Enslaved
Authors: Brittany Barefield
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Ancient World, #Short Stories, #Historical Romance
Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press, Inc. publication.
Enslaved
by
Brittany Barefield
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Enslaved
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Brittany Barefield
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
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Publishing History
First Scarlet Rose Edition, December 2013
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-205-9
Published in the United States of America
“I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword.”
~Gladiator’s Oath
Chapter One
2
nd
Century AD, Pax Romana Era, City of Velia
Marcella Calpurnia surveyed the overcast sky far in the distance. While her mortal eyes couldn’t discern it, priests claimed it was the storm god, Jupiter, amassing his celestial harem of cloud-women. They congregated above the sea in opaque billows of gray-toned debauchery.
She envied those deities and their coital freedom. Although, she worried that their orgy would erupt into the coming rainy season and delay the lighting of the ritual bonfire. Putting the dead to rest wasn’t a thing to postpone.
She stared at the body, now only a hollow cast shrouded in brown linen. It was placed atop its funeral pyre and sprinkled with petals and oil. A coin rested on the mouth to pay the ferryman of the underworld. A breeze stirred up dust around the platform and carried to the onlookers a floral fragrance coupled with the salty ocean air.
Standing nearby, the eulogist talked sadly of loss during such a tranquil period for the internal empire of Rome. Many heads in the audience nodded. The Reign of the Five Good Emperors brought an end to civil wars and a flourishing of architecture, commerce, and the economy. It was one of the most prosperous and peaceful ages to date, yet staring at that square heap of wood and the figure it held, Marcella’s grim thoughts overtook the speaker’s words.
She endured much tragedy within her own house. Her mother died giving birth to her youngest child, Maro, when Marcella was twelve. Within months, her paternal grandmother passed away, forcing her to assume the role of infant caretaker. Her father, Bestia, sought assistance by taking a second wife; however, she suffered a fatal fall off a horse six years later and perpetual despair hung over their villa like a mourner’s veil.
Prayers went unanswered, so Marcella had developed an obsession in what caused and prevented necrosis. She hoped to find a cure for mortality via her own volition. She read literature on anatomy, diseases, and medicine. She experimented with herbs. She accompanied the doctor when he visited wounded gladiators of her house, most of which didn’t survive their injuries.
By her early twenties, she had seen many of her father’s combatants die either in battle or on the surgeon’s table, and now she attended another funeral. She was numb to it and quite bored. She was only there because her father insisted it was an important someone. The sooner it ended, the sooner she could go home to more titillating activities with her special someone.
“May the gods bless us,” the orator concluded. This signaled the start of cremation. It was a traditional rite of passage and for the living to witness a spirit travel into the afterlife.
Marcella looked about, observing familiar faces come to pay their final respects or merely to watch a corpse burn. Cool weather encouraged a large assembly, some sitting, others standing, all waiting for flesh to become ash and soul to turn to smoke, ascending to the heavens. As a torch ignited the woodpile, hungry flames lapped at their target. The fiery trilogy of colors resembled a sunset, reminding her that the time was almost near to escape to her gladiator.
A tap on the shoulder woke her from her daydream. She turned to see Macer Licinia, a childhood friend, seated behind her. The days of tugging her braids to get her attention were gone. Instead, he leaned forward, the leather on his uniform crackling, and whispered, “Do you have any idea who the decedent is?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“No. I was ordered to be here.”
“As was I.” She cut her eyes toward her father.
Macer attempted to say something else, which immediately invoked a shushing from others, and he sat back in his chair. Then she heard a cacophony of voices and crackles as several soldiers were called away by their officer. Macer mounted his steed in perfect rider’s form with his chin up and posture straight. He glanced in her direction and their eyes met. The auburn-headed boy she’d played with as a child had matured into a stately man, and she was suddenly very sorry to see him leave.
The wind picked up and the bonfire blazed on for an hour. Flecks of charred matter twirled from the funeral pyre, which shrank to chunks of embers. Dark clouds floated closer, and thunder clapped overhead as if pronouncing the end of a show. Lightning flashed a few short warnings before the storm dispersed the audience.
Marcella carried the end of her stola with one hand and guided her ailing father to their horse-drawn carriage with the other. His slower pace allowed the rain to drench their hair and clothes. Her blue garment darkened to almost black. Their servant, Scipio, hopped off his upper perch to help them into the covered compartment.
“Get us home promptly,” she told him.
“Yes, domina.” The cart shook when he closed the small door and mounted the driver’s seat. They bumped along the cobblestones at a hasty trot, raindrops plopping a crude melody against the roof. Marcella pitied Scipio as she did all slaves who suffered discomfort for the benefit of their masters.
“Good ceremony,” her father said among gravelly coughs. “Take note.” His wrinkled face was two onyx orbs floating amid sallow skin. What they hoped would be a passing spell developed into a permanent disease that the rainy weather worsened. “My day is rapidly approaching. I can feel it.”
“Father, do not talk of that.”
“Not speaking of it will not stop it. You know better than anyone.”
Marcella leaned forward and patted his knee. “Rest now. We will discuss it tomorrow.”
He nodded. “I am tired. Inform Pictrix I will take no dinner tonight. I am going to bed early.”
“You need to eat to keep up your strength.”
“Do not tell me what I need. I am the dominus of this family.”
He acted more stubborn than an untamed mule. His comment wouldn’t have annoyed her as much if today had gone as planned. She intended to miss the ceremony by faking a sudden illness, wait for her father to leave, and then enjoy a full day with Canus, her well-endowed inamorato. Every stolen moment, intimate or not, was a blessing. Nevertheless, her father was unmoved, even a bit skeptical, saying that sick was better than dead, and she was healthy enough to attend a funeral. So there she was, soaking wet and sexually deprived.
They rode on in silence except for her father’s sporadic barks and wheezes. The boorish noises were axes chopping away at her eardrums. The only peace they found was when he slept, and only when Marcella drugged his food with valerian root to induce the deepest slumber.
The rain slackened as they arrived at their villa. To Marcella, it was a brick and mortar tomb of ghosts from deceased family members, and she looked on it with scorn. She marched through the pillared corridor and into the house, yelling her father’s message to Pictrix.
“Yes, domina,” the woman replied.
Maro stood beside her, his chestnut hair mussed and a broken toy in his hand. “Ella, what is wrong?”
“Father is not well. Go to him. I will be on the terrace,” she called behind her as she topped the stairs. She heard Maro run to their father and talk him toward his bedroom in the farthest wing of the home.
Marcella twisted a long, braided strand of black hair around her forefinger while pacing across the balcony. The hem of her damp stola swept over the tiles as she moved. Her thin shadow slowly disappeared with the setting autumn sun. The hues of orange to red to pink stretching out beyond the mountains were sections of color-coded minutes in her mind, counting down the time until she would be in her lover’s embrace.
She pictured her man and his arms, hard as stone and quick with sword. She was never more terrified or more safe than the first time she found herself alone within those arms and their wielder, Canus Ateia. They became friends after his father, Ruga, the head trainer, introduced him as the new armorer and as communication liaison between her father and his gladiators.
It was during spring solstice when Marcella saw him. His intense eyes, black as a panther’s coat, never wavered. His thin lips formed a straight line of non-emotion. They didn’t purse with anger as if he were bullied into this service, nor did they tremble in knowing the peril that accompanied it. And although he was lean, his frame copied that of his father. Ruga was six feet tall, muscled, and masked with a layer of protective fat that made him less susceptible to deeper injuries. When Canus attained his prime height and weight, with youth on his side and the best training, he would be infinitely powerful. She found that an enticing idea.
“He chose to volunteer for this position,” Ruga explained to her father. “He will be more compliant than any slave, and I have taught him since he was a child. He will be the best fighter you ever promoted.”
“We will have to fatten him up a bit first. Until then, he only works the stationary post, no hand-to-hand fighting yet. I want his body, stamina, and skills at their acme before he advances to sparring. He will be trained twice as long as the others before stepping foot in the arena.”
“A year?”
“Are your ears failing? I want him better than you before he fights. Keep him alive, and once you retire, he may take your job. Considering the amount of time under your tutelage, I presume this was your hope. Ready him for a demonstration in six months. If I see a hint of weakness, he goes home and forfeits his pay.” He looked at Canus. “Report to me this evening, boy.”
“Yes, dominus,” he answered in a low baritone. He cast his gaze upon Marcella. “Domina.”
She smiled, feeling a blush across her cheeks which she obscured behind her fan. He was handsome and very arousing indeed.
She ogled his form like a hawk surveilling its quarry. She’d never been so smitten at first sight with anyone.
That evening, as with all those that followed, Canus reported to her father the pertinent information related to gladiator business. After speaking with Bestia, he lingered in the house to catch a glimpse of Marcella. She was only two years younger than he, so they bonded swiftly. They spent many days playing dice and flirting when her father was at market.
Once Canus started full-time gladiatorial exercises, his boyish curls of black hair were shaved off and he no longer had time to waste on childish games. The sport he played drew blood and scarred the soul. During his first demonstration at his sixth month mark, something in him changed. He graduated into manhood at the expense of an inexperienced slave. A wooden sword he held broke on impact, sending the jagged spike into his opponent’s neck, killing him.
He withdrew more and more from the civilized world as months of grueling practice continued. Canus became unrecognizable. His face was bruised and puffy, his lips were split, and his nose displayed a new hump from being broken.
When no doctor was available, Marcella eagerly volunteered to suture his cuts.
“Without an escort?” Her father raised a graying eyebrow. “No.”
“Father, Canus is in no condition to harm me. I must ensure his wounds are closed and free of infection. You said he is one of your best prospects. Why waste him?” This was the best argument she could offer.
“There are guards about should you encounter trouble.” He rolled his eyes as if irritated he lost the debate. “When will you outgrow this medicinal obsession?”
“When people stop dying.” She collected her medical bag and headed to the barracks. Canus had been so preoccupied with training that he hadn’t spoken to her in weeks.
He sat on his bunk once she appeared in his cell. He was bigger than before, having gained the required amount of weight and then some. Muscles bulged from every part of him.
The nasty gash on his head dripped blood like a leaky jug of red wine. She resisted rushing to him with arms extended and fawning over his injury. Instead, she said, “Put this rag against it.”
