Oath of Loyalty

Duty has nothing to do with loyalty.

You, Lucius Vorenus (formerly) of the XIII, remind yourself of this as you stand in Antony's tent, straight-backed, asking for a job. You can't quite shake the feeling that he expected this. That he expected you to fail at leading a life without blood and metal and duty. That you would come crawling back, begging for his charity when everything fell through.

And you can't quite shake the feeling that you expected this too.

He asks what terms he offered, as if he doesn't remember, and you answer him. You recognize the humiliation in this, and you recognize that he is enjoying the humiliation. It is his right to enjoy it. You have made a fool of yourself.

But your children will not starve for your foolishness the way you did. And they certainly won't starve for your pride.

"Normally, I would never make the same offer twice," he says. "But you're lucky. Caesar is away, and I am here alone, and I shall need good men. So I give it to you. Promotion to prefect and... nine thousand sestertii."

You should have expected that, but you didn't, and the anger shows. Antony's eyes are hard. There will be no argument.

You wouldn't have argued anyway. You lower your eyes like a good underling and thank him.

"In return for my generosity, Lucius Vorenus." His armor creaks as he moves closer to you, and you look up again. "I expect loyalty. Loyalty unto death."

You hold his gaze, though you have to clench your jaw to avoid another emotional reaction.

Duty has nothing to do with loyalty. Antony is a soldier. Antony knows that. Duty is swearing an oath and fulfilling it until the terms of that oath have been met. But, loyalty...

"Unto death, sir," you say, casting your eyes down again.

He grasps the back of your head and kisses your cheek. Then he holds you, his breath hot on your neck, for a long moment. When he pulls back, he is grinning.

"Welcome home."

You don't speak. You almost think he can grasp how those words sting. But how could he? He has no family. You doubt he has ever done anything for anyone that he wasn't oathbound to do. You doubt that he's ever had to choose between pride and love.

Yes, he knows the difference between duty and loyalty, but you doubt that he has ever been loyal. Loyal is what you are to your wife and your children. To your friends. To the State. Loyalty is not something that is bought with sestertii. Loyalty is what moves your soul, and your soul does not move at Mark Antony's will, general or not.

"Dismissed," Antony says, jerking you away from your thoughts. You had barely noticed that he'd turned his back to you and walked away.

You are almost out of his tent when he says: "Wait."

Your feet lock to the floor automatically, as if your body knows to follow orders before your mind has processed them.

"There is one more thing. Come here."

When you turn around, he is sitting at his desk. He raises his eyebrows in warning, and you step double-time into place across from him. "Yes, sir?"

"I was beginning to think you were rusty." He is smiling. Which is, in your experience, a bad sign. You open your mouth to answer, but he holds up a hand. "Don't worry. You aren't sworn in yet, are you? You still have a little time to reacquaint yourself with your soldierly manners. But I do sense a slight problem that might grow with time if I don't take care of it now."

"What is that, sir?" you ask flatly.

Antony laughs. The sound makes your stomach twist. "Every time I talk to you, I get the impression that you think you are better than me."

"I assure you, sir, that is--"

"Shut up."

You grit your teeth and fix your eyes forward, unseeing.

"You see, you were about to tell me that I am mistaken," Antony says, slowly standing. "And how could that be, if you understand that I am your superior in every sense?"

You look at him, and he nods his permission to speak. "I apologize, sir."

"Mm. No, that's not going to do it. Put your hands flat on the desk."

No questioning glance. No pause. You follow your orders. You've taken enough beatings that you aren't even afraid. Your arms aren't shaking. Your heartbeat is slow and regular.

Except that when he picks something up, it is not a whip. It's a blown glass jar of Greek design half full of olive oil. You aren't sure what he means to do with it until he rounds his desk, dipping his fingers into the oil, and stands behind you.

"Posca," he calls. His voice sounds almost bored. "Make sure no one interrupts. I need to have a private talk with Vorenus here."

The slave does not answer, but you hear the shift of leather as he leaves the tent.

Now, your heart is beating. So hard that your face is hot with blood.

"But do not misunderstand me. I'm not doing this to show you your place." He pushes up your tunic. "The truth is, I feel bad about that thousand sestertii, so I feel a need to give you something."

He shoves a finger into you. Inside of your body. Like you're his whore. But the sensation is multi-faceted. You're angry and again humiliated, but you're also dizzy and vulnerable and...

"I am hoping that this will bring us a bit closer. I am not blind, Lucius Vorenus. Your eyes betrayed you when I saw you last."

"Sir. With all--"

He slides the finger almost out, then pushes in again. More fingers this time. You can't tell how many, but enough to send pain shooting up your spine. You're almost relieved that it is only pain that you feel this time.

"What were you saying?" Antony asks casually.

You close your eyes, sucking in a breath through your nose. "Nothing, sir."

"Ah, I thought you might be thanking me. I could make this much more uncomfortable for you. This:" he twists his fingers inside of you, "is for your benefit."

He pushes as deeply inside of you as he can go, then back slightly and forward again, establishing a slow rhythm. Every movement he makes feels like fire tearing through your body, but you won't show it.

When you can speak, you growl, "thank you, sir," through your teeth.

"Now, that didn't seem very sincere," Antony says, chuckling as he stretches his fingers out, just a little, before he withdraws them. "Oh well. I don't have all day for this anyway."

You hear something behind you, the sound of leather and fabric. You are not an idiot. You know what's coming, even if you were hoping that he'd be satisfied with his lesson before it got to this.

Antony rests a hand on your hip, brushing his calloused thumb against the smooth skin there. "Tell me why you don't fight me, Vorenus. A grown man, being taken like a boy. Tell me why you don't bring down the wrath of the gods upon me for even trying this thing."

"The truth, sir?"

"Of course."

"My family needs to eat. If this is the cost to feed them and for my previous arrogance, I am willing to pay it."

Antony chuckles, a quiet throaty sound. "I wonder if you believe that." You feel the tip of his cock press against you. "No matter."

He spreads you open with his fingers as he guides his cock into you. The slow, steady pressure forces your flesh and muscle to relent, and the pain of it forces your mind to stay entangled in reality. It's not like the pain of a whip. Being whipped allows you to float above yourself except for those brief, searing cracks that snap you back into place before you float away again. No, this is constant. Tangible. Solid.

And inside the pain, there is something else that keeps you shackled. Something forbidden and intoxicating. Something that you don't allow yourself to feel very often except when you're so drunk you will only pass out on temptation's shoulder before you can act.

Antony's hips press against you, and he pauses. But not for long. When he begins to move again, you harden your muscle to keep your arms still and unshaking even as he jerks you forward with each blinding thrust.

Loyalty is for your wife. Duty is for Antony. The two are separate, in the same way that this act is separate from sex. You listen to his rhythmic grunts, and you see how important are those definitions, how important are the walls that you build in your mind. Man, soldier, wife, friend, children, superiors...

The rhythm is broken. With a few violent spasms and groans, you feel Antony release into you, his semen burning into you like a brand. His breath is heavy and jagged, but he manages to laugh through it.

"Good man," he says, patting your hip before, finally, he pulls away from you. "Stand and face me."

You do as you're told, gritting your teeth against the pain that erupts from your slightest movement. His eyes are as dead and soulless as ever.

"Is that all, sir?" you ask with a steely voice.

His lips stretch in an ugly smile. Suddenly, he grasps the back of your neck, as he had before, and pulls you close. As he kisses your cheek, he reaches around you with his other hand, and he swipes his thumb against your entrance. You suck in a breath, instinctively jerking forward against him.

He lets you go, and he runs his thumb down your forehead and along the bridge of your nose, smudging your own blood mixed with his seed on your face.

"There," Antony whispers. "I trust this oath more than any you will swear in the temple tomorrow."

Your fists are closed so tight that your muscles twitch along your forearms. "Is that all, sir?"

Antony nods, his eyes fixed on you. "Talk to Posca. He will have one of the slaves clean you before you return to your wife."

"Thank you, sir," you mutter.

He laughs and claps his hand against your cheek. "There. Was that so hard?"

______________________

You cannot look at your wife. Not directly. How could you when you are telling her that you took Antony's offer? That you've handed yourself over to these men who would destroy the State you loved?

Yet, when you tell her, she thanks you. When you tell her, she kisses your cheek, opposite the one Antony had kissed, and she rests her head on your shoulder.

It will be easier to perform this duty next time, Antony had added before you left his tent. Casually, as if it were nothing.

You kiss the crown of Niobe's head and breathe deeply. "Don't thank me," you whisper into her hair.