"Fine, you'll have your chance." She turned away, striding back down the hall. "Set him to work in the fields. He'll need to be more than intelligence to get sold on my compound."

Mam's words once again played in his head as he stopped his work for a moment, wiping stinging sweat from his eyes and forehead wearily. His arms were throbbing with ache and overuse, and his legs shook from time to time. His throat itched for the water he desolately knew would come much later via the food slaves, and his skin hummed at the pain of being exposed to the hot, desert sun. He looked up at in the corner of his vision; by its position, it was only midday.

He could feel his overseer's eyes on him, especially Brutus's. A confrontation would arise if he rested too long. So he spat a little on his hands and rubbed it in the sand for friction, then hefted up the handle of his axe. On Mam's compound, when not on the auction stage, her slaves were set to work in the date tree fields. Dates, one of the few things that could grow in this climate, with plenty of water of course, were a source of additional income for Mam. It was clever, and if he weren't a victim of her ideas, he would have admired her ambition. The spiny palm trees grew in the southern back of the compound, where potential buyers could not witness their labors. There were hundreds of them, and each one had to be taken care of in a specific way.

There was a crew of women and girl slaves that, in the early morning, would come out with straw and mud baskets, tightly packed to prevent leakage, filled with water. It was their job to see each tree got water, soaking it at its base. It was a long job, but easy, which proved Mam had favoritism for women, or at least some sort of sympathy she rarely displayed for the men.

There was a group of slaves, mostly the older slaves, whose job was it to prevent bugs and pests from destroying and killing the trees. Their equipment was a cloth mask over their nose and little pots of a nasty smelling wax they were to rub down each tree's base, to repel potential attackers. They came out a little after the women.

The entire mass of slaves was put to work when it was time to pick the dates from the trees. It was an all day affair, and Mozenrath was warned he was to eat, drink, and sleep as much as he could the day before, because he would get none of that on Picking Day. True to everyone's displeasure, it was the longest day of his life, and he collapsed like a dead long on his straw mat in the slave's quarters when he was allowed to finally retire for the night. He was picking thorns out of his hands days later.

His job was one of the hardest, in all actuality, the hardest. He was the youngest out this time of day, a job usually reserved for adult males. Despite all of Mam's conservation efforts, trees would die, and the plot they were in had to be salvaged so another could be planted in its place. Problem was date trees remained standing for months after they died. His group's duty was to hack the main part down, struggling through fibrous, resisting tissue with usually dull axe blades. It would take a significantly long time to cut all the way through. But while you were cutting, you had to make sure someone else's falling tree didn't hit you. Warning calls were hard to interpret when called out in the many diverse languages of the slaves. Mozenrath did some of his special work for Mam in this aspect, interpreting when he heard yelled out warnings in all the different languages found on the compound.

A sliver of fleshy splinters inside the half-hacked through tree flew from it's wound to cut across under his eye. He winced, but bitterly knew he could not stop to perhaps stem the flow of blood. Brutus would jump on his show of vulnerability like a vulture to a drying mare. He grit his teeth. Brutus was a man he could fairly say he hated.

He hated him day and night, and his best dreams were filled with thoughts of killing him. It wasn't a stretch, however, to say that Brutus resented him with just as much ferocity. Ever since Mozenrath's induction, when he was so amazingly spared, Brutus had it in for him.

There were days when after the stew, the only type of meal the slaves were given, was passed out, Mozenrath's would be missing. He'd look up to see Brutus smirking, and was immediately determined not to let it faze him, at least not in front of Brutus. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction; that was his way of one-upping Brutus. Theirs was a constant trade off of little, mini victories. Mozenrath knew the best way of upsetting the man was by ignoring him.

He believed the source of Brutus's aggression was that he did not believe Mozenrath deserved the second chance Mam gave him. He was supposed to be dead, and didn't believe Mozenrath's linguistic skills were anything special, certainly not cause for any sort of special treatment. What special treatment? He asked himself incredulously. He worked just as hard as anyone else. His job cutting down date palm trees was abnormally assigned, considering his age. He knew it was Mam's plan to get him into shape for the auction stage. The auction stage, the chance for freedom from endless work denied him even till now. But still, there was danger in maybe being bought by another. How could his parents, who were destined to find him after all, locate him if he moved yet again? But he so desperately needed to escape this...

He mulled on it, so absorbed in it that he almost forgot to yell out the warning for falling trees when he finally cut through.

Fortunately, it didn't harm anyone, though it barely missed some of his peers. He was relieved; it would not look good if he killed anyone. His hold on the job that kept him in Mam's favor was not a guaranteed one. It was to be understood that on top of his physical labors in the fields, he was also to report to Mam when conflicts arose. Example? Only last week, an entire bunk of slaves, all related and from the same country it seemed, got ill. None of Mam's doctors or experts could decipher exactly what they were sick with, or how to treat it, because of the language barrier. Mozenrath was pulled from his bed, stumbling and yawning, and set down in front of the mother of the group to find things out.

It became immediately clear to him by her language she and her family were from Greece, a language Mozenrath only partly knew. He found out, however, in bits and pieces that she and her family were suffering from a sickness that routinely plagued their villages back home. Fortunately, and to the relief of Mam, who Mozenrath suspected was only concerned in loosing valuable slaves, it was common on the slave compound and a remedy was made. After the woman (Mozenrath learned her name was Piris, her sons', daughters', and husband's names constantly escaping his mind) and her family finally recuperated and were set to work once more, Mozenrath found he had a friend in them. And friends, on Mam's slave compound, proved to be very much the valuable asset.

The next time he looked up, he realized it was later in the day than he realized, and the sun was starting to relent its heartless tyranny. If they were lucky, they might get water earlier than usual. It had been an uncharacteristically hot day. He knelt down dedicatedly in the dirt as he realized he had missed a root. It was to be understood that felling the dead tree was just part one of Mozenrath's work. He also was required to pull up the remaining roots by hand, or trying to lever them out with his axe head.

The last, dried brown root flopped out, and Mozenrath straightened up, dusting his knees, and unenthusiastically tossing it into his basket. Just in case.

"What exactly do you think you are doing?" A voice barked out. Mozenrath sighed heavily, and didn't turn as the owner of the voice came up behind him slowly, boots sliding the sand in front of him. Mozenrath's spine immediately straightened and hardened in instinctual defiance. He gave Brutus a glance, and nothing more, as the guard stormed up to make himself known.

" I asked you a question, kid." He said pointedly. He was in his best guard form; red vest and saber holsters clean and pressed, a fine sheen of sweat over the muscles and scar tissue his thick body was covered with. His face was devoid of any humor, and Mozenrath sincerely doubted it ever was. Foolishly, he wondered what got Brutus honestly contented...

" Tough question, " Mozenrath answered dryly, facing forward, " Though last time I checked, my job." He noted with satisfaction he could almost hear Brutus's knuckles loose color.

"See, it seems to me you're slacking. A little...punk like you couldn't possibly be done that quick." He eyed Mozenrath's work scornfully, lip curling. Mozenrath's first instinctual replay would have been to protest he wasn't so little. He had been on this damn compound for a year and a little more, at least by his figuring. He was at least ten, though he felt much, much older. Was it really that long? He didn't like to think about that, didn't like to picture that giant clock in his mind, ticking away the days his parents still haven't saved him...

"Well I am." He said simply, deciding confrontation wasn't key for his benefit right now; he eyed wistfully the food slaves heading over the dune, buckets full of water, accentuated by deep ladles.

Brutus harrumphed resentfully, crossing his arms tighter over his chest.

"I'll be watching you boy, you'll get no favoritism out of me."

" You do that, " Mozenrath said under his breath as he made his way hurriedly over to the line for water. In any other circumstance, there would be pandemonium, a mad, greedy dash. But this activity was monitored as well; red vested guards stayed a short distance back, chatting with one another, but watching. It was soon to be Mozenrath's turn, and he eyed the water sloshing in the dark buckets with appreciation. Just as he picked up his ladle-full, he saw with a groan Brutus making his way towards him, a smirk on his face. He knew then, with a stone in his stomach, that he would get no water today if Brutus had his way. He was prepared to just drink as much as he could before Brutus arrived, when something strange happened.

"Oh! How clumsy of me!" Brutus cried out in displeasure as water spilled onto the sand, staining it dark, seeping towards his boots. He jerked up the rolling bucket, and waved it in the culprit's face. Mozenrath saw with surprise it was Piris. And she was speaking Arabic, albeit rough Arabic? Since when?

"What in the hell is the matter with you, you stupid woman?" he bellowed. She chattered on in her native tongue, abandoning intelligible language. She waved her arms frantically, as if to convey something. She took the bucket, and grabbed the still surprised Mozenrath and tugged him out of the work area, heading towards the side of the main processing room, where all the dates were stored.

"Hey, what are you doing? What do you need him for?" Brutus protested, calling after her.

One of the guards leaning lazily against the gate that circled the date fields yelled back at Brutus.

"Oh let the old fool go, they're going to get more water."

Once he and Piris were safely out of range of the guard's earshot, though there were still plenty more to make escape only a fool's dare, they stopped. In front of them was a huge well, from which it and it's two counterparts came all the compound's water. Mozenrath looked at Piris in admiration as the woman attached her empty bucket to the hook at the top, leading on the pulley.

He spoke to her in her language.

" Πού μάθατε Αραβικά;? (Where did you learn Arabic?)"

The woman turned at him, and surprised him yet again by speaking Arabic, though it was strained, broken, and heavily accented.

" I thought...It would be, useful?"

She blushed, pleased when Mozenrath praised her.

" Αυτός είναι πολύ έξυπνος σας. Το μιλάτε καλά. (That's very clever of you. You speak it well).

He took the rope from the dark skinned, portly, but kind looking woman and let the bucket fall, and started the slow, arduous process of hauling it back up again once he heard the wet splash of contact with the water below.

He was suspicious, now that he thought about what just happened. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

" Τοποθετήσατε αιχμή στον κάδο σας στο σκοπό, εσείς όχι;? (You tipped your bucket on purpose, did you not?).

She laughed.

" Φυσικά. Εκείνος ο... πίθηκος ενός ατόμου επρόκειτο να σας ενοχλήσει για ακόμη μία φορά. Είμαι ευγνώμων για αυτό που κάνατε για την οικογένειά μου." (Of course. That...monkey of a man was going to bother you yet again. I am grateful for what you did for my family).

Mozenrath looked away, but quickly back again in alarm as the bucket started to slip as he pulled it up over the edge of the well's wall.

" I was nothing" he mumbled, slipping back into Arabic.

Piris smiled, understanding fully or not, and took the ladle from him, filling it up and proffering it to him.