A/N: Hope you all enjoy the new chaper and thanks for reading!

Chapter Three

'Fuck the gods!' Agron roared as he paced back and forth in front of the flooded ford. The steady parade of Roman tracks they had followed for long miles through forest, plain and wood led directly to the water's swirling edge and, if he squinted through the gathering darkness and pelting rain, he could make out their reappearance on the other side of the blackly swollen river. He swore again, more violently, cursing the events that had led them to such an obstacle.

As the sun had sunk low into the horizon, the clouds that Spartacus had noted had blanketed the sky, a solid iron-grey wall between the heavens and the earth. They had hung, ominous and heavy for some time before finally breaking, triggering a vast, sudden downpour that had drenched Agron and his companions as they ran steadily onwards, ignoring aching muscles that screamed for rest in attempt to make up distance and time. Knowing they had only a short while before the tracks they followed were washed away by mud and rain, they had hastened their pace only to be stopped abruptly in their path at the bank of a rushing river where black water had swelled thunderously upwards, sweeping and swirling about a now impassable ford.

Spartacus was stood before it with his arms crossed, his face lost to ominous shadows as he examined the way ahead. 'Choice is taken from us,' he said finally, his voice nearly lost beneath a violent gust of rain that struck the group with angry force as they gathered tightly about him. 'We must seek other crossing.'

'Distance is too great,' Naevia pointed out. Her short dark hair was plastered wetly to her face and shoulders and her voice was hoarse as she struggled to make herself heard over a vast crack of lightning that broke the sky, splintering into dozens of tiny fingers that grasped and clawed, desperate the reach the solid earth. 'We shall lose precious time!'

'What option have we? I will not risk lives to make crossing here!'

Agron's temper flared and snapped, pushed to its limit by worry, stress and a cavernous fear that threatened to swallow him whole. 'Throw fucking caution to the winds!' he shouted against the howling of the storm. 'Nasir is out there, in Roman hands! I will not lose him to fucking rain!'

'We cannot help Nasir if we ourselves are dead!' Spartacus argued. 'We shall move to next ford then retrace steps to pick up tracks once more.' His voice brooked no disagreement and Agron spun from him, spitting curses and throwing off Donar's restraining hand as he strode once more to the water's edge to sight again the distant tracks which were still visible, though badly distorted.

Spartacus looked around at the small group as the pelting rain finally began to slow to lesser drizzle. 'The gods themselves oppose us, yet I would not have them triumph. We will get Nasir back. Now, go!'

Despite the burning in his blood, Nasir felt a shiver chase through his body as he was led into a high-ceilinged room adorned with loose, finespun drapes and lit only by sparse lamps along the walls. A large number of heaped, richly coloured cushions and rugs were scattered across the floor, creating a soft, raised stage at the centre of the room. Behind it, positioned opposite the single doorway, was a table cloaked in white cloth and covered in silver platters laden with generous piles of green olives, sliced figs and bright, succulent fruits, as well as mounds of dark bread and several flagons of rich red wine. Secundus had prepared well for his guests.

Nasir did not know if he trembled so with determination or fear. Though the fire in his heart had at first burnt strong as he had been marched through the villa's endless corridors, it had slowly begun to ebb and gutter as the full weight of Aemelia's warning descended upon him, casting a terrible shadow across his very soul. His mind jumped jaggedly from one path to another. He knew he could not go to his fate an obedient slave. Even now his stomach twisted, violent and sick, at the mere thought of unwanted hands playing upon his body. Surely the death of which Aemelia had warned was better than suffering that touch, than becoming slave once more and bowing to the will of those he held bitter enemy? Yet, on the other side of the coin, was the pressing thought that there was no worse path from the world than by a Roman sword. And now, unlike when he had risked life to make attempt on that of Spartacus, he had much to live for.

Confusion and clashing thoughts drove him slowly to a strange numbness where his mind grew hazy and unsettled, a feeling bolstered by the hazy scents of incense and salacious oils that hung in the room. Unsure and unsteady, his mind began to play tricks with him. Taunting images flashed before his eyes as though he dreamed them-Agron storming the villa with Spartacus at his side, taking him from the nightmare in which he had found himself, of Mira and Naevia standing before him, opposing those who would take advantage, of Donar splitting Roman skulls as Crixus tore helmeted soldiers limb from limb.

Hope yet remained for rescue, he told himself thickly, depending how long it had taken Crixus and Lugo to return to the temple, how soon a rescue party had been dispatched, whether they had suffered any delay. He knew it was distant chance. He had heard the thunder of rain upon the tiled roof of the villa and had understood it would make travel more difficult, washing away tracks and muddying paths. Even so, he found himself clinging to the chance that Agron would come for him, and so to the life that such a hope offered.

The thought came, heavy and dim, that he needed to retain control. He shook his head, doing his best to ignore the sickly perfumes that coated the air, and the fog in his head lifted a little, allowing him to think more clearly. He would not throw his life away, not if the slightest chance for rescue remained. He would wait for the last possible moment to resist and do so only if there was no other option left to him. He would play the slave, use old instincts that still lived within him to duck his head and obey, and only cast them off if all choice was removed.

A hand wrapped around his forearm and he found himself propelled forwards, towards the cushions where Secundus Livius was standing, his gaze waiting and eager as he spoke, ordering his soldiers to remove Nasir's bonds. Hope plumed, abrupt and fierce, within Nasir but it faded quickly as he realised that one of the men, the one who held him, was hesitating.

'Dominus,' the man said, clearing his throat respectfully, 'once more would I urge caution. Leave bonds upon the slave. He bore weapon when we came upon him in the woods and may yet-'

Secundus let out an unexpected chortle of laughter, cutting the guard off mid-sentence. 'You believe the rebel scum would think it of worth to train this slut in battle?' he asked. His voice had gained an impatient, mocking edge.

The guard opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, clearly too familiar with the dominus' ways to risk answer. Nasir cast a quick look at him. He was an older man, with iron-grey hair and broad shoulders that spoke of age and strength, of one who had known battle and emerged victorious.

Secundus, however, seemed to have no care for the caution of his captain. 'Hah! Tiberius stands but a body slave, skilled at nothing but satisfying needs of his master! Likely he has been fed cock morning and night since first taken from my brother's villa. No, I would have him free of bonds.'

The guard remained recalcitrant, tightening his grip so his strong fingers dug into muscles that Nasir could not help but clench. 'Dominus, with respect, I must offer counsel-'

'Well enough!' Secundus snapped. What seemed to be a short temper, so like that of his brother, frayed at the opposition to his will. 'If only to put quiet to petty words, remove only shackles at his feet. But make haste! My guests await!' At a nod from their captain, the guards set themselves to obeying orders and Secundus raised his voice, which had become suddenly full of cheer and importance. 'I would have you enter, friends!' he called towards the open doorway of the room.

Nasir watched, his heart beginning to pulse deep in his chest, as a number of Romans entered, their eyes eager and curious as they took in the extravagance of the scene before them. Each bore drink in hand and was clothed in luxurious robes of red and blue and a vivid green, the sort of which Nasir had only seen when his old dominus had visited a major town, bustling and wealthy from booming trade. Gold jewellery hung at the newcomers' wrists and necks, a callous contrast to his own dull shackles, and bright jewels of amber and emerald glinted in the women's elaborately styled hair, glittering in the shifting light thrown by the burning lamps.

Though careful to keep his face a blank mask of propriety, Nasir balked inwardly as two of the newcomers caught his eye, each striking within him a discordant note of remembrance. They had been present when Secundus had first returned to his villa with Nasir in tow, waiting at the entrance of the property. As Secundus had greeted them with open arms and affected words of welcome, Nasir had immediately recognised their names from his years serving his former dominus. Terentia Cassius and her brother Severus were both high-ranking members of Roman society, wealthy, proud and used to wielding the power that had been held by their family for generations beyond count. Upon entrance to the villa, they, along with Secundus, had listened to his tale of fleeing the rebel camp. Yet unlike Secundus, he had doubted their belief for, as he had spoken of his escape, the gazes of both brother and sister had fallen upon him, chill, sceptical and haughty.

He looked at them now, curiosity momentarily overcoming his caution. Both had pale hair that was swept elaborately back from chiselled features, the woman's piled high upon her head in a soft style that jarred against her angled jaw, the man's combed and parted with the greatest of precision. Their skin was alabaster, almost like marble, and they stood out even against those whose company they kept, radiating confidence, arrogance and superiority.

Nasir looked down at a tug by his feet, his attention caught. Having finished unlocking the shackles that bound his feet, the guards were removing them, carrying them over to the side of the room where they deposited them out of sight. Briefly, Nasir relished the cool breath of air that flowed against the torn skin at his ankles, thinking again of possible escape. Yet, looking around, his hopes were quickly dashed. The guards were not leaving the room as he had expected, but instead were positioning themselves about, two at the doorway and the others against the walls, so that he and the group of Romans were completely encircled, for whose protection he did not know.

Focused on the soldiers, Nasir was caught off guard as a hand reached out and nudged him downwards. Mindful of Aemelia's warning and his own thought to play the slave, he obeyed, dropping to his knees and offering only minor reluctance as the guests gathered round him as they edged closer to the circle of cushions, still sipping at their wine. Secundus had moved to stand so close to him that their skin brushed, and Nasir clenched his teeth as the man reached down and ran soft fingers over his hair, caressing and stroking as though he was a favoured pet. He noticed that one of the women, whose dark auburn hair was styled carefully in loose curls that fell over the shoulder of her forest-green robe, was watching him with wide, doe-shaped eyes. Clearly this was the first time she had witnessed such entertainment.

'He is beautiful,' he heard her whisper to her neighbour.

Her tall, slim-bodied companion laughed, running the tip of her finger over the narrow rim of her wine cup. 'I admit, envy beckons at his dark locks. If only mine were similar.'

Nasir closed his eyes as fleshy fingers whispered over his jaw, turning his face this way and that as though he stood an object to be admired, examined, owned. Yet, while every part of him desired to strike out in anger, he forced himself to hold as a statue and show no sign of fight, not yet. Rescue could still come.

The first woman was still talking, her voice becoming louder in her fascination. 'I would have him remove that lovely pin he wears,' she said. 'I wish to see his hair about face.'

Nasir felt his cheeks burn. Holding himself rigid, he ignored the woman and did not move. Yet a sharp breath was forced from him as Secundus' blunt fingers tangled in his hair close to his scalp, his bitten-down nails digging in cruelly.

'Obey order, Tiberius.'

Slowly, Nasir reached up with both hands, the chains at his wrists clanking, and fingered the long-toothed metal pin that Aemelia had used to fix his hair at the back of his head. He tugged at it and it slid free easily, loosing his hair so it fell down around his face and settled against the nape of his neck. Delighted giggles and a couple of low chuckles echoed through the room, and another unfamiliar hand reached out to him, small and slender this time, running through his hair and smoothing it behind his ears.

So tense he thought his very body would shatter into a thousand fragments, Nasir lowered his arms, still clasping the pin between clumsy fingers that seemed strangely unwilling to bend. They felt strange, cumbersome, as though they were not his own. He looked down, focusing on the pin he grasped with increasing desperation as he struggled to ignore the growing number of straying touches upon his face and chest. He knew suddenly, with a hollow, sickening blow that struck him to his core, that rescue would not come, not in time, at least. He would have to resist, alone and unaided and, if Aemelia's words bore true, face the surety of death at the hands of some unknown Roman. He could only hope that Secundus would not force him to serve before he met his end.

Somewhere around him a lamp guttered, flickering in unseen wind. The heady scent that permeated the room grew stronger and he found his eyes following the quivering play of the lamplight as it fell upon his surrounds, glinting invitingly on the long, solid spoke of the hair pin he yet clutched between his palms. Abruptly, he stilled, his gaze fixed on the sharpened point as his own words rang shallowly in his mind. Then I go to my death gladly…and welcome it as close friend.

His thoughts began to race. Perhaps chance yet remained to ensure he would avoid what was about to occur. He had heard the rebels break words of such a thing when conversation between them had turned dark, led there one evening by too much wine and a day of bloodied battle, with minds made slow and prying by the play of restless shadows and dying campfires. They had spoken of choosing death over capture to avoid the dread fate of death by Roman hands.

Nasir stared at the pin clutched between his hands, then slowly moved a finger to prick softly against the tapered point at one end. The path he looked down was shadowed, yes, yet surely it held greater honour than what stood before him. At least this way, he would be the one to end his own life and at time of his own choosing, rather than waiting for a hated Roman to bestow the final blow because he resisted what no one should be forced to bear.

He would wait for the last moment though, and give Agron every chance.

The sound of his Roman name made him look up. Secundus was speaking to his guests, his voice light and jesting. 'I bear gift for Tiberius,' he said jovially, 'to welcome him to my household.' He gestured to one of the guards, who moved forwards bearing a single item which he offered up to the dominus.

A collar.

Nasir closed his eyes, unable to watch as Secundus took the hated object from the guard. Yet he was powerless to stop the shudder that racked every muscle of his body as he felt his hair being lifted from around the nape of his neck and the dark collar settle close about his throat, its heavy weight wrapping around, tight and choking, before it was latched together and he was slave once more.

'At last, the rebel slave is reminded of his place,' came the voice of Severus Cassius, speaking for the first time that night.

Beside him, his sister laughed, the sound high-pitched and jarring to Nasir's ears. 'All rebels are but slaves whose memory has slipped of their place in the world,' she observed cuttingly. There were titters around the room as the others gathered there voiced their agreement.

Her brother spoke again, to Secundus this time, his voice sharp and amused. 'I admit, I stood surprised upon learning you harboured intent to take this slave to your bed, what with his flesh so marred.' Nasir stiffened as he felt a trail of cold fingers upon his chest. Opening his eyes, he found Severus stood before him, his arm outstretched as he traced the distinctive scar he had gained upon flight from the mines.

'Gaze recoils at such foul mark,' Severus continued, his sharp nails digging in a little deeper to the reddened, sensitive flesh, threatening to pierce the yet-healing wound. He drew back, his lips curled thinly in disgust. 'Who knows where he has been, what he has done?'

Nasir found himself pulled off balance as Secundus moved forwards to wrap his fingers around his collar, tugging on it so there remained not an inch between them as he made answer. 'Such are Tiberius's virtues that I am well able to discount his past,' he said. 'He stood favoured by my departed brother, holding high position in his household. Often was I envious of him for possessing a slave of such form! It brought to memory days spent as child beside him, always jealous of favours bestowed by our dear mother upon her eldest!' He chuckled. 'Truth holds, gaze lingered often on Tiberius as my brother delivered lecture on how to improve my fortunes in life! How irony strikes to know all needed was his death!'

There was laughter about the room, but Nasir's blood ran cold to hear Secundus speak so callously of his brother's passing even as Secundus continued, enjoying the attention given to him by his audience.

'Fortune truly favoured me when I stumbled upon Tiberius when making journey to this very villa and I was absent hesitation in giving order to take him alive.'

'What of his time spent amongst the rebel slaves?' demanded Terentia, wrinkling her nose. 'Surely that gave some pause?'

A possessive hand tangled in his hair forced Nasir to crane his neck upwards so that he met Secundus' pale eyes, which were lit bright with greed and power. 'The gods would find words false if I claimed such time did not make Tiberius of even greater interest to me. Besides, for his beauty alone, I would overlook much.'

Secundus was quiet for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision, for he released Nasir and waved a hand abruptly towards his companions. 'I must beg your leave, friends, for I wish for solitude with my new slave. I would remind him of his place before he serves honoured guests.'

With a mixture of exaggerated groans and tittering laughter, the guests removed themselves from the room, though the pale-haired brother and sister lingered briefly by the door before leaving, their gazes icy and chill on Nasir. Finally, they left, and Nasir was alone with only Secundus and the guards still positioned against the walls. Once more, Nasir's heart flared. The chains at his feet that prevented flight had been removed and most of the Romans had left. Surely he could break for freedom?

Yet the sudden pressure of Secundus' soft fingers flush against the hollow of his back caused all thoughts of escape to flee far and wide as memories swamped him, leaving him panting and panicked. The touch was so familiar, so like that of his former dominus. He had been here before, many a time. He knew what was to come, the forced pleasure, the pain of cruel hands intent only on their owner's gratification. He knew his orders and his place in the world, there to serve those who held mastery over him and his like.

Yet, somewhere amidst the dark chaos of his thoughts, a spark flailed wildly, a sense of self formed only recently, but which supplanted all he had been for so many years. He grasped onto it, clinging, desperate. This time, he would not obey. His hand closed around the hair pin, gripping it tight. He would delay no more.

He caressed the pin's sharp point, feeling the coolness of the metal bite like ice against his flushed skin. He would have only one chance. Taking a deep breath, he sought a place of calm from which to accomplish task. His eyes fell upon the pin that glinted so merrily in the quivering lamplight and he gazed at it, transfixed, taking in the precise detail of its ornamental head, noticing for the first time that it was carved in the form of a lotus bud.

It had been many months since he had worn any kind of ornament in his hair, having long found that such things had strong tendency to slide free in the speed and heat of a fight, leaving him vulnerable to momentary blindness as he shook his hair free from his eyes. Upon learning of his predicament, Agron had at first laughed, commenting on his vanity that he would wear any sort of decoration into battle and teasing him that he should wear his hair short, as he did himself. Yet when Nasir had one night brought a blade to their bed and held it to his hair, threatening to remove it once and for all, it had been Agron who had sworn a foul oath about Syrian stubbornness before wresting weapon from Nasir's grasp. He had disappeared into the darkness that lay outside their quarters and returned bearing a short narrow strip of black ribbon with which to bind back the offending locks. He had tied it himself into Nasir's braid, warning all the while of dire retribution if Nasir sought to pursue such drastic action again.

A faint smile came to Nasir's lips at the memory and he felt his heart surge with warmth as the events of the past year swept through his mind like sunlight through trees. He thought of Spartacus, who had offered him both life and choice, of Crixus who had given his life for Naevia in the mines. He thought of Naevia herself, who had fought to preserve her life for the single wish to see her heart again, surviving what would have brought so many others to their end. He thought of Lugo, of Mira, of Donar, Gannicus and Saxa. All had survived hardship, all had battled to win their lives and their freedom from Rome.

Mostly, however, he thought of Agron, of his strength and stubbornness and arrogant pride, the way his gaze grew intense and bright whenever it fell upon Nasir. He thought of his skill in battle and the roughness of Agron's teeth on the flesh of his throat as they took to their bed. He thought of laughter as it rumbled deep in Agron's chest as he lay with Nasir pressed against him, curled into the curve of his body, of Agron's shout as his sword struck Nasir's own, training him so he could fight for a cause in which they both believed, against the monstrous power of Rome and those like Secundus, Terentia and Severus, who would take all from them and others.

The flood of images ceased, leaving behind a single memory that sparked bright and furious in his mind-of Agron bellowing advice as he drove his sword against Nasir's own, without pause, without rest, without give. Quickly, another memory joined it, of Agron and Spartacus together teaching him the spear, a weapon that extended his reach and favoured his size, whilst proving just as deadly as the more commonly used sword. Another memory, of Agron standing before him, knife in hand, showing him how to cut a man's throat with little more than a flick of his wrist, of Agron reaching out a casual arm as they stood beside each other and Nasir leaning into it, expecting a caress yet finding himself flat on his back, staring up into Agron's stern face as he warned him to keep his senses sharp at all times. Another memory came, of Agron landing blow after blow upon a round shield that he had given Nasir, teaching him to defend himself with it before he had turned everything Nasir had known of battle on its head by showing him how to use the shield's curved surface and sharp edge as weapons with which to launch attack.

Agron had taught him to fight. And Agron would have him fight, even if death waited at battle's end. He would not have Nasir take his own life, not when chance remained, however slight, that Nasir could save himself, or at least offer battle to his enemies. It had been Spartacus who had begun his training, but Agron had continued it, teaching Nasir everything he knew of battle, how to attack with sword and shield, spear and knife, how to use his bare hands and feet to bring down a grown man. Agron had taught him how to duck and weave and how Nasir could use his size against a larger opponent. He had taught him to attack and defend, to use his mind against an enemy who relied only on his body. Tactics, manoeuvres, strategy, instincts, all were things that Agron had drilled into him again and again, not caring if Nasir used the knowledge there and then, or even showed an interest, but content that he had shared it so Nasir could seize upon it if needed. Agron had taught him to fight, not only so Nasir could aid the rebel cause, but also so that he could protect himself and others.

And as soft hands began to trail over his body, making his flesh crawl and shiver, Nasir thought of Agron and who Agron had helped him become, and he realised that he had already made his choice.

Dropping forwards onto his hands, he kicked out behind him, feeling his foot connect with a fleshy jaw. He heard a pained squeal. Not waiting for an answering blow, he twisted and rolled so that he fell to the floor away from the cushions, landing hard upon his back. The chains struck him a cruel jolt against his ribs but he ignored it, focusing instead on the shouts of the guards as they came running towards him. They were too slow. Another twist of his body and he had gained his feet and wrapped his fingers in the chains at his wrists so they would not get in his way, all the while making sure he kept his desperate grip on the bronze hair pin clenched in his fist. He ducked a grasping hand, dismissing it as beneath his notice, and launched himself forwards, folding his body into itself and rolling so that he gained his feet right in front of the guards.

With a sharp hiss, he slashed forwards towards a bared throat and watched, satisfied, as blood plumed through the air, the narrow spoke of the pin tearing cruelly into the soft flesh below the man's jaw. The guard stumbled and dropped to the floor and Nasir spun on his heel and stabbed downwards with all his strength, driving the pin deep into flesh before rising, looking at once for the next attacker, who had circled around behind him. Recognising the man who had protested against the removal of his chains, Nasir ducked a swing of a sword, then stabbed out with the pin once more. That guard, too, stumbled and fell, his sword spilling from his hand and dropping onto the cushions with barely a sound.

Seizing opportunity, Nasir released his grasp on the chains at his wrists. Slipping the hair pin into the leather belt at his waist, he grabbed at the handle of the sword lying abandoned on the floor. Raising it before him, he glanced wildly around, tightening his grip on both sword and pin. The first two guards had been caught by surprise, expecting only to face a cowed slave. He would not have such luck with those remaining. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied one of the guards making for the door and launched himself after him, only to feel a slashing pain in his side as another sword caught him on the ribs, cutting through bared flesh. Nasir turned, instinctively raising his weapon, all of the hours he had spent training under the hot sun with Agron giving him much needed strength. He moved forwards, deflected a strike, then attacked, driving the man back towards the wall and finishing him with a blow that removed head from shoulders.

Panting furiously and acutely conscious of the trail of blood that trickled slickly down his side, he forced himself to pause and take stock of his surrounds. A soft gurgle came to his ears and he turned to see Secundus lying on the cushions some feet away from him, his face pale and a darkening bruise forming on his cheek. Breathing hard, Nasir stepped forward. He stared at Secundus, sword firm in hand, gazing down at the man who had dared lay hand upon him, had ordered collar round his neck, had put him in chains like some dog.

Through the battle haze that was in his mind, it took him a moment to realise that Secundus was speaking.

'Tiberius!' he groaned, his face stark white beneath an unnatural flush. 'Have mercy! Kindness lay in heart. I gave you welcome to my household when others would have bestowed only death. I offered shelter from Spartacus and his rebels! I gave you opportunity-'

Nasir lowered his blade so it rested over Secundus's neck, and the man silenced beneath him, his words dying in a strangled gasp. 'Gave?' he repeated. 'You gave nothing! You and your kind would take all from me if given chance!' He thought of Aemelia, another slave in this man's household who had suffered under her dominus, and he delivered a sharp kick to Secundus's side, drawing forth a pained gasp. 'Those you name slave live in fear's shadow, that you might deliver death if order is disobeyed. Yet they shall fear reprisal no more.'

He moved without thinking, filled only with loathing for all the man before him represented. Placing his sword carefully on the cushions, far from any reaching grasp, he looped the chains about his wrists around Secundus' neck so they formed a loose collar. Tugging at them so they were pulled taut, he twisted the chains with all his strength, putting all his weight behind it. For a moment, Secundus did not seem to realise his intent, yet then, as a horrible wheezing sound started to emerge from his throat, realisation dawned in his pale eyes and he began to plead with haggard breaths that quickly turned to gasps and gurgles. Nasir watched him, his heart twisted with hate and fear and pulsing anger as Secundus strangled beneath him. Aemelia had told him of the cruelty of this man. Nasir had been about to experience it for himself. Secundus deserved death.

A sound outside startled him. Loosening his grip, he turned, remembering too late about the third guard, the one who had made break for the door and escaped unnoticed as Nasir dealt with his companion. No doubt he had sought help. With a soft curse, Nasir realised that he was out of time. Swiftly, he glanced down at Secundus, who still drew breath, if barely. Knowing he had no other option, Nasir disentangled the length of chain from around the fleshy throat and made for the door that led to the rest of the villa, closing it quickly and quietly. Next, moving to the side of the room, he upset the table of sweet fruits and other such treats and dragged it over to the doorway, turning it on its side and shoving it against the door to make a crude barrier. It would buy him a little time, if not much.

Picking up his sword again, he cast his gaze across the room, doing his best to ignore the wound at his ribs, which was still bleeding, more heavily now, sending an acrid smell of blood to his nostrils. No windows, no other door. He was trapped. A harsh bang made him jump and he swung back to face the door, which had begun to shudder as blows were delivered to it from the other side. Momentary panic threatened to overtake his mind, but he forced it down, thinking once more of what Agron had taught him. If strength could not win, strategy must suffice. He knew that however many Roman soldiers stood on the other side of the door, they would outnumber him, and their strength and weapons would easily outmatch his own, even if he was free of the cumbersome chains around his wrists. Surprise would be his only weapon. They would expect a slave. Instead, he would give them a warrior.

He readied himself only moments before the door burst open, breaking off its latches and crashing to the floor, sending the table flying. At once, Nasir charged, barrelling into the force of guards gathered just beyond the door, throwing them off balance with his weight and striking out with his sword, then ducking and weaving amongst them, using his small size to the best of its advantage. He felt a second line of sharp fire slice across his upper arm as a guard's blade caught at his ribs, then another across his thigh, but he kept going, refusing to acknowledge the pain as he broke through the last of the guards and bolted, racing down the corridor and through the twisting passages of the villa, his bare feet striking hard against the stone floors. Once he passed a man who had been one of Secundus' guests, cloaked in a long blue robe and standing frozen in the middle of a corridor. Unwilling to stop, Nasir struck out with his sword and continued on, passing the room where Aemelia had prepared him. He kept running, out a door, through a passage, into the room where he had waited for so long that morning.

Finally, he found an open doorway that led into the front courtyard of the villa. He burst through it, his breath coming in harsh pants. He could see the faint grey outline of the gateway to the outside world before him, only a dozen yards away. His lungs burnt like fire, his legs ached, yet he gritted his teeth and quickened his pace, so determined now. Finally, he was at the walls, he was climbing up them, chains jangling, hand over hand, his sword clutched tight, until he was perched on the topmost ledge. He swung his legs over, feeling cold stone beneath bare flesh, and looked over the dark world that stretched before him, the sparse terrain lit only by the stars half-hidden by clouds, the soils and bushes and trees gleaming silver and wet. He could see mountains in the distance, no more than gentle slopes really, and before them a wood, deep and shadowed and laced with tall pines. That was where his escape lay.

Glancing down, he focused on the significant distance that remained between him and the ground. He was close, so close, too close to give up now. Dropping his sword to the earth below, he leant down so that he was flat-chested to the ledge, feeling the pin at his waist cut into his skin, then writhed and twisted so he hung off the wall, grasping its edge with only the tips of his fingers. Taking a deep breath, he let go and dropped, landing on the damp earth with a shock that shook him to the bone, but forcing himself to relax and roll as he had been taught. Without waiting to catch his breath, he turned and headed for the black shadow of the woods, where he could hide from the guards that were certain to pursue him. As he ran, he allowed himself to take a deep breath. Even if only for a time, he was free.

TBC