The raw skin on Marcus' ankle was still bleeding as he began work in Herod's palace. Never mind that the chains had rubbed raw the young skin. Never mind that the healing would take time, and would leave a life-long scar. Never mind that the cut, extending clear around his ankle, hurt with each step. Marcus was a slave. One did not have such concerns about slaves. They were expendable, like the clay tablets that the money counters used.

And, even if someone did care about the new slave, there were much more important things to think about. Herod's palace had been in an uproar since the jailing of the preacher, John. Nothing, it seemed, would silence this Jewish preacher. His wild dress drew the crowds, and his condemnation of Herod had become quite fashionable. And so, with slave chains, h…