The Conqueror, page 12
From above him, Marcus heard a snort, followed by a low, breathless chuckle as Gwen’s fingertips pressed a little harder into his scalp, tugging his hair. He raised his head to see Gwen struggling weakly back up into a sitting position, gazing down upon Marcus where he remained, kneeling between Gwen’s legs. Even in the dim firelight, Marcus could see the flash of teeth bared by Gwen’s lazy grin. The hand in his hair softened again, sliding down over the side of his face, stroking his cheek and jawline as Gwen’s amusement faded. His expression became more contemplative, complex and difficult to read, but some of the smile lingered in his eyes and around his mouth. Marcus swallowed, turning his head just enough to touch his lips to Gwen’s palm.
Gwen’s eyes became searching. “No magick…”
Marcus shook his head. “No magic.”
“Markus wahnt sex, wahnt sex Gwen?”
Meeting Gwen’s eyes seriously, Marcus reiterated, “Marcus want Gwen want sex.” He realized that he hadn’t exactly been invited to suck Gwen’s cock just now, but he hoped that Gwen could forgive his forcefulness, or at least overlook it this once. Raising his eyebrows, he glanced at Gwen’s spent cock, and with an apologetic wince, pointed to his mouth. “Gwen…no want?”
This provoked another snort and a smile, but a mixed one. Gwen’s eyes rolled briefly, glancing away as he opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. He seemed to be blushing, though in the dark it was hard to tell. Gwen continued to avert his eyes, a frown creasing between his brows, doubt and confusion in his eyes even as his mouth continued to smile, opening and closing, half forming words but failing to give them sound. Gwen shook his head, strands of damp hair flicking into his eyes. He shoved them back, then picked at the blanket absently, glancing at Marcus only to quickly look away again.
Sitting up straighter, Marcus placed a hand over Gwen’s fidgeting one. “Gwen.”
Gwen met his eyes for longer, this time—a lingering moment in which thoughts and emotions too complex for Marcus to read filled the man’s face. Still, he tried, but there were no answers there—only questions Gwen had no words to ask. Finally, the man tipped his head back, his eyes turning upward as he sighed, his frame sagging. When he looked back down, there was a wry smile on his lips. “Gwen lern Latin,” he declared, giving each strange word its own firm emphasis.
Marcus wasn’t sure if he meant certain words he needed, or Latin in general to be able to communicate better, but either way, he could only agree. “I understand,” he answered with a small smile, nodding. “My thanks.”
With nothing more to say, Marcus rose from the floor. Gwen’s eyes flicked over Marcus’ body and dropped to his groin before quickly darting away. At once, Marcus became conscious of his nudity, of the male fluids drying on his spent cock. Heat rising to his face, he snatched up his tunic and yanked it over his head, even as Gwen pulled the blanket over his lap. Neither of them spoke, and Marcus hesitated, uncertain what to do now. The glow of the fire over Gwen’s skin finally helped him find a course of action to break the silent moment.
Murmuring for Gwen to wait a moment, Marcus snuck out of the bedroom and into the main room of the house. He filled a bucket with water from the cistern by the wall, then quietly returned, offered it to Gwen, and made scrubbing motions, pointing to Gwen’s arms—the safest area of his painted body. “Wash.”
Quickly understanding the meaning, Gwen nodded and accepted the bucket. He’d wrapped the blanket more fully around himself in Marcus’ absence, and was able to rise from the bed and go to his own bedroll without exposing himself again. He hesitated there, and Marcus saw him glance back at him briefly before he began to let the blanket slip from his shoulders. At that, Marcus turned his back and saw no more. Watching Gwen bathe himself by firelight would have been…unwise. Instead, Marcus used a cloth he had dipped in the water to clean his own body off.
Gwen returned the blanket silently, then went back to his bed. Marcus tried to do the same, but unfortunately his bed carried the lingering scent of sex, and sleep was difficult to find that night. Memories plagued him as he lay, restless in his bed alone. Gwen touching him, riding him…his sweet and hungry kiss. The horrid ritual, and the fear Marcus still felt like a cold knot in his stomach when he remembered Gwen’s power, the magical force that had struck him and rendered him helpless. Then the revelation of Gwen’s purpose, and the endless puzzle as Marcus recalled his time with Gwen thus far and attempted to piece together the truth behind Gwen’s actions, using what he had now told Marcus to explain it all.
And after everything else, he remembered the feeling of embarrassment, the need to cover his body from Gwen’s eyes. He wondered at it, for he had not felt such…shyness…perhaps since his first lessons in pleasure. Strange…he already knows my body, as I know his…
But this was a fleeting thought, for exhaustion at last dragged Marcus to sleep, not long before the dawn.
Chapter 8
Britannia’s chilly, damp spring gave way to summer. The days became warmer than Marcus would ever have imagined possible for this northern island—and longer than any of the Romans could believe. The sky remained light far into the summer evenings, and the sun seemed hardly to have left the sky before it returned with another dawn. The Britons spent long hours in the fields, more accustomed to the lengthy days spent farming than their new Roman overseers. Marcus had the task of ensuring that the conquered barbarians would have food for themselves that winter, as well as food to sustain the Roman forces, most of which were assigned to military occupation or to the reconstruction of Segontium.
Fortifying Segontium was the highest priority, followed by building more spacious, civilized housing. The first building completed was a large central hall to serve as a proper seat of command, with several apartments attached and more and more houses springing up nearby for the highest-ranked Romans. Marcus moved his small household into the legate’s apartment once it was completed, and his little collection of servants had their own tiny closet for sleeping quarters, separate from the kitchens, which were dedicated to cooking for large gatherings, not only Marcus’ private meals. The accommodations were meager compared to the houses in Rome, but the barbarians were awed by the first sight of their new home. The idea of having rooms dedicated to different purposes like sleeping and cooking seemed to be difficult for them to take in, at first.
Marcus’ new chambers were equipped with an alcove suitable for a valet to sleep in. He longed to install Gwen there immediately, yet Marcus had begun to fear arousing suspicion. Garnoc had been his personal servant for far longer, and he spoke Latin. So, reluctantly, when they moved to the apartment in the new building, Marcus sent Gwen to stay in the servants’ room with Anwen and made Garnoc his official valet. He consoled himself that at least Anwen was progressing well in Latin, and perhaps he could soon feel justified in sending Garnoc home and elevating Gwen to his station. Marcus missed having him near, but then again, he slept more soundly now that it was only Garnoc in his bedchamber with him.
For a long time, nothing out of the ordinary passed between them. Gwen acted the part of silent servant, and now even their rare times alone in the evening were gone. There were no more Latin lessons after dark, so Marcus had to endure many days at a time without hearing Gwen’s voice at all. Gwen did speak in front of Anwen, but only when no one else was present, and usually it was nothing more than asking for a word in Latin.
Anwen’s Latin progressed quickly through the summer, although she had a tendency to mix up words, and her grasp of verb tense was terrible, so speaking to her could be quite confusing. Gwen’s progress was slower, but more precise—as far as Marcus could tell from the few times he was able to hear Gwen speak. Anwen was constantly at Gwen’s side, so there were no occasions to speak privately. The girl clearly adored Gwen and was fiercely devoted to him. Marcus sometimes felt the prickle of envy toward her—able to spend every moment in Gwen’s company, speaking to him in their native tongue and fully understanding his thoughts and intentions…and perhaps even his feelings. Did they ever talk about him? Did Gwen tell the girl what had passed between them? Did she know what Gwen thought of Marcus?
Or perhaps they never spoke of him at all, and Gwen was happy to have Marcus in his life as little as possible. Marcus would watch him, whenever he could, wondering if Gwen was enjoying the summer days now that he was free of Marcus’ company—and now that he knew for certain that his body would not be violated again. He was alive, under no obligations but secrecy and service—compared to most Britons, his life was probably blissfully carefree.
In contrast, Marcus’ life had never felt so empty, but he knew he deserved much worse than loneliness for his crimes, so he chose patience and devoted himself to the distraction of Segontium for the summer.
~•~
Midsummer was near, and a strange unrest had been growing among the conquered Britons. The Romans generally disregarded their complaints and enforced their rule with violence, but even the officers directly under Marcus were beginning to tell him of the barbarians’ strange behavior. It was difficult to understand. They were not gathering for a rebellion, as far as the Romans could tell, nor did they seem more resentful than usual of their overseers, their instruction in Latin, or the new buildings. Yet there was a nearly palpable unrest among the natives, tinged with a strong undercurrent of fear. It all seemed baseless to Marcus and his officers, but the fear continued to swell into a barely contained panic as midsummer approached.
Garnoc, taking his new role as valet seriously, attempted to provide an explanation. Unfortunately, the barbarians saw him as an outsider, as much a Roman as the soldiers, despite his ability to speak their tongue. He could only report what he had heard whispered—that it was something to do with a druid ritual. He did not know what, for his southern tribe had not observed whatever practice these northern Britons did, in this case. It was a more local rite; that was all he knew.
“Ask that girl, then,” Marcus ordered. “She should know more.” Garnoc’s eyebrows rose in questioning surprise, reminding Marcus that he might be suspicious that the centurion was turning to druid knowledge for help. “She is native to these lands,” he quickly clarified. “Surely she knows as much as every peasant here, but she may be more willing to confess what she knows. To preserve her…position.”
That seemed to satisfy Garnoc. “Yes, Sire.”
By nightfall, Garnoc reported, “The girl says the people here celebrate midsummer with a druid ritual. It bless the fields and make the harvest good. Fear is upon the people that the harvest will die without the gods’ favor, without the druids. Some may even attempt to make the ritual without druid help. Very bad, very…danger.”
Glancing up from the scrolls he’d been reading, Marcus shot his valet a dark look. “Why danger?” Naturally, he couldn’t allow druid rituals to take place, but not out of any fear that the druids posed a physical threat to the Roman conquest. It was important to re-educate the people and bring them into the Empire’s ways; that was all.
But this barbarian, for all his training in Roman ways, seemed to have other ideas. He paused, then darkly answered, “Common man should not meddle in the realm of the gods. Only druids have power to speak to gods peacefully, and not bring wrath instead of favor.”
At the mention of power, a chill ran down Marcus’ spine. He remembered the force that had held him down at Gwen’s command. He still had no explanation for it; he had never believed these barbarians’ gods were real, yet he had no other name for what he had felt. In this land so far from Rome, he was beginning to wonder what strange mysteries and horrors might occupy the fringes of the world.
Still…he knew his duty. He had never thought too deeply about why the Empire must spread—he only knew that Rome was civilized and advanced and powerful, worthy of ruling the world. Now that he was leading battles on the furthest fronts, he could see the frail existences these barbarians scraped out, and Rome’s guidance seemed all the more generous. The barbarians disagreed, of course, but that was the reason for their re-education into Roman culture—so that they could come to accept the best government in the world and live in peace and prosperity, no longer at war with their neighbors for the scant necessities of life.
Thus, to prevent any attempts to revive druid rituals, Marcus ordered a heavier guard on the natives, as well as a strict curfew for the immediate future. At the closing of the day, all the Britons were collected within Segontium, behind closed doors, and an overnight watch made certain that no one was free to wander about. During the short hours of darkness, the city became like an empty ruin, silent and cold, with only the patrolling guards giving any sign of life. The Britons grumbled and the tension rose even higher, but the weaponless people were powerless to stand against the Roman soldiers.
All seemed to be under control…until midsummer morning.
The Britons went out to the fields, watched by the Romans as always. Marcus was occupied with construction when a soldier returned with news of what they had discovered.
On the edge of a far field, out of sight of the city, some sort of ritual had been performed.
Marcus rode out with a contingent of officers and soldiers. The site of the ritual was a hillock; around the crown of the hill, large stones formed and uneven ring. There was a large, flat stone in the very center, long enough for a man to lie upon—and it was stained a dark, ruddy brown. Trails of drying gore ran down the sides, but of the source of the blood, there was no trace. No carcass or…body. Only blood, staining the stone and scattered over the ground.
“The curfew last night was perfect, Sire,” his second in command offered. “There were no unusual reports. No one saw anything.”
With a nod, Marcus acknowledged the information, his expression dark as he studied the stone circle. “Question them again. Each and every soldier.” He glared around the hillock once more before spurring his horse to return. “Tear this place down.”
“Sir, we tried upon arrival, but the stones are sunken quite deep—”
“Then pull them up,” Marcus growled. “Destroy this place.” With a kick, he spurred his horse back to Segontium.
It would be a long day, he knew. A long time before he could retire to his own chambers.
So he went there first.
It was not the hour for preparing meals, so Marcus found all three of his Briton servants occupied with common tasks in the main apartment. Garnoc was mending some articles of clothing, while Gwen and Anwen silently washed the rest. As Marcus watched from the entryway, unnoticed, Anwen spoke in their tongue, softly, to Gwen, who nodded. Without glancing up, Garnoc snapped, “Shawl. Clean. ‘The shawl is clean.’”
Anwen flinched and turned back to Gwen, repeating clumsily, “Tah shah is clee-ahn.” Gwen nodded with a small, encouraging smile. Garnoc grunted impatiently but fell silent as the other two returned to their work.
When Marcus stepped into the room, Garnoc glanced up, then rose to his feet, startled. Gwen’s eyes lifted a moment before Garnoc’s, and he slowly straightened. Anwen looked up at him curiously, then around. Catching sight of Marcus, she squeaked, jumped to her feet, and scurried behind Gwen.
For a moment, there was silence. Gwen’s gaze was upon him, his blue eyes simply curious. Waiting. Marcus examined him in return. His hair is getting longer… He cleared his throat. “Garnoc, go…” Nothing came to mind. Marcus blinked. “…Away. Leave.” Frowning deeply, Garnoc looked from him to the druids, but bowed and began to depart. “The main hall,” Marcus abruptly added. “Go there and wait for me.”
“As you say, Sire.” Garnoc left without another word.
Stepping further into the room, Marcus neared Gwen and Anwen. Gwen’s eyes searched his face, but the man gave no sign of fear, of suspicion. He was at peace as much as ever, and he waited for Marcus to speak.
“Druid magic,” Marcus began, keeping his voice as flat as he could. “In the field beyond the—out of city,” he corrected himself.
Gwen’s eyes, which had understood the first two words, dimmed. Half turning, he gently touched Anwen’s arm. “Ataf setee?”
Eyes peeled wide, Anwen started at Marcus, shrinking back. Gwen spoke again. “Anwen?” Her wide eyes flitted to him and seemed to focus, then to search for a moment.
“Seetee…ddinasoedd?” She shook her head in incomprehension at the rest.
Gwen nodded, slowly, and looked back to Marcus. “Seetee?” He pointed all around, pantomimed roofs over his head, and draw a circle—the rough shape of Segontium. Marcus nodded. “Ataf?” He asked, shrugging with open hands.
Marcus expelled a heavy breath. “Out. Out city.” He pointed away, in the direction of the field. Gwen’s eyes followed his hand, but no more. Marcus grunted, cast about, and struck upon the wood stacked ready for the fire. He picked up a few small bits of kindling and set them on the ground, arranging them in a ring around one long, central piece. A picture of the stone circle. “Druid. Magic. Night.” He flicked his hand behind himself to indicate the past, straightening to gaze down at Gwen.
Understanding. Gwen’s face relaxed, knowledge in his eyes as he looked up at Marcus, and a faint smile. He nodded. “Druidh magick.”
“Was it you?” Marcus snapped—but of course Gwen did not understand. His teeth ground together. “Gwen?” He pointed at Gwen, then at the wooden model of the circle.
Still with that barely there, but knowing smile, Gwen shrugged. “Fahrmer no magick.”
It was the final confirmation. He is using me. He hasn’t given up his barbarisms, and he will not. He’ll continue under this guise of innocence for as long as I let him live. Marcus scowled deeply. “And I,” he growled, “like an indulgent mother…will allow him.”
