Watch them shrivel by inches, or ruin them in a stroke?

He fingered another scroll shoved to the back of a drawer—a long scroll, tightly written in his own hand, labeled “Evidence.” A good many slaves had given testimony on that scroll, nervously affirming Lepida’s misdoings over the years. But slave testimony might not be enough—every court of law knew slaves could be intimidated by a cruel master.

“Cast-off lovers,” he mused aloud. Lepida might have some who were angry enough to talk. Or some with pressing debts—if he could buy their secrets from them, so much the better. He fingered the scroll.

I am the grandson of the god Augustus. I will not be saddled all my life with that evil she-viper.

Wait, another voice said—the voice of his wily Imperial grandfather. Not just yet.

TIVOLI

WELL, Stephanus?” Lady Flavia Domitilla came through the wet green garden, a shawl about her shoulders, hair gleaming in the orange light of the sunset.

Arius bowed. “Reporting on the north vineyard, Domina. The late frost took some of the grapes, and there’s something on the vines—black stuff.”

“Pity,” she sighed. “Those vines make an excellent wine in good years. I’ll have Urbinus take a look at them.”

“I’ll fi x it,” Arius said stubbornly. He found he liked gardening. It didn’t much like him yet, but he’d find a way.

“So much for my wine.” Lady Flavia clearly did not share his faith, but she smiled. “How you’ve changed, Barbarian.”

He ran a hand over his hair, dyed dark with walnut juice. He’d grown a short beard, too, and his gladiator tattoo was gone under a burn mark. The only link between Arius the Barbarian and the gardener was the little three-legged dog limping devotedly at his heels. None of the other slaves appeared to recognize him, and in his hut behind the vineyard he could keep his distance from the rest of the household.

“As much pleasure as you take in wrecking my vineyards,” Lady Flavia was saying, “you don’t have to stay here. I was sure you’d want to move on. It’s been more than a year, now.”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind staying.” His own hut instead of a locked cell, wet velvet earth under his feet instead of bloody sand, birdsong instead of hungry applause—this place might as well have been paradise.

“You can go home, you know,” Lady Flavia was saying. “Back to Britannia, if you like. I can arrange that.”

“I know. But—it’s not right. Not yet.” He wasn’t sure Britannia was still home. He’d dreamed of going back once, but that had been when he had Thea. Now, maybe a hut in a vineyard outside Tivoli was home enough. Or maybe he’d lived too long as a slave to feel comfortable making any decision about the future. “I’m not done here yet,” he said at last.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know.” He sniffed the air, feeling ill at ease. “The gods’ll let me know, maybe.” Until then, days among the twining vines and nights before a fire with his dog were good enough.