For someone who had never spent so long in medical care, life in the hospital quarter of the castra was dull and unexciting. Jack longed to heal faster and stand on his own two feet once more, so that no one should have to bring him anything and he should not have to call. Asides from these camp doctors and the orderlies, Jack’s only company were his own thoughts. Occasionally Hoshe’a would stop by too, but he was busy enough during the day (since the last battle had created an unprecedented number of casualties) that Jack was lucky to catch the slightest glimpse of his white tunic and white smile before darkness sent the world into a silence so profound that it was hard to break it. 

Then, in those peak hours of the sun’s negligence, Hoshe’a would come, and they would whisper together and Jack would ask Hoshe’a to talk just so that the other man’s voice could remain with him when sleep took him under time after time.

Darkness had not yet set in, that day, and his present visitor was both unexpected and unwelcome.

“Ah, Iacobus. It’s good to see you’re still kicking.”

Sylvius approached with his usual sickly-sweet demeanor, smiling his dishonest smile and speaking in a tone that bore him no real sympathy. Jack, though it was clear to both that Sylvius was persona non grata, returned the politeness he was presented with, smiling thinly and nodding in acknowledgement. 

“I’m tough,” he said. He had imagined Sylvius might continue walking but he was soon proven wrong as the blond stopped at the foot of his cot, still smiling and making no signs of meaning to depart anytime soon. Jack braced himself for what was bound to be an unpleasant conversation.

“Not saying you’re not,” Sylvius replied. His laughter was strained and dry, humourless. His eyes reminded Jack of ugly pebbles of the sort that dwelled forgotten on riverbanks, beady and cold and hard. “It was a tough battle.”

“I’ve been in worse scrapes.”

“Have you?” Those beady eyes shone with avid interest, but it was a condescending thing that only reinforced Jack’s unwillingness to keep talking. It didn’t make much of a difference; Sylvius was used to taking every chance that made itself available to throw his poisonous words around the room as was convenient. “You know, I was wondering why you did it.” When it became obvious to him that Jack didn’t intend to take the bait, the boy merely tossed his head back, combing his fingers through his hair in a careless manner. “Save me, that is. But then - eureka - it all clicked into place.”

“I never let anyone get hurt,” Jack countered, patience thin and voice thick with severity. “I would have done the same for anyone else.”

“That’s all swell and noble, but it’s not the real reason, is it?” Sylvius grinned as he spoke the electrifying question, the gesture sharp as the glint of sunlight on a knife. It was an uncomfortable feeling, as though he was being dissected by Sylvius’ frivolous yet cutting words, like he knew exactly what he would find should he bleed Jack out and rip him open.

“That  is the real reason,” the redhead stated, firm. Sylvius glanced at him and scoffed.

“Is that so? Funny, I was just thinking how convenient it would be for you. Since it would make you seem like that much more of a hero.” The Roman snorted derisively. He reached out and patted Jack’s bad leg, making the giant of a man growl in pain. The blond retracted his hand, feigning surprise but clearly pleased with himself, putting just a bit more precautionary distance between himself and the cot Jack had been haunting the past few days. “Allow me to speak to you freely,” he said, as though he hadn’t been doing so already. “If you want to fuck his ass that badly, you needn’t go to all this trouble. I’m sure Hoshe’a will be only too willing, if you ask.”

The passive offensiveness with which Sylvius drawled had Jack’s large hands fisting, fingers digging near painfully into his palms as he set his jaw with flaring anger that this man - this poor excuse for a being who had Hosea’s tender heart carelessly skewered and bleeding out - would speak of Hoshe’a in such a way. Jack strongly regretted having saved his life in the first place. Such an affirmation was plain as daylight to read in his blazing blue eyes and Sylvius had the decency to be taken aback, put-out by Jack’s silent fury. But he was composed once more before long.

“By Jove, I can’t believe he’s got you this  hot and bothered--”

“This isn’t fair,” Jack spoke up, his voice a rumble that quieted Sylvius immediately. “They way you treat Hoshe’a. I know what you’re doing and you don’t deserve to kiss the ground he walks on.”

“And what am I doing, exactly?”

Jack glowered. He thought of Sylvius feeding Hoshe’a little touches only to cruelly rip himself away, throwing sickening words at the boy that wrung out tears from his dark eyes or holding the boy hostage during meetings with his father that directed all shame and filth at the boy - he thought of the promises he’d witnessed Sylvius break, utterly unrepentant, and of all those others that cracked and shattered in the privacy of what Hoshe’a had dared not tell him. 

Had he been capable of standing, Jack would have done so, and, were he given the opportunity, he would have snapped Sylvius’ neck then and there. Such was the righteous anger that coursed through him, the necessity to protect that Sylvius was putting himself in danger by slandering, that Jack could hardly speak even when urged to do so.

“You’re using him,” he answered finally, simply, icily. Sylvius’ hazel eyes flashed their childish irritation.

“That’s what Hoshe’a wants,” the Roman snarled, his caustic condescension replaced by sheer aggravation. “He practically sets himself up to be used. He ever tell you what he was doing in Athens?”

“Study medicine,” Jack snapped back, barely controlling the bark to his tone. Sylvius merely snorted again, feeding Jack’s anger with his arrogance.

“Sure, you could say that. So long that you mean anatomy. And that by ‘study’ you mean drop out of one orgy to fall into another. See,” Sylvius continued, uncaring of how profusely Jack was glaring at him; he had a point to prove, it seemed, and he wouldn’t close his mouth until it was done, “they have a more liberal treatment of sluts in Greece. Hoshe’a didn’t have a place to drop dead so he let anyone fuck him for somewhere to stay. And who saved him from that? Me. Hoshe’a is mine. He owes me.”

Before Jack could get a proper word out, sheets fisted so tight they were in danger of being ripped apart, their conversation (if it could be called that) was interrupted by the distinctive sound of shouting and commotion outside of the tents. Around them orderlies and doctors were starting to rush in, pushing cots out of the tents in a hurrying frenzy. Sylvius wasted no time in unsheathing his sword and stepping outside, disregarding Jack entirely. 

Seconds later, he finally realised why the tents were being evacuated. One of them, far to his right, was pierced by one of their own fiery metal arrows, which resulted in the consequent combustion and incineration of the patients and medical personnel there still. Haunting screams erupted from the inferno, and another flaming arrow struck a nearby tent, adding to the commotion. Somehow the Sarmatians had managed to control them. Vaguely, at that back of Jack’s mind it all suddenly made sense: the last few battles had seemed chaotic solely because their cohortes couldn’t fathom the real plan underway. The Sarmatians had weakened them with a brutal offensive and now planned to burn them alive.

Hoshe’a.

Jack felt his entire body scream in protest as he jerked his legs over the side of the cot with every intention of leaping out to search for Hoshe’a. If he was there - if he was one of the medics getting caught up in the fire - Jack had to get him out--

“What are you doing?”

“Lay him on the stretcher, we have to evacuate now.”

Jack gasped as he was roughly handled, lain on a stretcher that three men lifted as well as they could, barking things at one another as they hurried to exit the tents. Though two of them were orderlies, one was a soldier that bore the same insignia as the legion Jack had belonged to.

“Wait--” Jack shifted but was left winded by the rush of pain that flew to his head and fell still under the three mens’ yells ordering to move no more. “We have to get Hoshe’a out of there,” he told them - loud so he’d be heard over the roar of the demon consuming the hospital tents. It thrashed and frolicked, sending sizzling embers flying up into the sky like a bonfire or a Vestal pyre.

“Who?” one of the men carrying his stretcher asked. Dirt clung to the side of his face: he’d been on the frontlines. “Listen, friend, we don’t have time for bullshit so do us all a favour and be quiet.”

“And stop fucking moving, by Jove,” added one of the orderlies. Jack complied, though not intentionally, for his attention had been lost. It remained on the white tents against the red fire; on the Sarmatian warriors swarming the moat; on his brothers-in-arms falling dead when he should have been with them and not receding into the wild cover of the forest that he could hear weep, truly, for all the blood that was spilled.

Even as they set him down on the ground and bid him stay as silent as he could Jack’s mind was elsewhere entirely. It remained with those petroleum-black eyes while he hoped with all his broken heart that the sunset had not claimed them from him yet.

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori:

Mors et fugacem persequitur virum

Nec parcit inbellit iuventae

Poplitibus timidove tergo.

How sweet and fitting it is to die for one’s country:

Death pursues the man who flees

Spares not the hamstrings or cowardly backs

Of battle-shy youths.

-Horace; Ode III poem 2.