The Eagle - Marcus/Esca
Prompt: Marcus means well when he gets Esca things--he's just not very good at it. Sappy!Marcus and possibly-out-of-character!Esca? It's so hard to write from his POV.
The campaign began shortly after they returned from Hadrian’s Wall. Esca tried, when he was not being tormented by his amusement and confusion and emotions, to think of a kinder, more accurate word for Marcus’ actions. Yet, a campaign of invasion seemed to be the best metaphor he could draw. It was very much like being overrun, overwhelmed-as if he were a wave of his desperate tribesmen breaking against the shielded formation of the Romans. It was also about as badly planned as the Roman invasion, he thought wryly, and Marcus had always been too Roman for his own good.
After they had returned the eagle, Esca had asked Aquila for some work. He had still been considering his options as a freedman, and he had wanted some security while he decided on his next move. Aquila had given Marcus a very significant look-and that was another flaw of the Romans, too used to ignoring their slaves that they bared themselves like an open book before their captives-but agreed in the end to allow Esca to continue to help around the house and tend to the horses. His pay was in room, board, and a small amount of spending money. His main duty remained with Marcus, whose leg was now damaged beyond full recovery, and so life really hadn’t changed.
Or it wouldn’t have, if Marcus hadn’t begun to stare at him more often, for longer, with greater intensity. It unnerved him, and by the time Esca remembered he was a freedman who could demand an explanation from Marcus, the question came out like a biting scold. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” he snapped.
“Like what?” Marcus asked, but his eyes looked guilty for the brief moment Esca managed to meet them.
“Marcus, after everything we have been through together, are you really choosing now to lie to me? To distrust me?” he probed further, watching Marcus’ expression go from anxious and shy to openly offended.
“I trust you with my life!”
“Yet not with your curiosity?” Esca pushed, and he knew he had won when Marcus’ shoulders slumped, the fight officially gone out of him.
“You’re good with horses, aren’t you? You like tending to them,” Marcus began, and Esca nodded his reply, waiting for a more illuminating statement. “Do you like… chariots?” he finished after a pause, more nervous than Esca had ever seen him, and Esca had seen him at his most despondent.
Perhaps hope made people more desperate, he thought, and wondered what exactly Marcus was hoping for. “I do like chariots. I used to help drive my father’s,” Esca confirmed. “Horse riding and breeding, chariot driving-these things are in our blood.”
“Then… would you like to spend a day as a charioteer? I’ve met a man with an impressive team, and I would like to take them for a run. My leg being as it is; however, I doubt I could handle them,” and while Marcus’ head had hung down at the beginning of his request, he now looked up at Esca through his eyelashes, and Esca took a deep, calming breath at the sight. “Would you take me?” he asked, and Esca worked very hard to remember the context of the question.
“Yes,” he finally replied, and he looked away from Marcus’ too large grin and triumphant eyes so that he could hide the pleasure in his own expression.
--
The horses were impressive in every way, and Esca circled the team, constantly encouraging them with pats and praises. They responded happily to his Gàidhlig, as if it were familiar to them, as if it were in their blood. Esca glanced again, uneasily, at their Roman master and his very Roman chariot before turning again to look at Marcus. His old master was currently seated on a rock, watching Esca marvel at the horses.
“They’re of very good stock,” Esca commented lightly. It was the truth, but it was also bait. They were beautiful, strong and powerful, but they were smaller than the horses the Romans brought in.
“They’re direct descendents of the horses of the Iceni king,” Marcus told him, and Esca’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped.
To Marcus, and the horses’ Roman master, Esca most likely just looked surprised. A little too surprised, perhaps, and possibly a little joyful. In truth, he was horrified. They were Briton horses. Horses of his people, but there they were serving a Roman man, latched onto a Roman chariot, and fastened in the Roman fashion. Like his fellow enslaved Britons before, these horses had been taken from their home, their royal heritage, and been put to use by their conquerors. It was a gut wrenching comparison, too close for Esca to be comfortable.
Yet, Marcus was smiling, and Esca had no doubt the man thought he had done something good. After all, he was giving Esca a chance to be a charioteer again, to drive the horses from his country once more. It was a gift, and one that Marcus had obviously put thought into. The man looked so carefully joyful, and Esca looked pitifully at the horses. “If it were any other man, I’d tell him off for you,” he crooned to them in their shared language. “If I weren’t so sure of his good intentions, I would gut them both for your freedom.”
The horses neighed and threw their heads as if they thought he should do it anyway.
“He did this for me. Of course, being a Roman, he has done it all wrong, but…” Esca glanced over to where Marcus sat, still smiling at him, still watching, and with much less anxiety compared to the Roman horse tamer. He turned back to the horses. “I guess you’ll have to do with only one day at home. I’ll make it a great one,” he told them.
It was an effort to load Marcus onto the chariot, and because Roman chariots were so damnably small, he seemed to take up all the space. By halfway through the run, and Esca pushed the horses fast and hard through the fields and past the obstacles, Marcus was practically sprawled on top of Esca, trying to stay upright. He didn’t complain, simply shouldered the other man’s weight, and drove the horses harder. By the time they finished, the horses were breathing hard but kicked their legs with vigor. Esca praised them again in Gàidhlig before helping Marcus down.
“So, what did you think?” Marcus asked on their way back, anxious again, but with a wide smile on his face that made Esca realize the other man hadn’t been lying-Marcus had missed the chariot.
“They did their lineage proud,” he replied and kept carefully silent otherwise, letting Marcus think that was a good thing.
That night, as he helped Marcus into bed, Esca scolded him for pushing his leg so hard. “I guess that means no more chariot rides for me,” Marcus said, chagrined at his own shortcomings.
“You’ll always have the memory to savor,” Esca reminded him.
“I suppose,” Marcus agreed, but he seemed quietly miserable.
Esca, being less dense than all of the Romans walking around Calleva, could feel realization hitting him like a battering ram. “Marcus,” he said, placing his hand over the Roman’s, “thank you.” After all, despite the horrific comparison, Marcus had tried. Marcus had put thought into the gift, and Esca had enjoyed the run. Even worse, Esca felt somewhat charmed by Marcus’ misplaced efforts.
The change was instantaneous. Marcus accepted the gratitude with heartfelt words, as if he were the one that was thankful, and he fell asleep with a smile on his face. Esca, who had declined an offer for his own room to go with his new status, went to drag a mattress across Marcus’ door and fell asleep to familiar snoring.
--
Not too soon afterward, certain long enough for Esca to put the offensive chariot incident out of his mind, Marcus began acting oddly again. At first, Esca had attributed the man’s actions to newfound pride and arrogance. After all, Marcus had taken to sneaking out of the house without letting anyone know. He began to depend more on his cane rather than Esca’s shoulder. The harder Esca tried to keep tabs on Marcus’ whereabouts, the harder the other man would work to make sure Esca failed. Eventually, he became fed up enough that he went to tend to the horses and ignored Marcus completely. His childish attempts at independence were not, technically, a life or death matter for Esca anymore.
That he was eternally worried about the other man was simply an annoyance, and Esca refused to let his overblown fears of Marcus’ untimely demise interfere with his day to day routine. Although it did, he realized in the middle of feeding the horses. His fears, irrational and entirely too specific, dogged him every step he took without knowing immediately where Marcus was, and if he had to spend another afternoon listlessly waiting for Marcus to return home like a submissive wife, he was pretty sure he would take a chain and collar to Marcus. While a great idea, Esca was fairly certain it was not a legal action, even for a freedman.
So, instead, he chose yet again to confront the man head on. Having moved his mattress strategically into place across the door again, Esca moved to help Marcus prepare for bed. The man was wincing, his leg obviously acting up. “You’ve put too much stress on it,” he scolded, feeling like a nagging housewife and utterly unrepentant about the fact.
“I have to exercise it regularly,” Marcus insisted, which was such a weak excuse, not even he seemed much committed to it.
“What would you do if you collapsed wherever you were without help? Without a way of sending for help?” For me, Esca thought, protective and territorial. Marcus was no longer his master, but he was still his all the same, and if that was a frightening thought, Esca simply put it away as unimportant in the current context.
“I was in the market. It would be difficult for people not to notice my collapsing,” Marcus rebuked.
“And what have you been doing in the market? Have you been going there every day?” Esca pushed, relishing the fact that he had finally gotten something out of the increasingly secretive man. Watching Marcus freeze was more satisfying than it should have been.
“I’ve been doing what everyone else does at the market,” Marcus hedged.
“Buying things, then? Well, I hope you’ve bought an entire house and a mistress, considering how much time you’ve spent there,” Esca shot back.
“I’m not the most decisive shopper,” Marcus reminded Esca, and the man had a point there. Marcus was a great fighter and a wonderful leader. He could make life or death decisions in a snap second and be right about them. Yet, when faced with a bazaar full of items, Marcus tended to think too much about his purchases and even spent time regretting a few after he brought them home. It always drove Esca crazy. Maybe then it was a good thing Marcus had not dragged Esca with him-not that he would ever accept that as an excuse.
“At least show me what you’ve bought-if you’ve actually bought something,” he challenged, and while the Roman was taller than him even with a limp in his leg, Esca had enough courage and entirely too much experience dealing with Marcus to be cowed by the man’s size.
He watched Marcus hesitate, stared solidly at his shifty eyes and fidgeting fingers, and kept track of the man’s frame as he moved through the room. From inside the polished chest that stored Marcus’ clothes, a small box was withdrawn. Esca jumped in surprise when Marcus thrust it out for him. He automatically accepted it with both hands, and then stared quizzically at the box as if he could not figure out what to do with it.
“It’s for you,” Marcus whispered quietly, as if he were attempting to call a spooked mare. Esca didn’t know whether to be insulted or warmed. He chose instead to take action, removing the cover from the box.
Inside lay a dagger, its sheath expertly worked, its blade finely honed. Esca withdrew it before putting the box aside, and he tested the balance and found it not at all wanting. It was a good, solid dagger.
“I thought you’d like a new one,” Marcus told him, still quiet. “The knife was easy to obtain, but finding a Briton craftsman to decorate the sheath took longer. He just finished it today.”
Esca understood the sentiment, really, but when he looked down at the dagger with its sheath, he could find no traces of Briton craftsmanship in it. Whether the crafter had been Briton or not hadn’t seemed to make a difference-the design was a mockery, a Roman appropriation of Celtic art. He stared at it and tried hard to find meaning in it, but the only emotion he could dredge up was sorrow that his people’s skill had degraded to this.
It was several long moments before Esca realized the room had gone completely silent, and when he glanced up at Marcus again, he almost burst out laughing at the pained look on the man’s face. Esca wanted to remind him to breathe but thought that might be too insulting. Instead, he said, “I like it,” and he stifled his laughter again when Marcus let out an explosive breath.
“That’s good,” Marcus agreed. “Just ‘like?’” he asked again, back to worrying.
“It’s very much something you would give me,” Esca replied, and part of that was a backhanded insult, because only a clueless, luckless Roman would give him such a poor imitation of Celtic work, but it also spoke to their intimacy. After all, only Marcus knew of Esca’s old knife, inherited from his father. Only Marcus knew that it had burned on that pyre, lost somewhere north of the wall. “I appreciate it.”
“Then, that is good,” Marcus repeated. He still looked nervous, but also a little happy. It was almost as if he were eager to please, and Esca thought there was another revelation there he should probably address.
He reached out and put his hand on Marcus’ face, and if his mind brought him briefly back to that cold, rainy forest, he embraced the reminder. “Really, Marcus. Thank you,” and he brushed his lips against Marcus’ because Romans seemed to like such gestures.
Marcus certainly seemed to, his eyes suddenly bright and very aware. He placed his own hand over Esca’s, as if unwilling to let him leave.
Their lips met a few more times that night, and possibly their tongues did as well, and while Esca thought the entire exercise very odd and much too Roman, he figured that not everything the conquerors brought with them had to be terrible.
--
Much too soon later, while Esca still remembered the knife and had recalled the chariot affair, Marcus began acting worse than ever. He sulked around the atrium, and he whittled with such a lack of enthusiasm that Esca wondered why he bothered to continue. It said something about their relationship now and the truly bad judgment he had cultivated that Esca was only half annoyed with Marcus’ stoicism and silence. Another part of him was worried, and yet a third was vaguely fond.
This really had to stop, and Esca resolved to confront Marcus yet again. Unfortunately, before he could do so, Marcus managed to find him and trap him inside the stable. “Your people don’t like to kiss, do they?” he asked, his misery painted obviously on his face.
Esca stood there, boggled by both the content and the audacity of the question before he managed to shake himself out of his surprise at Marcus’ sudden boldness. “We do not kiss as often as you do, no,” Esca answered honestly and watched as Marcus’ shoulders slumped further in dejection.
“Then, what happened a few nights ago-Esca, did you do that out of loyalty? A misplaced sense of duty?” Marcus asked, all pained accusation, and Esca could feel himself bristling in offense.
“No, Marcus, I do realize I am free now and do not have to submit to your whims,” he bit back but found no pleasure in Marcus’ flinch.
“Was I so bad a master?”
“… No, and perhaps it is unfair of me to paint you so,” Esca allowed. “Am I so bad a friend that you continue to think of me as a slave?”
“No! It’s not that! I’m just worried-you never forgot your status before you were free, and I don’t want you to think-” Marcus stumbled. “I’ve been trying very hard to do this properly, but I have so little experience with…”
“Stealth? Tact?” Esca guessed. “Basic social activities?”
“Courtship,” Marcus growled before instantly flushing a deep, embarrassing red at the outburst.
“… Courtship?” Esca repeated, unsure of whether to be offended or charmed, and that was becoming a frightening habit for them.
“Forget I said that,” Marcus pleaded.
“As a freedman, I no longer have to listen to you,” Esca reminded him pointedly, watching as Marcus pouted unhappily like a little child. “Maybe I am as dense as every other Roman living here,” he finally remarked.
“What?” Marcus asked.
“Nothing,” Esca quickly assured him. “Well, putting aside your utter inexperience with women and men alike, I will say this about your courting…”
Esca could see Marcus holding his breath, and he knew from the way his chest seemed to tighten around his heart and his pulse pounded in his ears that he should have known this long ago.
“It’s terrible, but it works,” he grudgingly admitted, and he worked hard not to swoon like a Roman maiden when Marcus grinned at him, so grateful and eager to share his love.
That, at least, Marcus did very well. He had very kissable lips and very possessive, roving hands, and while Esca felt he should be offended by the easy way Marcus manhandled him into an empty stall, he was really too busy admiring the feel of the other man’s body against his to nag Marcus any further. Not to mention Marcus was almost embarrassingly considerate. He took his time to strip Esca and fold his clothes, explored every bit of his body with a keen eye and ear for signs of Esca’s pleasure, and hesitated before each escalation as if he had suddenly realized he knew nothing about Celtic sexual mores and really needed to read more into it. It was a terrible time for self-realization, and Esca spent as much of their time together pulling at Marcus’ clothes and hair to get him to go faster as he did trying to hide his fawning over the man.
After the rush of heat and ecstasy and very enjoyable stickiness, Esca stared very hard at the ceiling and tried to ignore Marcus’ half-hearted nibbling at his ear. It was distracting, and he was trying to think.
“About what?” Marcus asked, his tongue now tracing the shell of Esca’s ear. His body seemed entirely too interested in Marcus’ actions so soon afterward.
“This entire time, you’ve been trying to be considerate,” Esca thought out loud, “honorable. You’ve been trying to offer me gifts to give me a little bit of my Briton life back, yes?”
“Among other things,” Marcus agreed, and now his hand was rubbing warm circles on Esca’s stomach, and he felt entirely at a disadvantage in this conversation. He leaned forward to kiss the dusting of freckles across Marcus’ shoulder, ignoring the other man’s protest at losing access to the front of Esca’s body.
“I know something very Celtic you could give me,” Esca whispered in Marcus’ ear.
“Anything,” Marcus promised, and again, Esca could feel his heart warm to Marcus’ earnestness, his heartfelt wish to make Esca happier.
“It’s good to know you so readily offer your virtue to me, Marcus. I will collect on it as soon as I feel capable of truly relishing it,” Esca mumbled, settling back down into the crook of Marcus’ arm for a well-earned nap.
The scandalized gasp when Marcus realized what exactly he meant simply made Esca grin wider.
The campaign began shortly after they returned from Hadrian’s Wall. Esca tried, when he was not being tormented by his amusement and confusion and emotions, to think of a kinder, more accurate word for Marcus’ actions. Yet, a campaign of invasion seemed to be the best metaphor he could draw. It was very much like being overrun, overwhelmed-as if he were a wave of his desperate tribesmen breaking against the shielded formation of the Romans. It was also about as badly planned as the Roman invasion, he thought wryly, and Marcus had always been too Roman for his own good.
After they had returned the eagle, Esca had asked Aquila for some work. He had still been considering his options as a freedman, and he had wanted some security while he decided on his next move. Aquila had given Marcus a very significant look-and that was another flaw of the Romans, too used to ignoring their slaves that they bared themselves like an open book before their captives-but agreed in the end to allow Esca to continue to help around the house and tend to the horses. His pay was in room, board, and a small amount of spending money. His main duty remained with Marcus, whose leg was now damaged beyond full recovery, and so life really hadn’t changed.
Or it wouldn’t have, if Marcus hadn’t begun to stare at him more often, for longer, with greater intensity. It unnerved him, and by the time Esca remembered he was a freedman who could demand an explanation from Marcus, the question came out like a biting scold. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” he snapped.
“Like what?” Marcus asked, but his eyes looked guilty for the brief moment Esca managed to meet them.
“Marcus, after everything we have been through together, are you really choosing now to lie to me? To distrust me?” he probed further, watching Marcus’ expression go from anxious and shy to openly offended.
“I trust you with my life!”
“Yet not with your curiosity?” Esca pushed, and he knew he had won when Marcus’ shoulders slumped, the fight officially gone out of him.
“You’re good with horses, aren’t you? You like tending to them,” Marcus began, and Esca nodded his reply, waiting for a more illuminating statement. “Do you like… chariots?” he finished after a pause, more nervous than Esca had ever seen him, and Esca had seen him at his most despondent.
Perhaps hope made people more desperate, he thought, and wondered what exactly Marcus was hoping for. “I do like chariots. I used to help drive my father’s,” Esca confirmed. “Horse riding and breeding, chariot driving-these things are in our blood.”
“Then… would you like to spend a day as a charioteer? I’ve met a man with an impressive team, and I would like to take them for a run. My leg being as it is; however, I doubt I could handle them,” and while Marcus’ head had hung down at the beginning of his request, he now looked up at Esca through his eyelashes, and Esca took a deep, calming breath at the sight. “Would you take me?” he asked, and Esca worked very hard to remember the context of the question.
“Yes,” he finally replied, and he looked away from Marcus’ too large grin and triumphant eyes so that he could hide the pleasure in his own expression.
--
The horses were impressive in every way, and Esca circled the team, constantly encouraging them with pats and praises. They responded happily to his Gàidhlig, as if it were familiar to them, as if it were in their blood. Esca glanced again, uneasily, at their Roman master and his very Roman chariot before turning again to look at Marcus. His old master was currently seated on a rock, watching Esca marvel at the horses.
“They’re of very good stock,” Esca commented lightly. It was the truth, but it was also bait. They were beautiful, strong and powerful, but they were smaller than the horses the Romans brought in.
“They’re direct descendents of the horses of the Iceni king,” Marcus told him, and Esca’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped.
To Marcus, and the horses’ Roman master, Esca most likely just looked surprised. A little too surprised, perhaps, and possibly a little joyful. In truth, he was horrified. They were Briton horses. Horses of his people, but there they were serving a Roman man, latched onto a Roman chariot, and fastened in the Roman fashion. Like his fellow enslaved Britons before, these horses had been taken from their home, their royal heritage, and been put to use by their conquerors. It was a gut wrenching comparison, too close for Esca to be comfortable.
Yet, Marcus was smiling, and Esca had no doubt the man thought he had done something good. After all, he was giving Esca a chance to be a charioteer again, to drive the horses from his country once more. It was a gift, and one that Marcus had obviously put thought into. The man looked so carefully joyful, and Esca looked pitifully at the horses. “If it were any other man, I’d tell him off for you,” he crooned to them in their shared language. “If I weren’t so sure of his good intentions, I would gut them both for your freedom.”
The horses neighed and threw their heads as if they thought he should do it anyway.
“He did this for me. Of course, being a Roman, he has done it all wrong, but…” Esca glanced over to where Marcus sat, still smiling at him, still watching, and with much less anxiety compared to the Roman horse tamer. He turned back to the horses. “I guess you’ll have to do with only one day at home. I’ll make it a great one,” he told them.
It was an effort to load Marcus onto the chariot, and because Roman chariots were so damnably small, he seemed to take up all the space. By halfway through the run, and Esca pushed the horses fast and hard through the fields and past the obstacles, Marcus was practically sprawled on top of Esca, trying to stay upright. He didn’t complain, simply shouldered the other man’s weight, and drove the horses harder. By the time they finished, the horses were breathing hard but kicked their legs with vigor. Esca praised them again in Gàidhlig before helping Marcus down.
“So, what did you think?” Marcus asked on their way back, anxious again, but with a wide smile on his face that made Esca realize the other man hadn’t been lying-Marcus had missed the chariot.
“They did their lineage proud,” he replied and kept carefully silent otherwise, letting Marcus think that was a good thing.
That night, as he helped Marcus into bed, Esca scolded him for pushing his leg so hard. “I guess that means no more chariot rides for me,” Marcus said, chagrined at his own shortcomings.
“You’ll always have the memory to savor,” Esca reminded him.
“I suppose,” Marcus agreed, but he seemed quietly miserable.
Esca, being less dense than all of the Romans walking around Calleva, could feel realization hitting him like a battering ram. “Marcus,” he said, placing his hand over the Roman’s, “thank you.” After all, despite the horrific comparison, Marcus had tried. Marcus had put thought into the gift, and Esca had enjoyed the run. Even worse, Esca felt somewhat charmed by Marcus’ misplaced efforts.
The change was instantaneous. Marcus accepted the gratitude with heartfelt words, as if he were the one that was thankful, and he fell asleep with a smile on his face. Esca, who had declined an offer for his own room to go with his new status, went to drag a mattress across Marcus’ door and fell asleep to familiar snoring.
--
Not too soon afterward, certain long enough for Esca to put the offensive chariot incident out of his mind, Marcus began acting oddly again. At first, Esca had attributed the man’s actions to newfound pride and arrogance. After all, Marcus had taken to sneaking out of the house without letting anyone know. He began to depend more on his cane rather than Esca’s shoulder. The harder Esca tried to keep tabs on Marcus’ whereabouts, the harder the other man would work to make sure Esca failed. Eventually, he became fed up enough that he went to tend to the horses and ignored Marcus completely. His childish attempts at independence were not, technically, a life or death matter for Esca anymore.
That he was eternally worried about the other man was simply an annoyance, and Esca refused to let his overblown fears of Marcus’ untimely demise interfere with his day to day routine. Although it did, he realized in the middle of feeding the horses. His fears, irrational and entirely too specific, dogged him every step he took without knowing immediately where Marcus was, and if he had to spend another afternoon listlessly waiting for Marcus to return home like a submissive wife, he was pretty sure he would take a chain and collar to Marcus. While a great idea, Esca was fairly certain it was not a legal action, even for a freedman.
So, instead, he chose yet again to confront the man head on. Having moved his mattress strategically into place across the door again, Esca moved to help Marcus prepare for bed. The man was wincing, his leg obviously acting up. “You’ve put too much stress on it,” he scolded, feeling like a nagging housewife and utterly unrepentant about the fact.
“I have to exercise it regularly,” Marcus insisted, which was such a weak excuse, not even he seemed much committed to it.
“What would you do if you collapsed wherever you were without help? Without a way of sending for help?” For me, Esca thought, protective and territorial. Marcus was no longer his master, but he was still his all the same, and if that was a frightening thought, Esca simply put it away as unimportant in the current context.
“I was in the market. It would be difficult for people not to notice my collapsing,” Marcus rebuked.
“And what have you been doing in the market? Have you been going there every day?” Esca pushed, relishing the fact that he had finally gotten something out of the increasingly secretive man. Watching Marcus freeze was more satisfying than it should have been.
“I’ve been doing what everyone else does at the market,” Marcus hedged.
“Buying things, then? Well, I hope you’ve bought an entire house and a mistress, considering how much time you’ve spent there,” Esca shot back.
“I’m not the most decisive shopper,” Marcus reminded Esca, and the man had a point there. Marcus was a great fighter and a wonderful leader. He could make life or death decisions in a snap second and be right about them. Yet, when faced with a bazaar full of items, Marcus tended to think too much about his purchases and even spent time regretting a few after he brought them home. It always drove Esca crazy. Maybe then it was a good thing Marcus had not dragged Esca with him-not that he would ever accept that as an excuse.
“At least show me what you’ve bought-if you’ve actually bought something,” he challenged, and while the Roman was taller than him even with a limp in his leg, Esca had enough courage and entirely too much experience dealing with Marcus to be cowed by the man’s size.
He watched Marcus hesitate, stared solidly at his shifty eyes and fidgeting fingers, and kept track of the man’s frame as he moved through the room. From inside the polished chest that stored Marcus’ clothes, a small box was withdrawn. Esca jumped in surprise when Marcus thrust it out for him. He automatically accepted it with both hands, and then stared quizzically at the box as if he could not figure out what to do with it.
“It’s for you,” Marcus whispered quietly, as if he were attempting to call a spooked mare. Esca didn’t know whether to be insulted or warmed. He chose instead to take action, removing the cover from the box.
Inside lay a dagger, its sheath expertly worked, its blade finely honed. Esca withdrew it before putting the box aside, and he tested the balance and found it not at all wanting. It was a good, solid dagger.
“I thought you’d like a new one,” Marcus told him, still quiet. “The knife was easy to obtain, but finding a Briton craftsman to decorate the sheath took longer. He just finished it today.”
Esca understood the sentiment, really, but when he looked down at the dagger with its sheath, he could find no traces of Briton craftsmanship in it. Whether the crafter had been Briton or not hadn’t seemed to make a difference-the design was a mockery, a Roman appropriation of Celtic art. He stared at it and tried hard to find meaning in it, but the only emotion he could dredge up was sorrow that his people’s skill had degraded to this.
It was several long moments before Esca realized the room had gone completely silent, and when he glanced up at Marcus again, he almost burst out laughing at the pained look on the man’s face. Esca wanted to remind him to breathe but thought that might be too insulting. Instead, he said, “I like it,” and he stifled his laughter again when Marcus let out an explosive breath.
“That’s good,” Marcus agreed. “Just ‘like?’” he asked again, back to worrying.
“It’s very much something you would give me,” Esca replied, and part of that was a backhanded insult, because only a clueless, luckless Roman would give him such a poor imitation of Celtic work, but it also spoke to their intimacy. After all, only Marcus knew of Esca’s old knife, inherited from his father. Only Marcus knew that it had burned on that pyre, lost somewhere north of the wall. “I appreciate it.”
“Then, that is good,” Marcus repeated. He still looked nervous, but also a little happy. It was almost as if he were eager to please, and Esca thought there was another revelation there he should probably address.
He reached out and put his hand on Marcus’ face, and if his mind brought him briefly back to that cold, rainy forest, he embraced the reminder. “Really, Marcus. Thank you,” and he brushed his lips against Marcus’ because Romans seemed to like such gestures.
Marcus certainly seemed to, his eyes suddenly bright and very aware. He placed his own hand over Esca’s, as if unwilling to let him leave.
Their lips met a few more times that night, and possibly their tongues did as well, and while Esca thought the entire exercise very odd and much too Roman, he figured that not everything the conquerors brought with them had to be terrible.
--
Much too soon later, while Esca still remembered the knife and had recalled the chariot affair, Marcus began acting worse than ever. He sulked around the atrium, and he whittled with such a lack of enthusiasm that Esca wondered why he bothered to continue. It said something about their relationship now and the truly bad judgment he had cultivated that Esca was only half annoyed with Marcus’ stoicism and silence. Another part of him was worried, and yet a third was vaguely fond.
This really had to stop, and Esca resolved to confront Marcus yet again. Unfortunately, before he could do so, Marcus managed to find him and trap him inside the stable. “Your people don’t like to kiss, do they?” he asked, his misery painted obviously on his face.
Esca stood there, boggled by both the content and the audacity of the question before he managed to shake himself out of his surprise at Marcus’ sudden boldness. “We do not kiss as often as you do, no,” Esca answered honestly and watched as Marcus’ shoulders slumped further in dejection.
“Then, what happened a few nights ago-Esca, did you do that out of loyalty? A misplaced sense of duty?” Marcus asked, all pained accusation, and Esca could feel himself bristling in offense.
“No, Marcus, I do realize I am free now and do not have to submit to your whims,” he bit back but found no pleasure in Marcus’ flinch.
“Was I so bad a master?”
“… No, and perhaps it is unfair of me to paint you so,” Esca allowed. “Am I so bad a friend that you continue to think of me as a slave?”
“No! It’s not that! I’m just worried-you never forgot your status before you were free, and I don’t want you to think-” Marcus stumbled. “I’ve been trying very hard to do this properly, but I have so little experience with…”
“Stealth? Tact?” Esca guessed. “Basic social activities?”
“Courtship,” Marcus growled before instantly flushing a deep, embarrassing red at the outburst.
“… Courtship?” Esca repeated, unsure of whether to be offended or charmed, and that was becoming a frightening habit for them.
“Forget I said that,” Marcus pleaded.
“As a freedman, I no longer have to listen to you,” Esca reminded him pointedly, watching as Marcus pouted unhappily like a little child. “Maybe I am as dense as every other Roman living here,” he finally remarked.
“What?” Marcus asked.
“Nothing,” Esca quickly assured him. “Well, putting aside your utter inexperience with women and men alike, I will say this about your courting…”
Esca could see Marcus holding his breath, and he knew from the way his chest seemed to tighten around his heart and his pulse pounded in his ears that he should have known this long ago.
“It’s terrible, but it works,” he grudgingly admitted, and he worked hard not to swoon like a Roman maiden when Marcus grinned at him, so grateful and eager to share his love.
That, at least, Marcus did very well. He had very kissable lips and very possessive, roving hands, and while Esca felt he should be offended by the easy way Marcus manhandled him into an empty stall, he was really too busy admiring the feel of the other man’s body against his to nag Marcus any further. Not to mention Marcus was almost embarrassingly considerate. He took his time to strip Esca and fold his clothes, explored every bit of his body with a keen eye and ear for signs of Esca’s pleasure, and hesitated before each escalation as if he had suddenly realized he knew nothing about Celtic sexual mores and really needed to read more into it. It was a terrible time for self-realization, and Esca spent as much of their time together pulling at Marcus’ clothes and hair to get him to go faster as he did trying to hide his fawning over the man.
After the rush of heat and ecstasy and very enjoyable stickiness, Esca stared very hard at the ceiling and tried to ignore Marcus’ half-hearted nibbling at his ear. It was distracting, and he was trying to think.
“About what?” Marcus asked, his tongue now tracing the shell of Esca’s ear. His body seemed entirely too interested in Marcus’ actions so soon afterward.
“This entire time, you’ve been trying to be considerate,” Esca thought out loud, “honorable. You’ve been trying to offer me gifts to give me a little bit of my Briton life back, yes?”
“Among other things,” Marcus agreed, and now his hand was rubbing warm circles on Esca’s stomach, and he felt entirely at a disadvantage in this conversation. He leaned forward to kiss the dusting of freckles across Marcus’ shoulder, ignoring the other man’s protest at losing access to the front of Esca’s body.
“I know something very Celtic you could give me,” Esca whispered in Marcus’ ear.
“Anything,” Marcus promised, and again, Esca could feel his heart warm to Marcus’ earnestness, his heartfelt wish to make Esca happier.
“It’s good to know you so readily offer your virtue to me, Marcus. I will collect on it as soon as I feel capable of truly relishing it,” Esca mumbled, settling back down into the crook of Marcus’ arm for a well-earned nap.
The scandalized gasp when Marcus realized what exactly he meant simply made Esca grin wider.