Chapter 5
The Roman army marched north. Minor battles became slightly larger, then waned again as the resistance drew back from their advancing line, collecting together to bolster their strength. The city they had targeted was also the fallback point for the surrounding lands—it was defensible, unlike farms and wall-less villages. The Romans marched over those who remained behind. They established control in the region through military patrols; later, they would establish Roman structure, and scholars would begin to teach the barbarians how to live under Roman rule.
Occasionally, there was an occupied house available for the highest-ranked, and Marcus as a centurion sometimes had such a shelter. Most nights, however, were spent in tents, in camp, Gwen at his side, carefully silent whenever someone else came within earshot. Marcus had Garnoc help him with his armor every night and morning.
Marcus spent the days with the army, whether advancing or in camp, so Gwen was assigned to follow Garnoc and help him. He seemed to understand that he was never to speak, and Garnoc continued under the impression that he was a dumb farmer, so Marcus felt it was safe to ask Garnoc to teach Gwen some Latin. Garnoc failed to see the point, at first, until Marcus claimed he needed Gwen able to understand his orders, even if he could not speak in return.
After that, once all others had left them at night, Gwen would practice new words he’d been taught. Marcus’ momentary hope turned bitter, however, as days and nights rolled on and it became clear that Garnoc was only teaching Gwen the words a soldier might need to say to his servant. Gwen learned to name each piece of armor and equipment, the roles within the army and its camp, and the daily tasks he might be asked to perform—cook, pack, wash, make camp, feed horse, build fire.
It was all so useless, yet hearing Gwen speak…Marcus enjoyed every moment of it. His deep voice, heavily accented. The moments of sharing language, when Gwen would repeat a word and Marcus would understand him and smile. When Gwen would smile in return, clearly pleased to have remembered rightly.
The bliss of those moments helped him to endure the rest. When he returned to the tent at nightfall after a battle, covered in dirt and dried sweat and blood—then Gwen’s eyes would avoid him, looking down quickly. Still, Marcus could see his sorrow. Gwen would be distant, silent—yet he remained in an attitude of acceptance, however unhappy. As he had accepted being taken from his home, he seemed to accept this too. And yet, Marcus did not see the same look of peace that had come over Gwen as he watched his own home burn. He puzzled over this in the night. Why did Gwen face a much more personal loss with peaceful acceptance, and this situation—no doubt unpleasant for him, but hardly as personal—was a source of unhappiness without any peace to ease it?
~•~
The army closed in upon their destination—Caerenarvon, as the barbarians called it. The legion laid siege around the hill fort, preparing to attack yet allowing the Britons the opportunity to surrender. It was always preferable to avoid losses whenever possible.
Caerenarvon gave no sign of submission, and after three days, the Roman army attacked.
The barbarians repulsed the first attack, though it would be more truth to say they managed to withstand it until darkness gathered and a heavy rain began to fall, causing the Roman army to relent and draw back for a more opportune time. Another day, and they would have the city, rain or no rain.
Even so, the battle was long and weary, and Marcus bore several wounds back to his tent that black night. The physicians were busy with the severely wounded, and further strategies and war councils were left for daybreak. Marcus entered his tent alone, bent upon nothing more than sleep.
And yet, even through his exhaustion, he caught the startled look of worry in Gwen’s eyes at the sight of him bleeding. It overtook, for a moment, the usual resigned sorrow.
Though he wished only to collapse into his bedroll and know nothing more, Garnoc was there, and with all deference and show of obedience managed to force Marcus to remain awake. He removed Marcus’ armor and stripped him down to his loincloth, giving orders to Gwen in their native tongue. Gwen brought a basin and water, and Garnoc washed Marcus down and cleaned his wounds. Marcus bore the sting with slight hisses and grunts of pain, but he was more conscious of being so nearly nude, and of Gwen’s eyes avoiding his body, a faint pink touching the tips of his ears.
Garnoc crudely bound his wounds in linen, then left Marcus to crumble into his bedroll as he had wished to do from the first. Gwen remained—he vanished from Marcus’ vision for a moment, but returned with hands full. He held plants—herbs. Marcus did not know where he had found them, or where he had kept them hidden. He was searching for the words to ask when he felt Gwen’s hands upon him, undoing Garnoc’s unskilled work, removing the wrappings as he stuffed several leaves in his mouth and chewed.
“What are you doing?” Marcus mumbled faintly, but Gwen did not answer. He spat out a handful of chewed green leaves and began to apply them over the open wounds. Marcus felt a sharp sting at the touch, which faded into a tingling feeling. Gwen did this to each cut in turn, rewrapping them afterward with more skill, the bandages firm, smooth, and not too tight.
When he was finished with his task, Gwen shifted, kneeling beside Marcus…and drawing his amulet from under his robe. Marcus blinked, then caught his breath, tensing at the sight of the thing. Gwen noticed his alarm at once. Blue eyes met his own, a hand resting on his shoulder as Gwen made a soft shushing sound, then murmured, “Help.” He extended the amulet, and it touched his breastbone. Gwen placed it there carefully, repeating, “Help Mahrkus.”
Barely able to keep his eyes open, Marcus felt his body relax. Even if this were some curse, he could not bring himself to care. His eyes were drifting shut, but he felt the weight of the amulet on his chest, Gwen’s hand upon it, pressing lightly. Gwen’s other hand touched his head, and Marcus thought he must be imagining fingers threading slightly into his hair.
Then, as the quiet sound of Gwen’s voice murmuring strange words began to flow over him, he lost consciousness.
~•~
There was no sign of the amulet when Marcus woke. He turned his head, and Gwen was there beside him—asleep upon the floor of the tent, his bedroll untouched. For a long moment, Marcus let his gaze linger. Gwen’s nearness reminded him of what it was like to share a bed with someone, to wake and see their face like this. It pricked his heart with an ache of longing—one he dared not indulge.
Shifting, he felt the soreness of his muscles after the strain of the day before, yet the expected pain of his injuries was muted—barely present at all. Before he could rise and examine himself, however, Gwen stirred and opened his eyes. Sleepily, he stretched out a hand, placing it on Marcus’ chest. “Mahrkus, no. Stai.” Then, with a yawn, he pushed himself up and knelt beside Marcus again, beginning to unwrap the bandages.
Marcus relaxed and lay still, allowing Gwen to work. He removed the wrappings and washed away the drying leaf paste. Marcus was surprised to see that his wounds looked several days old—they were almost closed and healing rapidly. Gwen, however, did not show the least surprise as he placed whole fresh leaves over the cuts and wrapped them again in dry, clean linen.
As Gwen worked, Marcus studied his face—tired, lined with sleep, dark shadows under his eyes, hair tangled and messy. He slept little last night. The idea that Gwen might have lost sleep caring for him pricked Marcus’ heart. And, as Gwen’s hands touched him, gently tending to his injuries, he felt both undeserving of such kindness and a surge of hunger for so much more.
When Gwen finished, he gave Marcus a final look-over—one which quickly turned into a slight blush as Gwen shifted and stood, putting distance between them. Marcus glanced down, though he could guess the reason for Gwen’s response. He was erect again, his loincloth failing to hide the size and shape of his swollen prick.
A frustrated sigh turned into a dry, self-mocking laugh as Marcus wiped sleep from his eyes and sat up. “How you are not already convinced of my admiration and nobler affections for you is an inscrutable mystery, when you are so frequently confronted with proof of my basest lusts.” Picking up his tunic, he yanked it on with more force than he should have used. His injuries stung him as a reminder to control his temper, and Marcus winced. Once he was covered, Gwen seemed to relax slightly, and blue eyes studied him with a curious look. Marcus sighed, and though he did not think Gwen would understand, he spoke softly, “Forgive me.”
A strange intensity entered Gwen’s eyes, almost as though he’d heard the weight behind the words—the wish to be forgiven for so much more than an unwelcome erection. Tentatively, Gwen stepped closer to him, hesitated, then with two more steps he closed the remaining distance. Marcus froze as Gwen’s hands reached up and grasped his face, intensity burning even brighter in those eyes as they held his gaze. Then, with no further warning, Gwen pulled him down and pressed their lips together.
Marcus could not breathe. He could not blink. He could only stare into conflicted blue…and drown in the heat of a firm, unwavering kiss. It lasted but a moment, and Gwen’s lips trembled against his mouth, belying his apparent confidence. Then it was over. Gwen drew back, searched his face for a moment, and then looked down. He said nothing, and Marcus could not remember how to speak. A light color rose to Gwen’s cheeks, and he turned and slipped out of the tent and was gone.
~•~
Caerenarvon fell two days later.
The Roman army occupied the city, rebuilt it into a stronghold, and called it Segontium. It was marked so on their maps, where conquest was drawn in stages, land to be taken step by relentless step.
The day of their conquest was busy—an endless chaos. The centurions continued giving orders through the night, and for a week there was no moment when all the Roman centurions had retired to their rest. They took turns sleeping in whatever corner of the fortress they had commandeered.
Marcus saw Gwen barely at all that week. Garnoc served him; Gwen was about, but almost never near, and they were not alone once.
The centurions took soldiers into the surrounding countryside, but for once, Marcus was not sent. His commander kept him in the city, and no one was surprised, in the end, when he assigned Marcus as legate of the forces which would occupy Segontium. Marcus was installed in the second largest house in town. Once the bulk of the Roman forces left, he would have the finest house—the one the barbarian lord had occupied. Usually, that could have taken a month, or several months if it had been winter. But it was spring, the summer was ahead of them, and the Roman army was eager to move forward while the long days and warmer weather favored their march. The senior centurion planned to depart after a fortnight, leaving much of the work of establishing control to Marcus.
Before this time came, however, Marcus returned to his chambers one night to be met with a glowering, gruff manservant.
“What is the trouble, Garnoc?” he asked, even as he sat down to his waiting supper. Gwen was nowhere to be seen.
“That dumb farmer of yours, Sire,” the peasant growled.
Marcus’ eyes darted about the room again, searching. “Why? What has he done?” Say he hasn’t fled…
Grunting, the man went straight to the heart of the matter. “He pick up an orphan child, Sire, and he will not let me throw it out again.”
Thank the gods. Marcus sighed. “What does he want with it?”
“I know not; he is dumb, he can hardly tell me. But he shakes his head fierce when I try take the child away.”
Marcus caught a shadow hovering by the doorway and turned toward it. “Gwen?” he called, and the man stepped forward. Sure enough, there was another behind him, clutching his tunic. Marcus saw nothing but boney legs for the moment—and blue eyes fixed nervously on his face. “Well, let us see this child,” Marcus commanded, and Garnoc snapped out a few barbarian words.
Slowly, Gwen pulled the little thing from behind him. It was a girl, dressed in a long ragged shirt, and she was sickeningly thin. She shrank back from his inspection even as Gwen came forward with her. There was silence all around—Garnoc glowering at them both, the girl’s fearful eyes darting from one man to the next, and Gwen fixing Marcus with a penetrating stare, eyes seeming almost to beg. Marcus frowned, studying all of them. “All right, what is the trouble?” he huffed. “You say she’s an orphan and he seems to want to take her in—why shouldn’t I have another servant? She looks able enough, if she doesn’t die of starvation.”
“Sire, the child is…” Garnoc hesitated, searching his Latin, “…touched. I know not how to explain. She belongs to the druids.”
At that, Marcus’ attention sharpened, his stomach tight. “What do you mean?” His voice dropped, immediately serious, and Gwen tensed, hearing the change of tone.
Garnoc explained, “She is marked, Sire. A druid marking, on shoulder.”
“Show me this mark.”
Garnoc stepped forward, pulling the girl away from Gwen. She cried out, but didn’t fight—Gwen bit his lip, as though restraining his voice. Garnoc turned her around and pulled the neck of her shirt aside, showing Marcus a strange symbol branded into her shoulder blade. The mysterious sign sent a chill over Marcus’ skin, and he looked up at Gwen as Garnoc released the girl and she vanished behind the silent druid. Gods, what is he doing now? Marcus kept his eyes on Gwen, but spoke to Garnoc. “You are certain she is a druid?”
“She is touched, Sire, as I said. I do not say she is druid…not yet. But if they do here what they do where I come from, she been taken in by druids and apprenticed. They mark the ones who are touched by the gods and train them.”
“So she has been trained in some of the druids’ dark magic.”
Garnoc grunted. “Possible she was only recently taken in. She is young. May be she knows nothing. May be she knows enough. You Romans care not; you kill all the druids touch. This lad is a fool to think you not do as much to her.”
Or…he is testing his fortunes. Taking advantage. Hoping my leniency will apply beyond him…to all druids, starting with this one? Marcus leaned back in his chair, thoughts heavy. Gwen guarded the cowering child, his eyes never leaving Marcus’ face, and Marcus found himself searching those blue depths. What trouble are you planning?
As if in answer, Gwen’s pleading eyes glanced back at the girl, then at Marcus again, and now they were soft with emotion instead of frantic. If he was not mistaken, it was a pained look, like…pity. And the child you feel sympathy for just happens to be a druid…?
Marcus frowned. Again he was doubting—when he had finally begun to trust Gwen. But perhaps it was foolish to, perhaps this had happened to provide another warning, another chance to remember why the druids were his enemy…
But Gwen’s eyes were filled with grief, beautiful blue sorrow, and to Marcus the pull of them was like a grappling hook in his stomach.
Voice low, he asked slowly, “You say she is an orphan?”
“She says her parents are dead and no family, Sire.”
“She says? In your tongue, I gather. She knows no Latin?”
“Indeed.” Garnoc looked a bit puzzled by the questions, but answered them grudgingly.
Drawing in a slow breath, Marcus studied Gwen. Then, on a whim—“Garnoc…ask him if his parents are living.”
The manservant turned to him at that, blatant surprise on his face, but Marcus kept his eyes on Gwen, ignoring the reaction that begged an explanation. After a long moment, Garnoc turned and grumbled in the barbarian tongue to Gwen. His confusion was immediately shared—Gwen blinked, looking up at Garnoc, then back to Marcus slowly, before finally answering with a slow shake of his head.
“Any family at all?” Marcus pressed. Garnoc repeated the question with less delay this time.
Gwen’s eyes lowered to the floor. He shook his head again—but Marcus could see part of his face, seated as he was, and his expression wasn’t sad. Gwen’s expression was tight, his eyes a little wide, like he was…confused?
A thought occurred to Marcus abruptly. “Did his family perish when I…when his village was conquered?”
Garnoc’s voice brought Gwen’s head up again, and this time when he looked at Marcus and shook his head, there was a gentleness to his eyes.
Slowly exhaling, Marcus leaned forward in his chair and settled his elbows on the rough-hewn planks of the table. “Garnoc…ask him—ask them both—how much the girl learned from the druids.”
The manservant gave him another long look, but he asked. Gwen quickly began to shake his head, but Garnoc pressed further, apparently demanding that the girl speak. She trembled behind Gwen, but reappeared slowly, and her voice was faint as she tumbled through a short explanation, obviously stuttering—even to Marcus’ language-deaf ears.
Garnoc didn’t look convinced, but he relayed, “She says she was taken in but a few weeks ago, and with the army drawing near, they had no time for lessons. She was told she has the gift, but knows not what gift her masters meant. She says she cleaned the kitchen, and as lessons, they made her recite names of the gods and spirits time to time.”
“Mm.” Marcus studied the wide-eyed, trembling child. She appeared as earnest as…well, as Gwen always did. “Yet her brand would warrant the sword.” He sat back. His position was clear—whatever the reasons, Gwen wanted him to take a terrible risk…and whatever the risks, Marcus felt weak at the prospect of trying to deny those pleading blue eyes. He sighed. “Tell him to keep her hidden for tonight and let no one discover her. And you, speak of this to no one. I will deal with this in the morning.”
Garnoc mumbled his compliance, then spoke to the other two, and hope sparked to life in Gwen’s eyes immediately. Of course, he did not speak—he bowed and took the girl from the room, as Marcus wearily faced his supper, ignoring Garnoc’s incredulous stare.
~•~
Lying in bed, Marcus gazed at the rafters and considered his options. He was working out how best to handle this—wondering, in the process, if there was any way to find out why Gwen even wanted this child—when he heard a soft tap on the thick wooden door, just before it creaked open.
Turning his head, Marcus saw Gwen’s head and shoulders silhouetted in the light from the cook fire in the common room, and he sat up at once. “Yes, Gwen?”
Silently, the druid slipped inside, shutting the door. Darkness enveloped them, but Marcus could see Gwen’s shadowy outline moving close, barely illuminated in the faint glow cast by the coals of the banked fire. “Mahrkus…” Gwen approached the bed…and knelt beside it. Marcus was about to speak to him, stand him up again, when he heard, “…Plaez.”
He sighed heavily. “Why do you want her?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “If only you could tell me that.”
Gwen’s shadowed face was fixed upon him. In the darkness, Marcus felt a touch—hands upon his own, where it rested on the sheets. His traitorous heart began to race. Gingerly, he tried to pull his hand back again. Everything about this situation was already igniting his baser desires—the darkness, the privacy, the bed, Gwen’s nearness. His touch was not helping bolster Marcus’ resistance to temptation. What did help was the sure knowledge that anything that passed between them here tonight Gwen would surely interpret as the price for the girl’s life. Marcus had little doubt that Gwen would willingly pay it—his presence was evidence enough of that. But there was no question of him taking Gwen’s body as currency in trade for a favor. Marcus was attempting to find a gentle way of making that clear when Gwen lifted his hand, pulled it closer…and then placed it upon his own head.
Frowning, Marcus tried to pull back, only to feel Gwen insistently guide his fingers, threading them into his hair. Then, he frowned deeper—he’d felt something. A ridge, an uneven bump. Gwen seemed to know what he felt, guiding his fingertips along a faint line that Marcus quickly realized was anything but natural. He followed the line, Gwen’s hands falling away as Marcus brought both of his to the task, shifting to the side to run both hands deep into Gwen’s hair, feeling out the strange shape of a circle with some crisscrossing lines inside it. He couldn’t form a clear image in his mind, because nothing about the shape was familiar, but he felt enough to recognize a strange shape, branded into Gwen’s scalp.
The girl’s brand was not circular, and it was on her shoulder—so what did this mean? Probably something too complicated to explain, so that left him only to wonder—why did Gwen reveal this? The only meaning Marcus could gather from it was that Gwen was branded by the druids, like the girl. And with Garnoc’s help, he had learned Gwen had no family—like the girl. Without having the common words why and want, Marcus couldn’t ask what he most needed to know…but perhaps, with the right phrasing and Garnoc’s interpretation…
“Mahrkus, plaez.” Gwen’s low voice was a whisper, both his hands clasping Marcus’ hand, which had slipped away from his hair. “Plaez.” The urgency and longing in that soft plea tightened the chains around Marcus’ heart. Gods, what does it matter? The reasons were nothing. Marcus could not refuse—not when this was the first request Gwen had ever made of him.
“Yes.” The word fell from his breathless lips. Marcus rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, feeling Gwen’s grasp on his other hand tighten. “Yes, Gwen,” he murmured, and offered a silent prayer to the gods that this would not prove to be his worst mistake yet.
In the silent room, Gwen’s sudden relieved exhale was loud enough that Marcus turned to look at him—just in time to watch as Gwen lifted his hand and pressed his lips to the backs of Marcus’ fingers. It was a firm, unrepentant kiss, and it stopped Marcus’ heart for a moment. Then Gwen looked up, and even in the thick shadows Marcus could see the faintest glimmer of light catching in happy eyes and shining teeth revealed in a broad smile. “Mahrkus,” Gwen said, and his voice carried the smile even more clearly. He paused, then ventured, “Mahtahnks?”
Marcus blinked, confused, then—“Ah! My thanks?”
“Mai thahnks.” Gwen beamed, then lowered his head again, pressing another kiss to Marcus’ hand—this one softer. Lingering—for one brief moment that seared itself into Marcus’ memory.
Before Marcus could catch his breath, Gwen was gone, bowing as he slipped back out the door. With a groan, Marcus rolled over, shoved his hand into his loincloth, and lost himself in the lingering sensation of Gwen’s lips on his skin—rather than worry further over his decisions.
~•~
“Garnoc, it occurs to me that you have been a faithful servant of mine for some time now,” Marcus mused over his morning meal. “Of course, your service is hardly completed…yet perhaps you will not be needed for so long.” The peasant said nothing, but Marcus had his full and undivided attention at once. “I shall be established here for some time. I have another serving-man, potential servants in plenty…the only lack, at the moment, is that you speak Latin the best.”
The man shifted his weight. He looked as though he wanted to speak, but Marcus hadn’t asked him a direct question, so he held his peace. Marcus glanced up from his meal to Garnoc, then his eyes wandered over to Gwen, followed closely by the girl as they tended the fire and attempted to look busy. “What is that girl’s name, by the way?” he asked suddenly, frowning.
Garnoc asked the question, and the girl froze, eyes wide and not daring to look up. Her voice was soft and thin when she answered, “Anwen.”
“Mm,” Marcus grunted, then dismissed the subject. “Well. Garnoc, I am considering keeping those two, but Anwen must learn to speak Latin—as well as you do, if possible. I would like to have you remain for as long as it takes you to teach her Latin. Then, I will send you back to your family and keep these two in my service instead.”
Awed, Garnoc bowed deeply. “My humble thanks, Sire. Yet…are you certain a druid…?”
His voice firm, Marcus answered, “She knows nothing. Her presence is convenient, for she will not need to return to any family, as you do. However, as you begin your instruction, I would like you to impress upon my servants exactly how forbidden the druid magic and barbarian gods are. Be certain they understand that all such things carry the death sentence with them. She must cover that marking and forswear whatever talents they saw in her. I will be in command of Segontium soon, and I will not have anyone discover druid magic in the legate’s household. If the girl cannot accept this, she would be better off starving in the streets.”
“Indeed, Sire. I will do all you ask. If the girl can speak Latin before harvest time…?”
“Oh. Yes, of course. You would be able to travel better before winter. Yes, if she can speak and understand that quickly, you may return this year. Oh, and have the other one around during lessons. The more he can understand the better, even if he cannot speak.”
“Yes, Sire. I will begin teach them all I know, immediately.”