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𝑨𝑳𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑵𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑽𝑬 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑻𝑬𝑹 𝑰
[ Pompeii, a.d. XV Kal. Iun., AUC 634 ]¹
Born to the kitchen servant and his father’s accountant — soon to be Patrin’s mathematics tutor —, Julius was no bigger than the boy’s play shield at four years of age.
With olive skin that matched his father’s, Julius’ physicality was one of a Greek more than a Roman’s, but Patrin had not known it at the time. To him, the wide, curious eyes and thick lashes were nought but an amusing sight, a new obsession to his lonely days in the domus.
It quickly faded, certainly, once the novelty of an exotic presence wore off; he did not do much but sleep and cry — a lot, indeed —, though whenever the cries broke the peace and quiet of the house’s slumber, it did not take long to drift away until it was entirely gone.
On those nights, Patrin turned around and fell back unconscious with ease — perks of the age.
From time to time, he would remember Julius’ existence, mainly when his elder siblings left for the military and he had no company to chase around the spacious hallways and through the atrium, and so, he watched.
As the small boy grew, as he laughed at nothing, cried for even less.
Patrin’s mother was strict about whose company he was allowed to share, which social gatherings she would take him to, and he never understood it. He could see some of the other children through the window most days, yearned to enjoy the war enactments from up close.
But all within his limits was solely inside the home, and Julius was — to Patrin’s impending contentment — part of it.
By the time the child was eventually able to stand on its pudgy legs, Patrin was stuck to the study most hours of the day, buried deep in the mystifying words of a foreign mathematician with an accent still too true to his origins.
The boy’s father insisted on having him educated on matters of all ranges while still young, aspiring on his behalf for a future the man still chased for himself. Patrin wouldn’t learn of it for years to come.
As it was, it took him long months to even grasp the concept of his most basic subjects, the rotation in tutors of all specialities the most he had for socializing outside the occasional dinner gathering every once in a new moon.
Undoubtedly, the highlights of his sporadic misconduct came still during those tutoring sessions, but a seven-year-old could not be blamed for being distracted by the tumbling fraction of a human waddling around the rooms and grabbing on to whichever support he could find.
To Patrin’s relief, his mother seemed to appreciate the presence of such youth, as well, and while she rarely let her son free to do as he pleased, his sessions were the oddity.
She winked, smiled, and never told his father of his less devoted moments.
Julius, at three, laughed openly with his gums out while whacking his hands against a bronze tray.
•••
[ Pompeii, prid. Non. Sext., AUC 641 ]²
The peristylium thrived on these months of summer weather, the blossoms still ripe from the previous season and the gardens just that much greener to the eye.
Patrin wasn’t necessarily fond of the minor forms of life that came with it, but he could appreciate being able to spend most of his hours outdoors with no concerns.
These days, with father away from home, living the Senate life at the capital, it was easier to have his tutoring on the exedra instead, observing the birds and people rather than the onerous patterns of the mosaics within the walls.
The change in scenery was quite the enticement for Philosophy, Patrin would say.
From the kitchen, Julius returned with a jug of fresh water, placing it by the elder’s side on the bench and taking a seat by his feet, his eyes moving up to follow the angle of Patrin’s.
“What are you looking at?”
The boy sighed, closing his eyes and basking in the sunlight touching the exposed parts of his skin.
Next to Julius, his tone was bordering on sallow, even if it had been darkened slightly by the long hours of vulnerability beneath the sun rays. Patrin didn’t tan gracefully as Julius did, the younger’s warm undertones much more complimentary to his social warmth.
It was poetic, almost.
“The same as I always do,” he replied, taking the jug up to his mouth and drinking straight from its rim. “Let’s attend the chariot race this afternoon.”
A pair of wide, enthusiastic eyes turned to look at him, a matching smile on the boy’s face that Patrin responded to with one of his own.
Julius was a great lover of many things, and while it could be attributed to young astonishment, Patrin doubted it was the case. Among his top passions certainly were horses, pure and simply for their existence, meanwhile, Patrin had started enjoying the more animalistic side of humans at such events.
Getting to experience the roaring crowd, the speed and uncertainty of outcomes on the track, betting his luck on a very low chance of getting a return.
“Let us please get the lower seats,” Julius begged, eyes a convincing argument on their own.
Patrin granted him his wish, of course.
As the boy grew with relatively more freedom than the elder did, Julius wasn’t as fascinated by the crowds and their dynamics, preferring instead to stay as close as possible to the tracks for a first-hand view of the creatures.
Under the scalding hot sun, it was a good thing when, later that day, once at the circus, no row of people was present beneath theirs. That way, it was possible for them to come as close to the barricade as they wished, without having to press against others’ backs for a good view.
Even if there were, however, people had a tendency to part for Patrin to walk through.
His father’s influence, he had started to learn.
“Who should I bet for, Julius?” he questioned, peacefully glancing at the empty circuit, waiting to welcome the racers.
Glancing at the carceres, not for the racers, but for the animals, Julius spent a long time admiring the horses from afar, disconnected from the imperceptible sway of the surrounding crowd.
When he did not reply, Patrin bumped their shoulders, getting his attention.
“So?”
“Those two,” he finally said, pointing at the pair of white horses on the far end of the track.
Patrin hummed. “Cyrus, then? Oh, well.”
Once the bet was placed, they stood on their spot unceremoniously, the boy by his side atypically quiet until the moment the cloth was dropped and all gates sprung open simultaneously.
The crowd then went wild with anticipation, drowning the two boys in sounds and sensations, the floor trembling slightly from the energy of thousands of people concomitantly cheering at the tracks.
Smaller than most around them, including Patrin himself, Julius found shelter right by the elder’s side, tucked neatly in front of his frame so that the increasing ardour of each new lap and the unavoidable denseness of the crowd did not affect him directly.
Patrin loudly cheered along, even louder still as one of the chariots he did not bet on collapsed on one of the turns, throwing the charioteer a few good meters off the circuit.
The younger before him displayed brief concern for the animals, afraid they might be aggrieved, but after assessing their apparent well-being, he soon returned to a more agitated state — albeit still tamer than others’.
As one lap merged into another, in their skewed perception of the spectacle, it did not take long for the final lap to arrive, only three outstanding racers disputing the win.
Cyrus amongst them.
In the excruciatingly long and final seconds, Julius held on to Patrin’s hand in a mix of hope and excitement, squeezing his fingers unconsciously the closer the horses got to the finishing point.
And without a shadow of a doubt, Cyrus sprung forward to his victory.
Around them, the reaction from the spectators was diversified, from complaints to shouts of joy, but Patrin celebrated with an armful of Julius and an embrace tight and ecstatic.
Julius had just given himself some earnings for the week.
Mother didn’t have to know. She wasn’t even aware of their whereabouts, to begin with.
In the midst of celebration and the tedious waiting for evacuation, they stood together for long minutes, Patrin’s arms around Julius’ shoulders with an ever-present smile on his chapped lips.
“I should listen to you more often,” he admitted — not in defeat, but with pride in his tone.
“You should,” Julius agreed, his firm nod and confidence amusing for a boy his age and height.
Messing around with the younger’s already tangled hair and squeezing his arm tighter around him, Patrin laughed, joyful.
“Maybe I should listen to you always.”
“You should.”
•••
[ Pompeii, a.d. II Id. Oct., AUC 646 ]³
While the water was cold, it was not unwelcome.
Still winding down from the steam, the sweat on Patrin’s skin mixed with the bath waters and washed away under the stream cascading from Julius’ concave hands over his shoulder.
Some onlookers had their noses twisted in their direction though neither of them minded much; growing under a noteworthy name and a pristine reputation came with peace of mind in some aspects.
Everyone of higher class had an opinion — well kept to themselves.
Julius adjusted in the basin, sitting over his knees so he could pour the water over the back of Patrin’s neck and watch it trickle down.
A man to their left laughed obtrusively at another that sat by his side, reasons unknown.
“Do you believe Octavia will fare well with life in Rome?” Patrin pondered, glancing amusedly at the man by his side, his hair only partially wet.
The elder cupped his hand underwater and brought it way above the surface, attempting to wet Julius’ curls evenly. The boy closed his eyes when water reached his lids.
“Why do you care for Magnus’ wife?” he wiped his face.
“I do not. But I sometimes wonder if mother would have preferred the capital, had she gone.”
The gentle weight of Julius’ hand on his back was grounding, but it ceased for a second as the movement mirrored the hesitation of his thoughts.
It was not his opinion itself that needed consideration — Patrin already knew it —, but the articulation of such.
His pause was succinct, then:
“You and I both know the answer is no.”
Patrin slid further down the tank, allowing the younger’s hand to slowly glide from his skin until it was entirely submerged, floating aimlessly in the liquid.
“Probably. But it must be grim losing your husband to the city and then your second eldest. Magnus was always close to her.”
“You are close to her, and you’re here. Her family is.”
It was true, to some extent. But that wasn’t particularly how Patrin saw it.
Losing a son to war and watching as the struggles of power consumed her husband’s everyday life transformed Alba into an overzealous woman, hence Patrin’s monitored childhood. His mother had hopes he and Magnus would not choose the path of politics, nor military, but being the sons of whom they were, it was a futile wish.
Now intermingled in their father’s businesses, Magnus and his wife were moving to Rome.
“I’m her protégée,” Patrin said, thoughtful, staring at the open courtyard of the bathhouse. “Her hope.”
Julius slid closer to him, his shoulder leaned against the edge of the basin.
“A promising hope of hers,” the boy pointed out, smiling thinly. “You would never leave your family for the promise of power.”
Patrin laughed, closing his lids, allowing the sounds of the baths to drown him even further.
“Ah, you think too highly of me, Julius.”
A hand found his shoulder once more, pressuring his muscles slightly as it moved back and forth on the path towards his neck.
“You enjoy being admired, but it is not what motivates you.”
“Hm,” Patrin neither agreed nor disagreed.
Turning his head to the side, he glanced at Julius from up close.
“Would you? Leave your family for the promise of power?”
The laughter that escaped the boy was brash, too audible, breaking the illusion that he was supposed to be invisible. While the enhanced glances their way did make Julius tame his sounds, it did not wipe the amused smile from his face.
“Ah. That will not happen, as you know.”
“Why not?”
Julius rolled his eyes, ignoring the mention of ‘power’ entirely, as if it was not even worth his attention.
“You know why. Having a family under my circumstances is just a life not worth living,” he said, chest light, voice lighter.
As he uttered the sentiment, his hand kept the steady movements going. No hesitation.
“You’ll be free under me,” Patrin promised, grabbing the boy’s hand and bringing it back underwater, entangling their fingers. He then squeezed, promise sealed.
The boy squeezed back. “That is, if your father allows you to take me with you once you marry. If you still want me by then.”
It sounded ludicrous, the mere idea that Patrin wouldn’t want him.
He lifted their entangled hands and brought it to his lips, touching the cold droplets of water on top of Julius’ skin with a soft kiss that had the boy’s tan cheeks turning pink.
“I would never tire of you.”
Julius tried to retrieve his hand from the elder’s grasp, to no avail.
“Careful, Patrin. Court me too much and they’ll think you would want a family with me.”
Uncaring of the still watchful eyes, Patrin drew closer, keeping their hands stubbornly linked under the turbidity of the water. What was displayed above its limits, however, was still meant for only their eyes — despite some people’s insistence on prying.
“They already do,” he said, smiling, touching the side of Julius’ cheek with his free hand.
“And you indulge them,” the boy’s tone was supposed to resound a reproach, though it was far from it. He sounded undoubtedly fond.
“What would be the fun, then?” Patrin questioned, rhetorically. “You’ll follow me wherever I go, will you not? Perfectly trained to be my counsellor.”
The irony in his tone was responsible for the angular turn of Julius’ lips, smiling more widely while trying to contain it.
It was then that the younger allowed himself to be entirely at ease. Sitting next to the elder and abandoning all pretences of bathing him, he sighed into the touch still against his cheek.
“Your counsellor, yes. Of course.”
“You have very highly educated opinions to offer.”
Julius hummed, malleable within the force pulling him forward with deft fingers.
His answer was swallowed by the press of Patrin’s mouth to his, careful, commanding.
Patrin would certainly never tire of this, of the sole constant in his life, the one person that stood above all others. The one whose opinions he cherished not only because he was, indeed, raised to do so — taught by his own father to become the trusted advisor the man himself was to Patrin’s father —, but because it kept Patrin loyal to himself.
To them.
It had been no surprise to either of them when Julius first asked his elder about desire — the heart’s desire —, at the sweet age of eleven, when one of his friends had admitted to being enamoured by some girl.
Patrin did not know them, but he knew Julius, knew of his confession before he said it so simply.
‘I think I might be enamoured by you’, he’d said, a reflection, lying on the ground in the centre of the peristylium as they gazed at the sky.
His age, then, did not allow for the wisdom he now had, four years older — nor the wisdom he would have when older, still —, did not allow for the perception that his words might have been inappropriate.
Patrin hadn’t minded, however, and no one else had heard him.
Their kiss was the first of many things Patrin would introduce Julius to.
After they broke apart, they did not stay at the baths for much longer.
The elder between them avoided the oil massages and instead went after their clothes so that they could hastily return before dinner was served.
As it was a farewell afternoon, the house was bound to be populated by all sorts of extravagances, the atrium lively with both what remained of his family in Pompeii and Octavia’s.
Julius clung to his side as they crossed the city, arms interlaced, smiles on their lips. The sunlight was but an adornment, not really warm to the touch, but a graceful sight following them home.
Come dusk, guests and even some servants alike were satisfied, drunk on wine and stomachs full, energies high on the music and dancing and the pledge of more riches to the moving couple.
Albeit pleased by the successful gathering and pleasant company of their families, Alba stood further from them all, watching the commotion while leaned against a pillar with her arms crossed over her chest.
With the breeze, her tunic flowed seamlessly, and as it did, her eyes caught Patrin’s across the atrium.
Do not leave me, it begged, even as she smiled at Magnus.
Against his back, Patrin felt the telltale pressure of Julius’ hug, one arm around his waist, the boy’s chin barely reaching up to touch his shoulder.
Alba smiled sadly again, and Patrin nodded.
I won’t.
He did not know whom he was promising it to.
•••
[ Pompeii, a.d. VII Kal. Mart., AUC 650 ]⁴
In the light of early morning, things tended to look more optimistic, at least when rain was not the one to greet them good morning.
That day, it wasn’t.
Over the covers lay the sun rays, sneakily creeping from a corner until time allowed it more room to cast over half the high bed.
As it did, Patrin lay there, one arm half-asleep under the weight of Julius’ head.
The man’s breathing was even, still, peaceful in sound and pace, an easy pattern to fall back asleep to. But Patrin refused, instead, watching him with a tender gaze, lost in the way the light highlighted the minuscule bumps on his skin, shed more clarity on some of the intentional bruising along his chest and back.
As such, he looked almost angelic, his lips parted open, yet so quiet and calm it would be difficult to imagine such a mouth could so lively argue and tantalize Patrin endlessly while awake.
The more the years went by, the less Julius exploited his mental filter around Patrin. It could be both revolting at times and a blessing.
“You are staring again,” Julius mumbled, his words briefly intercepted by a yawn which he hid on the side of Patrin’s chest.
Patrin breathed out a light laugh, taking one hand to ghost over the marks on the younger’s surface, just the tips of his fingers touching from his shoulders to his wrist and then back up. On his second way down, he brought his hand to Julius’ waist, barely covered by the linen sheet.
“I am an avid appreciator of art, as you know.”
“Hmm.”
Julius still kept his eyes shut, but now his lips were twisted in a pleased smile as his body consciously let go of all tension, curling his limbs around Patrin’s and simply resting.
“Should I sculpt you?” Patrin wondered aloud, merely looking for a reaction he was soon gifted with.
The younger opened one eye, still hazy from sleep, though amusement was crystalline in his irises.
“You cannot sculpt.”
“That is, sadly, true. I can write poems, however.”
A louder laugh was muffled against his chest this time, though no utterance came as a reply.
Julius solely hugged him closer, running his nose over the side of Patrin’s ribs, causing his skin to erupt in goosebumps in a sensation he absolutely adored.
Ignoring their immediate responsibilities for the day, they stayed in bed for a while longer, Patrin carding his fingers through Julius’ hair and gently tugging on his strands to guide the younger’s mouth to his.
The kiss was lazy, although not chaste, fuelled by the lingering devotion of the night previous still simmering in their blood.
“I ought to go to the market, Patrin,” Julius complained, the intent in his voice lost to the backwards movement of his neck when he allowed the elder extended access to its skin.
“Hmm, I ought to go to the library,” the elder counteracted with little regard to the truth in their words.
Rather, he pressed a kiss lower on Julius’ chest, his hands pre-emptively tracing the path on skin he would chase with his lips.
Although Julius writhed under the attention, he did not oppose — not wholeheartedly.
“I am serious. Your mother has requested new linens and some herbs, and your virtue has already rendered me unable to walk without a limp.”
It still was not a refusal.
With his lips to Julius’ stomach, Patrin glanced up. “I could carry you.”
During moments like these, Patrin felt like the whole world fit into the palm of his hand, his for the taking.
He was not a man of many ambitions — mostly passionate about Philosophy and Rhetoric whenever his free time consented —, but looking at Julius with such a smile on his face, purposefully oblivious to the reality surrounding them, spread bare on Patrin’s bed… It made him want to conquer an empire of his own.
Built entirely of Julius’ bodily responses.
“Patrin,” the man warned again, serious this time.
“Alright, I relent,” the elder raised his hands, placing a final kiss to Julius’ navel and another to the junction of his neck and shoulder. “I could help you to the market, if you really need it.”
Though his tone was neutral, his face was not.
In response, Julius rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself all that much. I can still walk despite the hindrance. Furthermore, you have somewhere to be and you must be home before dinner. We have some accounting to do.”
Hopping out from the bed and landing with a muffled noise, Patrin groaned, reaching for Julius’ tunic and throwing it his way meanwhile he dressed himself.
“Why do you insist on having me for those affairs? You know I trust your mathematics, dear.”
Julius slipped out of bed, much more gracefully than Patrin had done, and halted his steps before the other man, cupping his face between both of his hands and leaning on the tips of his toes to press a guileless kiss to the elder’s lips.
“You must be present, love. Your trust in me is only your own.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll be back before dinner,” he tightly held the younger’s hand between both of his own, bringing it to his lips for their customary kiss.
With time, Julius’ responses had dulled, too accustomed by the blatant courtship to be modest about it.
Not content, however, Patrin also turned the younger’s wrist to place another kiss there.
“I’ll see you then,” Julius said with a tone of finality, albeit, Patrin did not let go.
Leaving aside his provocative tendencies, he held on to Julius’ wrist, eyeing him carefully and decisively in the eyes, sincere in all aspects.
“If someone bothers you, let me know,” he warned.
“You know it does not faze me, Patrin.”
“Well, it fazes me. Tell them who they will deal with should they bother—”
He was silenced by a firm press of fingers against his lips, prudent in no way.
“I do not have any need to flaunter your name around the city. They know; in fact, some anxiously await for the moment my presence no longer pleases you so they can offer theirs.”
Patrin was not unaware of the fact, but the lack of discretion rarely bothered him. It was no novelty that his status brought attention not only from those who sought influence, but also from those who yearned for the spotlight he so unintentionally provided.
It did not change the fact he despised the manner in which it came back to Julius. He was undeserving of the commentary.
“They shall wait on their graves,” he declared, his chest full of the purest of certainties.
Julius rolled his eyes once more, breaking their contact fondly and swaying out of the room.
“Ah, aren’t you so artfully dramatic?”
As Patrin observed the hitch in the younger’s steps, he entirely discarded the teasing in his tone.
He was, after all, indubitably proud.
•••
[ Pompeii, a.d. III Id. Nov., AUC 652 ]⁵
Her name was Drusilla, and she was the daughter of a Neapolis magistrate, head of an influential patrician family in the region.
She was beautiful, hair long and wavy as it fell until it met her wide hips, her chest thin under her garments and contrasting with her robust legs — barely visible through the fabric.
The spitting image of idealization, she captured everyone’s eyes as she quietly sat on the bench and took in the conversation surrounding her.
More importantly, however, was the fact she was of good heritage.
Hence why Patrin’s father returned to Pompeii for a lavish dinner.
Similarly to Magnus’ feast years prior, Patrin watched as Drusilla’s father and his own sat in the study, goblet of wine in hands, discussing matters of Estate and — no doubt — the minutiae of Patrin’s wedding.
He, on the other hand, made himself absent from their company, instead opting to stay in the atrium where festivities were the loudest.
While the music was pleasant, watching Julius dance and enjoy himself was much sweeter to the eye.
Patrin sipped his drink.
“You are too quiet today,” Julius noted, coming to a halt by Patrin’s side and breathing heavily as he sat down on the available space on the bench. “Should you not be talking to that beautiful woman over there? That poor little thing looks so lost.”
The elder spared her a fleeting side-glance before focusing yet again on the man before him, offering an uncaring movement of his shoulder.
“She looks like she might be dull company,” he justified, pulling Julius by the waist and extending his own drink for the younger to take a sip. “I much prefer yours.”
Julius smiled behind the rim of the goblet. “Avoiding her will do you no good.”
“I’ll have enough time in the future to spend countless hours in her presence.”
Both men glanced at her once more, and, this time, she had been looking their way, too.
Timidly, the ghost of a smile overtook her thin lips, a quick nod of her head following the motion as some sort of greeting to either — or perhaps both — of them.
The younger was right; she seemed misplaced in the midst of their families, appearing to be much younger than she likely was.
There was, however, no fear in her eyes. Curiosity — certainly —, apprehension, too. But no fear.
Drusilla glanced around the domus as if assimilating her presumable future, making mental notes of the people and their dynamics in this house specifically, an active observer of what was to be a passive life.
Through the evening, Patrin did not approach her.
Julius, on the other hand, did.
It was only then that Patrin watched her for longer, forced to take in her appearance as she was so close to the one he actually wanted to see.
Whatever they spoke of he could not read on their lips, though there seemed to be no venom from either side.
Just as the candles began to exhaust themselves, flame nearing its end, both patriarchs returned from the study with hazy eyes and vacillation on their steps — consumed by the alcohol.
With a bright and open smile on their faces, they announced the wedding set for June, and all those present cheered at the news, calling for a last round of drinks.
All but the ones to be wedded themselves, who merely exchanged another pair of fickle glances.
Even later on the day, once darkness had taken over the skies and the city quieted to allow nature its sounds, Patrin lay in his bed with sweat cooling on top of his and Julius’ skin.
The other’s harsh breaths reached his ears much like a lullaby, perchance his favourite sound aside from Julius’ glorifying outcries of pleasure.
“What do you think of her?” he wondered, staring at the intricate mosaics on his wall.
“Should I think something of her?”
“Julius, please.”
The man fell silent, resting his chin on top of Patrin’s chest, close enough to his nipple that the younger’s breath made him shiver.
“She has Greek kinship, did you know?”
Patrin turned his head to his lover, smiling gently down at him as he combed his fingers through Julius’ dark curls, pulling them away from his face.
“Does she?” Julius nodded. “Anywhere near from where your father is?”
“I do not think so.”
“Hmm. Does this mean you like her better or worse?”
Julius laughed, biting without intent on the side of Patrin’s chest. “It simply means she has Greek kinship, dear. It is you who should find reasons to like her.”
The elder sighed heavily, eyes shutting of their own volition as his thoughts started to consume him.
“Does she seem like someone who will give you trouble?”
As an answer, he did not receive any words — rather, a negative movement of Julius’ head that he could feel against his skin.
“Then there is one reason to like her.”
Another period of quietude followed them, though it wasn’t optimal for sleep.
Even as he tried to move past the uncertainty, Patrin would not be able to do so until he heard all that was in Julius’ mind, and there must have been a lot. He always had an opinion.
“Please tell me, love, what do you think of the wedding?”
Julius held the upper half of his body up, resting his weight on top of an elbow he supported on the mattress. With caring eyes, he glanced at Patrin and then touched his face.
The elder instinctively chased after the touch.
“I think you are vainly worrying,” Julius said, caressing the words into Patrin’s skin. “Wherever you go, I follow, is that not what you told me?”
He nodded. “It is.”
“And you still mean it?”
“Of course I do.”
The younger smiled. “Then you are vainly worrying. You have made concessions for your family before, this is no different.”
Patrin rolled in bed and trapped another body beneath his, rejoicing in the feeling of contentment flooding them both.
Hearing the words coming from Julius’ mouth — from his brilliant mind — was the solace he had needed after an entire day of conforming to what others expected of him. Inside this bedroom, however, he only had himself and the younger to please.
“And when I have a family of my own, what concessions will I have to make?”
Julius did not waver, not for a moment. In his features, there was no doubt, no harshness, just an endless patience he seemed to reserve even more acutely for Patrin.
“As many as needed, and you’ll do them gladly, I know.”
“Are you one of them?”
“I won’t ever be, if you don’t want me to.”
Precisely what he needed to hear, Patrin replayed the words over and over in his mind as he lay there on top of the one who captured his heart, his loyalty, the sole focus of his affections.
He would have never believed, as a child, that his longing for the world could be so easily compensated by one person, anywhere he went.
As he soon learned in his life, Julius himself brought the world to him, despite being even more confined than Patrin himself — in some aspects. Still, so free in others.
“I will raise your children as my own,” Julius whispered, holding on to Patrin’s back and rearranging his legs so they could make room for the elder’s. “Will teach them as I taught you, keep your bed unbearably warm on summer nights, advise you until I’m no longer fit to.”
“I would listen to you even if you lost your essence.”
Julius laughed, in the same manner he had done countless times before.
In the exact same manner. In spite of their situation.
“You do speak some nonsense.”
“Marry me,” Patrin let slip past his lips, thoughtlessly, unregretfully.
Even as Julius’ face remained neutral, the elder could feel the enhanced beating of the younger’s heart underneath his own, could feel the uneven bursts of his breathing against his very own skin.
He gave the other man no chance to answer, not immediately.
“Marry me before I marry her.”
“You are drunk on wine,” Julius reasoned, smiling in a condescending manner that seemed to ask Patrin: ‘are you out of your mind?’
“I am drunk on you,” he countervailed, purposefully dramatic because he well knew it was one of Julius’ favourite things about him — when adequate.
“Gods, why am I still with you?”
“Because you love me.”
“Hmm,” Julius nodded, letting his hands be taken by Patrin and tangled in each other next to his head. “I do.”
Characteristically, the elder brought their intermingled fingers to his lips, smiling wider just as Julius started to roll his eyes at the predictability.
He kissed it, knuckle by knuckle, then kissed the tips of Julius’ fingers.
“I love you too. Marry me.”
Before the law, it was void.
Before social conventions, it was immoral.
But between the two of them, it was a solid promise.
And so Julius married him, on a late evening of crisp winds and no witnesses to their ceremony, dressed in their tunica rectas, which the elder had commissioned on a different city when sent to visit Drusilla’s family domus.
He gifted the younger with a ring to be worn only on a pendant around his neck, never his fingers, though he made sure to bathe the spot in which the metal was supposed to be with kisses whenever he could.
On that fateful late night, with the city asleep and their passions awake, they repeated to each other the words they would never be able to at a temple, asking not for the blessing of fertility gods, but of those who could see the true nature and freedom of their love.
Patrin carried Julius inside the house just as tradition asked them to, untied the Hercules knot around his tunic, and they fell into the sheets just as they had done time after time through years of their lives.
When the lesser wedding came to be — costly, ostentatious and presumptuous —, its exorbitance still was not enough to erase the true ceremony of his life, months prior.
That evening, duties to his honour fulfilled, he returned to the room his true love rested in.
Always him.
•••
[ Pompeii, a.d. I Non. Iun., AUC 658 ]⁶
It was not long after their wedding that Drusilla truly understood what life as wife to Patrin Minius truly meant.
While she was of great role in the government of their own home — even crucial, he would say —, there was no part of her that held a digitus of influence or importance over her husband.
If there had been the expectation of some form of deep commitment, despite outside sources of pleasure, it was gone before their firstborn.
Drusilla would perhaps share her bed with her husband for a few minutes every week until she fell pregnant for the first time, after which she did not even see so much as the mirage of his affections for the following nine months.
Though her and Julius’ relationship was not a loving one, they seemed to respect each other and understand their posts in Patrin’s life enough that they worked around the other seamlessly for the years to follow.
Julius, however, heart of gold as he was, would sometimes in the quiet of the night mention to Patrin how he believed the elder was sentencing his wife to a much harsher married life than what she had already expected in the first place.
Patrin would remind him that by his side Drusilla was freer than she was by her father’s, and, eventually, she found a servant of her own to share her overflowing affections with.
Even if she could not dream of seeing the daylight by their side, the confines of her bedroom were her own to enjoy.
And, as such, the two of them found a satisfactory pace at which to take their societal contract without further burdening the other’s periodic life.
After their third child, a graceful girl and their only, sibling to two elder brothers, Drusilla and Patrin merely saw each other at meals, if that.
The woman had carefully crafted a life of her own within the walls of their domus, and the frequency of her meeting with other high-class women soon lost all novelty to Patrin’s ears.
Most of his days were spent on his Rhetoric lectures and recurrent visits to the local library, at times visiting Julius at his various clients’ houses, but mostly meeting him come the end of work hours.
Not uncommonly, Patrin would find him home with his children and his own mother, discussing trifling matters or repeating teachings Patrin himself had heard time and time again throughout his childhood.
It was not until news of his father’s passing reached them that his life took a detour from the routine he had so affectionately gotten used to.
With his role at the Senate now vacant, Magnus had to step up on their father’s name, leaving his own legislative role for his younger brother to take over — much to Alba’s dismay.
Now a widow with two sons deeply engaged in Estate matters, his mother was constantly apprehensive of political enmities, expressing her concerns to Julius who, in turn, would echo them to his lover in the quiet moments of their nights.
Moving his family to Rome and adjusting to the much higher social standards at the capital was not an easy doing, by any means. It was even harsher still that Patrin had to carry the duties of those whom he had always believed would gratify their family’s legacy in his name — as he was, indeed, the youngest of Alba’s children.
Yet, the concession was one he ultimately was able to reconcile with his expectations, accommodating it to his life throughout the years as he still had the one constant he was promised — the one constant who truly mattered.
As Julius’ ring glinted against the candlelight every evening, dangling proudly from his neck, Patrin was reassured of the steadiness of his presence.
Julius was never a concession.
And it wasn’t so bad to bathe his one and only in the luxuries of his new life for as long as they lived.