Gigi Sinclair

The first time it nearly happened, it was Pullo's fault.

They were five years into Gaul, sleeping rough yet again on the muddy freezing ground. Vorenus was dreaming of his wife, of Niobe's warm and welcoming body, her soft lips and her beautiful breasts, and when he awoke, he had an erection firm enough to carry a standard.

This was nothing unusual. If he ignored it, it would go away. He shut his eyes firmly and thought of anything but the aching hardness in his groin. He recited dimly remembered poetry, he thought about his mother, he even tried to picture his daughters, one of whom he had barely known before he left. Nothing helped. Finally, hating himself for his weakness, he inched away from the soldier sleeping beside him and slipped a hand below his cloak.

It was unsatisfying, as always, but at least it was quick. He was moving rapidly towards conclusion when, suddenly, his hand was removed and another, larger and differently callused, replaced it.

Vorenus froze. His eyes flew open and he saw a face leaning over his, not quite leering, but close enough. Vorenus opened his mouth to protest, and the man's other hand clamped over it.

Instinct and years of training kicked in immediately. He kneed the man, a subordinate named Pullo, hard in the groin. With a muffled shriek and a string of oaths, he moved away again, and Vorenus was alone.

He lay still, scarcely breathing. The shock had at least managed to get rid of his original problem, and, while his body was now calm and obedient, his mind was anything but.

Pullo had already rolled away and seemed to be asleep, which suited Vorenus eminently. He got up and stepped over the other sleeping bodies, walking away from the encampment and towards a small, shallow stream. The moon was shining on the water and Vorenus stared into it, thinking of his wife.

"You shouldn't be out here." Vorenus didn't have to turn around to know who was standing behind him. "There are Gaulish shits all over just waiting for some stupid bastard to stray from the legion."

"I'm your superior officer." Vorenus wasn't sure what else to say.

"You shouldn't be out here, sir." There was a smirk in Pullo's voice. Vorenus wondered if he could have him flogged for insubordination.

"Go away."

Pullo sat beside him. That was definitely insubordination. Vorenus wondered how he could explain the situation to Caesar without having to explain the full situation.

"Everyone does it," Pullo said, and Vorenus knew he wasn't talking about wandering away from the camp. He knew it was true; he heard the grunting and he saw the furtive fumbling at night, but he chose not to acknowledge it. He was above such base animal urges, and he was faithful to his wife. "Besides, what are friends for, eh?" Pullo nudged him, and Vorenus drew away.

"I am not your friend." He made his voice cold and hard, a skill that had cowed harder men than Pullo. "And if I ever hear mention of this again, I will kill you."

Pullo sighed. "Suit yourself, sir." He stood and brushed grass from his behind. "I'd get back to camp if I were you, though."

He left. Vorenus waited another few minutes, so Pullo didn't think he was listening to him, and followed.

Despite the threat, Vorenus fully expected everyone to hear about it. He was waiting for the crude remarks and the suggestive jokes, but none came. Pullo did his duty as well--or not--as he ever did, they got along as well--or as badly---as they ever had, and, eventually, Vorenus thought he must have forgotten.

***

The second time it nearly happened, it was Caesar's fault.

They'd been given a hero's welcome when they rode in, not only with Caesar's eagle but with his great-nephew as well, rescued from the Gauls. Caesar had taken them all into his tent and given them wine and food of a quality Vorenus had not seen for years.

He had tried to show restraint, but he had drunk too much. Not as much, however, as Pullo. Vorenus was amazed he was still able to stand when, eventually, they left Caesar's tent and stumbled back towards their pallets.

"Perfect bloody day," Pullo mused, swaying uneasily. Vorenus stepped in beside him to keep him from stumbling. "Only one thing'd make it better."

Vorenus was reasonably sure he didn't want to know, but he asked anyway. "What's that?"

"A nice warm mouth around my cock."

Vorenus snorted. "Don't look at me."

Insubordinate as always, Pullo did just that. Vorenus could feel the wine causing the blood to rise in his cheeks. "Of course not," Pullo slurred. "Wouldn't expect the great Lucius Vorenus to debase himself like that. Although," he paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. As thoughtful, Vorenus thought, as Pullo could ever be. "Seems to me that I tried to do you a favour a while back. You weren't very grateful."

Vorenus stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I would think," Pullo continued, "A man of your character wouldn't want to let a situation like that go unresolved." He grabbed Vorenus's wrist and laid it against his groin.

Vorenus had never touched another man's penis, except as an act of violence, and even now, his first instinct was to reach for his sword, as he had done with that massive Gaul years ago. He still had the man's petrified cock in a pouch, ready to present to Niobe when they met again. Which may, he thought optimistically, be sooner than he had expected now that he was in Caesar's good books.

Vorenus removed his hand and said: "I'm married."

"Women don't care," Pullo assured him, his eyes growing more unfocused and his head wobbling. "If they did, Calpurnia would have had Caesar offed years ago."

Vorenus smiled. A second later, Pullo slumped to the ground, and Vorenus narrowly missed being taken down with him. He thought, briefly, of trying to get Pullo to bed, but decided against it and left him where he lay. He didn't want to be anywhere nearby when the man woke up with that hangover.

***

The third time it nearly happened, it was Neptune's fault.

He had never been a favourite of Vorenus's. Vorenus was no sailor or fisherman so had never spent much time or effort honouring Neptune, and Neptune clearly wanted nothing to do with him. Of all the men in the Thirteenth, only he and Pullo were sent back.

There was meaning in that somewhere, Vorenus thought, but he was too tired and hot to consider what it might be.

He was lying on his back with his eyes closed, wondering if Niobe would ever see the note he had so painstakingly crafted and feeling the sun bake his skin, when he heard Pullo say: "Do you think they have whores in Hades?"

He didn't bother opening his eyes. "They have to go somewhere."

"I mean, working whores." Pullo clarified. "Do you think a man can get a good shag in the afterlife?"

"I don't think that will be your first concern."

"Cause I'd really hate to think I'll never get another one again."

"We're not going to die," Vorenus said, although he had no reason to believe it.

"All the same, I wouldn't mind one more go, just to be sure."

"I don't think there are any women around. And unless you want to try it with a fish..."

"I could try it with you."

Vorenus opened his eyes. Sweat was shining on Pullo's broad, brown shoulders and he was looking over with an interested expression in his eyes.

If he was truly about to die, Vorenus thought, then why not? Pullo was infuriating, but he was a good man, a loyal friend. He was a brother-in-arms; if death was going to take them now, then what harm could it do to say a memorable good-bye?

If they did it and lived, though, it would be a disaster. When he got home to Niobe and had to confess what they had done, he would lose his wife. She wouldn't understand, and even if she pretended to, Vorenus knew he couldn't stand to see the hurt that would fill her eyes, knowing that her husband had been faithful for years in Gaul only to be unfaithful on some desolate sandbar because he thought he was near death.

"If I knew we were dying, I might consent," Vorenus said, carefully. "But we don't know we are."

Pullo smiled. "I hate to tell you this, but it seems most likely."

"It seemed likely we would die in Gaul," Vorenus countered. "It was more than likely we would drown with the rest of the legion. The gods have another plan for us."

"So," Pullo said, "When you get a note from Pluto saying 'sorry, mate, but your number's definitely up this time', you'll let me have a go."

"Maybe." Probably, Vorenus amended, silently.

Pullo lay back with a sigh. "Ah, well. That's something to look forward to, then."

***

The fourth time it nearly happened, it was Niobe's fault.

And Lyde's, and Evander's, and Vorena the Elder's, and everyone else who had conspired to deceive him over the bastard baby. And, Vorenus had to admit, his own fault. He had murdered his wife as surely as if he'd struck a blow and killed her, and without her, his life was meaningless.

Pullo moped about irritatingly, like a mother hen or an annoying old dog. No matter what Vorenus said or did, he would not leave him be, so Vorenus took to ignoring him, pretending he didn't exist. It was an onerous task, but no less than he deserved.

Finally, one day, Pullo went too far. He had brought food--bread and a hunk of meat--into the room and was trying to cajole Vorenus into eating. Vorenus was reminded of Niobe, trying to wean Vorena the Elder by tempting her with mashed-up fruit and other infant delights. The memory seared his mind and he struck out blindly, hitting Pullo firmly in the jaw and sending the food sailing across the room.

Pullo hit him back. He wouldn't have expected anything less. He felt the familiar wet warmth of blood on his face, and he wiped it away.

Just like that, he was back on the battlefield again, where things were clear and simple and no one switched sides halfway through, where he knew exactly what he had to do and how to get it done. Where he should have died, doing the only thing he did well. It would have saved everyone a lot of grief.

Pullo pushed him to the hard floor, but Vorenus was not about to give in. He rolled on top, pinning Pullo beneath him. He was poised to strike when Pullo looked pointedly at their groins, separated only by two thin layers of cloth.

That was not what Vorenus had expected. He jerked back as if he'd been hit, and Pullo stared at him, his eyes hard and his expression combative. "Do it, you miserable bastard. Unless you're too fucking useless even for that." His eyes flickered for just a moment, and Vorenus knew him well enough for that to be a giveaway.

This was another plot, another attempt to try to shock him out of his self-loathing. He gave Pullo credit for creativity, but he didn't deserve the effort.

"Get out of here." He stood up. "That's an order."

"You can't give me orders anymore," Pullo claimed, but he went, after he picked up the food and placed it carefully on the corner of a table.

Vorenus climbed back into bed and shut his eyes against everything.

***

When it happened, it was Vorenus's fault.

A soldier was not meant to die in bed. Even so, at home, with Pullo and the children nearby, he felt at peace in a way he never had before. If it was his time now, he would go.

It wasn't his time.

"Jupiter's cock, what does it take to kill you?" Pullo asked, happily, after the third or fourth day of steady improvement.

"More than that," Vorenus smiled. But not much more.

He would never be completely well again. The athleticism and strenuous physical activity that had been his daily life for years were no longer possible, but he waited until he was reasonably better, able to stand and walk some distance without needing to rest, before did what he needed to do.

He chose a time early one morning when the children were out, gone to the market with some neighbours. He and Niobe had never hidden this type of thing from the girls, but this was not the same. Besides, there were the boys to think of. He didn't want their sons to get the wrong idea of what was acceptable.

Pullo was in the yard, doing something with a stick and a knife. He had eagerly taken on the role of paterfamilias, and Vorenus often heard him speaking to the children like a loving but stern father, scolding Lucius for being disrespectful to Vorena the Younger and telling them stories about farming that sounded less than accurate. That was Pullo's grand plan, though, and as soon as Vorenus was well enough to travel, the whole unconventional family was going set off for some patch of land in the countryside.

If the men of the Thirteenth could see him now, Vorenus thought, they would piss themselves. Of course, if the men of the Thirteenth could see Vorenus now, they would die laughing.

He stood in the doorway for a long moment, expecting Pullo to turn. When he didn't, he cleared his throat.

"Good morning, brother," Pullo smiled at him. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"Not immediately." Vorenus hesitated. He hadn't expected it to be so awkward. He looked at Pullo, who was looking back expectantly. Well, he thought, of all the things he had been in his life, a coward was not one. "Would you join me in my room for a moment?" He didn't wait for Pullo, who put down whatever he was doing and followed.

When they arrived in the upstairs room, Vorenus pulled the curtain shut. Immediately, Pullo's eyes grew wide and his smile disappeared. "Are you unwell? What's the matter?"

"I'm fine," Vorenus assured him. Pullo still looked like a worried nursemaid, so he added: "The gods do not write letters, but often their message is clear if we choose to hear it." For a long time, he had chosen not to. Now, he knew where his past was and where his future lay, and there was no need to refuse any longer.

He waited, feeling like a nervous sixteen-year-old bridegroom, until a light began to dawn in Pullo's eyes.

He still didn't say anything, though, so Vorenus continued, just to fill the silence. "Kissing is for women and children, so I assume we can dispense with that and get right to business." He could feel his face turning red. He hoped Pullo wouldn't notice.

"You sure you're up for this?"

"I am in no condition for whips and contortions," Vorenus replied. "But if you are willing to be gentle, then I am willing to try."

Pullo was gentle, gentler than Vorenus would have expected. As gentle as Niobe, although he knew he shouldn't compare the two. Niobe, rest her soul, had been small and acquiescent; with her, he was always in control, and she was physically unable to do anything unless he allowed or encouraged it. Pullo was quite different. Vorenus was acutely aware, as Pullo pushed up his tunic, that, while they may have been evenly matched at one time, he was definitely stronger now. It was a different experience, but not an unpleasant one.

When the moment finally came and Pullo breached his last defences, he expected to feel humiliated, debased. He didn't. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, of course, but it was no worse than any of a hundred injuries he'd lived through. And when he grew short of breath, Pullo waited, teeth gritted and sweat rolling down his forehead, until Vorenus could breathe easily before he continued.

Afterwards, Vorenus wasn't sure what to do with himself. Niobe would have wanted closeness and words of love, which had been appropriate in that case, but surely were not in this. Pullo seemed to think otherwise. He clamped his arm over Vorenus and pulled him close, until the length of their bodies were touching. Strangely, this seemed more intimate than the previous act. "Fucking amazing," Pullo muttered. "We should have done that years ago." A moment later, he began to snore.

Vorenus closed his eyes. It was risky; the children could return and find them, but they would have to know sooner or later, and Vorenus had never believed in unnecessary deceit. The boys would just have to be told it was only appropriate if you had fought beside another man for decades, if you had raised each other's children, and if you had been to Hades and back together so many times, Cerberus recognized you and rolled over when you arrived. At any other time, what they had just done would be completely unacceptable, and Vorenus glad they had maintained propriety until now.

He was equally glad they hadn't maintained it any longer.