Author's Note: "I hate everything you stand for, everything you are." –Esca, The Eagle (2011)
Disclaimer: A slave owns nothing; I own no more.
The vendor handed the wrapped bow over the counter to Marcus. "What about arrows, dominus?"
Marcus regarded him blandly. "What do I need arrows for?"
"What, indeed?" The vendor was still chuckling as the two young men walked away.
When they were out of sight of the stall, Marcus shoved the bundle into Esca's arms. "Here, take it."
He didn't mean it.
From three paces behind, Esca watched Marcus' determined limping towards home. What would happen when they got there? Did he really intend to—
Since he'd been at the Villa Aquilae, no one had so much as lifted a finger to him, but with every master he'd ever had, there had eventually been that first time. Usually a lot sooner than this.
He didn't want it to be true. He wanted Marcus to be different. Had thought he was different.
What do I need arrows for?
What, indeed? Esca took a deep breath, then slowly let it out in an attempt to control the knot of anger growing in his belly.
Stupid, stupid idiot. When will you learn?
It wasn't the pain he minded. Pain was an old companion.
It was that he'd been so happy this morning when Marcus had talked of finding him a bow.
Halfway to the villa, the ache in his thigh became too insistent for Marcus to ignore any longer. He paused and turned back to Esca, walking properly three paces to his rear. "Is there someone a little private where we could stop for a short time?" Maybe they could rewrap the bandage—
The Briton's blue-gray eyes flashed him a strange look, and the lilting voice was gruff in answer, "There's a shrine to Poena just ahead on the left. It's usually deserted."
Despite his discomfort, Marcus chuckled. "I should think it would be. Excellent choice. We'll stop there."
"Of course," Esca agreed. We have an offering to make to her…
The little shrine's porch boasted a stone bench adjacent to the altar for the convenience of Poena's votaries, in the unlikely event that any such should exist.
Marcus seated himself with a groan, trying to massage the knotted muscles around his wound without causing himself additional pain. A part of his mind registered the curious fact that Esca had laid the bundle containing the bow next to him, but he was too involved in his own concerns to even notice what his slave was up to. He tried to pull the bandage into a better position, but couldn't. Perhaps it could be rewrapped. "Esca—" he began, then blinked.
Esca stood a short distance away. He'd removed his tunic and laid it on the altar. The marks on his arm stood out boldly, inky black and deep blue. Every muscle and sinew in the lithe body was tensed. Waiting.
He looked as he'd looked standing in the arena with the gladiator's sword at his throat.
Marcus felt a pain shoot through his head to join the one in his thigh. What is wrong with him?
The two young men stared at each other for a long moment, one angry, one baffled and irritated.
Finally, Marcus said, "What are you doing?"
"Waiting for you to teach me some manners."
Marcus shook his head, his fingers busily unwrapping and rewrapping his bandage, since his bondsman was choosing to be useless at the moment. When he had finished, he said, "Put your tunic on."
"I'd prefer you do it here," his slave said flatly.
Marcus stared. "I don't care what you'd prefer." He waited, then when he saw obedience was not forthcoming, he repeated, "I order you to put your tunic back on. Now."
For a moment, the slave stood still, looking frustrated, then turned, retrieved his tunic, and slipped it over his head.
As Marcus passed his slave to leave the shrine, he again shoved the wrapped bow into the Briton's hands. "Is there a decent fletcher near here?"
To stunned to speak, Esca nodded.
The fletcher's stall was much less grand than the armorer's had been.
And they knew Esca there, because he'd been drawn to admire their wares more than once, though he'd not had the wherewithal nor any reason to buy.
The proprietress was an old woman. She looked at the toga'd Roman curiously. "Dominus," she greeted him in a pleasant tone, naturally addressing the citizen as the likely buyer, rather than the slave.
Marcus jerked his head towards Esca. "He's the customer, not me."
She turned to Esca and switched to Brythonic. "Is this your master?"
Esca nodded.
"So he's well now?"
"Yes, he's much improved."
Her wrinkled forehead creased even further. "Is something wrong?"
He looked worriedly at Marcus. "I thought something I shouldn't have thought, and said something I shouldn't have said."
The proprietress's grandson laid a bundle of arrows on the counter, and looked at the Roman in concern. As Esca examined each arrow, looking down the length of the shaft, and spinning it in slender fingers, the boy leaned towards him to whisper, still in Brythonic, "Will he punish you?"
The Briton's hands stilled for a moment, as he shot a look over at his master.
Marcus stared back. He wondered what they were saying to each other, then frowned at a twinge of pain in his leg.
Esca laid down the arrow and picked up the next. "I don't know," he told the boy.
When they got back to the villa, Esca gestured hesitantly with the two wrapped bundles, and asked, "What should I do with these?"
"Put them in the chest with your father's dagger," Marcus growled.