Archive of Our Own

The first time Marcus wakes with his cock half-hard against the mattress, he nearly weeps with relief. The gouge to his thigh had cut so close to his groin that he worried about impotence before it even occurred to him to worry about his ability to walk. And indeed, he experienced no arousal at all for weeks, though the pain was so severe at times that he could not even imagine feeling anything else. He didn’t have the heart to ask the surgeon, either on the battlefield or at his uncle’s home, whether the injury could have unmanned him—if it had, he didn’t want to hear the words on anyone’s lips. They already called him the son of a traitor, and now a cripple. He would not also have it be known that he was no longer a man.

So when he wakes from a pleasant dream to feel that familiar swelling pressed against the bedding, he could practically expire with joy. Without thinking, he shifts his hips, intending to grind down against the mattress to increase the stimulation. But the movement pulls at his wounded thigh and, still half-asleep, he cannot hold in a pained gasp.

“Domine?”

There is a rustling of sheets, the sound of footsteps, and the slave Marcus did not want, the one who saw Marcus lose consciousness under the blade of the surgeon and writhe with fever for days, is at his bedside.

By then, the momentary pain has subsided, but so has Marcus’s nascent cockstand. Neither is Esca’s fault, but Marcus is irritable nonetheless. “No, I have no need of you.” He does; he could probably push himself to a seated position with less pain with his slave’s help, but he does not want it. He opens his eyes and huffs at Esca. “For once you are awake with the dawn. Well, do not waste it—go see if Sassticca needs help in the kitchens.”

The slave’s piercing eyes narrow, and he looks for all the world as though he would love to spit a curse at Marcus. But he has made good on his oath to serve Marcus faithfully, and he has always refrained from insubordination so obvious as to earn himself a beating, so Esca merely nods and turns on his heels to leave.

As his slave exits the bedchamber, Marcus sighs and closes his eyes once more. He tries to recreate the feeling, thinking the most licentious thoughts he can conjure, but it is of no use. That passing lust is gone now.

&&&

Mithras be praised, it is not a fluke. The arousal that appears in the morning is often fleeting, as any movement jars Marcus’s sleep-stiff leg, but as the days pass, he finds he can once again summon it at will. Indeed, he struggles not to attempt to do so at all hours of the day just to prove to himself that he can, as though he were a boy finding the first hair upon his groin. The problem, however, is that he can never find time to do anything about it. Now that Marcus is up and walking again, or at least limping, his uncle has evidently commanded Esca to follow him everywhere, lest Marcus sustain a fall and injure himself. Marcus does not know whether this should extend to Esca following him into his bedchamber during the day, but he has never had a body slave before, and perhaps this is an expected part of their duties.

Marcus would ask his uncle, but he suspects his uncle would tell him to simply ignore Esca’s presence and make use of his own hand to relieve himself whenever he wills it. Or else his uncle would counsel him to simply use Esca, though that seems ill-advised to Marcus. Surely the man would not despise him less, or send him any fewer murderous glares, if Marcus were to bugger him regularly. No, Marcus has no desire to fuck an unwilling partner, and besides, he prefers women.

Of course, Marcus can hardly woo a woman at present, even one of loose morals. He could pay for one, he supposes, but the thought of limping down to the brothel to have a whore gawk at his leg with pity turns his stomach. No, he must give himself time to heal. Perhaps he can learn to walk without a limp in time. A jobless cripple makes for a poor husband, but so does a man with a sullied family name, and Marcus hardly remembers the time before that was his lot. Luckily, he has never had difficulty attracting female attention of the more temporary, lustful variety. Soon, he will be able to do so again, and he will take full advantage of that regard when he does.

For now, though, he must find some time alone to simply give himself ease. He has spent in his sleep and woken in damp sheets twice now, and while he is grateful to find his body capable of such, it is hardly satisfying.

Finally, Marcus convinces Esca that he can walk to the stables without trouble. Or rather, he states his intention to walk to the stables and irritates Esca so badly on the way there with questions about the ways of Celtic barbarians that Esca acquiesces and goes to help Sassticca with the cleaning instead of following him.

Limping around the far end of the stable, facing into the woods that border the property, Marcus sighs and leans back against the wall. His leg would be more comfortable if he sat, but he has no desire, and little time, to find a rock to set his bare ass upon. He merely distributes as much of his weight as he can between his good leg and the wall of the stable. Likely this will not take long, as he is already hardening beneath his tunic. He lifts the garment and draws his cock out of his braccae, groaning softly as he wraps his hand around himself. Sure enough, his cock fattens quickly in his palm, and a shiver passes down his spine at the familiar and sorely-missed sensation. He palms his stones, too, which feel full and heavy.

To begin, he strokes himself slowly, thinking of nothing in particular, simply staring off into the distance and enjoying the feeling of something better than pain. When he begins to crave more, he toys with his foreskin, first pulling it back to touch the bare glans gently, then tugging it forward to enable him to rub the crown with more pressure. It all feels good. Distantly, Marcus is aware that his bad thigh is twinging, but the discomfort feels far away, unimportant.

He should have brought oil—perhaps he will next time, if he can find time for a more leisurely respite. Probably he should just do this in his bedroom as is customary, Esca be damned, but he mislikes the way the slave glares at him. Likely he would judge Marcus for his technique, or else the quickness with which he spends. Or for taking himself in hand instead of finding someone to fuck. If Marcus were to do that, were to drag himself into town and find a willing woman, would Esca follow him? Would he stand silently at the door to the room as he does now, silent and sullen with his eyes locked on Marcus? Would he remain a statue, or would he be aroused by the sight? Idly, Marcus wonders if Britons are even aroused by simple fucking, or if he would need some kind of untold barbarian savagery to heat his blood.

Marcus’s palm is back around his cock, and he stops only long enough to spit twice into his hand before resuming a faster pace. He lets his eyes close and his head tip back. This will not take long; he can feel his climax building even now. Over the years, he has grown skilled at easing his lusts quietly—he was a soldier, after all—but now he cannot stop soft, panting breaths from escaping his lips. It is good that he has resumed this alone; he would have no stamina at all with a lover, would spill his seed too quickly into a tight cunt or asshole or, gods, a mouth—

His breath punches out of him as he begins to come, his balls emptying in long, forceful pulses. As they do, he slows his stroke and simply tilts his head down to watch, his seed jetting out of him to spill across the ground. Even that familiar sight amplifies his pleasure. He lets himself moan, low and lusty, and truly, it feels like release, release of the pain, the anguish he has felt since the moment of his injury. Those feelings will not stay gone, he knows even now, but at least he has this again, these few minutes of ecstasy to balance out the wreck of his life. He is still, technically, a man.

He keeps stroking himself until pleasure roughens into pain, as he has not even had the opportunity to feel the sensation of a softening, oversensitive cock in months. Finally, though, he must let himself go, dropping his tunic as well and sagging back against the wall, eyes closed, his breath coming fast and his heart racing from nothing more than a quick, solitary jerk.

The trembling in his bad leg ultimately forces him to open his eyes and reposition his feet. Mercifully, though, his leg does not crumble under more of his weight; it merely throbs with pain, and Marcus groans. He wipes his soiled hand against the wall before using it to push off, retying his braccae and taking a few hobbling steps.

And there, down the length of the wall, stands Esca, stone-faced as always. “Domine,” he says as their eyes meet. “Do you require my help?”

Marcus should accept his offer, but if Esca approaches him now, he will smell the spunk and know exactly what Marcus was doing. Also, Marcus does not want the help. “No. I suppose you are finished with the cleaning.”

“Apparently I was folding the linens incorrectly. Sassticca chased me away.”

“Well then, go back to the house and find something else to do.”

“I have other orders to follow, domine.”

Marcus does not insist that Esca is his slave, not his uncle’s. For one thing, Marcus is still not entirely comfortable having a body slave. For another, both Marcus and Esca know exactly who purchased him and who owns the villa, and thus whose orders he must follow in the event of a contradiction.

“Very well,” Marcus sighs, beginning the slow process of stumbling back to the house.

They do not speak, so the only sound in the air is that of dry leaves and twigs crunching noisily beneath their feet. It is not until later that Marcus realizes he heard no such sounds as he recovered from his outdoor exertions leaning against the wall. He cannot know how long Esca had been standing there, watching.

&&&

But even as defiant a slave as Esca knows better than to speak of such things. And Marcus has done nothing wrong—he even took pains to seek out a private space. However, that does not stop Marcus from wondering, every time their eyes meet, what Esca might have seen. Esca does not cast his gaze down as other slaves do, those who were born to it or have been broken with time, so he sees much. And his gaze is always intense, as if he wishes his master to know precisely how much he sees.

Or perhaps Marcus is going slightly mad with isolation.

At least he has finally convinced his uncle that Esca need not be his shadow for walks around the grounds. Marcus’s leg is finally gaining strength again, though the ache remains deep within the muscle and the progress is slow. The surgeon recommended massage to reduce the swelling, and as Marcus can hardly drag himself to the baths every day, Esca has taken up the task. Marcus studiously avoids looking at Esca’s face when the slave’s fingers are digging deep into Marcus’s thigh. After that, however, he can sometimes send Esca away for whole afternoons, tasking him with fetching this or that from the market. Esca’s eyes say he knows that Marcus needs few of the things he requests, but of course it is not his place to question his master, so he goes.

When he does, Marcus returns to his spot behind the stables, leaned against the wall. With Esca gone, he could use his bedchamber, but he finds he prefers this space now. He has spent enough time cooped up in that chamber, and it reminds him only of sickness and pain. Now, though, his body so craves release that he starts hardening as he approaches the stables. This will likely cause grief later, when he is well enough to ride, but for now, he is happy to feel such regular evidence of his manhood.

The first few times, he seeks release swiftly, for the simple relief of being able to find it at will. But as time wears on and his leg grows stronger, he begins to prefer drawing it out, working himself up slowly and holding himself at the edge of climax for as long as he can stand it, squeezing his stones gently in his palm, tugging them until the brink recedes. It is so good to feel real pleasure again that Marcus wishes it to last as long as possible.

And sometimes, with his hands on himself, he finds his head turning to the side, to the far end of the stables, in case he should once again spy Esca standing there.

Because, try as he might, he cannot send Esca away from the villa every day. And even when he does, Marcus often finds himself waiting to sneak out to the stables until the afternoon grows long and it is no longer entirely certain that he will not find Esca standing there. He tells himself he is merely enjoying the anticipation, or else the thrill of possibly being caught. He knows what it is to sneak a camp follower through a crowded barracks, or to fuck behind a tent with hands clamped over mouths, and he enjoys it as much as the next man.

What would Esca think, if he did watch? He might not be scandalized—he is a barbarian, after all, and surely they practice depravities that would render Marcus’s proclivities tame in comparison. He has heard they all use each other’s mouths, rutting and spending in each other’s throats such as not even animals do. Esca was with his people long enough to gain a warrior’s tattoo, so if they did partake in such vices, likely he joined in on them.

Marcus wonders whether those intense gray eyes would widen at the sight of his erect cock, which has given even seasoned whores pause on occasion. Or whether he would be entirely unimpressed, as these Britons tend to be very large men in general. Esca himself is merely a runt, though he is demonstrably a courageous one. He may not be daunted by Marcus’s size. Occasionally, Marcus thinks such things when he is behind the stables, enjoying himself. It pleases him to think of Esca, so inexpressive and indifferent to Rome’s civilizing influence, struck dumb by Marcus’s cock, or else eager to take its girth.

Once, he makes it last until his leg can barely hold him, and he shudders so hard with release that he must slide down the wall to the ground, panting, in the aftermath. Most likely, he was carelessly loud, as well. When he turns his head, the spot at the far end of the wall is empty.

Yet as his heart slows, he swears he hears the soft crunch of dry leaves beneath feet.

&&&

More often than not these days, Marcus awakens with his cock hard, even in the absence of particularly lascivious dreams. Waking so was a habit he had as a boy, largely trained out of him by waking surrounded by snoring, farting soldiers, but it seems to have resumed now, and Marcus does not mind.

However, he does not bring himself to completion, either. He prefers doing so elsewhere, enjoying the anticipation as much as the pleasure itself. Much of the time, Esca is sleeping when Marcus wakes, and so Marcus rolls silently on his back and reaches down beneath the furs. It is warm enough to sleep naked, now, so there is no cloth to impede his hand as he reaches for himself. He tries not to grip, merely to use his palm to press his cock up against his belly and rub slowly, so slowly. It is a delicious tease, one that he can only bear because he promises himself he will find his way behind the stables later in the day.

Sometimes, he teases himself until he feels his balls start to draw up, his belly start to flutter. It is so difficult to stop, but often there is a clatter from somewhere else in the villa, or Esca wakes, or there is noise from outside, and Marcus must give it up. But that is good, too—it merely whets his appetite for his time behind the stables.

&&&

This continues until the weather is properly hot, and Marcus must sleep on top of the furs. At first, he balks at touching himself in the open, but why should he? This is his bedchamber, and all his reasoning from before seems faulty when he wakes hard and wanting. If Esca happens to see him, it is his own fault for rising later than Marcus does. Still, the anticipation of being observed is more exciting than the reality of Esca’s withering glare, so Marcus persists in his priapic morning habit and ceases his activities when the house begins to stir.

Until one morning when Marcus wakes with a hot mouth around his cock. And not just a mouth, but a firm, callused hand gripping the base purposefully.

Heat shoots through Marcus’s groin, and he is awake in a moment. His whole body shudders, and in response there is warm pressure against his hip, pinning it to the mattress. Marcus’s sputtering breath does not quite cover the wet, slurping sounds, and as he pushes up on his elbows, he looks down his body.

“Esca?”

The slave’s head is bent over Marcus’s groin, bobbing slowly as he works his mouth up and down Marcus’s length. Marcus cannot reconcile the sight and the sensation with the waking world. What is happening?

“Esca, stop!”

It is as though Esca does not even hear him, for instead of stopping, his cheeks hollow and he sucks, hard, and it pulls a groan from deep in Marcus’s chest. He has felt nothing like this in years.

But what in Mithras’s name is happening? What is this? Esca has never even indicated… Is this some demon in Esca’s form? Gods, Marcus cannot think with that infernal mouth around his prick.

Finally, Marcus rouses the strength to reach for Esca’s shoulder as he bends his good knee, shoving the slave off of him and the narrow bed. And he does not go easily, does Esca. That divine wet heat, that suction, pulls away, and Marcus reaches down as if to cover himself, suddenly aware of his nakedness.

As for Esca, he has managed to land on his feet, lithe as a cat. He is dressed in his sleep tunic, hair tousled from slumber, but he is undoubtedly wide awake. His face registers surprise, but as Marcus watches, Esca passes the back of one hand over his shiny, spit-slick lips, and the familiar stony expression descends again. “Was that displeasing to you?”

Marcus cannot help but notice his voice is ever so slightly hoarse. “In the name of the gods, Esca, what were you doing?”

Esca’s lip curls, eyes crinkling with humor. Despite the heat coursing through Marcus’s body, the smile strikes him as cold. “Do you not know?”

“I know what you were doing,” Marcus snaps. “I do not know why you were doing it. Explain yourself.”

Cocking his head, Esca asks, “Have you never had a body slave before? Domine?” His smile does not deepen, but there is an uncharacteristic lightness in his voice that is almost a chuckle.

Immediately, Marcus’s cheeks heat with indignation. How dare this insolent slave laugh at him? “I did not— My uncle did not buy you for that.”

“This how it goes,” Esca says, unperturbed, taking a step toward the bed. Like this, he seems to tower over Marcus. “You stumble, I catch you. You thirst, I bring your cup. You harden, I give you ease.” He gestures at Marcus’s groin, where his hand cannot entirely disguise the fact that he remains erect. “And you are recovered enough to harden.”

Marcus swallows, confused. “You desire to soil your mouth with me?”

With that mocking half-smile on his face, Esca shrugs. “This is how it goes.”

Marcus’s heart races in his chest, from confusion and anger and… and other things. His cock is still slick with Esca’s saliva, still pulsing with arousal. He had only a moment in Esca’s mouth, and he may somehow be dreaming, but he cannot remember ever feeling anything better.

But he has no idea how to respond, so he and Esca merely stare at each other, unspeaking, until Esca’s smile drops and he moves as if to take a step back. “But if you do not want it—”

“No,” Marcus interrupts. “Wait.” It is true he prefers women, but he has been with men before, has enjoyed their touch. And one mouth is as good as any other. Perhaps even better, from the brief taste he had of it. Esca certainly does not appear unwilling—he remains next to the bed, glaring down at Marcus. If Marcus does not accept this now, he cannot imagine Esca will offer again. And if Marcus is honest with himself, he craves it more than he has craved anything save the healing of his leg. “I want it.”

The half-smile does not return, but Esca nods once, climbing onto his knees on the bed without hesitation. Briefly, Marcus thinks to ask Esca to remove his tunic, simply so that Marcus will not be the only one naked, but then Esca’s mouth is upon him, and he thinks no more.

Esca sucks him down without shame, without hesitation. He seems to take the measure of Marcus with a few slow bobs of his head, entirely undaunted by Marcus’s size. The tight ring of his lips sinks lower and lower on Marcus’s cock with each pass, until it nearly meets his hand where it once again grips Marcus at the base. But then the head of Marcus’s cock butts up against the firm resistance of the back of Esca’s throat—deeper than Marcus imagined it would be, but unyielding nonetheless. The notion that Marcus is filling Esca’s mouth to capacity, his lips stretched wide around Marcus’s girth, sends a pulse of heat through him, and his belly flutters threateningly with the notion of release.

But then Esca pulls off suddenly. Marcus tries to thrust up, to follow the profane heat of that mouth taken so cruelly away, and the motion tugs at his bad thigh, pulling against the healing scar and drawing a wounded cry from Marcus’s throat.

Esca’s answering glare is disapproving. “Do not strain your leg, domine,” he says, and Esca’s thin lips are a darker, richer shade of pink now. He shifts back to rest more of his weight on Marcus’s shins, pinning Marcus’s hip once again with his free hand.

Having taken Marcus deep, he now does the opposite, licking and sucking and lavishing attention upon the crown, and truly, Marcus cannot say which he prefers more. Esca’s tongue is clever, even practiced, for it seems to know how to curl about the head, to undulate against the most sensitive spot, and Marcus is gasping now, his breath coming heavy and labored.

Esca’s eyes flick up Marcus’s body, quick and sharp, and he lowers his mouth once more, slowly, leaving wetness in its wake. This he does twice, thrice, a fourth time, until Marcus’s cock is glistening with it. Then he fits his mouth tight around the head, his cheeks hollowing again, and his hand begins to move in quick, precise strokes.

Marcus has had his cock sucked before, though admittedly not in some time, by listless whores and, once, the slave boy who ground the grain for his centuria. As good as it had felt at the time, it always seemed a rather pathetic affair in the end, almost a poor excuse for spilling his seed. Now, Marcus feels as though his seed is being drawn forcibly from him, as though the suction of Esca’s mouth and the stroke of his hand are pulling at Marcus’s stones from the inside, seizing them with first pangs of climax. Marcus’s head drops back. He cannot move his lower body, so his spine arches instead, drawing his shoulders off the bed as if they, too, are being pulled toward Esca’s mouth. As though Marcus’s body is shot through with a series of strings that knot together deep in his bowels and are now being jerked into agonizing tautness, yanking Marcus toward release as surely as if they were the reins of a horse.

He releases into Esca’s mouth with an entirely undignified cry. And Esca keeps sucking him, keeps pulling those strings until Marcus can take no more. When he finally draws away, Marcus slumps back to the bed, panting. He has no idea—none at all—what Esca will do next.

Perhaps Esca is no demon, because he merely walks to the window, draws up the shade, and spits out into the yard. That cools Marcus’s blood a little, as though the spitting is the vulgar act rather than what preceded it.

When Esca returns to Marcus’s bedside, he says nothing. His lips are undoubtedly swollen now, his face streaked with saliva and Marcus’s seed, but he does not seem to heed these things as he looks Marcus up and down. As though satisfied with his work, he nods once, and then without another word, he goes to his pallet and lays down, facing away from Marcus.

Staring at the ceiling, his heart beating in his ears, Marcus still has little idea what just happened.

&&&

It happens again the next morning. And the next. Marcus wakes hard; Esca comes to him and relieves him with hand and mouth; Esca returns to his pallet, leaving Marcus panting; and then some time later, they both rise and continue about their day as though nothing has changed.

But nothing has changed, not truly. Marcus is not naïve—no matter what Esca said to taunt him, he knows how body slaves are often used, even if he has never had one before. And he is not truly certain he has used Esca. It is almost as though—a laughable thought, truly, Marcus would never be so foolish to voice it out loud—that Esca has used him. But for what purpose, Marcus cannot say. In doing what he does, Esca dishonors himself. Marcus did not even request it of him.

In fact, as the days wear on, Esca begins to seem too… too smug about the whole thing. He rarely pauses to speak, except to warn Marcus not to use his bad leg, but there is something in the way he regards Marcus during the act, and then after. As if he knows some dark secret of Marcus’s. He has learned what causes Marcus to spend himself the quickest, true, but that is hardly worth the slight, taunting half-smile that sometimes curls his lips in the moments after.

And the first time he gives Marcus that smile during the day—when Marcus comes to find him in the kitchen to command Esca to wash his best tunic, and Esca’s response is a small quirk at the corner of his mouth instead of a “yes, domine,” with Sassticca standing right there—Marcus knows such insolence cannot go unaddressed. He has stopped sending Esca into town in the afternoons; he could do that again, find even more menial reasons to send him. But that would hardly teach him a lesson.

Instead, Marcus sets his mouth in a hard line and says, “The horses need tending. You will follow me to the stables.”

No one from the household has gone out riding today, and in all likelihood, Esca has already tended to the horses that morning. His gaze does not waver as he says, “Yes, domine.”

Marcus does not wait for him, merely strides out of the kitchen, out of the villa, and across the yard. He does not enter the stables. He circles around them to the spot on the far wall, the one where the prints of his sandals have left small ruts in the dirt.

This is where Esca finds him, an expression of expectance on the slave’s face. As always, his eyes and chin are raised as though he is a free man, as though he is Marcus’s equal. “Did you bring me here to punish me, domine?”

Immediately, anger heats Marcus’s blood. Anger, and other things besides. “What I am thinking of, I am not sure you would find much of a punishment.”

Esca strolls toward him—strolls, as though he is out for a leisurely walk—stopping in front of Marcus, far too close for Marcus’s comfort. His eyes dance as he looks up at Marcus. “Lean back against the wall, domine. In case your leg will not hold you.”

Marcus growls, clamping his hand on Esca’s shoulder and pushing down. That, at least, Esca does not seem to expect, and he grunts softly in pain as his knees hit the ground. Marcus has a moment to doubt whether it is wise to antagonize a man before putting one’s cock in his mouth, but only a moment, because Esca’s hands are shoving roughly into his braccae, finding Marcus’s cock already well on its way to hardness and swiftly encouraging it the remainder of the way.

Marcus hates how quickly he needs to use the wall for support, hates how Esca knew he would need it, but he cannot hate the way Esca’s mouth feels sinking down over his cock. As good as it is in the mornings, to have his need met before he can even fully realize it is there, the feeling is even better now, here. It is a little crass, perhaps, for a man to fuck his slave’s mouth out in the open in the middle of the day, as this is his uncle’s land and not his own, but it is no more than Marcus’s due. Anyone would think so, if they were to happen upon them. They would not see a crippled ex-soldier who cannot find anyone better to fuck; they would see a man exercising his right to use his slave how he sees fit.

Naturally, Marcus would do best to use him well and thoroughly.

So even though Esca has found a delicious rhythm and is working his hand in perfect concert with his mouth, Marcus reaches down and fists a hand in his hair, drawing him off. “Slower,” Marcus growls, attempting to conceal how quickly his breath is coming. “I have no desire to rush.”

Despite the fact that his lips are glistening and his cheeks are flushed, Esca’s expression is carefully guarded. He nods, but for he does not yet move. Impatient, Marcus applies pressure to the back of his head, and that gets an immediate reaction. Esca’s teeth snap shut, his expression becomes a snarl, and he tosses his head sharply, throwing Marcus’s hand off. As he certainly cannot suck Marcus’s cock very well with a clenched jaw, Marcus gives up on directing him, reaching instead to replace Esca’s hand on his cock with his own, working himself at a leisurely pace until the snarl recedes and Esca’s jaw loosens.

Appeased for the moment, Esca leans forward again, and Marcus meets him in the middle. Esca opens his mouth, but having never had this opportunity before—and wishing to prolong the encounter—Marcus rubs the head of his cock against Esca’s lower lip. His lips are normally quite thin, but when he’s been sucking Marcus’s cock, they plump up so prettily from the friction. Marcus wonders how they’d look if he used Esca’s mouth for an extended time, if he fucked the tight seal of Esca’s lips at a slow pace for half an hour or more. Or if, instead of spilling in Esca’s mouth right away, Marcus let himself cool off and came back later in the day. He could do that, if he wanted. By rights, he could have Esca’s mouth every hour, if only he had the patience.

But he does not, and he knows it. He would wager Esca knows it, too. Esca has let his jaw go slack and is now allowing Marcus to rub the head of his cock all around the wet, pink oval of his lips. “Your tongue,” Marcus murmurs, and then that peeks out, too, a soft, inviting cushion that shapes itself to Marcus’s tip as though it were made to rest there. Such a strangely delicate sensation, the gentle glide of prick over tongue, barely enough pressure to shift Marcus’s foreskin now that he’s this hard. Idly, he wonders what he tastes like, a delectably taboo thought. He has always thought that the taste of a man’s seed must be horrid, though the smell is not so repulsive. And Esca always spits him out, but he does not grimace overly much. Maybe one day, Marcus will ask him.

Not today, though. He wishes for Esca to suck him again, but he dares not grab Esca’s hair again with his prick resting between Esca’s teeth, so he slides forward instead, letting his hand drop away as a sign to Esca to resume his earlier ministrations. But instead of reaching for Marcus’s cock with his hand, Esca merely leans forward, sliding his lips down farther on Marcus’s cock. And farther, and farther still, until Marcus is pressed against the very back of his throat.

Esca’s eyes flick up at Marcus, large and dark, and Marcus senses some kind of warning in them, though he knows not what until something… shifts. He does not see Esca move, but something in Esca’s throat seems to give way. It happens slowly, not all at once, but after a few seconds, Esca’s mouth is able to descend even more, the very tip of Marcus’s cock invading some tight, secret place in Esca’s throat that grips him like a fist.

Marcus does not mean to thrust forward, but that grip is so sweet and tantalizing, and he only desires more of it—but as soon as he moves, Esca shoves him away entirely, his cock slipping from Esca’s mouth as Esca pulls back to cough.

“Esca, damn it,” Marcus starts, hands flailing helplessly as Esca continues coughing. He would reach for Esca’s head, would grip him by the hair and put him back where he was, his throat opening for Marcus’s cock—but of course he cannot force Esca to give him what he wants. Esca has sworn to preserve his life, but he has taken no such oath not to bite Marcus’s cock, should he stick it where it is not wanted. Wounding his master so would earn Esca his death, but Marcus thinks that would not stop him in the moment. And, Marcus intuits, whatever Esca was doing just then is a permission Esca must grant him. Marcus does not know if it is something that might be taken by violence, but he will not act the beast, not even with a British slave.

Eventually, Esca’s coughing calms, and he turns his head to spit on the ground. When he turns back, Marcus holds up his hands. “I will not move, I swear it. I will remain still, if only you will do that… that barbarian practice once more.”

It is not a smile that curls the corner of Esca’s mouth but a smirk, a deeply impudent one. If Marcus wished, he could have Esca whipped for such an expression. But the man is already on his knees, already degrading himself for Marcus’s benefit. That he seems to relish this degradation is no matter, Marcus tells himself as he tucks his hands behind him, leaning back against the wall, so that he will not be tempted to reach for Esca.

He finds himself holding his breath as, again, his cock seems to meet hard resistance at the back of Esca’s throat. And then, once again, that resistance gives way, enveloping the tip of Marcus’s cock in tight, clenching heat. As Marcus holds himself so stationary he begins trembling, Esca continues down until his nose buries itself in the thatch of hair at Marcus’s groin, Marcus’s entire cock captured within his mouth and throat. It looks impossible, and yet somehow it is happening. Esca’s breath seems to come in sharp bursts through his nose, one hand braced on Marcus’s thigh and the other toying gently with Marcus’s stones. Marcus is suddenly possessed with the strangely arousing fear that Esca might not surrender any of the parts of Marcus’s body that he is now holding, even when Marcus has spent.

But then Esca starts to withdraw, and Marcus attempts not to whine when his cock once again rests in the wider cavern of Esca’s mouth. In the end, he masters himself, and he is rewarded with another dip of Esca’s head, another entry into the secret place in Esca’s throat. And then Esca does it again, and again. Though he does gain a little speed, it is still too slow to constitute proper fucking, but if Marcus attempts to speed it up, he may lose it entirely. So he remains motionless, his body trembling, his cock pulsating with more than enough arousal to keep him hard, but not enough to come.

He might not otherwise mind being trapped forever at this place of sweet torment, but his bad thigh is beginning to protest. “Esca,” he moans softly. “Esca, my leg… I cannot…”

This, Esca does not acknowledge with a word or even a glance, but he does pull back until he can once again bob his head easily. Marcus groans at the loss of that previous sensation, but it quickly becomes a moan as Esca works him expertly with hand and mouth together. Esca even continues to fondle Marcus’s balls, and the combination of sensations is so delectable that Marcus does not even notice Esca’s fingers moving oddly. Not, of course, until they touch the hot, private space behind Marcus’s bollocks. A shock runs through Marcus’s body at the thought of what Esca might be attempting to do, the potential violation, but Marcus has no time to voice an objection, since Esca’s fingers press firmly up, prodding… something, some hidden nexus that sends heat radiating through Marcus’s belly. As Esca rubs him there, Marcus has no time at all to think—he simply comes, his cock pulsing in Esca’s mouth. Esca continues to suck him, continues to use his hand and his fingers, and Marcus’s eyes roll back in his head, so devastating is the pleasure that Esca wrings from him. It goes on and on, drawn out of him a pulse at a time until he thinks it might never stop.

Then his bad leg threatens to give out entirely, and he slides a few inches down the wall before catching himself. The movement makes the damaged thigh muscle scream in pain, and he thinks that if it had not been for that, he might have combusted entirely. It also has the effect of forcing Esca to let him go, and by the time Marcus is back on his feet, Esca has already spat out his seed and is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His other hand, though, sneaks down to the front of his braccae, and it does not escape Marcus’s notice.

“Esca,” he says, trying to ignore the breathless quality in his voice. Are you aroused by this? he thinks of asking, but from the glare Esca shoots up at him, from the way he tries to pull his hand away, Marcus knows he is. And he is trying to conceal it.

That will not do. “Show me,” Marcus commands.

“Show you what?” Esca replies, frowning, as though that will distract from the utterly wrecked sound of his voice. Gods, how long will that last? Marcus looks forward to finding out.

First, though , he must see what Esca is trying to hide. He nods down at Esca’s crotch, his meaning clear.

But Esca merely glares up at him. He seems determined to make Marcus say the words.

Very well. “Take down your trousers,” Marcus says slowly, “and show me your cock.”

He sees Esca’s lips twist, his throat bob. Marcus does not know whether Esca resists out of pride or embarrassment or something else entirely, but he dares not refuse a direct order from his master. Without breaking eye contact, Esca loosens the ties of his braccae and shoves them down no farther than mid-thigh.

He wears no undergarments, and the hem of his tunic cannot cover his manhood completely, not in its current state. He is not fully hard, but he is certainly aroused, his cock flushed a rosy pink, the plump head beginning to peek out of the foreskin. Still standing, Marcus reaches down, and Esca does not flinch away as Marcus pinches the shoulder of his tunic between two fingers and tugs it up to reveal more of Esca down below.

Esca’s cock is long and narrow with a pronounced head, and it does not shrink away from Marcus’s gaze. In fact, if anything, it grows a bit thicker under scrutiny, and Marcus could not say why, but that thought excites him. Marcus is surprised at how similar it is to his own, but perhaps the notion that there would be anything visibly different about a barbarian cock is foolish. After a few seconds of contemplation, Marcus draws his eyes away to see Esca regarding him evenly.

Without letting go of Esca’s tunic, Marcus nods down at his prick again. “Do you wish to relieve yourself?”

“Here?” Esca asks. “Now?”

“Yes.”

Esca does not answer with words, but his mouth sets into a defiant pout, and he reaches for himself, wrapping a hand around his cock. A thrill shoots through Marcus’s body, and if it were not too soon, his own prick would harden again. He has not watched another do this since his youth, when he and a friend would sneak off into the woods together. They never touched each other, as boys sometimes do—as Marcus has occasionally done with other men, though not frequently—but they touched themselves in front of each other, as if to compare.

It had been exciting then, and it feels even more so now. Before, Marcus had not imagined Esca becoming aroused when he has used his mouth, but Marcus wonders now how often it has happened. He is confident that Esca did not immediately touch himself upon returning to his palette in the morning, but often Marcus would doze off in the minutes that followed, so it is possible he did so later.

In truth, Marcus has never even spared a thought to how or when Esca would gratify himself, but surely he does. He would be an unusual man indeed if he did not, and Marcus has heard that Britons have fierce appetites in many respects. So fierce, it seems, that they become aroused during an act that would shame any Roman.

And, if Esca is any indication, they remain aroused even when they are exposed. Marcus supposes he expected Esca to react with a bit of embarrassment, to try to hide or at least to take care of himself quickly, but though Esca’s eyes fall shut, he does not begin jerking himself immediately. Instead, he uses his fingers and thumb to massage the foreskin around the head of his prick, sighing softly. It is a vulnerable and thoroughly unexpected sound of enjoyment, and it spears Marcus to the core. Esca appears to be taking pleasure from this—real pleasure, not merely hurried or self-conscious relief—and Marcus does not quite know how to interpret it.

With Esca’s eyes closed and his head tipped slightly back, Marcus watch him unobserved, such as he has not done before. The state of his mouth is no surprise, given what immediately preceded this, but Marcus is no less fascinated by the look of his parted lips, particularly when Esca’s tongue darts out to wet them. His cheeks, too, are flushed from exertion, adorned by the glistening remains of tear tracks from when he choked on Marcus’s cock. His eyelashes are unexpectedly dark, given the color of his hair, and the sunlight catches them when Esca’s eyes dart under closed lids. Marcus wonders what Esca is imagining that brings him to full hardness in his hand.

When he finally begins to stroke himself, Esca goes slowly, resting back on his heels and spreading his knees a bit wider. Marcus still holds the fabric of Esca’s tunic pinched between his fingers, so when Esca descends, the garment rucks up even farther, exposing the tender skin of his stomach. It is white as the belly of a fish, white as the moon, particularly in contrast to the flushed crimson of his cock. Such skin would mark easily, Marcus thinks, from a lash or fingernails or teeth.

With his other hand, Esca reaches for his balls, cupping them more than fondling them, and Marcus wonders if Esca ever touches himself in that place behind, the one that drew such a strong sensation from Marcus. It would be too awkward in this position, with Esca’s trousers still halfway on. Marcus supposes he could ask Esca to remove them, to see whether that would finally evoke some shame in this shameless slave, but he does not wish for Esca to stop long enough for that. He is tugging at himself firmly now, pausing only to spit in his hand before resuming.

The picture it presents is surprisingly affecting. Esca is… well, Esca is quite lovely like this, brazenly chasing his own pleasure. If Marcus could harden again—which his body is valiantly trying to do, to no avail—he could place the tip of his cock in Esca’s mouth to see whether that would increase his arousal even further. Likely he could not evidence such skill with his mouth as he did before, but the idea of Esca sucking mindlessly at Marcus’s prick while he jerks himself is enticing.

Marcus almost cannot fathom what led him to push Esca away the first time he awoke with Esca’s mouth around him. Some of it had been surprise, of course, and some had been considerations of propriety, for even though Esca is a slave, he is hardly an attractive woman. In fact, there is nothing soft or feminine at all about him, nothing of the beardless youth that poets write their odes to, but Marcus is stricken by the sudden realization of how desirable he finds the man. Not merely his mouth, but his broad hands and his well-muscled arms and his taut belly.

No sooner has Marcus thought this than a moan issues from Esca’s lips, and for a heartbeat, Marcus is almost certain that Esca has somehow read his mind. But no, Esca is merely at his peak—his hand speeds up and his spine curls as he spends, droplets of his seed flung to spatter against Marcus’s own braccae, so close is he to Marcus. Once he is spent, his hand slows, but he continues rubbing himself slowly until his shoulders judder and his breath comes out in a ragged groan.

Then there is stillness.

Esca’s eyes open and fix right on Marcus. His gaze is dark, the blue-gray of his eyes barely visible around the black of the pupil, and he stares at Marcus as though seeing right through him, as though all of Marcus’s thoughts—about Esca’s mouth, about his body—are immediately visible, and all Esca must do is view them.

For a heartbeat, two, three, neither of them moves, gazes remaining locked as though each is daring the other to blink first.

But Marcus must move his leg lest it cramp, so he breaks away first, dropping his hold on Esca’s tunic as he does. Esca quickly wipes his hand on his tunic and tucks himself away, tying his braccae and getting to his feet. He does so easily, even though his legs must be numb from being in that position for so long, and Marcus is disgusted at the stab of jealousy he feels. It is not as though he wishes to kneel for an extended period—or ever. It is only the knowledge that his leg would not bear it that peeves him.

And he does not care for the way Esca is peering at him now, as though taking the measure of him. “The horses—” Marcus starts, but he must clear his throat and start again. “The horses still need tending.”

Esca nods once, eyes locked with Marcus’s. “Yes, domine.”

&&&

Weeks pass in this manner.

Marcus does not get to have Esca’s mouth on him every day, but more often than not, if he cannot have it in the morning, he finds a pretense to bring Esca to the stable in the afternoon. Sometimes, Esca lets Marcus fuck his mouth a little, but never with his hand on Esca’s head. And though Esca usually becomes aroused in the process, Marcus does not always command him to ease himself afterwards.

A few times, he has allowed Esca to touch himself but not to spend. Though Marcus certainly does not need to prove his power over his slave, he finds it a particularly delicious bit of control to exercise. The fire in Esca’s glare when Marcus threatens to whip him if he spills his seed—and also if he takes his hand off his cock until Marcus permits him—has been known to make Marcus harden for a second time in an afternoon. Then, of course, he takes Esca’s mouth again, watching Esca’s hard, unsated prick bob in the air as Esca sucks him. When he spills down Esca’s throat, and for the few exquisite seconds after, he feels like a whole man again. Then he allows Esca to leave, imagining him frantically stroking himself to completion as soon as he is out of Marcus’s sight, whether that happens in truth or not.

He remains secretive about these encounters, even though he does not truly need to hide his dalliances with Esca from his uncle. He is doing nothing shameful with his slave, though perhaps he is doing it a little too often, with a little too much enthusiasm. And perhaps he is being too indulgent, refusing to grab Esca by the hair when using his mouth, and then later allowing him his own pleasure.

But what they do behind the stable pleases Marcus, all of it, and a man need not explain himself to anyone else.

Of course, as soon as Marcus’s leg is plausibly strong enough to let him ride, he must actually begin the process of learning to get up in the saddle again. At first, the pain in his thigh is such that he can only take short trots around the stable, but he grits his teeth and learns to bear the pain. After all, when he and Esca can go riding, they can find a place away from prying eyes and Marcus can enjoy himself as long as he wants. In fact, they find several places: a shallow cave, a copse of trees by the river, a pile of boulders.

As enjoyable as their liaisons are, however, they become routine rather quickly, even in these new locations. In the army, Marcus was no stranger to routine. Indeed, he found it comfortable. But now…

He is not bored with Esca’s mouth. Certainly not. But he has begun having Esca remove his tunic before servicing him so that he can get a better look at Esca’s body, at the way the lean muscles flex and shift beneath his skin as he works Marcus with his mouth and hand, or as he jerks himself. Marcus must exercise caution, though—the one time he had Esca remove his tunic in full sunlight, his back and shoulders burned to a painful red. As hardy as these Britons seem to be, they are weak to the sun. Marcus imagines Esca would simply burn to ash in Italia.

Regardless, Marcus has enjoyed eyeing Esca’s body with increasing lust, and he has begun to wonder what it would be like to have more of it. He does not desire a paramour who would simply lie inert beneath him, but now he knows enough of Esca to be certain that this would be the last thing Esca would do. He may fight—and Marcus hopes he does not, because he will not take Esca by force, as exciting as he sometimes thinks it might be, to hold that strong, writhing body down—but Marcus does not think so. No, Esca came to him willingly to use his mouth. It may be that Esca is willing with his body, as well.

So the next time they ride to the copse of trees by the river, Marcus brings along a vial of oil in his saddlebag.

As he dismounts—with Esca’s help, it pains him to admit—Marcus slips it into the palm of his hand, the glass cool against his skin. His heartbeat begins to kick up with anticipation, but he says nothing to Esca, not yet. Instead, they take their usual positions: Marcus leaning against a weathered oak tree, Esca kneeling at his feet in the soft grass. Esca takes Marcus out of his braccae, quirking one eyebrow at finding his cock already hardening. Typically, the pain of riding is enough to keep him soft until Esca begins to touch him, but not today. Yet Esca does not ask questions; he merely runs the flat of his tongue against the vein that spans the length of Marcus’s cock and grows more prominent as his prick fattens from Esca’s attentions.

Marcus lets Esca work his mouth down around it, enjoying the slow, smooth rhythm that Esca sets to start, before he can no longer stand the anticipation. “Esca,” he groans softly, tapping the side of Esca’s neck. “Esca, wait.”

Esca pulls off of him with an obscene slurp. “Domine?”

“I thought we might…” Marcus trails off, unsure how to proceed. He does not need to seduce or flatter Esca, but he does wish to be persuasive. Staring down into Esca’s stern, assessing gaze, Marcus cannot find the words, so he raises his hand instead. As he opens his fingers, the vial slips from his grasp and lands with a barely-audible thump in the soft grass.

Esca picks it up and peers at it queerly, tilting it to and fro to see how the liquid within moves. His expression does not change, but he says, “You want to fuck me.”

Hearing the vulgarity in Esca’s accent is strangely titillating. Marcus does not think he has heard Esca use the word before. “I do.” Esca’s eyes flick up at Marcus, but his face gives nothing away, and Marcus is growing dizzy with expectation. “Will you permit me?”

That, finally, provokes a reaction—a short bark of a laugh. “Will I…?” Esca blinks incredulously. “Yes, domine, I will permit you.”

“Good,” Marcus says, nearly sighing with relief. “That is… good.”

For a moment, neither moves, and Marcus is reminded of the first time Esca knelt for him by the stables. There is some kind of challenge in Esca’s expression, some kind of incredulity—or else Marcus only imagines it, because Esca breaks the gaze first, shuffling on his knees until he is a few feet away from the tree, then turning away from Marcus and beginning to untie his braccae.

“Wait,” Marcus interjects, experiencing a twinge of disappointment at Esca turning away from him. “Stand up.”

Frowning, Esca glares back over his shoulder. “Between my height and your leg, it would be folly to try this standing up.”

“No, I know that, I only…” Marcus gestures for Esca to stand, and this time, he does. And then Marcus must gesture again to beckon Esca to come closer. “I wish to look at you first. Remove your clothes.”

Once again, Esca regards him strangely, but the slave dares not disobey or even object. He continues untying his braccae first, letting them drop and then kicking them to the side. Then he tugs his tunic over his head and tosses it near his braccae. He stares at Marcus expectantly, and Marcus stares back.

Esca is still wearing his boots, standing otherwise naked in the dappled shade, and the effect should be comical, but it is not. Esca’s body is lean and compact, paler where his clothes hide his skin from the sun. Marcus had been curious whether there were other tattoos on Esca’s body apart from the designs that ring his arm. There are not, but his body bears the scars of fighting, on his arms and his legs. There is a wicked-looking slash above his left hipbone, the thick scar tissue a silvery-pink, and another above his knee. He does not have much hair on his chest, and what is there is pale and golden. The hair that trails down from his navel, though, is darker, ending in a rough thatch around his groin. His thighs are well-muscled—he is a more than able rider, Marcus knows that much, and he knows horses well. His cock is mostly soft, almost shy, where it hides within Esca’s generous foreskin, but when Marcus drags his eyes up, the way Esca is staring at him is anything but shy.

That stare invites confrontation, as does the scornful tone of his words. “Am I pleasing to the eye, domine?”

“You are,” Marcus says honestly. He has not been with enough men to feel he has developed much of an aesthetic taste, but Esca seems to suit him nevertheless. Marcus steps out of his own braccae, pooled around his feet, and strides forward, undaunted by Esca’s unblinking stare. He has touched little of Esca’s body at all, and now he finds he desires to.

He starts with hands on Esca’s shoulders, palms shaping to the rounds of them and then trailing down Esca’s arms, which are loose at his sides. Marcus’s hands make it all the way down to Esca’s wrists, circling them lightly with his fingers, before Esca tenses defensively, as though he expects Marcus to restrain him, or else drag him to the ground. Marcus smirks at the thought—he could if he wished. Well, he would have difficulty keeping Esca there, what with his bad leg, but he could put Esca where he wanted him, command him to stay there. And Esca would have to do as his master commanded. He would seethe with indignation, but he would stay where he was put and endure whatever Marcus did to him.

That is not what Marcus wants.

What he wants is to set a hand on Esca’s chest. His hand appears dark against the pale skin, but not so large as Marcus expected in comparison. Esca’s shoulders are broad for his height, but his waist is narrow, so Marcus moves his hands there, gripping Esca’s hips. In response, Esca widens his stance slightly, as though preparing to counter any move Marcus might make. When his leg is stronger, Marcus will have to spar with him and test Esca’s mettle when he has a weapon in his hand—a blunted wooden weapon, for certain, but a weapon nonetheless. Marcus doesn’t imagine he will have to do much to provoke Esca into a fight.

The prospect is exciting, and Marcus realizes he has been kneading his thumbs into the soft hollows of Esca’s hips in anticipation. Of fighting, yes, but also of fucking—he hasn’t forgotten his more immediate goal. And Esca is responding to his touch, his breath coming in deeper, his chest visibly rising and falling. Marcus moves his hands to Esca’s ass, gripping handfuls of surprisingly ample flesh, and Esca cannot hold in a soft gasp. His cock responds, as well, twitching slightly and beginning to fill. Letting go of his ass with one hand, Marcus helps it along, stroking Esca’s prick with his fingertips as it thickens and lengthens.

A series of harsh syllables spill from Esca’s mouth—some sort of barbarian profanity, Marcus is sure of it—and Esca’s cheeks flush a mottled red. While Marcus has seen plenty of Esca’s cock, this is the first time he has touched it with his own hands, and he wonders at the last time anyone but Esca has done so. Perhaps he found a paramour in town, when Marcus was sending him away in the afternoons. Perhaps at a previous household he had a liaison with another slave—or another master. For some reason, this thought angers Marcus. It would be any master’s right, to touch their slave, but Esca is his now. He belongs to no one else.

Esca’s cock is fully hard in Marcus’s hand now, so he does as he has seen Esca do and works the head with his thumb, massaging the foreskin with wide circles. When he hits at a spot beneath the crown, Esca twitches and grunts, as though he does not wish to react but cannot help it, and the sound renews Marcus’s own arousal. His other hand had still been enjoying the feel of Esca’s ass, but he now drops it in order to grip his own cock, to give himself a few strokes to whet his appetite. Then he glances down and inspiration strikes. It is not easy with the height difference between them, but he can lower his stance slightly and grip them both in one hand, stroking them together. Ah, that is a pleasant sensation, silky hardness against silky hardness. He wonders where the oil is, for it would be even more enjoyable if this were slick.

“D-Domine,” Esca says, his voice not as firm as he likely intends. “You said you wanted to fuck me.”

“I did,” Marcus agrees, hand moving slowly.

“Then, for the love of the gods, fuck me,” Esca growls between gritted teeth, and heat blooms in Marcus’s gut at the sound.

He grins. He would not have thought Esca so eager for debauchment, but then, he has wondered about the depravities of barbarians before. It could be that their warriors fuck each other with no regard for propriety or manhood. Yet he cannot give into the demand—the demand!—of a slave so easily, so he continues to stroke them both for a few long minutes, until he himself can no longer stand it, and he orders Esca to his knees, facing Marcus.

The vial of oil, it seems, has remained in Esca’s hand, and as he returns to his knees, he pours some into his hand and reaches between his legs. The only change to his demeanor as he breaches himself is a slight intake of breath, a slight dip of his eyelashes. With his other hand, he jerks his cock, and Marcus can only faintly hear the wet sounds of his preparation beneath the shuffling of skin on skin. The sight is every bit as enticing as it ever is, watching Esca pleasure himself, with the added thrill of what is to come.

When Esca is ready, he does not signal Marcus with a word or even a look; he merely turns on the soft grass and settles onto all fours. Marcus scowls—he could have used Esca’s help getting to his knees, but he struggles down on his own, letting his good knee take the brunt of the landing. The vial is now sitting in the grass, so Marcus takes it to slick himself. In truth, he might not have needed to, Esca did so thorough a job on himself, the dark pink furl between his cheeks shiny and wet.

Though Esca demanded Marcus fuck him, he did not specify with what, so Marcus gives into his urge to test the give of Esca’s entrance. And there is not much give—Esca is tight, despite the earlier use of his fingers, though it must be said that Marcus’s fingers are thicker. But he is patient, coaxing at Esca’s hole with the gently-swirling tip of one finger until it opens for him. Inside, Esca is fever-hot and soft as lambskin, a sharp contrast to his spare, hard frame and flinty expression. Slowly, Marcus fucks him with his finger, needing him looser for the width of his cock. Though not much looser—the anticipation of thrusting into this tight heat is making Marcus’s prick drool.

After a minute of this, Esca growls again and Marcus chuckles, taking his meaning. “Peace, Esca,” he says, indulging in a few more swiveling thrusts of his finger. “You will have what you desire presently.” He earns another barbarian curse uttered at him beneath Esca’s breath.

By the time Marcus has worked the head of his cock into Esca, his patience is gone, burned away entirely by the heat of Esca’s body, and he thrusts deep, gripping Esca’s hips and yanking him backward until their bodies slap together. Esca cannot entirely muffle a cry—of discomfort, Marcus has no doubt, but the sound is nearly indistinguishable from pleasure. Summoning up his fortitude, Marcus pauses, reaching around to grip Esca’s prick. It has, of course, softened from pain, and Marcus is too impatient, too eager to touch Esca as carefully he did before, but his hand is strong and slick, and he jerks Esca back to hardness presently.

As he does, Esca squirms on his cock, letting out little sobs of breath that sound like whimpers, and they are doing nothing at all for Marcus’s patience. At length, he must let go and rear back on his knees and finally fuck Esca properly. He takes Esca by the hips once more and begins to thrust, searching for a long-unused rhythm that he once knew in every muscle and bone and sinew.

And he could expire with joy upon finding that it is still there, only buried a bit. He requires a little adjustment, a shift of his knees and a change of his grip, and then he is fucking into Esca with the same power, the same fluidity that he remembers from before he became crippled. If he thought he had regained his manhood from the feeling of Esca’s mouth on his cock, or the sight of Esca touching his own prick at Marcus’s command, it pales against this demonstration of virility.

Marcus is in control now, but Esca is far from passive, locking his arms and rocking back into Marcus’s thrusts until there is a sharp, slick sound every time they collide. Marcus stares down to watch his flushed, swollen prick disappear into Esca’s body and groans with delight. The sight of Esca’s pale flesh beneath his hands reminds him of a thought from weeks before, and he raises one hand to bring it down sharply against the swell of one ass cheek. Esca yelps, bucking out of rhythm on Marcus’s cock, but it is worth it for the way the alabaster skin turns pink in the shape of Marcus’s hand.

With a groan, Marcus slows his rhythm, reaching for Esca’s cock again in recompense. He imagines he will find it softened again, but instead it is not only hard but slick with pre-spend against his palm, and Esca moans and shudders when Marcus strokes him. Inspired, Marcus scoops his other hand under Esca’s chest and pulls him up to his knees, his back to Marcus’s chest. Once there, Marcus fucks him in short, staccato jolts of his hips, pulling at his cock in syncopation, and Esca snarls, throwing his arms back to dig his fingers into Marcus’s ass. Marcus has not yet found the words to taunt him when Esca judders hard, his prick flexing in Marcus’s hand as he spills over Marcus’s fingers.

Marcus gasps with surprise, stroking and stroking and stroking as Esca jerks and shakes around him. The sensation on Marcus’s cock is exquisite, and he keeps going until Esca softens in his hand. He ought to give Esca time to gather himself, but Marcus can no longer hold off his own need anymore, and he lets go, shoving at Esca’s shoulders until the slave is once more on his hands and knees.

Esca’s limbs are evidently too wobbly to allow him to move into Marcus’s thrusts as before, but it is little matter. He is light enough and Marcus is driven enough to do all the work, fucking into his slackened body at a punishing pace. Marcus is panting and snorting like a bull in heat, his his muscles burning deliciously with effort. Marcus has the spare thought that he might pause and allow his desire to cool briefly so that he might make this last a bit longer, but no sooner does he have that thought than his balls tighten and his belly flutters and he spills over into orgasm like a tipped amphora. The pleasure pours out of him in waves, and he imagines an entire tide surging into Esca’s body, filling Esca’s guts so full of his seed that Esca’s belly swells with it.

This does not happen, of course, though a rush of Marcus’s essence spills down Esca trembling thighs as Marcus withdraws. For no reason he can name, Marcus uses his forefinger to wipe up a drip and push it back inside Esca with an obscene, wet squelch that makes him shiver with an echo of satisfaction.

Truly spent, Marcus eases back until he can sit and stretch his legs out before him. As satisfied as he feels, his exertions have taken a toll on his thigh, and the ride back will not be pleasant.

Indeed, his own grimace is echoed on Esca’s face as they return to the villa on their horses.

&&&

It goes like this: Esca visits his bed most mornings, applying his mouth to Marcus’s cock. Sometimes Marcus allows Esca to suck him to completion; others, he pulls Esca up the bed and arranges him to his liking. If he is in the mood to take his time, putting Esca on his side and curling up behind him makes for a delectably slow build, as it does not strain his thigh, but nor does it allow him to thrust with much speed. On the other hand, if he wishes to spend quickly and get on with his day, fucking Esca on hands and knees brings them both to completion with little fuss.

If his leg is feeling especially strong, propping Esca’s hips with pillows and throwing his legs over Marcus’s shoulders, or pushing Esca’s knees to his chest, makes Marcus feel like a prize-winning stallion mounting a broodmare. Esca is no mare, of course, but the position allows Marcus to watch Esca’s face twist with almost tortured bliss, to watch Esca’s cock bounce, hard and dripping, against his belly. He leaks so much before he even spends; it is remarkable. Once, Esca comes without a hand on his cock, so overwhelmed with the debauchery of Marcus pounding inside him that he spills his seed in hard, jagged pulses all over his belly and chest while his hands grip the blanket beneath him. When it happens, Marcus feels like more than a whole man—he feels like a god, that he could make Esca spend himself with nothing but his cock. Or else Esca must be truly depraved, indeed, that he should take such pleasure in being fucked.

If their morning routine is disturbed, they sometimes return to the woods, or to a glade by the river. They go out behind the stable, too, but not as often. They are less likely to be observed in the interior of the stable, and the hayloft provides softer cushioning. He is certainly indulging himself too frequently, but Marcus cannot give it up, not now that he has it. Now that he feels like a man again, each time he thrusts into Esca’s willing body.

And Esca is… Esca remains largely a mystery to Marcus. He speaks little of himself, of where he came from or how he ended up in the arena, though perhaps it is a dishonorable story to tell. If Marcus were foolish enough to find himself captured and enslaved, surely he would not want to speak about how it had happened.

But Esca is a surprisingly good companion, even when they are not fucking. Esca heeds Marcus in his own way, obedient but never subservient. He continues to tend to Marcus’s leg with liniments and massage without censure, or even comment, until Marcus tells him he no longer needs it. When Marcus is well enough to hunt, and then to spar, they work well together. Esca may not be a terribly compliant body slave, but he is skilled at many pursuits, and he earns Marcus’s respect as a man. For a slave and a cinaedus, he has his own sort of honor, and he certain proves himself dependable. He is always honest with coin, and he is firm but fair when dealing in the marketplace. He is never loose with his tongue around Marcus, even the few times Marcus sees him indulge in drink, and such a man is a trustworthy one. There are soldiers Marcus served beside for years that he would not rely on as he relies upon Esca, and often they understand each other well enough without even needing to speak.

So Esca will accompany Marcus into the north, beyond the wall, and help him find the Eagle. It will be good to have a second pair of eyes and hands. And surely Marcus will not always wake hard and wanting while sleeping rough, but if he does, well, he knows Esca’s mouth is good for more than merely speaking the local tongue.

&&&

But when Marcus wakes aroused on his bedroll for the first few days, Esca does not come to him. He is not even being lazy—now that they are away from the villa, Esca rises with the sun and begins preparing for the day before Marcus’s eyes have opened. Esca is peeved with him, Marcus knows it, but he cannot quite divine the reason. Esca is in his element here, navigating easily through the glens and hunting game for meals. The set of his shoulders seems more relaxed out here in the wild, as fits his barbarian nature, yet he barely looks at Marcus, and he does not offer Marcus his mouth at all. Marcus would mind Esca’s negligence more if the discomfort of sleeping in the cold and damp did not soon remove the problem of morning arousal entirely.

For somehow, it is far colder even than Marcus expects north of the wall, and wetter, and grayer. They go days without seeing the sun, days without a sky clear of mist and fog, and the damp sinks down into Marcus’s bones. Into his bad leg, which goes tight and aches fiercely in the mornings and evenings. Throughout the day, really, but at least then Marcus has other things to distract himself from the throbbing. Things such as the sheer amount of land there is to cover in Caledonia.

“Your leg pains you,” Esca says one night as they sit by the fire, picking at a meal of roasted rabbit. They are the first words Esca has said to him in two days, and they do not include the word domine.

Marcus does not think he has said it since they passed through the wall. Perhaps he should remind Esca of his place, but Marcus was forced to kill the young rogue warrior whom Esca spared two days ago, and even Marcus is not so stupid as to think the silence is unrelated. “It does,” he replies at length.

“Shall I massage it for you?”

Marcus may only be imagining it, as he is already irritated and short-tempered, but Esca’s tone has an almost mocking quality to it. As though he wishes to force Marcus to admit his weakness out loud. “No,” Marcus says, rubbing the heel of his hand down the length of his thigh as though that would do much good. “It is… No.”

Esca merely nods.

There is not much to do once the rabbit bones are clean. Their knives are sharp, and Esca has fletched enough arrows for at least another week, and Marcus is exhausted, both from the constant pain and from the lack of progress. They have not had word of the Eagle or the soldiers who bore it for weeks.

Even with the low fire, they must huddle together for warmth, or else they will wake shivering and miserable in the wee hours. Or at least Marcus will. He molds himself against Esca’s back, tucking his legs into the crook of Esca’s knees. They have fucked this way, spooned together, Marcus thrusting into Esca from behind. Now, huddled together like this, Marcus’s groin pressed to Esca’s ass, some small measure of heat trapped between their bodies, Marcus could almost desire it, even with the cold and the damp and the pain. His cock twitches at the thought.

But twitch is all it can do. Though Marcus’s prick is quiescent, the rest of him cannot seem to join it. Even with the warmth of Esca’s body, his leg grows stiff and demands to be moved every few minutes lest it cramp. He cannot sleep like this.

Neither, it seems, can Esca. Eventually, he huffs, “Can you not lie still?”

Before Marcus can think better of it, he begins, “My leg—”

Esca rolls over to face Marcus. The fire is little more than embers now, and the moon is shrouded by clouds, so even though Marcus’s eyes are accustomed to the dark by now, he can barely see the shape of Esca’s face right in front of him. He spies only the barest hint of motion when Esca’s mouth moves. “If you will not ask, and you will not accept when I offer, then I will do what I must.”

Then strong hands grip Marcus’s thigh, and Marcus yelps. But Esca merely lifts Marcus’s bad leg to rest over his hip, giving Esca’s hands better access to the tight, cramping muscles. His fingers dig in, knowing by now how to find the knots and how much pressure to use to release them. Pain spears through Marcus’s leg at each of Esca’s fingertips. He has not massaged Marcus’s leg this way in some time, but Marcus has not needed him to, and he forgot how deep the pain went. Esca’s hands are not the same as the surgeon’s knife, of course, the sensation duller and thicker, but they makes Marcus’s heart pound and his breath come in ragged pants.

But Marcus knows this pain to be a purgative, that it will free him of cramps and knots, so he lets it wash through him, even as he wants to shove Esca’s hands away. As the torment sharpens his tired thoughts, he realizes there is something almost provocative about this, about Marcus lying on his side, Esca working between his spread legs, Marcus submitting to Esca’s ministrations. With his head thrown back and gasping, no less, making muffled, agonized sounds that could just as easily come from ecstasy.

If anyone were to approach them right now, they’d think Esca and Marcus were rutting against each other. Or fucking.

Perhaps they’d think Esca was fucking Marcus.

A groan slips past Marcus’s lips, and he shudders from anguish and humiliation, for he does not want Esca to stop.

His leg, of course, gives him no quick, blissful release. Instead, the cramping slowly begins to subside, and the knots loosen, and Esca’s hands slow. They rub the muscles of Marcus’s thighs in long, smooth strokes now, as if to settle him. And it works—in the end, the reprieve from pain is nearly as good as climax, and Marcus’s head is light and dizzy from his quickened breath. He can feel the sweat at his nape and at the small of his back, and his skin tingles where Esca yet touches him.

And then his thigh is being lifted from its place on Esca’s hip and returned to where it was, and Esca’s hands leave him. Esca himself rolls over and shoves his back once again against Marcus’s chest.

“Now you will lie still and sleep,” Esca grumbles.

And Marcus does.

He lies so still, in fact, that he wakes in the same position in the morning, molded to Esca from chest to knees, and this time, he wakes aroused.

It is a relief, to once again see that he is capable, even in these horrid conditions. His thigh is sore, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from gently rocking his hips into the warm bulk of Esca’s body. Marcus’s cock is not quite slotted neatly between the cheeks of Esca’s ass, but the gentle rub of fabric over it is a delicious tease. Before long, Esca begins to stir, and Marcus nearly groans with anticipation. At last, he will have Esca’s mouth again, and he will have a few minutes of pleasure before resuming this accursed journey.

Except, with a grunt, Esca rolls away from him, pushing up to his knees.

“Esca,” Marcus groans, bereft, barely stopping himself from reaching out to pull Esca back down to him.

But Esca does not even turn to face him. “We should get going,” he says briskly. “The sun is already well over the horizon, and I think there will be rain before nightfall.”

With a grumble, Marcus reaches down to palm himself through his braccae. But that is all he does. If Esca does not want to suck him, Marcus is hardly going to lie there and use his own hand. He rubs the heels of his hands over his eyes, and then gets up to face the day.

&&&

He thinks of Esca all through the day, and all the next day as well. They sleep pressed together, and often remain so in the morning. But even though Marcus has woken aroused two days in a row—and Esca knows it—Esca has not displayed any of the eagerness he did back at the villa. They have no oil, but if Esca does not want to use his mouth, the two of them could at least rut against each other, or Marcus could take both of them in hand. But Esca’s mood remains sour, and Marcus is not yet desperate enough to demand anything of him.

Marcus tries not to dwell on it, for of course he has a far more important calling, one that he has made little progress on in weeks.

And then they meet Guern. Guern takes them to fields of slaughter where the Ninth met its end. And Guern tells of the terrible fate met by his father’s men. And Guern turns to Esca and says, “He knows. He’s Brigantes. They fought here.”

Marcus can hardly think for the buzzing in his head. The man who has spent nearly every moment of every day beside him has known all of this, known it this whole time, and has said nothing. He’s a slave, his uncle had said. He says what he says and he does what he does because he has to. But Esca has been more than a slave to Marcus, has he not? Marcus had thought they were… not friends, certainly, but there has been a measure of respect between them. An understanding.

That understanding, however, does not prevent Esca from launching himself from his horse and knocking Marcus to the ground. Only by the grace of the gods does Marcus take the brunt of the fall on his good leg, and they roll over and over in the dirt until Marcus gains the upper hand, pinning Esca on his back and glaring down at him.

Suddenly, Marcus feels the closeness of their bodies with an immediacy he has not since they came north of the wall. Esca writhes and twists beneath him, eyes aflame, one leg twining up around Marcus’s hip to try to flip him over, and Marcus realizes he never had Esca this way. Not with Esca’s legs wrapped around his hips, Marcus’s hands pinning Esca’s wrists, bodies shoved so tightly together that he can feel the rising and falling of Esca’s chest.

His mind must linger on this thought too long, for Esca succeeds, rolling Marcus onto his back. Surely he cannot hope to pin Marcus this way—Marcus is bigger, stronger, even with his weakened leg. But Esca is strengthened by fury, Marcus can see it plainly, can feel it in the way Esca shoves him into the damp ground. This is no proper wrestling hold, of course, but the position is simultaneously laughable and provocative: Marcus on his back, Esca pinning him bodily to the ground. Marcus’s body is hungry for anything it can get: heat, pressure, touch. Now is a terrible time for Marcus’s cock to respond, but it does nonetheless.

Or it begins to. Because then Esca sees the painted warrior standing on the hill above them and freezes, and by his next breath, everything is turned on its head.

&&&

You’re my slave.

Those were the last words Esca said to him that were not a command, the last words Marcus has been able to understand in days. It has been at least two weeks, likely more. Marcus did not think to begin keeping track when he was captured, for he was certain he would have no need to. Surely once they arrived at the village of the Seal People, Esca would come in the night and free him, telling him where these villains have concealed the Eagle. Or else they would quickly escape into the woods, sleeping hidden during the day and coming back into the village at night to search.

No such rescue has come, so Marcus sleeps in a tent with the other slaves. He is not chained—none of them are—but when he attempts to leave the tent in the dark of night, he is bashed across the face with a club and shoved back inside. He could try again, wait until later in the night. There are warriors guarding the perimeter of the village, and it seems as though there is always someone about, but he could try, during a storm or some other such disturbance.

But as the days wear on, no disturbance makes itself known, and besides, what would he accomplish if he escaped? Their horses, certainly now claimed by the chieftain as his own, are too valuable to leave unguarded, and he knows he cannot get far enough on foot to make a difference. Nor is he foolish enough to imagine he could hide effectively from both warriors and dogs. And even if he succeeded at all that, what would he eat in this barren land? He has never had much luck at fishing. Esca is by far the better hunter, and at present, Marcus doesn’t even have a knife. What few of his belongings that have not been distributed among the village as spoils are now in Esca’s care.

Esca.

What would happen to Esca if Marcus left? At the very least, he would be obliged to hunt Marcus down as though he were truly an escaped slave, and Esca was truly his master. At the worst, their ruse would be discovered and Esca would likely be killed for the deception.

If, indeed, this is all still a ruse. Marcus is no longer certain. He expected that he would follow Esca around the village the way Esca followed him around the villa, thus allowing him to get the lay of the land and, in time, discover some potential hiding places for the Eagle. But instead of carrying Esca’s belongings or assisting him as the men go out to hunt, Marcus labors with the other slaves, gutting fish and digging ditches and building roundhouses. He has only been brought before Esca a few times, during the evening meal, to fill his cup.

And to be the subject of conversation, as well. Marcus does not know any of the words, but he hears the invective in their tone, mixed with curiosity and ridicule. There is something else, Marcus thinks. Something that makes Esca’s lips curl with laughter while his eyes remain stony. Marcus cannot divine what it is, and the ambiguity unsettles him.

But what can Marcus do save wait? For the first week or so, he is content to tolerate the indignities of servitude. After all, it has been in service of his goal of reclaiming his lost honor, and that has already caused him more indignities than he cares to think on. As the days wear on, though, and there is no word and barely more than a glance from Esca, Marcus’s gut begins to churn any time he has a moment to think. They had no plan for this. If he knew for certain that it would be a week, two weeks, a month, perhaps he could continue to endure. But there is no plan, no strategy. Marcus has no assurance, not even a hint, that Esca is searching for the Eagle, and Marcus cannot force him to give one. His attempts at speaking Latin to Esca have been met with fists and clubs from the Seal warriors.

So Marcus waits. He waits through the evening meal—or at least what he can hear of it taking place around the fire.

The slaves are brought scraps, bits of fish and offal and vegetable matter that might be seaweed. Marcus has come to find that bread is an unimaginable luxury this far north—for where would they get the wheat—and he has begun to crave it. A fresh loaf of bread with goat’s milk cheese. A flatbread from the market with a smear of honey, a slice of fruit. He might even take bucellatum, for the familiarity if not the taste.

Outside the tent, the meal ends, and he hears the men disperse for the night. Marcus sighs—at least he will be left alone for the night.

But then the tent flap opens, and a familiar silhouette steps inside.

“Esca?” Marcus says, rolling to his knees though the motion strains his leg. He should not say more, he knows it, but he is so desperate to hear words he can understand that his mouth runs unheeded. “What is going on? You have not spoken to me in days. Can we not—”

“Silence,” Esca snaps, yet another command. “Come.”

He does not wait for Marcus to rise, merely spins on his heel and exits again, and Marcus is left to stumble after him. As he falls into step behind him, Esca turns his head only long enough to hiss, “And for the sake of our lives, keep your eyes down.”

They proceed through the small village, and Marcus realizes he doesn’t even know where Esca sleeps. Soon, they approach a tent, where several of the warriors, including the Seal Prince, stand around outside. They greet Esca with laughs and cheers. At the last moment, Marcus remembers what Esca had said and points his eyes to the ground. It makes his cheeks heat, this display of submissiveness in front of barbarian savages, but Marcus knows what is likely to happen if his stare is perceived as a challenge. He has the bruises to prove it.

He can hear Esca respond with laughter of his own, and Marcus wonders whether he’s mistaking the tone in Esca’s voice when a hand shapes itself to Marcus’s ass and squeezes. The hand isn’t Esca’s, and Marcus only barely masters his reaction, his own hands balling into fists at his sides instead of lashing out like they want to. Briefly, he has pride in himself for not even glaring at the man, when he suddenly understands what such a proprietary gesture might mean—at night, after drinking, in front of a tent—and his heart shoots into his throat.

But Esca grabs him by the elbow and pulls him away from the hand, spitting a curse at the man it belongs to. Marcus has but a heartbeat’s respite—and then Esca is dragging him forward, into the tent.

This time, Marcus does not speak immediately, but he can at least scowl at Esca questioningly. And in the light of the small fire within the tent, Esca looks… peculiarly well, considering their circumstances. His cheeks are lightly flushed with some combination of strong drink and general rowdiness and the cold air, and the laughter—genuine, this time—has not entirely left his expression. He merely eyes Marcus up and down, and finally Marcus can no longer stand it.

“Can we speak freely?” he asks, pitching his voice low.

Esca sighs and steps closer, and then steps closer again, until he is nearly pressed up against Marcus. He fists his hands in Marcus’s tunic and tugs sharply until Marcus bends down to him and Esca can speak quietly into his ear. “Not entirely,” he says, and even hearing that much from him nearly makes Marcus’s legs weak with relief. “I do not know of any here who speak Latin, but I have not wholly earned their trust, and it would sound suspicious for us to converse at length, even if they do not understand.”

Marcus nods, somewhat pointlessly as Esca is tugging on his tunic, still holding him too close to see his face. Perhaps as long as he keeps his voice to a murmur, they can at least exchange a few words in private. “Have you seen the Eagle? Do you even know for certain that it is here? What will we— ahh.”

Marcus is not stopped by Esca’s words, but by Esca’s mouth latching onto his throat and sucking hard. Naturally, Marcus tries to straighten, tries to push Esca away, but when he does, he earns teeth, blunt and painful against the delicate skin. In the midst of all this, Marcus forgets to murmur. He yelps, “Esca, what are you doing?”

Esca does not stop immediately, continuing to bite and suck for a few seconds more, his strong hands digging into Marcus’s shoulders as his teeth dig into Marcus’s throat. It hurts, but it is also the first touch of skin against skin—that is not fist against face—that Marcus has received in weeks. It hurts, but Esca’s body is warm and familiar, and Marcus has been cold for so long. It hurts, but it sends heat cascading down Marcus’s spine into his guts.

In his own time, Esca pulls away, surveying his handiwork briefly before stepping back and wiping his hand over his spit-slick lips. “Marcus, why do you think I have brought you in here?”

Marcus glances around the tent—there are two bedrolls, and he assumes this is where Esca has been sleeping. Some other warrior has shared his tent with Esca, maybe one of the men currently outside. Marcus can still hear them. “So that we may finally speak, if briefly?”

“No.” A smile twists the corner of Esca’s mouth. It is not a pleasant one. “Given, this is not your bedchamber or the stables, but I had thought my purpose was obvious.”

Jaw dropping open with shock, Marcus asks, “You want to suck my cock? Now? Here?”

The sound Esca makes is somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. It causes something in Marcus’s stomach to knot, and Esca’s words pull that knot tight. “I do not intend to be the one on my knees tonight, domine.”

Marcus blinks. “Surely you cannot mean—”

Esca nods toward the flap of the tent. “They want to know why I have such a handsome slave and do not fuck him. They said if I have no claim on your body, they will use it, for a mouth as pretty as yours has only one purpose.”

Marcus’s gorge rises, the heat in his gut curdling into sickness, and he stumbles back. “So we must pretend to… to…” He finds he cannot say the words.

“Pretend?” Esca’s head tilts quizzically. “Did you only pretend to use my mouth, when I was your slave?”

“What does that—”

With a sneer, Esca crosses his arms over his chest, fire in his eyes. “Did you imagine that we were lovers, Marcus? Do you think I came to you, to your bed, to the stables, out of simple desire?”

“No, but you came to me,” Marcus spits, careless of his volume. He simply cannot believe what he is hearing. “You came to me. I neither asked nor commanded.”

“Keep your voice down!” Esca hisses. “We have already spoken too long, and if they hear us fight, I may have to strike you to show I have put you in your place.”

“Then strike me,” Marcus grits out, raising his fists. “Come on, then. You will have to beat me within an inch of my life and restrain me and knock out all my teeth if you wish to use my mouth.”

“No, I would not.” Casually, Esca gestures at the flap again. “I would have them do it for me. I imagine they would also avail themselves of you afterward.”

Marcus comes to the sudden realization that, in all this time in the north, as disagreeable as it has been, he has not known real, true fear. He knows it now, and it freezes him to his core. His voice is barely audible above the crackling of the fire. “Esca…”

“But I will not,” Esca sighs, setting his hands on his hips. “I have sworn myself to you. More than that, I do not wish to see you hurt.”

“But you do wish to see me shamed?”

“No more than you shamed me.”

Marcus swallows, that knot in his gut sitting ever more heavily. He nearly says A slave has no shame, but he will not hand Esca the weapon with which to gut him. He must try a different tactic. “Did you not take pleasure in what you did to me? In what we did together?”

“I did,” Esca admits, taking a step closer. “I intend to give you pleasure as well, if you will take it. I assure you, that is much more than those warriors would do, if I left you to their mercy.”

“I would rather you killed me.”

“With the Eagle so nearly in our grasp? I do not think so.”

Despite everything, Marcus feels a surge of hope in his chest. “They have it? It is here?”

Esca nods. “I have not seen it, nor do I know its exact location. That information is known only to a few. But they brag of having captured a Roman god and pinioned his wings.”

“But it is here? You are certain?”

“It is here. I swear to it on the memory of my mother.”

For a moment, Marcus forgets everything else, and he feels as though he may lift off his feet with joy.

And then, of course, he remembers, and his face falls. “Esca…”

One glance at the man reveals he has not turned from his purpose, even as he has given Marcus hope. He remains intent upon using Marcus. But Marcus will not beg Esca for mercy—he will not debase himself in advance. Even if Esca is bluffing and the warriors do not intend to use him, he cannot retrieve the Eagle without Esca. And something inside Marcus, the same part that has always demanded justice, whispers that there is an undeniable symmetry in their current circumstances. You used him to reclaim your manhood, it says, and now he will take it away again.

Marcus sees in Esca’s face that he will not be swayed, not entirely, but he has given no command yet. Marcus will have to endure whatever Esca chooses, but he does not believe Esca to be disproportionately cruel. “Not…” Marcus tries, his throat dry as sand. “Not my mouth.”

Esca blinks, face impassive, considering. He takes a step forward, hand reaching out until his fingertips find the softness of Marcus’s lower lip. Marcus stands, immobile as a marble statue and far more brittle, as Esca seems to study his mouth with great earnestness for a heartbeat, then two, then three, his eyes wide and dark in the low firelight as Marcus awaits his fate.

Then Esca nods, his hand dropping away. “Not your mouth.” His voice is surprisingly gentle. “Despite how badly I want it. I know what it means to a Roman.”

The knot in Marcus’s gut does not loosen, but some of its weight lifts. He can bear other violations, other suffering. Surely nothing can be worse than his leg, not only the pain, but also what that injury took from him. He was only fooling himself before—he will never be a whole man again. As such, perhaps he does not deserve to even feel whole.

Eyes already on the ground, Marcus shuffles over to one of the bedrolls, covered with soft furs. At least the ground will not abrade his hands and knees. He begins the painful process of lowering himself to his knees, but Esca says, “Wait. I wish to look at you first.”

Marcus glances up. “Can we not get on with it?”

“No.” The firelight dances in Esca’s eyes, almost like amusement. “You looked on me as it pleased you. You toyed with me before you fucked me, that first time. Now I will do the same. Remove your tunic.”

Face tightened in a scowl, Marcus does as bid, stripping off his filthy tunic. Even sheltered from the wind, even with the fire, there is a chill in the tent. Marcus imagines it thickens the air between him and Esca, but even as his skin pebbles from the cold, he will not show weakness and shiver or attempt to warm himself.

Seeming very pleased with himself, Esca says, “Now your braccae.”

This has nothing to do with sparing him from the brutality of the men outside, Marcus knows it. At the villa, had told Esca to remove his clothes, or to take his cock from his braccae and jerk it while Marcus watched. He had enjoyed the burn of arousal from gazing upon Esca’s body, and now Esca is collecting his restitution. Marcus does not even have to push his braccae down—without the tie, they fall from his hips, his body pared down from poor nutrition. Marcus lets the fabric pool around his feet, but he would have to sit down to remove his boots, or else kick awkwardly, to free himself of them entirely, and he will not humiliate himself more than he must.

Seething now, he spreads his arms as if to show that there is nothing else, no greater nakedness he can display, but he makes the grave error at glancing at Esca’s face. Esca’s expression is guarded, but his eyes are ravenous, and they devour Marcus from head to toe, leaving no scrap behind. They linger on his shoulders, his chest, his groin, and Marcus must glance away, all his anger sharpening in an instant into mortification. A man should not be looked up on like this. One may look at a beautiful woman, at a work of art, at a spectacle like this, but a man should not allow it. He should have the power to stop it. Marcus’s face burns, and he no longer feels the chill of the air.

He keeps his eyes turned aside, but nonetheless, he is aware of Esca striding slowly up to him. “Even in this cold,” he hears Esca say, “your manhood is… substantial.”

And then warm fingers close around Marcus’s soft cock, embracing it. Marcus’s stomach drops, but his body knows these hands, this touch, and begins to respond. He has not even put a hand on himself in weeks, and surely as his stomach growls for food, his cock rises desperately into familiar touch. Arousal also feels like surrender, like weakness before this man who now names himself Marcus’s master. Marcus tries to fight it, tries to dwell on the shame to come—but it is all heat now, and as Esca’s hand moves slowly, surely, Marcus’s arousal only deepens.

Words are all he has left now. “Will you not do as you have said and fuck me?” Marcus growls, eyes yet locked on the wall of the tent, body held so still it is nearly quaking. He remembers Esca saying something similar, before.

“I also said I would give you pleasure, as you gave me.”

Finally, Marcus forces himself to meet Esca’s eyes. “I do not want it.”

Esca takes a half-step closer, until the head of Marcus’s prick is a bare inch away from Esca’s tunic, for of course Esca remains fully clothed. “Your cock says otherwise.”

“My cock is unnecessary for this.”

To Marcus’s horror, Esca chuckles. “True enough. Such a big thing, to be so useless now. Do the Greeks not think that a large penis is vulgar? A sign of unrestrained lechery and a Satyr’s disposition? Perhaps you do have an unnatural preoccupation with lust.”

Marcus is surprised his legs to not crumble beneath him, for all his blood is in his cheeks and his cock. “W-where did you hear such things?”

“Stephanos had a surprising number of opinions on the matter,” Esca muses, glancing down at his hand’s labors now. “For now, this will be entirely unnecessary, save as a source of pleasure.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Marcus tries to take a full breath, but Esca is close enough that Marcus smells his sweat, his musk. He may have been mistaken about Esca’s capacity for cruelty. “So you are to use this opportunity to humiliate me as well?”

Suddenly, warm fabric presses against Marcus’s naked body as lips land on his collarbone, but by the time he opens his eyes, both have left, and Esca is once again touching him nowhere but his cock. “Only a Roman would think being told he is worthy of being looked upon and pleasured was humiliation.”

“Either command me or take what you wish by force,” Marcus snaps, and though he means his tone to be threatening, he hears enough of a plea in it to shame him.

Esca’s smile falls away, as does his hand, and Marcus feels the cold rush back in. “Very well. Hands and knees, then.”

Marcus swallows, the dryness in his throat easing a fraction. His heart thunders, and his head spins, but he can endure this. He cannot imagine that the pain of being taken would be worse than two different surgeons opening his thigh, that the humiliation would be worse than needing to ask a slave whether he had soiled himself in the process. And no one else need know of this. When they return below the wall with the Eagle, all will be as it was before. Esca will remember his place, and even if he speaks of it to others, no one will believe the word of a slave over the word of a hero of Rome.

Yes, Marcus can endure this.

Getting to his knees without help is difficult, but he manages it, though he is soon down on his hands as well, and the furs are soft beneath them. He has no notion whether this is Esca’s bedroll or that of the tent’s permanent occupant, but that does not seem to matter to Esca. Marcus is aware of him kneeling down behind, and then a hand lands on the small of Marcus’s back, and Marcus startles.

“Easy,” Esca murmurs. “Easy. I will not hurt you.”

Marcus merely fixes his eyes upon the furs. “Do you have oil?”

“Yes, Marcus, of course.”

Marcus lets out a breath he had not been conscious of holding, and he hears the sound of a cork being removed. Whatever slicks Esca’s fingers is cool when it touches Marcus’s pucker, but not cold, and he manages not to startle this time. The fingers do not jab insistently as he expects but massage firmly in small circles. As they do, Marcus grows light-headed with trepidation, anticipating the pain of being breached.

“Will you permit me?” Esca asks, and the timing of the question is so strange that Marcus cannot help but turn and stare at him. There is an oddly-pointed expression on Esca’s face, and Marcus cannot decipher it until he remembers speaking those words to Esca when their places were reversed. At first, Marcus thinks Esca repeats them to mock him, but Esca does not seem to take amusement from it.

Then Marcus thinks he has said them for another reason. It is a question, but it is not a real one.

Marcus could say, “No, I do not permit you.” In fact, there is nothing stopping him from getting up and leaving. Esca is not forcing him—he could shove Esca aside, could beat Esca bloody for even asking the question.

And yet, to preserve himself, Marcus does none of these things. He cannot.

“Yes,” he says, voice breaking. “I will permit you.”

“Push out,” Esca says. “It will help.”

Again, Marcus requires a moment to realize what Esca means, and when he does, he finds he must return his eyes to the furs once more. As unsure as he is that he should assist with this violation, he does not want to suffer more discomfort or injury than he must, and Esca clearly knows of these things. He could not entirely hide his soreness after Marcus fucked him, but he never seemed to be in dire pain.

The first press of Esca’s fingers inside is uncomfortable and strange. It burns, as Esca uses two at once, but Marcus is more grateful that he did not try to draw it out any more than necessary. Marcus almost wishes that Esca had not used his fingers at all, but when he pushes in, when the thickness of the intrusion increases, Marcus only barely manages not to cry out.

“Relax, Marcus,” Esca says, fingers stilling and hand rubbing at Marcus’s flank as though he is a skittish animal. “It will hurt far less if you can relax.”

It should hurt, Marcus thinks, though he supposes this is a kindness, Esca attempting to lessen his discomfort. But it does not feel especially kind, not when it is drawing out the process even longer. “I would rather you do it quickly than spare me pain.”

“Fair enough, but I’m not sure I can even get my cock inside you like this.”

“You are hardly so large.”

“Large enough to fill your mouth, if you would prefer that.”

Marcus’s jaw snaps shut at that, and he tries to will his body to relax, to accept the intrusion. Continuing to bear down allows Esca to begin moving his fingers again, slowly in and out, and though the pain does not subside, the slick friction where Esca’s fingers enter his body is strangely intriguing. So this is what it feels like, Marcus thinks, never having even considered such a thing before. The steady motion is not quite pleasurable, but nor is it disagreeable, minus the burn of the stretch. But that burn is already fading, and Marcus is relieved to realize that this is like to be the worst of it.

And then a hot, slick hand closes around Marcus’s soft cock and he yelps, body clenching up again. “W-what in the name of the gods are you doing?”

“If you cannot answer that, then I have vastly overestimated your intelligence.”

“I know what you are doing,” Marcus grits out, cheeks heating at the way his body once again responds to Esca’s touch without his permission. “But why are you doing it now?”

He hears Esca give a loud huff. “To relax you. So you will not be so tight as to strangle my prick.”

An objection sits right at the tip of Marcus’s tongue—but there it remains. Pleasure does, in fact, ease pain, and though Marcus’s cock begins to harden, he is certainly in no danger of doing something as shameful as reaching climax while Esca penetrates him. Perhaps there is no harm in allowing it, and… and it simply feels good. It has been so long since Marcus felt anything good.

As Esca continues to use both his hands, not always quite in sync, the discomfort eases considerably until it is little more than a twinge, even when Esca’s fingers thrust all the way in. Esca’s cock is surely thicker than two of his fingers, but not so much more that taking it will be agony. And Esca continues to stroke him, and then Marcus feels the odd sensation of Esca’s fingers crooking where they thrust inside his body, as though Esca’s fingertips are searching for something.

When they find it, Marcus’s elbows nearly buckle.

In his youth, he saw lightning strike an old, rotted log a mere fifty paces away. Some power equally white-hot and terrible shoots through his body now as Esca’s fingers rub inside him, and he cannot stop himself from crying out. Only when Esca stops, when he begins his thrusting motion from before, can Marcus speak again—can he breathe again.

“Esca, what—?” is all he can get out before his voice fails him.

“Do you not know?” Esca asks. When Marcus does not respond in any way, he taps Marcus’s thigh and says, “Marcus, look at me.”

Marcus should not acquiesce so easily, but his body still reverberates with sensation, with something not quite pleasure or pain but equally as strong, and he cranes his head around. “Know what?”

“What makes being fucked pleasurable for a man.”

“What are you talking ab—?” And Esca does it again, massaging that spot inside Marcus with his fingers until tears spring up in Marcus’s eyes and he cries out again.

“Some men are sensitive here, and some are not. It appears you are.”

Marcus hardly knows how to respond to that—and indeed, he does not have time, for Esca’s fingertips immediately find that place again, but they brush over it far more gently, almost a caress. This time, Marcus recognizes the sensation, or something like it, though he requires the space of a few breaths to place it: the first time Esca got on his knees for Marcus beside the stables, when he pressed his fingers behind Marcus’s bollocks. Marcus permitted him to do it only a few times after that, but now he feels that same deep, radiating heat, magnified tenfold or more. It feels as though Esca is somehow stroking his cock from the inside, deep waves of bliss that make Marcus’s eyes threaten to roll back, that make Marcus’s prick hard enough to throb, even though—

Even though Esca is violating him.

“S-stop,” Marcus says, though he is not entirely confident the word actually leaves his mouth the first time. “Esca, stop.”

And, just as he had the first time Marcus had awoken with Esca’s mouth around his prick, Esca stops, though he does not withdraw his fingers. “I hardly think I am hurting you.”

“It would be better if you were,” Marcus grits out, willing himself not to miss the sensations produced by Esca’s fingers. “Must you prolong my humiliation any further?”

Then Esca’s fingers are gone entirely, and Marcus hears him growl. “Fine. You wish me to get on with it regardless of your comfort? I will get on with it.”

Marcus does not turn his head, but he hears the shuffle of fabric, the sound of Esca dropping his braccae and then slicking himself.

When Esca lines himself up and shoves in with no more ceremony, Marcus must remind himself that this is what he asked for. He does mind Esca’s words and pushes out, but he is not as grateful for the renewed discomfort as he imagined he might be, particularly as the deep, resonant moan that issues from Esca’s mouth creates a strange sensation in Marcus’s stomach.

“Oh, Marcus,” Esca murmurs, and Marcus can feel a whisper of breath against his back. “You are so tight, so perfect. I am—ohhh—I am the first to have you like this, and you are wonderful.”

Hot waves of shame flow from Marcus’s head all the way down to his toes—first at Esca’s words, and then at how his body responds to them. To be praised for such a vile thing should not feel this way, and Marcus squeezes his eyes shut tight, fingers digging into the furs as though to gather the strength to endure.

But once Esca begins moving, endurance becomes easier. Yes, there is… unavoidable sensation, slick and rhythmic, and Marcus cannot entirely block out the soft grunts that emanate from Esca’s lips, but Marcus feels nothing of the overwhelming pleasure that Esca created with his fingers. Without touch, his cock mercifully begins to soften, and he can simply drift away in his head. He thinks of the Eagle, of the joy that will come with finding it. They will have to fight their way out, to be sure, and Marcus is uncertain how many days’ ride they are from the wall at this point, as their journey was a winding one. He wonders how long before Esca gains the prince’s trust enough that he will reveal the location of—

Marcus is hit with a strange, empty feeling as Esca withdraws from him, and he is suddenly cold from a lack of shared body heat. Did Esca already come?

“Marcus, this is not ideal,” Esca huffs, and he certainly does not sound satisfied. “You are too tall, and your leg…”

As Marcus turns to look at him, his bad thigh quivers perilously and threatens to give out. His humiliation is already so profound that displaying this weakness in front of Esca does not even register. Regardless, he will not beg Esca to stop now, as he knows it would do no good. He remains silent, not trusting himself to speak.

Esca gestures vaguely with the hand that is not slowly fisting his hard, gleaming cock. “Lie down on your belly.”

Marcus does not argue, as thus far, speaking has only prolonged the process. So he does as bid, his mostly-soft cock ending up trapped against his belly. He groans as he stretches out his leg, jagged spikes of pain shooting through the overtaxed muscle. Esca was not incorrect—it would not have held him much longer. As it is, he will hurt tomorrow, for several reasons, but at least the furs are soft against his front.

He feels Esca’s knees bracket his own and then push inward, closing his legs. At first, Marcus assumes Esca only means to fuck his thighs, but then Esca’s fingers delve between his cheeks, finding his hole and adding more slick. At least Esca does not taunt him further, instead getting into position and working his cock back inside.

Marcus manages to hold in a gasp as Esca settles down over him, his thighs on either side of Marcus’s, his chest flush against Marcus’s back. At some point while Marcus was resettling himself, Esca removed his tunic, and there is nothing between them but skin. He is not penetrating as deeply into Marcus’s body from this angle, but his cock feels somehow larger, and when he begins to thrust—

When he begins to thrust, Marcus cannot hope to keep quiet.

Every pump of Esca’s hips drags his cock across that place inside Marcus—sometimes a teasing glance, sometimes a firm impact—and it sends sparks flashing behind Marcus’s eyes. Marcus’s cock begins to fill again, more quickly than before, hastened by Esca’s soft groan, followed by words in his own language that Marcus does not recognize. Esca sometimes moaned when Marcus fucked him, but he did not make sounds like this. They are guttural, grunting, an active expenditure of effort in the pursuit of pleasure, and to Marcus’s humiliation, he feels that pleasure, too.

For it is not only the sweet, rhythmic punch inside him—his cock now grinds against the agonizingly soft, plush furs beneath him, and he never imagined the combination of sensations would be so potent. There, is perhaps, a fold in the furs, a small ridge that rides perfectly beneath the crown of his prick, rubbing tantalizingly on each thrust, and to Marcus’s horror, he finds himself rocking his hips, just a little, along with Esca’s rhythm. He has not had any kind of release in so long, and suddenly he is hungrier for it than he has ever been for food, and all other thoughts leave his head. The need pulls right through his bones; he cannot deny it any more than he could deny the rising of the sun.

His will is exhausted, to say nothing of his body, and he finds he cannot control himself. He finds he does not want to.

In a moment, he lets himself feel everything: the shame, the fear, the rage, the heat, the humiliation, the pleasure—gods above and below, the pleasure—and it annihilates the part of him that is Marcus. He is nothing but sensation, nothing but a rutting animal ready to be bred, and he comes on nothing but the hard, steady thrust of Esca’s cock, spurting hot between his belly and the furs.

He spills copiously, as though Esca’s cock is pumping the seed right out of him in juddering waves. The wash of climax feels thick in his veins, seizing him up until his muscles cramp—or maybe it is a result of how hard he was grinding his hips into the furs. He cannot tell whether he is screaming or making no sound at all, only that his mouth is open and he is unable to stop from drooling. There is nothing else but the ecstatic sensation cresting through him, over and over.

Then, quick as a breath, it turns into pain.

He has spent, but Esca is still thrusting, still ramming his prick into that place inside Marcus’s body, now rendered raw and oversensitive in the wake of his orgasm. His eyes water even though they’re closed, tears threatening to spill out, and this is the cost, Marcus thinks. This is what he was expecting before, this deep, grinding agony that makes his body twitch and spasm. It is no more than he deserves.

And then, with a great, resonant moan, Esca’s rhythm breaks down and he comes, pressed tight to Marcus’s back. He thrusts weakly a few more times, but this only sends small sparks of pain shivering through Marcus’s gut. The worst, it seems, is over.

Until Esca pulls out.

It is not the pain that strikes Marcus—it is the emptiness, the cold. The sensation of Esca pulling out before was unpleasant, but only a fraction of this, and… and then, there was none of Esca’s seed to drip out of Marcus’s abused, contracting hole. None of Esca’s sweat to chill his skin.

None of Esca’s words to cut him to the core.

“Marcus, are you…?” Esca touches his hip, pauses. Begins again, with astonishment in his voice. “Did you—?”

Reacting like a cornered animal, Marcus scrambles up and away. Or he tries to—his leg does not allow him to get very far, and the furs allow him little traction. He thinks to grab the top one, but there is simply no way to hide the streaks of his seed across both his belly and the furs, the evidence of his disgraceful climax.

Esca’s face and chest are flushed with satisfied exertion, his eyes so wide that Marcus can see the flames reflected in them as he glances from Marcus’s face to his groin and back again. He did not expect this outcome either.

And, horror of horrors, his forehead begins to crease with something like pity. “Marcus—”

“Leave me,” Marcus snaps, finally managing to get his feet under him and pull up his braccae. He may have to limp away from Esca, but at least he will not crawl. “If you have any regard for me at all, fucking leave. Now.”

Marcus chances one more glance at Esca’s face before turning away to retrieve his tunic. The pity has hardened into anger. Good.

Good.

&&&

Marcus does not see Esca for two full days. He is sore, though not as much as he expected, and the physical pain is nothing compared to the agony in his mind. He has never been prone to rumination, as some are—or at least he was not, before all of this, when he still had his life. He is reminded once again of the days after Lutorius arrived to hand him his armilla, when there was naught to do all day but sit in his chair and think upon the ruination of his life. He is in much the same situation now. His captors give him menial tasks, but they do not stop the thoughts from entering his mind.

In the daylight, he can almost wish that he had taken his chances with the Seal warriors—all of them—instead of submitting to Esca. His body was already broken. What would it matter if they smashed out his teeth and brutalized his insides? He would have healed, or else he would have died. But he would not have had to live with the knowledge that some part of him enjoyed being degraded, being violated. He would have died with at least part of his soul untainted.

But in the darkness of the night, curled on his pallet in the slave tent, he knows the truth. He would not rather the savages have taken his life and what was left of his honor. He would rather have done what he did, and given it to Esca. Not quite willingly, for he would not have done it under any other circumstances, but without physical force. With something approaching familiarity, and even tenderness.

And for showing him that truth, he will never forgive Esca.

On the third day, Marcus sits at the river bank cleaning fish, and a Seal woman smiles at him. Then everything moves very quickly until Esca has Marcus on his knees, a knife to his throat. The threat that issues from his mouth afterward is the truest vow he has ever sworn. He will see Esca dead the next time he is alone with the man.

He is not summoned to Esca’s tent again.

&&&

Some time after that, there is a ceremony on the beach, and when Marcus catches a glimpse of the Eagle, all else is forgotten. Even when he is knocked senseless and the first face he sees upon waking is Esca’s, his immediate thought is not what transpired between them in the tent, nor his vow to kill Esca at the first opportunity. His only thought is for the Eagle.

Fortunately, so is Esca’s.

Esca pulls him to his feet and hands him his sword and fulfills his promise.

&&&

As they race back through the wilds of Caledonia, they barely speak at all, for what is there to say? And Marcus can almost pretend like that night in the tent never happened. It does not matter now; they have the Eagle. What Marcus had to do to retrieve it is immaterial.

And then Esca loops an arm around his hips, bearing more of Marcus’s weight than Marcus thought him capable of, and it all comes rushing back. How Esca touched him. How Marcus responded. He was a fool to think himself free of shame, even now that he has the Eagle.

But he quickly realizes that they might not live long enough for it to matter, or at least Marcus will not. When he falls in the water and can no longer rise to his feet, he knows he will die here, his bones left to rot out in the open just as his father’s were. He will never see Rome again, but at least he will not enter her gates a cinaedus. No one else knows of his debasement, and somehow, despite everything that has happened, Marcus intuits Esca would never use that information to harm his legacy—that is not his way. But Marcus will know. Even as he descends into the underworld, he will be unable to forget.

When he frees Esca, when he sends him away to find help, Marcus does not expect to see the man ever again.

&&&

But Esca returns, and somehow, they are victorious.

The cost is great—Guern’s widow curses them when they tell her of his death, and Marcus imagines similar reactions are occurring throughout the Selgovae village where many of the survivors of the Ninth had created new lives. Marcus invites the ones who still live to return with him to Rome, for they can do so now that he has retrieved the Eagle, but they each turn him down. They have families here, wives and children. The fight against the Seal People was enough to expiate their dishonor.

For that small amount of goodwill, Marcus and Esca are allowed to remain in the village for a few days to recuperate. Or Marcus must do so, at any rate—Esca seems to recover after a long night of sleep and a good meal, but presumably he ate and slept well with the Seal People. Marcus is so hungry that he cannot eat a full meal without making himself sick.

They see little of each other, as Marcus is forced to rest his leg for much of the time. Each time Esca walks away from him, Marcus wonders whether that will be the last he sees of the man, for Esca has fulfilled the oath he made on his father’s dagger as well as the one in the tent. Yet each time, Esca returns, bedding down across the healer’s hut from Marcus.

And each night, when Esca is upon his pallet and facing away, Marcus stares at him and tries not to dwell on the past. On what happened in that tent, of the threat Marcus made to kill Esca at the first opportunity. It is strange to think on: he meant it at the time, with all the enmity and shame in his heart. Now the rage that seemed so unquenchable feels far away, and all their debts to one another seem paid.

What is done is done, and surely all the… the unpleasantness was worth it for the result. Esca kept his word in more ways than one, and the Eagle will be returned, and Marcus’s family name will be restored. That is what matters.

It was worth it, Marcus tells himself, holding the Eagle in his hands. It is smaller than it was in his memory of his father marching off to war, but of course, Marcus was a child then, and much smaller himself. The Eagle seemed far grander a thing then, shining like the sun and proud as Rome herself. But gold is a soft metal, and while it does not tarnish, the scratches and dents collect dirt and grime. The bird in Marcus’s hands is a rather paltry-seeming prize, if one does not know its true meaning. The cost of his own dignity is a small price to pay for retrieving it.

He wraps it carefully and puts it away. It was worth it, he tells himself.

He is immensely relieved when his leg has healed enough for them to finally leave and return below the wall. Horses and mules are too dear and the village too poor to spare any, so they will be compelled to walk. Part of Marcus quails at the thought, but they cannot remain here. Everyone knows the face of the Roman for whom their warriors recently died, as well as the face of the Briton who summoned them.

But the Selgovae have enough hospitality to offer them plentiful rations, and even a small bit of coin, for the return journey. They set off on a clear morning, Esca thanking the villagers profusely before they begin to wend their way south, back through the glens and bogs. Esca leads the way, though neither speaks more than absolutely necessary.

By nightfall, it is raining. In the absence of a suitable cave, Marcus and Esca set up a small lean-to against a boulder, but their quick attempt at thatch does not do much to keep the water out. Of course, they can light no fire, and by the time they bed down, Marcus is shivering. Without thinking, he turns toward Esca, to share body heat with him as they did during their travels before—when he is suddenly, viscerally put in mind of the disgrace he endured the last time they were both on a bedroll.

I do not intend to be the one on my knees tonight, domine.

Refraining from killing Esca is one thing; embracing the man is another entirely. Marcus rolls away and settles on his side, facing away from Esca.

There is shuffling behind him as Esca turns over. “Do not be a fool, Marcus. It is freezing.”

“I am warm enough,” Marcus says, curling in on himself and trying hard to keep his teeth from chattering as he says it.

&&&

Perhaps Marcus dozes some that night, but he feels far from rested when the murky gray of the sky finally begins to lighten. They are a fortnight’s walk from the wall, from civilization, and despite all that Marcus has borne already, this realization causes a sinking despair that even hefting his pack that contains the Eagle onto his back cannot lessen. Two weeks of this seems unbearable, like punishment stacked upon punishment despite his remarkable achievement.

But he cannot close the distance to the wall by staying put and sulking, and at least the rain is no longer coming down, so they eat a quick breakfast of dried meat, and then they walk on.

A bit of weak sunlight filters through the clouds at some point in the afternoon, and Marcus finds his feet ceasing their forward trudge merely so he can stop and turn his face toward it. He hears Esca’s footsteps fall silent and Esca’s voice say his name, but Marcus closes his eyes and simply enjoys the gentle warmth on his face. The heat is short-lived, to be certain, but for a few moments, he feels lighter. The sun is still there, he reminds himself; it is merely hidden.

When it disappears again, he sighs and opens his eyes and turns back toward the path. When he does, he sees Esca watching him, though he could not name the expression on Esca’s face. They walk on.

A few minutes later, Esca says, without pausing in his stride or facing Marcus, “When shall we speak of it?”

“Speak of what?”

“The reason we both spent last night awake and shivering.”

Whatever warmth lingered in Marcus’s chest from the rays of the sun leaves him, and he glares at Esca’s back. “You know the reason.”

Then Esca does stop, turning to regard Marcus. “Yes, I believe I do. But I would have you say it.”

“Why?” Marcus spits. “You would compound my shame by having me speak of…” He trails off, hoping Esca will be appeased, or at least finished the thought for him, but instead, he continues staring at Marcus expectantly. “Of what happened between us in the tent.”

Esca nods, as though Marcus has confirmed his thoughts, but he says, “If there is shame, it is shared. We have both used each other for our own pleasure.”

All the anger Marcus thought had drained out of him suddenly comes flaring to life, burning through the numbness of the cold, and he advances on Esca. “You were my slave,” he hisses, glaring down into Esca’s eyes. “That was my right.”

Esca does not so much as blink, and his voice is infuriatingly even. “As it was mine, when you were my slave. And I only exercised it once. You took me—”

“Because you began it!” Marcus shouts. He does not know who may be lurking in these woods, but with his blood up, he does not care. These words have been burning in his heart for days, and though he never intended to speak them, now that he is, he cannot seem to stop. “I know you watched me behind the stables. You saw me, and you—you desired me, and you woke me with your mouth on my cock. ‘You harden, I give you ease.’ That is what you said to me.”

“Yes, I saw you behind the stables,” Esca hisses, his eyes narrowing with anger. “That is when I knew you would have come to me eventually, when your need was greater than your pain, and taken what you wanted. Can you look me in the eye and deny it?”

Marcus does not break his gaze away. “I would not have forced you,” he says through gritted teeth, as close to Esca as he can be without touching the man.

“No, I think you would not,” Esca admits. “But nor could I refuse you. I had but little power available to me, and I took what I could.” He puts his hands on Marcus’s chest and shoves, rocking Marcus back half a step. “I took what pleasure I could, as well, and I will not apologize for it.”

“What pleasure—” Marcus can abide this no longer, and he grabs Esca by the front of the tunic, hauling him up on his toes, voice barely more than a growl. “You loved my cock. You hardened every time you sucked me. I felt the tip of your prick—you got wet as a woman when I fucked you.”

Esca bares his teeth like an animal. “So did you.”

With all his heart, Marcus wants to deny it—but he cannot, so instead he wordlessly screams his rage, shaking Esca. “You made your hatred for me plain the day we met. If you still hate me so, why did you not simply kill me once your oath was fulfilled?” With each question, he shoves Esca back and then advances on him. “Why did you return to me? Why did you help me escape with the Eagle? Merely to torment me? To continue to shame me as I shamed you?”

On the last shove, Esca’s back hits a tree. His expression briefly betrays uncertainty only, and then he raises a foot and plants it in Marcus’s gut, kicking him back. Utterly unprepared, Marcus stumbles and falls on his ass, and he does not even have time to sit up before Esca is upon him.

“I do not hate you, you utter fucking fool,” Esca seethes, pinning Marcus’s arms to the ground. “If I did, I would have fucked your pretty mouth like I desired to. I would have brought you to my tent every night and let the others watch as I defiled you and made you enjoy it. If I hated you, I could walk away now and be free of you.”

“I am not stopping you,” Marcus shouts, bucking up with his hips and throwing Esca off. “You have repaid your debt. There is nothing binding us, neither oath nor honor.”

Though Marcus succeeds in unseating Esca, his grip on Marcus’s arms remains, and Esca merely pulls Marcus with him. Esca is flushed with anger, strands of hair matted to his forehead with sweat, his face so close that Marcus cannot quite focus his eyes upon it. “Indeed, there is nothing binding us. And yet I keep returning to you. I remain at your side even now. Would you have me go?”

A confirmation forms on Marcus’s lips… and dies there. Instead, he growls, “You have violated me. Not merely that, you rub this violation in my face. I should kill you.”

“So you threatened before,” Esca spits, thwarting Marcus’s attempts to pull his arms away. “Will you do it now? Will you kill the man who saved your family name as well as your life?”

If Marcus cannot free himself of Esca, he will at least fling him into the dirt where he belongs. He shoves Esca onto his back, rolling bodily atop him, heart pounding and chest heaving. “I could put my hands upon your throat this minute. I could throttle the life from you while you lay kicking and struggling beneath me.”

“And I could pull the dagger from your belt and shove it between your ribs,” Esca hisses.

Esca bucks beneath him, not enough to unseat Marcus but enough to make him aware of the long, lean lines of Esca’s body beneath him. Marcus knows this body, knows its strengths and its soft, tender places. He knows how to wring pleasure from it, willing or not, and the memory heats his blood. He is reminded of when they last fought like this, but now there is no Seal Prince to interrupt them.

Instead of reaching for Esca’s throat, Marcus drops his pelvis, grinding his growing hardness against Esca’s hip. “I could pull down your braccae and fuck you. Make you cry for mercy. Leave you hard and wanting.”

Esca’s eyes flash with something like humor, but his voice sounds like stone grinding against stone. “You think I would let you fuck me? Here and now?”

“I think you would beg for it.”

“I think you would sooner beg me,” Esca growls, thrusting up, and Marcus gasps to feel that Esca is hard as well, his prick a hot brand even through layers of wool. “You spent without a hand on you, with nothing but my cock pumping away in your arse.”

Marcus roars with anger, grinding Esca down into the earth with his entire body. If he wants to roll about in the dirt like an animal, Marcus will treat him like one, rutting against him without pity. He is so dizzy that gray spots begin to encroach upon his vision, all his blood rushing to his muscles and his cock. Grunting with effort, he fucks against Esca with thrusts so rough and punishing that they hurt even him. He rubs his own prick raw against the wool of his braccae, trapped between their bodies. The groans and whimpers spilling from Esca’s mouth are not sounds of pleasure, Marcus can tell, but his cock remains stiff as a tree root against Marcus’s hip, and far from trying to squirm away, he digs his fingers into Marcus’s lower back and pulls.

And so Marcus has no choice but to continue, to bring himself to climax by brute force. He heaves himself up on his hands, his bad thigh already beginning to fail him, but he has strength enough to finish this. Beneath him, Esca’s face and neck are blotched with red, his eyes dark and hungry, as though this was the outcome he desired all along. It is no matter—Marcus is too far gone for thought, his balls drawing up sharp as a cramp and his chafed cock spurting within his braccae. He roars out his peak, his hips juddering, and Esca uses that moment to wrap a leg around Marcus’s hip and roll him over.

Marcus is still coming, his cock jerking weakly, as Esca mounts him, hips moving in fast, rough jolts. Marcus’s cries of orgasm verge into sounds of agony as his prick softens and grows excruciatingly sensitive. Yet just as Esca made no move to throw Marcus off, so Marcus merely twitches helplessly under the onslaught. It hurts, it hurts, but Esca’s body is fever hot, and he grips Marcus’s shoulders as though he never intends to let go. Through watering eyes, Marcus watches as Esca’s head tips back and he shouts, loud and abandoned, as his body shakes with climax.

Then Esca’s muscles go slack, and with none of his usual grace, he slides off of Marcus and collapses to the side, chest heaving and sweat dripping from his temples. From there, he flops onto his back, lying next to Marcus in the dirt, his gasping breaths nearly as loud as the roaring in Marcus’s ears.

Boneless and aching, Marcus stares up at the sky, at the thick, gray blanket of clouds that now seems more familiar to him than the sun. He came within a hair’s breadth of telling Esca to go, to leave him, and yet he had not seriously considered being without the man. He had not imagined Esca leaving of his own accord, and he has trouble doing so even now.

He does not want to imagine it.

“I have no family,” Marcus hears Esca say between panting breaths. “No tribe. No coin or livelihood. Nothing but my freedom.” A pause. “And you.”

Marcus swallows, grateful that when he speaks, his voice does not crack. “As you said, there is nothing that binds us. And yet I think we are bound to each other all the same.”

“If I return with you, it will not continue as it was before.”

“You would not want to—”

“I would,” Esca interjects, and Marcus knows they are speaking of the same thing. “But if I am to warm your bed, you will warm mine, as well.”

Closing his eyes, Marcus tries to put aside his thoughts of what that might mean. Negotiations, perhaps. Marcus would have Esca’s mouth again, and he dares not imagine what he might have to give of himself in order to get it. What he might find himself willing to give. “You will not shame me again.”

“I will do nothing you do not desire. The time for that is past.”

“This is not done,” Marcus objects weakly. “Not between free men. If you were still my slave…”

Esca snorts. “But I am not. So we will find a way to have each other as free men, or we will part.”

If they have not parted already, Marcus knows they are unlikely to do so now, or possibly ever. Esca is the only living man who knows of Marcus’s shame, and Marcus is the only living man who knows of Esca’s honor, and so together they must remain.

“We will find a way,” Marcus says.