Chapter 8
Britannia’s chilly, damp spring gave way to summer. The days became warmer than Marcus would ever have imagined possible for this northern island—and longer than any of the Romans could believe. The sky remained light far into the summer evenings, and the sun seemed hardly to have left the sky before it returned with another dawn. The Britons spent long hours in the fields, more accustomed to the lengthy days spent farming than their new Roman overseers. Marcus had the task of ensuring that the conquered barbarians would have food for themselves that winter, as well as food to sustain the Roman forces, most of which were assigned to military occupation or to the reconstruction of Segontium.
Fortifying Segontium was the highest priority, followed by building more spacious, civilized housing. The first building completed was a large central hall to serve as a proper seat of command, with several apartments attached and more and more houses springing up nearby for the highest-ranked Romans. Marcus moved his small household into the legate’s apartment once it was completed, and his little collection of servants had their own tiny closet for sleeping quarters, separate from the kitchens, which were dedicated to cooking for large gatherings, not only Marcus’ private meals. The accommodations were meager compared to the houses in Rome, but the barbarians were awed by the first sight of their new home. The idea of having rooms dedicated to different purposes like sleeping and cooking seemed to be difficult for them to take in, at first.
Marcus’ new chambers were equipped with an alcove suitable for a valet to sleep in. He longed to install Gwen there immediately, yet Marcus had begun to fear arousing suspicion. Garnoc had been his personal servant for far longer, and he spoke Latin. So, reluctantly, when they moved to the apartment in the new building, Marcus sent Gwen to stay in the servants’ room with Anwen and made Garnoc his official valet. He consoled himself that at least Anwen was progressing well in Latin, and perhaps he could soon feel justified in sending Garnoc home and elevating Gwen to his station. Marcus missed having him near, but then again, he slept more soundly now that it was only Garnoc in his bedchamber with him.
For a long time, nothing out of the ordinary passed between them. Gwen acted the part of silent servant, and now even their rare times alone in the evening were gone. There were no more Latin lessons after dark, so Marcus had to endure many days at a time without hearing Gwen’s voice at all. Gwen did speak in front of Anwen, but only when no one else was present, and usually it was nothing more than asking for a word in Latin.
Anwen’s Latin progressed quickly through the summer, although she had a tendency to mix up words, and her grasp of verb tense was terrible, so speaking to her could be quite confusing. Gwen’s progress was slower, but more precise—as far as Marcus could tell from the few times he was able to hear Gwen speak. Anwen was constantly at Gwen’s side, so there were no occasions to speak privately. The girl clearly adored Gwen and was fiercely devoted to him. Marcus sometimes felt the prickle of envy toward her—able to spend every moment in Gwen’s company, speaking to him in their native tongue and fully understanding his thoughts and intentions…and perhaps even his feelings. Did they ever talk about him? Did Gwen tell the girl what had passed between them? Did she know what Gwen thought of Marcus?
Or perhaps they never spoke of him at all, and Gwen was happy to have Marcus in his life as little as possible. Marcus would watch him, whenever he could, wondering if Gwen was enjoying the summer days now that he was free of Marcus’ company—and now that he knew for certain that his body would not be violated again. He was alive, under no obligations but secrecy and service—compared to most Britons, his life was probably blissfully carefree.
In contrast, Marcus’ life had never felt so empty, but he knew he deserved much worse than loneliness for his crimes, so he chose patience and devoted himself to the distraction of Segontium for the summer.
~•~
Midsummer was near, and a strange unrest had been growing among the conquered Britons. The Romans generally disregarded their complaints and enforced their rule with violence, but even the officers directly under Marcus were beginning to tell him of the barbarians’ strange behavior. It was difficult to understand. They were not gathering for a rebellion, as far as the Romans could tell, nor did they seem more resentful than usual of their overseers, their instruction in Latin, or the new buildings. Yet there was a nearly palpable unrest among the natives, tinged with a strong undercurrent of fear. It all seemed baseless to Marcus and his officers, but the fear continued to swell into a barely contained panic as midsummer approached.
Garnoc, taking his new role as valet seriously, attempted to provide an explanation. Unfortunately, the barbarians saw him as an outsider, as much a Roman as the soldiers, despite his ability to speak their tongue. He could only report what he had heard whispered—that it was something to do with a druid ritual. He did not know what, for his southern tribe had not observed whatever practice these northern Britons did, in this case. It was a more local rite; that was all he knew.
“Ask that girl, then,” Marcus ordered. “She should know more.” Garnoc’s eyebrows rose in questioning surprise, reminding Marcus that he might be suspicious that the centurion was turning to druid knowledge for help. “She is native to these lands,” he quickly clarified. “Surely she knows as much as every peasant here, but she may be more willing to confess what she knows. To preserve her…position.”
That seemed to satisfy Garnoc. “Yes, Sire.”
By nightfall, Garnoc reported, “The girl says the people here celebrate midsummer with a druid ritual. It bless the fields and make the harvest good. Fear is upon the people that the harvest will die without the gods’ favor, without the druids. Some may even attempt to make the ritual without druid help. Very bad, very…danger.”
Glancing up from the scrolls he’d been reading, Marcus shot his valet a dark look. “Why danger?” Naturally, he couldn’t allow druid rituals to take place, but not out of any fear that the druids posed a physical threat to the Roman conquest. It was important to re-educate the people and bring them into the Empire’s ways; that was all.
But this barbarian, for all his training in Roman ways, seemed to have other ideas. He paused, then darkly answered, “Common man should not meddle in the realm of the gods. Only druids have power to speak to gods peacefully, and not bring wrath instead of favor.”
At the mention of power, a chill ran down Marcus’ spine. He remembered the force that had held him down at Gwen’s command. He still had no explanation for it; he had never believed these barbarians’ gods were real, yet he had no other name for what he had felt. In this land so far from Rome, he was beginning to wonder what strange mysteries and horrors might occupy the fringes of the world.
Still…he knew his duty. He had never thought too deeply about why the Empire must spread—he only knew that Rome was civilized and advanced and powerful, worthy of ruling the world. Now that he was leading battles on the furthest fronts, he could see the frail existences these barbarians scraped out, and Rome’s guidance seemed all the more generous. The barbarians disagreed, of course, but that was the reason for their re-education into Roman culture—so that they could come to accept the best government in the world and live in peace and prosperity, no longer at war with their neighbors for the scant necessities of life.
Thus, to prevent any attempts to revive druid rituals, Marcus ordered a heavier guard on the natives, as well as a strict curfew for the immediate future. At the closing of the day, all the Britons were collected within Segontium, behind closed doors, and an overnight watch made certain that no one was free to wander about. During the short hours of darkness, the city became like an empty ruin, silent and cold, with only the patrolling guards giving any sign of life. The Britons grumbled and the tension rose even higher, but the weaponless people were powerless to stand against the Roman soldiers.
All seemed to be under control…until midsummer morning.
The Britons went out to the fields, watched by the Romans as always. Marcus was occupied with construction when a soldier returned with news of what they had discovered.
On the edge of a far field, out of sight of the city, some sort of ritual had been performed.
Marcus rode out with a contingent of officers and soldiers. The site of the ritual was a hillock; around the crown of the hill, large stones formed and uneven ring. There was a large, flat stone in the very center, long enough for a man to lie upon—and it was stained a dark, ruddy brown. Trails of drying gore ran down the sides, but of the source of the blood, there was no trace. No carcass or…body. Only blood, staining the stone and scattered over the ground.
“The curfew last night was perfect, Sire,” his second in command offered. “There were no unusual reports. No one saw anything.”
With a nod, Marcus acknowledged the information, his expression dark as he studied the stone circle. “Question them again. Each and every soldier.” He glared around the hillock once more before spurring his horse to return. “Tear this place down.”
“Sir, we tried upon arrival, but the stones are sunken quite deep—”
“Then pull them up,” Marcus growled. “Destroy this place.” With a kick, he spurred his horse back to Segontium.
It would be a long day, he knew. A long time before he could retire to his own chambers.
So he went there first.
It was not the hour for preparing meals, so Marcus found all three of his Briton servants occupied with common tasks in the main apartment. Garnoc was mending some articles of clothing, while Gwen and Anwen silently washed the rest. As Marcus watched from the entryway, unnoticed, Anwen spoke in their tongue, softly, to Gwen, who nodded. Without glancing up, Garnoc snapped, “Shawl. Clean. ‘The shawl is clean.’”
Anwen flinched and turned back to Gwen, repeating clumsily, “Tah shah is clee-ahn.” Gwen nodded with a small, encouraging smile. Garnoc grunted impatiently but fell silent as the other two returned to their work.
When Marcus stepped into the room, Garnoc glanced up, then rose to his feet, startled. Gwen’s eyes lifted a moment before Garnoc’s, and he slowly straightened. Anwen looked up at him curiously, then around. Catching sight of Marcus, she squeaked, jumped to her feet, and scurried behind Gwen.
For a moment, there was silence. Gwen’s gaze was upon him, his blue eyes simply curious. Waiting. Marcus examined him in return. His hair is getting longer… He cleared his throat. “Garnoc, go…” Nothing came to mind. Marcus blinked. “…Away. Leave.” Frowning deeply, Garnoc looked from him to the druids, but bowed and began to depart. “The main hall,” Marcus abruptly added. “Go there and wait for me.”
“As you say, Sire.” Garnoc left without another word.
Stepping further into the room, Marcus neared Gwen and Anwen. Gwen’s eyes searched his face, but the man gave no sign of fear, of suspicion. He was at peace as much as ever, and he waited for Marcus to speak.
“Druid magic,” Marcus began, keeping his voice as flat as he could. “In the field beyond the—out of city,” he corrected himself.
Gwen’s eyes, which had understood the first two words, dimmed. Half turning, he gently touched Anwen’s arm. “Ataf setee?”
Eyes peeled wide, Anwen started at Marcus, shrinking back. Gwen spoke again. “Anwen?” Her wide eyes flitted to him and seemed to focus, then to search for a moment.
“Seetee…ddinasoedd?” She shook her head in incomprehension at the rest.
Gwen nodded, slowly, and looked back to Marcus. “Seetee?” He pointed all around, pantomimed roofs over his head, and draw a circle—the rough shape of Segontium. Marcus nodded. “Ataf?” He asked, shrugging with open hands.
Marcus expelled a heavy breath. “Out. Out city.” He pointed away, in the direction of the field. Gwen’s eyes followed his hand, but no more. Marcus grunted, cast about, and struck upon the wood stacked ready for the fire. He picked up a few small bits of kindling and set them on the ground, arranging them in a ring around one long, central piece. A picture of the stone circle. “Druid. Magic. Night.” He flicked his hand behind himself to indicate the past, straightening to gaze down at Gwen.
Understanding. Gwen’s face relaxed, knowledge in his eyes as he looked up at Marcus, and a faint smile. He nodded. “Druidh magick.”
“Was it you?” Marcus snapped—but of course Gwen did not understand. His teeth ground together. “Gwen?” He pointed at Gwen, then at the wooden model of the circle.
Still with that barely there, but knowing smile, Gwen shrugged. “Fahrmer no magick.”
It was the final confirmation. He is using me. He hasn’t given up his barbarisms, and he will not. He’ll continue under this guise of innocence for as long as I let him live. Marcus scowled deeply. “And I,” he growled, “like an indulgent mother…will allow him.”
A whimper of fear drew his attention—and Gwen’s. Anwen had vanished behind him, keeping an iron grip on his clothing. Gwen turned as far as her grip would allow and spoke softly in their tongue, laying his hand upon her head, though the angle was awkward.
Distracted, Marcus watched with a tightening in his chest—Gwen’s behavior to the child was so caring, so…fatherly. This new side of the man—this parental sort of tenderness—appeared to Marcus as beautiful as every other part of him. Even betrayed, he was a lovesick fool. Watching them, his heart yearned after Gwen dreadfully, missing the times when they had been alone together, missing the heat of his skin and his expressive, lovely eyes. It had been so long since those first days, when they were always alone together… The child’s shaking eased, and those eyes turned back to Marcus, saw his face, and quickly looked down, faint color rising to Gwen’s cheeks. Marcus swallowed, taking a deep breath to bring himself back to the subject at hand.
He forced strength into his voice. “No. Magic.” It felt like shouting at the wind to cease, but Marcus did not know what else to do. He could hardly appear to condone these rituals…though allowing them to go unpunished was its own sort of approval, in a way that gnawed at him.
Clear blue eyes were soft as they looked at him. Gwen merely nodded. “Druidh die. Understandh.”
He wanted, for a moment, to punch that man in the face. And yet the greater part of him, alas, wanted something very different. With a grunt, Marcus spun on his heel and left…before he could lose control of himself and reach out for Gwen.
The day was long, as he’d known it would be. His officers scoured the population for a culprit—one Marcus knew would only become a scapegoat. For two days, the tension of that certainty mounted, bearing down upon him. Every moment he was waiting for one of the soldiers to bring in an innocent Briton, accusing him of the heathen ritual. And Marcus would sentence him to death…to protect the real culprit.
In battle, people died. That was the nature of war. But on the battlefield it was fair—kill or be killed. The druids were evil—he sacrificed them for the greater good. But to kill a man, a man who was innocent and had no hope to defend himself, to shield another—that was murder, and for two days, Marcus’ head throbbed and his stomach would hold no food as he waited to become a murderer.
On the third day, a centurion came before him, accompanied by a guard…leading a peasant. Marcus’ stomach turned to ice. “What is it.”
“My soldier has found someone who claims to know the culprit in the heathen rite, Sire.”
The guard stepped forward at his commander’s gesture. “Sire, this Briton came to me to report the culprit.” The man was glancing around rapidly, clearly not understanding a word. The guard continued, “He claims that a man in his neighbor’s family suddenly fell ill the day following the ritual, and he died this morning, though he was healthy before and none can explain his illness. We investigated, and I brought the body for you to inspect. We discovered some strange markings upon it.”
Slowly, Marcus rose. “Bring it in.” The guards moved to act, the Briton speaking to a scholar who had come forward to serve as an interpreter. A body was carried in on a stretcher between two servants. The Briton stepped to it, drew up his shirt, and pointed to the dead man’s chest.
Coming closer, Marcus could see an odd symbol, apparently carved into the flesh with a blade. The symbol meant nothing to him—it did not resemble Anwen’s, but then again, neither did Gwen’s. The druids apparently did not mark themselves uniformly. He frowned, studying the dead man. Old—quite old for a barbarian, and bony…but that could be the ravages of whatever disease had taken him. It did not indicate his health before this.
“The barbarian says,” the scholar interpreted as the man chattered, “that this symbol is a druid marking. He believes his neighbor’s father-by-marriage pledged himself to the gods and committed the ritual. He was not originally a druid, however…and apparently the gods were displeased with a commoner attempting to speak to them, and struck him dead. That is the barbarian’s explanation, Sire.”
“Sire,” the centurion cut in, “I do not think we should accept this explanation. To allow the people to see us agree with such an idea is to indicate that Rome accepts that these barbarian gods not only exist, but are powerful enough to act.”
“That is not our position,” Marcus commented thoughtfully, still studying the corpse. That symbol…those cuts…
“We should consider that this barbarian may be attempting to defer blame to protect the real culprit—possibly himself or one in his household.”
“Mmm.” Marcus nodded. “I am inclined to suspect that myself. Centurion, you will investigate this Briton and all his family members. However,” he added sharply, before the soldiers could depart, “do not be cruel in your investigation.” He fixed his subordinate with a long, serious look. “Investigate them to discover any treachery, but if you find none, do them no harm. We do not want to discourage the barbarians from cooperating with Rome. If he is innocent, we will say that we do not accept this dead man as the culprit—we will continue the search until the matter is forgotten. And we will give this man some small reward…for his effort to serve the Roman Empire.” He looked down at the corpse again. “We do not condone it, but it is inevitable that these people will continue to believe in their gods for a time. Let us not validate that faith with too much aggression—that could imply that we fear it as a possible truth. Eradicate the druids and ignore the rest, and the heathen gods will pass into superstition, then into myth, until they are forgotten.”
“Aye, Sire.”
Marcus turned away. “Dispose of this as a slain enemy.” All understood—leave him to the wild animals. Forbid any rites of death, whether Roman or Briton. The blame was cast. Marcus could not have dreamt a better escape. He thanked the gods for that one resourceful Briton.
For he knew the dead man was no culprit. The marks cut in his chest had not been made two days ago—they were fresh, and showed no signs of even a short time of healing. More than that, they were bloodless—cut into the man after he was cold. A scapegoat had been found—the barbarians themselves had found one for him.
~•~
For the rest of the summer, Marcus took advantage of the separation between himself and his silent druid. Gwen was always around his apartment, but Marcus was rarely there except to sleep. They never spoke. Gwen did not seek him out, and Marcus kept his word and did not pursue Gwen either. In fact, he avoided Gwen almost entirely. There was a vague, hopeless hope inside him that perhaps, with time, his ardor would fade, and he would be able to see Gwen more objectively—and then deal with him and the threat he presented.
Unfortunately, Venus would not allow him to slip away peacefully from his own desires. Gwen’s absence tormented him with loneliness that only grew more and more painful. He slept poorly; in the height of late summer’s heat, he tossed in bed through the short nights, barely able to drift off for a few hours.
One such night, Marcus woke in darkness, exhausted and covered in sweat. Unable to bear his stifling chamber any longer, he rose silently. Garnoc slept in his alcove, and Marcus avoided waking him. He went into the common room of his apartment in search of the water bucket. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he found it, dipping his hands in to gather water to drink, then to splash over his face and body. The relief helped him to relax a little, and he sighed, running a hand through his hair. He stood a moment, tired but not sleepy, and in no way happy to return to his bed.
“Marcus?”
The soft voice behind him made Marcus spin around, and there was Gwen—shadowed in the entryway from his own little closet. “Gwen…” He swallowed, immediately becoming conscious that he was wearing nothing but his loincloth. Struggling to cover his embarrassment, he cleared his throat. “Uh…why are you…awake?”
Gwen stepped forward, and the moonlight reached his features, showing his bemused and surprised expression. “Gwen go out.” Marcus frowned, straightening stiffly. Gwen smiled. “Gwen go in,” he offered in a reassuring tone, then repeated himself with gestures, pointing to the door, then back to where they stood now. “Gwen go out, go in.” Then, as Marcus continued to frown, he offered, “Marcus go out?”
He hesitated. “Go…with you?” Do not do it…keep your distance… But the inner voice was…difficult to heed. And he was curious. Where exactly did Gwen plan to go? There were guards patrolling the city who would not allow him to roam free. “I…ah.” He looked down at himself, but Gwen was already stepping forward with a little smile.
“Cloak,” he offered, removing the one on his shoulders and offering it to Marcus. Gwen was dressed in his shirt and trousers underneath. Marcus took the cloak without thinking and wrapped it around himself. It felt better to be covered, but he still was not dressed for a midnight inspection of the city… Gwen reached out, and Marcus’ breath caught as Gwen took his hand. “Come.” Gwen tugged, and he followed.
They walked the few paces to the doorway slowly, and from the first step Gwen began to murmur in his tongue. Immediately, the air began to feel…strange. Oddly sharp, clear…
In three paces, they reached the door, and Gwen put his hand out to push it open. Beyond—Marcus froze for a moment. There was nothing beyond. A blank, white-gray mist covered the doorway. He had no idea where such a mist had come from. It was too warm a night for something like this…
Still murmuring, still holding his hand, Gwen stepped into the mist, tugging Marcus along with him.
The mist closed around him—but it was not like the dank fog of this land. It did not feel thick and heavy. Cool, yes—very cool and tingling on his skin. It was deeply refreshing. He felt himself drawing in deep breaths, just to fill himself with the cool sensation.
It only lasted a moment, however. With three more paces, they stepped out of the mist, and the evening’s heat surrounded them again. Marcus stopped dead in his tracks. He was in the forest.
Wide-eyed, he scanned around himself—How did I come here? It was not the courtyard, not even anywhere in Segontium, and a glance behind showed vanishing threads of mist and nothing but more forest—not his chambers, not even the city wall. Fear clenched in his stomach.
Gwen’s hand squeezed his own, and Marcus looked forward again to find the druid smiling gently, leading him forward through the forest. “Walk,” Gwen suggested…and walk Marcus did, though he knew not how. He felt strangely outside of himself, as though walking in a dream. For a dream this must be…it could not be real…
The forest soon thinned, and Gwen guided him out into the open. The ground rose ahead, and Marcus found that they were climbing a hill. Almost at once, he knew where he was—it was difficult not to recognize the massive stones that crowned this particular hill, even though they were not as they had been at first. With much effort, the Romans had managed to pull several of them out of the ground, and they lay on their sides in disarray. The three largest could not be budged, and none of the stones could be removed very far, so the circle was still evident, but at least it stood less proud and perfect than before. The central stone slab had been half-covered with earth—the soldiers had tried to break it in half, at first, but that effort had failed, so they had done their best to bury it instead.
Glancing around, Marcus drew the cloak tighter around himself. This place, even in partial ruin, felt threatening to him. The stones were bathed in moonlight, the shadows deep. His memory easily supplied a vision of blood upon the stone slab and the ground—and at the moment, he had fresh reason to fear the powers Gwen seemed to wield. Being here with him, in this eerie place…Marcus dearly missed his sword.
At the same time, Gwen seemed as comfortable and easy as Marcus was tense and alarmed. He strolled forward into the circle, arms swinging gently at his sides, face raised slightly to the starry sky. When he reached the central stone, he brushed a hand over it, sweeping a little dirt from its surface. Then, he turned back to Marcus, who still hovered outside the circle. The tilt of his head and raised eyebrows conveyed nothing but surprise and confusion over Marcus’ wariness. He approached again, and when he was nearer to Marcus, he gestured behind himself. “Sit?”
Eyes flicking to the stone, Marcus tensed further. “Sit?” On that…bloody pagan altar? He shook his head. He didn’t quite trust his voice.
Gwen’s familiar frown of confusion appeared, and he glanced between Marcus and the stone. After a moment, he relented, came back, and moved to a nearby fallen stone. Sitting on the monument that now lay on its side, he gestured to the surface next to him. “Sit?” he asked again.
Marcus hesitated for a long moment…but the fallen stone was somehow much less threatening than the altar. He finally took a few halting steps forward and sat down beside Gwen. He glanced nervously at his companion. Gwen gave him a faint, reassuring smile, then leaned back and sighed, gazing out at the moonlit hilltop.
For what felt like forever, they were silent. Marcus desperately tried to collect himself and calm down, but being nearly naked in such a strange place—not to mention the unexplainable way they arrived—kept him uneasy. Nothing was familiar about this. Gwen, on the other hand, seemed more at ease than Marcus had ever seen him—and he was a man who repeatedly surprised Marcus with his peaceful demeanor. But now…when Marcus dared to glance over at Gwen, the man’s face was blissfully relaxed. It was difficult to explain, but he seemed…part of his surroundings. As though he belonged there as much as a tree belongs in the forest, a fish in the sea.
He is so…beautiful.
In the middle of Marcus’ reverie, Gwen half-turned to look at him, a friendly smile on his face. “Gwen learn Latin,” he offered conversationally.
Marcus swallowed, bringing his attention into focus. “Ah…good.”
Still smiling, Gwen nodded. “Yes. Learn Latin…ah…ah-pal…geize?” Blinking, Marcus shook his head, blank. Gwen frowned in concentration. “Ahpal…guise? Alpalo-gise?”
Suddenly straightening, Marcus ventured, “Apologize?”
Gwen’s smile was wide and sudden. “Yes! Ah…” He opened his palm toward Marcus, as though asking for the word one more time.
“A-pol-o-gize,” Marcus repeated slowly, articulating each syllable.
“Ahpologise,” Gwen tried, and Marcus nodded, feeling himself begin to smile. Then he frowned again.
“Why apologize?”
Gwen pointed to himself. “Druid. Ahpologise. Marcus say no magic. Gwen ahpologise magic.”
His expression dimmed. “If you are going to apologize, do not do it in the first place.” Gwen shrugged, and Marcus sighed harshly. “No apologize magic. No magic. Druid—”
“—Die,” Gwen finished for him, nodding. “Druid die. Understand.”
His frown deepening, Marcus stared into Gwen’s eyes. “Druid magic bad.”
But his urgent words only prompted another smile as Gwen gently shook his head. “No bad. Magic good. Help.”
With a grunt, Marcus looked away again, back at the hilltop before them. “No want your help.”
To his surprise, Marcus heard a soft laugh. Looking back at Gwen, he saw the man shaking his head. Blue eyes met his, amused but gentle. “No help Marcus.” His surprise must have shown on his face. Gwen added, “Marcus good. No help. Magic serve gods.”
Marcus’ shoulders sagged. “Druid,” he pronounced heavily.
Gwen nodded. “Druid serve gods.” Drawing a leg up, he rested his chin on his knee and regarded Marcus. “Gwen die?”
Oh, why ask me again? Marcus sighed, shaking his head slowly and looking away. It was a struggle to force the words out through a tight throat. “No. Gwen serve druid gods. No die.” He felt…defeated. The summer had seemed like an eternity so far, but it had not been nearly long enough to dim his yearning for Gwen. No amount of time can cure a fool, he thought bitterly. And he was clearly a fool—the legate of a Roman outpost, a centurion, sitting on a rock in his loincloth in the middle of the night, unable to kill one lousy druid, who had no intention of giving up his barbaric ways.
A warm touch—Gwen’s hand upon his own, lifting it. Marcus looked into those lovely eyes again, and they were clear and warm, like…friendship. “My thanks,” Gwen said softly, then released his hand.
With a moan, Marcus buried his face in both hands. He felt another touch, now to his cloaked shoulder. “Marcus good?”
He didn’t need to look up to see the concern; he could hear it, and even that was too much. “No,” he mumbled, head down. “No good.”
Shifting slightly, Gwen’s hand rubbed his shoulder in what was probably intended as a comforting gesture—certainly not an arousing one. When Marcus still did not look up, another hand grasped his wrist and pulled it away. He lifted his gaze, and now Gwen’s eyes were sad. “Gwen ahpologize,” he whispered with sincerity.
Marcus smiled bitterly, then patted Gwen’s hand where it still lingered on his shoulder. “That does not change the danger I am in,” he sighed, “yet it gives me some hope that you might care. My thanks.”
Obviously, Gwen did not understand most of his words, but the last two made him smile, and he dropped the matter and returned his gaze to the starry sky. Marcus did likewise, and for a while longer they sat in stillness, listening to the insects sing into the warm summer night.
When Gwen finally rose with an inviting smile, Marcus stood and followed, this time without being dragged. They returned to the forest, slipping into the undergrowth. Marcus watched and listened as Gwen began to murmur, as the tingling, cool mist gathered. It became a solid, impenetrable gray between two trees, and Gwen reached back and took his hand just before they crossed through.
When they emerged, they were within the dark, hot room they had come from. Gwen released his hand as Marcus drew a deep breath, steadying his nerves. He’d been expecting it that time, and yet…it was hardly something he could grow accustomed to so quickly.
Gwen turned to him with a smile. “Sleep good.” Then he began to move toward the doorway to his and Anwen’s little closet. Marcus felt a tug in his stomach, an unwillingness to see him go. The night had been shared in such a relaxed manner, almost in the easy comfort of…friendship. In spite of the magic and the discouraging conversation—he wanted more. Always more… And suddenly, Marcus realized that he needed the new word Gwen had just learned. He had been needing it so long, he’d forgotten.
“Gwen,” he called in a whisper. The man paused and turned back. Marcus hesitated, then carefully closed the distance between them. He dared not speak loud enough to wake anyone, so he murmured, “I, ah…want…ah, say…” He paused, brow creasing as he cast about for the words he knew Gwen understood. Blue eyes watched him in silence, and Gwen nodded, waiting. Marcus hesitated, gathering his thoughts. “Gwen…the, ah…sex…”
Gwen blinked, straightening slightly. He did not pull back or seem alarmed, but his attention sharpened and he stood, waiting. Watching Marcus carefully.
He pushed himself onward. “First day sex…” What did he call it, when he spoke of it before…? “Ah…Call-anf?”
“Galanhaf,” Gwen murmured, nodding slowly.
“Galanhaf, sex…it was wrong…that is, bad. I was…bad.” Stop using words he doesn’t know. “Marcus sex with Gwen—apologize.” At that, Gwen blinked, something entering his expression. Surprise? Curiosity? “I—Marcus—apologize for Galanhaf.” If only I could make you understand how deeply I regret… He searched Gwen’s eyes, his voice dropping to an intense whisper. “Apologize, Gwen. Apologize.”
On the final word, Marcus sank to one knee before Gwen. It was not something he thought to do; it was instinct. A soldier who had something to apologize for would not stand before his superior in such a moment, and Marcus knelt, bowing his head, still searching his mind for any other words that could help Gwen see how sickened he was with himself. How could I have ever treated you so lightly, with such disregard and contempt?
He felt a touch to his shoulder, then to his upper arm—more insistent, pulling him up again. He let Gwen raise him back to his feet, but he kept his eyes lowered. Gwen disregarded—or did not comprehend—his penitent posture. He moved closer, placing himself in Marcus’ sight, and looked up. For a long moment, Marcus stared at him, unsure what to say. Gwen searched his eyes—filled with his grief and regret—before finally relaxing. He nodded, not quite smiling—his expression was still serious. “Understand,” he whispered…then placed one palm flat against the center of Marcus’ chest. “My thanks.”
He turned away then, silently disappearing into his little chamber. Marcus remembered the borrowed cloak too late. He left it in the common room for Gwen to find in the morning, drank a little more water, and retired to bed.
For once, he slept almost until morning.