Buying Trouble

by Layna Ayre Andersen (layna@att.net)

Rating: Ranges from PG13 to NC17
Summary: In ancient Rome, citizen Quiaius goes shopping for one thing and ends up buying something else.
Warnings: Vivid recollection of past violence and rape. Also, spoiler at end of this post.
Archive: MA, please! Please replace the original version in the archive with this one, dear Fox! Thanks!

It's an AU set in ancient Rome. Quiaius, a widower living alone with his cats and books, goes shopping for a housekeeper, and instead buys a starved, filthy and badly abused wild Celt who would otherwise have been sent to the Coliseum.

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NOTES: I originally wrote this as a work in progress, inspired by a challenge from Master Ruth Gifford to put Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan into a different world. I had always meant to repost it all at once when I was finished, for the benefit of those who don't like to read a story spread out over weeks and months. This version is slightly different from the original, thanks to Fox's splendid beta -- she is the QUEEN of Lay and Lie!

Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to keep working on this story, and said kind things to me about it. I'm very glad you've enjoyed it. Thanks especially to my Master, Ruth, from whom praise means a great deal to me; to my husband Doug, who gave up a great deal of time with me as I worked on it; to James Cat and Kitten Rose and the late Ghost, for cat inspiration, and to Kais and Eab, who became very real to me as I wrote their story.

ZINE ANNOUNCEMENT: Now is as good a time as any to announce that there will be a Buying Trouble zine! It will include this story, AND -- I am SO PROUD to have this to announce -- BONUS TRACKS, by some of the very best writers in this fandom! These bonus tracks are stories surrounding the original story, written from the point of view of others involved, ranging from the goddess Diana to a migratory bird. I can hardly believe the beautiful work these writers have done, and I think you'll love it! I hope to have more to tell about this zine in a few weeks, as I gather everything together and get it ready for printing.

SPOILER WARNING
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In the epilogue, taking place more than twenty years after the end of this story, a character has died of old age, peacefully in his sleep, being held by someone he loves. May we all be so lucky. I personally consider that a happy ending, but your mileage may vary.

The tall man walked into the slaver's, his white toga haphazardly draped, his long hair falling out of the stray bit of cord he'd tied it back with, his sandals in need of repair.

"Greetings, Wattovius," he called out, as the master of the establishment scurried up to meet him.

"Ah, Quiaius! What can I get for you today?"

"Just some help around the house. A nice quiet girl to run errands and things, maybe bring me some bread and cheese when I'm too far into my reading to remember to get it myself."

"And what happened to that nice quiet girl I sold you before last Lupercal? She came well recommended!"

"Ah, she fell in love with the candle-maker's son." A wry smile. "I freed her to marry."

"You're out of your mind! Don't tell me you gave her a dowry too..." Quiaius had a reputation throughout Rome for tender-heartedness, or for wasting money, depending on who you asked. Despite his careless appearance, he had money to waste; he was from an old family. He lived alone in a villa that was too big for him, and spent all his time buried in books. Eccentric type. Brought home stray cats.

"I won't tell you, then. But my house is a mess, and I can never remember my appointments, and surely you have another nice quiet girl..."

"Always. But maybe you need one who's not so quiet? Eh?" The weaselly slave-dealer gave a wink and a lascivious smile.

Quiaius shook his head. "No, not really. Since my wife passed five years ago, I haven't really... I think I'm past that at my age. Books, and philosophy, and my own company, and --" An enraged shriek split the air. "What was that?"

"Ugh. Barbarian captive. Sebulius unloaded it on me; part of a group deal with some dancers he knew I wanted. One of those wild Celts."

"A Celt, you say? I've never seen one..."

"Be my guest, have a look, over there in the last cell. Be warned, it's not a pretty sight."

Quiaius walked to the end of the corridor and looked through the small barred window in the heavy wooden door. In the far corner of the cell huddled the dirtiest youth he'd ever seen, wearing a few rags, with heavy chains on his slender wrists and ankles. His face was partly hidden by a tangled mass of light brown hair with hints of red. He was gaunt, bruised and battered, but there was a look of defiance in his startling blue eyes. He pulled at the chains that held him, and again screamed his outrage.

"What on earth... He looks as if he's been beaten!"

"Oh, he has, believe me. And starved too, not that it's made him any tamer. Attacks anyone who goes near him, shouts all day in that crazy barbarian tongue... Sebulius really pulled a fast one on me, had him drugged when he gave him to me so I wouldn't know what he was like. I'll never unload the little beast."

"What will you do with him?"

"Maybe the Coliseum'll want him, a little sword fodder for the games. He fights like a tiger, doesn't care what happens to him, all teeth and nails. Can't sell him to the brothel; he bites!"

Quiaius took another look into the cell. The barbarian slave stared back, then hissed at him like a mad cat, showing white teeth.

"I'll take him."

Early the next day, a loud and insistent knock alerted Quiaius that his impulse purchase was being delivered. As several cats fled, he opened the door to a big man with a shaved head -- probably a former wrestler; Wattovius hired a lot of them -- carrying a large canvas bag over his shoulder.

"So, where d'ya want it?

"Back here, servant's quarters." He led the way to a small, tidy room in the back of the villa; there was a trunk for clothes, and a pallet on the cool stone floor. The deliveryman dumped the bag on the floor, where it hit with a clank, then untied the top of the bag and dumped out the Celt in a heap by the bed. He lay, motionless, where he fell, the same heavy chains shackled to his wrists and ankles as when Quiaius had first seen him.

"Is he... alive?" Quiaius was a little stunned at the way his new slave had arrived.

"Oh, he's alive all right. We just had to pour some of that tincture of poppies down him to transport him. I wouldn't expect much noise out of him 'til sometime tomorrow, but he's breathing pretty good. It's not like Wattovius is gonna sell you a dead slave! Now, what do we hook these chains up to? This chest heavy enough?"

"Ah, yes, I think so..." He hadn't given any thought to it. It hadn't really occurred to him that he'd have to keep the slave chained here in his home. The deliveryman locked the chain to the iron handle on the side of the chest, and jerked it to be sure it was secure.

"Yeah, that'll hold him. Don't want him to get loose and gut you during the night or anything. We won't be responsible for it if he does, though."

"What do I owe you, for the delivery and everything?"

"Well, the slave's only a hundred denarii, Wattovius is basically giving him away, but you've got the delivery, you've got the chains, and the keys here, and damages--"

"Damages?"

The deliveryman held up his arm with a grim smile; there was the unmistakable mark of a fairly fresh human bite on the bicep. "Damages. That's two-fifty total. Sign right here. And Wattovius wanted me to emphasize that this sale is absolutely final, as is, no refunds, no exchanges, no returns under any circumstances, he doesn't even want to see the dead BODY of this one again, you got it?"

"Understood." Quiaius pulled a few coins out of a small leather bag he wore around his waist, counted them, pulled out another. "For your trouble."

"Thank you, very generous. Look, I don't mean to be too curious, but what are you gonna do with this thing? I mean, you understand it's dangerous, right?"

"It -- he -- is human, or close to it. Even if he isn't human, he's alive. I've never seen such a miserable creature. I have to at least try to..."

"That's your own business, no problem. Just wondered. I'm surprised Wattovius managed to sell him; he's been stuck with him for a month, and Sebulius had him for a month before that."

"He's been... locked up like that... for two months?"

"Well, in Rome, sure. And then however many weeks it took the soldiers to get him back here from the barbarian lands. I'm sure glad I didn't have to haul him from there, I'll tell you that." The deliveryman picked up the canvas bag, walked toward the front door, and looked back at him. "Listen. Just be careful, all right? I'm sure it's the kind of thing you guys argue about in the Forum and all that, what's human and what isn't, but this is a Celt, worst kind of barbarian. He's gonna wake up ready to kill somebody. That's just how they are."

"I don't plan to be killed, thank you. But give Wattovius my thanks."

The deliveryman looked skeptical, nodded and walked out, leaving Quiaius to ponder his purchase.

After looking the Celt over for a while, Quiaius decided that no creature, no matter how wild and barbarous, could possibly be happy as dirty as his new slave was. Certainly no creature living in his house was going to stay that dirty. He wondered if the slave had been washed, or given any opportunity to bathe, since he was captured. Probably not, from the look -- and the smell. This was as good a time as any, and Quiaius was thankful that he had his own bath, even though it had seemed extravagant when he'd moved into the villa. He could only imagine what he'd have looked like hauling the captive to a public bath.

It didn't take long for the marble tub to fill. It took a little longer to heat the water, but it seemed heartless to dump anyone, even an unconscious barbarian slave, into a cold bath. Quiaius found a sponge, some soap, and the kitchen scissors, then headed back into the slave's room. He hesitated a moment, then carefully unlocked the shackles that bound the chains to the slave's wrists and ankles. The locks were hard to turn -- they hadn't been unlocked in a while -- and it was hard for Quiaius to look at the flesh under the shackles, bruised and scabbed as it was.

"Poor thing. You haven't been treated very gently, have you?" Using the scissors, he cut off the few dirty rags the slave wore, revealing more bruised flesh and a surprisingly large sex. Quiaius averted his eyes, feeling somehow as if he were invading the barbarian's privacy, then wrapped the oddly patterned rags in a bit of cloth; they might be all the slave had left to remember his homeland. He lifted the slave in his arms, surprised at how little he weighed; carried him to the bath; and set him down in the warm water. The slave's body slumped bonelessly in the water.

Quiaius worked slowly and carefully with the sponge and soap, revealing unexpectedly pale skin under the grime -- pale except for a patchwork of bruises, scratches and cuts, some faded, many new. An intricate design of interlocking loops, black and nearly two inches wide, circled the left upper arm; it didn't wash off, and Quiaius guessed that it must be some sort of permanent decoration. The slave was much too thin -- Quiaius wondered just how long it had been since he'd been fed -- but his slender limbs were well-formed. What little hair the slave had on his body was blond with a touch of red. As he washed the elegantly-shaped hands -- somehow he'd expected claws -- Quiaius noticed that some of the fingernails were torn to bleeding; the rest appeared to have been bitten down to the quick. The wrists were badly damaged, the skin torn and healed again and again -- the captive must never have stopped fighting the chains, Quiaius thought, and shuddered. He washed the hurt places there as gently as he could, making a mental note to put healing salve on them to keep them from getting infected. The ankles were nearly as bad. He had to stop for a moment and catch his breath when he turned the slave over and saw his back and shoulders, very obviously marked by whipping.

Quiaius hadn't seen whip-marks up close before. He considered himself lucky, or maybe he'd just managed to avoid that part of Roman life; he'd always hated to see anything hurt. Slaves needed to be disciplined sometimes, everyone knew that, but whipping... The marks on the captive's back were deep, and in various stages of healing, so that it was obvious that they were the result of a few different sessions. Some were quite recent, and he realized they'd undoubtedly been applied on Wattovius' orders, very likely by the same employee he'd just given a generous tip. He took a deep breath and went back to washing. At least the slave wasn't in any pain now.

The hair was the worst part; it was too badly matted to come clean, and too dirty to leave the way it was. Quiaius felt guilty doing it, but it had to be cut, and when he was finished with the scissors the slave had no more than half an inch or so of sandy-reddish hair. At least it was clean, and even, and surely it would grow back... there was no more than a moment to mourn the cut hair, though, before he noticed the slave's face, revealed now that the matted hair was gone. He hadn't expected such fine features, not on a barbarian captive.

He hurried to finish the bath, dry the slave, and carry him back to his quarters, shooing several cats off the bed-pallet to lay the boy down there. The slave was just a little too... disconcerting nude; Quiaius found an old cotton tunic of his, soft from countless washings, something he'd slept in on cool nights, and pulled it on over the Celt's head. Like dressing a doll, he thought, drawing the slender arms through the armholes. The tunic had fallen to Quiaius' knees; on the slave, it would have swept the floor, so he tore strips off the bottom until it was a more reasonable length. Bandages for the wrists, of course, and the ankles. He dressed the worst cuts and scratches, very glad the slave couldn't feel what might have been a painful process, and finally sat back to study his purchase.

The Celt was little more than a boy, that was obvious, and beautiful, genuinely beautiful. He'd look right in marble, Quiaius thought. This was a barbarian? Dark circles under the eyes didn't hide long, thick lashes; the nose was tilted up in a most unexpected way, exotic really; and even slightly bruised, the mouth was good enough to... What was he thinking? Quiaius hadn't been so surprised by himself in years, and still felt somewhat unsettled even after he'd convinced himself that what he was feeling was merely sympathy for a hurt creature. That this hurt creature happened to be almost unnaturally beautiful only made things a little more... well, different, anyway.

Quiaius reluctantly fastened the shackle to the sleeping boy's left ankle. The ankle was bandaged, and he'd padded the shackle as best he could with the remaining cotton strips, but still he hated to do it, less for the pain he knew it would cause than for the slave's anguish when he awoke and found it still there. There was no help for it; however harmless the Celt looked in his drugged state - and he looked very harmless indeed -- Quiaius had been warned enough; he didn't want to wake up with this boy strangling him, or stabbing him with scissors or anything else sharp he might find around the house. Surely just the ankles would be enough, though. Let the wrists heal, he thought, and resisted a completely unexpected urge to stroke the shorn head.

A knock on the door again, and Quiaius got up from -- what was he doing? Suddenly he had no idea -- to answer it. It was Macius, a tall, dark man with -- Quiaius had a sudden, absurd thought that this was the second man with a shaved head who'd been to his villa that day, and that this surely must mean something. Absurd thoughts seemed to be breeding like --

"Quiaius! I'm bringing back your book, that life of Caesar you loaned me last month. I'll never have time to read it." Macius laughed, clasped his friend's hand in greeting, and walked into the house.

"Oh, no, don't tell me."

"Don't tell you what?"

"You've got that look on your face. I've seen it a million times, since we were kids. Like you just fished a sack of kittens out of the Aqueduct, or something. I'm not taking another kitten, if that's what it is."

"I assure you, there isn't any kitten." Quiaius couldn't suppress a smile.

"But there's something, isn't there? A blind watchdog, maybe? A lame horse? Some other pathetic creature?"

"Come see." Quiaius walked back to the slave's room. Macius followed, then stopped short at the sight before him.

"I don't believe it. My old friend Quiaius, the least scandalous man in Rome, has got a... well obviously it's a boy. A little the worse for wear, and in... chains? Ah... there's got to be a story here. Did you win this in a charity raffle, or what?"

"Bought him from Wattovius, yesterday afternoon. Just delivered an hour or so ago. What do you think?"

"I think he's not from around here, for one thing. And I think if you suddenly decided you wanted a boy, you probably should have tried renting before you went out and bought."

"Macius, what are you implying? Gods, you're don't think I bought him for THAT?"

"Why would anyone buy a boy like that for anything ELSE? He doesn't really look like the housekeeper type, and it's kind of hard to cook when you're chained to... Why, exactly, is this boy chained to the chest here?"

"Dangerous, supposedly. Barbarian captive."

"Pretty quiet for a barbarian captive."

"Of course, he's drugged just now; they put him to sleep to deliver him. I'm beginning to think the barbarians are the ones who've done this -- you see these bruises? He's been beaten, and whipped, and starved, and gods only know what else, and Wattovius was ready to send him to the Coliseum, and I just couldn't leave him that way."

"Did Wattovius tell you anything about where this kid is from, how he got into this shape?"

"Well, according to Wattovius, he's a Celt."

"Of course. A Celt. That explains the... bracelet, there." Macius shook his head, grew serious. "Quiaius, do you know anything about the Celts?"

"Not really, no. I suppose you do?"

"My cousin Panakus, the one in the Army; a few years back, he was stationed in the Northern Lands. He told me stories about the Celts -- how the Roman Army once killed forty thousand in one battle, and yet they didn't surrender. They never do. To this day they refuse to send tribute to the Empire."

"And the Emperor allows that?"

"Not officially, but it would be impossible to force them. They don't have much to send but rain and cold; maybe that's why they're so fierce."

"Rain and cold, and apparently their children."

"They don't send them. What happens is that some of the soldiers stationed out there get tired of the rain and the cold, and resentful of the Celts' attitude, and bored the way soldiers do, and sooner or later they come across some pretty maiden or youth and... it isn't a very nice story. They usually share them around the camp; you know what soldiers are like, at least some of them. A lot of these Celts die -- they fight to the death, even the youngest ones, even the girls. They'll kill themselves rather than be taken, if they can. Eventually the soldiers get tired of them, or they find a prettier one or just a fresher one, or some kind soul among them lets them go; gods only know what becomes of them after that. And once in a while, they bring them back to Rome with them as captives."

A long silence. Quiaius looked at the slave lying asleep on the bed, chained, and tried very hard not to think about what his old friend was telling him -- not to picture it happening to this beautiful fierce boy -- not to think of where some of the scars that marked him had come from.

"These soldiers usually figure out pretty quickly that they aren't going to be able to keep them back home; then there are a few slave merchants who'll pay a little for them, usually for the Coliseum, sometimes for the brothels if they've gone the quiet sort of mad, although they usually don't live long. They don't -- I've never heard of anyone taming one."

"So what do you advise that I do?"

"Probably the kindest thing would be to kill him before he wakes, but I know you too well. You're going to treat him like one of your stray cats, and he'll either die or get loose and kill someone or tear the house down -- and you'll never learn, will you?" Macius smiled grimly, but fondly.

"I suppose not." The two walked back towards the front of the house; somehow neither of them had much heart for visiting.

"So, do you want me to send one of my girls over later with some broth or something? Maybe some bread?" A little bit of a smile. "You're not going to have much luck nursing him back to health with your own cooking, and seeing as you can't seem to buy a slave who can actually do anything useful..."

"I've bought quite a few useful slaves over the years."

"But you never keep them, do you? Half Rome is populated with your freedmen."

"Not everyone needs as many as you have." Macius was well known for being as extravagant as Quiaius was ascetic; they enjoyed arguing over the necessity of Macius' three nursemaids for a single, adored daughter, let alone his two cooks and the legion of housemaids and men-of-all-work who served him and his wife.

"You obviously need more than you have, since you have to borrow mine."

"Yes, and I thank you for that. I know you don't approve of this... project of mine, but I have to do it."

"I know you do, and perhaps the gods will give me a little bit of the credit if I help." Macius clasped his friend's shoulder and grew more serious. "Let me know if there's anything else you need, or anything you can't do yourself."

"I understand. I hope it won't come to that."

Quiaius saw his friend off, and stood a long while in the front hall, wondering what it would come to. Even deep in drugged sleep, the Celt was so very alive; Quiaius could not forget the spark of spirit he'd seen in the fiery blue eyes. Surely the slave could recover, somehow.

Finally he walked back to the room at the back of the house. He just wanted another look at the Celt, that was all. Maybe he should check if he had a fever; could the drug they'd given him do him any harm?

Argentum, a sleek gray tabby cat Quiaius had rescued from a group of boys as a scrawny kitten, was standing on the pillow beside the slave. One big paw held the boy's head firmly in place as the big cat methodically licked the slave's face, very much as if he were caring for a kitten.

Quiaius smiled wryly. "You're a good mother, aren't you, for a boy. Perhaps I should turn this kitten over to you." The cat glanced up, big green eyes flashing; then he resumed his work.

Quiaius sat on the cool marble floor, reading. Trying to read, anyway; why was it so hard to concentrate with that Celt lying there, still asleep? It was midday now, and the sun slanting through the window high on the wall opposite the bed shone down on the boy, turning his skin a golden color like honey. His lips, slightly parted, were rose in the sun; the one nipple that showed through a too-big armhole of the tunic was rose too, and Quiaius decided he should cover the boy up a little better. It would be no good for him to wake up exposed that way, Quiaius thought. Not when too many had already looked at him. He knelt beside the boy and gently pulled at the tunic, arranging it a little more modestly. Quiaius stroked the boy's shoulder, amazed at how warm and smooth the skin was. The slave stirred slightly, and Quiaius drew his hand back; was he waking up, or just moving from the drugged state to more natural sleep? A low murmur might have been words, or just sounds; either way, the voice was sleepy and gentle, dreaming, a world away from the screams he'd heard yesterday. The boy moved again, turned on his side, and slept on. Quiaius sat beside him, his book forgotten, and just simply looked at him for a long time, not quite sure what to think.

A knock on the front door, again. He stood, regretfully leaving the boy to himself as he went to answer the door. This time it was a woman, probably close to his own age, Quiaius thought; she was tall and somewhat plain, and had long black hair braided back carefully. She wore a slave's tunic, which appeared to be somewhat dusted with flour, and carried a large covered basket. She made an abbreviated bow, stepped into the house, and set the basket down in front of Quiaius.

"Courtesy of Master Macius, sir. For your boy."

"Thank him for me! And thank you, because I dare say he didn't prepare this. What have we got here?"

"The large jar there is broth, sir. I thought that would be best. And here's bread, and some cheese, because nearly anyone will eat that. And I just made these little cakes."

"What kind? They smell wonderful."

The slave beamed, and her plain features were transformed. "Honey cakes. When the master told me you had a boy, that he'd had a hard time, I thought that would be just the thing. Boys love them, don't they?"

Quiaius smiled. "You know something about boys, then?"

"I've got my own. He's only ten, of course, but he's enough trouble. I had a time keeping him out of these."

"Well, take a few home for him."

"And you have a few yourself, sir! Master Macius told me a little about your boy. A terrible thing, how he's been treated, and it's lovely that he's found a kind master. Just feed him a little at a time, at first, so he isn't sick. And don't... well, it isn't my place to tell you what to do, but if it were I'd say don't push him. He's probably less savage than he is afraid. Boys usually are, when it comes down to it."

Quiaius nodded. "I think you're right. I think most of us are. Do you want to see him?"

"No, thank you, sir. I don't like to see a boy who's been ill-treated; it makes me worry for my own, so much. Let me come see him when he's well, and I'll feel a lot better about it."

"I understand. I hope I can show him to you soon, then."

"It shouldn't take so long, sir. They recover quickly. Just feed him, that's all. I'll bring you some more tomorrow." Another quick bow, and she hurried off, and Quiaius carried the basket to his kitchen. He had just picked up one of the little cakes -- they were still warm -- when he heard a sound from the back room. He ran and found the slave sitting up, blinking sleepily and looking around him with eyes that appeared almost green in the afternoon light. One hand went to his scalp, as he felt his newly-shorn hair. When he saw Quiaius approaching, he startled visibly, jerked away, and backed up into the corner. He raised one hand as if to ward the older man off, and shouted something in a raw voice.

"No, no, don't be afraid, I'm not going to hurt you," Quiaius said quietly -- he knew very well the boy didn't understand a word he was saying, but perhaps the tone would help. "Here, I've got something for you --" He held out the cake.

The boy looked at Quiaius, and looked at the cake, then back at Quiaius, suspiciously. Clearly, hunger was battling fear in him. Quiaius set the cake down on the floor and backed away. The boy reached out and picked it up. He looked at it, turning it over. He sniffed it, and his eyes grew a little wider.

"It's all right. It's good." Encouraging.

The slave took the tiniest nibble from the edge of the cake, looked up at Quiaius suspiciously. Quiaius nodded. Then hunger won. The boy ate the cake in two bites, licked nonexistent crumbs from his fingers, hesitated, then looked up again. He looked as if he expected to be struck at any moment, or grabbed, or otherwise attacked -- but he also looked very hungry.

Quiaius smiled. "Just a moment." He went back to the kitchen, and returned with a small wooden tray with a mug of broth and another of water, a piece of bread, a little cheese and a few more of the cakes. He set it down on the floor, then stepped back and watched.

The boy was undoubtedly starving; he ate quickly, but neatly -- indeed, Quiaius had seen many of the well-loved free sons of Rome eat much less tidily. It was actually a wonderful thing to watch; the boy was so obviously glad of the food, Quiaius thought, and his mouth was so beautiful.

What was he thinking? It occurred to him that he was hungry too; possibly that was why the sight of this boy eating was having such an effect on him. Otherwise, it made no sense at all. He headed back to the kitchen, shaking his head.

The usual routine of Quiaius' days was simple: wake early, bathe, read, eat, and read. Late in the afternoon, the fish-seller, reaching the end of his route, would come by with those fish he hadn't been able to sell to the cooks; these, Quiaius would buy and feed to his cats. Then he'd read some more, and perhaps Macius would come by to argue some point of philosophy or to beat him at dice. Quiaius would retire early, usually with a book; most often, by the time he turned down his lamp, a few of the cats had joined him for sleep in a bed that had been too large since Claudia had died. To say he lived quietly would be an understatement; it wasn't unusual for him to spend several days without speaking to anyone, and frankly, it suited him.

Now Quiaius' routine was completely disrupted. It was nearly midnight, and he couldn't sleep at all; he couldn't concentrate to read; and he was fidgeting so much that the cats had abandoned his bed and glowered at him from the corners of the room. He couldn't remember fidgeting since he was a boy, and that had been quite some time ago. He wondered if his new slave was having the same problem -- he was probably having a worse time sleeping, really, since he was in a strange place. Then again, he might not be; he'd been napping on and off most of the day, probably from the after-effects of the drug. Napping, and eating -- the Celt seemed to be something of a bottomless pit, and Quiaius hoped he would soon realize that he wasn't going to be starved anymore. Maybe he was awake, and hungry? Quiaius decided that, since he was awake himself anyway, he might as well go in and check on the boy.

The polished stone floor was cool against his bare feet as he walked down the hall to the slave's room; it was dark, but his eyes adjusted to the moonlight. The boy was where he'd seen him last, curled up asleep on the bed, half a honey-cake clutched in one hand.

Quiaius made a mental note to tell Macius' cook how much the boy had liked her cakes. He knelt beside the sleeping Celt, and noticed that his tunic had ridden up a bit, exposing a scraped but well-shaped knee. Fearing that the boy might catch a chill, Quiaius reached out and pulled the tunic down.

He may as well have poked at a wasps' nest. The Celt came suddenly -- and violently -- awake, gasped, sat up, screamed, and leapt at Quiaius like a wild animal. Quiaius stood quickly and took a step back, but he wasn't fast enough; the boy gave him a surprisingly powerful shove that banged his head against the doorjamb and landed him hard on his ass in the doorway, then stood shouting at him, wild-eyed. Quiaius got up, painfully, and walked toward the boy, thinking to calm him. "I'm not going to hurt you, quiet now -- " he reached for the boy's shoulder. The Celt turned his head and bit him hard on the side of his hand, shoved him away again, then backed up against the wall, staring, breathing hard.

Quiaius, once again thrown to the floor, looked at his hand and saw blood. He slowly picked himself up, and saw that the slave was trembling slightly; his eyes were wide and gray-blue. It occurred to him that the Celt could not have taken his actions as anything but an advance, and that there was no way to explain to him that he hadn't meant it that way.

"I'm sorry." He hoped again that his tone of voice might convey something to the terrified boy. "I won't do that again." He backed away slowly. The slave stared after him, panic in his eyes.

Quiaius went to the kitchen and examined his hand; several teeth had pierced the skin, and the pain of it started to creep up as the shock wore off. He washed it off with cool water and winced at the sting. He found a bit of cloth and wrapped it up, awkwardly -- of course, it was his right hand. I am an idiot, he thought. Knowing what he's been through, I creep up on him in his sleep and touch him. Would've served me right if he'd brained me. As it was, his head hurt like Hades; he'd have some bruises tomorrow, that was obvious. Quiaius walked slowly back to his room, and settled in for a long night of not sleeping.

The day everything happened, I was wondering if I was truly meant to be pledged to the Trees. Now, I was marked to serve the Trees from the time I was very small -- my mother told me there were things at my birth that marked me out for that, the veil over my head, and my eyes open even as I came into the world. But there was marked, and there was truly permanently committed, pledged for life, and that was a decision I had to make for myself, and I was just getting to where I was old enough to make it, and I didn't know what I wanted to do. You see, if I were pledged, along with a great number of other important things, I'd be celibate for life, and while that had seemed like a perfectly good idea when I was a little boy, in the last couple of years it had started sounding a great deal less appealing. I'd done some growing up, you see, and suddenly there were a few of my friends who had done their growing up too and come out of it looking awfully good. Anyway, I'd done a little playing, with Maelchwn and with Eithne, and I hadn't gone very far but far enough to know that I'd like to go further, if I could. And I couldn't go any further -- in fact, I ought not to have gone as far as I had. It wasn't the only thing that made me wonder if I really ought to be making the vows, but it was the thing that I was thinking about that day, and I decided to go sit under my favorite tree and meditate about it, and that's where I was and what I was doing when they caught me. It's almost funny when you think about it; it'd make a great story: there's Eab sitting under the cherry tree deciding whether to lose his, and up come the Romans and he never did get to decide, did he? They did the deciding, and it was fourteen of them that night, and all in all Eab (that's me) would just as soon have made his pledge and stayed with the Trees.

It's very important that you understand I didn't go easily. There were four of them in the party that caught me, and I broke away from them in the woods twice and ran and they caught me anyway. I fought like mad every way I knew how, and I think two of them still have the scars, but they were stronger. I suppose even one of them would have been stronger than me; they were soldiers and grown men, after all. They laughed and they beat me and they hauled me back to the camp, where the other soldiers were. They stripped me like it was a game, and threw me down on my back, and three of them held me down so I couldn't fight, and gods, I never thought anything could hurt as much as what they did to me then. I can still see the first one's face, and smell his breath all nasty from bad wine. I screamed when he rammed his cock into me, and he laughed at that. The rest of them sort of blurred together after a while, but that first one's very clear in my mind. I have dreams about cutting him up into a lot of pieces, and seeing if he thinks that's so funny.

I was in the camp for a few weeks; it's hard to tell how much time's passing when you're mostly chained inside a tent being fucked by whoever's got nothing better to do. Fighting made it worse -- I could tell some of them loved it when I fought them -- but if I stopped fighting I knew I'd die, or at least not be myself anymore. I got hit a lot. I found out you have to get hit really, really hard before you're knocked out, and it hurts like hell when you wake up from it, but it's sort of worth it, because you don't remember a lot of what happened even a few hours before you got hit sometimes. I also found out that eventually the fucking doesn't hurt quite as badly as it did at first, but that it's actually worse then, because you know you're getting used to it, and even if it doesn't hurt as badly, it still hurts.

The main thing I found out is that I hate Romans. They've got to be the nastiest people in the world. I hate the way they talk -- I know it's a language, but it sounds all wrong, like animal noises or something. It can't be a proper language. I hate the way they smell, even though I probably didn't smell any better after I was with them for a while. I hate their food, or at least the kind of scraps they threw me. I hate the way they think it's funny when someone gets hurt, or screams, or bleeds. I hate the way they rode their horses when the camp broke up, and carried their things in wagons, but made me walk behind them in chains all the way to Rome. I hate the way, when we stopped at night, they just kept me chained to the back of their stupid wagon, and took me on my knees on the ground, and then made me walk all day afterwards just the same.

Once I got to Rome, they couldn't get rid of me fast enough; they passed me off to some kind of trader. I saw him give the soldier who caught me the first time a few coins, and I saw them argue about it -- I guess I didn't bring as much as he thought I would. The slaver's place was actually better than being with the soldiers; I got beaten almost as much, but hardly anyone fucked me. By then I was pretty well out of my mind. I'd been treated like an animal so much, I think I was turning into one. Maybe that would be easier than being what I actually was. Anyone who touched me got bitten. If I screamed at everyone who came to look at me, I got whipped, but then I didn't get bought either, so it was safer that way. Sometimes I wondered if Maelchwn and Eithne ever wondered what became of me, and I was glad they didn't know. I was there for a while; then some guards held me down and poured something nasty down my throat and I woke up in a different place, feeling sick and hurting in some familiar places -- I guess it was too tempting for somebody, seeing me all knocked out like that. That place wasn't much different from the first one, except that when they found out that whipping me didn't stop me from screaming, they stopped feeding me. That didn't stop me either, although I expect it would have eventually, wouldn't it? By that time I was so dirty and crazy and ruined that I don't think they hoped to sell me anymore; probably they hoped I'd die. I hoped so too. People would come and look at me, and I knew what they were seeing: some kind of creature. Horrible.

And then this man came, and I don't know what he saw, but I suppose it wasn't so horrible. He looked like he felt sorry for me. I tried to scare him away like the others, but I guess it didn't work on him, because a different bunch of guards poured a different nasty thing down my throat (not before I bit them, though) and I woke up where I am now, in this big empty house full of little animals.

It's the strangest thing. I woke up clean and dressed, in a clean bed! It doesn't really make any sense. Why would anyone bother to dress me? He looks at me all the time, but not the way the soldiers did -- more like you'd look at something that was interesting, something you liked. He keeps giving me good food, really good food, and he keeps not fucking me -- he tried to, last night, he touched me and scared the hell out of me, but I bit him, and I felt so much stronger from eating that I knocked him down a couple of times, too. He looked so upset I almost felt sorry for him.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Or not as bad as the soldiers, anyway. At least he smells good. And he has beautiful blue eyes. I'm still going to knock him down if he tries it again, though.

When Quiaius finally fell into a troubled sleep, it was nearly morning; only a few hours later, he was awakened by the sun streaming in the window and an aching in his head. He put his hand out to steady himself as he got up, and was reminded by a fresh burst of pain that he'd been bitten the night before; standing, he remembered that he'd been knocked down not once but twice by the Celt. I'm too old to be getting knocked down, he thought ruefully as he limped out to start his day.

He put together a breakfast for the boy; there was still some bread left, and cheese. He scrambled a few eggs and cooked them over the hearth; it was a real challenge, with his right hand painful and feeling badly swollen, but he thought he should at least offer him something hot. He carried the tray, with a pitcher of water and a mug, to the slave's room, and hesitated at the door; peering in cautiously, he saw that the Celt was sleeping, sitting up, with his back to the wall. Several cats were sprawled around his feet; they seemed to take up more space than he did. Quiaius quietly placed the tray within the boy's reach, then stepped back through the doorway.

"Breakfast, before the cats get it," he called out gently; the boy stirred and opened his eyes. He glared at Quiaius for a moment before he smelled the food, then appeared almost to forget the man was there as he devoured the eggs.

Quiaius smiled. If he could cook nothing else, he could cook eggs; Claudia had loved to wake late and lie in bed while he made her breakfast. He didn't usually bother with much for himself, but apparently cooking eggs was a skill that came back after long neglect. He returned to the kitchen and picked up a piece of bread for himself, then took a quick bath. Any situation looked better after a bath.

Unfortunately, his hand looked worse; it was as swollen as it felt, and red around the bite marks. It hurt worse when he touched it, and felt hot. Brilliant, he thought. Now I've got myself infected. He found a clean toga, dressed, and set out for the healer's.

Yolada the healer's tiny clinic was a short walk from Quiaius' home. He was thankful for that, not only because his back hurt from the falls he'd taken the night before, but because those few people he passed on the street looked at him as if his hair were on fire. Of course. Bruises from the doorjamb. That had to look wonderful. He reached the house and stooped to knock, waited a few moments, knocked again.

"Coming!" the healer's shrill voice rang out. "When 90 years old you are, run to answer the door you will not!" She opened the door and laughed at the sight of him. "If fights you keep getting into, 90 years old you will never be!"

Although Quiaius had visited her before, the healer was always an arresting sight. She was no more than four feet tall, gnarled as an ancient tree, and almost entirely without hair except for a few white tufts at the sides of her head. The only things about her that were not undersized were her ears, which were not only quite large, but somewhat pointed. There was a great deal of speculation over whether she had been inspired to pursue the trade of healing because of her own deformity, or whether it was the constant exposure to powerful herbs and chemicals from an early age that had stunted and twisted her. There was also speculation over where exactly her odd accent and speech patterns had come from; some believed she was originally from Egypt, while others claimed that their grandparents remembered her growing up just outside Pompeii and speaking like any other native. Whatever her origin, she was an extraordinarily talented healer, if you didn't mind fitting yourself into the clinic she'd had built to her own personal scale. Quiaius had to stoop more than most as he entered the little front room.

Every inch of the walls was covered with hanging bundles of herbs, shelves with mysterious jars, and genuinely frightening medical apparatus hanging on hooks.

Quiaius smiled despite his annoyance. "It wasn't a fight, exactly. I... surprised a new slave."

"Surprised you must have been, when thrashed you he did!" she chuckled. "Not much for bruises can I do, except advise waiting. Sit down, now. Your hand you have hurt, hmmm?"

"Yes, I'm afraid he bit me." Quiaius folded himself into a tiny chair that put him just about at Yolada's eye level, and unwrapped the bandage. "It's quite painful, and it seems to be swelling."

The tiny woman inspected his hand, and prodded painfully at the bite, shaking her head. "Dirtier than any dog's, the human mouth is! To be bitten by a crocodile, better off you would be! Red streaks here do you see? Infection!"

"So I suspected. Is there anything you can do?"

She went to an old cabinet at the back of the room, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small jar, which she handed to him. "This you will put on it, three times a day."

He opened the jar to see what looked like some sort of goo, with a strong foul smell. "What is it?"

"Comes from mold. Takes away infection it does, but filthy it smells, hmmm? You must keep this hand wrapped and dry, and don't let any more slaves bite you! A problem with this one you have?"

"It's entirely my fault. I saw him at a slaver's and bought him because he obviously needed some care; he'd been beaten and starved half to death. He'd been a captive with the Army in the northern lands, and abused quite badly. I managed to wake him up and frighten him pretty badly when I was checking on him last night, and of course he thought he had to defend himself."

"Captive with the Army, hmm? Young and pretty he is?"

"I suppose... if my tastes ran that way, yes, very pretty. Certainly young. Doesn't speak a word of Latin, of course, and I don't know how I'm going to explain to him that I don't mean him any harm."

"Smart man you are. Teach him Latin you will. For now -- cats you have, hmm?"

"Why yes, I do. How did you know?"

"Hair on your clothes you have, quite a few different colors. Old I may be, but blind I am not. Cats did you all get when tame little kittens, or some strays?"

"Mostly strays, I suppose. I tend to accumulate them."

"When new cat you have in the house, wild one, pick it up do you? Play with it? Catch hold of its tail, hmmm?"

"Of course not, that's a good way to get... Ahh, I see. So, I should let him alone as much as possible?"

"Let him alone, feed him, and speak to him nicely, and in your lap he will be sitting!" The old healer laughed as Quiaius blushed.

"Well, that's not really what I'm trying for."

Yolada grew a little more serious. "Clothed the boy is? Not known for keeping boys well covered, are soldiers. Known for the opposite, in my experience."

"Yes, yes, I've given him one of my old tunics."

"Your tunic fits a starved young boy? Likely that is not. Buy him some clothes you should. Suitable for nice boys, students, not for the ones who hang around the baths. Come to me with the itch every moon, some of them do. Clothes fit for a good boy give him, and fit them he will."

"I don't really know what size he wears..."

"Loosely the boys' tunics fit these days, and looked at the boy enough to estimate I think you have. To Palpatinus you can afford to go, hmm? At the north end of the market?"

"Well, I suppose..."

"Suppose not, but do. Fifty denarii you will pay me now, and when less bruised you are looking, shopping you will go." The tiny woman held out her hand, a look of triumph on her wizened face.

"Shopping. Yes." Quiaius handed her a few coins, rose from the little chair (banging his head on the low ceiling in the process) and turned to go, dropping the jar she'd given him into the bag that hung at his belt. "Thank you, Yolada. I'll take your advice. You're a wise woman."

"When beautiful one is not, wise one must be. When beautiful one is, wisdom is only one of several options."

As he entered his front door, Quiaius heard an unfamiliar voice from the back of his home. He walked back cautiously, quietly, to discover a charming sight: the Celt was sitting cross-legged on the floor and speaking quietly and earnestly to Rosa. Rosa was the smallest of Quiaius' cats, a tortoiseshell he'd found sitting calmly in the middle of the market when she was a tiny kitten. She was grown now, but still behaved very much like a kitten. The Celt appeared to be telling the little cat a story, and while Quiaius couldn't understand a word the boy was saying, he was mesmerized by his voice, soft and lilting, and by his dramatic gestures, which the cat was watching, spellbound. Quiaius sat down quietly in the doorway and listened as the story reached its apparent climax; the boy showed no sign that he noticed him, until at the end of his tale he nodded in his direction and pointed him out to the cat who, of course, looked not at Quiaius but at the pointing finger. Wonder what he's telling her about me? Quiaius mused; then he smiled, suddenly struck by an idea.

He reached back and awkwardly, with his uninjured left hand, untied the leather cord that held his hair. As his hair fell around his shoulders, Quiaius tied the cord into a floppy bow, then tapped his fingers on the floor to get the cat's (and the boy's) attention. He gave the Celt a sidelong look and smiled, then tossed the cord across the room; Rosa bounded over to it, scooped it up with one white-socked paw, and picked it up in her mouth. She then trotted over to Quiaius and dropped it in his lap. "Very good!" He tossed the cord again, and she repeated her performance. The Celt watched, and for the first time since Quiaius had seen him, smiled, and although the smile was slightly tentative, he suddenly looked less battered than radiant. "Now you try it," and Quiaius tossed the cord to him as the cat watched intently.

The boy caught the knotted cord -- Quiaius was pleased to see how quick his reflexes were -- and threw it a few feet across the room. Rosa ran over and picked it up, then returned to drop it in the delighted boy's lap. He laughed -- a lovely, musical sound -- and tossed it again; the cat returned it again. With a slightly mischievous look -- and Quiaius wondered how long it had been since the boy had played -- he tossed the cord over near Quiaius. When the cat ran over to retrieve it, Quiaius scooped her up and she wriggled and purred in his arms.

"Cattus. See? Cattus," Quiaius said, holding Rosa up as an illustration.

"Cat-tis?" The Celt pointed to the cat.

Quiaius would later recall that he had never before been so pleased by someone saying "cat."

The impromptu lesson quickly advanced, with much laughter, to such subjects as manus (which reminded Quiaius to put the medicine Yolada had given him on his injured hand), pedis (for which the Celt stretched out a disconcertingly pretty foot, with attached chain), and nasus (it seemed to amuse the boy that the same word applied to his own small nose and Quiaius' somewhat crooked one), as well as cauda, illustrated by the waving tail of Rosa as she attempted to initiate another game of fetch. When Macius' cook Sima stopped by with more food, Quiaius was able to show the Celt panis and the obsonium that went with it (bread and fruit preserve, in this case), as well as crustulum, the little sweet cakes that the boy liked. Quiaius was attempting to demonstrate ius by pouring some of the hot, fragrant soup into mugs when Rosa began poking her head into one of the mugs, trying to get a share. "No, no."

The Celt, who had up to this point been more relaxed and happy than Quiaius had ever expected to see him, suddenly became quiet and thoughtful. "No?"

Quiaius nodded, and suddenly realized that to the boy, this was probably the most important word in the language.

They sat quietly for a few minutes, sharing food. The boy seemed less afraid, Quiaius thought; perhaps just being able to communicate, even about simple objects, made him feel more secure. The Celt was half-reclining on his low bed; Quiaius caught him looking at him a few times, curious. His eyes change. They were blue a moment ago, weren't they? Now green. Like the ocean. The more he looked at the boy, the less he saw the cruel bruises that marked his slender limbs; the more he saw... what? The sharp angle of a shoulder, the almost imperceptible curve of a hip, the unstudied grace of a hand not much more than half the size of his own. The boy looked up at him again, questioningly.

Of course. "Quiaius," he said, gesturing towards himself. "I'm Quiaius."

The Celt smiled shyly, trying the name. "Kais." Close enough. He sat up and pointed to his head, his heart. "Eab."

Before the boy learned some Latin, Quiaius reflected, it had been easy enough to treat him as a kind of pet. Now, that was impossible; he was Eab, a boy, a strange one in some respects but still a boy, and Quiaius hardly knew how to treat him at all.

Eab was clearly somewhat afraid -- less of him, as time went on, than of everything. Quiaius had tried to tell him that he was in no danger of being mistreated in his home, but even after three weeks of doing his best to teach the boy Latin, he couldn't be sure how much he understood. There were words Quiaius genuinely didn't know how to teach him, concepts that couldn't easily be pointed out in pictures or in life. Quiaius could only hope that Eab would eventually accept that he wasn't going to hurt him. Eab spoke little; Quiaius wondered if he had always been shy, or if his experiences in the past few months had driven him inward. While there were times when the boy seemed to allow himself to relax, they were brief, and most of the time he appeared to be very much on guard. When Macius visited, Eab had reacted with terror, backing into a corner and shuddering despite all Quiaius' reassurances, and the friends had agreed that perhaps it was best that they meet at Macius' home for the time being. Nearly any unexpected noise was enough to make the boy jump, and several times the sound of a group of men on horses in the street outside clearly inspired panic.

Physically, Eab had made a great deal of progress. The bruises that had covered him when he first came to Quiaius' home had faded, and all but the worst of the cuts and scrapes had healed. There were some scars -- mostly on his wrists and ankles, from the shackles, and on his back, from the whippings -- but Quiaius guessed that even these would eventually become less visible. While Eab was still thinner than Quiaius thought was healthy, he had filled out somewhat, and no longer looked gaunt. Twice Quiaius had watched silently from the hall while the boy performed a series of stretches; each time, he had felt faintly embarrassed at having done so, as if he were spying on a religious ritual or an act of love. The second time, Eab had turned and caught him looking; the boy simply stood and stared at him, his expression unreadable, until Quiaius felt so uncomfortable that he had to leave the house.

Quiaius walked, preoccupied, not particularly conscious of the sights and sounds of the market. He wondered whether Eab was angry with him for watching his exercise; then he wondered why he was spending so much time watching the boy; then he wondered how he'd occupied his time before Eab had been there to watch. This line of thinking distracted him so much that he nearly walked into a stand where an old woman was selling bags of salted nuts. Set much too far into the street, he thought irritably as she gave him a dirty look. I'm surprised half Rome hasn't run into it. I'm surprised it's standing...

He looked around and realized he was already at the north end of the market, with no real idea of where he'd been heading in the first place. Then it occurred to him that there was something he'd been meaning to do, and he headed into the tastefully lit and elaborately decorated shop where Palpatinus the clothier had his business.

"Ah, good afternoon, good Sir," the rather oily proprietor greeted him. "And what are you looking for today?"

Quiaius looked around; the shop, while full of mirrors and fancy benches and small pedestals, did not appear to contain any clothing. "Boys' tunics?"

"Splendid! I have a new line, truly lovely work." He clapped his hands. "Maulus! The new tunic, please?" There was a stirring in the back room of the shop, a sound that might have been discreet grumbling, and then a few moments later a most unusual creature parted the gilded curtain and entered the room.

Maulus, the shop's model, was not particularly tall; however, he was remarkably well-built. His jet-black hair was worn in short, gleaming curls, and he looked very much like an image on an old Greek vase. He would have been extremely attractive, Quiaius thought, if his face hadn't been marred by an arrogant expression. He walked silkily around the room, pointedly ignoring both Quiaius and his employer, then arranged himself on one of the benches in such as way as to emphasize the fact that the rather sheer tunic he wore was slit up the side to reveal a shapely leg nearly to the hip. He then looked up, fixed Quiaius with an intense look, and spoke in a sultry voice. "Boys' tunic in China silk. Seventy denarii."

"I don't think that's quite what I'm looking for. Something more... plain?"

"We don't do cheap, if that's what you want." Palpatinus gave him a nasty look. "We do good work here, in cotton, linen and silk. Don't you think your boy is worth it?"

"No, no, he isn't my boy. He's..." Quiaius searched for an explanation. "My nephew. A student. Studies languages. Yes, very scholarly boy."

"Aaaah, your nephew. You should have said so. You want something more... Maulus, the Egyptian cotton?"

The model rolled his eyes, then got up and slunk to the back room. There were a few sounds of frantic rummaging around, a moment's silence, and then he re-emerged in a longer, looser garment in opaque white cotton. He walked around the room, then leaned languidly on one of the pedestals. "Boy's tunic. Edging in red, green or black. Fifty-five denarii."

"Yes, that's the kind of thing... One in green, one in black, I suppose."

"And what size is your... nephew?"

"Well, he's a little taller than your model here, but thinner..."

"Size small, then. Two. Would you like Maulus here to deliver them? There's a small charge, then any tip you might work out..."

"Delivery is only a little extra," the model purred, fixing him with a seductive look. "Delivery is always worth it."

Quiaius wondered exactly what came with the delivery, then decided he'd be better off not knowing. "No, no. I'll take them with me." He paid, then waited as a sulky Maulus brought out the tunics and wrapped them; the model appeared to be working as slowly as he could without actually being accused of stopping.

By the time Quiaius left the shop, it was nearing time for dinner. He walked briskly towards home, thinking of Eab's surprise when he saw the new tunics -- he'd been wearing the same thing for weeks, after all. He smiled at the idea of Eab wearing something new. The green trim, he thought, would go well with the boy's eyes.

When he opened the door of his home, something seemed wrong. Things were too quiet, somehow, and the cats were milling around like leaves in a windstorm, mewing. The kitchen cupboard was open; Quiaius paused for a moment, thinking to see if anything was missing, then stopped and ran to the back bedroom.

Eab was gone.

I don't think he's actually a Roman.

He hasn't touched me since the first night, and the more I think about it, the less I think he meant me any harm that one time. If he meant to fuck me, he surely would have done so by now, wouldn't he? He hasn't even punished me for biting his hand, and it's practically healed now. A Roman would surely have beaten me for that. He hasn't hurt me, and he hasn't let anyone else hurt me, not even his friend, the one almost as tall as he is.

He's taller than any of the Romans I've seen, and quieter, too. I've never heard him shout yet. He's so quiet, I hardly know he's in the room sometimes until he offers me something to eat. He gives me the best food, too -- he takes the burnt cake and gives me the good one, every time, and it doesn't make any sense to me why he'd do that. He just looks at me with those kind blue eyes, and smiles, and sometimes there's nothing I can do but smile back at him. At times like that, I forget how afraid I am, if only for a moment.

He's teaching me Latin -- none of the other Romans, the soldiers, ever did that in all the time I was with them. What did I have to say to them, after all? I could have asked them not to fuck me any more, please, but they wouldn't have listened. I have trouble believing the language that sounded so crude and harsh in the mouths of those soldiers is the same one he speaks. From him, it sounds almost beautiful. The voices I hear in my nightmares aren't the same thing at all.

The other Romans had horses, and they did all kinds of work, carrying soldiers, pulling wagons, that kind of thing. If Kais has a horse, I haven't seen it -- all he has are these beasts like tiny bears with long tails. There must be a dozen of them, all colors and sizes, and they don't do anything at all but walk around and look beautiful and speak in peculiar voices like birds, and sleep wherever they like. They don't have any job at all. I wonder sometimes if the house belongs to them, and he just keeps it for them. It's funny to think of such a fine tall man being a servant to little beasts, but this is a strange land I've found myself in. They're lovely beasts, anyway. Kais strokes them with his big, gentle hands, and they rub their heads against his ankles, and make the most wonderful sounds. You could do much worse than to be a beast in this man's house.

The other Romans were a lot more watchful than he is, too. Not that he doesn't watch me -- he watches me all the time, and it makes me feel strange inside sometimes. I wonder what he's looking at, or what he's thinking when he looks at me. But the other Romans would never have left a hair clip within easy reach of a man in chains, would they?

I don't know where I'm going, but surely there must be some trees around here someplace.

"Quiaius, I think you may as well accept that he's gone." Macius sighed and sat down on his brocade-covered couch. "I told you from the beginning that you'd never be able to keep him."

"I didn't come over here for you to tell me that. I need your help."

"Help with what? We could ride around all night searching the streets for him. Do you think he'd be out in plain sight? And if we found him, what would you do? Take him home and chain him up again?"

"I don't know..." Quiaius paced nervously back and forth in the elegantly appointed room. "What do you do when a slave goes missing?"

"Depends on the situation. If, say, my cook's son ran off, he's a child -- I'd let her handle it, maybe ask around in the marketplace; he'd probably just be off doing boy things, and he'd come on back in a day or two, no harm done. When that new stablehand took off with my best horse, I reported it to the city guard and hired slave-catchers to go after him. Not that I wanted him after that -- I had him whipped and sold him -- but you know I wanted the horse back!"

"Slave-catchers?"

"You don't want to do that, Quiaius. Trust me. They go after them with dogs, sometimes. Your boy..."

"I couldn't do that to him, no."

"Let him go, Quiaius. Who knows, maybe he's going back home to the northern lands. Finding his way back by the stars or whatever."

"Oh, I suppose you could do that, if you were dropped off half the world away..."

"Of course I couldn't. But maybe he can." Macius got up from his seat, stopped his friend's pacing. "Look, you should let this go -- you took care of him, you fed him, you probably showed him the only kindness he's seen in months. You've done a good deed. Wherever he is, he's certainly better off than he was when you found him with Wattovius."

"I don't know that. He could be... Someone could have taken him."

"Quiaius, who in his right mind is going to take a half-wild Celt slave with no skills and a tendency toward violence? Besides you, anyway. You told me you found your hair clip in one of the locks. That's pretty obvious, it seems to me. Was anything missing besides him?"

"Some food -- bread, cheese, that kind of thing. An old canvas bag. And one of my kitchen knives."

"Oh, so he's armed. Well, I should've known... I hate to ask you this, but have you... well, have you done anything that might make him want to kill you?"

"Not unless you count teaching him Latin."

"Then he probably won't come looking for you. And if you're lucky, he isn't going to go off and kill a few soldiers who look halfway familiar to him. You know, letting a potentially dangerous slave get loose could get you into a lot of trouble."

"I didn't let him get loose! I left the house for less than an hour. He was securely locked up." Quiaius sighed and sat down, his head in his hands. "I don't know what to do."

Macius sat down beside him. "Don't do anything. Quiaius, I'll ask around a little, see if anyone's seen him."

"Thank you. I think I'll head home now and -- "

"Go home. Take a bath. Get some sleep. Don't wear yourself out worrying over a slave. He isn't worth it."

He's worth it to me, Quiaius thought as he walked home through the night. Why is that? He's just a slave. I only paid a few denarii for him... He thought of the slaves he'd had before, the housekeepers he'd kept for a few months and set free for one reason or another. He'd been fond of all of them, but he'd always been happy for them when they left, and really a little relieved. However helpful they might have been, they had tended to buzz around the house with chores and duties he'd never thought needed to be done, and spoiled the quiet. Why was this boy so different?

When Quiaius got home, he stood and looked at the empty chains on the floor in the back room for a long time, wondering.

As it turns out, Rome is a much larger city than I thought. I should have remembered that I hadn't seen very much of it. The size of it was a help to me, though; there were so many people bustling around, no one seemed to notice one boy in the shadows. I just walked, in no particular direction, and when I came to a big river, I followed that upstream and out of the city. In a while, the buildings got farther apart and the people grew fewer; by then it was dark and I could go on my way unnoticed.

This sounds as if I were very casual about it. In fact, I was scared to death: every time someone looked at me, I thought surely he must be a soldier, ready to capture me again; then he'd look away, because I wasn't who he thought I was, I suppose. This happened again and again, and every time my heart beat like a bird in my chest. I did have a knife to defend myself with, but I've never fought with a knife in my life, and anyway I doubt it was sharp enough to cut anything but bread. I had no real idea where I was going, either, so I just followed what little intuition I had, going in whatever direction seemed tree-ish.

At the same time, though, I was practically spinning with joy over being out, walking free under the clear dark sky and the stars and the moon! It had been so long since I'd seen the sky, after all; those months with the slavers, and before that with the soldiers, when I'd been outside but hadn't looked up ever. I stopped twice to eat some of the food I'd brought with me, but I was too excited to have more than a few bites, just enough to keep me going.

When, after walking all night, I saw the sun coming up over a stand of trees, I actually jumped up and down with excitement -- I wasn't embarrassed, because there was no one to see me but the sky and the trees, and they knew how I felt. I ran the last half-mile, tired as I was.

This grove just felt right. It was wonderfully isolated; there was a small white building, a temple of some kind, but no one was there. A little stream ran through the grove, and made the beautiful sound of free water. Not all the trees looked familiar -- I was very far from the forests at home, after all -- but they were there, and there were so many of them, and I wanted to touch every one. I walked around for a long time, breathing the wonderful smell of them and just looking.

When I saw the great oak tree, I knew I'd found exactly what I was looking for. She was beautiful -- tall and broad, with branches reaching high in the air and great strong roots gripping the earth, the Mother of trees, with Her lover the mistletoe twined in Her arms. I leaned against Her, felt Her rough bark against my hands and face, and knew that She would care for me.

If I were at home, there were rituals I might have followed, ways of cleansing myself before approaching Her, but I was a long way from home, and I knew She would understand I was doing my best. I slipped off my tunic and walked to the stream; the air felt cool and strange and very right on my bare skin. The water was cold -- cold enough to make me gasp -- but I washed myself as thoroughly as I could, taking my time, scrubbing with a handful of grass, until I felt truly clean, as clean as I'd been since I was taken. I dried myself with my tunic, put it and the bag with my food and my knife under a bush to find later, then simply sat and breathed deeply until I felt completely calm.

Her trunk went straight up a good fifteen feet before branching out, but I've been climbing since I was very small. It's just a matter of finding the places where my toe can wedge in, or my hand can grip, and She was welcoming and cooperative. When a tree wants you to climb, it's almost impossible to fall, so I scrambled up in perfect confidence. About thirty feet up, there was a place, completely hidden from the ground in Her foliage, where four branches -- all of them thicker than I am -- came together and made a perfect seat. I settled there, leaning back on one of the branches, legs hanging down on either side of another, as comfortable as any baby in his mother's lap.

It was wonderful, sitting there, with the same gentle breeze that was rustling the leaves ruffling my hair; the ground was far away, and the sky was that much closer. I quieted my mind the way I'd been taught by the Trees back at home, and after a while I could feel Her leaves stretching up into the clean air, and Her roots burrowing into the good dark earth. I could feel Her strength as She revealed Herself to me, and that strength became a part of me as I became a part of Her, another branch bending gently in the breeze.

The sun rose higher, the breezes grew warmer, and I slept lightly in my nest there in the center of the great tree. I dreamed then, but instead of the nightmares of the past few months, I dreamed of the great Tree, and Her life: the droughts She had endured, the lightning that had scarred Her, the fire that had scorched Her but yet not consumed Her. I knew She showed me these things so that I would know that She, too, had suffered, and yet that She was not destroyed: that She had survived, and grown stronger than before, and that I would, too.

The dream changed, then, and I saw Kais in his house, sitting on the floor in the room where he'd kept me. He was holding my chains in his hands, and looking as sad as I've ever seen a man look, so that I felt sorry for him sitting there all alone. His little beasts walked around him and spoke to him and rubbed their heads against him, but he paid no attention to them, just looked at the chains. Then he put them on his own ankles, and lay down on my pallet there on the floor, curled up like a child, and I think he wept.

The dream changed again, and I was back in that house, wearing fine clothes and reclining on a great, soft bed. There were no chains on my wrists or ankles, no part of me hurt, and all my scars were gone, and I felt wonderfully safe and peaceful. I lay there a while, enjoying the warmth and softness of the bed and the way I felt, and then Kais came into the room carrying a little basket. I recognized the basket right away; it was one I had when I was quite small, that my mother made for me; some bigger boys took it from me one day and I never got it back. Well, here was Kais with this basket, and he sat down beside me on the great soft bed, and I saw that the basket was full of cherries. I realized just then that I was hungry, and that cherries were just what I wanted, and at that moment he picked one up and fed it to me with his own hand, as if I were a baby. After I ate that one, he gave me another, and another after that. Now, these were the kind of cherries that you only see in dreams, big and red and impossibly sweet, and they had no stones at all, so that I could just eat them without thinking, and that's what I did. Kais seemed very happy to lie with me and feed me cherries, and I was very happy to eat them. However many he fed me, the basket was never empty, and however many I ate, I wasn't full, but I did start feeling very warm.

I heard rain in my dream then, and wondered why it was raining in Kais' bedroom, and that was the end of it: I woke up in a downpour, soaked and, to my amazement, quite hard. Without thinking of anything at all, still half-dreaming, I touched myself for pleasure for the first time in months. The rain poured down on me, and slicked my hand and my cock, and when I came with a shout in a rush of heat and joy, the rain washed my seed from me and down into the ground, an offering to the tree who had given me Her gifts.

It took a little while for me to come completely to my senses, as I sat there thirty feet above the ground, leaning back on that broad branch. Tiny shocks ran through me as my body reminded me of the proof that it could still feel pleasure. The rain ran through my hair and down over my face, and I opened my mouth and tasted it, sweet, on my tongue; I raised my hands and let it run down my arms, extended my feet and let it wash them, too. Then I turned and stood and wrapped my arms around a thick branch, so that the rain came down on my back and washed it too; I looked up and let it pour straight into my face. The rain was Her blessing, given to clean me and prepare me for the rest of my journey.

When the rain slowed, I was ready to leave Her. The sun's light told me that it was morning again -- I was a little surprised, but then dreaming in Her arms might take any amount of time, and my mother had told me stories about Trees of ancient times who climbed Her and were not seen again for years. I climbed down much more slowly than I had gone up, thanking Her as I went for what She'd given me, and promising to consider Her dreams carefully. I stepped carefully onto the ground; it seemed to sway gently under me as I found my things, dressed, and bid Her farewell.

I had a long walk ahead of me, and quite a lot to think about on the journey.

Quiaius sat on his bed, picked up a book, tried to read; he found himself going over the same line again and again, unable to concentrate. He got up, walked to the kitchen, looked in the cupboard; nothing there appealed to him, and he couldn't decide whether he was hungry or not. He briefly considered going to visit Macius for a game of dice, then decided it was too late -- indeed, it was after midnight. A bath might have been a good idea, considering how keyed-up he felt, but he'd already had one an hour or so ago; instead of relaxing him, it had left him as tense as he'd been before he climbed into the hot water.

The bathtub reminded him of the day Eab had arrived, all bruises and bones and dirt, and how he'd bathed him and settled him in the bed in the back room. The kitchen reminded him of how Eab had seemed to love food, pretty much anything Quiaius had offered him, but particularly sweet things, fruit and cakes and honey. Reading reminded him of the times they had spent quietly together, Quiaius reading, Eab playing with the cats. As for Macius -- Macius had told him he wouldn't be able to keep the boy, and he'd been right. Macius had told him Eab was gone for good, and he was undoubtedly right again.

He walked into the back room and looked at the chains on the floor, still locked to the heavy wooden chest. He wondered whether, if he had released Eab from the chains, he would have stayed, or run off into the night as soon as he was freed. He'd never know now, would he? He'd kept the boy chained all along. What kind of man was he, to keep him that way... He sat heavily on the low bed, his head in his hands; he couldn't really tell, but he imagined the folds of the bedsheets still bore the impression of the boy's body. He lay down, and noticed a single short, golden hair on the pillow, and somehow that was too much. He felt hot tears sting his eyes for the first time in years. Why hadn't he realized how alone he was until Eab had come and gone?

I'm not sure why it took so much longer to get back to Rome than it took to find the Tree. I was wonderfully rested from the time I'd spent dreaming, and after the rain stopped the day was clear and warm enough that I regretted having to put my tunic back on. What little food was left in my bag had been spoiled by the rain, but I found some grapes growing wild, and they were sweet and tart and perfect. Along with some sweet, cold water from the stream, they were enough to start me on my way.

Walking back through the countryside along the river, I could see what I had missed in the dark on the way: gentle hills, deep green grass dotted with flowers, and occasionally small houses in the middle of lush fields. The grass felt good under my bare feet, and the sun warmed my shoulders as I walked.

It was quite dark by the time I got into the city, and I think that if I had known when I left that I was going back, I would have paid more attention to the way I had come. There are a thousand little streets in Rome, and as far as I could tell they all looked alike, so I wandered around, hoping a direction would strike me as the right one. There were so many houses, and while lamps and candles shone through a few windows, none of them was the house I was looking for.

At some point I realized two men were walking behind me. From the way they were talking to each other so loudly that they might have been a mile apart rather than a foot or two, I suppose they were drunk. I don't think they were much older than I am, but I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up and my heart beating in my throat. I hurried on, hoping to go around a corner or two and leave them behind -- maybe they only happened to be going the same way as I was -- but they followed, and started laughing and calling to me -- I couldn't tell what they were saying. I started running then, scared as I was, and I'm not sure if what I heard then was them chasing me, or just my own footsteps echoing from the houses on all sides. I ran until I couldn't anymore, and hid shivering in a doorway to catch my breath. After a while, I looked over to a window in the same house that was lit up by a candle, and sitting on the windowsill very calmly watching me was Argentum, Kais' great gray cat.

Quiaius came slowly awake, slightly confused to find himself in the slave's empty bed where he had dozed off. He wasn't sure what had pulled him up out of sleep -- a sound? He heard it again, a frantic rapping at his front door, and realized it had been going on for some time. He got up out of the bed awkwardly, pulling his toga into some semblance of order and pushing his hair back out of his eyes; he tripped over at least two cats in the dark as he made his way to the door. The knocking continued, and he opened the door.

There, flushed, breathing hard, and slightly trembling, was Eab. The boy walked into the house, closed the door behind him, leaned back against it, and gazed up at Quiaius with a look of immense relief.

"Home."

Quiaius fought an almost overwhelming urge to take the boy in his arms. He took a deep breath, smiled, and stepped back a little.

"Yes. Home, Eab."

The boy smiled a little shyly, looked up through long blond lashes. "I went to the Tree. She showed me."

Quiaius wondered what he could mean by that, and decided he didn't need to know. "I'm glad. I missed you."

"Good." More of a smile. "Hungry?"

Quiaius laughed, and they went to the kitchen together.

It was a great thing to see the boy sitting at the kitchen table, neatly eating an apple as Quiaius heated a pan to make hotcakes. Quiaius wondered where the boy had been, and what had happened while he was there -- he seemed happier, somehow easier within himself. Of course, that might have been because he was no longer in chains, Quiaius thought, and felt a stab of guilt.

While Quiaius cooked, a few of the cats drifted into the room and sniffed curiously at Eab, who, finished with his apple, leaned down and petted them and talked to them, both in Latin and his own odd, somewhat musical tongue. Rosa leapt up and claimed a place in his lap, purring noisily as he stroked her. Such beautiful hands, Quiaius thought absently. Eab kissed the cat on the top of her head, and she hopped down, mildly affronted, to wash herself in the corner.

"Smells good."

"Every civilized nation has some form of hotcakes," Quiaius informed him, as he brought a plate of them to the table. "Try them with a little honey." Not that he needed to tell Eab that; he had already picked one up and drizzled some honey on it from the small jar on the table, and was eating it hungrily.

"Very good," he pronounced between bites, smiling.

Quiaius took one himself, and they sat together at the table, sharing the plate. Quiaius thought of similar late-night feasts with Claudia, so long ago, when they had laughed and talked and held hands under the table, and chased each other to bed with sticky hands. He found himself trying not to stare as Eab quite unselfconsciously licked the last of the honey from his fingers, then glanced at him.

"Beautiful cakes. Thank you Kais. Now I have to sleep."

He walked ahead of the boy to the back room where his bed waited for him. Quiaius took the key from the bag at his belt and, while Eab watched intently, unlocked the chains from the chest and put them away inside it.

"No more chains for you. This is your home if you like, but I won't force you to stay."

"My home, and my bed," Eab said sleepily as he lay down, joined immediately by a few cats. "Thank you, Kais."

Quiaius turned out the lamp and walked to his own bed, and for the first time in several days, he fell immediately asleep.

If anything feels better than lying in a soft bed after a long day's walk, it is lying in that bed without chains, full of good cakes and honey. I think I was asleep before my head was on the pillow.

Maybe it was the men in the street who made me dream the way I did; or maybe it was just time for me to dream. I hadn't had many dreams in the last months, or not that I remembered -- not until my time with the great Tree. Maybe I was too afraid for dreams, and now I was ready for them, I don't know.

I was back in the soldiers' camp, chained in the tent, and it seemed to me then that my time with Kais had been all a dream itself. I was filthy again, and hungry, and the raw pain between my legs was back, and I could hear them laughing, and I understood what they said now.

"Such a pretty boy."

"Pretty when you caught him, you mean. Not so good to look at now, is he?"

"Still feels good, though." Rough hands touched me, spread my legs again, and a thick callused finger thrust up inside me as I screamed, it hurt, it hurt... "Not as tight as you used to be, are you, little whore," and he laughed when I tried to get away, the chains holding me down there in the dirt, and he pulled his cock out of his pants.

"Give it to him, he's begging you for it," and I was screaming again as he pushed up inside me, ramming up into my torn flesh, screaming and screaming...

And I was screaming still as I sat up in the morning light, in the little bed in Kais' house where I'd gone to sleep, and Kais was there with me, standing beside the bed, looking at me as if he didn't know what to do.

Quiaius woke up from vague dreams of warmth to the sound of screaming from the boy's room, and was there in the room before he was fully awake.

"Eab, Eab, you're dreaming, you're safe, I'm here..."

The boy was sitting up, still halfway caught in what Quiaius knew had to be a horrible dream; he had stopped screaming, but trembled violently, a look of terror on his face. "The soldiers..." he murmured.

"They aren't here. No one is here but me, and I won't let anyone hurt you."

Eab seemed to come awake then, blinking, still shivering, but no longer in the dream. "I need... Please," and the boy reached out a shaking hand to him.

Quiaius sat down on the bed and took both the boy's hands, held them between his. "Shhh. You're safe here. That's all over now, and you're safe at home."

Eab looked up at him, his eyes gray-green and full of tears, then crawled up and laid his head against Quiaius' chest. Quiaius held him there, felt him shiver against him, and stroked his hair as gently as he knew how. "You're safe. No one can hurt you here."

I think something broke inside me when Kais held me then. Strange, but in all the time the soldiers had me, I never cried -- I screamed, and I cursed them, and I fought them, and I tried to hurt them somehow; I was angry, but I never cried at all in the camp or on the road or in the slavers' places. I never let them see that. I never cried at all until that morning, when Kais held me, and then I couldn't stop, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but sob against him while he held me and said comforting things I only half understood. Part of me felt ashamed, to cry that way like a child, soaking his tunic with rivers of tears, but the rest of me just cried until the tears subsided, while he held me to him and spoke softly and petted my hair the way my mother did when I was small. I did feel safe then, finally, and I relaxed against him and slept again, this time with no dreams at all, only the feeling of his hands stroking me gently.

Quiaius wasn't sure whether it was because Eab was no longer chained, or because of something the boy had experienced in the days he had been gone, but something in him seemed to have lightened somehow. A natural curiosity began to show itself as Eab explored the house, requested names for various objects he found, and followed Quiaius around watchfully. Quiaius showed Eab how the bath worked, and the boy seemed to enjoy the novelty of bathing indoors, although he appeared surprised that the cats couldn't be convinced to join him. When Eab emerged from the bathroom, slightly pink and smiling shyly, he was dressed in the new green-trimmed tunic Quiaius had bought him the day he had left.

"Thank you, very beautiful."

"Much better! I believe it actually fits you." He smiled back at the boy, and wondered why he'd waited so long to get him new clothes; he looked charming in the soft white cotton, and the green trim did show up the green in his eyes.

Eab grew more serious. "Kais, I found some other things, in the cupboard near the bath." He held up a long, pale blue tunic, creased from having been folded for a long time. "Who wears this?"

Quiaius sighed. "No one, now. But it was Claudia's."

"Where is she?"

"She died a few years ago. She was my wife. The love of my life, I suppose." Quiaius sat down; Eab sat beside him, looking sympathetic.

"Poor Kais. How did you meet her?"

Quiaius smiled wistfully. "Well, I grew up hearing stories about true love, wars fought over a woman's beauty, great passions... I had romantic ideas, you know. I didn't actually know any women, mind you -- women in good families here usually stay at home until they marry -- but I was sure someone would come along... And then when I was thirty, my father told me he was arranging a marriage for me, to my second cousin."

"Arranging?"

"Parents set up a marriage, match their children to who they think is best. My cousin was years younger than I, and I remembered her as a skinny little girl, always hiding behind her mother. I hadn't seen her in years. I was horrified, of course. I was still expecting to meet my true love, after all."

"What did you do?"

"I objected, of course. I argued, I pleaded, I raged, but there was little I could do, short of leaving the family. My father stood firm, and told me I had no choice; I would marry my cousin, like it or not."

"Did you run away, and meet Claudia in another land?"

"No. I wasn't brave enough for that. I did as my father said, and married my cousin. She wasn't very much taller than when I remembered her, to be honest, and she was rather plain, and she was still very shy. She cried all the way through our wedding, because she wasn't any happier about the arrangement than I was."

"And she left you, and you met Claudia?"

Quiaius grinned. "No. I got to know her. As it turned out, my little cousin had a marvelous sense of humor, and she was very pretty when she smiled. She glowed from inside. She even loved the cats. It didn't happen right away, but we fell in love. And that was Claudia."

"You loved her."

"I loved her more than I can say; she made me happy in a way I never thought was possible. We shared everything; for the first time, I felt I had someone who truly understood me."

"What happened to her?"

"She was expecting our first child. We hadn't thought we'd ever have a child, since we'd been married ten years and there hadn't been any so far; and then this happened, and we were overjoyed. Everything seemed to be going so well; she was happy, and healthy, and... She fell down in the kitchen one day. I ran for the midwife, but there was nothing she could do but give her herbs to ease the pain. Claudia died the next day. The midwife told me the child had grown in the wrong place somehow, and it killed her."

"Poor Kais. You miss her."

"Very badly, I'm afraid. Every day. I always thought we'd grow old together, and now I suppose I'm growing old alone."

Eab looked at him with eyes green as shallow water.

"Not alone, Kais. Not now."

Life is good here, with Kais. He teaches me more and more of his language, so that I feel I understand him better -- although there are some things I'm coming to know about him that I don't need words to understand.

He has been so lonely here; I didn't know it until the Tree showed me, but now I wonder how I missed it. He holds his solitary ways around him like a cloak, hiding behind them and imagining that he wants to be alone. One day I told him he wasn't alone, and he looked at me as if he weren't sure what I meant, and went off to the market. I don't know if he is afraid of what I might mean, or what I might not mean.

He tells me stories from his books, fantastic stories, and I can't tell if he believes them or not. At first I thought he was telling about some branch of his family, living up on a mountain somewhere out of town. Eventually I understood that they were gods and goddesses, but the way he described them, with their jealousies and rivalries and arguments, they sounded like anyone's relatives. Kais tells stories well, and I laughed at the way he spoke with different voices and gestured dramatically to show what was happening.

He was surprised to see that I can write. The Trees taught me when I was small, and I've always used it to remember things. I was in the kitchen, trying to remember how to make apple tarts, tracing letters with my finger in flour on the table. Kais came in and saw the letters and got very excited. He gave me a wax tablet and a stylus, and I showed him how to write my name and his; then he showed me the Latin writing for both. We sat at the table together and taught each other different things, and I forgot all about the apple tarts.

I still have the dreams at night, when I'm back in the camp with the soldiers, or at the slaver's, being whipped. The days are better -- I can forget about those things for hours at a time -- but almost every night they come into my dreams and take me again. Sometimes I scream out loud, and Kais comes to me and holds me, and I feel safe. Sometimes I wake up afraid, and I go to his bed. If Kais is awake when I get there, we talk for a little while, until I can rest and go back to my own bed; if he is asleep, I lie beside him until I can be alone again. A few times, I've fallen asleep there, and waking up beside him in the morning feels very good.

Quiaius woke up slowly, vaguely aware of a warm body nestled against him. Felt good; he threw an arm over and pulled himself closer. A soft sigh; the warmth snuggled closer against him, and he felt a head against his chest, one foot tangled between his, hot slow breath against his skin. He felt his body respond, harden as he rocked against the soft form pressed to him; a feeling long forgotten, a slowly unfolding throbbing heat.

He came fully awake, and realized with a sudden lurch of horror that the warm body beside him was Eab. He scrambled away from the boy entangled in his arms, who looked at him in sleepy confusion, struggling toward wakefulness.

"Kais?" Eab blinked in the morning sun and looked at him curiously as the older man backed frantically off the bed. Quiaius felt a moment's relief; the boy wasn't alarmed. Obviously Eab had been asleep when he... reacted. Quiaius hurried to the bathroom as cats scattered before him.

What kind of man am I? Quiaius brooded as he splashed his face and body with cold water. How could I possibly respond that way to the poor boy, after all he's been through? He comes to me for a little comfort, probably had another nightmare, and I react to him like some kind of animal in heat. What is wrong with me?

Quiaius threw his clothes on hurriedly and ran a comb through his damp hair, yanking at a tangle. He put on his sandals, stubbing a toe in the process, and headed out towards the front door. Eab stood in the hall looking puzzled.

"Kais, why..."

"Go back to sleep, Eab," Quiaius called over his shoulder as he hurried out the door, struggling to keep his voice calm. He closed the door in the boy's baffled face and rushed out into the street.

Walking briskly cooled him off a little, not much. He could only imagine how Eab would react if he knew... He felt sick. Eab had told him very little about his experiences with the soldiers; he hadn't had to. The fear and anger in the boy's eyes when he awakened from his nightmares told Quiaius more than he wanted to know.

A few more blocks and he reached Macius' house, where he was greeted by a sight that made him smile despite the morning's turmoil: Macius was in the front garden, with his little daughter Amidala. The plump toddler was accompanied by two servants, one of whom held a sunshade to protect her from the morning sun; she was dressed in bright silk frills, and wore several rather fussy bracelets which Quiaius knew better than to doubt were real gold. She ambled around the manicured garden sniffing (and occasionally kissing) the roses, under her father's beaming gaze.

"Ah, the lovely baby, I see."

Amidala drew herself up to her full almost three feet, and fixed Quiaius with an imperious glare. "NOT a baby. I am a PRINCESS."

Laughing would obviously not do; she'd probably order my execution, Quiaius mused.

"My mistake..."

"Quiaius! I haven't seen you in, what, weeks, isn't it? I hope you're not still brooding over that slave of yours..."

"I need to talk to you about that. Can we go inside, if... Her Majesty... will permit?"

Macius grinned. "Came up with that all by herself, isn't she precious? Ami, honey, daddy's going inside, you take care of your kingdom out here, OK?" The tiny girl nodded as if to dismiss them, then returned to reviewing her troops as the two men retreated to the house.

"What is it, Quiaius? Sit down. You're upset about something... Did someone find the boy?"

"Eab, his name is Eab. No, actually, he came back on his own after a couple of days."

"He came BACK?"

"Apparently he had some kind of a dream or a vision while he was out in the country -- something about trees -- I don't really understand what that was about, but he's back, he's living in my house."

"Not chained?"

"No, gods no. He seems... as far as I can tell, he's content to stay with me."

"Content." Macius laughed, clearly amazed. "You started out with a wild Celt, beaten half to death, basically ready to kill anyone who got within reach, had to be kept chained, and now... he's content to live in your house with you. What are you doing?"

"I have no idea. We talk -- he's learned quite a bit of Latin, he's very bright. We cook sometimes. We're... just quiet together, a lot. I suppose I've made him feel safe." He sighed. "And the problem is that now I'm not sure he is safe with me."

"You're going to have to explain this."

"He's recovered quite a bit since he's been back. He's calmer, he's happier, he even laughs. But at night... he's been having nightmares. You can imagine, the things he went through with the soldiers..."

Macius nodded. "Poor kid. I'd be surprised if he didn't."

"He wakes up sometimes, screaming. He thinks he's back with them. I... go to him and hold him until he goes back to sleep; it seems to help."

"He feels safe."

"He's... well, he's come to my bed a few times, I suppose for comfort."

"He comes to your bed? As in...?"

"To SLEEP. Gods, Macius... He's hardly going to be interested in sex, considering his history. Last night, when I was asleep, he came in and... well, went to sleep. It's been cool these last nights, so he was sleeping... very close to me."

"Mmm."

"This morning I woke up, ah, pressed against him." Quiaius stared at the floor, took a deep breath. "Actively."

"Oh. OH. You didn't..."

"Macius! Certainly I didn't DO anything. Gods, it's bad enough that I had a..."

"A normal physical reaction. What did the boy do?"

"Nothing. He was asleep, as far as I can tell. I don't think he was even aware of it."

"So there isn't any harm done."

"That isn't the point. After the things that were done to him... I can hardly bring myself to think about it. It literally makes me sick to think of their hands on him, let alone... What kind of man am I?"

"Quiaius, you need to calm down. You're a good man, we both know that. What the soldiers did to your boy was horrible. That he's recovering so well, that he wants to stay with you, that he actually feels safer at night when he's lying in bed with you -- this tells me you've been treating him very well. It's your nature, to be kind to a stray. You're certainly not going to attack him."

"But I was aroused."

"Of course you were. You woke up with an extremely beautiful boy snuggled up against you in bed. You'd have had to have been dead not to have a reaction. He isn't just another stray, Quiaius. The look on your face when you talk about him... He isn't a pet to you."

"Certainly I'm fond of him."

Macius grinned. "Something like that. Forgive your body, Quiaius. You should be glad you're healthy, at your age --"

"My age! You know very well I'm no older than you are!"

"Misplaced guilt is going to age you before your time. Quiaius, if the boy's crawling into your bed... You know, he isn't dead, either. He was damaged, but he wasn't destroyed."

"You're not trying to tell me..."

"I'm not trying to tell you anything. But eventually... he could be trying to tell you something. And in the meantime, you should probably go home and make sure he doesn't think he's done something wrong, considering you probably ran out of the house like a bat out of hell."

And so Quiaius was back out in the sun, walking home and thinking.

Kais is disturbed, and I don't know why. One moment I was sleeping, dreaming, only very gradually waking with him warm against me; the next, he was tearing away as if I burned him.

I'm looking for reasons for him to have acted that way. He got up so suddenly, and left in such a hurry, that I couldn't ask him. Was he shocked to wake up and find me in his bed? Did he somehow know what I was dreaming?

It was no mystic dreaming from the Trees this time, and no nightmare either. It was only a dream of a kiss and really very little more than that, but it was Kais I was kissing, Kais whose strong arms held me so securely. And it was Kais who was running from me when I woke up, and I only wonder if he saw my face before he was away.

I wonder if he knows, and I wonder if he thinks his Claudia would want him to live solitary forever. It could be that is the custom, here in Rome.

I wonder if he thinks it would dishonor him, to kiss me.

I don't like thinking of that, but I have to accept that it could be. I'm healing now, almost every mark they was put on me is gone or faded, but he saw me when I was still torn and filthy. He knows how I was used. I wonder if he thinks of what use my mouth was put to, and the idea of kissing me sickens him.

All the knowledge of the Trees, all the things I've been taught, and none of it gives me any idea. I grew up hearing about those who died fighting and saved their virtue. In stories, you either escape or die bravely. I never heard anything at all about anyone who lived, and what they did then with all of life ahead.

I wish I could ask him, but I don't have the words, and even if I did, I'm afraid of the answer.

I think I'll wait.

Quiaius walked back home, more slowly, more calmly then he had left. Perhaps Eab did feel safe with him. Perhaps he could keep him safe.

He walked into the house; it seemed dark, compared to the bright morning sun outside. He looked around; no sign of Eab, and he had a moment's sinking sensation, imagining that the boy might have left again, thinking he was angry. The feeling passed when he heard a rhythmic thumping sound from the kitchen.

Eab stood at the table, working a large lump of dough, kneading it, squeezing it, and dropping it on the heavy dark wood. Several cats sat at the edges of the room, watching intently. The boy's hands and arms were covered with flour; there were splashes of white on his tunic. He looked up as Quiaius came in, and the older man noticed a smear of flour across his nose; this, combined with the very determined look on his face, made Quiaius smile. He reached out and brushed the flour off Eab's face, then sat on the bench by the table to watch.

"Kais." A shy smile. "Making bread."

"I'm sorry I left so... abruptly this morning."

"You were angry?"

"No. I... woke up badly. I was surprised..."

"Surprised that I was in bed." The boy looked down at his work. "You don't want me there."

"No, no, that's fine... I was just afraid that you'd wake up and be... frightened by me."

"Not you, Kais." An unreadable look in the sea-green eyes as they looked back up at him.

"I don't want you to be afraid of me. You know I would never harm you."

The boy nodded as he appeared to become absorbed in his work again. He shaped a pair of loaves on a baking stone, lifted it off the table and slid it into the oven, wiped his hands clean on a cloth set aside on the table. He looked up again. "Kais?"

"Yes?"

"Your hair." Shyly, looking down. "Messy."

"I did leave in a hurry this morning." Quiaius reached back self-consciously and felt that, yes, there were tangles, and wild strands escaping the loose ponytail he'd tied back on his way out.

"Could I..." The boy reached for a comb on the kitchen counter, an old, deeply polished rosewood one Quiaius remembered having put away ages ago. What an odd request... he nodded.

Eab sat astride the bench; Quiaius turned and swung one leg over the bench to sit straight ahead of him. As he settled himself comfortably, he felt the boy's hands releasing the hair he had tied back and running lightly through it.

"Beautiful hair."

Quiaius chuckled. "Gray hair. I ought to cut it."

"Silver and brown. Mist in a forest." The boy gently but firmly pulled his head back; he relaxed and leaned back.

"That's a very pretty way to put it." He felt little need to say anything more as Eab pulled his fingers slowly down through his hair, gently working the tangles out of it. It felt very good indeed. He closed his eyes.

"Soft." He felt the small, strong hands pushing up from the back of his neck up through the thickness of hair; then Eab reached over and Quiaius felt the comb pulling gently through again and again, while one hand rested on his shoulder. "And it shines."

Quiaius felt as if he were shining himself, as the boy combed his hair thoroughly. The tension he had felt earlier was melting away, as the smell of baking bread filled the air. Eab gathered a thick handful of hair from the right front side, divided it into three, and braided it neatly, then repeated it on the left; he pulled the two braids back and tied them together in the center with the tie he'd removed earlier. The boy again rested one hand on his shoulder.

"Much better. Now it's out of your way. I can see your face." He could hear a smile in Eab's voice.

Quiaius reached back and felt the smooth braids. "Thank you." He turned and saw that Eab was blushing faintly. Before he had time to register what was happening, the boy took a deep breath, leaned forward the few inches left between them, closed his eyes and very lightly kissed him.

Something my mother taught me when I was small was that if you can't decide what to do, make bread. It gives you time to think, it keeps you in one place and out of trouble for a while, and even if you still don't know what to do when you're finished, you have some bread.

I probably should have made bread instead of sitting under the cherry tree, those months ago.

I know that if what happened to me then was part of a proper story, the kind I always heard at home, I would have either escaped or died. I didn't escape, and clearly I'm not dead, so this isn't that kind of story. The rest of the story, the part that comes after I'm not dead, must be my own story, and if it's mine, I might as well do whatever I like. It can't be any worse than what's already happened to me.

That's the way I was thinking when Kais came back and sat down at the table to watch me make bread. Thinking that way made me reckless.

All I really planned to do was braid his hair back. He has all this long, beautiful hair, and he pulls it back with a piece of old string as if it were nothing. I had been thinking for a while that it would look good braided, and once I put the bread in the oven to bake I thought that since I was doing whatever I liked, I might as well see if he'd let me do that.

He looked at me oddly, and I thought I might have made a mistake in asking, and was ready to run out of the room when he nodded. I sat down behind him and closed my eyes for a moment, mostly because sitting so close to him made it nearly impossible for me to be calm enough to do anything, and then I took down his hair.

It's beautiful, Kais' hair, but what I didn't know from looking at it is that it's soft, and wonderfully heavy. When I took it down it fell straight like water halfway to his waist, and it was all I could do not to bury my face in it and breathe the smell of it. It wasn't really very tangled, but I used the excuse of unsnarling it just so that I could play with it a while. There's something wonderful about the way that hair that looks simply brown has so many colors in it close up, colors of wood and night and bronze, and moonlight winding through it everywhere. Gray he said, and I have no idea what I said to him, because I was lost in it.

The more I combed his hair, the more aware I was of sitting close behind him, hearing him breathe, feeling the warmth of him, seeing his broad shoulders and fine column of a neck there before me. Kais is almost a foot taller than I am, and for all his gentleness there is a strength in him that takes my breath away sometimes, and I had to work very slowly on the braiding because my hands were fumbling with my nervousness over touching him this way, and over the fact that he was not objecting to it.

When I finished, and he turned and looked at me with his eyes that are so very blue, I was lost entirely. I was afraid, very much afraid, so that I am sure he could hear my heart beating its way out of my chest, and yet at the same time I was so full of joy I felt I might float away, because I knew exactly what I was going to do, as clearly as if I had already done it.

I kissed him. My lips brushed his, only the briefest touch, soft as a bee's wing, and he might put me out to die now, or sell me, or run me through with a sword for all I care, because I kissed him and my story is my own.

Quiaius sat frozen for several seconds that felt like hours, looking with disbelief at Eab, before he was able to speak.

"You... Eab, you realize... you don't have to do that?" He turned to sit facing the boy.

A shy smile bloomed on the boy's face as his blush deepened. "Yes. Is it good?"

"Is it... oh gods. It's..." A tiny part of Quiaius' brain registered that he was almost certainly blushing himself, at his age. "Yes. Yes, it's good. But why..."

Eab laughed, and it occurred to Quiaius that the boy had a truly beautiful laugh. "Because I want to."

"You... want to?" This beautiful boy was telling him that he wanted to kiss him. Quiaius felt stunned, as if he'd walked into a wall -- but painlessly. It couldn't be happening.

"I want to. I want to again, if you want me to."

"If I... Yes, but Eab, do you know what..."

"Quiet now." And Eab leaned forward again, and his arms were suddenly around Quiaius' neck, and Quiaius was aware of those lips soft as rose petals on his again, this time the slightest bit insistent, and this time he returned that kiss. The boy's lips felt warm against his, and Quiaius embraced him and felt his slender body deliciously warm against him and lost all ability to think anything except that this was what he had been wanting forever.

Eab sat back finally, flushed, lips parted and deeply pink, eyes dark and wide. He stood up, shaking slightly.

"Bread." He picked up a towel from the table, walked a little unsteadily to the oven, and pulled out the hot, fragrant loaves; he set them on the counter, then leaned back against it, looking at the floor, dazed. Quiaius got up, went to him, and put his hands on the Celt's shoulders. He could feel, through the thin tunic, that the boy was definitely trembling, and his heart ached.

"Eab, are you all right?" he asked, and the boy looked up at him, tears in his eyes.

"I..." A deep breath. "Doing what I want to do is not as easy as I thought."

"You don't have to do this. Eab, you don't have to do anything."

"I... I don't know the words. I want to -- what is it, what we did?" Quiaius could see frustration in the boy's eyes. He stroked Eab's shoulders gently, and felt him calming.

"To kiss?"