Shadow War - Deborah Chester [120]
The smith took his time. He positioned the chisel on the links of the chain. It was an intricate piece of work, thick and very fine, fashioned of many strands braided together. Shifting the chisel a bit, the smith pressed the flat side of it against Caelan’s jaw.
He suppressed a shiver and closed his eyes as the smith raised his hammer.
There came a swift, sure bang as hammer struck chisel with one blow. The chain broke and fell to the ground.
Caelan opened his eyes and slowly lifted himself. The smith bent and picked up the chain.
Its golden length caught the strengthening sunlight and gleamed richly against the man’s dirty fingers. He cupped it in his palm, making a shimmering heap of it, and handed it to Caelan.
“Keep it,” he said with a sudden grin through his beard. “To remind yourself of when times was harder.”
Slowly Caelan’s fingers closed around the chain. He had a lump in his throat. After all these years, he thought he would feel something when the day of release came. He expected to be different, transformed. Instead, everything seemed ordinary and unchanged. It was almost disappointing.
“Take off your tunic,” Baiter said. “Let’s see if you’ve got any ownership brands.”
Caelan wanted to hesitate, but he had too much pride before these men of war. He would exhibit no cowardice before them.
Swiftly he pulled off the small tunic and let it dangle from one hand. At the sight of his deep, muscular chest, broad shoulders, and sun-bronzed skin, the sergeant’s eyes widened slightly.
The smith emitted a low whistle. “Aye, could play hammer to anvil all day and never tire, with those arms.”
He reached out for the leather thong holding Caelan’s amulet pouch. “What’s this?”
Quicker than thought, Caelan gripped his wrist and held it with crushing strength. Anger blazed in him. “Don’t touch that.”
The smith’s eyes grew round. “Sure,” he said mildly.
Caelan released him, shoving him slightly backward. “It has nothing to do with this.”
The smith held up both hands in a placating manner. “No offense to you.”
“Here’s a rower’s brand,” Baiter said from behind Caelan.
Caelan knew exactly where it was; he would never forget the day the iron had been stamped into the flesh over his right shoulder blade, burning that small circle into his hide.
“Easy,” the smith said. “Any others? Any fancy, foreign marks with them curlicues an’ such?”
“No.”
“Easy.”
The sergeant stepped around to face Caelan. His face was pudgy and youthful despite the age in his eyes. With a frown, he said, “To serve in the army, all ownership marks have to be canceled. You understand?”
Caelan’s tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Yes.”
“Some slaves, when they’re manumitted, they keep their tunics on the rest of their lives, so nothing will show, and they don’t go through with crossing out the brand. A few runaway slaves pay smiths to cross out their brands, but such won’t have the imperial mark at the edge to show it’s official. Do you see?”
“Yes.”
“In the army, you don’t have any choice. I can see plenty of stripes on your back. You’re hard to handle, are you?”
Caelan almost smiled; then suddenly it did not seem funny. “Sometimes.”
“Sure. All fighters are, if they’re worth anything. I’ve seen you in the arena. Spirited. Means you’re spirited out of the ring too.”
Caelan wasn’t feeling very spirited just then. He was praying for courage.
“In the army, men are stripped. Men are inspected. Men are flogged. Men sometimes have to dig ditches to entrench a camp or lay siege. You strip down with an uncanceled brand on your back, and you could find yourself turned in as a runaway. You see?”
“I understand.”
The sergeant went on staring at him hard, waiting.
Caelan managed to nod. “Go ahead.”
“Good man.” Stepping back, Baiter signaled to the other two soldiers. “Come and hold him.”
“No,” Caelan said. “There’s no need.”
The smith, who had gone back to his bellows, glanced over his shoulder. “You can’t stand still enough.