Chapter Text
He had done all Agron had advised. His brother, older than him by two years had ordered Duro to stand there and to shut mouth as hands foreign to him touched him like a horse about to be put to stud. He had done that. He had held tongue and had not met eye to any of the fat fuckers in rich cloth who had stared at him as if he was an exotic animal. In turn he had no idea why man in purple cloth who ran gladiator school had wanted Agron and not him. He too could fight. He too had been involved in foreign wars and he too could fight in any arena and kill his enemy. His tribe had taught him that much before he had even had whisper upon chin.
But he had not been chosen, he had been chosen to be sent to some valley a long way away. He did not even recognise the name. All that he knew in that moment was that he was to be taken from his brother, the only person he could remember having. Having lost both of his parents to sickness and battle in that order he had known only Agron. The thought of losing him was beyond pain itself. They had battled their own Gods to stay in this life by each other’s side. Agron had given him half of share of meals in slave ship so that he could recover from wounds. It had been assured, always assured to them that they would go as a package pair. It had never occurred to him that he would be sold one way and Agron another at the whim of a man that had put them in chains.
Duro had felt Agron stiffen next to him and he knew with instinct akin to fighting what brother was preparing to do.
“Save yourself foolish attempt brother. We cannot both be taken from this life. You can win in the arena…and we will see each other again”
He wanted to shout it to his brother but such things would more than likely get him condemned to the mines. And Duro had been in this shithole of an empire long enough to know that the mines were a death sentence.
He turned back to look at Agron, wanted to see his face one last time. To imprint it on his eyelids so that he never forgot it even on the darkest nights and—
Duro thought that a look so full of anguish as seen upon his brother’s face at that moment was such that he would never forget sight. His last sighting of Agron had been his brother’s green eyes filled with tears as they were separated. Duro had not been telling a falsehood. He knew with certainty that he and Agron would see each other again. In this life or what was more likely…the next.
And then with one last look at anguished green eyes, he was gone.
He tried not to think of that as the months turned by. He had been bought by some old couple who seemed to like young things to look at. Duro had yet to figure out motivations but they were the type of is couple in his old village one would assume had their fingers in every pot and were stirring it, they were well off and though they did not integrate with the politics of this strange city he was in they only hired the best looking slaves or the ones that could give them power.
It was utterly boring.
Perhaps that was a lucky thing a slave could say about slavery. But it was utterly boring and Duro was not a man made for boredom. He was also not a man made for the cross and the first slave he saw (for the commander of this city made all the slaves watch such a thing) crucified was not something he was going to unsee. He had made promise to himself that he was going to see Agron in this life and he meant it. Running away and simply being captured to be tortured and left to die a most painful death was not in the description.
So he made himself as blank as he could. He did what he was told, let his muscles waste away, allowed his mind to drift when it could, he bent the knee and played the man broken and all the while he kept his eyes on the one true prize. Freedom.
He was six months into this mental exile as it was when she arrived.
Diona.
She had been sent from some house he was sure, sent out of the way and it was clear why when she refused to meet the Dominus’s eyes. Duro was no fool he was aware of what happened in houses such as these. Just because his own Domina and Dominus had no interest in his body did not mean that other people did not, other Romans…and even other slaves if the mood partook him…the one rule of this house was no children. The last slave who had fallen pregnant had been whipped within an inch of her life and then thrown to the mines babe and all. Again it was the little injustices that rankled him so deep.
It was not intent to fall in love with her, not intent to love her back to life as she put it.
It just…happened.
Gods above he could hear his brother’s reaction to that one even now.
It started gentle, sometimes just spare food they could share, they were both the only slaves in attendance and they were given more freedom than most. Sometimes it was just little smiles, then it was food and touches and then finally she came to him and came to bed and he like the fool he was confessed his love for her.
For reasons beyond his understanding she loved him back. She let him touch her, let him gently show her what a real man did to pleasure the woman that he loved. It was the kind of love where lying together did not come into it. Duro would have been happy with simple enough companionship but he slowly they cultivated a secret relationship of touches and kisses and then finally when she allowed him to enter her he gently (or he hoped) that he gently showed her what a good man would do with is body in service of the woman he loved.
And gentle gazes of burning love turned to words and touches.
It was the best he had felt since he had been dragged to Roman shores. The best that he had felt since he had been a child…
It did not diminish the ache that Agron’s absence left but…it made being chained, made the acceptance that in the eyes of the Roman’s he was less than dirt, somehow better to swallow.
And that led them to here.
Nasir had once thought the worse of the dire straits he had been in had been in the woods when he had been stabbed.
He was now rapidly coming to the conclusion that he had been wrong.
He did not know how he had fallen only that he had been separated from Agron, something that he knew Agron was going to hate, he knew enough to know that something had hit him heavy and hard on the back of the head and that he had fallen into the darkness that had beckoned him like a sweet dream.
He had woken up aware that the Romans were going through the bodies. He had laid there very still until he had heard the signal or what he thought was the signal to retreat. He knew enough to know that he must remain still until the last of them faded and then he would regroup and rejoin rebels and get some help for his side which had been cut from hip to rib. It was a shallow cut, nothing but a scar would remain but he knew enough to know of infection and Agron…
Well…
Agron would be unbearable.
He still did not know how he got to this place. Did not know how he got through small door. He was beyond help now he thought, the blood had slipped over his finger down his ribs into his legs and was now crusting his feet. He moved with a single purpose desperate for help weather it be friend of foe, aching for Agron and he did not know…
He did not know how he found him.
Maybe it was gift by the Gods but as he slipped from ally to ally and then a hand reached out and grabbed him pulling him back.
Green eyes stared at him blown wide and for a second he thought it was Agron.
The hissed curse was Agron’s language, the resemblance almost uncanny, the concern and the fear written over face almost a mirror resemblance to the one that he longed to see with his whole being but absent of love.
What was it that Agron had told him?
“I too had a brother”
“He fell against the Romans?”
“No…he was sold. I don’t know where he is, he is lost to me, and rebellion does not make it easy to track him across the Roman Empire. I fear the next time I will see Duro it will be in the afterlife free of the Romans that I put there. Each Roman I slay is in tribute to him”
“Agron” he said. It was the only name Nasir cared to remember, even over his own.
Green eyes widened slightly and then…
There was a second shadow by the door and then a woman was there. Dark hair fell over shoulders, dark blue eyes guarded and her posture that of…well…it reminded him of Naevia when even now she was unsure of strange rebel man.
“Diona get back inside—”
“Dominus calls…and…guard” she hissed.
Nasir had one moment to appreciate footfalls and then green eyes was dragging him into house. The door bolted shut and then less than half a moment later the sound of booted footsteps on the ground. Diona pressed her back against the door for a second and Nasir clung upright though more of his blood was staining the ground and…
“They are gone…”
It was the last thing he remembered before his knees went out.
The last thing he looked at was those eyes.
Green eyes.
Agron’s eyes.
His final thought was that if this was the conclusion of his life…seeing Agron’s eyes (if not his face) as his last sight was a gift from the Gods he long thought abandoned him.
He was face down on the floor. He did not deserve the luxury of cloth right now. He was down upon floor face into the dirt where he hoped he could climb down and be with his beloved heart again.
Spartacus was in the corner of the tent with him sat with his knees up and resting his hand on them. Crixus had come in once but Spartacus had dismissed him instead keeping his eyes on the floor. He was thinking of his wife Agron knew that, thinking of his own heart ripped from chest in the same way that Agron knew his own had been.
He had thought he knew pain when his brother had been ripped from him never to be seen again.
This…this was something else.
This was…agonizing.
They had not found a body. A part of Agron, the small child who desperately wanted to believe that he could be granted happiness once more wanted to believe that, that meant that Nasir had stumbled out of Roman clutches and had sought out help. A part of him was unsure if he would ever accept that the man he loved was dead, the concept of Nasir and…even thinking of such words made him want to lie down and die himself like a dog whose owner had been snatched from. Indeed he had already howled himself horse, had screamed in Spartacus’s arms and torn at his face until Spartacus had taken his hands and rocked him as if child tormented by nightmare.
Which it was…this life was a nightmare.
Without a body there was hope. But Agron was a stranger to hope. He did not know if he could dare to hope that he would see Nasir again in the way that Crixus had done with Naevia. He did not know where Nasir would go. Did not know where he would run to or if he could run, if the Romans had taken him capture or if he had been simply churned over in the bodies. Crixus and Gannicus were assisting in that discovery but Agron did not know what he could hope for except for a knife to end his own pain and…well…Spartacus had took that from him with a stern look.
The tent flap opened and he knew that it was Gannicus. Crixus would have just spoken but Gannicus stared at him. Agron had heard whispers that once there had been a woman that Gannicus had loved robbed of her life and that he had never recovered. He did not know nor did he care to know.
Spartacus stood up each limb heavy with disuse.
“We have not found a body” Gannicus said. “Crixus has had everyone combing the field…he is sure that we would have found…evidence” he said carefully. “If Nasir fallen to suspected fate. We can turn our attention to Romans but the nearest city of which to render aid and assistance is five miles away. It depends on injuries—”
Agron groaned again and Gannicus with one last look at Spartacus beat a hasty retreat.
Spartacus gave a heavy sigh and moved to sit by his side again. One hand came out on his shoulder as Agron heaved into the dirt. Agron did not care enough to shake it off.
He lay face down in the dirt. It hurt to think. It hurt to breathe.
Spartacus said nothing. With the all knowing pain of one who had walked the road ahead of him before he simply sat there and held onto his shoulder as Agron the once fearsome warrior from Lands East of the Rhine turned to hollow shell, a beating heart torn from grasp, existing no more.