Rising Army

As Hesperia ran, she made sure to step into as many puddles as possible, making as much pandemonium as she could while leading the two legionnaires away from Marcia. She swept her arms out, Of course, Hesperia wasn’t a fast runner, nor was she a trained soldier like those who were chasing her, so it was only less than half a minute that she was tackled to the ground.

Hesperia struggled to kick the man who now straddled her, pushing her into the ground. Whipping out a knife, he pressed it against her neck, leaning in to whisper in her ear, “Don’t you dare move, girl. You’re overpowered.” Hesperia identified the man as Scipio, “Now, just do as we say, and we won’t paint this ground with your blood for now, won’t we, Tiberius?”

The other watched her warily as she was let up, “Yes, Scipio, we won’t. For now.”

-

The eyes that stared into Hesperia’s own reminded her of the black coffee that her mother used to have every morning.

“I’m sorry, Hesperia. But I had to do this.”

“For what?” Hesperia’s eyes flashed up at his voice.

Marcus dipped his head out of the girl’s sight.

“For what? For what, Marcus?” Her tone was dangerously quiet.

Marcus walked out of the kitchen, not daring to spare Hesperia even a glance.

-

There was only silence as the slaves who were also in the room studied the newcomer, whispering in hushed tones as Hesperia took a seat in a corner.

Hesperia turned away from them, facing the walls. She had tried to make sure that Marcus was safe, but in return, all she got was this. This bitter, bitter betrayal that stung her tongue.

-

None of the others dared talk to her, and it was not before long the slave master had come brandishing his whip, breaking up the curious crowd.

“You only have five hours to prepare for the party tonight, maggots.” He barked, striking his whip upon the nearby wall, leaving a dark slash. “And you, slut, follow me. The young master wishes to speak to you.” The slave master pointed his fat little index finger between Hesperia’s eyes, his beady pupils devoid of empathy.

“Who are you calling a slut, arsebreath?”

“What did you say?” The whip was now raised.

“I’m coming with you to find your young master,” she muttered, “whoever that little shit is.” The man didn’t show any signs of catching her last words. Hesperia wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be relieved or annoyed.

-

“So this is the one who burned my door, and also,” A boy with chocolate curls raised his eyebrow at Marcus, who stood tall and silent to his left, “according to your dear friend, you are also the one who stole my copy of The Iliad. Do you know who you stole from, young lady?”

“Young lady? I’m not much younger than you, however old you might be.” Hesperia crossed her arms, “And who the hell are you?”

The boy that lounged against the purple couch sat up, snapping his fingers at nearby slaves. One of them flinched, not much older than her, his head snapping up in alarm.

“You,” The boy on the couch pointed airily at the boy who flinched, “You’ll do. Go fetch a small purse for me, would you?”

“Yes, dominus.” The boy shot a glance at Hesperia before hurrying away, his footsteps light.

“Anyways, back to the subject, call me Octavian. Great-nephew of Gaius Julius Caesar.” He now stood up, circling around the girl, scrutinizing every single detail of her face, her clothes, and her movements as she took a step away from him. “You call yourself Hesperia, do you not?”

“So? Is there anything wrong?” Hesperia crossed her arms over her chest defiantly. The Augustus she read in her history books was talking to her in that way? Perhaps great people weren’t all that great as they were painted to be. “Because I don’t think there is.”

There was a long pause of silence before Octavian chuckled.

“No.” He grinned, flashing his teeth at her. “It fits you well, in fact. You’re named after the goddesses, I assume?” She nodded, and the boy continued on, “My mother would say that your eyes match the golden of the apples of their garden, your dress the lavish green of their trees. But I disagree.” He stops, clearly prompting her to ask the question.

“Why do you think my name fits me well then, if not for my eyes and clothing?”

“You come before me during a time before dark settles. You remind me of when the sun sets in the western gardens, bringing the night with it.”

“And is nightfall good or bad?” Her question rang in the air, echoing in the silence of the hall they now stood in.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Octavian didn’t answer her, instead he clasped his fingers together. “There is something I would like to know, too.” He leaned forward, his eyes, dark and cold, dug into her own.

“Why are you here?”

“I was dragged here by your men!”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m not telling you,” Hesperia sighed, although she feels the irresistible urge to pour all of it out. She didn’t tell Marcus nor Sabina the whole story, only snippets. It had weighed her down, oh yes, it had weighed her down during the last month. As a result, she had done some things that she still regrets. But she held back. “I’m not telling you, for your own sake.”

“Very well. Keep your secrets, then.”

“Can I go, then?” The whole tension in the room was filling her with unease.

“No.”

Hesperia rolled her eyes impatiently, “You want payment.”

“Of course I do, you tried to burn down-”

“That was not my intention.”

Octavian spread his palms. “You almost did, and so I present to you two choices.” He took a pause before continuing, “One, I can and will send my men to torture what you know out of you. You remember Scipio?” The boy glanced at her face for second, but Hesperia had made no movement.

“Two, you will serve freely as payment to our house. You will work here for exactly one day and one year.”

“Oh, really? What if I run away?”

“We could always go back to choice number one if you wish for it.”