Chapter Text
Hispalis, Hispania Ulterior
"Well?" Nimble fingers proudly comb through the brand new beard on a brand new chin. "Don't I look dashing with some facial hair? More distinguished?"
He scoffs, leaning further against the alley wall. His partner ignores him, never looking up from his reflection in the fountain as he starts grooming his golden hair instead. "More like vainer than ever before. And shorter."
His partner huffs. "Excuse me for still taking pride in my appearance even when we squatted with sheep and peasants." He looks up from his reflection just long enough to scowl back at him. "And at least I picked a side. Beard. No beard. Just shave or let it grow out already!"
"Hey!" He fiddles with his dice to keep from reaching to his own chin. "Don't mock the scruff! I'm going for roguish here, remember? Irresistible to the ladies?"
And it's not his fault people still recognize him with and without the beard. The middle ground's his safest bet.
After a moment his partner stops scowling to quirk an intrigued brow. "Well, I do like the hair. It's very... luscious."
He smirks mischievously, curling the tip of his raven locks around a finger. Even tied neatly back it still reaches near the small of his back. "Hey, someone has have to hair enough for the two of us."
It takes extra effort to keep his tone light and suggestive, without the slightest suggestion of malice. Though his partner's hair still reaches down to his chin it's a sad shadow of the golden cascade that once floated around his feet when unbound. He mourns its loss even more than his partner does.
His gamble is just right, for his partner beams back at him before settling comfortably in at his side. His partner takes his instrument in hand. A pandura, mind you, not a lyre. Because they're not stupidly obvious.
Not too long ago his partner's melodies could exalt the human spirit to dizzying heights or plunge them into ravening madness. There's still magic enough in his song to whittle away at inhibition, to draw a few curious ears away from the bustling docks to investigate further.
There's three of them to start; a wondrous boy fresh from his first voyage, the leathery veteran looking for an excuse to throw away his troubles, and the sharp-eyed hard-ass that's gonna make or break this operation.
"What are you supposed to be?" demands the hardass.
The grizzled sailor appraises their rustic dress. "Shepherds, it looks like."
"Something like that," his partner agrees amiably, not skipping a beat in his song.
"A little of this, a little of that," he continues smoothly. "You know how it is, these days."
The grizzled one nods sympathetically. "Yeah, I hear you. Barbarians to the north, fucking chaos in Rome. And... the rest of it."
The temple closings. And burnings. The violent property seizures. And, when folks in the city got particularly drunk or fearful or zealous, the occasional beating to death in the streets.
"Not in the cities, though," the boy foolishly asserts. "The only pagans left are those in the countryside, and they'll be gone soon enough."
The hard-ass narrows his eyes. "You two Christian?"
His partner splutters at that, his song faltering with what could be either laughter or outrage. "Well, there's only one God around now that matters, isn't there?"
He compensates for the slip-up by tilting his head proudly, with enough 'genuine' indignity for the both of them. "Of course we are. Proper, Nicene Christians. None of that Arius horseshit."
The boy buys it. The old-timer is willing to let it slide.
The hard-ass stares long and hard at them. He looks beyond the beard and the bald-faced lies. He knows them. Of course he must. He's the sort of man that smashed their last statues and tore down their last sanctuaries in this city.
"Your names," the hard-ass demands harshly. "How do you expect us to gamble with total strangers?"
"Tullius," he answers easily, as if he's answered to it all his life. It's a good name. A safe name, one that could belong to either patrician or peasant. "I'm Tullius."
"I," his partner proclaims grandly, "am Miguel."
Not Michahel, like the archangel and the saint. Not even in proper, urbane Latin, but in the exaggerated pronunciation of the plebeians bringing the language of this land further and further away from Rome.
And Miguel owns himself so grandly that the hard-ass finally shuts up and lays down his first bet.
Tullius and Miguel. Miguel and Tullius. Humble country peasants. Or, as the dismayed sailors quickly come to realize, ruthless con artists.
Not exactly as awe-inspiring as Mercury and Apollo, of course, but it's because of men like Pius that there's no room for any other gods but God anymore.
Before they make their escape, Tullius takes savage pleasure in getting Pius to part with is precious little silver cross.
One day, he hopes, he'll be able to thoughtlessly pawn off the tribute to another God as just more loot to be won from the suckers of the world.
Today, however, Tullius settles for chucking it into the river. For just a moment the cross flies twinkling into the sun, reaching heights that make his heart soar with envy. Then it's gone, gone forever, lost to the silt and the shit. Gone like he and Miguel will one day be.
Tonight, however, is the wine and the women and song their ill-gotten gains will pay for. And, tomorrow, maybe Tarraco.