Author's Note: In the end, we all dangle upside down over the cauldron of the gods.
Disclaimer: A slave owns nothing; I own no more.
It seemed that Esca's bare feet offended his new owner, for he pronounced the single word, "Sandals," in an annoyed tone.
The Briton opened his mouth to say he had none, but it was not his new slave the old man addressed. Beppo left the room, to return almost immediately with a battered pair of sandals. Their excellent fit was unsurprising; they were the footwear Esca had arrived in a few days (which now seemed a lifetime) before.
Without being told, Esca sank to his haunches to tie the frayed leather laces hastily, then rose to find his old master grinning at him in a way that made his hackles rise and a shiver run along his spine.
"Don't care for the old man?" Beppo inquired. "I think I know a vivisectionist who might take you."
Esca looked around hastily.
The old Roman was gone.
To his relief, he easily caught sight of the old man on the footpath which led from the circus on the outskirts of Calleva Arebatum back into the town proper. The old Roman was not waiting; he moved at a steady clip away from the arena, and he did not look back to see if his property was following him.
The son of the Brigantes stood at gaze a moment, bewildered. Did the old man not want him after all?
Small blame to him if he didn't. Esca had had a string of owners in the past three years and more, and not one of them had failed to assure him of his utter worthlessness, until the last of them had proven the truth of his assessment by sending his recalcitrant slave to his death (as he thought) in the arena. Why would the old man want him? Why would anyone?
But he'd paid good money to that evil spawn of— so why—? Esca jerked himself back into motion, speeding past the slowly dispersing revelers after his purchaser, and remembered he'd been bought, not for the old man's own use, but for his nephew's. Probably the nephew had sent the old one, and the disapproving uncle thought it would be just as convenient to save an argument by letting Esca slip quietly away. He was unbound. It would be easy.
He toyed with the idea, following the long strides of the elderly Roman through the paved streets of the little town. He could get himself to the coast perhaps, and cross the sea to Éire, to his mother's birth tribe. It would not be home, but he'd be away from the Romans, and the Irish Brigantes would accept him for his mother's sake, he thought, provided times were good. If they weren't, well, he'd worry about that later.
But what of him? He would be disappointed.
He had saved Esca's life.
Esca bit his lip. In his mind, the old one explained that yes, he'd bought the wretch, just as his nephew had asked, but alas—the old man sighed like a seanchaidhe– the faithless, honourless one had gone, had fled without so much as a word of gratitude.
His savior's imagined disappointment cut him like a knife. He'd feel that his efforts to turn the crowd's intention, to save him, had been a waste. Esca could flee, but forgetting his debt to the young Roman would not pay it. And Esca knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn't be able to forget the debt. He nodded to himself. He would stay.
Having settled the matter to his satisfaction, at least in his own mind, Esca looked around, and realized to his horror, that regardless of his intention, he could not pay his debt, because the old man was gone.