It was strange for Nasir to be outside the walls of the sanctuary. He'd never left, not once since they'd made it their home. His injury hadn't allowed it. But now he was healed, for the most part, and now he could finally prove himself useful in some capacity. He wasn't fighting, as he wanted to be; in fact, the mission he had was a simple one without any real risk of danger. With him were three others: two former slaves of his own house and one gladiator - Otho - from the house of Batiatus. They were in the city of Neapolis to gather supplies that nature didn't readily provide.

The afternoon sky was filled with gray clouds that cast shadows over them all and a heavy, steady rain fell. "Every time I step foot in this city," the gladiator said miserably, "the fucking heavens open up and piss on me."

Nasir made no reply, but drew his hood over his dark head. His fingertips wandered to the slave's collar around his neck soon after, pulling at the leather that stuck to his skin. He hated wearing it, but it was necessary. It made him invisible in these streets. No one looked twice at a slave doing his master's bidding, and that's all he and the three others were. Just harmless slaves, two of which had swords concealed on their bodies.

But if they were meant to be invisible, why did Nasir feel eyes on him?

He told himself it was nothing, or that it was only the rain weighing down on him. When he did turn around expecting to meet another's gaze, there was none. No suspicious eyes. No face full of malicious intent. Those who braved the streets in this weather all had their heads down and covered and paid them no mind. Nasir's dark eyes were narrowed from behind his hood as his gaze swept the lane, and it wasn't until he felt an arm on his own that he realized he'd stopped walking.

"What is it?" Caelia asked. She was one of the slaves that had served in Nasir's former dominus' house. The woman was red of hair and it was plastered to her skin, curling in the rain. Like Nasir, she turned her eyes to peer at the people milling through the streets, and there was alarm in her expression.

Nasir put his hand over hers, hoping to soothe the panic that had risen in her. "There is no cause for worry," he said kindly, offering her a smile. It seemed to have a calming effect, and the Syrian only wished he could feel the relief she must have. But still there was that foreboding.

"Let us get a fucking move on," Otho said from ahead. Both Nasir and Caelia hastened to catch up and continue on their way to the apothecary, from which they would buy much-needed medicine. The sooner they found themselves through a doorway and within a building safe from the rain, the sooner Nasir would be able to shrug off whatever burdened him. Of that, he was sure. Until then, he slid his hand under the cloak he wore and wrapped his fingertips loosely around the hilt of his sword. The group turned off the main street and onto one more narrow, only an alleyway. There were less people here, only a few bodies huddled in the rain, but it made Nasir no less nervous. The dread followed closely at his heels.

He would have felt safer with Agron there beside him. Otho paid no attention to the world around him, only blundered forward. Perhaps it was better that way; had the man been taking more careful steps through the streets, others might have wondered what had him so on edge. Still, Nasir would have rather had a companion more over-cautious than one unaware and thoughtless.

But Otho was so unaware that he collided with some Roman on the street. The scene lasted but a few seconds; the gladiator's shoulder bumped that of a passing figure and Otho reached out and steadied the other man. "Apologies," he said, and there was only a grunt in reply. Otho soon moved on, but Nasir had seen something the gladiator had not. Nasir had seen the Roman's eyes flicker down to the arm that had steadied him, and that gaze could have only been focused on one thing: the branded flesh that marred Otho's forearm. The mark of the brotherhood.

Nasir rushed forward and parted his lips to call out a warning, but it was too late. More men emerged from the rain and in seconds a sword was thrust through Otho's middle and dragged upwards, spilling blood that was quickly washed away by the rain. Nasir drew his own gladius and spun on his heel, slitting the throat of a man that had approached him from behind. It was then that his eyes fell on the two others of their party that still lived. "Go," he hissed. His eyes fell on Caelia, who was silent while the other woman screamed, and she met his gaze. "Now," he told her, and she nodded quickly in reply. He'd cleared a path for them and they had to take it before their chance for escape was gone.

The Syrian couldn't watch to see if they did as they were told. He turned back around in time to see Otho's lifeless body fall onto the street and the men responsible - four remained and one more was dead at Nasir's hand - started toward him, all with weapons drawn.

He couldn't run. If he did, he'd only take them in the same direction Caelia and the other woman had disappeared into. The only option he had was to stand and fight. And so he did.

They all came at him in the same second, swords singing through the air. The clash of their steel against his was muffled by the falling rain; none turned into the alleyway from the main street or opened doors to witness what was happening. Nasir was utterly alone and, in a moment of clarity, knew that this was where he would die. He would accept that death when it came, but not before he did all he could to take these men to the afterlife with him. His gladius cut open a man's legs, bringing him to his knees, and the tip of Nasir's sword slid through his throat soon after. The choking sound that followed meant there were only three left to kill.

But as Nasir turned to lift his weapon to whichever man was next, he was hit in the face with the hilt of the sword. The blow sent him sprawling, his mouth filling with blood and his gladius falling from his hand. A figure stepped between him and the sword he'd lost, blocking him from it. Recovering quickly, Nasir scrambled to where Otho's body lay, and from it he drew the fallen gladiator's blade. He was crouched down low, lips red and bloodied and eyes wild. Fight yet remained in the Syrian.

The three remaining men stood their ground some distance away from Nasir. He expected them to rush him again, to come at him with sharp, swinging weapons, but that did not come to pass. Instead, he was surprised to hear jeering coming from them. "Should have killed the pup," one of the men said, "instead of the fucking gladiator." They were all lowering their swords now but Nasir remained where he was, every muscle in his body tense and ready to spring forward when it was time.

What he hadn't anticipated was the man at his back, one whose footsteps had been concealed by the sound of rain, and the strong arm that slipped around his neck. Nasir struggled, tried to break the grip on him and slide his sword home yet again, but he was robbed of his weapon a second time. The man that held him was stronger than Nasir was, taller and thicker and no matter how the Syrian writhed and scratched and bit, there was no escape.

The three other men strode forward, and the one in the middle reached out to catch Nasir's chin, fingers digging in and keeping snapping teeth from taking hold of flesh. "I would discuss some things with you," he said. The man's gaze dropped to the collar around Nasir's neck and his lips twisted into a cruel smile. The collar was ripped away and dropped onto the street below. "Such a thing does not belong on one of Spartacus's freed slaves, now does it?" Nasir's gaze hardened and a question was on the tip of his tongue - how did this Roman know? - but he was answered before any of the words escaped him. "I recognized your gladiator the moment you stepped into the city," it was revealed, and Nasir's sharp mind immediately understood all that had happened. "I saw him at the arena myself. I only needed to see the brand on his skin to be sure."

Nasir's muscled screamed at him to give in, but he would not. His struggle continued against the one holding him. The Syrian was tired, weak from the time he'd spent idle at the sanctuary; without a weapon and against a stronger man, he could do nothing. But still he fought. The one who had spoken continued. "Tell me, where is Spartacus?" he asked, extending a hand to grab hold of Nasir's hair and pull his head back. Their gazes met. "You will tell me and I'll lead the soldiers to him and collect fucking reward."

The Syrian did not speak, but instead spit his mouthful of blood into the man's face. The Roman, with a disgusted expression, lifted his hand to wipe at it, and then used the same hand to strike Nasir before speaking once more, though this time he addressed the one holding Nasir captive. "Take him inside. Tie him up." He looked to Nasir again. "I will find ways to loosen tongue, slave. You will give answer to my question in time."

With one last burst of strength and a loud, strangled cry, Nasir tried to lunge forward and do whatever damage he might to the man, but he was hauled forcefully backwards, his heels dragging on the cobblestone underfoot. He would escape from the rain, finally, but instead of finding relief, he would find himself captured, bound, a prisoner to Roman greed and with the fate of the rebellion resting on his shoulders.