* * * *
Herman was getting nervous. There was something not right and he could see it was as evident on the others’ faces as in his gut.
“I don’t like it,” Alan said, “Everything that this points to is ambush and slavery.”
Alan was right, there was something that was wrong with this, very wrong.
“What other choice do we have?” Glaan asked, exasperated.
“We have forces on the other side, tell them to come get us,” Herbert suggested.
“But how do we get our messenger under the Romans’ noses?” Hanz asked, “it’s illogical to assume, even if we do get him past, he will make it to the Chatti or any other allies without being caught or getting lost.”
Herman was playing with fire here. Every decision he made seemed to benefit the Romans in some way, and deter him and his men at the same time.
The ‘what if’ ideas continued to fly, along with the logical rejections of each idea, shot down.
“Hermun, what do you think?” Brayden asked, suddenly.
Hermun gathered his wits and did his best to reply, “I say we give them three, girls I mean. I know what the Romans want them for, so we need to give them a hardy and old enough to handle. It is harsh and I know it is not ideal, but I don’t see any other option.”
Verganzblast looked at him with horror written clearly across his face, “How could you even say such a thing, Herman? You, of all people know what happened to Adalia.”
It felt as though someone had hit Hermun in the gut with a brick. His face paled and his heart stopped momentarily in his chest and he felt as though he would lose his stomach. The name alone gave his heart an uplifting feeling, the feeling of her waist-length golden hair, her sparkling, crystal, blue eyes which never stopped smiling, her whimsical voice which, in every word she spoke, managed to sing rather than speak in the song of her life, soon to be intertwined with his own. She was the melody of his heart, the apple of his eye, and the heart that had beaten, only for her, in his chest—and now she gone. Every moment with her was now but a memory, every fleeting look now just a star in the sky.
“Verganzblast, this is not the same,” Hanz said, clearly noticing the look on Herman’s face.
“She was taken from me, Herman, by the same kinds of men who want those girls. She was my pride and joy, and your bride to be, and they—they just took her,” Verganzblast said, beating his fist against his heart.
“I realize the pain you feel, I feel is too, but now we have to think about the future of our tribe and families,” Herman said, trying to gain back his senses.
“Herman, they took her to Rome, after, and on the way, using her, and, last I heard, she is a holy prostitute in the temple of Venus. She is gone, would you subject these girls to the same fate as she?” Verganzblast’s words hit Herman at his very core; there was a good point to be made, but they still had to get through that wall in order to get home.
Hermun breathed in deeply and he could almost see all the men lean inward for his final answer, “It is with dirt in my mouth, blood on my hands, feces under my bare feet, and all other manner of unpleasant situations, feelings, and sensations, I say, this is not out of any willing want or pleasure that I comply with the Roman price, but out of duty, preservation of our people, and mandatory need that it is done. I pray to every god on this fallow nigh, that they forgive me for this black and, truly, unholy deed, and bless those whom I love, and the families to whom I have drawn near, if not I. I want our people to thrive, and we need these people, I am aware, but we must get home safe, and whole, as to be able to preserve our own. Please, it is a vile deed, on any level, to any person, but it is a mandatory act, and all these girls’ blood, I know, is on my hands, and I will claim all responsibility for all following events; however, who supports my decision?”
Glaan, Jacob, Berjen, and Addlemen looked grimly at the floor, each other, and Hermun, simultaneously, and, then, finally, Berjen stood, saying, “I know this is a heinous act of belligerence and cruelty, but, Hermun is right, we have no other options, so, I for one, am with him; who else?”
One by one, the men stood, all but one, Alan. He sat, his face hard, eyes downcast.
“Alan, I know that the choice is made, as majority rules, but what is it that ails your mind, speak freely,” Hermun said kindly.
Alan looked up, but the look in his eyes was hollow and sad, “Hermun, now, after accepting this position of responsibility, I feel I must examine all decisions we make together, especially on a matter as sensitive as this, and be sure that every fact supports the decision,” Alan stood to look Hermun in the eye, “You remember the day Warick was taken, along with Avel, Neorah, Nayeli, and maybe five others, do you not?”
Hermun nodded tersely, what is Alan getting at?
“When we were in that tent, before Apollo struck, I got a feeling, the same feeling I have now: I think we are walking straight in to a trap. These Romans may be fat, may be insisting and forceful, but they are cunning. They think as swiftly as a cat or snake strikes: in the blink of an eye. I think Gaius has more in store for us once we get through the wall. I feel he has sent word, we are the raiding party they have been searching for; we need to pack up immediately and leave, as fast as we can, go north, the wall has to end somewhere, and when it does, there we cross.”
Alan was right. Hermun turned to his instructors and gave them a questioning look and, one by one, around the circle of men, the repeated, “Aye,” or, “Alan is wise, and I believe we should follow such wisdom,” or, “I say we go.”
“That is enough convincing for me, majority rules; I agree as well. Berjen and Lanzgres, see to it that all the men know what we are doing and that the captives know, if they make any sound, they will only end up worse off. Glaan, send someone to retrieve the men who are keeping tabs on the Romans, tell him to report to them that silence is of vital importance and they should start ahead of us, padding their horses’ hooves as to be soundless, and go first to scout. Rupert and Brunden, organize a band of at least thirty men to take up the rear, cover our tracks and to… take care of any followers. Herbert, Jacob, and Brayden, you organize the men in to leaving parties, leading the first one, in about fifteen to twenty each, those taking wagons with them are to have twenty. When you get around twenty miles away, send a man back to tell those parties who are following where to rendezvous, and another to be a scout in the trees, with several spears, to pick off any who may try to follow, with about a mile of distance between he and the camp. Continue to send one man back from each arriving party and create a one mile perimeter around the camp, and to show the following where to go; be sure you keep track of who comes in, and who has yet to show,” Hermun paused going over more details internally, “Addlemen, Hanz, Alex, Verganzblast, and Alan will stay with me, supervising previsions and keeping silent watch, possibly enforcing punishment on those who refuse to be tacit, and other miscellaneous tasks.”
All the men scattered, but Alan, to do as Hermun had said.
“Hermun, what you have organized here is ingenious, but do we even have the time for that? We have maybe three hours until the sun rise,” Alan said cautiously.
“I don’t know, Alan, but this is all we can do. We have to get out of here with the least amount of conspicuity as possible. How else are we to do that but with an organized ploy as this?” Hermun replied, tentatively.
* * * *
The wagons had been rolling for several days now and Nayeli’s patience was frayed and thin. Her wounds were healed, almost completely now, but she longed to sleep without the fear of Marcus taking advantage of her—she more just longed to sleep.
The few brief words she had spoken to him had sparked small conversations, mostly consisting of Marcus talking and Nayeli zoning out, staring out the barred window, and contemplating recent events.
Many times while Marcus was talking, Nayeli would watch him, look at his lips move, read his body language, look at his eyes, and listen to his words, though not associating them with the topic of which he spoke. He spoke with eloquence, perspicacity, acumen, prominence, and erudition. There was something very peculiar about Marcus. He was not the simple legionnaire who he was dressed as. He was more; there was something prominent, pungent or otherwise engaging about Marcus. Of course, he had a beautiful physique, but that was not all of it. His pale green eyes were vast and held more than he let be known. They saw all and took in everything. There were immense amounts of knowledge and wisdom behind those pale green observers. Marcus was an oddity, even to Nayeli, who never thought anything strange, merely misunderstood.
However, there was more to this puzzle. The legionnaires looked up to Marcus, almost in awe and did exactly as he said when he said it. More often than not, Apollo had to relate his orders to Marcus to tell to the men in order for them to display even a semblance of obedience.
Nayeli and Marcus began to have a guise of friendliness. It had become a more relaxed atmosphere between them and Nayeli and he were vaguely friendly just to ensure a more secure feeling. Though Nayeli still was nowhere near to even slightly lowering her defenses, she did not feel as though she was in any immediate danger; however, she was by no means comfortable being trapped in a moving wagon with this man who she hardly knew.
She was sitting across from Marcus, glaring at him, frustrated with his one-sided conversations, but unwilling to speak: it would pleasure him too much, as that it what he was after all. Every time he would speak, no matter how provocative, Nayeli would remain silent, seething.
“Well, I suppose this is all you do, then: seethe and glare, silently, like a child throwing a silent tantrum, because you didn’t get what you wanted?” Marcus said. He was becoming steadily cleverer in his provocations to get her to speak.
Nayeli just looked at him, narrowing her eyes slightly and then opening them and pasting an innocent look on her face.
“So, you communicate, do you?” Marcus said, a smirk on his lips, “I heard you talk to Apollo, you have a voice, a rather… unyielding one at that. You have eloquent speech, a vibrant spirit in your eyes, and I can hear every word you say with meticulous annunciation and emotion. With a word from you, Apollo became dust, and he knew what you spoke was true as I did,” Marcus’ eyes softened, “What I don’t understanding is, with the ability that you have to use the spoken word as you do, why do you remain silent now?”
Nayeli didn’t see a way out of this one, she had to speak; he was more than challenging her pride, but, something else, deeper.
“I don’t speak because it is the sound of my voice that you wish to hear, it is the sound of my returning the challenge, it is more than a battle with arms and weapons and tooth, nail, and claw, it is the battle of the wit and you wish to show yourself more superior and able to hold your own at my jousting. For every advance that you make that I do not notice, you get what you might call a point on your tab, but I would more complacently call pure annoyance,” Nayeli gave him a stern look, “Do not pretend to think that I will not, or have not already caught on your little ploys, I am not so ignorant and easy as to not see them; I have seen enough in my lifetime to tell me how you and your type function.”
Marcus was stunned. She could see it plainly written on his face. He wasn’t just merely shocked by Nayeli’s words, but utterly destroyed. Then it changed. He went from stupefied to incredibly self-assured.
“See, I told you, you have a tongue. And might I say, you are much sharper than you look.”
Nayeli went hot with annoyance, and then immediately cooled herself off, so, he wants to play dirty, does he?
“And what do you mean to imply by that?” She asked, a little spicy-like.
“Nothing, nothing at all. I only mean to say that, because of your fair complexion and small stature, people are more highly inclined to associate your intelligence to that of your height: small.”
Nayeli peaked one of her eyebrows, “better to be an Egyptian beauty who’s underestimated, that to be a rude, self-righteous Roman who imposes his knowledge on others, whether it is soundly correct or not.”
“Are you calling me incompetent?” Marcus said, a small hit to his pride.
“More than that,” Nayeli said, lets see how far I can take this, “incompetent, rude, selfish, imposing, self-righteous, egotistical, narcissistic, insensitive, inconsiderate, and more cruel. You take me from those who I love, those who love me, protect me, and mourn with me to suit your selfish commander’s wants and lusts. How do I know that you are any different than he? He… hurt me, battered me! How is it that I know you will not do the same?”
Marcus rose, “Because I am different than he. I do not see you as chattel, you are a lady, and deserve to be treated as such.”
With that, Marcus shuffled on his knees to the other side of the wagon where he harrumphed and sat, his head resting back on the wall of the wagon. Nayeli felt she had lost this squabble, of what seemed, one of many to come, even though her words had been the most biting. Although she had wanted to know the answers to that question, Nayeli felt she had lost a great deal of respect due to her insensitive way of going about it.