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fadagaskiAuthor: Allocin
Fandom: The Eagle, movie!verse
Wordcount: 10,594 (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?
A/N: Totally didn't realise there was no longer a character limit on private journal posts! Woohoo!
Chapter 2a / Chapter 4
Challenge Table
Three
For a long time, Marcus floated in a daze, the throb of his skull lulled by the distant crash of waves. It was difficult to find focus beyond the chill of wet sand under him and the frigid burn against raw skin of wool soaked in cold sea water. His lips stung when he licked them, salt and sand embedded in cracked flesh. In fact, everything hurt. He wondered if he was back at the army training camp, that first week, he a tall skinny teenager with the promise of strength, and every officer out to make hell for a fresh recruit. Days of endless drills, marching until his feet bled, wrestling with soldiers twice his weight, subsisting on gruel and bread, and sleeping for a few sweet hours while his body struggled to adapt, only to go through it all again the next morning. He had felt then about as bad as he did now.
Marcus drifted again, caught somewhere between the misery of his body and the pounding in his head. He came abruptly to full and sickening consciousness when something jabbed him in the back. He grunted more from surprise than pain. Several voices gasped in surprise, stumbling back from what – he was sure – they thought was a dead body. For some reason, Marcus resented that more than anything else, and it was with a considerable amount of effort that he rolled himself onto his back. His head swam. For a moment he couldn't tell if he was going to pass out or throw up. He risked opening his eyes just once, and caught a glimpse of several child-shaped silhouettes hovering over him like vultures. Groaning, he threw an arm over his face to block out the unbearable light stabbing through his head, and focused on keeping very, very still.
The voices mutted amongst each other in a guttural tongue he didn't recognise, before one of their number ran off. Marcus flinched at the clods of sand that landed on his face. "We will fetch you help," an accented voice said, one of the children, perhaps braver than the rest, or else the only one who could speak Latin.
Marcus had to work up spit in his mouth before he could attempt speech, so dry was his throat. "Where am I?" he rasped.
"Belgica," the boy replied. "The gods must love you to bring you through that storm." Marcus almost giggled, the idea was so absurd, but he recognised the signs of post-battle trauma and clamped down the urge. He couldn't afford to lose his head.
"Other survivors?" he asked. More murmuring in the Celtic tongue, and then a shout from across the beach.
"Our fathers have come. They will help you," the boy said. He yelled back to the approaching adults. To Marcus' sore head, it felt like being bludgeoned in the ear with a great cymbal. But more importantly, the boy had not answered his question. Marcus was gripped with a sudden fear, because while he had been prone on the beach, he had assumed there were others from the ship beside him. He had assumed Esca was beside him. Now as he recalled the terror of the previous night, the twin tails of smoke descending from the heavens to wreak divine havoc upon the ground, he remembered the ship torn in two and carried into the air by the wind. He remembered Esca plucked from the deck like a child's plaything.
Gasping, Marcus forced himself to sit up. Sunlight and nausea fought to slay him again, but he grit his teeth and grabbed the arm of the boy who had spoken to him. The boy cried out in surprise when Marcus pulled him closer, and the other children shouted with alarm, but Marcus was past hearing them. Already the darkness was creeping in at the edge of his vision, but he needed to know.
"Are there any other survivors? Did you find a man? A short man, with blue ink on his arm? Speak!" Marcus demanded, shaking the boy.
"N-no! No other survivors on this beach. Only you!" the boy gasped. The fingers of his free hand gouged Marcus' wrist as he struggled to break loose. "Let go!" Marcus did. His lungs didn't seem to be working anymore, his heart still in his chest. Frantically his eyes scanned the beach, even as his vision blurred too much to make out more than dim shapes. Esca was not here. Esca was gone.
It was a relief when Marcus passed out again.
There was a cool, damp cloth pressed to his brow. Marcus roused himself enough to listen for sounds of movement. Someone was in the room with him, mixing with a pestle and mortar. He caught the scent of medicinal herbs – arnica and white willow, familiar pungent smells. "Esca?" he called.
"Hush," a woman's voice replied. He listened to her approach. With careful hands she lifted his head and pressed a cup to his lips. Marcus was ready for the distinct tang of the medicine.
"Who are you?" he asked when she had lain him back down.
"My name is Antonia," she said. Her accent was like the boy's from the beach. "You are a guest in our house. My son and his friends found you this morning. Do you remember?"
"Yes," Marcus said. "I think I frightened him." Antonia harrumphed, though her hands were still gentle when she removed the cloth from his face. Marcus blinked rapidly against the sudden light and air, though the interior of the hut was still quite dark but for the square of light above where smoke drifted out.
"A man big as you could have broken his arm without trouble. He will live with a bit of bruising." Guilt curdled in Marcus' belly, for he had not meant to harm the boy at all. The guilt quickly mutated into nausea, and it was with a muffled whimper that he leaned over the side of the low cot and vomited on the dirt floor.
"I'm sorry," he gasped, coughing to clear his throat. Antonia tsked, and laid a cloth over the mess. Mostly it was sea water and acid; Marcus could taste it like a thick, burning paste at the back of his mouth.
"You were hit in the head," Antonia explained. "Driftwood, most likely, or you were thrown into a rock. I bound the cut to your arm, but that was the extent of your injuries. That you survived at all is proof the gods love you."
"So said your son," Marcus muttered, but he did not feel like laughing this time. It took him by surprise how alien it felt to have another person tend him in illness, after so long with Esca at his side, nursing him through surgery and fever and battle wounds. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and touch him, feel the familiar heat of his skin and know that Marcus was cared for.
With growing horror, Marcus realised there were tears streaming from his eyes. He wiped them quickly away, but more came, and a sob fought free. Antonia stopped moving. Marcus sensed her looking at him as he sucked in great breaths to beat down the despair he could feel rising.
"You lost someone?" she asked.
He hid his face in his hands. "Yes," he whispered. Antonia rose to her feet, knees clicking. Marcus felt the breeze of her passing, and then he was alone in the hut. He lay on his side under the blankets and took long, shuddering breaths into his lungs until the vice around his chest eased. Marcus stared unseeing for so long his eyes stung from more than just tears, but he was caught in the void in his head. It felt like waking up at his uncle's villa that first time, hurt and confused. It felt like losing a limb.
Questions plagued Marcus even as he lay there. What would he do now? Who was he, without Esca beside him? They had been each other's master and slave, until now they balanced each other perfectly, like two sides of a coin. Marcus remembered how ready he had thought he was to return to the continent alone, and the relief that had flooded through him when Esca had hunted him down. Surely the gods did not love Marcus, for they had taken first his family's honour, then his career, and now Esca too. Unbidden, more tears slipped free of his control.
But as he wrestled with his thoughts, bitter and grieving though they were, Marcus remembered Esca after his surgery. There were days where the rain never ended, and all Marcus could focus on was the deep ache in his leg, and would ignore the exercises prescribed to him. Esca would scold and goad him in equal measure, until Marcus sat up and undertook the steps necessary for his recovery. When Marcus was tired from relearning to walk, Esca would challenge him to one more circuit. Every day Esca would give him a new goal: "Today you will walk to the door and back", "Today you will enter the baths without my help", "Today you will ride your horse". Unyielding, on the verge of disrespectful, but Marcus had been grateful for the drill sergeant, had responded to Esca's orders, and had made a full recovery. It had been a huge improvement on those long, mournful days before his surgery when he could do naught but sit around the villa, wrapped up in his own grief.
Marcus decided then that he would take action. He would not disrespect Esca by falling into that same pattern of wistfulness as before. His goal was to reach Rome and speak to the Emperor. That was all that mattered. Where the road was hard, when his leg pained him, any obstacles that stood in his path, Marcus would imagine Esca beside him and battle through, as they had from Calleva to Caledonia and back again. Anything that came after would be in the hands of the gods.
So decided, Marcus swallowed once more against the knot in his throat, and rubbed dried tear tracks from his cheeks. His arm twinged at the movement. He traced the bandage with one fingertip abstently while he caught his bearings. Then, careful of the knot of pain on his head where he had been clouted, he sat up. His bad leg ached when he stood, the muscle trembling, but by leaning on the sturdy wooden wall of the hut Marcus was able to make his way to his clothes hung to dry by the fire. They were salt-stained and stiff, but he managed to pull them on without falling over. He had to duck almost in half to shuffle through the entrance, so tall was he, only to be hit immediately in the face by daylight. He flinched and stumbled back, hand coming up to shield his tender eyes.
"You should not be out of bed," Antonia scolded from her stool, mending work laid across her knees as she squinted up at him. Though he disliked inactvity, Marcus was inclined to agree. His head felt like it was still at sea, and it was with some effort that he did not topple over.
"I must get to Rome, as fast as possible," he said. "Who can I speak to about acquiring supplies? And a mount?" Antonia pursed her lips with a frown, but answered him in a tone that implied she was well-used to stubborn men.
"My husband is out fishing, as are most of the other men. You may speak to them when they return this afternoon."
So Marcus waited, spending his time meandering through the village. It had suffered hugely during the storm, that much was evident. The less sturdy houses had been blown over, whilst the fences that penned the animals had been ripped from the ground. Women and children alike were hard at work weaving wood together to replace them, while the animals that had survived were shut in an empty hut whose roof had torn away.
It was a short walk to the beach where he had been found. A few children were down there still, hunting for crabs and mussels. The tide had brought in the flotsam of shipwreck, huge chunks of decking, barrels and crates, a broken mast missing its sail. There were no more bodies. Taking a deep breath of the brisk salty air, Marcus tried to imagine Esca's fate. Perhaps he had survived after all. Perhaps he was even now on a beach yonder, waking alone, wondering where Marcus could be. Perhaps the gods would have mercy, and Marcus would return to Britannia to find Esca waiting for him there.
Foolish thoughts. Disgusted with his own absurdity, Marcus turned his back on the unforgiving sea.
What men had not gone fishing were busy in the nearby woods. Marcus did not pay them a visit, but he could hear them talking, and the sound of falling trees. Instead, Marcus circled the village and came to a shrine under an aged oak. It's branches had been stripped back by the storm, the white wood sticking out like broken bone, but the trunk itself was still strong. The altar was overflowing with gifts and offerings: gold broaches and bracelets displaying intricate designs, fine wine decanters filled to the brim with excellent vintage, stacks of coins both Roman and Gallic, and several bowls of darkly congealed blood.
"We are waiting for a druid to visit," Antonia said behind him. He turned to her, and was proud that he only wobbled a little. "These are what gifts we can offer, in the hope that the gods will spare us further misery."
"That seems fair," Marcus said, nodding. Antonia's eyes narrowed.
"You think your gods would defend us better?" she snapped. Marcus held up his hands, ducking his head.
"I would not care which god chose to protect my home, so long as it did so well," he said. Antonia snorted through her nose. She was distracted by the sound of her son calling to her as he ran up the hill to the tree. He had in his hand a dagger. Marcus could tell even from a distance that it was of fine workmanship, the white hilt intricately engraved. Antonia and the boy babbled to each other in their tongue for a few minutes. When the boy looked at Marcus he paused. There was a tinge of fear in his eyes, but the boy did not hide behind his mother, to Marcus' silent approval.
"Herius wises to deposit this dagger on the altar," Antonia said to Marcus. Nodding once, Marcus limped towards them. Herius watched him with intelligent eyes that reminded Marcus immediately of Esca. The pang he felt at the thought was not unexpected, though it made his breath catch. Up close, Marcus could see the bruises his fingers had left on the boy's upper arm. They would fade quickly on a child so young and hale, but the guilt gnawed at him that he had marked Herius at all, moreso now that he could see Esca in him – not just the watchful eyes, but the strong Celtic nose and the sharp cut of his cheekbones underneath the baby fat.
Only when Marcus was stood on the other side of Antonia did Herius move, kneeling at the altar and murmuring prayers to the gods before delicately placing the dagger amongst the other offerings. The wind shivered in the bare branches overhead, and Marcus wondered if these gifts would be enough to spare the village should the gods grow angry again.
"Where did you find it?" Marcus asked as Herius returned to his mother's side. The boy kept his face a blank mask as he answered; Marcus missed Esca with a sudden clench of his heart.
"On the beach."
"I suppose there were many ships at sea when the storm broke," Antonia said. She spoke briefly to Herius in their shared tongue before sending him on his way. "You look at him strangely," she said to Marcus, who shook his head as if to clear away his troubled thoughts. The action made him stagger, the dizziness that had plagued him all day rising up at last. Antonia caught his arm as he stumbled and dropped to his knees. He keened at the impact on his bad leg, felt the ripple of pain as it surged through him, clouding his vision. Marcus feared passing out, and grit his teeth against the slippery slope of unconsciousness.
It took him a few moments to realise that Antonia was squatting next to him, hoisting his heavy arm over her shoulders. "Come, stranger. You must stand," she said. He struggled to do as she commanded, and between the two of them they managed to get Marcus back on his unsteady feet. He was aware of the attention they drew, stumbling through the village to Antonia's hut, but Marcus' head throbbed like a sword caught between hammer and anvil so he didn't much care.
It was blessedly dark inside. Antonia dropped him onto the bed he had vacated before, and wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Marcus listed sideways. He blinked at the floor, eyes blurring, whole body aching.
"Rome makes them big, that is for certain," Antonia huffed. She was slighter than Esca had been, but had taken a good portion of Marcus' weight on their short journey. He was grateful she hadn't left him where he fell, but he supposed a scarred and bruised Roman was not much of an offering to deposit at that altar of finery. Antonia placed a cool damp cloth on his head again, and eased his head up to sip at the tincture she had made before. "Rest now," she said, and made to leave.
"Wait," Marcus called. Antonia turned, one foot already outside. "So we are not strangers, my name is Marcus Flavius Aquila."
"Rest then, Aquila." She left.
Marcus rested, but did not sleep. Rather, he drifted, hardly aware of the direction of his own thoughts. When he found himself reaching for Esca beside him, only to encounter empty space, he clenched his hands over his chest and deliberately set his mind on the task he had to fulfil: reaching Rome, and informing the Emperor of all that had happened.
Not long before sunset, when the air had cooled enough that Marcus' skin pimpled like gooseflesh, the men returned from fishing. The village burst with noise as children ran for their fathers, and the women collected the fish to prepare for the evening meal. Marcus had just eased himself upright when a man strode into the hut, Antonia and Herius close at his heels. Marcus, sat only a few inches off the floor on the low bed, peered up at this new arrival. The man was short and wiry not unlike Esca, with a severe countenance and skin like tanned leather after so many years facing the sea wind. Marcus didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't the relieved smile directed at him.
"I am glad to see you looking so well, Roman," the man said. He leaned down to Marcus and offered his arm for a firm shake. "My name is Aulus Crispus Corentin. You are a welcome guest in my house."
"Marcus Flavius Aquila," Marcus responded. "I thank you for your hospitality." He noticed the rise of Corentin's eyebrow at Marcus' name, but he made no mention of it. Instead, Corentin moved about the hut in a familiar routine, stripping off his wet sea clothes and changing into a dry tunic and braccae, speaking to his son while Antonia inspected Marcus' head wound and coaxed more of the nasty medicine into him.
"A feast is prepared to celebrate successful repairs on the boats," Corentin told him. "Will you join us?" Marcus was tired, but also hungry, and did not want to appear ungrateful.
"If it is your wish," he said.
"It is," Corentin said firmly. Antonia fetched a thick blanket Marcus could wrap around himself. Corentin and his family wore fine cloaks, pinned at the shoulder with delicate broaches of gold. Marcus understood then that he was a guest of the village leader, or someone very like it. Fortunate, as Marcus had need of supplies that the leader would be most able to provide.
The whole village had gathered at the large fire in the centre of the village, where the smell of fish was almost overpowering. Entering their circle reminded Marcus strongly of his time north of the wall, when everything stopped so people could stare at the Roman slave. He shivered, and wrapped his blanket more tightly around him.
"Friends, eat," Corentin encouraged. He and Antonia sat at a bench reserved for them. Herius disappeared to join his friends, leaving Marcus shifting from foot to foot. This soon changed when Corentin nudged the villager next to him, who promptly relocated so that Marcus could sit. It was an awkward squeeze; he was big even by Roman standards, and these villagers were not of Germanic build. The bench creaked beneath his weight, so he tried to eat the bowl of fish stew placed in his hands without moving too much.
The night wore on, the clouds above obscuring the passage of the stars. The ale passed around not long after most of the children went to bed, and talk turned to the storm. Corentin spoke in Latin to the villagers, who followed his lead. Marcus was touched at the consideration given him.
"I have never seen such a thing before," said one, a grizzled man with a thick beard.
"Nor I," said his neighbour.
"I have," Corentin said. The villagers stared wide eyed at him. "On the Mare Internum. Never so close, though." Marcus was surprised to learn Corentin had been so far south. "Have you, Aquila?" Crispus asked him. Marcus shook his head 'no'.
"What do you think it means?" the first fisherman asked. "Have we offended the gods in some way?"
"I do not think this was something local to us," Corentin said slowly, with a sidelong look at Marcus. "Was there anything unusual in Britannia?"
"A storm hit Isca Dumnoniorum little more than a week ago. It was more powerful than any I had seen before. The city was in ruins when I left the next morning, and much of the southern lands suffered," Marcus said. Corentin nodded thoughtfully.
"It would seem to me that if the gods are angry, they are not angry solely at us," he said.
"But how can you be sure?" said the same fisherman. Corentin placed a friendly hand on the man's shoulder.
"Cassius, you know that we cannot be sure. That is why the druid is coming. In the meantime, we will make what offerings we can, and fix the village, and pray that it is enough." Cassius seemed appeased by Corentin's words, as were the other villagers. Marcus was impressed. "Now," Corentin said, and took a long draught of the ale. "Marcus Flavius Aquila."
"Yes?"
"I know your name well. What is it that draws you so far from the land that brought you glory?" Corentin asked. The villagers immediately silenced all their background murmurings. Marcus, who had been battling the heavy drag of his eyelids for most of the evening, felt the thrum of adrenaline course through his veins in a dizzying rush. He sat straighter on his seat, nearly vibrating with tension. In the few moments he had before responding, he decided that Corentin was intelligent enough to spot a lie, and Marcus needed his trust. He would have to be honest.
"I am on a mission for Governor Urbicus," he said.
"Indeed! A great honour. And of course there would be no better person than yourself, the man who restored the eagle of the Ninth." The villagers whispered quickly to each other in their own tongue. Marcus frowned at Corentin.
"Was it so famous an act?" he asked. Yes, it had been lauded through Britannia, of course, and Marcus had been invited to a number of homes as a guest of honour since, but he had not thought it would breach the coast.
"I doubt your name is known through all the Empire, but in a land where the Ninth had been stationed ..." Corentin smiled. "We keep track." He offered Marcus the ale. "How can we aid you in your mission?" Marcus felt a well of relief within him, and drank a quick mouthful of the ale. It was different from the one he and Esca had sampled in Londinium, but it reminded Marcus of him nonetheless. He pushed the heavy memories aside.
"Everything was lost in the shipwreck. I have nothing but the clothes on my back, but I must get to Rome by any means possible," he said, a note of urgency entering his voice. Corentin nodded.
"You mean to speak to the Emperor," he deducted with a shrewd glance for confirmation. "About the storm in Britannia. And the vortexes here?"
"Yes. Governor Urbicus felt someone more reliable than a trader should bear the news to Rome."
"Understandably," Corentin murmured. He tapped his lips with his forefinger as he thought, and Marcus could only wait for the verdict. The villagers, too, held their silence. Finally, Corentin seemed to come to a decision. "We have little that survived the storm, but what we can spare we will give to you. Our horses have run off, but you may take a mule. He is old, stupid as a pony and stubborn as an ass, but he should bear your weight." At Marcus' doubtful look he elaborated: "His mother was a beast of a mare from Germania that could have carried two of you easily."
"Thank you for your generosity," Marcus said with sincerity.
The gathering ended not long after. Marcus followed Corentin back to the hut, where Herius was already sleeping. Antonia looked up from her mending work by the fire as they entered. From the smell alone, Marcus could tell she had more of the medicine ready for him.
"Is everything decided?" she asked. Corentin sat on a stool by the fire, gesturing for Marcus to do likewise.
"It is," Corentin said. Antonia offered him another mug of ale, and the two smiled softly at each other. Marcus had to look away. He busied himself fussing with the bandage around his arm. The flesh beneath was beginning to itch, and he was curious to see how deep the wound was.
"Here," Antonia murmured, and offered Marcus a smaller cup. He pulled a face at the smell of the tincture, but swallowed it all without complaint.
"What legion did you serve with?" Marcus asked Corentin when the silence around the fire had stretched long.
"The First Minervia," Corentin said. "How did you know?"
"Just a feeling," Marcus replied.
The white willow hit him hard not long after, so Marcus retired to the cot assigned to him with barely a murmur. He lay on his side facing the wall, fingers tracing the edge of the bandage to keep from reaching out into the vast void of the half-empty bed, and listened to Antonia and Corentin moving around the hut. There was the clink of porcelain, and the rustle of furs as they climbed into bed. In the dark they whispered to each other, too quiet for Marcus to hear what they were saying. He thought they had gone to sleep, but then heard the small wet sounds of Roman kissing. Furs rustled again, and Antonia whimpered high in her throat.
Flushed and heartsick, Marcus buried his head under the pillow and willed himself not to remember the look on Esca's face the first time they came together in bed, hushed and secret and perfect.
Packing the next day was all too easy a task, for the villagers really did have little to spare. It was enough to take him maybe thirty leagues if he rationed sparely. His uncle had passed on a few names of former comrades who had settled on the continent, and Marcus hoped to call upon them on the way.
Corentin exited from the hut where the animals were penned, leading behind him a monster of an ass whose head towered clear over even Marcus. "This," Corentin said, panting from the effort of pulling the stubborn mule, "is Brutus. Brutus, meet Marcus. I'm sure the two of you will get along like a house on fire." The two in question eyed each other warily.
"I am ready, father." Marcus glanced down in surprise to find Herius, dressed for travel with small bag over one shoulder. At Marcus' look, Corentin explained:
"You were unfortunate to be blown so far off course, for there is no easy Roman road out of here, and the Frisii or Chamavi have occasionally been known breach the border even this far south. Herius will act as your guide to Gesoriacum." The boy stared up at Marcus with a hard set to his jaw. The fingermarks on his arm stood out livid in the weak spring sun barely breaking the horizon, though they were already paler than yesterday. "And Brutus favours Herius above all, so you will at least make good time at the beginning of your journey."
They parted with little fanfare. Herius, sat almost on Brutus' whithers, took the reigns and steered them south-west. With precious little to do but watch the passing scenery as they clopped over field and stream, Marcus turned his thoughts to the journey ahead. The road from Gesoriacum was well-travelled. There would be many houses along the way where he could stay without cost, and they would be far more comfortable than the regular inns dotted a day's ride apart. They might even have heard of him, as Corentin had done, which Marcus found both delightful and a little embarrassing. But if it eased his way to Rome, he was not above throwing the reinvigorated Aquila name around.
"How long is the journey?" Marcus asked Herius.
"Three days, more or less," came the response. The rivers were swollen with rainwater, but Brutus strode across them as though they were little more than brooks. Marcus' feet got wet despite his best efforts, yet the pale spring sun was not high enough to dry them. The chill spring air nipped at his toes until they were numb, and a bone-deep ache settled into his bad leg.
Herius was poor conversation, and so they rode in silence, stopping only for quick meals of dried fruit and salted fish. It was hard not to miss Esca, whose quiet moments were at least companiable, and was always ready to point out some interesting vista or soaring bird.
They stopped long after dark, just when Marcus thought he could not bare to sit astride Brutus for one second more. Feeling every one of his thirty years and change, he slid to solid ground and braced against the mule's side until his balance returned. Herius, sprightly child that he was, hopped off with undiminished vigour. He set about removing the riding blankets from Brutus' back. When Marcus tried to help by reaching for the bridle, Brutus snapped at his hand. Marcus thought it prudent to leave Herius to it, and set about making camp instead.
Cena was another silent affair, broken only by the crack and pop of the fire and Brutus snuffling at the ground behind them. Marcus was already sick of salted fish, which did not go well with the thin gruel he cooked up from their supplies. Herius wolfed his food down like any growing boy, and turned in for the night without even a word to Marcus. Sighing, Marcus banked the fire and checked on Brutus one last time before rolling himself in his blankets. Herius would likely be his last companion on the road to Rome, so he might as well get used to the silence.
It was a cold night. Curled tightly in on himself, Marcus missed Esca's heat at his back, the warm belt of his arm across his middle. He missed the tickle of breath against the nape of his neck. He shouldn't dwell on Esca's absence, Marcus knew. The past was past and he had to focus on his mission. But shivering from head to toe, feeling the heat leach from his fingers and his ears and nose, it was much more difficult not to miss the comforting press of Esca behind him. Marcus buried his head under his blankets and choked back the anguish squeezing his heart.
The next day was more of the same monotonous, silent countryside. Brutus ploughed on as if heedless of the weight on his back. Coming through a thick copse of trees, Marcus spied the distinct curving trail of a local path as it wound around wood and pool. Even as he looked, a trader's cart bounced along, the clatter of horses hooves audible enough to spook Brutus a bit.
"Hush," Herius soothed him, stroking his shoulder. Brutus snorted and tossed his head. Marcus barely had warning to hold on before they were racing to the road, long mule legs eating up the distance in vanishing strides. Herius whooped and laughed, bent over Brutus' neck, uncaring that Marcus was gripping his waist for dear life.
Brutus didn't tire, that much was clear. He dropped from his loping gallop to a bouncy trot, and then a brisk walk, all with his head held high and every impression that he would run again if he wanted. Still grinning from ear to ear, Herius patted Brutus' thick shoulder and babbled at him in his own language. Marcus took the opportunity to catch his breath and straighten his spine, which popped loudly. This was why they used horses in the army.
"He has the energy of a fresh stallion," Marcus commented to Herius when he had his breath back.
"Brutus is twice my age," Herius said. He glanced at Marcus over one shoulder, eyes bright with mirth. "He is almost as old as you, Centurion." Eyebrows climbing towards his hairline, Marcus could only laugh at the cheek.
"Would that I had his spirit," he said.
It seemed Brutus' little sprint had broken Herius' reserve. The ride afterwards was peppered with his comments to both Marcus and the mule, about the village, his parents and friends, the landmarks they passed and the other travellers that wandered the road.
"And so now mother and I are both citizens too. Father gave me a Roman name before he went on campaign. I think he knew he would win glory for us. They gave him a reward for valour in battle. Father says someday I should join the army ..."
Marcus, unused to dealing with children, could only listen with a bemused expression to Herius' prattle.
On the final day, they came across roads built in the Roman fashion leading to large red-tiled villas and a scattering of hamlets. The whole flat landscape was converted to farmland like a patchwork blanket in shades of brown. They were joined on the road by a surprising number of people, and shared the midday meal with a freedman travelling north from Nemausus.
"My patron has a great shipment of tin due in to Gesoriacum in the next few days. I am to see to its safe conduct south," the man, Diodorus, said. Picking at the dried venison Diodorus had swapped with them, Marcus nodded thoughtfully.
"There may well be some delay in its arrival," he said. "Britannia and Belgica both have suffered strange weather in recent days. I hope your tin is not lost at sea."
Understandably concerned, Diodorus rushed ahead of them to Gesoriacum. Brutus seemed quite content to strut along at his own pace, owning the road with his vast height and long legs. Now that the end was in sight, Herius' curiosity was piqued, and he plied Marcus with a variety of questions.
"What will Rome do when you inform them of the storms?"
"I couldn't say. The Emperor is wise and just, and the senate is filled with similar men. We can only hope they will send money and supplies to those areas that are suffering."
"Even to my village?"
"We can hope," Marcus hedged.
Gesoriacum was, really, no different to any other Roman city. Marcus could almost hear Esca's snide comment in Londinium whispered again in his ear. Instead, after dismounting, he focused on following Herius as he led Brutus through the bustling streets, weaving around huge puddles that teemed with flies. The city smelt, like most, of too many bodies living on top of each other, rotting vegetation and horse manure, but overlying that was the metallic tang of stale water. Marcus swallowed thickly against the taste of it coating his tongue.
"Where are we going?" he asked Herius, who certainly seemed to have a firm destination in mind.
"My mother's brother's house. He is a carpenter by trade, and does fine business in this city. He will shelter us for the night."
Herius' maternal uncle was a stooped, skeletal man with no hair or front teeth. If he was surprised by Herius' unexpected arrival, or his travel companion, he didn't show it. Downing tools in his workshop, he wiped his hands on a rag before greeting Marcus with a solid arm-grip.
"Gaius Valerius Armel," he grunted.
"Marcus Flavius Aquila." Marcus was somewhat relieved that his name did not spark any recognition in this stern man, who shared little in appearance with Antonia but the colour of his eyes. His wife was just as severe, nodding in greeting to them without even the hint of a smile. She showed Marcus to the only guest room without a word, whilst Herius saw to Brutus outside. There was no stable so they would have to leave him tied to a post by the front entrance and hope that, if a thief tried to make off with him in the night, Brutus' surly temper would assert itself.
Cena was a simple affair consisting of yet more fish; Marcus privately swore to avoid any seafood for the rest of the journey. Then, exhausted and sore from the hard ride, Marcus limped to the guest room and turned in for the night. His sleep was restless, haunted by images of Esca. Marcus dreamt that he was out at sea on a sleek ship, scouring the waves, but every time he spied a body waving at him a gale blew him off course, spinning rudderless in the water.
At first light Marcus crawled out of bed. He had been up for many hours already, tired but unable to sleep more. He left Herius curled in the corner amidst a pile of blankets, breathing softly. Armel was already up and breakfasting, and he greeted Marcus with a short nod. His wife brought out more bread, which Marcus picked at until sounds of life returned to the city. His gruff manner disinclined Marcus to ask Armel for assistance in fulfilling his duty, so today he would petition the household of the city senator and the resident navy praefect. He only hoped they would not turn him away in disbelief.
Marcus was but one in a great number of people at the senator's address, milling in the atrium until a slave summoned them to see the freedman who acted in his absence. The use of his name earned him a little respect, moreso than the other beggars were likely to receive, but Marcus was disappointed to take only small coinage, and considered the whole endeavour a wasted morning. He bought lunch with the money and sat in the forum whilst he ate. Gesoriacum was a lively place, filled with traders and officials rushing to and fro, and over all the smell of fish. He noticed the temples were remarkably full for the time of day, and guessed that even this city had not quite escaped the strange storms.
Down at the docks, it was no mean feat tracking down the prefect who controlled the navy. The ship captains pointed him in seemingly random directions, until Marcus was flushed red with exertion and his leg had cramped. He sat on the steps up to main street level, fingers kneading the knotted flesh above the thick clump of scar tissue, and let himself feel the agony of Esca's absence for a brief moment.
"I hear you have been looking for me?" came a voice behind him. Surprised, Marcus twisted around, squinting against the sun. "I am Praefect Nicanor."
The two men retired to Nicanor's office, where a slave brought them watered wine and a bowl of nuts to share. Nicanor was unusual in having come to the position of praefect after serving at sea himself, and the hard life of a sailor was carved into his ruddy skin.
"I sailed with your father," Nicanor said, when the slave had gone. Marcus nearly choked on his wine, so surprised was he. "When his cohort joined the Ninth in Ebacorum. I was just a boy then, new to the navy, but I think I reminded him of you. He spoke of you with great fondness." He sipped from his cup. "I was greatly saddened to hear of his passing."
"That was many years passed," Marcus said, after clearing his throat.
"Indeed. Much has happened since then. Congratulations on your success in Caledonia. It was the talk of the town for some while."
"Thank you." Sitting up straighter, Marcus decided to get straight to the point. Nicanor listened with an intent expression as Marcus explained Urbicus' request, and his experience at sea as the plaything of angry gods. Marcus kept his voice dispassionate, and deliberately forced all thoughts of Esca out of is mind. Nicanor snorted with ill humour when Marcus spoke of the senator's freedman, and the pittance donated to him.
"Senator Postumius is a petty man with a huge purse and a small hand. He would sooner see his mother starve than spend money to feed her."
"You share no love for each other then?" Marcus asked, amused. Nicanor snorted again.
"I am military. He is government. Living in the same city as him is a constant test of my patience. And that freedman of his –" Nicanor shuddered dramatically "– the lowest of sycophants. No, you have come to the right place for aid. Though army and navy have always had a strained relationship, when it comes to the politicians, we stand united in opposition."
"Your words lift my heart, brother," Marcus said.
He left Nicanor's company late in the day, when the forum had emptied of market stalls leaving only trails of manure to mark the passing of livestock. Nicanor had proved to be a generous man in both coin and conversation, and Marcus returned to Armel's house with a heavy purse and a light step.
Herius was outside brushing Brutus' flank, and he looked up at Marcus as he drew closer. In the dwindling twilight, his face resembled Esca's even more than usual. Marcus' breath caught in his throat. The boy smiled, shattering the illusion, because even in his happiest moments, Esca was not given to smiling. Still, Marcus was unsettled, and could admit readily to himself that he would be glad to leave Herius' company the next day and be rid of the constant reminder.
Now that he had the means, Marcus was itching to be on his way, yet the night dragged on. He caught only snatches of sleep here and there, and mostly lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady whuff of Herius' breathing. At dawn he rose, and woke Herius also, for they would both be leaving that day. Armel gave them a loaf of bread each before disappearing into his workshop. Marcus knew a dismissal when he saw one, so he led Herius outside.
Brutus was impatient, dancing on the spot as he tugged at his rope. He almost concussed Herius when the boy came close to feed him an apple and wish him well on his journey. Marcus used the distraction to place his supply bags across Brutus' back, and adjusted the blanket that would be his sole cushion for the next few weeks.
"How far is it to Rome?" Herius asked. His voice was thick with unshed tears.
"About nine hundred leagues," Marcus said. His body ached just at the thought of riding such a distance at speed. There could be no rest days for him on the journey. Urbicus would be marshalling a plan for southern Britannia even now, but without extra funding from the senate the province would suffer, and the Empire relied too heavily on the grain and metals exported from the island.
While Herius held the rope and murmured to Brutus, Marcus hoisted himself up. His arms shook with the effort, and Brutus stamped his feet in agitation. When he was settled, Marcus took the reins in hand. Herius looked up at him with damp eyes.
"I will take good care of him," Marcus assured him. Herius sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. His fingers fumbled to untie the knot binding Brutus to the post, and when it finally loosed, Brutus reared fully up, front hooves kicking at the air. Marcus clamped on with his legs as Brutus landed, spun, and bolted down the street.
The contrary mule ran as if Diana herself was hunting him. Marcus didn't bother trying to check his speed. Brutus would tire eventually, if not today then at some point down the road. Nine hundred leagues would quell the energy of any beast, no matter how fleet. Perhaps sensing his rider's apathy, Brutus slowed not long after they left the city walls. An early mist hung over the fields, but already it was burning off under the clear blue sky. It was going to be a hot day.
By the time they reached the inn, Marcus felt like the sun had sunk beneath the surface of his skin and lit a furnace there. He wasn't prone to sunburn, not like poor pale Esca was – had been – but even his olive skin had suffered under the summer-like glare of the sun. Dismounting in the inn's courtyard, Marcus shivered in the cool evening air, caught between the heat emanating from his face and arms and reminder that it was still early spring, though the day had seemed otherwise.
He ate at the inn's communal table amongst a smattering of other equally red-faced travellers from all corners of the Empire, and slept that night in a surprisingly comfortable bed. As always, the exertion of long hours riding eased his passage into a deep slumber. Marcus woke refreshed just as the sky was lightening in the east. He broke his fast, paid the innkeeper from Nicanor's donation, and led "that foul-tempered beast" from the stable, much to the relief of the stableboy.
The next day was more of the same, and the next, and the next. Marcus was impressed by Brutus' stamina, and they made good time even as the landscape began to wrinkle into hills. The sun scorched all it touched as it traversed across a sky that was a stunning shade of blue. Marcus sweated through his tunic by mid-morning each day. The only wind to cool him was provided by Brutus determined strides. His eyes stung with sweat and the effort to squint against the unrelenting light.
They reached Durocortorum in just five days. By then, Marcus' skin was itchy and peeling, and all his clothes stunk of stale sweat and mule. He tracked down a friend of his uncle's, a certain Maximus Julius Callisunus, who had served with the elder Aquila in the army some fifteen years before.
"And how is the old man? Still as mischievous as ever, sticking his nose into everyone's business?" Callisunus asked when they sat down to the evening meal.
"To a degree," Marcus said, smiling despite himself. "He is greatly involved in town affairs." Callisunus chortled, and his whole belly shook with it.
"That man never changes."
After the wonderful bath that night, Marcus was more than a little reluctant the next morning to haul himself back atop Brutus. His buttocks and legs were chafed raw, his arms ached from the constant battle with Brutus, and his skin felt stretched tight over the muscles of his face. Even his lips had cracked and burnt. But Rome called, and so it was a weary Marcus that climbed the mounting block and swung his sore leg over Brutus' back.
"Good luck," Callisunus called from the entrance to his modest villa. Waving, Marcus turned Brutus to the open road.
Even with the long legs of his headstrong mule eating up the miles, it was still another six days or so before they would reach Augustodonum, the next big city, and the crossroads upon which it was built. The heat kept rising, a cloying, humid stickiness that closed in around him until he felt like he could barely breathe. Brutus suffered under the midday sun. Sweat gleamed over his coat, and his sides heaved beneath Marcus' calves, yet when Marcus tried to slow him he tossed his head and picked up the pace a little more. It was absolute agony on Marcus' tender flesh, but he grit his teeth and carried on, trying to focus on anything other than the shooting pains from legs and groin.
Of course the heat intensified as they sped south, but it was still early spring, and Marcus expected a storm to break the unrelenting press of humidity. Those nights when he bypassed an inn, either because it was full or because the sheer look of the place made his skin crawl with imaginary lice, he prepared to awaken to a downpour, and yet each morning dawned dry and bright. The heat of the day even began to soak into the ground, so that the nights grew milder and what grass had grown after the winter wilted and died.
The villages Marcus passed through were tense places. Residents out shopping in the forum stopped to confer with each other about the extreme heat and the long days without rain, so unusual for the season. They fanned themselves with sweating hands as they gossiped, and their children slouched listlessly in the shadows of the temples.
Marcus noticed on the road a sudden trend towards offerings at crossroads, fords, and ancient imposing trees. He might have expected it in Britannia, where the natives still worshipped their own spirits, but here in Gaul it was a surprise to find the same practice amongst people who were mostly citizens of the Empire, and prayed to Roman gods. He thought to ask Esca, even turned to speak to him, to see if any of the little ritual places reminded him of home or if their two cultures were too different, but then he realised. He remembered. Marcus swallowed hard.
The approach into Augustodonum was exhausting in the heat as the road climbed over several steep hills. At the summit of the last, Brutus tripped and nearly went down. Marcus was flung over his neck, tumbling to land hard on his back on the solid stone ground. Winded, he could only blink up at the blue sky as his body tried to remember how to breathe again. Brutus didn't even attempt to run off, though Marcus still had hold of the reins just in case. Gingerly, Marcus rolled onto his side and eased himself up onto his good leg. The bad leg had been stiff and useless for days now, so he used it as little more than a prop as he hoisted himself upright. Brutus tried to bite his shoulder when he checked his legs, but Marcus was prepared for this and gave the mule a firm tap to the nose.
His hooves were fine, as were his legs, though they were swollen and shaky from the long miles travelled. As Augustodonum was spread out beneath them, Marcus decided to walk the rest of the way. His back and legs vigorously protested as he set off, so used to being astride Brutus were they, but he clenched his jaw and marched on. Brutus tried to dig his feet in, forcing Marcus to smack him in the side and haul him forward. After an hour of this battle of wills, where they scarcely moved more than half a mile, the stubborn ass finally relented, and they reached the bottom of the hill just as the sun was going down.
The gate to any city was always a chaotic place, but Marcus sensed the amount of people crowding into the city was unusual. Brutus whickered and pranced when people brushed against his flanks, too busy in their own lives to watch where they were going. Driven by curiosity, Marcus spied an old man seated on the steps to his home watching the world pass with an idle eye.
"What's going on?" Marcus asked him over the din.
"There's a meeting called."
"For what reason?"
"Animals been dying. Dropping like flies. Too much sun too early in the year." He nodded at the passers-by. "It'll be them next," he said darkly.
The forum was packed full of men and women alike, identifiable as labourers from the fields only by the dark tan of their skin. Marcus stood at the very edge of the crowd, reins still firmly in hand as he strained to listen to the words of the priest addressing them. He called on the gods to ease the heat, to send rain, so that what livestock they had left could survive through to birthing season.
"Now more than ever," he intoned in his raspy voice, "we must honour the gods of our homes, the gods of our fields. We must give thanks, and make sacrifices, and live to worship them. Only then will our torment end."
Marcus left before the mass prayer, winding his way back the way he came to the old man's house, the owner of which was still sat on the stoop. "Have you a bed to rent for the night? I can pay," Marcus asked him. The old man looked him up and down in consideration, then at the tetchy beast trying to nip Marcus' hand.
"No spare room, but you may displace my son for the night." He levered himself off the ground, knees clicking loud in the strange stillness of the street. "Come. You can keep your beast in the garden behind. There's nothing growing in there for him to damage."
Brutus was not happy to be tied to a post again, though he was appeased when Marcus put on his feedbag. Inside the house, Sulpinius did not offer him food or drink, but instead took Marcus directly to the room where he would spend the night. Marcus raided his supplies for fruit and dried meat. On the road he would have cooked gruel for himself, but that was impossible indoors so he would have to make do.
Marcus left so early the next morning that the sky was still thickly carpeted with stars. Sulpinius clutched at the coins placed in his palm and nodded farewell. His words of the night before stayed with Marcus as dawn lightened the sky, bringing with it the repressive heat. With eyes opened, Marcus truly looked into the grazing fields, filled with brown grass and unmoving animal bodies. In the four sweltering days it took to reach Lugdunum and the next major crossroads, Marcus counted twelve huge bonfires belching thick smoke and the stench of burning flesh across the landscape. Farm slaves who should have been preparing for the lambing season ghosted across empty fields with sheep slung over their shoulders. Shiny-faced villagers watched Marcus ride pass with dull, exhausted eyes.
Brutus wheezed his way into Lugdunum at twilight of the fourth day when the horizon glowed a stunning red after the sun had driven below. His sides had grown thin on the poor subsistence of the trail, and there was much less of a spring in his step. Marcus, too, had suffered. His leg ached every moment of the day, a deep nagging pain that pervaded all thought and action. Freckles kissed along the ridge of his nose amongst the peeling pink skin, and his eyes seemed locked in a permanent squint.
Along the road to the north gate, three newly constructed tombs stood to attention, with plots drawns out for another nine, though the stonemasons had long since retired for the day. The smell wafting from the city was almost enough to turn Marcus' hardened stomach: thousands of sweating bodies rotting one on top of another, their excrement baking like cake in the sun's furnace. But he was running low on supplies, so Marcus tried not to breathe through his nose as he passed the guards. As he entered, two stout ponies hauled a cart out, the bounce of the wheels dislodging the limbs of the dead piled upon it. Marcus watched it go with dark eyes, reminded of his days in the army, the post-battle clean up when they would collect their dead for a quick funeral before the orders came to march on. It seemed to him like the gods were waging war on men.
Impossibly, the following day was even more stifling. Marcus could scarcely drag himself out of the inn's lumpy bed to face the baked, blistering stones of the forum. Though he managed to pursuade himself, it was a waste of time, because the market was empty. Sighing, Marcus went back to the inn. He bartered with the owner for food, then fetched Brutus from the stable.
"This heat isn't doing him any good," the stableboy said. "He's wearing out."
Marcus heard the reprimand. From Lugdunum there were two routes he could take: south, or east. He feared if they continued south the sun would set poor Brutus on fire, so Marcus turned to the east and the mountains just peaking above the heat haze. It was a longer road, more circuitous, but Marcus hoped the altitude would bring some relief to them both. Blistered as he was across shoulders and neck, Marcus could only imagine what pain Esca would have been in had he made it this far. He smiled sadly.
Though he could scarcely bare to slow down, Marcus had been a cavalryman in the army and knew just how suicidal it was to push his mount past endurance. Already Brutus was slowing down. Marcus needed the mule strong enough to survive the hike up the mountains that guarded Italia like a towering row of soldiers, so he adjusted their daily schedule. They began the day well before dawn, and stopped in the lee of a tree during the hottest part of the day, before continuing until the darkest hours.
Along the shores of Lacus Lamanus, the grass was thick and green. Despite his haste, Marcus spent a day in one of the small villages at the very western tip of the lake, sleeping under the sun with a cool mountain breeze stealing the heat away, while Brutus inhaled every last bit of vegetation he could find. The residents here were blessed in the shadow of the mountains, their animals still alive, the roads through their hamlets not yet studded with markers for tombs not yet built. Marcus did not see any more cartloads of cadavers after that one in Lugdunum.
It was a lonely slog up the mountains. Normally in this season people took the southern-most road, or else sailed into Ostia. But though it was blessedly cooler the higher they climbed, the sun had wreaked havoc even here. The snows were melting, freeing the pass. Marcus could hear the rush of water and hoped the flood avoided any homes. With no one to talk to in the day, Marcus found himself singing, rude marching songs from the army or – once, before he caught himself and quickly fell silent – a Celtic harvest song Esca once taught him. At night, he rolled himself in his blankets and tried to sleep without missing the familiar heat at his back, the arm across his chest, the snuffle of a cold nose against his nape. He never succeeded.
Over the lip of the mountains and down the other side. Every day was more of the same, just one foot in front of the other, dried fruit and salted meat. Marcus might have killed for a drop of wine. It was a relief to see civilisation again. Augusta Taurinorum sat like a fat pancake upon the lower ground. Even at this distance, Marcus could see the heat shimmering over the city.
He had hoped, perhaps, that the last part of their journey would be the easiest. Brutus had settled into a steady pace, and even seemed to have come to some sort of understanding with his new master which didn't involving yanking his arms out of his sockets every time a tasty patch of grass came into view. It was still a vast distance – Marcus called up a mental map of the Empire memorised in childhood, and winced at the long stretch of Italia between he and his destination – but after the two weeks of healthy pasture he hoped to make good time.
He was wrong.
If the temperature in Gaul had been stifling, in Italia it was utterly unbearable. The roads were empty. No people milled about the towns on petty errands. What animals died in the fields were left there for carrion, but even wild birds were absent under the scorching sun. Marcus wiped sweat from his brow and plodded on, choking on dust and dry air. Every mile they gained felt like a mile closer to a great furnace, pulsing at the heart of the Empire.
Marcus stuck to the coast road, though it was less direct, for the small breeze offered by the sea. He drank gallons of water but could not quench his thirst. Brutus grew thinner. In the three weeks it took to walk from Augusta Taurinorum to Rome, passing through Genua, Pisae, and more, Marcus passed not a single other traveller on the road. It was as though the sun had burnt them all to cinders.
Wearied to the bone, Marcus looked up from his mindless observation of the road passing under Brutus' hooves on the afternoon of the Festival of Satus, and saw the great imposing skyline of Rome before him. He huffed out a hoarse laugh. Brutus tossed his head in confusion at the odd noise. They had made it. They had finally reached Rome. Strange, then, that Marcus felt nothing but numbness inside. All those years fighting for honour, straining to earn the respect of this great city, seemed pathetic and worthless. He wished with all his aching heart that he was back in Britannia. This was not home anymore.
