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When Messala was younger he hated the words on his wrist. Even before the age where he was to learn to read and write, he could see that they were different from his mother and father's, the script was curious and square, and definitely not Latin. His parents had been wary of it, covering the words with a leather bracelet to prevent unfriendly eyes from seeing a link to something unorthodox, something to suggest that the treachery which had resulted in the death of Caesar had passed down the bloodline.

As he grew older, and his family was taken from him, Messala took comfort in them. The script, Hebrew or Aramaic as he had learnt from a traveller, gave him direction. He knew that his future lay in the east, that the person who he was meant to spend the rest of his life with waited for him there, and so he travelled to find them.

It had taken all that remained of his family's savings to get him from Rome to Carthage by boat, and then from Carthage to Jerusalem on the back of a caravan. The man driving it had looked at the scrawny 14 year old and taken pity, and provided him with pen and paper, and taught some basic Hebrew to the Roman. The sounds were difficult and the words unwieldy in his mouth, but Messala persevered; he did not want his soulmate to think him illiterate, or ignorant about their ways. He learnt enough of the script to be able to pronounce their name, and repeated it like a prayer before he slept every night. Please, he thought, let them not think less of me for being a Roman, let them cherish me as I will cherish them. When the dark crept in, and he despaired of having any sort of future, Messala would trace where they were, and remind himself of all that represented, of everything that could be.

After weeks of travelling, he finally reached his destination. Upon arriving to the ancient city of Jerusalem, he asked for the direction to a temple in his rough Hebrew and was directed to the top of a hill. After an hour of climbing in the unforgiving burning sun, he reached it and asked for a Rabbi. His mouth was parched, but he knew not how to ask for water, and so waited until an old man came from a secluded area in the temple to speak to him.

"Why do you call me young man?" the Rabbi asked, leaning most of the meagre weight of his wizened form on a gnarled walking stick. Messala looked at him, barely managing to gather the sense of mind to register the question. He pulled a papyrus from his robe and showed it to the Rabbi. On it he had painstakingly written the name of his soulmate, countless hours spent ensuring that every glyph was perfect. His Hebrew was limited, and so he only managed to ask one word and hope that the Rabbi understood:

"Where?"

The Rabbi began to respond, but his response was in Aramaic, and it was quick, and Messala could not follow enough of it to be able to discern the meaning. Fortunately the Rabbi could see this, and so sighed and gestured for him to follow.
Outside the temple, it was possible to see all of the city. Messala was directed to look to one of the hills, and to see the largest house that stood at the top of it. The Rabbi turned to Messala and uttered in slow and broken Latin "Primus Domus." His declension may have been flawed, but Messala understood. He turned and walked back through the temple, allowing himself one last look at the house as he left. He carefully planned his route down into the city and then up again to the other hill, and then embarked on his journey.

His pack was heavy on his back, he had not found a fount from which to drink, and the climb was steep. Nevertheless, he walked as quickly as his legs would allow. He had been waiting his whole life to find this person and now he was so close as to almost see them. For all of his excitement, it could not be denied that Messala had spent all of the day in the hot sun, nor that he had not eaten or drank since dawn and that it was in the hottest part of the afternoon now. So it was that upon reaching the front most door of the house, Messala was hit with the strongest spell of dizziness that he had ever experienced. He struggled to remain on his feet, but did his best as he heard someone approach the door.

It was opened by a boy of his same age, wearing the garb of a Judean noble. He looked at Messala, wearing clothes that were for traveling but still distinctly roman, with an air of mistrust.

Messala had enough sense left in his body to utter out the same words which had marked him since birth, in the hope that the boy would understand: "Judah Ben-Hur?"

And then he collapsed.

---

Judah's soulmarks had been a subject of concern since they appeared two weeks after his birth. They were not in Hebrew, nor the elegant script of the Greeks, nor even the old cuneiform of the Parthians; but in the Latin script of the Romans. Naomi felt no small amount of concern at this, the thought of her son being fated to be with a person who might be cruel and unforgiving scared her. If he was to spend the better part of his life with someone who occupied Judea would they see him as less than them, and treat him accordingly? Jeruh Ben-Hur was less worried, instead seeing it as an opportunity to unite the divided population of their province. After all if a Judean prince was destined to spend the rest of his life happily with a Roman, did it not signify that there was a possibility of reconciliation between the two groups? Judah himself was more concerned with how long they would take to get to Judea. A careful search of the city records yielded no-one who had the name. Thus, he thought, they must be off in another Roman province, living a life alone. He hoped that they recognised the writing as Hebrew, as his family had done with the Latin, and that they would be able to make their way to Judea easily. Maybe, he thought, they’ll arrive in time for us to share tutors, and the dull hours of the classroom will be better than before.

As Judah grew, he became impatient, and later fearful of them. He was lucky to be a prince of Jerusalem, for he had seen what became of those who were not protected by wealth at the hands of the Romans. Everyday they seemed to grow crueler, and he could not abide by the thought of spending the rest of his life with someone who could exhibit such cruelty. There were also the zealots to consider, who despised all things roman, and would not hesitate to label him a traitor to his people if he should be seen to align with one. It would be better, he thought, if the one that I am meant to love stayed far away, and never set foot near me. In his mind it would be a kinder fate to never meet his other half than had to deal with torn loyalties between them and his people.

So, when he saw the disheveled roman boy on his doorstep, he was conflicted. If he was who he thought he was, then surely his life was about to get more difficult. On the other hand if he was who he thought he was, then his soulmate had already shown a great deal of commitment by searching him out. His suspicions that his life was about to be irrevocably changed were confirmed when the boy managed to croak out "Judah Ben-Hur". Unfortunately Judah was not given much time to think about the possible outcomes of meeting his soulmate, as the boy promptly collapsed after that.

"Father!" Judah screamed back into the house before rushing out to see if the boy was injured in the fall. His father and mother came running to see what had happened. Naomi stayed by the door as Jeruh rushed out to see what was wrong with their son. He crouched by Judah and looked at the collapsed boy.

"Judah, Judah, come away from him!" Judah could feel his father trying to pull him away from the strange child and did his best to resist.

"We need to help him!" Judah grabbed hold of the boy's wrist, and would not be moved, "He has my name!" At this Jeruh nodded and paused, Judah observed as his father looked at the roman boy who had collapsed at their doorstep, then at him, who would not be moved.

"Judah, Judah, move, we'll take him inside." Judah nodded and supported the boy's head as Jeruh carried the rest of him. "We'll take him to the lounge Judah, the lounge." As soon as the boy was settled, Naomi took her son's arm and pulled him out of the room.

"Go see what Tirzah's doing." she ordered.

"But Mother!" he protested. He did not particularly care to be dragged into the games of the sister who was three years his junior.

"He will still be here in a few hours. Go." With that, Judah was pushed out of the room, and had no choice but to go and seek out his sister.

---

Naomi reentered the room as soon as she was sure that Judah had gone. Simonedes had been sent to fetch the doctor, so for now all she and her husband could do was to wait. She looked at the boy, despite being quite travel-worn, he seemed to be roughly the same age as Judah, or she supposed, exactly two weeks younger than him.

Naomi traced one hand along the boy's arm and reached an old, worn leather bracelet that covered where his words would be. She looked at her husband questioningly. "Just to make sure." Jeruh nodded, and Naomi gently untangled the mess of knotted chords that held it on the boy's wrist. It was a testament to how far he'd travelled in the sun that the skin underneath was distinctly paler than the rest of his arm. It only served to make the writing on his wrist even more distinct. There, in perfect Hebrew script, was "Judah Ben-Hur".

Jeruh looked at his wife. "That settles that." Naomi nodded and moved out of the room as the doctor entered.

---

It took another three days for Messala to wake up for more than a few seconds. Judah had spent most of this time hiding just outside the room, looking through the decorative holes in the masonry to see if the boy would wake up. When his parents went out of the house on the third day, he snuck in.

The boy looked healthier now than when he arrived. From the doctor's initial, very brief, inspection, it seemed that aside from the mild head wound he only suffered from dehydration and slight malnutrition, both of which were easily remedied under the care of Naomi and the cook. Now it was just a matter of time before he would wake. Judah sat next to him trying to divine his personality from outward appearances. He was trying to decide what could be extrapolated from the way his hair sat when the boy's eyes opened.

"Judah?" he asked, "Judah Ben-Hur?"

Judah nodded. He looked down at his wrist. "Messala Severus?" The boy, Messala, nodded and tried to sit up. Judah gently stopped him. "You hit your head when you fell," he explained in Aramaic, "the doctor says you should stay still till he can check for damage." Messala looked at him in confusion, and Judah bit back a sigh. He switched to his fluent but stilted Latin, "The doctor said you should stay still, you hurt your head." Messala stilled and nodded. Judah held out his wrist for Messala to examine. "Do you speak Hebrew or Aramaic?"

Messala shook his head, wincing as a bolt of pain shot through it. "A little Hebrew, no Aramaic," he paused as he looked around the unfamiliar room, "Could you pass me my bag?" Judah moved to do so, and passed the battered pack to Messala. The roman boy rummaged through it before producing a small carved figure. He held it out for Judah to take.

"Who is it?"

"Venus. She's the goddess that protects soulmates."

"My family only has one God."

"He must be very busy." He reached out for the figure, but Judah held it out of his reach.

"Is it for me?" Messala nodded, and then smiled as Judah tucked it into one of his pockets. "I'll keep it always then."

Messala's eyes started to flutter shut, as he moved his head on the pillow he looked at Judah "Can I stay?" he asked. Judah nodded and pulled the blanket over Messala's shoulders.

"For as long as this is my home it can be your home too."

It was at this point that Naomi and Jeruh returned, the doctor in tow. This shattered the calm of the house completely, with Judah being very surprised as Messala, despite his tiredness, practically flung himself behind Judah. Naomi attempting to approach while murmuring words of comfort did little to help the situation, Messala leaning (and it was leaning, Messala would deny ever cowering up to his dying day) behind Judah even further at the unfamiliar speech. The doctor approaching, even when he spoke in Latin did very little to calm the boy down. Judah watched as the combination of the unfamiliar people, the unfamiliar place, and the mild head wound caused Messala to collapse for the second time in three days. Judah was rushed out of the room, chided for overexciting the boy, and not permitted to return until after the third time the doctor came, at which point it became evident that his problem was chiefly with medical professionals. From that point on, doctors were chiefly seen as a method of last resort, and even then, only if he was unconscious.

---

The next four years after that passed in a fairly harmonious fashion. Messala grew fluent in Hebrew and Aramaic, while Judah's Latin became more confident. The roman occupation grew more oppressive as they began works to make Jerusalem more appealing to roman nobles, and everyday it seemed that more troops marched into the city. With the exception of the death of Jeruh in a riding accident, very little misfortune found its way to the house of Ben-Hur.

Messala and Judah were happy as they reached adulthood. They were happy until Judah nearly died.

They had been racing each other around a field on horseback, and Judah's horse had thrown him when it stumbled on a stone. In the week that it took for the young prince to recover, Messala had listed all the ways in which he, the orphaned grandson of a traitor was an unworthy companion for his soulmate, and so resolved to find a way to better himself.

He decided on his course of action the morning that Judah woke up, and despite the gentle reassurances that he was not to blame, that it could have just as easily been Messala as him, the roman did not change his mind.

Later in the week, they began to celebrate Passover. Late at night after a particularly raucous feast, Messala started to creep out of the house, without alerting anyone, and taking particular care not to step on any of the guests who had fallen asleep on the floor. He had just reached the door when he felt a familiar hand land on his shoulder, when he turned, a very confused Judah stood behind him. The ensuing argument was as unpleasant as could be expected from two furious eighteen-year-olds who’d drank more wine than the other guests combined.

"What do you mean that the pay's steady? Everything you need we can provide!"

"And that's the problem! I have nothing here that I have earned, nothing here linked to my name. Everything I have here is because of your virtues and not mine!"

"Why would that be a problem?"

"Because I don't deserve you!"

"You don't need to deserve me! We love each other and that's all that matters."

"It's not that simple." Messala’s voice cracked at this and he turned away from the door pulling the strap of his pack closer to him.

Judah tried to reach out for Messala, but the latter stepped away from him.

"Messala-"

"Will you tell mother and Tirzah-"

"Tell them yourself, otherwise you're just walking away!"

Messala stopped, for a second he seemed to reconsider his decision to move. He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Judah.

"If you want to hear news of me, or to write, this is where the army is stationed."

Judah grabbed hold of Messala's wrist and pulled him closer. He rested his forehead against his soulmate's and closed his eyes. "If you have to choose between your life and your reputation… the former is more valuable to me than all the riches of the entire empire. Please-"

"I'll come back, I promise."

"Go with God." Judah kissed him quickly.

"You won't have a chance to miss me, I swear." And with that Messala was gone for the next three years.

---

As Judah would tell anyone who would listen, he did not spend the next three years mooning after the absent Messala. He was an active member of the Judean community, as befitted a person of his station. He and Esther, the daughter of Simonedes, had become close friends and often went out to the markets together. In fact, if someone were to ask him about his feelings towards Messala, he would say that he was fine and that he knew that his soulmate would return eventually.

So he definitely didn't overreact when roman soldiers came to his house demanding his presence at the local barracks, and told him only that it was something to do with Messala. All of his attempts to get even a scrap of further information were met with stony silence. Judah ran through all of the things that could have gone wrong enough for him to be alerted to a change in Messala's status. He had gone for three years without even a word from Messala, and his mind was filled with horrible images of whatever could have gone wrong and caused harm to his soulmate. By the time he had reached the barracks, Judah was expecting to be greeted by a lacerated corpse. He was pleasantly surprised by the lack of one. His mind was still fixating on morbid thoughts, so he supposed that the cost of moving the body of his soulmate would have been an inefficiency that the roman army wouldn't tolerate. He mentally calculated the cost of the transport, and decided that if he had been summoned to be informed of Messala's demise he might as well enquire about retrieving it from wherever it lay.

He was already preparing a speech for the tribune when he was directed to enter the office directly in front of him.

Messala stood there, directly in front of Judah, only a few feet away. For a second the air went out of Judah's lungs as he saw his soulmate for the first time in over 3 years, he couldn't help saying the first thing that came out of his mouth.

"You look like the statues that you Romans insist on putting everywhere."

"And you look like the clay they make them from."

"Statues are made from marble, not clay."

"Not the one they'd make of you."

The two of them rushed towards each other, and caught each other in a quick embrace.

"You've gotten so skinny!" Judah took a quick survey of Messala. "Couldn't they afford to feed their best soldiers?."

"Well nothing was kosher, so..." Judah grabbed Messala again and pulled his forehead close against his.

“You could have been less dramatic about announcing your return.”

“This isn’t an announcement of my return.”

Judah extricated himself from the embrace and looked at Messala, carefully cataloguing every detail of his face. “Then what is it?”

The tone of the room became more somber as another soldier entered it. Judah, aware of the close proximity between himself and Messala, took a step back.

“Judah, this is my commander, Marcus.”

In place of a smile, the commander sneered at the two, then slung himself over a chair. He gestured for Messala to begin.

"The new governor arrives next week," the tribune started, his tone much quieter than before. "For the sake of everyone in Jerusalem, it is imperative that his arrival be without bloodshed."

"I understand." Judah didn't understand, this didn't seem like a conversation which warranted his presence at the barracks.

"He wants to ride through Jerusalem in a parade."

"Oh," now all was clear, "That might be a little more difficult to guarantee."

Marcus sneered "Are you incapable of controlling your people?"

Judah shared a look with Messala. It was clear that his soulmate could do nothing about his commander.

"We are a much more heterogeneous people than you think, commander. Most of us just want to live peacefully, but then people like the zealots want the Romans gone at any cost."

"Then give us the names of zealots."

"We only tend to find those out when you crucify them."

Marcus was not happy with his answer.

"Then find them." He stood and stormed from the room.

Messala and Judah sat in silence for a few seconds. "Can you do something? Talk to the people, try to keep the peace."

Judah nodded, he stood from his chair and headed towards Messala, gently pulling one of his soulmate’s arms towards him, and smiling as the rest of Messala followed. "Come home with me."

Messala shook his head as much as he could when Judah was holding him so close. "Being a tribune is more than sitting around in an office."
Judah moved away slightly from him. "Dinner then. Surely they can spare you for that long." Messala nodded at that. "And bring a friend, if you're any indication, the roman army is suffering from severe malnutrition." Messala nodded and began to pull away.

"Do you have to work right now?"

"Didn't get this far by taking afternoon's off."

"Should I go?" Judah raised a hand to trace over a scar that nearly bisected his right ear, withdrawing his hand when Messala winced. "Sorry."

"What time should I come to dinner?"

Judah smiled "Come before sunset." Messala smiled grabbing Judah's hand as the prince pulled away. He pressed a quick, furtive kiss to Judah's hand, then held it strongly in his own. He pulled his gladius from his belt, presenting it to Judah. "Don't you need that?"

"I'd prefer it if it was with you and never saw battle again."

"And if you actually require it?"

"I'll find you and fetch it. I'm not leaving again, I promise."

"I know." Judah smiled, and with that he left.

---

Judah did his best not to spend the rest of the day looking out the door to see if Messala had arrived. To him, it felt as though the world, so long slightly just a bit off, was only hours away from righting itself. Most of his family had decided to give him a wide berth after attempts to placate him only resulted in him snapping at them, and then chasing them to profusely apologise afterwards. Even Esther's attempts to get him to eat at lunch had been mostly futile, as Judah had spent most of the meal fidgeting and avoiding his food. Eventually Naomi had shooed him away and told him to return when it was closer to sunset. He had ended up in the market, at the stall of a roman craftsman looking through figures of their various gods and goddesses searching for Venus. All had been going well until he was surrounded by a group of three angry young men he suspected to be zealots.

"Those are roman gods," the youngest spat out.

Judah sighed as he finally found Venus, he handed over the money to the craftsman and turned to walk away. He was stopped by the tallest, who tried to wrench the figure from his hand. Judah stepped back and pulled the figure closer to him. "Leave me be," he snapped "my business is none of your concern."

"It is when a prince of Judea is seen to be associating himself with the Romans' false gods!" The youngest shouted.

By this time, the attention of the crowd of people in the markets was turning to the group of men. Judah was beginning to fear that he would be attending dinner with a split lip and a black eye when a young man approached. "Let him be," he commanded, and Judah finally had enough time to escape from the crowd. He hurried home, the small figure clutched tightly in his hands.

---

In Esther's opinion, the coming if Messala to the house of Ben-Hur was something like a rain coming to relieve a drought. For one horrible moment between when Messala was announced to when he actually entered the room they all waited in, she feared something awful like a flood was about to happen, and then, when he was finally there, just as rain made the air sweet and clean, all of the tension was released from the room.

He was accompanied by his second in command, Drusus, who seemed mildly terrified to be in a house full of potential dissidents. Messala didn't notice, he seemed singularly focused on presenting Naomi and Tirzah with the gifts he had brought from far away lands where he had fought campaigns. Naomi received the best silk to be found in Egypt, while Tirzah received a gold bracelet from a goldsmith on the borders of Persia. Esther observed as Naomi carefully surveyed Messala. It was common knowledge in the household that the matriarch of the family did not always approve of the roman, especially after Judah had fallen from his horse. To everyone's relief, she seemed as happy as the rest of them to see Messala back after so long a time spent away. "Your presence is the only gift I hoped for today," she uttered before holding the precious fabric close to her chest.

Shortly after that, the family split up, Judah taking Messala away to visit the rest of the house, leaving everybody else to try to make small talk with Drusus.

---

Messala smiled at Judah's eagerness to show him the house that he already knew like the back of his hand. It began to make something resembling sense when he saw the white horse waiting in the stables for him.

“That looks just like Zeus,” he walked forward, drifting away from Judah to examine the stallion.

Judah followed, hand coming up to rest on Messala’s shoulder, "But twice as fast. He's yours," Judah smiled as he brought Messala's hand up to stroke her flank with his free hand.

"I couldn't possibly steal such a beautiful creature from you, Judah."

"That's why he's a gift," the prince smiled and resting his chin on Messala’s shoulder, "Surely now that you are a tribune, you should have a horse to match your station."

Messala smiled as the horse wandered off in search of oats, and Judah began to investigate the detail on his uniform. "Will you stay in Judea long?" he asked.

"For the rest of our lives hopefully," Messala took one of Judah's hands in his own as he moved away from the horse slightly. "From tribune it is only a small step up to the senate and the governor. Imagine what we could achieve together here if that were to happen."

"I'm sure that's what every governor here thinks when they start." Judah smiled, and lead Messala away to the gardens.

"But not every governor here has a Judean for a soulmate now, do they?" Messala asked as the walked through the gates.

"Am I to be a political stepping stone then?" Judah looked back at Messala in disbelief.

"No, never!" Messala started, desperately trying to avoid causing irritation to Judah "But with you by my side you could help me to serve the interests of both the people and Rome."

"I fear that is an impossible task, just today I was nearly attacked by zealots."

Messala stopped at this, pulling Judah closer to him and trying to inspect him for damage. Judah having none of this brought his hands up to Messala's shoulders to try to placate him. "I'm fine, they didn't actually manage to land any blows," he looked in the house and pulled on Messala's hand, "I think that dinner should be ready now. Come, before it gets cold."

With that, the roman followed him into the house, any disagreements temporarily forgotten.

---

After the veritable feast that served for dinner, Messala and Drusus prepared to leave, much to Judah's displeasure.

"I have work to do," Messala stated as he began to stand from the table.

"Surely not so much work that you are incapable of spending one night with us. There is still much I wish to discuss with you," Judah grinned as he popped a grape into his mouth. Messala rolled his eyes and tried to hide the smile that was beginning to form on his face as Judah continued, "Besides, I'm sure that the beds here are far more comfortable than in the barracks."

Naomi and Tirzah looked on in slightly horrified amusement. Drusus looked on in simple horror. Judah was the lone one at the table with a smile on his face as Messala considered the offer. Eventually the tribune nodded his head and turned to Drusus. "Tell Marcus that I'll return in the morning." With that, all was settled: Drusus was quickly escorted from the house, and as the servants cleared the table, the rest of the family prepared for bed. Judah was keen in the speed in which he brought Messala to his bedroom.

"Yours has been converted into storage, you'll have to share with me."

"Somehow I feel that even if my room was in perfect condition, you'd find a way for me to end up here."

"Is that a complaint?"

"Never."

Judah smiled "I hope you don't plan on sleeping in your armour." Messala shook his head as he started to remove the intricate breastplate. Judah took it in his hands and carefully lay it over one of the chairs in his study. "All of the things you've done," he took Messala's gauntlets and placed them on top of the breastplate, then looked back at Messala, "Why did you never write?"

Messala shook his head as he pulled his tunic over his head wincing as the cloth pulled on his ear. "There's been very little that I've wanted to relive in the past three years."

Judah took the tunic and lay it with Messala's other things. "That's all over now though, now that you're here for good." He frowned as he caught sight of a scar on Messala's side, "What happened?" he reached for the scar, tracing it gently with his fingertips.

Messala brought his hand up to cover Judah's. "Macedonia. A spear went straight through," he looked away from Judah, seemingly a thousand miles away, "I thought I was going to die, but still, I came back."

Judah reached up with his free hand to stroke Messala's face with his thumb. "And now I'm definitely never letting you leave." He pulled away from Messala to shuck off his robe and fell onto his bed.

Messala looked down at him, a small smile on his face. "I was worried you'd have been promised to another by the time I came back," he carefully lowered himself onto the bed beside Judah, looking into the prince's eyes, "I would have understood."

"There's no-one else for me. Not a single person on the planet." Judah pulled Messala close to him, closing his eyes as he took a moment to appreciate the feeling of the weight in his arms.

"Nor anyone else for me." Messala rolled over slightly and began to kiss down Judah's throat. Judah groaned, a deep noise coming involuntarily from him. Messala looked up to Judah's eyes to see if his advances were welcome.

"I love you so much."

Messala smiled and began to kiss down Judah's neck to his chest. "I love you too."

Nothing said after that point was particularly intelligible.

---

It was strange to Judah how easily everything seemed to slip into place after three years of sleeping alone. Before he left, after the death of Jeruh, Messala had practically moved into Judah's room. Apart from the much more developed muscles surrounding the Judean's waist, it was as if nothing had changed since the final six months before that fateful Passover. Judah was in that pleasant hazy state that exists as one travels from wakefulness to dreaming when he felt Messala's arms tighten around his waist, and heard him begin to mutter. Judah pulled at Messala's wrists to loosen his hold, "M'ss'la, too tight." Before he could even understand what was going on, Judah found himself with his hands held above his head and the full weight of Messala on his chest. "Messala?" he struggled in vain to wriggle his hands free. Messala looked down at him with unseeing eyes, his mind clearly far away. Judah lifted his head up as much as he could, his eyes never leaving his soulmate's. "Messala!" he shouted this time.

Suddenly Messala's eyes cleared. Judah could barely follow with his own eyes as Messala practically threw himself off the bed and started to drag himself across the cold stone floor towards his tunic while gasping out short agonised breaths. Judah looked around, finally finding his robe and pulling it towards himself. He climbed out of the bed and carefully approached Messala. When the roman had stilled, Judah draped it over him, kneeled down and started to rub his back. After a few moments, when his breathing had calmed down, Messala reached back with one hand to cover Judah's. He looked back, his eyes falling on Judah's wrist. He closed his eyes again and moved back on his heels pulling the robe around his shoulders as he did so. "Are your wrists okay?" he finally got out after a few seconds. Judah kneeled down in front of him and held his wrists out. Despite the very short amount of time that Messala had held them, there were bruises forming, and Judah winced ever so slightly when Messala traced his smallest finger over his name on Judah's left wrist. Messala stood slowly, pulling off Judah's robe and pulling on his tunic. "I shouldn't have stayed." Judah shook his head, and pulled his now unused robe around himself. He stood and placed a tentative hand on Messala's shoulder. When Messala didn't immediately pull away, Judah took another step forward, the back of Messala's tunic flush with his chest.

"It's okay." Judah pressed a kiss to the back of Messala's neck. "I'm okay."

"I could have killed you." Messala reached for Judah's hands, which had now settled against his stomach. He looked down, wincing as he saw the contrast between his own calloused hands and Judah’s soft, gentle ones. Only one pair of hands had been responsible for death and destruction.

Judah didn't reply, he could not deny the fact that he had no rebuttal for Messala's utterance. Instead he held onto his soulmate, burying his face in his neck. He breathed in, trying and failing to come up with a solution. Eventually he lifted his head and backed away from Messala heading towards his wardrobe.

Messala looked back at him, his expression confused.

"Judah?"

Judah pulled out another robe and threw it to Messala. "Roof."

---

The roof of the House of Ben-Hur had often served as a place of sanctuary for the house's various denizens. Judah and Messala had frequently taken advantage of the privacy which it offered when they were younger. After Messala had first arrived it had been a place where the two could ask questions away from the prying eyes of Naomi, and the potential rebukes that might have come from her at some of the more innocently insensitive comments typical of fourteen year olds. In the final year of Messala's four year residence there, the roof had provided a place of privacy where the two could escape from the constant talks of responsibility, and discussion of marriage celebrations. Now it provided a quiet space for the two men to talk and a cool breeze to remind them that the world was still spinning.

Judah looked at Messala, who was curled up against his side. "Do they happen often?" Messala stiffened. "I'm sorry if I-"

"They've been getting worse, since-" he gestured to his side, "but since Persia, I suppose."

"What should I do if it happens again?"

"You won't be around the next time it happens."

"Messala-"

"Judah, I could have killed you!" Messala looked at his soulmate with desperation. "While I am here, I am dangerous to you!"

Judah let his hand fall from Messala's shoulder into the pocket of his robe. As Messala stood, Judah pulled the figure of Venus he had bought earlier in the day from his pocket and held it before him. Messala looked down at it, his hand descending to touch the figure. Judah looked up at him, trying one final time to convince Messala to stay.

"When you left the last time, it nearly killed me. You told me that you didn't deserve me, because there was nothing here to your name. And I spent hours trying to figure out why that mattered, because I love you and I know you love me, and I thought that was the most important thing in a relationship. And I know now that it is hard when you are half of something where you don't have any control, or get to bring half of what you have with you because you have nothing. I understand why you left, and that what you've done while you were gone is the reason you want to push me away now. But I can help you!"

"Judah, there are some things that you can't fix."

"Have you tried to? I could help, there are doctors who you could talk yo-"

"A man does not get to the position of Roman Tribune by crying about every problem that he encounters."

"While you're here you don't need to be a Roman Tribune!"

"It's not that simple!"

"Then explain it to me and we can make it simple."

"I am not going to put you in harms way."

"I have been in harm's way for the last three years. Every single day I thought that you had died and it killed me inside! There were days where I couldn’t even get out of bed because I had no idea what was happening in my life."

The two paused in their argument, both breathing heavily and looking away from the other. The pause in the argument served useful, as it allowed them to hear the footsteps entering the house through the stables. The two men slowly approached the side of the house and observed as Tirzah snuck in, followed by two men, one who was limping.

"We can discuss this at a later point," Messala uttered as he motioned for Judah to follow him as he descended the side stairs.

Before they entered the stables, Judah pushed the figure into Messala's hand. He closed his eyes, and gripped onto Messala. "She's your goddess," he shrugged, "I got her for you. Because I'm happy you're back, in whatever way you're back." Messala smiled weakly and nodded, putting the figure in his pocket.

The sight the two saw when they opened the doors what nothing like what either of them could have expected. Tirzah with two men, who were unmistakeably zealots. She gasped as Judah and Messala entered the stable. "It's not what it looks like!" she exclaimed.

"It looks like you're sheltering zealots after they've done something stupid," Messala said, his face looking like he was trying and failing to come up with a solution to this dilemma.

"What makes you think they're zealots?" she shot back.

Judah sighed, and stepped in front of Messala. "Because who else would be doing something stupid at this hour? Besides, both of them already tried to attack me in the marketplace when I was buying a present for Messala."

"Tirzah, I need you to step away from them." The tribune inched past Judah to approach the trio, careful to keep himself between Judah and the zealots.

"Messala!" she exclaimed, her tone reminding Judah of when they were younger, and she had never gotten her way.

"They're dangerous men, who are putting your safety at risk for as long as you associate with them."

"The same could be said for Romans!" the injured zealot spat out.

Messala paused. Looking back at Judah, he sighed and let his shoulders fall. "Go. Go, and don't return." The zealots took their opportunity and were quick to hobble out of the stables. Messala turned to Tirzah, his face solemn. "This family is not one which can afford to have dangerous idealistic standpoints."

"Or any!"

"No." Messala looked down as Tirzah brushed past him in the same direction as the zealots. He turned to Judah "Did you know?"

"No," he reached out for Messala's shoulder, collapsing onto it when the tribune did not move away. "I've seen what the legion does to their associates."

Messala pulled his robe closer around himself. Judah looked at him for a second, observing the slump of his shoulders and the bags underneath his eyes that were the result of many sleepless nights. He looked at the tiredness in his eyes, and the way in which Messala looked ready to collapse. "What if we left?"

Messala blinked slowly. He cocked his head to the side and looked at Judah with tired amusement. "Go on."

"We could go, now, find somewhere away from all this."

Messala walked forward, grabbing Judah, smiling as they walked back to Judah's room. "What would we do?"

"I've learnt some medicine. You could work as a blacksmith."

The two reached the room, pausing before they entered "Why a blacksmith?"

"I've seen your arms."

Messala laughed and pushed open the doors. There was still evidence of what had happened earlier, but it went unnoticed as Judah walked back to the bed, and Messala walked to his bag. Judah reclined back on his bed, watching as Messala pulled out a small square package, wrapped in fine silk. He sat up slightly as his soulmate approached.

"I meant to give you this earlier."

"What is it?" Judah gave Messala no time to answer as he unwrapped the package. Inside, there was a beautiful robe, woven from silk, with gold brocade. "It's beautiful."

"When I got it, I was thinking of what we could achieve together," he looked up at Judah, his face pleading, "More than anything a doctor and a blacksmith can do."

Judah looked at him, his face closing up as he heard Messala’s plea. "Come to bed. I'm too tired for this conversation."

"Judah. We can't pretend that we don't have responsibilities here. We can't pretend that we haven't changed."

"I know, but just for tonight, can we ignore that?"

Messala nodded and fell back onto the bed. "I love you."

Judah pulled him closer, the two coming face to face. "I love you too, whatever happens."

And so the two entered an uneasy sleep.

---

Messala left early the next day, smiling at Judah's sleepy protestations that he stay. "I have work to do."

Judah had rolled his eyes as much as he was able to in his semi-conscious state. "Like what?"

"Pontius Pilate arrives in a week, and it's my job to make sure no-one kills him."

"Good luck with that."

"I'll pretend that was sincere." He kissed Judah's forehead before he turned and left the house.

There was a certain amount of ribbing to be expected at the barracks when he came back. Legionnaires were not permitted to be married, and while as a tribune he was permitted slightly more in the way of personal liberties, it was a grey area. As with anything resembling a scandal, it was a source of gossip for everyone that the esteemed Tribune Messala Severus had spent the night with the family which included the one person in Judea who had a name which matched the writing on hiss wrist. Messala did not mind so much, if the men felt free enough to gossip about his actions while in the earshot of their superiors (and often with them) it meant that he hadn't yet been ordered executed, as that would have resulted in stony silence, and a few pitying looks. The only opinion that worried Messala was that of Marcus, his direct superior, who seemed to delight in critiquing his every action. If he interpreted Messala's actions as treasonous, there would be no future for him in Judea, giving Judah the life he deserved. It proved to be wise to consider the commander as he walked to his office, considering that the man himself had taken up residence at his desk.

"Have you prepared in any way for the arrival of Pilate in the coming week?"

Messala answered warily, "I have been and will continue to talk to the leaders of Judea-"

"So you're going to sleep with the head of every noble house?"

Messala stiffened. He knew that if he took the bait now, he would probably end up losing everything he had fought so hard for, but still the insult stung. "And I will be dealing with the growing issue of zealots, who, despite all of your efforts, have multiplied in number with every crucifixion you have carried out."

Marcus could not respond to that. Instead he stood and shoved his way out of the office. Messala sighed as he sat at his desk, trying in vain to organise his thoughts.

---

Judah and Messala did not see each other for the next few days. It was a far more content separation than had been experienced in the past three years, as neither had to worry for the safety of the other. Esther noticed the calm that had permeated the prince, his actions smoother as they went to the market together. She loved going there, seeing items from as far off as Ethiopia and India, meeting people from even further afield. It was endearing to see Judah so excited about everything as well. He reacted to every new good with delight, in a way he hadn't since Messala had gone the last time. Now he was looking through scrolls for new medical texts and at the wooden crafts of an Egyptian trader for something interesting. Esther picked up a wooden box, smiling as she tried to puzzle its purpose from the indecipherable hieroglyphics. "What's this?"

Judah looked back at her, his face lighting up when he saw the box. "Oh, I know what this is! Its a sennapod."

"Do you know how to use it?"

"I think so, I'm sure we can puzzle it out." He handed over the money for the game, and the two returned to the house. There were soldiers waiting for them outside the house. Judah gave the purchases to Esther and walked forward slightly to talk to them.

"Is there a problem?"

"The tribune requests your presence."

Judah nodded and looked back to Esther. "Will you be okay?" When she nodded, he turned back to the soldiers and gestured for them to lead the way.

She watched them go, uneasiness beginning to coil in her stomach. She had a feeling that all would not be well by the time that he returned.

---

Judah stood in front of Messala. While his last trip had been filled with dreadful anticipation, at least it had felt organized, at least there had been some sort of purpose to it. Everything on this occasion was disorienting, and Judah could not divine what the reason for his presence was. Messala’s questions were unrelenting, repetitive, and worst of all made him feel like he was on trial.

“We both know that there are people who seek to disrupt the peace here,” Messala sighed, his face tired as he reiterated the same idea for what felt like the millionth time, “If you can give me the names of the zealots, I can prevent them from doing any harm when Pilate arrives to the city.”

“How can I in good conscience give you a list of names that will drag my sister into this mess?” Judah whispered, worried that unfriendly ears might be lurking behind the door. He pulled his robe tight around himself as Messala approached.

“I can protect her, my position-”

“You say that, but it feels like Marcus undermines every decision that you make! How am I supposed to trust that you can protect my family when he doesn’t even trust you to make your own choices?”

“Judah, listen to me, I can protect her, I will protect her, but I need the names. She would trust you enough to tell you, please!” The tribune placed his hands on Judah’s crossed arms. Judah watched as his soulmate’s eyes locked with his own. “Please.”

“You are asking me to choose between your career, and my sister’s safety. Don’t you understand what that feels like?”

“No. Before your family I can barely remember having anyone. I need you to trust me to protect them.”

Judah shook his head and Messala took a step back. “For the most part,” the prince began, “Everybody wishes for peace. You will have to trust that the parade will go well from that.” He took a step back, resisting the urge to promise anything and everything to Messala. He opened his mouth, trying to think of something to release the tension in the room. When he could not, he left, looking back at the solitary form of Messala until the closing door obscured him.

---

The parade did not go well. That much is obvious. An accident occurred as Pilate passed by the House of Ben-Hur, and a soldier was killed. Three people were arrested and taken to the garrison. That is where everything properly resumed.

Judah panicked under the cloth sack that had been thrown over his head. He hadn't watched the march, had let that be his own rebellion against the Romans. All he knew was that a zealot had shot at Pilate from his roof and now his family were being blamed for it. When the cloth was removed from his head, he looked around searching for his mother and Tirzah. He was shoved to his knees as the doors of the garrison opened, looking forward in the vain hope that this would all be revealed to be a cruel trick, that Messala would have fixed everything.

When the doors opened, all that was revealed was Marcus. His cruel smirk inspired something in Judah to break, words flowing freely and without his will. "Please, we haven't done anything wrong. We weren't even on the roof, we couldn't have done anything! Please!"

Marcus kicked him onto his side. Ignoring Judah as he cried out in pain. "You've sheltered traitors to the empire, when you promised to keep the peace!"

"We didn't, I promise!"

"Your promises are worthless to me! Take him to the galleys, and the women to be crucified."

Judah shot up, he realised that there was no chance of persuading Marcus of his innocence, that he had been labeled as guilty from the minute that the commander laid eyes on him. But there was hope, because there was still Messala.

Judah used the confused, nervous energy that had filled his body since his arrest and propelled himself towards the barracks and Messala's office. He found Messala there when he barged through the doors, slumped in his chair, his head in his hands. "Messala!"

The tribune looked up, "Judah!" He looked up, but otherwise remained still.

"You have to help me, we didn't do anything wrong!"

"I know, I know!" The sound of men running became apparent, Messala looked to the door. "You need to listen to me, Judah, you need to do everything they tell you to do, and give them no cause to harm you." He could hear the voice of Marcus getting closer, "I will find you, and Tirzah, and your mother, and we'll go somewhere they'll never find us, I promise, but now you need to go." Just as the doors opened, Messala stood, and yanked Judah towards him. Marcus stormed in, and in only a few seconds, the freedom of Judah Ben-Hur was gone.

---

The galleys were cruel. The galleys were hard. The galleys changed Judah. His hair had grown matted, and long. Most slaves had theirs kept short, whether they liked it or not, but when a soldier had tried to do the same to Judah, he had nearly lost a hand. Most slaves would have been thrown overboard at that, but Judah had the benefit of being the rare slave who was infrequently in ill health, and who despite the paltry rations, managed to stay strong. His eyes had lost the playful spark that had been characteristic of his youth, replaced with a dull tiredness. The love that had been in his heart had soured, Messala had not found him in the five years of his slavery, had not done what he had promised. It felt as though the tribune had used him as a mere stepping stone to become more influential. If it were not for the chains and the constant supervision that he was under, he would have tried to scratched the words off of his wrist to end the reminder of the traitor. In Judah's mind, he was alone, and the only thing that kept him going was that he wanted revenge.

When the ship was wrecked, he thought for a second that he would die. Jerusalem was far from any ocean, and there had been little time to idle around in rivers during his childhood. Messala saved him, with a lesson from years before.

They had been running away from Jerusalem, the heat of the hot summer sun a lesser enemy than the tutor trying to drill the finesses of ancient Greek into their heads. Ever since Judah's sixteenth birthday the month before, and then Messala's two weeks afterwards, Naomi and Jeruh had been attempting to make respectable scholars of them. Today had been the breaking point, a certain amount of translation was to be expected of any language class, but trying to do justice to the finer points of Aristotle's Metaphysics was a step too far. As soon as there had been an opportunity the two had fled from the classroom, and then the city itself to the lush farming land outside it's walls. Eventually they had tired, ending up slumped over each other, under a tree by a river.

"I'm going to die of heat exhaustion!" Judah had complained, "Mother won't be able to recognise the corpse from how dark it's gone."

"Just the overdramatic pose then." Messala had snorted as Judah half-heartedly hit his shoulder, and then sat up. He'd taken off his bracelet with an etching of Minerva, and his shoes, and then jumped fully clothed into the river. Judah had swivelled his head towards Messala when he heard the splash.

"You look ridiculous." he'd groaned and fallen back onto his back.

Messala ducked under the water, laughing when he emerged from the cooling depths. "You look overheated, join me."
>

"You know I can't swim!"

"I'll teach you!" It was clear that Messala wasn't going to give up.

Judah sighed, pulling off his shoes, his coat and his golden necklace with the Star of David and tentatively started to submerge his legs in the water. "Is it deep?"

"A bit over my head. You'll be fine if you stay by the bank." He swam over to Judah and took one of his hands, leading him to the deeper water. "Lean back," he said as he put one hand on Judah's chest and one on his back. "Take your feet off of the bottom."

"I feel like a sailor being lured to his doom by a siren." Judah lifted one foot off of the bottom and then the other, making a small surprised noise when his back hit the water.

"I can sing to dispel the illusion if that would help." Messala took his hand off of Judah's chest, and then the other from his back. "There, you're swimming."

"And if my head should go beneath the depths?"

"Breathe out through your nose, and then pull yourself towards the sun. Then float, just like this.”

"At this Judah had turned to look at Messala. "How do I pull myself?" He'd watched as Messala had demonstrated, using his arms and legs to drag himself back and forth through the water. "And what do I do when I've started to float?"

"Wait for me to come rescue you."

With that, Messala had splashed Judah's face with water, and the rest of the day had been spent in a competition of increasing intensity which eventuated in Messala and Judah returning just before sunset, their clothing soaked despite the long trek back and the heat of the day.

When he found himself underneath the water, falling further and further away from the surface, he remembered that day, and he survived because of it. He pulled himself towards the sun, gasping in some air before he was dragged down again. He pulled at the chain which bound him to the drowning and drowned bodies of the slaves who had been his only company for the past five years. Then, when he was free, he reached the surface again, and let the ocean dictate his path as he floated away from the raging battle.

---

In Jerusalem, a group of soldiers drew straws over who would bear the news of the lost sea battle to the tribune. They'd seen how the promising soldier, once considered the natural successor to Pilate, had stopped in his deliberate and determined climb towards the top of the roman army, and had instead focussed his efforts and talents on locating something very few people knew the true identity of. It was no secret that his soulmate was a Judean, anyone who glimpsed the writing on his wrist could see that, but so many people had died over the course of the past five years that little was known of them. The following was known: Firstly that his soulmate was not in Judea. Secondly, that Marcus, his commander, had died in a battle where Messala's supporting troops had arrived just a little bit too late to save his life. Thirdly, that the night before the battle, in a meeting between the leaders of the legion, the commander had made a disparaging remark about the performance of the galley slaves, blaming it on their background with particular reference to Judean slaves. From this, most of the soldiers had surmised that Messala's soulmate had been enslaved, a galley slave in the roman navy. That assumption had explained much of his behaviour, especially the many times he had ordered support for sea battles that were only tangentially related to the safety of Judea.

They had all listened to the whispers that he had found the exact ship, that he had calculated the days until it was to be decommissioned, that all of his pay was being saved up so that he could buy their freedom. They all noticed that the bags under his eyes had decreased, and that there had been less nights in which a physician needed to be called (discretely of course, as everything relating to the tribune's health was), to deliver a draught to either prevent his frequent nightmares or to put him to sleep after one.

They had all winced when they heard of the ship's destruction, with the loss of all life. Somewhere, deep under their gruff exteriors, they had all hoped for a happier outcome. The tribune wasn't cruel or vindictive, a quality that was rare in men of his status, and explained the lack of attempts to upset him from it. There was no satisfaction to be found in this.

He was in the circus when the poor bastard who had been given the task to deliver the news found him. The drive which had once catapulted him up the ranks had not vanished with his soulmate, rather it had been redirected into more destructive outlets. One of these included chariot racing, of which he was quick becoming a champion, with renown as far away as Rome. The soldier watched his approach with a horrible sense of anticipation, knowing that his actions were to completely ruin the Tribune's life. He jogged forward, holding out the piece of paper which contained the details of what had happened. "Tribune, we have news from the sea battle against the Greeks!"

"The result?"

The soldier waited for a moment. To delay the news would not make it any less true, but still, it was difficult.

"Soldier, the result!"

"The battle was won, but the fleet lost. All ships gone, with no survivors."

"Including Marcus Arius' ship?"

The soldier risked a glance up at the tribune. His face was eerily blank, his eyes not revealing a hint of emotion.

"Down to the last man."

The tribune nodded, took the piece of paper and dismissed the soldier. As he was leaving, the legionnaire chanced a look back at him. It seemed that the yells he let out were more for the purpose of releasing his anguish, than for motivating the horses.

There was a final fact known about the soulmate of Tribune Messala Severus; that on the night the tribune was informed of the destruction of the fleet, Captain Drusus had poured a tincture of poppies down his throat after the tribune had destroyed most of his office in a fit of rage.

---

Judah could not account for how much time had passed when he washed ashore. All he knew was that as the sand brushed up against his back, he could hear the sound of horses. It was at this point that he fell unconscious, the pressing risk of drowning no longer a threat which prevented it.

Between him falling asleep and waking up, many things happened. The trainer of the racer who was practicing near the beach turned, and by chance, saw the body of a slave being pushed up against the shore. Having tired of the racer's training, he motioned for two men to accompany him as he investigated. The body was not as he first assumed a cadaver, but instead a still living person. This proved to be beneficial, as it meant that he wouldn't have to move camp to avoid the stink of a rotting corpse. It was youngish, even accounting for the hard toil in the galleys, it did not look to be over 30. It belonged to a slave, which was evident from the shackle still around it's ankle. The trainer motioned for the two men to pick it up, hoping that they might find some use for it.

For the next three days, they fed the body, keeping it in with the horses. It seemed to have been deprived of food and water, but there where no major physical issues present according to the camp's doctor. Aside from the skinniness, and the exposure to the sun, and a peculiar sore on its left wrist, it seemed healthy enough. The trainer watched it as it began to show signs of wakefulness, wanting to see what it did when it realised that it was on dry land.
Judah woke to a horse butting against his head. Not an orthodox way of waking, but still far more pleasant than anything in the galleys. He looked around, his attention briefly caught by bowl of water, which he drank from greedily. He was butted again by the horse, which he realised was laying on it's side. Judah brought the water over to it. He had no idea where he was, and was quite certain that he was going to be killed soon, what was a small amount of water to him? He stroked the animals head as she drank, smiling at the well kept mane. It was good to see something kept well after enduring 5 years of shabbiness. "Hello," he winced at the gruffness of his voice, "Aren't you a good girl?" He didn't really expect to live for much longer, if he was found by Romans, he would be crucified for running away. If he was found by anyone else, there was little cause for them to keep him, as underfed as he was. Whoever had found him had at least allowed him some time to be among gentle creatures before they disposed of him. He wouldn't repay that kindness, however small or pragmatic, with any cruelty.

"How long were you a galley slave?" a voice from the shadows asked. Judah startled and tried to run at this, even getting as far as the beach before the chain attached to his ankle pulled taught and tripped him. He pulled at the chain, only stopping when a man emerged from the tent. Judah looked up at him, there was no point in lying now.

"Five years," he licked his chapped lips, "are you going to kill me?"

"No, we're going to return you, there’s an outpost near here."

"They'll crucify me."

"That is your own concern."

Judah looked down at the horse, observing it’s pained breathing and the redness in its eyes. He moved back to it, reaching out a hand to stroke its nose. He could see what had gone wrong, maybe he could help. “Where do you go from here? After I’ve been handed over.”

“What does it matter to you?”

Judah shrugged, looked up. He was so tired, he could feel the slow irresistible force of gravity pulling him towards the ground, only resisted to give his answer and hear the response. “Something to think of while I’m on the cross.”

The old man looked at him for a long, slow moment. The air felt as though it became solid, and Judah found himself frozen in place. Then, finally, like a deluge of rain on a humid day, one word was spoken: “Jerusalem.”

Suddenly, only now that he was on dry land, Judah had the desperate energy of a drowning man. "My family is from Jerusalem, please let me see them before you hand me in."

"And let you escape?"

"Please!" he looked past the man and saw a chariot. "You race?" the man nodded, "you can't do that with a dying horse."

"Alia is sick yes-"

"She's dying, but I know how to treat it, all I need is some charcoal."

The sheikh looked at him sceptically, but eventually he nodded. "My name is Ilderim. What is yours?"

"Judah Ben-Hur."

---

Later that night, Judah sat with the other members of the camp around the fire. He ate quickly by not excessively. He had started his treatment of the horse earlier in the day, it was common for animals and small children alike to eat the wrong things, and the cure for both tended to be similar. He remembered what had been done when Tirzah had accidentally eaten a lead coin when he was a child, and simply applied the same treatment. He tried not to stare at anyone as he ate, not wishing for anyone to have the opportunity to accuse him of any wrongdoing. Ilderim, being the leader of the camp had no such worries, and so stared at Judah freely. "What were you before you were a slave?"

Judah continued to stare into the fire, taking a deep breath before he answered, "A noble, but I wanted to be a doctor."

"Why a doctor?"

Judah shrugged. He looked out the opening of the tent at the moon reflected on the water. He could almost swear that he could here the sound of a blacksmith at his forge being carried in on the wind. "I wanted to help people."

"And how did you become a slave?"

There was another long pause, Judah looked down at his bowl, long empty, and thought of all that had happened in the last five years. "I was convicted of a crime I didn't commit. My mother and sister too."

"So, what family is left in Jerusalem for you?"

Judah looked ahead, put the bowl down, gave himself a few seconds to compose his emotions "I have, had, my soulmate there. I would find him if he is still there."

"Why was he not arrested?" Judah did not respond even after several seconds. Ilderim nodded to one of his men, who leaned forward and took the bowl away from Judah. Even after this, it took Judah a few seconds to respond.

"He's a tribune. The law is different for him."

"We race against a tribune when we reach Jerusalem. Messala Severus."

Judah stiffened and looked up.

"He is the champion of Rome, your soulmate then."

Judah looked at his bandaged wrist, where he could feel the skin healing, no doubt bringing with it the name that now was mentioned. It had been burnt in the shipwreck, hurt by the flames thrown by the Greek ships. He had been glad to see it go.

“It will grow back.”

Judah sighed. He looked up again, careful to look only at Ilderim. “I had hoped it wouldn’t. I don’t… I don’t want to let my entire life be ruled by it.”

Ilderim shrugged, it was of no importance to him who was fated to who. The only thing he cared about was if it would affect him or not. "Tell me Judah, when you get to Jerusalem, did you plan to kill your soulmate or to reconcile? Because if it is the former, no matter what you have done for the horses, I will not hesitate to turn you in."

"I don't know. I want vengeance, against those who tore my family apart."

Ilderim said nothing to that, instead watching as the Judean left the tent and headed back to where the horses were kept.

The next day, Judah began to learn how to race the chariot. Ilderim reasoned that both revenge and mercy could be found in the circus, and that Judah, still being half starved, would be a lesser load for the horses than Kadim.

---

Late in the evening nearly a month later, in the circus in Jerusalem, Pilate and the various officers were toasting to the race to mark the opening of the circus the next day. Among them was Messala Severus, who despite the mood of the celebrations, ate little and drank even less. It was he who noticed the intruder to their small celebration, and called for him to leave: "This is a private party old man, jog along."

The man was not moved by the admittedly quiet display of authority, "I've come to place a bet."

Messala rolled his eyes and was about to escort the man from the circus when Pilate leaned forward.

"What sort of bet?"

"Oh you know, the old fashioned kind, my chariot against yours." At this he gestured to Messala.

His hackles raised, the tribune turned to the man, "Entry has closed, old man."

"My name is Ilderim, and while that may be true, I understand that you have two roman carriages in the race. Surely the empire wouldn't want to imply that there are rivalries between its own soldiers."

Pilate saw the opening, and nodded at its deftness. "The bet would have to be substantial for me to consider changing the program as such short notice."

Ilderim nodded and gestured towards the darkness, two men bearing a large chest between them. Messala reached for his long gone and never replaced gladius, alarmed by the stealth of the strangers. He took a step back as the chest was opened, giving himself some privacy as he tried to regain his composure. The move went unnoticed by the roman soldiers, but not by Ilderim. Pilate opened the chest, observing it's contents for a few seconds before looking at Ilderim. "I'm sure our other rider would be grateful for the break." He smirked, standing up and extending his hand to the sheikh. "If your man betters Messala in the race, I'll match this three times over."

"I have some other conditions."

"I'll consider them."

"My man survived a shipwreck, an action which could constitute him to be an escaped slave. I want him to be freed, and pardoned."

"I'll be happy to do that if you win."

"And to show that he bears you no ill will, he's asked me to present your champion with this." He walked to Messala, who resisted the urge to throw up when he saw the gladius he had given to Judah so many years before.

The tribune inhaled, and then so quiet as to only be heard to Ilderim, "Your man... Which shipwreck did he survive?"

Ilderim moved a little further away from the group, lowering his voice so that only Messala could hear. "He was a galley slave from Arius Quintus' ship."

Messala cradled the gladius as one would a child. He looked up at Ilderim, "Did he give you a message?" Everything seemed so strange, the tribune wasn’t entirely sure that this was some new nightmare. But still, even if he had slipped away, the horrors he had committed finally catching up to him and disrupting even his waking hours, there might be a glimpse of Judah. He was willing to endure hell for that.

"He told me only to say that he would be waiting for you tonight if you wished to make amends."

"Where?"

"If you have to ask then maybe you didn't know him as well as you thought." With that the sheikh returned to his conversation with Pilate, working out the finer details of the bet. Messala quickly excused himself from the party. He knew where to go, he could only hope that Judah would listen to him.

---

The House of Ben-Hur had remained untouched while Judah had been away. He could understand why, who would want to live in a house that had been the home of such an infamous family? He wandered around the empty building, frowning when he heard a rustling sound. He went to investigate, grabbing the intruder's arm when they went to hide under the table. It was Esther.

"Esther?" he was incredulous, he had thought that she must have fled when his family was taken, off to Damascus, or at least somewhere further afield in Judea. "What- How?"

"Judah?" she struggled slightly, so he released her wrist. "We thought that you had died!"

"We?” for a moment he gave into hope, “Is your father here, or my mother or sister?"

She shook her head, looking Judah directly in the eye as she spoke, "My father was killed when your family was taken, and your mother and sister are far away."

"Are they alive? Are they still in Judea?"

Esther began to shake her head, a voice coming from by the door as she did so. "They're safe Judah."

The former prince turned to look at the newcomer. He had known that Ilderim would give his message to Messala, but he hadn't fully expected the tribune to come. As the roman walked forward, Judah could not help but take a step back. Messala noticed, and paused, looking at Judah incredulously. "You're alive." After this, the tribune shook his head, and rubbed the palm of his hand against his eyes. When he saw that Judah was still there, he steadied himself against one of the many columns near the entrance.

Esther looked between the two men and decided to take her opportunity to leave. "I'm going."

Judah looked at her and then around the house. "If you want to stay-"

She shook her head, "I was only here to find your sister's brush." She nodded at Messala, then put a hand on Judah's shoulder. "Be careful, we just got you back." she smiled weakly and left.

When it was just Messala and Judah, the tribune tried once more to approach. Again Judah leaned back, only stopping when Messala came under a crack in the roof and was bathed in moonlight. Judah looked at his face properly for the first time in five years, and was filled with shock. His soulmate's eyes were sunken, his face looking eerily like a death mask. He looked like he hadn't eaten or slept in a week. "Or maybe you're some sort of trick, those have happened before."

"What are you talking about, Messala?" Judah was slightly worried despite the indifference he had sworn he had felt for his former friend. He halted in his retreat, letting Messala come slightly closer to examine his face. Even when the roman reached out his hand, Judah didn't flinch back. "Messala, what sort of trick?" Messala's fingers stilled a fraction of a inch from the cracked, darkened skin of Judah's cheek. He paused in everything, in breathing, in moving, even for a moment it seemed in thinking, as his eyes darkened.

"At night, I see things. But the sunlight always burns them away."

"I'm not an illusion. I race you tomorrow."

"That's new." He let his hand drop to his side, taking a step away from Judah. "This is a dream, come to haunt my waking hours" he declared, starting to turn away from Judah and towards the door, "You are dead, drowned off the coast of Egypt."

"No. I'm alive!"

"I'll join you tomorrow." With that the roman turned, leaving Judah alone in the wreckage of his house.

---

Early the next morning, Esther was handing out bread to the poorer denizens of Jerusalem in the marketplace. It was a sporadic charity, any hint of a schedule would have resulted in sabotage by the Romans. Still when it did happen, it was welcome. Among the many faces in the market, there was a familiar one, belonging to Judah. As she made her way around the many beggars he slowly approached her. When she had finished the bread, he walked beside her, waiting for her to begin the conversation.

"Have you forgiven Messala?"

"He didn't know if I was real or not. What's wrong with him?"

Esther shrugged, "A doctor is summoned for him nearly nightly these days. They think something broke in him, from the fighting."

"I'm meant to race him, tomorrow. Will he be able to finish?"

Esther shrugged, she did not know enough about the races to make a reliable prediction, "You know that men die in those races." They began to walk away from the market, towards the gate of Jerusalem.

"I won't be one of them." He looked at Esther just in time to see her roll her eyes.

"I'm sure that every man who rides in the circus thinks that." She handed him the basket, pulling her veil over her head as a particularly brutal blast of cold air came through the streets.

"I've trained." He sighed looking at Esther with a quiet resignation. "Do you know what happened to Mother and Tirzah? Where they are?"

"No one knows where they are. They weren't executed, nor were they imprisoned. They just vanished."

Judah paused, letting Esther get a bit ahead of him.

"Then why did you need Tirzah's hairbrush?"

Esther paused, ruing the moment of confusion in which she had mentioned that when she saw him last. She looked back at Judah, then walked back and fetched her basket from him. "There's a captain, Drusus, one of Messala's men. He says that he knows where they are, will take things to them and bring back messages from them."

"How do you know if he's telling the truth?"

"I have faith," she shrugged, "if on the off chance they are alive, it's worth it."

"Where?"

"You don't have time Judah, not if you're going to race." Judah brought his hands up to his face. Esther walked him up to him, pulling his hands away so that she could look him in the eyes. "Judah, you need to go back to your camp, and prepare so that you actually survive today." She stroked his cheek as best as she could given the beard. "Judah, go."

He nodded, and then walked off. Esther watched as he went, letting her basket hang loosely in her hand. She debated whether or not she should try to convey the news that Judah was alive to the two Ben-Hur women. Ultimately she decided to wait until after the race, believing someone to be dead was already painful; knowing that they were alive and then being powerless to do anything while they were killed was surely worse.

---

Judah observed himself in the mirror as she stood in his tent. His hair had always been long, and he'd never had the dedication to remain clean shaven, but he could barely recognise his own face now. He took the scissors one of Ilderim's daughters had provided him with, and began to crop his hair. It reminded him of when he had been younger, and he'd watched Messala's careful morning routine.

It was the week before Tirzah's fourteenth birthday, and the house was buzzing with anticipation. For once, the near constant supervision the two young men were under had relaxed, and they could spend more time together. Messala had not been surprised to see Judah hiding in his room when he woke up; Naomi and Jeruh could be fearsome when they were organising. Normally, due to their age and a slight amount of paranoia on the part of Judah's parents, they were kept well away from one another's bedrooms, especially at night, though Judah bluntly questioningly if his father honestly thought he wanted everyone to hear whatever Jeruh was worried they would end up doing had at least assured the parents he had some semblance of rational thought. That Judah was able to sneak in spoke to the focus that the parents had for Tirzah's birthday. "I'm not waking up," had been Messala's response to seeing Judah crouched by the door, listening to the noises of the house. Judah had just laughed, quieting himself quickly when he realised that the noise might be a give away to his location. "Seriously, I'm not waking up, getting up, or moving any pieces of ridiculously heavy furniture for the fifth time in four days."

Judah had accepted that, contenting himself to look around the room. There was a small shrine near the door, with carved versions of Hestia, Minerva, and Juno. Despite his opulent surroundings, Messala did not have much in the way of personal wealth, and it chafed at him to have to ask for anything from Jeruh and Naomi, so rather than a bounty of fruit or the blood of a goat, there was some bread that he had snuck from the kitchen, and the petals of some flowers from the garden. On the side table there was a basin, a polished bronze mirror, and some soap and a razor for shaving. There was a pitcher of water in the coals of the fire, and beside the bedside table there was a folded tunic. "You know, your life would be much easier if you just wore a robe. That tunic is far too heavy for summer."

Messala grumbled and threw a pillow at Judah's head. "Its all that I've got left from Rome."

Judah swore silently under his breath. Reminding Messala of his past was a surefire way of having him sullen for the rest of the day. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I want to sleep," Messala sat up, bringing the palm of his hand against his eyes to clear them of sleep. "But as you've ruined that," he smiled to show Judah he was joking, "help me up."

There were a few little things that had happened during Messala's childhood which would never fully repair themselves. His hair wouldn't grow well because of the months of dubious food supplies when be had travelled to Judea, one of his teeth was chipped from when he had fallen in front of Judah's house. One of the lesser known pains that seemed destined to plague him for the rest of his life was a stiffness, nearly imperceptible, in his left arm from the events which had lead to his parents' deaths, which made getting up in the morning difficult. It normally went away later in the day, but in the mornings it was a nightmare.

Judah walked over to Messala, gripping his right arm and pulling him out of bed. "If we stay out of the house we probably won't be killed by Mother."

"If you let me sleep, I definitely wouldn't be killed by your mother." He felt his chin with his right hand and groaned. "I need to shave. Can you bring the basin over?"

Judah brought the basin over, the soap and razor safe inside it. He took the towel and pulled the pitcher out of the coals while shielding his hand with the towel. "Is your arm okay?" The young roman tried to bend his arm, to no avail as it turned out, the muscles too stiff to move to a satisfactory degree.

"Ah well, if I cut my throat, at least my last view will be your beautiful face."

"Sarcasm has never been your strong suit. Are you sure you don't want me to do it?"

"I've managed well enough before." he tried his arm again, the only result being a wince as it again refused to budge, "can you get the mirror?"

Judah fetched it and held it out. He watched as Messala began to shave, fascinated with the lack of bloodshed and the elegance of Messala's movements. When everything was done, and Messala had washed and dried his face, Judah broke his silence, "How's the arm now?"

Messala held out the offending limb, allowing the prospective doctor to examine it. "Does it need to be amputated?" the joke fell flat, Judah not appreciating the humour, or lack thereof. "C'mon, what's the prognosis?"

"A doctor in Greece has written about the benefits of massage for muscular injuries. Can I?"

Messala nodded, staying very still as Judah prodded at his arm. Suddenly there was a short burst of extreme pain, followed by his arm loosing its stiffness. Considering the conflicting sensations, Messala did the most logical thing available thing to him, and fell back onto the bed while clutching his arm.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" Judah rushed forward, and then, thinking that Messala might not want to be near someone who had just potentially further damaged his arm, took a step back. "I'll get father."

"No, don't!" Messala held his arm out, showing off the newfound flexibility. Reckless as Judah may have been in his actions, yet to even begin to properly study medicine, the treatment had worked. Of course, Messala not being a masochist, it would be a long time before he allowed Judah to practice upon him again.

The two boys laughed, and spent the rest of the day after that hiding on the roof, unaware of everything that would happen later in their lives.

Judah looked at the finished result. The stubble was familiar, but the hair was shorter than he had ever kept it before. It had been irreparably matted, he could grow it out later. Ilderim entered the tent, Judah jumped. "Have you made your decision about the race? Revenge or forgiveness?"

"When you went to make the bet... Did Messala seem... Alright?"

"He seemed quiet, withdrawn, shocked when I mentioned you."

"There's something wrong with him. He didn't believe that I was real."

"It's not uncommon for men to return from war with an loose grip on reality. Sometimes the horrors come back with them," the sheikh looked at his charioteer, "Regardless of him, you need to make up your mind, revenge or forgiveness?"

"I won't hurt him if I can help it, especially if his mind is-" he stopped not knowing how to continue.

"Do you remember all that I've taught you?" Judah nodded at Ilderim's question, "If you're being merciful, don't use any of it on him. Now come, we need to get the horses to the circus before they disqualify us."

---

Messala saw a ghost at the circus. Next to him, behind the giant doors which led to the circus proper, was Judah. At first the illusion of his soulmate was busy with his chariot, which made Messala wonder exactly how much of his field of vision was fictitious, and if it would better or worsen his performance on the track. It was nice to think of Judah being there, and he was quite grateful that he was in this form rather than the water logged corpse that he had seen in his nightmares for weeks now. Maybe, he thought, he's here to bring me away from this life and to the next. Of course, there were some logistical problems with that. Messala had always supposed, against all the teachings of both religions, that there was a separate heaven for followers of the roman gods and the Jewish one. Maybe it was different for soulmates. His admittedly off-track chain of thought was interrupted by the spectre of his soulmate looking directly at him.

"Messala?" the ghost asked, getting off his chariot so that he could approach, "I know that everything is quite strange at the moment, but I'm real. Do you understand?" It seemed so strange to see Judah like this, never in life had he had hair cropped so short, nor worn the garb of a charioteer.

Maybe I’ve forgotten him, and this is what my mind has chosen to give me in his stead.

Messala was too busy staring at Judah to listen carefully, trying to pick apart what was real and what his mind has fabricated. He had forgotten the exact shade of his eyes, and the shape of the scar he had gotten from falling off the horse, but both seemed familiar enough. It was only the rest of Judah which lacked verisimilitude. The signal for the riders to ready themselves sounded, and the frustrated spectre of Judah returned to his carriage, sparing Messala a final glance before the doors opened.

---

Judah would not worry about Messala for now. There were eight riders in the race and at least six of them wanted to kill him. As long as Messala was mostly out in front he would be relatively safe. For the first part of the race, Judah needed to consider his own survival.

The first rider to go was the Persian. While Judah could and did recognise the value of human life, and would later mourn the loss of it, there was a strange sense of relief at the track being less crowded. Somehow he had managed to irritate the Egyptian rider, and so for most of the first two laps of the race, he tried to avoid the rather obvious traps that were set for him. Occasionally he would glimpse ahead, trying to discern what Messala was doing. Ilderim would have chastised him, but it was his right to be worried and to check that his soulmate was still in the race. At some point, the tribune must have destroyed the Greek's chariot, Judah narrowly avoiding disaster as his white horses came running towards him. The same could not be said for another racer, whose carriage flipped over them, and then crushed him.

At this point a slightly more emotive view is required, and so let us examine Messala.

Messala had been responsible for the destruction of the greek chariot, it was a fierce rivalry between their countries, and so there had been fierce competition between the charioteers. Despite the chaos, the noise, the unrelenting rhythm of the horses running over the sand of the arena, everything passed like a dream in the eyes of Messala. Occasionally there would be a flash of the spectre of Judah on the other side of the track. As the race progressed, Messala noticed the Egyptian racer getting progressively closer to the snow white chariot. They lapped the ghost of his soulmate and started to approach him. Theoretically, he could let the racer pass, there were only four racers left (if he counted Judah), and he could easily overlap him later. However, even if Judah was an illusion, Messala didn't appreciate the slights against him. The thing that everyone seemed to ignore about racing was that damaging your opponents chariot inevitably ended up damaging yours. The trick was figuring out how to destroy someone else's vehicle using the walls. Messala had stuck close to the centre of the track, and watched, almost it felt, as a spectator, as the Egyptian came up to him, and then suddenly, as vicious as a startled snake, he used his chariot to propel him into the walls of the circus.

And how did Judah respond to this? Noticing that he was feeling much less harassed by the Egyptian chariot, he looked ahead, glimpsing and dodging the wreckage of it just in time as he went around the turn. Whatever his current mental state, the Judean thought, at he least knows what he's doing. It was true, the horses had remained relatively unharmed, in good enough condition that the other Egyptians would nearly definitely be able to return with them to the land of the Nile. The chariot proper, however, had been completely destroyed, rammed at precisely the right moment for it to hit the wall, and be cracked into a thousand pieces. The driver was in a similar state to the chariot, a return only for him if his family was particularly insistent on burying him in the country of his birth.

Judah shook the reigns and used his whip to hasten the horses along now that there were virtually no opportunities for the other racers to try to crush him. He saw the distance between him and Messala decrease as he caught up with his soulmate. He could hear the sound of the crowd screaming his and Messala's names, somewhere and somehow they had become the last riders standing. He looked up at the dolphins to see how many laps were left. Two. That was manageable, he could catch up and stop Messala from doing anything stupid in that amount of time.

Messala barely noticed the white chariot until it was next to him. The tribune turned to look at Judah. Despite everything; the constant movement, the screaming of the crowd, the circus flashing before his eyes, Messala was calm and content. He could hear Pilate screaming at him to finish his opponent, but he couldn't, not when the image of Judah was superimposed upon them. Maybe Judah did survive, he thought, and he's returned for his revenge. Regardless of the realness or the intent of Judah, Messala was happy, if these were to be his final moments he was content to see his soulmate before him.

The second last turn was before him, it was a trap that many charioteers had fallen into, to veer too close, to mistake the horses being clear of the turn for being clear of the turn themselves. An easy mistake to make. He began to let the chariot veer, only to feel a sharp resistance from the other side. His intention to make a relatively dignified exit from the world thwarted, he looked at his soulmate.

Judah had not forgotten the dark shadow that seemed to follow Messala. There had been many things which had befallen him in his relatively short life, that he had been resilient as he was seemed something of a small miracle. Judah had learnt of the nightmares, and remembered what he had said to him when they were in his ruined house. Judah had survived slavery and shipwrecks, he was not going to let his opportunity to reunite with soulmate be lost so close to the end of all of his struggles. When it looked like Messala was straying too close to the walls, Judah hooked his left wheel behind Messala's right one, and pulled him away from the centre. He watched as Messala turned to look at him, the recognition that Judah was not in fact a hallucination finally appearing upon the roman's face. A whole symphony of emotions played across his face, eventually ending up with sincere happiness displayed clearly in his tired smile. Judah could not help but smile back, after years of separation, they were properly with one another again. This short happy moment was interrupted by another turn, and the wreckage of the Egyptian carriage. Judah was able to compensate for the change in landscape by tightening his grip on the reigns, however Messala, tired and with his focus entirely on Judah, didn't.

For a sickening second everything slowed. Judah looked back, feeling Messala's chariot disengage from his. Messala looked at Judah, a serenity which was dissonant considering his circumstances radiating from him. His chariot flipped, and he disappeared from Judah's vision as the chariot fell in front of the roman.

Judah didn't even notice as he crossed the finish line. He let himself fall off of the chariot and raced back to the site of Messala's wreckage. Falling in front of the chariot he let out a scream when he couldn't see his soulmate. Over the sound of the roaring crowd, he barely heard the noise which would change his life for the better. Barely audible, and weak, but definitely there: "Judah!"

Judah, now registering a pain in his right arm, hobbled over to the other side of the chariot. He smiled, a pained smile, but a smile nonetheless, and collapsed on the ground next to him. Despite his arm's protestations he reached out and for the first time in five years, felt the skin of Messala's cheek. "Hey."

Messala looked at Judah, his face tired. "Hey."

"Don’t leave me again, okay?"

Messala nodded, "Never." And with that, as was to be expected of someone physically trapped under a chariot, suffering from sleep deprivation and experiencing the return of their allegedly dead soulmate, he fell unconscious.

---

The rest of the day after that rushed by in a blur. The two survivors were taken to a doctor in the circus building, refusing to be separated under any circumstances. Both were to be bedridden for the next few days, Judah had dislocated his right shoulder in his fall, and Messala's right leg needed to be removed under the knee, the damage that the chariot had done being irreversible. Despite the pain, and the repercussions of their final race, both seemed in good spirits. It had been many years since they had been privileged with the luxury of talking to each other without ulterior motives, and even more since they had been gifted with lazy restful days, there may have been pain, but there was an easiness too.

It was a week later that they found themselves loaded on the back of one of Ilderim's many carts. Messala, still exhausted after the procedure which had removed his leg, slept for most of the way out of Jerusalem, while Judah sat and watched as they travelled down the twisting paths, and towards one of the many gates. It was strange that after so much had happened, after so much had been done, the world still went on, indifferent to his personal plight. People walked to and from the markets with baskets underarm, children played in the street and ignored the calls of their parents, carts much like theirs carried their cargo all around the city. There was nothing special about them in particular, a thought which can be both comforting and disquieting in equal measure. Which was it to Judah? To Messala? To anyone else? Truly that is an impossible question to answer. All that mattered was that both were on the road to recovery, something which Judah was grateful for as the wagon reached the camp and he and Messala were moved to his tent. Once they were in the simple structure, the option of sleep proved too tempting to resist, neither waking until they were called to join everyone else to eat their dinner.

Dinner itself, while happy, was not overly celebratory, both of the riders having missed the most intense celebrations while they were being treated. Still, the wine flowed, and the food was plentiful. As they watched Ilderim's extensive family dance, and sing, and laugh, Messala and Judah engaged in a quiet easy conversation.

"I wish that Mother and Tirzah were here to see this," Judah mused, bringing a hand up to stroke Messala's cheek while the roman rested his head on his shoulder.

"I can have them fetched whenever you please." The former tribune's eyes drooped as he resisted the urge to fall asleep then and there.

Judah frowned, "What do you mean?" Surely his mother and sister had perished in his five year absence, Drusus lying in order to create a stream of revenue.

"They were much easier to find than you were, I stole them and hid them in some caves."

Judah looked down at Messala, thinking that these were the ramblings of a man with a head injury. But no, his assessment, just like the doctor before him found none. "Where?"

Messala divulged the information, and the next evening, after a deluge which had followed one of the many crucifixions that Jerusalem saw, Tirzah and Naomi were returned to them. The two were soaked and shivering slightly when Ilderim found them, but otherwise they were completely unharmed. Naomi looked at her son for the first time in 5 years, and despite barely recognising him from all that had changed, she was truly happy to see her family reunited.

Tirzah, who was even more tired than her mother, had seen Judah and disbelieving her eyes, had gone to bed in order to rid her view of impossible visions (the next day, after a good sleep, she'd been very glad to see her brother).

The last person to join the camp had been Esther, who had snuck in one night, situated herself in Tirzah's tent, and then refused to be moved from there. When Ilderim saw this he shrugged. More than enough insane things had happened that week for him to accept whatever was thrown at him for quite some time after. Besides, his daughters always complained of having no decent company, and of needing new friends.

---

It was a short time after her arrival that Messala's nightmares started again in earnest

Being exhausted had been something of a blessing, his body and mind both too tired to torment him. But now that he was being fed sufficiently well and he had been sleeping, they came back in full force. His bad arm had worsened while Judah had been away, and the absence of the leg made it nearly impossible to move, and so he had been trapped lying down, unable to do anything but whimper. Judah hadn't known what to do, whether touch and noise would make things worse or not, so he kissed Messala softly on the head, promised to be back soon, and went to fetch the camp doctor.

The doctor, despite his expertise being centred around charioteers, recognised what was going on. "Wake him, carefully, without putting yourself in range of his good arm." Judah had done so, gently rubbing Messala's bad arm and murmuring an old lullaby his mother had sung to him when he was little. When Messala had ceased thrashing around and seemed more aware, the doctor leant down to examine his eyes. "Normally I would prescribe a draught of poppies for this, but I fear that it has been over-administered in the past."

"What can you do then?"

"There is no easy quick way of treating this. Eventually, if you give him enough time, the nightmares will lessen. Especially if he's no longer in the environment that gave him the nightmares in the first place."

Judah nodded, looking down at the now still form of his soulmate. They would go with Ilderim then, and live quiet lives in his camp, at least until Messala's nightmares were less frequent. "Can you do anything for his arm?"

The doctor carefully lifted the appendage, examining the crook of his elbow, "How long has it been like this?"

Judah mentally calculated the time, "12 years at least, it normally happens when he sleeps and wears off after an hour or so of wakefulness."

"It seems to be an improperly healed muscle. There's little that I can do now to it internally for him. What might work is a cuff, to wear at night," he looked down at the dazed Messala. "Why did you not see a doctor earlier?"

"He isn't fond of them." Judah knew that it sounded stupid, and foolish, hoping only that the doctor would not refuse his services because of childish fears.

The doctor did not say anything to this, though it was clear he did not approve.

"The next few months are going to be difficult for him. The nightmare I fear was exacerbated by withdrawal from the draughts he's been given for the previous nightmares. You will have to help him through it."

"I will."

"Tomorrow I return with the cuff, for tonight, all you can do is stay with him."

Judah nodded and returned to bed. He gathered Messala in his arms and looked down with fondness at his soulmate. "You'll be well again, I promise."

Messala looked up at him his eyes glassy. "All I ever wanted was to be less of a burden to you."

"You've never been a burden, you're my soulmate." With that he kissed the top of Messala's head. "Now lets sleep."

Messala did as he was bid, and the two settled into a long restful sleep.

---

Many years later, in a small village in Judea, there was a house belonging to a doctor and a blacksmith. It was a curious little place, serving as both a clinic and a forge, with both renderings of the great scenes of the gods of Rome, and beautiful alcoves with carvings of the star of David. Despite its curious duality, it seemed a peaceful place, and was definitely open to any who sought either of its services.

It was said that the doctor had learnt his trade by travelling the world from Persia to Rome to Egypt. He was a good man, who had delivered many babies, calmed many fevers, and soothed the passage from this world to the next for many people. His soulmate, the blacksmith, had an incomparable skill, his prosthetic leg the proof of that. He was a gruff man, but like the doctor, good. Despite the name of his trade, he did not limit himself to working with iron. He was well known for his skills with many metals, including gold, silver and tin.

The two men lived happy quiet lives together for many years. When the smith died after over 80 years of life, the doctor was quick to follow. Despite the tumultuous early years, they had lived happily for the rest of their lives.