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fadagaskiTitle: Absence Makes (1/10)
Author: Allocin
Fandom: The Eagle, movie!verse
Wordcount: 4690 (this chapter)
Rating: Adult
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Pairing: Marcus/Esca
Warnings: Graphic slash
Disclaimer: The Eagle belongs to Rosemary Sutcliff and/or Kevin Macdonald and/or Focus Films. No profit is made from this work of fiction and no infringement intended. Please don't sue.
Summary: The Roman Empire is rocked by a series of natural disasters. With explanations ranging from Jewish terrorism to supernatural interference, Marcus and Esca are tasked by the Emperor himself to uncover the truth. But will they succeed, when it seems they themselves are tearing apart at the seams?
One
Marcus was going to have serious words with Esca, once his freedman showed up again. Cena had been called – an obedient little Greek slave sent to his room with demure eyes and a, "The master would be honoured if you and your companion would join him" – and Marcus was struggling to fasten his sandals, running late to a lavish dinner the likes of which would have eluded him before their journey north. It was an honour for him, and for Esca.
His leg cramped again. Marcus gritted his teeth against the pain, knuckles clenching white around the leather straps in his hand. Breath gusting through his nose like a winded horse, it seemed to take forever for the spasm to pass. Carefully, Marcus eased his leg straight, and flexed his bare foot. This was intolerable. He could hear the other guests, dignitaries from across Britannia, murmuring with each other around the table, but there was no way Marcus could get his sandal on alone, and he was loathe to call for help from the household slaves.
It took a great deal of twisting, stretching, and cursing to wedge his foot in the sandal and tie the straps. Marcus was sweating and leaning heavily against the wall by the end. More than ever before, he hated this country for its fickle weather that could lay him so low. Upon their arrival yesterday, it had been gloriously sunny, as if summer had come early. Today, there was a chill damp in the air that seemed to sink into Marcus' bones.
He didn't think he could be more mortified than he felt when shuffling to his couch, all the other guests lounging already, their eyes boring into him. Auxilius, owner of a vital silver mine and host for the evening, lay at the head of the table. Governor Urbicus was also present, his severe face mildly softened by the pale light of this country. To his right was Molacus, son and heir to the largest herd of cattle in Britannia. Sabinus sat next to him, a partner in the tin mines to the south west. To the right of the couch set aside for Marcus was legate Ennius of the Second Legion Augusta. To the left was an empty couch, meant for Esca. Such power and influence, and Marcus had been invited to their table. Marcus was late to their table. He avoided their eyes as he settled with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Will your freedman not be joining us?" asked Auxilius, gesturing to the lavish spread. Every dish at the table was a testament to his wealth and generosity. Marcus smiled tightly at him.
"I thought it might be best that only citizens sit at this table, so I sent him on an errand," Marcus said, which was a complete lie. It had been an honour – a highly unusual one – for Auxilius to invite Esca also, and for Esca to disappear without permission or even an explanation would be considered a slap in the face.
"It's probably for the best," Molacus agreed, picking at a tray of oysters. "I have free Britons amongst my household, and they all bear a greedy look in their eyes."
"Oh, come now. If that were true, then why did you free them?" Sabinus protested, and so the argument descended. Marcus kept out of it, content to split his attention between his wine cup and the flare of agony in his leg. He might have enjoyed speaking to Urbicus or Ennius, but his cheeks still burned with the shame of his entry, and neither man seemed inclined to submit their thoughts to the conversation.
His mind drifted, of course, to Esca, and where his wayward freedman might have gone. Neither of them had visited Isca Dumnoniorum before, but while Marcus was still recovering from yesterday's journey – his leg playing merry hell on the three-day ride west from Calleva – Esca had been curious. He must have gone out whilst Marcus napped, an escape from the ever-present pain.
Hours passed, and cena dragged on. There was always a slave at Marcus' shoulder, ready to sweep away any bones he dropped or top up his cup when he gestured. Oil lamps were lit at the early onset of dark, and still Marcus' leg would not cease its restless twinging. When he thought no one was looking, he massaged it as best he could one-handed, digging his thumb viciously into the knotted muscle.
"Your leg troubles you?" Auxilius asked, loudly interrupting the talk of comparative slave prices.
"Just a little. I think we are due some bad weather soon," Marcus said through gritted teeth.
"My father used to be able to tell the turning of the seasons based on his old war wounds," Molacus said. Sabinus scoffed.
"I highly doubt he was so atuned." And they were off again.
"I can send for a healer, if you have need. Or a bath slave to give you a massage," Auxilius murmured, more discreetly this time, for which Marcus was grateful.
"No thank you," he declined with a shake of his head. "My freedman is familiar with this wound. He will tend to it upon his return."
"Where is your man? Surely an errand shouldn't take this long? Isca Dumnoniorum is not exacty a grand colonia!" He laughed at his own joke. Marcus flailed for an excuse for Esca's absence that was believable and wouldn't cause offence, but was saved by an almighty crack of thunder directly overhead that made everyone jump.
"Gods, that frightened me half to death!" Molacus exclaimed, hand over his heart.
"You are as easily startled as a woman," Sabinus taunted. Molacus' retort was drowned out by another rumble, reverberating beneath Marcus' ribcage.
"It's quite alright. These storms are perfectly normal," Auxilius reassured them.
"In Macedonia, perhaps, but not Britannia," Urbicus said, speaking for the first time at the meal. Marcus had to agree, and judging by the worried glances between the British slaves, unexpected storms in early spring were not an occurrence with which they were accustomed.
Overhead, the heavens opened, a sudden cacophony of noise against the red-tiled roof. Marcus heard the howl of the wind just before the doors blew in and snuffed the lamps out. In the darkness, the din was incredible. Marcus struggled from his couch, but could not orientate himself without sight or hearing. Lightning flashed through the door, illuminating for a split second the wild eyes of the slaves, Auxilius with his mouth open in speech, though Marcus could not hear a word.
A hand grabbed his wrist, and he was pulled away from the table. Another flash of lightning blinded him, the crack of thunder afterward ringing in his ears. Marcus' bad leg caught on a couch, and he went down against the cold marble floor with enough force to snap his teeth together. He tried to catch his breath, but the wind blew through so hard it swept all the air away.
The hand around his wrist was gone. Marcus lay alone on the floor. Rolling onto his back, he heard the roof tiles rip free, shattering like hundreds upon thousands of broken pots. The wind grew more fierce, carrying with it stinging rain and chunks of masonry. The table scraped over the marble, moved by the force of the wind only. Delicate plates shattered as they fell, but it was all swallowed up by the hiss of the rain.
More lightning flashed, this time directly overhead through a chink in the roof. Marcus crawled under the nearest couch, knocking his head in the dark but out of the way when heavy tiles shattered where he had been laying. The rain pounded down, spitting at his face.
Marcus couldn't hear anything over the roar of thunder and gale and rain. Debris whipped past his face, too fast to track. In the flash of lightning he could just make out a few people huddled in the corner, but was unable to tell who was who. His skin prickled against the cold wind, the puddle of water forming under and around him. Above, the hole in the roof grew bigger, like a hungry maw.
His heart skipped a beat when the couch skidded against the marble floor, and he grabbed hold of the legs. There was a bang, louder than even the wind. Half of the wall in front of him tumbled down, throwing plaster and stone into the air to be hurled by the wind. In the next flash of lightning, Marcus could see trees tumbling branch over root, and houses crumpling like papyrus in the face of such fury.
The couch skidded again, sliding Marcus further back. The wind tried to lift it, but Marcus held on as tight as he could. His legs hit the far wall just before the couch did. It felt like he was being crushed, the wind pressing him harder and harder into the ungiving stone. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, there was just the pressure on his chest and the solid oak legs under his fingers and the deafening noise as the storm raged and raged and raged.
It lasted hours. Marcus' arms ached with the strain of holding the couch down, and his body trembled with cold. It had seemed, for a brief time, that the storm had ended, but just as Marcus had mustered the strength to crawl out from under the couch, the rain returned with renewed vigour. Lightning crackled overhead almost without pause, and the growl of thunder rattled his teeth.
At least the constant force of the wind pressing him into the wall was gone. Marcus could breathe deeply, and watch in growing horror as the storm seemed to reverse itself, trees and houses and carts tumbling past in the opposite direction. He even thought he saw a bull, tossed about in the wind like wool. Marcus prayed that Esca was not out in that storm, that he had found shelter and would return to Marcus hale and whole.
Eventually, the wind died, and the rain lessened from stinging volley to steady downpour. Marcus could barely move, he was so cold. He cleared the area in front of his couch of accumulated debris – sharp pieces of tile, twigs and branches, chips of painted plaster – and wriggled out on his belly. It was fully dark. Marcus groped along the wall, tripping on ruined furniture and floating rubble until he accidentally kicked something that whimpered. He bent down, felt an arm, a shoulder, a face shrouded by long hair.
"Who are you?" he asked, not unkindly.
"Nessa," came the tremulous reply. He remembered her, the Greek slave girl who came to invite him to her master's table. Her skin was like ice when he gripped her arm, hauling her to her feet.
"The storm is passed," he said. "Let go your fear. We need light now. Fetch an oil lamp and a bow drill." She seemed to rally at his no-nonsense attitude, something he had cultured in his army years to great effect, and stumbled off into the dark. Marcus quickly lost sight of her.
With one hand on the wall, he picked his way further along, and came to another body. This one was not conscious, though by placing the back of his hand just above the mouth he could feel moist breath. He rolled the person onto their back so they wouldn't drown in the standing water, and moved on.
Nessa returned. He could hear her splashing through, grunting with the effort of shunting past overturned couches. "Over here," he called. She halted.
"Master?"
"Here, Nessa. Follow the sound of my voice." She did, and was soon standing next to him in the water.
"The lamps are all broken, but I found dry candles," she said.
"There is a couch to your left. It will be easier if you put them on there," Marcus said. When it sounded as though Nessa had done so, Marcus tried to kneel, but his leg buckled without warning and he grabbed at Nessa's arm to slow his fall. She was surprisingly strong, and did not topple immediately after him.
"Master? Are you injured?" she asked, voice pitched high with fright. He couldn't blame her, as he wouldn't want to be alone in this nightmare either. He wished Esca were with him.
"I'm fine," Marcus said, settling carefully on one leg, the other stretched out and useless. In the centre of the room the rain kept falling through the hole in the roof, but here in the corner it was still sheltered. Marcus hadn't lit a fire since before coming to Britannia, and much longer since he had done it in complete darkness. Still, when he picked up the bow drill, muscle memory took over and within a few minutes, one of the tallow candles was alight. Marcus used it to light a second, and handed it to Nessa. The orange glow cast strange shadows across her face. He could see a cut on her chin that had shed dribbles of blood down her neck, but as she didn't seem to have noticed, Marcus thought it wise not to mention it.
"Who has a light?" a voice called from the opposite corner. Marcus squinted, and could just see the shadow of a few bodies piled together.
"Nessa," he said, capturing her attention again. She looked at him with solemn eyes. "Check every body. If they are dead, leave them. If they are unconscious, make sure their faces are not in the water. If they are awake, make them comfortable. Do you understand?"
"Yes master," she said, nodding, and struggled to her feet to do his bidding. Marcus took a moment to breathe, bracing for the pain. If Esca were there, he wouldn't have had to give orders. Esca would have hoisted Marcus to his feet, and then gone to give what help he could.
He hoped Esca was alright.
Marcus and Nessa worked until the sky lightened, grey with backlit clouds. The rain stopped, at last, and the wind gentled. Despite the fickle support of his leg, Marcus hauled couches through the water, and – with Nessa's help – hoisted the great oak table off Sabinus and Molacus. The latter was unhurt but for a sprained shoulder, but Sabinus was unconscious; judging by the unnatural angle of his leg, it was probably a blessing.
Urbicus came to not long after Marcus had propped him against a wall, and despite the goose egg on his head, he was of great assistance in administering aid to the others. Ennius would not wake for all Nessa's prodding, and he was a big man, so they left him leaning against the rubble of the wall that had caved in. Auxilius, the host, was led by Nessa to one of the upright, but soaking wet, couches, where he sat in stunned silence. The slaves, too, floated around the villa with barely a sound. Marcus used what limited medical knowledge he could remember from the army to wrap cuts and scrapes, bandage sprained joints, and nick the lower lid of one poor slave whose black eye was intensely swollen and painful, so that the blood could drain away and vision return.
There were three dead. One unfortunate slave had been crushed under falling tiles, a nasty blow to the back of the head shattering bone. The other two had drowned, Marcus guessed after they were knocked unconscious. The household staff gathered around the bodies in the atrium with bowed heads and tears streaking their faces, though the silence persisted. It seemed to Marcus that the roar of the storm had sucked away all noise in the world afterward, and all that was left was the distant wash of waves against the shore.
"I'm going into the town to inspect the damage," Marcus told Urbicus, when he had done everything he could at the villa.
"I will go with you." Marcus might have argued, except one did not argue with the Governor of Britannia, and he would be glad of the company. He hoped Urbicus would not mind that Marcus was out to search for his wayward freedman.
Isca Dumnoniorum was a wreck. Sturdy Roman houses had been stripped of their signature red tiles. A great statue of the Divine Hadrian lay face down on the floor. There was a giant pine tree balanced precariously on the roof of the basilica. They had to step around the carcus of the bull Marcus had seen before, it's great belly speared by a branch as long and thick as Marcus' leg.
People began to emerge from the ruins, wearing identical expressions of shock. They, like Marcus, inspected what bodies had ended up in the road. He sighed with relief when each face was not Esca's, and he could move on to the next too-still body.
Marcus and Urbicus made a meandering circuit of the small town and ended up in the forum, where a crowd had gathered, the human instinct to reach out and know they were not alone driving them to flock together.
"Like lambs," Urbicus muttered, shaking his head. "Nothing will get done like this." With Marcus' shoulder as a support, Urbicus climbed atop the base where the Divine Hadrian statue had stood. The people turned to him with wide eyes. "I am Governor Urbicus!" he bellowed, a soldier's battlefield voice Marcus knew well. "People of Isca Dumnoniorum. The gods have vented their anger and moved on. Go back to your homes. Dig out those people who are trapped. Save what valuables and raw materials you can. Help your neighbours, for only together can we rebuild this great city."
The crowd murmured amongst each other, and then drifted away in groups, back to their homes as Urbicus told them. Marcus helped the Governor down, and they balanced unsteadily against each other.
"Marcus!"
He knew that voice. Turning, Marcus caught just a glimpse of Esca's relieved face before he was wrapped in a tight hug.
"Thank the gods," Esca murmured in his ear. Marcus gripped Esca just as firmly, almost giddy with the relief of Esca solid and warm in his arms, but he quickly became aware that Urbicus was right at his side, watching them. Clearing his throat, he pulled back, though he kept one hand on Esca's shoulder just in case he should try to disappear again.
"Where have you been?" he demanded, his fear making him angry now. "You should have been at the villa!"
"Are you alright?" Esca asked, ignoring Marcus' question. "You look like you lost a fight with that bull. What happened?"
"You could have died!" Marcus shouted, fingers twisting in Esca's tunic, and was gratified to see the flare of surprise in Esca's wide eyes. He shook him a little, to emphasise his point. "You could have died, and I wouldn't have known."
Esca stepped forward into Marcus' personal space. For a heart-stopping moment he wondered if Esca was going to kiss him, not as friends but as lovers, in the forum with everyone there, with Urbicus right there. But Esca placed a hand against Marcus' cheek, and pulled their foreheads together, and waited. Marcus breathed, smelt the rain and the bull and Esca, and let his fury fade as the storm had done.
"I'm here now," Esca said. Marcus nodded once, and Esca stepped back again.
"I take it this is Esca, the lost freedman," Urbicus said.
"Yes. Governor Urbicus, meet Esca. Esca, Governor Urbicus," Marcus said. He watched in bafflement as a shiver seemed to work up Esca's spine, and his face froze into a blank visage he hadn't seen in all the months since they had returned from Caledonia. Urbicus offered his arm in the usual shake. Esca stared at it, then at Urbicus, before slowly extending his own arm. He seemed to be in a trance, only his arm moving mechanically. Urbicus nodded once, business-like and oblivious, and shifted his attention to Marcus.
"I will return to the villa to offer what assistance I can," he said, and walked off, weaving down the road between tree trunks and overturned carts.
"What was that all about?" Marcus demanded of Esca as soon as Urbicus was out of earshot. Esca did not answer, too busy watching the governor leave. "Esca!" Blue eyes snapped to his. "You have shamed me. You refused a personal invitation to dine at Auxilius' table. You just insulted Governor Urbicus. You were overly familiar with me in a public place. What do you have to say for yourself?"
Esca glared at him. "I would not eat with the murderer of the Brigantes if you beat me bloody!" he growled. Marcus blinked at him.
"What?"
"Who do you think ordered the attacks on my people? Who do you think led the legions?" Esca spit on the floor in disgust. Marcus swallowed against the guilt that threatened to rise up in him. It was often this way with Esca; he could understand how he felt the way he did, but the Roman in him couldn't condone it. If only Esca had said something – but then, Esca would not be Esca if he revealed half of what he was thinking. Sighing, Marcus let the matter drop.
"Come," he said instead. "We will pack what little hasn't been destroyed and leave these poor souls to it." It looked like Esca might argue more, but at Marcus' gentle tug his limbs unlocked, anger draining away, and he accompanied Marcus without complaint.
In the full light, the damage to the villa was horrifying. Marcus was amazed only three people had died. The south-facing walls had all collapsed, and there was very little roof left to speak of. Not a tree was standing in the sprawling garden. The slaves had begun sorting out the furniture into two piles: salvagable, and scrap. As they entered the atrium, he spotted Nessa moving around makeshift beds where the injured had been placed. She nodded in greeting to him as they passed.
The room set aside for Marcus and Esca was mostly undamaged, though rainwater had flooded in to soak Esca's unused pallet. Once within its privacy, Marcus reached for Esca and was grabbed in return, and they kissed open-mouthed and messy. Threading his fingers through Esca's hair, he tilted Esca's head back so he could delve deeper, tongue dominating Esca's in a dance that sent shivers down to his toes. His lips travelled away, along Esca's jaw and down his neck, nipping with angry teeth.
"Marcus!" Esca gasped, gripping at Marcus' sodden tunic, pulling him closer.
"Don't do that again," he growled against Esca's throat, and bit down hard.
"Gods!" Esca cried, hands scrabbling at Marcus' clothing, hips thrusting up to rub his cock against Marcus' thigh. Marcus urged him backwards, mouth still sucking bruises in a trail up Esca's throat, until the backs of his legs met the bed and they tumbled down. Esca writhed, his legs wrapping around Marcus' waist, his whole body undulating beneath him.
Normally Marcus liked to go slow, slower than Esca perhaps wanted him to, but he was angry now, angry that he had been frightened before, because Esca had been missing and he could have been dead and Marcus wouldn't have known. It made him grit his teeth and bear down, their cocks rubbing against each other through wool with painful friction.
"Marcus, gods, do something," Esca babbled, hands pulling up Marcus' tunic to scratch and claw at the skin beneath. Marcus spat in his palm, leaned on one elbow, and shoved his hand down the front of Esca's braccae to grasp his cock, hot and leaking. "Yes!"
"You're not allowed to disappear like that," Marcus said as he pumped. His grip was too hard, and there wasn't enough space to move his hand properly, but Esca thrust up all the same, his fingers like talons leaving red welts on Marcus' back. "Not ever. Do you understand?"
"Ah, Marcus –" Esca choked, his thrusts frantic, and he came when Marcus twisted his too-tight grip over the head, capturing Esca's seed in his hand. He kissed Esca again, worried at his lower lip until it was pulsing and swollen, and stole the breath panting from his lungs.
Slowly their kisses gentled, until Esca was boneless against the mattress. Marcus rolled onto his side to give his arm a much needed break, wiping his hand on his ruined tunic in a white smear. Esca turned his head to look at him, cheeks flushed and lips red with kisses.
"It is Imbolc," Esca said, still a bit breathless. At Marcus' puzzled look, he elaborated: "The first day of spring. It is a holy day for my people. We give thanks to the goddess Brigantia, and pray for a good year."
"Were you always planning on attending this festival?" Marcus asked at length.
"No. I came across it by accident, and it reminded me ..." Esca trailed off, eyes distant and shadowed as they always were at thoughts of the past. Marcus didn't know what to say; he was still annoyed that Esca had embarrassed him in front of such influential people, but the rage had passed, and left him feeling tired and empty.
"We need to pack our things," he said, and sat up.
"Wait, wait." Esca lifted himself also, and gave a pointed look at the tent in Marcus' lap. "Surely you want that seeing to?"
"I'm fine," Marcus muttered. Mostly, he was exhausted, a stressful, sleepless night coupled with hard physical labour, and the pall of fear for Esca hanging over it all.
A hand landed on his shoulder, kneading at the tight muscle there. He shivered when fingers ghosted over the back of his neck. They returned, pressing harder, until Marcus moaned aloud. Esca shifted to kneel behind him, bringing both hands to bear on Marcus' slumped shoulders. They dug into stubborn knots, smoothing away the tension Marcus carried there, until he was leaning back against Esca, too boneless to care.
Esca wrapped his arms around Marcus' broad shoulders, his pointed chin digging into his collarbone. Marcus let his head fall back. He almost didn't notice Esca's creeping hands until they were undoing the ties to his braccae, peeling the wool back until his cock sprang free.
"There now," he said, and wrapped one callused hand around the base. Marcus made a choked sound deep in his throat, his hips thrusting up of their own volition. They both watched as clear liquid dribbled down his shaft, slicking Esca's fingers. Esca pumped once, twice, smearing precome over Marcus' hot flesh. He thrust up again into Esca's slightly loose grip.
"Don't tease," he said, voice like gravel with exhaustion and lust.
"I won't," Esca said. True to his word, his fingers tightened, sliding over Marcus' cock from root to head. Every other thrust Esca's calluses caught against the sensitive head of Marcus' dick. His other hand cradled Marcus' balls, rolling the sack across his fingers, then pressing into the soft skin behind.
"Ah! Esca!" Marcus cried out, his hips lifting erratically as Esca's hand moved.
"Hush," Esca urged, and added a twist to every stroke that had Marcus writhing against him. "Gods, Marcus," Esca murmured in his ear, "seeing you like this – do you have any idea what you look like?" Marcus didn't want to imagine; he could barely focus on breathing with his cock straining for extra friction, every part of him fixed on Esca's rough hands and the magic they worked.
"I'm close," he gasped.
"Come then." Esca slid his thumb through the slit at the head of Marcus' cock on the next stroke, and that was it – Marcus came like thunder, his hoarse cry swallowed in Esca's kiss as his orgasm pulsed over his braccae and tunic and Esca's hand.
Marcus drifted in the afterglow, his cock cradled by Esca even as it softened. When they were together like this, nothing between them but shared warmth, Marcus was at his most content. He sighed softly, and let his full weight lean against Esca, knowing that Esca would bear it.
Tiny A/N is tiny: if you should spot any errors (grammatical, historical, otherwise -ical) please let me know so I can correct it!
Author: Allocin
Fandom: The Eagle, movie!verse
Wordcount: 4690 (this chapter)
Rating: Adult
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Pairing: Marcus/Esca
Warnings: Graphic slash
Disclaimer: The Eagle belongs to Rosemary Sutcliff and/or Kevin Macdonald and/or Focus Films. No profit is made from this work of fiction and no infringement intended. Please don't sue.
Summary: The Roman Empire is rocked by a series of natural disasters. With explanations ranging from Jewish terrorism to supernatural interference, Marcus and Esca are tasked by the Emperor himself to uncover the truth. But will they succeed, when it seems they themselves are tearing apart at the seams?
One
Marcus was going to have serious words with Esca, once his freedman showed up again. Cena had been called – an obedient little Greek slave sent to his room with demure eyes and a, "The master would be honoured if you and your companion would join him" – and Marcus was struggling to fasten his sandals, running late to a lavish dinner the likes of which would have eluded him before their journey north. It was an honour for him, and for Esca.
His leg cramped again. Marcus gritted his teeth against the pain, knuckles clenching white around the leather straps in his hand. Breath gusting through his nose like a winded horse, it seemed to take forever for the spasm to pass. Carefully, Marcus eased his leg straight, and flexed his bare foot. This was intolerable. He could hear the other guests, dignitaries from across Britannia, murmuring with each other around the table, but there was no way Marcus could get his sandal on alone, and he was loathe to call for help from the household slaves.
It took a great deal of twisting, stretching, and cursing to wedge his foot in the sandal and tie the straps. Marcus was sweating and leaning heavily against the wall by the end. More than ever before, he hated this country for its fickle weather that could lay him so low. Upon their arrival yesterday, it had been gloriously sunny, as if summer had come early. Today, there was a chill damp in the air that seemed to sink into Marcus' bones.
He didn't think he could be more mortified than he felt when shuffling to his couch, all the other guests lounging already, their eyes boring into him. Auxilius, owner of a vital silver mine and host for the evening, lay at the head of the table. Governor Urbicus was also present, his severe face mildly softened by the pale light of this country. To his right was Molacus, son and heir to the largest herd of cattle in Britannia. Sabinus sat next to him, a partner in the tin mines to the south west. To the right of the couch set aside for Marcus was legate Ennius of the Second Legion Augusta. To the left was an empty couch, meant for Esca. Such power and influence, and Marcus had been invited to their table. Marcus was late to their table. He avoided their eyes as he settled with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Will your freedman not be joining us?" asked Auxilius, gesturing to the lavish spread. Every dish at the table was a testament to his wealth and generosity. Marcus smiled tightly at him.
"I thought it might be best that only citizens sit at this table, so I sent him on an errand," Marcus said, which was a complete lie. It had been an honour – a highly unusual one – for Auxilius to invite Esca also, and for Esca to disappear without permission or even an explanation would be considered a slap in the face.
"It's probably for the best," Molacus agreed, picking at a tray of oysters. "I have free Britons amongst my household, and they all bear a greedy look in their eyes."
"Oh, come now. If that were true, then why did you free them?" Sabinus protested, and so the argument descended. Marcus kept out of it, content to split his attention between his wine cup and the flare of agony in his leg. He might have enjoyed speaking to Urbicus or Ennius, but his cheeks still burned with the shame of his entry, and neither man seemed inclined to submit their thoughts to the conversation.
His mind drifted, of course, to Esca, and where his wayward freedman might have gone. Neither of them had visited Isca Dumnoniorum before, but while Marcus was still recovering from yesterday's journey – his leg playing merry hell on the three-day ride west from Calleva – Esca had been curious. He must have gone out whilst Marcus napped, an escape from the ever-present pain.
Hours passed, and cena dragged on. There was always a slave at Marcus' shoulder, ready to sweep away any bones he dropped or top up his cup when he gestured. Oil lamps were lit at the early onset of dark, and still Marcus' leg would not cease its restless twinging. When he thought no one was looking, he massaged it as best he could one-handed, digging his thumb viciously into the knotted muscle.
"Your leg troubles you?" Auxilius asked, loudly interrupting the talk of comparative slave prices.
"Just a little. I think we are due some bad weather soon," Marcus said through gritted teeth.
"My father used to be able to tell the turning of the seasons based on his old war wounds," Molacus said. Sabinus scoffed.
"I highly doubt he was so atuned." And they were off again.
"I can send for a healer, if you have need. Or a bath slave to give you a massage," Auxilius murmured, more discreetly this time, for which Marcus was grateful.
"No thank you," he declined with a shake of his head. "My freedman is familiar with this wound. He will tend to it upon his return."
"Where is your man? Surely an errand shouldn't take this long? Isca Dumnoniorum is not exacty a grand colonia!" He laughed at his own joke. Marcus flailed for an excuse for Esca's absence that was believable and wouldn't cause offence, but was saved by an almighty crack of thunder directly overhead that made everyone jump.
"Gods, that frightened me half to death!" Molacus exclaimed, hand over his heart.
"You are as easily startled as a woman," Sabinus taunted. Molacus' retort was drowned out by another rumble, reverberating beneath Marcus' ribcage.
"It's quite alright. These storms are perfectly normal," Auxilius reassured them.
"In Macedonia, perhaps, but not Britannia," Urbicus said, speaking for the first time at the meal. Marcus had to agree, and judging by the worried glances between the British slaves, unexpected storms in early spring were not an occurrence with which they were accustomed.
Overhead, the heavens opened, a sudden cacophony of noise against the red-tiled roof. Marcus heard the howl of the wind just before the doors blew in and snuffed the lamps out. In the darkness, the din was incredible. Marcus struggled from his couch, but could not orientate himself without sight or hearing. Lightning flashed through the door, illuminating for a split second the wild eyes of the slaves, Auxilius with his mouth open in speech, though Marcus could not hear a word.
A hand grabbed his wrist, and he was pulled away from the table. Another flash of lightning blinded him, the crack of thunder afterward ringing in his ears. Marcus' bad leg caught on a couch, and he went down against the cold marble floor with enough force to snap his teeth together. He tried to catch his breath, but the wind blew through so hard it swept all the air away.
The hand around his wrist was gone. Marcus lay alone on the floor. Rolling onto his back, he heard the roof tiles rip free, shattering like hundreds upon thousands of broken pots. The wind grew more fierce, carrying with it stinging rain and chunks of masonry. The table scraped over the marble, moved by the force of the wind only. Delicate plates shattered as they fell, but it was all swallowed up by the hiss of the rain.
More lightning flashed, this time directly overhead through a chink in the roof. Marcus crawled under the nearest couch, knocking his head in the dark but out of the way when heavy tiles shattered where he had been laying. The rain pounded down, spitting at his face.
Marcus couldn't hear anything over the roar of thunder and gale and rain. Debris whipped past his face, too fast to track. In the flash of lightning he could just make out a few people huddled in the corner, but was unable to tell who was who. His skin prickled against the cold wind, the puddle of water forming under and around him. Above, the hole in the roof grew bigger, like a hungry maw.
His heart skipped a beat when the couch skidded against the marble floor, and he grabbed hold of the legs. There was a bang, louder than even the wind. Half of the wall in front of him tumbled down, throwing plaster and stone into the air to be hurled by the wind. In the next flash of lightning, Marcus could see trees tumbling branch over root, and houses crumpling like papyrus in the face of such fury.
The couch skidded again, sliding Marcus further back. The wind tried to lift it, but Marcus held on as tight as he could. His legs hit the far wall just before the couch did. It felt like he was being crushed, the wind pressing him harder and harder into the ungiving stone. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, there was just the pressure on his chest and the solid oak legs under his fingers and the deafening noise as the storm raged and raged and raged.
It lasted hours. Marcus' arms ached with the strain of holding the couch down, and his body trembled with cold. It had seemed, for a brief time, that the storm had ended, but just as Marcus had mustered the strength to crawl out from under the couch, the rain returned with renewed vigour. Lightning crackled overhead almost without pause, and the growl of thunder rattled his teeth.
At least the constant force of the wind pressing him into the wall was gone. Marcus could breathe deeply, and watch in growing horror as the storm seemed to reverse itself, trees and houses and carts tumbling past in the opposite direction. He even thought he saw a bull, tossed about in the wind like wool. Marcus prayed that Esca was not out in that storm, that he had found shelter and would return to Marcus hale and whole.
Eventually, the wind died, and the rain lessened from stinging volley to steady downpour. Marcus could barely move, he was so cold. He cleared the area in front of his couch of accumulated debris – sharp pieces of tile, twigs and branches, chips of painted plaster – and wriggled out on his belly. It was fully dark. Marcus groped along the wall, tripping on ruined furniture and floating rubble until he accidentally kicked something that whimpered. He bent down, felt an arm, a shoulder, a face shrouded by long hair.
"Who are you?" he asked, not unkindly.
"Nessa," came the tremulous reply. He remembered her, the Greek slave girl who came to invite him to her master's table. Her skin was like ice when he gripped her arm, hauling her to her feet.
"The storm is passed," he said. "Let go your fear. We need light now. Fetch an oil lamp and a bow drill." She seemed to rally at his no-nonsense attitude, something he had cultured in his army years to great effect, and stumbled off into the dark. Marcus quickly lost sight of her.
With one hand on the wall, he picked his way further along, and came to another body. This one was not conscious, though by placing the back of his hand just above the mouth he could feel moist breath. He rolled the person onto their back so they wouldn't drown in the standing water, and moved on.
Nessa returned. He could hear her splashing through, grunting with the effort of shunting past overturned couches. "Over here," he called. She halted.
"Master?"
"Here, Nessa. Follow the sound of my voice." She did, and was soon standing next to him in the water.
"The lamps are all broken, but I found dry candles," she said.
"There is a couch to your left. It will be easier if you put them on there," Marcus said. When it sounded as though Nessa had done so, Marcus tried to kneel, but his leg buckled without warning and he grabbed at Nessa's arm to slow his fall. She was surprisingly strong, and did not topple immediately after him.
"Master? Are you injured?" she asked, voice pitched high with fright. He couldn't blame her, as he wouldn't want to be alone in this nightmare either. He wished Esca were with him.
"I'm fine," Marcus said, settling carefully on one leg, the other stretched out and useless. In the centre of the room the rain kept falling through the hole in the roof, but here in the corner it was still sheltered. Marcus hadn't lit a fire since before coming to Britannia, and much longer since he had done it in complete darkness. Still, when he picked up the bow drill, muscle memory took over and within a few minutes, one of the tallow candles was alight. Marcus used it to light a second, and handed it to Nessa. The orange glow cast strange shadows across her face. He could see a cut on her chin that had shed dribbles of blood down her neck, but as she didn't seem to have noticed, Marcus thought it wise not to mention it.
"Who has a light?" a voice called from the opposite corner. Marcus squinted, and could just see the shadow of a few bodies piled together.
"Nessa," he said, capturing her attention again. She looked at him with solemn eyes. "Check every body. If they are dead, leave them. If they are unconscious, make sure their faces are not in the water. If they are awake, make them comfortable. Do you understand?"
"Yes master," she said, nodding, and struggled to her feet to do his bidding. Marcus took a moment to breathe, bracing for the pain. If Esca were there, he wouldn't have had to give orders. Esca would have hoisted Marcus to his feet, and then gone to give what help he could.
He hoped Esca was alright.
Marcus and Nessa worked until the sky lightened, grey with backlit clouds. The rain stopped, at last, and the wind gentled. Despite the fickle support of his leg, Marcus hauled couches through the water, and – with Nessa's help – hoisted the great oak table off Sabinus and Molacus. The latter was unhurt but for a sprained shoulder, but Sabinus was unconscious; judging by the unnatural angle of his leg, it was probably a blessing.
Urbicus came to not long after Marcus had propped him against a wall, and despite the goose egg on his head, he was of great assistance in administering aid to the others. Ennius would not wake for all Nessa's prodding, and he was a big man, so they left him leaning against the rubble of the wall that had caved in. Auxilius, the host, was led by Nessa to one of the upright, but soaking wet, couches, where he sat in stunned silence. The slaves, too, floated around the villa with barely a sound. Marcus used what limited medical knowledge he could remember from the army to wrap cuts and scrapes, bandage sprained joints, and nick the lower lid of one poor slave whose black eye was intensely swollen and painful, so that the blood could drain away and vision return.
There were three dead. One unfortunate slave had been crushed under falling tiles, a nasty blow to the back of the head shattering bone. The other two had drowned, Marcus guessed after they were knocked unconscious. The household staff gathered around the bodies in the atrium with bowed heads and tears streaking their faces, though the silence persisted. It seemed to Marcus that the roar of the storm had sucked away all noise in the world afterward, and all that was left was the distant wash of waves against the shore.
"I'm going into the town to inspect the damage," Marcus told Urbicus, when he had done everything he could at the villa.
"I will go with you." Marcus might have argued, except one did not argue with the Governor of Britannia, and he would be glad of the company. He hoped Urbicus would not mind that Marcus was out to search for his wayward freedman.
Isca Dumnoniorum was a wreck. Sturdy Roman houses had been stripped of their signature red tiles. A great statue of the Divine Hadrian lay face down on the floor. There was a giant pine tree balanced precariously on the roof of the basilica. They had to step around the carcus of the bull Marcus had seen before, it's great belly speared by a branch as long and thick as Marcus' leg.
People began to emerge from the ruins, wearing identical expressions of shock. They, like Marcus, inspected what bodies had ended up in the road. He sighed with relief when each face was not Esca's, and he could move on to the next too-still body.
Marcus and Urbicus made a meandering circuit of the small town and ended up in the forum, where a crowd had gathered, the human instinct to reach out and know they were not alone driving them to flock together.
"Like lambs," Urbicus muttered, shaking his head. "Nothing will get done like this." With Marcus' shoulder as a support, Urbicus climbed atop the base where the Divine Hadrian statue had stood. The people turned to him with wide eyes. "I am Governor Urbicus!" he bellowed, a soldier's battlefield voice Marcus knew well. "People of Isca Dumnoniorum. The gods have vented their anger and moved on. Go back to your homes. Dig out those people who are trapped. Save what valuables and raw materials you can. Help your neighbours, for only together can we rebuild this great city."
The crowd murmured amongst each other, and then drifted away in groups, back to their homes as Urbicus told them. Marcus helped the Governor down, and they balanced unsteadily against each other.
"Marcus!"
He knew that voice. Turning, Marcus caught just a glimpse of Esca's relieved face before he was wrapped in a tight hug.
"Thank the gods," Esca murmured in his ear. Marcus gripped Esca just as firmly, almost giddy with the relief of Esca solid and warm in his arms, but he quickly became aware that Urbicus was right at his side, watching them. Clearing his throat, he pulled back, though he kept one hand on Esca's shoulder just in case he should try to disappear again.
"Where have you been?" he demanded, his fear making him angry now. "You should have been at the villa!"
"Are you alright?" Esca asked, ignoring Marcus' question. "You look like you lost a fight with that bull. What happened?"
"You could have died!" Marcus shouted, fingers twisting in Esca's tunic, and was gratified to see the flare of surprise in Esca's wide eyes. He shook him a little, to emphasise his point. "You could have died, and I wouldn't have known."
Esca stepped forward into Marcus' personal space. For a heart-stopping moment he wondered if Esca was going to kiss him, not as friends but as lovers, in the forum with everyone there, with Urbicus right there. But Esca placed a hand against Marcus' cheek, and pulled their foreheads together, and waited. Marcus breathed, smelt the rain and the bull and Esca, and let his fury fade as the storm had done.
"I'm here now," Esca said. Marcus nodded once, and Esca stepped back again.
"I take it this is Esca, the lost freedman," Urbicus said.
"Yes. Governor Urbicus, meet Esca. Esca, Governor Urbicus," Marcus said. He watched in bafflement as a shiver seemed to work up Esca's spine, and his face froze into a blank visage he hadn't seen in all the months since they had returned from Caledonia. Urbicus offered his arm in the usual shake. Esca stared at it, then at Urbicus, before slowly extending his own arm. He seemed to be in a trance, only his arm moving mechanically. Urbicus nodded once, business-like and oblivious, and shifted his attention to Marcus.
"I will return to the villa to offer what assistance I can," he said, and walked off, weaving down the road between tree trunks and overturned carts.
"What was that all about?" Marcus demanded of Esca as soon as Urbicus was out of earshot. Esca did not answer, too busy watching the governor leave. "Esca!" Blue eyes snapped to his. "You have shamed me. You refused a personal invitation to dine at Auxilius' table. You just insulted Governor Urbicus. You were overly familiar with me in a public place. What do you have to say for yourself?"
Esca glared at him. "I would not eat with the murderer of the Brigantes if you beat me bloody!" he growled. Marcus blinked at him.
"What?"
"Who do you think ordered the attacks on my people? Who do you think led the legions?" Esca spit on the floor in disgust. Marcus swallowed against the guilt that threatened to rise up in him. It was often this way with Esca; he could understand how he felt the way he did, but the Roman in him couldn't condone it. If only Esca had said something – but then, Esca would not be Esca if he revealed half of what he was thinking. Sighing, Marcus let the matter drop.
"Come," he said instead. "We will pack what little hasn't been destroyed and leave these poor souls to it." It looked like Esca might argue more, but at Marcus' gentle tug his limbs unlocked, anger draining away, and he accompanied Marcus without complaint.
In the full light, the damage to the villa was horrifying. Marcus was amazed only three people had died. The south-facing walls had all collapsed, and there was very little roof left to speak of. Not a tree was standing in the sprawling garden. The slaves had begun sorting out the furniture into two piles: salvagable, and scrap. As they entered the atrium, he spotted Nessa moving around makeshift beds where the injured had been placed. She nodded in greeting to him as they passed.
The room set aside for Marcus and Esca was mostly undamaged, though rainwater had flooded in to soak Esca's unused pallet. Once within its privacy, Marcus reached for Esca and was grabbed in return, and they kissed open-mouthed and messy. Threading his fingers through Esca's hair, he tilted Esca's head back so he could delve deeper, tongue dominating Esca's in a dance that sent shivers down to his toes. His lips travelled away, along Esca's jaw and down his neck, nipping with angry teeth.
"Marcus!" Esca gasped, gripping at Marcus' sodden tunic, pulling him closer.
"Don't do that again," he growled against Esca's throat, and bit down hard.
"Gods!" Esca cried, hands scrabbling at Marcus' clothing, hips thrusting up to rub his cock against Marcus' thigh. Marcus urged him backwards, mouth still sucking bruises in a trail up Esca's throat, until the backs of his legs met the bed and they tumbled down. Esca writhed, his legs wrapping around Marcus' waist, his whole body undulating beneath him.
Normally Marcus liked to go slow, slower than Esca perhaps wanted him to, but he was angry now, angry that he had been frightened before, because Esca had been missing and he could have been dead and Marcus wouldn't have known. It made him grit his teeth and bear down, their cocks rubbing against each other through wool with painful friction.
"Marcus, gods, do something," Esca babbled, hands pulling up Marcus' tunic to scratch and claw at the skin beneath. Marcus spat in his palm, leaned on one elbow, and shoved his hand down the front of Esca's braccae to grasp his cock, hot and leaking. "Yes!"
"You're not allowed to disappear like that," Marcus said as he pumped. His grip was too hard, and there wasn't enough space to move his hand properly, but Esca thrust up all the same, his fingers like talons leaving red welts on Marcus' back. "Not ever. Do you understand?"
"Ah, Marcus –" Esca choked, his thrusts frantic, and he came when Marcus twisted his too-tight grip over the head, capturing Esca's seed in his hand. He kissed Esca again, worried at his lower lip until it was pulsing and swollen, and stole the breath panting from his lungs.
Slowly their kisses gentled, until Esca was boneless against the mattress. Marcus rolled onto his side to give his arm a much needed break, wiping his hand on his ruined tunic in a white smear. Esca turned his head to look at him, cheeks flushed and lips red with kisses.
"It is Imbolc," Esca said, still a bit breathless. At Marcus' puzzled look, he elaborated: "The first day of spring. It is a holy day for my people. We give thanks to the goddess Brigantia, and pray for a good year."
"Were you always planning on attending this festival?" Marcus asked at length.
"No. I came across it by accident, and it reminded me ..." Esca trailed off, eyes distant and shadowed as they always were at thoughts of the past. Marcus didn't know what to say; he was still annoyed that Esca had embarrassed him in front of such influential people, but the rage had passed, and left him feeling tired and empty.
"We need to pack our things," he said, and sat up.
"Wait, wait." Esca lifted himself also, and gave a pointed look at the tent in Marcus' lap. "Surely you want that seeing to?"
"I'm fine," Marcus muttered. Mostly, he was exhausted, a stressful, sleepless night coupled with hard physical labour, and the pall of fear for Esca hanging over it all.
A hand landed on his shoulder, kneading at the tight muscle there. He shivered when fingers ghosted over the back of his neck. They returned, pressing harder, until Marcus moaned aloud. Esca shifted to kneel behind him, bringing both hands to bear on Marcus' slumped shoulders. They dug into stubborn knots, smoothing away the tension Marcus carried there, until he was leaning back against Esca, too boneless to care.
Esca wrapped his arms around Marcus' broad shoulders, his pointed chin digging into his collarbone. Marcus let his head fall back. He almost didn't notice Esca's creeping hands until they were undoing the ties to his braccae, peeling the wool back until his cock sprang free.
"There now," he said, and wrapped one callused hand around the base. Marcus made a choked sound deep in his throat, his hips thrusting up of their own volition. They both watched as clear liquid dribbled down his shaft, slicking Esca's fingers. Esca pumped once, twice, smearing precome over Marcus' hot flesh. He thrust up again into Esca's slightly loose grip.
"Don't tease," he said, voice like gravel with exhaustion and lust.
"I won't," Esca said. True to his word, his fingers tightened, sliding over Marcus' cock from root to head. Every other thrust Esca's calluses caught against the sensitive head of Marcus' dick. His other hand cradled Marcus' balls, rolling the sack across his fingers, then pressing into the soft skin behind.
"Ah! Esca!" Marcus cried out, his hips lifting erratically as Esca's hand moved.
"Hush," Esca urged, and added a twist to every stroke that had Marcus writhing against him. "Gods, Marcus," Esca murmured in his ear, "seeing you like this – do you have any idea what you look like?" Marcus didn't want to imagine; he could barely focus on breathing with his cock straining for extra friction, every part of him fixed on Esca's rough hands and the magic they worked.
"I'm close," he gasped.
"Come then." Esca slid his thumb through the slit at the head of Marcus' cock on the next stroke, and that was it – Marcus came like thunder, his hoarse cry swallowed in Esca's kiss as his orgasm pulsed over his braccae and tunic and Esca's hand.
Marcus drifted in the afterglow, his cock cradled by Esca even as it softened. When they were together like this, nothing between them but shared warmth, Marcus was at his most content. He sighed softly, and let his full weight lean against Esca, knowing that Esca would bear it.
Tiny A/N is tiny: if you should spot any errors (grammatical, historical, otherwise -ical) please let me know so I can correct it!
