A/N: My heart-felt thank you for the review. I am glad you liked it, and I hope this second (and last) part will be enjoyable, as well.

Part Two (Light)

Looking back, Marcus barely remembers what follows Cottia's leave.

Summer passes by in a burst of warmth and sun shine, with the scent of forest and hills. Once summer awakens, it chases the grey fog away over the hills and towards the sea, and glorious days begin.

Esca trains Wolf as a hound, and together they hunt. The horses, the forest, the world passing by in a blur – it is enough to make Marcus feel like there is nothing else than the wild hunt, like he, here and now, was born to live that way. Esca laughs, loud and open, and his battle cry rings through the forests and hills. Together, they hunt: Esca, Wolf and Marcus. It is a good feeling to carry a spear again, although it is very different than carrying a sword. Esca prefers his bow. Usually, it works like this: Esca tracks the animals, and they chase it, and Marcus feels alive. They skin and gut their prey and return home in the evening light. Sassticca makes the most wonderful venison stews, and Wolf contentedly nags away at the scraps and bones. Uncle Aquila prefers the tender loins.

Or they sit in the garden, Marcus playing tug-of-war with Wolf, Esca working on a piece of driftwood with his small dagger. Wolf always knows how much strength she can use on Esca, and how much on Marcus. When she gets up to place her paws on Marcus' shoulder, he laughs and pushes her down again before she can unbalance him and he can twist his injured leg. When Esca tries to do the same, she pushes him to the ground with the enthusiasm of the young; wrestling for attention and the worn and weary strip of leather that is her favorite toy. It is like she understands, inherently, that Marcus needs time to heal.

But heal he does, slowly and steadily.

His knee still aches during cold nights and sudden changes in the weather, but the pain that had accompanied him for months slowly abates. His shoulders lift and his gait stretches as he finally is able to move without his crutches again. When Sassticcia leaves the kitchen one day and sees Marcus and Wolf playing in the garden, both of them probably limping pitifully but oh, it is so good to run again!, she sits down on the stairs heavily and starts to cry. Marcus has to console her, hugging her and promising the worst is over, and that of course, he will be able to walk in the future. The day the medicus gives a look at his knee and takes his leave again without the usual checkup is the day Stephanos opens a bottle of Italian wine for dinner, and Sassticca makes a carriage full of honey cakes. Whenever Uncle Aquila takes one, she tut-tuts at him but he ignores it, a tiny smile on his lips and his eyes shining brightly.

"Your cakes are the best, Sassticca," he says and winks at her, and the old cook blushes.

"Those are for Master Marcus!" She insists nevertheless.

Marcus, watching the exchange, laughs. "I will eat as many as I manage. In the meantime, let Uncle Aquila have some, as well."

During the long winter that almost seems like a memory now in the bright sun light of summer, Uncle Aquila had not invited any guests to his home.

Now that the weather is warm and comfortable, he opens his house and his dining room for long discussions with writers and traders, for unsmiling politicians and humorous, retired soldiers.

Marcus finds that he enjoys most of the dinner parties; Uncle Aquila knows interesting people with even more interesting stories to tell. Even the Legate of the Sixth Legion, Claudius Hieronimianus, graces them with his presence one evening. Marcus only saw the man once, briefly, when he and Esca delivered the Eagle to the envoys of Rome almost half a year ago, and he is astonished to learn that Uncle Aquila and Hieronimianus served together once upon a time.

"Maybe there will be a new Ninth legion again one day," the white-haired politician says with a sigh. "It seems like the Emperor wishes to re-establish your father's legion. But you know Romans, and especially those who have served their time in Britain. Superstitious lot, the bunch of them!"

Marcus does not think that it is mere superstition that keeps the legates from building up another Ninth, but he does not say anything. There is a dream in every eagle, a promise the soldiers carry with them. A vow. A vow in form of a wooden bird-of-prey covered in a thin sheaf of gold, with strong, sturdy copper nails fastening it to the wood of the standard's pole, and most of the soldiers understand. Some do not, and never will. But an eagle that was abandoned for such a long time deserves honor and rest, not new battles. He merely shrugs, though. "I do not mind. The Ninth was a good army, and everyone knows now that its soldiers did not desert but died fighting."

This is good enough for me.

"Yes, they did," Hieronimianus agrees and thoughtfully munches some grapes. Imported from Rome, the fruit are small and tasteless and almost dry when they reach Britannica. Marcus heard the people along the Rhine are starting to cultivate wine, as well, at least in the parts that are hilly and, thus, sunnier and warmer than the usual climate in the North. The young wine tastes bitter but not without promise. Marcus knows, because he tried some: merchant friends of Uncle Aquila's brought it with them when they visited a few weeks ago.

"Did you hear the latest news from Rome?" Someone says into a second of silence, loud enough for anyone to shift their attention back to the room.

Marcus leans back and meets Esca's gaze over the crowd of people. They share a smile.

Good enough for us.

They travel to Rome before fall sets in.

Uncle Aquila insists that it is due to his trade – that he has to visit customers, negotiate new contracts and check on his storehouses – but Marcus has the feeling that it is, once again, a deliberate plot. At first, he does not want to go. The journey is long: to Londinium and across the Channel, on a boat, and then many hours of horse carriage across Germania, over the mountains and to Rome. Also, nights are getting longer already and the skies start to look grey and heavy again. When they cross the Alps too late in the season, it might even snow. But Uncle Aquila is determined to spend the winter under Rome's sun.

"It's my old bones," he says, sighing. "The warmth is better for them."

Marcus does not point out that his uncle's poor old bones would rather stay home in Britannia instead of undertaking such a lengthy journey. The man, he thinks, is simply too compassionate, too caring. Though Marcus feels like he has given his uncle no reason to feel he has to think of ways to cheer him up. He still feels like he is gasping for breath on some days, when the pain is like a steady beat in his entire body. But usually he clenches his jaw and cracks a smile and thinks that there are far worse places to be, and far worse people to be around.

Uncle Aquila would take that as a compliment, Marcus knows.

Esca's willingness to come along is only partly honest. The Brigand cannot be persuaded to stay in the North along with Marcipor, Sassticca and Wolf, but demands to accompany them. Marcus cannot imagine his best friend, who is so obviously not Roman and so proud of his own heritage, to feel at ease in the hustle, bustle and artificialness that is the capital of the Roman Empire. He cannot deny, either, that the thought of having Esca with him is a relieving one. It is not so much that he still needs help but that he aches for familiarity. Marcus never liked Rome much, either; he grew up in a place with golden fields of wheat, with olive groves and sun-kissed hills.

"You will not like the city," he says.

Esca looks at him, pensive. "I have seen my share of cities."

And that is what Marcus likes in his friend: the fact that he answers every question; but only after he has thought about the answers. He does not deny for the sake of denying and regards every question, every suggestion, as if it is the most important decision he will ever have to make. He will not discard Marcus' arguments immediately but ponder them, and then counter them with his own reasons.

"Rome is different," Marcus says, with an air of finality.

His friend laughs. "So are you, my friend."

"I'm sure not like that," he mutters, but he knows he has lost.

The journey is long and exhausting, and they are forced to take the longer route through the alps due to early snow. They spend weeks on the road, sleeping in a different place every night – a roadside inn, a small courier station. Gradually, the landscape shifts: from fall-golden Germania and blue Rhenus to the rocky outcrops of Bavaria, to the grey, indifferent and towering alps. Until they finally reach Rome, the eternal city. And it is warm and full, full of sun and people. Oh, of course, it has its rainy days and occasional cloudy mornings. But compared to the grey, humid landscape of Britannia, it is far more pleasant. Sometimes, Marcus wonders whether this is because of its nearness to Etruria, his place of birth, or merely because of the familiarity.

Yet the moment he sees the eternal city he already is ill with something that feels suspiciously like homesickness.

Uncle Aquila's villa in the outskirts of the city is not large but comfortable. Here, he entertains his guests, here, he sits in his study and works. There is a steady stream of people wandering in and out of the door. Marcus meets senators and philosophers, architects, scholars, politicians and traders. Sometimes he feels like he does not know his own name anymore, with all the new ones he learns. But it never is too much, and Uncle Aquila is careful when it comes to the number and kind of people he has Marcus meet. Marcus, whose father died so early and who never really felt like a son to the man his mother married again, catches a glimpse of how it must be: growing up as the heir of an important and good man.

It does not feel unpleasant.

Uncle Aquila takes him to attend a few senate sessions. They go to the Forum and listen to the public speakers, dine with important people, visit others. Uncle Aquila also takes Marcus to meet his trade partners. Intended or not; Marcus learns a lot about trade and contracts and economy, things he always thought he would never need while simply being a soldier. His uncle never says a word, but Marcus knows he is gently teaching him everything to set him up as his successor. It is not a request, not even a obligation. Just a suggestion, a soft whisper: this could be you. Marcus tries to imagine the future: him, like Uncle Aquila, living in Calleva, leading his little trade business. Meeting people; negotiating contracts; testing the waters for new goods, for the people's tastes. It is not a detestable thought. In the past, as a young soldier with dreams and hopes and ideals, he could not imagine doing anything else but serving the eagles. Until his retirement, and then he would marry and settle down. Maybe in Etruria, he thinks, and ignores the slight stab somewhere in his chest. Now that his future has come so much earlier than he expected it to come, it feels… unreal. One year back from his and Esca's quest to the Highlands, and still it seems like he has not yet accepted the fact that there is no going back.

His old life is over.

Esca, in Romae, seems thinner and paler. Maybe it is the white marble, the grand scale. The tall Brigand retreats into the background, so uncharacteristic for him. He still spends a lot of time with Marcus but since the latter is occupied on certain times they are not together every moment. Not like in Britannia. Esca seems awed by the city, by the scale, the light, the streets. But Wolf is not amused: too many houses, too many people. They establish a routine: Every morning, Esca takes a ride into the surrounding hills and vales, and Wolf accompanies him. Marcus watches them leave and feels a stab of envy. When they return, they are hungry as wolves (Esca laughs at the pun, and Marcus feels his face twist into a smile) and flushed from the fresh air. And Marcus tells himself, every day that tomorrow, he will go, as well. But then he watches them leave again, wistfully wishing he could find the strength to accompany them. But what always was so easy in Calleva is not as simple in Romae. And his friends understand, though with heavy hearts. In the afternoon, when Uncle Aquila locks himself in his study to work and the atmosphere of the house is heavy and still with heat and emptiness, Esca joins Marcus in the atrium, where the water in the decoratively designed fountain cools the air somewhat. Wolf greets him enthusiastically and drops down at his feet like a dead weight, and then they just sit and talk. He enjoys the time with Uncle Aquila and is very grateful for the time his uncle takes for him and the faith he puts in him. Those are good times, the hours they spend together. But the time with Esca and Wolf, chatting softly or just silently staring at the mosaics on the walls that seem to dance in the warm afternoon air, are the moments that are most precious to him.

Marcus is not sure whether he loves or detests Rome.

Ironically, the day Uncle Aquila has made plans specifically for him, Marcus is in no mood to leave the house. It is one of his worse days, with grey clouds and wind instead of sunshine and blue sky, with an almost-but-not-quite pain in his knee and a steady pressure on his temples. He is irritated and irritable and even Wolf gives up nudging his leg and whining for attention after some time. He readies himself for an outing, nevertheless, because his uncle seems so expectant. Almost jubilant, so proud of him and his supposed achievements. There is something in the air and it is not only the sweet, almost suffocating scent of night.

"Marcus Flavius Aquila, my nephew," Uncle Aquila introduces him to the white-haired man in an expensive toga. "Marcus, this is Cassius Lucius Sullus, a business associate and longtime friend of mine."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Cassius Lucius Sullus says and winks at Marcus friendly. His voice is deep and sonorous. "And do not listen to him when he says I am his friend. He treats me even worse than his actual business associates."

"There is a saying that money and friendship should not be placed into the same bowl," Uncle Aquila returns, drily.

The two men share a short glance, and Marcus can see that they are close – despite their friendly banter. Cassius is a calm and energetic man, always ready to tackle chores and difficulties, that, at least, is what Marcus learns from listening to them. He also has a similarly dry humor as his friend.

The evening progresses and it is not as bad as he has feared. The men talk about politics and military, and that is a subject Marcus is intimately familiar with despite his now more than two-year-long retirement from the troops. There is no consensus on the current progress of the senate when it comes to the situation in Britannia. Also, there have been increasing attacks from Barbarian tribes in the North of Germania and nobody is comfortable with the way the enemy is suddenly pushing forward. In fact, Marcus comes to be quite comfortable with his host as the evening progresses. Uncle Aquila and he stay far longer than is due. All the other guests have already taken their leave when Cassius clears his throat and exchanges a glance with Uncle Aquila. The latter frowns, then shrugs.

"Aquila tells me you have spent the last year recovering," Cassius says, gravely. "You seem healthy and strong now, again."

"I am much better, thank you," Marcus replies.

"How do you like Britannia?"

"I think it is an interesting island," he returns, guardedly. "The climate can be… challenging. But overall, I have come to like the place."

(And, the moment he says it, he knows it is true. It is... not as surprising as he would have expected it to be.)

Cassius swivels his wine in his chalice. "Do you think you will stay there in the future? Build up a life?"

"Yes," Marcus says, wondering. Suspecting…

"Your Uncle and I have talked about this topic already, and we are in agreement so far. You are still young, despite your extensive experience. You will have plans of building a future for yourself in Britannia, and I am sure your plans involve a wife and offspring at one point. I have two daughters, one is fifteen summers, one seventeen. I think a connection by marriage between our families–" He exchanges another glance with Uncle Aquila and clears his throat. "I think such a connection would be beneficial for both of us, and I would be glad to welcome you into my family."

Esca, when Marcus retells the story the next day, does not stop grinning.

"And, which one are you going to choose?"

Marcus huffs. "They are pretty, and the elder one even seems quite intelligent. But…"

But, he says, and has no idea what should follow. The girls are lovely, dark, wavy hair and golden tan, sweet lips and hands and words. Both of them are a good catch: from a wealthy family, intelligent, pretty. If Marcus really plans on following Uncle Aquila into his business, Cassius' connections will be invaluable. And yet.

But.

Esca shrugs, unconcerned. "If you do not wish to choose a wife now you do not do it. If…" He breaks off, looks at Marcus, strangely piercing. "If there is someone else on your mind…"

"Esca," Marcus says and forces a laugh. "You know me. Have I ever shown interest in women?"

"No," his friend says. "Not really. Well, except for Cottia, of course."

"Cottia," Marcus repeats. Suddenly remembers the fox girl: fiery red hair, sharp teeth, pointed face. You are just like the others. Smiles through the stab of something, because he remembers the way she and Esca used to talk in the gardens. So lively, so animated. Her red hair mixing with his dark blond when they lean over to scratch Wolf's belly. Esca and Cottia always got along splendidly, she used to talk to him almost more than she talked with Marcus. The memory is so alive his breath almost catches in his throat: sunshine and afternoon shadows, and Cottia throwing the strip of leather for Wolf. Esca standing behind her and smiling, softly. Showing her how to stretch in order to throw farther. Laughing with her as she stumbles and holds on to him in order not to fall…

Cottia.

Marcus turns to his friend. "You have my blessing, by the way."

Esca frowns. "What do you mean?"

"If you want to marry her. I can imagine her uncle will oppose – or her aunt, rather – but I am sure Uncle Aquila has some tricks in store…"

His friend looks at him funnily. "I never thought of marrying her, Marcus."

"No? Why not?"

"She's like a sister to me."

Marcus remembers thinking the same, and wonders-

"But," Esca says after a few seconds of silence, "I can imagine you would try to get me to marry, as well, so you will not be the only one who will be ordered around by a wife…"

They laugh, the tension suddenly broken. Marcus grasps Esca's shoulder, warmly. Esca smiles back. Has Marcus been imagining things? The thought of Esca and Cottia together stings. But they never kept secrets from each other, Marcus and Esca, not in the whole time they have known each other. It was the foundation of their friendship: the whole truth, and nothing but truth. So if Esca says he only sees a sister in Cottia, that must be the truth, too.

Uncle Aquila merely shrugs when Marcus goes to talk to him two days later. "I am sure the younger one will still be unmarried next year. You can still decide."

"Cassius will not be offended if I do not choose one of them now?"

A snort. "No."

And that is that.

But.

They return to Britannia when spring is yet weak, a mix of grey and fog and rain and sun and color and warmth.

Marcus thinks that maybe, he has finally gotten used to the climate. Being back in Calleva is like returning to a place once beloved but long forgotten. Like a memory reawakening: the realization that this is the place he longed for when he first saw Romae. The place he now longs for when he feels homesickness well up. Somewhere along the way, between cohorts marching in the scorching summer sun, between the shouts and battle cries of the Barbarian hordes, between the agony of his first knee injury and the slow, slow recovery, between learning to walk again and learning to trust himself again, between their adventure to the Highlands and the retrieval of the Eagle, between a second knee injury and a winter spent with Wolf, Esca and Uncle Aquila, a journey to Rome and back again, somewhere along the way the green hills and silver mists of Britannia have replaced the golden sun of Etruria in his heart. They arrive on a cloudy day on which the fog streaming up from the swamps and the rivers has not yet dissipated and will not do so. The sky hangs low, cloudy and grey, and a steady drizzle has accompanied them the entire way from the harbor. But when the city walls of Calleva Atrebatum shift into view and the streets are full of farmers, soldiers and traders and when the scent of the pines still is oh-so-faint but oh-so-familiar – then, suddenly, the clouds break open. The sun shines through, golden rays and silver reflection, and the soft hills look like they are bathed in light. Uncle Aquila's house is busy with sound and voices; Stephanos is cleaning up the library, in the atrium, Marcipor is swearing at Wolf, and the scent of Sassticca's cooking and baking wafts into the afternoon air.

And Marcus' heart sings.

Home.

The letter arrives a few weeks later, with the usual correspondence for Uncle Aquila.

Marcus does not even realize it is for him when Marcipor presents him with the heavy, official-looking scroll. He takes it with confusion, and no small amount of trepidation, and breaks the seal. He is aware of Uncle Aquila's eyes, watching him carefully from the other side of the table, as he begins reading.

When he reaches the bottom of the scroll, he begins again at the first line.

"What is it?" Esca has long ago learned to read every single one of Marcus' moods. As has Wolf. From her place at his feet she whimpers softly, her nose stretched out towards him.

Marcus drops the scroll and blinks in shock.

"Speak up," Uncle Aquila orders. Marcus obeys.

"The Legate Claudius Hieronimianus of the Sixth Legion writes that he has brought our case before the Senate. After a long discussion, it has been decided that the Ninth Legion will not be reassembled. But for our heroic part in the retrieval of the Eagle of the Ninth, they will reward you, Esca, with a Roman citizenship. And I-" He swallowed, his tongue suddenly thick in his throat. "They are rewarding me like a cohort centurio after his complete period of servitude. They will pay me both in gold as well as in land."

Uncle Aquila takes up the scroll and shifts it close.

"You may choose," he says, continuing to read. "Either land in Etruria, or in Britannia."

His eyes, looking at Marcus over the scroll, are proud. "Congratulations, nephew."

"Roman citizenship," Esca repeats, slowly. "Does that mean…"

"They have awarded you the wooden sword," Marcus says, using an explanation the ex-gladiator would immediately understand. "They might even revoke your status as former slave. Those are great news, Esca!"

Esca stares. "And you can go home?"

"Home." Marcus tastes the word, and with it, all the memories come floating back. The soft, rolling hills of Etruria. The scent of the pine forests, the olive groves, the song of the cicadas at night. Home. A place he never thought he would ever return to.

A place he is not sure…

But.

He and Esca embrace, warmly, while Uncle Aquila beams in pride at both of them.

"I bet my old friend Claudius shed barrels of sweat fighting for this reward for you."

"So that was the reason for all the secretive writing and meeting of yours throughout winter, uncle."

"It certainly was, nephew."

"Thank you, Uncle Aquila. Thank you."

"You are welcome. Very, very welcome."

On the first sunny, warm summer day, Marcus whistles for Wolf.

She comes in a sprint, yipping in anticipation and happiness and jumping up to place her huge paws on Marcus' shoulders. Laughing, he returns her affection and then takes her at her collar. Slowly, they walk into the garden as he marvels how fast the tiny wolf hound has grown, and how much time has passed since he came here first. How grey it had seemed, right then: grey sky, grey sea, grey everything. Now, the world is beautiful, and full of light.

Marcus sits down on the same bench he sat on so many days before and throws the leather knot for the hound. He does not turn around. He knows there is nobody standing behind him. No light steps, no flash of fiery, red hair. No sign of the girl he met almost one and a half years ago.

Resigned, he drops his head.

Wolf starts, and turns her head. Next, she starts running, towards Marcus, and passes him in a flash. Marcus turns around, slowly, afraid of what he will see, and-

"I heard you calling for Wolf."

And there she is, his fox girl, looking at him with eyes as green as fern, her arms around the large hound.

"Cottia," Marcus says. "Oh Cottia."

She rises, and steps closer, her hand on Wolf's neck.

He has not seen her for more than a year. Still, inexplicably, he expected her to remain exactly the way she had been when he last saw her. But she has not stayed the way she was. She is taller than last summer. She is wearing a soft, silver-and-green veil that falls over the straight folds of her tunica. She still stands as she always did, however, in this certain way Britannia's women have. The corner of her veil that had covered her head has dropped: her once-wild, fiery hair is drawn up into a crown on top of her head. Her lips are of a soft pink, her brows dark black, and there are droplets of gold in her ears. She looks like a queen more than ever.

The sensation of loss is so overwhelming Marcus cannot breathe.

"Cottia," he says, her name feeling alien on his tongue, somehow. "You grew up."

Her expression morphs to uncertainty as he just watches her. The silence stretches out, endlessly.

"I held onto this for you," she says. Her voice is the same, but there is a note of weariness in it, now. In her outstretched hand is a small bird carved from olive tree wood, tiny and smooth from the many, many times it was touched. Marcus stares at the bird without really seeing it. He knows how it looks like, how it feels smooth underneath his fingers. The wood has darkened from years of being touched. The bird his father carved from olive wood, the last gift Marcus received from him before he left with the Ninth. The bird he gave Cottia, in this very same garden, such a long, long time ago.

"Thank you," he says as he finds his voice again, and stretches out his hand. The wood is warm from her body heat, smooth and familiar. "How was Aquae Sulis?" Just to say something, just to break the heavy silence between them. Just to get away from the green-eyed stare that seems to unsettle something deep, deep down in him: this is not his Cottia.

At his question, her face transforms.

"I hate Aquae Sulis," she spits, the fire in her eyes and her sharp teeth and face suddenly overwhelmingly alive. "I hated every moment there! I wanted to stay here, and play with Wolf and Esca, and listen to your stories, but then they had to drag me off. And when we came back you were not there, and you did not even write. I did not hear anything from you, except one tiny note from your Uncle to mine saying you had travelled to Rome, and I waited and waited, but you did not come back! And now you are here and you are not even happy to see me! And I am not glad you are back, either!"

"You little vixen!"

Marcus catches her wrists as she turns to run away and carefully tugs her around so she has to look at him, and laughter bubbles up in his chest.

"But of course I am glad to see you, Cottia. I really am."

His laugh makes her start and peer up into his face. "Yes," she says, surprised. "Now it is you again. Why was it not you just now?"

"I did not recognize you," he says, strangely dizzy. "You grew up, Cottia."

"Oh." She is flustered, as well.

For a while, they just stand there while the evening shifted to night. Behind them, in the branches of the wild peach tree, a blackbird begins to sing.

Then, Cottia asks: "How is Esca? Wolf is fine, I can see that."

Marcus is startled by the laugh that falls out of his mouth. "He is well. He has been granted Roman citizenship. This even negates his carved ear. He is a free man now."

"That is great news!" She smiles, then sobers again.

The song of the blackbirds is caught by the wind. The single notes cascade with the wind until the small bird lifts off, soaring towards the crystal-clear, blue sky. Marcus shields his eyes from the sun to follow its dance, and whistles a repetition of its tune. The blackbird sings back. And then, a cloud covers the sun and the sunlit world falls back into shadows.

When Marcus looks back at Cottia, the same shadow seems to have fallen onto her face as well.

"What are you going to do now, Marcus?" She asks. Her voice is strangely tiny.

"Now?"

"Now. Since your knee is better now. You don't limp as badly as the last time I saw you. Will you go back to the legion?"

"Oh, no," Marcus answers. "I might be helpful in a small skirmish. But I cannot lead my cohort on daily marches of twenty miles from Portus Itius to Rome, and I would not be of any use on the parade ground anymore."

"Parades," Cottia says, and her tone implies her feelings towards such events very clearly. Marcus just wants to begin explaining how parades are of military importance to every legion, but she already continues. "If you are not going back to the troops, what are you going to do then?"

And, as it is, that is a question Marcus has been asking himself all spring already. He realizes it now: he is a man without a future at hand. There are many possible answers to her question, now, and there are many more impossible ones. But there is only one truth, and she deserves to hear it.

"I – I do not know."

"You could go back home," Cottia says, slowly. And then, as the implications of her thought sink in, her eyes go wide with fear. "You will go back to Rome again and you will take Esca and Wolf with you, and this time, you will not come back!"

"I really do not know, Cottia, I have not the slightest idea. And I do not think that I will ever return to Rome."

But she does not seem to hear him.

"Take me with you, Marcus!" Her voice is a plea, and the despair in her face is heartbreaking. "They are going to build a wall around Calleva, a real one, and you cannot leave me in this cage! You cannot! Oh, Marcus, please let me go with you!"

"Even if I go back to Rome?" Marcus asks, remembering how much she always hated everything Roman.

Cottia takes a step forward, towards him, and stops again. "Yes. Even to Rome." Her hands make an aimless gesture, like she is trying to reach out and stops herself in the last second. "I do not care where, as long as I am with you."

Two different waves of emotion roll over Marcus, the first one so closely followed by the second that is impossible to distinguish between them. The first one is the happiness of gaining something precious, and the second one the grief and fear of losing it again.

"The legate granted me a small retirement income and land," he says, hesitantly. "I always thought that I would build up a farm in Etruria, where I was born. But I have come to love this country. I do not have much, and I can only afford a small farm on this island. I could ask for some land in The Downs. They have thyme for bees and good cattle ground, and maybe a Southern hillside for wine. Esca and I already talked about it. We do not want to own slaves, but we could employ free workers. It would be an experiment. And it would be very hard in the beginning, very hard. Uncle Aquila says we can always come to him for help, but I refuse to ask him as long as we have not had at least three poor harvests."

He does not dare to look up at her, so he rambles on.

"Uncle Aquila snorted and grumbled like the bear he is, and said I was becoming as stubborn as my father, but really. He has done so much for us and I love him dearly. But I want to build this future with my own hands, as long as it is possible. And it will not be easy but a lot of work."

Finally, he dares to meet her eyes.

"Do you really want this, Cottia my love?"

At first, there is no sign of an reaction on her face. But then, her eyes start to shine as his words sink in, and Marcus watches her face become radiant. It makes his breath catch. Cottia grabs her cloak and wraps it around her in a gesture that somehow implies let us go, right now, and takes another step towards him.

"I do," she says, her eyes as green as fern. In the last sun rays, her hair sparks like fire.

Marcus stretches out his hand and she puts hers into his without any hesitation.

From the house, Esca's whistling floats through the garden. Wolf whines and puts her heavy head on Marcus's knee, and he just sits there, looking up at Cottia and feeling the plans rise up in his heart. He might have no foreseeable future. But together, they will build one.

In the shadows, the blackbird's song rises towards the sky, and Marcus finally has come home.