“Around him was an ornate walled garden that backed onto the slave’s quarters of a centurion’s house. Already the place was overgrown with ivy and a strangling of early bindweed scattered through with white unopened flowers, curled tight as ropes. The wall was solid and not meant to be climbed; the flints and cob stones that formed it had been bedded too deep to make handholds and it was capped with rounded mortar with sharpened flints along the spine. Nine strikes with a log-splitting axe had b...roken the lock to the outer gate, letting the she-bear flood in and arrange themselves in battle order amongst the unthrifty olive trees and grape vines and the twinned green marble fountains, on which boy-youths rode dolphins across an endlessly dry sea. Cunomar lay in the shade of the second of these. On either side, his warriors passed waterskins newly filled from the well in the ruined hospital. All of them were burned or wounded somehow. Cunomar’s groin still ached from the missed thrust of the blade that had nearly cost him his manhood.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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