19 of my sight! I won’t have people thinking that I sell rebellious slaves.” Clodius did not give Faelan a chance to stand up and dragged him over stones and dirt back into the warehouse. Faelan, his side still throbbing from the kick, could barely breathe. Once back in the warehouse, he did find his breath. It came out in a sob, and then another. Tears flowed down his dirt-stained cheeks; a few, and then a torrent. During the past week he had been the protector of his ten-year-old sister; as such, tears were of no help to him. With her gone, he let them flow freely. He held his head in his hands, the metallic odor of the shackles around his wrists filling his nose and mouth. He imagined the iron smell filling him, changing him, making him into a rigid tool for someone else’s use. Faelan felt a hand on his shoulder. He lifted his head and beheld the countenance of an old woman. Her glittering eyes framed by dirty long hair searched his face. “There, there, my boy,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “I saw all of that. You should not fight the lot the gods have given you.” Faelan jerked away from her. “See what I mean? Listen to me: it is useless to fight. I am an old slave, for sale yet again, and I know what I am talking about.” Faelan wiped his nose on his sleeve and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for you, old woman. But I refuse to submit. I am no slave!” “Quiet, quiet, my boy. What do you accomplish if you fight?” She shook his shoulder. “No one who wants a house slave will buy an unruly boy! Romans will fear that you might poison
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