Shaken from the attack, Constantine could only watch as the man who had made a grab for him whizzed in Beshter’s hold. Their eyes met and Constantine saw that they were an olive green, filled with despair and a silent plea. The young nation ignored it.

Closing his eyes, he began to count until all sounds around him disappeared. A hand rested on his shoulders as he reached three hundred and one, and he opened his eyes. Beshter looked no less enchanting with blood around his lips, and that scared Constantine even more.

“It is all over. Was this the first person you watched die?” Beshter’s soft voice added to the horrible realization that his dream was built upon bones and broken skulls. Constantine could feel them crunching underneath his feet. He looked down, and the spell was broken.

“I have been to the Amphitheater before,” as all Roman children of some standing his age, he was no stranger to death. But, none of the gladiators have ever pleaded with their eyes before. They had been dead long before they entered the arena.

“There is no bigger crime than to kill,” Constantine looked up at Beshter’s green eyes, the light of the nearby camp fire made them shine like gemstones. It also made the dark red blood on his lips all the more prominent.

“But, to build a dream, a legacy that lasts, one must commit crimes,” Constantine nodded along, not sure what else to do. If crime was grave and to put one in the cold dirt was a crime, the gravest, then, was the dream worth it?

“Tell me, Tine,” Constantine had liked how Beshter called him by his pet name before tonight. Had thought that was a sign that they were friends. But now, Beshter acted the role of a teacher. “Why did you close your eyes? What if I wasn’t here to protect you? What if this has happened during the day?”

“I would have died,” gulping at his words, Constantine felt the hand Beshter had on his shoulder tighten.

“True, you would have. Is this the way you would protect our dream?” Constantine felt shame at the raw disappointment that oozed off Beshter. He heard a crunch to the side and saw Antonius. His face was unreadable, and he felt content to sit by and let Beshter handle it.

“I am just ten,” it was obvious to Constantine that he was way over his head here. He was not an adult, yet, he trained with the century. Slept in the same camp as them, too. Tonight, he had been supposed to be responsible for the safety of everyone in the camp. Yet, Beshter saved him.

“It doesn’t matter how old you are, Tine. Just that you are meant for greatness. We have been too lax on you, Antonius and I, more the doting parents than the responsible mentors,” if this was doting, then Constantine didn’t want to see what harsh looked like. Yet, he knew he would regardless of his wishes.

“Training dummies are for plebeians, Tine. You will be sparing with the centurion himself from now on,” Beshter reached out and righted a curl away from Constantine’s face. The gentle action contrasted with the promise of pain that awaited the boy.

“And with me,” finally, joined in Antonius. “Where is your sword?”

Constantine pulled up the scabbard from below his bedding. His simple wooden gladius was quickly unsheathed, and both vampires watched on in disapproval as Constantine put it back in the scabbard.

“You are long overdue for live steel, Tine. Kyla had a real sword from the moment he could hold one,” at the mention of his predecessor, Constantine got curious. Yet, he reigned in his curiosity. Besides, Kyla Bolgar was a barbarian and their harsher lives demanded they were good with weapons from the moment they could walk.

“Granted, his dominion is over the bow. A commoner’s weapon,” said Antonius. Whatever happened between him and Kyla, he felt the need to belittle him still.

“You need something to make you famous too, something to do with violence, Tine. You are good with the sword and passable with the bow,” Constantine wanted to argue that he was passable only because the centurion forced him to shoot with his left hand. But then he would probably be told that Kyla Bolgar could do that and shoot backwards too, for good measure.

“Why was he not good enough?” The question slipped from Constantine’s lips before he managed to think it through.

“His dream was mediocre. He wanted to end slavery, one of the columns of every empire, and then live as a hermit in the Steppes,” Constantine didn’t see anything wrong with that dream. He just couldn’t imagine a life without slaves.

Beshter made a wound in his wrist with his nails and brought it towards Constantine’s mouth.

“I think you need a bit more of an incentive, Tine. And more time to learn,” Antonius shook his head, but Beshter send him a glare to silence him. This was the first time Constantine had seen his mentors disagree on anything.

“What will happen to me if I drink?” Constantine couldn’t understand what more time was supposed to mean.

“You will become a ghoul and live longer,” said Antonius. He seemed as if he wanted to add something else, but held himself back.

“Wouldn’t I already? Father will give me land, and I am an immortal. At least, that is what he says,” Constantine didn’t want to drink the dripping blood. It looked ominous, promising him pain and suffering.

“You will drink, or you will be shipped back to Odessos and I will approach your brother, Franconia, with the same offer when he can contemplate it!” Beshter’s handsome face was twisted with rage, and Constantine brought the bleeding wrist to his lips.

The blood tasted like nothing he had ever drank. Not even the bit of wine on Saturnalia he was allowed each year came close. He wanted to drink until there was nothing else in him but the blood. But then, just as he thought that, his head was yanked back by the back of his neck.

“Careful not to put him in a blood bond like the last one,” warned Antonius, his grip on Constantine’s neck grounding him to reality. Kyla Bolgar had done the same, yet, he had broken off from the two somehow. Constantine couldn’t begin to imagine why, when such delicacy as the blood of Beshter was the reward for compliance.