Someday Never Comes

Someday Never Comes

by MK Kayem

Copyright 2012 MK Kayem

Smashwords Edition

This is dedicated to all those who encouraged, sent feedback and historical advice.

Thank you, thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, with certain exceptions, and these are listed in the reference at the end of the book. This story takes place in the first century AD, and some historical figures have made an appearance.

This story depicts the lifestyle and behaviors of the ancient Greeks and Romans in some detail, and therefore should be read by adults only.

Chapter One: Prologue

-

Shyro played beside his mother, the long stick in his hand tracing lines and drawing pictures of horses and gladiators with over-sized swords in the dirt at her feet, peacefully content.

Mother, see? The young boy looked up.

Yes, I see, she answered. But her gaze just barely touched the ground and Shyro sighed softly.

Syna had no time for her son, not at the moment; she still had laundry to hang out in the breeze while the sun was high, but she wasn't finished picking dill, chervil and a basket of medlars for the kitchen from the small garden patch. Mindlessly occupied and in a hurry, she didn't see the man approach them until he was but a few feet away.

The man was head of the household, the eldest son, and he wore a sweeping toga with a thin-striped tunic-- denoting equestrian rank-- barely visible underneath.

Instantly, she stood upright and bowed her head, recognizing Zenon, and as she looked down at the child now edged close to her knees; she winked at him. One corner of her mouth turned into a smile where only he could see it. Shyro blinked in acknowledgment, standing quietly while the Master looked them over but briefly, his eyes scanning the peristylum instead.

Zenon could not remember ever seeing this woman or her child before, but that wasn't unusual. That was not to say he knew nothing of the slaves he and his brother owned. He knew those with talent who worked in the kitchen, and the stables and he knew all the 'choice' slaves used to satisfy his physical and emotional cravings, but of the household, slaves, he knew little.

He was in a foul mood this day, his favorite horse having just broken a leg during a morning exercise, and as usual he was in disagreements with his younger brother, Arrios, over finances. He stood, annoyed that even this extensive search had failed to turn up that whom he hunted, when the woman near him spoke.

Can I help you, Master? she asked. Syna was quite afraid to talk to him, but more afraid not to. His mere proximity made his needs her responsibility. Like all the slaves owned by the brothers, she knew of Zenon’s reputation for untempered violence if said needs were not met, and swiftly.

Zenon grunted, but didn't answer her. No, she could not help him, he had his sights set on a particular girl and she was proving elusive at this time of the day. That, too, was the fault of his brother, who insisted that all slaves be given duties and freedoms, even those purchased solely for pleasure. He said it was to keep up their spirits and health, to give them chances to be social with each other.

Bah, ridiculous, the man thought. If he had his way, certain slaves would remain all day within his chambers, keeping their skin soft and their bodies clean, scented with rose water, and ready at a moment’s notice to attend to his bidding.

This skinny wench speaking to him, with the red, swollen hands and sun-aged features could not take the place of the plump, beautiful young Hatheo, the one he now sought. With disdain, he finally answered.

"No, you cannot. And do you teach your child nothing, slave? he growled. He continues to stare at me. I could see both of you flogged for it!"

The boy hid himself even further behind his mother at the harsh tone, and unfortunately caught the man's attention. His smile wasn't pleasant, even as the woman began to sputter an apology, Zenon interrupted her.

Bring that boy to me, immediately!

Zenon was somewhat pacified by the look of horror that passed over her face. Another difference; his asinine brother tried to make life tolerable for the slaves, he did not threaten them near enough, nor did he insist they kneel before him, a bowing of the head he felt was enough to show respect. Zenon, however, liked to be fawned to and couldn't understand his brother's odd deference to what slaves might want.

Master, I will spend more time teaching—

Now! He was fast going from annoyed to furious. He was short-tempered on the best of days, today his whole countenance fairly hummed with tension.

She obeyed reluctantly. Every single move she made in his direction she forced herself to make; her eyes were brimmed with tears. Her thin arms were around the boy's shoulders, urging him to follow with her, even as he looked skittishly ready to bolt.

Please, Master, she whispered. Please don't harm him, he is but very young and doesn't understand, sir.

Zenon was incensed; how dare this female speak to him that way? Maybe finding Hatheo could wait, maybe he could entertain himself here, or at least give these pampered slaves something to think about. They were far too insolent and used to easy lives. He did not care at the moment what later his brother might say, he was tired of worrying about Arrios' wishes.

As soon as the woman was close enough, the man grabbed the boy by the arm and yanked him away from his mother with unnecessary force. She drew in a sharp breath, her mouth agape like an landed pike, but her reaction was nothing compared to the youngster's.

The boy pulled back and twisted, he cried out 'no' vehemently and one small hand pushed at the large one encircling his wrist.

Syna begged: Shyro… don't, don't, be still… please, Master, his behavior is my fault, punish me for it.

Zenon shook Shyro savagely. This was the disobedience his brother caused, slaves who fought and had no proper respect and when he shook little Shyro a second time, it was his brother Arrios he saw in his mind, even as he felt the grinding, the giving of the fine bones in his grasp. The boy screeched in pain, struggling harder. Zenon slapped the little slave's face soundly, then a second time even harder as he shook him again. All he felt was satisfaction as the boy went bonelessly to his knees, his face now white with shock, making the redness of the large handprint on his pale cheek stand vividly out.

The big Roman was hardly prepared for the attack, he had never been attacked by a slave, or for that matter, a woman before. She threw herself against his chest, beating at him and ripping down the front of his toga, her small fists pummeled him and he let the boy go with the surprise of it. He pushed her back effortlessly, shaking his head, as if with regret, but there was a gleam in his eyes that belied any disappointment.

Oh, yes, he thought. This was proving to be an adequate diversion, and a very good excuse to teach slaves all about their true importance. Which was to say, they had absolutely none, nor did they have a say in what he did to them.

I should see to your death by my own hand 'round your throat, here on the spot, he told her. But, instead, I would rather order your back be cut like a rabbit for stew, and this worthless child to watch with me.

For a short moment the two looked at each other, owner and owned. Syna searched for anything in her master's gaze, anything resembling compassion or even reason, and hopelessness flooded her. Most of her life she had done their bidding without complaint, now she hated all of them, seeing the unfocused look in her small son's eyes had been all it took. For Zenon's part, her eyes being so long on his was disconcerting. He had had enough. Of the slaves and of his brother, and Zenon snapped.

He grabbed again the hapless Shyro, the boy came around to full senses as he was yanked to his feet and he fled to his mother's arms, shaking and sobbing. Zenon went to the open doorway leading to the atrium and hollered for the sentries, loudly.

Within minutes, the courtyard was chaos, as guards and slaves, all who were close and available were summoned, ordered or pushed out to witness the flogging. Syna was tied roughly to the fence and stripped of her clothes, she was quiet now, numbness mercifully taking over her thoughts.

Zenon ordered two of the strongest of the sentries to bring whips to bear against her flesh. The slaves all looked at each other uneasily. Two of them? At once?

Syna watched them descend on her, she shook mightily, and she could not be silent once she felt that first strike and then a second lash instantly after; she screamed herself hoarse, the beating by two of them at once gave her no lapse to recover between lashes.

Amongst the other slaves forced to watch, feet shifted uncomfortably or remained perfectly still, it was the most brutal beating any of them had ever seen.

Little Shyro had never seen anyone whipped, had never seen much violence of any sort, protected as he was, and he stood in disbelief, gripped by the shoulders in the hands of one of the kitchen slaves. He listened to his mother's screams, and Zenon's demands for them to strike her harder. The small blond head shook back and forth slowly, little trembling lips kept uttering 'no', over and over, but he still could not quite grasp what he was seeing, everything had just happened too fast.

And then the boy gasped, for Zenon grabbed him again and held his shoulders in an iron grip, facing him. Shyro looked way up into the cruel face over him, and continued to shake his head.

"This is your fault, child. You did this to her, you did this," Zenon said to him.

Large soft eyes widened even more, looking up. No, the boy whimpered, tears streaming down his face. No!

Syna's screams had died to short grunts and then stopped completely; their absence made Shyro try to squirm around in the tight hold to look, and Zenon laughed and turned him to face his mother, bent down to speak in his ear. She shall die soon, he said, because of you.

The whipping still continued, but it was doubtful Syna could feel it anymore. Her back was bloodied, as were her legs, and she was slumped and hanging, her head lolled to one side.

"No! Shyro cried. Please, leave her alone!"

You want to save her? Zenon asked in a sultry voice, and the boy, panting, nodded frantically.

Then get in front of that whip, boy, take the strikes meant for her, Zenon laughed softly as he let Shyro loose.

The boy ran weeping to his mother, horrified and sickened by the blood as he got closer and then he felt the whip. Shyro yelped and the second slash fell across his tiny back, knocking him down. He scrambled away, pain blackening his vision. He heard the sound of the whip in the air again, and winced anyway when it again struck his mother instead of himself.

Breathless and panicked, he ran again to get in front of the lash, it cut across his arm and chest and then he fell against her body, trying to protect her, curling up to her. He held on for all he was worth to his mother, but the sound of whips seemed to be everywhere, as did the smell of blood. The severity of the pain by the fifth strike once more sank the boy to his knees and he crawled away again, screaming hysterically, trying to keep his churning stomach under control.

You little worthless coward. Zenon was beside him then, hauling him back out of the way, Not enough loyalty to save your own mother. Now she will die, and I shall have you whipped, too, for your lack of courage. Why would I want a spineless runt like you around?

Shyro was racked by sobs, trying to get loose and back to Syna, shaking so hard he could barely stand, his wide eyes were stunned and fixed on Zenon's.

With that last act of what he perceived as defiance, Zenon struck Shyro in the face with the back of his hand, then struck harder, giving in to his rage. Holding the boy by the bunched neck of his tunic, he delivered blow after blow, even when the small body went limp in his hands.

This is a disgrace! came a loud voice from the doorway. Cease the flogging, now!

All stopped what they were doing as Arrios strode out in the yard. Zenon's brother had been in his study when the noises had driven him to investigate-- and he could not believe what he was seeing.

Zenon dropped Shyro, the child crumpled to the ground, and he stepped contemptuously over the little body to storm to his brother's side, glaring all the way.

I'm sorry to say, one of the slaves attacked me. They all need to be taught a lesson! Or would you give them more rights, instead?

Arrios shook his head. "I doubt you're sorry. You will never understand. And to make a spectacle of such! Two whips were necessary, brother? What is wrong with you?"

Zenon grunted in disgust, swept right by his brother with long strides and headed back inside the domicile.

Arrios sighed, turned to one of the older slaves, and said sadly, Summon the healer for Syna, place her in a private room and have her tended. Let me know when she can speak.

What about the child? the slave asked, quietly.

He should remain with her, of course, Arrios said, and he patted the older man's shoulder reassuringly. Have his injuries checked on as well.

~*~

Later, Arrios went to inquire after the beaten slave. The healer accompanied him to the room where she lay prone, wet cloth strips covering her back. Beside the bed, the small boy stood, backing away as the two men entered.

She has not awoken, Master, or I would have summoned you. The blood she has lost is a great amount, she may not recover.

Arrios stood close beside the bed, not noticing Shyro until he heard the whispered, snarling voice. Leave my mother alone.

He looked down at the child who had spoken, taking in his wild, smoldering eyes and badly bruised face. His small body trembled violently with hatred and fear, and Arrios shook his head and sighed deeply.

I was not able to check on him, the healer told him. I am not in the mood to chase him, he has gone quite mad, I fear.

He will not recover, either, look at him, Arrios said. It was but too much for him, he was always high-strung.

The healer nodded. It is good that he is not of much worth, anyway. Much too small for the games or for any proper amount of work.

He could still grow, he is very young yet. And he is already showing signs of a rare beauty, don't you think? He would have been worth something when he got older, with those looks and his growing talent. Now he is worth nothing. Not here, anyway, with us. I fear he can only end up in a brothel. Too small to be trained for the games. I had hopes for him, possibly as an artist or musician. He used to be a happy, gentle child, always drawing and singing. I was rather fond of him, actually.

I do not see much hope for him being happy again, after this, or right in the head, either.

Such a shame. It pains me to say it, but make arrangements to sell him immediately. Again, let me know when Syna wakes, I wish to speak with her.

Arrios, saddened, left the room and searched out his brother. Zenon was sharpening his sword, a task he preferred to do on his own, and one of the few things in life he had infinite patience for. He didn't look up when Arrios stood beside him and spoke.

You have well-nigh murdered one slave, and certainly ruined another. We will have to sell that boy, he has murder in his eyes, you have caused him hate us and I can never trust him now. He scowled.

A man afraid of his slaves. You don't need to trust them if they fear you. Don't you see what you have done here, brother? Zenon asked calmly.

Arrios waved him away, dismissed his words. If you took more responsibility, instead of placing it on me, you might find that kindness is actually easier. I am not afraid of the slaves, Zenon. I just prefer the household peaceful, and well run. By treating them fairly, they work to please, they don't wish to be sold, nor do they spend their time fearing every move they make. Nor, for that matter, do they bitterly think up ways to revolt. I am of the opinion that given more rights and more gratitude, including a say in their own destinies, they are strengthened by bonds like family.

Family, Zenon muttered, shaking his head. You speak like a besotted old woman, slaves are not family, they are just slaves. Would you see the household gods wear black for her?

You speak foolish. As oldest, you might have taken over Senatorial duties soon, but your business sense is equally as bad as your social skills, and we will never have the denarii needed. No matter. It is true that I have law on my side, for it is Nero's decree that has made it so that a slave may bring a complaint to the court against his master. Times are changing, Zenon, and cruelty is not popular as it once was. Leave the running of the household to me if you must, and take what slaves you will for your own, and let the rest alone. It is the less I can ask, and the least you can do.

Might I remind you, brother, that Emperor Nero trusts us as equestrians much more than he does men of senatorial rank, and will afford us greater opportunities should we so desire.

You and I shall never agree, said Arrios. Not about anything important.

~*~

Shyro was alone with his mother when she began to come around. Her eyes opened, fearfully, but softened immediately on seeing him.

Shyro, she crooned. Are you all right, my son?

Mother, Master Arrios talks of selling me, he whispered, and her heart broke at the terror on his face.

Pain closed her eyes, and not just from the wounds on her body. And then Shyro began to cry and he went close to her and put his arms around her as best he could, seeking her comfort, not knowing it would be the last time.

Tenderly, she embraced his shaking body as if it might protect him, as she wished it could and she murmured nonsensical, for there were no words for the loss, for the ache or the unfairness. What would befall her son now, was in the hands of the Gods, and from what she could see, the Gods had little concern with slaves.

Her child had been hurt and bled and cried for nothing, on whim and on want of those who claimed and were granted immunity for the crime, for the power taken. Shyro had not done anything wrong. So what if he had been curious, were all young children not so? Where was the harm in it?

Arrios had told her for years that she need not bother Shyro with too much training yet, instead, to let his imagination be free. Now, because of one man's evil temper, he would be sold away from her. But then she remembered how she had hit Zenon, trying to protect him. Perhaps, it was for the best, for Zenon would have it out for Shyro now if he remained, and any further attempt she made on his behalf would surely see them both killed.

Her son was so very young, but eleven, and there was a chance he would get a good home with an easy job to perform.

The boy finally stopped weeping and he questioned and wanted to know the whys and she stalled and he begged her to tell him what would happen to him, to help him understand and he was impatient with her hesitation, demanding to know and yet she could not say, what could she say? There was no reason, no easy answers and it could change tomorrow. At the same time, she did not want to send him off with nothing but hopelessness.

So, she kissed him long and sweet on his small cheek, it was a soothing balm and his jumping heart slowed. She caressed him lovingly and she bade him to listen closely, and never, ever forget. She told him they could strike him and they could touch him and they could hurt him, certainly, but they could not touch or break what was inside him. It was what he had to hold to, the future where perhaps fairness ruled or perhaps, his own worth would grant him pension and freedom - someday, and if he dared to hope and keep his heart alive he would someday be allowed to live his own life, choose his own path, love in his own way.

"Someday," she whispered to him, with tears in her eyes and all the love in her heart. Someday, my precious one.

She put her hand ever so gentle to the side of his head, and his pressed his face to it, shaking. Shyro did not fully understand, although he, without any doubts, believed her, but his mother was too weak to speak any more of it to him. With a last smile, her hand slid softly away, and she fell back into unconscious sleep, never to see her child again.

~*~

Denarius (plural denarii) : A small silver coin. Its worth today is difficult to determine, but in comparison, a laborer or soldier in the first century AD earned one denarius a day.

~**~

Chapter Two

-

Shyro stood in absolute frozen terror. All about him, the yard bustled with activity, yelling and laughing and loud, lewd remarks as slaves were assembled to be examined. Tags of parchment were given each of them to hold. He knew he was being sold, but the concept, the actuality of what it meant had not sunk into his brain.

It had been a long trip, shackled in the back of a cart, and then chained below deck on a barge and all but ignored, to arrive in the new city of Troia. Far from all he knew, and perhaps, he thought, right to the very edge of the world where now he faced all its unknown dangers.

He had spent the last night out in the open, chained by his ankle to strangers also awaiting the sale. All of their arms had been bound to prevent fighting amongst themselves, or other mischief, and Shyro had been unable to sleep.

Not from the simple discomfort that bordered on pain, not from the sounds of the many others lying in the wheat shafts lining the ground all around him, but because he could not fathom being away from Syna, of never seeing her again. Horror and raw terror had kept the young child awake. It did not seem real that he would not be living any longer in the home he'd grew up in, the home he had believed would be his always. That was what he had been told many times, and he had taken it as truth. Shyro had never been particulary curious about what lay beyond the walls of his world, and his mother had spoken little of it to him.

His precious mother had not awoken again before he had been dragged, with a hand over his mouth, away from her.

His concern for her now, his worry, added to his absolute panic as he lay helpless and hot in the itchy straw. She had been so sick, and he longed with all his being to get back, to be with her while she needed him, to be there to protect her. But he could not even protect himself.

At one point during the long night, he had broken down and cried bitterly, but whispered faceless threats had ghosted out of the gloom around him, hissing at him to shut up. It had worked well to quiet his sobs, but it had not stopped his racing little heart.

Despite getting no sleep, he did not feel the effects at the moment, he was too frightened, worried and bewildered. No one paid much attention to him still, nor did he see any others of his size or age to try to stand near and blend in with easier. All those wearing chains as he was towered over him and the effect of that alone, even some fear of being knocked over, kept him quaking and jumpy.

Shyro heard a voice close to him. Look at this little thing, Erasmus, he is bound up like a market hog.

A second voice laughed, and hard fingers poked at his shoulder. He would easily fit on a spit, the man said, as he bent to speak with the slave. "Anyone ever try to roast you, little vappa?"

Shyro, desperate, spoke in a shivering voice that he tried his hardest to steady, Please, sir, can you tell me if my mother is all right?

The two men looked at each other, then burst out laughing again, but right then their attention was caught elsewhere and without another glance at the terrified little slave, they moved on their way.

Shyro sighed hard, not comprehending any of it, and he stood quietly, waiting, for what he had no idea. It could not, he was more and more certain, bode well for him.

Finally, not long after this, a man he recognized, the one he had been brought to the day before, the one who had bound him, came to him again, this time untying the ropes and freeing him from the chains. Blood rushed needle sharp back to his arms. Then the man grasped the tunic he was wearing and began to pull it over his head.

The boy tried to grab hold on it, but found his hands were without much sensation. No, he said sharply, for which he received a ringing slap to the face.

Hush up, slave. No talking, you idiot. Now, take this and go to the line over there, the man pointed as he hastily fastened a short rope to Shyro's throat and then handed the boy a tag as some of the others held.

It wasn't easy for him to take, he had to concentrate to keep it in his numb grip, but he managed and he looked it over, recognizing that it was written on, but with no idea what it said.

He went to the line he'd been told to, and from there found himself pushed up a couple stairs to stand with some others, all boys and all young, although not as young as he was. Shyro watched, as one by one, these boys were pulled off into the yard. There, they were prodded and felt, their mouths opened and their genitals handled. Certain ones seemed to get a lot of this attention, other got practically none. Shyro didn't understand the differences. Each stood, more or less still under the crude, rough attentions, and when that ended, the loud bidding began.

When his turn came, the fear in him had escalated, keeping him frozen in place. If only he could ask, if only he knew what he was supposed to do, or what would happen after, he might have endured it easier. He was lucky, in a sense, not many seemed interested in him, he was not handled as much as some of the others had been. One man took the tag from his hands, read it and returned it to him.

Can you really draw well, boy? the man asked. Shyro blinked. Was that what the parchment said? he wondered. Having not answered right away, his face was grasped in one strong hand and lifted upwards to meet the man's eyes. I asked you a question.

The man was tall and dark and strong, very much older than his previous masters with gray in his hair and a badly scraped off beard, as if he hadn't had time to finish at the barbers before being called away.

Shyro nodded, trembling from head to toe, not sure if it was the right answer or not. The man sighed and let go of him, and he was left there alone, naked and scared under the crowd's scrutiny as he heard the bidding begin. It didn't last long, much to his relief, and he was herded out of the yard, as another took his place.

Shyro found himself again in the company of the slave trader, as well as the man who had questioned him, and he tried to quell his fear enough to pay attention to what they were saying, but most of it involved money, something he knew nothing about, as well as names he had never heard.

He recognized the name of Arrios, his former owner, and not much else. The slave trader, with the other man's permission, slipped the tunic back on the boy and again bound his arms behind him, only by the wrists this time. He then asked the man, whose name Shyro had caught as Cordus, if he wanted to purchase a collar and leash.

Not from you, for the price would be twice what it needs to be! Cordus said, but it was good-natured. The other man grunted and smiled and left Shyro alone with who he assumed was his new master.

Did you buy me, sir? Shyro dared to ask, he was fairly bursting with questions and concerns.

Cordus looked down at the wide earnest eyes of the child. They were frightened, surely, but steadfast in a way he was unaccustomed to from slaves.

He rubbed his face with one hand, and decided to answer. I did, that should have been obvious. I am being lenient with you because it was stated that you were sold when your mother died, but it was also stated that you were obedient and born to slavery. Now is not the time to forget your training.

Shyro gasped, he took a step backward, then another, his voice rose hotly. My mother did not die!

Cordus shook his head, anger now in his voice. You may not be the bargain I thought you were. Come here!

Shyro backed up again, slowly, unsure, but so driven to get back to his mother, to be sure she was all right he could not contain himself.

Two men passing stopped at the sight. One of them said, It's the little vappa, look, he dug an elbow into his companion's side. The second man snorted a brief laugh, and looked at Cordus.

You need help with your slave? he guffawed. He must be at least fifty or sixty pounds, may take a few grown men to subdue him. Or, one look from my mother-in-law!

Cordus glared at them, not particularly amused. Exasperated, he took a few quick steps in Shyro's direction while the boy was distracted and seized one bound arm, dragging him away and muttering under his breath. He paid no attention to Shyro's occasional struggles, just forced him to keep up with his long strides all the way to the horse-drawn cart that would only take him further from Syna.

Shyro lay for three more days in straw, ignored but for short breaks a few times a day. Finally, he arrived at his new home in the large city of Sardia, where he was dragged up and half-carried inside. Once behind closed doors, Cordus let Shyro go, and couldn't believe it when the boy took a step away from him again.

Stay still! he growled. Now, how comfortable your life will be is all up to you. Regardless, you will do what I bought you to do. It is of little concern to me how you do it, the easy way or the hard way.

Hail, Master, came a low, deep voice, and a young man entered, dropped to one knee and bowed, then stood back up all in one long, fluid motion, the perfect picture of grace. He looked at Shyro with dazzling sapphire eyes.

Cordus seemed to relax, as if glad not to be alone with his new acquisition. Tycho, he smiled, his voice husky just taking in the beautiful sight of the slave boy. Is it busy today?

It is, Master, Tycho said, brushing shoulder length auburn hair back, flippantly.

I could not think of another better to turn this little one over to than you, and perhaps later I shall, but not now. He is too much trouble, could you summon Giles?

Tycho nodded, bowed and with another brush of fingers to his hair, left to follow his orders. Shyro remained statue still. He felt so completely lost, so alone here that he could hardly think. Too many new people, new voices, this unfamiliar place, they all only served to deepen his fear, and his underlying anxiety over the plight of his mother, he was frantic for answers.

Please, sir, he finally managed to say. Could you--

Cordus' patience had reached its limits, his temper snapped its leash and he grabbed the little slave's tunic, bunched it in one hand and backed him to the wall, then slammed him into it so hard his teeth clipped together and sliced deeply into his tongue. Before he recovered, he was struck across the face.

It looked to Shyro, dazedly leaning on that wall, as if half a dozen fists were headed in his direction, but then they disappeared as another strange voice echoed in past his dizziness. He tried to refocus his eyes, licking blood off his lips and wincing.

You summoned me, Master?

You may rise, Giles, yes, get this child out of my sight before I kill him, I want him chained, and he is to remain chained, day and night, until I see signs that he had earned more comfort and freedom. He is to be undressed completely as well, no matter how cold, shackled when not under supervision, and not given any blankets or bedding. When he decides to cooperate, he will have it easier here.

Yes, sir, Giles spoke, his voice low. He is very young, Master, and very frightened. You cannot expect too much.

Cordus took a few deep breaths, his voice calmer as he continued. I purchased him to clean the pilae, however I want him to learn all the workings of the bathhouse, as well as the services he may need to perform. I think he would also fit the kitchen wheel nicely, when that is needed to run. Later, once he has learned to behave, he will help with designing the tiles, possibly even painting, he is supposedly artistic.

Giles nodded. He is perfectly sized, beneath the floors have not been properly cleaned for a long time now, but he will fit easy.

Yes, well, that is your job now to see to. As well as his care, and training and be sure you follow my instructions, Giles, on this matter. I warn you, if he escapes, or causes any problems, you will be whipped right beside him. Am I speaking clear?

Yes, Master, Giles answered. It will be exactly as you say.

Cordus looked at the boy standing there, still supported by the wall, and said, His name is Vappa. He then turned and walked away.

Shyro’s attention switched to this new man. Giles was not as intimidating in appearance as Cordus had been, nor as tall, but he was strongly wiry and his dark skin was broken with white marks. From whips, Shyro guessed.

Whatever you did, don't do it anymore, Giles said. I have rarely seen him so angry, little one.

Shyro opened to his mouth to speak, shut it.

I will teach what you need to learn. Later, will be time for questions. Now, there is much to do, Giles told the boy shivering against the wall, turning to lead him into his new home. Come, boy.

Shyro tentatively took a step forward. I just need to know-

Giles whirled on him. Your need to know is not important! Listen to me well, for I don't like the idea of being beaten for your mistakes. Keep your damn mouth shut.

Shyro closed his eyes. Please, he whispered. "Please, one question, please, sir," he begged.

Giles looked at Shyro in disbelief. Having not been struck or killed yet by this man, Shyro ventured, Please, then I will not speak, not one word, until you tell me I can, he bargained.

The man let out his breath and half-smiled. Ask. Quickly.

Has my mother died?

Has your-- Giles shook his head. Now, how in the world would you expect me to know that?

Shyro blinked, looked down, and realized that he was far from his old home, amongst people who did not know him, or his mother, a concept new and puzzling. He suddenly felt very small.

Is there a way to find out? he asked.

Giles bent to the boy's eye level. Vappa. Is that truly your name? For I cannot image it being anyone's name.

No, sir, it's Shyro. I don't know why so many are calling me that other name.

Giles nodded. I see. Shyro, you have displeased the master, and that is why he named you that, and from now on, it is what I must call you. I am sorry about your mother, but you must forget her, she is not your concern any longer. It is very likely she is dead, for most your age are sold with their mothers, not alone like this. You have a new life and new home, and if you wish to survive and be content, that is where your thoughts and concerns must be. Do you understand?

How could I forget her? How? he asked softly.

Giles looked into the boy's large hazel eyes, so forlorn and he impulsively smoothed the blond hair, thinking someday of how beautiful he would be, if he did manage to live.

Shyro's eyes filled with tears at the kind touch, and he flung himself into Giles' arms, weeping. Giles held him, whispered. You can't forget. You shouldn't forget. But now it's time to grow up. You may see her someday again if she does live. But it will not be for a long time. We all must leave our mothers, we all must grow up, child, surely you know that.

Shyro simply sobbed, unable to stop, until he was exhausted and his breath hitched weakly.

Then he stood up, and Giles let go of him and rose. Come, Vappa, there is much to do.

Shyro, keeping to his word, simply nodded, and followed, he would not speak again, in fact, the urge had left him, and the void that remained, he was sure at that moment, could never be filled.

~*~

The first stop that Giles made with young Shyro was the house in back of the baths, this being Corban's living quarters, which was modest in comparison with many of the homes in the city, despite the wealth of its owner. The kitchen was as big as the rest of the house all together, but that was part of the charm of his place, for he had much cooking and food preparation to do.

Corban owned a bathhouse, but not just any place to socially bathe, he catered to the ultra wealthy and more prominent citizens, those who did not like the crowds and racket of the larger, public baths. His mosaic and colorfully sculptured designs around the pools, where fountains and even small waterfalls ran, his poets and musicians, along with the cleanliness and excellent snacks and wine were well above standard. He put a limit on the amount of visitors at any given time, and didn't permit the noisy vendors in; all of this allowed him to charge for his services, and the price was gladly met by many. He also kept security tight over the clothing and other belongings left by the patrons, and his attending slaves were well trained and as fetching as any seen anywhere. Cordus had paid dearly to have it be so.

All of this effort had paid off. He was never at a want for customers, but he had much overseeing to do. Slaves had a tendency to get lazy if they were not watched closely.

It was in the large kitchen, that Giles introduced the new slave first, and little Shyro was not greeted warmly by the multitude of others there. They had already heard about him from Tycho, and none wanted to associate with a trouble maker.

Giles was reluctant to do what he had to do next, but there was no avoiding it. He got chains from the back stoop and picked Shyro up, setting him on one of the tables to attach his ankles to each other, giving him a foot of slack between them. Shyro watched, but said and did nothing, then before being asked, he slipped the tunic up over his head and lay it down on the table beside him, stroking it for a moment with one hand. It was the last thing he had of his old life, and he said good bye to it silently, as Giles attached chains around his waist, and then his wrists.

The old slave stood back and looked at the boy, so sad sitting there, he had been completely docile since his crying, since being allowed his question, and realizing there was no answer for it. Giles wondered what he was thinking, it was not clear in his eyes, they were simply sad, wistful, as he raised one arm, feeling and hearing the chain that was now a part of him, then letting it drop again as if too heavy to keep up.

Perhaps, we should make a trip to the locksmith. Maybe find something better fitting, not so large, if you are to wear them for a time.

Shyro looked at him blankly, then nodded quickly. Giles smiled.

I will ask permission to take you, he said. First, I wanted you to tour your new home. This wheel here, it turns the spit where meat is roasted and is much easier to run on without much height. It bends the back of the taller slaves, and after enough time, the bend seems to become permanent, so this will be your chore from now on. Come, jump down, and I'll show you the baths.

Shyro looked at the large wheel a moment longer, sighed, and hopped down, almost falling when one bare foot landed painfully on the chain. Shyro righted himself, feeling awkward and clumsy, more and more sure that whatever his new master wanted, he would not be able to do it right.

The bathhouse, unlike the home, was huge and decorated, with many rooms of different function. Giles led Shyro through, rather quickly, wanting the time he needed to get to the locksmith and back, and he planned on giving only brief descriptions of the functions of the rooms, and what the boy might have to do at each. It was in the third room, that little Shyro balked, eyes wide, and backing away in fear.

Giles shook his head, bent down to speak quietly. You will not have to do this, you are too young, there is nothing to fear, besides, Tycho is not being harmed, although it might look otherwise.

Shyro did not believe him. This room had many small, round relatively shallow pools, and the auburn haired boy with the beautiful eyes he had met earlier was leaning over the edge of one of them. His eyes were closed very tight as an older man pushed him back and forth against the cement, the front of his hips tight against the back of the younger man’s. The Roman had a grasp on a fistful of hair and was yanking it back so hard, that the slim body under his was bent almost impossibly far backwards. Shyro could hear Tycho's gasps as he struggled to breathe.

Giles could see that the man was being rough, much rougher than needed, and it angered him, not only for Tycho's sake, but because this was not the sight he wanted to be this young boy's first one. Quickly, he turned Shyro around and bustled him back out of the room.

Shyro looked up at him, questioning, feeling betrayed and Giles said. Yes, I know. But it is not often like that. Usually, the patrons are quite relaxed and gentle.

The older slave looked at the searching eyes, and knew they saw the truth. Well, young or not, he had to face the facts sometime, Giles thought as he led the trembling Shyro away.

~*~

Giles woke to the sound of an unearthly cry, and rolled over to go back to sleep, when it dawned on him what… who it might be. Remembering Cordus' threat, he got to his feet with a groan and padded out to the kitchen. It was Shyro all right, just as he thought, the boy was sitting up, back to the wheel he was chained to, crying.

What in the name of the gods is the matter with you? he asked, hands on his hips, and then the dark eyes were looking up at him, woefully.

Hurts, it hurts, Shyro stammered, and then, … and the dreams, they came back, too.

Giles knelt. Now, listen--

Shyro turned and pushed himself frantically against the older slave's chest, pressing into him as if for dear life, whimpering raggedly. Giles took him by the arms and pulled him away, shaking him while the chains wrapped about him jangled, but he was not as rough as he first had a mind to be.

Stop that, and grow up!

I want to go home! the boy wailed. Giles struck him, and when the back of his hand made contact with the boy's face, Shyro seemed to go wild. He lunged against his bonds, twisting and turning and tearing his own skin in his efforts to break loose. Giles swore, and when he tried to grab and calm him, white teeth sank into the pad of his hand as it closed on the boy's shoulder. He drew it back with a yelp, he struck Shyro harder, and again the boy simply doubled his efforts to escape.

Cordus, tying cloth about his waist, shuffled out and joined them, his sleepy eyes hard and narrowed.

This cannot be allowed, Giles, that boy is completely untrained. I want him whipped, right now, not as if I can sleep with all that noise anyway. I want him whipped until he can manage to be quiet and still. And I repeat, if this happens even one more time, you will be whipped as well. Now, do it quickly, it is not many hours before first light.

Yes, Master, Giles answered.

With that, Cordus shook his head angrily and headed back for his room. Giles clenched his teeth, swearing again when Shyro sat back panting with the exertion of his vain efforts at reaching freedom. Both his wrists were bloodied and dark red marks were appearing on his belly and ankles. Giles proceeded to procure a short whip from the back entry and when Shyro saw it, he just sneered, he hated the very sight of the things that had harmed his mother.

Almost reluctantly, Giles took hold on the chain, lifting Shyro with it, and then he began to whip him, not with the end of it, instead using the more stiff shank near the handle. It did not break the skin, he was not trying to harm the boy any more than he had to. He stopped when the redlined marks looked sufficiently numbered if Cordus checked, and then he turned Shyro to face him.

To foment is foolish. Stupid child. I cannot risk the master's wrath, and I punished you as he told me to, but for my own sake, I have a better idea.

Giles simply let go of him and he fell, Shyro found the hard floor unsympathetic to his plight, he cried out again as it contacted with his backside. Before he had recovered from that, Giles had already returned, knelt beside him and he found himself gagged and his hands secured to the chain at his waist, his feet bound tightly together.

There, brat, sleep well, Giles said, blowing out the lamp and heading back to his pallet in the back room.

Shyro closed his eyes and lay there, trying to relax, trying to see in the darkness, to fix his eyes on anything that was familiar, but what would he find familiar in this strange place, anyway? Before these last few days, he had never slept alone, and although not often had his dreams been so bad as the one tonight, he had always had his mother there to soothe him.

He thought of his new master, and found that the word did not fit his old master, Arrios, anymore. He had always said the word fondly. Now he learned a hard but simple truth. Masters could be anyone and they could be cruel; in his child's thought, Arrios had been, well, more like a father. There was the game they played in the hallways for as far back as Shyro could remember. And there was Arrios' interest in the boy's drawings, and his never ending encouragement. Always soft-spoken and smiling, sometimes tousling Shyro's hair even as he shied back from the touch. Arrios had not minded, he had told Syna that all artists were sensitive, and although the boy never really understood, he did know that after these encounters, his mother beamed with pride for him, and kissed him often for hours later.

Shyro had never even considered another life, any other masters, or being so alone. How had it happened? What had he done?

Do you not teach your child anything? The words kept floating in his mind, the words Zenon had spoken to his mother, words that had signaled the horrid flogging she had suffered and his subsequent banishment and sale.

Shyro's tears were quiet, and in his tormented thoughts, the words kept repeating, 'I'm sorry, please come and take me home, I'm sorry' like song verse. His eyes and nose ran as he wept, and he tried to draw breath around the wool in his mouth, panicking again as breathing became almost impossible. Now, however, he could hardly move and his crying ended. His struggles went unheard, with difficulty he moved until he was propped up against the wheel, and he calmed himself, wishing he knew what to do to save himself and save Syna. She was alive, he was sure of it, for to imagine the world without her in it, was beyond his abilities. The question was, what would she want him to do? He'd have given anything to know the answer.

~*~

It was so early, it felt as if he had barely fallen into sleep, when activity began around him, the fire was rekindled and slaves went about their morning routines. It had not begun to get light out yet, he wondered if they always got up at this time. He couldn't ask, bound as he was, and more than a few smirked at seeing him, others turned away, looking disturbed or angry. Shyro watched them, begging with his eyes to be freed from the gag, and allowed to stretch and drink and relieve himself, but no one paid any attention.

Shyro was actually glad to see Giles come through the doorway, and he looked up, trying to appear completely obedient and quiet and still, while the man stood there glaring at him. Finally, however, the man knelt and took the cloth from his mouth and untied it. Shyro gasped in a few deep breaths, and stifled any sound as his hands were loosened and his ankles unbound, lessening the pain considerably. Without ceremony, he was pulled up and led into the yard. He followed Giles, did what he had to, and was allowed some water, but this small freedom was brief and done quickly. Giles did not speak to him, just pulled him back inside and to the wheel, attaching him to the axle.

I will be back for you later, mornings you will spend here, go as fast or slow as they say, keep quiet, and make sure the chains stay loose.

Sir? Shyro said softly, wanting to apologize.

"Shut up!" Giles warned, still glaring as he left Shyro there.

The boy kept his eyes on the other slaves, they were all preparing various foods and snacks for the baths, and he would have liked to watch, but he couldn't see from where he was, and he didn't dare ask. He ran on the wheel when they asked him, but he bored of it quickly, and his little legs tired, it was really meant for someone heavier than he to keep it in motion. Still, he tried, hoping to not feel any more whips, or to sleep in such misery. Even when his muscles cramped, he kept going, even when it took conscious effort to force himself to run, he stayed at it stoically. As the hours passed, he noticed that his stomach was cramping as badly as his legs, and the smell of the food was so tantalizing, he was continually swallowing saliva.

Again, it was Giles who relieved him. In fact, he felt something like gratitude when he heard the man gruffly tell the cooks to let him rest when the rota didn't need turning. Apparently, they had just let him run whether they needed him to or not.

He stepped down, and winced at the pain, but said nothing, just followed Giles out to the bathhouse, trotting to keep up and silent. He was led down some brick and mortar steps, and his first impression was of horrible heat blasting out at them. Dry, smoky and blazing it felt in his lungs, he tried to breathe only through his nose as he passed through the maze of corridors beneath the bath's floor. There were slaves already stoking the fires, it was only a few hours until noon, and soon the visitors would start to arrive.

"This is your next job, when the cooking is done, you are to come here and clean the small passages. You