Rome was never quiet. After close to six months in the city, that was still something Clark found it hard to get used to. Around the village where he was born, the forest had stretched on forever, and at night he had sometimes lain awake beneath the bearskin that kept him from the winter cold, listening to the endless silence. When the snow came, even the white owls had seemed to talk in whispers.

In Rome, the cold months weren't really cold at all, and the nights were filled with noises - with the laughter of drunken men walking home from taverns; with the clatter of hooves and squeaking of wheels from heavy traffic banned from the busy streets in daytime; with the rhythmic footsteps of soldiers assigned to keep the peace. It was a universe made up of sounds and motion, always heading somewhere, never at rest, and though part of him was awed and frightened by it, there was another part filled with excitement at where it might take him, what might yet be in store for him in this strange new world. There were times when he missed the feeling of safety he'd had as a child, wrapped in that bearskin, before everything he knew had been ripped apart, but if he was honest with himself, the truth was that he didn't want to go back.

This afternoon, sitting alone in the vast atrium of his master's house, he was aware of the city outside like the constant murmur of a river, punctuated now and then by noises loud enough to be identified - the laughter of children running by on the street, a dog barking in the neighbor's garden, a peddler crying his wares on the nearby square. The Luthor home, like all Roman houses, was turned away from the street, its thick walls and small windows creating an illusion of privacy and seclusion. In reality, though, the city was never far away, least of all in these rooms, where her future fate was discussed every day, where everything was suffused with the spirit of a man who meant to guide it. Alexander, Clark had come to realize, was a lot like Rome herself - mind never still, thoughts never silent, always striving towards a goal, always calculating how to get there. And Clark didn’t doubt for a moment that his master could achieve anything he wanted.

At this time of day, the atrium was mostly in shadow, but through the rectangular opening in the ceiling the rays of the descending sun fell obliquely into the room, shimmering on the polished marble pillars and illuminating the central motif of the mosaic that covered the floor. In the days of Alexander's father, Clark had been told, it had shown a mighty lion laying down its prey, but only weeks after Leontius's funeral, his son had hired the most renowned artist in the Empire to replace it with a depiction of Alexander the Great and the Gordian knot. It was the first thing your eyes would fall on when you were granted entrance to the house, and Clark remembered how he had gaped at it the morning his master had brought him here from the country. Partly, it was the sheer size of the artwork that had amazed him, but more than that, it was the incredible richness of detail, created by thousands of miniscule stones in every color imaginable. His master had explained the story behind the image to him - how the oracle had foretold that whoever solved the intricate puzzle of the Gordian knot would come to rule the world, how for years the task had seemed impossible, until Alexander of Macedonia had stepped up and severed the ropes with a single slash of his sword. The mosaic showed the young king in the moment when the blow was dealt, blade raised before him, beautiful face sharpened by the calm knowledge of triumph - Alexander the warrior, the world ruler, the original thinker, all rolled into one.

"Propaganda," Alexander Julius Luthor had said in the slightly derisive tone he always adopted when talking about politics. "It doesn't hurt to have people associate me with my namesake."

But in his eyes, Clark had seen that the mosaic meant more than that. It was a hope and a reminder, an illustration to keep his dreams and aspirations constantly in view. And in that moment, he had wanted very much to hold his master tight and tell him that he didn't have to push himself so hard; he was already the most incredible person Clark could imagine. But it hadn't seemed his place to say such a thing, and besides, he didn't think anything could keep Alexander from striving upward. That was simply part of his nature. And if this day went according to plan, he would have taken one more step on that ladder to the top.

Clark had wanted to come to the Senate with his master, but as a slave, he wouldn't have been allowed inside the temple to hear the speeches and the ensuing debate, and Alexander had ordered him to stay at home and make sure that everything would be ready for the evening's dinner party, the celebration of his expected victory. And now, with all the preparations completed, the only thing left for him to do was wait. He wasn't good at waiting, though. Ever since the attempt on his master's life at the villa, it made him nervous not to have Alexander close, not to be near in case anything should happen, even when there was no apparent danger. Today, for instance, he knew that Alexander was surrounded by what amounted to a small crowd of loyal clients on his way to and from the Senate, yet he couldn't help feeling that he was wrong to leave his master on his own. He was a slave, and he had no right to think for a moment that a man like Senator Luthor actually needed him, for anything. But that was a hard thing to remember, sometimes, when Alexander's eyes met his and all he felt was the overpowering sense of connection that had been there from the start, that terrified him and took his breath away. He did feel needed then, and nothing had ever been more important. There was a pallet for him in the servants' quarters, a corner for him to sleep among the other slaves, but he had never used it. He knew that he had no claim to a place in his master's bed, but he couldn't truly imagine being turned away from it. If he couldn't be where Alexander was, he had no idea what he would do. Somehow, that had become a fate impossible to even contemplate.

And today, it didn't seem as though he would have to. He could hear footsteps coming down the street now, the animated voices of many people, and he knew that his master was returning. Triumphant, by the sound of it. With a smile on his lips, he went to open the door.




"It went well, master?" he asked, standing aside to let Alexander and his closest friends and allies step into the house. The less important clients in the senator's entourage would continue on to the nearest tavern, where they would drink his health with money from his purse, but the men who mattered would stay for dinner at his home. For dinner and plenty of wine, if Clark was reading the mood right.

"Naturally, Clark," Alexander said, flashing a crooked smile at his slave over his shoulder as Clark helped him out of his winter cloak. "Did you expect anything else?"

The glitter of playful confidence in his eyes told Clark that he had indeed read the mood correctly, and the thought of what that would mean later in the night, after the guests had left, made his breath catch in his throat. The fine wool of the cloak was still warm from his master's body as he folded it, a promise of heat under his hands. He had to lower his gaze to keep from blushing.

"So Senator Creticus won't be a problem for you any more?" he said.

"Senator Creticus won't be a problem for anyone. The Senate saw things exactly the way we'd hoped. They stripped him of his rank and sentenced him to two years in exile."

"You mean you made the Senate see things your way," put in Alexander's friend Claudius. "You should have heard him, Clark. The speech he gave... He had them all mesmerized. I've never seen a man turn as pale as Creticus did when he realized he was the one under attack. I thought for a second the cowardly bastard was going to pass out."

"Well," Alexander said, a sardonic smile on his lips that made Clark think of a wolf licking its lips after the kill, "I for one am glad he didn't. It was so much more entertaining to see him try to defend himself."

The laughter from the men within earshot was all the more genuine for being laced with fear. Clearly the speech had been a show of strength, an unquestionable revelation of what would happen to anyone foolish enough to stand in Alexander's way. The exhilaration among his followers wasn't simply joy that the man they supported had won the day; it was also relief that they had been fortunate enough not to find themselves on the opposing side. Clark remembered feeling a similar relief, remembered Gaius the stable boy begging for his life the morning Alexander had caught him harassing his new personal servant, remembered how frightened he had been himself, and then how thankful that all that cold, deadly anger hadn't been directed at him. Few people understood how truly lethal Alexander could be until it was too late, and it was disturbing to realize how unlikely he was to show mercy. Though he’d come to grasp why Alexander found them necessary, there were still things his master did without a second thought that Clark believed he would never be able to reconcile himself to. But on the other hand - and this thought brought a blush to his cheeks the way it always did - even fewer people knew how gentle and caring Alexander could be in private. There was so much kindness in him, so much generosity Clark had never expected.

When it came down to it, right and wrong were different things here than they’d been in the village of his birth, and he had long since given up trying to fit his master into any pattern he was familiar with. He counted himself lucky just to be in Alexander’s presence, no matter what.

As he was right now.

Somehow, through being continuously at Alexander’s side, he was accepted as a natural part of this gathering of wealthy and powerful men. An insignificant part, of course, but because Alexander treated him as an intelligent being, so did many of his friends. Another surprising experience, after years of working like an animal in the fields, and one that made it difficult to know how to behave. He tried to remind himself that it didn’t really mean anything, that he was a slave, nothing more. Still, it was hard not to get used to it.

A clap on the shoulder made him turn around, brought him face to face with Gaius Valerius Catullus. Not a politician or a man of wealth, but a given in Alexander’s circle, and perhaps the only one there who could match his master for intelligence and wit. Though he had no rank or title, Clark often felt more out of his depth around the poet than he did in the company of patricians and senators. There was something about the knowing way Catullus would look at him - at him and his master when he saw them together… As though he understood something about them that Clark hadn’t grasped himself, an amusing secret he was too dense to comprehend. For all the man’s friendliness, it made him wary.

"Clark," Catullus said now, a broad smile on his face, "did you know that your master is the most brilliant orator in the Roman Empire? It shames me to say it, but I couldn’t have written a better speech myself."

Yes, he did know. Knew from watching that speech take shape, from being the audience it was tested on as his master revised, expanded, pared down. It had taken weeks, but in the end, it had been perfect. Describing in riveting words, with plenty of evidence to back them up, how Metellus Flavius Creticus had abused his position as a senator to steal money from the state, from the people he was meant to serve, how he had used that money to buy himself political support. The text had been extraordinary, creatively using all the rules of rhetoric that Clark had come to know by heart to nail Creticus firmly to the cross. But it had been Alexander’s delivery that made it truly great; his righteous indignation, his anger on behalf of the Republic and its citizens, so foully betrayed by one sworn to protect them. It had almost made Clark forget that it was Alexander’s own machinations that had - very deliberately - pushed Creticus into a position where he would have to raise funds through illegal means or stand by and watch his supporters stolen out from under him. A brilliant plan flawlessly executed, and though he sometimes felt ill at ease about the morality of it, Clark couldn’t help but admire the gleaming sharpness of the mind behind it. And besides, hadn’t Creticus more than proved that he was every bit the criminal Alexander’s speech accused him of being? There could be nothing wrong in exposing the truth about him.

"My master is a remarkable man," he said, non-committally, but with the appropriate degree of deference, not sure where this was going.

"He is that," Catullus said, searching Clark’s face with an amused glint in his eyes. "And you don’t feel comfortable talking about him behind his back. I appreciate that, Clark, and I’m sure Alexander appreciates it, too. He hasn’t exactly been blessed with a lot of people he can put his trust in. Look..." The poet’s voice trailed off and his gaze drifted away to linger for a few moments on Alexander, who was now engaged in conversation with some of his colleagues from the Senate at the other end of the hall. When it returned, the humour in it was gone, replaced with a rare but disarming seriousness. "He’s had a great victory today, and knowing him, there will be more of those to come. But he needs to be careful. People like Creticus, they don’t know when they’re beaten, they can’t accept the idea that there are deadlier beasts in the jungle than they. Alexander might be the lion here, Clark, with all its strengths and virtues, claws sharpened and fangs gleaming, but it only takes one sting from a viper crawling in the dirt to bring down even the most magnificent predator. And his attention can’t be everywhere at once."

Clark looked over at his master, watched him turn his head to catch some remark from Claudius, the delicate curve of his neck and skull almost startlingly beautiful. He had to swallow hard against the sudden lump in his throat.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"He trusts you, Clark. I don’t know if you realize how rare that is, but I hope you will repay it by being more than a pretty toy for him to play with between the sheets. He’s going to need someone to watch his back when things get rough, someone who keeps a sharp eye out even when there appears to be no danger. He’s going to need you to be there for him. I hope I’m right in thinking that you won’t let him down."

Clark turned back to Catullus to give some sort of answer, but the enormity of what the man had said made the words stumble over each other on his tongue, and before he managed to get something out, the poet was already heading across the room towards his master.

"Alexander, my friend," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear him, his voice filled with extravagance and jocularity once more. "Where are you hiding the wine in this oversized house of yours? We have a victory celebration to get started here!"

Clark could do nothing but shake his head and try to still the beating of his heart.




It was past midnight by the time the party broke up, and while his master saw the last guests to the door, Clark extinguished the lights in the dining room. He didn’t tidy - that job belonged to the slave girls who would go through the house in the early hours of the morning, making sure that nothing was out of place when their master started his day - but since he often stayed up with Alexander long after everyone else had gone to bed, he had fallen into the habit of making sure that no lamps or candles were left burning when they retired.

There was light glowing in the adjoining study, as well - an oil lamp by the scroll cabinet where a copy of Pindaros had been dug out to settle a literary dispute. Clark rolled the volume up with care and replaced it in its cylinder, putting it back on its proper shelf before picking up the lamp, taking it to light him through the dark rooms as he made a last round of the house, assuring himself that all was as it should be.

He didn’t hear Alexander approaching, but somehow he still knew that his master would be there before he turned around and saw him, shoulder leaning against the door frame, the folds of his toga as crisp and immaculate as when Clark had draped him in it that morning.

"Which do you prefer," he said, "'pious' or 'virtuous'?"

The question didn’t make much sense, but there was an edge of amusement in his master’s voice that made Clark smile as he answered.

"Doesn’t that depend on the context, master?"

"So it would seem. Claudius is convinced that being known as pious would do wonders for my reputation, and Catullus doesn’t understand how anyone could fail to see that any adjective but virtuous would wreak havoc with the entire flow of his poem. They’ll still be arguing about it half-way down Via Sacra. Though considering the state Catullus was in, he’ll have forgotten the whole thing tomorrow and will have to start from the beginning again. If he still feels the urge to immortalize my deeds in verse when he‘s sober, that is."

"That’s a shame," Clark said, laughing. "I rather liked the part about you being the unsheathed blade of Justice raised to strike."

"Yes, that was quite inspired, wasn’t it?" Alexander agreed, his tone half self-mocking, half pleased. "I’ll have to remind him of that. By the way, you looked like you were having quite the serious conversation with Catullus in the entrance hall earlier. What was that about?"

There were times when Alexander seemed to bask in the feeling of Clark taking care of him like a cat in a ray of sunlight, but he was a fiercely independent man and the suggestion that he might need someone to watch over him was perhaps better not made to his face. And the sense of overwhelming pride that Clark felt at this particular responsibility was something so private, so very precious that he didn’t want to speak it out loud. He would do these things for Alexander, always, but he mustn’t think he was irreplaceable, mustn’t give his master reason to believe that he did.

"He just wanted to make sure I knew my master is the finest orator in the Empire," he said with a smile, not really lying. "But I had my suspicions about that already."

In the gloom, the expression flickering across his master’s face was impossible to read, but if anything, the air of amusement around him intensified. Pushing away from the wall, Alexander moved closer. Liquid, breathtaking.

"A veritable Demosthenes, I’m sure. Though I never did try that thing with the pebbles." Dazzling smile, honey-warm, razor-sharp. "I never liked talking with my mouth full. I prefer concentrating on the task at hand."

The lamp was still in Clark’s grip, the flame flickering as a shiver rushed through him, its reflection dancing in the double mirror of Alexander’s eyes. His throat was suddenly dry, his cock a heavy weight of anticipation between his legs. It never took more than this. A word, a glance.

Breath of laughter across his face, bringing the sweet smell of wine, and his master’s fingers closed around his, around the lamp.

"Maybe we should put this away." Scrape of clay on wood, the light trembling, then coming to rest. A hand splayed against his chest, lightly guiding him backwards. "And you should sit down."

There was a couch a few steps behind him, deep and luxurious, soft pillows embracing him as he let himself sink into it. Then Alexander was there, dropping to his knees in front of him, firm hands parting his thighs. Easy, confident possessiveness, offering safety even as the ravenous hunger in his master’s eyes made Clark’s heart beat faster, a whimper form in his throat.

It was all wrong, of course, he’d come to understand that during his months in the city, from conversations overheard, from stories told by other people‘s slaves. His master kneeling on the floor, the toga that symbolized his status as not only a free citizen but a senator of Rome dragged in the dust as he bent his head to pleasure a common slave. It wasn’t how things were supposed to be, and even if he’d been in the habit of talking about what Alexander chose to do with him, he knew that this was the last detail he would ever have shared.

And still...

"It’s not a gift", his master had said, the very first time, and that much had become more than obvious. Hard as it was for him to fathom, there was no denying the pleasure Alexander got from doing this. It was there now, in the slow caress of his fingers as he pushed Clark’s tunic out of the way, in the mischievous almost-smile curving his lips just before his tongue lapped the drops of moisture from the head of his cock, in the raw, beautiful purr of contentment deep in his throat as he let Clark fill him. If anything, this seemed to be a rare gift he gave himself, something saved for the times when he was reckless from the taste of success, thrumming with life and confidence, when he simply didn’t care what was proper and nothing felt out of his reach. And Gods, he was incredible in moments like that, the force of him too great to be of this world. Surely no one - man or woman, free or slave - could resist his wishes on a night like tonight, and yet what he wanted, what he chose to claim as his own, was this. Clark didn’t think he would ever wrap his mind around it, but he stored the memory of each time it happened away as carefully as if it had been made of glass.

The softness of Alexander’s lips, sliding down his length, the heat and wetness of his mouth. And then the sudden, almost unbearable pressure as he was swallowed down, swallowed whole. He tried to be careful, always, because hurting his master was something he couldn’t even bear to think of, but if there was a way to hold back when Alexander’s throat tightened around him, he had yet to find it. He arched upwards, arched deeper, his hands clenching in the pillows of the couch. Alexander’s fingers closed around his hips, grip so hard it was nearly painful, but not holding him down, just holding on, holding fast. Anchoring them both as he let Clark thrust into him, over and over again.

The light from the oil lamp on the low table fell across Alexander’s face, touched the lashes of his closed eyelids with the warmth of gold. Clark could see his nostrils flare as he struggled to find breath, his lips stretch thin to take more, take everything. His own breathing was jagged, desperate, severed by moans and grunts and that one word flowing from him like a pledge and a prayer:

"Master!"

If the sensations rushing through him were beyond description, they were still nothing compared to the sight of Alexander’s expression when his slave called out for him. The sharp satisfaction, the flash of hunger, and, faint but there, the softening of his features that seemed to confirm every hope fluttering in Clark’s veins. It was beautiful, shattering, and it tore the orgasm from him as surely as the physical pleasure. He came with a bone deep tremor, emptying himself into his master’s throat.

When he managed to focus his gaze again, Alexander was still sitting between his legs, watching him. Looking up at him, head tilted slightly to one side, and in his eyes… His eyes were filled with desire and pleasure and something fiercer, more piercing than either, something that shone brighter than the circle of lamplight surrounding them. Clark’s chest felt suddenly tighter, too narrow to contain the rapid beating of his heart. "He trusts you," Catullus had said. It would be so easy to believe...

"Master..." he began, not quite knowing what he wanted to say, too vibrant with emotion to hold the words in. But Alexander raised his hand, put his finger to Clark’s lips. A breath of touch.

"Ssh," he said, soft whisper gentler than a kiss, and everything remained unspoken.

Clark swallowed once, tipped his head in acquiescence.

Then Alexander rose - graceful, soundless movement, - and began to undress. Unwrapping the toga from his body, fold after fold of heavy fabric slipping to the floor. His eyes never leaving Clark’s. And perhaps staying silent was the only thing to do, after all, because there were no words that could capture this thing that charged the air between them, palpable as the heat from their bodies. At least none that a slave could use for his master. It was enough, more than enough, to see, to feel, to touch...oh, gods, to touch...

As Alexander toed off his winter shoes and slipped his tunic over his head to reveal the pale, hard body beneath, it was all Clark could do not to reach out and pull him down, pull him close. But his master was the one who set the pace here, and Clark knew better than to try and take control. After all, Alexander always gave him what he wanted, what he craved with every beat of his heart, even when he had no idea himself what that was. As though he were a scroll written in a foreign language that Alexander alone knew how to read. That Alexander never tired of reading. And he couldn’t say, couldn’t tell what was so mesmerizing, because he didn’t understand, but his master kept returning for it, kept looking at him as he did now, as though what he saw could set fire to every inch of that pale, smooth skin and he wanted nothing better than to burn.

The force of that want... Sometimes Clark wondered if people had broken beneath it, other slaves before him ground to dust and discarded because it was too much, Alexander was too much, and there was a limit to what you could take. And sometimes… Sometimes he wondered if maybe, just maybe, this overwhelming intensity was his alone, something new and different from what other slaves, other lovers, had seen in Alexander’s eyes when he looked at them. A dangerous thought, he knew that, but he wanted it so badly to be true. Because if it was, then it meant he had something the others didn’t, even if he couldn’t name it, something that would save him from breaking, whatever happened, and Alexander would be able to keep him, wouldn’t have to send him away. And there would be nights like this, always, with his master naked above him, magnificent in the lamplight, holding him in his gaze as though he were the single thing remaining on the face of the earth, as though nothing existed but the two of them. And...

"Clark," Alexander said, leaning over him, resting his hand on the back of the couch above his shoulder. "Don’t think so much."

Lips against his, warm and commanding, and the taste of his own seed on his master’s tongue, salt and bitter-perfect, mixed with the lingering sweetness of wine.

Long, breathless kisses and Alexander was on top of him, kneeling astride him, unbuckling his belt while their tongues tangled together, entwined with so many strands of lust and need and devotion. Gordian knot, he thought, absurdly, but the end of that image was a sharp drop into darkness, and he scrambled to shove it away. Focused instead on Alexander’s hands as they stripped the tunic from his body, dropped it over the arm of the couch. After that, all thoughts were gone, replaced with the feel of skin on skin, because he could touch, at last, knew without needing to be told that touch was allowed, was welcomed.

Creamy, flawless skin a caress under his hands, and he let himself revel in sensation. Shifting muscles, sharp edges of shoulder blades, his fingertips dipping into the shallow groove above the spine, following it downwards. Rough gasp from Alexander’s throat urging him on, and he let his hands drift down to cup his master’s ass. Squeezing it, and Alexander’s hands fisted in his hair, pulled his head back with a sharp, sudden jerk, exposing his neck in a precipitous arch across the back of the couch. Licks, kisses, bites along the side of his throat, tender and violent, and there would be bruises, marking him, branding him until the next time. He pushed closer, helpless to do anything but moan his submission, his fingers flexing, tightening their grip on Alexander’s flesh.

Then Alexander shifted, and Clark could feel his master’s erection, a hard length against his stomach. Hot, slick, perfect, sliding over his skin as Alexander held him down and took him. Writhing on Clark’s lap now, grinding against him, claiming the pleasure that was his by rights. Because he owned Clark, every part of him, and, gods, Clark wanted to be owned. Wanted to give himself, offer himself up, his body for Alexander to ravage, his heart… Blessed spirits, his heart…

Strong thrusts, rhythmic, relentless, and his own cock was stiffening again, caught against the inside of Alexander’s thigh. Eyes closed, simply feeling his master move, the darkness behind his eyelids letting him soak up every brush, every rub, every surge of need, every shiver of bliss. So beautiful, this body above him, so fragile, so rich with strength. A blessing, just to be here, just to know what this man felt like against him, to recognize with a rush of heat through his blood the hitch in his master’s breath that meant he was close, hovering on the brink of completion. He would never ask more than this, would thank the gods for every day of his life that he could have it.

There were words in his ear, whispered caresses skimming his earlobe, making him tremble. Telling him how beautiful he was, how wanted, how cherished. All the things that made no sense, that felt so true, coming from his master’s lips. And Alexander reached down, slipped his hand between them to find Clark’s erection, long fingers wrapping around him, making him buck up hard, a wild animal thrashing for release.

"Yes," he heard. Breathless, broken. "Yes, like that. Just like that."

There was awe in the words. Wonder.

As though Alexander...

Gods.

Quick, hungry strokes on his cock, in time with the sweet friction of Alexander’s member rubbing against him, and it was too much, too perfect, the pleasure rising, cresting, until the climax rushed like a flood wave through his body and he cried out, the sound of his fulfilment echoing through the stillness of the house. And Alexander was there with him, above him, around him, lithe body turning suddenly rigid in his arms, then pushing forward one last time, hot seed spilling onto his chest, another mark to claim him. When Alexander leaned in to kiss him, fingers gentle in his hair, he felt happiness erupt inside his heart.

They sat like that, connected, holding each other close, until Alexander twisted on his lap, reaching for something to wipe the drying semen from their bodies. Fine fabric, soft on Clark’s skin, the light ministrations enhancing the feeling of safety that always came to him in moments like this. As though the tenderness of his master’s touch meant that no one would ever be allowed to hurt him.

Only when his glance fell on its purple border did he realize that he was being wiped clean with a corner of Alexander’s toga.




He couldn’t have been asleep for long when the knocking woke him.

They hadn’t made it further than the couch, and the lamp was still burning, illuminating Alexander’s face where it rested on the cushions, only inches from his own. Strange, how untroubled his master looked in his slumber, how open and relaxed. As though he had put aside the invisible armor he wore in the daytime and was lying here now, vulnerable, with Clark’s arms around him the only thing to shield him from harm. As though that was all he needed to feel safe. As always, the sight made something twist inside Clark’s chest, the beauty of it stealing his breath away. There were nights when he couldn’t make himself fall asleep, entrusted with something so precious.

No, he thought. I won’t let him down.

The knocking came again - louder, more insistent - and he hurried to get up so that he could send whoever was at the door away before they disturbed his master. Alexander shifted and made a vague noise as Clark extricated himself from their tangled bodies, but he didn’t wake. Clark pulled the toga that they had ended up using for a blanket up to cover his master’s bare shoulder, the strip of purple dark against fair skin, then picked his tunic from the floor and slipped it on. He glanced around for his belt, but it was nowhere in sight and he couldn’t recall what Alexander had done with it. Grabbing the lamp from the table, he turned and made for the front door.

As he passed into the atrium, he saw Laertes, one of the other slaves, coming from the servants’ quarters, clothed but barefoot, obviously on the same errand as himself. They nodded at each other but said nothing, the banging that tore through the dark house somehow precluding conversation. Clark was glad, though, to have someone standing with him between his master and people who came calling at such an hour.

In the entrance hall, he ran his hand through his hair, hoping that he looked at least somewhat presentable, then pulled back the bolt and opened the heavy door a crack to peer outside.

The man standing there, clearly visible in the light from the lamp in Clark’s hand, was Metellus Flavius Creticus.

Clark’s first instinct was to look around, checking for any followers Creticus might have brought with him, but the street appeared to be empty, the small man on the threshold no apparent threat to anyone. All the same, he didn’t like this, didn’t like it at all.

"Why, if it isn’t the favored slave boy," Creticus said, voice dripping with a cold, sarcastic contempt that made Clark’s skin crawl. "And in an unbelted tunic, no less. How appropriate. Why don’t you run along and get your master for me, boy. Or did he wear himself out, celebrating his victory?"

Creticus’s sharp eyes lingered for a moment on Clark’s neck, and he was suddenly aware of the fresh bite marks there, of the story they told. He had to fight back an urge to cover himself up, along with a conflicting but equally strong impulse to pick Creticus up and throw him and his vile insinuations into the gutter. As if that bastard had any idea what Clark and his master...

"If you think for a second that I’m going to let you anywhere near my master, you’d better think again, Senator," he said, his voice as firm as he could make it. "Or wait, ‘senator’ isn’t the right thing to call you anymore, is it? Never mind, I’m sure I can think of something more appropriate."

Beside him, he heard Laertes swear under his breath at the blatant disrespect in his tone, and he knew that he had stepped well over the line of what a slave was allowed to say. He didn’t care, though, couldn’t bring himself to bow his head before someone so plainly out to hurt the one person who mattered most to him in the world, no matter how he was supposed to behave. The memory of Alexander’s body limp and boneless in his arms as he’d pulled him safe from beneath the rearing horse cut through him like a knife. He would never forget that this man had been responsible.

The narrow face in front of him twisted in anger, but Creticus’s voice remained calm.

"Amusing isn’t it, how your master fancies himself able to rule an empire, when he can’t even teach his own slaves their place? Makes one wonder what the Luthors are coming to."

"Oh, I wouldn’t worry if I were you, Creticus." The tone was off-hand, nonchalant, but the unexpected sound of Alexander’s voice made Creticus flinch as if he’d been yelled at. Half turning, Clark saw his master step from the darkness of the hall into the sphere of light by the door. He was dressed in tunic, belt and shoes, his appearance as flawless as if he’d had all the time in the world to get ready. His eyes were a deep, chilly grey, giving away nothing of the man who had fallen asleep wrapped in his slave’s embrace. "Clark knows exactly what his place is," he continued, face to face with his enemy now. "You, on the other hand, seem to be suffering from the peculiar misapprehension that you’re entitled to his respect. But hopefully that’s nothing a couple of years in exile won’t set right."

"And you think exile will rid you of me? Well, we shall see. I’m leaving the city tomorrow - the gracious Senate gave me a week, but I won’t linger. After all, the only thing I want to do before I go is tell you this: I will remember, Luthor, and I will repay you with interest. When you least expect it, I will make you bleed. This I swear, and may the gods bear witness to my promise. You will bleed, Luthor, and I will be the one holding the knife."

There was a moment of silence, stretching thin as the two men regarded each other.

"Well," Alexander said at last, as unruffled as though they’d been discussing the weather, "now you’ve told me. Clark. The door, please."

Closing the door in Creticus’s surprised face felt remarkably good. And looking at his master - seeing the straightness of his back, the absolute calm on his face, the mischievous glimmer in his eyes now that his enemy was gone - Clark was overcome with a fierce, exhilarating pride that this man and no other should be the one he belonged to. He had been so very lucky.

"If no one else wants to come banging down my door with unspecific threats of doom, I’m off to bed now," Alexander said. "Coming, Clark?"

"In a minute, master. Just want to make sure everything is locked up properly."

The look his master shot him was warm and understanding and more than a little amused.

"Don’t be long."

So very lucky, indeed.

As soon as Alexander was out of earshot, Clark turned to Laertes.

"First thing tomorrow morning, could you have a look around outside and make sure that bastard is really gone? And that none of his men are hanging around, either? I don’t like the idea of those people lurking near the house."

Laertes nodded. He was at least ten years older than Clark, but he didn’t seem to mind taking directions from him. None of the slaves did. In the beginning, it had been awkward, but now everyone just assumed that he was speaking for the master.

"If I can help it, there won’t be anyone around to try and stab the master in the back on the way to the Forum. But Clark..." Laertes shuffled his feet, as if not sure whether to continue, then made up his mind and lurched ahead. "You’re a slave, same as me. And there are plenty of times when that stinks, but one of the good things about it is that you can do your job, keep your head down, and no one will even notice you. If you keep drawing attention to yourself like you just did, the master’s enemies are going to end up hating you almost as much as they hate him."

"If they want to hurt him, they’re already my enemies, too."

Laertes searched Clark’s face, his eyes softening at what he found there.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I know. But he might not always want you the way he does now, you must realize that, and an ordinary slave can’t afford to have this kind of enemies. I’m not saying don’t stand up for him, just…just try to think of yourself a bit, too. All right?"

"Yeah. All right."

"Good. Now don’t keep the master waiting. I’m sure he’ll have my head if he thinks I’m keeping you from him."

Clark answered Laertes’s wide grin with a smile of his own, before heading back through the house towards his master’s bedroom. After all, the man had a good heart and was only trying to look out for him. How could Clark explain to him that he had long since stopped thinking of himself before thinking of protecting his master? This was his life now, Alexander was his life, and what would it matter whether he had enemies or not if he didn’t have that? As long as each new night brought with it Alexander’s body next to his in the bed he was allowed to share, he was prepared to face anything. And if that was taken from him…

No, he couldn’t imagine what such a life would be like. He prayed to the gods that he would never have to find out.