Archive of Our Own

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Heat bears down here, sweat pooling beneath arms and breasts and folds of skin. The sun’s oppression is unrelenting. Rome. The eternal city, as its sons call it, a sweltering procession of cages and chained marches as Vel has thus far found it, is nothing like Isuer. Home was short summers and biting winters, old oaks and rolling hills. Rome has the hills at least, but that’s where the similarities end. 

The city heaves with life. Even from the relative seclusion of a slaver’s cage, the sheer scale of the place is almost incomprehensible. A million people, one of her newfound compatriots reckons, a learned man from wherever Syria is, who seems to know about these things. Vel’s sure he’s wrong on this, though. There aren’t a million people in the whole of Pritanī, how can there be that many in this one city?

How many of them can understand Vel’s native tongue, she wonders. Her Latin is fluent enough that she can parse most everything the slaver now responsible for her fate is saying, as well as make conversation with a few of the men stuck in this cage with her. The learned Syrian man, a Suebi noble whose own tragic taking by the Romans bore a marked similarity to Vel’s, and a half-sane Judean whose worship of some new enemy god of Rome has landed him here. 

She’s been in this particular cage for four days now. It was a long march through Gaul before that, and a ship from the new Roman port in the south before that. She doubts she’ll be here much longer, if the conversation her supposed master is having is anything to go by. He’s being questioned by another man, shorter and older, speaking in an accent that she thinks might be Greek, if what Mon had once told her was true. 

When will you ever see Mon again? Is she even alive? 

The man’s line of questioning is troubling, to say the least. Do they know how to fight? How well have they been fed? Do any seem likely to protest violently? She knows the kind of games these Romans revel in, she’d even seen them once when Mon had taken her to Camulodunon. Blood sports, slaves sent to fight to the death against other slaves for no other reason than to exult in the violence. Even half dazed from the long march south, Vel hadn’t missed the new colossus of stone and marble at the city’s heart. An amphitheatre of that size can serve but one purpose. 

The rattle of their cage door breaks Vel out of her stupor. The slave driver’s men enter and begin herding the lot of them out a moment later, with shouts at first and the threat of a clubbing if that fails. Vel goes without protest; her shoulder still aches from her last attempt at defying the orders of men like this. Her destination isn’t far, at least, a caged wagon is waiting for them at the entrance to the market, watched by a pair of frankly hideous men and driven by a pair of marginally less hideous oxen. 

The journey beyond that is painfully slow. The streets of Rome are congested with more people than Vel has ever seen in a single place; none of them seem set on yielding even in the face of shouts from the drivers and bellows from the oxen. It takes what must be the better part of an hour to finally cross from the city proper to its outskirts, and an hour beyond that to reach open country. 

More hours pass as they travel yet further from the city. Vineyards give way to neatly ordered groves of olive trees, which give way to endless fields of wheat, gold and shimmering in the afternoon sun. It’s almost dark by the time their destination appears on the horizon, an expansive villa silhouetted against the wine-dark sky. Darkness has fallen fully by the time their transport draws to a halt, the ugly pair of drivers emptying them out into a courtyard wider than most of the tribal chiefs' halls back home. 

The short man from before appears from inside the villa proper, though Vel has no idea where he went after the city and how he beat them here, and snaps his fingers. The guards take that as some kind of sign, cajoling Vel and the other slaves into a line; at spear point this time, now they are past the limits of the city. 

The short man makes a cursory pass of the line, seemingly satisfied because he returns to the door he appeared from and holds it open, calling, “Ready, Domina.”

The woman that emerges from within the villa must be Belisama in human form. Gorgeous beyond Vel’s ability to describe, a picture of grace in silks bluer than the evening sky and dancing like the clouds. She begins her own pass down the line, decidedly less cursory than that of the short man, as he regales her with everything the slave driver in the market had told him earlier that day. 

The woman pauses when she reaches Vel, dark eyes searching her with a curiosity she hasn’t shown the rest of her new property. 

“Her?” The woman asks, her speech unmistakably marking her as part of the Roman elite.

“Britannia, Domina, from past even the new fortress at Eboracum. Cut from the same cloth as fearsome Boudica, she even has the hair. I’m told she was taken during her tribe's pacification, after the old king's wife and said wife’s lover threw him off and refused their regular tribute.”

“And she can fight?” The woman asks again, somewhat incredulous, eyes fixed on Vel.

“As I was told. Britannia is strange country, Domina, the order of things in the places beyond the legions reach is…”

“I’ve read vita et moribus, Agelaos, I’m aware.” The woman reaches now, cupping Vel’s chin and pulling on her bottom lip with a thumb, seemingly inspecting her teeth. Dark brown eyes linger at Vel’s mouth even after she loosens her grip. “Does she speak any Latin?”

“Enough,” Vel answers, causing both the woman and the short man’s attention to snap to her. 

“Hm, good,” the woman answers, eyes lingering on Vel’s mouth a moment longer before snapping to meet her gaze. “Do you have a name, Briton?” 

“Vel, of the Sarthae,” Vel says, straightening her stance but still falling short of the woman in front of her. 

“Good. And do you know who I am, Vel of the Sarthae?” The woman asks, tilting her chin up by just a fraction.

“I’m afraid not.” 

“I am your one chance of living a life that will be remembered, rather than one spent in the freezing mud,” she replies, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You will know me as Galla Kleya Markia, but you will name me only as Domina, understood?”

Vel sighs, hard, weighing what defiance in this moment would cost her, and finds the price too high, if only for the moment. 

“Yes, Domina.” 

“Good,” Kleya responds, the barest hint of a smile playing across her face. “As for your skill at arms, we’ll see to that on the morrow. I’d hate to think a warrior woman of Britannia would fall contesting the rest of these dregs in battle.”

Kleya gives Vel one last inscrutable look before continuing on her way down the line, surveying the rest of her stock. Vel sighs, almost shrinking as she passes, grappling with the true, dawning horror of her situation. 

You are going to die for this woman. Be it in the arena or trying to escape, her hand is locked around your throat.

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The oppressive heat from the city has followed her here, to this cage of marble. The sun beats down on the same yard they’d arrived at the night prior, daylight revealing the extent of it. A functional arena of sand, walls lined with racks of wooden swords and spears, dented old shields, and armour that is more rust than not. There are more people here than had arrived with Vel yesterday, whether they are as new as her or an existing stable of warriors is unclear. 

The short man and his ugly compatriots arrive a few moments later, barking orders for a line to be formed. A few of the unknown faces grumble, as well as the Suebi from Vel’s group, but they ultimately comply. 

A flurry of information follows. Vel’s group is new, the strangers are not; one of each new arrival is to pair off with one of the old hands for sparring duels. The pairs are assigned seemingly at Agelaos’s whim, meaning Vel is put up against a boy who seems half her age and twice her height. 

The duels are conducted with wooden weapons, a sword in Vel’s case and a spear in the boy’s. He’s not bad, all things considered, but it's clear he hasn’t grown up with a weapon in his hand like Vel has. She has him disarmed twice, on the floor twice, and the point of her wooden blade finds his throat four times within the span of ten minutes. His Latin is passable, at least, and Vel thinks she might as well know the people she’s stuck here with. 

“Britannia,” she calls – because the Roman name is probably more widely understood than Pritanī would be – over the lip of her shield as she closes in for a swipe at his gut, one he just catches with the haft of his spear. “You?” 

“Kush, Meroë,” he answers, then quickly follows it with, “So I’m used to the sand.” In a tone that implies it's a joke. Vel doesn’t know where Kush is, precisely, to know if that’s funny, but she assumes it is. 

“I’ve never met a… Kushian? Before,” Vel calls again, this time lashing out at his shoulder, missing by barely an inch. 

“Kushite! And I’ve never met a Briton. The crowds must love the variety.”

“So it seems,” Vel says, creating distance between the two of them as she reassesses her approach. “Vel, by the way.” 

“Natakamani. Good to know you, Vel,” he says, lifting a hand to call for a pause in the bout. “Hopefully, I never have to kill you.” 

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Vel answers jokingly, and Natakamani smiles, so any offense taken must be minimal. “Here long?” Vel asks, coming to perch against a low fence next to him, taking a sip from the meagre water skin they were provided for the day's training. 

“Half a year,” he answers, taking a swig from his own skin. “Since the Domina started rebuilding.”

Vel just stares at him like that means anything to a woman who arrived less than a day ago, which he takes as enough of a signal to explain.

“The Domina was married to some senatorial type, though even among the slaves it was widely known to be entirely political,” Natakamani starts, his voice half a whisper. “Her father is one of the richest men in the city, though he isn’t attached to any of the old patrician families. Whatever reasoning he had for marrying the Domina off, that’s clearly gone now, because she had him out the moment a letter came down from the city. They both seemed pleased by it, mind, had the whole split arranged ahead of time. She kept the villa, he took the prize fighters.”

“She kept the taste for blood sports, too, clearly,” Vel grumbles. 

“Look sharp!” Agelaos barks, cutting the conversation short. “The Domina wants to get a sense for how you new lot fight,” he points to Vel and Natakamani, finger crooked in a way that suggests a poorly healed break in the past. “You two first, since you're clearly better rested than the rest of your comrades.”

Kleya is once again ethereal in her blue silks. Vel had once heard a Roman priest speak of their goddess Venus, so beautiful they had named the brightest star in the night sky after her. It’s a comparison she’s sure Kleya has heard a lot, and one Vel would still be inclined to make if she weren’t currently, begrudgingly, by the law of the Romans, her property. 

Her gaze is on Vel, chiefly. Sharp, dark eyes almost look molten in the sunlight. Vel picks up her shield and steps forward. Natakamani steps across from Vel and pivots, facing her. The rest of their cohort forms a human wall in a semi-circle, providing the edge of their makeshift arena for them. 

The fight starts slowly, steady feet taking measured steps as the two of them orbit each other. Making the first move in a duel is always a risk, Vel learned that young. Initiative for you and opening for your enemy all at once. 

Natakamani takes the risk this time, lunging for Vel’s flank with his spear. Her shield comes up and catches it, sending the spear and Natakamani both wide. Her initiative now, she brings her sword up in an arc, just barely missing his neck, leaving Vel’s arm just above his shoulder. She lunges this time, thinking fast and hooking the pommel of her sword over the back of Natakamani’s neck, pulling him forward and bringing the lip of her shield up to meet his chest. 

The blow lands hard, sending him staggering backwards, and Vel pursues, slashing now at the top of his shield, not aiming for a killing blow but trying to open him up for one. The move works; his arm swings wide and the shield with it, and Vel is on him before he can bring his spear up to defend, stopping the tip of her wooden sword just shy of his heart. 

The crowd cheers, raucous. Agelaos claps as if his meagre instruction had anything to do with her victory. Kleya just watches, inscrutable, before leaning in and whispering in Agelaos’s ear. His eyes widen, just for a moment, before he begins barking instructions.

“Sarthae woman! The Domina wants to speak with you. The rest of you sorry lot, we’re going to practice brawls! Groups of four, move it!”

Kleya gestures for Vel to follow, leading her to a covered section at the far end of the training yard. A pair of chairs and a table sat waiting for them, so ostentatious and richly appointed Vel could scarcely believe they didn’t belong to Trajan himself. Kleya gracefully reclines into hers, while Vel perches at the edge. It’s shocking that Kleya can seem so composed even when ostensibly relaxing. 

Vel can’t help but take Kleya in this close up. The sharp line of her jaw, the way she carries herself, the barest ghost of dark nipples hiding beneath wisps of blue silks. She’s the most gorgeous woman Vel has ever seen, surely that has ever lived.

“You fight well, Vel,” Kleya offers, a diplomatic smile playing out on her face. “Do you enjoy it?” 

“No, not especially,” Vel answers, honestly. “Not the killing either. I’m just good at it.”

“Do all the women of your… tribe, I’d hazard a guess, learn to fight like that?” 

“Tribe, yes, fight, no. Most of them farm, oats and cows and the like,” Vel says, suddenly realising how mundane that must sound and following it with “I was– my parents were, that is, sworn to the chief of the tribe. They passed years ago, thank Senuna for that. My cousin raised me, largely, and I wasn’t much for law giving or oration, so I had a sword put in my hand and the rest is… the rest.”

“Did she survive, your cousin?” Kleya presses, leaning forward. 

“I don’t– I hope so,” Vel answers, not much above a whisper. “She was friendly with the governor of Eboracum, so maybe, but…”

“But they like a clean slate, don’t they?” Kleya says, herself barely above a whisper, and something has changed in her voice, like all the previous joviality has fallen away, or never really existed. “They make a solitude and call it peace. Everything in the world belongs to them, in their minds, because nobody can stop them. They can’t even begin to imagine it.” 

“Imagine what?” Vel says, shoulders tensing. 

“That someone might stop them. Not an army, not ‘barbarians’ at the gate. That their death would come from a thousand tiny, imperceptible cuts from within, until suddenly their guts are spilled across their fine, polished marble, and they have no chance of keeping hold of them.”

“And who is this ‘someone’, Kle– Domina?” 

“I suppose we’ll find out in time, won’t we?” Kleya responds, the previous joviality slipping back in like it had never left. “Now, Vel, I’d like to hear more about your home. And more about you, if you wouldn’t mind, it’s such a rare treat to converse with a true, educated mind from beyond the frontier.”

“Home, right,” Vel responds, understanding what is required of her if not the reasoning behind it as yet. “Well, first, tell me; do you happen to know where the nearest druid is?”

“...Druid?” Kleya asks, genuinely thrown. “I’d heard your Celtic gods were served by them, but–” 

“Oh, all over the place, a druid round every corner and behind every choice, that’s why I need one,” Vel replies, trying to conceal the amusement in her voice. “I’ll need a goat, too. We can cut its entrails out, he’ll give me an exacting vision of what he read in the poor thing’s guts, and that should, Senuna willing, tell me where to start with all of this.”

Kleya stares at her, confusion giving way to incredulity, incredulity giving way to frustration, frustration finally breaking in the face of laughter, real and unguarded. 

Much of the rest of the afternoon plays out this way, with Vel trying her best to summarise a place as contradictory as home, weaving in jokes where she can, and Kleya listens. Really listens, and laughs besides. It shocks Vel, just how easily she can bring laughter forth from Kleya. She had always assumed Roman aristocrats like this would be entirely alien to her, especially one like Kleya, who so clearly harbours something beyond the facade of the Domina. Perhaps Vel has just misread her. Or perhaps Kleya simply likes her. She isn’t sure which.

Never forget who she is, Vel. Who you are to her. She’ll send you to the lions one day.

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Weeks pass like this. Vel trains, sleeps, trains again. Her conversations with Kleya are frequent, long afternoons spent discussing everything and nothing. Some of the other gladiators stare daggers at her each time, whisper as she passes at dinner, but that seems to be the worst of it. 

She’s growing to like Kleya, in spite of everything that makes that a terrible idea. She has one of the sharpest minds Vel has ever encountered, a wit quicker than a speeding horse, and is beautiful in ways Vel can scarcely describe. Vel has no doubt that if Kleya had been the daughter of a tribal leader back home, the two of them would have fallen into bed together before long. 

She isn’t the daughter of a tribal leader, though. Kleya is her Domina, and whatever kindness and companionship she offers Vel, it will always come with the reminder of the yoke. Agelaos speaks more frequently of competitions now, and Vel knows she will have to fight soon. She’s the best of Kleya’s entire stable by far, and her doted-upon favourite. 

She will have to kill in the arena, or forfeit her life in protest.

You will never be free.

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Vel is resting one evening, close to the end of her second month here, and after a long day of bouts in the practice field, when Agelaos’s scraping voice sees fit to disturb her peace. 

“Sarthae woman?” he asks, though it seems a redundant question, where else could she possibly be. 

“Here, you old grump,” Vel answers, sitting up and shifting to the edge of her cot, nursing an ache in her knee that she earned at the point of a training spear. 

“The Domina has need of you this evening,” Agelaos says, rounding the corner to Vel’s barely a room, hefting a burlap sack over one shoulder and a freshly painted shield over the other. “Your armour, just in from the city.” He gestures with the sack, placing it delicately against a wall. “You can leave the shield and the helmet, but you’ll need the rest on. She’s hosting the good and the great, and you’re part of the evening’s entertainment.” 

“I can’t fight without the helmet and the shield, Agelaos,” Vel answers, standing and taking the sack into her arms. 

“No fighting today,” he grunts, as if that isn’t the most obvious explanation for needing her armour. “It’s a convivium, drinks and food and machinations and the like. You’re to stand there, look suitably barbaric, and be an impressive sight for the Domina’s visitors. Only speak when spoken to, and don’t say anything that might go about offending patrician sensibilities, understood?” 

“A statue for them all to gawk at,” Vel huffs bitterly. “Better than the lions, I suppose.” 

“You do as your Domina orders, gladiator, and none of that cynicism when you are down there. You are the sad, backwards warrior woman from Britannia, and you’ll act like it.” 

Agelaos turns and scurries away before Vel has the chance for more back chat. She turns her attention to her new armour instead, placing the sack at the foot of her cot before spreading its contents across it. Padded wraps for her right arm and legs, iron greaves, a segmented sleeve of iron plates also for her right arm, a frankly ridiculous belt of gold and silver and cow’s leather, and a bronze helmet with a wide brim, a tall crest, and a full-faced mask. The equipment of a Murmillo, she knew; it was the style Agelaos had been training her in these two months. It provides decent enough protection when combined with the tall shield she’s also been provided – painted a rich blue that matches Kleya’s silks and adorned with a pair of eagles – but it still pales in comparison to the mail shirt she’d had back home. 

Notably, there’s no provision for covering her chest included with this kit. If it were just Kleya, that wouldn’t be a problem, but Vel’s not especially keen on being that bare for the good and the great of the city of Rome, so she opts to wear her strophium too, crossed over itself and knotted at the front to better stand up to the evening of scrutiny she was sure she was about to endure. 

After some trial and error, as well as a not insignificant period of fidgeting and adjustments, Vel is content with the armour's fit. None of it is too tight or too loose, and the plates of her greaves and metal sleeve are remarkably high quality. The belt is still ridiculous, mind, but Vel’s come to learn that ostentatious displays are all the rage with the Roman elite, and even in the heat of battle it's apparently important that people can see Vel is owned by a woman of status. 

There’s nothing for it now, and waiting will just result in more dread, so Vel summons her courage and heads for the guarded door to the villa proper; somehow more frightened now than she has been before any of the battles she’s fought in her life thus far. 

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The villa is alive with sensations as Vel enters. Incense and the smell of half a hundred dishes from the kitchen greet her, followed by the murmur of a dozen different conversations and distant music, as the opulent silks and golden accoutrements of the patricians that fill them float by. It’s a tableau of excess, wealth spent just to prove it exists. 

Vel is disoriented by it for a moment before her eyes find Kleya, speaking to a pair of wrinkled and stooped old men in the central courtyard. Her eyes also find Vel a moment later, a wide and unguarded smile playing across her face as she makes her excuses and disengages from whatever – almost certainly dull – conversation she was having with the greybeards. 

Vel can’t help but match the smile. If said smile undercuts the image of the barbarous warrior woman, so be it; Kleya is like as not going to be the only bright spot of this whole evening, and Vel can’t find it in herself to refuse that small joy. 

Kleya is a picture of elegance, fine blue silks threaded through with silvers and golds, as beautiful as anything Vel has ever seen.

“Look at you, Vel,” Kleya says as she approaches, still beaming. “Blessed of Vulcan and Mars, you look every bit the warrior.” 

“My thanks, Domina,” Vel replies, suddenly sheepish in the face of Kleya’s compliments. 

“It fits well, I hope?” Kleya asks as she comes to a stop in front of Vel, one hand fiddling with the straps of her padded arm covering and the other fiddling with the hem of her ridiculous belt, almost probing in a way that makes Vel’s breathing hitch. 

“Very,” Vel says, a little too quickly, trying to regain composure. “The helmet and the shield are works of art, too.”

“I’m beyond glad,” Kleya replies, amused, as her hand shifts from Vel’s arm, cupping her cheek instead. “I paid rather exorbitantly for them. Now come,” Kleya says, shifting now to link her arm with Vel’s unarmoured one. “I need you to come and help me make some rather boring conversation with some rather awful men, if you would be so kind.” 

“At your pleasure, Domina,” Vel replies, suddenly fearless because Kleya hanging off of her arm feels like sturdier armour than any of the iron currently covering her body. 

“I should certainly hope so,” Kleya says, in a way that Vel might almost consider flirtatious. 

The rather awful men, as it transpires, are a pair of the emperor's own praetorians, Aurvileus Heert and Lonnginus Jung. The pair of them are surrounded by a smattering of others, one of the greybeards Kleya was talking to before, his shockingly young daughters, and a blonde woman who is as uncomfortable with all of this as Vel herself, if she’s reading her body language right. 

“Ah, the lady Markia!” says the man Kleya has already identified as Heert on their approach. “Kind of you to join us. And with this warrior woman of yours that’s soon to take a thrashing from Lonni’s man. I must say, she’s rather shorter than I expected.” 

Vel just blinks at that, given this particular praetorian stands shorter than she does, but chooses not to rise to it. 

“Can she understand us?” says Lonnginus, somewhat incredulously. 

“She can,” Kleya says, nudging Vel slightly with her elbow as if giving permission to not be the statue Agelaos had instructed her to be. 

“Uh – Yes, yes, I speak Latin,” Vel stutters, unsure of what else to say in the moment.

“Mhm, and remarkably well for a savage,” Heert replies, almost bemused. 

“And what does that mean, exactly?” the blonde woman cuts in.

“Oh, this again,” Heert responds, rolling his eyes dismissively. “For the last time, Gaul has been civilised for a century. You’re hardly barbarous at all.” 

Kleya cuts in before the blonde woman can argue, for the best Vel guesses, given the frustration clear on her face. 

“Dreena! Come, let us leave these fine soldiers to their business for now, hm?” Kleya’s free hand finds Dreena’s arm and tugs insistently. “Lonnginus, Aurvileus, if you’ll excuse us. I’ll be sure to find you both later this evening.”

Kleya departs before either of the praetorians have a chance to reply, dragging Dreena and Vel either side of her in a formation that is remarkably awkward. The three of them stop once they finally reach a quieter corner, far enough away from attention that Kleya lets her Domina persona drop, just for a moment. 

“What news?” Kleya whispers, close to Dreena but loud enough to involve Vel. 

“He’s found him,” Dreena replies, slipping a small scroll of papyrus from a fold of her clothing and pressing it into Kleya’s palm. “Or, the shape of him at least. More in there, but he thinks he’s out past Syene, beyond the cataract.” 

“Good,” Kleya says, then slips back into her Domina persona as the sounds of conversation draw in closer. “And really, it’s been lovely seeing you again. Give my father my love when you are back in the city?” 

“Always, Domina,” Dreena responds, her own tone shockingly cordial compared to what Vel heard just moments ago. The Gaul slips towards the exit without another word. 

“I suppose I’m not allowed to ask what that was all about,” Vel says, soft enough that it’s just between the two of them. 

“Not now,” Kleya says. “Soon, I promise.” 

“Mhm, and what was that the praetorian was saying? About taking a thrashing?” 

“That’s part of it too,” Kleya says, lower now, firmer. “Next week, your first bout. I’ll explain more at the time, but I need you to do as I say until then.” 

“...Yes, Domina,” Vel ultimately acquiesces, in part because she knows this isn’t the place for this kind of conversation, and in part because she can’t help but melt when Kleya looks at her the way she is now. 

“Good. Now,” Kleya says, donning the persona once more and reaffirming her grasp around Vel’s arm. “Just a few more loops of the guests, and they’ll be gone before we know it.” 

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They’ve made four and a half laps around the villa by the time the last of the guests leave. Kleya’s arm has remained looped through Vel’s the entire time. Much of the conversation has been the same, a mix of minute details about the politicking of Rome that flies entirely over Vel’s head, and rather probing questions about what life as a barbarian is truly like. None of it felt especially malicious – besides the questioning by the praetorians that is – most of these Roman elites seem truly unaware that the people living beyond the empire's fringes might actually be people. 

“You did well tonight,” Kleya says softly as the door finally closes on the last of the visitors. 

The villa is quieter now; the rumble of guest conversations has been replaced by the quiet whispers of the house slaves and the occasional bark from Agelaos as the space is returned to normalcy.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Vel replies, half-truthfully. “At least some of the company was remarkably pleasant.”

Kleya smiles at that, almost shy as her eyes drop from Vel’s face. 

“I’m sorry so much of the questioning was the same. I think… there’s far more barbarity in each and every one of those ‘noble’ Romans than there is in you.”  

Kleya is moving before Vel can respond, leaning in and hesitating for just a moment before planting a kiss at the corner of Vel’s mouth with impossibly soft lips. Vel shivers at the sensation, heat running down her spine and coiling in her gut. Two of the house girls stop to stare, but a glare from Kleya quickly sends them running. 

“Goodnight, my champion. Sleep well.” 

Kleya turns and leaves in the direction of her bedroom, leaving Vel alone in the villa’s courtyard, heat and need burning away inside of her. She wants nothing more than to follow Kleya, to take her to bed, and to fuck her and to make her feel what Vel feels for her. 

She doesn’t move. 

You are her slave, and she is your Domina. You can’t ever follow.

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The week between the convivium and Vel’s first bout passes in much the same way all her previous weeks here have. More training, more sleeping, more long afternoon conversations with Kleya. Kleya has been markedly more… possessive in the intervening time. She hasn’t kissed Vel since that evening, but she always finds a way to have a hand on her, always has her eyes lingering on Vel’s lips or her breasts. Vel finds it maddening that she cannot simply reach over and have Kleya, but she always manages to resist the urge, no matter how strong it gets. 

Vel’s first proper fight as a gladiator is to be a private affair, held at the villa in the training yard, for the benefit of Kleya, Lonnginus, and a smattering of other notables from the city. Heert is in attendance, because of course he is, and nearly half a hundred other attendees have arrived, a mix of senators and their wives, praetorians and legionary commanders, as well as a few merchants of particular renown. Only to first blood, as Agelaos has drilled into her this past week, both she and Lonnginus’s man are too valuable to let die in something so small-scale.

Vel is preparing in her poor excuse for a room, fiddling with her armour until the fit is just so, offering silent prayers to Sulis and Senuna and Belisama, as well as to the Roman war gods Mars and Minerva in case their sway proves stronger here. 

“Sarthae woman?” Agelaos’s voice scrapes as he approaches, a second pair of footsteps just behind his. “The Domina wishes to speak to you; stand to attention.” 

The two of them round the corner a moment later, Agelaos in his normal drab, Kleya in her finest silks, blue with gold and silver threads that dance in the light. 

“Leave us, Agelaos,” Kleya says, authoritative and final. 

Agelaos’s face twists into something Vel can’t quite place, but ultimately complies, scurrying back the way he came, granting Kleya and herself some small amount of privacy. Kleya lingers for a moment before stepping forward, nervous if Vel’s read is right, shoulders tensed in a way she’s rarely seen before. 

“I’ll be okay,” Vel says softly, trying to offer reassurance. “I know I can outfight him, and it's a friendly bout, a few scratches will be the worst of it.” 

“About that,” Kleya murmurs, almost unsure. “I need… Do you trust me, Vel?” 

“Yes, Domin– Kleya.” Vel says, and the use of her name rather than her title has Kleya’s eyes jump to find Vel’s. “Always.” 

“And I… Trust you.” Kleya says, stepping in closer. “Which is why I need you to kill Lonnginus’s man today.” 

“...What?” Vel’s voice is small, full of disbelief. “Domina, they’ll execute me.” 

“No, accidents happen,” Kleya answers. “And Lonnginus doesn’t have the legal standing to contest it if I say it was an accident, which I will. I will, Vel, I promise.” 

“You know I despise killing people, you know,” Vel returns, actually hurt. 

“I do. Which is why I don’t ask this of you lightly,” Kleya steps even closer now, cupping Vel’s face in her hands. “This is do or die, Vel, it has to happen. And do not think I am blind to how this hurts you, because I am not.”

“This is to do with your father, isn’t it?” Vel asks, placing her hand across Kleya’s. “And the letters from Dreena, and what you said before about ‘stopping them.’”

“It is,” Kleya confirms. “And once this is done, I will tell you everything, I promise.”

Vel’s eyes flicker shut as a battle rages inside of her. She has seen a dozen battles in her life, she has killed men in all of them. Is this so different? Her cause then was the tribe, Mon, home. Her cause now is… Kleya. Vel’s world begins and ends with Kleya, now. 

It's one man. 

One slave, as bound by the yoke as you. 

He belongs to a praetorian. 

She’s asking you, not ordering. 

“...I can make it look like an accident. A limb, or a nip to the jugular.”

“My champion,” Kleya whispers, leaning forward until their foreheads rest against one another. “Thank you.” 

━━━━━━━━⊰♆⊱━━━━━━━━

There’s a chill in the air as Vel steps out into the yard. Summer is breathing its last as autumn bares its fangs. It's good, she thinks, it’ll keep her from overheating as quickly. And it's the closest thing she’s felt to home in months. 

Lonnginus’s man waits across from her. Tall and lean and graying, the scars covering his chest the marks of a long life spent fighting, in the pit or otherwise. His armour is lighter than Vel’s – he has no shield or helmet – and his sleeve of plates is on his left side. His weapons give her pause, if only for a moment. He’s holding a trident in his right hand, nearly as long as Vel is tall, while a net dangles from his left, weighted at the edges. A sickle dagger hangs at his waist, the kind that Vel’s heard Thracians wield. 

Agelaos steps between them, filling the role of the master of ceremonies for this particular bout. 

“We’ll begin now, if the two Domini are ready?” 

Kleya and Lonnginus nod in turn. The man across from Vel cracks his neck, rolls one of his shoulders. Vel hefts her shield and grips her sword like she means to murder it. 

Do or die, Vel. 

“Begin!” 

Agelaos scurries back to the makeshift stands, leaving a trail of sand and dust behind him. Vel and the man across from her begin their slow approach, circling. Vel watches how the man moves, how he places his feet and how he holds his balance; she’s sure he is doing the same. Every, any advantage could be the difference between victory and defeat. Between her shame and his death.

The man moves first, lunging forward as a feint before sending his trident low, aiming for Vel’s knee. She dodges wide and answers with her shield, swinging the lower lip in a wide arc that grazes the man’s plate sleeve. He steps back, bringing his net up and crashing the weighted edge against Vel’s shield, forcing her back with the impact. 

The circling starts again, both watching for an opening. Vel moves first this time, she punches with the boss of her shield while stabbing at his thigh. The tip of her blade just misses, scraping down the bronze of his greave instead. His trident goes high in response, catching on the brim of Vel’s helmet and twisting her neck hard. 

The two of them grapple for a moment before separating again, but the man is quick to press, flinging his net at Vel’s shield. It catches for a moment but scatters to the floor quickly, but the distraction proves enough. The dagger flashes from his sheath as Vel recovers, hooking over the top of Vel’s shield while the back edge of his trident hooks under the bottom. He pulls hard, wrenching it from her grasp. 

Vel makes distance between them now, stepping back as the shield drops, forcing space. There’s no way she can make an attempt to reclaim it without catching the points of the trident for her trouble, and she’s at a distinct disadvantage against his reach with just a shortsword. 

Vel’s gaze flickers to Kleya, just briefly. Her face is a schooled mask; if she’s worried about Vel’s chances, she isn’t showing it. Lonnginus is fidgeting nervously. Heert is grinning like a fool. 

Vel’s attention snaps back to her opponent as he closes in again, driving his dagger down from above. Vel parries it wide then just manages to bring her sword around to catch the trident as it comes straight for her gut. They carry on like this for a while, the man quick with his attacks and Vel quicker with her defense, always just in time to keep herself safe, though she can feel herself slowing as she tires. 

He clearly realises she's tiring too, and is looking to finish this before his own fatigue catches up with him. He stabs his trident low, just wide of Vel’s ankle. Intentionally wide, she realises, when the back edge hooks against her tendons and pulls, toppling her backwards, sword falling from her grasp. He follows her down, trying to drive the dagger into her shoulder, but she pivots just in time and the dagger drives into the sand. Vel’s quick to answer, using her left shoulder to break his grip on the dagger while her right arm moves, fast, connecting with his face with all the strength she can muster and all the weight of her armoured sleeve behind it.

He lurches back from the impact and Vel seizes the opportunity, grabbing her sword back up and going at him. He stabs wildly with his trident as he tries to recover, but Vel sees her chance in the movement. She catches the haft of the trident under her arm, pins it to her ribs, and grabs his wrist. He tries to struggle, but it's not enough to save him. Vel lifts her sword high, then brings it down hard, steel meeting flesh at the middle of his forearm. Muscle tears and bone shatters as the slash goes clean through, the man's hand and trident coming with Vel as he falls backwards, his scream is deafening, and Vel can barely hear it over the thundering of her heart in her chest and the rasp of her own breathing. 

The man writhes for a moment longer, spurts of blood turning into a trickle, then collapses into the sand.

Vel can’t tell if the crowd is cheering or screaming, it's all muffled beneath the sounds of her own body. She finds Kleya in the stands, the barest flicker of approval playing out across her face. This new conspiracy of theirs takes its first breath as Lonnginus’s man takes his last.

Your conscience for her love. 

━━━━━━━━⊰♆⊱━━━━━━━━

The waters of the villa's bath complex scald as Vel submerges again, the calluses of her hands scraping across the tender skin of her cheek where her own helmet crashed against it in the fight. There is a deep ache in the right side of her neck where the trident twisted it, her back stings any time she flexes, and the bones of her right hand throb from their meeting with her opponent's skull. 

There are older aches, too. The pair of scars that bracket her left bicep, courtesy of a pictish arrow, the old scar across the back of her calf from a Brigantes spear that found a gap in a shield wall, the old, faded burns of father’s punishments from childhood, peppered across her hands and feet. They’ve all dulled with time, but activity as strenuous as this makes Vel aware of all of them.

She stays below until the barest ache begins in her lungs, then emerges again. The air in the villa is colder now that the sun is dipping below the horizon. She bobs towards the non-stepped edge of the bath and the mirror Kleya had left for her there. Her face is clean now, scrubbed of grime and sweat and blood, and she looks almost as tired as she feels. 

“Vel?” Kleya’s voice is soft as she rounds the corner, stripped of the Domina persona and worn down from hours of haggling over compensation for Lonnginus’s dead man. She’s out of her silks now too, dressed down in a simple linen robe that Vel suspects is for sleeping. She’s never seen Kleya like this, so unarmoured. She looks younger like this, and just as tired as Vel.

“They’re gone then?” Vel asks, turning to face Kleya.

“Finally,” Kleya comes to a stop at the edge of the first dry step, sitting on it and letting her feet rest in the water. “Fortuna and Victoria were both with you today,” Kleya sighs softly, continuing, “Now, I suppose it's time you know the truth.” 

“I suppose it is,” Vel says, taking a step closer, water lapping at her collar bones.

Kleya sighs hard, shoulders lifting and then falling again, and then starts, “All of this… you, the rest of the gladiators, Dreena, my father, all of it exists to bring down the empire.” Kleya meets Vel’s gaze, her eyes soft and almost apologetic. “I wasn’t born in Rome, or the empire at all. My family lived beyond the Danube, the Romans know my people as Goths. Our village did something, or nothing at all, and it upset the governor of Pannonia so greatly that he ordered it destroyed. The man I call my father was the commanding centurion of the force sent to burn it. He… broke, I suppose…”

“It happens in war,” Vel says, understanding. “I’ve seen it before.”

“Mhm. Well, he took me in and swore revenge, and that’s spiraled into… all of this. He isn’t even my father legally, though nobody has even thought to look past all the specie to find that out. It’s a necessary fiction.”

“And Lonnginus’s man?” Vel asks, her voice soft.

“He was one of my former husband’s, he’d… seen me taking meetings. It wasn’t an issue until that fool sold him to Lonnginus, but he did, and so…” 

“So he needed to die,” Vel finishes. “...You could have told me before, you know. If I’d known it was keeping you safe, I–” 

“You did what I asked anyway,” Kleya cuts in, voice less steady now. “And you kept me safe anyway, and I can’t do the same for you,” Kleya’s eyes are suddenly wet, tears threatening to fall as she fights to keep her composure. “Because I desperately want to free you, Vel, because keeping any of these people as my chattel is abhorrent, but you especially. But we need you to fight, and the legal precedent doesn’t yet exist for a gladiatrix to become a free woman and still compete in the arena, and if we were the ones to try and set that precedent–”

“It would draw too much attention,” Vel says, soft and sad. “And all of this needs to be as unnoticed as possible.” 

“Mhm. My entire life exists as necessary fictions,” Kleya starts again, barely above a whisper. “And you are the only thing in it that’s real, and I can’t…” 

Kleya stops again, head dropping forward as a tear runs down her cheek. The sight breaks Vel’s heart wide open, and banishes any caution she’s previously adhered to. She steps forward, climbing the steps of the bath until her stomach presses up against Kleya’s knees. Vel’s hand finds Kleya’s at her side, brings it to her lips and kisses her knuckles, then presses Kleya’s palm against her ribs, just below her breast. 

Kleya looks at her, eyes wet and molten and adoring, and Vel knows she’s set on this course for life now, no going back. 

“We don’t have to, if you don’t…” Kleya starts, but the thought dies on her lips.

“Do you want to?” Vel asks, soft and steady. 

“I need you like Sol needs Luna, Vel,” Kleya murmurs, low and rasping. “But I’m tired of robbing you of your agency, and–”

Vel leans in, capturing Kleya’s lips with her own, smothering whatever doubts she was trying to voice. The kiss is soft and reverent and everything Vel has needed for months. Kleya moans softly into it, and her grip against Vel’s ribs tightens as she deepens it, sucking Vel’s lower lip between her own before separating. 

“I want this, Kleya. I want you,” Vel rasps. “You aren’t taking anything that I haven’t freely given.”

Kleya looks again, staring at Vel like she’s more spectacular than all of creation. 

“You need to dry off,” Kleya whispers, lighter than before. “I don’t want my bed getting wet. Then I need you to do everything you’ve ever wanted to me.” 

━━━━━━━━⊰♆⊱━━━━━━━━

Kleya traipses softly into her bedroom, fingers snaked between Vel’s as she guides her. The floor is warm, Vel realises quickly, the whole room is warmer than it has any right to be at this time of year. Candles burn around the room's periphery, casting it in soft shadows and flickering golden light. 

Kleya drops Vel’s hand as they pass the threshold, taking a few steps forward before turning, an almost shy grin crossing her face as she reaches up and unpins the robe she’s wearing at the shoulder, letting it fall to the floor. The sight of Kleya’s body causes Vel’s breath to stutter. She’s slighter than the silks would lead you to believe, tight muscles visible as she shifts subtly. Vel’s eyes feast on all of her; the dark nipples she’d spotted through blue silks, the mess of dark curls between her legs, the softness of her thighs. There’s an old, jagged scar that runs from the top of her hip to just shy of her groin on the left side of her body, stretched and faded with time and growth. 

Vel breaks from her reverie just long enough to drop the towel from around her own shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind her. Kleya’s already dark eyes darken further as she takes Vel in, feasting in much the same way. Vel’s of a stockier build than Kleya, she knows, limbs thicker with a warrior’s muscle, soft in places where Kleya is firm, firm in places where Kleya is soft. 

Kleya takes a couple more steps backwards, stopping when the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed, then sitting, staring at Vel expectantly. Vel takes that as all the prompting she needs and approaches, leaning down as her knees hit Kleya’s and kissing her again, needier this time, hungrier. She can taste the day's wine on Kleya’s tongue as it probes her mouth. Kleya’s teeth scrape her lower lip as they separate, and Vel shifts lower, tracing kisses down the soft skin of Kleya’s neck and down towards her breasts. 

Vel drops to a kneel as she approaches her target, and Kleya spreads her legs to let Vel in even closer. She can feel Kleya’s heat against her stomach, already slick and chasing friction as her hips buck slowly. The feeling of it drives Vel mad, knowing she’s done that to Kleya, and she surges forward, taking one of Kleya’s nipples into her mouth as her hand closes around the other. 

Every suck and flick of the tongue earns a new sound from Kleya, a gasp or a moan or a sigh, and Vel falls further into madness at how responsive she is to all of it. Vel scrapes her teeth across the nipple, and Kleya all but howls, a half-broken “More, please,” spilling from her lips. Vel smiles against her tit before swapping to the other side, decidedly less gentle this time, earning more blissful rapture from Kleya for her efforts. 

The bucking of Kleya’s hips has become firmer as Vel has been lavishing her tits, the soft trail of hair from her belly button down to her own need is soaked and Vel can tell she’s going to need to get involved soon before Kleya takes care of herself. Vel shuffles backwards, just a little, which earns a whine from Kleya until Vel takes her by the waist and tips her backwards, which instead earns a ragged exhale. 

Vel can’t help but take her time, despite Kleya’s clear desperation. She nuzzles her way up the inside of Kleya’s thigh, soft, dark hair tickling the tip of her nose, before repeating the same journey with kisses. 

“Vel, please,” Kleya begs from above her, and Vel decides that because Kleya asked so nicely she won’t drag this out any longer. I live to serve you, my Domina. 

Kleya is just as sensitive to Vel’s ministrations down here, shuddering and gasping with every flick of the tongue, and it isn’t long before Kleya’s need is running down Vel’s chin. Vel savours the taste of it, the feeling of having this power over a woman, and can’t stop herself from sliding a finger inside of Kleya, quickly followed by a second. Kleya’s thighs shake on either side of her head, and Vel shifts as she feels Kleya closing in on her orgasm, swapping her tongue for a thumb on Kleya’s clit and climbing onto the bed, perched above Kleya. 

“I need to look at you as you fall apart,” Vel says, kissing Kleya before continuing, “Will you look at me when you come?” 

Kleya nods, whimpers, and then tumbles over the edge. Her whole body shudders as Vel works her through the climax, eyelids fluttering but staying resolute in holding Vel’s gaze. Vel almost falls apart herself watching; Kleya’s ecstasy is a gift from the divine and feels like a revelation to witness. 

Vel kisses at the corner of Kleya’s jaw, eking the last of her orgasm out of her before slipping her fingers back out from Kleya, bringing the hand up to Kleya’s lips. Kleya’s eyes flit closed as she kisses the length of Vel’s middle two fingers, an act something like worship, before taking them into her mouth and sucking. When her eyes open again, her pupils are blown out almost entirely, and she’s looking at Vel like she wants to devour her. 

“I need to fuck you, Vel,” Kleya rasps, grabbing a rough handful of Vel’s tit and placing her mouth on the other, sucking hard before working circles with her tongue.

“I’m yours,” Vel answers, twisting to lie on the bed but stopping when Kleya grabs her by the hip. 

“I want…” Kleya starts, suddenly shy. “I want you to ride me. Like I’m a man, but…”

“We can do that,” Vel says, smiling and leaning forward to kiss Kleya. “Come up here.” 

Vel moves towards the headboard, gesturing for Kleya to sit against it. Once Kleya is in position Vel finds one of the pillows, stuffs it beneath the small of Kleya’s back for support, and then straddles her hips. 

“Does this please my Domina?” Vel asks, teasing. 

“You don’t have to call me that when it's just us,” Kleya murmurs, a little wounded. “I don’t want you to feel like…” She trails off, softly “… I love you, Vel, I want this to be equal.” 

“...You love me?” Vel asks softly. 

“Mhm. I know my heart well enough to know what it wants. I don’t know if you feel the same, or if you can, given what we are to each other outside of this room, but–” 

Vel interrupts Kleya with another kiss, slow and reverent. She rests their foreheads together as they break apart. 

“Of course I love you, Kleya, how could I not? You’re… you are burning, and bright, and golden, and you are the sun that I chase through the sky.”

“Vel…” Kleya says adoringly. “I doubt you’ve read her, but you have a heart like Sappho’s.” 

“I try,” Vel says, nuzzling against Kleya’s nose. “And I don’t want to ruin this moment, but I was really looking forward to you fucking me, if you still want to?” 

Kleya grins and shifts her hand, a teasing finger tracing down the length of Vel’s want. Vel’s whole chest shudders as she exhales, she’s soaking with need already. Kleya takes a few more passes to gather up Vel’s wetness on her fingers and then slips a digit in, and Vel can’t help but moan like a wounded animal from the sheer, burning need she has for Kleya to be inside of her. 

Vel lifts her hips and then drops them, and Kleya stops briefly, looking at Vel with an unspoken question. 

“Keep your hand still,” Vel murmurs, “You wanted me to ride you.”

Kleya exhales a shuddering breath, adjusting her hand so it rests against her pubic bone, and Vel starts up again, riding Kleya’s finger. Vel’s breaths are coming raggedly as she moves. She has one hand holding the headboard in a white-knuckle grip while the other arm is wrapped around Kleya’s shoulder. Kleya busies herself against Vel’s neck, sucking marks into the skin with no care for what questions might be asked by the rest of the household. 

Kleya adds a second finger to the first and Vel can’t help but moan louder, a low and guttural thing that she’s sure is carrying through the whole of the villa. Heat is coiling in her gut, her legs feel like jelly, and she can’t help but want more of Kleya. 

“Three–” Vel pants against Kleya’s neck. “Add– another, Gods, Please– Kleya,”

She feels Kleya’s breath stagger against her skin, and then a third finger moves to join the other two a second later, questioning. 

Vel answers. She slides herself down, slowly at first, testing her limits. When she reaches Kleya’s knuckles without issue, she decides to throw caution to the wind, returning to her prior pace. She can feel her orgasm closing in on her, and can feel Kleya moaning against her neck, and it's the most alive she’s felt in years, even before being dragged from her home, and–

Vel’s orgasm hits all at once, a howling, shivering thing that wracks her entire body. She grinds down on Kleya’s fingers, her mouth finds Kleya’s shoulder and she bites down, her back cries in blissful agony from the pleasure and the pain of her earlier impact. A gush of wetness surges from her, coating Kleya’s hands and her thighs. 

Vel is shuddering for what feels like an hour afterwards, lost in the blissful fog of her afterglow as Kleya holds her. Kleya’s whole face has softened as Vel finally lifts her head from Kleya’s shoulder, so full of adoration.

“So much for not getting my bed wet,” Kleya murmurs, soft and amused. “...I didn’t know that was a thing women could do.”

“I’ve only done it to myself before,” Vel says reverently. “You’re the first person who has made me… gods, Kleya, I…” 

“I know,” Kleya huffs softly, tucking a strand of hair back behind Vel’s ear. “Stay?” She then asks, soft as anything. “I don’t– I want you to hold me tonight, and every night, if you’ll have me?” 

“We might have to change this bedding, first,” Vel smirks. 

━━━━━━━━⊰♆⊱━━━━━━━━

Night has fallen fully by the time fresh linens are on the bed. It's the softest thing Vel has ever laid on, and even so, Kleya would rather use her shoulder as a pillow instead. Vel’s cheek rests against the crown of Kleya’s head, and she’s drawing slow, aimless circles across Kleya’s back.

“My father’s visiting tomorrow,” Kleya murmurs at one point, focus still half in the distance.

“And what are you going to tell him?” Vel asks softly.

“That you are my lover, and you know everything, and he has no choice but to take you in,” Kleya says, kissing the nearest part of Vel’s skin as she finishes.

“Domina!” Agelaos’s cry arrives before he does, charging into Kleya’s bedroom with reckless abandon. “The Sarthae woman, she’s–”

He stops dead, both body and words, as he catches sight of Vel. Vel tenses, panic flaring, but Kleya barely moves as she answers.

“I’ve found her, Agelaos, no need to worry.”

“Domina, should she not–” 

“No, she shouldn’t,” Kleya answers, defiant and a little frustrated. “She’s where she belongs, she isn’t going to flee or hurt me, and I have no more need of you this evening. That will be all.”

“...Yes, Domina,” Agelaos replies, scurrying back out of the room, noticeably more chastised than before. 

“I don’t want to cause you trouble, being here–” Vel starts, but Kleya shushes her before she can continue. 

“You’re worth any amount of trouble, and I want you here, and you want to be here, and that’s all that matters.” Kleya shifts, placing a kiss against Vel’s cheek before nuzzling into the crook of Vel’s neck. “Now sleep, you’ve had a long day, and there will be longer ones ahead.” 

“Yes, Domina,” Vel murmurs irreverently. 

“It’s still not funny,” Kleya huffs against Vel’s neck, already sleepy. “Goodnight, my champion.”

“Goodnight, my love,” Vel murmurs, sleep tugging at the edges of her consciousness, and she drifts off holding onto Kleya like she’s the most precious thing in the world; in this moment at least, utterly content.

 ━━━━━━━━⊰♆⊱━━━━━━━━

Hellatorius Victorialis

Erastus Necessitas

Furtivus Libertas

Continuandum…