The Baby and the Battlefield

Chapter Five: The Law, as it Applies to Babies, Clerks, and Prisoners

 The sun beat down on the hard-packed earth that formed the floor of the rough enclosure. The fence around it had been built of pine logs, driven into the bare earth and lashed together to form a crude palisade. It was midafternoon, and her skin was turning red with the start of a sunburn, but the woman still felt cold. Cold, and alone, and more than a little bit frightened. The men hadn’t hurt her, bringing her here. They had dragged her along roughly, at first, but so long as she made an effort to match their pace, they hadn’t made any particular attempts to harm her.

 The odd little enclosure was filled with other prisoners. Most of them were in worse condition than she was. The few men were grievously wounded, and most of the women had clearly been treated much more badly than she had been. Many of them were crying, but one was staring off into space with a blank expression that was even more chilling. The young woman pretended the other prisoners weren’t there. She even pretended that the imperials weren’t there, not the men who dragged her over, now dictating to a clerk who was filling out forms, not the old man with only one eye, who leered at her from the gate, not the guards stationed around, eyeing them all suspiciously. No, she thought, I will pretend that I am alone, that I am the only person who ever lived.

                                ~*~

The line was long and the baby fitful. She wiggled in Marcus’ arms and periodically dissolved into angry tears. The whining which accompanied these tears brought Marcus a fair amount of attention from the other men in line – catcalls, whistles, and jeers – and Marcus’ face was quite a deep shade of red by the time he made it to the front of the line. He had announced his name, rank, and number before the young quartermaster’s clerk actually noticed the bundle in his arms.

 “That’s your loot? Let’s see it please,” the clerk said politely, leaning his elbows on the collapsible desk he had covered in papers and notes.

 Marcus sighed and drew the blanket away from the baby’s face, showing her to the other man. The clerk started, and narrowed his eyes at Marcus.

 “Is this some sort of a joke? That’s a baby!” He protested.

 Marcus shrugged.

 “No joke,” he replied, “I found her on the battlefield. I expect that makes her loot.”

 “Well, I mean, prisoners to be enslaved, those are loot, but eh, a baby isn’t worth much, and who’d take care of it? No, we won’t take it to sell for you, and you know you aren’t allowed to keep a minor child as slave in the camp unless you own the child’s mother. Frankly, a baby isn’t worth the time it takes to copy out all the forms. Better kill it,” The clerk suggested helpfully.

 Marcus’ eyebrows shot up his forehead as his mouth dropped open.

 “Kill her? I don’t want to kill her!”

 A tiny smile played over the young clerk’s face.

 “Well, you know, soldier,” he said, “You have the right to keep any abandoned child you find. Under the law, a person could raise such a child as a slave, but that's out of the question, given the camp rules. Yes, generally a person could legally raise the child as a slave, or,” the smile grew a little wider, “he could raise it as his own. And your own child may be permitted to remain in the camp, if the child is motherless. I take it you’re unmarried?”

 Marcus nodded, silently.

 “Then the child would be legally motherless, were you to adopt her.”

 Marcus looked down at the bundle in his arms. The little girl's eyes were closed. Her breathing was smooth and rhythmic, nothing like the strangled pants she used when she cried. She was asleep, in his arms, as if she trusted him.

 Marcus looked up, almost daring the young clerk to dissuade him as he said, “I think – I think I’ll keep her.”

 The clerk raised one eyebrow, then grinned and started pulling forms out from under his desk. Each form had been carefully hand-copied onto whatever scraps of paper were available – worn-out vellum, cheap papyrus, scraps of Estavacan mulberry-paper, even sheets of the strong, delicate inner bark of birch trees.

 “As your own, sir?” he asked.

 Marcus nodded, and the clerk pulled out another form and rapidly filled it out, the reed pen dipping and bobbing as he did so.

 “There’s a form for this?” Marcus asked, disbelief in his voice.

 “There is a form for everything, sir, as you should know by now. You did say you were a clerk, right?” The clerk replied dryly, writing Marcus’ name on the sheet. He paused unexpectedly, looking up at Marcus.

 “Name of minor child?” He inquired.

 “Her – her name?” Marcus stuttered, “But I don’t know – “

 “Children’s names are easy to change if you don’t like it. But I have to put something down. It’s a matter of protocol,” the clerk said uneasily.

 “Fine. I – I think – Aurelia,” Marcus decided finally, “For my mother”

 The clerk entered ‘Aurelia’, underlined it with a flourish, and tapped the form with his pen.

 “Sign here. You can write, can’t you?”

 “Of course I can write! I don’t think I could do my job if I couldn’t,” Marcus snarled, snatching the pen from the young man.

 “Well, you certainly don’t know your forms.”

 Marcus balanced baby Aurelia on one arm and, after dipping the reed into the inkwell, signed his name in his neat, schoolboy’s hand. He handed the pen back to the clerk.

 “Congratulations, sir. It’s a girl,” The clerk replied.

 Marcus glared at him.

 The clerk, however, was not cowed. He flipped through the enormous book for a moment, then cleared his throat and said, “As you appear to be serious about keeping the infant, may I suggest you purchase a proper nursemaid? I could . . . look, I could write you a chit that says you brought in a slave, an adult woman instead of a child. You could go to the prisoner’s enclosure and exchange it for someone suitable. Just keep your mouth shut about it,” he finished, looking around anxiously.

 Marcus looked down at baby Aurelia. The annoying young clerk was right, it wasn’t as if he could watch over her himself, when he was marching or setting camp or fighting. Even Petro had said as much. Still, buying an adult woman was different from taking in a baby. Someday, when the baby was older, the adult woman wouldn’t be needed. Marcus didn’t much like the idea of selling people. The buying was alright, but the selling afterwards . . . if the slave came to a bad end, Marcus just knew he’d blame himself. Maybe, just maybe, he might find a slave who had a profession that would be useful, so a good master would buy her when Marcus was done with her. And he supposed if it didn’t work out, he could always manumit the slave.

 One other thing worried him. If she was a young woman, and pretty, he would be attracted to her. He knew this to be true. But after what had happened with his older brother Gaius, getting entangled with the girl would be the stupidest thing Marcus could do. Still, it would be so hard. Marcus sighed, cuddling the still-sleeping Aurelia close. He was buying a nanny. A nanny, and nothing else.