Heron made his way to the riverbed and stood there for a moment. Basking in the sun and the cool breeze, his toes dug into the earth. He stretched his body until his limbs let out a satisfying crack. He could see the others had already eagerly taken to the river. Splashing and laughter filled the world. Niko had abandoned his overseer persona for the time being and was joining the others in the water. A couple of men were skimming stones, betting whatever they had. Heron spied the elderly Catarix lounging lazily on a pile of moss, dangling his feet in the water without a care in the world. It seemed that the celebratory mood from before had yet to be extinguished by reality. For a moment, Heron thought about joining them. His relationships with the others on this estate were non-existent. He knew some names, he, despite having been there for nearly two years. Yet he knew better, he would be leaving these people as soon as he could.
He walked up the river for a while until he arrived at a small creek. Stepping into the water carefully, flinching at the temperature before sitting on the rocks. The water streamed past and around his feet as he sat there. He scooped the water and ran it over his chest and legs, watching the water change colour from a clear blue to cloudy. His skin felt fresh, smooth, clean for the first time in a while. He could still hear the sounds of joy from down river. He tried to ignore it, enjoying this serene single moment. It was quiet. He looked out at the river flowing before him, the birds flittering among the trees and singing. Heron felt content, never before seeing beauty during his life on this country estate. Despite being out in nature almost always, it was always about work that he had no choice in doing. But now, he could simply sit, taking in the beauty of this hostile alien land.
As he sat there, his mind drifted. He would one day leave this land and return home, he knew this. But his plan so far had bore no fruit even after two years. Before he had been moved from the city of Urr, he had some substantial savings that he had earned or stolen. Being a servant in the wealthy house of his master gave him ample opportunity to gather his escape fund. Trinkets, jewellery, gold, pilfered in dribs and drabs. It was probably still right where he left it, in a hollowed-out tree stump in the manors garden. But he wasn’t exactly given the chance to grab it when he was dragged from house, shoved into a cart and shipped to this rural farm where he wouldn’t cause any more trouble. Or at least, trouble where it could be seen. It had been his fault, he had enough money to escape, chart a ship. He could have spoken with the sailors at the port, gotten an idea of where his home was. Sneaking off in the middle of the day would have been simple. Sneak off during an errand, Urr was one of the biggest cities in the world, no-one would notice just another foreigner. But he didn’t. Heron regretted this part of his life more than anything. It was his fault; he couldn’t blame anyone else. His relationship with Valeria was his choice, he could have run at any time, but he didn’t.
Heron knelt down and plunged his head under the water, running his hands through his hair. Clearing out the dirt and grease that had built up over the past days. His dark hair spread out in the water, floating like a lily-pad torn into a thousand strands. Deaf to the world, Heron could truly think. He didn’t know how he was going to escape, his plan consisted of just waiting for the right moment. But that moment would never come.
After two years, all he the wealth he gathered wouldn’t even be enough to get him back to Urr. And even if it was, it was still doomed. He was known in the area, the freemen in the villages nearby knew that foreign looking men suddenly appear, it’ll draw the attention of slavecatchers. Or he’ll just be beaten and left at the side of the road to die by the first brigand he passed. He was no fighter. He may have been born a prince, but he had spent his entire life a slave, never had he held a spear. He had been in a handful of fistfights in the city, drunken brawls where he’d been beaten bloody and ran to the comfort of Valeria. He was no warrior, he was just a beaten and whipped slave, waiting for death.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
At this thought, he pulled his head from the river, water pouring from his head and dripping into the stream. His dark black hair soaked, pulled down to his shoulders as water falls from them freely. He wiped the water from his face as he steadied his mind. He can’t think like that. The golden blood of the gods ran through his veins from his divine ancestor Maris. He had endured slavery since childhood. He might not know how he was going to escape yet, but he would endure. But for now, he would simply enjoy this moment of beauty.
At this moment, unbeknownst to him, the road to his freedom had stared to become clear. He noticed that the laughter and cheers of his companions down the river had quieted, replaced by a single thunderous voice. Niko, despite being half the size of a normal man had a voice like an earthquake. “Everyone! Times up! Start moving! Grab your axes!”
Heron, satisfied and feeling lighter after his time at the creek readily obeyed without resistance. He rejoined the group, all in high spirits and smelling considerably better than before. He found his tattered old tunic and dressed himself, coming his hair back with his fingers trying to regain some of his lost beauty. The walk back was filled with laughter and jokes. Even some of Niko’s terrible quips managed to spark a laugh from the men, despite not them not being particularly funny.
However, while a strange sight to see the slaves in such high spirits, what was far more unusual was the state of the villa upon their return.
The other villa slaves were hard at work cleaning things that hadn’t been cleaned in the entire time that Heron had been here. Fences were being patched up; the garden was being tidied with freshly picked flowers being planted in pots around the villa. Bushes were being trimmed. The door was even being repainted, with the old black and brown chipped colour being replaced by a bright and lively red.
The head manager, a freedman by the name of Apion, the same height as Heron, but with a well-maintained beard and a fat belly was in unusual panic. Running around the place like a pig with its arse on fire. Bumbling about barking orders at the slaves, only adding to the confusion and chaos of the increasingly disorienting scene.
Niko wandered off from the group towards Apion and exchanged a brief few words before promptly joining him in panic. He rushed back to the group and ordered for everyone to store the axes in the toolshed, then to join the cleaning effort immediately. After this, he then franticly ran off into the villa out of sight. “Never seen the place look so clean.” One of the pale northern slaves said to his left, he had been here for only a few months, one of the newest additions from the wars up North. But his short time here didn’t matter, as Heron hadn’t seen the villa as clean either. Usually, only the bare necessities were done to keep the place in working order. But beauty was outside the scope of Apions interests. It was a working villa, not a pleasure villa for some aristocrat. He kept the inside clean enough, since he lived in the master’s room while he was away and liked to masquerade as highborn, but the outside was almost always a mess. But not today.
Heron had a broom forced in his hands as he went around the grounds sweeping the dirt from the stone pathways, picking up animal crap and other trash left around. Broken pieces of pottery, rags. Heron had never noticed just how much of a mess the villa was, since he was either working or in his room. Not that he would have cared had he noticed. He made his way to through the garden, cleaning as he went. However, his gaze was drawn when he saw that in the distance coming down the road was a trail of carriages, wagons and horses slowly making its way towards the villa. He noticed how well dressed the leading rider was. His red silk tunic decorated with golden tassels and bells banging together as he rode. As he drew closer, a pit began to form in Heron’s stomach as he began to connect the details. Few in the country would be able to travel with such a procession, even fewer would ever bother to visit this run-down shanty of a villa. And finally, his hair. Long locks made of fire reaching his shoulders, softer than silk and brushed a thousand times and again. This was Gaius Umbrenius, son and heir of Heron''s owner, and the twin brother of Valeria Umbrenius.