If they keep this up, they'll kill me with kindness ....

She was required to drink a noxious potion which she didn't have the strength to refuse. The Roman touched her hand and said something that Margo supposed was meant to comfort; then they left her alone to sleep. She made an effort to sit up. Between the pain in her head, the forcible bleeding, and whatever they'd made her drink, she was too woozy. Margo collapsed again with a faint moan.

Tomorrow, she promised. I'll get the hell out of here tomorrow.

Margo was a virtual prisoner for the next four solid days. Too ill and light-headed to leave the room, she at least convinced Quintus Flammius, her "host," to stop cutting her veins open every few hours. He wasn't happy about it, but her recovery ceded up significantly -particularly when she insist on replacing the wine at her meals with as much water as she could drink. She'd learned in basic first aid that recovering from blood loss required replacement of liquids. And alcohol, while liquid, tended to dehydrate, not rehydrate. So she drank water until she thought she would burst and willed herself to recover.

Her ATLS bag and knife belt proved to be safely stored in a wooden chest. near her bed. Whenever she was alone, Margo updated her log and checked the chronometer to be sure how much time remained before Porta Romae cycled again. According to the log, she had four days remaining in Rome. What Malcolm must think by now ...

But Margo had no way to get a message to him. The only thing she could do was get well and get the hell out of here. By the fifth day, the headaches had disappeared and Margo was able to walk again without dizziness. Her host was evidently a very wealthy man. The villa she discovered beyond the confines of her sick room was breathtaking with frescoes, mosaic floors, and priceless statuary.

Quintus escorted her into a garden courtyard at the center of his house, guiding her to a marble bench, then clapped his hands. A chained figure Margo vaguely recalled was hauled, weeping and ashen, into the courtyard and thrust to his knees at his master's feet.

Margo stared Why, it's just a boy!

Perhaps thirteen or fourteen, he huddled at Quintus Flaminius' feet and waited. Flaminius spoke harshly to him, pointing at Margo for emphasis. The boy kissed Margo's feet, startling her badly, then huddled almost in a fetal ball beside her toes. Flaminius clapped his hands again. Collared slaves carried out a brazier on poles and set it down near Quintus. Heat shimmered in the spring air. A long iron rod had been thrust into glowing coals.

Flaminius snapped out something to his slave. The boy looked up .... A wild cry broke from ashen lips. He started back, trying to scramble to his feet, then flung himself at Flaminius' legs, clinging to his calves and pleading, "Domine, domine..."

Was he acknowledging Flaminius as his master? Or just begging mercy with the only word he had wit to retain?

The slaves who'd carried the brazier into the courtyard seized him, holding him immobile. Flaminius picked up the iron rod with great deliberation, then nodded to his men. They stripped the boy's tunic back from his thighs. He whimpered....

The sickening smell of seared flesh and a high, ragged scream jolted Margo. Oh, God... .

They branded him with a lurid "F" across the thigh. Margo gagged and feared she might pass out. By all rights the boy should have. He didn't. He just lay on the ground moaning and clutching at the dirt with thin fingers. Flaminius reheated the branding iron. Slaves held the boy again. This time Flaminius moved the iron toward the boy's face ....

"NO!"

Margo was on her feet, the cry torn from her.

Flaminius halted in surprise. Then stared at the tears welling in her eyes. Then, very slowly, replaced the branding iron in the brazier. He gestured to his men. They released the trembling boy, who kissed his master's feet-then wept on Margo's. She swayed...

Flaminius eased her back to a seat on the marble bench and called to a slave. A moment later, the rim of a goblet touched her lips. She swallowed strong red wine and fought to regain control of herself. Flaminius was speaking quietly to his slave. Margo recognized very little of what he said, catching only the version of her name she'd oven him: Margo Sumitus. When Flaminius escorted her back to her sick room, she didn't argue. What surprised her, however, was the boy who'd been branded. He limped after them, still chained and struggling, then took a seat next to her bed He remained behind even when Flaminius left, putting himself between her and the door as though he intended to guard Margo's very life.

She wondered what his name was and why he'd run away in the first place. He met her gaze, clearly curious about his foreign benefactor who'd kept him from being branded a second time, then flushed and jerked his gaze down again.

She sat up in bed. Then touched her chest. "Margo," she said. Then she pointed to him.

The boy whispered, "Domine, sum Achillei."

Domine?

Surely she'd misunderstood? But Malcolm had been clear about the meaning of that word. Dominus meant master.

Young Achilles glanced up. "Esne Palmyrenus?" he asked, sounding awestruck.

She shrugged. That wasn't important. "Et to?"

His "Graecus sum ... ." came out strangled, so tremulous Margo's heart constricted. How had this boy come to be a slave?

More importantly, how had he come to be her slave? And what was she going to do about it?

When her host returned to check up on her, Margo struggled to ask. Her Latin was insufficient for the question, but Flaminius removed all doubt when he put Achilles' chains in her hands and said, "Achilles tuus est servus. "

Oh, great. What am I supposed to do with a slave?

He handed her an iron key.

Margo stared at it for a moment. Achilles sat on his heels, head bowed. Maybe he'll run again., but so what? I won't hunt him down if he does. She unlocked his chains. Achilles caught his breath, then tears welled up in his eyes and he ducked his head. Flaminius grunted softly, a sound of profound surprise, then shrugged as if to say, "Your loss."

At dinner that night, Margo's unexpected new acquisition waited on her hand and foot. He escorted her to bed, made certain she was comfortably covered, and blew out the lamps. Then took up a guard stance again between her bed and the door.

He was still there the next morning, asleep but in the same spot.

Huh.

By her calculations, she had two days left to find the Time Tours inn, explain and apologize to Malcolm, and go back to La-La Land-a wiser and more cautious trainee scout.

When she tried to leave, Flaminius exclaimed in horror and insisted, by gestures and signs, that she was a guest in his home and he wouldn't think of allowing her to leave while she was still recovering. Desperate to get out of the house, she finally resorted to saying, "Circus, Quintus Flaminius. Ludi Megalenses ..." figuring if she once made it out into the crowded streets, she'd be able to slip away and break free of his smothering hospitality.

Understanding lit his eyes. Whatever he said, she suspected it ran along the lines of, "Of course, you've come all the way from Palmyra to see the games and here one of my slaves has injured you so you've been too ill to go, ... .

By gestures and signs, he made it clear that tomorrow they would go to the games. Margo bit down on her frustration and acquiesced. Meanwhile, there was the problem of Achilles. She didn't like having a slave. He hovered . Everywhere she turned, there he was. If she'd given permission, he'd have dressed and undressed her, even bathed her. Fortunately, the villa had its own private bath which Margo was able to use in complete privacy, barring the door when Achilles tried to follow her in.

Let 'em think I'm an eccentric provincial, she groused.