The younger Tubruk had been unable to reply, but later the words were a comfort to him, just to know that one day there could be the freedom to sit and drink in the sun, his own master. On the day he was free, he had walked through the city to Fercus’s home and placed an amphora on the table. Fercus had set up two cups next to it, and their friendship had begun without bitterness.

If there was anyone in the world outside the estate that he could trust, then Fercus was the man, but still he was silent as he went over the plans he had made since Clodia had come to see him. Surely there was another way? The course he followed sickened him, but he knew if he would die to protect Cornelia, then he could surely do this.

Fercus stood and gripped Tubruk’s arm.

“You are troubled, my old friend. Whatever it is, ask me.” His eyes were steady as Tubruk looked up at him and held the gaze, the past open between them.

“Can I trust you with my life?” Tubruk asked.

Fercus gripped his arm all the tighter in response, then settled back into his seat.

“You don’t have to ask. My daughter was dying before you found a midwife to save her. I would have died myself at the hands of those thieves if you had not fought them off. I owe such a debt to you that I thought I would never have the chance to repay it. Ask me.”

Tubruk took a deep breath.

“I want you to sell me back into slavery—to the house of Sulla,” he said quietly.

* * *

Julius barely felt Cabera’s hands as they lifted his eyelids. The world seemed alternately dark and bright to him, and his head was filled with a red agony. He heard Cabera’s voice from far away and tried to curse him for disturbing the darkness.

“His eyes are wrong,” someone said. Gaditicus? The name meant nothing, though he knew the voice. Was his father there? Distant memories of lying in darkness on the estate came to him and merged with his thoughts. Was he still in bed after Renius had cut him in training? Were his friends out on the walls turning back the slave rebellion without him? He struggled slightly and felt hands pressing him down. He tried to speak, but his voice would not obey, though a mushy sound came out, like the moan of a dying bullock.

“That is not a good sign,” Cabera’s voice came. “The pupils are different sizes and he is not seeing me. His left eye has filled with blood, though that will pass in a few weeks. See how red it is. Can you hear me, Julius? Gaius?”

Julius could not answer even to his childhood name. A weight of blackness pressed them all away from him.

Cabera stood up and sighed.

“The helmet saved his life, at least, but the blood from his ears is not good. He may recover, or he may remain like this. I have seen it before with head wounds. The spirit can be crushed.” The grief was clear in his voice and Gaditicus was reminded that the healer had come aboard with Julius and had a history that went back further than their time on Accipiter.