Author's Note: "All of nature's gifts are given freely to those who show proper care and respect." – The Outdoor Survivial Handbook, Raymond Mears

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

"What's that one?" Marcus asked, sitting down on a handy fallen log to ease his leg, while his slave dropped yet again to his knees and tirelessly set the end of his digging stick near the edge of a handsome rosette of green leaves.

"It's burdock," Esca answered absently, concentrating on finding and freeing the taproot. Several hours of hard work had caused the diffidence brought on by his initial surprise at Marcus' offer to accompany him on this foraging expedition to wear off. Where was the taproot? Now it was more like being accompanied by one of the children of his tribe. Except that unlike the children, Marcus didn't offer to help him to gather the plants. Why would he? He 'wasn't the slave here.'

"I thought burdock had prickly burrs with purple flowers on them?"

"It does," Esca grunted. There it is. He set himself to clearing the soil away so as to free the long root. Belatedly, he remembered that his interlocutor owned him and had asked him a question. "Umm, the tall stalk with the burrs and flowers doesn't grow until the second year. And not until full summer even then."

"Oh." The Roman watched idly as the Briton's sandaled toes dug into the loose dirt. "Why are you wearing those out here? Light sandals like that are only for inside the house."

Esca frowned at the root he'd just dug up. "I thought it would be nicer than coming out barefoot." He brushed the loose soil off the burdock root and put it in his woven foraging bag, then looked over towards his master. "And you're a fine one to talk. Look at your toga."

Marcus looked. The long cloth, symbol of his citizenship, was streaked with brown from the log's crumbling bark. His lips curved unwillingly. "We make a fine pair."

Esca said nothing more, merely tamped the earth back into place, then looked around to see what else he could find that might be edible.

Spring was fairly well advanced, the shade in the riparian forest deeper than it had been when they'd come out with the bow, the wild plants they pursued more lush.

Early spring was the slack time of the hunting year, the season traditionally set aside for the wild creatures to bear and raise their young. Soon though, it would be time for the hunt. Marcus wondered if he would be able to hunt again. He thought so. He flexed his bad leg. He hoped so.

But there were other things he would never do again.

To distract himself from these dark thoughts, he looked around at the plants nearby. "Are these ransoms?" he asked. "Do you want them?"

Esca looked. "Yes, and yes."

Marcus nodded in acknowledgement of the thanks his bondsman had not spoken.

Esca, oblivious to his master's darkening mood, came over to harvest the wild onions. Marcus continued to sit idly on his log, his thoughts a thousand miles away.

In Rome.

"Why do you stay here?" Marcus asked his uncle one morning.

Uncle Aquila considered his nephew curiously. "Because this is where I live."

"In Rome, you could—"

"I don't live in Rome," Aquila reminded him, coldly. "I live in Calleva."

"Yes, but in R—"

"Marcus!" The old man's watery blue eyes bored into his nephew's green. "What could I do in Rome? What could any Aquila do in Rome?" His bony fingers gripped the young man's muscular shoulder. "Believe me, Marcus. We're better off here."

He couldn't do it. His dreams, his hopes. All gone.

He would never erase his father's disgrace.

"Esca?" he called.

Moments only, then Marcus heard the shush of his slave's sandals as he entered the room and looked at his master questioningly.

"Some wine," the young Roman ordered.

The Briton nodded, and silently moved to obey.

The new footwear was a hybrid: the heavy sole of the Roman caligae combined with the soft leather and closed upper of traditional celtic shoes. Esca wrapped the leggings around his calves, then secured them with strips of leather.

Marcus stood watching him, his own feet and lower legs already so encased. "Better than going barefoot?"

Esca wiggled his toes against the soft leather. For once his feet were warm enough. And dry. "Much better."

His master nodded, satisfied. "Good."

Linnea knelt to pin the thin wool in place, then looked up at her customer. "I'll sew it this way. That 'fitted' look is the style."

Marcus frowned. His big hands smoothed the skirt of the short tunic, the legs of the bracchae. "It isn't…" he hesitated.

The woman's smooth brow furrowed. "Isn't what, dominus?"

Involuntarily, he glanced over to Esca, who was watching the fitting patiently from an out of the way spot near the door. The slave cocked his head inquiringly. He thought the Marcus' new clothes very becoming.

Marcus stared at his bondsman a moment in silence, his troubled gaze moving from the Brigante's puzzled expression to his short tunic, and calf length bracchae, then looked down at the half-finished garments covering his own limbs. Apparently, that was how these garments were supposed to look.

"Dominus?" she asked again.

He turned back to the woman, striving to cover his own uncertainty. "Nothing," he told her. "It's fine."

She nodded. "I'll have it completed in three days time. Will that suffice?"

"It will."

Marcus changed back into his Roman clothes, and within a short time the two young men were standing out on the street next to the main door of the house. The Roman ignored it, heading instead for the corner to go around to the side entrance.

Weird, Esca thought. Then, does he even know? "Marcus?"

The Roman stopped. "What is it?"

The Brigante pointed at the big door. "This door leads straight into your uncle's house."

"What!?"

"This door," Esca repeated. "It—" he abandoned words, in favor of pushing the door open onto the vestibulum and fauces. "This way is quickest."

Marcus paused in the atrium to stare at the archery target. "What's this?"

Esca blushed. "It's nothing."

The young Roman began to look as amused as his slave looked uncomfortable. "Nothing, is it? I'd sa—"

"Marcus," Esca dared to interrupt.

"Ye-es," his master responded, not fooled as to his slave's motive in cutting him off.

"What were you going to say about the tunic and bracchae? It isn't what?"

Suddenly it was Marcus who looked uncomfortable. "It isn't manly." The Roman's expression was priceless. His voice dropped as he confided, "A man's thighs should show."

Esca guffawed.

Marcus was annoyed. "I'm serious."

The Briton struggled to control his glee, since his master didn't like it, but he couldn't help grinning as he reassured the bigger man, "I promise you, Marcus, you can still be a man with your thighs covered."