An hour passed.
A guard approached the cell, carrying a wooden tray.
He was a large man and had a thick beard and tired eyes.
He slid the tray through the gaps between the iron bars.
There was bread, a hunk of cheese and a pitcher of water.
It was decent food. Far better than the slop at the slave market.
"Eat," the guard said. His voice was gruff, but not unkind.
Marcus crawled over to the tray. He broke the bread in half.
He handed the larger piece to the girl.
"Here," he said.
The girl took it. She took a small, delicate bite.
Marcus looked at the guard. The man was leaning against the wall opposite their cell.
He wasn't leaving. He was stationed there.
"Why is the food good?" Marcus asked. He took a sip of water.
The guard looked at him. There was pity in his eyes. Genuine, deep pity.
"The Lady..." the guard paused. He looked toward the stairs to make sure he was alone.
