Chapter Text
Marcus and Esca returned to the villa covered in sweat and blood. Had he known his uncle had guests, an old friend and a legate no less, he might have made sure he was presentable … or at least not sweaty and bloody. His uncle Aquila introduced his guests as Claudius Hieronimianus and Servius Placidus. Marcus nodded a friendly greeting and raised his hand in salute to Hieronimianus, but to Placidus, he gave only the custom, standard greeting: There was something about him he instantly despised though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Something about his smug face and that stately expression got under his skin before the Tribune even opened his mouth.
Calculating, Marcus thought it seemed they had forgotten an introduction. There was Esca after all, but there were no introductions for slaves. He’d almost forgotten, he realized with a shock. Esca who had spent the day with him more or less beside him as a friend, stood behind him now as was proper for a slave. It bothered him to see him reduced to a piece of furniture or a tool. He'd casually lapsed from master to friend a long time ago and no longer thought of Esca as a mere slave, but Esca never forgot. It was clear in the conscious way he conducted himself when they were in the presence of others. But outside the villa, away from it all, especially in the woods, Esca was a different man, not an easygoing or cheerful man by any means; nor was he very talkative, but here, he lapsed into a complete stranger. He hadn’t quite mastered the indifferent, void expression or the demur disposition that most slaves had, and maybe he never would, especially with all that inborn Briton pride, but something in him diminished whenever he took on the role of slave.
Marcus chewed on these thoughts along with the bread he dipped in oil, half-heartedly listening to the old man talk. The Tribune was about his age, and he forced himself to give him a chance, acknowledging that his pre-judgment was unfounded. Youth gave them some common ground, since they weren’t likely to share status or interest. Before Esca, there had been no other young thing in the house aside from him. Just his uncle, old Stefanos and Sasticca. Even the dog was old along with every relic in his uncle’s collection. But unlike Esca, the Tribune didn’t feel like a peer, and he doubted he had as much in common with a politician’s son as he did his slave. From the very first, he saw a likeness in Esca, felt a connection the moment they locked eyes in the arena. He glanced at Esca now, hoping to lock eyes with him once more so his friend could feel his solidarity even though he didn’t have a spot beside him at the table, but Esca’s eyes were blank and unfocused, staring into his own mind.
The two older men did most of the talking, the pretty-faced boy interjecting or reiterating from time to time in a deadpan tone. Marcus spoke little; he laughed and smiled when it suited the conversation, but deep down, he felt on edge, like he was being watched or judged. It could in part be due to the Tribune’s company. He was grateful, thanks to Esca and the skilled surgeon his uncle hired, that his leg was strong and mended enough for him to walk instead of limp. He thought he could get through the evening with no one noticing, but then the inquiries began: his reason for being in Briton, where he served, and so on, until naturally it got brought up. He hid a brooding frown in his wine cup. Well, that’s all they would recall about him after tonight: The poor crippled young man. But it got worse. Placidus made the connection he’d hoped to avoid, his father and the lost eagle of the ninth. Now they would remember him not only as the pathetic injured boy but as the young man shamed by his father’s tainted legion.
And then he felt a shiver all the way up his spine like an electric charge. Secretly he’d hoped beyond hope to hear something. There wasn’t anything in the air that suggested the meeting of fate or any auspicious sign that his prayers had been answered. Just four men sitting around eating dinner. But suddenly the conversation took an interesting turn. At last, word of the eagle. The eagle had been sighted: last seen in a tribal temple. Everything slowed. Marcus heard them talk, but they sounded far away or underwater or like he was in a cave. Suddenly he was more aware of his heart beating than he had ever been. Mithras, this was what he had prayed for every day. There was just one problem: politics.
“No senator is going to risk thousands of lives on a tainted legion,” Claudius Hieronimianus said, dismissing the entire business with one statement and returning to his dinner.
As soon as the spark of opportunity had ignited, Marcus saw it fading. No, this was what he’d been waiting for. If those in power weren’t going to do anything, it would fall on him. But how? He wasn’t a soldier anymore. He was one man. Then it dawned on him; he could make that his advantage.
“Not if you send one man,” he said sharing his revelation.
Everyone stopped eating except for his uncle who said between bites. “North of the wall. No Roman could survive up there.”
Marcus didn’t quit so easily.
“Too risky,” his uncle insisted.
Then the pompous boy spoke. “Quite right,” he said flatly. “The loss of the ninth was humiliating enough without adding another pointless death.”
Yeah, he knew there was a reason he hated him and his dumb face. Marcus stood abruptly, silencing them all, and now they were all watching him, judging him, each one making a face he was tired of seeing, the faces of judgment and dismissal he’d been subjected to his entire life. It was almost as bad as the looks of pity. He’d had enough. Without another word, he stormed off.
He knew they’d talk behind his back. Let them! He needed to be alone, but footsteps followed him. He knew these steps: It was Esca, not the obedient measured steps of a slave, but the rapid footfalls of a pursuing friend. Thank Mithras it was Esca. He wouldn't have stopped for anyone else.
“This is what I’ve been waiting for since I got here—my whole life.” He paced. Ever since he arrived at his uncle’s villa, this was the day he’d waited for. He’d avoided looking for work or becoming a clerk, holding out each day as though something might happen, and just when he was beginning to think it never would, it did. Surely this was the gods answering his prayers.
“I heard.” He said, looking insulted for his master—his friend.
“They won’t do a damned thing. They just talk. That’s all old men do. I would do it. I would go, if they’d let me. They don’t get it. They don’t understand why this is important. Not just to Rome.” He paused, struggling to take control of his emotions. “They haven’t lived in the shadow of their father’s defeat.” He couldn’t look at Esca as he said this, ashamed how his emotions took hold of him like the reigns of a horse, controlling every syllable, every breath, his entire being. He was shaking and he tried to steady himself.
“You’re right. They don’t,” Esca said. “But there is someone who does understand you.” Marcus turned to him, but Esca had stepped back to the shadows of the doorway signaling his uncle's entry.
Mithras, he probably wanted to chastise him or talk him out of it. He tried to maintain his emotions, but everything came out in a burst of pent-up anger and despair.
“All I’ve ever wanted to be was a soldier. I can still feel how proud I was.” He hissed through clenched teeth.
His uncle listened quietly, not without sympathy, but he continued to eat snatches of food he’d carried in his hand. It didn’t matter what was going on, his uncle never lost his appetite. Even in the arena, as thumbs had thrust downward for Esca’s death, his uncle had lowered his head despairingly while simultaneously brining more food to his lips.
“If I can’t win back my family's honor by being a soldier then I'll do it by finding the lost eagle.”
“No one can survive north of the wall.”
It was the same tired argument from dinner. Marcus glanced at Esca in frustration, and it struck him.
“Then I’ll take Esca.” He looked to Esca for confirmation. Unlike at dinner, Esca was watching them.
His uncle smirked.
“Why not?” he asked, bristling.
“Because he’s a Briton,” he said matter of fact, his tone growing cold and deadly serious. “He may not be from north of the wall but he’s a Briton. And he will slit your throat the minute you're alone.”
Marcus inhaled sharply. He couldn’t believe his uncle believed this and said it in front of Esca. As usual, Esca stood with the most remarkable silence, but Marcus was always aware of him. Surely, he knew he was behind him, arms crossed, hearing all of this.
“He wouldn't do that,” he said defensively.
“How do you know?”
“He gave me his word.”
“His word.” His laughter cracked and the smile that was barely hanging on left his face. “He's a slave! He says what he says, and he does what he does because he has to.”
Marcus felt like he’d been hit in the stomach. He’d never heard his uncle talk this way about Esca. About anyone. He almost looked to Esca for confirmation his uncle was wrong, but that would be to question his own resolve. Instead, he met his uncle’s gaze, standing his ground like he did in front of the charioteer.
“If you’re right, then I’ll die, and that’s the way it should be.”
His uncle shook his head in defeat.
He felt Esca at his back like an intense flame. Marcus stepped closer to his uncle, not sure if he wanted Esca to hear what he said next.
“You were the one who purchased him,” he said heatedly. “If you don’t trust him now, why did you bring him here in the first place?”
This time his uncle glanced at Esca and then back to Marcus. Lowering his voice. “Because I thought all the fight had left you, and he gave you something to fight for.”
Without moving, Marcus slowly turned his gaze to Esca, still in the doorway, still cross-armed and rigid. Esca’s face was tense like one who wanted to speak. It was probably best he didn’t. He met Marcus’ gaze then, those eyes, intense and caring.
His uncle’s words had struck a chord in him. He’d almost forgotten what life was like before Esca. He wouldn’t call it living. Rotting away in his uncle’s villa more like. He remembered the loneliness, the pain, the defeat. He’d completely given up. When he saw Esca, something ignited in him like a dying flame burst to live from a gust of wind. He wanted him to live, damn it … he’d wanted to live. He hadn’t stood on his own in a long time, but he’d stood then, unsupported by his crutch or Stefanos, to lift his thumb. He didn’t remember feeling the pain in his leg then, not while he locked eyes with the young man. He was only aware of the other’s pain, the other’s fear.
He felt that same drive again. Clenching his jaw. “Let me fight for the eagle,” he said.
“I can’t stop you.” It was more a statement than a question.
No, he couldn’t. He’d do it alone if he had to. But he wouldn’t be alone. He’d have Esca.
***********
Marcus soaked in the bath, probably the last proper bath he’d have for a while until he returned from the north … if he returned.
Esca brought him a towel and helped him out of the bath. Marcus took the towel from him, drying himself. He imagined pompous Placidus probably had his slaves pat him dry. Esca was silent, his eyes watching him, and he felt suddenly very conscious. He covered as much of himself as he could, but with such a small cloth, he had to choose the lower half over the top half.
“What is it?”
“Do you believe him?”
Taken off guard. “What do you mean?”
“Do you think I’d kill you?”
Damn his uncle. Marcus swallowed his irritation. “You could have killed me easily enough while I was in the bath if you had a mind to do it.”
The joke did nothing to pacify Esca or lighten the tone that threatened to undo the work of the bath. Light of Mithras! More seriously. “Esca, have I ever treated you like a slave? Have I ever thought of you like one? Do I have a knife under my pillow?”
“But I do what I do because I am told.”
Marcus saw flashes of memory: of their hunts and games and of Esca caring for him. Had he done none of this of his own will? “Is that true?”
Esca didn’t answer. Well, that was a confirmation as far as Marcus was concerned. Well, he'd been a bloody fool to think Esca returned his fondness. Had he been so bloody blind and vulnerable and desperate that he thought Esca tended to him out of some sort of affection? Trying to hide his hurt. “Then you aren’t going.”
“Marcus, you can’t go alone.”
“I won’t have you go because you have to. I’ll not force you in my company again.”
“I swore an oath of honor.”
“I won’t have you go because of that either.”
“I am in your debt until it is repaid.”
“No.”
“I go where you go,” Esca said. “I am my master’s body slave.”
And there it was. Marcus didn't see a slave, but Esca saw in him a master. Well, if that's what he saw, that's what he'd bloody be. “Then I’ll order you to stay.”
Esca looked barbed. He had some audacity to speak of himself as a slave and yet look at him like that all the while arguing with him. He was a contrary little man.
Marcus pressed his lips together, and then he had a thought. “Fine. You can come with me if, and only if, you have another reason aside from your damned duty or your damned honor.”
A storm waged in Esca. He could see it in every twitching muscle of his face. He was at war with himself. He stroked his arm like he was trying to rub warmth into it, he was stroking the tattoos, a thing he saw him do from time to time. Always when he spoke of his father.
“I have my reasons.”
Marcus laughed derisively. “And I won’t be able to trust those reasons.” Perhaps his uncle was right about him. Maybe he only served him because he had no other choice. It certainly hadn’t been his choice to serve him initially or to be honor-bound to a centurion. But he’d become so faithful so constant. Did he care for him so tenderly when he was sick or hunt so jovially by his side because of duty, because of an oath? Or had it been because, despite their differences and his stubborn pride, he had come to care for Marcus as much as he cared for Esca? And then he pushed aside his uncle’s words and Esca's and remembered his own. Looking at him now he saw him as he did the first time he saw him: He simply saw a man, and it was time to render anything that kept him from being that.
He placed his hands on the other man's shoulders, feeling the tension there, aware of the blue marks beneath his hands. The markings he knew nothing about. These were not the markings of a slave. They were the tattoos of a man, a man Marcus did not know. They were put there long before Esca became a slave. And so he thought, they must represent the opposite. They were proud symbols like his military brand, his bracelet, and the eagle.
“Esca, it was unfair of me to ask you to go when you could not refuse. I am sorry.” He swallowed a hard lump of emotion rising in his throat. Despite it, he forced himself to lock eyes with him as he spoke. “I free you.”
“What?” Esca gasped.
“I said you are free. I ought to have done this a long time ago. I should have done this from the first. I saved a man that day. I saw you for a man, and yet I allowed you to be a slave, my slave.”
Esca’s face always looked consternated and a little sad. The gods made him that way, but beneath the pain, a flicker of joy, of triumph.
He placed his hands on top of Marcus’ shoulders. “As a free man I choose to go with you. My reasons are my own.” His gaze deepened. “Whether you trust those reasons or not.”
“You will come?”
“I will come.” They stood for a long time, eyes locked. “When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
Esca nodded. “I will prepare. He stopped in the doorway, and he turned, the lamp light catching a slight smile on his lips. “Oh, Marcus, you’ve dropped your towel.”
Marcus looked down. “Mithras,” he cursed. How long did Esca let him stand there naked like a bloody fool? He lifted the towel and wrapped his waist again. It struck him then. This had not been the proper place and time to free him. It seemed to be lacking in ceremony at the very least some decency. Well, he’d have to make it up to him, but there was no time. They were leaving in the morning, and if he didn’t hurry, Esca would be free by his word alone, and according to Roman law, that was not enough. If something happened to him, if he did not return, Esca would remain a slave. With sickening dread, he scrambled for clothes. He’d embarrassed himself thoroughly and sufficiently, but he had to face his uncle’s guests once more. He needed them to witness the signing of Esca’s manumission.