A/N: So sorry for how long it took to get this part out. I was trying to get the chapters up weekly, but life decided otherwise. Oh well. It's done now! OP, hope the wait was worth it. Athos goes back to the forge and works his usual shift. Aramis and Porthos do the same for their little stall. They meet by prearrangement at the fountain in the central square as the sun dips below the buildings.
The gladiators’ work period ends at sunset, at which point they are to return to their stables’ barracks. Food is provided and the doors are locked for the night by the free overseers. Some of the gladiators and trainers are not owned directly by their stable; those men are escorted home by their masters’ guards, or, in some cases, are trusted to return home independently. Treville is in the latter category.
Right on schedule, Treville appears from the eastern side of the square and joins the crowd passing through. The Inseparables idle semi-industriously until he’s past and gone. Then they set out behind him.
They make their way towards the Senator’s house. It’s on a prominent thoroughfare, which makes it easy for Athos, Porthos and Aramis to walk by. The crowded street means it’s easy to progress slowly. A few people recognize them from the arena. But in the general noise anything they shout is indistinguishable from the background.
From the street, Athos can see that the gate to the compound is still open. They’re in luck. Treville must have just reached the Senator’s dwelling. He’s just now in the act of entering the courtyard, turning aside from the short well-landscaped path to make for a small door visible to one side. A servants’ entrance.
“This way,” Aramis says, leading Athos and Porthos past the courtyard to the next intersection. Here they turn onto a much less crowded thoroughfare. A few steps later, at Aramis’ gesture, they duck past a line of hanging laundry and find themselves in an alley.
“Which one of these is the Senator’s?” Porthos asks, staring down a row of brick-backed buildings.
Aramis gives Porthos a pitying look. “All of them.”
“But the courtyard only covers half the street in the front!” Porthos protests.
“The other buildings in the block used to be separate dwellings,” Athos agrees. “The Senator bought them when he decided to take up residence in the city and had the interior walls demolished to form his compound.”
“Apparently it’s something of a maze inside,” Aramis says. “I’ve no idea what’s located where, so we’ll just have to peek in the windows until we find what we’re looking for.”
“Which is?” Porthos asks.
Aramis shrugs. “Servants’ quarters, or the Senator’s study, or maybe a dining hall. Anywhere the Senator and the Captain might find themselves together.”
“Somewhere semi-private,” Athos adds. “The Senator prefers to keep his dirty laundry hidden.”
“Right,” Porthos says grimly, moving towards the closest window.
They quickly rule out the first several options, which mainly turn out to be storerooms of one kind or another. One is a laundry – an unlikely place for a gladiatorial Captain to spend his time – while another is a hallway. A few guest bedrooms, pristine and untouched, round out the south wing of the compound.
This brings them to the center of the alley, and the rooms start to get more interesting.
“Servants’ quarters,” Porthos reports in a whisper, peering in one window.
“Maybe later,” Athos says. “The Captain probably sleeps there, but we need to find where he spends his time awake.”
“Dining room,” Aramis says from a little farther down the alley.
“Too early for supper,” Porthos sighs.
Athos peers into another window. The view is somewhat masked by gauzy curtains, but a moment of squinting reveals a lavishly appointed bedchamber. They’ve seen a few of these already, but those were neatly made up and empty of personal belongings, obviously guest quarters. These appear lived-in. And thanks to the large portrait hanging over the enormous bed, there’s little doubt as to whom these rooms belong.
Athos shakes his head in bemusement at the luxury. He’s about to move on when the door handle rotates downwards. Instinctively he ducks. Then he remembers the gauzy curtains and slowly rises again. If he can keep an eye on the Senator, they can track his movements throughout the compound – assuming he remains within view of an alley-facing window – and be ready when Richelieu encounters Treville.
Except that when the door finishes opening, it’s not the Senator who steps into the room. It’s Treville himself.
“Over here,” Athos hisses once he gets over his shock, beckoning this two companions over. They crowd in.
“Damn,” Porthos whistles. “Nice digs.”
“Never mind the room,” Athos says. “What’s the Captain doing here?”
“You don’t suppose…” Aramis starts, horrified.
“Maybe he was sent to fetch something,” Porthos suggests, laying a comforting hand on his lovers’ shoulder.
Athos frowns. There should be house-servants for that sort of thing. But he holds his tongue. He doesn’t want to upset Aramis unnecessarily, and Treville’s presence in Richelieu’s bedchamber is suspect enough without dragging up Aramis’ past.
Especially when Treville begins to disrobe.
“Oh my God,” Aramis blurts.
Porthos abandons the hand-on-shoulder approach in favor of wrapping both arms around Aramis.
“He may just be changing,” Athos says doubtfully.
“Bathing,” Porthos suggests. “After a long day at the stables.”
“In the Senator’s private quarters?” Aramis demands incredulously.
Ignorant of the Inseparables’ debate, Treville goes right on disrobing. He’s standing just inside the door on a small inset square of tiles, a step beneath the soft-looking rugs that litter the main floor, just wide enough for two or three men to stand. Each soiled garment is carefully placed in a wicker basket positioned nearby, apparently for that purpose. Only once Treville’s naked does he proceed farther into the room. The first thing he does is push aside a second, inner door and go through it.
A few shuffling steps to the right improve Athos’ angle of view enough to make the second room visible. This accomplished, this second space is revealed to be a bathing chamber. Sunk into the floor waits the most palatial tub Athos has ever seen. Easily large enough for five men, it has gentle, sloping sides that can’t help but encourage relaxation. The tub is full of water which steams gently but visibly in the open air. Herbs float atop the surface. Athos can’t smell them, but by eye alone he picks out lavender and jasmine.
“Bathing,” Aramis says flatly. “I don’t think that bath’s intended for a slave.”
“The Senator should be arriving home shortly,” Athos says. “It must be for him.”
It makes a certain amount of sense. Usually the job of bathing the Senator would belong to a higher servant, but assigning Treville this chore might be a way of flaunting the hold Richelieu apparently has over him. The Senator could easily be that petty in his personal life.
“Looks inviting,” Porthos says in a poor attempt at humor.
“I’m sure the Senator enjoys it,” Aramis bites out, looking pale.
“I hope you’ll understand if I have to avert my delicate eyes after a bit,” Athos murmurs. “I’ve no general objection to the male body, but Richelieu naked is rather more than I’m up for.”
“Hang on,” Porthos says suddenly. “This isn’t right. Why’s the tub full?”
Athos slants Porthos a look. “Because the Senator intends to bathe?” he suggests.
Porthos shakes his head. “Haven’t either of you heard that speech? ‘Bathing before bed is evil and weak-minded. The truly righteous bathe at dawn to purify themselves for the work ahead.’” Porthos even manages to do a creditable imitation of the Senator’s drawling tones.
Aramis blinks. “You know, now that you mention it, I have heard that speech.”
Athos frowns. “Then why the bath?”
Porthos looks back through the window. His jaw drops. “Uh…”
Athos peeks, too. His jaw remains where it ought to be, but only through formidable strength of will. The bath isn’t empty anymore. Treville is reclining in it. He’s placed a few folded towels by one lip of the tub, and his head is leaned back, eyes closed. He looks completely relaxed.
“Oh shit,” Aramis mutters. “He must be expecting the Senator to be getting back late tonight. Talk about risky!”
A thought occurs to Athos suddenly. “Is it risky?”
Aramis looks at him like he’s crazy. “If the Senator comes back and finds the Captain here, he won’t stop at just giving Treville a limp and some bruises!”
“Then who is expected to bathe here?” Athos asks. “The tub was full.”
Aramis and Porthos blink at him. “You don’t suppose – ” Porthos starts.
He’s interrupted by the sound of the door opening again. This time all three of them duck back instinctively. Then they pause, realizing that now no one can see what’s going on. Crouching, they hold a silent, furious debate using only their facial expressions and some eloquent hand gestures. At the end of it Athos rises – slowly – and lifts his eyes above the window-sill.
Richelieu has entered his bedchambers. He, too, pauses in the tiled section to shed his outer robes, though he remains in his linen shift underneath. Thus attired, he moves towards the second door.
Athos freezes for a moment, then realizes that the second door is open. Has been open the entire time. Richelieu would have been able to see Treville in his bath as soon as he’d entered. If he were outraged, if Treville were about to be severely punished, the bellowing would have started already.
Athos waves to the other two to rejoin him, making a sign to them at the same time for silence. Their heads crowd in next to his, staying just low enough to see.
“Is the budget done?” Treville’s voice breaks the silence, carrying quietly but clearly to the three watching at the window.
“Yes, finally,” Richelieu replies. He turns away out of sight to fetch something and his next few words are only mumbles. When he turns back they hear “ – should be taken care of. You?”
Treville stretches under the water. “Nothing too bad,” he mutters, sounding sleepy.
Richelieu is carrying a small basket as he comes over to where Treville is reclining. He places another few towels on the ground just behind Treville’s head. Next to them he sets the basket. And then, to the astonishment of all three former Gladiators, the feared Senator Richelieu kneels down and begins to wash his slave’s hair.
They all retreat a few steps down the alley before their astonishment can give them away. “What in the gods’ names?” Porthos bursts out with as soon as he judges it safe to do so.
“What is going on here?” Aramis demands, wild-eyed.
“Something very different than what we were led to believe,” Athos says calmly. “I’m going to go back to looking. Can the two of you hold your tongues, or must you stay here?”
Aramis and Porthos exchange a silent look. Together, they nod.
When the three resume their viewing pose, the scene has changed somewhat. Treville is emerging from the water, cleaned. Richelieu is actually wrapping him in a towel. Not a slave’s towel, small and coarse. Not even the usual piece of cloth standard for servants, adequate but none too fine. This is a large swath of fabric, rich, with the Senator’s own crest embroidered on it.
And Treville doesn’t seem surprised or overcome by this piece of consideration. He laughs at the Senator, murmuring something quick and low that none of them can catch. He tilts his head up towards the Senator, eyes dancing. And the Senator leans down and takes him in a passionate kiss.
Aramis makes a choked sound and drops back below the window. Porthos looks after him worriedly, but keeps his place.
Athos continues to watch. He knows what Aramis is afraid of, what has him huddled down at the base of the window shaking, but he seriously doubts he’s about to watch Treville be raped. The bath and the towel are marks of great favor, it’s true. But nothing about Richelieu’s attitude suggests that he’s pampering a favored bed-slave. And nothing about Treville’s attitude suggests that he views what he’s being given as the recompense due one who pays in the most intimate of ways.
Indeed, after a moment the two break apart. Or, more accurately, Treville places a hand on Richelieu’s chest and gently pushes him back.
“Supper first, remember?” Treville says. There’s a playful chiding in his tone completely at odds with any of the roles Athos has tried so far to cast the Captain in. There’s none of the fearful subservience of the beaten-down slave speaking to the cruel master. Nor, as Athos had always thought more likely, does Treville speak with the silent, enduring bravery of the unbroken slave who does his duty even in the face of mistreatment. It’s not said in the coquettish tones of the bed-slave who tries simultaneously to flatter and divert the domineering master. Nor even in the steady tones of the respected slave whose worth is known to a responsible owner.
If anything, Athos thinks, it’s spoken in the fond, indulgent tones of the loving wife. And that’s when the suspicion begins to take root in his mind.
“All right,” Richelieu sighs back. “I suppose my dues to society aren’t quite paid yet for today.”
“Soon,” Treville soothes. He turns towards the wardrobe – actually turns his back on his owner. And the Senator doesn’t raise a hand against his rebellious slave. The caricature of the man Athos had thought he had known as Senator Richelieu would have had Treville dragged from the room and flogged in the public square until his bones broke. The man he’s seeing now merely smiles fondly at the retreating back and follows it, one hand reaching to ghost along the nape of Treville’s neck, making the old gladiator shiver in what Athos is pretty sure is pleasure.
Treville does dress the Senator – the natural order of things isn’t so far disarranged as that – and by the time he’s done, the silence and Porthos’ eloquent gestures have convinced Aramis to rejoin the others at the window. Aramis apologizes for his departure with a short look at Athos, to which Athos replies with an even shorter gesture: it’s all right.
With the Senator dressed, Treville goes back to the wardrobe and retrieves a small pile of clothes for himself. Even folded they’re obviously of good quality, and appear soft and warm. Another mark of favor. They’re stacking up rather quickly. Whatever else is going on here, it’s obvious that Treville’s life is not one of bread, water and beatings, the way so many of the gladiators have always assumed.
Treville goes to dress quickly, but is stopped by Richelieu’s hands on him.
Aramis stiffens again. But a second look makes it clear that Richelieu’s touch isn’t sexual. He’s tracing the scattered marks on Treville’s back, the sort left by a patrician’s cane. The gladiators had always supposed that Richelieu himself left those marks on Treville, as punishment or simple encouragement to harder work.
“What happened?” Richelieu asks, tone gentle.
“Centurion Tavii wished to inspect the gladiatorial stock before placing his bet,” Treville says quietly. “He didn’t think I should be present while he did so.”
Richelieu reaches to the top of the wardrobe and pulls down an earthenware jar. He unscrews it and dips his fingers inside. They come out covered with a colorless jelly of some kind. First rubbing it between his fingers to warm it, the Senator then begins to massage it into the injured area. Treville tips his head back and sighs.
Finished, Richelieu takes Treville’s shoulders and turns him around. His fingers dip to touch the edge of a rather impressive bruise on Treville’s ribcage. The sort of bruise that the gladiators had always thought came from the Senator, in fact.
“And this?”
Treville shrugs stiffly. “The ticket-taker objected to me recounting our share of the revenues from the Emperor’s Birthday Games.”
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timeasmymeasure
Fill: sine qua non 3a/3 [Richelieu/Treville, Aramis/Porthos, pre-Athos/d'Art, warnings in thread]
Date: 2015-02-06 02:07 pm (UTC)Athos goes back to the forge and works his usual shift. Aramis and Porthos do the same for their little stall. They meet by prearrangement at the fountain in the central square as the sun dips below the buildings.
The gladiators’ work period ends at sunset, at which point they are to return to their stables’ barracks. Food is provided and the doors are locked for the night by the free overseers. Some of the gladiators and trainers are not owned directly by their stable; those men are escorted home by their masters’ guards, or, in some cases, are trusted to return home independently. Treville is in the latter category.
Right on schedule, Treville appears from the eastern side of the square and joins the crowd passing through. The Inseparables idle semi-industriously until he’s past and gone. Then they set out behind him.
They make their way towards the Senator’s house. It’s on a prominent thoroughfare, which makes it easy for Athos, Porthos and Aramis to walk by. The crowded street means it’s easy to progress slowly. A few people recognize them from the arena. But in the general noise anything they shout is indistinguishable from the background.
From the street, Athos can see that the gate to the compound is still open. They’re in luck. Treville must have just reached the Senator’s dwelling. He’s just now in the act of entering the courtyard, turning aside from the short well-landscaped path to make for a small door visible to one side. A servants’ entrance.
“This way,” Aramis says, leading Athos and Porthos past the courtyard to the next intersection. Here they turn onto a much less crowded thoroughfare. A few steps later, at Aramis’ gesture, they duck past a line of hanging laundry and find themselves in an alley.
“Which one of these is the Senator’s?” Porthos asks, staring down a row of brick-backed buildings.
Aramis gives Porthos a pitying look. “All of them.”
“But the courtyard only covers half the street in the front!” Porthos protests.
“The other buildings in the block used to be separate dwellings,” Athos agrees. “The Senator bought them when he decided to take up residence in the city and had the interior walls demolished to form his compound.”
“Apparently it’s something of a maze inside,” Aramis says. “I’ve no idea what’s located where, so we’ll just have to peek in the windows until we find what we’re looking for.”
“Which is?” Porthos asks.
Aramis shrugs. “Servants’ quarters, or the Senator’s study, or maybe a dining hall. Anywhere the Senator and the Captain might find themselves together.”
“Somewhere semi-private,” Athos adds. “The Senator prefers to keep his dirty laundry hidden.”
“Right,” Porthos says grimly, moving towards the closest window.
They quickly rule out the first several options, which mainly turn out to be storerooms of one kind or another. One is a laundry – an unlikely place for a gladiatorial Captain to spend his time – while another is a hallway. A few guest bedrooms, pristine and untouched, round out the south wing of the compound.
This brings them to the center of the alley, and the rooms start to get more interesting.
“Servants’ quarters,” Porthos reports in a whisper, peering in one window.
“Maybe later,” Athos says. “The Captain probably sleeps there, but we need to find where he spends his time awake.”
“Dining room,” Aramis says from a little farther down the alley.
“Too early for supper,” Porthos sighs.
Athos peers into another window. The view is somewhat masked by gauzy curtains, but a moment of squinting reveals a lavishly appointed bedchamber. They’ve seen a few of these already, but those were neatly made up and empty of personal belongings, obviously guest quarters. These appear lived-in. And thanks to the large portrait hanging over the enormous bed, there’s little doubt as to whom these rooms belong.
Athos shakes his head in bemusement at the luxury. He’s about to move on when the door handle rotates downwards. Instinctively he ducks. Then he remembers the gauzy curtains and slowly rises again. If he can keep an eye on the Senator, they can track his movements throughout the compound – assuming he remains within view of an alley-facing window – and be ready when Richelieu encounters Treville.
Except that when the door finishes opening, it’s not the Senator who steps into the room. It’s Treville himself.
“Over here,” Athos hisses once he gets over his shock, beckoning this two companions over. They crowd in.
“Damn,” Porthos whistles. “Nice digs.”
“Never mind the room,” Athos says. “What’s the Captain doing here?”
“You don’t suppose…” Aramis starts, horrified.
“Maybe he was sent to fetch something,” Porthos suggests, laying a comforting hand on his lovers’ shoulder.
Athos frowns. There should be house-servants for that sort of thing. But he holds his tongue. He doesn’t want to upset Aramis unnecessarily, and Treville’s presence in Richelieu’s bedchamber is suspect enough without dragging up Aramis’ past.
Especially when Treville begins to disrobe.
“Oh my God,” Aramis blurts.
Porthos abandons the hand-on-shoulder approach in favor of wrapping both arms around Aramis.
“He may just be changing,” Athos says doubtfully.
“Bathing,” Porthos suggests. “After a long day at the stables.”
“In the Senator’s private quarters?” Aramis demands incredulously.
Ignorant of the Inseparables’ debate, Treville goes right on disrobing. He’s standing just inside the door on a small inset square of tiles, a step beneath the soft-looking rugs that litter the main floor, just wide enough for two or three men to stand. Each soiled garment is carefully placed in a wicker basket positioned nearby, apparently for that purpose. Only once Treville’s naked does he proceed farther into the room. The first thing he does is push aside a second, inner door and go through it.
A few shuffling steps to the right improve Athos’ angle of view enough to make the second room visible. This accomplished, this second space is revealed to be a bathing chamber. Sunk into the floor waits the most palatial tub Athos has ever seen. Easily large enough for five men, it has gentle, sloping sides that can’t help but encourage relaxation. The tub is full of water which steams gently but visibly in the open air. Herbs float atop the surface. Athos can’t smell them, but by eye alone he picks out lavender and jasmine.
“Bathing,” Aramis says flatly. “I don’t think that bath’s intended for a slave.”
“The Senator should be arriving home shortly,” Athos says. “It must be for him.”
It makes a certain amount of sense. Usually the job of bathing the Senator would belong to a higher servant, but assigning Treville this chore might be a way of flaunting the hold Richelieu apparently has over him. The Senator could easily be that petty in his personal life.
“Looks inviting,” Porthos says in a poor attempt at humor.
“I’m sure the Senator enjoys it,” Aramis bites out, looking pale.
“I hope you’ll understand if I have to avert my delicate eyes after a bit,” Athos murmurs. “I’ve no general objection to the male body, but Richelieu naked is rather more than I’m up for.”
“Hang on,” Porthos says suddenly. “This isn’t right. Why’s the tub full?”
Athos slants Porthos a look. “Because the Senator intends to bathe?” he suggests.
Porthos shakes his head. “Haven’t either of you heard that speech? ‘Bathing before bed is evil and weak-minded. The truly righteous bathe at dawn to purify themselves for the work ahead.’” Porthos even manages to do a creditable imitation of the Senator’s drawling tones.
Aramis blinks. “You know, now that you mention it, I have heard that speech.”
Athos frowns. “Then why the bath?”
Porthos looks back through the window. His jaw drops. “Uh…”
Athos peeks, too. His jaw remains where it ought to be, but only through formidable strength of will. The bath isn’t empty anymore. Treville is reclining in it. He’s placed a few folded towels by one lip of the tub, and his head is leaned back, eyes closed. He looks completely relaxed.
“Oh shit,” Aramis mutters. “He must be expecting the Senator to be getting back late tonight. Talk about risky!”
A thought occurs to Athos suddenly. “Is it risky?”
Aramis looks at him like he’s crazy. “If the Senator comes back and finds the Captain here, he won’t stop at just giving Treville a limp and some bruises!”
“Then who is expected to bathe here?” Athos asks. “The tub was full.”
Aramis and Porthos blink at him. “You don’t suppose – ” Porthos starts.
He’s interrupted by the sound of the door opening again. This time all three of them duck back instinctively. Then they pause, realizing that now no one can see what’s going on. Crouching, they hold a silent, furious debate using only their facial expressions and some eloquent hand gestures. At the end of it Athos rises – slowly – and lifts his eyes above the window-sill.
Richelieu has entered his bedchambers. He, too, pauses in the tiled section to shed his outer robes, though he remains in his linen shift underneath. Thus attired, he moves towards the second door.
Athos freezes for a moment, then realizes that the second door is open. Has been open the entire time. Richelieu would have been able to see Treville in his bath as soon as he’d entered. If he were outraged, if Treville were about to be severely punished, the bellowing would have started already.
Athos waves to the other two to rejoin him, making a sign to them at the same time for silence. Their heads crowd in next to his, staying just low enough to see.
“Is the budget done?” Treville’s voice breaks the silence, carrying quietly but clearly to the three watching at the window.
“Yes, finally,” Richelieu replies. He turns away out of sight to fetch something and his next few words are only mumbles. When he turns back they hear “ – should be taken care of. You?”
Treville stretches under the water. “Nothing too bad,” he mutters, sounding sleepy.
Richelieu is carrying a small basket as he comes over to where Treville is reclining. He places another few towels on the ground just behind Treville’s head. Next to them he sets the basket. And then, to the astonishment of all three former Gladiators, the feared Senator Richelieu kneels down and begins to wash his slave’s hair.
They all retreat a few steps down the alley before their astonishment can give them away. “What in the gods’ names?” Porthos bursts out with as soon as he judges it safe to do so.
“What is going on here?” Aramis demands, wild-eyed.
“Something very different than what we were led to believe,” Athos says calmly. “I’m going to go back to looking. Can the two of you hold your tongues, or must you stay here?”
Aramis and Porthos exchange a silent look. Together, they nod.
When the three resume their viewing pose, the scene has changed somewhat. Treville is emerging from the water, cleaned. Richelieu is actually wrapping him in a towel. Not a slave’s towel, small and coarse. Not even the usual piece of cloth standard for servants, adequate but none too fine. This is a large swath of fabric, rich, with the Senator’s own crest embroidered on it.
And Treville doesn’t seem surprised or overcome by this piece of consideration. He laughs at the Senator, murmuring something quick and low that none of them can catch. He tilts his head up towards the Senator, eyes dancing. And the Senator leans down and takes him in a passionate kiss.
Aramis makes a choked sound and drops back below the window. Porthos looks after him worriedly, but keeps his place.
Athos continues to watch. He knows what Aramis is afraid of, what has him huddled down at the base of the window shaking, but he seriously doubts he’s about to watch Treville be raped. The bath and the towel are marks of great favor, it’s true. But nothing about Richelieu’s attitude suggests that he’s pampering a favored bed-slave. And nothing about Treville’s attitude suggests that he views what he’s being given as the recompense due one who pays in the most intimate of ways.
Indeed, after a moment the two break apart. Or, more accurately, Treville places a hand on Richelieu’s chest and gently pushes him back.
“Supper first, remember?” Treville says. There’s a playful chiding in his tone completely at odds with any of the roles Athos has tried so far to cast the Captain in. There’s none of the fearful subservience of the beaten-down slave speaking to the cruel master. Nor, as Athos had always thought more likely, does Treville speak with the silent, enduring bravery of the unbroken slave who does his duty even in the face of mistreatment. It’s not said in the coquettish tones of the bed-slave who tries simultaneously to flatter and divert the domineering master. Nor even in the steady tones of the respected slave whose worth is known to a responsible owner.
If anything, Athos thinks, it’s spoken in the fond, indulgent tones of the loving wife. And that’s when the suspicion begins to take root in his mind.
“All right,” Richelieu sighs back. “I suppose my dues to society aren’t quite paid yet for today.”
“Soon,” Treville soothes. He turns towards the wardrobe – actually turns his back on his owner. And the Senator doesn’t raise a hand against his rebellious slave. The caricature of the man Athos had thought he had known as Senator Richelieu would have had Treville dragged from the room and flogged in the public square until his bones broke. The man he’s seeing now merely smiles fondly at the retreating back and follows it, one hand reaching to ghost along the nape of Treville’s neck, making the old gladiator shiver in what Athos is pretty sure is pleasure.
Treville does dress the Senator – the natural order of things isn’t so far disarranged as that – and by the time he’s done, the silence and Porthos’ eloquent gestures have convinced Aramis to rejoin the others at the window. Aramis apologizes for his departure with a short look at Athos, to which Athos replies with an even shorter gesture: it’s all right.
With the Senator dressed, Treville goes back to the wardrobe and retrieves a small pile of clothes for himself. Even folded they’re obviously of good quality, and appear soft and warm. Another mark of favor. They’re stacking up rather quickly. Whatever else is going on here, it’s obvious that Treville’s life is not one of bread, water and beatings, the way so many of the gladiators have always assumed.
Treville goes to dress quickly, but is stopped by Richelieu’s hands on him.
Aramis stiffens again. But a second look makes it clear that Richelieu’s touch isn’t sexual. He’s tracing the scattered marks on Treville’s back, the sort left by a patrician’s cane. The gladiators had always supposed that Richelieu himself left those marks on Treville, as punishment or simple encouragement to harder work.
“What happened?” Richelieu asks, tone gentle.
“Centurion Tavii wished to inspect the gladiatorial stock before placing his bet,” Treville says quietly. “He didn’t think I should be present while he did so.”
Richelieu reaches to the top of the wardrobe and pulls down an earthenware jar. He unscrews it and dips his fingers inside. They come out covered with a colorless jelly of some kind. First rubbing it between his fingers to warm it, the Senator then begins to massage it into the injured area. Treville tips his head back and sighs.
Finished, Richelieu takes Treville’s shoulders and turns him around. His fingers dip to touch the edge of a rather impressive bruise on Treville’s ribcage. The sort of bruise that the gladiators had always thought came from the Senator, in fact.
“And this?”
Treville shrugs stiffly. “The ticket-taker objected to me recounting our share of the revenues from the Emperor’s Birthday Games.”