21Author's Note: My grandmother's Latin grammar had about seven four leaf clovers pressed in it. I would say, therefore, that the language must have been very lucky to her.
Disclaimer: A slave owns nothing; I own no more.
It was years since they'd taken his torc from him, but as he faced the giant in the Janus mask, it was as though the familiar weight had settled again around his neck.
Janus was their god of changes, he knew. Come to escort him to the land of the dead. Brigantia must have established an alliance with him, that The Elevated One should have sent the likeness of a Roman deity to bring him across.
Fine. He would face it as his mother had.
He let his arms hang down by his sides. He was ready. God of doors, I accept your embassy.
Unbidden, the thought entered his mind that perhaps he could defeat the giant. A moment only, then the imaginary torc pressed into his throat again. His life belonged to the goddess, not to him.
His mother knelt before his father, a willing sacrifice. Her bright blood cascaded forth.
She made no sound.
Her bravery unmanned him, for he himself was not willing.
Around the arena, a murmur of impatience arose. Esca took a moment to scan the crowd. He despised them. The goddess might be demanding his death, but he was not required to provide them with entertainment.
With a rippling movement of strong arms, he threw off both sword and shield. His death would be on his terms, not theirs.
Wham!
Or not.
The blow from the two-faced gladiator relieved the crowd's boredom, but failed to please them.
Esca went down, but was back on his feet immediately, only to be struck again.
And again.
And again. Well, if it wasn't the worst beating he'd ever had, at least it would be the last.
Then, flat on his back on the muddy ground of the arena, the gladiator's sword brushing his sternum, Esca found his lungs laboring to pull in his final breaths. Never, in his whole life, had he so wished to go on living. Exalted One, let him finish it before I shame myself completely.
A hundred voices yelled "Kill him!"
No man should beg for his life.
"Life!"
The sentiment was Esca's, but the voice was not his own.
"Life!" It was a Roman. His toga rippled in the wind. It seemed to Esca that the man addressed him personally.
I want to live, Esca thought, but it isn't up to me.
The Roman knew it, too. The patrician turned to others in the crowd. "Come on, you fools, get those thumbs up!" he yelled, until all the voices were yelling, "Life!"
The sword was withdrawn; Esca rose disbelievingly from the mud. He was still alive, thanks to the young Roman.
But what now?
"Before this night is over," his 'owner' promised, as he shoved the Brigante backstage, "you'll wish he had killed you."
