“The slave that stole his master’s honor,” Eithne chided as she emerged from her tent. She wore a heavy piece of mail armor that clinked as she paced in front of the tent. Her white hair was once again done up in a single braid.
Most of the camp seemed to be awake and gathered around Cato and Raweg. The two stood before Eithne. The scene reminded Cato of gladiators in the colosseum. Men prepared to die for the entertainment of the mob that is Rome.
Emperor Claudius had held many gatherings with Costa at the games. He believed in keeping up the spirits of the masses. It was not secret that many of the slaves being slaughtered there were captured by Costa in his conquests for Rome in Gaul and Germania.
“It was he who took mine,” Cato replied. “When he turned on me and enslaved me. I only wish to have it returned to me.”
“Boldly stated slave,” Eithne retorted, pacing the ground in front of him. “Freedom is a mighty price. Something you must stake your life on.”