Civil Conquest (Part 1 of 3)
Summary: Esca begins to wonder just how roman Marcus really is but he doesn’t know where Marcus is really from.
Notes: Mostly movie-verse, including shooting script Cottia, but a few nods to the book.
Word Count: 19k.
Pairings: Marcus / Placidus, Marcus / Esca, Marcus / OFC, Placidus / OFC.
Rating: NC-17.
[Warnings]
Warnings: Rated for sex, BDSM, D / s, dub-con. Placidus x Marcus: No sex but sexual and dub-con. Marcus x Placidus: BDSM, D / s.
Disclaimers: Recognizable characters are from The Eagle of the Ninth by Rosemary Sutcliff and The Eagle, a movie based on the novel, screenplay by Jeremy Brock.
Written for eagle_bigbang ( masterpost). Crossposted to clari_clyde ( link) and ninth_eagle ( link).
Acknowledgements: Many thanks to the ever loving lycanthrophile for all the times I cried on her shoulder, mskatej for letting me inflict the movie onto her and for being the ever patient beta reader through many drafts, and ladytiferet for her beautiful illustrations.
Feedback makes the fanfic goddess glow. Anything you have to say, leave a comment here or PM me.
Artwork (by ladytiferet) master post.
Downloadable ebooks: EPUB and MOBI.
By the lake the villa stands. Thick cement walls, clay roof tiles and a solid wood door impose themselves against the trees; the walls, tiles and door are thicker than Marcus remembers they used to be back home; the villa is solid to keep the cold away and maybe more and Marcus feels as though he were approaching Rome every time he nears the door. And in another moment, Marcus would pretend there were no tall, dark trees climbing for the rare sun and that the villa were built thinner to let in the warmth that blankets over the grape vineyards and olive orchards, which he would be walking beside and he would absorb in the warmth, as the plants next to him did so too. But in this moment -
“He wasn’t my tribe.” Esca tilts his nose up.
“But Esca. They are your people. You could have just calmly rejected his offer. I don’t understand why you had to be so cross.”
“I will not be short-changed! If he didn’t know the price of pork, then that doesn’t speak well of him. Those ‘deer’ people. Hmph. Better to describe them as ‘wolf’ people.”
“Esca! You shouldn’t say that about your own people!”
“As I said: Not my tribe.” Esca presses forward. “If I asked you to, would you fight them with me?”
“Yes, but . . .” Marcus stops at the door to the villa. “People should fight with their own kind, not against. It doesn’t matter if an entire people add up to a sum greater than Rome. She is a very patient conqueror. If they let her, she will conquer them, city-state by city-state, even if it takes her over a hundred years.”
“And you, Roman, are proud of that.”
“No!” Marcus stares at the door before him and begins to fumble. “I mean . . . I . . .” He lowers his head and sighs, but then raises back his head to state, “I should be. And therefore I am.”
“So proud of her conquests. So Roman.”
“Is that all you see me as?” Marcus’ eyes started to wet and started to gloss; his cheeks burned red. For a moment, Esca wonders if his words have slapped Marcus before Marcus asks of him, “As a Roman?”
“Your father was a Roman -”
“- I know I will never be a Briton -”
“- And you are a Roman -”
“- No matter how hard I try -”
“- Who else could you be?”
Marcus is frozen, unmoving, until he resigns, “You are right. All I wanted to be was a Roman. And so: All I am is a Roman.”
And with that, Marcus crosses the threshold into the villa, with Esca following.
Sitting on a stump by the lake, Marcus looks over the still water, its large reflective face looking back up at the sky. Tucked inside a toga, Marcus can feel these gentlest breezes - a thick tunic and braccae would be much better for protection against them - but the toga might protect him well from cold stares and whispers. And then he hears a rustle.
“Cottia?” Marcus calls out. “I can hear you. Please come out, I don’t want to hunt for you.”
A giggle comes from . . . somewhere. “Because you cannot hunt in a toga. And you can hear me but you cannot see me.” And then a fall from the trees.
“Cottia!?” Marcus looks at her picking up herself off the ground. “Your stola, was it already so dirty before you landed? And it looks a little small.”
“Shh . . .” Cottia holds her forefinger before pursed lips and then lifts up the hem of her stola for Marcus to see the hems of -
“Braccae!” Once Marcus has straightened himself from the shock, he begins laughing.
“Ah, you are laughing now, that is good,” Cottia says and then reaches into her purse to pull out Marcus’ armilla. “I did not want to give you back your armilla while you were sad. But, why were you sad? Is it because you were wearing a toga?”
He laughs again. “I am not sad because of the toga.”
And then she whispers, “And the hems are quite dirty.”
Laughing once more, “I don’t need it to be spotless right now. My Uncle will have guests for dinner tomorrow. It’s been a while since I wore one of these. So I thought . . . Just in case it felt too unfamiliar to me . . .” Marcus stands up straighter and stiffens. “One of our guests is a Senator and while Uncle he wouldn’t mind my wearing a tunic and braccae but . . . The Legate has seen all sorts of clothes and outfits but the Senator rarely travels outside Rome - and he is a Senator.” By now, Marcus is stiffer and straighter than the villa’s walls. “I should present myself as a proper Roman.”
Cottia eyes Marcus’ posture, all in line except the corners of his mouth tugging slightly downward and says, “You should find someone else to want to be.”
“Pardon?” Marcus’ eyebrows rise up and then realizes, “But, I already have! I’ve decided to be a farmer, as my Mother and her family. I am a Fulcianianus.” Esca tilts his head at the name and its unfamiliar ending and is about to ask of its origin but -
“We all have been farmers since even before a Martinus Aetius settled onto his land.”
“All your family? I thought your mother’s brother is a priest.”
“Yes, and that is very important for the farm. As I said, we all have been farmers since before my family’s history had been recorded.” Marcus stands firm on what he will become. “I am going to settle into what my Mother’s family has been.”
“No, that was different,” Cottia tries to explain but when Marcus’ brows rise again, “I told you to find something else to want to be and you have, from soldier to farmer. Now I’m telling you to find someone else to want to be.”
“Some . . . one?”
“Why did you let your toga get spoiled so?”
“It will be washed later.”
“And so?” Cottia looks down at the hems and frowns. Looking back up at Marcus she says, “Don’t try to be so Roman!”
“But Cottia.” Marcus protests. “I can’t . . .”
“Can’t be someone else -”
“- My Mother’s father told me -”
“- besides Roman -”
“- as his father’s father told him -”
“- or can’t be Roman?”
“- be as Roman as you can be -”
“- Why?”
“Because life is easier.” Marcus looks into the ground over the stump’s roots. Marcus looks away from Cottia towards the lake. The sky seems endless in the still waters and he can look below him to see a bird flying over. But water is not air - it must be pushed against to bring oneself to the surface else one drowns. “Being Roman is all I am allowed to be.”
“Lunch will be a little late today.”
“Oh!” Cottia and Marcus flinch a bit at Esca’s sudden presence.
“Mother will call for me soon,” Cottia turns to leave but quickly turns back to face Marcus. “Don’t forget! Find someone else to be! Remember because I’ll be back tomorrow again.”
As Marcus waves at her leaving, he asks Esca, “Did you hear that? What she said?”
“Yes.” Esca nods. “Everything from, ‘You cannot hunt in a toga.’ ”
“Oh.” Marcus looks Esca in the eyes. “And . . . What do you think of what she said?”
“You always talk about wanting to be with your mother again. You miss Rome don’t you?”
Marcus looks down and away for a moment. And then raising his sight to Esca’s face again, “Travel south to Rome. As you approach The City, the estates grow larger and larger - the fields become wider and the villas more stately and well appointed.” With the wonder in Marcus’ voice, Esca can imagine vast expanses that a large man like Marcus would feel insignificant against -
“But Rome is Rome,” Marcus simply states. “Rome is . . .” Marcus strains to find the words, straining to be polite, but all he can say is, “Everyone wants to be important, so everyone wants to be near places that are important. It felt like everyone was building on top of each other so that they can step on top of each other.”
“And this is the city that deserves so much glory?”
“It isn’t perfect. The different peoples could be united more. But they can be more united under Rome than by themselves. And then they can go on to do great things with Rome as Romans.”
“But if a people are under Rome, what does it matter who they were then when what they are now is Roman?”
“Couldn’t a Roman be someone else, besides a Roman?”
“Yes.” Esca presses himself forward into the space between himself and Marcus. “But never in whole. I don’t see how anyone could want to be two halves of two wholes; I would never want that for myself.”
Marcus silently nods and steps back out of Esca’s space.
After a silent dinner, Esca lurks in the shadows outside as the old man Aquila reads from a scroll. Not in a tongue Esca has ever heard before but Esca is not the only one to whom it is strange by the way the old man repeats himself, trying to shape his mouth into unpracticed forms. When Esca finally hears a “hmph!” he peers into the room. Aquila is still hunched over the table, scroll still unrolled, and beside the scroll are two letters.
“Ah, Esca. Come in. Letters from Marcus’ mother and this one is for him, would you mind?” Aquila waves Esca in and when he is close enough to peer onto the scroll, the old man says, “The Greek tongue. It is Greek to me.” And when that earns a smile from Esca, “Yes, this is in anticipation for tomorrow night’s dinner guests. You are free to think of me however you wish.”
“As . . . shallow?”
“Well, yes, it is. It won’t be of any use to me after tomorrow evening, will it?”
“Unlike British.”
“Yes, unlike British.” Aquila starts to roll the scroll and asks, “How is Marcus’ progress? Will he need someone to practice with?”
“I think . . .” Esca smirks. “ . . . It might be better for both him and you that he teach you.”
“Oh do you?” Aquila looks down on the scroll on his hands. “When he said, ‘I want to learn the British tongue,’ I wondered if he wouldn’t do well. My sister and her husband almost got an extra Latin tutor for him. And then came the chain of Greek tutors. None of them ever did him any good.”
“His pronunciation is very good,” Esca says. “As long as he doesn’t stumble for a word he doesn’t know yet, one would think he grew up here. Not sounding different is very important to him, I think. And, he says he’d learn faster if I wrote it so that he can see it. But he understood everything today when we tried to sell the pig meat - or, rather, when I tried to sell the pig meat.”
“That didn’t go so well from the way the two of you sounded.”
“I finally got a fair price by telling the buyer to his face that he was either a stupid coward or a cowardly wolf. Marcus thinks I should have been more polite.”
“Hm . . .” Aquila nods in agreement.
“I . . .” Esca pauses before an unknown territory. Those large expanses that filled Marcus with awe, were they near or far from Rome? “I don’t know where Marcus comes from.”
“I don’t either.” Aquila sighs and closes a chest’s lid over the scroll of strange words. “No clue how Marcus approaches the world. For example: I bought you because I thought he was interested in you. I remember being at the gladiator school thinking, ‘I am about to buy a gladiator - a gladiator.’ And when Stephanos told me that he saw a fresh bruise on your chest, I knew I’d made the biggest mistake. He hasn’t told you why he saved you, has he?”
“He said he already told you, ‘I don’t know.’ ”
“Maybe at first, but sometimes I wonder if he now does . . .” Aquila stares into the empty air between himself and Esca. “Maybe if I knew where he wanted to be.”
“Rome?”
Aquila frowns at the suggestion. “His father is dead. I am here. And his Uncle Lepidus threw him out and disowned him and my sister let him. Probably, there never was a home for him in Rome, especially not after Lepidus sold my brother’s house, the one he inherited from our father. Sometimes, I think about adopting him. But I don’t know if he wants to stay here in Britain and maybe I am being selfish for wanting him to stay here.”
“I think if you were selfish he wouldn’t even be here.”
Aquila stills himself for a moment to let the words linger in the space. “Thank you Esca.”
Esca arrives in Marcus’ room to find Marcus sitting on his bed.
“I was waiting for you - oh, is that from my Mother!?”
Esca sits on the bed next to Marcus. When the letter is in Marcus’ hand and he can peer over Marcus’ forearm, he asks if he may and when Marcus nods, he begins, “My . . . dear . . . -est . . . dearest . . . Mar . . . Marce?”
“It is . . .” Marcus straightens and stiffens. “My Mother calls me that.”
“Do you want her to call you that?” Esca asks but when Marcus doesn’t answer nor even move, “Do you want her to call you that, really?” When Marcus nods, Esca says, “I’ve never heard that before, and it does sound strange. But if that is what you want your mother to call you, I won’t say anything about it. Tell me about it.” When Marcus does not make a move, he forwards himself, “Please?”
“I have my Father’s name, as he wanted, of course.” Marcus’ grip on the letter tightens. “ ‘Marcus’ and ‘Marce’ are the same name. Once, he was the god of farming but as Rome grew, Mars became a god of war. But my Mother said, ‘A plant cannot grow to its full height unless its roots grow deeper.’ And so she calls me ‘Marce.’ ”
Esca reaches for Marcus’ hands, takes them into his own. After a few moments of Esca’s hands covering Marcus’, Marcus relaxes his hold on the letter.
“You read faster,” Esca says. “What does she say?”
“She says: ‘My dearest Marce. I have been thinking about wanting you to visit me. Perhaps if you leave when you receive this letter, you would arrive before winter. Stay a few months. Leave when the worst of winter is over. I’ve written to your Uncle as he should have the final say and with the advice of a doctor. But, oh, I must be true. I do want to see you again. And you asked about Martinus Aetius and Lavinia Maro. I have found some more stories about them as you asked. Perhaps I should tell them in my next letter to you. Or, if you visit me, you can hear them for yourself from not-so-distant family. Love always, Mother.’ ”
“I hope you get your Uncle’s permission,” Esca says. “We should go see your mother.”
“ ‘We’?” Marcus turns to face Esca.
“I will be your freedman. Should I not come along?”
“I . . .” Marcus looks down at the letter again. “I want to go home so much. I want to see my Mother so much. And I want you to join me. But . . .” Marcus’ grip on the letter tightens. “I don’t know what you would think.”
“And if I promise that I will not say anything about anyone being Roman?”
“I am not worried about that.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
Marcus stares at the letter a moment before standing up from the bed to place the letter on a desk.
“Marcus?”
“Yes?”
“I made you a promise. You know my word is good, don’t you?”
“I know.”
“My word was good because you saved my life,” Esca says. “And it’s even better now that I’m thankful that you saved my life.” And when Marcus smiles, Esca adds, “Even though I don’t know why . . .”
Once seated at the bed again, Marcus whispers his answer, “The gladiator games were supposed to be a funeral rite. When someone important died, two of their slaves fought to the death for the honor to accompany them into the afterlife, and the blood would appease the gods.” Reaching for Esca’s hand, Marcus continues, “Esca. You stared down death. But there was no important person who had passed on for you to accompany, and there were no gods who needed to be appeased. Just mere humans passing by idle moments.”
“I wanted to die. That is not brave.”
“Romans believe that to stare at death without flinching is brave and honorable. They have at least that about gladiator games right.”
They aren’t right about their gladiator games? Esca thinks to himself. Who are these Romans who take and corrupt their own ways?
“Do not stop me from getting into your bed,” Esca commands when Marcus leans back to get into his bed.
Marcus reaches his hand to Esca’s heart, lets it linger there a few moments. “I won’t.”
“Tomorrow, the day will be uneventful.” Esca places his hands over Marcus’. “But I am sure that in the evening, Placidus will tire us -”
“Or anger us?”
“Hmph. You think he has more to say about your father?” Esca settles into the space Marcus has made for him.
“He could say things about my Mother?”
“He doesn’t know your mother. What could he say about her? Should we be so cynical?”
“Yes. Cynical enough to expect him to talk about my Grandmother even. All while calling you ‘barbarian.’ ”
“Better he call me a ‘barbarian’ than a ‘slave.’ ”
“He’ll never see that you never stopped owning your own spirit.”
Esca turns his head to face Marcus. “Is that what you think of me?”
“Yes?” Marcus nods to Esca. “When you told me about your family, I should have freed you then. But I was selfish and I didn’t want to lose you. I’m sorry.”
Esca props himself up so his head is above Marcus’ and whispers, “No need to say sorry.” Esca lowers himself to Marcus. Behind soft, cushioning lips, there is a tongue Esca wants to savor -
“Don’t.” Marcus turns from Esca to look up to the ceiling. “You’ll be a citizen soon.”
“Another Roman.” Esca sinks and settles himself back into the space next to Marcus.
“I’m sorry about our fight earlier,” Marcus says. “I should have remembered what my Grandmother said. Even if its people is sacked and plundered at the end of the siege, it does not mean the city shouldn’t have tried. From defeat to plunder, those two, three years of holding strong are what one should fight for.”
Esca can only nod at the ceiling before his eyes will themselves close; he hopes, after daybreak, he will remember to ask whom Rome fought against. His consciousness fades as he wonders what Marcus thinks of those people.
“Cottia! You’re early!” Marcus, with Esca behind him finds Cottia on the stump by the lake, on her lap lay a pristine white fabric. Along the fabric’s edge runs a band of blue lines, swirling together until an end at one edge under Cottia’s hand and needle. “We ate lunch very early so we would wait for you.”
“Yes, I have been here since after breakfast. And you are not wearing your toga.”
“It was washed yesterday afternoon. I want it to dry in the sun for as long as possible.”
“Because I wanted to see it. I wanted to work on this toga and compare them. But oh well, besides, I am done after I knot this.”
“Whom is it for? It’s small and I thought you had no brothers.”
“I wanted this to be for me,” Cottia says and when Marcus raises an eyebrow, “Until my nurse told me what kind of woman wears a toga.” Cottia frowns. “And then she made a comment about British women.”
“You didn’t tell your mother’s husband?” Marcus asks. “I think he wouldn’t stand for such an insult about his wife and step-daughter.”
“No he wouldn’t! . . . But once I knew, I didn’t want him to find out about my toga.”
The blue threads on Cottia’s lap sparkle in the sun, rivaling the lake. If she threw the fabric and threads over the lake, how far would they go? On a stormy day, could they fly all the way over to the other side? On a calm day, would they sink into the edge and cling there?
“Do you wish your mother had never married your step-father?” Marcus asks.
“My father died when I was very young and I don’t remember him.” Cottia’s finger traces a line weaving under and over other lines. “There are some girls who were born in Rome, and other Roman girls born here, and British girls. And sometimes, I understand them; and sometimes, I don’t understand them.” Finally, her finger stops tracing and she lays her hand flat over a section. “But if I were one and only one type of girl, I would understand that one all the time and the others none of the time. And I cannot imagine not knowing anything about anyone else.” Looking up to Marcus, she asks, “And you? What do you think of British girls?”
Marcus sits down before Cottia. “I think the women are regal. They hold themselves very high.”
“Whereas, Roman women never even leave the home.”
“Romans prefer women that way, don’t they?” Marcus turns inward for a moment, then says, “Mother would probably say that I sound exactly like Father talking about the women of Clusium.”
“Tell me about Clusium!”
“It is 60 leagues north of Rome. Its surrounding hills roll gently and it’s much calmer than Rome. For Father, who grew up in Rome, he found it . . . perhaps a little boring.”
“Is that why he went into the army? To find adventure?”
“Oh no. If he wanted that, he could have just gone back home to Rome. His plan was to rise through the ranks, become a centurion, a primus pilus, and become an equestrian that way.”
Marcus quiets himself. Then he lets his eyes follow a blue line as it swirls downward over and under other blue lines until it turns upward again over and under other blue lines. And next to it, another line doing the same. He wonders if they had ends or if they didn’t, wonders if they are all the same line made from the same thread. “What does the blue border mean?”
“Does it have to mean something?”
“Well, for example, a Tribune Laticlavus, he is of senatorial rank so he has the broad band stripe. And the Tribuni Angusticlavii, they are equestrian so they have narrow band stripes. The band says who you are.”
“So, then who would wear this?”
Marcus eyes the line, weaving over and under, in and around itself. He feels pulled towards this line that crosses and divides itself until he feels it tighten and loosen in a pulse within him. He reaches for it, but a constriction in his heart stops his reach but he can say, “One of us should wear it.”
Cottia eyes Esca from top to bottom. “It doesn’t suit Esca . . .”
“The blue pattern is beautiful. But I will not wear a toga.”
And then she eyes Marcus, “But will it suit you?”
Esca laughs. “He will not fit into a child’s garment.”
Marcus holds his hands up towards Cottia and asks, “May I?”
Her eyes light up. “So you will wear it!?”
Marcus throws one end over one shoulder, the other end over the other shoulder.
“Would you wear this to dinner tonight?” Esca asks as he walks over to Marcus with a brooch for draped cloth. “It’s much more simple.”
Cottia just laughs. “Marcus, what is wrong with you? You are blushing like a Roman maiden.”
“I do not blush -”
“You are blushing even more!” Cottia laughs harder.
“And where did you see this?” Esca smirks. “On a brothel wall painting?”
“No.” Marcus answers. “I saw it on a tomb wall painting.” He grows hotter with a memory of the draped figure and next to it, the two men naked, performing in the open field an act too polite to mention, or even remember.
“Was this tomb so cold that people needed ways to keep warm?” Esca whispers into a cupped hand towards Marcus face after touching a hot cheek. He is about to reach for another cheek but then -
He steps behind Marcus, “Should I pin this behind -”
“Young master!” Stephanos glares at the drape.
“Oh no. I must take this off now.” Marcus crumples the drape in his hands. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” Cottia asks. “Do you want me to take this from you?”
Marcus shakes his head no and hands the threads to Cottia and waves her off.
“Perhaps it is time for you and Esca to start getting ready for dinner?” Stephanos heads back to the villa with Marcus and Esca behind.
Halfway there, Marcus stops his steps, stops following to state, “Esca and Cottia saw and thought nothing of it.”
Stephanos stops, turns to face Marcus, the glare on his face softening into a frown. “What you did with the toga was so scandalous. I know you thought you were having fun. And perhaps with your finding the eagle, your reputation is more highly regarded now. But it would be wise to not do anything to jeopardize that.” Turning back towards the villa, Stephanos says one last thing with his back to Marcus, “Even though I should, I won’t tell your Uncle.”
Instead of following Stephanos, Marcus walks another path. Esca notices him stepping carefully, trying to not make a sound or leave tracks except for his limp that betrays his attempts.
“I should have worn it.” Esca calls after Marcus. “I am not yet free and I do not know what this means and I am the younger man -”
“- A young man is still a man.” Marcus turns, but not enough to face Esca. Then he turns back on his way.
“Where are you going?” Esca asks.
“To be alone . . .”
After Marcus takes a few more steps on his own path, Esca dashes after Stephanos and finds him in the kitchen.
“What was so wrong with what Marcus did!?”
“Only such scandalous people wear that.”
“What people? And how were they scandalous?”
“Don’t let Marcus dress like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . Like a whore.” Stephanos’ face twists and distorts before settling into sternness.
“I have never seen a prostitute, man or woman, dress so. Tell me where they do.”
“That does not matter. No one dresses so anymore.”
“Then it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters . . .” Stephanos wags a finger. “Slave or freedman, it is in your better interest to maintain the young master’s reputation if he cannot.”
“I will decide what is in my better interest.”
“And who will decide what is in the young master’s better interest?”
“Marcus.” And when the old slave scowls, Esca stands up for Marcus. “Marcus will do so as he chooses to.” And Esca turns and leaves at that.
“Esca,” Aquila calls from inside the atrium as Esca passes. “Will you join Marcus in the bath? And before you go, I have a question.”
“Yes?” Esca asks, stepping into the atrium to stare at the little pool of water with the old man.
“Marcus’ mother wishes to see him again, and she should, even if only for one last time. I just need to know when you and Marcus will leave. But we can get into that tomorrow.”
“Will Marcus want me to go with him?” Esca asks.
“Why not?”
Esca nods. But before turning to leave, he asks, “Would I intrude if? . . .” Esca lets his question trail in uncertainty until Aquila nods him on. “May I ask about Marcus’ mother and his name?”
“Marcus’ name!” Aquila shakes his head sideways. “What a mess that was. She didn’t see it as her lack of right to give him his father’s name. No, she saw it as her right to give him hers. My sister, the only sensible thing she had ever done was to write to our brother. Advocates were involved! The fastest messengers were hired! At great cost! In the end, a judge ruled that she had Roman law on her side but his father had Roman tradition on his. And as long as he claimed Marcus, he should name him as he wished. Besides, everyone knows that it’s always in a child’s best interest to have their father’s name. Of course!” Aquila sighs. “But the Fates. They’re quite tricksters, aren’t they? Never mind straight lines. Sometimes, I think they quite prefer tangled and knotted threads.”
“Maybe they have a design in the tangles?”
“Perhaps they do. But then what did they want for Marcus? I still wonder if he was meant to be named Maximus after his mother.”
“What name would Marcus choose himself?”
“I think Marcus would be proud to have his mother’s name. She’s quite proud like her mother. After Marcus’ Uncle Lepidus threw him off of the estate and disowned him, as soon as she heard, she rode her horse all the way to Rome to slap Lepidus in the face. ‘Do not blame the young and naïve for the lies and broken promises of an adult who should know better than to act so dishonorably.’ My sister and her husband were barren but, perhaps it should have been so. Marcus’ mother deeply regretted letting Lepidus adopt him, and it wasn’t just about his selling off Marcus’ inheritance from his father. She wanted to bring him home with her but, by then he had enlisted in the army.”
“An uncommon story for an uncommon man. Does it become even more uncommon?”
“Maybe . . . Has he ever said anything about anything happening to him in the army? Anything at all?”
Esca’s chest tightens, pain coming back from the first time he had gotten into Marcus’ bed. “No, he’s said nothing ever.”
“Perhaps his mother and I are imagining the worst for no reason . . .”
“Master,” Stephanos calls out. “I have found some extra towels. Is young Master still at the bath?”
“I’ll bring them over,” Esca says. “I’ll join him now.”
When Esca arrives at the bath house, Marcus is already there in the dressing room, on a bench in the center. Esca’s eyes trail the lines from the dark strands on Marcus’ head cut short enough to expose the back of his neck. Esca’s gaze trails even lower down Marcus’ spine nestled in a valley flanked by well-formed muscles which curve into soft mounds in their relaxed state. Esca’s gaze settles lower, between two cheeks, and he feels himself pulled into the shadow between the crack and the bench while his memories pull him back to that night in Eburacum when Marcus sat on a pallet just so, shadows by the short candle dancing on his back.
“I wondered if you would join me,” Marcus says, a cheek red over his shoulder. “Or should I have not waited?”
“It seems you’ve already oiled and cleaned yourself.” Esca traces his fingertips from Marcus’ fingertips to his forearms.
“As best I could.”
“I’ll take care of your back then . . .”
“But let me do you first.”
Once naked, Esca stands still as Marcus massages the oil onto his skin. The touch is warm from Marcus having rubbed his oiled hands together and the touch grows warmer as Marcus’ kneads his hands into his skin, into his muscles. Esca looks down Marcus, now gliding the strigil on his legs; eyes falling from Marcus’ hair to neck to back . . . Esca must think of something cool, maybe even cold. Such as that cold night in Eburacum.
Do you need help getting dressed? . . . Damned blanket has holes, perhaps we should wear extra layers under them. . . . I am sorry this room has only one pallet -
“Marcus.” Esca snaps his gaze up. “I think today the caldarium will be too hot for me. I’ll just be in the tepidarium today.”
“May I join you?”
“Your leg -”
“Tepid waters will not stiffen me if just for today . . . I want to join you.”
Inside, the walls and air over the tepid waters echo only small splashes and then nothing. The same nothingness as in Eburacum when they first entered their room together to find just a single pallet. Then Esca broke the silence with Marcus: Tomorrow morning, I will find work so that we can afford a room with two pallets.
And then back to the silence against his inescapable inner voice: It is warmer together . . . But hotter than I expected -
“Maybe . . .” Marcus starts to get up. “Maybe I should start getting ready.” As Marcus rises from the water, rivulets glide down Marcus’ back and Esca follows one down the center . . . Perhaps he now regrets choosing the tepidarium over the frigidarium.
They make their way back to the dressing room where tunics and togas lie on the bench for them. They begin dressing, but Esca leaves his toga alone, folded.
“I should have asked Cottia if I could keep her toga.” Marcus frowns.
“I think she would have wanted you to have it,” Esca says. “If you had, would I be able to convince you to wear it tonight?”
“No!” Marcus’ eyes and mouth are wide open. “I . . . I don’t want to give my Uncle a reason to disown me. Especially not before I settle my debts to him. I owe him too much, especially for you.”
“He thought you weren’t grateful for having bought me.”
“He bought you for me for Saturnalia. It’s supposed to be a time to be grateful that we humans are civilized and have the discipline and knowledge to reap abundant harvests. But it’s also the time to make peace with one’s enemies and to acknowledge you could be them. And you were so . . . harsh . . . I thought I never would make peace with you. I felt as if my Uncle were setting me up to fail.” When Esca rolls his eyes, Marcus pouts. “Do you think I am being irrational?”
“Yes. Very.” Esca laughs. “You should talk to your uncle. Tomorrow morning before we leave go into town? Now, let me help you with that toga.”
“Wait.” Marcus reaches for the oil. “But first . . .” With a few drops in his palms, he then rubs his hands together, warming them up before touching them to Esca’s face, paying careful attention to only skim his fingers across the skin. “Your skin is taut; this might help.”
“Do you do this on yourself?”
“Back home, a mix of oats, milk and honey before bathing is popular. But Mother used to say, ‘A simple oil works simply.’ ”
“An oil like this?”
“Not quite. The first olive oils from the fall harvest are the greenest. Those are Mother’s favorites. They make everything taste and smell fresher and younger.”
“And you? You like that?”
“Very much, but it’s not my favorite. Look up and let me get the skin under your eyes.” With Esca staring at the ceiling, Marcus continues on, “In Hispania, in a town we passed there was a woman with an aloe shop.”
“Aloe?”
“Strange plant that grows in tall, thin, pointy triangles from the ground. But inside is a thick juice.”
“Sounds very strange.” Esca closes his eyes to focus on trying to imagine such a plant but is distracted by and focuses on Marcus’ fingertips smoothing his cheeks, how their movements slow as his pulse quickens. But opening his eyes to distract himself from Marcus’ touch means looking at Marcus. “I need to see it.”
“I’ve never seen one here. Anyways. A lot of the fairer men bought as much as they could for their burned skin. I never needed to do anything to care for my skin but, the shop owner insisted. I confess, I loved the way it cooled my skin. Maybe . . .” Marcus flutters his lashes. “I used to wish I could afford an entire jar for my entire body.”
“So, you liked that on your skin?” Esca blinks. “All of your skin?” Esca wonders if his skin is reddening under Marcus’ fingertips. Could it cool down color also?
“In Hispania, yes. Here? It is not such a treat here.” Marcus leans forward. “I don’t know what I would want on my skin here. If I could find something warm to the touch . . .”
“I’d like to help you look for that.” Esca too leans forward.
Someday, Esca will unravel Marcus’ toga, not like now as he wraps the long, off-white threads around Marcus’ body. Someday, Esca’s hands will have their way all over Marcus’ body, no barrier between them as the Roman fabric separates them now.
After one last tug of the fabric over Marcus’ left shoulder so its end approaches but will never meet the ground, Esca and Marcus make their way to the villa.
( Part 2 )
( Part 3 )