Chapter Text
“Lucia is expected to give birth next week,” Pietros says offhandedly as he chops vegetables. “Fulvia thinks she will abandon the babe.”
That catches Barca’s attention. Lucia and her husband are the richest couple in town; raising a child would not be a hardship for them. He looks up with a frown.
“Why?”
“Its paternity. Her stomach swells too large, too soon, for her husband to be its father; if it is born a girl, he will not take the trouble to raise her.”
Barca stands and hugs Pietros from behind, pressing close as he can. Pietros leans against him gratefully and turns his head slightly to rest against his shoulder. A weary sigh escapes his lips, and Barca kisses his temple.
“Death does not touch us here,” he reminds him.
They remain still for a long moment as Pietros grieves. Barca knows that the loss of an innocent life is too great for him to express, and his capacity for compassion is endless. Barca kisses him again and returns to the table.
-
The next morning, Barca is coming back inside after milking the two goats, when Pietros asks hesitantly, “Do you like children?”
He thinks of the boy. He nods, but something in his face must give him away, because Pietros does not press the issue.
-
The night the girl is born, Barca walks into town and waits on the side of the road. He told Pietros he would be away, possibly until morning, and left him asleep and warm in their bed. He wraps his cloak tightly around him and tries not to hope.
Just as the full moon reaches its peak, a figure approaches. Barca sees her before she sees him; she has the light, quick walk of a slave, and she carries in her arms a bundle of soft, embroidered blankets. A mother’s last gift. His heart begins to pound.
The slave sees him and her whole body stiffens. She clutches the babe closer and turns away—towards the town, or the garbage piles beyond that, or the river beyond those.
“Wait.”
She turns around and Barca can see that she is trembling, but she lifts her chin bravely.
“Domina will not have her go to the slavers,” she says. “She is for the gods.”
“I am no slaver.” He hesitates, and steps forth, baring his brand. “You would have given her to the gods—Tanith gives her to me.”
He does not know if the slave understands his words, or if it is the assurance in his voice that convinces her. Slowly, she approaches him. She kneels and places the bundle at his feet. When she stands, their eyes meet for a moment. Hers are dark and solemn. Before he can react, she turns and walks away.
The blankets do not stir. He kneels down and carefully peels away the coverings, layer by precious layer. Inside, the babe is sleeping peacefully. Barca reaches out tentatively with one finger to stroke her face. Her breath is steady, her skin soft and hot.
He could still walk away.
He gathers the babe in his arms and stands. The girl weighs next to nothing; Barca cradles her close and begins the long walk home.
-
“Sentimental old fool.”
Barca turns, and in the light of the moon, Pietros’s smile is broad on his face. He steps forward and holds out his arms.
“I could not leave her in the cold,” Barca says.
He moves closer to Pietros, so close that their shoulders brush, and carefully lowers the child into Pietros’s waiting embrace. After the long walk, he is reluctant to release her; one large handle cradles her head as Pietros holds her close. She hiccups and a delighted, breathy laugh escapes his lips.
“No, you could not.” Pietros sits at the table and gently begins to rock the bundle of blankets back and forth. “The black doe gave no milk earlier; try her.”
The goats do not enjoy being disturbed so late at night, and bleat angrily at him, but Barca is able to coax milk from one, and returns to the house triumphantly with a half-full pail. The girl is fussing again, little mewls spilling from her lips, and Pietros coos soothingly in response. From his bag, Barca draws the small clay cup he bought in the marketplace that day. Pietros looks surprised to see it for a moment, and then shakes his head and reaches for it.
It is difficult to get the babe to drink, at first; she sputters, and cannot seem to latch to the small spout. But Pietros is patient, and finally the girl seems to have her fill. Her cheeks are plump, her eyelids heavy. Barca thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful.
“You do not stir at all in your sleep,” he tells Pietros. “She will be safe in our bed.”
Pietros looks skeptical, but they retreat to the bedroom, and he places her gently in the center of the mattress. Then he hovers anxiously for a few moments, staring down.
“This—you are mad,” he whispers with a low laugh, and turns to look at Barca with eyes that shine even in the dark.
“Apologies for not consulting you.”
“Barca...” Pietros throws his arm around him, and Barca hugs him back tightly. “Gratitude,” he whispers.
Barca pulls back and cups his chin, staring earnestly into his eyes.
“I followed the wishes of my own heart as much as yours. She will be ours, Pietros—as long as you wish it.”
“I do. I love you.”
He kisses Barca, and for a long moment Barca forgets how to breathe, how to think. Every nerve in his body thrums with contentment, and he releases Pietros with a long, low sigh.
“To bed.”
He lies on one side of the mattress, Pietros on the other. There is space between them, a buffer of air between their bodies and the babe in case any should move in the night, but they are close enough to touch, to gaze at her small body and share their warmth.