i.

Truth be told, Agron had never favored brothels. Not in Germania, not in Capua, most certainly not here in the middle of fucking nowhere. What he did favor was wine, especially after a long day of travel, and if that necessitated a visit to the whorehouse of this tiny town, so be it.

I never should have left home, he thought, not for the first time since he and Duro had parted ways. The stupid fuck. Always trying to prove himself. He'd be back.

"To fraternity," he said moodily, to no one in particular, and drank deeply.

As it happened, no one in particular responded.

"A curious thing to drink to, drinking alone."

A small figure made its way around him and lifted itself to sit on the table, facing him. A boy. A man, really, still with the echo of boyhood upon him, and gods be fucked if he wasn't among the most gorgeous men Agron had beheld. A simple white cloth tied about his waist and long, dark hair pulled back from sharp features, he grinned cheekily.

Slow from drink, Agron said, "Um."

"Perhaps you would share a cup?"

"I – yes… yes."

An amused grin formed upon the boy's lovely face. "I've not seen you here before," he said, accepting the cup of wine. "Do you have a name, traveler?"

"Agron. Of Germania. What of yours?"

"I'm called Tiberius."

"Tiberius?" Agron frowned. "You're far too dark for such a fair Roman name."

"I'm more Roman than Syrian," said Tiberius lightly, sipping from his cup.

Furrowing his brow slightly, he replied, "Then it seems I'm not the only one a fair ways from home." He was not stupid. He and Duro and the girls had grown up on tales of the war their Teutones grandfathers had fought to avoid the shackles of Roman slavery. The republic was vast in influence, easily able to take what did not belong to it. That did not make it just.

As though reading his thoughts, the copper-skinned boy said, "I fear you do not favor Italia."

"I find the countryside beautiful, and little else," he replied.

Setting his cup down next to the amphora, Tiberius slid closer to him. At such a near distance, Agron could see the golden flecks that ringed the deep brown of his eyes. "Fall to bed with me and see such thoughts forgotten."

Fuck the gods.

"Is that a promise?"

Tiberius grinned. "It's a guarantee."

ii.

"So, what are we talking, clean jeans?"

"Do you own a button-up?"

"Do I – okay, that's a joke."

Nasir shook his head and said, "Look, you could show up naked and I wouldn't give a fuck, but… it's just my parents are going to be there. Trust me, this is more for your sake than mine because they're going to be inclined to hate you anyway."

"What, because I'm white?" Agron asked.

"Because you're a foster kid, you dick," Nasir said, rolling his eyes.

("You want to see what kind of man a boy will grow up to be, just look at his father," he'd said, the usual crowd at Kouri Family Deli nodding and murmuring agreement. "I don't like how much time you're spending with this delinquent."

"Agron wants to be a journalist, Baba," Nasir had replied, pulling on his coat, wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of there, needing Agron's hands on him, his teeth scraping his bottom lip right the fuck now. "We met in Ancient World Civ. That's not really the same thing as serving eighty to life.")

Agron raised a brow and said, "So you're asking me to sit through dinner with your parents I've never met but hate me anyway, not to mention Ashur Fucking Kouri, pretending we're not fucking, wearing a button-up."

"Yep."

"Do you seriously hate me that much?" he laughed, chugging the last of his beer before throwing it over the edge of the fire escape.

"No. But it's my birthday and I want you to be there."

Agron glanced at him.

"Also, I think I'm in love with you," said Nasir, his eyes fixed on the freeway.

iii.

In the end, it came down to the fact that, in spite of appearances, Nasira was a born fighter, and a fucking good one at that. Rhaskos and the rest had nearly shit themselves from laughter when Agrona announced intent to teach her woman the sword, but she had held Mirkos' gaze, ultimatum in her eyes.

Be prepared for mutiny if your decision should displease.

Sprawled prostrate upon the temple sands, Lugo was not laughing now.

"Do not fucking call me your little woman," she hissed at him, dark hair flying from its binds, curling slightly from sweat. "Lay hand upon me again and see it lost."

Nasira spit upon the sand, mere inches from his face, though something in her demeanor had changed. Agrona wasn't entirely sure what it was, but when the gathering of rebel forces – come to a standstill at the spectacle of a burly German warrior thrown to defeat by a girl who stood no taller than a seedling boy – erupted in a clamor of sudden cheers, Nasira turned and Agrona could see the triumph in her eyes, the gratified rise of bloodied lips into a victorious smile.

Agrona gathered her into her arms and responded enthusiastically through laughter when Nasira's hand upon the back of her neck dragged her down to claim her lips.

"You are in fine form tonight," she murmured against her dark mouth.

"You have no idea," Nasira purred, and led her by the hand to their bed.

iv.

"Dominus hosts a celebration tomorrow night to honor his new patron," hissed Agron, unsure of which was more urgent, his words or the fervent kisses they escaped through. "I am sure Novellus has received invitation. Promise me you'll be there."

Nasir hissed in pleasure, his hands scrambling to grab hold of some part of the wall he found himself pressed against. Their time was short, Novellus would soon notice Nasir's absence, but dire circumstances called for drastic measures, and when Agron had spotted him in the marketplace he knew the risk was needed.

"Promise me."

He could not, a thing they both knew well.

"I promise."

v.

"Truly, Nasir, you choose here of all places to meet?" asked Duro, glancing about the brothel with distaste.

"The owner owes me a couple of favors," Nasir shrugged.

"I think everyone in Neapolis owes Nasir a couple of favors," Agron laughed, throwing his arm around the Syrian and pressing a brief kiss to the his temple. "Including you, Duro."

Duro rolled his eyes. "To be repaid in kind," he said, and added pointedly, "soon."

"Five hundred denarii is no small fee, brother," said Agron mildly.

"Save your words, boys, they stink of dishonor," cut in Nasir. "Now, to business. Our last contact, Duro?"

"With what information we gathered, Lucius says they are to liberate the ship hailing from Germania two moons from this," Duro said, lowering his voice despite the clamor around them. "Spartacus and his men will dispatch what guards present issue to the afterlife, but there is a matter of duplicity beforehand."

Agron smiled. "A thing we are most skilled in."

A slight crease formed in Nasir's brow. "You are both fair enough to pass as Roman," he said, considering the matter. "I must turn to different disguise."

Agron frowned, and took the smaller man's hand in his.

"You would do this?" he asked.

Nasir shrugged. "It is of no great concern to me if it brings liberty to a score of others," he replied, then smiled ruefully. "Besides, that collar still lurks about somewhere within my belongings."

vi.

"You jest."

Nasir grinned and ducked his head.

"I do not," he said, leaning easily against the bars that separated them. "Do you not agree? Spartacus is built as a god. The things I would do to him if allowed opportunity – "

Somewhere in the back of his throat, Agron emitted a low, gutteral cry. Hands shot through the divide to grab Nasir and pull the small slave towards him so that they found themselves pressed entirely against one another, the metal beams a sharp, unwelcome presence cutting through shared body heat.

"You seek to drive me mad," he growled in his ear.

"You have discovered my ruse, dear gladiator," Nasir responded sweetly, moving to kiss him through bars upon the cheek. Before aim could land, however, Agron shifted to meet Nasir's lips with his own.

When they broke apart, Nasir's hand remained entangled in Agron's matted locks, their foreheads resting contentedly against one another's.

"I fight the day after next," said the German, breathing deeply. "If the gods favor us, Dominus will grant me reward."

"Should you emerge the victor."

"I will."

Nasir cast his eyes to the floor. Agron brought his hand to his cheek, forcing him to meet his gaze.

"I have always done so."

For you, are the unspoken words between them. For so long, Agron's driving force to stay alive in the arena had been Duro. His brother, his best friend, his sole true companion in this world of piss and shit, the one he had protected since they were small boys. Until that gods-cursed Phoenician had smashed his skull in, while Agron could do nothing but watch from behind bars.

While Batiatus had been thrilled with the bloodlust that had come over him in the wake of Duro's loss, he had simply wanted to make them pay. He wanted to make them hurt. Batiatus had refused to let him face the Phoenician – "Below your considerable skills," he'd said, and Agron had never hated the man more than in that moment – so he'd settled for what he could get his hands on, once even ripping a man's limbs from body with his bare hands. That was the victory that brought Nasir to him.

The villa slave had been a trusted, if unexpected, friend since arrival in Capua but it was when Batiatus sent him down to the ludus below that something shifted.

("You do not desire whores? Perhaps a different meal to whet your appetite, then."

And later:

"Nasir, you do not have to… I did not ask for this."

"Perhaps not, yet I did. And it seems Ishtar has heard me.")

Were it not for the promise held within the warmth of dark gold skin and an easy laugh, Agron may have become entirely unhinged. The Syrian gave him focus, a small prayer sent to Hel each time he set foot in the arena that that day would not be his last, a prayer to Freyja that that night would see Nasir to his arms.

So far, the goddesses of death and love had shown him favor.