The slave stopped his scratching and stood erect. His mind felt numb with exhaustion. How could the guards be dead? Was the man insane? What did he want? His clothes were much like the ones he wore himself. The stranger wasn’t rich, perhaps a servant of the owner come to test his loyalty. Or just a beggar, even.

“I . . . have to get back,” he muttered.

“The guards are dead, did you not hear me? You don’t have to go anywhere. Who are you?”

“I am a slave,” he snapped, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The stranger’s eyes creased in such a way that he knew he was smiling under the cloth.

“No, my brother. We have made you a freeman.”

“Impossible.”

The man laughed out loud at this and pulled the robe away from his mouth, revealing a strong, healthy face. Without warning, he put two fingers into his mouth and whistled softly. The vines rustled and the slave grabbed up his hoe with a rush of fear, his mind filling with images of the assassins from Rome, come to kill him. He could almost taste the sweetness he remembered and his stomach jumped in spasm, though there was nothing to bring up.

Men appeared out of the green shadows, smiling at him. He raised the hoe and held it threateningly.

“Whoever you are, let me go. I won’t tell anyone you were here,” he hissed, his heart thumping and the lack of food making him light-headed.

The first man laughed. “There is no one to tell, my friend. You are a slave and you have been made free. That is truth. The guards are dead and we are moving on. Will you come with us?”

“What about . . .” He could not bring himself to say “master” in front of these men. “The owner and his family?”

“They are prisoners in their house. Do you want to see them again?”

The slave looked at the men, taking in their expressions. There was an excitement there he understood and he finally began to believe.

“Yes, I want to see them. I want an hour alone with the daughters and the father.”

The man laughed again and it was not a pleasant sound. “Such hatred, yet I understand it. Can you handle a sword? I have one here for you, if you want.” He held it out as a test. A slave was forbidden to bear arms. If he took it, he was marked for death with the rest of them.

The slave reached out and gripped the gladius firmly, rejoicing in the weight.

“Now who are you?” the stranger said softly.

“My name is Antonidus. I was once a general of Rome,” he said, straightening his back subtly.

The man raised his eyebrows. “Spartacus will want to meet you. He too was an army man before . . . all this.”

“Will you let me have the family?” Antonidus asked impatiently.