For Tomorrow We Die
by
Proserpine
Prologue
Sun.
Hot and hellish and altogether Too many flies, Maximus thought; for one's personal satisfaction. Then again, personal satisfaction was not on the agenda for the day. When you were a slave—and they were all slaves here together—general and warrior, Roman and Gaul—your opinion was not considered. And especially not in the slave pens of Zucchabar. Not at all.
"Get up, soldier."
He didn't ask questions. Just got
up. Walked a little. It was what they wanted. Maybe he'd get lucky and fall
over dead on the way. That wasn't praying for too much, was it? His hand
trailed around the post, trying to escape the blazing eyes of the sun. Except
you couldn't escape it. Ever. He took a sharp turn into the cages. The animals
roared in complaint. But there was another sound too. A soft sound. One of
sobbing. Was it possible? A creature in more misery than he himself? No,
he concluded bitterly. Impossible. And yet… Maximus' concentration was
broken by a clink. Metal on metal. Manacles against iron bars.
"They
call you the Spaniard," a timid whisper started from within the shadows.
His throat worked to respond, but in the end, it was a moot effort.
"I, too, am from Spain. We had a villa there. It was beautiful." The warm sun, the salty tang of the sea, the grapes growing on the hillside.
The words cut into him. It was beautiful... Maximus let his head drop. "Please don't. I do not wish to talk. I only wish to die."
She laughed bitterly; for there was no doubt that the voice was female, silvery and cold. "Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. The first lesson of a slave, sir, but never the last. Where did you live, Spaniard?"
Maximus raised his head slowly to meet an inquisitive, black-brown stare and a mass of tangled dark curls. There were scars too; marring what must have once been great beauty. "Who are you?"
"My name is Mucia Pulcher. Mucia, if you want to get personal."
Beautiful little mouse…where have I heard that before? "The Pulchers always were too attractive for their own good. I suppose that's what got you into this whole mess, then, if you're patrician."
She blushed uncomfortably. "Don't flatter me. My mother was a freedwoman, my father gave me his name."
"Did your father sell you too?"
"No, I…I sold myself. I had a sister, you see. She was beautiful. But she had no dowry," the girl finished dryly, rubbing the scars on her arms nervously. For some reason he found his gaze drawn to those scars, as if he was trying to recall something long forgotten…a memory from a dream. "Kill two birds with one stone. Dowry and embarrassment. But that was many years ago. And you have heard this story before, I am sure."
"No, I'm sure I haven't." Maximus argued warily, trying to catch her eye. But she continued to look away, rubbing the faded scars almost regretfully. "Where did you come by those?"
"In the way of all slaves, I am sure." She replied dismissively. "Disobedience. It was on the march, in Germania," she shrugged. "But I suppose you would know that better than anybody, wouldn't you, General?"
He didn't even have time to catch his breath before his memory was sent catapulting back through time eight years, and all faded to black.
A/N: Sorry this is soooooo bad. I just wanted to get something up. The revised version will be up soon. J Mucia Pulcher is © 2001 PCK. And I took Latin for 4 years, and read Colleen McCollough's whole damn series, so please don't lecture me about the Romans, or the culture, blahblahblah. This is fanfiction not real fiction and I can take liberties. :D —Proserpine.