Note: this is an especially long chapter for those of you in the U.S. Happy Independence day. For those of you in British affiliated areas, be grateful you need not concern yourselves overmuch with a certain rebellious child nation. Personally this July 4th I am celebrating Turtle Liberation day, as my dear red-eared slider has outgrown the confines of his tank and after a week of remedial goldfish fishing lessons in our spare bathtub he is going to live in the lake belonging to a family friend. It will be a bittersweet parting but it is time. I wish him well.

Chapter 24 The Breaks

Back at the way-station Green-eyes fluttered open greeting the world with reluctance. He ached. To say that was to put it mildly. In the Circus Maximus Trowa had seen prisoners drawn and quartered, four feisty stallions, one tied to each limb before their riders bolted to the four winds ripping the body apart. He imagined that if one were to somehow survive the ordeal they might feel a bit like he did at the moment. Still, He didn’t appear broken, his muscles and limbs seemed intact and working. His next thought was that Perhaps the arena doctores had been testing their techniques on him again That would explain the sensation of pain and…emptiness? No sooner than he identified the last sensation it vanished, and he was inundated with a cascade of uncalled for memories filling the aching void and leaving him shaking and weak.

When he came back to himself he was aware of a hand clutching his own and another hand rubbing circles on the small of his back. “Shh Paci, Tritun Truna, Mi am clthl.” The silky tenor soothed.

It took a few heartbeats for the boy to realize those soothing words were in fact directed at him. “Peace/calm” and “I’m here,” made sense and the nickname was familiar, Cathy had given it to him but Master Barton chanced to overhear and had him beaten for it. He idly wondered if the same would happen again. He shook his head ready to deny the words he was no sea god, no ‘Trut-truna’ (mighty-lightning bolt) only ‘Trua Nana-ni’ (a slave, a nothing no-one), and never more.

Turning his head to face the figure sitting on the edge of his bed made his vision cloud a bit but he was certain this WAS a proper bed with a stout frame and a thick mattress of goose down, not a thin straw mat on cold stone—then his gaze met startling blue eyes and a noble face framed in ginger. “Macstre!” (master) He gasped in recognition. Something was wrong that he would be here.

He tried to sit up and scoot out from beneath the soft blankets that swaddled him but the nobleman laid a hand on his arm to still him. “Cetse,” (Stop/rest) then calmly offered, “Ti alp papniu puruthn?” (Do you want some grain porrage?)

“Ne,” Trowa replied shaking his head in the negative though he wasn’t entirely sure whether he was rejecting the offer of food or the idea that he should calm down and rest. “Mi ei eicrece.” (I’m not sick) he insisted knowing it was often more convenient for a master to sell a sick slave than to tend them.

His all too perceptive master countered. “Tu hermu ap nethsrac’a.” (You are afflicted with sadness and heartbreak) then placed a few pillows behind the boy’s back to help him sit up a bit tucking the blanket around him once more.

“Mi ei neqaxu nene” (I don’t need a babysitter/wetnurse) Trowa sulked from beneath the curtain of his bangs.

“Nene..mini?” (nursemaid…Me?) the man’s thin lips quirked in a smile eyed him speculatively, one forked eyebrow rose at the assessment. “Ti alp mi capa’sa?” (Do you want me to go?)

The young slave felt compelled to explain himself better. His usually quiet voice was heavy with emotion as he insisted, “Ne Macstre, trin ta tre-teraS piana eurtha eStla marish-eri.” (No master, I pray, you do too much--sacrificing your dignity for the sake of a slave)

“Tenixunce, hecz-ri mi huzmatre,” (I offered, I take care of my young warriors) the noble shrugged. “Vesi a ceisu, mavilitule vinm neri.” (Try a few bites of meat, some watered wine.) Treize placed a small tray before him containing a cup and a selection of cold meats, cheese, fruit slices and bread. The bowl of sticky porridge he left on the nightstand.

Trowa’s stomach made its own feelings on the matter heard and he had no choice to answer to the persistent demand. It felt like he hadn’t eaten in a week. Which begged the question just how long had he been…otherwise occupied. “Clal ena?” (what is today?) He asked mildly nibbling on the meat and cheese

Treize frowned a bit counting off on his fingers before coming up with, “Sar, acalve, Tu citz thesan hintha ilucu huth tezan.” (The tenth of June, You wake mid-morning after five days travel.)

“Huth tezan? Mi mnev thue ci.” Trowa echoed, (five days? I remember only three) Then he asked “Cal scuna spura)?” (Where is this place/city?)

Treize pursed his lips, “Verona.” He said, it was the first thing not in the language of the Raśnele perhaps the man didn’t know the place name in Rasa. This lapse was what actually brought the fact home to him that the man shouldn’t be able to converse so freely in that language In fact Trowa wasn’t entirely sure why he was able to do so himself. He tried to adjust his thinking to process Latin and his mind promptly seized up. Trowa pulled his knees up to his chest and shivered. The she-wolf that had been dozing at the foot of the bed whined piteously, lifting her head to lick the boys hand in encouragement.

“Zusa zanulis.” (Try to hold on) Treize whispered and began rubbing his back again. Before too long Trowa was able to pull himself out of the dark place and was once again surprised to find his master still sitting beside him--comforting him.

He moved his hand and idly scratched the wolf’s ears finally he asked, “Tu ara Rumate ixnac satir Raśna? Nac?” (You are Roman how is it you speak Etruscan? Why?)

“Huini Une en streta mini. Ap api phurthce campane. Leda sa ati snenath.” (Lady Une instructed me, my father brought her back from campaign, she was my mother’s maidservant.)

“A naria?” (A female slave) Trowa asked

“Lautnitha” (a freedwoman/family servant) Treize corrected, “An min nene. Enac min ati lupuce Sa amu clanti, (She was my nanny. After my mother died I became her adopted son.)

“Huini ap tu api lasa?” (Lady was your father’s bride?)

“Na-puia an arce sa.” (Not his wife, she raised me) Treize was beginning to look a bit uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Cvethn tu hexth.” (Get some rest, you’ll feel better)

“Alpan (willingly) the boy agreed then managed a slight teasing smile “Xarsteiun Macstre Turze.” (Thank you generous master)

“Paci,” (Peace/sleep) as bone deep fatigue closed his eyes he heard the soft whisper of Latin, “Rest my mighty Trowa, rest and be well.”

Treize leaned back next to the sleeping youth. This had been the longest and most coherent period of consciousness Trowa had since his shock in the ruins. He had been awake before now of course but far from lucid. His movements had been doll-like, green-eyes dull and unfocused and his mind lost in another place and time. Zechs had counseled him to send the stricken youth back to the villa with one of the others to care for him but the noble wouldn’t hear of it.

“These boys are mine…the responsibility is mine. I won’t have him face this alone.” He had said, and it was clear no amount of reason would sway him from that decision. It had been difficult to see his young beast master brought low in such a way but Treize did not regret his decision. The other slaves had been quite surprised he would not simple discard the boy, leave him at the nearest slave-market like some broken commodity. Instead he girded his dear Epyon with one of the pack saddles, so he could comfortable carry the stricken youth on the chestnut roan before him.

From the boy’s fragmented ramblings and his own knowledge of the Tusci language Treize had a pretty clear picture of the memories Trowa had been struggling to come to grips with. Once the Tusci had been a powerful people; before the destruction of Troy they had been what Rome was now. Their Kingdom was not as far reaching or as well organized as the Empire, of course, but they had been the rulers in what was now the roman heartland. As the chariot wheels of time are driven along the road of progress some cultures are cast by the wayside…others are crushed by those succeed them. It happens. There are casualties. Lady Une had made sure he had a healthy understanding of what was sacrificed to craft the secure foundation on which the empire now stood.

The Etruscans had been scattered and absorbed by their roman rulers…though there had been pockets of resistance from time to time, Fragments of a bygone era with a mind to resurrect that which had been. Trowa had been birthed in such environs. If his people had been tucked away in some forgotten wilderness they might have been left alone, forgotten for another generation or so. But roman roads conquer the wilderness as our civilization overwhelms the world. Mercenaries descended upon them en-masse determined to break the backs of the stiff-necked people.

They refused to bow and so the sword swept them aside. Those young enough or impressionable enough to be useful were taken as slaves. Trowa and his sister had been taken into their ranks, for re-education and indoctrination into the slave way of life. The boy was sold to the arena when they were done with him. After more training he came into Barton’s hands where Cathy must have found him in the Circus Maximus and tried to make him remember who he had been. Her stories and songs planted seeds and returning again to the place of destruction caused those seeds to germinate and run rampant in his mind

It was not a terribly complicated story, but the scars it had left on the young soul were visibly apparent. “My dear boy,” Treize whispered rubbing Trowa’s back in the way that seemed to calm him. “I can’t do anything about what was done. But you have a place with us; a place of safety and security where, despite your slave status you are free to be whom you wish.”

There was a small knock on the door and Zechs entered the others trailing in his wake careful not to disturb the sleeping youth.

“How is he?” the question was inevitable, it didn’t really matter who voiced it, it was clearly on everyone’s mind.

“Much better, Treize was happy to recount. “He was awake just a bit ago. More alert…we had a chance to talk. He told me he doesn’t need a nurse maid.” Treize lips twisted in a smile. He had wanted to see their reaction to that but of news and hadn’t been disappointed; Surprise relief, Hope flicked across the faces arrayed before him all in a fraction of a heartbeat. “It seems he is back with us; Latin still unnerves him though.” He admitted. Turning to Zechs he admitted, “He’s dubbed me, ‘Macstre Turza’. Do you think I should have him call you ‘Macstrna Zax’?”

The barbarian prince scoffed. “I suppose you’ll have to, unless he gets his Latin back in relative short order.” Seeing looks of confusion on the other slaves’ faces he explained, “Une wasn’t at all appreciative of my inclusion into Treize’s household. During my first months at the villa she spoke nothing but Tusci out of sheer spite knowing I couldn’t understand she was free to make her feelings about me quite clear. I think she was trying to make me feel more an outsider than I already did. But I showed her. Listening and watching her interact with Treize till I could puzzle out what she was saying.”

Treize chuckled “Simply understanding wasn’t enough was it M’lord, one afternoon he just blurts out ‘Stop tormenting me you snub-nosed old woman;’ in near perfect Tusci,

“Lecin lecusta mini, Ti Sîmos leinth.” Zechs re-enacted the scene with a bit of flair wagging his finger at an imagined Une.

“She was shocked to say the least and I nearly hurt myself laughing so hard,” Treize grinned.

“I think I earned her respect then. Somewhat -- The harridan still jabbed me with that roasting fork for stealing pastries from the kitchen.” Zechs groused before continuing with the tale “Anyway, Treize entrusted me with an Etruscan title. As Une is lady or, Hununi—“

Duo’s explosive laughter momentarily distracted his line of thought as the boy practically crowed, slapping his thigh, “Whoo-Noonie-Ooon! That is soooo rich!”

It felt good to hear the braided boy laugh. Given Trowa’s condition no one had felt especially jovial. And what little levity they could manage had been strained. Zechs had confided to Treize that he feared his that the use of the lash would forever end the camaraderie the six of them had shared over pine needless in the slave quarters. But even as he nursed his hurts Duo had been incredibly forgiving.

Treize half suspected the boy’s magnanimous gesture may have been inspired in part by his wish to see Heero learned that duty and friendship could coexist even when they seem to be at odds. Providing of course those involved were willing to work toward those ends. Most weren’t. But that didn’t matter. Duo and Zechs were willing and grateful for the opportunity to make amends.

With a satisfied smile Zechs continued despite the interruption. “My Tusci title is Macstrna. Itmeans the same as ‘Aide-de-camp’ and ‘Zax’ means vigilant. Macstre means ‘master’ which is how lady always named him and Turze sounds like Treize but means ‘generous’--Which of course he is.” The large blonde clarified casually folding his hands behind his back -- Or at least the action was meant to seem casual.

Treize knew his second entirely too well. There was something in that boldfaced compliment at the end that caught Treize’s attention. And on closer inspection he noted the peculiar look in Zechs eyes and unless Treize missed his guess that usually meant something of mischief had occurred while he had been ‘less than vigilant.’ “Did you have any trouble finding the supplies for the next leg of the journey?” the noble asked suspiciously.

“Not at all, the supplies have been procured and are all ready in the stables, under urchin-guard. We just need to load the horses. As for trouble, no, no trouble really, I split the boys up to cover more ground. Go ahead boys turn out your pouches and give your master the change.”

One by one the slaves did so till there was a sizable pile of coin on the edge of the bed.

“There seems to be quite a lot here.” Treize observed, hoping Duo hadn’t been ‘using his skills’ as a thief to augment their supplies. After that last time, He hoped the boy would have learned not test his limits. Treize never wanted to punish any of his boys again and knew Zechs felt the same. But he half-suspected his braided rapscallion would slip into old habits if they didn’t keep a close eye on him.

The braided youth seemed to sense his skepticism. “We bought the stuff for cheap. Saving a couple of denarii is a good thing right? Didja know Q-bean can bargain like a camel drover? He talked the marketers down about half, good quality stuff too.

“He paid for vin ordinaire (common wine) and the merchant gave him a very fine Rosa Vindum (rose wine) instead. The last time I bought you rose wine it cost me twenty sextarius and Quatre paid only eight!”.Zechs shook his head. “I don’t know how he did it.”

“It was beautiful I tell you.” Duo sniffed and pretended to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. “Q-babe with my talent and your, oh so sunny, smile and bright-blue eyes we could go real far.”

Quatre cheeks pinked. “I was Lady Dorothy’s cup bearer. I do know wines…and vintage marks. That merchant was trying to cheat his customers selling second quality for the good stuff. I merely beat him at his own game. Finding the wineskins he had re-filled with the prime vintages and paid the prices that were still marked on them.” he admitted. “It wasn’t anything really.”

“Now Q-bean Ro told you before not to make light of your achievements. Bask in the glow of adoration like a good boy.” Duo tried to pat him on the head but the petite blonde slipped away quickly going to kneel by the bed to study Trowa’s sleeping face, for once unconcealed by the characteristic fall of auburn hair.

Treize’s forked eyebrow rose a bit further as he examined the pile of coins closer; noting silver and a few gold coins, twinkling among the copper and bronze. “This is more than I gave you.”

“It seems the Champion of Venice was taking his ease by the well. And the man fell to bosting. They put out a call for any who wished to test their mettle against him in an impromptu match. And Heero was unable to let the challenge…or the challenger stand.” WuFei quietly admitted.

“You fought?” Treize asked mildly disturbed by the notion the boy could have been hurt.

“I won.” Heero shrugged off-handedly as if there really hadn’t been any other option. Treize wondered if there was more behind the words but it was difficult to read the boy’s inflectionless voice and his cold eyes likewise gave nothing away.

Duo was a different matter. The braided boy was incapable of staying still for more than a moment and he was eager to expound on everything. “No one thought our he-man could trounce that big bruiser.” He explained, “but trounce he did! You should a seen it. Between Ro’s uncanny strength and reflex and the tricks he’s learned from watching Wuffie and T-bear it was a great show!”

“You failed to mention that our champion possesses incredible resilience and tenacity as well.” WuFei interjected unable to disguise his respect for the gladiator’s performance. Then he seemed to catch himself, as if words of praise, no matter how deserved, had no place falling from his lips. “Keep your voice down Maxwell, you don’t want to disturb Trowa…and my name is WuFei, as well you know.”

“Ya, ya I hear you Fei Fei.” Duo’s voice was a fraction quieter in deference to their resting comrade. But he was clearly unrepentant. “Anyway, Q and me got GREAT odds.”

“You wagered on the outcome…put money on your comrades life?” Treize’s frown deepened and he could not help but view the pile of bloods-money with some scorn. He wanted heero and Trowa as guards and didn’t like to think of them risking themselves for something as tawdry as money. Zechs would doubtless berate him for that kind of thinking; insisting that Treize only felt that way because he was a spoiled little rich boy at heart. It was true Treize always had more money than he knew what to do with. When ever the topic of arena proceeds came up Zechs was quick to defend the practice insisting that he wasn’t undervaluing live…Treize was undervaluing coin which was eminently more valuable to those who didn’t have any. Treize doubted the validity of that argument but suspected it had its roots in the Germanic system of ‘wergild’ (blood-price) as much as the blonde’s notable warrior pride.

“Trowa seems to be feeling much better -- more at peace than before.” The little blonde was clearly trying to distract him from delving into the matter at present.

“Do you think he will be able to be moved before noon?” WuFei asked, his obsidian eyes silently begging Treize to tread softly, “I was asking around and I think we will be able to make Tridentum soon after dark if we get an early start.”

Very well the noble silently conceded. He could wait and chastise them for their foolishness another time. “Well, if you are ready.” He concurred

“Streta.” (ready) The quiet voice seemed to echo in the sudden silence that fell on the room. Trowa had woke, that single word had been in Tusci but those that followed were blessedly in Latin--formal Latin, but Latin none-the-less, “Volens et potens” he said. (willing and able)

Then there was pandemonium, “You ARE better!” Quatre practically squealed with delight descending on the other boy like a hawk in the dive. It seemed he needed physical contact to reassure himself of the fact; which might have been the case. The young blonde had confided that physical connection enhanced his empathy. Duo needed no such reassurance, and was dancing about the room like a spring breeze, chanting something that sounded suspiciously like “Yess, yess, yess, yay, yess!

“Easy, easy…be careful!” Zechs was cautioned ineffectively. “Calm down the lot of you!” he roared practically making the window-glazing rattle. Heero and WuFei were of course nowhere near as effervescent with their reactions as the others, but Treize could see they were pleased to say the least. Once again Treize was grateful he hadn’t split them up, sending Trowa back to the villa to recover under Une’s care. They needed this, and so did he.

Of course that didn’t mean Treize was going to forget all about Heero needlessly putting himself at risk. As master, it was his duty to discourage that kind of behavior. He would need to have words with the others as well, for encouraging him to do so. Treize may have bought the boys at market price, but their lives meant far more to him than mere coin. Zechs of all people should know how he felt about such things and put a stop to it.

Chapter 24 notes

As I said before I went to a lot of trouble to make the Etruscan as real as possible. I find it wildly ironic that if the limited Etruscan words we know the words for both ‘Triton Bloom’ and ‘no-name =nanai”

Trut-truna’ sounds similar enough to Trowa to have been a sensible nickname and its meaning “mighty-lightning bolt" and in my mind makes it a period equivalent to ‘heavy arms’ Trua does mean slave and Nana-ni does mean ‘no one or nothing’ the same as ‘Nanashi.’ Une means 'gift', or 'spring' and Hununi means 'lady'. Aren’t coincidences amusing ;)

On Horses and saddles: The roman military saddle had four horns and a seat stuffed with straw. It allowed a more stable position in the saddle, and permitted a cavalry officer to ride with hands free to wield sword and shield. Although rope loops were used to make mounting easier stirrups as we know them were not used till much later. I mentioned the four horned design while describing the horses in the courtyard of the villa. However if you think about it this type would have made riding double near unbearable. Rather than abandon the saddle and ride bear-back (something neither horse or rider would find comfortable over prolonged exposure) I suspect the safest and most effective way of conveying a near unconscious Trowa was using one of the simpler saddles from the pack animals, and tying him in place across it then and having Treize or one of the other experienced riders mount behind to keep him as steady as possible.

The pack saddle I envision is a bit like the 12 century ‘Sambue’ from which the modern side saddle evolved. It had a wooden triangle with a high pommel at the front and a fur seat without Cantle behind. It did not have stirrups but used a wire footrest instead. I realize this it is clearly out of period but what ever the roman’s used for this purpose would have been serviceable because it would have to be to be sturdy enough to evenly distribute the weight across the horse’s spine, long enough to accommodate irregularly shaped loads, thick enough to prevent chaffing and have lots of loops to tie things to. Even so, Traveling for days in this fashion explains why Trowa experienced such pain upon waking even though he wasn’t injured physically. When the journey continues Trowa is still riding double but it is just a precaution He isn’t dead weight anymore and can ride in the second position balancing on his own making the ride less stressful for all involved. (Sincere thanks go to innervoice_chan who posted a question about riding double with an injured companion in her live journal and to all those knowledgeable people who chimed in to provide answers to a writers conundrum)

In ancient Rome, all gambling, except betting on gladiators and races, were forbidden by law. Champion gladiators were often put on display by the fountain in the forums by their trainers. It is said that these fighters were always surrounded by admiring crowds. One contemporary writer describes ‘their broad ox-like shoulders being stroked patronizingly by the soft, lily-white hands of the patricians, who gathered about the fountain near the coliseums, offering wagers on the next combat.

A champion Gladiator could understandably become quite a heart-throb and be known as "decus puellarum" or "suspirium puellarum" (the sigh of the girls). It would be quite common for these victorious Gladiator-playboys to freshen up at the nearby fountain called the Meta Sudans where they could meet and exchange words. The satirist Juvenal goes as far as suggesting that hitherto respectable women literally turned into the crazed fans of the ugliest gladiator and his "sword" in favor of their husbands and children. You could even buy clay figurines of them in the marketplace. I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn Mariemia collected a whole army of them, she may even have a few we would recognise to be her generals.

The impressive Roman Arena in Verona was built in the first century AD and would likely have been under construction at this time. It is one of the most important and best conserved Roman amphitheaters. It is called "the Arena" from the Latin name for the sand that covers the stage where the shows took place. The stage is elliptical in shape with beams measuring 74 x 44 meters internally and 152 x 123 meters externally. The seating area, called "cavea," is made up of 44 levels and can still hold 22,000 spectators. Since 1913 it has hosted the celebrated lyric opera season of Verona in the summer months.

Old English “wergild” :literally wer = man + geld = payment. In Anglo-Saxon and Germanic law, this was the fixed amount, or blood-price, payable by a killer and his kin to his victim's kinsmen and lord. A man's kin was obliged to seek vengeance for his untimely death, but payment of wergeld was an alternative to blood-feud, and a means of keeping order in a violent society. The amount of wergeld was also an important mark of social status.

A regular freeman (ceorl) was worth 200 shillings in 9th century Mercian law (twyhyndeman), a nobleman was worth 1200 (twelfhyndeman). The law code even mentions the weregeld for a king, at 30000, composed of 15000 for the man, paid to the royal family, and 15000 for the kingship, paid to the people. As a prince of the blood and a gladiator Zechs knew his value down to the nearest clipped coin. And Treize values life above all. As you can guess this was a point of contention between the two. According to this system Thralls and slaves technically commanded no weregild, but it was commonplace to make a nominal payment in the case of a thrall and the value of the slave in such a case. A shilling was defined as the value of a cow in Kent or elsewhere, a sheep. A classic example of a dispute over the weregild of a slave is contained in Iceland's Egil's Saga.