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When she wakes in a bed so unlike the one she's come to know in Darrow, Ilithyia simply lies there for a moment until she hears Albinius cry, then rises to look at her surroundings. For a moment, she thinks she has returned to Rome and a smile curves her lips, but then she hears an unmistakable voice.

Lucretia.

She's found herself in Capua.

Ilithyia rises slowly and it speaks to just how long she's been away from home that it startles her when a young woman hurries into the room, a gauzy robe trailing in her hands and lays it upon Ilithyia's shoulders. For a moment, she simply stares at the woman and although hers is not a face she recognizes, she bears the mark of her own body slave and, finally, Ilithyia's smile grows wider. More dangerous. She has returned to Capua and once again finds herself in position to retain status and power.

Once she's cared for Albinius, she bathes and dresses with the help of the slaves. Another young woman expertly braids and pin her hair and when Ilithyia leaves the privacy of her rooms and finds Lucretia, she is prepared for whatever might greet her.

"Ilithyia," Lucretia says, holding out both her hands and Ilithyia goes to her, clutches hands and presses lips to cheek.

"I've missed you," she says with a coy smile. "Have you met my son?"

He's with the slaves now, being attended to, but she is pleased to be able to introduce Lucretia to her husband's heir.

"I have," Lucretia says. "And he's beautiful. Welcome home."

Ilithyia's smile grows. Welcome home.

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There's an unofficial rule of thumb that Sawyer believes has come to dictate his life. Whenever he starts to get comfortable in a place, something comes round to turn his entire life upside down.

While he can't say that Darrow had the most comfortable living conditions out of all he's inhabited, there's an order and regularity to it that comes from living somewhere so heavily populated. People have their jobs, and everyone is only a tiny cog in the great machine that is Darrow, going about their day and contributing in roughly the same way, day by day. Even Sawyer falls prey to it, the lock-step living that has him expecting to wake up in his bed, to the sound of cars driving outside.

But he wakes up, instead, to the sun high in the air and the scent of spices and perspiration all around him. Seated in a hidden corner by a market, Sawyer quickly stumbles to his feet, glancing left and right and feeling suddenly overdressed. In more ways than one.

"The hell?" he breathes, squinting up at the sky.

She's moving through the market, several of her slaves trailing not far behind, when she sees him. It's impossible, she knows it is, but it is not only his face that stands out in the crowd but his dress as well. If anyone sees him, he will surely be arrested, perhaps crucified without thought and for a moment, Ilithyia finds herself at a loss. To be seen with him will be a death sentence of her own, but he is her responsibility.

And of everyone she has met in Darrow, Sawyer is one she would be most disappointed to lose.

Walking swiftly to where he is, she pretends to be looking at a stall. "Get up," she tells him, careful not to look at him. "Walk to the alley to your left and wait for me there. Stay out of sight."

Only when Ilithyia comes into view does Sawyer have a better sense of where he's ended up, and her gaze is strangely averted from his own in a manner pronounced enough that he does the same. What Rome could want with someone like Sawyer, he doesn't know. He certainly doesn't look much like the others in the area, a bit taller and certainly far too clothed for their surroundings. Helplessly, he tries to drag his fingers through his hair, pushing it back as though that little effort might make him less obvious to the people around him.

"Right," he breathes to himself, making sure that he's able to maintain his balance as he walks, in spite of the sun beating down hard above him. Not meeting anyone's gaze, he walks in the direction that Ilithyia's indicated, and not until he's in the shadow of the alley does he breathe the slightest sign of relief.

She waits several minutes, using the time to purchase robes, smiling at the vendors with which she speaks, laughing over her choices. For her husband, she tells them, a gift, and they try to sell her the more expensive robes, ones with adornments and embroidery and she shakes her head, wanting to draw as little attention to Sawyer as possible. She wishes she had something with which to cut his hair.

Slipping into alley is easy enough, the robes held loosely in her hands. "I have something for you to wear," she says when she sees him. "If you're caught dressed as you are, you'll be killed. Without trial, without a word. No one will ever know you were here."

She thinks she may be able to bring him back to the ludus. Her husband already suspects her of having relations with other men and she thinks he might hardly be surprised were she to bring someone back with her. She can try passing him off as a cousin or some other distant relative, but she expects such story will not be believed.

More frightening than the prospect of dying is the prospect of having it happen by whatever means they'd be willing to spare him in ancient Rome. Still, Sawyer lets himself breathe a sigh of relief with Ilithyia at his side, lips quirking at the amount of effort she's putting forth to keep him safe. Weird though the circumstances may be, it's kind of touching.

In its own way.

"They really that afraid of foreigners 'round here?" he asks, a slight tease in his voice as he starts to strip from his clothing, easily shrugging his shirt and pants off. Glancing down at his boxers, he feels a little more conflicted, squinting at the fabric of the robes Ilithyia offers before deciding that raising his chances of survival is probably marginally more important than the comfort of his junk. He snorts shortly after, standing in the buff in an empty alley, and holds his hand out for the robes Ilithyia has on hand.

"If I didn't know better, I'd figure that you were just tryin' to get me naked again."

"Would I really need to try so hard?" Ilithyia asks and though she glances over Sawyer as he removes the rest of his clothing, it is without her usual hunger, which does not escape even her own notice. Were it so simple, she would leave him here in the alley, but there is more to her attachment to Sawyer than the physical. It is not something she can dwell on in this moment, though, her only focus is getting him somewhere safe.

"They don't trust anything different," she tells him, helping him into the robes, pulling them over his shoulders. "Your speech will be troublesome in passing you off as Roman. I would advise speaking as little as possible. Your hair..." Putting in him the ludus is an option, but she's concerned of the danger there as well.

"Probably not," Sawyer says, breathing a satisfied sigh as he lets his gaze rake over Ilithyia's body. It surely isn't the right time for it, but something about seeing Ilithyia in her home is exciting, and appropriate. Even more regal than she manages to be in Darrow, he'd say. Maybe he's a little biased.

"I can probably stay quiet," he adds, pursing his lips at the thought. He can be a chatty guy, but doesn't tend to be around strangers, anyway. Only a second later does her last remark catch his attention. "Wait, what's wrong with my hair?"

Ilithyia's eyebrow arches in response to his question and gestures to the men moving through the marketplace, their hair kept short and in similar style to each other. The only men outside this alley with hair like Sawyer are those for sale. "You look as a gladiator," she tells him. "It is... much of what drew me to you in the first place." She has little love for Spartacus, but the men who fight in the ludus have always been appealing to her base side, surprisingly so, and she sees no reason not to be honest with Sawyer about such.

"The only men out there with hair like yours are the ones who are to be sold and then, those sold into homes will have their hair cut similar to that of their dominus," she explains. "The only slaves who keep long hair are the ones who fight in the arena or those with a dominus who prefer such a look." Those, she knows, are few and far between.

Sawyer follows the direction of Ilithyia's wave, glancing from one man to the next. Most of them have very closely cropped hair, the sort that Sawyer knows would highlight his jawline a little more. It's not by coincidence that he's chosen the hair he has, something to make him a little more approachable. Also something to serve his innate laziness over things like upkeep.

Also, he has damn fine hair.

"So... can't you say that I'm a slave? Or at least pass me off as one until, who knows, until you find a knife or somethin' to hack my hair off. I ain't really too fond of the idea of fighting in the arena. Mostly 'cause I know I'd be horrible at it," admits Sawyer. "I can shoot with a gun, but my muscle ain't none too impressive compared to those ol' johnny boys over there."

"I cannot pass you off as guard, my husband knows all those under his employ and women do not often have male body slaves," she says, mostly thinking aloud, running her options over in her mind. For that, too, she would have to put her mark upon him and though what she feels for Sawyer could be described as geniune affection, or as close to such as Ilithyia gets, she has little desire to have him marked as hers forever.

"I dare not put you in the ludus, for the training alone kills many men," she continues and Sawyer is someone she would very much like to keep alive. "Perhaps, though, I can convince others you are a gift given to me. I can bide time pretending I've yet to decide what to do with you."

"Oh yeah, that husband thing," Sawyer mutters, a slight exhale passing between his teeth. Though he hasn't met the man, Sawyer certainly holds no love for him — but in this city, there's nothing even vaguely resembling even ground between the two of them. Sawyer knows that. "We're back in the days of husbands managing the household, aren't we?"

Crossing his arms comfortably over his chest, Sawyer tilts his head at Ilithyia, the teasing nature of his smile fading slightly in the wake of her gaze.

"You look pretty worried. Does that mean I should start freakin' out now?" he asks softly. Truth is, it's kind of heartwarming to have someone worrying about his well-being. A nice contrast to how little Sawyer's been looking after it himself.

"I simply do not wish to see you crucified," Ilithyia answers, her words clipped, though only because what Sawyer says rings true. She is worried and it unsettles her. Should it come down to it, she would not risk her own life for his, as she had not for Thessela, but she would feel truly as terrible as she had upon watching her body slave nailed to the wood. Thessela had been trusted confidante for many years, closer to Ilithyia than anyone, and the idea that there are those from Darrow who have found their way into her life in such a manner is unsettling.

"I think we can avoid such end, though, if we are to be careful with words and actions," she continues. "A gift. From an admirer. It will cloud my husband's judgement, make it more difficult for him to see that there may be something wrong."

The last thing that he should be doing is smiling, yet Sawyer can't help the grin that passes over his face. He's sure that Ilithyia's feeling a fair amount of stress right now — not something to be belittled — but he never would have imagined the two of them ending up in this situation, each caring more for the other than they'd planned for or anticipated. The only thing that lets him be so relaxed right now is the fact that it's his own neck on the line.

Were it hers, it'd be an entirely different story.

"Alright. So you're a present from some creep out there who's got a crush. Seems plausible enough," Sawyer decides, tugging at his robes to try and get them to hang more naturally. "Do we wanna head to your place right now? Where do I stay when I get there, how do I talk to people?"

"You don't speak. Your voice is unfamiliar, it would give you away in moments," Ilithyia answers. "For now, you'll stay with my body slaves. Understand this, their sole purpose is to serve me closely and dutifully. A body slave is closer to her domina than anyone else. If there is anyone we are able to trust, it will be them."

She wishes, not for the first time, that Thesella had not been killed. There is no one she's trusted as she did Thesella. Not her husband, not her father, not even Lucretia.

"The ludus belongs to a woman called Lucretia," she says, leading him from the alley. "Should she summon you, you must go to her, but say nothing. Pretend to understand little. She may lose interest."

When at his lowest, Sawyer expects, if nothing else, the freedom to be invisible. He's starting to understand how that luxury doesn't exist here. How, even among slaves who'll never see freedom or be able to openly speak their mind, he'll have to be careful not to stick out among the others. Being invisible isn't a given, it's something that he'll have to work on.

That's new. And not a skill Sawyer's sure that he has. He tends to be fairly loud-mouthed, after all.

"I'll do my best," he promises, shaking his head slightly, the humor gone from his voice. It's time to take things a little more seriously. "I'm a chatty sonuvabitch, but I can hold my tongue. There anythin' I need to expect from Lucretia, or am I just gonna get cozy now with your slaves?"

"She may want to have sex with you, but if I tell her I've had you already she will likely lose interest in such matters," Ilithyia says honestly as she steps from the alley, waiting for Sawyer to follow her. "As we walk, stay several steps behind me. Do not make eye contact with anyone, do not speak even if someone calls out to you."

She pauses, because she remembers her first days in Darrow. How strange things had been, how difficult. "Apologies," she says to Sawyer, and she means it genuinely, a rare sentiment. "This is how it must be."

He may not truly believe it when she says they will nail him upon wood and hang him to be seen, but she knows better. She knows what her husband is capable of.

He might still have a shade of a grin on his face, but truth be told, sex with an unknown woman is pretty damned low on the list of things that Sawyer wants to experience, certainly when he doesn't have a choice in the matter. All in all, having so much choice removed from him feels strange, but it sure wasn't Ilithyia's choice to take it from him, and he doesn't want to give her more stress than there already is.

Certainly if he wants to leave this area unscathed.

"Hey," he says, grin broadening for a moment as he reaches out to briefly brush the pad of his thumb against her cheek while they still have a bit of cover from the public's eye. "Ain't you got to be sorry for anything. You got my back, and I've got yours."

A brief smile curves her lips the touch of his thumb against cheek, though she lifts her hand a moment later, curling fingers over his, pulling his hand away. They cannot be seen as such, however much she may yet desire his touch upon her skin. "Should my husband be called away from the ludus, as he often is, there will be time yet for us to be alone together," she says. "But until then you must be careful not to touch me with too much familiarity."

This is all going to end badly, she can see it already. There is little to be done in the long term. She cannot imagine Sawyer staying at the ludus and she cannot send him out to make his own way in Rome. There is little chance of either of them getting away with such lies.

She needs time. Perhaps she can't see a way out of this from where she stands now, but with time, Ilithyia is sure she can come up with something.

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