The shield was heavier than the standard issue shields, and Constantine’s still developing muscles strained to carry it as he jogged. From time to time, a slave, not the Nubian but a Greek one build like a bolder and as high as Antonius, would swat at Constantine with a stick.

The slave aimed at the ribs, always, and he was merciless about his attacks. Constantine felt stronger with Beshter’s blood running through his veins, but he was still a child, and he had his limits.

The centurion wasn't concerned about that. If Constantine stopped, then it was the sharp crack of the whip that greeted him. So far, the whip sailed over the boy’s head, but Constantine knew that if he stopped entirely, the whip will find his back.

The boy had his pride and so refused to be whipped like a slave. He did his best to keep going, keep dodging and keep breathing. His only solace was that he was becoming stronger with this and one day, when he had his land, he would have the centurion whipped. Provided that the bitter Roman lived so long.

“Quit daydreaming!” Snapped the centurion. The century didn’t snicker or anything. They were disgusted with Constantine’s weakness. As if they have never been children. As if this has been normal when they were his age.

At noon, the caravan stopped. They have passed the great mountain that went through the Balkan peninsula, and wasn’t that a harrowing experience? At one point some rocks have fallen from above, and it was thanks to his shield that Constantine had not been crushed.

Some slaves had not been as fortunate. Their corpses had been left where they have fallen, only pushed a little to the side, so the caravan could pass through. Constantine had not attempted to get them buried. The whip that passed over his head reminded him every so often he had no influence here. Not yet.

The centurion approached him and handed him a piece of stale bread. The local Thracians wanted to avoid doing business with them, the doors of their huts bared and the blinders of their windows closed. As if they were afraid of something.

The time when Constantine would have scoffed at a meal was long gone. He tore at the bread like a savage and savored every hard bite. A century passed him his share of the wine, more piss in a flagon than grape juice, and the young boy washed the bread down with the sour beverage.

“You do well now,” the centurion said, confusing Constantine. The boy had thought that the aged Roman disliked him. “Keep doing well, and I will see what I can do about the whip.”

The centurion left and Constantine stared after him. What a strange man, barking insults one moment and being nice the next. Constantine was not on latrine duty now, some sorry lots have drawn the shorter stick for a change, so he laid down on the soft grass and looked at the surrounding fields.

His future lands had the promise of a bounty to them. They were in a place called the Golden Horn, and Constantine could see why it was named so. These were his grandmother’s lands, well, his father’s too, through conquest. But his grandmother and stepmother, all wrapped in one, ruled here.

She had never been warm to him. He was born of sin. Practically incest, for all that Helena had not been Rome’s daughter. Grandmother would wish nothing more than to see him die a painful death, he was sure.

His mind wandered back to the attack as he took a blade of grass and placed it between his teeth to chew it. Did she plan it? The man had set out to grab him back then. Probably to carry him off to somewhere. He must have known whose son Constantine was.

Beshter had demanded that Constantine kept silent about the attack, even to his father. So, in fear that Beshter won’t give him any more blood, or vitae as the man called it, Constantine had done as told.

But he preferred not to remain inactive about such a threat. He needed to know if the attack was made from foolish bandits or his grandmother. Turning to the nearest century, who was still eating his bread, Constantine spoke.

“Hey, do you have a minute?” The man swallowed a mouthful and nodded. He was one of the nicer century. A man with two sons who were about as old as Constantine, whom he hadn’t seen since they were born.

“Have you heard anything about who ordered the attack back in the mountain passes?” The century, Lucan Vestalis, neared Constantine and hid his mouth behind his hand.

“That is just a rumor, ok? If Rodolphus Fato hears I have been spreading it, it will be my hide. But this concerns you, so listen closely,” at the name of the centurion Constantine moved closer and pretended they were just talking about the weather.

“I’m listening,” then Lucan Vestalis began to whisper, so low Constantine barely made out what he said.

“We found a lot of silver and gold, as well as fermented horse milk, in the saddlebags of the bandits. My guess is they were not bandits at all, rather soldiers masquerading as such. They were tall and pale. My guess is: Scythians send here on a mission. Probably to kidnap you and ship you over the Black Sea to Fanagoria,” with that, Lucan Vestalis distanced him from Constantine and left the boy to his questions.

Scythians? Like the horse lords? Of the old nation, the she-warrior, who had died last year? Scythians, the now people of Kyla Bolgar. Why did the man need him for? Was he mad that Constantine had replaced him?

The thought that he could have never had Beshter’s blood worried him, and he vowed to never fall in Scythian hands. But, what if his grandmother had paid for a few horse lords to pretend to be here on the young nation’s behalf?

If he pointed the finger at Kyla Bolgar, then Rome would attack and there would be war. Something told Constantine that the sad man was not behind this plot, or, if he was, he wasn’t searching for Constantine’s demise. Or, at least, he hoped that was the case.