Chapter 9
Though no longer an intentional avoidance on Marcus’ part, the separation resumed and continued for another month, until the summer’s heat began to fade. Then Garnoc came before him one evening to report on the Britons’ progress with Latin—and, Marcus could see, with every hope of being released. He praised Anwen’s progress and put her through several spoken drills to prove her fluency, such as it was. Marcus thought her responses seemed rehearsed—and indeed, he later confirmed for himself that she was not so well-versed in Latin as Garnoc sought to present her—yet his own secret wishes were best served by playing the fool, so he pretended to be convinced by Garnoc’s demonstration.
Garnoc departed for his home village as the summer closed.
Once, Marcus had been eager to have him out of the way and elevate Gwen in his place. Now, he had other problems to consider. First, he had to know if anyone else knew of Gwen as the dumb farmer. It took a long, difficult conversation with both him and Anwen—a poor translator, who almost seemed to create more misunderstandings than she was able to disperse—but he was eventually able to understand that, as far as they knew, Garnoc had never spoken much with the natives of Segontium. They doubted he had told anyone of the centurion’s other servants, least of all a dumb one of no consequence.
At last, Marcus was able to explain that the entire reason for Gwen’s silence was because he had not been sure, in the beginning, that Gwen would keep his identity a secret. To his surprise, Gwen seemed to have grasped that long ago. He told Marcus, brokenly, that he had spoken to no one but Anwen…and he had kept very much apart from the other Britons. Marcus dared to speak of his hope that Gwen could cast off the false silence, and Gwen seemed to think no one but Garnoc would be shocked. The few who had seen him at all had not tried to speak with him.
Anwen, once she understood the conversation—and that it appeared to be leading to Gwen’s promotion or favor in some way—suggested that Gwen would hardly even be recognized outside the centurion’s apartment if he shaved his beard off. If anyone asked, they could say that the dumb farmer had gone back with Garnoc, and Gwen was a new servant from another village—one not as far, but not close enough that anyone here would know his people.
The idea pleased Marcus. Gwen seemed less lured by the unknown promotion, but the promise of being able to speak again and no longer play dumb did seem to hold some appeal, and he eventually agreed. Marcus had originally thought to have Gwen at his side at all times, once Garnoc was out of the way, but his forces had been adding to the staff of Segontium over the summer, and he no longer needed his valet to double as his steward in governmental work. He managed to explain to Anwen and Gwen that their duties would remain almost unchanged. Instead of Garnoc, he found a Roman camp follower—a girl younger than Anwen, born on Britannia’s soil to a camp follower. She spoke Latin like a native, yet knew no other land but this one; she had never seen Rome. She was not yet old enough to be much value for the work she could do, but her speaking ability was exactly what Marcus needed. He dared not bring in a scholar to tutor his Britons; the scholars knew much about the druids, for it was their purpose to replace all druid beliefs with Roman ones. He could not risk one discovering Gwen’s identity somehow.
The following day, Gwen was clean-shaven at the morning meal. The moment he exited his chamber and saw him, Marcus was rendered somewhat…breathless. He forced himself to continue to his meal—after only a momentary break in stride—and he devoted his full efforts to maintaining a calm, disinterested appearance.
It was so…strange. Marcus had grown accustomed to Gwen’s beard, his long hair falling about his face. It had looked so barbaric to him at first, but now it was hard to recognize the man with the bare face, his long hair so long these days that he’d taken to tying it back. It made him look…civilized. Not quite like a Roman—his coloring was far too pale to ever make that mistake. But it was easier to picture his hair cut short, and Marcus had occasionally seen him in a tunic. In a toga, he’d cut a fine figure, and his fair skin and hair and blue eyes would add just a hint of the exotic.
It was with some dismay that Marcus realized that his desire for Gwen was still able to grow stronger…and to test his restraint further.
As soon as he made this discovery, he decided to keep Gwen’s sleeping arrangements as they were. He would never sleep well with Gwen so nearby, and the new servant would hardly overcrowd their little room, she was so small. It was wise to maintain whatever distance he could; perhaps time would still cure him, he only needed more of it…
And that same night, quite without thinking, Marcus suggested to Gwen that he move to the valet’s alcove, where Garnoc had slept.
The suggestion was taken calmly, without much reaction. “If Gwen want,” Marcus added hastily. “Gwen want sleep here? Or Gwen want sleep with Anwen?” He tried to present it as one of two options, either one perfectly acceptable, depending upon Gwen’s pleasure.
After a pause, Gwen nodded. “My thanks.” Without revealing his feelings—if he had any on the matter—he calmly took Garnoc’s place.
Marcus chastised himself for acting on a fool’s whim, but his chest was tight with a warm glow of hope.
~•~
Summer ended, the busy harvest season began, and even Marcus’ household servants were occupied during the day with aiding the farmers. The soldiers who were guarding the people kept their vigil while aiding the harvest efforts. Construction on Segontium was a lower priority; what little of it continued was focused on building storehouses and stables needed for winter.
Gwen’s Latin began to improve more rapidly, now that he could speak aloud and talk directly with his tutor. The child, Tacita, was fluent in basic Latin and the Briton tongue, though her understanding of both languages was apparently nonexistent. She had no idea why words changed depending on context—conjugation and tense were meaningless to her—she only knew how to say things right. Gwen and Anwen were not given the guidance of the laws of Latin—they had to simply memorize through repetition. Even so, they progressed, perhaps thanks most of all to Tacita’s incessant chatter. No one but Marcus was aware of the irony of that little girl’s name.
For several weeks, Marcus and Gwen did not speak much in the mornings and evenings, when they were alone in Marcus’ chamber. Gwen occasionally asked about a word, Marcus helped with pronunciation, but both of them were usually exhausted from the day and glad to keep their exchanges short.
One chilly autumn night, Marcus noticed that Gwen had not shaved for a few days, and stubble was thickening on his chin again. Without thinking, he asked, “You are growing your beard back?”
Gwen straightened, frowning. He had asked Marcus to try speaking as he normally would, so that he could learn to hear the patterns of the language even if he didn’t know all the words, and Gwen was improving in that skill. Still, it often took him a minute to sort out all the sounds and pick out the words he knew.
This time, it seemed he’d missed the main point. “I…beard?” His shrug indicated that he didn’t know what Marcus was asking about his beard.
“Yes. Beard…again? You stop shaving?”
Gwen shrugged again, shaking his head. “I tired. You want, I sha…shahving again, tomorrow.”
With a grunt, Marcus sat on his bed and pulled off his shoes. They were heavy and restrictive, compared to sandals, but they were necessary in this cold, damp weather. “Not a matter of what I want. What about you?”
Stepping closer, Gwen winced. “You…want? Yes?”
“Not me.” Marcus pointed to himself and shook his head, looking up at Gwen. “What you want? You want beard? You want shave?”
Understanding dawned, and more than that—a little amusement, if Marcus wasn’t mistaken. “Again,” he said with a slight smile. “Gwen want? Gwen want?” The teasing lilt of his voice was parroting Marcus.
Glancing up, frowning, Marcus was confused for a moment…until a memory rose in his mind, and his eyes widened. Again—the last time he’d made such a point of Gwen’s desires had been over the subject of sex. He opened his mouth to try to explain, in hopes that Gwen would not think he was trying to lead them to that subject, but the man just grinned at him. He cocked his head slightly, appearing nothing more than amused, and then rubbed his chin with one hand.
“Beard good. No cut face.” He grinned wider, still self-deprecating over his difficulty mastering the use of the razor. Marcus had tried to help him—in the least hands-on way possible—but Gwen often drew a little blood when shaving. Marcus nodded, intending to drop the subject, but then Gwen leaned in, his smile still wide. “You like beard?”
Stock-still, Marcus just stared for a moment. Why is he smiling like that? “Ah…”
“No? Like shahve face? Roman face?” Gwen, still smiling, actually came over to the bed and sat down, sideways, facing Marcus. He propped himself on an arm and watched Marcus grasp uselessly for words.
Feeling unsteady, Marcus faced forward, his eyes on the floor. His awareness of how close Gwen was—He’s sitting on my bed!—overshadowed the rest of his thoughts for a moment. When he finally forced himself to think of the question, he wasn’t sure how to answer. How to tell Gwen he didn’t care what he looked like. How to tell him that, as much as he enjoyed the change, he also missed the way Gwen looked before. Or how to express in simple words—You can do whatever you like with your beard. Your eyes will still fascinate me.
Eventually, he forced out a soft, stiff answer. “I like…your face. Gwen face. Beard is good, shave is good.” He managed to glance up. Gwen’s grin had faded into a softer smile. “Gwen is good.”
Slowly, Gwen’s smile widened again. “Marcus talk good,” he murmured. Then, rising suddenly, he briskly pronounced, “Beard good. Gwen…beard again.” Nodding to himself, and giving Marcus one last teasing smile, he turned to his alcove and vanished without another word.
~•~
To Marcus’ unending confusion, the friendly and open manner Gwen had suddenly taken toward him continued with the autumn. At times, his manner was downright…flirtatious. But Marcus could not believe that. For every moment that he felt a certain invitation from Gwen, he spent a hundred more moments doubting himself.
Still, the warmth of Gwen’s smile as he slowly became more fluent in his…teasing…it began to draw a response from Marcus. He was not even conscious of it at first, but he soon could not help smiling back. After some weeks, he would sometimes catch himself moving as if to touch Gwen, when the man sat or stood near enough—and each time, he drew back with a jolt of fear in his stomach. Fear that something he did would be seen as an advance, fear that it would be unwelcome—fear that he would shatter this strange trust Gwen seemed to have miraculously developed.
Marcus slept poorly, as he had expected, though not quite as restlessly as before. Instead, he seemed to have the most difficulty simply falling asleep. Beyond that, things were nearly normal. Still, many nights he lay awake for what felt like hours before exhaustion finally claimed him.
One such night, when the frost of winter had begun to shimmer on the ground with each dawning, Marcus had nearly fallen asleep when he heard a rustling in the darkness. Then, shortly after, soft footfalls. By the glow of the embers, he saw a shadow move across the room, and he was about to speak to Gwen, question him—and then the man approached his bed and stopped beside it. “Marcus,” he whispered, and Marcus sat up.
“Yes, Gwen?” He couldn’t see Gwen’s features in the shadows—he wore his cloak with the hood drawn up.
“Walk together?”
He hesitated. “Out?”
“Yes,” the answer was quiet, the tone calm in the dark. “Again. Walk out.”
Like before…with the magic fog… His stomach churned. The idea of spending time alone with Gwen was appealing. Perhaps Gwen wanted to talk…or perhaps he had some other reason for inviting Marcus. Regardless, it was an invitation. His personal wariness of magic weighed little compared to that fact, yet it still made him hesitate before he nodded. “Yes.”
A smile entered Gwen’s voice. “Want tunic?”
Marcus felt heat rise to his face and was glad for the dark. “Yes. Yes, I will wear clothes this time. Wait a moment.”
“Ahmohmahnt,” Gwen repeated, but not in a questioning tone—simply trying out a word he didn’t know, usually to ask for the meaning later. He nodded. “Wait.” Then he turned away, allowing Marcus to pull on his tunic and a robe against the cold night.
Everything occurred exactly as it had weeks before. Gwen summoned the strange fog, and in a moment they were in the forest, only this time the fog’s coolness was no longer refreshing. It was as chilly as the night around them, but damp. Marcus felt greatly relieved to be free of it.
Gwen did not release his hand; instead, he wove their fingers together as they made their way through the forest. When the trees thinned and they reached the hill, there was room to walk side by side, and Gwen did. He was as relaxed as before, perfectly at ease with the nearness. Marcus’ palms were damp, despite the chill.
This time, however, Gwen did not try to bring him as far as the altar at the center of the circle. Instead, he stopped outside the circle of stones and turned to face Marcus. He met Marcus’ eyes, moonlight reflecting in his gaze, and asked, very seriously, “Marcus, stay?”
Frowning, his eyes lifted and scanned the hill. What does he mean? “Why?”
Gwen’s eyes gentled, and his answer was soft, almost apologetic. “Magic.”
Again, Marcus glanced around—this time faster. Alarmed. Gwen shook his head and took both of Marcus’ hands. “No danger. You stay, you see. I go…” He stopped, cocked his head to the side, and suddenly smiled. There was a secret amusement when he continued. “Marcus stay. Marcus here. Gwen go. Gwen there.” He pointed to the crown of the hill, to the altar. “Marcus stay? Please.” Then, Gwen sank to one knee. His eyes, however, still fixed Marcus with a knowing smile, and in a moment, suddenly everything was familiar.
These words—from the first day I had to leave him in my house alone. When I knelt and begged him to remain…and he did. Gwen had phrased his request more primitively, as if to conjure that memory on purpose. To…remind me that he did as I asked? To encourage me to cooperate now?
He could not be certain; it might simply be a result of Gwen’s still-limited Latin. On the other hand…it could be that Gwen, with so few words at his disposal, still found a way to use implication to lend weight to his communication. If that is so, there are some accomplished orators in Rome who would enjoy speaking with him.
For now, Marcus drew in a deep breath, pulled Gwen to his feet, and nodded. “Marcus stay. No go.”
His answer was a wide, sudden grin and, “My thanks.” Then, Gwen turned away from him and ascended the hill.
From where he stood outside the circle, Marcus watched as Gwen walked to one of the stones—not the nearest, nor the furthest. Reaching out, Gwen laid his hand upon the surface, and for a moment he did not move. Then, he slowly moved to the stone next to that one and repeated the gesture.
Gradually, he made his way around the circle, pausing at each stone. He was murmuring in his strange tongue again—Marcus heard him when Gwen passed closest to him. The night was silent around them, and strangely still. Finally, Gwen reached the last stone, and from it he turned to the central altar.
When Gwen reached the altar, he drew back his hood; then he stood there, each hand resting on a corner of the surface, and Marcus could hear clearly through the quiet night—singing. A soft, rhythmic chant, low and beautiful. The words were strange, but for once they did not unnerve him—not like the chanting that summoned the fog. Unable to grasp why, Marcus was struck with a strong impression of…welcome. Of kindness and joy…the feeling within the words drew him, and he had shifted a half-step forward before he caught himself and stopped. Fighting the feeling, he rooted himself in place and watched.
Soon, movement drew his eyes away, to the edge of the forest. As Marcus watched, a figure emerged from the trees—a deer. It was unusually pale, and under the moonlight it glowed almost white. It moved smoothly on its long, slender legs, ascending the hill with serene grace. It passed by Marcus, a stone’s throw away, and entered the circle. Gwen watched it approach, as the deer seemed to be watching Gwen. It moved toward him fearlessly, without the slightest falter in its pace.
The deer reached Gwen and stopped, standing before him as Gwen continued to sing. He reached out, placing a hand upon the deer’s head…then closer, until his own brow met the deer’s. The two of them remained like that for a moment. Then, the deer turned to the side and quietly laid its head upon the stone.
Still singing, Gwen reached into his shirt sleeve, drew out a dagger, and softly laid it upon the creature’s neck. It never reacted as Gwen smoothly cut its throat.
Man and beast. Life and death. All washed in moonlight, all as peaceful as a still lake.
A dark, glistening pool began to spread over the stone, and without warning a powerful gale swept through the circle. The wind came from everywhere and nowhere; it howled like it was tearing down a thousand forests, but the trees nearest the hill were silent and unmoving. The wind whipped into a spiral, round and round the circle of stones. Marcus could feel the edges of it, and even that was powerful—a force that nearly threw him from his feet, and at the same time electrified him with a sensation he could not describe.
In the center, the stillness continued. Gwen did not move, but his voice was suddenly carried on the wind, surrounding and reverberating within the stones themselves.
The funnel of wind tightened, pulled inward. It was drawn around the altar; Gwen’s robes whipped violently about him. The slain deer rose from the earth straight up, as if lifted by an unseen hand. It hovered over the stone, blood running down from its open throat. The racing winds caught the scent and carried it—the warm scent of blood. A moment later, the scent changed. The entire gale became bitterly cold, and the sharp scent of snow and ice filled Marcus where he stood, freezing in his nostrils. Another moment, and it changed again—warm. Rain. Mud. Sunshine. Green things growing. Flowers.
Everything stopped.
There was no wind. The night was cold and still again, the air smelled of dry leaves again. Gwen was alone at the altar—the animal was gone.
Marcus dropped to his knees.
His hands were shaking, his legs too weak to hold him up. Silence all around him seemed to magnify his shuddering breaths.
Gwen turned from the stone, and calmly and slowly approached. Marcus was too deeply in shock to even feel fear as the druid neared him…stopped before him…knelt down, took his hands, and met his eyes.
He was smiling. Innocent eyes happy and calm—smiling. “Marcus good?”
Marcus could only gape. He had no voice. The best he could manage was to slowly shake his head.
Gwen’s brow furrowed slightly, troubled. His tone became…encouraging? “No danger. Gods good. Give spring again.” Marcus still could not form an answer. Gwen’s smile faded as he searched his face. Finally, eyes soft, he asked, “Gwen die now?”
Nothing else had managed to sink in yet, but that did. Haltingly, Marcus shook his head, his voice a faint rasp—“No.”
Smiling again, this time fondly, Gwen leaned closer. “My thanks,” he murmured, and then…
What…?
Warm, soft lips pressed Marcus’ half-open mouth, followed immediately by an even warmer tongue, slipping in just a little. Softly kissing. There was nothing unnatural happening now—just the taste and feel of a real, warm, living man.
Gwen’s beard was rough. His nose brushed Marcus’ own. He smelled of herbs and earth. His mouth was hot, wet, and soft—very, very inviting. Full half of Marcus was possessed, wanting nothing but mindless surrender, wanting to pull Gwen into his arms and passionately answer his kiss.
The other half was still reeling from what he had just seen. The…ritual. It had been a ritual sacrifice. A druid ritual. Evil. And yet…
He couldn’t. He simply couldn’t deal with it all so quickly.
With an ache he felt through his whole body, Marcus pulled back, breaking the kiss. Gwen’s eyes lifted, questioning. Innocent. Wondering at his expression of despair, perhaps. Yet when Marcus spoke, his voice was gruff. He had to contain himself somehow. “I do not understand.”
Accepting the distance, Gwen drew back with a nod. Then he rose, and Marcus followed, standing stiffly. Gwen led him up toward the crown of the hill. They passed just inside the stone circle, but if Gwen meant to lead him to the altar, he relented when Marcus stopped and stood rooted in place. Still keeping hold of one hand, Gwen faced him. “I…want you…see magic.” Gwen swept his arm wide, taking in the stones around them. “No want…take secret.”
Marcus felt detached, but the language lesson brought him back, gave him something harmless to focus on. And Gwen’s words always presented a puzzle to solve. “Secrets?” He frowned slightly. “You mean…keep secrets?”
Gwen was listening intently. “Keep. Yes. No want keep secret magic. Marcus understand. I, Gwen, druid. Want Marcus see druid good.” He softened, regarding Marcus a little sadly. “Gwen apologize you fear.”
“I’m not afraid,” Marcus barked roughly, without thinking. Gwen regarded him quietly; his eyes knew better, and he didn’t need to understand the words. Marcus sighed heavily. “They will find the blood. They will know we did not find the druid. There will be another investigation. How can I protect the innocent this time?”
Now, Gwen frowned. “Marcus?”
Swallowing, he made his voice firm—stern. He pointed to the altar. “Blood.” Then he pointed to the city. “People see blood. Understand druid here. Danger for me. Druid must die. I must…” He gestured weakly to Gwen. “No let Gwen die. But I must punish someone. Man…woman…” He pointed to the city again. “Not a druid, but someone must die!”
Brow still furrowed, Gwen slowly nodded. “Understand.” Then, dropping Marcus’ hand, he walked to the altar. “Ddaear! Yn codi!” His voice rang out, loud and strong, and suddenly the air was filled with dust, swirling clouds of rising earth from all around Gwen. He swept his hands as though guiding the clouds, and his voice was deep and chanting…and then the dust fell, settled. The hill was quiet again.
Gwen turned to him and beckoned, and Marcus…dared to approach. Only a few slow steps, but enough to see—the stain of red on the altar stone was hidden. The entire stone was covered with dirt, as though it had been abandoned a long time. The debris covered the fresh blood. It was difficult to be sure how well it would work in daylight, but for now, the evidence appeared to be concealed. Unless someone sought it—and who would have reason to?—no one would know it was there.
Cautiously, he nodded. He would have preferred Gwen summon a rainstorm and wash the blood away entirely, but this would suffice. Gwen smiled. “Secret.”
Resigned, Marcus nodded. “It seems you have a wealth of them.”
~•~
All that night, Marcus watched the ritual over and over again in his mind—awake or briefly asleep, it was all he could think of, all he could see. They’d returned in silence, and now Gwen was sleeping in his alcove. The druid. The man whose voice had summoned a storm, whose hands had sacrificed blood to his pagan gods right before Marcus’ eyes. All intentionally, all to show him…what? That his gods were good and his magic harmless? How could Marcus accept that?
It wasn’t even the sacrifice. Temples in Rome did that constantly, but Marcus had never seen the elements respond. He’d never seen the animal rise into the air on its own. And…he’d never seen a wild animal walk up to its killer and calmly offer its throat for the knife. He’d seen animals bound and led to the slaughter, and even when they were given no warning of danger, the creatures often became restless, even panicked. Beasts had a sense for danger, knew when they faced death. What had possessed this one?
And the wind, and the animal floating, and the earth rising, and the fog…in Rome, these would be ill omens—the darkest and most dangerous imaginable. No one had ever seen witchcraft like this. No one had expected witchcraft like this—none of the soldiers, no one in the army had ever dreamed that the conquered druids would be anything other than charlatans with a taste for the blood of the innocent. But if their magic was real…
Of course it is real. I was not dreaming, not for a moment. I cannot doubt my senses.
But if the magic was real, that meant it was possible that the barbarian gods were real. As real as the Olympians…and possibly much more responsive to their people.
And we are conquering them. What did that mean? Were they not so powerful after all? Were the gods of Olympus stronger, if less flashy with their signs? Or were they allowing conquest? Why? Have their people wronged them? But Gwen seems so devoted…and more than that, unafraid. Whatever was going on, Gwen went before the gods peacefully, without seeming to fear their anger. Marcus could not say the same for every Roman priest he had watched perform rituals. Perhaps they are…biding their time. Perhaps we will come against their opposition at some time of great advantage to them. It could all be…a trap.
Yet if a trap, he felt sure it was one Gwen knew nothing about. His wish that Marcus see the pagan gods as good seemed sincere—Of course. Everything he does is sincere, whether or not I understand it. Even…
His…his kiss was also…very sincere.
Marcus rolled over yet again in bed. Oh gods, why, why did he do that? What does he mean by it, what does he want?
By dawn, he had answered none of his questions. He was left with only one option—ask.