[There's no reason a slave would have to recognize Benedict, really: he'd go to the games along with this or that of his idiot Altus friends, where they'd drink and smoke and delight in being beautiful and visible to the rest of the crowd. He was a boy then, draped in his finery and always looking a little too long at the scantily-clad male fighters, too intoxicated to be less obvious.

If only he didn't remember this one so well, to feel such a thrill at seeing him up close, in striking distance. He never imagined he'd seem him again, least of all here.

He nods in the affirmative. There's no sense in lying.]