Warnings: Nonexplicit references to non-con for Aramis’ backstory as a pleasure slave. I’m also adding a dub-con warning is because Richelieu and Treville are master and slave (and not in the happy kinky kind of way). If that latter element concerns you additional details are below (highlight to see; warning, additional details are majorly spoiler-y):
Treville is Richelieu’s slave, so legally he can’t withhold consent. However, not only would Richelieu stop the instant Treville said no, Treville actually has his manumittance papers in a drawer somewhere and could produce them the instant he wanted/needed to. His ongoing slavery is a technicality that allows he and Richelieu to evade their society’s prohibition on homosexual relationships between freedmen of wealth and/or social standing and is, at this point, entirely a matter of choice on Treville’s part.
Some things the body remembers, though the mind may do its best to forget. It’s been three years since Athos last stood in the shadows of the arena waiting for his team’s name to be called. He thought he’d forgotten the feel of a sword-hilt in his palm, pressing against his callouses. He believed he’d set aside the way anticipation and dread would curdle in his gut as he waited for his match. He wants to think the sweat breaking out on his skin, as soon as he steps from the shade of the waiting area into the harsh sun, won’t feel like an old, familiar caress. But he’s learning better now.
Aramis and Porthos stand next to him, holding a bow and an axe, respectively. Their presence is a familiar comfort. The three of them had been the most famous – and the most victorious – gladiatorial team Rome had seen in generations. Even after three years of retirement, the Inseparables still have more wins in the team events than the next four teams combined.
The three of them had been slaves when they’d racked up all those victories. But even slaves are entitled to a share of the purse and the betting profits. And, unlike the captains of some of the other gladiatorial stables in Rome, Treville had always been honest with the funds. Ten years and a nearly unbroken string of victories had allowed them all to purchase their freedoms and retire from the arena.
Three years later, they’re standing here again, readying for one more fight.
“Remember, Jussac is better with the sword than with the axe,” Treville says. “Bernajoux can fight with either hand – ”
“So can I,” Athos reminds his old Captain.
Treville fixes him with a look. “Do you want my advice or not?”
“We want it,” Aramis interrupts.
“Just because you’re no longer owned by the stable – ”
“Athos is sorry,” Porthos says. “Volunteers or not, we still want your advice as much as ever.”
Both Aramis and Porthos turn to Athos. Athos nods under the weight of their combined glares.
“Please,” he says as meekly as he can.
Really, he doesn’t know what had come over him. He knows better than to interrupt the Captain. Three years of freedom, making his living as a blacksmith instead of a gladiator in the Richelieu stables, have obviously blunted his edge somewhat.
Hopefully not too much. Being seriously injured or killed in the upcoming match would be problematic. Today is supposed to be a one-match-only triumphant reunion for the famous Inseparables. Lots of hype, plenty of action, and a fat purse for the winning team. If Athos trips over the sands of the arena and lets Jussac run him through because he didn’t listen to Treville’s advice on their opponents, Aramis and Porthos will never let him live it down.
And then there’s the other consideration. The reason the three of them have come out of their semi-peaceful retirement to fight in one more Games. That, too, would suffer from Athos’ loss.
“All right then,” Treville says, mollified. “Jussac is better with the sword, so just hold him off until the first round is over. In the second round he’ll have to switch to the axe. Bernajoux can fight with either hand. Don’t bother trying to disarm him the usual way; go for the legs instead, and he’ll give over.”
“I’ll handle him then,” Porthos says.
“No one stands up to you,” Aramis says with a smile.
Treville goes on, “The third man on their team is the new one. He’s called Bicarat, but I don’t know much about him. Senator Rochefort brought him back from Espania on his last journey. He’s said to be fierce, and I know he’ll be handling the ranged weaponry for his team.”
“That makes him my problem,” Aramis says with a nod. He’s already fingering his bow-string compulsively. “If this Bicarat’s Spanish, I should be able to predict his fighting style well enough.”
Aramis’ countenance doesn’t change when he says it, but Porthos reaches out to lay a gentle hand on his lover’s shoulder anyway. Aramis also hails from Espania. But when he’d first been brought to Rome, his fate had not been to go directly to the arena. A young, comely boy, he’d fetched a high price as a pleasure-slave and spent five years in the harem of Emperor Louis. And Imperial slaves don’t only serve his Majesty. They’re available to the entire royal court, and anyone else who earns the Emperor’s transient and capricious favor.
“I know you’ll shut Bicarat down,” Porthos says encouragingly. Aramis gives Porthos a half-distracted nod, and turns to count the arrows in his quiver one more time. Over his bowed head, Athos and Porthos share a look.
It’s been decades since Aramis had first come to Rome, but the scars aren’t as deeply buried as time would seem to indicate. And being back in the arena will have stirred up old memories for all of them. Aramis touches his arrows as if he still remembers the feel of the first quiver under his fingers. He’d been thrown to the lions after breaking the cardinal rule of pleasure slavery: raising his hand to one of his masters. One day, after an all-night orgy had left Aramis bleeding and feverish, a member of the Emperor’s council had ordered him removed from the physician’s and taken straight to her bedchambers. He’d always been her favorite. Dizzy with fever and blood loss, Aramis had fought her, and been sentenced to death by mauling as a result.
As is the custom with Imperial death sentences, Aramis had been sent to the gladiatorial stable of the powerful Senator Richelieu, the Emperor’s right-hand man, to await his sentence. Frankly, no one had expected Aramis to survive until the next Games. He’d arrived near death, wounds infected and fever sky-high. But Aramis has always been a fighter, and the Captain of their stables, Treville, isn’t a man to give up.
Aramis had not only survived the fever and infection. He’d shown why the nomads of Espania had been so hard for the Romans to conquer in the first place. Allowed only a bow and arrow in the arena – enough to pacify the consciences of the rich and powerful, not enough to truly defend himself – Aramis had struck all three lions with three well-placed shots. He’d then somehow managed to evade the wounded beasts long enough for blood loss and the heat of the noonday sun to finish the work his arrows had begun.
Then the Emperor’s notorious mood swings had come to Aramis’ rescue. Far from being furious that a prisoner had escaped justice, Louis had been amused and impressed by the defiant pleasure-slave who wouldn’t lay down and die. Appealed to for a decision by the arena-master, Louis had clapped his hands and spared Aramis’ life.
“Anyone who can fight like that is wasted in the harem!” he’d proclaimed. “If the slave wishes to fight so much, let him fight! Let the arena be his bed!”
Senator Richelieu, sitting at the Emperor’s right hand and never one to miss an opportunity, had promptly bought Aramis and had him sent to his stables. Under Captain Treville’s training Aramis had blossomed into a deadly fighter. As a team, the three of them had been unbeatable. And under Porthos’ gentle touch Aramis had learned that some lovers were not to be feared.
“Nervous?” Treville asks now, sensing the mood of his gladiators effortlessly. Outside, the noise of the crowd has ebbed. The match before theirs must be between rounds. The team events are three-round events, each round favoring a different weapon.
“A little,” Aramis admits.
“Relax,” Porthos says. “Doesn’t the Senator always say, ‘Those who have faith will be rewarded’?”
The other three laugh a little. Richelieu is known for his moralistic speeches, delivered on the floor of the Senate and reproduced widely on every street corner. Several of his more commonly repeated refrains have become proverbs in a certain kind of upwardly ambitious household. As slaves in the Senator’s stables, they’d all been exposed to his speeches more often than would be usual for gladiators.
“He also says ‘They are helped who help themselves,’” Treville says. “So: are your blades sharp? Does your armor chafe? Do you need water?”
“Yes, no, and no,” Porthos says.
Athos contents himself with nodding support for Porthos’ answer. He’s already shown a regrettable tendency to put his foot his mouth this morning. Silence is probably the best course. Especially since talk of the Senator begins to drift close to the real reason Athos, Aramis and Porthos have chosen to lay aside their retirement for one more match.
When the Inseparables had come back to the stables and asked Treville to sponsor them for the Emperor’s Birthday Games, the Captain had naturally wanted to know what motivated them to do it.
“Do you need help?” he’d asked. “Is it money? There are other ways to get money, less risky ways.”
It is money. But not for themselves. True, their professions as free men are hardly going to make them rich. Athos works as a blacksmith; Porthos and Aramis own a small market stall. But they’re not in debt. Nor are they likely to be so. It’s not for themselves that they’re fighting today.
“We need the money to help a friend,” Aramis had explained. It’s the truth, and Treville had accepted it as such.
What Aramis hadn’t said is that the friend they intend to help is the Captain himself.
The head of the Richelieu stables enjoys a tremendous reputation. Captain Treville is widely credited with the stables’ success, which brings the Senator – and his powerful political allies – fame and fortune in equal measure. Treville cares about the gladiators. He trains them exhaustively, makes sure their food is nourishing and their wounds are treated. They reward him by each fighting as hard as any other two men. And Richelieu reaps the benefits with great financial windfalls.
The Senator should therefore reward the Captain with a large salary and many benefits. Most men in Treville’s position would be lavishly compensated. Despite the honorific Captain, stable leaders hold no military rank and aren’t bound to a contract with the armed forces. Therefore, most men in Treville’s position would be able to go elsewhere if they were not properly appreciated by their current employer. Someone with Treville’s skills and fame as a Captain would be in high demand on the open market. Every powerful Senator and patrician in Rome who has money invested in a gladiatorial stable would compete for Treville’s services – if he were free to offer them.
He isn’t. And the law says Senator owes Treville nothing. Nothing except the thin rope around his neck, which marks him as Richelieu’s slave.
Most of the men who fight in the arena or work in the stables are slaves, of course. But Treville isn’t directly owned by the stable. He’s the personal property of the Senator himself. Which means that, unlike the gladiators, the other investors in the stables have no say in Treville’s handling. Treville doesn’t even live at the stables with the others. Every evening he locks the doors and returns to the Senator’s dwelling, not to reappear until the second hour past dawn. How he’s treated in the interim is entirely at the discretion of the Senator himself. And Richelieu is widely known to be a cruel master.
Outside, the crowd roars. The third round must have begun. Treville leans out of the alcove, checking out the situation.
“Looks like Jupiter’s Fist just lost their ranged gladiator,” Treville reports.
“That soon?” Porthos shakes his head. “Bad luck.”
“This won’t last long, then,” Aramis murmurs. The third round is the ranged round. Without their range specialist, Jupiter’s Fist will probably lose fairly quickly.
“Who’s the other team’s specialist?”
“Boisrenard,” Treville answers without bothering to look out again. He has most of the team compositions memorized, anyway, along with their special skills and weaknesses and gladiators. He could name the full lists of most of the major stables, as well as their win and loss records, rivalries, and ownership status.
It’s his job, as captain of the stables. But Treville is more than just a competent captain. Treville is the best.
In most stables, the captain’s position would be held by a former gladiator who had won their freedom in the games. Sometimes a retired mercenary will also take the job. More rarely, a wealthy owner will place their son or nephew in the position to accustom them to a warrior’s life. The Richelieu stables are the only one managed by a slave. Even more unusually, Treville hadn’t been renowned as a gladiator before being given the position. It’s said that when the stables were originally founded the Captain had taken to the arena along with the other gladiators, because the stables’ holdings had been too few in number to make up the required lists. But though he’d reportedly been a competent warrior, Treville had stopped fighting as soon as there had been enough other gladiators in the stables to allow it.
Rumors vary as to why. Some said that the Senator had forbidden it, not wanting to have to replace the Captain’s expertise as a warrior and trainer should he be killed. Others say that Treville had been injured in his last fight; not so badly as to prevent him from acting as Captain, but badly enough to be a disadvantage in the arena. But the general consensus is that, though the injury supposition is correct, the source of it had been the Senator himself. That one night Richelieu had gone too far and hurt Treville beyond his ability to recover.
The Senator’s reputation for cruelty isn’t just words to Athos, Porthos or Aramis. When they’d still been the property of a stables they’d seen the evidence of it firsthand. Hardly a day had gone by when Treville hadn’t sported some new hurt. Never enough to interfere with his duties – if that part of the rumors is true, then the injury that had ended Treville’s career must have been a mistake on the Senator’s part – but obvious and visible to someone who knows how to look. A stiffness in the stance that means sore ribs. A slight limp, as someone who favors a knee bent for too long. A swelling under one eye that speaks silently of a blow to the face. If Treville takes off his shirt under the noonday sun, everyone can see it: bruises in the shape of fingerprints, marks left by a cane, old scars from floggings or worse.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill: sine qua non 1a/3 [Richelieu/Treville, Aramis/Porthos, pre-Athos/d'Art, warnings in thread]
Date: 2015-01-21 03:56 am (UTC)This fill is being crossposted to AO3.
Some things the body remembers, though the mind may do its best to forget. It’s been three years since Athos last stood in the shadows of the arena waiting for his team’s name to be called. He thought he’d forgotten the feel of a sword-hilt in his palm, pressing against his callouses. He believed he’d set aside the way anticipation and dread would curdle in his gut as he waited for his match. He wants to think the sweat breaking out on his skin, as soon as he steps from the shade of the waiting area into the harsh sun, won’t feel like an old, familiar caress. But he’s learning better now.
Aramis and Porthos stand next to him, holding a bow and an axe, respectively. Their presence is a familiar comfort. The three of them had been the most famous – and the most victorious – gladiatorial team Rome had seen in generations. Even after three years of retirement, the Inseparables still have more wins in the team events than the next four teams combined.
The three of them had been slaves when they’d racked up all those victories. But even slaves are entitled to a share of the purse and the betting profits. And, unlike the captains of some of the other gladiatorial stables in Rome, Treville had always been honest with the funds. Ten years and a nearly unbroken string of victories had allowed them all to purchase their freedoms and retire from the arena.
Three years later, they’re standing here again, readying for one more fight.
“Remember, Jussac is better with the sword than with the axe,” Treville says. “Bernajoux can fight with either hand – ”
“So can I,” Athos reminds his old Captain.
Treville fixes him with a look. “Do you want my advice or not?”
“We want it,” Aramis interrupts.
“Just because you’re no longer owned by the stable – ”
“Athos is sorry,” Porthos says. “Volunteers or not, we still want your advice as much as ever.”
Both Aramis and Porthos turn to Athos. Athos nods under the weight of their combined glares.
“Please,” he says as meekly as he can.
Really, he doesn’t know what had come over him. He knows better than to interrupt the Captain. Three years of freedom, making his living as a blacksmith instead of a gladiator in the Richelieu stables, have obviously blunted his edge somewhat.
Hopefully not too much. Being seriously injured or killed in the upcoming match would be problematic. Today is supposed to be a one-match-only triumphant reunion for the famous Inseparables. Lots of hype, plenty of action, and a fat purse for the winning team. If Athos trips over the sands of the arena and lets Jussac run him through because he didn’t listen to Treville’s advice on their opponents, Aramis and Porthos will never let him live it down.
And then there’s the other consideration. The reason the three of them have come out of their semi-peaceful retirement to fight in one more Games. That, too, would suffer from Athos’ loss.
“All right then,” Treville says, mollified. “Jussac is better with the sword, so just hold him off until the first round is over. In the second round he’ll have to switch to the axe. Bernajoux can fight with either hand. Don’t bother trying to disarm him the usual way; go for the legs instead, and he’ll give over.”
“I’ll handle him then,” Porthos says.
“No one stands up to you,” Aramis says with a smile.
Treville goes on, “The third man on their team is the new one. He’s called Bicarat, but I don’t know much about him. Senator Rochefort brought him back from Espania on his last journey. He’s said to be fierce, and I know he’ll be handling the ranged weaponry for his team.”
“That makes him my problem,” Aramis says with a nod. He’s already fingering his bow-string compulsively. “If this Bicarat’s Spanish, I should be able to predict his fighting style well enough.”
Aramis’ countenance doesn’t change when he says it, but Porthos reaches out to lay a gentle hand on his lover’s shoulder anyway. Aramis also hails from Espania. But when he’d first been brought to Rome, his fate had not been to go directly to the arena. A young, comely boy, he’d fetched a high price as a pleasure-slave and spent five years in the harem of Emperor Louis. And Imperial slaves don’t only serve his Majesty. They’re available to the entire royal court, and anyone else who earns the Emperor’s transient and capricious favor.
“I know you’ll shut Bicarat down,” Porthos says encouragingly. Aramis gives Porthos a half-distracted nod, and turns to count the arrows in his quiver one more time. Over his bowed head, Athos and Porthos share a look.
It’s been decades since Aramis had first come to Rome, but the scars aren’t as deeply buried as time would seem to indicate. And being back in the arena will have stirred up old memories for all of them. Aramis touches his arrows as if he still remembers the feel of the first quiver under his fingers. He’d been thrown to the lions after breaking the cardinal rule of pleasure slavery: raising his hand to one of his masters. One day, after an all-night orgy had left Aramis bleeding and feverish, a member of the Emperor’s council had ordered him removed from the physician’s and taken straight to her bedchambers. He’d always been her favorite. Dizzy with fever and blood loss, Aramis had fought her, and been sentenced to death by mauling as a result.
As is the custom with Imperial death sentences, Aramis had been sent to the gladiatorial stable of the powerful Senator Richelieu, the Emperor’s right-hand man, to await his sentence. Frankly, no one had expected Aramis to survive until the next Games. He’d arrived near death, wounds infected and fever sky-high. But Aramis has always been a fighter, and the Captain of their stables, Treville, isn’t a man to give up.
Aramis had not only survived the fever and infection. He’d shown why the nomads of Espania had been so hard for the Romans to conquer in the first place. Allowed only a bow and arrow in the arena – enough to pacify the consciences of the rich and powerful, not enough to truly defend himself – Aramis had struck all three lions with three well-placed shots. He’d then somehow managed to evade the wounded beasts long enough for blood loss and the heat of the noonday sun to finish the work his arrows had begun.
Then the Emperor’s notorious mood swings had come to Aramis’ rescue. Far from being furious that a prisoner had escaped justice, Louis had been amused and impressed by the defiant pleasure-slave who wouldn’t lay down and die. Appealed to for a decision by the arena-master, Louis had clapped his hands and spared Aramis’ life.
“Anyone who can fight like that is wasted in the harem!” he’d proclaimed. “If the slave wishes to fight so much, let him fight! Let the arena be his bed!”
Senator Richelieu, sitting at the Emperor’s right hand and never one to miss an opportunity, had promptly bought Aramis and had him sent to his stables. Under Captain Treville’s training Aramis had blossomed into a deadly fighter. As a team, the three of them had been unbeatable. And under Porthos’ gentle touch Aramis had learned that some lovers were not to be feared.
“Nervous?” Treville asks now, sensing the mood of his gladiators effortlessly. Outside, the noise of the crowd has ebbed. The match before theirs must be between rounds. The team events are three-round events, each round favoring a different weapon.
“A little,” Aramis admits.
“Relax,” Porthos says. “Doesn’t the Senator always say, ‘Those who have faith will be rewarded’?”
The other three laugh a little. Richelieu is known for his moralistic speeches, delivered on the floor of the Senate and reproduced widely on every street corner. Several of his more commonly repeated refrains have become proverbs in a certain kind of upwardly ambitious household. As slaves in the Senator’s stables, they’d all been exposed to his speeches more often than would be usual for gladiators.
“He also says ‘They are helped who help themselves,’” Treville says. “So: are your blades sharp? Does your armor chafe? Do you need water?”
“Yes, no, and no,” Porthos says.
Athos contents himself with nodding support for Porthos’ answer. He’s already shown a regrettable tendency to put his foot his mouth this morning. Silence is probably the best course. Especially since talk of the Senator begins to drift close to the real reason Athos, Aramis and Porthos have chosen to lay aside their retirement for one more match.
When the Inseparables had come back to the stables and asked Treville to sponsor them for the Emperor’s Birthday Games, the Captain had naturally wanted to know what motivated them to do it.
“Do you need help?” he’d asked. “Is it money? There are other ways to get money, less risky ways.”
It is money. But not for themselves. True, their professions as free men are hardly going to make them rich. Athos works as a blacksmith; Porthos and Aramis own a small market stall. But they’re not in debt. Nor are they likely to be so. It’s not for themselves that they’re fighting today.
“We need the money to help a friend,” Aramis had explained. It’s the truth, and Treville had accepted it as such.
What Aramis hadn’t said is that the friend they intend to help is the Captain himself.
The head of the Richelieu stables enjoys a tremendous reputation. Captain Treville is widely credited with the stables’ success, which brings the Senator – and his powerful political allies – fame and fortune in equal measure. Treville cares about the gladiators. He trains them exhaustively, makes sure their food is nourishing and their wounds are treated. They reward him by each fighting as hard as any other two men. And Richelieu reaps the benefits with great financial windfalls.
The Senator should therefore reward the Captain with a large salary and many benefits. Most men in Treville’s position would be lavishly compensated. Despite the honorific Captain, stable leaders hold no military rank and aren’t bound to a contract with the armed forces. Therefore, most men in Treville’s position would be able to go elsewhere if they were not properly appreciated by their current employer. Someone with Treville’s skills and fame as a Captain would be in high demand on the open market. Every powerful Senator and patrician in Rome who has money invested in a gladiatorial stable would compete for Treville’s services – if he were free to offer them.
He isn’t. And the law says Senator owes Treville nothing. Nothing except the thin rope around his neck, which marks him as Richelieu’s slave.
Most of the men who fight in the arena or work in the stables are slaves, of course. But Treville isn’t directly owned by the stable. He’s the personal property of the Senator himself. Which means that, unlike the gladiators, the other investors in the stables have no say in Treville’s handling. Treville doesn’t even live at the stables with the others. Every evening he locks the doors and returns to the Senator’s dwelling, not to reappear until the second hour past dawn. How he’s treated in the interim is entirely at the discretion of the Senator himself. And Richelieu is widely known to be a cruel master.
Outside, the crowd roars. The third round must have begun. Treville leans out of the alcove, checking out the situation.
“Looks like Jupiter’s Fist just lost their ranged gladiator,” Treville reports.
“That soon?” Porthos shakes his head. “Bad luck.”
“This won’t last long, then,” Aramis murmurs. The third round is the ranged round. Without their range specialist, Jupiter’s Fist will probably lose fairly quickly.
“Who’s the other team’s specialist?”
“Boisrenard,” Treville answers without bothering to look out again. He has most of the team compositions memorized, anyway, along with their special skills and weaknesses and gladiators. He could name the full lists of most of the major stables, as well as their win and loss records, rivalries, and ownership status.
It’s his job, as captain of the stables. But Treville is more than just a competent captain. Treville is the best.
In most stables, the captain’s position would be held by a former gladiator who had won their freedom in the games. Sometimes a retired mercenary will also take the job. More rarely, a wealthy owner will place their son or nephew in the position to accustom them to a warrior’s life. The Richelieu stables are the only one managed by a slave. Even more unusually, Treville hadn’t been renowned as a gladiator before being given the position. It’s said that when the stables were originally founded the Captain had taken to the arena along with the other gladiators, because the stables’ holdings had been too few in number to make up the required lists. But though he’d reportedly been a competent warrior, Treville had stopped fighting as soon as there had been enough other gladiators in the stables to allow it.
Rumors vary as to why. Some said that the Senator had forbidden it, not wanting to have to replace the Captain’s expertise as a warrior and trainer should he be killed. Others say that Treville had been injured in his last fight; not so badly as to prevent him from acting as Captain, but badly enough to be a disadvantage in the arena. But the general consensus is that, though the injury supposition is correct, the source of it had been the Senator himself. That one night Richelieu had gone too far and hurt Treville beyond his ability to recover.
The Senator’s reputation for cruelty isn’t just words to Athos, Porthos or Aramis. When they’d still been the property of a stables they’d seen the evidence of it firsthand. Hardly a day had gone by when Treville hadn’t sported some new hurt. Never enough to interfere with his duties – if that part of the rumors is true, then the injury that had ended Treville’s career must have been a mistake on the Senator’s part – but obvious and visible to someone who knows how to look. A stiffness in the stance that means sore ribs. A slight limp, as someone who favors a knee bent for too long. A swelling under one eye that speaks silently of a blow to the face. If Treville takes off his shirt under the noonday sun, everyone can see it: bruises in the shape of fingerprints, marks left by a cane, old scars from floggings or worse.