by Alex Faure
“Gather what men you can find still in possession of their faculties,” Darius ordered. “Exit through the east gate, and make for Attervalis with all speed.”
The boy nodded, his face pale. “And you, sir?”
“I will follow from the south gate, with a second force,” he said. “With luck, at least a few of us will reach Commander Albinus at Attervalis.”
The boy nodded again. Saluting, he vanished into the shadows.
Darius headed in the opposite direction, toward the gate where the Robogdi were clustering, their initial, chaotic invasion countered by the Roman discipline of the men who had rushed to meet them. For all the tactical brilliance of their attack, the Robogdi fought like any other Celts—with plenty of ferocity but little cohesion. Darius easily countered an attack from one blonde, screaming man, knocking his dagger aside and driving his sword into his stomach.
Darius grimaced as he drew the blade free. Despite his height and broad shoulders, he was not a natural fighter. He was competent, of course, else he could not have risen through the ranks of the army. But he had always preferred to solve problems with words and tactics rather than the edge of a blade. He knew too many men who conquered territory through fear and violence. He himself chose to negotiate with the natives of a region, to encourage them to side with Rome to gain power over their ancient enemies, to use his eloquence to convince them that the Empire offered more advantages than self-rule. It was what he had done in Britannia, to great success—it was the reason Governor Agricola valued him so highly. Darius had hoped to use the same approach with the tribes of Hibernia.
That was looking increasingly unlikely. In fact, his own ability to survive the night was looking increasingly unlikely. He passed two men, naked and fucking in the grass, oblivious to the fighting around them. Their moans summoned another wave of desire, and this time, Darius couldn’t wrestle it into submission. He turned toward the men, his sword dropping from his hand, as two of the Celts appeared before him. One loosed an arrow, which embedded itself in the back of one of the naked Romans. The other thrust his dagger toward Darius’s unprotected body.
Suddenly, Marcus was there, his sword colliding with the Celt’s dagger, then sliding past it into the man’s chest. In a single, fluid motion, Marcus withdrew the sword, spun on his heel, and drove the blade into the stomach of the second Celt. He was moving again before either of the men had fallen, shoving Darius out of the path of a flaming arrow, and knocking a second from the sky with his sword.
They stood, both breathing hard, regarding each other. Marcus was a few inches shorter than Darius, and not a prepossessing sight, his nose a little too broad for handsomeness, his hair thinning, his mouth generally held in a thin, discontented line that matched his prickly disposition. He looked older than his twenty-five years, older than Darius did at twenty-nine. Yet he fought with a grace and power that belied his drab appearance, and Darius understood for the first time why Agricola had been so impressed by him. Darius found himself rousing again.
“Control yourself, Commander,” Marcus spat, holding his sword between the two of them.
“I could say the same to you,” Darius returned, noting Marcus’s glazed expression, the trickle of sweat on his brow. “We must make for Attervalis. We’ll never retake the fort with the men in this state.”
“It was in the well,” Marcus said. “I don’t know how, but someone drugged it.”
“Not someone.” Darius felt his anger rise. Usually he found it easy to master his emotions, but it seemed that nightfire reduced his willpower in more ways than one. “Those Celts you tied up and dragged back here. Did you not think to wonder why a group of Robogdi would surrender so easily to Roman captors? You opened the gates to this Trojan horse.”
“The elves?” Marcus’s voice held all the scorn of a spoiled patrician on his first campaign, reared on stories of Roman might and barbarian ignorance. “They’re not capable of something like this.”
“And yet here we stand,” Darius said. “Our men incapacitated, our fort overrun by the enemy. All because a green captain with a desire to show off was outwitted by elves.”
Marcus let out a savage sound. He tossed his sword aside and plowed into Darius, driving him into the wall. Darius, his larger size giving him the advantage in a grappling match, grabbed hold of Marcus and forced his back against the stone. Then he kissed him, hard and deep.
Marcus made a sound of protest, even as his hands lifted to slide down Darius’s body. Darius pressed against him, lifting their skirts and bringing their cocks together. They were both hard, already.
Marcus groaned, twining his fingers with Darius’s. His tongue slid into Darius’s mouth, and it was a feeling as warm and pleasurable as that of their cocks moving against each other, their hips finding just the right rhythm. Darius sighed and gave himself over to sex, all thoughts of the battle and the Robogdi sinking from his mind as his pleasure built. His lips moved to Marcus’s neck, where he lingered. Marcus slid his free hand into Darius’s hair. The sounds he made now reminded Darius of Viturian. He had surrendered so abruptly that Darius wondered if he had resisted the drug until now, his desire building until it was like the weight of water pressing against a dam, ready to burst.
But as he approached the edge of his climax, Darius was suddenly shoved back, away from the warmth and pleasure of Marcus’s body. He blinked, uncomprehending. Marcus was standing between him and another man—a Celt, who crumpled before Darius’s eyes from the sword thrust to his stomach. Marcus must have seen the Celt approaching behind Darius, and somehow managed, in that intoxicating moment, to tear himself free of the drug’s influence, retrieve his sword, and meet the Celt’s attack. Darius blinked at him, stupidly amazed.
Another Celt circled them, fear and revulsion etched across his face. It was clear that he had witnessed Darius and Marcus fucking. The Celts had bizarre beliefs when it came to sex—it was the law of every tribe Darius had encountered that men could only couple with women. It was, in fact, more than a law; it was accepted as natural truth, no more debatable than the colour of the sky. Men who coupled with men, or women with women, were viewed as spirit-possessed, and slaughtered by their own kin. In Britannia, one of the tribunes had raped a Celtic boy of fifteen, a crime for which Agricola had rightly had the man whipped. But the boy had met a worse fate—after being sent back to his tribe, he had been burned alive by his own brothers, supposedly to purify the evil spirits from his body.
Darius had seen the gruesome remains with his own eyes. As a result, he had convinced Agricola to increase the penalty for rape from whipping to death as an added deterrent. The Celts’ vile beliefs were not the fault of Rome, but the Empire was culpable if it did not take steps to prevent such horrors.
The Celt charged—trusting, no doubt, that his massive size would easily overcome the slight figure standing before him. Marcus watched him coolly, then dispatched him with equal coolness—a sidestep, a jab to the abdomen, then a quick, clean stroke across his neck. The Celt went down.
“Here.” Marcus handed Darius his sword. His eyes narrowed. “Are you yourself?”
Darius took the sword, adjusting his skirt. “Are you?”
Marcus let out a breathy laugh. His eyes still had a glazed appearance, yet he seemed to have recovered a thin veil of composure. “Do you know how long it will be until these…effects wear off?”
“Several hours.”
“Let’s hope before we reach Attervalis,” Marcus said. “I wouldn’t want to see Commander Albinus’s reaction if I shoved him against a wall.”
Darius let out a chuckle, surprising himself. “You’re lucky I’m the forgiving sort.”
“That’s an interesting word for it.” Something in Marcus’s eyes made Darius’s thoughts return to the feeling of their bodies thrusting against each other.
“We must go,” he said. “Before the Robogdi seal off all escape entirely.”
Marcus nodded, tearing his eyes from Darius’s. Together the
y turned and plunged into the night.
Chapter Three
They made it out of the fort without incident, but met with a band of Celts at the edge of the forest. Marcus dispatched most of them, moving with an efficient grace that made him appear almost bored. Darius was spared the necessity of defending himself, to his relief—his desire still throbbed within him, blurring his senses. He wondered how Marcus was able to focus, but it seemed that fighting came as naturally to the man as breathing.
They had with them half a dozen soldiers—two archers, three swordsmen, and a centurion—the only men they could find still in possession of their wits. Neither Marcus nor Darius made the men aware of their own compromised states. Provided they could control themselves for the next few hours, there would be no need.
Attervalis was a journey of two or three days on foot, or half a day on horseback, via the partially constructed Roman road along the coast. It would take them longer travelling through the forest. Though Marcus scorned the idea, Darius thought it likely that the Robogdi were watching the road to Attervalis, looking to prevent any survivors from summoning reinforcements.
As they travelled through the black woods—no easy feat, for the brush was almost as dense, in places, as the shadows—swords and bows ready, Darius couldn’t stop thinking of the men he had left behind. Of Cassius, who had served with him for years, oblivious to everything but his own desire. Of Scipio, his trusted ally, slouched on the floor of the briefing room as fire raged through the fort. He reminded himself that he could not help them, that he could barely help himself, but it was no comfort. He hoped the Robogdi would prize hostages over corpses once they secured the fort, but he had no idea. He didn’t know the Robogdi, nor what lurked in their hearts. He didn’t know Hibernia. None of them did. That truth shone even clearer after the night’s events.
After they had been travelling for three or four hours, Darius called a halt beside a river of clear water. A small waterfall tumbled nearby, birthing mists that undulated like ghosts. The riverbank was rocky and broad, providing relief from the oppressive trees. They drank their fill, and Darius tried not to look as one of the men removed his tunic and splashed water over his sweaty chest.
The moon shone down, and on the treeless riverbank it felt almost bright. Darius, after running a critical eye over his soldiers, decided they would rest for a few hours to recover their strength. The men acquiesced with relief, two of them moving to build a fire on the pebbly sand. One of the archers disappeared back into the woods to scrounge up a meal. Marcus took off his tunic, going to his knees beside the river to drink. Darius turned his back. He briefly considered ordering the men to stop removing their clothing.
The woods, dense and haunted as they were, were rich with game, and the archer soon returned with three rabbits, ridiculously plump. After a hearty meal, the men seemed in better spirits, a welcome thing after what they had just witnessed.
Despite the lingering effects of the nightfire, Darius managed an approximation of his usual manner, easygoing and interested in his men’s thoughts. He knew how it felt to lose battles, to feel the darkness of defeat and the loss of companions pressing against him, and he subtly encouraged his men to voice their regrets and fears. After some moments of conversation and calm reassurance, he ordered them to rest, and they obliged, their moods lightened.
Marcus had remained seated by the river, his back to the fire. Darius went to his side.
“Perhaps we could—” Marcus seemed to push the words out. “Have some privacy. Away from the men.”
Darius blinked. “I thought you were able to resist the drug. You certainly seem more composed than the others.”
“I can resist,” Marcus said. He paused. “But around you, it is more difficult. Around you, I’d rather not fight it, for doing so becomes painful.”
“Me?” Darius gazed at him. “You despise me.”
Marcus chuckled. “Does it seem so? I want your position, certainly. I think you indulge some bizarre notions of chivalry in your treatment of a race of barbarians. But I couldn’t despise you. You being you, your ability to command—not just to command, but to make men want you to command them…and looking the way you do…”
Marcus trailed off, and Darius smiled. “How do I look?”
“You know how you look.” Marcus shook his head. “Do you need me to say it? Beautiful men always know they are beautiful.”
Darius had received such compliments before, but not spoken in that way, with an edge of bitterness in them, by a man with downcast eyes. He examined Marcus’s profile. In the moonlight, he was almost attractive—it softened his features, made them less severe.
“You don’t need to say it,” Darius said. Marcus chuckled.
Darius thought for a moment. Then he slid his hand into Marcus’s, and led him away from the fire.
They found a flat patch of grass by the river sheltered by a boulder and a ring of trees. Darius pressed Marcus against the boulder and kissed him. The drug was beginning to wear off, and Darius’s desire had lost its feverish edge. But it rose hot inside him at the feeling of Marcus’s mouth against his, the brush of his tongue.
Darius fucked him slowly, taking the time to open him with his fingers and water from the river. Oil would have been preferable, but the drug still lingered in Marcus’s body too, and he opened easily for Darius’s cock. He went to his hands and knees as Darius fucked him, both of them naked and uncaring in the cool air. Darius bent over his back, his lips at Marcus’s neck, and for the first time that night, gave himself over willingly to the drug. Soft sounds escaped Marcus’s throat as they moved together, not loud enough for the men to hear, over the pulse of the river. As he approached his climax, Darius could not suppress his own cries, and their voices melted together as their bodies did, pleasure erasing the distinctions between them.
They lay beside each other after, Marcus’s back against Darius’s chest, in a contented, companionable silence. A second wave of desire rose, and they fucked again, harder and faster this time. It was as if the drug could sense its power waning, and sought desperately to retain its hold. But the second climax brought a deeper release, and afterwards they put their clothes back on against the cold, wrapped themselves in each others’ arms, and slept.
*
Darius woke to the sound of fluttering feathers.
He opened his eyes, blinking. An owl perched on a nearby branch, its tawny wings folded against its back. It regarded Darius with perfect, imperturbable calm. Darius gazed back, uneasy. The owl’s eyes were a peculiar shade of silver and far too intelligent. After a long moment, during which Darius felt every beat of his heart, the bird took flight, disappearing into the forest on silent wings.
Darius was covered in gooseflesh, and not from the cold. He shook Marcus, but the man only murmured something and slept on. It was dawn, and time for them to be moving again. Darius was similarly sluggish from the aftermath of the drug. He felt spent and heavy in a way he rarely did after sex. But at least the nightfire seemed to be gone from his system.
He went to the fire, which had burned down to embers, and shook the men. They woke more readily than Marcus had, and set about readying themselves for another long march. One gathered berries, unsatisfying nourishment for eight soldiers, but welcome nonetheless. Another disappeared into the woods to relieve himself.
He was gone for some time. Darius’s trepidation, his sense of being watched by unfriendly eyes, intensified. He ordered another man to search for their missing companion.
But as that man reached the edge of the trees, he let out a choked sound, staggering back. He turned to face them, his mouth round with surprise, an arrow embedded in his chest.
Darius shouted a command that sent his men scurrying for their weapons. Then a hail of arrows was upon them, and it was all he could do to protect himself.
Darius was nowhere near as skilled as Marcus at knocking arrows from the air. He saved himself from one, but a second buried itself in his thigh, and he
cried out in pain. One of his men went down with an arrow in his throat; another gave a shout as an arrow struck his shoulder. Fortunately, their attackers seemed to bore of arrows, or perhaps they were out of ammunition, for suddenly they were charging out of the forest and towards the Romans, shouting a battle cry.
It was the Robogdi. Darius knew that at once—not only by their fairness, or their distinctive cry. They were perhaps a dozen in number, and there were women among them—the Robogdi seemed to be unique among Celtic tribes in their use of women soldiers. Or perhaps it was more common in Hibernia than it was in Britannia—the Romans had only encountered a handful of tribes on the island, after all.
Darius raised his sword as blood streamed down his leg, preparing to greet the woman who charged at him, but one of the Roman archers took her down first. She fell into the river, her pale eyes open and empty, her yellow hair floating around her like waterweeds.
Another of Darius’s men had fallen, a Celt’s dagger buried in his side. There came a shout behind him, and Darius whirled. Marcus had joined the fray, dispatching two Celts with the same negligent ease he had displayed last night, pausing between kills to knock an arrow from the air. Catching Darius’s eye, he nodded, and turned to cut down the Celt who stood at the edge the fight, launching arrows at Roman targets.
The centurion who had taken an arrow to the shoulder fought on, barely—Darius hobbled to his side to rescue him from a towering Celt brandishing what looked like an axe. He buried his sword in the Celt’s stomach, but the ground was uneven, and the Celt’s death throes unbalanced him. He stumbled backwards, his foot catching on a rock, and fell with the weight of the Celt on top of him.
His ankle snapped. Pain seared up his leg, and the world blackened. When his vision cleared, he was in the water, his foot bent at a strange angle—a silent agony.
The soldier he had rescued bent to help him. Then he started, confusion flitting across his face. The head of an arrow protruded from his chest. Darius choked on a cry as the soldier fell, crashing into the river beside him. Revealed behind him like a pale shadow was the man who had loosed the arrow.
