A/N: My apologies for the delay for the new chapter. I have a tendency to edit things again and again...and again and again and again. I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!
Chapter Two
The red dawn found Nasir kneeling on the flagstone floor of a sprawling Roman villa, his legs folded beneath him and his hands laced precisely in his lap. His breaths were soft and schooled and his face was a blank mask, void of emotion or thought. At his wrists and ankles hung the awkward heaviness of weighted chains, a labyrinthine combination of hard leather and bitter metal that wrapped around his limbs so they were separated by only a short length, with cuffs that scoured the flesh beneath them red, raw and bare. He kept his head bowed, his gaze lowered and his thoughts focused.
He had never before been so bound in all his life. During his years of servitude, he had enjoyed the best of what a wealthy dominus could offer a favoured slave- fine cloths in which to dress, perfumed oils in which to bathe with fragrant scents designed to lure and beckon, and carefully chosen jewellery that glinted, alluring and bright, against primed skin that gleamed under soft lamplight. He had borne a collar, but it had been at most a symbol, a reminder of the gilded prison in which he had lived, rather than being a prison in and of itself. His most recent captors, however, seemed most anxious to keep him tame. And so he had been imprisoned in bonds that weighed down his every limb and restricted movement, making him obedient as a dog on a lead, forced to go where he was taken.
Though he wondered briefly at his soundness of mind, he found himself almost glad of the unwieldy shackles. Each of the forged links told him he was not back in his old life, having never left the service of his dominus, told him the past seasons had not simply been a sweet dream sent by the gods, designed to snare his mind with false thoughts of freedom. Each link told him he had fought alongside proud men and women in a rebellion against a great but unworthy power, had made his own fate, had lived, loved and been free. He had known Agron and Spartacus and all others of like mind, united in purpose against the might of Rome.
The shackles served another purpose also. Since finding himself in Roman hands, the fear he might again be made body slave had played at the corners of his mind, making his breath catch and his heart seize every time he dwelled upon the thought. Yet the very chains that marred his flesh had proved balm. From years spent with his former dominus, he knew that few of the wealthier Romans used such bonds on those who served them in their beds, not liking to see the more violent signs of slavery upon the bodies with which they would play. Even fewer would deign to take their pleasure from one who had spent so great a time in the rebel camps as had he. He let the thought wash over him, a comfort and a lifeline that enabled him to maintain his façade of calm, acting as a rock in a swollen river where he was a drowning man. It reassured him. Although he might be made to serve Rome once more, he at least went armed with the near certainty that he was not fated to be made body slave once more.
Around him, he could hear the murmur of voices and the soft tread of footsteps, a slave's perhaps, sketching wide berth around him where he knelt, on display for whoever had desire to look. He could feel eyes upon him, watching, and the thought of the unwanted gaze made his skin shiver and his face begin to burn with humiliation and anger and, to his disgust, the sick, shameful sting of fear. He battled hard against the last but it was persistent, reaching its twisting fingers into him and causing his mind and body both to seize in dread in spite of the thoughts he had used only moments ago to strengthen himself. As he dwelled upon the watching eyes, reluctant to acknowledge them with even a look, his breaths began to hasten and his thoughts turned to panic. He did not want to be there, would have given anything not to be. He wanted to be back amongst the rebels, with Agron standing tall by his side with arm slung over his shoulders, with Spartacus and Naevia and Mira, Donar, Saxa and Crixus, with people who saw him for who he was, rather than a belonging to be used or consumed.
He forced himself to take a slow breath, then another. He needed to retain control, else he would lose himself to terror's choking grip. He had chosen this, he reminded himself, and had done so of his own volition. On the hunt, he had made decision to reveal himself to the Romans instantly, stepping out from behind cover of dense bush and undergrowth even as thought of what it could mean came upon him: slavery, torture, death. Yet the knowledge he would save his companions from discovery had surged through him, allowing him to stand with pride, his shoulders straight as he had been seized upon by unfriendly hands, knowing that he alone had selected the cause to which he had flown, not as a sword, as Spartacus had once urged, but as shield.
As he knelt on the stone floor of the villa, feeling its hard chill seep into his bones, he remembered again the snorts of impatient horses that had been so loud in his ears as heavy hands had pushed him forwards, the harsh shouts of the Romans as he was forced to his knees in the dirt, the feel of his weapons being torn from his grasp and the cruel bite of a knife against the soft flesh of his throat. Mostly, however, he remembered the sharp wrench of fear that had spiked deep in his gut as his jaw had been seized and he had been made to look upwards into a face he recognised.
The younger brother of his former dominus, a man who went by the name of Secundus Livius, had stared down at him from the back of his horse with a look that was at first distracted and uncaring, seeing only another creature far below notice. Yet comprehension had passed slowly across his fleshy, sweating face and his blue eyes, pale and strange against his dark, carefully styled hair, had gone bright with glee. He had spoken to his men and Nasir had been at once bound and forced onto a horse with a Roman soldier pressed too close behind him, the shit's sinewy arms wrapped tight about his waist as he hissed foulness into Nasir's ear.
With his skin prickling and despair stabbing at his gut, threatening to overcome reason, it had taken all of Nasir's strength to shake his head upon sighting Crixus and Lugo hidden in the undergrowth, their bodies camouflaged by mud and blood and leaves, poised for action with weapons bared and ready. Yet he had known, and knew still, that he could not have allowed either man to share his fate or worse, not when the odds had been piled so surely against them. And so he had made his choice, given a brief shake of his head and sent them away, grateful beyond all count that they had understood and assented.
Hope was not yet lost, he told himself sternly, forcing himself to take another calming breath. Chance of escape was strong. He repeated the thought, determined to keep his spirits high and eyes ever watchful. Although the large, luxurious villa to which he had been brought was well-guarded, no doubt because of threat presented by Spartacus and his rebels, he could still regain freedom.
Opportunity to escape of his own accord lay in his ability to play the acquiescing slave until he was well-enough trusted to secure some small measure of privilege, liberty from his bonds perhaps, or even from the villa itself. Were he to accompany Secundus Livius on a trip of business to a nearby town or city, he was certain he could slip away if given proper chance, to become lost in crowds or down twisting streets. He did not believe Secundus would take much care in restricting his movements beyond those of the other slaves, not once the immediate excitement of Nasir's recapture had diminished, as he had seemed to quickly believe Nasir's swiftly woven tale of capture by the rebels, of being forced to fight for a cause he believed false until managing to secure escape. Upon the telling of it, Secundus had clapped his hands in mirth, and a quick glance upwards had assured Nasir that he was enthralled by the story.
He remembered the man from his days serving in his brother's villa. Secundus had been a frequent visitor there, always fawning and attempting to curry favour with his elder sibling to improve his standing in Rome. He had never paid Nasir much notice, though Nasir had more than once felt his eyes upon him as he went about his duties. Now, however, Secundus seemed fascinated by him and his tale of escape, complaining as he had been summoned to attend to the pressing matter of wealthy guests who had recently arrived from a nearby town.
Nasir knew he could play the slave, could be one in action, if not intent. He knew how, had occupied such position before, holding a false power and freedom in which he himself had believed. He could seek the trust of his dominus, become Roman more than Syrian once more, all the while preparing himself to seize on the first chance of escape that beckoned.
The other course to true freedom, he knew, was rescue. Agron would come for him, once made aware of Nasir's plight. Nasir knew that as he knew his own name. Agron would come and he would kill all who had caused Nasir hurt. Spartacus would aid him, as one who believed that no man, woman or child, whatever their worth or station, should ever be left behind. So he could wait certain of the rescue that would come once Spartacus had opportunity to gather suitable force to seize the villa. Secure in the comfort that he would unlikely be taken as body slave once more, he could have patience and bide his time until the rebels stormed the villa's gates, with Agron, furious, determined and driven by every bit of arrogance he had, at their head. And Nasir, once freed of his chains, would join them, robbing of life every Roman who had dared name him slave.
Nasir was brought sharply back to the present by the slow, ponderous pad of footsteps on the flagstone floor. They stopped right before him and, with a quick dart of his eyes, he made out the thickset ankles and sandaled feet of Secundus Livius, who wore a long white robe that was given reddish hue by the crimson light of the sun as it climbed to its place in the sky. There was a brief pause, then Secundus spoke, his voice taught with excitement.
'Prepare him,' he announced to the room at large. 'He shall serve as body slave this night.'
The rock to which Nasir had been clinging shifted and vanished. The world went out from beneath him and the raging, swollen river tumbled him away.
They moved fast, passing briefly over the stony plains that lay beyond the temple before vanishing between the trunks of trees into a murky wood where full daylight never struck, where every leaf and bark and smallest root was cast in pallid shadow. Hours passed in which they followed barely-marked trails that were soft underfoot, rich with the littered remains of the detritus of plants and soils. They ducked under low-hanging boughs and leapt tiny, winding streams that sparkled where the forest canopy parted enough to allow the sun to blind itself upon the surface of the water. All the while, they pushed for speed, cutting their way through thick undergrowth that was dense and murky, and rejecting the obvious path in favour of that most direct.
They numbered only six-Agron, Spartacus, Crixus, Naevia, Saxa and Donar-with Spartacus having decided that swiftness was of greater import than strength. They also travelled light, each carrying only his or her own weapons, as well as sufficient supplies to negate any need to hunt. Crixus ranged out front, loosely tracing the path that he, Nasir and Lugo had taken two days past, though he seized upon any shortcut that proffered itself. Saxa followed, her loose hair burning gold as she ran swift and quick, only just visible as a flashing shadow through the thick wealth of trees. Then came Agron, who had managed to leash his rage and fear into a fierce energy that buoyed him without need for sleep or rest. His face was grim, his mouth set and determined, and his mind was focused upon the pursuit. He spoke only to harry the others to greater speed, increasing his own pace until Donar, sharp on his heels, talked him back down, cautioning him to save energy for the end of their chase, when it might be sorely needed to secure Nasir's release.
Naevia ran in their wake, slight, small and nimble. She was new to such missions, and Agron had fought against her accompanying them, wanting only the rebellion's best and most able warriors to accompany himself and Spartacus. Naevia had argued with him, her eyes flashing in a new anger he had not seen from her before as she demanded opportunity to return the favour that Nasir had done her on the mission from the mines. Mira had argued on her side until finally Spartacus had interjected, asserting Naevia's right to join them. With Crixus boasting of his woman's ability to move silent and quick as a shadow vanishing in sunlight, Agron had had no choice but to acquiesce to her presence. He still dealt her suspicious glance every so often as she ran at his back, decked in lashings of armour that would not hamper her slim body, but so far, she had proven Crixus's words true. Finally, at the rear of the party, ran Spartacus, strong and sure, a reassuring presence for all as he called encouragement and guarded their backs from potential and hidden threats.
Their pace did not slacken until they came upon the site where Nasir had been taken, a broad, open trail hidden deep in the ever-deceptive woods. Slowing to a halt beneath the clouding sky, Agron swore, violent and angry, as he laid eyes upon the tracks of the Romans, finally accepting that Crixus had not given over to exaggeration when he numbered them at two times ten. As he waited for the rest of his companions to catch their breath, he paced back and forth, impatient to be off.
Saxa knelt down on the bare ground to study the chaotic tracks. They were thick and obvious, with the hooves of the horses sunk deep and dark in the black dirt of the forest trail.
'Hope falters if they made journey by horse,' Donar complained, noting her examination as he rested against a broken tree trunk that looked to have been struck by lightning at some point in its past. He was bent in half as he attempted to regain breath. 'Their fucking speed will be far greater than our own.'
Crixus shook his head, his own breath coming in heavy pants. 'Only some amongst their number were mounted. The rest marched on foot.'
'Surely we gain upon them,' Naevia said, straightening from her own crouch and reaching for the water flask she wore at her waist. She drank deeply from it before passing it towards Crixus, who took a large draught before tipping what small content remained over his head. 'If we travel when darkness has fallen, we shall come upon them soon enough.'
'And if they have reached destination?' Donar demanded, voicing the question to which most all desired answer. 'Do we storm fucking town if trail dictates Nasir is concealed within its walls?'
'If that is what it takes,' Spartacus said. He stood a little apart from the others, his head raised towards the sky.
Donar grinned. 'And any Romans that stand opposed?'
Saxa snorted, loud and fierce, and muttered something in her own language.
Donar raised an eyebrow at her then looked to Agron, who had paused in his pacing long enough to swig from his own flask. 'What does she say?'
Agron tied the half-empty flask back at his belt. 'She says we shall cut them down like the shits they are and take back what is ours.'
Crixus laughed, the sound harsh and dry in the emptiness of the woods. 'The women of your land speak as warriors.'
'Mach es dir selber,' Saxa retorted, turning on him with a flashing, daggered gaze. 'I am fucking warrior.' She looked at Agron and jerked her head towards Crixus. 'Er ist ein Schwachsinniger,' she commented.
Agron ignored her, having no time for base arguments. He approached Spartacus, who was still watching the sky. 'We hold here too long,' he muttered irritably. 'Every moment is another lost.'
Spartacus nodded and gestured upwards so that the entire company looked towards the gradually darkening heavens. They were met with the ominous sight of thickset grey clouds gathering above them, threatening heavy rain that would wash away the tracks they so sorely relied upon. 'You are right,' he said. 'We must quicken pace or risk losing trail.'
With murmurs of assent, the company readied themselves and set off once more at a pacing run that ate up the ground beneath them as they followed the cacophony of prints that ran through the wood. Despite the threatening weather, most ran with new energy now they had a clear path before them and were certain they quickly approached their purpose.
Agron, however, felt his grip on hope growing tenuous at the thought of losing the trail they followed. His dream came unbidden into his mind once again and, burdened with dark thoughts, his strides faltered, losing their enduring rhythm. Gradually, he gradually dropped to the back of the pack, yet within moments Spartacus had slowed to run beside him, letting the rest of the company draw ahead.
'Have heart,' Spartacus murmured, as their feet pounded together against the black earth. 'Nasir is not yet lost to us.'
Agron flicked a quick glance at him before refocusing on the trail. 'You know well that Donar's words may come to pass, if they yet have not. What if path followed ends at gates of busy town? How are we to find Nasir then?'
Spartacus shrugged dismissively. 'You run with men and women who have escaped from Roman ludus, broken another from Capuan mines and burnt arena to ash. I cannot think seizing upon town would provide great challenge.'
Agron could not help the savage grin that came upon his face at Spartacus' brash confidence, even though he suspected it was staged with the lone purpose of quieting his own worries. Pushing his dream to the back of his mind, he steeled himself and shouted harshly to his companions, urging them on as he quickened his own pace. They responded in kind, running one behind the other as they covered each other's flanks, searching all the while for any trace of Nasir.
Though resolute to betray nothing of his burgeoning fear to the Roman soldiers surrounding him, Nasir could not help but falter as he was led towards the doorway of a room that, based on the soft rugs, long drapes and ceramic pots he could see within, was all too clearly the realm of a body slave. He paused, unwilling to step foot inside, but a sharp prod in the hollow of his back, courtesy of one of his guards, forced him forwards.
Moments later, his legs were kicked out from underneath him and he was made to kneel on thickly woven cloth while his chains were fixed tightly to a solid metal ring in the wall that left him little room to manoeuvre. His heart quailed. Though it had been only a mere season since he had last served a dominus, he found that his mind and body both now shied from the mere thought of another taking their pleasure from him without consent. With mind unveiled by the combination of Spartacus' reasoned words and Agron's intimate touch, he could not help the deepening feeling that he would rather risk death before bearing again such servitude.
Finally, the guards left. Nasir forced himself to look about, doing his best to ignore the way his stomach clenched at the familiar surrounds. Like most rooms of this particular nature, this one was brightly lit against the darkening sky by a host of burning torches held in scones fixed high on the walls. Other lamps were dotted about too, leaving nowhere for him to hide amongst sympathetic shadows to try to forget his fate. The cloying taste of perfumes and oils saturated the air and he breathed in the heavy fragrance unwillingly, feeling vaguely sick as his mind took him back to other nights spent with his former dominus, sometimes with Chadara beside him, as he had breathed in the same scent.
He had been chained next to a slender wooden table that sat on four spindly legs, on which was displayed an arrangement of ceramic pots and several glass jars, more precious in their luminous beauty. As well as the various containers, there were strips of white fabric, a bronze mirror, some metal strigils, decorated combs of white bone and bronze and bangles of every shape and size, plus every other sort of decoration for the body that could be imagined. He recognised it all. He knew immediately which of the perfumes were favoured by men and which appealed to women, he knew which of the oils would give added sheen to his skin or lend rich scent to his hair. It was knowledge he had thought never to use again and had done his best to forget.
Closing his eyes, he attempted to distance himself from his surrounds even as his mind raced, seeking increasingly desperate ways to avoid what he was to suffer once the dim dusk outside had fallen truly to darkness. Yet he was not left alone long enough for plans to formulate. Shortly after the guards had disappeared outside the door, it swung wide again with a soft creak and he opened his eyes to see a thin wisp of a girl enter, dark-haired and young, with a body that had yet to gain a woman's full curves. Her neck was bound by a collar. He had seen her about the villa several times that day as other slaves had washed his body and cleaned every inch of him before finally dressing him in a rich red cloth that wrapped about his waist, secured there with an ornate leather belt. It seemed that Secundus was sparing no expense while there were guests in his home.
The girl approached him slowly and laid a tremulous hand upon his shoulder. He did his best to ignore her, as he had done all day with the unfamiliar touches of the villa's slaves. She began her task without word, smoothing his hair with fine oils that to him reeked of the thick stench of slavery and sent his head into a dizzying spin. The girl worked with unusual speed, lining his eyes with kohl so they stood out and massaging lotions into muscles he had built by learning to hold a blade as though it was a feather. Yet he could tell she was nervous from the faintness of her breaths and the hesitancy of her touch. She was a young thing, clearly unused to such duties as preparing a body slave for service. In truth, it was usually the slave himself who completed the task. Yet his situation was different, he thought bitterly, listening to his chains clank together as he shifted position. The girl pulled back at once, her eyes wide and startled, only resuming her preparations when he had stilled once more. He noticed, however, how her hands shook as she reached for another ceramic pot, this one small and filled with faint colour to brush against his cheeks.
He thought briefly of resisting, of testing the reach of his chains by driving the girl up against the wall with a hand around her throat. He knew that he could kill her. Agron had shown him how, how to place his fingers just so around a person's neck and push until fragile bones shattered beneath grip. It would be a simple task with one so young. Yet he dismissed the thought almost before it had fully formed, berating himself. Desperation was no excuse for murder or cruelty. It was not in him to do such a thing, not to one who had done nothing to deserve such an end. Besides, the guards were still outside, his chains were still fixed to the wall and he would achieve nothing but the senseless death of a slave he would in any other circumstance seek to protect.
He startled when the girl spoke, her voice hesitant and hushed so low he could barely hear it. 'From where do you come?'
She was trying to distract him from his fate. His heart softened and he replied, doing his best to keep his own voice low and steady despite his simmering fear. 'I am Syrian,' he said, 'though I do not much remember the land.'
She shook her head and spoke again, throwing a zephyr-quick glance towards the doorway before she leant close and pressed her mouth to his ear. 'You mistake meaning. The guards whisper that you hail from among Spartacus' rebels. Do they speak truth?'
Nasir wondered briefly if she had been sent to secure information from him about the rebel forces, where they hid, how many they numbered, but quickly dismissed the notion. The girl's bright eyes were too eager, her breath too bated as she waited for his response. He nodded.
'Have eyes fallen upon him? Upon Spartacus?'
'They have.'
'Have you shared words?'
'Often.'
'And what of him?'
Nasir paused. How was he to describe all that Spartacus was to him-father, brother, leader, visionary, rebel, friend. 'He stands a good man,' he said finally.
He felt the girl's warm breath close against the nape of his neck as she began to draw back his hair, braiding half of it into a delicate knot at the crown of his head and fixing it in place with a solid pin made from bronze, which had a pointed metal spoke that slid through to secure the style. 'Stories are told amongst the slaves here,' she whispered, her mouth once more next to his ear. 'Tales of his victories in battle, how he fought in the arena before making stand against Rome.' She ran her fingers lightly over his finished hair, applying a fine oil to make it gleam.
Nasir remained quiet. Spartacus had always fought, he thought to himself, always resisted the hand fate had dealt him. He had battled against enslavement and urged all others he encountered to do the same, to seek freedom rather than bow to the Romans who would treat them as less than what they were. He remembered his first glimpse of the man, when Spartacus had torn collar from about his neck and spoken to him and his fellows of breaking the bonds of slavery. Even at the memory, his cheeks flushed dark. He had stood a fool that night, full of stubborn pride, unwilling to accept the gift that Spartacus had offered.
The girl's voice broke in on his thoughts. 'You served the rebels then? In their camp?'
Nasir felt his mouth quirk. He shook his head. 'I did not serve them, but stood amongst them,' he corrected her, feeling a faint beat of pride within his chest. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had turned that pride against Spartacus, making attempt on his life as he lay with Mira. He was fortunate Spartacus had seen fit to offer him second chance rather than robbing him of life there and then.
Perhaps it was time he turned that same pride to better cause.
As the thought took root, he lifted his head, his body suddenly tense. He would not go to his fate that night as a fearful slave, cowed and obedient and led by Roman leash. He would go as a rebel and a free man and make Spartacus, and Agron, and all others like them proud. He stood no longer the same boy who had attacked Spartacus, who had answered to his dominus' call and welcomed his touch as a means to garner higher position in the household. No, now that his mind was stripped of its rosy veil that had cloaked a slave's life in fine trappings, now that he knew the touch of a lover instead of a dominus, he would no longer have another's unwanted hands upon his flesh. He had changed, and been changed, by those he had met and all he seen and lived and done. So he would stay true to who he had become and to the rebels' cause. He would resist.
He felt his choice settle within him and knew it sat right. There would be consequences, though. If Secundus Livius was anything like his brother, punishment would follow any sign of disobedience from a slave. His former dominus had favoured beatings as a means of keeping his household in line, but it was not the only means employed by Romans to cow the slaves who served the republic. Starvation, imprisonment, conscription to the mines, being sold on elsewhere...all were possibilities. He had heard tales of troublesome slaves from other houses being traded to lesser families until they served the very lowest echelons of society or else found themselves turned out on the streets, begging to find enough food to sustain the day. Thinking quickly, he weighed up the risks. Banishment would lessen the chances of Agron and Spartacus locating him quickly, but it also offered him chance of escape away from such a well-guarded villa. Perhaps he could then secure his own way home and surprise Agron upon his return, making him proud that Nasir had sought and won his own freedom.
Conscious of the guards who had left through the door, he twisted until his lips found the girl's ear and there was not a breath of distance between them. 'Spartacus will come,' he said, keeping his voice hushed and careful. 'Here, to deliver me from bonds of slavery once more. I know not when, only that he will. You must pass word to him on my behalf if opportunity fails me.'
The girl's face paled. 'Courage would falter. Besides, why would you hesitate to speak with one so familiar to you?'
Nasir did not answer. 'What name do you go by?' he asked instead.
'Aemelia.'
'Aemelia. If you meet Spartacus and I do not stand by your side, I would have you tell him I fought this night.'
The girl's fine brow creased. 'What do you plan?' she said finally, suspicion making her voice harsh.
Nasir remained silent but Aemelia leaned over him, resting one hand on his shoulder, her fingers digging into his flesh with a strength he had not suspected she owned. Her words were urgent and laced with dire warning. 'Please, if resistance beckons, I beg you dismiss it from mind. In this villa, it leads to death.'
Nasir's heart stuttered within his chest. Thought had not occurred to him that departure from this life would be the immediate and only punishment for resistance shown. He hesitated, considering, then squared his shoulders, feeling his blood begin to race with stubborn rebellion. It made little difference. Neither Agron nor Spartacus would follow the tug of a Roman leash and nor would he.
Aemelia was watching him, her gaze sober. 'I bore witness once with my own eyes,' she said softly. 'My own sister-' She cut off, then began again, her voice harder than it had been as what Nasir sensed was a long-held bitterness for one so young came back to her. 'Why number yourself amongst the fools who would risk such penalty?'
Nasir reached up and seized her hand, tugging at her so they were face to face. He wanted her to understand his decision, so she could pass it on to those who knew him. 'All I am,' he said, putting all the intensity he could muster into his words, 'all I have come to be since I seized to follow Spartacus and first called him friend... it means I cannot submit to what this night holds.' He paused, unsure whether to reveal his next thoughts to a stranger. Yet need won out. He had to ensure this message reached the one who most deserved to hear it. He tugged Aemelia closer still, silently cursing the jangle of his chains, and dropped his voice so that it was little more than harried whisper. 'Further reason for resistance stands. There is another, one to whom my heart belongs. He will come for me. You must pass word that I would suffer no touch but his.'
Aemelia ripped her hand free from his grasp. 'You think yourself free to pursue such foolish notions as love?' she hissed. 'You stand a slave! A lesson my sister learnt to her detriment, and to that of the man who claimed her heart.'
Though sudden sympathy for her suffering and her family's rose within him like a wave, Nasir shook his head, full of a bold defiance that had lain mostly forgotten since Secundus had made his announcement, buried beneath fear and memories he know knew had paralysed his thoughts. 'I stand as free as any other. If they lay hand upon me tonight in attempt to take their pleasure, I will fight until breath is absent my body.'
'No breath will remain if you resist. You will be killed.'
Pride surged through Nasir, a spirit that he had seen, learnt and inherited from those whose company he had shared over the past season. 'Then I shall go to my death gladly,' he declared, 'and welcome it as close friend.' Hearing sounds outside the door, Nasir spoke quickly, knowing that he had only moments to convey the last of his message. 'Aemelia. This man who will seek me stands tall and hails from lands east of the Rhine. He goes by Agron. You must tell him he forever holds my heart. Keep words in mind, I beg you. I would have him know them.'
Aemelia hesitated before finally nodding, her expression a strange combination of anger, bitterness and sorrow as she dwelt on past losses of her own. Nasir reached out a hand to grasp hers in desperate gratitude even as the door banged open and a quartet of Roman guards entered. Striding over in close formation, they unlocked his chains from the wall and pulled him to his feet before leading him away.
As the guards hustled him towards his fate through an open courtyard caught in the strange half-light that hovered before encroaching dusk, Nasir craned his neck upwards, suddenly desperate to see the new-born stars one last time before he risked death. Yet he was denied his wish, for dark storm clouds bracketed the sky, casting a heavy gloom and strange humidity over the shadowed world that lay beneath them. Despite the newly lit fire in his heart, Nasir felt a chill run through him as several drops of heavy rain fell upon his upturned face. The gods were displeased, he knew it. And they would wreak their vengeance from the heavens upon the earth below.
Translations:
Mach es dir selber-go fuck yourself
Schwachsinniger-simple minded one