Esca was aware that the Romans, just like the Brigantes, liked stories. They liked them recited in their big theatres and he knew that they wrote them down and held them in libraries and shops.
He also knew that some of these stories were about change, about one thing, or one person, changing into another, in an animal, or in a plant.
Esca had never read such stories, he had never had time, neither before nor, of course, during his slavery.
But he knew full well that, in that golden afternoon, when both of them still smelled of the hunt, of sweat, soil and blood, Marcus had metamorphosed into something new.
Something magnificent.
Marcus had turned from a broken Roman centurion to a Brigantes' warrior.
He was glorious, vibrating with strength and pride for a good hunt.
Long gone seemed his sickness. His weakness. His skin was bronze in the sunlight and he was smiling more broadly than he had done in so long.
For a brief moment, even his name in Esca's mind changed from "Of Mars", to "Of Belatucadros".
Something old, something primordial stirred inside Esca at that spectacle shining in front of him.
Something old that made Esca's chest explode with warmth, like life returning after a cold winter.
In that golden afternoon, for a brief moment when it was only the two of them in the vastity of Britannia, Esca loved him deeply.
Rome, you made a mistake with this son of yours. He is too kind for a Roman. He is too stupidly kind.
He is not like any other Roman I have ever met.
If you wanted to punish me, you should have sent someone else to torture me.
But Esca also had the vague notion that those metamorphoses in Roman stories were forever, the gods never changed a human back. Just like the Romans themselves, their gods were unforgiving monsters, changing a woman into a bear, or a young man into a swan for crying too much for his dead companion.
They were punishments for hubris, for pride, or for laying with the wrong god. Roman gods liked to play with the lives of mortals.
And Rome the goddess was still toying with him.
He was her pray.
Like a bored lioness, she was playing with her prey.
And for once, the metamorphosis didn't last, because the goddess knew that it would be much more devastating to make this change a fleeting moment.
So, his Belatucadros did change back. Slowly, he shredded his new golden mantle, making it all the more painful.
Bringing back the painful reality of Esca's misery.
On the approach to his uncle's village, this new Brigantes was still there. He didn't even pay too much attention to the two Roman soldiers in full uniform standing right outside while, instead, the hairs on Esca's neck immediately seemed to irk up.
What were the wolves doing there?
No, go away, this is not your place, Esca thought as the old fire of rage roared in his ears.
Can I never have a moment of peace?
Then, Esca found himself in front of full horror waiting for them: Uncle Aquila was sitting in his chair, laughing together with two togati, a fat man with a red face and a young one, oozing of pride and privilege.
Rome was there. Staring right back at him. Turning him to stone, like that Roman story with the Medusa.
For one, last, fleeting moment, his companion looked back at him. If he could have, Esca would have smiled at him.
But he couldn't, as he saw the magic of the metamorphosis change, turning into dust at his feet.
Marcus the broken, Roman centurion was back there, welcoming the two strangers with that typical Roman way of grasping each other's forearms.
Silently, Esca left. It was too much.
He would need to regain all his strength and composure, knowing full well that he was going to have to be, once again, near Marcus the centurion, on the threshold, looking into the full horror of Roman occupation.
Gods, please save me from these illusions.
Lift this curse on my soul.
I can't bear this.
During dinner, Esca stood near the window, close enough to be ready for whatever Marcus would need, but he let his mind wander, barely aware of the idle chat of the pompous young man, pretending that he wanted to be a soldier. From his position, Esca couldn't really see Marcus' face well, but, if he had learnt anything of the Roman he was serving, he suspected full well that he was finding the young politicians as idiotic as Esca was finding him.
So ridiculous.
Perhaps, if life had been different, after dinner they could have shared some jokes at the expense of the young man.
And then, the pompous man asked about Marcus' father.
And everything delicate, every "what could have been" thought in his mind vanished.
'He commanded the first cohort of the ninth' Marcus said, pride ringing true in his voice.
Esca froze on the spot.
No.
No, no, no, his mind shouted. Marcus' father had been one of the monsters up north. He had been part of the long snake of red uniforms marching to conquer.
And yet, it made perfect sense. Esca had deluded himself that perhaps Marcus' interest in the lost legion, in the lost Eagle, was the curiosity of a bored man not yet too familiar with the stories that every single person in the province of Britannia knew.
How stupid had he been? With a simple little calculation, he could have suspected that Marcus' father, the mysterious dead man, could have been involved with the butchery that went on in the Place of Heroes.
You deluded yourself, Marcus is the son of a killer.
And he is a killer himself.
He tuned back into the conversation, surprised to see how not only Marcus, but Uncle Aquila too got affected by the old man telling them about some strange rumours about the lost Eagle.
For as different as uncle and nephew were, they were still family.
There were voices that the Eagle was with the painted people.
Right. The painted people.
The Barbarians.
He better remembered that Esca himself was a Barbarian too.
'What would Rome say?' Uncle Aquila said, trying to suggest that, perhaps, they could go and check if these rumours were true.
'Eagle lost, honour lost, honour lost, all lost' the old man said, brushing away such suggestions as if they were no more than a fantasy and thus turning off all hope in the old Aquila.
Selfish, Esca thought. You can lie to a dying man if you can give him some comfort.
And yet, somehow, Esca felt glad. It was a foolish idea anyway. An ideal of victory that was doom to fail.
Like most ideals have always been since the dawn of time.
He had been a dreamer once, and, as far as he was concerned, ideals could only hurt you.
'Not if you send one man' Marcus then said.
If he could have shown some emotion, if he could have been free to be more than just an object in that room, Esca would have laughed.
Of course. Marcus was clever. Of course, he could have immediately come up with a way to circumvent the objections of the other Romans around him.
Marcus was also very stupid.
Going north of the wall would mean his death.
And Esca couldn't stand for that. He had made a promise.
The fire under his skin raged.
'North of the wall? No Roman can survive there' Uncle Aquila said.
Exactly, you idiot, listen to your uncle, Esca thought.
It doesn't pay to chase dreams Marcus.
And then, right when Esca least expected it, the final blow to whatever sanity was left in Marcus stroke down, like a lighting in a blue sky:
'The loss of the ninth was humiliating enough, without adding another pointless death' the young politician said.
Marcus stood up, glaring at the young man.
Stubborn, stubborn Roman, Esca thought, as he silently followed his master and his uncle away from the prying eyes of the strangers.
And, silently, he listened to their conversation.
'Ever since I can remember, all I ever wanted to be was a soldier. I can still see him now, riding away for the last time. I can still feel how proud I was' Marcus said.
Esca could still see his own father too, riding in the face of destiny.
Even with the full knowledge that they were about to die, Esca had felt proud.
And, just like Marcus, he could still feel it, pushing him forward even in his darkest moments.
'My father, centurion of the first cohort of the ninth legion. Can you imagine anything more magnificent?'
Yes, a chieftain of the Brigantes, riding in front of five hundred spears, ready to battle at his command.
Had Marcus ever seen something that glorious?
'Can you imagine anything more magnificent than to be a soldier, and serve Rome, with courage and faithfulness'
'But you did son'
'For what? An honourable discharge?' Marcus shouted.
And you are lucky, Esca wanted to shouted back at him. I did everything right, I served my gods and my tribe. I was a dutiful son.
And for what? Slavery at the hand of foreign savages.
You are lucky, Marcus Flavius Aquila.
'That's fate. That's in the hands of the gods' uncle Aquila said, shaking his head against the strength of the storm raging in front of him.
Well, the gods then are blind. The gods are all wrong and cruel, Esca thought, grasping his own arms around himself in a tighter embrace.
The gods took away Marcus' chance of redemption. The gods took away Esca' future.
Maybe one day someone was going to find a way to kill such cruel gods and get revenge for a broken centurion and a lost man of the obliterated Brigantes tribe.
It was right there then, against his better judgement, against all the reminders that were thrown in his face that night regarding Marcus' past and identity, that Esca felt pity for Marcus.
And for himself.
Suddenly, it all became clear.
Marcus hadn't metamorphosed into another man of the Brigantes.
He had turned into Esca himself.
Both broken. Both lost.
Just on different sides of the coin.
Just on different sides of a broken mask of the god Janus, with two faces.
'When I was made a centurion, they asked me where I wanted to be posted. I knew the answer before they even asked. Britain.'
'This is where my father lost the Eagle. This is where I was going to be covered in so much glory than no Roman would dare bring up his name again. What do I do now?'
Marcus' voice turned desperate, tugging again at Esca's heart.
He had been there, many a time, in the darkness of despair, when everything seemed lost and the water was coming to your throat, about to choke you.
Perhaps stupidly, he didn't want Marcus' voice to sound like that.
He wanted him to live. Just like Marcus had wanted Esca to live.
They were both alone. But perhaps they could be alone together.
'I sit and listen to some silk ass son of a politician piss on our family's name'
Esca almost smiled at that comment.
Yes, in another world and time they could have been friends and make fun of pompous bastards like Servius Placidus.
'I will not sit in some villa for the rest of my days, rotting away, remembering. If I can't win back my family's honour by being a soldier, then I will do it by finding the lost Eagle'
Esca barely stopped himself from laughing.
Honourable, stubborn and incredibly stupid Marcus.
'You can't. No Roman can survive north of the wall'
Surely, in a little while, this conversation will be over, Esca thought. For as stupid as Marcus is, surely, he will see reason too.
Rome, you cruel temptress, help your son see reason.
But Rome wouldn't listen to the prayers of a Barbarian who had cursed her children many a time.
'Then I will take Esca. I can use his knowledge, he speaks the language'
Esca forced himself to be as expressionless as he could as he tried to quieten his fury.
Use. Marcus had said "use".
Like a tool.
'Esca?' Uncle Aquila said, a hardened expression taking place of the patient one he had reserved for his nephew's anger till that point.
'Why not?' Marcus said, with the simplicity of a child who believes he has every mystery of life figured out.
And, right there and then, Esca was sure that Rome the goddess was speaking to him through Uncle Aquila's voice.
'Because he is a Briton. He may not be from north of the wall, but he is a Briton. And he will slit your throat the minute you are gone'
Esca increased the pressure of his hands on his own arms to keep himself in check because, if he had been free to act, to speak, to be a human being once more, he would have shouted and spat all his hate at that old man.
'He wouldn't do that' Marcus replied.
Oh Marcus.
Perhaps his master was really a little stupid. Or too blinded by his strange conception of honour.
'How do you know?'
'He gave me his word'
Something of the warmth he had felt earlier in the day tugged again at his heart.
That was the first time in seven years someone had treated him as more than an object.
As more than a slave.
Marcus believed in Esca's words. In his honour.
Stupid Marcus. He was completely oblivious to the barriers between them.
'He is a slave. He says what he says and does what he does because he has to'
I might be a slave in your eyes.
But I am Cunoval's son.
Rome has not broken me in seven years.
It will not make me turn against what I am right when I am called to act.
You will see, old man.
'If I am wrong, then I will die. And that is how it should be'
No. You will not die, Esca thought. I made a promise once, to treasure a bond of honour with my life. And I will make another promise tonight: you will not die north of the wall.
But I will also not let you dishonour my tribe's past.