He trotted through the night crowd, dodging around the street sellers and resisting the urge to grab at the hot food that filled the air with tantalizing smells. He was starving, but the empty feeling in his stomach took second place to his need to make things right with Tubruk. Getting himself caught by an angry stall-keeper would spoil things as badly as a conversation with his mother.

“It’s the rat!”

The sudden exclamation jarred him from his miserable thoughts. He looked up into the surprised eyes of the butcher’s apprentice, and panic flared in him. He jumped down into the street to avoid hands that clutched from behind. They were all there! Desperately, he threw open the blanket roll and got a hand on the hilt of Tubruk’s gladius. He brought it up in front of him as the butcher’s boy moved in on him, hands clutching in anticipation. A wild swipe nearly touched the outstretched fingers, and the apprentice swore in surprise.

“You’re going to die for that, you little Thurin bastard. I’ve been wondering where you went to. Been stealing swords now, have you?”

As the boy growled at him, Octavian could see the others edging to block his retreat. In a few moments he was surrounded and the bustling crowd moved around them without noticing the scene, or too afraid of violence to interfere.

Octavian held the sword in first position, as Tubruk had taught him. He couldn’t run, so he vowed to get a good cut in before they rushed him.

The butcher’s boy laughed, closing the space. “Not so cocky now, are you, rat?”

He looked enormous to Octavian and the sword suddenly felt useless in his hands. The butcher’s boy approached with his hand held out to knock away any sudden attack, his face lit with feral excitement.

“Give it to me and I’ll let you live,” he said, grinning.

Octavian gripped the hilt even tighter against this threat, trying to think what Tubruk would do in his position. It came to him as the apprentice stepped inside the range of the wavering sword.

Octavian yelled and attacked, swiping the edge across the outstretched hand. If it had been sharp, the boy could have been crippled. As it was, he yelped and danced backward out of range, swearing and gripping the hurt hand in the other.

“Leave me alone!” Octavian shouted, looking for a gap to run through.

There wasn’t one and the butcher’s boy inspected his cut hand before his face twisted evilly. Reaching behind himself, the apprentice took a heavy knife from his belt and showed it to Octavian. It was rusty with the blood of his trade, and Octavian could hardly tear his eyes from it.

“I’m going to cut you, rat. I’m going to put your eyes out and leave you blinded,” the older boy snarled at him.