The Writers' Circle

Dawn came after a night of the soundest sleep Rachamim had ever known. The cock crowed, and within moments, Verus was up and making the rounds.
Antonius' slaves were housed in a wing off the peristylium. The area was divided into two sections: a dormitory for sleeping, and a room with basins for washing.
The first thing Rachamim noticed was that the space allocated for sleeping was more generous than he was used to. The second thing he noticed was that nine of the mattresses were crowded into a far corner of the room. The men who slept on them rose immediately, and washed and dressed before the others had even opened their eyes. Then, they filed out of the room together, talking quietly among themselves.
With a mental shrug, Rachamim washed, dressed, and followed the others to the kitchen for breakfast.
Breakfast was a filling barley gruel, lightly sweetened with honey. Rachamim gulped his portion greedily, washing it down with a dipperful of fresh water drawn from the clear, cool well just outside in the courtyard.
As everyone dispersed to his duties, Rachamim stayed behind, as he had not yet been assigned any tasks. Verus approached, and Rachamim quickly rose from the bench. The vilicus looked him up and down.
"So, Romulus," he said. "You'll want to know what's expected of you."
Rachamim nodded.
Verus turned and began walking.
"Follow me," he called over his shoulder.
Rachamim followed him out of the kitchen, through the courtyard, to a small storeroom that was secured shut with a large padlock. Verus removed the key ring that always hung on his belt and rifled through the keys.
"What's in here hasn't seen the light of day in years," he rumbled. "About time it got some use."
Finally, he found the right key, and the lock clanked to the ground. Verus opened the door, and motioned Rachamim to wait outside. Inside, Verus climbed over various amphorae and chests. He found what he was looking for, and climbed back out holding a short sword in a plain leather sheath. He drew it with an expert stroke, and looked at it critically in the sunlight.
"A bit rusty, nicked in spots. It'll need fixing. Here, let's see what you can do."
The young slave grasped the hilt in both hands and swung wildly. Verus stepped back just in time.
"I can see you'll need some practice."
"Practice? I know nothing of swordsmanship."
"From what the master told me, you looked like you knew exactly what you were doing in the arena."
Rachamim shook his head. "I can't explain that," he said. "It was like...like Someone had decided that my time had not yet come. Like some invisible hand was guiding my own."
Verus grunted. "I suppose you'll need training from the basics if you're to become a competent bodyguard."
Rachamim looked up sharply, but said nothing. It was not for him to question orders. If that was what the master wanted, well, then he would just have to learn.
"I have other duties at the moment. In the meantime, bring this to the blacksmith in the workshop behind the stables and have him fix it up for you. I'll look for you there."
Rachamim watched the older man limp off down the road.
It was a beautiful day. A soft breeze rustled through the olive trees, and the gentle sun caressed the velvety leaves of the grapevines. In the orchards and vineyards, men called to each other as they carried on with the day's work.
He sheathed the sword, stuck it through his belt, and headed toward the stables. The faint ping of metal striking metal grew steadily louder as he approached.
Finally, he reached a small building with a chimney billowing smoke. The door was opened to allow in what breeze would come. Rachamim peered through the doorway. The smith - a tall, muscular man with a short graying beard - had put down his hammer and was wiping the perspiration from his brow with a sinewy arm. Rachamim knocked on the open door.
"Come in," the smith said. "How can I help you?"
"Verus wants this sword repaired," Rachamim answered.
The older man took it from him, drew it, and examined it carefully.
"This must have sat for years gathering rust. It's not in very good shape." He squinted up at Rachamim. "Who's it for?"
"Me," Rachamim replied.
"You?" The smith looked at him dubiously. "You don't look like you've held a sword a day in your life."
Rachamim flushed. "Verus said I'm to be the master's bodyguard. I do what I'm told."
"Of course - I meant no offense."
He examined every inch of the blade, taking notes in an unfamiliar language on a wax tablet.
"Have you worked in the Ludus Gladiatores?" Rachamim asked.
"No," the blacksmith replied without looking up. "I was chief armorer to the forces of Shimon bar Giora in Judea."
Another Jew! Rachamim thought. I'm not alone here! "I'm sorry," he said.
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Background: Shimon bar Giora was a commander of the Jewish defense forces in the Great Revolt of 70 CE. He was captured alive and taken to Rome, where he was marched in Titus' triumph and strangled in the infamous Tullianum prison.