Prologue I: Salazar Slytherin
He could still remember the livid fires burning more than half of his village to ash. They came to Hispania with their swords and legions. They called his people barbarians. But it was they who were the barbarians. These Romans who knew nothing but to burn and conquer. These Romans who knew nothing but to kill and imprison. They were the true barbarians of this world. Not the people of Hispania.
"Run! Salazar! Run!"
The fires were engulfing all within it's path. The trees were lit ablaze and chaos was everywhere he turned. The men were gathered near the forest. Called to arms, bearing swords, shields and arrows. He, himself, was carrying a small dagger. The fierce gleam of rage in his eyes, he was prepared to stand and fight. But his father held him back, dragging him deeper into the forests where the women and children were hiding.
"No father! I'll stay and fight!" He squirmed, wriggling his way from his father's iron grasp. But years of wielding a sword had made his hold unwavering. He could already feel his wrist bruising underneath his father's ragged, leathery skin.
"Don't question me! You are no soldier! You're simply a boy! Now run!"
He could still remember the mile long line of survivors. Chains on their ankles and hands. Made to walk to the coast. All of them. Women. Children. Even the elderly. Feet were torn and bloody. Lips were dry and pale. Faces blistered from the heat of the midday sun. Hands shivered in the harsh winds of the evenings. He was one of the few who survived the walk to the coast. He was young then. He would survive the road.
He was not meant to be one of the dead bodies that would litter the roads of Hispania.
"Get up!" A man growled as an elderly woman fell on to her knees in exhaustion.
They had been walking since dawn and were not allowed rest until nightfall. No food nor water, people were dropping like the grain in harvest season. Men, women, children, alike were starving and thirsting, but still the Roman captors drove them to push forward.
He saw a young man go up to the soldier and challenge him. "Filthy Roman swine!" He roared.
The next thing he knew, the young man was reduced to a corpse. His blood spilled in the dirt road, and his remains being avoided by those who came further down the line. His body, left for the buzzards that seemed to follow their enduring march.
He could remember the dark galleys they were thrown in. Hundreds of people shut in the dark. The rank smell of blood and mud, thick in the air. The buzzing of flies ringing in every ear. The burning pain of hunger. The want for light. They were only given stale bread and gruel to eat. But even then, it seemed like it was the most delicious food in the world. People squabbled over it. Sometimes killed for it. He did. He killed for the food he needed to live. He had to. After all, he was not meant to be a dead body thrown to the sea.
He had not eaten in what seemed like days. But there in the dark galleys of the great ship, he had no way to telling if the night had passed into day. All he knew was that every now and then, the latched door would open and food would be spooned into bowls. Hot gruel.
He ran towards it as quick as he could. He was one of the very few to get to the bowls on time, before packs of hungry men and women came and squabbled amongst themselves for the sustenance their bodies so craved.
A mad man charged at him. The wild glint of hunger in his eyes, burning with the willingness to kill if only to get the gruel from his hands. He ducked down and avoided him.
As he spooned the vile food down his mouth, he heard the man's neck crack as it collided with the walls of the ship.
The food was worth it.
He could remember the light as the galley doors were opened. It shone in their faces like a long forgotten memory. He was put back in chains. Thicker, stronger chains. Thrown to one side beside war horses and legionaries. Boys joined him. Young, able boys. Boys with strong arms and firm muscles. Boys who could hold a soldier's sword and not feel the weight of it. The others, women, children, elderly, were thrown in caravans. The glimmer of gold passed from one hand to the other. They were sold. Slaves. But what was he? He didn't know yet. All he knew was that he was not meant to be a body thrown into a caravan to be a servant in a great house, carrying trays of gold.
He could remember bring put on a horse. A war horse. A horse fit for a soldier.
"You should count yourself lucky boy." A man said, riding beside him. Guarding him, as if he would run. But how could he run? Where would he run?
He was lucky, the man said. Lucky to be what? Lucky to be on a horse. For him, it was just another walk. Another boat. Where was he being brought? Where did they want to take him? Would he be killed when he got there?
They gave him bread and cheese. Better than what he had been given in the boat. He could remember eating it hungrily. Without another thought. It might be his last meal after all. But he wasn't about to die.
The horses stopped at a great wall. A fortress. Hadrian's Wall, the soldiers called it.
They were taken down from their horses. He and the other boys who had been taken. Wooden swords were thrown in front of them.
"You will use those until you earn the right to carry a proper sword."
An authoritative man stood in front of them. He had a gruff expression about him. Scars on his face. Fresh wounds on his arms and chest. Bandaged. He limped on, passing each boy. He remembered the man looking him in the eye. Peering into him, as if looking for a secret.
"How do we earn the right to carry a sword?" Another boy said.
"You will carry a proper sword when you've learned how to kill a man." The man said. "Kill a man and you'll survive."
He felt himself picking up the wooden sword, balancing it in his hands. Gripping it tightly. "How can we kill a man?" He said.
The man smiled. "That's what you're here to learn. You are no longer boys, but warriors. Warriors in Britannia. Warriors for Rome."
Suddenly, he could fee a searing pain on his arm. A scorching hot iron had been thrust into him, burning letters fiery letters in his arm.
S.P.Q.R.
LXXIV
He could remember screaming. One of the few screams he had ever let out in his life. A scream that echoed throughout Hadrian's Wall. As the letters seared into his flesh, he learned to keep his mouth shut and his arm still. He bit his lip until he drew blood.
"What do the letters mean?" He asked, wincing as he took off his shirt and peeled off the cloth from his branded arm. The sting of the burned flesh still hadn't healed, but there was no time to clean it. One nonce, the Commander said. Change the dressing and be back, he said.
The men in the barracks just laughed. What had been so amusing about his question. He found no humor in it. But it seemed like it was a joke to all the other soldiers in the infirmary.
"It means, boy," One of the men barked. "that you're Rome's now."
He couldn't remember the days that followed. At least not properly. They had trained him. Baptized him in the blood of battle. He was forced to fight those he shared a barracks with. He was forced to show no mercy. He was forced to harden his heart. He was forced to spar with those older than him. More experienced than him. More ruthless than him. But he learned. He learned their skills as he brought them down, one by one. He earned a proper sword from the man he only knew as Commander. He had been told he was able. More able than those he had been brought with. Many of them were already dead. But he still lived. He lived for he wasn't meant to be one of the bodies buried without a sword to mark his grave.
The sound of pounding steal harrowed the air as the scorching heat of the fires forced the sweat to trickle from his brow. He ached all over. He had been practicing since dawn and was not allowed to stop until he won a bout.
"Do you think you'll ever get home again?" His opponent asked him as his blade thrust forward, barely missing his side.
"Home? This is our home now." He answered.
"But don't you ever miss it? Hispania?"
His vision was blurring. The sweat stung his eyes. He could feel his arms quivering at the weight of the heavy sword. But still he persevered. The sooner he won. The sooner he could rest.
Great rewards were given to those who were victorious, but all he wanted was a hot meal and a chance to sleep.
He locked swords with his advesary, close enough to feel his breath on his face. But he pushed the other away, quickly regaining his bearings and the tight grip on his sword. "It's burned to the ground. There is no more Hispania."
"But then what will you do? When all the fighting stops." He laughed.
"Don't be foolish." He felt himself scoff. "The fighting will never stop."
He was distracted. The attacks were too quick. He parried and parried but his other was too quick for him. He lost his footing and fell to the ground. His sword a good to inches away from him.
The cold touch of his foe slide gracefully into the crook of his neck, his reflection cast on it's silvery surface. "Now pick up your sword, Salazar. I don't want to have to kill you without a decent fight."
"Yes Commander."
He had gotten older. Older in mind and body. He had experienced his first battle. Gotten his first real scar, slashing the letters on his arm. He had gotten more than his share of swords. Swords of them men he brought down. But along with the fear he got from his prowess in the battle field, he also gained fear from the inexplicable things he was able to do. The night he had gotten the mark on his arm had been the night when all the flames in the Wall rages larger than had ever been seen. When he had first come out in the battlefield, they say he could read his opponent's eyes, knowing all that passed though his thoughts. They even say that he could bend others to his will, just by looking at them.
The named him a new. Slytherin. The sly one. He was no longer Salazar of Hispania.
But the name came with a mark. Several in fact. On his back. In his face. Marks from the sound lashing they gave him. What he could do. What he could have others do. It was an evil. An evil that had to be beaten out from him.
"What you are doing is unnatural, boy." The Commander said. "Keep it up and I will be sorry to kill you. But I will kill you."
So he kept it within himself. He needed to survive. He was not meant to be one of those boys killed for not following orders.
But now, eighteen years hence, the parapets of the once great fortress was no longer overrun with men in armor. Only a few remained. Piercing the distance with their hawk-like gazes. Men were formed in legions, ready to march out of Hadrian's Wall and begin their journey to the coasts.
Eighteen years since Salazar had first set foot on Britannia, the Romans had finally decided to leave the island. They were making their way back to their city in the East. Their city was falling. Britannia was also falling. Every day, the rebel forces grew stronger, pushing them further and further to the Wall.
Only a few would be left. The Commander, Aurelious Ambrosious, would command the remaining men. Those loyal to the post of Britannia. Those who were willing to protect the island against the savages who would cut it into pieces once the legions had left.
"You are free Salazar. You can go back to Hispania, or whatever godforsaken land you come from."
"Quite frankly sir, the Hispania I knew was burned down a long time ago. I doubt that I'd find anything to come back to."
"The leave the Wall for the Gods' sake. I don't think you've ever left, save for battle. You're free."
"What does it mean? To be free. I was too young to remember."
"It means, boy. You don't have to be a soldier anymore. You can be just a man."
"I think I'd rather be soldier." He laughed. "Besides, sir. You're going to have a lot people hammering on your door, soon. I'd rather you hold the fort for more than one onslaught."
"Ah, boy. It seems I've taught you to kill too well. You've developed a taste for it."
"Not a taste for it, sir. Simply a talent. One that I'd want to put to use."