Chapter Text
The way was dark. The limbs of the trees twisted in a foreign way, puzzle-like, putting Marcus in mind of knotwork designs he had seen on standing stones and the inked skin of Britons. Moss grew here in the dank cold. Wan autumn sunlight slanted low through the half-naked trees as sodden leaves on the path deadened the sound of his horse’s hooves. Ahead through the trunks of trees, Marcus could no longer see Esca or his mount or the three horses he led. Back in Calleva, Esca had been given the commission of delivering three fine beasts to a household far to the northwest and he took it very seriously, said he would do it entirely himself. Marcus had asked to accompany him, and Esca had shrugged and nodded. Marcus felt like an afterthought.
His leg ached in the damp.
“Esca!” he called; the thick air swallowed the sound. Mist was meandering across the path now. He’d never been in this part of Britannia and felt unsure of his way. If ever a place might be the haunt of supernatural creatures or the fey people, he felt this was surely that place. He would not be surprised to see a troll emerge from the fog and fell him with one blow of a burning sword.
Ytana, his horse, plodded forward. He spoke softly to her, patted her neck. They could have been the only two creatures in the world. Trust alone told Marcus that Esca was still ahead on the path, not leaving him behind on purpose, merely continuing until the sun would drop below the horizon and he could find a resting place for the night. Marcus trusted, as he had no choice, that he would find Esca and the horses when that happened.
A year after the return of the Eagle to the Roman legate at Calleva, Marcus still had little notion of what to do with his life. A childhood and youth spent dreaming of being a soldier in the Roman army had prepared him for nothing else. Perhaps he was waiting to see how much his leg could heal, and whether he could ever again be a centurion. The legate had hinted that Marcus might have command of a newly established Legio IX Hispana; that remained to be seen. Words without deeds had little value. In his heart, Marcus knew he would never again fight with the Eagles of Rome, and yet he needed more time to mourn the end of his childhood dream.
So in late winter, many months ago, Marcus had purchased a piece of land with the retirement money from the army and the reward for bringing the eagle home, and Esca had followed: no, Marcus had asked Esca to come with him, and Esca had done so. Esca was free and Marcus was careful to behave properly, not to take advantage. He had tried to give Esca some of the money, but Esca refused brusquely. He decreed that he would take what he earned and nothing more. He would earn his keep on the land by working. By that he meant that his pay would be nothing more than shelter and food. Marcus wanted to argue, but Esca was a strange and difficult person, apt to moods and quarreling, so Marcus held back, trusting that time would prove that his freedom was real, not to be rescinded. After all, if Esca was adamant about his own honor, well, Marcus had to admit that he himself was equally prideful, and moreover hidebound about certain Roman ways and rules and regulations.
They built a small, rather crooked cottage with the help of workmen from Calleva. It had but a single room, with cots in one corner, a hearth in another, a rough table and stools close by. The barn that they built was far finer than the cottage, with roomy stalls for their horses and windows that could be boarded during foul weather. In here they housed chickens, ducks, a gentle milk cow, and a pregnant sow. In addition to their own horses, there were two more that the money purchased, for purposes of breeding. Other than eggs, the animals were not for the table, at least not yet: for that, Esca fished in the stream a half mile from the barn, or hunted rabbits and boar in the woods.
Marcus found himself collecting eggs, cleaning the house, and mending fences. They went about their day separately, gathered for the evening meal, both tired. They slept with the sun and rose again with it, and Marcus never asked Esca if he wanted to be there, and Esca never said one way or another.
It was simpler to let it be that way, and not discuss it.
Uncle Aquila referred friends to them for breaking horses, as it turned out that Esca had a true talent for it. Marcus then had looked around the land and recalled his home back in Etruria, where his mother had grown vegetables. He laid out a garden near the house and fenced it in, although that hardly kept the rabbits from the green shoots. He set traps for the rabbits foolish enough to steal from his garden.
As summer faded, the farm’s routines had become simpler. The animals and the garden did very well, given that both men were learning how to manage the operation with only themselves as laborers. Marcus looked forward to the day when they would be able to hire another man to work the land with them.
In the evening, the animals tucked safely in the barn, barred against predators, they sat by their hearth on furs and drank mead or watered wine and told stories to one another. This was the most glorious part of their life, for Esca became easier in the presence of Marcus, not just in silence, or while working side by side, but by talking more than he had done in a long while. Esca didn’t much want to hear tales of Rome or Romans, so Marcus talked about his mother, or farming in the Tuscan hills, of heat and sun and olive trees, of the muted green of the hillsides. He encouraged Esca, gently, not pressing him at all, to tell of how he grew up in this wild Britannia. Marcus would happily sit for hours and listen as Esca talked of feasts and games and hunting, of small villages comprised of the curious roundhouses where the tribes lived, of marriages and Beltane celebrations, of this green land and its dark legends.
“My older brothers played a trick on me once,” Esca offered one night, staring into the flames. “We were hunting and to be sure I was but thirteen, and they three and five years older. We’d been gone for days, tracking the infamous white stag, which I didn’t know was a myth.”
Marcus laughed. “What would you have done with it, had you seen one?”
Esca turned to him and shrugged. “Speared it and brought it home. The antlers would have found a place of honor in my father’s house. It would have made me a man in the eyes of our people.”
“You were eager, then, to find it.”
Esca nodded. “We got ourselves into a deep forest, a place I’d not been before. My brothers kept telling me to stay close, that if I went off the path, they’d never find me again and would go back to our home and shamefacedly report to our mother and father that they’d lost their youngest child. Dusk came, and night, and still we were in the woods. We made a fire, or rather I did for they could make me do what they liked, which is to say all the labor, and I cooked a rabbit that Dunon had killed and we had that for dinner. All the while he and Senovara kept telling one tale after another of the fearsome creatures that haunted these woods in the dark. I bore it as well as I could but I was afraid.” Esca stopped abruptly, looking startled at himself for having revealed such a thing.
“You were but thirteen,” Marcus said quickly.
Esca lifted his shoulders, smiled ruefully, and dropped them. “All might have been well but as we lay down in our cloaks to sleep, an eerie hooting began.”
“Owls?”
“No. It was deeper and fuller and altogether strange, almost like a human child crying, mixed with the tone of a Viking horn that carries for miles. I sat shivering, I can tell you that. My brothers did, too, and for once they looked frightened. It’s a banshee, said Senovara. No, said Dunon, it’s a green man.”
“What are those?” asked Marcus.
“The green man is a creature of the earth, of the forest, of the land. He is made of greenery yet looks human. Vines spew forth from his mouth and can capture an unwary traveler, binding him and pushing him into the ground to bury him.”
“That is fearsome indeed,” said Marcus.
“Do you not have such creatures in Rome?”
Marcus shook his head. “No god or demi-god is like that. Ceres is the mother of the earth but she is good, not fearsome.”
Esca looked at him, then turned back to the fire and stirred the embers. “The green man is not cruel. He simply does not concern himself with us. He is a symbol of the fertility of the land, which brings us food. The banshee is altogether different, a harbinger of death.”
“What happened then?”
Esca took a long draught from his wine cup. “We spent the remainder of the night huddled together and at first light we rode out of there like a banshee was on our rearguard.”
Marcus laughed. He pulled the fur that was slung over his shoulders tighter.
“I am glad that I forgave them eventually for the way they teased me,” Esca said. “I would not have them die without knowing how I revered them and their bravery. They taught me much of how to be a warrior.”
Marcus burned with a sudden desire to apologize to Esca for the cruelty of the Romans. He himself had no brothers or sisters, but he would have liked one or more. Yet how could he envy Esca, given that Esca had lost all of his?
They were both alone in the world, now: without parents or siblings, wives or lovers.
“You would have liked them,” Esca said softly. “Provided you weren’t in the legion that attacked the Brigantes.”
Marcus swallowed a lump in his throat. “Esca,” he began.
“Don’t,” Esca said shortly.
In truth Marcus had no right to pursue this if Esca did not wish it. He had nothing to offer the Briton. Nothing but pain in remembrance, and whatever companionship Esca would accept. He feared this last would soon not be enough. Esca had come willingly enough to the new farm. Yet sometimes Marcus feared it was because Esca knew nothing else he could do. He remained enslaved to a man’s needs – the need for food, for shelter, to belong somewhere.
“Esca,” he said, not daring to look at the other man, “I am glad you are here.”
Esca stood and took his cup to their simple table and set it there. As he passed Marcus on the way to his cot, he briefly squeezed Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus would willingly have accepted more touches, but that was to be all he would have from Esca that night.
The next morning, Marcus had woken late, cursing that Esca had let him sleep long past sun-up. He had roused himself and dressed, grabbed a day-old biscuit from the pantry, and headed out into the misty fields, towards the barn. It was the fresh, breezy kind of day where the sun was promising to make an appearance in an hour or so. The spring flowers were waving on pale green stalks. That day, Marcus felt hope that his life might turn out well enough.
Esca stepped out of the barn into the watery sunshine, saw Marcus, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a slow quiet smile.
“You said you wanted to see me with a sucking pig,” Esca said simply. In his arms, huddled in a scrap of linen, he cradled a tiny, pale-skinned piglet.
Marcus laughed. “She gave birth?”
“Five shoats, all healthy,” said Esca. “The sow is doing fine as well.”
Marcus reached out and touched the head of the tiny creature. It was covered in downy fur and it was warm. It made a grunting noise.
Stay with me, Esca, Marcus wanted to say, but didn’t. Never again did he wish to consider life without this man by his side. Even so, it did not fail to amuse him that he had this deep feeling when looking at Esca cuddling a newborn piglet. Indeed Esca was beautiful in the soft light, his hair going all which-way as it always did, his storm-blue eyes alight with mirth.
“It is so soft,” Marcus said.
“Haven’t you seen a pig before?” Esca grinned.
Marcus snorted. “You know very well I grew up on a farm.”
“Come see them all,” Esca said, his eyes still on Marcus. There was something in them, maybe something new.
Marcus stroked the piglet’s head again and then, because Esca’s cheek was so close, with a fine high color from the coolness of the morning, he touched a finger to the smooth skin and ran it down Esca’s cheek, very lightly. Esca’s look turned puzzled, so Marcus withdrew his finger awkwardly.
“Are you comparing me to a pig?” Esca asked.
“You look happy, that is all,” Marcus responded.
“I am happy. Come, the piglets wish to make your acquaintance.”
* * *
Other days were darker. As the harvest came and went, and days grew shorter, Esca grew more preoccupied and talked less. He still sat with Marcus in the evenings, his companionship, although quiet, very welcome to Marcus.
Yet Marcus could not help his worries that Esca was no longer pleased to be here with him, or that he wanted to be away to the north, looking for scattered members of his tribe, or a new tribe to join.
“You need not stay here,” he said once, foolishly, in a drizzling autumn rain that pattered on the roof of the barn.
Esca stopped in the midst of milking the cow.
“If you wish to be elsewhere,” Marcus blathered on, wishing he could bite off his tongue.
Esca wiped his sleeve across his brow. The other hand still held a teat firmly. “Are you sending me away?” he asked.
“No, I – no.” Marcus didn’t understand how he could have been so confident as a centurion, making decisions and giving orders that might send men to their deaths, and yet become a tongue-tied imbecile in front of this slight, moody, fickle barbarian.
“Be sure to let me know when I should pack up and leave,” Esca said, turning back to the cow, resting his forehead on her flank and taking up the milking again.
Marcus avoided Esca the remainder of that grim day. He tried to make it up by making honeycakes, which Sassticca had tried to teach him to make. By dinnertime the cottage was covered in flour and the floor was sticky with honey and egg, but Esca ate one of the lumpy cakes without comment, seated by the fire as usual on the pile of furs.
“I only meant that you are free,” Marcus began.
“I know I’m free. You graciously freed me, remember? After first purchasing me like a bull at a market.”
“I didn’t purchase you, my uncle did.” It was a feeble rejoinder and Marcus knew it.
“Aye. Well, you let me be your slave for a good long while.”
“You were a terrible slave. You were never meant to be a slave.”
“Marcus, no one is meant to be a slave.”
Marcus had no answer for that. He was coming to believe so himself, in spite of growing up in Rome, where slaves had always been a part of his own family. He prided himself that he’d never bought a slave, and did his own labor. When he was wounded at Isca Dumnoniorum, he had needed someone to support him, little as he’d first liked it when Uncle Aquila brought home the man whose life he’d saved in the arena. But he had wanted the support of a friend, and after their adventures in the north, retrieving the lost eagle, he thought he had found that in Esca.
That night Esca dragged his cot farther away from the sleeping area.
* * *
Before the first snowfall came, a Roman in the town had commissioned the delivery of three very fine horses to someone he knew in Uriconium. On Uncle Aquila’s recommendation, the Roman hired Esca as a native who knew the lands and the people, and would have a good chance of making the delivery undeterred.
Marcus went along, ostensibly as protection. Or to make sure this wasn’t Esca’s quiet way of finally making his escape from the Romans, from Marcus. So here in this treacherous puzzle-wood he sat, miserable, cold and wet, the sunlight gone, not even knowing if he was wanted. But roads were dangerous, full of bandits and worse, and Marcus could not have sat back on the farm, worrying for days and weeks.
The animals and cottage they left in the charge of Uncle Aquila’s under-overseer, Lucius Porcillius, who was apprenticed to the overseer; this was a chance for him to prove himself, perhaps even to be promoted to overseer of Marcus’ farm, for he might come at a discount that Marcus hoped to afford within a year.
Here, near the Welsh borders, Esca had found a path mostly through dense woods, avoiding the Roman roads that were often beset by thieves and murderers. The Roman’s beautiful horses were valuable and would make a fine target for any such people. Esca knew other paths and ways, though, and led them confidently.
At last Marcus caught up with Esca. In a small clearing ahead, he had already sequestered the horses in a thicket and even started a small fire, over which he was cooking the rabbit he had shot earlier, and apparently skinned while Marcus was still making his way along the path.
“There’s enough for us both,” Esca said without looking at Marcus.
Marcus put Ytana with the other horses. They whickered quietly together, tearing at low greenery on the forest floor. He brushed his horse carefully, but they had traveled slowly and so the horses were not winded or sweaty. He threw a blanket over her back.
“Get the others, will you?” Esca said from the fire, where he sat, turning the rabbit on a makeshift spit.
Marcus found the blankets for the others and covered the back of each horse and stroked their soft noses. Esca’s horse was the one gift he had accepted from Marcus, a beautiful chestnut colt with a twitchy demeanor, not too large and very nimble. Marcus had picked him out because he reminded Marcus of Esca. Esca had named him Aidan, which only later Marcus learned meant “little fiery one.” Marcus smiled and scratched Aidan’s forehead.
He secured his cloak over his own shoulders and sat by the fire in the puzzle-wood, the small circle of light compounding the darkness beyond its reach. Marcus held his hands out for the warmth. He looked up at the branches over their heads, dancing in a light wind, rubbing together with a dry sound.
He and Esca ate in silence, and drank from skins of wine and fresh water.
“Is there a green man about, do you think?” he asked, when they were finished.
Esca looked around at the darkness. “It is possible.”
“Will we be safe?”
“Are you afraid? I’ll protect you,” Esca said with a lilt of his old humor, which warmed Marcus to the core.
“One day more until we reach our destination?” Marcus asked.
Esca nodded, capping the wineskin tightly. “It’s a wonder we’ve not been assaulted.”
“You chose the path well.”
Esca grunted, stirring the fire so it flamed up. Not too much, for they had no mind to draw the attention of anyone who might be in the woods.
“You have been here before?” Marcus held his hands out again to the fire.
“This place? No. But I know this land somewhat. My father brought me here as a child to meet with our cousins, since his sister had married into the Cornovii.”
Marcus wanted to ask, but didn’t, whether the Cornovii had suffered the same fate as the Brigantes. He should know these things. He would ask his uncle upon their return. That was to say, hoping that both of them would return to Calleva. He still feared that Esca would slip away at a time that suited him most, and Marcus would never find him in this wilderness.
Instead Marcus said, “I will take first watch.”
Esca tamped down the fire to embers, rolled himself into his cloak, and from all appearances was asleep within minutes.
Marcus watched and listened. Something small scampered in the underbrush; one of the horses shifted sleepily. An owl hooted. When the moon shining through the branches had moved perhaps three hours by Marcus’ judgment, he rose to relieve himself a few paces from the clearing. He had a strange feeling, as though he knew he were being watched but could point to no reason for believing so. There was no sound. It was as though the forest itself watched him. The great greenwoods of Britannia were full of mystery. Marcus felt like an intruder, which indeed he was. Once finished, he stole quietly to the horses, where it appeared to be Ytana’s turn to watch while the other four slept on their legs. Rarely would they lie down while in an unknown forest. He gentled Ytana with touches and soft whispers.
“It is a strange place, this land, is it not?” he said softly, for she had traveled with him from the hills outside Rome. She nuzzled his side. “You may have an apple come morning. They’re all in the saddlebag over there.”
A rustling from the banked embers of the fire drew his attention. Esca rolled over and rubbed at his eyes.
“My turn?” he asked sleepily.
“Not yet,” said Marcus. “Sleep awhile longer.”
Ytana snorted suddenly and tossed her head. Marcus looked around, moonlight showing nothing. Esca, he thought, wondering if there was need to say anything aloud, and then the air exploded with sound, like the banshees from Esca’s legends.
“Esca!” he did yell then. His sword lay by his cloak near the fire, but he had a dagger in his belt and drew it. At least three men were upon him then, slashing and howling. Marcus batted away the battle-ax of one and buried his dagger in the man’s throat, then kicked the corpse over. Another he dispatched with a slash to the gullet.
He felt a hot pain in his left arm and knew a knife had sliced there. But the wielder of the knife dropped, an arrow in his throat. He turned and saw Esca, bow already strung with a fresh arrow.
“Behind!” Marcus yelled, rushing forward but not in time to stop the bandit from clubbing Esca. Marcus put his head down and charged like a bull, butting his head into the man’s stomach and toppling him.
Then something made his head hurt ferociously and the world went dark.
* * *
When he woke it was still dark. His head still hurt. He turned his head on his neck and that hurt as well. His first thought was Esca. He had to know if Esca was safe. His next thought was for the horses. But he was alone. The only sounds were night sounds – insects and scamperings in the underbrush. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out only the glimmer of moonlight on a branch here and there.
How had he escaped the warriors? He touched his forehead and it felt wet and smelled like iron. Blood. He was lying in a gully, entangled in undergrowth that had lashed at him as he fell and rolled; he could feel the stings of small cuts on his arms and legs and face. They must not have found him, or not thought him worth seeking in the dark.
Groaning, he levered himself upright and fought his way out of the brambles and up the slope. Their campfire was out but still reeked of smoke. Beyond that there was not a sign of Esca. It was too dark to seek other signs. No doubt Esca could have found the traces – a snapped twig here, the print of a foot in the mud over there – for the love of Mithras, the bandits had taken five horses! Only a magician or a god could hide such traces. But Marcus had to wait for daylight. He felt stupid and foolish and Roman. He feared for Esca.
He sat on the cold, damp ground and waited until the sky lightened, and then at last he could make out the tracks. He braved the gully again and found his knife, tucked it into his belt. Climbing back up, he followed the trail, which became clearer as the day brightened. The old wound in his leg had not been helped by the fall, so Marcus was unable to move very fast. If the bandits had mounted the horses to ride, it would have been impossible to catch up to them, but the hoof tracks mingled with the prints of men showed that they were walking. Praise all the gods for that.
Marcus limped along. The forest went on forever, and then a bit more. When finally the trees thinned, Marcus found himself on the side of a hill with bracken running down to a meadow below. Not a sign of people, whether Roman or Briton, could be seen. Nonetheless, in the open, following the trampled grass across the meadow, he felt vulnerable, as though hidden watchers followed his moves. He hurried across the open expanse and felt better when the path entered another stand of trees. The sun circumvented the sky and dipped low. Marcus drank from a stream; his stomach grumbled. The bandits had taken the saddlebags, the food, the weapons, everything. Marcus had only what he had on and his dagger. He missed the cloak desperately.
As night came on, Marcus, staggering and shivering in the dark, stubbornly refused to stop now that he had a clear sense of the path the horses had taken. Weary and aching and no longer sufficiently alert, Marcus almost ran into them.
He stopped just before stumbling into a large clearing in the forest, stepping back as lightly as he could into the shadows of the trees. If the bandits had not been busy, he might have been heard.
The five horses were there, Ytana tossing her head, perhaps scenting him, the others standing closely together, shifting nervously, hooves stirring the dry leaves. They stood among the trees close by the clearing, probably hobbled or they would have scattered. The clearing was nearly circular and large, at least thirty strides across. The moon looked down on a circle of standing stones of a man’s height, some leaning drunkenly, others straight as sentries. In the middle of the stones was a slab around which the bandits were gathered, holding torches, chanting in some language Marcus didn’t understand.
Druids, he thought, or at least the lead one, for he wore an iron circlet with mistletoe intertwined. Marcus counted the men. Nine. Where was Esca?
Moving silently enough, as the men were chanting loudly, Marcus moved carefully through the trees to find another angle of view. Then he spied Esca, strapped tightly to the slab, gagged and bound, bruised and bloody but alive, for his eyes were open and his visage showed, not surprisingly given it was Esca, angry and disdainful defiance, the same look he had given the gladiator on the day that Marcus had first saved his life.
The crowned druid raised a long knife high as he chanted.
They were going to sacrifice Esca to their evil pagan gods. Marcus knew this as clearly as he knew he had to save Esca or die in the attempt. But the doing of it would not prove simple. He was a soldier of Rome, used to regular formations, strength in numbers, and tactics relying on superior weaponry. In Marcus, as in any Roman soldier, there was bred a powerful desire to win; here, to free Esca, for them to escape, or if not that, for Esca at least to escape. It would be a bitter irony that Marcus had saved Esca from the Roman gladiator only to see him killed by people of his own land, Britannia. And yet Marcus was one to nine, odds no Roman liked.
What he needed was a distraction. The forest floor was full of fallen sticks and twigs, so Marcus tossed them, one by one, far through the trees where he could find room between tree trunks. As he hoped, the sounds eventually drew the attention of the men in the circle of stones, who stopped chanting. Startled, they looked about. At a silent signal from the druid, three stole away to follow the sounds.
Marcus moved as quickly and silently as he could to stay away from the three. He had suffered Esca to teach him to track and hunt through dense forests while leaving no trace. Of course such movements came easily to slender, lithe Esca, less so to Marcus the broad-shouldered Roman soldier who was used to square edges and muscular bodies that could hold a testudo formation even when enemies leapt on top of the shields. Esca had taught Marcus, more or less, how to make sounds like an owl, a wolf, and a rutting stag. It had all been in good fun and the pathetic sounds that Marcus managed to create often had Esca in peals of laughter. This, however, was Esca’s life in the balance, so Marcus did his best, stopping in a place where he could still see into the clearing, cupping his hands against his mouth, and making a sound rather like a cross between a disgruntled owl and a sick dog.
The sounds had an effect; he saw the druid’s eyes turn toward where he was hidden, and even Esca’s eyes showed wary bafflement. There was no more time to think of it because a twig snapped behind him, very quietly, and a blade pricked the back of his neck. He could smell the man.
Fool, you should not have hesitated, Marcus thought as he ducked and twisted, burying his dagger deep in the warrior’s guts. For his efforts he got the tip of the warrior’s dagger across his shoulder, bringing a line of blood to the skin. He dropped the warrior and used the cover of his fall into the dry leaves to move towards the horses. A man was guarding them now, knife at the ready. He heard Marcus and moved, but Roman training had its value and Marcus had little trouble sweeping the man’s legs from beneath him, then leaping on him and delivering a swift blow into the neck. More blood; the horses whinnied; Marcus froze and looked around, afraid he would be discovered. The commotion of the hunt for the intruder was too great, however, and the bandits had not noticed him.
The druid in the clearing was yelling now, dispersing more of the warriors into the woods.
Marcus snuck around the side of Ytana, hand trailing across her rump to keep her calm, and found his spear. As good as he was with a spear, there was no possibility that he could throw it through the trees with accuracy, as it was too unwieldy for that. Instead he quietly pulled Esca’s small bow from Aidan’s saddlebag, then fitted an arrow to it and drew the bowstring taut.
The druid now stood upon the slab, having pulled Esca, hands still bound behind him, to his knees. The druid held the long dagger to Esca’s bared throat, snarling and looking wildly about the clearing. He said something in his own tongue, low and menacing. Esca still struggled, but it was clear to Marcus that the druid meant to kill him then and there.
Archery was far from Marcus’ best skill; thankfully he had no time to think. He raised the bow and let fly the arrow.
In the beat of a heart many things happened: a scream rent the woods; Esca pitched forward, a bright red spot blossoming on his tunic; the druid fell backward; both fell from the slab to the ground. Two men still in the clearing darted towards Marcus and the horses. Marcus snatched the quiver and ran nimbly as he could, thinking but one thing: I have killed Esca, I have killed Esca.
He wanted to drop to his hands and knees on the ground and let be what would be. He hardly cared to survive, but his training permitted no such surrender, and moreover he could not bring himself to leave Ytana and Aidan with the druid and his men. And of course there was the lure of vengeance: he could not suffer those who had brought him to this point to continue living.
The remainder of that night had the makings of a violent nightmare, Marcus hooting here and there like a demented green man, leading one after another of the bandits astray, coming upon them and killing them one by one. Esca would have been proud of how stealthy he could be when it counted.
When he had killed seven and knew he was finished, except for the druid and one outlier who may have escaped, he slumped on a fallen log, exhausted and sick at heart. The woods were silent. The druid must have left. Marcus would happily have killed him as well, if given the opportunity. Perhaps the man did live and was nearby, or perhaps in falling from the slab he had hit his head and perished, or perhaps the druid and his last man were lurking about the clearing, waiting for Marcus to foolishly put in an appearance. It made no difference. Marcus had to find his way back to Esca, no matter the cost.
The sky lightened and Marcus stood, called loudly for his horse, and Ytana answered. Marcus followed the sound until he found the horses, still clustered, hobbled there in the woods together. No sound came from the clearing. He leaned his head against Ytana’s withers and if a tear fell from his eyes, as it hadn’t since he was a boy, there was only a horse to know.
Duty drove him, as always. He would lead the horses to the point of delivery, and then take Ytana and Aidan back to the farm in Calleva. Beyond that, he couldn’t see the future and did not want to. But first he would bury Esca. The bandits could lie where they had died, to become feasts for ravens and wolves.
He stumbled into the clearing, surprised that he could not see Esca. He had been sure that Esca’s body had fallen forward, towards the place where the horses stood. Had the druid taken his corpse? In the gentle light of dawn, Marcus saw the signs of trampled grass; on the other side of the slab he found Esca, face down in the dirt, unmoving, his back covered in gleaming dark blood. The druid lay there as well, an arrow piercing his heart, his dead eyes open and unseeing. Soon enough the birds would come for those eyes. The other man was there as well, a dagger embedded in the back of his neck, his face turned into the grass.
Marcus knelt by Esca and pulled his body around, spilling blood, onto his knees to cradle it. Esca’s hands were unbound, severed ropes dangling from each. The gag was nowhere to be seen. How had that happened? Esca’s head lolled, rolling into Marcus’ lap.
“This is not the death you deserved,” Marcus whispered, numb to the very core. “You, a warrior of your people. I have never known anyone so brave. Requiescat in pace.”
Esca’s arm moved limply, slapping against Marcus’ shin feebly. “’M not dead,” a voice muttered.
Marcus nearly dropped Esca in surprise. “Thank Mithras, you live!” He gathered Esca to him and squeezed him fiercely.
“Ow,” Esca complained. “My shoulder.”
Marcus released his grip and laid Esca on the ground, face to the sky. The storm-blue eyes squinted open, much pain in them. Marcus carefully pulled the blood-soaked tunic from Esca’s left shoulder.
“You’re a terrible shot,” Esca said. “You hit me.”
A puncture wound still seeped fresh blood from the place where the shoulder sloped up to the neck. “Then how,” Marcus wondered aloud, until he realized that the arrow was not in the wound and had passed through. The druid had been crouching low behind Esca, long dagger held to Esca’s throat. Marcus thought he had aimed for the druid’s head. He’d hit Esca instead, in the shoulder, and the arrow had passed through and pierced the druid’s heart, slamming his body backwards, while Esca, released from the arm around his chest, fell forwards. “You crawled around the rock here, and freed your hands on the fallen dagger.”
“Wasn’t easy,” Esca muttered, his eyes fluttering closed again. “I wished to die unbound.” With that Esca fell unconscious again.
“And killed the last man,” Marcus added, to himself. “Truly, a warrior.” How stupid Marcus had been for all those years, thinking only Roman soldiers were honorable and strong and good in battle. His time in Britannia had proved him wrong over and over, but only now did he really understand the depth of his unfair thoughts. He would thank Mithras, as soon as possible, for not allowing the price of his understanding be the life of this man who was so dear to him. The time was not now, for Esca’s recovery was no certain thing. He was bleeding and they were far from a surgeon or civilization. In addition to the shoulder wound, Marcus found a deep, festering knife cut on Esca’s side. Marcus poured most of their wine on both arrow and knife wounds and bound them with linen torn from his own tunic. He poured the remainder of the wine over his own cuts, which were relatively shallow, and stung very satisfyingly at the touch of the alcohol. He took the hobbles from the horses and strung their bridles together with tethers, now Aidan in that group.
“I am sorry, Ytana, you’ll have to carry double for now,” Marcus said. She was large and strong so he hoped the burden would not be too much. It was a great deal of work to get Esca and himself both into the saddle, but he managed, and they set off on a path going north. Esca fell in and out of consciousness, so Marcus leaned Esca against his chest and kept an arm around the slim waist.
Days back, Esca had told Marcus where they were going, and in a general way how to find the place, so Marcus did his best to remember what Esca had said. One day more, Esca had said, and the gods must have been looking out for him, or perhaps the local gods were looking out for Esca, for Marcus found the trail out of the woods, into the valley with a snake-shaped stream meandering along its bottom. He followed that as the sun climbed mistily across the firmament and settled again. Darkness at last showed where the Roman settlement was – far, but at least real. Lights twinkled in a deep valley.
A weary time later, the horses at last approached the gates to an impressively large Roman villa, manned by a pair of guards. The guards looked at him suspiciously, a man on a horse, carrying a deadweight body. The master, a man of years similar to Uncle Aquila, came out of the villa and saw the horses and cried a welcome, though:
“You have brought my horses! Come in and be welcome.”
“My friend is sorely wounded,” Marcus said without preamble. “He needs a surgeon.”
The master signaled and called out orders, and Esca was lowered gently into the arms of two men who carried him into the villa.
“I am Aurelius Julius Regulus,” said the man to Marcus. “Come with me and we will see to the horses and then to yourself. Your friend will be cared for well. The town surgeon is already being summoned.”
Although Marcus could barely abide being away from Esca, he schooled his emotions and walked with the master and two stable boys into the stable. The master had to run his hands over the horses he had purchased. By the sounds he made and the frequent nods, Marcus knew that Regulus was pleased. The stables were well-stocked, and the boys knew well how to care for valuable horses. Aidan and Ytana were brushed down every bit as well as the three that now belonged to Regulus.
Regulus was a thoughtful, reasonable man; Marcus liked him immediately. His wife, Septima, was quiet and competent, having the household slaves prepare guest quarters, tending to Esca’s recovery, changing fresh linens herself for both Esca and Marcus. As anxious as he was, Marcus had the grace to be a good guest, eating at the host’s table and telling the master and mistress all the news he had from Calleva, for no piece of news or gossip was too small to interest them. He also related the tale from the road on the way here.
“That road used to be safe, but of late it’s gone very bad,” Regulus said. “For your return, I can suggest a better route.” As he had paid for the horses months ago when he had been at the market fair in Calleva, at least Marcus and Esca would not be carrying gold coins on the return trip.
Marcus and Regulus spent their time waiting for Esca to awaken. The surgeon assured Marcus that the healing was well underway, even while Esca fidgeted in his sleep, and grew hot and then cold to the touch. “A fever, to be expected. Have faith.”
Regulus was very interested in the former centurion whose closest companion was a barbarian with blue patterns on his skin.
“He is a man of great honor,” Marcus said. “If not for Esca, I would have been lost and no doubt dead north of the Wall.”
“I had heard of the eagle of the Ninth in Calleva, my young friend,” said Regulus. “I would be pleased to hear from your own lips that remarkable rescue.”
Marcus gave a detailed but judiciously truncated account of their escapades, highlighting in particular the bravery of the lost legionaries and of Esca himself.
Afterwards, Regulus spoke again. “That is indeed a tale for the ages. Your father is surely in the arms of the gods now, as noble a soldier as Rome has ever seen.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Marcus.
“Although I haven’t served in the army, I know that the bravery and skills of the soldiers have allowed Rome to bring civilization to this land.”
Marcus grinned wryly. He could only imagine what Esca would say to that. Who needs Roman roads? We got around before. Who needs your gods? We have our own. We have songs and heroes and dances and festivals. Marcus had once suggested that Britannia had no written language and Esca had scoffed. What need have we for that, when we can pass down our stories from old people to children? Do Romans have such poor memories that they must write down their tales?
“I wonder that your freedman – Esca? – fought beside Romans against his own countrymen.”
“I believe he did it only for our friendship, because I was the first Roman to treat him as a man and not an enemy or a slave.”
Regulus nodded. “You were generous to free him.”
“He deserved no less.”
“Septima and I do not keep local slaves. We have those who have been with the family for decades, naturally, but they were born into it and many came with us from Etruria. Living here in the borderlands, that seems the wisest course.”
Marcus nodded and forbore to insult his host by trotting out his own rather recent musings on the subject of slavery. From all he had seen, the household slaves here were treated as well as the animals in the stables, or better. That was more than could be said for a great many households.
The waiting continued. Marcus spent hours in the room with Esca, watching him sleep, or wiping sweat from his face and shoulders. But he could not be there always, so at times he played latrunculi with Regulus, and they frequently visited the stables to see the new horses. Regulus showed his prize mare to Marcus. “I shall breed her with the new roan stallion,” he said, pleased.
* * *
Esca woke after three days, and the surgeon, who stopped at the villa daily, pronounced his color much improved.
“You see,” Regulus said proudly, “even in the hinterlands we have the best of medical care!”
Marcus sat right down on the side of the bed and took Esca’s hand, not caring who saw. “We are hard to kill, are we not?” He smiled but Esca did not, as his breathing was labored and he couldn’t bear bright light.
“Your next lesson shall be archery,” Esca croaked, then promptly drifted into unconsciousness again.
“Sir?” Marcus turned, worried.
The surgeon smiled. “He is sleeping now. The fever is gone and the infection has lost its hold on his wounds. Let him sleep. Hypnos cures more than any surgeon every did.”
On the fifth evening, Esca appeared in the archway to the dining hall while the household was being served the evening meal, looking pale and haggard, but stronger than in a long while. Marcus stood so quickly that he knocked over a bowl of almonds, but Esca raised a hand to stop him.
“I am tired of being in a bed,” he said, “and using a piss-bucket.” He noticed Septima and ducked his head. “Pardon, lady.”
Septima gestured toward the table. “We are pleased to see you so well, young man. Join us.”
Regulus nodded to Marcus, who went to Esca, who was barely able to stand, and guided him to the low table and helped him sit on the cushions.
“I smell of the sick-room,” Esca said glumly.
That was why Marcus had put Esca close to himself and far from their hosts, who smiled graciously, to indicate that it was no great matter to them. Soon enough Esca had forgotten anything but the food and wine, which he ate and drank his fill while the hosts continued their conversation about their decision to move to Britannia and their observations about the land and its people.
“We Romans are not that many in this area,” Septima said, taking her husband’s hand, “but we have found the natives to be industrious farmers and unstinting in their care of each other and even of strangers.”
“It would be too much,” Regulus said, “to say that they were pleased to see us, yet after eighteen years they seem to have accepted us, more or less.”
On the eighth day, a light snow began to fall. At last Esca was strong enough to travel, and it was time to head back lest the winter make the road dangerous. Regulus provided new blankets for the horses and the bedrolls, and Septima saw to it that plenty of food and wine were packed amongst their supplies. Marcus and Esca bade farewell and rode along the valley, which was transforming into a soft white everywhere they looked, the sky shrouded in grey.
All that day, they rode silently, each lost in his own thoughts. Marcus was intensely grateful that Esca was returning with him. Rather shamefully, he was even grateful for Esca’s healing wounds, because Esca would need him for a while yet. Now that winter was here, surely Esca would not think to leave the farm for the cold, unfriendly world. Marcus would have at least until spring to share Esca’s company.
At night they bedded down in the open near a small fire, eating warmed-up rations, listening to the sound of the hillsides.
“If only the horses would lie down, we could sleep near them,” Marcus said with a grin.
Esca snorted.
“Are you not cold?”
Esca shrugged. “I was born in this land.”
Marcus shivered under his cloak. There was beauty in this land, a different sort of beauty than Etruria’s. He wouldn’t lie to himself – he longed for the hot sun and bright skies, the olive groves and the abundant flowers. But there was something about the wildness of Britannia that stirred his soul.
At his side, Esca stared into the flames, the planes and angles of his face caught in the play of firelight. Nearby, their horses huddled under their blankets and shifted, rubbing against one another companionably.
“We should do as the horses,” Esca declared. “Sleep, and I will keep you warm while I watch.”
Marcus laid down in his bedroll, and after a long while, Esca lay next to him, and it was warmer than otherwise.
The next day they rode on, following an ancient track across the open plain. Out of the hills, the snow was less, but flakes still danced on the wind. Esca rode ahead, reins loosely held, relaxed, and yet Marcus knew he was watchful, ever alert.
An eagle passed overhead and Esca stopped. Marcus drew near and saw that Esca was following the soaring eagle with his eyes. A stiff wind tugged at Aidan’s mane, at Esca’s short hair and his cloak. His eyes were sharp, his mouth a straight line. Haloed by the stormy sky and the backdrop of stony white-flecked mountains and a wide escarpment bisected by a frozen river, it occurred to Marcus very suddenly how like the land Esca was: wild and fierce, proud and unbending, heart-rendingly beautiful. He wanted to possess that unyielding spirit for his own, yet he knew that Esca could never be possessed again.
Esca turned to Marcus and the corners of his lips rose slightly. To Marcus it was as though the sun had come out. “Home in two days,” Esca said.
“Praise Mithras,” Marcus agreed.
Esca’s smile widened. “You saved my life again, centurion. It is getting to be a habit.”
“You must know that I always will,” Marcus answered solemnly.
“See that you do,” Esca said lightly, jiggling the reins and clicking to Aidan to move forward again.
Marcus followed, as he knew he would always follow this man, if permitted.
Esca’s voice floated back on the wind. “The surgeon told me I was feverish for days.”
“Yes,” said Marcus.
“Did I speak?”
“You did.”
Esca flinched. “Did I bring dishonor to myself with my words?”
How could Esca do that, Marcus wondered. There was no dishonor in him of any kind, as far as Marcus could see. “You spoke in your own tongue, and no one understood a word you said.”
That answer seemed to satisfy Esca.
The remainder of the journey was uneventful, if cold. The snow began to fall more thickly, muffling the horses’ hooves.
* * *
The winter turned colder once they were back in their own little crooked roundhouse, the animals again tucked into the barn, and Lucius Porcillius returned to Uncle Aquila’s place. Winter was a time for catching up on projects that there was not time for in the planting and growing and harvesting seasons. Marcus planned a bathhouse. Esca forced him into archery lessons. Marcus taught Esca how to write in Latin. They hunted in the snow, following the tracks of roe deer and hares and the odd boar or two. They cured meat, and ate their own preserves from their garden, stored in tightly sealed pots on shelves in the coldest part of the house.
They argued. They had disagreements about the chores, what to plant in the spring, and whether to permit assistance from Uncle Aquila’s estate slaves. Esca grew sullen sometimes, and would not speak for days.
A small shrine to Mithras occupied a dark corner of the cottage. Marcus never prayed to Mithras in the presence of Esca, but one bright morning, Esca was outside taking care of the animals, so Marcus lit the incense and knelt on the floor cushion. He did not speak for a long while, for he no longer knew what to say to the god. He was not a soldier. He was barely Roman any longer.
The thin smoke rising from the incense wavered with the slightest touch of breath. He waved the smoke towards himself, bathing in its essence. “O Mithras, lord of light,” he said quietly. “Thank you for allowing me to live, to bring glory to my legion, to restore my father’s name, to save as many of my comrades in arms that I could. For those who perished, I beg that you see them safe to the Elysian fields.” Marcus had spoken these words often but one could never thank a god too much. He took a deep breath and said something new, something he’d never yet said to Mithras.
“I thought you sent me to Britannia to find the eagle. Now I know… you sent me here to find him. My fear is that he will leave, and I must not stop him. He is not like me. Mithras, give me the strength to let him go, and do not let me bring shame upon myself by trying to keep him.”
At noonday he pulled on boots and cloak and went outside. The sun was blinding against the snow, which glittered in a million points of light. Their entire stock of four horses cantered about the pastureland while Esca watched, perched on the low stone wall they had started to build in the summer. He did not turn his head as Marcus trampled through the deep snow to come close to him. With his cloak-wrapped arm he cleared snow from the top of the wall and sat down next to Esca and looked out over the land – his land, their land. One of the horses raised its head and whinnied, shaking its mane free of snow.
“You were right,” Marcus said. “Horse breeding was a good idea.” His breath smoked in the frigid air.
Esca nodded and shaded his eyes to look at the horses as they cavorted. “I think Aidan has his eye on the little dappled mare.”
“Do you think there will be a foal by spring?”
“Aye. One at least. Maybe two. It depends on whether or not Ytana will turn up her Roman nose at the local lads.”
Marcus laughed. “She’s an independent one, to be certain.”
“Stubborn.”
“Discerning.”
“Obstinate,” Esca insisted. “Not unlike a Roman of my acquaintance.”
“I am stubborn? What am I stubborn about?”
Esca shrugged and tucked his hands under his armpits. He had left the cottage without so much as a cloak. “Time to bring the horses in. It’s getting colder.”
Marcus couldn’t help but sympathize. He’d never felt anything like the chill of a winter in Britannia. “Give me your hands,” he said.
Esca looked puzzled but held them out. Marcus folded his own large hands around the elegant smaller hands, pulled them under his cloak and held them against his belly. Even through the thick fabric of his tunic, he could feel Esca’s hands were like blocks of ice. It was an awkward position for Esca, who turned to face Marcus. The look in his normally stern eyes seemed unusually vulnerable.
“Marcus? What are you doing?”
Marcus dropped Esca’s hands quickly. “Nothing. I meant nothing by it.” He was suddenly horrified that he would frighten Esca off, be what drove him away. Marcus wanted Esca in a way no man should want his equal, but he was content to have Esca be near him. Marcus could keep his desire to himself. Or at least he’d thought he could, but Esca was alert, like a watchman on the walls, and Marcus rarely kept anything from him for long.
“You meant nothing by it? I’ve heard that before.” The sullenness had returned to Esca’s brow. He shoved his hands beneath his armpits again and stared at his feet.
Marcus spoke softly, as though to a horse spooked by a snake on the path or a menacing shadow glimpsed through trees. “I would never dishonor you or compromise your dignity. You know this, surely.”
Esca jumped off the wall, his boots crunching in the snow, and turned to face Marcus. “What do you know of my dignity? Rome took everything from me, everything!” Esca’s eyes were now lit with anger and pain. “I loved my brothers. My mother, who held me when I was a boy and cried.” He took a step backwards to augment the distance between them. “My father taught me about honor, my uncles taught me to wield a bow and a spear. They are gone – Rome took them. Rome took my lands and my future, for I would have been a second-in-command for Dunon when he became chieftain, to protect my people and to help those who needed my help. Rome took even my dignity, that you so lightly offer back. Rome took my freedom until I could not even choose when I might wake and sleep, and the only ones I helped then were those too lazy to cross the room on their own for a cup of wine.”
Through this tirade, Marcus began to feel so ashamed of Rome and of himself that his head dropped into his hands, for he couldn’t bear to see the flame of Esca’s despair and righteous anger. No matter that Marcus had tried to be different; still he had come to this land with his weapons and his arrogance, and now Esca’s family was gone. Esca was right about everything.
But Esca wasn’t finished.
“And then,” Esca continued, his voice rough and low, “Rome saw fit to take even my life to provide entertainment to its people, who applauded the sight of my blood in the dirt.” Esca drew in a ragged breath. “And in return Rome gave me only one thing.”
Rome gave something? Marcus felt hope, though it was a tiny frightened thing. He raised his face and dared to look at Esca, who still burned with indignation. “Your life,” he said softly. Hoping.
“NO!” Esca bellowed. In another setting it would have been comical, how he rolled his eyes while so furious, his expression clearly saying you big clumsy idiotic Roman oaf. “Rome gave me you!”
Marcus knew he wasn’t especially bright, but this speech had completely confounded him. “Me?” he asked.
Esca kicked the stone wall in fury and pulled at his own hair and practically roared in frustration. “You make me so angry, Marcus. I know you want me! I have seen how you look at me! Will you deny it?”
Marcus could not even find words. He could barely let himself believe that he heard right. He sat there, mouth gaping.
Esca took the lack of response for no. “So what will it take?” he yelled.
Take? That was the one thing Marcus could never, would never again do to Esca. He would not take from Esca, for it was wrong that Esca had been his slave for as long as he had. It was a great surprise to him that Esca seemed not to understand this.
“I do not,” Marcus began haltingly. No, that was not the way of it. He started again. “How could I take more from you when Rome already took so much?”
Esca huffed and flung his arms up. “I am giving you leave!”
Marcus shook his head. “I cannot take from you. I have taken too much, I will never do that again.”
Esca’s eyes bored into Marcus as surely as a flung spear. “I was the centurion’s hound,” he snarled, “and I lay at the centurion’s feet. I came when I was called. I will never again come when called.” His chin went up in the way that Marcus secretly adored. “I have been waiting for you to come to me.”
Stunned, Marcus could only stare back. He could barely fathom Esca’s meaning. Did Esca want the hated Roman ex-centurion with the bad leg? Like that? Had Marcus been granted the very thing he wanted most? It seemed impossible, and disconcerting and frightening into the bargain. It was one thing to hope and dream, quite another to have a hope sputter to life on a forbiddingly cold day in a foreign land. Whatever the truth, he had behaved abominably and destroyed his chance. He was no slouch at making Esca angry, and now he had made Esca angrier than ever, and Esca surely despised him and would leave soon, one way or the other.
Marcus sat there like a gobsmacked fool.
Esca snorted in disgust and turned, whistling to the horses. Marcus could only watch as Esca stomped off, the horses cantering up to him and following him to the stable, as they always had and, as Marcus knew, always would. The lot of them disappeared into the barn and the door banged closed.
After realizing he wasn’t truly rooted to the spot, Marcus stumbled back to the cottage and set out the evening meal of bread and honey and leftover venison. Esca did not come in; Marcus heard the sound of chopping and knew that Esca was taking out his frustration on the stack of firewood piled against the outer cottage wall.
Finally the door opened and Esca entered, thunder still on his brow, not looking at Marcus. Judiciously, Marcus determined to give him time to himself, heading out and closing the door behind. The wind had kicked up and the sun was westering; the cold was more bitter than ever, but not more bitter than the fear in Marcus’ heart.
He went into the barn, closing the door to keep out the wind. It was dark with everything boarded, so with a flint he lit the lantern hanging from a post. Ytana whickered; Marcus went to her first and took up the brush.
“Whist, whist, be still,” he said to her. “You and I, we both miss the warmth of our homeland, don’t we?” He brushed her thoroughly, feeling her flanks, checking her ears, lifting her hooves to inspect them. There was hardly a need, for Esca took exceedingly good care of the horses. Nonetheless Marcus brushed down each one and found a wrinkled apple in the barrel for each. He visited the sow with her noisy piglets, lifting one to feel the warmth against his chest. It wriggled and nosed at his chin and he laughed ruefully.
Marcus the farmer. He’d always thought he would go back to farming, but not so soon. He would do this now, willingly, if only he could keep the one thing he cared for most nearby. The wonder of it was, now it was clear that Esca knew how Marcus felt. He did not appear to be disgusted. Angered, certainly, although perhaps for something other than the way he looked at Esca. It was still too much to believe that Esca could want of him what he wanted of Esca. He wished fervently that things could go back as they were immediately after they returned the eagle, when Esca had been happy, when they had hunted together, and found a good piece of land, and argued over horses versus crops. When things had been simple.
Marcus set the squirming piglet back in the pen with its mother, who grunted at him disdainfully. He straightened up and flexed his bad knee. The barn was warm with the heat of the beasts, but the fire in the cottage would be warmer still, and his knee needed that warmth.
Still, he hesitated. In truth, he was now afraid to go back to the roundhouse. He, a centurion of Rome, who had quick-stepped into battle and almost certain death without a moment’s hesitation, he who had led strong men and killed fearsome enemies, he was afraid of a small, wiry, fickle Briton. But there was no help for it – it was either spend the night in the barn, or face what was in the cottage.
He put out the lantern and closed the beasts in safely for the night, bolting the door against the wind. He crossed the stable yard, clutching his cloak to himself so that it would not blow away, and went into the cottage and bolted the door. He dared to turn around, ready for either stony silence or incandescent fury.
There was neither.
By the hearth, by a roaring fire that sent fingers of warmth into every corner of the cottage, Esca stood, straight and proud, surrounded by every fur and blanket and rug that they possessed in a pile at his feet. It was as though he had made a nest of warmth next to the fire – a fire that made of Esca a glowing thing, golden and regal, his face suffused with hurt and forgiveness.
Esca said quietly, “Will you not come to me, my Marcus?”
In that moment, the fear fell from Marcus at last. The cloak dropped unheeded from his shoulders to the floor, his snow-covered boots came off, and Marcus went barefoot to the furs and carefully sank to his knees before Esca. He saw that Esca jerked in an abortive move to stop him – Esca was always solicitous of that bad leg, but this was not the time. Marcus tilted his head to look up at Esca, and his heart was beating beloved.
“Britannia has given me many things,” Marcus said, “my father’s honor, the return of the eagle and my family’s good name, this rich land. But it has given me nothing more precious than you.”
Esca knelt then, too. Marcus felt small strong hands on his waist. Once again he found he was looking down at Esca, but it no longer felt as though he was above Esca in any way. His hands of their own accord went to Esca’s face, cupping his cheeks. He stroked Esca’s lips with his thumb.
Esca’s eyes closed, lashes dark against pale skin. “I give you leave,” he whispered.
Marcus came then to Esca, pressing a kiss to his soft mouth, no longer caring for Roman mores or rules. Esca’s lips parted on a sigh, so Marcus kissed them again, just as softly. The hands tightened on his waist, skimmed under his tunic.
“Enough of this for your bad knee, don’t you think?” Esca murmured, tumbling them to the furs with care for that knee.
Marcus rolled onto his back, arms going around Esca to hold him close. Esca kissed him passionately, his tongue in Marcus’ mouth first a shock, and then a deep pleasure that warmed his body. It was not especially gentle, for Esca’s blood still thrummed with anger from earlier; one arm wound about Marcus’ neck while the other stroked a bruise onto Marcus’ forearm, as though he had to have Marcus all at once, he had been so long waiting.
Their clothing came off with awkward abandon, and Marcus turned Esca on his back and lay half over him, leg nudging between Esca’s thighs. He cradled Esca’s bony shoulders with his arm and leaned down to nuzzle his face, kiss his nose and eyelids and chin and the corner of his small, rarely given smile. Then Esca became impatient and fought against Marcus’ gentleness, their coupling uncoordinated but nonetheless exciting, until they lay back, exhausted, basking in the blaze of the fire.
“That is a great deal of firewood we are burning,” Marcus mused.
“Don’t complain,” Esca said, tucking his head underneath Marcus’ chin. “Now and then we should be allowed an indulgence. I’ll chop more when we need it.”
“You will stay?”
Esca shoved at his shoulder.
“You think me stubborn and foolish,” Marcus said.
“You are stubborn and foolish. Where would I go, when my heart is here? For everything I have suffered, I would go through it all again to find you at the end of it.”
Marcus pressed his lips to the top of Esca’s head and squeezed him until he yelped. He hoped that Esca understood what he was saying: beloved.
* * *
In spring there were two foals, each a long-legged beauty. They sold some of the now-grown pigs and bought two goats. Somehow they managed to build a bathhouse next to the cottage, every bit as crooked, and well worth the effort.
In the summer, when Marcus’ knee pained him too much to join Esca on a hunt with native Britons, Esca returned with a day-old wolf cub that he slipped into Marcus’ arms. “It will need milk. Let it bond with you and it will grow up more like a hound than a wolf.”
“Truly?” asked Marcus, as the tiny thing pushed its muzzle against his hand in the manner of all newborns.
“It will be yours forever,” Esca assured him, leaning against his body, arms going around his back, with the black and grey cub nestled between them, mewling.
Marcus doubted that the wolf cub would turn out any tamer than Esca. He no longer cared for tame creatures or square formations or uncompromising rules, anyway. He leaned down to kiss Esca’s mouth.
“I love you, Esca Mac Cunoval,” he said. “I am yours, so you must never leave me.”
Esca looked at him solemnly. “I would not leave you. You are mine, forever.”
Marcus leaned his forehead against Esca’s, breathing in his scent along with that of the wolf cub. “Forever is a long time.”
“I truly hope so,” said Esca.
The cub squirmed and made a tiny anxious sound.
“But for now,” said Esca, “I think I’d best milk the goat.”
FIN.