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Chapter Seven
To Charlie's vast surprise, Xanthus was actually kind to him. As kind as he'd been since Charlie's initial purchase. He even allowed Charlie to crawl up the ladder onto the deck, where the clean scent of fresh air revived him at once.
"You're no value dead," the trader muttered. "Here. Drink all the water you want."
He handed Charlie a waterskin.
Charlie slaked his thirst frantically. He closed his eyes, lost in the ecstasy of life-giving fluid soaking into parched tissues. He would have given anything to drain the whole water bag, but Xanthus said, "Share the rest with Aelia."
Reluctantly he lowered the waterskin. "Thank you, Master," he whispered.
Xanthus' lips twitched. "Still trying to avoid the sale, eh? Should have thought of that before you took liberties with another man's virgin slave."
"Master, I didn't do anything to her—"
"Don't lie to me again, boy. I saw the look on your face—and hers." He scowled, then let it go with a dramatic sigh. "I suppose I'd better feed you. Bericus will want you reasonably healthy. I suspect he'll find ways of getting the healthy brats he wants out of you. I've been too lax with you, I suppose. Adflicta tells me I'm much too soft to try what would really work."
Charlie shivered. He didn't even want to think about what Bericus might try to turn his children from lead-poisoned, pitiful little things into healthy, strong sons to be sold to the Imperial gladiatorial school. Most Roman medical treatments quacked like a whole flock of ducks.
Xanthus sighed, seeming almost human in that moment. "If only you would submit to my orders..."
His doom already sealed, Charlie saw no sense in pulling his punches. "I might have, if you'd been charitable with kind words now and then. But you had to be tough, beating me into submission. Would you want your sons put through what you've put me through these past two years?"
Xanthus' eyes flashed, then a slow glint of respect appeared. "No. But I'm a patrician of an old family. You're a slave. Does my horse care if I geld its foal? What concern is it of yours what I do with my property? Mithras' pity, most slaves could care less what happens to their brats. They sleep with whatever woman they can get to open their legs and enjoy life where they can." Xanthus' brows twitched down. "But then, you always were an odd one. Even in the arena. I'm tempted..."
Charlie waited, wondering what his master was considering.
"No." Xanthus sighed. "Bericus tried that and you put a gash in his chin trying to kill him."
Charlie shuddered involuntarily, remembering.
"I'll let him deal with you. And with your incorrigible temper. Too bad. I couldn't feel more disappointed if one of my own sons had failed me. Achivus!"
"Master?"
"Give him enough food for himself and that girl of Caelerus'. Rufus, feed yourself and Aelia, too, when she wakes up." He tossed Charlie a heavy iron key, which he caught awkwardly.
Charlie considered only for a few seconds leaping overboard and trying to swim for it. He might make it to shore. But that would leave Aelia trapped below and Lucania trapped with Bericus. So he crawled meekly back into the hold as ordered. One of the sailors handed down a bucket of gruel, two bowls, and two spoons. Then, astonishing him, the sailor tossed down a limp wineskin and a couple of rough-hewn wooden cups.
"Maybe if she's drunk," Xanthus muttered, "we won't need as much of the drug. Can't have her fighting Bericus again... ."
Charlie had to make two trips and nearly went down several times as the ship rolled through the swells. The motion compounded the light-headedness that swept through him every few moments. What wine would do on an empty stomach... It'd been four years since he'd tasted anything alcoholic. Wine ought to taste wonderful. And if he couldn't avoid being sold to Bericus, alcohol might deaden nerve endings enough to endure his first night.
He set everything down beside the locked door, then fished out the key Xanthus had given him. Iron grated rustily, then the lock gave and came open in his hand. He swung open the door. When it threatened to slam shut again, he braced it with his crutch.
Aelia had flattened herself into one corner, a she-wolf at bay. Her gaze came up, focused on him...
Tension drained visibly from her body.
"What's up?" she asked.
The phrasing, so un-Latin-like, reminded Charlie painfully of home. A brief supposition crossed his mind, but he dismissed it immediately. That would be stretching odds just a little too far.
"Xanthus told me to feed you when you woke up."
She looked hopeful. "Is it edible?"
He gri
"Faugh..."
"But there's wine." He couldn't help sounding smug.
"Wine? Great heavens, has Xanthus discovered a sense of mercy?"
"No," he answered honestly. "He thought if you're drunk, he might not need as much of the drug next time. Just what did you do to Bericus?"
She slipped past him into the hold, then pulled a face at the stench. "I hit him in the balls," she said crudely. The flash in her eyes betrayed intense satisfaction.
Charlie just groaned. "Dear God, Aelia. He'll kill you on your first night with him."
"Oh, no." She shook her head emphatically—in the ma
Something, some quality of quiet ruthlessness in her tone and her eyes, spoke to Charlie in a way he'd never before experienced. The women he'd known as a teenager had been hard as old leather; they, like he, had known what it was to fight and claw for survival, had known it from early childhood.
He'd have bet money Aelia didn't. There were too many things about her that said, Nice kid, sheltered from a lot of life's ugliness. Yet there she stood, on her way to an unspeakable future, having made a decision to survive and grimly outlining one possible plan of attack. Despite her probable protected upbringing, in her determination she reminded Charlie of... himself.
He realized quite suddenly Aelia was probably not nearly as young a child he'd first thought. His initial guess of fifteen could be a couple of years short, at least. Charlie narrowed his eyes, recalling the sight of her body when he'd bathed her, that first morning she was ill. He'd thought she was simply a well-developed fifteen-year-old. Hell, he'd busted thirteen-year-old whores who'd looked at least twenty. Just how old—or young—was Aelia?
He wanted to know a great deal more about her. Who she was, really; where she'd come from. Why everything about her seemed oddly familiar, when he knew he'd never laid eyes on her in his life. In part, that was the cop in him. Wanting to ferret out the facts. But also part of it, Charlie realized, was that her determined attitude (now that it wasn't filtered through the drugs) somehow made him feel less alone.
To not be alone... Against his will, Charlie found himself wishing for impossible things—that he could keep her out of Bericus' clutches, that he could have the time to solve her mysteries. Then he shook his head, banishing the false mirages. He could deal with only one thing, if he were to survive: what passed for real life in this place.
Quite simply, Aelia's determination must be based on illusion. Charlie could tell Aelia still didn't understand what Bericus was capable of doing to her. Charlie knew one thing very well. If she fought him, he'd hurt her. Maybe even kill her.