Author's Note: "Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for." – Epicurus
Disclaimer: A slave owns nothing; I own no more.
Among Esca's people, fosterage was common. A family gave up a child, or took in a child, for any number of reasons: to cement political ties, or clan unity, to facilitate the teaching of a trade or profession, occasionally merely from need. Sometimes a child was given at birth, and took milk from the foster mother's breast, sometimes he or she went to the foster family only later, but the ties of fosterage were considered by some to be more sacred and more binding than the ties of blood.
Esca had never been fostered. He'd been glad to be allowed to stay with his parents, to be taught the arts of manhood by Cunoval himself, but it meant that when his parents and his brothers died, he was alone.
If he'd had a milk-brother, someone like Marcus, maybe— but that was foolishness. What was, was. He could not go back and accept fosterage now.
Dazzling sunlight flooded the forum, painting the merchants' displays generously with all the colors of the rainbow, but Marcus had lost his appreciation for the sights and sounds of the market. It was overwhelmed by his horror at the opaque white contents of the horn cup. He stared at it, appalled. He sniffed it cautiously, then recoiled. "I'm not drinking that!" he finally declared.
"Oh, no?" Amusement rippled under the Briton's lilting voice. "I thought that surgeon wanted you to build up your strength."
"I'm strong enough!"
Esca didn't verbalize an answer, but his look was unimpressed. A truly strong man would be willing to try something new.
The Roman urged what seemed to him his most compelling excuse: "It's disgusting!"
The dairy woman who ran the stall in front of which this argument was taking place was rather inclined to take offence, but Esca returned her scowl with a propitiating smile. "Don't mind him, mother. It's his first time."
Simple joy had coaxed his dimples out of hiding; they danced across the lean cheeks. The dairy woman, charmed, chuffed a half-laugh in response.
Seeing he had won the woman over, the blue-gray eyes shone with merriment. He turned again to his companion. "Scared, huh?"
"I'm not sca—"
"Fine. More for me." The Brigante's nimble fingers plucked the cup out of the Roman's hands and raised it to his own lips. The nourishing liquid, still warm from the udder, filled his mouth luxuriously. It was a treat Esca could seldom allow himself, so he let its sweetness roll repeatedly over his tongue, the sensual pleasure almost intoxicating. Finally, eyes closing briefly, he swallowed.
The native beverage had left a white mustache on the slave's upper lip, lending his triangular countenance a comical aspect, which the slightly jug ears did nothing to dispel. "Fear is a terrible thing," he intoned now, milk-coated lips stiff with mock solemnity, golden lashes parting to reveal the teasing smile still in his eyes.
Marcus frowned. He took the cup back. Esca had consumed only half the little vessel's contents. "I'm not afraid," he contradicted, as if for the record. He raised the horn cup and drank off the remainder of the milk, pulling a face as though it were undiluted vinegar. He thunked the empty cup onto the counter. "Satisfied?"
"Very." Esca beamed. He leaned in close to his master. "Now we're milk brothers," he chortled. Why not? He had to stay as close as the Roman's shadow these days. White teeth sank into red lips to still his merriment. "How did you like it?"
The Roman's mouth puckered again. "It's all right for the calf, I guess."
"But 'the juice of the barley' for you? That can be arranged. Come on." He grasped Marcus' hand lightly, to tug him bodily towards their next destination. As the two young men moved away, Esca glanced back to the stall's proprietress. "God bless the cow, mother," he said.
"Health go with you and your friend, Esca," she replied.
Esca hestitated, but only for a moment. "Heath stay with you, mother." But his mind was no longer on the dairy woman. It was on his friend.
Was Marcus his friend? The slave's feet stilled as he glanced aside at his master, his fingers dropping from the Roman's hand.
Observing that his companion was no longer moving, the Roman paused as well. "Esca?"
No answer, and clouds of confusion had crowded the sunny light out of the blue-gray eyes.
"It's the milk, isn't it? It's made you ill." Marcus pulled a comic face. "And I'm next." The big man faked gagging.
Watching his friend's—no, his master's antics, the Briton shook off his bemusement and made shift to answer as best he could. "No, I'm well. It's… it's this way, Marcus."
But he didn't take the Roman's hand again, merely turned to lead the way.
Esca set the pottery jug down on the table, then seated himself.
"Is that it?" Marcus asked eagerly.
The Briton nodded.
"Is that what?" Uncle Aquila asked, at the same moment his nephew was ordering, "Pour me some."
"It's korma." That from Stephanos, his tone the petulant one he used for things that displeased him. "It seems Esca thinks he's too good to drink posca."
Three sets of eyes fastened on the Briton in time to see the fair cheeks suffuse with a wine-red blush. Posca was the drink of soldiers and of slaves. Suitable, in the Hellene's opinion, for everyone at the table. Diluted vinegar, mixed with herbs, Greek in origin (like Stephanos himself), and as bitter as the old slave's disapproval. It was clear he thought his young colleague was getting above himself.
Esca bit his lip, but continued to pour the thick barley beer carefully. "I just thought—"
"I told him to buy it," Marcus interrupted flatly. "No one is going to force you to drink it, Stephanos."
When Marcus' cup was full, Esca drew back with the pitcher and looked at old Aquila. Worry flickered for a moment in the old man's eyes. "I believe I'll stick with posca," the old Roman decided in an effort to maintain the peace. He held out his own cup to Stephanos, who murmured approvingly as he poured, his ire soothed.
Relieved, Esca poured beer into his own cup, and drank gratefully, like a man newly returned from the desert.
"You're a savage, son," Stephanos accused his fellow slave.
"I am that," the Briton agreed.
Marcus smiled down into his beer. "We're both savages."