Warnings: blood and gore

Rating: pg-13

AU: Esca, the son of the chieftain in his tribe, is injured after a battle against a small Roman patrol. His life is changed when he finds himself saving the life of Marcus, one of the Roman prisoners from that patrol. A prisoner who is later given to him as a slave.

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Esca was young and strong, and the sun glinted off his blue-marked tan skin and white, manic grin as he fearlessly guided his father's hurtling chariot across the terrain. He was a son of the Chieftain and a prince along with his brothers, but most of all—and especially now—he was a warrior. His father grinned from beside him and they howled over the thunder of dozens of horses' hooves, from all the chariots and riders swarming down the hills beside them. Every one of his father's five hundred spears were hooting and screeching, running wildly alongside in the charge.

Esca knew what the Romans thought of them—and indeed, what they must look like—countless wild barbarians, as unpredictable as animals, dressed in little but paint and shreds of fur or snarling wolf skins. Esca had had, admittedly, little actual experience against Romans, but he'd grown into a fierce warrior nourished on the words and tales of Roman barbarism and cruelty and dishonor. Romans were as hard and inhuman as rocks, stubborn as goats, and as uselessly colorful in battle as birds.

Even now he saw the small band of Romans they were up against, huddled in their lines and formation, but stubbornly marching forward, towards his own screaming troupe. They were only a few—thirty or so. And Esca couldn't understand how they'd thought they stood a chance in his tribe's lands without being found and slaughtered. His father said they were a messenger group, sent from one camp to another. This would be an excellent chance for some of the new spears to win glory for their tribe.

When the two parties clashed, it was fast. Esca never thought it would be so fast. The blood rushing in his ears made it hard to concentrate as his eyes darted from scene to scene. The noise of screaming horses and men drowned out the clang of metal and wood. Within minutes the air was thick with the scent of blood and Esca was forced to drive the chariot over bodies that the horses skirted over nervously. Beside him, his father yells and leans out to skewer a passing Roman and grabs his red cloak, dragging him a ways before letting him fall.

Esca sees the fear in the Roman eyes because they know they will not win. At once, he sees his younger brother, Tanca, shoved from his horse, and land hard on the ground in front of a young Roman. The Roman is tall and broad, about his age, Esca guesses, but more than twice his brother's size. Tanca had lost his weapons and appeared to have broken a rib in the fall; Esca watched him clutch at his sides. Esca gave a yell, horrified for his brother, who was just fifteen, but knew that it would be impossible to turn the chariot to get there in time.

The young Roman lunged a step, his motion propelling him forward, but then hesitated, seeing that the boy was weaponless and huddled on the ground. Esca saw that Tanca tried to sit up and glare bravely at the Roman, and his heart swelled with pride—he knew the boy must be terrified. His eyes snapped to the Roman's face and Esca saw his softened gaze a second before he sprinted off, leaving Tanca hunched and white-faced, staring after him.

The whole scene lasted maybe two heartbeats, and then it was over. Esca's attention was forced back to the moment as the chariot lurched and toppled, throwing him under it. He had just enough time to see that his father had landed away from it when he heard a horse scream followed by a crushing blow, and then his world went black.

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Esca opened his eyes to the watery sunlight coming through the light canvas of a tent ceiling. It was a tent ceiling he knew well—he was lying on his own furs inside his family's tent. He blinked until his eyes focused and frowned, trying to remember how he'd gotten here. A horrible stab of pain all up his right side quickly reminded him.

He could hardly believe he was alive, actually. But that happy realization was quickly overruled by intense irritation when he found he couldn't even sit up on his own. He cursed to himself—he should have just been killed; at least it would have been honorable. He slipped on his elbow and fell flat on his back again, a loud groan escaping him.

His movements were noticed and he saw figures approaching seconds before the door flap was pulled away and his father came in, bending under the low entryway, and followed by his Tanca. His pain forgotten, Esca smiled genuinely when he saw the boy, remembering what he'd seen, how brave his brother had been. He was about to say as much when his father beat him to speaking.

"Esca, lad, good to see you awake. How is the leg?" Esca looked down at his leg, surprised to find that it was indeed just a leg injury. From the amount of pain, he could have sworn the entire right side of his body had been mauled and ripped apart.

"I'm fine. Hardly feel it." His father grinned and stooped over, grasping his upper arm to haul him to his feet (Tanca quickly got under his other side when he stumbled and grimaced).

"Excellent. You've missed a good couple days of feasting—and for that I don't envy you: it was some fantastic celebrating—but there is a bit of fun left for you."

Esca tried to swallow the pain as he hobbled beside his father and brother. He didn't care too much about the festivities that he had missed, but he wished he could have shared in the stories of the battle; or at least know what had happened. He could guess that they had obviously won, and as if to further illustrate that, his father stopped him and swept a hand out broadly. Esca, who had been busy with the effort of both walking and maintaining some of his dignity, looked up and realized where they were. The three had stopped in front of a corral-like pen that was sometimes used for young horses, and inside were a handful of men tired tightly together in the center.

Esca recognized them immediately as Romans, specifically some of the Romans from the battle.

"Look, Esca. These are some of the dogs we spared. Strong lads, I'll give them that. They'll make some for some good sport."

Esca knew from the word he used for "dogs" exactly to what sport he was referring. He squinted at the men, trying to see properly, but his head swam from a wave of pain and he suddenly found he could not care less about these Romans or their imminent deaths. He just needed to lie down again and rest, before his father said what he knew he was about to say.

"The first of the fights will be tonight. You should come out to watch. Get some air. It will do you good."

Esca groaned. "Of course. I look forward to it."

His father grinned and clapped him on the shoulder before striding off. Esca slumped against Tanca and grumbled for help back to the tent.

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Esca sat around the arena later that night, glad for the warmth of the bonfire that cast harsh shadows on everything, especially the dancers prowling and leaping around it to the beat of drums.

The arena was a large pit with high walls that had been dug, and all the members of his tribe were gathering around the edges of it now, jockeying for a good view. Esca could barely keep his eyes open, which he believed was mostly due to something the medicine woman had fed him earlier, but he was just glad it had dulled the pain in his leg a little. Then the crowd fell silent and he watched as a painted man in a wolf skin bounded into the pit and began baying and howling and jumping to the cheering of the crowd. One of the Romans was shoved into the arena and the wolf-man circled him, growling and lunging. He would jump in low and grab at the man's ankles, tripping him, and the crowd would laugh and jeer. Esca smiled a little; he'd seen these things before.

After the people had had their fun, the wolf-man left and the crowd hushed in anticipation. The Roman man in the pit looked around nervously. He still had a bad cut on his head from the battle and Esca knew he had not been fed in the last few days. The crowd parted and two men led two snarling dogs to the edge; they were lunging at the ends of their leashes, ready for blood. Esca absently noted they were two of the tribe's best hunting hounds; he knew them personally to be ruthless killers. They were released suddenly, and leapt into the pit after the man, who managed to get a few solid kicks into them before they ripped out his throat. Esca looked away and called for the ale skin, not particularly wanting to see the dogs worrying at the bloodied corpse.

After the gore was dragged out of the ring the next man was shoved in. He swayed the sight of the dark stain on the sand, and seemed to freeze, though, Esca realized, not from fear. Esca emptied the skin of ale and tried to focus. Something seemed familiar about that man, and as he turned, Esca realized he was the young soldier he'd seen spare his brother's life. Esca's eyes widened at the realization, but already the crowd was hooting again as it parted and a cage was hauled to the edge. This time a large brindled wolf was snarling from inside, waiting to kill.

Esca sat up. His father, from his seat beside him, looked over, interpreting his movement for excitement. "That's a good strong one. 'S why he gets the wolf." Esca wasn't listening, all he could see was the soft look he remembered in the man's eyes when he decided to stay his sword and save his fifteen-year-old brother's life.

The man was tall and strong indeed, with dark hair and eyes. Esca could see he must be well trained and a good fighter. But even a man such as he could not beat a huge wolf when he was two or three days starved and would be made to fight until exhaustion.

Time and sound seemed to stop as he watched the wolf stalk around the pit, less recklessly than the hounds, but just as deadly when the time came. He doesn't know now whether it was because of the ale or what else, but he found himself lurching to his feet, grabbing blindly for a shoulder to steady himself, and shouting over the voices of the crowd. Something was very wrong here; this shouldn't be like this. That Roman didn't deserve this fate, especially not without his father knowing he spared Tanca's life. It was confusing—a Roman who had done something so honorable when Romans never do anything honorable. But this one had. And now he was going to die, dishonorably torn apart by a wolf and left in a shallow grave watched only by crows. No one would light a candle for him and his gods would never know, no one would ever know what he had done—how honorable he had been. That just didn't sit well with Esca.

"Stop—stop this! Not him—not that one!" Esca didn't wait to see if his calls were having any effect, but grabbed the dagger he always kept on him, and threw it. It hurtled and landed at the Roman's feet. He grabbed it and looked up quickly, meeting Esca's eyes. Esca's mouth thinned to a line and he stared intently. He knew very little Latin, but he summoned up enough to say, "Kill wolf!"

Esca's father stood up and turned to him, demanding an explanation. But Esca ignored him, continuing to shout. The men in charge paused, looking from him to his father. They knew they should obey the Chieftain's son, but were waiting for some order from the Chief himself.

Esca's father paused and regarded his son calmly, raising a hand to the wolf handlers. They scrambled into the pit and wrestled the wolf into submission with a net, herding it back into the cage. The crowd all looked in bewilderment to Esca, including the young Roman, still holding Esca's dagger. He felt their eyes and their questions and suddenly knew he had no answer for them. He knew they were all wondering why, but he didn't know. He didn't know why he'd done it—not really. He respected honorable men, but in the long run, one Roman didn't matter. Especially when his purpose as a warrior of his tribe was to destroy them all, no matter how honorable. He knew they were all judging him and he suddenly felt cornered and angry. He didn't want to answer their questions—he didn't have to. He was the chieftain's son.

He got up and stalked away as quickly as his leg would let him, back to his family's tent where no eyes would follow him, least of all the soft dark eyes of the young Roman man.

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He had collapsed from the drink and exhaustion almost at soon as he'd gotten inside, and woke up the next morning in pain for the second time in less than a day's span. And again, he sees his father's form come in through the tent flap and meet his eyes.

Esca couldn't read his father's face as the man took him in, still lying tangled in the furs with his hair probably everywhere. He imagined he looked ridiculous, and suddenly the memory of the scene he had made the night before hit him. He knew he had drunk a lot, but he still stood stubbornly by what he'd done. He didn't ask about the fate of the young Roman yet, still wary of what his father was thinking.

After twenty years of knowing him, Esca thought he would be able to read his father better. He had always supported Esca, and Esca thought he remembered the look on his face after the initial shock of Esca's first outburst—it was a pause and what might have been contemplation. He could simply hold out hope, because if not he knew he would pay for his actions, chieftain's son or not.

But he held aside the tent flap and beckoned Esca outside. Esca blinked against the glare, his head pounding and his leg screaming. He leaned heavily on the crutch that had been left for him. His father had left him, striding ahead a few paces and coming back soon with a few others. Among them were Tanca and a man he recognized as the one who had handled the Roman prisoners during the fights last night. Also, trudging between them under close watch was the same Roman from the pit.

Esca just stared. He was exactly the same—of course he was—and his eyes were intent upon Esca's own, seeming to ignore everything else around him. He stood meekly, though he was still twice the size of Tanca and could probably take down the other man. He might have been able to escape if he had tried. A terrible pride radiated from him like a sun, and Esca could almost feel the heat of it. He looks back to his father.

"Esca. I couldn't help but notice your interest in this one." He smirked, glancing back to the Roman. "You seemed so intent on saving his life, I thought you might want to do something with it now that you have."

Esca furrowed his brow, his thoughts pacing slightly ahead of his father's words as he began to recognize where this was going.

"So now, he is yours. A slave. And you know, this might be good. He could be a strong one, once fed up. Good for hard work. And now, lad, you need a slave, to help with your healing."

Esca stood in shock, and felt anger begin to curl in his belly. Just because he had the impulse to save this Roman didn't mean he wanted him. And it certainly didn't mean he needed him to help him.

"Father! This—this is not what I wanted! I do not need some Roman—for anything." But his father wasn't listening. He was still looking the man over as if he were a potentially interesting horse.

"What is your name, Roman?" When the man did nothing but squint and blink at him, he tried again in halting Latin.

Never taking his eyes of Esca, the young man answered shortly, "Marcus Flavius Aquila."

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TBC. Comments are love :)