Chapter Text
Esca was talking to the girl again. The one who sold the British trinkets and protection charms, with the pretty red hair and crooked smile.
Marcus watched from under his lashes, his head bowed as he attempted to pick out the best leather from the stall next to hers.
Esca always spoke with her when they visited the market, whether their business took them near her booth or not. The past few visits, he had taken her flowers.
Marcus turned his back to their flirting, desperately trying to find something to take his mind off the way his heart ached in his chest and his stomach twisted.
Esca laughed behind him, light and easy, and Marcus found himself unable to stand there a moment longer. He knew from past experience that Esca would be a while and he had no desire to watch the courtship in progress.
He had known this day would come, deep in his heart. The life the two of them had carved out for themselves on their little farm was too good to last. Esca was a man, after all, with all the wants and desires of a healthy male. Of course he would one day want a wife and family.
And Marcus…
Marcus was a lamed ex-soldier who could barely stand some days, with perverted wants in his heart and no desire for a wife or children. Even as a youth, he had held little want for women or their company, preferring the hard bodies and masculine charms of the men he served with.
The Gods had been cruel in their kindness when they had brought Esca into his life. He had never been closer to another, and yet in some ways, so very far apart. He loved everything about Esca, from his smaller stature to his fiery spirit, how the other man challenged him and forced him to reconsider things which had been set as stone in his heart.
But Esca did not desire him, not as Marcus desired, and he had thought he could live with that, so long as he was able to be near him. Now Marcus realized how foolish he had been, and his heart pained him again.
Cupid must be using him for target practice this day, he decided, and gave up on looking at the leather. He slowly made his way down the row of stalls, nearly to the end of the street, to where a tall, dark skinned woman sold well-crafted and sturdy knives. He had purchased from her before, and always found her solemn, grave face comforting. She let her wares speak for themselves and did not attempt to trick her customers into buying.
“Roman,” she greeted, her voice deep and lilted, eyes glinting in recognition as he approached. Her shaved head bowed once as he neared.
“Hail,” Marcus replied, nodding back.
The woman regarded him for a moment, her eyes seeming to penetrate to the very depths of his soul, and something in her face seemed to soften.
“What do you seek today?” she asked, and though her words were blunt, there was kindness in her tone.
“A new knife for whittling. Mine unfortunately met a terrible end,” Marcus admitted, smiling ruefully as he recalled how the blade had snapped whilst carving the small figurine he planned to give his uncle.
“Poor knife,” she sighed, her lips turning slightly into a small smile, the first she had ever gifted Marcus with. “You are in luck, I think I have what you may need.”
She bent down, retrieving from under her table a plain wooden box. When she opened it, several small knives glinted up at him, the sheen on their blades attesting to their sharpness.
“They are beautiful,” Marcus murmured, bending closer to inspect them.
The blades curved elegantly, wood handles polished smooth. Marcus lifted one, testing the shape of it in his palm, and felt a rightness with its weight and balance.
“How much?” he asked, examining it for any defects, but the blade looked true.
“Ten denarii,” she answered, and Marcus nodded. It was more than he would have liked, but a good price.
He gave her the coins, their fingers touching briefly as he did so, and he was startled to realize it was the first time he had touched another besides Esca in more than a month. He tucked the thought away for later as he accepted the sheath and nodded at the fair trade.
He placed the new knife on his belt, liking the feel of its weight, and started to head back to Esca. Hopefully he would be ready to leave now, as Marcus’ leg was starting to ache.
He was several stalls away from the trinket seller when he spotted the two of them, standing side by side as they admired something at her booth, their heads bent close.
He watched them for a moment, undecided on what to do, when a loud shout and several screams off to his left had him turning, hand reaching automatically for his new knife.
A cart filled with produce was bearing down the center of the market, knocking into stalls and sending people screaming as they scrambled out of the way.
The cart was heading directly towards Esca.
The horses were scared, eyes rolling as they screamed and careened down the street. Marcus had faced such creatures before, in battle, and knew that to get in their way was certain death.
But Esca was trapped between the stalls and the horses, with little room to move out of the way.
He looked to his friend and saw him trying to shield the girl, pressing her as far back against the booth as he could, his body between her and the oncoming danger. Both would be killed unless something was done.
People were starting to panic, running past him and creating an even larger danger of being trampled or hurt, and on instinct he looked around for some kind of weapon. His knife would be no use in this situation.
The stall next to him collapsed as several men ran into it, trying to get out of the way, and he was knocked off balance to his knees by one of them as they scattered. The cart was almost upon them when he grabbed a long wooden pole, probably one of the booth supports, and managed to regain his feet.
Hoping his aim was as true as it had once been, he threw the pole as he would a spear, watching as it jammed the wheel and turned the cart from its course.
For a moment, Marcus was once more standing in Isca Dumnoniorum, Cradock’s lifeless body flying from the chariot as it aimed right for him.
He closed his eyes and breathed out, waiting for the pain he knew was coming as the cart bore down on him. Someone screamed his name, and suddenly he was standing alone as those around him scrambled away from the inevitable.
“So this is how I die,” he thought, for the second time in his life.
Agony, then blackness enveloped him.
***
He didn’t hurt. This was the first thing he knew as he became aware. He felt warm, and safe, and nothing, not even his leg, hurt.
He opened his eyes, confused, and found himself standing in a golden field, wheat thick and heavy on the stalk, reaching nearly to his waist. Sunlight streamed down around him, and the air was filled with the sounds of birds.
There was a large house off in the distance, a blend of Roman and British that reminded him of his and Esca’s own home, and for a moment there was a pang of loss in his chest.
Esca.
His friend would surely mourn him, but Marcus had already made certain that if anything befell him Esca would be taken care of, the land and the farm going to him in his will. Perhaps Esca would marry the trinket girl, and the house that Marcus had helped build would be filled with the sound of laughter and children.
Pushing the thought aside, for there was nothing he could do now, Marcus made his way towards the house in the distance, and in no time came to the door. He raised his hand to knock but it swung open before he could touch hand to wood.
“Come in, son. Let me take a look at you,” a voice called, deep and familiar. Marcus’ heart gave another lurch.
He made his way inside, surprised at how much light filled the room, and saw his father standing beside a laden table, looking the same as he had last seen him when he was but a young boy.
“Father?” Marcus asked, taking a hesitant step towards the other man, who held his arms open in welcome.
Marcus found himself embraced, warm arms wrapping around him and holding him close to a broad chest. His father had seemed a giant when he was young, but Marcus realized that as an adult, he was almost of a height with him. Tears came unbidden to his eyes, and he felt a hand smooth over his hair.
“Hello, son,” his father said softly, continuing to stroke his hair, as he had done when Marcus was small.
Marcus held his father tighter, letting the tears fall down his cheek, weeping for all that he had lost and all that would never be.
They held each other for a very long time, and only after Marcus had control of himself again did his father release him, stepping back and letting his eyes sweep over Marcus’ form.
Marcus did the same for his father, drinking in the clean-shaven face he had nearly forgotten, the strong hands which had carved the eagle he had held close to his breast for so long. The simple white tunic and sandals his father wore, and which Marcus realized he wore as well.
“What happens now?” Marcus asked, looking around himself for the first time since entering the house, taking in the smooth walls and clean floor, the table laden with food and the window which seemed to allow endless light.
“Now,” Flavius Aquila said, taking a step back, “We must talk.”
“Flavius! I want to see the lad who’s stolen my boy’s heart!”
The new voice came from outside, light and with a British accent that sounded so like Esca for a moment Marcus wondered if the runaway cart had taken him, as well. But then the words
registered, and Marcus had only a moment to take in their meaning before a man entered.
He was taller than Esca, though he had his slight, wiry build, and tattoos snaked down his arms and disappeared under his bright red tunic. His beard was full, but short, the red curls adding thickness to his pointed face, and his hair fell to his shoulders in soft waves.
Esca looked very much like him, and for several long minutes Marcus and the other man eyed each other.
“I see you have no patience, as always,” Flavius said dryly, moving to sit at the table. “Marcus, this is -”
“Cunoval, Clan Chieftain of the Brigantes, lord of five hundred spears. Father to Esca,” Cunoval finished for him, moving to stand in front of Marcus and eye him as though he were a prize horse.
He was nearly the same height as Marcus, but he seemed much larger, as though he were looming over the Roman.
“I can see why my son has given his heart to you,” Cunoval said softly, and some of the sternness left his face.
“I don’t - I think you must be mistaken,” Marcus said, trying to understand. Cunoval could not possibly mean what his words implied. Esca was courting a woman!
“You think I do not know my own son’s heart?” Cunoval demanded, and here was Esca’s quick temper, the sudden shift from gentle to harsh making Marcus dizzy.
“Cunoval,” Flavius warned, and though his tone was mild there was no mistaking the rebuke.
Esca’s father wiped a hand down his face, then stared at Marcus for a moment before motioning for him to sit.
“I think there are things you need to know, lad, before you go back,” he finally said.
“Go back?” Marcus asked, looking between the two men as his confusion grew. “Am I not dead?”
“No,” Flavius answered, at the same time as Cunoval said, “Nearly, but not quite.”
“You’re in the In Between, son,” Flavius explained, motioning for Marcus to join him on the bench. “Not dead, yet, but very near it.”
“You’re a stubborn one, I’ll give you that!” Cunoval agreed cheerfully, sitting opposite from them. “I can see why Esca likes you, he always did like the difficult ones.”
“Sir, Esca does not love me, not that way!” Marcus protested. “In fact, he has been courting a woman at the market, he would have -”
“That silly little girl?” Cunoval snapped, grimacing as though he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Oh, she’s pretty enough, but her head’s as empty as a bird’s nest in winter! Esca might like the sight of her, but she wouldn’t be able to keep up with him. He’s a smart lad, and spirited as well. Soft and helpless bores him easily, always has. When he was younger he always went after the ones who could challenge him.”
Cunoval eyed Marcus a moment, tilting his head. “His first love was Caratacus, one of my finest warriors. Much older than him, and a fierce fighter. Esca followed him about like a puppy until Caratacus married, and then he turned his eye to Luigsech, another of my warriors, and her much more receptive to him.”
Cunoval smiled warmly in remembrance.
“He - he never speaks of his past,” Marcus said softly, looking at the table and not his friend’s father.
“He’s told you more than he has any other.”
A hand, slim and calloused and pale as milk, touched Marcus’ jaw, bringing his face up so their eyes met. Cunoval’s gaze, grey and hard like the sword he once wielded, bore into him.
“The past is past. Your father and I were warriors, and each of us died fighting for what we believed and loved. But spilled blood is spilled blood, whether British or Roman, and our souls are at rest now.”
“Yes, Cunoval and I have spent many a night drinking as we watch over you two,” Flavius added, smirking just a bit at Marcus’ expression.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Marcus complained, looking from one man to the other.
“It’s not for you to understand, Marcus,” Flavius said softly, and squeezed his shoulder tightly before letting him go. “But, there are certain things you must know before you go back.”
“How are you so certain I will go back?” Marcus demanded, sudden anger rising hot within him at the presumption. “You said yourselves I’m not dead, but near it. Why do you think I will survive these wounds? For what? To be a lamed beggar, feeding on whatever scraps I can manage? I will not have Esca tethered to me again, I would rather die than impose myself on him like that!”
Marcus expected the men to take insult at his tone, wanted them to argue with him, to vent his frustrations and fears at them. But neither man reacted as he had expected.
Flavius simply stared at him fondly, and Cunoval let out a mighty laugh.
“Oh, you’re too stubborn to die,” Cunoval said happily, as though there was no doubt in his mind, and pointed his finger at him. “You survived a chariot dropping on you and pulled yourself back into fighting shape after wounds that would have killed a lesser man. And don’t you dare presume to think Esca would help you out of obligation. That boy loves you as fiercely as he has loved anything or anyone.”
“You keep saying that, yet he has given no indication that he loves me as anything other than a brother!” Marcus protested, standing in his agitation. “I tell you, he is nearly ready to propose to that trinket girl!”
“Because you’ve given him no sign he should do otherwise!” Cunoval roared, also standing. He slapped the table with both hands in his frustration. “By all the Gods, Flavius, I thought my son was stubborn, but yours has him beat! Gods help the goat that tries to butt heads with him!”
Flavius sighed, then rose as well, so all three men were stood around the table, and turned to Marcus with a stern expression.
“You have never been a coward, Marcus.” His father’s voice had lost whatever humor he may have had, his face as serious as Marcus could ever remember it being. “Face this battle as you have everything else in your life: with honor and kindness. Tell Esca how you feel, let him make up his own mind. You trust him with your life, now trust him with your heart.”
The room suddenly seemed to grow dim, as though a shadow had passed over the sun outside.
“It’s almost time,” Cunoval said, gazing out the window. “Take that stubbornness and put it to good use. Fight, Marcus, for you and my son. Show him why he loves you once more.”
“You don’t know what you ask,” Marcus whispered, his chest aching as though a great weight was upon him, stealing his breath.
“I know.” Cunoval’s voice was grave, and Marcus remembered that this man had slit his wife’s throat to spare her the horrors of defeat by Rome. “Go back, Marcus, and love my son. Love him as the ocean loves the salt.”
“It’s time,” Flavius murmured, and suddenly there was a great, wrenching pain in his side, as though a sword had been thrust through him.
“Be stubborn, Marcus,” Cunoval prompted, and raised a hand in farewell as the world blurred and turned to black once more.