Heron’s back ached as he carved through the barley with his sickle, crouching down to pick up the fallen ears to put in his basket. The field was filled with workers, those cutting the barley and those transporting it to the mill.

  Every day since Aurelian had arrived, life had gotten harder. Niko had been issuing beatings for even the slightest mistake. It had only been two days ago when one of the slaves broke his tool during work. The axe had been ancient and splintering, but that didn't lessen his punishment.

  He’s clearly taking out his anger on us, Heron thought.

  Before Aurelian, Niko lived like a king among slaves. He had the nicest room, ate and drank his fill every night and had the satisfaction of being in charge. Aurelian had since kicked him out of the room and forced him to stay in one of the domestic slave chambers. Still better than the cells that Heron and the other farmhands lived in. He also now had to deal with being emasculated by Aurelian’s bodyguard, the auburn-haired man who had almost killed him.

  Aurelian had rarely left the villa, from the rumours he just sat around drinking. I can’t believe that’s Avenntius’ son. He had never met Aurelian as he was already in Acta waging war when he lived at the Avanntian house at Urr. However, from his brief experience with his father and sister, it seemed like he was from an entirely different family. His father was a ruthless tyrant, and his sister was surprisingly kind. He’s nothing but a lazy drunk, this is the man that owns you.

  Heron’s head throbbed; the burn had healed for the most part. But the mark would never leave, a perpetual reminder to everyone that his owner was a worthless drunk. But still, it gave him some satisfaction to know that Niko was being treated no differently than a normal slave now. Maybe it was punishment rendered by the gods for his sins. Unlikely, the gods only punish in stories.

  Tossing another handful of barley into his basket, he noticed the nearby figure of Hanno, waving to him. He was the old man he saved from death who had been following him around, trying to repay him. It was a mistake; you don’t owe me anything. Hanno had given him his ration of wine, food, and even some Hakka. The dew from a flower native to Acta that the barbarians would use to spice their wine. It was sweet like honey, and it dulled pain and let your mind wander.

  Heron didn’t know where Hanno would get something from so far away. The plant didn’t grow in Urr and most Urrans scorned it due to it being from the land of their enemy. Half of the slaves here were probably Actan, he thought. No doubt a smuggler in the nearby village. Where there’s a market, there will be some crafty man to fill it. Heron kept his small terracotta vial hidden behind a loose brick in his room.

  He would no doubt be punished if he was caught with it. After all, slaves couldn’t own anything that wasn’t gifted to them by their master. Especially not something that could reduce productivity. It was worth the risk.

  Heron didn’t use much; he didn’t want to reduce himself to some barbarian. But it would be rude to waste Hanno’s gifts. And besides, his wounds hadn’t healed yet and it was difficult to sleep most nights. A drop or two to help you fall asleep, just until the pain goes away.

  Hanno was in much better spirits since then, his body was still recovering from his flogging. Maybe he was taking Hakka as well, if he had enough to give Heron he probably had a way to get more. Or it could just be he was grateful to have a few extra days of life. That was if being a slave could really be called life.

  He waved back and felt warmth spread through his chest. He hadn’t developed a bond with another slave for a long time. But he knew even this was risky. Drawing the manager's attention right now would be unwise. Stop waving you old fool, we can talk later.

  The day passed quickly, with dusk looming over them in the blink of an eye. The bell rang out signalling the end of the workday and for everyone to be brought back, their tools to be retrieved, and their bodies catalogued.

  Heron and the other six men grouped up and made their way back to the villa, walking shoulder to shoulder with Hanno. The stain of blood on his tunic had turned brown and black, but the smell lingered.

  “My friend! Have you been taking the Hakka?” Said Hanno. “Ahhh… nectar of the gods, gives you the courage of a lion, yes?”

  “I take a drop at night, no more. I do not need more courage, just… to clear my mind.” Heron said. “How are your wounds, Hanno?”

  Hanno waved his hand dismissively. “Wounds? Wounds, ha! These won’t even leave a scar Heron, strong as a bull!”

  Heron still hadn’t quite gotten used to Hanno’s surprisingly boisterous personality of the frail old man. Not that it displeased him, his energy was infectious.

  “Shut it! No talking!” Came from behind as their master showed no tolerance for idle chatter. Niko had given orders to all of his minions to allow no mistakes and to crack down on even the smallest hints of rebellion. After all, two slaves talking could be meaningless, or they could be fomenting rebellion.

  Hanno went deadly still, any sign of the energetic and boisterous man gone. He is wearing a mask. Heron thought, most likely trying to make himself brave in the face of such cruelty. The tension of the slaves had only risen since the arrival of Aurelian. The harshness of the punishments and their frequency had everyone afraid. Most of the slaves would never have experienced such cruelty in their past lives.

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  The journey back to the villa was brisk but silent. When they arrived, Niko oversaw the return of all tools. Usually, the job of one of his managers, he had become more paranoid of late. Heron didn’t blame him, if he had the chance he would bury the sickle in the monster’s brain. It wouldn’t be difficult if he moved quickly, he wouldn’t survive it but neither would Niko. Heron’s head throbbed.

  He gave his sickle to one of Niko’s minions as he walked into the villa’s basement towards the slave cells. “Until tomorrow Heron, may Traicam bless your slumber.” Hanno said as they passed each other to go to their respective rooms. “It dulls the senses over time, moderation my friend. Moderation.” The old frail man pat Heron on the back causing Heron to wince as he walked off, hobbling to his hole for the night.

  Heron sat in his chamber alone, lying down on his flea-ridden bed covered in old straw. Most slaves had to share their room with another, Heron was an exception. His room was barely big enough for one person. Built into the corner, you wouldn’t even know it was there unless you were looking for it. His room was only a few feet wide, small enough that if he stretched his arms he could touch both walls.

  The dim light of a candle shone into the room, soon to die out. His back hurt as the straw dug into his raw tattered back. His head throbbed. Just a drop. He reached under his bed and pulled a flagon of ‘wine’ from beneath alongside a single cup. It was diluted to the point that it was mostly water, and its taste was sour. Nothing like the spiced honey wine he had stolen during his time as a house slave in Urr. He poured himself a cup and drank it down in one, then he poured another.

  His hand traced the wall looking for the loose brick as he removed it and took the vial of Hakka into his hands. Removing the stopper, a single drop fell into his cup of crimson liquid. Just to help me sleep. The cup touched his lips before he was distracted by whispering outside his room. Lowering the cup, he listened to the hushed words.

  “We should do it now! W-When will we get another chance?” The first voice said, whispered and nervous.

  “How d’you plan to get anywhere near him?” The second voice replied. “And what, you gonna kill him and his shadow with your bare hands? You’re no Nectanbo.”

  “N-No, I’ll use this, swiped it from the kitchen this morning.”

  Heron crept towards the door to better listen, careful not to make any noise and alert those he was eavesdropping on.

  “Put that away! You tryin’ to get us nailed to a tree? Look, let's just talk about this tomorrow. He’s not leavin’ any time soon, so we’ve got time. Keep that thing hidden and don’t do anything stupid.”

  “I don’t want to wait any long-“

  Smash. Fool! Heron had been so absorbed with the conversation that he failed to notice how precariously he had placed his cup on his bed. In the corner of his eye, he saw it tumble towards the ground, the crash echoed through the quiet basement.

  He heard a clang outside his room as well as the scramble of footsteps away. How could you be so careless, Heron! He looked towards the spill on the ground, the wine turning into red veins of blood as it spread through the cracks in the floor. He wasn’t as bothered by the pooled wine as he was by wasting his precious supply of Hakka. Not now, think about that later.

  Those sounded like Actan accents. He wasn’t positive, he knew Urr and Acta spoke almost the same language, or at least the same family. But the pronunciation of Actans was noticeably longer and more droll than the Urran dialect.

  He couldn’t match a voice to a face, but what he was certain about was the nature of their conversation. They are planning on killing the master, those fools! Heron had no problem with his master dying, but not like this. All those idiots would accomplish would be getting them all killed.

  While he lived as a domestic slave in the city, there had been an uproar when a member of a prominent family was murdered by one of his slave girls. Heron didn’t know much about it, but what he and every other slave in the city saw was the aftermath. Every slave in the house whether they were involved or not, educated or illiterate were executed. At least one hundred slaves were nailed to posts in the city centre alive. Some lived for days before passing, never before had Heron seen such an act of cruelty.

  If they go through with this, everyone dies. Me, Hanno, even Niko. He imagined the fate might even be a great deal worse. Aurelian wasn’t just an aristocrat; he was the heir to one of the great families.

  Acting quickly, he emerged from his chamber into the hall trying to catch a glimpse of the would-be assassins. The hall was empty with no sign of the two men, they moved quickly it would seem. About to return to his room in failure, his eyes were drawn to a shine on the ground. Crouching, his hand clasped around the handle of the silver blade. Its handle was smoothed wood that fit well in his hand. A kitchen knife?

  Any blade could be used to kill of course, but Heron very much doubted that a kitchen knife would be enough to get the best of Aurelian or his bodyguard. The latter of whom was always seen draped in armour with his sword on his hip. The fools would have just gotten themselves killed.

  He held the knife in his hand as he looked around, making sure that he was truly alone in the hall.

  Seeing no one, he returned to his room knife in hand. He attempted to fit the knife into the hole in the wall behind the loose brick, but it was too narrow a space to fit the long blade. The next best solution was to hide it under his straw mattress. I cannot be found with this. I need to keep it hidden.

  Having hidden the knife, he then turned his attention to the fragments of his cup on the ground. He could just steal one tomorrow, but for tonight he’d need an alternative. Bringing the flagon to his lips he drank deeply from its watery contents. Tensions are high, those two were just the beginning.

  Aurelian may have been isolated to his chamber for the most part, but his impact was felt throughout the slaves. No wonder some of the Actans would grow bold, having the man who burned their country and forced chains around their necks within reach. No wonder some were growing rebellious. It would only take a spark to ignite the kindling that the villa had become.

  He rubbed his brow, his hand lingering on the scar on his head as he felt it burn. I need to sleep. Placing the stopper in the flagon and putting it beneath his bid, he lay awake for what seemed like hours. His mind consumed by pain. Just a drop.

  The vial of Hakka met his lips as he drank the sweet nectar inside, taking care to hide it in the wall and cover it up before his mind grew numb and his pain faded, and he drifted into a painless sleep. Blissfully ignorant to the chaos that was soon to erupt.