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The road down in the valley had been paved in the first years of the Roman presence, and though it was not kept up to military standards still it was smart enough to make hooves ring; on a still summer afternoon the sound carried up to the farmyard, faint but clear. Esca stopped, listened. Two horses, animals for riding and not for draught; when the sound ceased he knew they had turned off where the road met the older trackway that wound the curve of the hill and would bring them in a few minutes to the farm.
He kept his head down, attended to the wood he was splitting, the steady effort of swinging the axe. He only paused when the dog started barking.
He whistled low to bring her loping back from the gate and she, good girl, came and crouched hackles-raised at his feet.
The trackway levelled as it came up to the farm and he saw them as they rode up slowly: two of them abreast, but they came single-file through the narrower opening in the enclosing wall that bounded the farm and the outbuildings. They were shieldless but helmeted, the sun glinting on the polished metal and on their chain shirts, and though they looked at ease Esca saw the pommels of their swords within easy reach. He smiled slowly, and let the axe lower until the gleaming head rested against his heel.
"Good morning," he said. The sun stung his eyes through his sweat, and he wiped his brow with his free hand. "Can I help you?"
"We are looking for Marcus Flavius Aquila," said one, who looked the older of the two. "We were told that he lives here."
"He does," said Esca. "But he's working at the farm over. If you've a message, I can give it to him."
"The message is for Marcus Aquila alone," said the man. Esca saw his eyes linger for a beat on the axe. Then they took his measure. "May I ask to whom I am speaking?"
You toy soldier, Esca thought, and let the edge of condescension colour the smile he gave the officer. "I am Esca."
The Romans exchanged looks. "You are his freedman?"
"Esca," he said again, and let them take that as they would. Once it might have bothered him, but now he found he cared very little what Romans made of him. "If you won't speak with me you're welcome to wait. There's water and grain for the horses. And for yourselves, of course," he added, after a beat.
They hesitated. The younger one said, "When are you expecting his return?"
"Perhaps midday," said Esca, "if the work is easy. If not, later. You could ride over but they'll be working in the top fields; you might miss him as he comes back."
The messengers exchanged looks again. Finally the elder of the two seemed to come to a decision. He swung into a dismount with an easy assurance, a certainty of dominance.
"We will wait," he said.
-
The older man spent the afternoon sitting under the shade of the eaves. The horses had been turned out into the paddock adjoining the farmyard and grazed happily, and Esca went back to splitting the wood, ignoring his unexpected visitors in favour of shaping new staves for the fences in the top fields which needed replacing until the day wore on and the younger of the two messengers came over.
"If you've another axe, I can help with that," he said. "My family are farming people, I'm used to the work."
The boy proved a good worker and between them they made quick work of the pile. Afterwards, he helped Esca carry the staves to the storage shed and in thanks Esca went into the house and brought him a drink. He reached for the good cups on the shelf before he caught himself - showing off to your Roman guests, he thought, with a wry smile at his own pretension - and got the everyday ones instead. They sat together on a low bench in the yard, enjoying the late summer heat.
"Your accent is British," said Esca. "Where are you from?"
"I was born in the settlement outside Isca Silurum," said the boy. His name was Tadius, he'd said. He'd removed his mail shirt and the tunic beneath was darkened with sweat, and like that he could have been any one of the broad-shouldered sons of the neighbouring farms or hired boys they'd taken on from the town in seasons past. "My father retired there, after his soldiering days."
Esca wiped the sweat from his brow. "Your mother was a local girl?"
"Yes," said Tadius. "The army's a good living for boys like me, you know."
Though he'd mellowed somewhat in the years since his freedom, Esca's feeling for Romans in general had not kept step with his feelings for one in particular. He resisted a fraternal urge to advise: don't fight for them, don't become one of them, don't give your life for them. It was the thought of the British mother that gave him pause, a reminder he shouldn't have needed that the distance between Roman and Briton was surmountable by love.
"This is a good place," said Tadius, breaking the quiet. He was looking around the neat farmyard and beyond: the gentle roll of fields and coppices vividly green in the strong sunlight, smiling softly. "I like it here."
"It's good land," said Esca, brief answer to cover the thick beat of pride in his heart. "Not much land, but enough to manage between us with some help from the neighbours in the busy times. We'll never be rich, but we get by."
Tadius sipped his drink thoughtfully. "Gaius - him, yes -" he indicated the older man now sleeping soundly in a patch of shade "- he knew more about you and Marcus Aquila than he let on before. I know you are Brigantes and how you came to be a - I'm sorry -"
"A slave," said Esca, with a brief smile. "I don't hide what I've been."
"But you're free now," said Tadius. "You could go anywhere - back north or anywhere. May I ask why you stayed?"
There were answers and answers that Esca had given to those who'd asked that of him over the years - ones for those who would understand and ones for those who would not. It occurred to him that this boy, son of a Roman and a Briton, might. But there was also the other man, and the contents of the message they had for Marcus, whatever that might be - although Esca could guess, and he could guess too that whatever pleas or promises it contained would not extend to him.
"He saved my life, and I saved his," said Esca, because it was the essential truth: the bones around which everything that came later was built. "Our paths run together now."
He watched the boy's face for understanding, and perhaps it flickered there in his dark eyes for a moment. He pressed no further, at least.
-
It was early evening when Marcus came home, when the honey-coloured sunlight was edging towards rose-gold. It was the dog who knew first - Marcus was her favourite, which Esca suspected was because he spoiled her rotten, and she had developed a sixth sense for him. When she went running to the gate with her wolfish ears pricked up and her tail wagging a gale Esca knew that Marcus was close.
"Wake your friend," he said to Tadius. "He's back. I'll go to meet him at the gate."
The paddock was visible from the trackway; Marcus wouldn't have missed the strange animals or what they meant. He was hurrying up when Esca reached the gate.
"Company?" Marcus called up as soon as he was within earshot, a little breathless from the quick walk up the inclined path. He looked hot and worn, streaked with dirt after the day's labour: ditch-digging, or somesuch.
"A pair of your sort." Esca leaned one hip against the gate-post. He smiled. "Military boys, with their helmets shined."
"Again," said Marcus, sighing. He paused when he reached Esca, peering past him towards the house. "What do they want this time?"
"I don't know, they won't tell me," said Esca. He shrugged, one-shouldered. "I'm only your freedman, after all. Not to know my patron's business before he does."
Maybe the sting had gone out of it, but he heard the echo of the old resentment in his voice and supposed that Marcus must have done, too.
"Is that so," said Marcus. His mouth quirked in a half-smile and his hand brushed Esca's shoulder as he passed by into the farmyard. "Well, let's find out."
From a drowsy late-afternoon ease the messengers had snapped to parade-ground standard by the time Marcus was in front of them, Gaius snapping off a regulation salute that made Esca bite down on his contempt.
"Marcus Flavius Aquila, sir," said Gaius. "I -"
"I'm a citizen, not a soldier," said Marcus, with a studiously bored, irritible edge that Esca recognised from long ago. "You have a message for me?"
"This is from the Legate of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix, sir," said the older man, and handed over a tablet with a flourish. Marcus took it and read it through in a few, frowning moments. When he was finished, he passed it to Esca. Esca saw the brief flicker of consternation that passed over Gaius' face; he couldn't know that Esca had never learned to read, but the point of the gesture hadn't escaped him. It was subtly done, Roman to the marrow, and Esca loved Marcus fiercely for it, a heat of love that scorched his ribs from the inside.
"Tell him I say no," said Marcus, when Esca passed the tablet back. He held it out to Gaius.
Gaius took it back, disbelieving. "You will not come?"
"No," said Marcus. "I'm sorry that you waited so long for that answer, but there it is."
An awkward pause followed, while Gaius seemed to struggle for something to say - some way to counter the unexpected answer. An invocation of the legate's name must not usually be met with a denial, Esca thought.
"I brought rabbit for dinner," said Marcus, turning to Esca with the bag he had over his shoulder. It was as good a dismissal as any. "They trapped it getting into the garden this morning and offered it to us for the help."
"We'll make a stew," said Esca
"Sir," said Gaius, but Marcus was already passing him on his way into the house. "Sir -"
Esca smiled at him. "You can go now," he said.
-
"So," said Esca, when they were alone again on their farm and the last faint ring of hoof on pavement had faded behind the sound of the summer evening. There was rabbit stewing over the hearthfire and they'd come outside to sit on the bench where Esca and Tadius had rested earlier that day; already it seemed like something that had happened long ago, distant and unthreatening. "What did they want?"
"What do they ever want?" said Marcus. He rubbed his thigh over the scar tissue, which he did sometimes when he was thoughtful. "There's trouble holding the line on the northern wall."
"They should never have pushed up that far," said Esca, a kneejerk response to an old debate. "They were greedy to move up from -"
"I know it, you know it," said Marcus, cutting the rant off at the knees and giving Esca a knowing, sidelong look. "Everyone but the Emperor knew it."
Esca conceded a smile. "So what do they want? To send you up to ask the Seal People to stop raiding the milecastles?"
"Actually," said Marcus, "they decided that they want to reform the Ninth."
"Ah," said Esca, and was quiet. It wasn't the first time some army official had been struck with the idea, and taken with the imagery of marching a legion northwards behind the recaptured eagle shining under that pale barbarian sun. Better yet to have them follow the man who recaptured it, the son of the man who died defending it. In military circles it was no longer considered bad luck to bear the name Aquila.
Esca did Marcus the favour of not asking, as he had when the first offer came, You could go, if you wished. Marcus had brought back the only thing the north could give him and Esca would not go anywhere to be the sword-edge of Roman power - if the offer had even extended to him, which it had not been and never would. And Marcus, who'd given the eagle away willingly, had looked at Esca and said then, All I want, the only thing that I want, is here.
The sun was sinking down towards the western hills, and the sky was striped with red and gold. There were bees humming in the hedges and birds singing in the trees and the smell of earth and growing things mingled with the home-smells of fire and cooking. Marcus' shoulder rested against Esca's, their knees brushed together.
"The young one who came today," said Esca, "he was the son of a Roman and a Briton. He said that he liked it here."
"It's a good place," said Marcus. With a smile in his voice he said, "It's home."