Author's Note: "The time for trusting is when there's a doubt in your mind." –Brian Hawke, Against All Flags (1952)

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

The eggs were dressed with ground pine nuts, chopped celery, and honey wine. Delectable. Both sweet and savory.

"This is really good," Marcus complimented his uncle's body slave.

The old Greek gave a slight and very gentle smile. "It wasn't I who made it." He looked significantly at Esca, just coming in to clear before the main course.

Aquila noted that his nephew did not repeat his compliment to his own slave. And when Marcus attempted to hand the Briton a dish to remove from the table, the younger man flinched. The old Roman frowned. Things could not continue this way. He would not have it.

"Why don't you just beat him already, so we can all relax?" Uncle Aquila asked blandly.

Marcus nearly choked on his watered wine. "What?!"

"Don't pretend you don't want to."

"Ridiculous. Of course, I don't want to," Marcus swallowed a mouthful of his wine and set the cup down with a thunk. "Though I admit, I don't know what's wrong with him lately."

"Don't you?" The old man's look was knowing, his tone surprised.

Marcus' dark brows swept down. "No."

"You are."

"I'm what?"

"What's wrong with him."

Marcus blinked. "I'm what's wrong with him?"

"Of course."

"How do you figure?"

The old Roman smiled his crocodile smile. "When did it start?"

Marcus eyed his uncle askance. "I'm not sure," he said.

Aquila chuckled. "You are the most dreadful liar."

Marcus looked down at the table. "It started the day we went to the forum."

Aquila nodded. "Where you purchased a bow and arrows."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Yes."

"So what?"

"Were you planning to give them to him?"

"Why would I?"

"Because he's an archer."

"Did he tell you that?"

"The marks on his arm told me that!"

Marcus looked away for a moment, shrugged and looked back at Uncle Aquila. "So I bought him a bow, why is that a problem?"

"Have you given it to him?"

Marcus' eyes slid away from his uncle's. "No."

"Are you going to?"

"I don't know."

"Why don't you know?"

"Because…" the normally smooth brow furrowed. "I don't know if I should."

"And that's what's wrong with him."

Anger bubbled up through the younger man's discomfort. "Well, if he wanted me to give it to him, he shouldn't have—" he stopped abruptly.

"What shouldn't he have done?"

"Nothing."

Aquila waved his hands in a warding gesture. "It's your business, of course. He's your slave, so if you want to arm him, that's your business. If you dislike his behavior and want to beat him, that's your business, too, but I tell you this, Nephew: I like a quiet household, and I like things pleasant at the evening meal. So whatever this is between the two of you, I want it settled, one way or the other."

"There's nothing to settle."

Aquila laughed. "That's a lie."

Marcus sighed worriedly and shook his head. "I don't know how—"

"Fine. Since he displeases you so much, we'll just sell hi—"

"No!"

At his uncle's inquiring look, Marcus elaborated. "It's a misunderstanding, that's all. There's no reason to sell him. He's done nothing wrong…. Nothing wrong enough to sell him for, at any rate."

"Then you have to talk to him."

Marcus was silent.

"Do you want me to talk to him?" Aquila asked, relenting.

Marcus shook his head. "He's my slave. I'll talk to him."

That night as Esca helped him undress, Marcus said they would take the bow out in the morning.

Esca nodded, but didn't dare say anything. It was going to happen. They would take the bow out. The bow. Not the bow and arrows.

At least he wouldn't do it at the house.

The Briton wished it over. Maybe, once it was done, Marcus could forgive him.

It didn't hurt as much as he'd thought it might. He certainly winced at each blow, but felt no need to cry out. The bow made a whistling noise through the air before smacking against his shoulders, so he had ample warning to prepare for each impact. It really wasn't even that painful. It was kind of Marcus to go so easy on him. Really, the worst of it was just how ashamed he–

"Esca?" It was not the voice of an angry disciplinarian, but of a lonely child. "Are you awake?"

Esca opened his eyes to darkness. The dream evaporated around him. Marcus wasn't punishing him. "Yes, I'm awake. Would you like something?"

"Some water would be nice… perhaps a little wine in it. Use my glass cup."

Esca nodded, though the gesture probably wasn't visible. "I'll get it," he said.

"Thank you."

Esca woke in a more cheerful frame of mind, based on the simple ordinariness of their interaction during the night, but any slim hope he'd had that Marcus might already have forgiven him was extinguished as soon as he opened the chest. Cunoval's dagger was gone. He was positive he'd put it back. He moved the other items in the chest, but it hadn't fallen to the bottom. It had been removed.

The narrow shoulders hunched regretfully. Just the bow then. Sometimes it wasn't so wonderful for dreams to come true.

Marcus frowned at the single bundle his slave carried. "What do you think you're gonna do with that?"

His irritation alarmed his already worried bondsman even further. "You said to bring—"

"Bring the arrows as well, you fool."

Esca exhaled heavily, nodded, and went back for the second bundle.

Esca couldn't relax. No matter how many times he told himself that Marcus wasn't angry, no matter how many side glances he snuck at the Roman, no matter that it was the quiver across his back instead of the sweetly flexible and responsive bow, he couldn't shake his unease.

He was being tested.

"There, do you see it? Where the branch forks." Esca followed Marcus' pointing finger and nodded, then loosed his arrow at the current target. In vain.

The corner of Marcus' mouth tucked up. "At least you hit the trunk this time." The Roman sighed. "Go get your arrow."

Esca obeyed. The fresh scent of the spring woods beguiled him. He'd had too few chances to get out. The musky scent of the earth, where a ground dwelling animal's passage had turned it up, the intoxicating fragrance of the sun-warmed greenery, the lingering perfume of blossoms dying down in preparation to bringing forth fruit. A brisk breeze brought the gurgling of the nearby stream to his ears, along with a blessed coolness, for the morning was unseasonably warm.

Reaching the tree, he grasped the arrow where it stuck in the trunk, and a brilliant green beetle the exact shade of a newly unfurled leaf landed on his hand. "I've nothing for you," he told the insect gently. "Fly away now." He waved it off, then yanked out the arrow and returned to his waiting master.

"You're not very good," the former centurion remarked.

Esca truly hadn't been shooting well this morning, but he felt all his muscles tensing at the criticism anyway. "I've not held a bow for three years and more," he reminded his master truculently.

"That's your excuse, is it?"

Esca was silent. Don't fight with him. It's not an excuse, it's just—

"You don't like my saying that, do you?"

Esca gave him a hangdog look. Another test. He would keep impertinence from his tongue if he had to bite it off. But he couldn't control his thoughts. No, I don't. I don't like it one bit. No matter how poorly I'm shooting. It's not a fair test of my abilities to ask me to—

"Just as you disliked my telling the armorer you were spoiled."

No, he hadn't liked that either. Not at all.

"Esca, it was just a negotiating tactic."

"That's your excuse, is it?" the slave quoted, angrily.

"Oh, you are spoiled. I suppose if our positions had been reversed you wouldn't have said whatever suited your purposes about me?"

"Not like that!" Humiliation and hurt feelings were apparent under the angry tone.

"Mmm-hmm." The Roman's responding murmur was skeptical, then with a quick movement of his hand, a whirr of sound, and a flash of metal in the dappled sunshine something thunked into the ground near the stream bank.

Father's dagger.

Esca sought an explanation in the green of Marcus' eyes.

"Go," his master said. "You have a weapon now and your father's knife. Be off, if that's what you want."

Puzzled blue-gray eyes studied the dagger sticking out of the dirt, then looked back at Marcus in disbelief. "You're giving me my freedom?" This was not what he had expected. He knelt and pulled the knife from the soil, glad to feel the bone handle once again in his palm.

"No, I'm not giving you your freedom!" Marcus exclaimed. "You'll be a runaway, but I give you my word no one will come after you, and unlike yours, my word is good."

Esca sat back on his heels in the grass, staring up at the Roman in dismay.

Surprisingly, Marcus sank down next to his slave, his weight resting on his good knee, bad leg extended awkwardly, and reached to curve his broad hand around the back of Esca's head, forcing the smaller man to maintain eye contact. "I know you think I betrayed you by the things I said at the armorer's stall, and that you're living in the moment to moment expectation that I'll betray you again, but I did not and will not betray you." Just as abruptly, he released his grip, but the Briton didn't look away. "I just don't see how you can serve me," Marcus continued softly, "when you don't trust me. So you decide: will you stay, or will you abandon me here?"

For a timeless moment, the two young men stared into each other's eyes. They were mere inches apart. Esca could have killed Marcus easily in this position, but his grip was slack on the dagger lying uselessly in his lap. The lilt of the Briton's voice held the soft caress of a lover as he gave his answer: "I hate you." Slowly, he reversed the dagger so that he offered it back to his master handle first.

"I know." The bone handle fitted smoothly into Marcus' palm as though the knife had been made for him. The curve of the Roman's lips was as gentle as the hand accepting the return of the dagger. "I know you hate me. Even to be grateful would be so cliché. Is that your decision then? To abandon me?"

Suddenly, Esca leaned forward and wrapped both his hands around Marcus' hand on the dagger. "No, never!" The slender fingers tightened like bands of iron. Blue-gray eyes stared intently into green. "I swear it. On my honor, I swear, I will never abandon you."

Gazing into the bondsman's eyes, Marcus had time to reflect that an oath of loyalty usually featured the vassal's hands clasped in both of his lord's. He placed his free left hand over Esca's, and held it there until Esca released him and sat back on his heels.

"I am grateful," the Briton said simply, and the truth of it was there in the blue-gray eyes, serene as they had not been for days.

Discomfited by his directness, Marcus looked away in the direction of the water, and turned the subject. "There are trout in the stream," he remarked. "We should have brought some hooks."

"Hooks?" Esca asked, puzzled.

"To fish with."

"Do you want a fish?" the slave asked.

Marcus laughed. "And what if I did? Are you going to run back to the house for hooks?"

"No, I'm going to do something more useful." Esca shifted to free his legs, and started to remove his sandals.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting you a fish." He rose and stepped barefoot into the stream.

"Have you lost your mind? That water must be freezing!"

The Briton's lips curved in amusement, but he wasn't looking at Marcus, he was looking into the water, bending almost double in his efforts to keep the swiftly moving fish in sight. When he reached a flat outcropping of rock along the bank, he squatted down, only barely keeping the edge of his tunic out of the water. His slender arms reached under the rock, searching patiently by feel.

Marcus watched in fascination from the bank. Esca smiled at him, able to look up now, since he couldn't see through the rock in any case. His arms moved mysteriously under the water. Finally, he stood. In his hands he gripped a gleaming brown trout, its speckled body wriggling against the slender fingers securely holding its neck and tail. "Your wish is my command, master," he announced triumphantly.

"How did you do that? Oh, he's a beauty," Marcus commented admiringly. "Do you think you could get a couple more?"

One bronze eyebrow rose.

"Uncle and Stephanos both have powerful appetites when it comes to fish."

Esca cocked his head speculatively. "Perhaps… I don't suppose I could interest you in cleaning this one while I try for another?"

Marcus shook his head. "You catch 'em; you clean 'em."

"I'd be glad to teach you—"

"Are you crazy?" Marcus laughed. "I'm not the slave here. And that water's cold!"