Author's Note: A single rose can be my garden... a single friend, my world. – Leo Buscaglia
Disclaimer: A slave owns nothing; I own no more.
Marcus lay awake in the grey light of false dawn. He did not know what had woken him, or even if he truly was awake, but the image that filled his mind and kept him from settling back to sleep was the incredible vulnerability of narrow, muddy, bare feet, as Esca had struggled to rise from the sands of the arena, only to be struck down again and yet again by the giant in the Janus mask.
Dreamlike, the scene shifted to the bathhouse, the bronze head cruelly bent by the hand gripping its hair. I will punish him severely for this offense.
Marcus shuddered. Bare soles, covered in mud, as their owner crawled; hurt, but struggling manfully to get back onto his feet.
He should have done something.
He had done something. He had saved Esca from the crowd, from the Janus mask.
But not from his enemies in the bathhouse.
Marcus sat up, eyes straining in the gloom, but there was no faithful servant lying near the door. Has he finally taken my advice and run? Even as the thought formed, Marcus didn't believe it. He levered himself off the bed, wincing as his bad leg took his weight. Where was his tunic? He'd managed without a body servant for most of his life. He could shift for himself this morning as well.
The washing pool was at the bottom of the garden, handy to the wide stream that bisected the town. Esca, bare-chested in the chill pre-dawn, but submerged from the waist down, bend to rinse the last of the suds from the worn bracchae, then emerged from the pool, strong, slender hands still wringing out the water before draping the short trousers over a nearby bush to dry.
He stood a moment to breathe deeply and enjoy the quiet, before gooseflesh made him step back down the wooden steps into the sunken tub. He'd poured boiling water into it earlier, like a decadent Roman, and it was still appreciably warmer than the waters of the stream. He took up the sky-blue tunic next and rubbed soap into the thin wool vigorously, inhaling gratefully the clean scent so reminiscent of home.
Stephanos couldn't understand why he refused to send his clothes to the fullers' to be cleaned. The Greek couldn't comprehend that Esca loved this chore, yearned for these quiet mornings. The hard white bar foamed luxuriously, and he laid the tunic aside while he rubbed the suds along his arms, across his chest and over his belly. He closed his eyes and moved his head down, shaking it from side to side to relieve tense muscles, and loosed a heartfelt sigh.
He never wanted to enter another bathhouse ever again.
Goddess, please help Marcus to get over his shyness about his wound.
He knew the Romans found it as relaxing as he found this, but… he just couldn't.
He heard the sound of someone moving in the garden and groaned. Was it time to get to work already? "Θα είμαι εκεί σε μια στιγμή , Στέφανος," [I'll be there in a while, Stephanos,] he called out wearily. "Απλά αφήστε με να τελειώσω το πλύσιμο αυτό το χιτώνα." [Just let me finish washing this tunic.]
It wasn't Aquila's body slave who asked, "You speak Greek?"
The shock of it was like being dumped bodily into the cold water of the stream. "Marcus?!" Esca opened his eyes and turned towards the voice. The young Roman was seated on the low garden bench next to the pool watching him. He did not look angry.
Esca hoped.
The two young men stared at each other for long seconds before Esca remembered his master had asked him a question. "Not according to Stephanos," he answered.
Marcus frowned, but said nothing.
Esca didn't need the Roman's reproach to know he'd been impertinent. He bowed his head.
It was terrible to belong to someone you wanted to please. It was much better to hate your owner. Then you could be glad when you made him angry.
He stared down at the half-washed tunic. He'd left Marcus to drag himself out of bed on his injured leg in order to pursue his own pleasure. He was useless. And thoughtless.
His joy in the morning was gone. Sorrow flooded into its place. The soft breeze chilled him.
Dawn had arrived. Marcus stared down at the reddish highlights the crimson light struck from the bent bronze head. Without thinking, he reached out a hand to touch it, then rested his palm gently on the exposed back of the slender neck. A moment only, then the hand was withdrawn, but it had done its job.
Inexplicably soothed, Esca looked up at his master. "Yes, I have a little Greek."
The Roman accepted this more polite answer, then moved on to another subject. "Is that the 'soap' I've heard about? That your people use to clean clothes?"
The Brigante nodded.
"Can I see it?"
Esca handed him the hard white bar.
Marcus was surprised by the slippery texture and nearly dropped it. He sniffed it curiously. It smelled like Esca.
"Marcus, can I…?"
The Roman looked at him inquiringly, then chuckled. "Finish your washing? Go ahead." He handed back the soap.
The slave rubbed it again against the tunic, then set it down so he could rinse the garment, wring it out, and rinse it again.
"You use the soap on yourself as well?"
Esca nodded.
"It didn't take off the paint on your arm, I see."
Esca's smile transformed him: made him look younger, sweeter, and gentler than any slave purchased in the arena had any right to be. "Nothing can remove the god's marks."
"What do they mean?"
Esca looked at the marks on his arm. "They're archers' markings. Sacred to Llew of the Steady Hands." He mimed fitting arrow to string, loosing it.
"You're an archer?" the former centurion asked.
Esca nodded.
"Well, then. We'll have to get you a bow."