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Pietros has no idea how long he had been asleep; he knows only that it had not been long enough. Thunder crashes again, and his heartbeat thrums along with it. He rolls over and settles into Barca’s shoulder. By Barca’s breathing, he can tell that his lover is awake, too.
“I cannot recall the last storm this bad,” he murmurs.
“Nor I,” Barca agrees. He sighs heavily and rubs at his face. “Which means the children will be terrified.”
He has barely finished speaking before the first quiet wails reach their ears. Corvus cannot stand thunder, and while Merula can normally withstand her brother’s fear, a storm of this magnitude will frighten her as well. Tydeus, of course, is young enough to fear anything that caused his siblings worry. Pietros resigns himself to a sleepless night, and rises from bed.
Barca joins him as he enters the children’s room. Immediately, Barca gathers the screaming Tydeus in his arms and makes low, soothing noises to quiet him. Pietros sits, and the twins scramble into his arms. Elissa thinks herself too old to need comfort, but even she is shaking, and she leans against Pietros’s side.
“My poor nestlings,” Pietros sighs. “Shh, shh, it will be all right…”
“It’s l-loud,” Corvus declares miserably, and Merula agrees with a frantic nod.
“I know, dear. There’s nothing to hurt you…”
“Gaia says—” Elissa takes a shaky breath. “Gaia says storms are the gods. They’re angry, so they make lightning and thunder so we know they’re angry with us.”
Pietros clucks his tongue disapprovingly. He has heard similar stories in Capua, but he thought things would be different outside of city walls. Here, they relied on good rains too much to teach their children to fear a storm.
“Gaia’s parents are fools, my girl,” Barca says simply. “Don’t listen to her.”
His words are ill-timed; all the children are frightened anew by a long, loud crash of thunder.
“The roof’s gonna fall,” Merula says miserably. “We’ll be wet.”
“The roof won’t fall,” Pietros says. He cups her cheek and brushes the tears from her eyes. “The storm won’t hurt you—I swear it.”
“But Gaia—”
“The storm has nothing to do with the gods,” he assures them, silently wondering if the blasphemy will result in instant proof otherwise. “It is… Spartacus.”
There is a moment of surprised silence, in which the children and Barca give him curious and suspicious looks. Pietros nods to himself decisively.
“Yes. Listen carefully, and I will tell you the story.” He has always liked telling stories—this one is true, so it is easier… and more difficult. “Many, many years ago, there was a heroic gladiator, and he was named Spartacus, after a great king. He had a friend, Crixus, who was called the Undefeated Gaul, because he had never once fallen in battle, and together they were told that they must fight a terrible giant named Theokoles. Theokoles was a fearsome monster, pale as bone, and taller than any man alive.”
“Taller than Pater?” Elissa interrupts fearfully. She looks at Barca, who nods gravely.
“A little.”
Pietros rolls his eyes. He shifts his grip on Corvus, and continues.
“Together, Crixus and Spartacus fought Theokoles. It was a fierce battle—the giant was strong and fast, and they despaired of ever overcoming him. In their darkest moment, Crixus was struck down.”
“Pietros…” Barca says warningly. The children are shaking, and Pietros hugs the twins tighter and kisses Elissa’s forehead.
“He was not dead,” Pietros promises her solemnly, and Elissa looks relieved. Another, smaller, clash of thunder rolls through the house, causing Corvus to moan pitifully. Pietros rubs his back. “With his last bit of strength, Crixus raised his shield, and Spartacus ran up and leapt from the top. Clouds were gathering, but a faint ray of sun glanced off his sword, and the entire arena was filled with white light.
“Spartacus was high, high up in the air, higher than even the giant Theokoles, who—thanks to Crixus’s cleverness—was blinded by the flash of light. He did not even see when Spartacus’s sword hit true. With an ear-splitting crash, Theokoles fell to his knees, and Spartacus defeated him. The crowd roared his name, and as he lifted his face to the sky, it began to rain for the first time in many long months.”
“Why?” Elissa whispers, awestruck. Pietros is silent for a moment, considering.
“His wife,” Barca prompts.
“Yes. Spartacus had a wife… Sura. She was as wise as a queen and beautiful as the first spring flowers, and he loved her very much, but they had been separated. When he slew the giant, Spartacus knew that he was closer to finding her, and he wept tears of joy.
“But his work was not finished. Now, Spartacus roams the world; lightening is the flash of his sword, each crack of thunder a monster fallen to his blade, and the rain his tears of sorrow and joy as he roams the earth, seeking his wife.”
Barca looks solemn, as do the children, but they have stopped crying. Tydeus sniffles.
“He always wins?”
“Always,” Pietros nods. “Some don’t believe it—you must keep his quest a secret. But the Bringer of Rain never loses.”
“What if he does?” Corvus mumbles.
“He doesn’t.”
“What if?”
“Then his friend, the Undefeated Gaul, would simply take his place. And after that, the Champion of Capua, the Spear of Zephyr, the Beast of Carthage—” Barca looks up sharply, but Pietros ignores him. “All gladiators, all honorable and fearsome fighters. And they were slaves, so that means they would never harm any child of a slave, or a freedman, or any honest person. You need never fear the Bringer of Rain.”
It takes more time, more embraces, more kisses, before the four children can even think about sleeping again, but they are calm sooner and Barca and Pietros expected, and they return to their bed in a timely manner. Pietros lies down, and Barca sits on the mattress beside him.
“That was a dangerous story to tell.”
“I could think of nothing else.”
“Nothing?”
Pietros rolls over and speaks in a soft voice.
“You traded the title of gladiator for more worthy ones—father, lover, neighbor, friend. They were rebranded as rebels, murderers. I would not have history remember them so. Four children in the world will think of Spartacus as a hero… that is all I wish.” He pauses, finding it hard to speak. “He was kind to me once.”
Barca kisses him softly and lies down beside him. The room is illuminated for a brief moment by a slice of lightening, followed by the deafening boom of thunder, and Pietros thinks of when he was a child, and frightened of storms. For a little while, he had had his mother with him. After that… he had simply learnt to keep fear to himself. He is not afraid now, but the sound dregs up old memories that he is too tired to relive.
He curls up and feels the warm, solid weight of Barca’s arm around his waist. Barca sleeps as rigid as a board, like a soldier, but Pietros appreciates the gesture. He takes his lover’s hand, and softly brushes his thumb over his knuckles. Outside, the rain continues to pour.