Chapter Text
Death by archer would be too merciful for the traitor, says Macrinus to Geta and Caracalla this time around. Have Acacius slay the countrymen who he loves so much, above the gods. Have him fight until his will is broken, until he cannot decide between his remorse and his will to live. Break him over Mars' knee.
If he hates war then he must live to wage it. If he loves Rome then he shall suffer for her entertainment.
Hanno will not kill him - no mind. There are others who will, who hunger for the glory of slaying Rome's fallen hero. And the colosseum is often quenched enough to go without those quarts of blood this time. Let Acacius live another day; do not provoke the crowds with their hero's execution. Let them understand the depths of his treachery first. May his humiliation be prolonged, and terrible.
Geta changes tact, and signals mercy.
-
Hanno all but drags Acacius scrambling through the dust and sand, past the vomitarum, then descending down the slope into the cool of underground. It isn't dignified, but it is necessary. Back to the cells. Past Viggo, who moves at one point to take Acacius from Hanno's arms. But Hanno rounds on him-- snarling like a dire wolf and with no room for argument in his eyes-- and Viggo is smart enough at least on this occasion to leave him be. Hanno takes Acacius back to his own cell and drops him on the cot, wedged against the wall.
The elder had lost consciousness at some point between the gates and the stumble back to Hanno's cell, all rush fled his body at once and rendered him delirious, bruised and broad and dusty. He slumps twisted up on Hanno's cot, neck so far misaligned it looks broken, torso the other way, knees splayed wholly another; looks more like a corpse than a man. He takes up the entire cot which is already too small for one gladiator and breathes shallow, rattlingly, underneath his armour.
And on the precipice, Hanno sits.
Others meander by. None stupid enough to intrude. It is common knowledge by now that Hanno is Maximus' son, and from that and from his prowess in the arena he is afforded some luxury of space. But Acacius was general of the Roman army, and it is no wonder that the men wish to catch a glimpse of him. Ravi is the only company he permits.
"Assist me," orders the medicus, shrugging off his own outer shroud. "I must inspect the damage."
So he takes Acacius by the shoulders, and then the back of his neck in the crook of an arm when his head tips treacherously backward as if it would fall off at the base. And with all his strength Hanno rolls the general forward until he's curled off the bed enough for Ravi to brace an arm behind him.
"It won't do like this. You have to get behind him."
Hanno has always done as duty commands. He climbs onto the cot behind him and lets Ravi haul Acacius up, then lets go and the bulk of him knocks the wind out of Hanno as Acacius slumps back heavily against his chest. Feels a twitching in his knuckles at the closeness of this man, who but an hour ago he would have killed without hesitation. Feels a tugging in his throat at the sag of Acacius' shoulders, the hang of his head against the middle of his chest.
Hanno feels responsible. He had administered most of Acacius' injuries but had also spared his life and by that defiance alone does he live, and thus of course Hanno is responsible. He is not the kind of man that believes in the ownership of other people, but he cannot shake the feeling that, now, Acacius is his.
Ravi sets about removing Acacius' armour and to do that that Hanno must cup the general's chin and jaw and tip his head back so that his breastplate can be removed. His beard is coarse underpalm, and the chord of his throat hard and brittle, the tendons delicate and jump in fitful sleep. And then Ravi removes his tunic as well and his skin is a golden expanse in the candlelight, scorching hot to the touch even through Hanno's linens. Acacius's breathing comes laboured. His torso, smattered in sweat and dust and hair and blood-- so immediate, and fragile, and Hanno wonders how he could have been so blinded to not even have been able to see the man.
Almost unconsciously his grip on Acacius's bicep tightens, and the man lets out a pained grunt then whine through fevered sleep. Brows screw up and lips part as Acacius grimaces, pants, like a street hound.
The work is hurried and they exchange few words. Hanno simply holds on and watches Acacius' expression with curiosity, unsure what else to do while Ravi goes about treating his injuries.
At some point Acacius is completely naked and Ravi tending to a gash on his outer thigh when he splashes the wound in alcohol. A roar tears itself from Acacius' throat and all at once rigidity courses through his body again.
A hand comes down like a clamp on Hanno's thigh, scalding where Acacius' fingers dig into the flesh while simultaneously he tries to rip himself from the hold, and Hanno does nothing well if not endure. Acacius is solidly built: nearly the same height as Hanno but stockier, better fed, and it takes Ravi straddling both legs and all of Hanno's might-- one forearm barred across his chest and a hand slapped over his forehead-- in order to hold him down. And keeps him like that, twitching and thrashing against the flat of Hanno's chest. Feels as though he is smothering the man, killing him again. So-- with all the gentleness that Arishat had asked but he had not been able to give in life -- he clicks against Acacius' ear the way he would calm a braying horse, and lets him dig furrows into the meat of his thigh without complaint.
Acacius is inconsolable. But eventually the wave subsides and he flags back into Hanno's chest, now heaving. His head tips back to rest in the dip of one shoulder, and though his hand is unmoved it flexes weakly now, paws at a grounding rather than trying to claw ever deeper.
"Lucilla," Acacius babbles. His voice is raw, insensate, and just barely loud enough for Hanno to hear. "Lucilla, I'm sorry."
Hanno smooths back Acacius' hair away from his forehead. His curls are soaked, and rough with salt and sand, and well on their way to matting. Acacius gasps and with gritted teeth pushes his face into the hollow of Hanno's throat. Hanno ignores the insistent bully of his nose, gives the man just this one grace.
Ravi lifts Acacius's leg at the knee to bind his thigh with linen, and this time Acacius lets him.
"The general is like an auroch for sure," Ravi breathes, exhilarated as he stands at last. "You may be lucky, that he did not truly wish to fight you."
Something twinges in Hanno's chest, and he blames it on that bucking of the man rapidly losing conscious again in his arms. He is in no mood for Ravi's levity, not now, and fixes him with a stare in the dying light. "Will he live?"
"He is a fighter, and that is good. His worst injuries do not require stitches, but you know the dangers of infection well by now, I'm sure." Ravi pauses, and speaks lower now. "The emperors must mean to see him dead. You know that, right?"
In his rage, Hanno had not stopped to consider how it came to be that a hero of Rome had been cast into the same arena as himself. "What do you mean?"
"Treachery," answers Ravi, looking around as though the palace spies were in the very walls-- perhaps not a bad habit to have. "Treason. Rumour is that he had conspired to overthrow the twin dictatori." Ravi leans in, places a hand soberly on Hanno's unoccupied shoulder. "They will show him no quarter."
Hanno grunts lamely and looks from Ravi's hand to Acacius, who is breathing deeply and shudderingly against his chest in sleep, and is reminded once again that this man is a stranger to him. That he claimed to know and love Hanno's mother and his father but that means little to most people and absolutely nothing to Hanno, who had known neither of them. That he had thought to kill the general of Rome before but that this is no longer a general-- this is Marcus. That above all, even without all his injuries, that Marcus looks tired.
"Will you leave us now?" requests Hanno thickly, and moves his hands from where they still rested on either side of Acacius' arms to hang quite limply at his side. But then Ravi does go to leave, and Hanno-- Hanno never panics. "But-- visit again in the morning, Ravi. There is no doubt in my mind that he will need it."
Ravi nods. "There is little that the gods can do that a surgeon cannot. But remember he is Roman, Hanno, so it is Salus you must pray to, if you choose to pray."
And then he dips. And Hanno is with Marcus, alone.
He looks both immeasurably younger and older at the same time like this-- and yet it is still too much to continue thinking of him as Marcus. Hanno does not say a prayer. He sits with his back to the wall, his eyes on the door and with hands that find their way back to Acacius' side after some hours spent, referenceless, in a unthinking vigil that would drive most men to delirium. And though the gaol is never truly silent it is deep into the quiet hours and neither Viggo nor any of the others have come back by to take Hanno's charge away from him.
Macrinus does dare to show his face but is wise enough also not to try. He takes position on the trunk below the barred window, leaning forward against his knees with hands clasped, features obscured by the moonlight at his back.
"We had a bargain; I gave him to you." Macrinus looks from Acacius, still in Hanno's arms, to Hanno with curiosity born of the same cloth as his ambition. He remains perfectly still. "And you let him live."
"You got what you wanted."
"I always get what I want. Why did you let him live?"
If he recognises the way that Hanno's jaw tightens and hands clench into fists at the question, then his face does not betray it. "You gave him to me." Hanno holds his head up high. Feels his lips crack as his face splits into a smile, the reason for which he can explain no more than he can his decision to spare Acacius. "I have him."
They lock gazes for a while, neither backing down. Marcus' breath catches in his throat where he slumbers, and he coughs hoarsely.
Macrinus laughs and claps his hands together, which does not startle Hanno but causes Marcus to groan and shift in Hanno's arms. "Blue is your blood. Perhaps the heart of a Roman beats in that chest."
Macrinus smiles as he rises to pass, and Hanno hopes he means at last to leave them be. To leave him, that he may at last be free of this life. But he does not, not yet.
There are more words exchanged that night. But none that carry a greater weight or affectation, than the body pressing Hanno into the wall.
-
Lucilla does not visit that night, this time around. He doesn't know why he thought they'd let her.