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Esca watches, keeping his distance.
The soldiers are headed to the local garrison, escorting a wagon of supplies; sacks of grain are piled high, enough to keep the men fed for a few more weeks. There are eight men on horses in total, which constitutes a contubernium, and all citizens judging from their uniforms. This makes Esca grind his teeth; he is vastly outnumbered. But of course, auxiliaries would not be much better. He’s not going to pretend he has kinship with Britons that wear the Roman colours and march with their army.
Esca didn’t swear loyalty to Rome when he followed Marcus; he swore loyalty to the man. That man is still one he’d follow to the furthest reaches of the earth. Off the very edge of it in fact, if that is where Marcus wanted to go.
Currently Marcus is chatting to the toga wearing clerk at the head of the file; mainly of the state of the fort, and any news of hostile tribes.
Esca hangs back, brooding like a storm cloud, passing his glaring eye over the armoured troops.
He does not like this. The clerk knows Marcus, or at least, knows of him; hence why he is so willing to give up so much of his time. He wouldn’t do that for just anyone.
“We could benefit from your expertise, Centurion-”
“I am a civilian now.” Marcus gently corrects him. “And you flatter me, but it seems you are doing just fine on your own.”
A few of the horsemen preen, fine praise indeed coming from a decorated veteran.
Esca cares not; he is too busy bristling with near rage. The man would dare even consider taking Marcus from him, to fold him neatly back under Rome’s red cloak. Wouldn’t that be a fine thing indeed? Though Esca knows the offer is spoken half in jest, he cannot escape the feeling of threat.
These men know nothing of their toil, working day after day to keep their homestead alive. Marcus’ leg seizes in winter, which leaves him housebound. Esca is left to maintain the land on his own, but he will move mountains for his Roman if he has too; anything to keep Marcus at his side, to keep him from wandering.
But he cannot deny that Rome has its temptations. There are things there Esca cannot offer; money, glory, luxury. And of course, other Romans, who speak Marcus’ language fluently and understand his customs, and worship the same gods.
Rome is a maiden laid upon a marble alter, a cascade of auburn falling free and skin as pale and soft as freshly fallen snow. It is great vineyards and the bounty of an empire that stretches farther than men can dream.
Esca cannot compete with that.
Soon, it becomes too much to bear and Esca marches up and takes Marcus by the shoulder. “We’re losing the light, Marcus.” He says, deliberately using his friend’s praenomen in full view and hearing of the soldiers. “We best let these men be on their way.”
He speaks in Latin, despite Marcus’ improving brythonic, just to spite them. He will not play the part of the silent savage.
Marcus blinks, caught off guard. “Of course.” He raises his hand. “Hail, may Mithras bless your journey.”
“And you, Centurion.”
With a whistle, the soldiers move on, their horses kicking up clods of earth as they go. Esca makes sure they are gone before continuing. He walks too quickly for Marcus, who struggles to keep up until they reach the road leading up to their land. His injury is troubling him.
“Esca-” He calls, panting. “Slow down.”
But he cannot, and he will not, and Marcus must follow. Esca leads Marcus home, where they belong, where no one else can reach. He shuts the gate behind the Roman with such force it almost breaks.
Marcus knows something is amiss now. “What’s the matter with you?” He asks.
“Go inside, Marcus.” Esca orders.
The clipped tone startles Marcus. “Why?”
“The fire pit will be cold, if you want to eat, it’ll need warming up.” He doesn’t mean to be terse, he doesn’t. But he is unable to prevent himself from lashing out. His anger sparks and bubbles over, while Marcus tends to brood and sulk. Their arguments can last for days, but Esca loves him too much to mind. Those fights are but short storms that always pass.
His friend does as he is asked, setting his jaw and stomping off into their roundhouse like a child sent to bed early. Esca should go after him, reassert that it is not Marcus’ fault, and that the blame lies in his own doubt.
But he can’t, yet. He is in no mood to be tender, and Marcus does not deserve to become a stone to blunt Esca’s anger on.
He chops wood, finds fences to mend, and even drives the oxen through the field. When he is done, Esca is ready to go to Marcus; the one who he works so hard for.
His friend was sitting by the fire, poking at it glumly, and turning over two small roasting birds on a spit. His eyes, the colour rolling hills cast in sunshine, are illuminated by the flames. Esca intakes a breath, and crosses the floor to him.
Marcus looks up, but before he can speak, Esca captures him in a kiss.
The Roman stills, but soon melts under the touch. Esca wants him, needs him out of his tunic so he can look and touch everything. Marcus seems to understand without him asking, and it falls to the floor without a sound.
Esca bites every freckle he can find, clawing up Marcus’ beautiful, wide back with his fingernails. Tomorrow, there will be many scratches to count. He would devour all that is brilliant and good about his friend, and then spit out the bones of Rome.
“Are you-” Marcus’ voice shudders as he gasps. “Easy. Are you going to tell me what upset you?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Esca whispers, holding Marcus’ face, and cards a hand through Marcus’ dark hair. He is so painfully handsome.
Esca guides Marcus into lying down, they have fucked on the dirt floor many times, and the fire burns hot enough to keep them both warm. Marcus throws back his head, exposing his neck, and Esca grasps his throat with one hand.
They rock back and forth as one, and Esca begins to chant a silent mantra in his head; willing Rome to hear and heed him.
You cannot have Marcus.
Marcus erupts into a bellow, coming hard and fast and spilling on Esca’s belly.
Esca lovingly strokes his cheek.
He is all I have. I will never love another.