Author's Note: Don't tempt worse.

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

He had ruined everything.

Esca raised the lid of the carved chest which contained Marcus' most treasured possessions and the first thing he saw was Father's dagger. Cunoval would not have approved of his behavior today.

A longing for home that was like sickness shook him. He wanted to pick up the dagger, to feel the smooth bone in his hand. He wanted to unwrap the bundles, to string the lovely little yew bow, to fit the fine arrows to the string, to feel the strength of Llew in his arm, to hunt again.

But what he wanted didn't matter.

So instead, he lay the wrapped bundles in the chest next to the dagger as Marcus had bid, then very gently lowered the lid.

Stephanos entered the culina to find his fellow slave holding the mortarium in his lap, the slender fingers curved around the pestle stilled, their owner lost in thought.

"Are you grinding that or staring at it?"

The boy shuddered, and the pestle began moving again, mashing the bowl's contents into paste.

"What's wrong, my little one?"

The pestle slipped and struck ear-splittingly against the grit embedded in the sides of the bowl. "Nothing," the boy lied.

Except it clearly wasn't nothing.

The pleasant equality that normally prevailed during cena was absent this evening. The two older men conversed as normal, but the two younger were silent. Marcus at least looked at the older men when they spoke. Esca kept his eyes on his plate.

The two old men exchanged a glance. Which of them should broach the subject?

"I understand you ventured into the forum today, you and Esca," Aquila probed casually.

Esca's eyes shot quickly to his master, then down. Marcus dipped his bread, and grunted assent before biting off a piece.

"He's quite the little negotiator, our Esca," the old Greek began approvingly. He turned to Marcus, "Why he even…" The look in the green eyes stilled the old slave's garrulous tongue.

"He what?" Marcus breathed, his tone not quite menacing.

"Don't blame him," the Briton's lilting voice, though quiet, seemed to fill the room, and yet the man never raised his eyes from his plate. "It's not his fault."

"I suppose you think it's mine!" Marcus snapped.

Esca shook his head in response, but didn't verbalize an answer.

"Leave the table." The soft order came from Aquila, but there was no doubt to whom he spoke. Esca rose immediately and left the room.

Aquila turned to his own slave. "Go with him, Stephanos. Make sure he comes back to help clear, and to serve secunda mensa. Understand?"

The Greek nodded. "Perfectly," he confirmed. He picked up Esca's plate and rose. "I'll send him back for mine, shall I?"

"Good idea," Aquila agreed. He wanted the proper master-slave roles restored as quickly as possible.

After the older slave left, uncle and nephew stared at each other across the table.

"Why did you do that?" Marcus asked. "He's my slave."

"It's my table. I want no contention at it."

Marcus frowned. "Perhaps you should have sent me from the table then."

"You're my nephew. He's a slave."

"As simple as that, is it?"

The question was probably rhetorical, but Aquila answered it anyway. "In this world, it is."

Esca steeled himself as he set the clay drinking vessel on the little table next to Marcus' breakfast fruit, took a deep, fortifying breath, then launched himself into what he knew had to be said. "Marcus, about yesterday, I just wanted to—"

"I don't care what you want."

"But—"

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you, but please let me—"

"You can go."

"Marc—"

"Go!"

Stephanos must have succeeded in worming at least part of the story out of his fellow slave, because Aquila could hear the Greek scolding the Britling all morning. Something about the boy's ingratitude. And Esca was not defending himself. Aquila wondered what he was ungrateful for.

He'd get Stephanos to tell him later, if Marcus wouldn't cough up.

As strange as it had seemed to sit at table with the Romans, it now seemed even stranger merely to serve them at cena, just as if they were normal slaves in a huge household, so strange that after several nights of it, Esca dared to approach Aquila about the matter.

"I can serve the three of you," he told the old Roman. "There's no need to punish Stephanos for something I did."

Aquila gave the merest chuff of laughter. "Am I punishing you, Stephanos?"

Esca whirled to find the old body slave standing behind him.

"It's not a punishment, lad," the Greek agreed.

"But—"

"Have faith, and my master will see to it that all is well."

A soft shush-shush from the long interior hall distracted Aquila from his scroll. "Stephanos?" he called softly.

The noise stopped, but there was no answer. Curious, the old man rose and walked to the door. Esca knelt on the tessellated floor, scrub brush in hand.

"Ah," the Roman said. "I thought you might be Stephanos."

"Shall I fetch him for you?" the lilting voice sounded forlorn.

"It isn't necessary." Aquila regarded his nephew's slave a moment. "Things haven't improved between you?"

The bronze head gave a negative shake.

Aquila thought a moment. "What did Marcus buy when the two of you went to the forum that day?"

Esca wondered if it was supposed to be a secret. Marcus hadn't said not to tell. "He bought a bow and arrows."

"Did he? I wasn't aware that he was an archer. Anything else?"

Esca swallowed. "A quiver."

Aquila stared at the marks on the slave's right arm, only partially hidden by the short sleeve of his tunic. "And does he plan to use these items himself?"

"I don't know what he plans."

He knew he shouldn't be doing this. It was wrong. It was so wrong. He wasn't breaking his word. He just needed some help. He was only borrowing it. He'd put it back as soon as he was done.

He lifted the lid of the chest and removed the dagger. It was the first time he'd touched it without permission since the day he'd thrown it down at Marcus' feet.

Esca knelt in the grass at edge of the stream where it touched the bottom of the garden. "Exalted One," he whispered hoarsely, "accept my sacrifice and help me to atone." He winced as the blade bit into his palm, then watched as the bright blood welled up and dripped into the stream. "Show me the way, for I am lost…"

Father, help me to honor my pledge. He held the dagger under the water, to let the current clean it. He couldn't release it into the water for the Goddess; it was still pledged to the Roman. He took it out of the water and wiped it on the grass. He held the hand he'd cut in the water, letting the chill, living waters of the stream numb the sting, and cleanse and close the tiny wound.

Please let him forgive me. He sat back on the bank, wrapped his arms around his drawn up knees and lowered head onto his arms. He was no longer certain what it was he needed to be forgiven for…

He'd been so angry. At what Marcus had said to the armorer. At himself for being offended. At the Roman's refusal to allow him to apologize. At this wall they'd built between them.

He wished he were still able to cry. It would be such a relief. But his eyes remained stubbornly dry.

He didn't want to be friends with the Roman. Didn't want his bow. Didn't care if Marcus broke it across his back, just… let it end. Please let it end. He didn't want to fight anymore. There was no one else in the world to whom he was tied, no bond of obligation but this slender thread holding him to this man who had save his life but who "meant nothing by it."

He was so lonely. Please, Goddess. I don't care anymore, I swear it. He can speak of me any way he wishes to anyone we meet, but please—

"Are you taking back your word?"

Marcus.

Esca opened his eyes to confirm that it was his master who stood over him, angrily touching the handle of Cunoval's dagger as it lay in the grass with the toe of his sandal.

Oh, no.

Esca opened his mouth, then closed it again. What could he say? His arms squeezed his drawn up knees convulsively. He felt his breath coming heavily as he waited for the condemnation he certainly deserved.

Marcus bent down and retrieved the dagger. He looked at it curiously. Esca watched him handle the precious relic with a kind of fascinated dread. "You said this knife was your bond."

Esca nodded.

"You've taken it from the chest. Does that mean you've taken back your word as well?"

"No," Esca whispered.

Marcus leaned down towards him, the knife extended handle first. "You'd better put it back then, hadn't you?"

Esca reached out to take it. For a moment, Marcus didn't let go, and the two young men were bound together by that link of bone and iron. "Never take it again without my permission," Marcus told his slave, the warning clear in his tone. In the next instant, he had loosed his hold, and Esca was hurrying back into the house to restore it to its place in the chest.

As he closed the lid once again over the dagger, he knew he had only made it worse. Anything he did to try to make it better… just made it worse.