The Conqueror, page 13
A whimper of fear drew his attention—and Gwen’s. Anwen had vanished behind him, keeping an iron grip on his clothing. Gwen turned as far as her grip would allow and spoke softly in their tongue, laying his hand upon her head, though the angle was awkward.
Distracted, Marcus watched with a tightening in his chest—Gwen’s behavior to the child was so caring, so…fatherly. This new side of the man—this parental sort of tenderness—appeared to Marcus as beautiful as every other part of him. Even betrayed, he was a lovesick fool. Watching them, his heart yearned after Gwen dreadfully, missing the times when they had been alone together, missing the heat of his skin and his expressive, lovely eyes. It had been so long since those first days, when they were always alone together… The child’s shaking eased, and those eyes turned back to Marcus, saw his face, and quickly looked down, faint color rising to Gwen’s cheeks. Marcus swallowed, taking a deep breath to bring himself back to the subject at hand.
He forced strength into his voice. “No. Magic.” It felt like shouting at the wind to cease, but Marcus did not know what else to do. He could hardly appear to condone these rituals…though allowing them to go unpunished was its own sort of approval, in a way that gnawed at him.
Clear blue eyes were soft as they looked at him. Gwen merely nodded. “Druidh die. Understandh.”
He wanted, for a moment, to punch that man in the face. And yet the greater part of him, alas, wanted something very different. With a grunt, Marcus spun on his heel and left…before he could lose control of himself and reach out for Gwen.
The day was long, as he’d known it would be. His officers scoured the population for a culprit—one Marcus knew would only become a scapegoat. For two days, the tension of that certainty mounted, bearing down upon him. Every moment he was waiting for one of the soldiers to bring in an innocent Briton, accusing him of the heathen ritual. And Marcus would sentence him to death…to protect the real culprit.
In battle, people died. That was the nature of war. But on the battlefield it was fair—kill or be killed. The druids were evil—he sacrificed them for the greater good. But to kill a man, a man who was innocent and had no hope to defend himself, to shield another—that was murder, and for two days, Marcus’ head throbbed and his stomach would hold no food as he waited to become a murderer.
On the third day, a centurion came before him, accompanied by a guard…leading a peasant. Marcus’ stomach turned to ice. “What is it.”
“My soldier has found someone who claims to know the culprit in the heathen rite, Sire.”
The guard stepped forward at his commander’s gesture. “Sire, this Briton came to me to report the culprit.” The man was glancing around rapidly, clearly not understanding a word. The guard continued, “He claims that a man in his neighbor’s family suddenly fell ill the day following the ritual, and he died this morning, though he was healthy before and none can explain his illness. We investigated, and I brought the body for you to inspect. We discovered some strange markings upon it.”
Slowly, Marcus rose. “Bring it in.” The guards moved to act, the Briton speaking to a scholar who had come forward to serve as an interpreter. A body was carried in on a stretcher between two servants. The Briton stepped to it, drew up his shirt, and pointed to the dead man’s chest.
Coming closer, Marcus could see an odd symbol, apparently carved into the flesh with a blade. The symbol meant nothing to him—it did not resemble Anwen’s, but then again, neither did Gwen’s. The druids apparently did not mark themselves uniformly. He frowned, studying the dead man. Old—quite old for a barbarian, and bony…but that could be the ravages of whatever disease had taken him. It did not indicate his health before this.
“The barbarian says,” the scholar interpreted as the man chattered, “that this symbol is a druid marking. He believes his neighbor’s father-by-marriage pledged himself to the gods and committed the ritual. He was not originally a druid, however…and apparently the gods were displeased with a commoner attempting to speak to them, and struck him dead. That is the barbarian’s explanation, Sire.”
“Sire,” the centurion cut in, “I do not think we should accept this explanation. To allow the people to see us agree with such an idea is to indicate that Rome accepts that these barbarian gods not only exist, but are powerful enough to act.”
“That is not our position,” Marcus commented thoughtfully, still studying the corpse. That symbol…those cuts…
“We should consider that this barbarian may be attempting to defer blame to protect the real culprit—possibly himself or one in his household.”
“Mmm.” Marcus nodded. “I am inclined to suspect that myself. Centurion, you will investigate this Briton and all his family members. However,” he added sharply, before the soldiers could depart, “do not be cruel in your investigation.” He fixed his subordinate with a long, serious look. “Investigate them to discover any treachery, but if you find none, do them no harm. We do not want to discourage the barbarians from cooperating with Rome. If he is innocent, we will say that we do not accept this dead man as the culprit—we will continue the search until the matter is forgotten. And we will give this man some small reward…for his effort to serve the Roman Empire.” He looked down at the corpse again. “We do not condone it, but it is inevitable that these people will continue to believe in their gods for a time. Let us not validate that faith with too much aggression—that could imply that we fear it as a possible truth. Eradicate the druids and ignore the rest, and the heathen gods will pass into superstition, then into myth, until they are forgotten.”
“Aye, Sire.”
Marcus turned away. “Dispose of this as a slain enemy.” All understood—leave him to the wild animals. Forbid any rites of death, whether Roman or Briton. The blame was cast. Marcus could not have dreamt a better escape. He thanked the gods for that one resourceful Briton.
For he knew the dead man was no culprit. The marks cut in his chest had not been made two days ago—they were fresh, and showed no signs of even a short time of healing. More than that, they were bloodless—cut into the man after he was cold. A scapegoat had been found—the barbarians themselves had found one for him.
~•~
For the rest of the summer, Marcus took advantage of the separation between himself and his silent druid. Gwen was always around his apartment, but Marcus was rarely there except to sleep. They never spoke. Gwen did not seek him out, and Marcus kept his word and did not pursue Gwen either. In fact, he avoided Gwen almost entirely. There was a vague, hopeless hope inside him that perhaps, with time, his ardor would fade, and he would be able to see Gwen more objectively—and then deal with him and the threat he presented.
Unfortunately, Venus would not allow him to slip away peacefully from his own desires. Gwen’s absence tormented him with loneliness that only grew more and more painful. He slept poorly; in the height of late summer’s heat, he tossed in bed through the short nights, barely able to drift off for a few hours.
One such night, Marcus woke in darkness, exhausted and covered in sweat. Unable to bear his stifling chamber any longer, he rose silently. Garnoc slept in his alcove, and Marcus avoided waking him. He went into the common room of his apartment in search of the water bucket. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he found it, dipping his hands in to gather water to drink, then to splash over his face and body. The relief helped him to relax a little, and he sighed, running a hand through his hair. He stood a moment, tired but not sleepy, and in no way happy to return to his bed.
“Marcus?”
The soft voice behind him made Marcus spin around, and there was Gwen—shadowed in the entryway from his own little closet. “Gwen…” He swallowed, immediately becoming conscious that he was wearing nothing but his loincloth. Struggling to cover his embarrassment, he cleared his throat. “Uh…why are you…awake?”
Gwen stepped forward, and the moonlight reached his features, showing his bemused and surprised expression. “Gwen go out.” Marcus frowned, straightening stiffly. Gwen smiled. “Gwen go in,” he offered in a reassuring tone, then repeated himself with gestures, pointing to the door, then back to where they stood now. “Gwen go out, go in.” Then, as Marcus continued to frown, he offered, “Marcus go out?”
He hesitated. “Go…with you?” Do not do it…keep your distance… But the inner voice was…difficult to heed. And he was curious. Where exactly did Gwen plan to go? There were guards patrolling the city who would not allow him to roam free. “I…ah.” He looked down at himself, but Gwen was already stepping forward with a little smile.
“Cloak,” he offered, removing the one on his shoulders and offering it to Marcus. Gwen was dressed in his shirt and trousers underneath. Marcus took the cloak without thinking and wrapped it around himself. It felt better to be covered, but he still was not dressed for a midnight inspection of the city… Gwen reached out, and Marcus’ breath caught as Gwen took his hand. “Come.” Gwen tugged, and he followed.
They walked the few paces to the doorway slowly, and from the first step Gwen began to murmur in his tongue. Immediately, the air began to feel…strange. Oddly sharp, clear…
In three paces, they reached the door, and Gwen put his hand out to push it open. Beyond—Marcus froze for a moment. There was nothing beyond. A blank, white-gray mist covered the doorway. He had no idea where such a mist had come from. It was too warm a night for something like this…
Still murmuring, still holding his hand, Gwen stepped into the mist, tugging Marcus along with him.
The mist closed around him—but it was not like the dank fog of this land. It did not feel thick and heavy. Cool, yes—very cool and tingling on his skin. It was deeply refreshing. He felt himself drawing in deep breaths, just to fill himself with the cool sensation.
It only lasted a moment, however. With three more paces, they stepped out of the mist, and the evening’s heat surrounded them again. Marcus stopped dead in his tracks. He was in the forest.
Wide-eyed, he scanned around himself—How did I come here? It was not the courtyard, not even anywhere in Segontium, and a glance behind showed vanishing threads of mist and nothing but more forest—not his chambers, not even the city wall. Fear clenched in his stomach.
Gwen’s hand squeezed his own, and Marcus looked forward again to find the druid smiling gently, leading him forward through the forest. “Walk,” Gwen suggested…and walk Marcus did, though he knew not how. He felt strangely outside of himself, as though walking in a dream. For a dream this must be…it could not be real…
The forest soon thinned, and Gwen guided him out into the open. The ground rose ahead, and Marcus found that they were climbing a hill. Almost at once, he knew where he was—it was difficult not to recognize the massive stones that crowned this particular hill, even though they were not as they had been at first. With much effort, the Romans had managed to pull several of them out of the ground, and they lay on their sides in disarray. The three largest could not be budged, and none of the stones could be removed very far, so the circle was still evident, but at least it stood less proud and perfect than before. The central stone slab had been half-covered with earth—the soldiers had tried to break it in half, at first, but that effort had failed, so they had done their best to bury it instead.
Glancing around, Marcus drew the cloak tighter around himself. This place, even in partial ruin, felt threatening to him. The stones were bathed in moonlight, the shadows deep. His memory easily supplied a vision of blood upon the stone slab and the ground—and at the moment, he had fresh reason to fear the powers Gwen seemed to wield. Being here with him, in this eerie place…Marcus dearly missed his sword.
At the same time, Gwen seemed as comfortable and easy as Marcus was tense and alarmed. He strolled forward into the circle, arms swinging gently at his sides, face raised slightly to the starry sky. When he reached the central stone, he brushed a hand over it, sweeping a little dirt from its surface. Then, he turned back to Marcus, who still hovered outside the circle. The tilt of his head and raised eyebrows conveyed nothing but surprise and confusion over Marcus’ wariness. He approached again, and when he was nearer to Marcus, he gestured behind himself. “Sit?”
Eyes flicking to the stone, Marcus tensed further. “Sit?” On that…bloody pagan altar? He shook his head. He didn’t quite trust his voice.
Gwen’s familiar frown of confusion appeared, and he glanced between Marcus and the stone. After a moment, he relented, came back, and moved to a nearby fallen stone. Sitting on the monument that now lay on its side, he gestured to the surface next to him. “Sit?” he asked again.
Marcus hesitated for a long moment…but the fallen stone was somehow much less threatening than the altar. He finally took a few halting steps forward and sat down beside Gwen. He glanced nervously at his companion. Gwen gave him a faint, reassuring smile, then leaned back and sighed, gazing out at the moonlit hilltop.
For what felt like forever, they were silent. Marcus desperately tried to collect himself and calm down, but being nearly naked in such a strange place—not to mention the unexplainable way they arrived—kept him uneasy. Nothing was familiar about this. Gwen, on the other hand, seemed more at ease than Marcus had ever seen him—and he was a man who repeatedly surprised Marcus with his peaceful demeanor. But now…when Marcus dared to glance over at Gwen, the man’s face was blissfully relaxed. It was difficult to explain, but he seemed…part of his surroundings. As though he belonged there as much as a tree belongs in the forest, a fish in the sea.
He is so…beautiful.
In the middle of Marcus’ reverie, Gwen half-turned to look at him, a friendly smile on his face. “Gwen learn Latin,” he offered conversationally.
Marcus swallowed, bringing his attention into focus. “Ah…good.”
Still smiling, Gwen nodded. “Yes. Learn Latin…ah…ah-pal…geize?” Blinking, Marcus shook his head, blank. Gwen frowned in concentration. “Ahpal…guise? Alpalo-gise?”
Suddenly straightening, Marcus ventured, “Apologize?”
Gwen’s smile was wide and sudden. “Yes! Ah…” He opened his palm toward Marcus, as though asking for the word one more time.
“A-pol-o-gize,” Marcus repeated slowly, articulating each syllable.
“Ahpologise,” Gwen tried, and Marcus nodded, feeling himself begin to smile. Then he frowned again.
“Why apologize?”
Gwen pointed to himself. “Druid. Ahpologise. Marcus say no magic. Gwen ahpologise magic.”
His expression dimmed. “If you are going to apologize, do not do it in the first place.” Gwen shrugged, and Marcus sighed harshly. “No apologize magic. No magic. Druid—”
“—Die,” Gwen finished for him, nodding. “Druid die. Understand.”
His frown deepening, Marcus stared into Gwen’s eyes. “Druid magic bad.”
But his urgent words only prompted another smile as Gwen gently shook his head. “No bad. Magic good. Help.”
With a grunt, Marcus looked away again, back at the hilltop before them. “No want your help.”
To his surprise, Marcus heard a soft laugh. Looking back at Gwen, he saw the man shaking his head. Blue eyes met his, amused but gentle. “No help Marcus.” His surprise must have shown on his face. Gwen added, “Marcus good. No help. Magic serve gods.”
Marcus’ shoulders sagged. “Druid,” he pronounced heavily.
Gwen nodded. “Druid serve gods.” Drawing a leg up, he rested his chin on his knee and regarded Marcus. “Gwen die?”
Oh, why ask me again? Marcus sighed, shaking his head slowly and looking away. It was a struggle to force the words out through a tight throat. “No. Gwen serve druid gods. No die.” He felt…defeated. The summer had seemed like an eternity so far, but it had not been nearly long enough to dim his yearning for Gwen. No amount of time can cure a fool, he thought bitterly. And he was clearly a fool—the legate of a Roman outpost, a centurion, sitting on a rock in his loincloth in the middle of the night, unable to kill one lousy druid, who had no intention of giving up his barbaric ways.
A warm touch—Gwen’s hand upon his own, lifting it. Marcus looked into those lovely eyes again, and they were clear and warm, like…friendship. “My thanks,” Gwen said softly, then released his hand.
With a moan, Marcus buried his face in both hands. He felt another touch, now to his cloaked shoulder. “Marcus good?”
He didn’t need to look up to see the concern; he could hear it, and even that was too much. “No,” he mumbled, head down. “No good.”
Shifting slightly, Gwen’s hand rubbed his shoulder in what was probably intended as a comforting gesture—certainly not an arousing one. When Marcus still did not look up, another hand grasped his wrist and pulled it away. He lifted his gaze, and now Gwen’s eyes were sad. “Gwen ahpologize,” he whispered with sincerity.
Marcus smiled bitterly, then patted Gwen’s hand where it still lingered on his shoulder. “That does not change the danger I am in,” he sighed, “yet it gives me some hope that you might care. My thanks.”
Obviously, Gwen did not understand most of his words, but the last two made him smile, and he dropped the matter and returned his gaze to the starry sky. Marcus did likewise, and for a while longer they sat in stillness, listening to the insects sing into the warm summer night.
When Gwen finally rose with an inviting smile, Marcus stood and followed, this time without being dragged. They returned to the forest, slipping into the undergrowth. Marcus watched and listened as Gwen began to murmur, as the tingling, cool mist gathered. It became a solid, impenetrable gray between two trees, and Gwen reached back and took his hand just before they crossed through.
When they emerged, they were within the dark, hot room they had come from. Gwen released his hand as Marcus drew a deep breath, steadying his nerves. He’d been expecting it that time, and yet…it was hardly something he could grow accustomed to so quickly.
Gwen turned to him with a smile. “Sleep good.” Then he began to move toward the doorway to his and Anwen’s little closet. Marcus felt a tug in his stomach, an unwillingness to see him go. The night had been shared in such a relaxed manner, almost in the easy comfort of…friendship. In spite of the magic and the discouraging conversation—he wanted more. Always more… And suddenly, Marcus realized that he needed the new word Gwen had just learned. He had been needing it so long, he’d forgotten.
