by Alex Faure
“Even if they are,” Scipio said, “what does it matter? Let them huddle in their trees and bogs and scheme. Once the supply ship reaches us, we will smash their schemes and their defenses for good.”
Darius had no luck in convincing Marcus to send messengers to the Volundi. They could not have opened negotiations with the tribe without Agricola’s approval, but they might have established unofficial communications with a tribe so mysterious that the Empire couldn’t place even one of their villages on a map.
Five days passed at Attervalis in relative peace. Darius visited the fort’s doctor, who pronounced himself astonished that Darius had healed himself of such a severe infection, the signs of which he could still see on Darius’s body. Darius described the moss that Fionn had used on the wound, and the man grew even more astounded. He made Darius venture into the woods with him to identify the plant, whose miraculous properties he wished to study further.
Darius found himself surprised by how easily he slipped back into the routine of outpost life. The otherworldly days he had spent with Fionn, which amounted to about a fortnight, seemed little more than a dream. Yet the man himself never faded from memory. Unless Darius disciplined his thoughts, Fionn was forever interrupting them.
Even the smallest of things could bring him to mind. Darius would see his silver eyes in the glint of sunlight on the surface of the well; his ghostly hair in the churn of the sea as it struck the shore. At night, Darius’s thoughts would turn to the feeling of Fionn’s mouth against his, the pure grace of his body as it moved against Darius’s, and he would pleasure himself in the darkness. This was new, and troubling—Darius rarely thought of anyone when he came at his own hand. Customarily, his desire summoned up some faceless, wide-hipped girl, or a leanly muscled torso. On occasion, he found himself resenting Fionn’s intrusion into his life, which had opened up a part of himself that he hadn’t known existed. A part, he thought, that wanted something more than this life of soldiering, and the sweet promise of his Sicilian groves. But what more there was, he didn’t know.
Each time his thoughts drifted to Fionn, Darius would remind himself that the man was gone. They had parted, and would likely never reunite—the passion of their last night together amounted to an improbable dalliance, and a dangerous one at that. Fionn would slip from his mind, as he slipped into the forest depths.
And then, later, he would resurface.
It was because Fionn had left him with so many questions, Darius told himself. What was he? Why had he saved Darius’s life? His inherent mystery made Darius doubt he would ever forget him, even if he did make it off this godsforsaken island. He would carry Fionn with him until the day he died.
He was only slightly surprised when, after a day spent around a table full of maps with Marcus, Scipio, and Attervalis’s highest-ranking tribunes, Remus and Valens, Marcus knocked on his door.
Darius put his book aside and admitted the man to his room. It was a sparsely furnished space, and had formerly belonged to a tribune who had been reassigned to Undanum. It opened onto a little courtyard of unpaved greenery that had been left wild when the fort was built. The fresh breeze stirred Marcus’s short hair, which was beginning to grow out, as he stood in awkward consternation at the threshold of the room.
Darius calmly seated himself on the narrow bed, leaving Marcus the chair. He didn’t take it, but marched over to the courtyard door.
“The supply ship is nearing the coast,” he said. “She should be in the harbour and ready for unloading in the morning.”
“And our reinforcements?”
“The captain sent word that they will sail on a separate vessel in a few days.”
Darius nodded. Despite sending out multiple search parties, they’d managed to find no trace of the men who had attacked Sylvanum or Attervalis. In fact, they’d found no trace of anyone. The two closest Robogdi villages stood empty—they’d even taken their animals. The Darini were no help—their feud with the Robogdi was longstanding, and they had little contact with the tribe, while the Volundi, with whom they had in the past formed a wary truce, had broken communication with them after they allied with Rome. The plan then was to burn the abandoned Robogdi villages to the ground and lay siege to Caervalle, a village nearly three days’ march from Attervalis. After that, the Robogdi would be invited to treat with Rome. Refusal, or another attack on the Empire or her soldiers, would be met with further destruction.
They wouldn’t refuse. No one ever did.
Darius waited until Marcus explained the real reason for his visit. Unfortunately, the man seemed eternally incapable of voicing his own feelings. “Our translator is to go aboard at first light and supervise the unloading.”
Darius frowned. If Alaine, the mousey Britannian translator stationed at Attervalis, was being sent to the ship, it must mean it was manned by Britannian slaves—likely green ones, unused to Roman commands.
“I hear you requested a transfer,” Marcus said. His back was still turned. “Scipio mentioned it accidentally—he seemed regretful afterwards, thinking you hadn’t wanted the news out.”
“It’s all right.” Darius had sent his request to Agricola on the same messenger ship that had departed Hibernia several days ago. “It wasn’t a secret.”
“Where will you go?”
Darius shrugged. “Wherever the Empire needs me.”
“And then to your olive trees.” Marcus’s voice held amusement, but also something else. Darius had told him about Sicily, as he had told him other things during his time at Attervalis. They had spoken together far more freely, and comfortably, than they had at Sylvanum. “I have to admit, I’ve grown used to your presence at the briefing table.”
“At your briefing table, you mean. You’ll do just as well without me.”
“Without your moralizing, perhaps,” Marcus said. “Not without you.” He examined Darius. “I’ve been meaning to ask about that. Did you come by that overbearing code of honour of yours after that experience in Gaul?”
Darius stiffened. “I’m sorry,” Marcus said, grimacing at the look on his face. “Scipio said you didn’t mind speaking of it—”
“It’s all right.” Darius gave him a wry smile. “Scipio is a dear friend, but not a particularly observant one. In truth, I don’t know how to measure the effect my captivity in Gaul has had upon me, beyond the nightmares—which are far less frequent now.” He considered the question, fighting back the clammy dread that arose whenever he allowed his mind to stray to that village square where he’d been held with his men. “Perhaps it made me more careful.”
Marcus cocked his head. “About avoiding capture? I should think it would.”
“No,” Darius said thoughtfully. “About visiting similar brutality upon others as was visited upon me and my men.”
“But you would never—”
“No,” Darius agreed. “But there is, ultimately, only one way to kill a man, and unlimited ways to degrade his humanity. Duty may force me to the former, but nothing will compel me to the latter. For in doing so, I would degrade my own soul.”
Marcus was gazing at Darius. When Darius met his eyes, he turned away, flushing, and went to stand by the open courtyard door as if to take the air. After a moment, Darius went to his side. He placed a gentle hand on Marcus’s waist, an invitation for him to deny or accept, as he wished. After a long moment, the shorter man stepped back, leaning his weight against Darius’s chest. Darius’s arm circled his waist.
“I like your hair longer,” he said. “It suits you.”
“Don’t.” Marcus turned his head, meeting Darius’s gaze steadily. “You’ve made your feelings perfectly clear. You care for me. You respect me. And that is where we begin and end. It’s cruel to encourage me to hold out hope for more.”
Darius let out a long breath. He didn’t know what to say. He was used to this conversation, having had it a hundred times with a hundred partners, but not to the weariness that it caused him. Not weariness with Marcus, but with himself,
with the trail of misery he always seemed to leave in his wake like refuse from a ship’s hold.
Marcus seemed to read his thoughts. “How many lovers, I wonder, have watched that look of sadness pass over your face? How many despaired? Were any driven to acts of desperation?”
Darius winced at that last statement. Marcus was far too perceptive for his own good, or perhaps he had simply come to know Darius too well.
“Well, I won’t be among them, as I think you know,” Marcus said. “I can’t imagine anything more tedious than pining, and you know I have a lavishly formed wife back home—as well as a talented lover—who will rally me back to myself if I do succumb. And yet you still won’t fuck me.” He scanned Darius’s face. “There’s someone else. Who?”
Darius didn’t reply for a long moment. “There’s no one else.”
“Ah, but there is.” The ghost of a smile crossed his face. “You ridiculously honourable fool. She’s a fortunate lady. Or is it a lady? I find it difficult to guess your preferences.”
“My only preference is to avoid hurting yet another man I’ve grown to respect.”
“I give you leave to resume your former disrespect where I’m concerned, at least for tonight,” Marcus said. Turning, he brought his mouth to Darius’s.
Desire rose within Darius, warm and familiar. Yet with it came sadness, and a longing that couldn’t be quenched by dark eyes and a sturdy, practical frame.
He pulled back to meet the question in Marcus’s eyes. Smiling, Darius drew him back into the shadows and pushed him gently against the wall.
He sank to his knees, neatly drawing down Marcus’s skirt as he did so. The other man’s breath caught, but he recovered quickly from his surprise, and threaded a hand through Darius’s hair. Darius used his hand first, teasing and stroking, and then wrapping the hand around Marcus’s length. It was considerable, particularly given Marcus’s smaller frame. Darius wetted the tip with his tongue, expertly teasing. His own cock began to swell, and he realized with a start that he was repeating the same pattern Fionn had followed that sweet morning in the grove. The longing struck him then like a thunderbolt, and left him empty and cold.
Fionn was gone. But before him was Marcus—Marcus, who had saved his life, who had become his trusted friend. Marcus, who deserved whatever Darius could offer him, as insignificant as it might be.
Marcus groaned. He cupped Darius’s head, his eyes closing. Darius slid along his length, and it wasn’t long before Marcus came in a rush, an involuntary cry slipping from his lips. Darius gently adjusted Marcus’s skirt as he waited for the other man to recover.
“You’ve a rather chivalrous way of letting a man down,” Marcus said once his breathing returned to normal. He caught Darius’s hand as he sat upon the bed, drawing Darius with him. “Can I not do anything for you, Dari? Seems a mite unfair.”
Darius smiled, kissed him. “You have, darling.”
“You fear that it would mean too much to me,” Marcus mused. “Isn’t that it? I’m becoming adept at interpreting your code of honour. Well, I could send someone to you. Your lover, whoever they are, could hardly begrudge you taking your pleasure with a slave. That’s perfectly harmless.”
Darius stilled. “You have slaves here at Attervalis?”
“Yes—we house them out beyond the barracks. But I suppose Scipio and I have kept you to ourselves, haven’t we? You haven’t had much time to explore the fort.” Marcus ran a hand through his hair. “They are mostly women. A few comely ones, though several of the men have grown rather fond of an odd little squinty thing who, I’ve heard, has some enthusiasm for their attentions. Not that I would know—as you’ve probably guessed, it’s my view that women are for siring heirs on.”
Marcus eyed him. “What is it?” Understanding dawned in his too-perceptive gaze. “Ah. You’re a reformer, aren’t you? You would be. Well, you can rest assured that the slaves we’ve taken have been well-treated. The men may only take their pleasure on the ones who are willing. A number of them are, as the men gift them with food and trinkets in return for their affections. Their families were fairly compensated. Albinus was scrupulous in this area—but then, he was a Stoic. We’ve had a steady trickle of Darini seeking to auction off superfluous daughters.”
Darius didn’t reply. He supposed he was a reformer. He disliked slavery, certainly, and his father had been a reformer, or so Darius had always assumed, for he’d only used hired freedmen to work his groves. In truth, though, Darius had never given the matter much thought—slavery was part of the foundation of the Empire, and simply one of the many unpleasant realities of life.
He thought of a roomful of blonde Celts, chained and bound. He thought of Fionn among them, all that proud courage and malevolence and tenderness forced to bow to a master’s will. The image left him unsteady, it was so wrong.
“They treat their slaves far worse than Rome, you know,” Marcus said. “The Robogdi cut off their hands if they try to escape, while the Darini chieftain regularly sires bastards on his and then has them executed when they lose their figures. They have no laws in this area; they follow their own brute natures.”
Darius was barely listening. His fears were irrational—Fionn would never allow himself to be captured, and it wasn’t as if his people would sell such a valuable asset. Yet he couldn’t push them away. He vowed to visit the slaves and examine them regularly to ensure that Fionn wasn’t among them.
At the edge of Darius’s mind was the awareness that his fear wasn’t only irrational but tinged with the faintest of hope. But he pushed those thoughts away. Fionn was gone.
Marcus was watching him with a frown. “Shall I send you someone? By the gods, Dari, you look like you could use it.”
Darius forced a smile. “No thank you, Marcus.” He ran a hand though his hair and let out a humourless breath of laughter. “You were right. There is someone else, in a way. I find that I—I can’t stop thinking about him.”
“What, don’t tell me he turned you down.” Marcus let out a sharp laugh, and then he fell silent, wincing. “Sorry, Dari. That was unkind. It’s just difficult for me to comprehend anyone rejecting your affections.”
“One day, darling, I am going to fall off that pedestal you have me on, and then you will have to find someone else to worship.”
Marcus shook his head wryly. He kissed Darius on the cheek. “Very well. I’ll leave you to your moping. Only don’t drive yourself to any acts of desperation, please. Remember what I tell myself.”
“What’s that?”
“Every life has its share of miseries,” he said. “If not heartbreak, they would come at you in some other form.”
“Thank you. That will certainly help me fall asleep tonight.”
Marcus laughed, and then, after kissing Darius again, he left.
Darius sat there, gazing out at the green boughs that waved in the breeze. Then he stood and went out.
The soldiers he passed bowed their heads, many with smiles or a joking comment. Darius had made it known, as he did in every company he led, that he had no use for unnecessary stiffness. A commander should be respected by his men, it was true, but that respect shouldn’t get in the way of camaraderie. Darius, despite his distraction, met every smile and comment, clapping those he had worked with on the shoulder. He stopped to speak quietly to a man whose lover had been stationed at Sylvanum and had not been among the survivors.
When he finally reached the outbuilding Marcus had described, he found it guarded by two men playing at cards. They jumped to their feet as Darius approached. He raised an eyebrow at the cards to make his disapproval clear, but chose not to deepen their embarrassment by commenting. “Gentlemen. I’ve come to inspect the slaves’ condition.”
The men, still flushing slightly, exchanged a knowing look. “Of course, Comman—ah, Captain.” One of the men held the door open, and Darius stepped through.
He found a roomful of women staring back at him. None seemed to be beyond their thirties, though there we
re few who looked especially maidenly—the youngest, a pale redhead with startling black eyes, was perhaps twenty-five. All ripe, all beautiful in that watercolour Celtic way. But not a child among them.
In Darius’s experience, barbarian families usually sold children, having too many. Sometimes you came across a man seeking to sell off his barren or frigid wife, but surely that couldn’t be the case with all of them?
The redhead rose, her lips slightly parted. The women weren’t bound in any way, but lounged freely upon cushions and crates strewn across a floor of rushes. The windows were open; there was a table with several jugs of water and a picked-over plate of bread, berries, and hard Celtic cheese. None of the slaves bore any evidence of rough handling. All in all, it looked like a comfortable situation, as Marcus had assured him.
The redhead, though pretty enough, had a squint, and Darius guessed she was the one Marcus had alluded to. The one who not only bore the men’s attentions, but enjoyed them. She was a little skinny for Darius’s tastes, though he couldn’t deny that her features were pleasing, as was the flirtatious slant of her mouth.
She touched his hand gently and lowered her lashes, scanning him from head to toe and pausing noticeably on a certain area.
“Sir,” she said, the Latin word lisping through her thick accent. With her free hand, she mimed something quick but perfectly unambiguous. “Please?”
Darius drew his hand back. He forced a smile. “No thank you. I merely came to check on your condition.”
The woman kept smiling. She hadn’t understood a word, of course. But there was something in her smile that made the hair rise on Darius’s neck. It wasn’t mockery, nor amusement at his seeming shyness.
It was pity.
Darius’s gaze drifted over the women. Many of them were blonde, and one was almost as pale as Fionn. She met his gaze with eyes that were blue, not silver, and tilted her head in curiosity. Her pale waves stirred at the gesture, and Darius remembered the softness of Fionn’s own hair, the way it slid through his fingers like rushing water. He saw the pale, winged creature he had become, watching his with unknowable eyes.
