The Sculpture And The Sculpted

Chapter 30

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the estate. In the stables, Hannibal toiled, and he winced as his hands that were once calloused began to bleed. He stopped shoveling the manure and looked at the palms of his hands that were leaving bloody marks on the wood of the shovel.

He picked at the blisters that had formed and popped and gave a sigh. Had it really been so long since he had done any sort of manual labor that his hands had softened. He supposed that living life as the king's honored quest and the prince's favorite had its benefits and disadvantages.

The air was heavy with the pungent scent of manure and hay, making every breath a struggle. Sweat had drenched his shirt, and he used the back of his arm to wipe away what had gathered on his forehead before shoveling again. He didn't need Raçoso to find him lazing about and yell at him again. He might not have needed to be threatened with a whip to work, but he absolutely didn't want to find himself under its lashing if he could avoid it.

The horses watched him with curious eyes, their powerful forms constrained by the confines of their stalls. They seemed to sense his resignation, his acceptance of his lot in life. They had known no other existence, no other reality. To them, he was just another part of the scenery, as much a piece to their needs as he was to his master's.

When the final rays of sunlight were beginning to dissolve and torches had been light to see by, Hannibal stood at the far end of the stables, looking over his hard work. They were clean for what looked like the first time in months from everything Hannibal had been doing the last few days.

The stables were swept and shoveled, the horses fed and watered. The next few days he would spend cleaning the horses now that he had the space to do it. Washing and grooming, then maybe shoeing them as well. With how many there were he supposed that it would be at least a couple more days before some new tasks found him. Luckily, he had always taken care of his own horses, so he knew how to accomplish those undertakings without someone needing to breathe down his neck.

Hannibal stood for a moment, watching the sunset. The land was flat and went as far as the eyes could see and beyond what he could see he knew the ocean waited for him. It lapped at the beaches, beckoning for him. He had been arguing with himself over if he could brave the ocean again, but it was the fastest way back home.

He put away his tool and looked back at his hands as he wandered his way back towards the slaves' quarters that were at the edge of the estate, just inside the property, but far enough away that they couldn't be seen from the main house. It was a godsend. Guards might have been positioned outside and rotations set all night so that they were ready for if any of the slaves had a bright idea of escape. But the rotations could provide him with the proper time for such a bright idea.

He mentally noted every detail he could. Rotations, which guards they were, what they looked like, how often Raçoso left him alone to work. Everything followed the beat of a clock, ticked away, greased, and oiled.

Hannibal washed up the best he could in the pond he passed, making quick work of it to not be caught and punished. With the sweat and dirt removed from his skin and feeling slightly cleaner, he finally found the quarters.

Inside the large building that many of them shared, the fire light shone brightly through the windows. Hannibal was greeted with warm chatter and light music being played from the corner where Nicholas enjoyed holing up and serenade the dozen or so of them.

Hannibal was greeted with warm smiles and beckoned to sit at the large wooden table that lined the middle of the room. He was passed a cup of golden beer and some hard bread and smoked pork.