The slave-master ripped off the blanket of Marcus and kicked him in the chest, forcing him up.
Marcus blinked rapidly, taking in the weak sunlight from the small window. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stood up. He rubbed his legs and tried to warm himself up, he grabbed his tattered breeches and pulled them on, tying the rope around them. In the next pallet a boy smaller than Marcus had just be hit for not waking when told. This was the harsh reality of life as a slave. His parents died of the plague and he was taken into the 'generous' poorhouse. He was exploited labour.
At fifteen summers old, Marcus was the eldest slave in the house, he attempted to protect the little ones, but was often beaten for standing up to the lowlife owner. He bore scars across his back from the beatings he had received, but as long as the little ones were safe, he would continue to take their suffering, he was used to it by now.
"You hear me boy? Git ta work!" He was slapped in the face, but he stood his ground, a large red welt appeared on his face. He stared at his attacker; he had grown now, taller than everyone else in the entire house, 6 foot at least, and his shoulders were broad and strong, the work had paid off, but he was still lean and weak from the poor food given to them. He drew in a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
"That was the last time…" He muttered. "What was that boy? Ye got somethin' ta say? Spill it boy, lest I hit ye gain!"
Marcus simply walked forward and punched the man straight in his face. He recoiled and sat whimpering on the floor, nursing his broken nose, the blood spilling from his nose trailed all down his shirt. The slave-master squealed when he saw the blood and ran off, returning with three of his enforcers, all of them held blackjacks.
Marcus stood, stoically looking at them, one of them rushed at him and Marcus kicked out at the man, catching him in groin, doubling him up. He kneed him in the face and he sprawled on the floor, covering his face. The other two jumped at him and crushed him to the floor. They kicked and hit out at him, catching him in the ribs, punching him in the face, and hurting him when he was down. He covered up his stomach and chest and rolled into a ball, groaning with the pain that they were causing, he felt something break in his chest and he coughed violently, retching up blood.
They stood off of him, grinning maliciously. The master of the house walked up to Marcus and spat in his face.
"Git out of my house, you're done here! If I see you near here again, you'll git worse than this!"
He kicked him again and signalled his thugs to pick him up. He got one more punch in the chest and he doubled over, they dragged him by his shirt and hair and left him out in the street for dead.
He laid sobbing on the floor, nursing his ribs and stomach, occasionally coughing and spitting up blood. The street was empty for most of the day and most of the people that did walk past ignored him completely, who cared about a street wretch?
Marcus got up to his knees and coughed again. He slowly stood up, his head spinning, he was in complete agony but his pride would not let him stay down. He struggled forwards, moving slowly, holding up against a wall. He turned a corner and fell again, but this time he fell on top of someone…
The man grasped the boy underneath his arms and held him up against a wall.
"Are you alright boy? What happened?" The man took off his gloves and felt Marcus's ribs, he knew that at least two were broken; it was a wonder that he was even walking.
Marcus looked at the man and saw his shining plate, his sword strapped to his waist and the necklace hanging down his chest, a symbol shining brightly in his eyes, strangely drawing him towards it.
"Let us get you to the temple, you need help my boy."
The man helped Marcus walk, moving towards the temple that was the man's home…