In the Shadow of the Wall by Gordon Anthony Page A

Brude was twenty years old. His skin, once pale and white, was burned brown by the sun. He was strong, the muscles of his arms and legs more powerful than they had ever been. Above all else he knew how to survive as a slave. What he did not know was how he was ever going to gain his freedom.
    By the following spring the aqueduct was nearly completed and some of the slaves began to speculate about what would happen to them. Brude was busy trying to think about how to get involved in some skilled work, perhaps carving the stone blocks or even learning how to sculpt the statues the Romans were so fond of. He was not sure whether he had the skill for it but he thought there might be a route to freedom that way. Annoyingly, he could not think how he could ensure he was chosen for that type of work. Bribing someone might work but as imperial slaves they received no pay and some of the other, less savoury ways of ingratiating oneself with the overseers did not appeal to him.
    As unexpectedly as ever in the life of a slave, things changed again. One morning, as they were finishing their frugal breakfast, a stranger appeared, accompanied by two armed guards. The man himself was big, hugely muscled but slightly overweight, his hair cropped short and almost entirely grey. In his prime he must have been formidable; even now he did not look the sort of man who would back down from a fight. His keen eyes surveyed the slaves as he wandered around, one of the overseers accompanying him and answering questions, which the man snapped at him. Every so often the big man would stop to examine a slave, sometimes nodding his head. When he did this the slave was sent to stand near the gate of the camp. Brude recognised another slave sale; the aqueduct was nearly finished so some slaves would be sold off.
    The big man approached Brude who lowered his gaze as he had learned was safest to do. The man, though, reached out and lifted his chin, staring him in the eye. He asked, “Where are you from?”
    “ Caledonia ,” Brude answered, using the Roman name for the land north of the Wall.
    The man’s eyes studied him carefully. “One of the painted people, eh?” He seemed amused. “I’ll try him,” he said to the overseer. Brude was sent to stand with the other chosen men.
    After an hour of careful selection the big man had pulled out nineteen slaves. He had them lined up in a row, then he stood in front of them. “I am Gaius Lollius Curtius,” he announced in a deep, strong voice. “I am going to stand in front of each of you in turn and I want you to hit me.” That got their attention. The man grinned. “Don’t worry. If you do manage to hit me there will be no punishment. One punch, that’s all you are allowed. If you hit me hard enough I’ll take you away from this place.”
    They watched him intently, hanging on his every word. Life in the camp was hard and all of them wanted nothing more than to get away from there.
    Curtius marched purposefully to one end of the line, where Brude stood fifth from the end. Curtius approached the first man and stood two paces from him, thrusting out his chin. “Hit me!” he barked. The man swung a clumsy fist and Curtius swayed back, easily avoiding the blow. The slave overreached and stumbled. Curtius caught him and steadied him, pushing him back into place before moving on to the next man. “Hit me!” he said again. Another wild swing missed, much to the amusement of the watching guards and of Curtius himself. He gave the slave a mocking smile before moving on.
    The third man managed to clip Curtius’ jaw with a straight jab. Curtius nodded, his eyes sparkling. He pushed the man back into place and moved on to the man beside Brude who tried the same jab but missed completely as Curtius ducked aside.
    Then it was Brude’s turn.
    Curtius stood in front of him, blue eyes shining with enjoyment, daring Brude to hit him. He thrust out his chin and barked, “Hit me!”
    Brude hit him in the