Author's Note: "Where do we find allies?" [He] smiled. "Among our enemies, where else?" ―Half the World, Joe Abercrombie

Disclaimer: A slave owns nothing; I own no more.

The guard's parting shove was hard enough to make Esca hit the ground with his knees. He didn't care. No sooner had the door of the semi-subterranean cell clanged shut, than then Briton's hands were digging through the sandy dirt of the floor.

Only when the worn bone handle was nestled once again in his palm did he relax.

Relax and despair. Father, a Roman saved me. He sighed wearily.

A Roman. Rome was the enemy. The Romans had burned their villages, killed their people, salted their fields—

The Romans had taken everything from him: tribe, family, land, and possessions.

Yet now a Roman had given him… all he had left.

Himself.

His very life.

His eyes weren't merely dry, they were gritty with sand from the arena, but could Esca have wept, he would have done it. Because he was so ashamed—his filthy fingers squeezed the handle of the little dagger convulsively—so ashamed of being so intensely grateful to his enemy for saving him.

He'd been alone with his achingly hopeful grief for minutes only when the door clanged open again.

"Come, wash yourself," the burly guard commanded, "and put these on." He dropped a bundle of cloth next to the prisoner. The tunic was old, dyed with woad, a pale blue-gray, like a stormy summer afternoon; the short trousers a soft, faded brown. Far nicer clothes than he'd had since his arrival at the circus. He stared up in surprise.

The guard smiled in genuine amusement. "Do you think the master wants to see you naked in your dirt?"

Esca looked down, wondering how he could hide the dagger currently hidden beneath his new clothes with the guard watching him from the cell door—

The guard smirked. "Be sure to bring that little toy you've be hiding with you, for you won't be coming back." At Esca's questioning look, the big man explained, "The gods have made a miracle. The master's found someone stupid enough to buy you."

Beppo stepped out into the passage to take the slave from his guard. He yanked the Briton close to whisper, "If you do anything to screw up this sale, I will take great delight in flaying you alive."

Esca said nothing, his attention drawn to the old man seated in the room beyond.

A sharp fingernail poked into the flesh near his elbow. "I'll stick my dagger in here," his master whispered, "and peel off your skin bit by bit, until your entire ungrateful hide is lying in a bloody heap at my feet. On second thought, go ahead and act the fool in there, so the old man changes his mind. I'll enjoy killing you." With that, the captain of the gladiators placed a meaty hand on his reluctant slave's back and shoved him unceremoniously into the room.

Esca recognized him. It was the graybeard on whose shoulder the young Roman's hand had rested when he stood to exhort the crowd to show Esca a mercy he had not deserved.

Of course, it would be him. How could it be anyone else?

The room seemed unbearably warm suddenly, but it was really his shame that burned him, he knew. He should be dead at this very moment, like his mother, like his brothers, like his father. What right had he to be alive?

The dagger hidden under his tunic pressed comfortingly into his side. Despite his total mortification, it was very sweet to be alive to feel it. A tiny tendril of hope began to unfurl inside him. He made himself meet the old man's eyes, silently acknowledging the connection between them, too obvious to be mentioned, even had it been Esca's place to speak, which it manifestly was not.

For once the Briton was happy to lower his gaze, as a proper slave should. The old Roman's eye was too knowing, he saw right through the younger man's sham indifference.

"I've bought you," the old man told him at last, "to serve my nephew."

No need to ask who his nephew was. Esca concentrated on keeping his breathing steady in the whirlwind of his emotions. He did not understand his feelings, though they were welling up, straining his control nearly to the breaking point.

This old man, had bought him to serve… him. He wanted—he didn't want—

He didn't know what he wanted.

But he knew what he owed.

The Roman had saved him.

It was right that he should serve him. It was just.

For a moment, the thought steadied him. He was Brigante, and he owed the young Roman a debt of honor. He let out a breath, and nodded. "Thank you," he said.

The old man had been studying Esca in his turn, and having looked his new property over, he inquired, "What's your name?"

"Esca, son of Cunoval," was the unthinking reply.

The old Roman smiled, not unkindly, before loosing a chuff of laughter. "You're my slave, lad. I really don't care who your father is."