Chapter Text
“We shall find you a wife.”
Marcus opened his eyes. He lay on his old bed in his uncle’s house, though he could not say how he knew it was so, for the room was all shadows between the flickering light of a dying oil lamp. Perhaps someone had told him where he was, in the other times he had been awake.
“I do not need a wife, Cottia.”
Marcus remembered waking up before, although his memories were as hazy and disorderly as dreams. He was relieved to find that they had not been dreams: that he really was in his uncle’s house, and Cottia and Esca really were here, sitting by his bedside, and talking. He ought to roll over and greet them; but he ached all over, as if he had fallen down a hillside, and his throat throbbed.
“It is not fair that you should be always alone…”
They had been talking, he thought, for a long while. It had not disturbed him. Rather, whenever he woke up, their soft voices had reassured him: Cottia was here, Esca was here, they were beside him, and he drifted back to sleep.
Now, though, he was awake, although still tired enough that he wished he could drift back to sleep. He closed his eyes, but he did not sink into the soft silent darkness. Their voices still floated above him, soft and clear and weary. Had they slept at all while he was ill? How long had he been ill?
“I will not be always alone…” Esca’s voice was tentative. Marcus felt the mattress depress, as if Esca had pressed his hand to it.
“Oh, Marcus. Marcus does not count,” Cottia said. “I mean he does, but he cannot sleep in two beds at the same time, and you will get cold.”
Esca took in a breath of shock. “You know?”
“Of course I know. I have always known,” Cottia said. Marcus, his eyes still closed, smiled at the touch of petulance in her voice. “Do you think I do not know what men do on a long hunting? I was terribly jealous.”
“Cottia!”
Cottia gave a quick angry laugh, quickly smothering the sound as if she remembered that Marcus was asleep. “Of course I know,” she said.
“But there was nothing to know,” Esca said. “We were not - Marcus and I did not...do anything in Caledonia.” His voice was tentative, slow. “But now...now we might,” he said, with a carefulness, as if he were watching Cottia’s face for a reaction. “We spoke about it, Marcus and I, after I returned…”
A pause. Cottia said nothing. Marcus could hear Esca shifting. “Perhaps I should go back to the Brigantes,” he said.
Marcus’s eyes opened wide. In the guttering light, he could see Esca and Cottia’s shadows on the wall, heads drooping as if tired, mirroring each other as they leaned forward.
“Not on my account,” Cottia said. “I am not jealous, now that I know Marcus loves me. I didn’t know that then: I thought he saw me as a funny child, almost a pet, like Cub. It used to make me cry. Once I broke an oil lamp; I hurled it across the room, I was so angry. It was not burning, fortunately.” Her voice seemed to brighten, and Marcus imagined her smiling. “Aunt Valaria was furious.”
“Ai, Cottia.” Marcus could hear the warmth in Esca’s voice, too. “And I am sure Marcus will worry less if...so there is no need to marry me off. Na, and what could I offer a wife?”
“Do you not think yourself is enough?”
Esca let out another loud breath, almost a laugh. “An ex-slave with a mangled ear, who lives on another man’s farm. A most desirable match.”
“Oh don’t be a fool,” Cottia said fiercely. “So you cannot offer a wife what you would have done, if your father was still Lord of Five Hundred Spears. People marry on much less. Anyone would want you, Esca.”
Marcus saw, then, that Esca was wrong: that Cottia did want, though she would never say it.
He should have been angry. But he was not. Perhaps it was only that fever and sleep still softened his feelings; but he was not angry, only warmed by the realization that she would not say it: that she, like Esca, would never do anything to hurt him.
Even though he in his baseless jealousy had hurt them. Cottia too had been jealous, but she had not driven anyone away from anywhere: she had swallowed her jealousy and married him anyway, and he had never even known that she knew.
A hot shame burned through him at his own selfishness. If Cottia and Esca could swallow their jealousy, why could he not? It did not matter much, as long as Esca got no children off of Cottia.
He rolled over then, though his body ached, and his eyes still seemed blurry as he squinted at them. The lamplight picked out glints of gold in Cottia’s red hair. “Cottia,” he said, reaching out his hand toward her.
She turned at once, and smiled. “Marcus,” she said, and took his hand. She sat on the edge of his bed. “Are you truly awake this time?”
“Yes,” he said.
“You said that last time,” she said, and lifted his hand to kiss it. “I think his fever’s down - Esca - I think his fever’s down.”
Esca crouched by the bed at Cottia’s feet, pressing his fingers to Marcus’s wrist. “His pulse is better,” he said.
“I am right here,” Marcus said.
“And he’s truly awake,” Cottia said wryly.
Marcus lifted his other hand, although his limbs seemed heavy, and clumsily wrapped it around Esca’s wrist. Esca leaned forward, his face concerned in the last of the light. “I am here,” he said. “We are both here.”
“We’re all here,” said Marcus. “No thanks to me.”
“Plenty of thanks to you,” said Cottia, squeezing his hand. “Even if I were as wrong as you had been, Marcus, I never would have apologized, not for all the gold in Egypt.”
Marcus was not sure how to respond, so he said nothing. He clumsily turned Esca’s wrist palm up, then placed Cottia’s hand in Esca’s.
Cottia made to draw away. “Marcus,” she said sharply.
Marcus pressed their hands together between his. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s all right.”
The lamp went out.
In the sudden darkness, they were so silent the room might have been empty, and Marcus was glad of the warmth of their hands under his: Esca’s broad and chapped, Cottia’s slim and smooth. The winter of soft living had taken her farm calluses. “You two…”
He did not quite know how to say it. At length, Esca ventured, “Are you saying that we should wed if you die?”
“He’s not dying,” Cottia said fiercely. “Marcus, do you hear? You are not dying. The fever broke last night. You’ll be well soon.”
Marcus hadn’t even realized he was in danger of dying. “No,” he said. “Well, yes. If I die. Later. But I meant now - if you want - ” His throat hurt. He tried to clear it, and it cut like knives. “To be together,” he whispered hoarsely.
Another silence, briefer this time. Cottia’s hand twitched. Marcus tried to hold it, but he was still weak; she drew away. “Is this a test?” she asked. “Is this - are you testing us? After this long winter, how dare you not trust us! If we meant to do anything, I would have run away with Esca to the Brigantes, you great big stupid Roman lummox!”
“Cottia,” protested Esca, low-voiced. But he also had pulled his hand away.
Marcus’s face was flaming in the dark. “I am not so base as all that,” he said. “I am not - it is not a test. But if Esca and I...it only seems fair.”
After last winter, of course they would think he was testing them. It was the kind of unreasonable thing a Roman lummox might do...
But out of the darkness came Esca’s voice, quiet but clear. “You have never lied to me.” And his hand found Marcus’s again. “Cottia? Do you want me?”
Cottia let out a sigh. There was a little silence, and then she said, “Did I not say that anyone would?”
And her hand, also, found theirs in the darkness. She kissed Marcus’s hand, and then Esca’s, her eyelashes brushing Marcus’s wrist as she did so.
He tugged their hands gently. “What…” Esca asked.
“Have you slept?” Marcus asked. “While I was ill?”
“A little,” said Cottia.
Marcus drew their hands again. “Come in with me,” he said.
They hesitated; and then Cottia’s arm relaxed. “Clio will know everything eventually anyway,” she said, and there was a rush of cold air as she lifted the rug to crawl in next to Marcus. “Esca? You too.”
But Esca still sat, his wrist taut under Marcus’s hand. “Are you sure?” he asked Marcus. “You have been ill. Are you…”
“Sure,” said Marcus. He pressed his face in Cottia’s hair, breathing in the warm scent of the chamomile wash she used, and murmured through her hair, “Sure."
The ropes creaked as Esca, too, climbed into bed and pressed himself against Marcus’s back. He nuzzled his face in Marcus’s neck, his mustaches scratchy, and kissed Marcus below the ear as he looped his arm around them both. Cottia laughed softly. “That tickles,” she murmured.
Marcus tightened his own arm around her. Esca must have felt Marcus’s shoulder tighten; for his arm tightened to, and he found Marcus’s hand against Cottia’s stomach and threaded his fingers through. “Sleep tight,” he said, his breath warm on Marcus’s ear.
Cottia laid her hand on top of theirs again. And, crowded all three onto the bed, they slept.