Author's Note: Remember: reviews are love.
Disclaimer: A slave owns nothing; I own no more.
He was a thousand kinds of fool. A jinx. An evil omen, even to himself.
Why hadn't he kept his eyes on the old man? He hurried forward, searching the crowd for the tousled white hair, but he knew in his bones that it was useless. Suddenly, every place the two-faced giant had hit him ached afresh. How could he be so stupid and yet live? The streets were lively with the same holiday atmosphere that had prevailed in the arena, except when the spectators had been yelling for his death.
Or perhaps then as well.
He looked carefully at each lone man, scrutinized each little knot of pedestrians. Come on. The man was here somewhere. He had to be.
But where? He could roam the town all night without finding the old man. People in the street jostled past him, some cheerful, some cursing the obstruction that was Esca. The Briton ignored them; they were not his quarry.
He would have liked to ask someone, but he'd not been told the old Roman's name. Finally, he stopped and heaved a gusty sigh. There was no help for it. He was going to have to go back to the amphitheatre and ask Beppo.
He really did not want to do that. He had a strong suspicion about what a vivisectionist was, and hoped he was not going to find out the truth of his guess. Furthermore, he wasn't willing to bet so much as an as that the captain of the gladiators had only been joking when he made that threat, even if he'd had one of the little coins to his name, which he didn't. Doubtless the man would be glad to pocket Esca's price twice in the same day. The Briton? I haven't seen him since you left. He must have run away…
Esca shuddered and felt the bone handle of the little dagger pressing into his side. Father, Mother, help me. I need to find the old Roman. He was mad to ask his parents for help in finding one of their killers. Goddess—
"A bhuachaill!"
Just so had Esca's mother called him a thousand times in childhood. He couldn't not look.
A middle-aged market woman met his eyes. "An tusa Esca?" she asked.
Esca nodded. How did she know his name?
"Old Aquila told me to tell you that unless your stride is as long as Lugh's, you're lagging rather more than three paces to his rear." She pointed far up the street, and Esca saw the old Roman just turning the corner. Joy and sweet relief filled him.
"Go raibh maith agat, a mháthair!" Esca called in gratitude, then took off up the street at a run.
Every lump the Janus-mask had given him throbbed, and he had a stitch in his side to boot, but when the Roman graybeard at last reached his villa and turned to look, Esca was right where he was supposed to be, three paces to the rear.
The old man, Aquila, looked at him without surprise, as though he'd expected nothing else, as though he'd never left his message with the market woman. Silently the old man motioned him to step across the threshold. Esca did so, followed closely by the old man.
They paused outside the door. "I'll go in first," Aquila whispered. "Wait here until you're called."
"Stephanos!"
It was him. The young Roman. Esca began to tremble very slightly, but nodded his understanding, and the older man stepped across the threshold into his nephew's chamber, just as the young Roman called again, "Stephanos!"
Who was Stephanos?
The answer came immediately, for just inside the next room, the old Roman was explaining to the young one, "I decided Stephanos is too old to serve two masters. I bought you your own body slave."
What? You decided –
"I don't need my own slave," the irritated voice of his savior proclaimed petulantly from the next room.
He didn't tell the old man to buy me?
"Marcus," the old man was saying in a warning tone.
"I should have been consulted," Marcus insisted.
He doesn't want me. Esca shook his head, confused. Why am I here?
"Yeah. Well, you weren't," Marcus' uncle was saying. "Slave!"
It took Esca a moment to realize it was his cue. He entered cautiously, only to be pushed forward by old Aquila's palm against his back in a manner reminiscent of the guards pushing him into the arena earlier that day.
Marcus looked at him, recognized him, then looked away. Esca's heart tightened. No, he was not wanted. Not at all. A pain that was not physical lanced through him. He did not know how he was to make sense of this world if this man who had saved him wouldn't accept his service.
"His name's Esca," old Aquila said, before leaving the two young men alone together.
"I have no use for you," Marcus confirmed dismissively.
No use? You were calling for a slave when I walked in, Esca thought, but what he said was, "I had no wish to be bought." What use would you have had for 'Stephanos'?
"You should have run," the young Roman opined. "My uncle wouldn't have stopped you."
He didn't know the half of it. Plainly between them was the unspoken correlation; he could run now, as well. Marcus wouldn't stop him either.
"You saved my life," the Briton pointed out the obvious. "I have a debt of honor to you now." If Esca had had no wish to be bought, he had no wish to be sent away either. He lowered his head submissively.
"Against your wish."
Against my— do you think I wanted to die? Esca raised his eyes to meet the Roman's and explained, "No man should ever beg for his life."
"You didn't. I did. On your behalf, and— I meant nothing by it." Marcus looked away, out into the garden.
There was nothing left. Nothing. Unless—
Suddenly, the dagger was in his hand, the bone handle warm against his palm, his index finger resting against the blade as he pointed it at the young Roman, his enemy, the enemy of his people.
"I'm a son of the Brigantes, who never broke his word." He threw the dagger to the floor. "My father's dagger is my bond. I hate everything you stand for, everything you are. But you saved me, and for that I must serve you." Esca lowered his head again, and this time his submission was total.
Goddess, let him accept me, or else let him pick up the dagger and finish the job he stopped the Janus–mask from doing.
He did not even allow himself to hope. He just waited for the decision. He owed Marcus his life, so if the Roman's decision was against him—so be it. It was, after all, his to take, if that was his wish.
The silence was the very antithesis of the noise earlier in the crowded arena, but the stakes were the same. Esca felt again the pressure of his missing torc. He watched dust motes dance in the sunlit doorway past where Marcus stood, and wondered if they'd be the last thing he'd ever see.
Then, very gently, on the merest exhalation of breath, a whispered command: "Untie my sandals," yet it was enough to cause the Briton to sink gracefully to his knees and bend forward to free his master's ankle from the entangling laces.