《The Chains That Bind Us》


 Chapter One: The Clearing

    As the sun reached it zenith, its glare bore down on them with bitter resentment.The clearing was filled with a cacophony of dull thudding and the barking of the overseer. His eyes always searching for signs of resistance and conspiracy. Like a dog, desperate to bring a rabbit to its master so that he may feast on the scraps.


    Heron looked down at the axe in his hands. A crude and battered thing, worn from what seemed like decades despite it only being a month old. A smile came to his face, knowing that it would soon break, perhaps today depending on his mood. Such few acts of rebellion available to wretches like them. Even a few coppers wasted was enough to satisfy him until the time was right.


    Heron continued his labours; joining the orchestra of groans and thuds in the clearing. The other wretches he called his companions strained under the work, unused to the burden of the chains around their necks, and the labour with no rest.


    Most from the conquered lands of the far North, crushed under metal boots and forced to nurture lands they do not know. Heron took solace in their presence. He was better. The weak toil under the strong as nature decrees. They lacked the strength to defend their lands and suffered the consequences. Not like him, Heron was born for greatness. If it hadn¡¯t been for the scheming of his treasonous teacher, he would be leading bands of warriors into foreign lands, he would be holding the chains.


    Heron scowled and cut into the tree with renowned vigour at the memory. Seeing his teacher, he released his frustrations and fury into the wood. Cutting deeper and deeper until the tree crashed towards the ground, littering the grass in leaves. He quickly chose his next target and repeated the process. He was a warrior; carving through his enemies just like the heroes of old. One by one they fell to his blade, be it monsters, giants or... trees.


    He inhaled deeply, holding it for moment before exhaling; the tension now gone from his body. His hands rose to wipe his brow, sweat flicking off as if he had just been caught in a storm. He couldn¡¯t afford to act like this.Rage wasn¡¯t something to be wasted working hard for his master, it was a precious resource that must be bottled and saved. Still, his venting soothed him, he would need the practice Afterall.


    Heron looked up and saw the hateful of the sun had began to calm, perhaps mimicking his emotions. The other slaves had exhausted themselves and had slowed to a crawl. They wouldn¡¯t last long Heron thought. They would burn out like so many had before them, overworked and underfed. Sickness would take some, exhaustion others. This had not escaped the gaze of the overseer, a short runt by the name Niko. Heron noted that he looked more like a rat than a man, with his eyes always straining to escape from their sockets.


    Heron loathed Niko, greater than even his masters. They both wore chains, yet while Heron had sworn to never submit, Niko had eagerly abandoned his dignity to eat from the master''s hand.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Niko gathered Heron and group of weary slaves, organising the group of ten into lines of five. He took time to ensure that everyone was present, and that their tools were accounted for in preparation for the march back ¡®home¡¯.


    One of the Northern looking slaves, a man in his later years with greying hair struggled to keep pace. Weak, he wouldn¡¯t survive long in his new life.


    The group slowed at the command of Niko, issuing no reprimands or threats to the elderly man. Utterly without empathy, Niko had been no doubt told to conserve the strength of the slaves under his watch. Dying early would just lower his masters'' profits; they had to be squeezed for all they were worth. Ever the dog walking at his masters'' feet. This infuriated Heron to no end, he had so little time to himself. The slow walk back would eat into his time. Time he could spend preparing.


    By the time they returned to the estate, the suns heat had been replaced by the cool breeze of dusk. The villa centred in the middle of a scenic field, with gardens and an orchard surrounding it. The owner rarely visited, and it left much to be desired in beauty with only basic maintenance undertaken. Nothing like the palace he saw every night in his dreams.


    The estate manager oversaw the return of Heron and the other groups. Being sent to their quarters after granted their rations. A pathetic number of cereals and what was technically ¡®wine¡¯, just enough to keep him working. Reminding him of his childhood when he would be served fine food every day. Particularly fond he was of the memory of the feast that was held in honour of his father returning from far off land. Roast suckling pig with golden skin, so much fat and oil that it dripped. Olives as big as his fist... Heron continued to fantasize as he walked to his room.


    In the corner of the basement, a dark and dusty place devoid of hope or joy. There he shared with another slave, a tall strong man by the name of Tibeios. A man of very few words, which was how Heron liked it. There was no point in associating with those who lacked his ambition and drive.


    The first thing Heron did, before his bunkmate joined him was pull out his bed and uncover the hole he had dug. Hidden to prevent confiscation. Inside a small pouch filled with coins; he had obtained them any way he could, theft, trading with his fellow slaves. A handful came from the time he had been rewarded by the manager for good work. Some stolen tools such as a small knife. And the most precious thing he owned; a golden ring, with the face of a king engraved into stone; under is an inscryption, however its meaning is lost on Heron, being unable to read or write. He had found it by chance one day while bathing in the river, and he dare not tell anyone about it, knowing that it was valued more than his life.


    Satisfied that his stash was untouched, he replaced the cover and moved his bed back. Promptly collapsing on it, eating his meagre rations, he dreamed of his home. The only thing that fuelled the fire that was his desire for freedom in his long years as a slave. The walls were like pearls, shined so bright that the sun would bounce making it seem like it was glowing. The door was fit for a giant, greater than anything he has seen since. Art littered the palace, with paintings so detailed he believed them to be real. He dreamt of the sun shining down on him gently, caressing him with comfort. He dreamt of his parents, their clothing as fine as flowing water. Though, so long has past that he can¡¯t remember their faces. Heron often found himself intensely thinking, trying to remember the name of the place he called home.


    The only thing he could remember with certainty, a face burned into his very soul was his teacher. The man he trusted and relied on for so much. The man who doomed him to this wretched life. The man who stole him and sold him into slavery.

 Chapter Two: Night Terrors

    Every night the dream was the same, and every night Heron¡¯s heart shattered again.


    The sun smiled down upon his island home. A warm and loving breeze graced him as he gazed at the sea from his home at the peak. The sea was always busy with fishermen, merchants, and everything in between coming and going from his great city. But Heron¡¯s eyes shined as he spied on ship in particular.


    A silver swan gliding across the sea, its neck long and made of solid bronze forged in the image of a terrifying colossal bird.


    Young Heron may have been afraid of this ship, due to its resemblance to a particularly cruel and ferocious rooster that guarded its flock. It stood to Heron¡¯s waist, and its beak was surely stronger than even the finest spears in his father''s army. Many a time had Heron tried to face this loathsome beast, and many times he had been defeated. Surely an enemy worthy of even the greatest heroes of yore.


    However, Heron was not afraid, for he knew that this colossal bronze bird signified. He would soon be gifted such exotic toys and treasures from all lands, surely crafted by master''s unparalleled. His most treasured possession was one of such gifts. A figure of the hero and god Maris, carved from the tusks of a walking giant from the distant lands of the East, where magic and wonders still lived. He would spend hours recreating heroic battles and triumphs of his distant ancestor and founder his home. And he could expect other trinkets of such from this strange silver ship. It had been more than a season since the silver ship had


    He leaped off his chair and sprinted out the door of his room, past the slaves and workers of his father''s palace. Dressed in fine silks and cotton, burnt orange, browns, reds and whites decorated their dress. Some bowed, some jumped at the sudden chaos unleashed upon the hallway, and others simply ignored his presence. No doubt having grown used to the walking calamity that was Heron. Down the halls, through the garden and to the main entrance, inches away from the outside world before he was suddenly hanging in the air, five feet away from the gound.


    Hoisted by the collar, a man he knew better than his own father stood looking down at him. Behind his impeccably groomed black beard, his face tightened with disapproval, and in his free arm dangling from the now angry man¡¯s hand was his favourite learning tool, the wooden rod.


    Heron froze, in his excitement he only just realised that he had been waiting for his teacher to return to continue their lesson. Having been caught so quickly, and by the one man in the palace who he couldn¡¯t force obedience, he knew what would happen next. Heron imagined what his funeral would be like, he would be buried alongside his ancestors in his family tomb, alongside his grandfather who had left them not two winters past. Would the gods welcome him into the halls of the undying as a hero for being vanquished by such a powerful warrior? He would soon find out as he closed his eyes and braced for the inevitable.


    However, it would seem the gods would not see him join their court so soon, as the rod made no move to strike him. The increasingly angry man barked, in his sharp commanding tone gained from decades of lecturing ill-behaved boys and ¡®ill-bred, milk-drinking halfwits!¡¯, as he called them. ¡°Heron! You were told to stay in your room until I returned! If you were going to fight that over-grown rooster again, I shall have you thrown into the mill and fed to it!¡±. His teacher Shaked his fists and Heron along with them, the collar and chain around his neck rattled.


    Heron flinched at his teacher''s fury. He knew that it was an empty threat, but having the much older and stern man shout at him made him tremble. Heron quickly replied, eager to appease this creature of fury. ¡°No! No, I wasn¡¯t! I was going to the dock! The silver treasure ship is coming! I seen it, I did! In the waves! We must hurry or we¡¯ll miss it!¡±. His hands gesturing wildly as he dangled suspended in the air by the strong arms of the stone giant. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    The face of his teacher froze as if he had been turned to stone. He blinked several times, before his grip weakened and Heron found himself returned to the safety of land. Free! Escape quickly before he can be recaptured! Heron¡¯s mind racing, knowing that he needed to act quickly to escape the wrath of his teacher. He looked up, but what he saw was not at all what he expected.


    The anger had fell from his teachers face, being replaced by a wide joyful smile. Heron¡¯s plan to escape suddenly vanished, like grains of sand falling from a sieve. His teacher was such a cold man usually, utterly devoted to education and intellectualism with no room for joy, besides that which he derived from having crushed another scholar in an intellectual debate. Heron¡¯s teacher tossed his rod away to the side and clapped Heron on the shoulders merrily. ¡°What good news! They haven¡¯t been able to travel here since before the winter past! But Heron, you know not to run out into the streets like some commoner. You must stay here, wait in your room and I will collect you when they come.¡±


    Heron, still frozen in shock, simply nod his head. He didn¡¯t know how to react to such a strange sight. Forgetting about the ship, he fled from the clutch of his teacher and sprinted back to his room. He knew his teacher was right of course, he was too rash. Of course, someone of his status wouldn¡¯t go to a mere merchant, they would come to him. And so, he sat in his room, eager in anticipation; arranging his favourite toys on the floor ready to add to his collection. Fantasising on what he would get this time, perhaps a statue of an animal? Or maybe he was finally old enough to have his own sword, he was shaking in anticipation. And there he sat, for what seemed like ages, and eventually the light would dim, and the sun would fall from the sky.


    He was startled with his teacher barging into his room unannounced. Full of smiles as he was earlier; Heron remembered feeling unsettled by this, but his excitement proved stronger. His teacher, apparently in somewhat of a hurry and carrying a sack. ¡°Heron, get ready now. We need to meet with the merchant! Go on, get your things!¡±


    Heron happily obeyed, packing all his favourite toys into the sack without question. He would need to show the sort of stuff he liked after all. He followed as his teacher took him through to hallways, though, he noticed that they were strangely quiet. Usually, the halls would be full of slaves and workers. Dismissing this, Heron continued to follow his teacher. Through doors he barely knew existed, down a narrow hallway, and into the back gardens. ¡°Do you think they have any more Maris toys sir? Thats my favourite.¡±


    Heron filled the walk with idle and excited chatter, reciting what he wanted and how much he was going to take back. His teacher offered little in the way of conversation beyond telling him to make pace. This didn¡¯t bother Heron, however. So long as he got the toys his heart so desired, he would walk a thousand miles and then again.


    Eventually, after several minutes of walking, they found themselves at the edge of his father''s palace and finally met with the traders. A group of six men, all strong with bronze skin. A tall, long-haired man of and a sharp chin and gold Jewlery decorating his face. Strange, he thought. He looked very similar to his teacher, likely being his fellow countryman.


    Heron grew wary, in his excitement he had gotten caught up in the adventure of it all. Never had he met anyone at night outside of the palace, and certainly not without an escort. He took a step back, preparing to run away but he was stopped. Heron looked up and saw a hand clutching his shoulder, a hand that belonged to his teacher. Looking at his face, it was still covered in a smile. However, it was far less jovial or kindly as it was earlier, it made him afraid. Suddenly, the men grabbed him, bound his arms and legs, gagged him, and threw him in a sack. Heron tried to shout for help, but it happened before he could react, and he was gagged almost immediately.


    He tried to escape, tried to tear wriggle his way out of the sack to no avail. He was thrown around, like his kidnappers were moving quickly and with reckless abandon. He heard bustling streets, drunks laughing carousing and celebrating loudly. Before he knew it, he had been thrown to the ground and stayed there for what felt like forever. In the dark, tied up, his eyes stung as the tears fell from his face.


    Suddenly, he was torn from the sack, the light blinded him as he shut his eyes to protect them from the sun. Heron looked around. The floor... it was pure white. Around him were several large bronze skinned men, surrounding him, laughing and speaking in words he couldn¡¯t understand. Among them, he saw a familiar face, his teacher, his neck bare. Confusion clouded his mind, where was he? He looked at the horizon, trying to sea his city. But all he could see was the endless realm of the ocean, surrounding him in every direction. His mind grew numb, sounds were blocked from his head. He turned to his teacher, pleading for help, guidance, answers. But all he saw, was that sinister smile.

 Chapter Three: The Spider and the Fly

    Heron opened his eyes slowly, having endured that dream a thousand times it no longer shocked him awake. It was his oldest companion, cherished and hated. He laid motionless in his bed, refusing to rise until it was time to work. He closed his eyes and listened to the quiet of the night, the only sound being the soft snoring of Tibeios across the room. He must have entered sometime after Heron fell asleep. As close as he had to a friend in this green wasteland, Tibeios and he rarely spoke. Two heads taller than Heron, with a body that had been seemingly carved from granite. His face sharp and angular, something that had always brought to mind the image of a hawk. Heron had arrived two winters prior, having been sent to the country by his master as punishment. Tibeios had been here already, ten winters at least. Heron was satisfied with their relationship. Rarely would they speak, occasionally exchanging food and wine, but nothing more. Heron didn¡¯t even know where Tibeios came from, or how he was enslaved. Tibeios worked primarily as a fieldhand, though he was often chosen to maintain the vineyard. This made him the best roommate. On rare occasions, Tibeios would manage to steal a handful of grapes, and would trade them with him and a few others for extra food. They tasted exquisite.


    Heron continued his silence, staring at the spider who had made its home at the corner of the ceiling. Today would be the last day of clearing out the valley. For an entire season him and his group had been devoted entirely to felling the trees to make room for a new storehouse. He would no doubt be forced to help build that as well, as was his lot. Still, it would only be temporary. As soon as the right moment came, he would make his escape and rid himself of this country of loathsome vile creatures. Find his home and return to take his rightful place at his father¡¯s side once more. In his head he recited the facts he knew; an island surrounded by deep blue, ten thousand men from ten thousand places, a city of a thousand colours, a great palace. Not enough, his memory too distant and coloured by the foolishness of youth. But it was a problem for later.


    The spider crawled over its web, prowling towards a solitary fly that had flew into the trap. Its eight legs danced across the strands of silk as it delighted in the process. The fly beat its wings, struggling with all it could, the buzz of its will to escape deafening. Heron watched as the spider descended on the fly, wrapping it in delicate silk, practiced, skilled, efficient. The fly continued to struggle, and the low hum of buzzing could still be heard, but it grew fainter and fainter with every moment. Its death approached quickly. Heron wondered if it felt fear, a tiny creature that feasted on rotten fruit and goat shit, probably not. The buzzing stopped, and Heron watched the spider descend on its prey as he drifted back to sleep.


    As dawn arrived, so did his labours. He was corralled from his room along with the others, given a piece of bread and some cereals to eat, being rushed the entire time. And then it was back to the field, back to work. Niko leading him and his group of ten back to the same place as the day before, axes in hand. The chains rattled as they walked, clanging together in a symphony of metal and shame. How much Heron longed to take the axe and drive it into Niko¡¯s skull couldn¡¯t be understated, and many times he had fantasized of doing just that. And yet, he made no move to do so. He knew the consequences of being so direct. The old scars on his back serving as a reminder of disloyalty. A lesson he was taught long ago. Beaten worse than a dog with the scourge by his first master during his youth for refusing him. He remembered being held down as the scourge came down on him for what felt like years. His skin split as the blood pooled around his feet, that awful noise thundering again and again.


    Heron¡¯s heart pounded in his chest; the world slowed to a crawl; the sun was suddenly blinding as his breath began to escape him. He shook his head forcefully, desperate to force the memory from his mind. Not him, don¡¯t think about him he echoed in his mind. He slowed his pace as he wrestled with his own lungs, breathing deeply, through the nose and out the mouth. A trick he learned from the kindly woman at that awful house. ¡°Brown eyes, dark hair, broken teeth.¡± He recited her appearance in his memory, something he always did when he felt himself breaking. His breathing slowed and his hands stopped trembling. He looked up, forgetting where he was for a moment and saw Niko staring into him. His eyes like that of a snake, that¡¯s just caught sight of its prey. Expecting to be reprimanded, Heron braced his emotions. However, nothing came. Niko simply nodded and started walking again. Strange, usually his sort would be eager to punish, desperate to dominate someone to prove their own worth. Surely he was just biding his time. His punishment would come later, smaller rations, harder work, it didn¡¯t matter.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    They arrived at the clearing, now almost entirely devoid of trees save a few dozen. They had worked faster than he had expected. Perhaps they would be rewarded for the quick progress they¡¯ve made. Heron hoped for some meat; it had been so long since he had last tasted meat. The thought made Heron drool. A shout from Niko in his navally squeaky voice tore him from his fantasy. ¡°Listen up! Lets get this done quick! Get it done quickly, and I¡¯ll let you take some time off and go wash in the river! Half of you smell worse than a goat¡¯s arsehole!¡± Niko laughed jovially, clearly expecting the rest of the group to laugh along with him. No one joined him. Heron just glared. It was hard to find your spirit in this situation, even if Niko had a single ounce of humour in his needle-like body. Though, Heron couldn¡¯t deny that he would gladly accept time to himself. Weeks of poor sleep had rendered him tired, and his fantasies of violent retribution against his captors had been increasing.


    The rest of the slaves seemed to agree, as it only took them a short while to be almost done. The tree¡¯s fell one by one, with them all working overtime to make pace and claim their reward. ¡®Great work Drutalos!¡¯, ¡®Almost there Attalus!¡± and other empty praises left the mouth of Niko as he shouted various encouragements to make them work faster. Heron noticed the elderly man with greying hair that was well past his prime was putting in great effort as well. He usually lagged behind, but today he was giving it everything he had, he even spied a grin on his face when Niko shouted his name. ¡°Catarix, don¡¯t push yourself too hard! Save your energy!¡±. For once, Heron was thankful that he didn¡¯t have to carry his dead weight. All it did however was anger Heron. If he wanted the job done faster, he could pick up an axe and work. Eventually there was only one tree left, and Heron was halfway through it when the crowd formed around him. Cheers and shouts of encouragement came at him from all angles. He was surrounded. His heartbeat faster, his hands swung harder, until the tree fell to the ground with a mighty crash. Voices of glee and jubilation erupted from the crowd. Gone was the weariness and shame in the slaves for just a moment. They were acting as if they had all just been given palaces in the capital.


    Heron stood there, frozen and overwhelmed. There were too many people; all of them staring right at him. Heron¡¯s heart started to beat faster, his hands trembled, his breath became short, there wasn¡¯t enough air, he was going to choke. He needed to run, to hide. The sound of celebration started to fade into the distance as his blood started to run cold, when right at that moment a hand clapped down onto his shoulder. ¡°Great job everyone! Gather up your tools and leave them here! You¡¯ll be carrying them back after you¡¯re finished at the river! Move it!¡±


    It was Niko, his voice was like a magnet for the crowd. Them suddenly remembering the prize. Like that, the group hastily tossed their tools with little care in a pile and ran to the river in the distance. Heron looked towards Niko, his mind starting to cool and his breath returning to him. ¡°You did good Heron, nice work.¡±


    With that, Niko smacked him on the back and walked off towards the river to monitor the others. Heron¡¯s eyes were glued to his back as he walked away, for a moment he felt gratitude towards the shorter man. Heron preferred to stay out of the spotlight, stay away from the eyes of others. Nothing good ever came from being noticed. And right before Heron lost himself to hysteria, Niko redirected the crowd and sent them away.


    Heron breathed a sigh of relief as he regained control of his nerves, steadying his breathing. ¡°Brown eyes, dark hair, broken teeth.¡± He knew rationally that Niko was just hurrying them along. Likely the only reason he offered the reward was because he wanted a break himself. Heron grasped the axe in both hands before throwing it with the others, resulting in a dull thump as the wooden handles collided. With his emotions in check, he prepared to join the others. Though, not before seeing in the distance a rider on horseback storming down the road towards the villa. He could hear the bells tied into the creature¡¯s man and tail; a messenger most likely. Not an uncommon sight, it usually signalled to them that they would have more work to do than usual. But he put it out his mind for the time being. He was going to enjoy their reward; it had been a long time since he had the chance to relax without risking punishment.


    He could hear the sounds of laughter and splashing, the rest had already reached the river while he was standing idle. Heron decided he wouldn¡¯t waste any more time, quickly pulling off his tunic and placing it under a rock. A ratty, tattered thing. But still, he didn¡¯t want his only clothes to be stolen by the wind. He looked down at his arms, covered in filth and scars. But not for much longer. His arms swung side by side, almost skipping as he made his way to join the other slaves in the river.

 Chapter Four: Lost to the River

    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.