The Britanni would have to wait to take care of their bodies.
How did he end up flat on his back, on this field, blood running down his arm? And where was his horse? He closed his eyes, tried to make sense of the images swirling in his mind. What was the last thing he could remember? Flashes of careening chariots and braying horses. Men shouting orders. Ground rushing toward him, slamming into him.
And pain. Overwhelming, all-encompassing anguish.
But why?
Because Flavius, that childish, arrogant tribune, had issued an order so ridiculously deadly it sent a quarter of a legion into the path of Britanni chariots. Or under them.
Rolling to his left side, he drew his left knee to his chest. Fighting through the pain, he pushed up onto his elbow. He breathed deeply, scanning the field, until the nausea subsided. So many bodies.
How many battles had he fought in his six years in Britannia as a tribune? Almost every day, during campaigning season at least. But this had to be the worst. These Britanni warriors were like none they had ever fought. Never had so many Roman lives been lost.
Noise and chatter sounded behind him. Groaning, he twisted to look over his shoulder at slaves digging out an enormous hole—yet another mass grave.
He struggled to stand, or even sit up, but his right leg refused to obey him. He tried again. His leg would bear no weight.
“Tribune.” A medicus hurried to him. “Do you need help?”
“I-I can’t stand. My leg won’t move.”
The young orderly, a mop of dark, curly hair falling in his eyes, glanced at Quin’s leg, and his face paled.
Quin straightened his arm to push himself higher. At first, he saw no open wounds, no cuts from a blade nor punctures from a spear. Then he realized the damage, the reason he couldn’t stand. His right leg was bent inward at a grotesquely unnatural angle.
Something was drastically wrong.
The youth beckoned to another, who appeared with a litter. One knelt to slip his arm under Quin’s shoulders. The other lifted his legs.
He clenched his jaw until he could no longer contain a cry. They placed him on the stretcher and rushed him to the medical tent.
The chief medicus approached him, reaching for his leg. He shook his head. “You’ve made quite a mess of this, Tribune.”
Quin winced. “How badly am I injured, Davos?” He sucked in a breath as the Greek physician drew his fingers over Quin’s skin, poking and prodding.
“Your arm or your leg?”
“Either. Both.”
“I’ll start with your arm.” The medic held out his hand and another assistant placed a knife in it. Davos cut a slit in Quin’s tunic from elbow to neck and let the fabric fall away. He gently pressed one finger after another in different places, making faces as he did so.
“Well? What?”
“Your arm seems fine. A few stitches. Now for your leg . . .” He gently touched the deformity in Quin’s leg.
Quin released a loud groan.
“I’m sorry. I know that must hurt.” The medic poked again closer to the knee. “And that?”
“Actually, I can’t feel it.”
“You can’t?” Davos frowned.
“No. I can’t feel anything from just above my knee down.” He shrugged, but the look on Davos’s face stopped him. “That’s bad?”
“Yes. You’ve broken a bone, and that must have injured a nerve.”
“And that means . . . ?” He searched the older man’s weathered face for a clue as to how bad his situation really was. Davos had been the legion’s physician for as long as Quin had served the Second Augusta, and Quin trusted him with his life.
“I’m not sure. I’ll need to perform surgery to reset the bone. Hopefully I can see what happened then.”
“Will I get the feeling back?”
He frowned and shook his gray head. “I don’t know.”
“Will I walk again?”
“Yes, but you may still have problems with your leg.”
“Problems?”
“It may . . . end up slightly shorter than the other.”
The physician’s words slammed into him harder than the chariot. That couldn’t be true. “Can’t you do something?”
“Not when it’s damaged this badly. I’m going to get you something for the pain, and one of my assistants will get you ready for surgery.” Davos grasped his left shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you. As always.”
A slave—Greek by the look of him—entered with a bowl of liquid and offered it to Quin.
“What’s this?”
“Opium. For the pain and for the surgery.” The slave held the bowl to his lips while Quin downed the painkiller. He mumbled his thanks and lay back on the wooden bench.
The pain wasn’t nearly as devastating as the physician’s words. If he couldn’t walk properly, he couldn’t be a soldier. And if he couldn’t be a soldier . . .
The poppy’s juice began to cloud his thinking. As soon as he closed his eyes, images of screaming Britanni filled his head. Barefoot, half-naked, spear-wielding warriors charging across the terrain. Iron chariots rolling over Roman bodies.
He opened his eyes and shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories.
His thoughts became jumbled and his breathing slowed. His eyes drifted closed again.
As he slipped into welcome unconsciousness, he prayed to Jupiter he would wake up to a world without war.
Pushed hard by the Roumani, the captives had marched for five days. Tia’s feet bled where sharp rocks sliced into her bare soles. Her back ached from sleeping on the hard ground. Dirt and sweat stained her tunic, and rope cut into her wrists.
She looked north. Less than a half-day’s walk would bring them to the fort Vespasian and his men had built on their rampage along the southern coast. It loomed large, sitting high atop a knoll, controlling everything—and everyone—in its field of vision. The burned remains of a Britanni hillfort lay nearby.
The Roumani destroyed everything they touched.
A shouted command from the centurion interrupted her thoughts, and she turned again to the sea. A colossal ship, as wide as her roundhouse and ten times longer, pulled into the natural harbor before them. Huge cloth sails drooped from towering masts. Only a few pairs of oars dangled from the rear, not the hundreds as on a Roumani warship.
A wide wooden plank was laid against the side of the ship. Shoulders and elbows jammed into her back and sides as the soldiers shoved and pushed the crowd onto the deck and then down a rickety set of wooden steps. As soon as her feet hit the floor, she was propelled toward the wall while the hold filled with the captured Britanni.
The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut. Her breath stuck in her throat. Her vision blurred. She dug her nails into her brother’s arm. The closed space and utter blackness recalled memories of the time she nearly drowned as a child. She’d hated the dark ever since.
“Just breathe. Slowly.” The soft, even tone of his voice calmed her fears.
They began to sit, most with their backs to the long walls.
The door above them opened again and a throng of Roumani darted down the stairs. Working in pairs, one added an iron ring to the right foot of each captive. The other untied the ropes.
Tia studied her wrists. A raw crimson ring encircled each one, too tender to touch. She tried to lift her foot, now connected to Tancorix on one side and a young girl on the other.
Just as the last manacles were connected with thick iron bolts, oars dipped and pushed against the water. The ship jerked forward in spurts until it achieved a slow but steady pace. The sailors tramped back up the stairs, and again the door crashed closed.
After a few moments, the sails could be heard snapping tight as wind surged into them. The ship lunged forward and picked up speed.
The journey had begun. Where would it end?
2
“The way of fools seems right to them,
but the wise listen to advic
e.”
Proverbs 12:15
Quintus lunged again at the straw-filled enemy set up in the camp’s forum, plunging his pugio deep into the belly of the practice dummy.
Glancing at the sun high above him, he withdrew the dagger. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his arm as he paced. They were already well into campaigning season, and he would be no good if he couldn’t fight, or at least lead his men.
Quin sheathed his dagger and reached for the sword lying nearby. Clutching the handle, he extended the blade, slowly bringing it parallel to the ground.
Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed the legion’s commander approaching, the medicus at his side.
Publius Ostorius Scapula frowned as his eyes rested on the angry scar that ran from Quin’s thigh to below his knee. “How is the leg, Tribune?”
How did he answer that? The commander certainly knew the injury had left Quin’s right leg a bit shorter than his left, and pain was his constant companion. Davos said the pain might lessen, but it was probable the limp would be permanent.
“It’s been two weeks, Quintus. You cannot return to duty.”
“I just need a little more—”
Davos shook his head, a sad smile appearing briefly. “All the time in the world will not matter. That fall ripped your hip apart, broke a bone, and damaged a nerve. Your leg will never be as it was. You have to accept that.”
Quin sheathed his sword and reached down for his crutches. “So what’s next?”
“I’m afraid your time in the army is over.” Scapula’s deep voice gave the hated words an even harsher sound.
“O-over?” It couldn’t be over. The army was the only life he had ever known. How could it be taken from him when he had done nothing wrong?
“You can’t march, you can’t sit a horse. You cannot command,” Davos explained.
Quin’s breath caught in his throat. “So I’m just to be shipped back to Rome? I suppose I could do that. I never intended to leave the army, but if I must move on to the political assignments . . .” He sighed. “I have no choice.”
The legate crossed his arms over his chest. “Actually, Rome isn’t really an option for you right now.”
Years of training had taught him to mask his emotions, stuff his feelings deep into an abyss where they could not interfere with action. “What? Why not?” No army. No Rome. What was left for him?
Scapula winced. “Flavius has told everyone that you defied him, insulted him. It would be very uncomfortable for you there.”
Quin scoffed. “If we had followed his orders, the entire legio could have been destroyed. Does he tell everyone that?”
“Of course not. But the truth will come out soon. It always does. Remember, Vespasian is there. He was not here two weeks ago, but he knows Flavius, and he knows you. He’ll vouch for you when the time comes. And he will speak the truth about Flavius.”
“But what about now? There has to be something I can do for Rome.” He spread his arms wide. “Some post somewhere in this vast Empire where I can serve Rome.”
Scapula remained silent.
“My squadrons are some of the best in all of the Empire. Men fought to serve under me. I lost fewer horses and fewer men than anyone in Britannia. And if Flavius had stayed out of the cavalry’s way and commanded the legionaries like he should have, we wouldn’t have lost anyone two weeks ago, either.”
“Nevertheless, he is the son of a senator, and you are not.” Scapula shrugged. “Status is everything in Rome.”
“So you just throw me away? After fourteen years. After everything I have done, and still could do.” Keeping his voice calm was becoming harder with each sentence.
Davos tilted his head. “You could go to Camulodumum.”
“Stay here? At the new retirement colony? They’re all thirty years older than I am.” They might as well have suggested he swim to Italia.
“Exceptions can be made.”
Quin threw his hands in the air. “I don’t want an exception.”
“It could be a very nice life for you. A land grant, 100,000 sesterces—”
“For the rest of my life? Those men have spent forty years fighting for Rome. They’re ready for a quiet life on a farm. I have just begun.” Quin looked from Scapula to Davos and back again. “I don’t want to stay here in Britannia. I can’t stay in Camulodumum with old men from my own legion. How can I face them? I’ll be humiliated.”
“There are other wounded soldiers at Cam—”
“Not my age!” He stopped, sucked in a deep breath. Scapula was his friend, but still his superior. His voice lowered considerably. “Isn’t there anywhere else?”
“Let me think.” The legate paced. “Vespasian knows the governor of Macedonia. There is a colony there. I’m sure he can arrange for you to be settled there instead of here in Britannia. Augustus settled veterans of Legio XXVIII and his Praetorian guard there, but that was nearly one hundred years ago. Their grandchildren would be there now, not active soldiers. Would that be better?”
Quin blew out a long breath. “Sounds like it’s the best I’ll get.”
“Unfortunately, yes. At least until Flavius and his lies are stopped.” Scapula grasped his arm. “I am truly sorry.”
After the men left him standing in the practice yard, Quin unsheathed his dagger and hurled it at the dummy.
Until the lies are stopped. How long would that take? How long until the truth was revealed, and he could go home to reassemble some sort of life?
How easily lies could be spread. How quickly they could destroy someone.
Had the truth always been so fragile?
Elantia bolted upright, unable to breathe. She clawed at her neck, desperately trying to remove whatever it was that choked the breath from her chest.
But nothing was around her neck.
Chains, however, bound her ankles.
And in the dark, it all came flooding back. The Roumani attack of their village, the strongest young men and prettiest young women marched to the shore with iron on their feet and rope on their hands. She’d walked until her feet bled, and then the man-stealers shoved them into the bottom of a dark, rickety ship.
How many days had they been on this nightmare of a journey? She turned to count the scratchings on the ship behind her, moving her fingertips. Twenty-one, plus five days of marching. Twenty-six days since she’d seen their parents, their roundhouse. Their cousins. Their friends.
“Bad dreams again?” An arm gently slid around her shoulders.
“I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m sorry.”
Her younger brother, now bigger than she was, kissed her cheek and pulled her back down to the wooden floor of the rocking vessel. “Go back to sleep, Tia.” How could he be so brave?
She eventually drifted back to sleep, the gentle rocking of the ship and her bratir’s rhythmic breathing overcoming her panic.
Her back and arms ached when she awakened. The door above them was now open, and in the faint light of the ship’s hold she could see Tancorix still slept. Stretching as best she could with weighty chains on her feet, she tried to alleviate the knots the journey had tied in her muscles.
Heavy, booted footfalls sounded on the stairs. A Roumani guard carried a basket of hard bread and skins of water, tossed them on the floor, and stomped back up.
Iron rattled and scraped along the floor as the prisoners awakened. The hot air reeked of sweat, vomit, and urine. Tia silently counted the bodies—six times more than were taken from her village, all crammed in the hold of this ship the same way she stuffed glass beads in a leather pouch. They pounced at the bread as if they were wolves attacking dying prey.
A small crust of bread wasn’t worth certain injury.
Beside her Tancorix leaned forward on one palm, his broad shoulders making a path. He reached with one long arm, emerging from the fray with two loaves. As he’d done every day since they’d left, he offered her the larger one. If it weren’t for him, she’d have starved by now.
“Thank you.”
“I keep telling you, you don’t need to thank me. I have to protect you. I’m your bratir.” He smiled.
Leaning back against the rough wood, she nibbled on the dry bread. Sweat ran down her back, and the small bit of food did nothing to quell the sickness bubbling in her stomach.
She ached for the green grass and blue skies of home. The warmth and light of the sun. The sweet smile of Tatos, and Mamma’s warm embrace. This . . . prison . . . was hot, unbearably foul, and above all, nearly devoid of light. The sailors opened the door at the top of the stairs during the heat of the day. Surely it was not for their comfort, but because they didn’t want their cargo to die, didn’t want to lose their profit.
“Are you going to eat that or just squeeze the life out of it?”
“What?” She turned to see Tancorix grinning.
“The bread. You look like you’re choking it.”
“Only because I can’t get to any of them.” She gestured above board. “I hate the Roumani. We never should have trusted Vespasian or his soldiers.”
“I don’t think these are real soldiers,” he whispered.
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t think they’re really Roumani soldiers. Just dressed like them, capturing whomever they can find to sell.”
“Does it make a difference? They’re Roumani, soldiers or not.”
He shrugged. “If you not going to eat that, give it to me.”
She shoved the smushed bread in her mouth and lay back down, her back to him.
The Roumani had killed her mamma and tatos twenty-six days ago. She’d closed her eyes before their crimson lifeblood soaked into the ground, but she would never forget the look in his eyes.
And his counsel: no tears.
Like any Britanni woman, she could fight next to the men. She had the scars to prove it. She could wield a knife and a sword.
And she would do it now, if she had one.
If they hadn’t been caught off guard.
That would never happen again. She would regain her freedom. She would do whatever it took to get back home to Britannia. Or die trying.
Sold Into Freedom Page 2