is trying to both run and fight him. The man, larger than his opponent, circles, coming up in front of him. He'll have to attack. They close, and Deomiorix feints elegantly, then slashes. A miss. They back off, and then close again. This time Deomiorix stumbles -- is he hurt? -- but recovers to quickly plunge his dagger into the man's shoulder, before turning and running to where Bellonus is. He is good. Bellonus could have used a man like that, in the army. Would have been proud to fight beside him.
In the rapidly-fading light, he can't quite see if Deomiorix has any injuries, as he runs up. "Are you hurt? Can you ride?"
"I can ride," Deomiorix says, and so Bellonus mounts Boukephalos in haste, pulling Deomiorix up behind him to ride pillion. It is a tight fit with the supplies, but they'll manage.
"Hold on."
Deomiorix wraps his arms around his waist as Bellonus digs his heels against Boukephalos' side. They must ride fast tonight.
He does not know how many watches of the night have passed. They are far ahead of any pursuers, but at the same time Pompeii is still so far away.
Suddenly, Deomiorix' arms about him loosen. "Philippos," Deomiorix says, and the voice in his ear sounds pained. "I'm afraid I can't hold on any longer."
Is he injured, then? Bellonus risks a quick glance back over his shoulder, and a flash of moonlight shows blood, running along Deomiorix' arm. Damn. One of his opponents must have got a lucky blow in after all.
"Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" he asks, slowing, guiding Boukephalos off the road. He risks taking a hand off the reins to hold onto Deomiorix. If he should fall--
A dry laugh. "I thought I could make it."
Well. This necessitates a change in plans. If they can't outrun their pursuers, they will have to stop and hide until they've passed. And then, of course, Crassus will have alerted the city. But it can't be helped.
There is a forest off to their right, a wild area, and Bellonus guides the horse deeper and deeper into it. They leave few tracks. No one will think to look for them here, in the wilderness, he hopes. Certainly not in the dark; how will they see? Boukephalos picks his way nimbly over roots and tree branches.
Deep within the forest Bellonus can see again. There is a small grassy clearing, letting the moonlight in. Perfect. It is not as bright as he hoped, but it will do. He pulls Boukephalos to a halt.
"Will this be all right?"
"It's pretty," Deomiorix says, sounding dazed. "I haven't seen the countryside in years. And if I am to die, I would die here with you and hope I would go to the Goddess in death, for all that she has forsaken me in life." He mumbles things in Celtic that Bellonus can't quite make out. He must be in shock.
Hurriedly, Bellonus slides off the stallion's back, and much more carefully helps Deomiorix down. His skin is cold, sweaty. Bellonus pulls out a blanket, spreading it on the ground, and then another one, which he hands to Deomiorix.
"Sit there," he says, "and wrap yourself in that blanket. You're not going to die." He must be kept warm.
Deomiorix sits, obediently enough -- a sure sign that something's wrong, at least -- clutching the blanket around him, along with the dirty bag of whatever it was he felt he had to risk his life for. "What's your horse's name?" he asks, in Celtic, laughing. He is pale-faced. "Pretty horse. Sleek horse."
"Boukephalos," Bellonus says, absently. Bandages, where are the bandages? His hand closes on the bandages and salve, but as he looks over at Deomiorix he realises it's too dark for him to see the wound properly. They need a fire. He finds his flint in the bottom of another saddlebag.
Deomiorix laughs again. "Should have figured." At this point, Bellonus is beyond wondering about his education and is now just going to accept that Deomiorix will know whose horse he named his for.
"I'm going to build a fire first," he says. "You stay there." Deomiorix is trying to get up and help.
Eventually he collects enough wood, and within a short time there is a small fire blazing, the smoke obscured by the tree branches above them. Their pursuers will never see, even if they look this way.
He hands Deomiorix a waterskin. "Drink this and let me see your left arm."
In the firelight, the wound isn't as bad as he feared -- a long cut on his upper arm, not too deep; it is only that it hasn't stopped bleeding. Bellonus wraps bandages about it and applies pressure. Finally, an eternity later, it starts to clot and he lets go, changes the bandages again.
Deomiorix is looking much less clammy, and Bellonus smiles at him, running his hands through his hair, ruffling the curls. "Don't die on me, eh? I'd miss you."
"I'll try not to." Deomiorix smiles back and pulls the blanket away a little, freeing a hand to touch Bellonus' arm. The touch warms him more than the fire. "Sorry for ruining your escape plan."
From off in the distance, Bellonus thinks he hears rapid hoofbeats. Their pursuers, probably. He shrugs. "It can't be helped. So we'll stay here overnight and go to the city in the morning, I'm thinking. Might as well stay the night if they've overtaken us."
They make a meal of the dried meat from the saddlebags, sitting on the blanket together. Bellonus can't stop himself from touching Deomiorix, here and there. He's alive. He's really still alive. Deomiorix smiles back and leans companionably into Bellonus' shoulder as he finishes the last of his meal, and Bellonus wraps his arm around him. They are together.
"So your plan is to go to Britannia?" Deomiorix says, nestling closer into him.
Bellonus nods. "I figured you might like to go back to your people, yes?"
A laugh. "They don't like Romans much in Brigantia anymore, you know."
"I know," Bellonus says. The last three years campaigning there have certainly shown him that. "But as long as they're not torturing either of us it's got to be better than here."
Deomiorix snorts against him. "And, I have to say, a lot of them probably won't like me either, especially if I show up with a Roman in tow. I can't promise it'll be any safer for either of us. I know a few people who will kill me on sight." Who is he, that he will have made so many enemies?
"Well, we can't stay here," Bellonus points out. "As a fugitive slave, the only place you might be safe is out of the empire."
Deomiorix starts to laugh then, and he laughs for almost a minute. The laugh isn't funny at all, more of a slow, wracking spasm. Bellonus holds him tight. "This wasn't supposed to happen," he says. "None of it was supposed to happen to me at all. I was never supposed to be a slave. I'm not supposed to be."
He runs his free hand through Deomiorix' hair and takes a deep breath. "Who were you supposed to be, then?" Maybe, just maybe, the man will answer.
Deomiorix turns in his arms to face him, with some effort made in avoiding the use of his injured left arm. "You won't believe me if I tell you. No one ever has." His voice sounds sure of this, but his eyes are full of hope.
"I'll believe you." Bellonus reaches out to touch Deomiorix' face, to stroke lightly along his forehead, his broken cheekbone, his cheek. "I'll believe anything you say."
Deomiorix gives another one of those dry laughs. "Let's start with this, then: I'm a freeborn Roman citizen." His mouth quirks. "An equestrian, even."
The words don't make sense at first. If he's freeborn, he can't be a slave. He can't be. And yet, here he is, enslaved. "You couldn't -- you couldn't tell anyone that? You're freeborn? You're a citizen? By Pollux, you should have told--"
Another laugh. "The men who gave me to the slavers knew exactly who and what I was, believe me. And I spent two weeks screaming it, screaming that I was a citizen until my throat was raw and I couldn't speak. No one cares. Everyone's saying the same thing, too, that they're citizens. They say it all the time. Why should I have been believed? None knew me. There was no proof, no citizen to speak up for me. And since then, I haven't tried. There's no point. I would not be believed."
"I believe you," Bellonus says. He knows Deomiorix wouldn't lie, even if this is an impossible thing he is telling him. An equestrian? Like him?
Deomiorix snorts. "Everyone knows no Celt is a freeborn citizen."
That's true enough. None of the British, nor the Gauls, have citizenship, save Cogidubnus, and he has no sons of the right age, nor is he one of the Brigantes. Except, possibly, Bellonus thinks, the former Brigantian queen, Cartimandua, could have been a citizen. Claudius could have given her and her family equestrian citizenship as a reward for her loyalty. But it would have been for her and her family, most likely no one else--
Her family.
Bellonus' mouth goes dry. "You're Cartimandua's son."
Trembling, Deomiorix smiles back at him. "You do believe me."
It explains so much. How he knows Latin, and Greek, and poetry. How he can read and write. "Was she raising you as a Roman, then?"
Deomiorix nods. "I had tutors. I was forever being tutored. I was to be sent to Massilia to learn rhetoric." His mouth quirks. "And then the revolt happened."
"Venutius," Bellonus says, thoughtfully. "Your father, I take it?"
Deomiorix nods. "He won't be particularly happy to see me, I'm sure. His weak, Romanised son. The five years whoring won't particularly help my reputation among the people, either."
"So we'll stay here," Bellonus says, the idea occurring to him as he says it. "You're a citizen; the duoviri can say as much. You'll be free." They can be free together, as equals, better than he ever dreamed--
His dreams are shattered with Deomiorix' next words, harsh reality.
"Don't you think I thought of that? There would have to be proof. There is no proof. There is no one here who knew me in Brigantia and can vouch for me. You've said so yourself," Deomiorix says, "you never met me."
"I'll lie," Bellonus says, instantly. "It's easy enough; I'll say I met you at the queen's court, was introduced to you as her son once--"
Deomiorix is staring at him, wide-eyed. "It's a crime. You'd be caught, Philippos. Your comrades are in Pompeii too, yes? And your commander? They would know you hadn't really met me, because those posted with you would have met me, and they did not. I was never in court when the envoy was. Of that, I am positive."
"And you've no other proof?" Bellonus asks. "What about whatever it was you went back for, there? Surely it can help establish your identity."
A rueful laugh. "It's a bracelet, and, yes, it is uniquely mine. I've kept it this whole time, hidden, but life doesn't work like the plays, Philippos. I am a slave and a whore. They will say I stole it, or a client gave it to me. I would need the testimony of one who saw me in Brigantia wearing it, and, again, as I did not meet any Romans--" His voice trails off.
"Oh." Now what are they going to do? They cannot go to Britannia, and they cannot stay here. "Can I see the bracelet, at least?"
Deomiorix shakes something golden out of the bag he is still clutching. "Why not? Here."
Bellonus puts his hands out, taking the object that falls into them. It is a curving, sinuous band of gold, designed to wrap twice about the upper arm, from the size of it. In the middle it broadens, and there is a horse carved there. He feels a vague twinge of memory.
"I've seen this before," he says, slowly. Where? Where has he seen it?
Another rueful snort from Deomiorix. "The sleek pony is -- was -- my mother's symbol. If you were in her court at all, you probably saw something decorated with it. It wouldn't have been this, though, as this is the only man's armlet made with her symbol, for me. It's been years, I know, and I appreciate what you're trying to do, believe me, but--"
"No," Bellonus shakes his head. "This bracelet. I have seen this very bracelet. I would stake my life on it."
He holds it up, and the gold sparkles in the firelight. Another twinge of memory. Almost. He can almost place it.
Deomiorix is regarding him curiously, Bellonus is aware from the edge of his vision. A smile, in the firelight. "Philippos, what are you--?" A smile. Firelight. It can't be true. Can it be true?
"Put it on," Bellonus says, suddenly. "Please. As you would have worn it then."
Deomiorix, still looking at him as if he is mad, slips the bracelet high on his uninjured arm. It sparkles still in the firelight, and Bellonus reaches out shaking fingers to trace the bracelet's shape against golden skin. And then he remembers everything.
"I know you," Bellonus says, slowly, wonderingly. "I know you. You wore this and nothing else, save a mask, and you held out your hand to me. We jumped across the fire together, and we lay down together in the grass, in the darkness."
Deomiorix' eyes grow wide. "That was... you?"
Bellonus can't help but smile. "That was me."
"All these years," Deomiorix murmurs, and he looks almost as if he could cry. Is he upset? Did Bellonus disgrace his religion?
"I was seventeen, and curious about what was going on," he says, hastily, by way of explanation. "The man I was living with thought it would not bring dishonour upon your people, so I went. I didn't know what it was all about until I got there--"
He stops, as Deomiorix moves. With a shaking hand, Deomiorix reaches to trace the shape of Bellonus' face in the firelight, and he is smiling. Not upset after all. His eyes are still shining.
"I was sixteen," Deomiorix says, almost too quietly to hear. "I'd never -- I'd never been with anyone before then, did you know that?"
Bellonus thinks back to the fumbling, sweet hesitation of the stranger that night, the stranger he never forgot. "I think I guessed that." Somehow, he feels ridiculously honoured. "You weren't my first by far, though I've always remembered that night." The words can't even express half of what he feels. "It was -- I've dreamed it again and again, ever since. No one has ever been quite the same."
He feels like that was an idiotic thing to say, but Deomiorix is nodding along, smiling wider, more incredulously. "It was the God and Goddess working through you, of course. You brought honour."
Bellonus smiles, reassured, but then is distracted by a crass question. He can't stop himself from asking it. "But sixteen, and you'd never -- truly? With anyone?"
Deomiorix' head moves a little, a nod. "I was being kept pure, for -- for sacred things I cannot speak of." It is like the mysteries of Mithras or Eleusis; Bellonus understands, and he does not press further as Deomiorix continues. "I was not to go to Belotenia, but I had a dream, and I knew it was a true dream. The Goddess appeared to me and told me to go to the fires. She told me the one she had picked for me there would come to my aid, in my time of direst need, and this would be her work."
A prophetic dream, then, like Aeneas dreaming of Hector or of the Penates. Bellonus understands this, too. "And you could not refuse that, of course."
Deomiorix nods again. "So I went, and I knew it was you she had picked when you stepped into the circle, though I did not recognise you."
Bellonus raises an eyebrow. "I thought it was not permitted to know who--"
Deomiorix gives a quiet laugh. "That's what they say, but when it comes down to it one can usually recognise the others, at the fires, though sometimes strangers do come from the surrounding area. And I knew you would be a stranger. So I wore the bracelet, in my arrogance."
"Hmm?" He must have missed something. "I'm sorry; I don't understand."
"I thought," Deomiorix says, smiling ruefully, "that anyone would recognise it, even a stranger, and find me later. And then I could know who it was who would come to my aid." He laughs. "I didn't figure on you being a Roman."
"I didn't recognise it," Bellonus says. "I didn't know. But I looked for you, every time I went back to Isurium Brigantum--"
"I thought, all these years, that she had abandoned me," Deomiorix says. His tone is flat, but in his eyes Bellonus can see the years of sadness. "When I was betrayed by your people, when I was sold into slavery, when I was sold to the brothel, there was no one there for me. I thought I had been wrong about everything. And now I see it was you, and she was with me after all." He smiles, looking dazed again, but now incredulous. "Thank you."
Bellonus can think of nothing else to say, so he leans forward and kisses Deomiorix, slowly, deeply. As they pull apart, the fire he built crackles and rises high, then again, and again a third time, for all that it should be low by now.
Bellonus gives a quick glance at the fire. "The fire's rising. Is that a sign of your Goddess? Here it would be an omen." He hardly gives credence to such things, usually, but something about this night makes it all different, like that other long-ago night.
Deomiorix nods and smiles. "It is good that we have the favour of your gods, too. It will go well," he says, with absolute confidence, then abruptly shivers, back to mortality.
Bellonus pulls Deomiorix' blanket high up over his shoulders, over his head, and they sit, looking at each other in this newfound wonder, until Deomiorix laughs.
Bellonus reaches out to pet an errant curl, escaped from the blanket, to trace the shape of his face. "What's so funny?"
Deomiorix shrugs and gestures around them. "You gave me fire, you gave me water, and--" he tugs at the blanket over his head, like a veil. It is bleached wool, hardly the proper orange at all, but Bellonus gets the joke and grins back.
"Thinking that's your flammeum, eh?"
"Even your name's right," Deomiorix says, laughing. "Ubi tu Gaius--"
"If we're picking," Bellonus says, cutting in before he can finish the vows, "I'd rather be Gaia."
Deomiorix blinks a little, and half-smiles. "You? I thought you'd want me to be that one. I think perhaps with time it might not hurt me--"
Bellonus laughs, shaking his head. "You know, it's not that Crassus was lying when he called me a cinaedus. I prefer it, actually, that way." This time, somehow, the words are easier to say -- admitting to this perversion, this illegal act. It is, at least, a thing he has done many times. The least of his perversions, then; or rather, the one he has indulged in the most. And, besides, he's seen Deomiorix' scars. That role is not for him now, not yet.
Another broad grin, this one looking more surprised than the last. "And here I thought--" Deomiorix stops, and he practically mumbles the next words. "I would like that very much. I know it sounds strange, for all that I was sold as a cinaedus, but before everything -- I much preferred the other role anyway. Would still prefer. If you would have me." His face colours a little; Bellonus would have thought there was nothing left for him to be embarrassed about.
"Of course I'll have you," Bellonus says, and then chuckles at his own words. "Or rather, you'll have me."
"Now?" The look in his eyes is hope, half-mixed with pleasure, and Bellonus smiles to see it.
"If you like. If you're able," he adds, with a concerned glance at Deomiorix' arm.
Deomiorix shrugs, seemingly regarding this as a matter of little import. "So I can't put my weight on it. There are ways, trust me." He smiles, and something about the smile gleams with urgency. This is important. This is one of his rituals. Very well; they will honour it.
Bellonus kisses him again and rises, turning to add more wood to the fire, so it will be warm enough in the night. When he turns back, Deomiorix has shifted the blankets over to one side and sits with his back against a tree, body nestled between the roots, almost reclining against it.
Bellonus laughs to see it. "Clever of you. You'll want me to do all the work, eh?"
Deomiorix only smiles and holds out his hand. In the flickering of the fire, it is much like that other night, and Bellonus feels that odd sense, the one he has felt nowhere else, the power and the silence of it. The gods are with them. Someone's gods.
He understands, then, that they are to be silent themselves before it. Their tunics are shed, inconsequential, and they are warm beside the fire. Deomiorix, bracing himself against the tree, arches up to kiss him, again and again, smiling. He is beautiful. Bellonus runs his hands down Deomiorix' body, feeling the roughness of stubble, hair starting to grow back already, and loves it. He kisses his way down Deomiorix' chest, then lower.
Deomiorix gasps, a sound half-cut off, as Bellonus takes him into his mouth. It is easier this time, or perhaps it has grown easier with practice. He feels the trembling of Deomiorix' body under him, the tautness as the man tries not to thrust up, and knows that this is a better compliment than words. But they are not to finish this way, and so he pushes up and reaches for the pot of salve, the one he never thought he'd use for this purpose. Thankfully, it is slick enough. Deomiorix smiles, watching him as he dips his fingers in the salve, then methodically works it into himself. His fingers slide in easily, and out, as Deomiorix watches him, mesmerised. Good. He can do this.
Bellonus kisses him one more time before turning, his back to him, settling slowly back, and he knows Deomiorix understands what to do perfectly well as he feels the pressure of Deomiorix' cock against him, and leans into it, pushing back. Deomiorix gasps, and he can't help but gasp as well, the length of him filling Bellonus. He pushes back as far as he can go, and he feels Deomiorix kiss his back, his neck, wrap his uninjured arm around him. Bellonus is entirely surrounded by him, and he welcomes it. This is his place, something tells him. This is who he is, and this who he ought to be with.
Bellonus starts to move then, sliding back and then up, slowly, slowly, feeling Deomiorix tense and then arch to meet him. They move again, faster, and on the next thrust Deomiorix touches something deep within him, and he groans. Yes, he thinks, do this to me. But he is hardly passive here, hardly being taken -- rather, he takes as he is taken, and here they meet.
The world reduces itself to this. The feel of Deomiorix within him. The gasps Deomiorix makes with every rise and fall, shaky breaths against his shoulder. The heat of the fire on them. The ground under his hands, as he pushes. This is life.
He knows, from the feel of Deomiorix beneath him, that he isn't going to last much longer. No one is. Deomiorix kisses his neck, and then slowly moves his free hand, tracing a line of heat down Bellonus' stomach, down to his cock. Bellonus smiles, nearly laughs at the feel of it. He swings his hips up, into Deomiorix' hand, and down, back onto him, and everything is exactly, perfectly there--
Bellonus hangs, suspended, on the crest of the wave, the edge of the flame, for an instant and then he is coming, surrounded, as Deomiorix thrusts into him once more, exactly right, and Deomiorix is coming as well, and it is all as it should be.
When he can move again he extricates himself, slowly, then turns to his lover, who kisses him, with eyes closed, all over most of his face, too sated even to see what he is doing. It makes Bellonus smile. He kisses Deomiorix once more, tasting the sweat and heat of him, before pulling the forgotten blanket over both of them. He nestles his head on Deomiorix' shoulder, Deomiorix' arms around him, and they fall asleep together.
Bellonus is at peace.
They wake with the dawn, to the embers of the cooling fire, dew dampening the grass beneath them. Bellonus knows that Deomiorix is awake too, and he is about to greet him, when Deomiorix draws half a breath and tenses, alert.
"Shh," he says. "Look over there."
Bellonus follows his pointing hand and sees a stag grazing, pure white. Now that is an omen. From Diana, perhaps? No, the virgin huntress would not bless them, hardly, as they are men, and from the look on Deomiorix' face, next to him, he knows this is a sign from his goddess.
A bird of prey calls from somewhere above. Bellonus thinks it could be an eagle. The stag is hardly startled, and remains grazing leisurely, in the presence of this threat, for long minutes more. Now, that is a sign.
Deomiorix watches, enthralled, as the stag disappears deeper into the forest. "She is still with us," he says, quietly.
Bellonus is in no mood to question this, and merely stretches up to kiss him again.
Packing the camp up is a slow process, as they stop here and there to kiss, to touch, to lean into each other. It is well into the first hour before they are fully packed, before they clamber up onto Boukephalos, who leads them unerringly back to the road. And they ride.
Deomiorix' arms tighten around him, later, when the road dips and they come upon their first sight of Pompeii. "You have a plan, Philippos?"
"I have a new plan," Bellonus says. "How would you like to meet some of my friends?"
A slave opens the door as soon as they knock on it, and Murena comes into the atrium hurriedly, still clutching bread from breakfast -- it is early yet.
Murena looks between the two of them with something halfway between astonishment and suspicion, and Bellonus can only imagine how this must look to him. He is clad only in a tunic, after all, and covered in dirt. Deomiorix is hardly better, wounded besides, and still, with his hair as it is, looks like a cinaedus.
"By Hercules," Murena says, finally, shocked. "Crassus sent a messenger last night saying that one of his slaves had been stolen, or helped to run away, a Celt who acts as a cinaedus," his eye falls on Deomiorix, "and that he knew it was you who had done it. I laughed then, of course, but--"
"It's not what it looks like," Bellonus puts in, hastily. "Well, it is what it looks like, but what it looks like is not what it is." He hopes Murena, having known him for so long, will understand; that is why he is here rather than at his cousin's.
Now Murena and Deomiorix are both staring at him. That didn't help.
"Quintus," he says, trying again. "I'd like to introduce you to Deomiorix. He is a freeborn equestrian citizen, wrongly enslaved, and the legitimate son of Cartimandua."
Deomiorix smiles politely. "Hail."
Murena's mouth drops open. After a few long instants, he recovers, smiles back. "Into my office, both of you," he says, briskly. "Philippos, you're writing Cerialis a message. Right now."
C. Cornelius Bellonus Q. Petillio Ceriali salutem dicit.
I write to thank you for the honour that you have bestowed upon me, and more urgently to beg for your rapid assistance in a matter of some importance to the frontier in Britannia and to myself as well. I am staying at the house of Q. Licinius Murena in Pompeii and I shall provide more details upon your arrival. Si vales, bene est; ego valeo.
He pays for the fastest courier he can find, and the message is sent soon after he dictates it. Murena keeps giving him appalled glances and finally offers him the loan of a toga, which he takes. Bellonus dares not go back to his cousin's house for his until the matter is settled -- he fears what Crassus will have told him -- so that means no Felix either, but one of Murena's slaves helps him drape it properly.
At the sixth hour, just as the baths are opening, Bellonus and Deomiorix head quickly to the nearest public bath, performing the usual ablutions in haste, keeping alert for anyone who might know them. When Cerialis arrives, he ought not to see the heir of Brigantia looking still as though he has spent the night in the forest. On the way back, Bellonus pulls Deomiorix to a halt outside a barber's shop.
"I have become fond of your hair," Bellonus says, quietly, "but I think that this will go better the more you look like an equestrian and the less you look like a cinaedus."
Deomiorix nods and runs his hand through his curls once more, scratching his head as a cinaedus does, grinning. He swings his hips one more time, a last display, and Bellonus smiles as Deomiorix walks into the barber's to be shorn.
It is, Bellonus thinks when they are back at Murena's, quite a transformation. There is nothing of the slave left in Deomiorix, or at least, he can present himself so. Looking at him now, Bellonus would believe him to be a citizen, even without his own testimony. He hopes that it will convince Cerialis as well.
That evening they recline, daringly, next to each other at dinner, just as Bellonus has long wished for. It is perhaps presumptuous of Murena to offer Deomiorix a spot on a couch when nothing has officially been said, but it is good that Murena believes him. Deomiorix fumbles a little, clearly used to eating sitting up, wincing at having to lie on his hurt left arm. It could be better, but as it is Bellonus is already happy. This is what he wanted.
Murena offers them separate cubicula for the night, of course. Bellonus sleeps by himself, only a little lonely, dreaming of eagles and stags.
Cerialis arrives the next morning. Bellonus comes to his feet, almost reflexively, as the man enters the atrium. The man seems older than he remembered, pale hair thinning more, which is a ridiculous thought when he only hasn't seen him for half a year. But the man's eyes are sharp as ever, intelligent and perceptive as always, and Bellonus watches him take in the sight of Deomiorix as well.
"Sir," Bellonus says, politely. "Thank you for coming."
Cerialis scowls a little and waves a dismissive hand, just as always. "Bellonus, your missives were never 'urgent' even when you were fighting outnumbered with the auxiliaries nowhere to be seen. If you say this is urgent, it is. Now, what can I do for you?" His eyes dart between Bellonus and Deomiorix.
"This is Deomiorix," Bellonus says. "He has been enslaved against his will and was born a free citizen of Rome. An equestrian."
Cerialis snorts. "I suppose you've stolen him from his angry master, then, have you?"
Bellonus has the grace to look ashamed. Cerialis, unfortunately, knows him too well. "Your assistance in declaring his freedom would be appreciated, sir."
"You could have gone to the duoviri for that," Cerialis says, acidly, but Bellonus knows he means none of it. "But this is intriguing, then, a Celt who is a freeborn citizen. How did this come to pass?"
Deomiorix snaps straighter and answers this himself. "I am Cartimandua's son."
The only sign of Cerialis' response is a fractional widening of the eyes. "I think you'd better tell me more about this."
In Murena's borrowed office, the story comes out.
"You are certain of this man's parentage, Bellonus?"
Bellonus swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and tells the highly edited version of the story. "Sir, I met him in Isurium Brigantum years ago; he had then, and still has, a bracelet with Cartimandua's crest."
Cerialis nods, briskly. Approvingly. That part of the worry, at least, is over. "Deomiorix--" he stumbles a little over the sounds, and stops. "Do you have a proper Roman name, as a citizen?"
Deomiorix half-smiles, and Bellonus realises with some shame that he has never even asked. "I was named," he says, "Tiberius Claudius Cartimandius." A matronymic, then, because his citizenship was through his mother, and the first two for the emperor who granted it.
"That's better," Cerialis says. "Very well, Cartimandius. It was my understanding that you were to be evacuated with your mother, five years ago. Can you tell me more?"
"My f-- Venutius was attacking, and she asked Rome for legions. They could send only auxiliaries."
Cerialis nods again. "Go on."
"They woke me in the night, the soldiers," Deomiorix says, looking very far away, "and said I was to go with them. Five men. I did not see my mother, but they said they had already taken her, and would bring me to her. And I believed them, at first, until we were far enough away and they drew swords on me. They--" he chokes a little, "they had to keep me tied up, after that. We rode for days, to the coast, where I met not my mother, but slavers. And these men handed me over to them. I thought," he added, hesitantly, "that these had been Roman orders, to dispose of me and most likely my mother under the guise of friendship." No wonder Deomiorix hated Romans so.
"Soldiers, selling you?" Cerialis sits back in the chair. "This is strange indeed. No, these were none of our orders. I will have it investigated."
Deomiorix looks relieved at that. "Was my mother sold as well?"
"The queen?" Cerialis looks blank for an instant. "She ought to have been evacuated, though I do not know where she would have been sent. I will certainly find her for you, if she lives."
A real smile from Deomiorix then. "She could yet live?"
"She could," Cerialis says, and steeples his fingers together. "In the meantime, as you are her heir -- you are, aren't you?"
Deomiorix nods. "We usually prefer daughters, but I am her only child."
"Do you think," Cerialis asks, "you could rule in Brigantia? I ask this as suffect consul; I would rather quiet the empire's borders."
Bellonus is amazed at this, though he knows it is only a natural question. One day he is a slave set to die, the next he is offered rule of a client kingdom. Will Deomiorix leave him, then, for power? He ought to.
Deomiorix looks up at him, then, and smiles, before shaking his head. "I do not think they will follow me. They enjoy following my father much more, against Rome, and I fear if I went there fighting there would be none left alive to rule by the time I was king."
Cerialis sighs. "A wise answer. Very well," he says, rising. "I will look into the matter of your mother," he adds, hand on the curtain of the doorway.
"Sir," Bellonus asks. "His freedom?"
"Oh, of course," Cerialis says. "I will alert the duoviri and your former owner...?"
"Publius Crassus," Deomiorix says, and Cerialis almost, but not quite, makes a resigned face at the name.
"Very well." Cerialis smiles. "Cartimandius, this is not manumission. I will say that you are free, and have always been so, and have all the rights of a freeborn citizen. And I am sorry for the years you spent in slavery, officially so; this was not our doing. If I can, I will find your mother."
"Thank you," Deomiorix says, weakly. "Thank you very much."
Another nod from Cerialis, with a parting glance at Bellonus. "I'll see you in Rome in the autumn, yes?"
"Certainly," Bellonus says.
And then Cerialis is gone. He can hear the man moving through the atrium, and the outside door opening.
He and Deomiorix look at each other. Deomiorix gives a strange half-laugh and wraps his arms around him. They are safe enough, here, with the curtain shut, and Bellonus kisses him, happy, grateful.
"I'm free," Deomiorix says, in wonder.
"You're free," Bellonus agrees, kissing him again. "Shall I call you Cartimandius?"
Deomiorix shakes his head, smiling. "I already told you my name, Philippos."
"So now what will you do, as a free man?" Deomiorix doesn't have to go with him, of course. He is hardly obligated. But Bellonus hopes--
"Starve, I suppose." A laugh. "I have no money and no property; I am only an equestrian because of my mother, after all."
"Come live with me, in my new villa," Bellonus offers. "I have enough money and land for both of us now. I'll give you half -- I'll adopt you, if you like, so that you will surely be safe from Crassus--" He runs his hands through Deomiorix' now-short hair, missing the curls somehow.
Deomiorix laughs, joyfully. "I'd very much like to live with you. If it wouldn't be an imposition--"
"An imposition? Hardly," Bellonus assures him. "And we are equals enough now, yes, to speak of love freely?"
"We are." Deomiorix nods. "All right. I'll do it."
They kiss once more before pulling the curtain back and heading out into the world as equals and friends, and though the law should not know, as lovers. Bellonus thinks, now, that he has found what he was looking for here, in Pompeii, when he didn't even know he was looking.
It is a beautiful early autumn day, the trees just beginning to turn, when a slave comes panting, footsteps heavy, inside the villa.
"Domini," the slave says, to both of them. "There's a rider coming. The suffect consul."
"Very well, thank you," Deomiorix says, rolling up the scroll he was reading, and giving Bellonus a look. Bellonus can imagine what he must be thinking. Cerialis would only come with news important enough not to entrust to an insecure message.
"Do you think it's about your mother?"
The tense smile Deomiorix gives him is an answer in and of itself.
They stand up, both of them, and go scrambling for their togas, and for slaves to drape them, for it would not do to greet Cerialis only in tunics. The slaves, of course, are used to their informality, Bellonus thinks, and is grateful for that.
The slaves are used to a great many unusual things about them. Bellonus keeps a separate cubiculum, of course, but they all know never to look for him there; he sleeps, forever and always, with Deomiorix in the room next to that one. Their limbs always tangle in the small bed, but neither of them mind that. There is a proper bath in the villa, of course, a small one, and yet another of their quirks is that they bathe together too, with none to attend them. So far none of the slaves have walked in to see him on his knees in front of Deomiorix, but there have been some close moments. They touch incessantly, they recline together, they do a large number of pleasant things in each other's company.
And the slaves who do not become accustomed to this -- well, they do not stay. Privately, Bellonus thinks most of them are grateful to be living in a house where their masters will not make use of them in the usual ways one does with slaves, and it is no matter to them that it is because their masters are devoted to each other.
Felix, still with him, has him draped and dressed neatly, and Deomiorix too, just as footsteps reach the door.
"Hail, Bellonus, Cartimandius," Cerialis says, entering.
"Hail," Bellonus returns, to their welcome but unexpected guest. "Sir, I can offer you hospitality. Wine, perhaps?" It is late enough in the day to be drinking.
"I think, first, the news," says Cerialis. "Cartimandius, I have looked into the matter of your enslavement. The soldiers responsible were in the pay of your father, and they have been prosecuted." He says this with quiet, cold efficiency.
"My father?" This was not the news Deomiorix was expecting.
Cerialis nods, and his eyes look sad. "He paid them a great deal to do it -- and to let your mother know of it."
Deomiorix fixates on the last words of the sentence. "My mother... is alive?"
At this, Cerialis smiles, handing over a wax tablet. "Alive and living in Massilia, and she sends you a message."
Deomiorix flips it open, and Bellonus peers at it over his shoulder. The words aren't Latin; she must have tried to write it down in Celtic, an attempt at privacy.
Deomiorix mouths the words to himself, for a long time, then looks up. "She says she is well and glad to hear of my freedom, and she invites me to visit her in Massilia or come live with her there if I have none to stay with here."
"That is well," says Cerialis. "I had hoped it was good news."
"It is," says Deomiorix, smiling faintly at the tablet. "May I send a message back through you?"
Cerialis nods, and Bellonus beckons a scribe over.
"What are you going to tell her?" Bellonus asks. The voice in his head chants: Perhaps he would rather visit her in Massilia. Perhaps he would rather live there.
Deomiorix is still smiling. "I would tell her that I am pleased to visit her, but that she is also welcome to visit me. I have a home in Pompeii now." He grins over at Bellonus. "And a lover," he adds, in Celtic, that Cerialis will not understand.
"So you do," Bellonus says, and Deomiorix embraces him in joy, hard, before turning to the scribe, practically running to the office to dictate a message."
"Well," Cerialis says. "I am glad that worked out well. And I am pleased you have found a friend, Bellonus," he adds, a strange smile on his face. Bellonus will never tell him what they are to each other, but he has a feeling Cerialis knows anyway and understands.
"News like this calls for celebration," Bellonus says, smiling back. "Sir, will you stay for dinner? Or at least wine?"
"I'll have the wine first," Cerialis says, looking pleased. Bellonus knows how much the man will go through, when he has the opportunity. Now, which of the lesser vintages can he serve first...?
"We have Falernian," Deomiorix' voice comes, muffled through the curtain. "In case Philippos here was planning to hide it." Clearly Deomiorix already knows him too well.
Bellonus smiles brightly. "Falernian, sir?"
"Falernian will be excellent."
The message is dictated, the wine is lingered over, yet it seems like much too soon when Cerialis makes his exit.
After Cerialis leaves, Deomiorix turns to him, smiling. They are alone, for once, in the atrium. Bellonus feels Deomiorix' arms wrap about him.
"Looking forward to going to Massilia?"
Bellonus laughs in surprise. "Me?"
"My mother should meet you," Deomiorix says. "She'll like you. Be on your best manners."
"I've met her already," Bellonus says.
"Not like this. Besides," Deomiorix adds, "I hear it's nice in Massilia."
"Not as nice as here," Bellonus says, picturing the chilly weather of Gaul.
"It can be nice everywhere," Deomiorix counters, slipping a hand under Bellonus' toga. "Trust me."
And Bellonus does.