15 and sister were on their feet, holding clumps of grass in tight fists. The first legionary yanked the golden torque that Faelan wore around his neck and wrenched it off him, scraping his skin. “You won’t be needing this anymore!” he growled. “Move along,” barked the second legionary as he pushed the children past the splintered carts and the heaps of dead Britons. Faelan and Esselt treaded through the war-ravaged landscape like shades of the dead in the underworld. Faelan remembered little else from that day, or from the days that followed. Given enough food and drink only to stay alive, he and Esselt were first kept in one place, then another, always with shackles around their wrists and ankles, always in chains. After about a week, the final sundering happened. They were in some Roman town in Britain; it did not matter to Faelan which one. Faelan and Esselt were huddled on the dirty floor of a warehouse with other slaves. Nearby were jugs and pots of various items that would be sold at market, as would they. Light shone through the cracks in the wooden walls, casting narrow beams on the floor. The slave seller and his assistant opened the warehouse doors, dust swirling around their sandaled feet. The noise of the nearby forum filled Faelan with dread. “Take them in groups of ten, Clodius,” the slave dealer said. The assistant, a short man in a sweat-stained tunic, wielded a stick. He poked the slaves, urging them to their feet if they did not stand on their own. He came to Faelan and Esselt and, a slow grin spreading on his face, used the stick to tap Faelan on the head. “You’ve got hair bright like a copper pot!” he said. “These Celts!” Using the stick to lift a lock of Esselt’s flaxen hair, he exclaimed, “And
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