The Conqueror, page 7
Another frown. “He might not understand me, sir.”
Marcus looked up at that, confused. “Why not? You speak the native tongue.”
The peasant looked like he was biting back wry amusement. “There is not only one native tongue, sir. We are north of my clan’s land, here. I do not know if Northers understand my speech. Never met one.”
Marcus blinked. The idea had never occurred to him. In all of Rome, there was only Latin. This Britannia did not have one speech? Well…perhaps not. They spoke differently in Normandy. But then again, that had been across the sea, and far away. These people of this little island were so strange…
“Well, ask. Let us see if he can understand you.”
“Then I’ll ask him that first sir, if you please.” Marcus nodded. Garnoc turned to Gwen and said something in the barbarian tongue. Gwen glanced, oh so briefly, at Marcus, then looked back at Garnoc and nodded. “There you are, he does.”
“As if he speaks, then.”
Garnoc put fourth another question—which, to Marcus, sounded exactly the same, if a little shorter. Gwen did not look to him this time, but he hesitated, his eyes guarded. Finally, he slowly shook his head. Garnoc looked at Marcus.
“Good to know,” he nodded, looking at Gwen. “Good. Good.” Gwen’s eyes met his, catching his meaning. Marcus nervously licked his lips. “I think he was a farmer of some sort, Garnoc. Ask him if he was.”
Garnoc asked, this time a longer question. Gwen did not simply glance over this time—he looked from Garnoc to Marcus, the faintest confusion appearing in his eyes. Marcus met his gaze directly, putting a certain urgency into his own eyes. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
Gwen’s gaze turned thoughtful a moment before he looked at Garnoc again, and again nodded. “There you are, sir. A dumb farmer lad, at your service.”
Marcus grunted his acceptance, then added carefully, “I have not been able to tell him anything. Will you explain something to him, Garnoc?” The servant agreed, not seeming to think anything of it. “I want you to explain to him that…explain the situation of a captive, such as yourself. He might still fear cruelty, or attempt to run away. I would like him to know that he will not be harmed, so long as he remains with me. I will…see to his needs.” He glanced at Garnoc. “You may tell him what you think of me as a master. I suppose you will, regardless, for I can hardly understand you or stop you. But whatever you wish to tell him of me, I want him to know that I will never…hurt him. You know I have never beaten you,” he added, reminding the servant of perhaps his best claim to the title “good Roman master,” compared to others.
“Aye sir.” Garnoc turned to Gwen and launched into a long explanation. Gwen listened, his eyes occasionally glancing over at Marcus. Garnoc’s voice ended in a questioning lift, and Gwen looked back at him, slowly nodding. Garnoc asked another question, and Gwen nodded more seriously. Then Garnoc turned and spoke to Marcus in Latin, “He understands; he serves you and not run away, sir.”
“My thanks.” Marcus bit his tongue. There was so much more he wanted to ask—now that he knew he had someone who could speak Gwen’s language, a thousand things were ready to burst from his mouth, things he yearned to say. But, as much as he might tentatively trust Garnoc—after two years of service, he had yet to find fault with him—he could not simply reveal all these secrets at once. After all, he had never had occasion to test his servant’s discretion, as there had never been anything rumor-worthy about him that only his manservant knew. And Garnoc might not betray him, but the wrong information spreading through camp could damage him in other ways.
So instead of pressing for more conversation, he nodded. “You may retire with the servants. This one will stay on hand here.”
“Sir, if you need give him an order, he will not understand you. Small use he will be,” Garnoc observed.
“Well, I rarely wake my servants with midnight orders,” Marcus shot back, a little testy. Reining himself in quickly, he amended, “Very well. Take him with you and show him where you will be, explain that if I need something he can go and wake you, then send him back here.”
“Aye, sir.” With a short order to Gwen, Garnoc turned to leave. Marcus answered the questioning glance of blue with a nod, and Gwen followed Garnoc from the tent.
Sighing heavily, Marcus buried his head in his hands. Gods. He could communicate with Gwen, but he still couldn’t say what he wanted to. He couldn’t explain himself, his actions…his feelings. He couldn’t ask Gwen what was in his head, why he risked those rituals…why he came with Marcus willingly, and how he could be so kind when Marcus had been so cruel from the very start. Perhaps I can ask Garnoc how to say a few key words. Gwen knows a little more Latin now… So far, however, certain words had been impossible to pantomime. Perhaps he could learn how to say forgive me in Gwen’s tongue—though, gods help him, with his poor pronunciation, it would be a miracle if Gwen could understand what he meant to say.
Wearily, he began to remove his armor. He had already placed his helmet on the makeshift table with his maps and papers. Bending, he removed his sandals and was working on his shoulder guards when Gwen returned. Straightening as the tent flap fell closed, Marcus was struck with two feelings at once—first, the familiar swell of yearning when he looked into deep blue eyes, and second…embarrassment. He had forgotten to have Garnoc help him remove the armor, and he couldn’t reach certain straps. Clearing his throat, he winced and pointed to the strap on his back. “Gwen…help?”
Curious, Gwen approached. “Help?”
Marcus pointed again, demonstrating that he couldn’t reach the strap and tugging on his shoulder guards to show that they wouldn’t come off. “Help me?”
Understanding. “Yes…” And then Gwen moved behind him, his hands unfastening the armor piece so that Marcus could remove it. Gwen lifted the piece from his grasp, and he moved to place the armor alongside the helmet, then turned back. Marcus was unbuckling his belt. “Help,” Gwen offered and held out his hands.
A denial was just upon Marcus’ lips—he could manage this one on his own—but then Gwen’s arms went around his waist, touching his own hands as Gwen took hold of the unfastened belt. Suddenly, the simple, quick movements slowed to a crawl. Marcus released the belt and Gwen slowly removed it—a distant thing he knew of only vaguely, because Gwen looked up at him, their eyes met, and they were so close. Marcus felt lightheaded; Gwen was breathing heavily. The moment lasted long enough to nearly break him.
Then Gwen’s eyes dropped as he set the belt aside. He turned his attention to the straps holding Marcus’ breastplate on, and repeated, “Help.” But this time, his voice was soft, and the movement of Gwen’s hands remained slow. Methodical. Careful. His fingers brushed the armor lightly; Marcus’ mind quickly moved that touch to his own skin, imagining the gentle caress of Gwen’s hands touching him. He swallowed, heart pounding. Straps undone, Gwen began to lift the armor away, Marcus moving to assist, and together they removed the last piece, apart from the padding and clothing underneath.
It felt like Gwen was undressing him. Like they were undressing together, even though they were both still very much clothed.
Gwen set the breastplate down, turned back, and hesitated. His gaze hovered upon Marcus’ chest, directly in front of him—sometimes glancing at the padding, sometimes just…looking. After a long moment, his eyes managed to dart upward again, briefly. “Help?” he offered.
Marcus swallowed. Stepped back. “No help, Gwen.” He stood there for a moment before he remembered how to move. Dropping his eyes from Gwen’s face and untying the padding, he added, “I can do this.” Then, glancing up, he added, “My thanks.” His throat was dry, and his voice did not sound strong, but Marcus ignored that and turned his attention to finishing the task himself.
Even so, nothing could make him less acutely aware of the man in his tent. As Gwen turned away and began to lay out his bedroll, Marcus caught a strangeness to his gait, a stiffness as he crouched. He turned partly away, but kept stealing glances, and thus managed to catch Gwen tug at something under his robe—in the region of his groin. Marcus didn’t need to wonder what the gesture meant. He needed to do the same thing—adjust his loincloth to take pressure off his erection.
No, he knew what it meant—but he couldn’t believe it. Why is he aroused? How could he ever feel…desire…for me?
They said nothing else to each other and each settled into separate bedrolls, but Marcus could not sleep—his mind dwelt on the question, picking it over, doubting his senses, then shaking the doubt off and facing the question again. He remembered, lying there in the dark, that Gwen had become aroused for him before—although both times were in the midst of sex. The first time had been rough, the pleasure probably a forced response. But in truth, no matter how gentle he’d been the second time, the ways he had touched Gwen had ensured any healthy man would feel pleasure, so Marcus had to consider that forced as well.
Tonight…was not forced. He hadn’t even touched Gwen, hadn’t said anything sexual. They had simply been close, all contact incidental and innocent—except in Marcus’ mind, which was so desperate with longing that it made everything into something more. He knew why he had become erect—but how could that have affected Gwen?
Quiet, rustling sounds in the dark—Gwen wasn’t asleep yet, either. He sounded restless. Marcus could understand, in a very visceral way, how he felt. His own cock refused to soften as thoughts of Gwen and their encounters filtered through his puzzled mind. Yet Marcus would not indulge himself, and it sounded like Gwen was resisting the same urge.
Fantasies tormented him. They were both aroused, in need of release. He could go over to Gwen’s bedroll, silently. Touch him. Slide down beside him. Feel the warmth of Gwen’s arms around him, his mouth welcoming, his body hot and needy as Marcus touched him. In the breathless silence, they could make love…until they crumpled in exhausted completion, sleeping peacefully together, Gwen’s breathing soft and steady as Marcus held him until dawn.
Gods, strengthen me. He would not. He had made a vow. Not one Gwen understood yet, but he hadn’t sworn it to Gwen—he’d sworn to himself. Marcus would not be a brute; he was a Roman centurion and better than that. He had failed to control himself once, but he would redeem that error if it killed him.
Truth be told, a failing now would be a thousand times worse. What he had done to Gwen had always been a violation, but now it would be more—it would be a betrayal. There was a tentative trust between them, now. Nothing would make Marcus sacrifice that trust.
The night passed at a crawl; dawn seemed determined to abandon Marcus forever.
Chapter 5
The Roman army marched north. Minor battles became slightly larger, then waned again as the resistance drew back from their advancing line, collecting together to bolster their strength. The city they had targeted was also the fallback point for the surrounding lands—it was defensible, unlike farms and wall-less villages. The Romans marched over those who remained behind. They established control in the region through military patrols; later, they would establish Roman structure, and scholars would begin to teach the barbarians how to live under Roman rule.
Occasionally, there was an occupied house available for the highest-ranked, and Marcus as a centurion sometimes had such a shelter. Most nights, however, were spent in tents, in camp, Gwen at his side, carefully silent whenever someone else came within earshot. Marcus had Garnoc help him with his armor every night and morning.
Marcus spent the days with the army, whether advancing or in camp, so Gwen was assigned to follow Garnoc and help him. He seemed to understand that he was never to speak, and Garnoc continued under the impression that he was a dumb farmer, so Marcus felt it was safe to ask Garnoc to teach Gwen some Latin. Garnoc failed to see the point, at first, until Marcus claimed he needed Gwen able to understand his orders, even if he could not speak in return.
After that, once all others had left them at night, Gwen would practice new words he’d been taught. Marcus’ momentary hope turned bitter, however, as days and nights rolled on and it became clear that Garnoc was only teaching Gwen the words a soldier might need to say to his servant. Gwen learned to name each piece of armor and equipment, the roles within the army and its camp, and the daily tasks he might be asked to perform—cook, pack, wash, make camp, feed horse, build fire.
It was all so useless, yet hearing Gwen speak…Marcus enjoyed every moment of it. His deep voice, heavily accented. The moments of sharing language, when Gwen would repeat a word and Marcus would understand him and smile. When Gwen would smile in return, clearly pleased to have remembered rightly.
The bliss of those moments helped him to endure the rest. When he returned to the tent at nightfall after a battle, covered in dirt and dried sweat and blood—then Gwen’s eyes would avoid him, looking down quickly. Still, Marcus could see his sorrow. Gwen would be distant, silent—yet he remained in an attitude of acceptance, however unhappy. As he had accepted being taken from his home, he seemed to accept this too. And yet, Marcus did not see the same look of peace that had come over Gwen as he watched his own home burn. He puzzled over this in the night. Why did Gwen face a much more personal loss with peaceful acceptance, and this situation—no doubt unpleasant for him, but hardly as personal—was a source of unhappiness without any peace to ease it?
~•~
The army closed in upon their destination—Caerenarvon, as the barbarians called it. The legion laid siege around the hill fort, preparing to attack yet allowing the Britons the opportunity to surrender. It was always preferable to avoid losses whenever possible.
Caerenarvon gave no sign of submission, and after three days, the Roman army attacked.
The barbarians repulsed the first attack, though it would be more truth to say they managed to withstand it until darkness gathered and a heavy rain began to fall, causing the Roman army to relent and draw back for a more opportune time. Another day, and they would have the city, rain or no rain.
Even so, the battle was long and weary, and Marcus bore several wounds back to his tent that black night. The physicians were busy with the severely wounded, and further strategies and war councils were left for daybreak. Marcus entered his tent alone, bent upon nothing more than sleep.
And yet, even through his exhaustion, he caught the startled look of worry in Gwen’s eyes at the sight of him bleeding. It overtook, for a moment, the usual resigned sorrow.
Though he wished only to collapse into his bedroll and know nothing more, Garnoc was there, and with all deference and show of obedience managed to force Marcus to remain awake. He removed Marcus’ armor and stripped him down to his loincloth, giving orders to Gwen in their native tongue. Gwen brought a basin and water, and Garnoc washed Marcus down and cleaned his wounds. Marcus bore the sting with slight hisses and grunts of pain, but he was more conscious of being so nearly nude, and of Gwen’s eyes avoiding his body, a faint pink touching the tips of his ears.
Garnoc crudely bound his wounds in linen, then left Marcus to crumble into his bedroll as he had wished to do from the first. Gwen remained—he vanished from Marcus’ vision for a moment, but returned with hands full. He held plants—herbs. Marcus did not know where he had found them, or where he had kept them hidden. He was searching for the words to ask when he felt Gwen’s hands upon him, undoing Garnoc’s unskilled work, removing the wrappings as he stuffed several leaves in his mouth and chewed.
“What are you doing?” Marcus mumbled faintly, but Gwen did not answer. He spat out a handful of chewed green leaves and began to apply them over the open wounds. Marcus felt a sharp sting at the touch, which faded into a tingling feeling. Gwen did this to each cut in turn, rewrapping them afterward with more skill, the bandages firm, smooth, and not too tight.
When he was finished with his task, Gwen shifted, kneeling beside Marcus…and drawing his amulet from under his robe. Marcus blinked, then caught his breath, tensing at the sight of the thing. Gwen noticed his alarm at once. Blue eyes met his own, a hand resting on his shoulder as Gwen made a soft shushing sound, then murmured, “Help.” He extended the amulet, and it touched his breastbone. Gwen placed it there carefully, repeating, “Help Mahrkus.”
Barely able to keep his eyes open, Marcus felt his body relax. Even if this were some curse, he could not bring himself to care. His eyes were drifting shut, but he felt the weight of the amulet on his chest, Gwen’s hand upon it, pressing lightly. Gwen’s other hand touched his head, and Marcus thought he must be imagining fingers threading slightly into his hair.
Then, as the quiet sound of Gwen’s voice murmuring strange words began to flow over him, he lost consciousness.
~•~
There was no sign of the amulet when Marcus woke. He turned his head, and Gwen was there beside him—asleep upon the floor of the tent, his bedroll untouched. For a long moment, Marcus let his gaze linger. Gwen’s nearness reminded him of what it was like to share a bed with someone, to wake and see their face like this. It pricked his heart with an ache of longing—one he dared not indulge.
Shifting, he felt the soreness of his muscles after the strain of the day before, yet the expected pain of his injuries was muted—barely present at all. Before he could rise and examine himself, however, Gwen stirred and opened his eyes. Sleepily, he stretched out a hand, placing it on Marcus’ chest. “Mahrkus, no. Stai.” Then, with a yawn, he pushed himself up and knelt beside Marcus again, beginning to unwrap the bandages.
Marcus relaxed and lay still, allowing Gwen to work. He removed the wrappings and washed away the drying leaf paste. Marcus was surprised to see that his wounds looked several days old—they were almost closed and healing rapidly. Gwen, however, did not show the least surprise as he placed whole fresh leaves over the cuts and wrapped them again in dry, clean linen.
As Gwen worked, Marcus studied his face—tired, lined with sleep, dark shadows under his eyes, hair tangled and messy. He slept little last night. The idea that Gwen might have lost sleep caring for him pricked Marcus’ heart. And, as Gwen’s hands touched him, gently tending to his injuries, he felt both undeserving of such kindness and a surge of hunger for so much more.
