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They leave the ludus on an early spring morning, the sun licking at their heels. Barca leaves the birds behind. He leaves a message for Crixus, if the Gaul ever wakes. He leaves the blood that dripped from his hands, the memory of Auctus’s ghost, and the grief of painful years. Everything else travels with them, on their backs and in their hearts.
He breathes deeply and wraps an arm around Pietros’s shoulder.
-
A mile outside of Capua, beyond even its outlying buildings, they reach a crossroads. One way, Barca remembers from when he first arrived in the city. It is a wide avenue, made of solid brick, well-kept. The other is thinner and graveled, and the milestone indicates that it leads to no close city. He turns onto the latter road, and Pietros stops in his tracks.
Barca turns and looks back, a small smile on his lips. He knows the reason for the boy’s halt; Pietros was born outside Capua, in one of the outlying villas, and lived there for several years before arriving at the ludus. He would have taken the avenue. Walking backwards, Barca takes two steps onto the thin road.
Pietros laughs out loud and takes those steps at a running leap. He crashes into Barca’s arms, knocking the breath from his lungs, and Barca can’t remember a moment where he felt anything as pure, as strong as the joy that courses through him. Pietros buries his face in the crook of Barca’s neck as they squeeze each other tight.
“Is it always like this?” Pietros asks, and it’s the kind of silly question he will blush to remember. The question of a boy who knows nothing of the world.
Barca was free for many years. They were years of happiness and choice. They were years of hunger, regret, anger, and sorrow. He pulls back from their embrace long enough to kiss him, to savor the sweetness of his lips.
“Always, as long as you are in my arms,” he answers.
“Liar,” Pietros accuses fondly, and tugs him into another kiss. Barca laughs against his mouth, and together they draw back, and resume walking.
-
Two days outside of Capua, they pass a bundle on the road. Barca averts his eyes and grimly tries to increase their speed, even though his feet protest. Pietros slows down, looking curiously at the other side of the street.
“What lies there?” he asks.
“It is of no importance,” Barca says. Then he calls “Pietros! Leave it be!” as the boy crosses the street.
Pietros ignores him. Cautiously, he approaches the pile, wrinkling his nose at the smell. He bats away a fly, and reaches out to grasp one corner of what looks like a blanket. Immediately, it is as though his body has turned to stone, and Barca hastens across the road. He grasps Pietros’s upper arms, and gently pulls him away.
“Gods,” Pietros chokes, stumbling along as Barca resumes his military-march pace. He wants to get as far from the bundle—the body—as possible.
Pietros gestures for him to stop, and bends over to vomit in the bushes. Barca pats at his back gently. When Pietros stands, he hands him the water skin and draws him into a loose hug. Pietros rests his head on Barca’s shoulder, and he knows there must be tears pricking his eyes.
“I had heard—but never—”
To Barca’s knowledge, none of the slaves in Batiatus’s villa have abandoned children. Pietros will have heard of the practice, though, undertaken by slaves with cruel masters and mothers with too many mouths to feed. He will not have been to the dumps, the far-off roads, the back alleys, the crossroads where the infants were left, sometimes wrapped in blankets, sometimes left nude and open. Slavers take them, sometimes. Death takes most.
Barca has seen more dead children than he cares to remember. He kisses Pietros’s forehead.
“Put it from mind. Death has hung its shadow over us for too long.”
Pietros nods shakily.
Ten minutes later, they pass through a small village surrounded by farmland, exactly the kind they are searching for. Neither of them even hesitate. They keep walking.
-
On the fourth day, they come across another village, larger than the others, with a small villa and a bustling inn, mostly filled with local people. They take a room, and Barca asks casually if there is land lying vacant in the surrounding fields. There is.
-
With their own money, they can buy a mule, some supplies, a goat, and a few chickens. Pietros negotiates with the villagers; people take well to his kindly demeanor. If they do not, Barca stands at his shoulder with permanent scowl on his face, and they subject to him. On loan, they can afford to purchase twenty iugera of land and a small house, two miles out of town.
They can’t take the animals immediately; the fences, the chicken coop, and the little barn have all fallen out of disrepair. The roof has holes. Yet, they themselves move in that very night. Barca suggests it, unable to resist the eagerness in Pietros’s face.
It is the first thing he has ever owned, really.
So they spread cloaks and blankets on the floor of the bedroom, the moon shining through the window, and lie down together. Barca looks on Pietros, the curve of his cheek traced with silver, and is so breathless with joy that he cannot even smile. He reaches out and grasps the boy’s shoulder, and Pietros leans in for a kiss.
“When we were slaves,” he murmurs, “I thought I could not love you more. And already I am proven wrong.”
“You may be right in the winter when the snows keep us from any other company. Or during the harvest, when the sun bakes us half to death.”
Pietros sits up and straddles Barca’s waist. In the moonlight, he can just barely see the impish look on his face as he leans down and presses open-mouthed kisses to his neck. He runs his hands over the warm skin of Pietros’s chest and smiles up at him.
“As long as you are in my arms,” Pietros whispers. “I will be content.”
“Content?” Barca asks with a mocking smile.
“Content,” Pietros says sweetly, as he begins to untie his subligaria.