have

only man who

only man who gave him no opportunity to avoid unwanted physical contact—or anyone Xanthus ordered to touch him.
Irish hatred ran deep and lasted a lifetime.
It was often all he could do to control it, to stay alive rather than give in as everything he was demanded.
"Back's healing," Charlie told the slave–secretary shortly. "And Achivus? Don't ever touch me again. Got that? Now get out of my way. I have work to do."
"Yes. I heard. Rufus, why didn't you obey him? Cleaning the dock was such a small thing. Must you defy Master at every single order? He only wants you to love and obey him—"
Something in Charlie's expression must've gotten through, because Achivus paused without finishing.
The secretary sighed and looked away. "Please keep trying, Rufus. It isn't so difficult to be a good slave, you know. Just do whatever you can to make sure his fortunes rise. You might be surprised how well he'll treat you. He . . . wants to treat you well. If only you'd let him."
Charlie, who knew exactly what Xanthus wanted from him to "make his fortunes rise" held silent. That was one thing among many he simply could not give the Lycian Roman: lead poisoning was not his fault, nor could he change the way engineers constructed the aquaducts.
Achivus glanced the long way up into Charlie's face again. "Your trouble," he said with a touch of bitterness, "is your pride from being a champion. It galls to be just an ordinary slave. There is no shame, Rufus, in whatever the master orders. Pleasing him is our duty. Take pride in it. I certainly do. Master's whole household does. All except you. Rufus the Champion. Rufus the great, popular hero. Rufus the gladiator,