New The Eagle fic: those who will not see (Marcus/Esca)
those who will not see
The Eagle, Marcus/Esca, about 2650 words, PG
Summary: Marcus and Esca may be oblivious to their own feelings, but old Aquila is not.
those who will not see
by Destina
There were few pleasures left to Aquila in his declining years. His wife had come late into his life, since marriage was a privilege he had been denied as a common soldier. She had surrendered to death far too soon, leaving him without the joy of her company. He had no sons, and no kin nearby, so it pleased him when Marcus came to stay, and later to live with him.
The boy was the image of his father in every way, from the stiff set of his spine to his high-minded talk about honor, but most of all in the set of his jaw when he came upon something of which he did not approve. So stubborn. So much an Aquila. It eased Aquila's heart to see him striding about the place as if he were imperator, master of all he surveyed. Soon enough, it would be true, at least in this tiny corner of the world; Aquila intended to make him heir to the place, what there was of it. It seemed right, and he knew his brother would approve.
Aquila's days passed more quickly with Marcus there, even during those dark days when Marcus had moped and grieved for a life lost to him in pursuit of his honor as a leader of men. Aquila was secretly glad that Marcus asked to stay on for a time after he and Esca returned with the eagle.
Esca. Now there was a different problem. The first thing Marcus had told his uncle upon his return was that he had freed Esca, that Esca was a brave man, strong and true, and he would remain with Marcus from that time forward. It was odd enough to cause Aquila's brow to rise, but in truth, Esca had never behaved much like a slave. From the moment he'd walked into the villa, his head had never been properly lowered, and he'd kept his place only with Marcus. Even then, there was something about him -- too much pride for a proper slave.
More troubling was the way Marcus insisted on treating Esca as though he had not been his slave at all, but spoke to him with deference on occasion, and encouraged informality. At his first opportunity, Aquila had taken Marcus aside, and said, "Marcus...perhaps Esca would be happier sitting in the kitchen with the others for his meals."
"Others?" Marcus frowned, and then the true weight of the word dawned over him, not as the sun, but as a thundercloud. He sighed, and looked at the tile floor, and then lifted a calm countenance to his uncle. "Uncle, Esca will eat where he likes. He will go where he will, and do as he pleases, and it will be so as long as we remain under your roof, or we will find lodgings in Calleva, as it please you."
"Very well," Aquila said, not so much grudging as resigned, and it had been that way ever since. It was not such a hardship to bear the freeman's company, as Esca was sharp of mind and had no shortage of opinions, now that he was able to express them.
Aquila could tell Stephanos did not approve, but in its own way, this too delighted him. Too little had intruded into Stephanos' tidy world. Much like Aquila's own, it was narrow, and could use a bit of jangling up.
True to Marcus' word, sometimes Esca ate with the slaves in the kitchen, and other times he came to the table, where his own kill from the hunt was being served. Once or twice, Aquila thought to ask them about their time north of the Wall, but Marcus did not seem inclined to discuss it, and Esca...well. Esca kept his own counsel.
The days passed. In the spring, Aquila sat on the terrace and watched the seasons blend, then become distinct from one another, and the tableau below changed. When the grasses began growing again, Marcus and Esca always seemed to be underfoot in them, sparring and training, weapons clashing under the warm morning sun. The sound of ringing steel returned Aquila to the days of his youth, to campaigns made more golden with time, as the memory of mud and shit and stinking tents receded into the distance, and only the glorious victories remained.
Marcus was in fine form, and Esca a worthy match, even though he did not fight like a Roman. They clashed and shoved like boys, a flash of grin and a sharp elbow coming into it from time to time.
Sometimes, Marcus sparred with Lucinus Marcellus Principus, whose father was an aspiring politician in Calleva, and whose near future would include a term of service with the Legions. Always, Esca would remain crouched off to the side, ready to trade weapons with Marcus if he should make the slightest gesture.
Esca's attentions were always on Marcus, unwavering. The intensity of his stare was not seemly. A freeman should be attuned to his patron's needs, but this...it was a puzzling level of devotion. The man had been Marcus' slave. His eyes should not track Marcus so hotly in every motion, every action.
The way he looked at Marcus...Aquila had seen it before. Aquila searched his memory for the answer, and realized he had seen such a look on the face of many a Roman master, gazing covetously and with pride upon their own slaves.
Quick upon the heels of that idea came a flash of his own dear wife's countenance, and the way she had watched him, how she had always seemed to know him with her eyes, even when they both were clothed.
In combination, those ideas caused a sharp breath to escape Aquila, and then a fit of coughing came over him. Marcus was by his side at an instant, Esca just behind his left shoulder, both concerned. "Uncle, are you well? Would you like to go inside?"
Aquila waved him off, trying with all his might to retain some semblance of dignity. "The wine," he said. "Very bitter."
"As you say," Marcus said, still hovering. Esca came round to his other side, and took his arm. A simple gesture, but it touched Aquila, and he patted Esca's hand.
"Indulge an old man, and let him have his independence."
Esca removed his hand, and Marcus moved back, but only a bit, and they drifted back together like waves on the tide.
They were still standing there as Aquila moved into the relative peace of the villa. He waved Stephanos off impatiently and settled at the entrance of the wide terrace to watch them resume their sparring. This time, Esca and Marcus together, mirrors of one another, and now Aquila could see it: Marcus looked at Esca always, and when he was not looking, his body was turned toward him, as if it could see what the eyes could not.
It was hard to deny the evidence of his own eyes. Aquila sighed. It would have been one thing while Esca was still a slave, but now...now, it could not continue. He would have to say something.
It took him three days to find the courage. Speaking on such a topic was not an easy matter, and he thought...well, he could have been wrong. But then he passed by Marcus and Esca in the atrium, Esca sharing the same cup as Marcus, the two of them speaking in low murmurs, and his resolve sharpened. He chose his moment, when Marcus was alone by the brazier, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Marcus, you know, Esca is a freeman now, and as his patron, you may do with him as you will, but be cautious. There are many here, far from Rome, who will not understand."
Marcus' head whipped up, and after a moment of startled silence, he began to laugh, long and loud. Aquila frowned. It was as if the boy had no sense of proper Roman decorum. "Uncle, I assure you, I am not 'doing with him as I will.'"
"That is your affair, and none of mine," Aquila answered, for he did not believe it even for a moment, "but do take care. You have only just regained the name and honor of this family; I would have you guard it with more care."
Marcus' lips twitched, and he nodded. "I would not disgrace this name, Uncle. On this, you have my word."
"Very well," Aquila answered, noting how already, Marcus' eyes drifted to the doorway, and Esca standing beyond. It was intolerable, really; it was worse than a lie.
**
In the late evening, Aquila found slumber difficult to attain, and he sometimes roamed the grounds, thinking of nothing in particular. He took to wandering by Marcus' sleeping cell, and the generous rooms beyond, where Esca had been known to sleep on a pallet. Stephanos had mentioned Esca had moved that pallet into Marcus' room, and that the doors were often closed in the morning, shielding Aquila's nephew from view.
But it was his house, and he was not ashamed to stand nearest the open doors to the terrace, and to listen as the business of his house was conducted.
"If we are to look for suitable land, perhaps now is the time," Esca asked. If Aquila craned his neck, he could see Esca there, whittling at a piece of wood with a dagger, which glinted in the light from the coals.
"We will need horses." Marcus' voice, from deeper inside the room, where Aquila could not see him.
"And more besides, if we are to choose lands to the south."
"No," Marcus said. "I am content to stay here."
There was a silence, and Esca's knife stopped moving as its owner stilled. "You do not wish to return to the lands of your birth?"
Another silence, and Marcus said softly, "I find these lands suitable, Esca. If you are willing; I would not stay, if you would rather go."
"No," Esca said, and the knife began moving over wood again. "It is only that I thought you wished to go home."
"I am home," Marcus said. "Here. Where you are."
This time, the knife did not stop, but a slow smile crossed Esca's face. Nothing more was said, and soon Aquila heard soft snores from Marcus, beyond his sight.
He wandered back to his sleeping cell and curled onto his couch. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it was nothing more than shield brothers, having been through difficult circumstances and finding themselves tied by the blood and bonds of battle.
Yes. No doubt this was what it was. Aquila fell asleep, thus reassured.
**
As planned, Esca and Marcus rode out the next day, on the hunt for lands of their own -- Marcus' words, and met with that same secretive smile of Esca's as they turned their horses toward the road. Aquila spent the day reading over a political scroll from Rome and considering his life, the emptiness of his house without his nephew's presence in it.
They returned at dusk and dismounted together, still moving as one.
"Uncle!" Marcus greeted him with a warm arm clasp, and accepted a cup of wine from Stephanos. "We have found the lands we wish to trade for. They adjoin your land, to the north."
"Good," Aquila said, "that is very good," and meant it with all his heart. For Marcus to be near would soothe his old age, and it would mean diversions on cold winter nights, when he craved conversation.
"Come," Marcus said, beckoning to Esca, who nodded to Aquila as they passed by. Aquila watched them go and marveled that they could not see it, could not sense themselves what was so obvious to him. Every muscle and bone in Esca strained toward Marcus, and yet if Esca strayed from the path, Marcus turned to follow.
It gave him little hope for another generation of Aquila to raise, to send off to the glory of Rome, but if Marcus was happy...well, there were worse fates for a soldier.
In the night, he wandered again to Marcus' door, drawn by the sounds of low speech and soft laughter, and dared to approach, dared to see.
This time, Esca had no knife, and Marcus was not out of sight. Instead, they sat together in the middle of the room, speaking of their plans, of all that lay before them, a lifetime of possibility laid out like an open road, yet to be traveled. Their arms touched; their heads bent low together, as they whispered of the future.
And then Marcus reached, and dared to touch. His hand, clasped at the nape of Esca's neck, and Esca allowed it, tilted his head back toward the palm of Marcus' hand and let Marcus hold him there, as Marcus' fingers combed gently through his hair. Marcus leaned forward and pressed his lips to the line of Esca's neck, bared to him, in ways it never had been when Esca was yet a slave.
Aquila put a hand out to the wall and steadied himself, because now he knew; now he was sure. He could not tear his eyes away as Marcus laid Esca down, as he stripped him, turned him, entered him. Esca gave himself to Marcus, but not as a former slave might, for they were equal in passion. It was clear in the way Marcus closed his eyes, in the way he touched Esca, in the way their lips met, mouths open, breath mingled.
Esca spoke then, words in a foreign tongue Aquila recognized, yes and beloved and please, words he had heard from his own beloved not so long ago in moments of love. It shamed him, and he pulled away, put his back to the wall so he could not see.
It was not for Roman eyes; Romans could scarce understand what passed between men. They did not want to see.
He crept back to his own rooms in silence, his heart at once heavy and light, so glad Marcus had found a measure of contentment, and worried that it would not be one that could last. There would be those who would wish ill upon them, who would say Marcus was not a man, for this desire he indulged.
Aquila found he could no longer care about such things. Marcus was happy; Marcus was staying. The rest, they could manage.
**
At breakfast in the morning, it was as if Aquila had acquired new eyes with which to see. Esca sat at Marcus' side, as always, but there were faint bruises at his neck, and Marcus' hand trembled when Esca's brushed against it, reaching for bread.
Marcus, for his part, pressed close to Esca, thighs touching, arms touching, tangled up with his armor bearer even when their fingertips did not meet. It was so much more than desire, Aquila knew; it was enough. More than enough. It was the flash of a knife's blade by firelight; it was the taste of an apple after a long march, deprivation satisfied in the simplest of pleasures.
It was joy, contained in a smile, a promise of forever on a patch of rocky land.
"I will lend you Stephanos to help you build," Aquila told them, dabbing honey onto his day-old bread. He did not look at them, and yet he could not miss the blinding smile on Marcus' face, and the echo of quiet pleasure on Esca's.
"We will be happy there," Marcus said, "on our own land."
And Aquila, who had come to value both the texture of day-old bread, and the simple joy of honey to soften its crust, watched them smile, and remembered to be grateful for what the gods may offer, no matter the form it might take.
end
The Eagle, Marcus/Esca, about 2650 words, PG
Summary: Marcus and Esca may be oblivious to their own feelings, but old Aquila is not.
those who will not see
by Destina
There were few pleasures left to Aquila in his declining years. His wife had come late into his life, since marriage was a privilege he had been denied as a common soldier. She had surrendered to death far too soon, leaving him without the joy of her company. He had no sons, and no kin nearby, so it pleased him when Marcus came to stay, and later to live with him.
The boy was the image of his father in every way, from the stiff set of his spine to his high-minded talk about honor, but most of all in the set of his jaw when he came upon something of which he did not approve. So stubborn. So much an Aquila. It eased Aquila's heart to see him striding about the place as if he were imperator, master of all he surveyed. Soon enough, it would be true, at least in this tiny corner of the world; Aquila intended to make him heir to the place, what there was of it. It seemed right, and he knew his brother would approve.
Aquila's days passed more quickly with Marcus there, even during those dark days when Marcus had moped and grieved for a life lost to him in pursuit of his honor as a leader of men. Aquila was secretly glad that Marcus asked to stay on for a time after he and Esca returned with the eagle.
Esca. Now there was a different problem. The first thing Marcus had told his uncle upon his return was that he had freed Esca, that Esca was a brave man, strong and true, and he would remain with Marcus from that time forward. It was odd enough to cause Aquila's brow to rise, but in truth, Esca had never behaved much like a slave. From the moment he'd walked into the villa, his head had never been properly lowered, and he'd kept his place only with Marcus. Even then, there was something about him -- too much pride for a proper slave.
More troubling was the way Marcus insisted on treating Esca as though he had not been his slave at all, but spoke to him with deference on occasion, and encouraged informality. At his first opportunity, Aquila had taken Marcus aside, and said, "Marcus...perhaps Esca would be happier sitting in the kitchen with the others for his meals."
"Others?" Marcus frowned, and then the true weight of the word dawned over him, not as the sun, but as a thundercloud. He sighed, and looked at the tile floor, and then lifted a calm countenance to his uncle. "Uncle, Esca will eat where he likes. He will go where he will, and do as he pleases, and it will be so as long as we remain under your roof, or we will find lodgings in Calleva, as it please you."
"Very well," Aquila said, not so much grudging as resigned, and it had been that way ever since. It was not such a hardship to bear the freeman's company, as Esca was sharp of mind and had no shortage of opinions, now that he was able to express them.
Aquila could tell Stephanos did not approve, but in its own way, this too delighted him. Too little had intruded into Stephanos' tidy world. Much like Aquila's own, it was narrow, and could use a bit of jangling up.
True to Marcus' word, sometimes Esca ate with the slaves in the kitchen, and other times he came to the table, where his own kill from the hunt was being served. Once or twice, Aquila thought to ask them about their time north of the Wall, but Marcus did not seem inclined to discuss it, and Esca...well. Esca kept his own counsel.
The days passed. In the spring, Aquila sat on the terrace and watched the seasons blend, then become distinct from one another, and the tableau below changed. When the grasses began growing again, Marcus and Esca always seemed to be underfoot in them, sparring and training, weapons clashing under the warm morning sun. The sound of ringing steel returned Aquila to the days of his youth, to campaigns made more golden with time, as the memory of mud and shit and stinking tents receded into the distance, and only the glorious victories remained.
Marcus was in fine form, and Esca a worthy match, even though he did not fight like a Roman. They clashed and shoved like boys, a flash of grin and a sharp elbow coming into it from time to time.
Sometimes, Marcus sparred with Lucinus Marcellus Principus, whose father was an aspiring politician in Calleva, and whose near future would include a term of service with the Legions. Always, Esca would remain crouched off to the side, ready to trade weapons with Marcus if he should make the slightest gesture.
Esca's attentions were always on Marcus, unwavering. The intensity of his stare was not seemly. A freeman should be attuned to his patron's needs, but this...it was a puzzling level of devotion. The man had been Marcus' slave. His eyes should not track Marcus so hotly in every motion, every action.
The way he looked at Marcus...Aquila had seen it before. Aquila searched his memory for the answer, and realized he had seen such a look on the face of many a Roman master, gazing covetously and with pride upon their own slaves.
Quick upon the heels of that idea came a flash of his own dear wife's countenance, and the way she had watched him, how she had always seemed to know him with her eyes, even when they both were clothed.
In combination, those ideas caused a sharp breath to escape Aquila, and then a fit of coughing came over him. Marcus was by his side at an instant, Esca just behind his left shoulder, both concerned. "Uncle, are you well? Would you like to go inside?"
Aquila waved him off, trying with all his might to retain some semblance of dignity. "The wine," he said. "Very bitter."
"As you say," Marcus said, still hovering. Esca came round to his other side, and took his arm. A simple gesture, but it touched Aquila, and he patted Esca's hand.
"Indulge an old man, and let him have his independence."
Esca removed his hand, and Marcus moved back, but only a bit, and they drifted back together like waves on the tide.
They were still standing there as Aquila moved into the relative peace of the villa. He waved Stephanos off impatiently and settled at the entrance of the wide terrace to watch them resume their sparring. This time, Esca and Marcus together, mirrors of one another, and now Aquila could see it: Marcus looked at Esca always, and when he was not looking, his body was turned toward him, as if it could see what the eyes could not.
It was hard to deny the evidence of his own eyes. Aquila sighed. It would have been one thing while Esca was still a slave, but now...now, it could not continue. He would have to say something.
It took him three days to find the courage. Speaking on such a topic was not an easy matter, and he thought...well, he could have been wrong. But then he passed by Marcus and Esca in the atrium, Esca sharing the same cup as Marcus, the two of them speaking in low murmurs, and his resolve sharpened. He chose his moment, when Marcus was alone by the brazier, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Marcus, you know, Esca is a freeman now, and as his patron, you may do with him as you will, but be cautious. There are many here, far from Rome, who will not understand."
Marcus' head whipped up, and after a moment of startled silence, he began to laugh, long and loud. Aquila frowned. It was as if the boy had no sense of proper Roman decorum. "Uncle, I assure you, I am not 'doing with him as I will.'"
"That is your affair, and none of mine," Aquila answered, for he did not believe it even for a moment, "but do take care. You have only just regained the name and honor of this family; I would have you guard it with more care."
Marcus' lips twitched, and he nodded. "I would not disgrace this name, Uncle. On this, you have my word."
"Very well," Aquila answered, noting how already, Marcus' eyes drifted to the doorway, and Esca standing beyond. It was intolerable, really; it was worse than a lie.
**
In the late evening, Aquila found slumber difficult to attain, and he sometimes roamed the grounds, thinking of nothing in particular. He took to wandering by Marcus' sleeping cell, and the generous rooms beyond, where Esca had been known to sleep on a pallet. Stephanos had mentioned Esca had moved that pallet into Marcus' room, and that the doors were often closed in the morning, shielding Aquila's nephew from view.
But it was his house, and he was not ashamed to stand nearest the open doors to the terrace, and to listen as the business of his house was conducted.
"If we are to look for suitable land, perhaps now is the time," Esca asked. If Aquila craned his neck, he could see Esca there, whittling at a piece of wood with a dagger, which glinted in the light from the coals.
"We will need horses." Marcus' voice, from deeper inside the room, where Aquila could not see him.
"And more besides, if we are to choose lands to the south."
"No," Marcus said. "I am content to stay here."
There was a silence, and Esca's knife stopped moving as its owner stilled. "You do not wish to return to the lands of your birth?"
Another silence, and Marcus said softly, "I find these lands suitable, Esca. If you are willing; I would not stay, if you would rather go."
"No," Esca said, and the knife began moving over wood again. "It is only that I thought you wished to go home."
"I am home," Marcus said. "Here. Where you are."
This time, the knife did not stop, but a slow smile crossed Esca's face. Nothing more was said, and soon Aquila heard soft snores from Marcus, beyond his sight.
He wandered back to his sleeping cell and curled onto his couch. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it was nothing more than shield brothers, having been through difficult circumstances and finding themselves tied by the blood and bonds of battle.
Yes. No doubt this was what it was. Aquila fell asleep, thus reassured.
**
As planned, Esca and Marcus rode out the next day, on the hunt for lands of their own -- Marcus' words, and met with that same secretive smile of Esca's as they turned their horses toward the road. Aquila spent the day reading over a political scroll from Rome and considering his life, the emptiness of his house without his nephew's presence in it.
They returned at dusk and dismounted together, still moving as one.
"Uncle!" Marcus greeted him with a warm arm clasp, and accepted a cup of wine from Stephanos. "We have found the lands we wish to trade for. They adjoin your land, to the north."
"Good," Aquila said, "that is very good," and meant it with all his heart. For Marcus to be near would soothe his old age, and it would mean diversions on cold winter nights, when he craved conversation.
"Come," Marcus said, beckoning to Esca, who nodded to Aquila as they passed by. Aquila watched them go and marveled that they could not see it, could not sense themselves what was so obvious to him. Every muscle and bone in Esca strained toward Marcus, and yet if Esca strayed from the path, Marcus turned to follow.
It gave him little hope for another generation of Aquila to raise, to send off to the glory of Rome, but if Marcus was happy...well, there were worse fates for a soldier.
In the night, he wandered again to Marcus' door, drawn by the sounds of low speech and soft laughter, and dared to approach, dared to see.
This time, Esca had no knife, and Marcus was not out of sight. Instead, they sat together in the middle of the room, speaking of their plans, of all that lay before them, a lifetime of possibility laid out like an open road, yet to be traveled. Their arms touched; their heads bent low together, as they whispered of the future.
And then Marcus reached, and dared to touch. His hand, clasped at the nape of Esca's neck, and Esca allowed it, tilted his head back toward the palm of Marcus' hand and let Marcus hold him there, as Marcus' fingers combed gently through his hair. Marcus leaned forward and pressed his lips to the line of Esca's neck, bared to him, in ways it never had been when Esca was yet a slave.
Aquila put a hand out to the wall and steadied himself, because now he knew; now he was sure. He could not tear his eyes away as Marcus laid Esca down, as he stripped him, turned him, entered him. Esca gave himself to Marcus, but not as a former slave might, for they were equal in passion. It was clear in the way Marcus closed his eyes, in the way he touched Esca, in the way their lips met, mouths open, breath mingled.
Esca spoke then, words in a foreign tongue Aquila recognized, yes and beloved and please, words he had heard from his own beloved not so long ago in moments of love. It shamed him, and he pulled away, put his back to the wall so he could not see.
It was not for Roman eyes; Romans could scarce understand what passed between men. They did not want to see.
He crept back to his own rooms in silence, his heart at once heavy and light, so glad Marcus had found a measure of contentment, and worried that it would not be one that could last. There would be those who would wish ill upon them, who would say Marcus was not a man, for this desire he indulged.
Aquila found he could no longer care about such things. Marcus was happy; Marcus was staying. The rest, they could manage.
**
At breakfast in the morning, it was as if Aquila had acquired new eyes with which to see. Esca sat at Marcus' side, as always, but there were faint bruises at his neck, and Marcus' hand trembled when Esca's brushed against it, reaching for bread.
Marcus, for his part, pressed close to Esca, thighs touching, arms touching, tangled up with his armor bearer even when their fingertips did not meet. It was so much more than desire, Aquila knew; it was enough. More than enough. It was the flash of a knife's blade by firelight; it was the taste of an apple after a long march, deprivation satisfied in the simplest of pleasures.
It was joy, contained in a smile, a promise of forever on a patch of rocky land.
"I will lend you Stephanos to help you build," Aquila told them, dabbing honey onto his day-old bread. He did not look at them, and yet he could not miss the blinding smile on Marcus' face, and the echo of quiet pleasure on Esca's.
"We will be happy there," Marcus said, "on our own land."
And Aquila, who had come to value both the texture of day-old bread, and the simple joy of honey to soften its crust, watched them smile, and remembered to be grateful for what the gods may offer, no matter the form it might take.
end