Story: The Rose
Rating: T for themes
Warnings: this chapter contains quite nearly blatant non-con - so pl
Crispin watched her go, hands clasped behind his back.
Almost as if to restrain himself from stopping her. He was an officer, the commander to be exact. If this was any other province, it would be considered his duty to protect her.
But they weren't citizens.
They'd denied citizenship as loyalty to their God.
What sort of God deserved this devotion - they'd had a history of enslavement to various conquerors, only a brief one as an independent nation.
Or so said his research.
He'd made it his business what their customs were - some of those under him didn't care about such things, but he knew the key to discovering how to make peace with such a riotous province was to at least attempt to relate to them.
He turned back to stare down where she had been looking.
Had her duties gotten so terrible she had considered suicide? These people didn't believe in that sort of thing. It was ... they said one was condemned to hell for it.
A Roman only trying to keep his honor would resort to such.
Common among citizens threatened with their citizenship eradicated for their crimes, making them susceptible to crucifixion.
She was young, barely twenty.
She would have made a suitable bride.
He shook his head. Why was he entertaining such thoughts?
He was not bound to this province. If a new assignment came in, he was likely to leave.
It made no sense.
The rose, the mark of her status - the fortress entertainment for the lonely guardsmen, mainly Syrian. The girl anyone could claim for their own.
Her haggard appearance told that story, but it was quite clear whose favorite she was.
He hadn't liked Brutus from the first.
The man tended to disregard orders, also had a bottomless pit when it came to wine. He would be trouble someday - the only detail he was excellent at was the legionnaire's position, in fact he needed no assistance for such task.
But that was only because the man - if he was human and not daemon - had a bloodlust as intense as his thirst for wine.
He'd be targeting someone else if Crispin took the girl away from that position. He did not intend her harm; he did have the authority to falsify what her position was in his case.
She could be a good attendant. Nimble fingers well-suited for tying the knots in his boots, in his armor.
If she wanted his attentions, she was welcome to them.
A picture of her whimpering, biting her tongue, threatened with cuts if she screamed. That was what made his feet move for the soldier's quarters.
He crossed the courtyard, acknowledging the salutes.
Those off-duty in the dimly lit quarters appeared asleep.
A bump came from a closet behind the door.
He put his ear to it first.
"Shh, hush now... unless you want the blade again." Brutus. As he'd suspected.
He heard a muffled sniffle. Most likely feminine, but these days one couldn't be sure - though it was probably her considering the scene earlier.
He rattled the bolted door. "Open this, on my order!"
He heard a sigh, exasperated. The sound of a shuffle, then the door unlocked, opening slowly.
"Sorry, sir." The arm of the garment was torn away, the front of her thin shift in strips, as she clung to the minimal fabric, trying to cover her modesty.
She would have looked finely figured were it not for the signs of malnourishment. He wasn't sure if the blood on her hand was from a cut on her finger, or somewhere she was trying to keep hidden.
"You're sorry?" Brutus addressed her in a scathing tone, not bothering to cover himself. He cared not who he received his attentions from - as long as it was on his own terms. "You're the one who lured me with your -"
"Enough." Crispin held up his hand, annoyed that he had not been saluted properly, and at the entire situation in general. "She's being reassigned. If I catch you laying a hand on her again, or threatening her in any manner, I'll have you stripped of your rank and most certainly looking after the horses rather than your current assignment. Or I might have you crucified if I have enough evidence to present treason." He glared at Brutus, and the underling dropped his gaze.
"Fine. Take her - have your way with her. She's rubbish anyway. We need a new one that isn't so... tarnished."
Crispin watched her lip tremble - the insult hurt. "You will not insult her either." He griped her arm firmly - but it was not of the purpose to intimidate her, it was to intimidate the one who had treated her with reproach.
"Come along now, - on with your reassignment." He addressed her in a civil tone. "Now Legionairre," he turned to Brutus coldly. "is it not time for your guard duty? I'll have you flogged if you're at the wineskin tonight. The people are restless. Good evening." He slammed the door, pulling the girl away. Then released her.
"Come with me, we will talk. I won't hurt you. In fact, you will no longer be forced to do anything with yourself that you don't want to do."
She followed, taking slow, timid steps. "Come now, walk beside me. Or I can drag you to keep up the appearance that I've claimed you. Let them believe what they choose."
He never knew how to interact with a woman. He knew how to be fair and just, but how they thought or communicated he was completely clueless.
"You are no longer responsible for the business of what my underlings see as pleasure. It clearly does not please you, yes?"
"I - my opinion on the matter is irrelevant, sir."
"That may be in most cases, but your opinion has been asked. You do not find any pleasure in your situation."
"No, sir."
"Then you are reassigned, as I have said."
"But - sorry sir."
"No, what was the question?"
"Have you not said you have claimed me for yourself? That sounded… official. As though I were…" she paused. "Your entertainment."
"That's for appearances and nothing more. You are my attendant. You will have a private quarter for yourself - however it is adjacent to mine. If I need you for matters pertaining to things such as a glass of wine in the night - or if the alarm is sounded, then it is your duty to help me with my armor. They are matters for an attendant. An attendant's responsibilities do not include pleasure."
"Shall I be calling you, Master then?"
"If you like," he cared not weather the name was changed. "I take no connotation into the changing of the title used."
"A question sir?"
"You may ask any questions you like," he said, turning the corner, and slowing his strides so she kept up.
"Do you not have an attendant for this?"
"I did at one time, yes." He answered the question as though the former were dead. Well, this would have probably been true if he hadn't … still, it was better for young Valerio to be hiding in the foothills of Bethany at the wealthy woman's villa then killed for his testimony.
She fell silent, but he could tell that she wanted to ask. "You want to know what happened. He needed to leave for awhile. He was given my permission to do so. It's here," he indicated the door to his quarters. One of your duties will be to open the doors in front of the quarters, or should I knock then answer."
There was relief evident as she opened said door.
It was dimly lit.
"You may light the other lamps if you like. It is not late yet. The wicks and the trimmings are next to the window there."
He went to sit on his couch, turning to read his records. He did not want her to feel as though he were eying her or that her presence changed the room. Though in his eyes, the change was quite welcomingly significant.
Once the room was lighted, she picked up a scroll that had fallen when he had picked up the last one. She seemed unsure of weather to place it next to him or to hand it.
He held out his hand for it, still reading. "You may fix your room if you like," he handed her a key, pointing to a door across the room, a brief warm smile on his face. "It's small, and some of it is storage space, but it should do. If it should happen to be to small, please inform me of such and arrangements will be made. Don't forget the lamp, and you may keep the key. I see no reason for me to be of need of it."
He heard the gasp but pretended not to hear.
"Th-thank y-you, Master, I-"
"You didn't have your own quarters. You should be accommodated. Also reminded that rumuors will most likely be spread concerning the exact context of our relationship. This should neither concern nor alarm you. You and I know the exact truth, and that is enough." He continued back to reading, though he wasn't really seeing what was on the page.
Rosina took a step back from the commander. Her own room?
As he'd perceived, she never had her own quarters - well, when she was a very small child - before her Brother was born, she did.
Otherwise, she had always slept on the floor or on someone else's mattress. She unlocks the door with shaking fingers and shines the lamp in the darkened room. A mattress is in one corner, neither narrow or too large.
A lamp is at the head of the bed, a scroll, not long untouched sits next to it.
She can read little, if she's lucky it's Greek - and she won't have to spend all her time puzzling what the confusing little pictures mean.
The commander's uniforms hang in a corner. One is clearly always polished for dress, but it seems to have been barely worn. As though it's just been newly minted. Medusa gapes at her mysteriously from the breastplate.
She no longer is forced to share someone's else's bed, feel the violation as someone else claims what is not theirs.
Rosina traces her finger along the snakes in Medusa's hair. The commander could. If he wanted. For some strange reason the thought doesn't terrify her as it does when she thinks of everyone else.
His hands are neither patrician, indicating he has never done work in his life, nor are they calloused from the whip handle rubbing his palms.
He is a soldier, they are firm and strong. She felt that when he gripped her arm - but there is no bruise.
He will be someone who deserves her services - should he ever ask for them.