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I am grooming the body and rays of the sun
That will rise on the day you return
- Olga Broumas, "Devotee"
As he's done every day for the past week, Marcus wakes before dawn and climbs the gentle hill west of the farm. Resting his weight against the oak tree, he shades his eyes with his hand, looking out over the dirt path that cuts across the fields and disappears over the rise of the next hill. Again, today, he sees only the path – no horses kicking up dust, no lone traveler on foot. The sky stretches wide as a promise overhead, the western horizon still awaiting the pale pink rays of dawn.
A month has passed since Esca followed the dirt path away from the farm and north to Novantae to trade for some sturdy Hibernian draft horses. On the day he left, Marcus had walked with him to this hill. They'd paused beneath the oak tree and Marcus had gazed out into the barley fields beyond as Esca clambered into the saddle.
"I'm still not happy with you travelling so far on your own," Marcus said. He felt foolishly uneasy at the thought of Esca leaving, though they'd already been over it. With four field hands to manage and the hay harvest coming in another month, they could hardly leave the farm unattended, and Marcus's leg made travel more difficult for him than for Esca. Besides, Esca was set on trading for one or two of the sturdy Hibernian draft horses. He'd argued, quite rightly, that it wasn't safe beyond the wall for Marcus.
Esca looked down at him from the saddle, a twinkle in his eyes. "I think it's just that you fear taking on my chores."
Marcus laughed despite himself. "That too," he agreed, and rested a hand on Esca's arm. "Esca," he started, then paused, tongue-tied and a bit embarrassed. "I'll . . . the farm, it won't be the same without you."
Esca's eyes softened. He took Marcus's shoulder and drew him closer, leaning over in the saddle so their foreheads brushed together. "I will miss you, too, my friend." He pulled away, his hand dropping from Marcus's shoulder to his elbow. "I'll be back for the haying. Give me a month."
He smiled fondly, and Marcus, looking up at him as he never looked up at Esca, felt almost dizzy from the smile, from the angle of his face. He'd gripped Esca's arm tightly, loathe to let him go.
"Be careful."
"I will," Esca promised. "And you." And squeezing Marcus's arm once more, he was off, small dust clouds rising from the dirt path
That had been a month ago.
Now, Marcus watches for him in the pale, morning light, knowing it's ridiculous to hope for Esca this early in the day, yet unable to stop himself from doing it, Marcus searches the yellow fields of barley for Esca's gray cloak, then, sighing, turns back to the house. Esca will come when he comes, he tells himself. A hundred things could set a man a week or more behind on a long journey, especially with a horse on the lead beside him. For now, Marcus needs to get to work. When Esca returns, he'll find the farm sound.
* * *
The cottage they've built is hardly a proper villa. With one large room and a hearth in the middle, it's far closer to the round, British huts that dot the countryside than to the sprawling farming estate of Marcus's childhood. Uncle Aquila had been quietly horrified the first time he saw it. But Esca and Marcus had agreed to start small, investing their money in the stables and the horses, and to expand the house later. They've little furniture: a table, two chairs and a bed for Marcus – Esca still spreads his furs on the floor every night because, he says, he's used to it, so why waste the time making a second bed? Yet for all of the cottage's simplicity, Marcus has never found it depressing until now. Without Esca, the place is as quiet and miserable as a tomb.
A woman, Melissa, the unwed daughter of one of their neighbors, cooks and cleans for them in exchange for a few sesterces a week. During the day, Marcus listens to her sing as he feeds the horses, mucks the stalls, and mixes new daub to patch the thin places in the stable wall, for winter is coming and the nights are growing chill. But when Melissa leaves for the evening, Marcus has only his thoughts for company.
There's little tangible presence of Esca left. He has few possessions -- a bow and arrow, a hunting knife, a change of clothes, and his sleeping pallet. All of those things he took with him. The house is empty, as though he's never been here, only his chair left. Marcus has started carving a hunting scene into it, because he knows it will amuse Esca when he returns. Yet at the same time, Esca is in the very bones of this house.
Marcus remembers building the house with Esca. It had taken them a week, planting the upright timbers in the ground in the British style, and then weaving between them the wattle of hazel limbs. Esca had seen this done many times, but as the war-chief's son, he'd little practice. How he'd scowled when Marcus picked up the trick of it first! Esca, up to his elbows in mud, clay and horse manure, showing Marcus how to collect the meadow grass and mix it with the mixture to create the daub they spread over the hazel lattice to create the thick, sturdy walls. Esca, perched precariously atop one of those walls as he thatched the roof, beaming down at Marcus and teasing him for his worried expression, swaying a bit, with his arms held out, as though he might fall and break his neck for the sport of it. How many evenings have they spent together, telling stories before the fire? How many meals have they shared at the small table? How many nights have they chatted quietly before falling asleep, Esca's furs spread so close to Marcus's bed that he could reach out and touch him?
At night, Marcus listens to the wind outside and he wonders where Esca is, whether he's keeping warm. He takes himself in hand and dares, in the silence, to think on Esca as he works his hand, to breathe Esca's name when he spills, hot and salty as shame. Marcus wipes himself clean and burrows under the covers, wishing for the sound of Esca's breathing. The silence feels like a recrimination as he drifts to sleep.
* * *
Every morning since Esca left, Marcus has burned the fragrant incense for Mithras, asking him to look over his friend, to bring him safely home. When five weeks pass and Esca still has not returned, Marcus builds a new altar of cedar. Pro Salve Esca, he carves into it, and pours Mithras a generous libation of wine.
Privately, Marcus has always suspected that Mithras brought Esca into his life. He prayed for years to restore his family's honor, and Esca helped him to regain it. If Mithras favored him once, he'll do so again.
He prays and he waits. He readies the stables for more horses. He grooms the body and rays of the sun that will rise the day Esca returns.
* * *
Six weeks after Esca left, Marcus hears the sound of footsteps coming up the path. He leaps over the pasture fence, grunting as his weight falls on his injured leg, and rounds the corner of the house at a dead run – but it's Uncle Aquila standing there, his hand raised to knock. He startles at Marcus's sudden appearance, taking in his flushed cheeks, the grain-sack still clutched in his hand.
"Marcus!" he says. "You're all in a rush."
"I was hoping you were Esca," Marcus admits, opening the door and inviting his uncle inside.
Uncle Aquila puts a hand on his shoulder. "Esca might not be coming back," he says, as if he's trying to be gentle. "I hope you know that."
"You're wrong!" Marcus snaps. He knows this, like he knows the sun will rise in the morning. He thinks of cold, wet hands gripping his in the river, Esca's fingers tight against the back of his head, his voice in Marcus's ear gritting out a promise that Marcus had no right to expect him to keep. But Esca had. He had.
Uncle Aquila watches him, eyes sharp and sad. "I know you cared for the boy, Marcus," he starts.
Marcus, seeing exactly what he means, cuts him off, coloring sharply. "You don't know."
Uncle Aquila raises his hand. "Fine. Maybe not. But either way, you have to admit this farm is too much for you to run alone."
"I'm hiring some more boys to help from the village," Marcus says. "They will do until Esca comes back."
His uncle doesn't understand. This farm is theirs, his and Esca's. They'd burned the eagle. They'd burned Marcus's wooden pendant. They'd burned Esca's dagger. They'd burned the anger and mistrust between them, brought about by slavery and betrayal. When they walked away from the ashes, all they had left was each other. Esca will be back. Marcus is sure of it.
But later that night as he lies in bed, Marcus thinks over his uncle's words.
Maybe Esca saw the way Marcus looked at him. He's always admired Esca's lithe body, so small yet so strong. How he's longed to run his hands over Esca's shoulders and chest, to reach between Esca's legs and give him what pleasure he could. Marcus has never been in love before. But he sometimes suspects that the tightness in his gut when he thinks of Esca, the way his heart beats faster, means that it's more than attraction he feels for Esca, more than friendship or brotherhood.
Has Esca guessed? Is that why he hasn't returned?
"I'll be back for the haying," Esca had promised.
No, Marcus thinks. No.
If Esca were disgusted with him, he would say so. If Esca wanted to leave, he would leave, with no promise of return. Whatever is delaying him, he is trying to get home. That means something else is keeping him away. For the first time, Marcus lets himself feel the icy sliver of dread that's been forming since the day Esca left.
He rises from bed and lights another stick of incense at the altar. "Mithras," he pleads. "Please protect him. Please, let him be alive."
* * *
The oak has shed its last few leaves. They crunch beneath Marcus's feet as he climbs the ridge to survey the path below. Two months ago, he watched Esca disappear, swallowed up by the sky, by the golden barley.
Scanning that same horizon now, Marcus sighs, and turns back to the farm, leaving behind the tree, bereft of its leaves. He's delayed the haying long enough. He'll risk losing the harvest to frost if he puts it off any longer.
* * *
When the last of the hay is brought in from the field and Esca is still gone, Marcus decides that Mithras must be angry. Has he failed to show his gratitude for having Esca in his life? He would like to consult a priest, but he doesn't know how to explain in words what Esca means to him, why it's so important that he return. No, Marcus decides, he's seen this happen often enough. He knows what he must do to try to regain Mithras's favor.
The lamb bleats fiercely as he tugs it into the frigid stream, scrubbing the dirt from its matted wool. Afterwards, Marcus sprinkles its head with wine, and over this, he casts a handful of the sacred cake, crumbled in his palm. Stunning the lamb with the handle of the knife, Marcus slits its throat in one smooth movement, trying to catch the blood in a wooden bowl before it spills on the frosty ground.
In the waning light of evening, he builds a bonfire of hawthorne and juniper. He hesitates only a moment before lifting the entire lamb onto the piled branches. Uncle Aquila would shake his head at the loss. ("There is a reason," he always said, "why men sacrifice the bones and entrails to the gods and keep the rest for themselves.")
Yet a crisis requires a whole sacrifice and so, Marcus admits to himself, does a funeral. Though it sickens him even to think on it, Marcus knows that Esca's kin are dead. If some misfortune has happened to him on the road, no one else will pray to Mithras to light the way to the underworld for him. Marcus loves Esca too fiercely to let his spirit wander the earth, lonely and afraid.
Marcus lights the fire and pours the blood onto the ground before it. "Mithras," he pleads, "in offering this lamb to you, I humbly beg that you will keep my Esca safe and whole."
A lump forms in his throat and he holds still a moment, trying to convince himself that the tears in his eyes are only from the thick, choking smoke blowing into his face. "Or if you can't," he finishes quietly, "guide his spirit to the underworld without delay. Only watch over him, even if he can't return to me."
* * *
Uncle Aquila frowns at the dull, gray mourning clothes that Marcus is wearing.
"Marcus," he says, and then, seeming to give up on words, clasps a hand to his shoulder. "I'm sorry."
* * *
The first light snow covers the farm scarcely two weeks after they brought in the hay. It brings a flurry of activity – the farm must be readied for winter. But when it's done and winter comes early, Marcus often finds himself indoors, looking for something to do.
He carves a wooden hound, for Esca was fond of hounds, and this he places the new altar. Every morning he prays to Mithras. He continues his daily walks up to the oak tree, his footsteps wearing a path into the crusty snow. In the cold chill, with the snowflakes falling around him, he makes himself remember the clasp of Esca's hand in his, Esca's forehead brushing his own, hair tickling.
Below, the barley fields have gone dormant. Looking out over the desolate landscape, Marcus can see no sign that there was ever anything green or growing here. The earth is barren. He feels in his heart that winter will last forever.
* * *
Eight weeks after Esca left, Marcus is in the stable currying the horses when he hears the sound of whistling. It's an old tune, a marching song he taught to Esca as they built the house together.
Oh, when I joined the Eagles
(As it might be yesterday)
I kissed a girl at Clusium
Before I marched away.
The comb clatters to the floor. Marcus bursts through the stable door, heart pounding, and sees a cloaked figure riding down the path from the hill, leading three other horses behind him. Marcus takes a stumbling step forward, then another. And then he is running, heedless of his injured leg, until he's close enough to recognize Esca, and the smile, brighter than moonlight, breaking across his cold-reddened, weary face.
Esca gives a startled laugh as Marcus lifts him bodily from the saddle, hauling him into a fierce embrace. But he clings to Marcus as tightly as Marcus clings to him. His face is cold against Marcus's neck. His hands chill through Marcus's wool tunic like ice. But his arms are strong and fierce around Marcus's neck, his breath hot in Marcus's ear.
"Easy," Esca murmurs, running his hands down Marcus's back. "Marcus. It's all right."
Marcus shudders, realizing his breath is coming too fast. He lowers Esca to the ground, but doesn't release him. Instead, he buries his face into Esca's neck, inhaling deeply. Esca smells of horses and damp wool, of wood smoke and rainstorms and musk. The tightness in Marcus's chest begins to ease at the scent, at the cool touch of Esca's skin against his nose.
"I thought I'd lost you," he chokes.
Esca's hands tighten around him, his hands moving slow, gentle circles over Marcus's back. He's shivering in Marcus's arms, burrowing closer for warmth. But his voice is steady when he speaks. "I know," he says. "I wanted to come home sooner. Truly I did."
"You're half frozen," Marcus says, holding him even closer.
Esca nods into the crook of Marcus's shoulder. "I probably should have wintered in Novantae," he admits. "But it was in my heart to come home."
Stepping back so he can hold Esca at arm's length, Marcus looks again into his face. Esca's eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, and his cheekbones more prominent. A scruffy beard traces his cheeks and jaw, and his hair has grown longer, windswept and tangled. He's lovelier than Marcus remembered, beaming one of his rare, cherished smiles up at him. Marcus's heart jumps in his chest, and he can't help it. Before he's realized what he's doing, he's leaning forward, brushing his mouth against Esca's.
His sense returns at the first cool touch of Esca's lips. Blushing, he pulls away, starts to stammer an apology. But Esca seizes his shoulders and surges up onto his tiptoes, pulling Marcus down into another, fiercer, kiss. He nips at Marcus's bottom lip before he pulls away, grinning as though he's won a chariot race.
"I've missed you Marcus."
"And I, you," Marcus says. "But you're cold. Go into the house. Get warm. I'll bed the horses down for the night."
* * *
When Marcus returns to the house, he finds Esca standing before the altar, wrapped in a blanket. His feet are bare on the floor, his clothes crumpled in the corner. At the sound of the door, he turns. His eyes are dark as bruises.
"Marcus," he says. "I'm so sorry."
"You're here now," Marcus says, voice rough in his throat. "Mithras has answered my prayers."
Esca nods, still looking troubled.
Marcus squeezes his shoulder. "Are you hungry?" he asks.
At Esca's nod, he busies himself boiling water and pulling provisions from the larder. Esca pulls his chair before the fire, laughing at the scene carved into it before he lowers himself onto the seat and leans forward, chafing his hands before the flames. Marcus keeps sneaking glances at him as he works. He half fears that he might turn to find Esca gone, vanished into the gloom and snow.
Marcus lays out food for them both – a hot tisane, sliced bread and cheese, dried, salted mutton, and a few withered pears left over from the harvest. Esca eats ravenously, speaking around his food as he tells Marcus his story.
"Things started well enough," he says. "You saw the dappled mare?"
"She's lovely," Marcus says, and Esca nods, proud.
"I bought her at a good price," he says. "Too good. I should have been suspicious, but I was so pleased." A shadow crosses his face, and he frowns. "The thieves came upon me that night. They were the seller's men, I'm sure of it. They must have thought I was an easy mark, travelling alone. They hoped to get my money and keep my horse."
"Mithras," Marcus breathes. It sickens him to think of Esca, beset by thieves in the middle of the night.
But Esca lifts his head haughtily. "I slew both of them," he says. For a second, Marcus sees him as he must have looked in his father's hall, boastful and alight with merriment. "The look on their faces, Marcus! Were I still among my people, a song would be written about it! And I took their horses, as well as the one I bought. But afterwards, I knew better than to take the road home. A man leading three horses is too great a target. So I went through the forest. It was slow going. Then, as you know, the snow came early." He shrugs, ducking his head, though his eyes still twinkle merrily. "I came as quickly as I could."
Marcus smiles shakily. "I cannot sing for you, my friend," he says and, reaching across the table, puts his hand atop of Esca's. "But I celebrate you."
In the dark, Esca's eyes are all pupil. He rises from his chair, stalking across the table like a hunter intent on his prey. Marcus inhales sharply as Esca climbs into his lap. He's naked beneath the blanket, skin cool to the touch, but warming beneath Marcus's hands as he draws him closer.
When they kiss, it's like the flash of sunlight on the snow, sudden, bright and blinding. Marcus is biting at Esca's lips, sucking his tongue into his mouth, reaching up beneath the blanket to stroke his back, his hip, the long line of his thigh. Esca has rucked Marcus's tunic up to his armpits and is frantically mapping the skin of Marcus's chest with cool fingers.
Marcus isn't sure how they make it to the bed. One moment, they're rising from the chair, an awkward tangle of limbs and mouths. Esca has hold of Marcus's braccae, is shoving them down his hips. The next moment, they're rolling together onto the mattress. Marcus uses his size to an advantage, presses Esca down and climbs over him, kissing his jaw, his neck, the sharp line of his collarbone. Esca laughs, breathlessly, as Marcus's teeth trail over his ribcage. The skin of his stomach is startlingly soft beneath Marcus's lips.
From this close, Marcus can see Esca's erection bobbing a few inches away. He should pull back now, he knows. It's shameful to even consider what he wants, a perversion that shouldn't be named, let alone acted upon. But Esca is alive. He's solid, and warming in Marcus's arms, his breath coming in little hitching gasps. His hips move minutely, as though he wants, but knows better than to ask. And in this moment, Marcus feels lit with possibility. It's nothing to lean forward, to press his lips to the vein of Esca's cock and flick his tongue against the warm, salty skin.
Esca gasps, his hand coming to rest on Marcus's cheek. "You don't have to –" he starts. But Marcus, emboldened, is opening his mouth, drawing slow, wet kisses up the length of his cock. Esca cuts off with a groan, letting his head fall back against the mattress. Marcus licks his way up Esca's cock, and when he reaches the head, he leans forward, clumsily taking it into his mouth.
"Marcus!" Esca gasps, his legs opening wider. His hand curls in Marcus's hair, urging him forward. Marcus goes willingly, taking Esca in as far as he can. He lets Esca guide him into a rhythm, following the prompting of his fingers and hips. He feels oddly content and pliant, as though he's in a dream. It's surreal to think that Marcus can use his mouth like this. That he can strain his lips against another man's cock.
Yet strangely, he feels no shame. It's as though another part of him, the centurion, maybe, is standing beside the bed looking down with a frown, leaving Marcus to do as he likes. And he likes the fullness of Esca's cock in his mouth, awkward and clumsy as he is. Esca reaches for his hand, guides it to the base of his cock. Their fingers tangle together as Esca shows him how to pump the base as he works his mouth up and down over the head. Esca is squirming, making choked, pleased noises in his throat. At the sound, Marcus reaches with his free hand between his own thighs, groaning around Esca's cock as he curls his fingers around himself.
He's close, so close already from the taste of Esca and the sound of Esca's pleasure. It takes just a few strokes, and then he's coming, hard, against the mattress. He lifts off Esca with a wet slurp, pressing his face to Esca's thigh as he shudders wordlessly.
Esca is staring down at him like a starving man. He whispers something rough and broken in his native language, touching a reverent finger to Marcus's bottom lip. Then his hand is tightening around Marcus's, which still clings limply to Esca's cock. Three strokes, four, and Esca is spending, his seed painting hot stripes onto Marcus's neck and shoulders.
"Marcus," Esca murmurs, pulling Marcus up to lie beside him. "My Marcus."
Afterwards, the world dissolves into a sleepy blur. He's aware of little but the heat of Esca's bare skin against his, the cocoon of warmth in which they've wrapped themselves. He kisses Esca's shoulder, letting his eyes drift shut for just a moment. He doesn't know how long. All he knows is that when he wakes, Esca is with him still, warm and radiant within the circle of Marcus's arms.