Chapter 9
"Alone"

The wooden poles tied to hold up the canvas groaned softly as a heavy gust of wind tested its threshold. The air tasted fresh, like morning. The pale light pricked at her lashes, slipping through their tangled web to reach her eyes, and she exhaled heavily and buried her face deeper into the pillow. Subtle clinking of metal penetrated the thin material of his private quarters, and her features twitched with a flicker of agitation. Reality seeped into her dreams, and she gathered the strength to open her eyes and face the morning. Her naked flesh settled so comfortably against the mattress, unhindered by twisted fabric or the lines of her dress as it usually was. Indulgently, she shifted her position if only to feel the sheet and padding smooth against her skin. As she faced the opposite direction, she realized the vacancy beside her. Her fingers spread across the space as if her mind were playing a trick, but the mattress was empty and cool to her touch. Confused, she slid onto her elbow and surveyed the meager space. His ripped tunic and her shredded dress were absent, the broken pieces of the bowl were replaced by a new basin, and his racks were barren of his armor.

Sleep molded to her eyes like a mask, and she strained to push through that lethargic fog and piece together these facts. Each morning he woke her when he arose, though not for the pleasure of her company. He merely made no secret of his wanderings: his footsteps were heavy, his tunic a shout through the empty space, even his thoughts seemed louder. By effect, she was forced to wake as well, but her body recognized before her mind the late shade of sun creeping through the canvas walls. She had overslept deep into the morning, and this realization only further increased her confusion. Holding the sheet to her naked chest, she pushed herself to sit and winced unconsciously at the soreness lingering in her muscles and settling too densely between her thighs. Her body was the evidence of their offense to her family and her name, a sin she had gladly partaken in. Flashes of their night flickered before her eyes, and she tucked her lip between her teeth, her fingers itching as she recalled the contours of his body beneath her touch. Even her breath agitated the ache between her legs as though it were his mark for her to bear –she was now his.

Subtle sounds trailed from the common area, and she stared at the canvas wall like she could see through it to the person occupying the other side. Her heartbeat increased when she wondered if it were him, and she hesitated, naked but shrouded in his bed. Silence prodded her curiosity, and she quietly slipped out of bed, withholding a groan as her muscles contracted to allow her to stand. Out of modesty, no matter how ill timed, she gathered the sheet around her and drew the material into her palms so that she wouldn't stumble on the length. Balancing upon her toes, she approached the partition and barely parted the fabric with one finger. A lone eye bent near to peer through the slender gap, and she searched the space until…

There was a sharp crack of leather outside, and she startled visibly. Her hand tightened around the sheet, dragging it higher to her collarbones as she became too painfully aware of her naked skin and the numerous Roman soldiers swarming the fort. Yet, their tent was empty. A fresh platter of fruit, bread, and meat settled on the table, and her eyes flickered across its offerings and awoke her stomach. It growled loudly, and she flattened her palm across it as if to still it. Though there was no one to hear its pleas, she was embarrassed all the same. Evidently their sleepless night together had done more than steal the strength from her bones. She was famished. She slipped through the partition without a sound and surveyed the empty area suspiciously. No demons or hidden Romans jumped from their cover, and so she grasped one of the plush fruits from the platter and sunk her teeth into its soft flesh. The sweetness assaulted her mouth, the juice burst across her lips and slid down her chin, and she clumsily wiped it away with the back of her forearm. She licked the juice from her lips and smiled with satisfaction for she had never enjoyed such exotic fruit before her time in the fort. The lone silver lining of her stay. When she was finished, all that was left was the pit. She tore off a piece of bread and only then noticed the bundle situated unassumingly at the edge of the table.

Her brow flickered in intrigue, and her fingers walked along the length of the table, guiding her body toward this curious secret. Parchment folded around it, string held it in place, but at the top –and here her interest piqued- was an austere, wooden hair comb. Her fingertip traced the carvings lining it, confused and entranced, and she assumed it a mark that this bundle was meant for her. Setting the comb aside, she untied the string and unraveled the parchment to see the white gown, nearly a match to her previous one in its simplicity and construction, but fresh and new.

Her hand stilled uncertainly. Why would you do this? Is your anger so easily abated?

Without answers, she abandoned the torn piece of bread to the platter to rid her hands of its burden and took the dress by the shoulders and lifted it out in front of her. So simple, and yet it seemed majestic and enthralling to know he had bought it for her without her coercing him or having to bribe him. It seemed Roman men were quick to drop their shields for the warmth of a woman. Conflicted by the price she paid for this plain show of kindness, she laid it across the edge of a chair and sat beside it, drumming her fingers on the table and staring at it as if it would reveal all the secrets of this general.

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"They risk capture and defeat," Aulus commented, his brow knit in concentration.

"They are desperate for supplies," Maximus agreed. His blue eyes narrowed beneath the heavy sun, wrinkles forming at the edges, pale flicks of lines when his features were relaxed.

The two men considered the watchtower which had called them farther east along the border early in the morning. They arrived as the foreigners were loading their caravans, the bellies of their carts swelling with gluttony. The horses were slow to pull so heavy a load. The men could not flee quickly as they often did, and they engaged the Romans. It was a swift battle, blood dried in the sands, only one man was saved.

"Cassius' plan at work."

"No," Maximus corrected and adjusted his helmet beneath his arm, "they move slower than we anticipated. Why are they waiting? They must be starving by now. And to send so few men? It is arrogant and foolish… They could not have expected to succeed."

"What are you suggesting? That this is a distraction of some sort?"

"I don't know." The general exhaled hotly, agitated with the desert sun and the dry air. He spit the sand from his mouth, but immediately the winds drew more across his face and lips. He was weary of the desert, so arid compared to his home. It had been years since he had seen his city, and without explanation, he yearned to return with a sudden rush like his bones attempting to tear from the flesh. He waited out the wave, centering his focus and strength as it passed, though resolved more than ever to be through of this war. He turned from Aulus and headed toward the camp the soldiers were setting up beside the watchtower. "Come, Aulus. We have someone who will give us answers."

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Arwa picked at the knee of her new dress, distracted by a loose thread, and tugged it aimlessly. Her shoulders slumped with a renewed sense of boredom, and she surveyed the sparse interior of the tent, her prison for an indefinite period of time. The dress fit as poorly as the other, and she adjusted the seams endlessly for that reason as if she might find the exact point where the folds sat perfectly. Her onyx hair was combed through, and it lay shiny and smooth as a horse's mane across her shoulder and pooled in her lap. She ran her fingers through its ends, pleased with how the comb had untangled it despite the amount of time it required and numerous unbecoming curses spent under her breath. Yet even that mindless task was better than sitting at the table and waiting for Maximus to return or the servant to arrive.

It was well into midday by this time. She could assume as much by the shade of light streaming through the entry way, though she was a little confused by the quieter nature of the fort. Usually the high walls echoed the multitude of tasks within them, and inevitably the course of the day reached its peak when the sun was highest. And still, it was surprisingly quiet, which only left her more space to fill with her agitated nerves.

The threshold rustled. Arwa straightened curiously, her heart drumming in her ears, but it was the hunched old servant entering the tent. Her body relaxed in mild disappointment, though the servant hardly seemed to take mind and set a fresh pitcher upon the table. "I worried I would need to wake you. You slept so late into the morning."

"How did you know?" she asked.

She merely smiled in the omniscient way older generations can as if she could pluck wisdom from the air at her desire. "A new dress," she observed of Arwa's state and lifted her brow. "You both have a tendency to break things."

Arwa poorly fought a blush, and the servant surveyed her in a sweeping glance that spoke volumes. Arwa touched her hair, soothed by its silky nature considering its volume that morning as if the dark mane had taken a life of its own. It seemed appropriate given all that they had-

"The proconsul calls you to dine with him this evening," the servant interrupted her thoughts.

She couldn't refrain the frown of contemplation from her features, though she supposed this development would account for Maximus' absence. "Very well," she murmured as though she had the power to accept or decline an invitation from this man. Perhaps she would meet her general and his praetor for dinner and learn what plans had kept Maximus from his tent. Along this train of thought, she considered how irritated he would be for spending his day so tediously and decided she would attempt to be more agreeable in his eyes –her gift to him.

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"You think your silence will save you!" Aulus spat at their prisoner, and the foreigner's head lolled heavily between his shoulders, weighed down by the blood rushing to his broken nose. Maximus adjusted his stance turning the hilt of the dagger uneasily in his palm as he watched this questioning continue, but the man had yet to reveal anything. Aulus turned toward Maximus, furious and fast losing patience, and shook the man's blood from his knuckles.

The general stepped forward and took his mop of onyx hair into his palm and tore his head back. He surveyed the bloody features, broken nose, swollen eye, split lip as though considering a plot of land. The dark eyes were aware and conscious, staring back at the general without the faintest flicker of fear inside them.

"Their men do not speak Greek or Latin," he commented and released the man's head, letting it hang once more, the blood dripping from his mouth into his lap and the sand beneath him.

"Then what use is he?" Aulus asked angrily and prepared to remove the man's silent head from his shoulders.

Maximus lifted his hand to still his friend's brash behavior. "We will take him to the fort with us… I know of someone who may translate."

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A male slave escorted her to the Praetorium where Faustus oversaw all his business and had his quarters prepared. The fort's silence was further complicated by its sparse nature. Her eyes searched for the familiar activities and the soldiers bustling about their work, but there was few to met her wandering gaze. Guards traced the walls, acting as sentry to watch for enemies, and those were some of the few Romans she saw. Native slaves and servants scurried around the fort, but where were the other Romans?

Her pace increased with the thought of seeing her general at this dinner. Perhaps he would have too many cups of wine and answer her questions about the fort, or perhaps his gifts were a sign of a shift between them, of a new dawn of understanding. Her optimism flickered, even as she doubted such a turn of events. The slave guided her down the familiar passages and to the dining quarters. As the door opened, music poured from the interior, and she nearly smiled while thinking how easily Faustus was encouraged. But all sense of mirth gave way as she stepped through the doorway, and the blood flooded to her feet where her gut fell as far. Faustus' slave girls anointed the space with lit candles, food, and wine, but as was her curse today, the only Roman man was Faustus who had now turned from his window to greet her with a licentious smile.

You fool! her mind cursed loudly. How could you think he would be here? How you could think you would be safe!

Faustus approached her, his heavy toga swinging across his full gut, and its edges were looser as if he had neglectfully dressed after enjoying one of his slave girls. Arwa feared the fabric would unravel before her eyes, and so she considered his glossy gaze, less intoxicated than she could ever recall it. The cold breath of fear pricked the back of her neck as his sweaty palm grazed her arm, and she feigned a demure smile.

"Proconsul," she greeted and gently dipped her chin in a bow. His leer increased at this sight as it always did, and he guided her toward the table, slipping his hand low on her back with his fat fingers massaging lower down the curve of her spine.

"I see my gift pleased you," he said with a chuckle, and his fingers were poised to grasp the rounded flesh of her backside.

She twisted to face him and out of his reach, and his gaze flickered from where his sights had been set now, impatiently, to her eyes. "Your gift?"

"Yes," he answered and smoothed his knuckles across the ends of her hair where they hung across her hip. She shuddered uncontrollably like her hands twitching at her sides. His intentions were anything but subtle.

"It is a treasure," she lied through shaking lips, fighting the urge to tear the wooden comb from her hair now that she knew its true donor, and retreated toward the table where a veritable feast was prepared for them. "I was not aware we would dine alone."

He found this amusing, perhaps reveling in his own genius, as he laughed to himself. "Yes, the troops will be away for some time."

Where? Ideas of Rome, of battle, of a nameless march consumed her head with dizzying force, and she spilled into one of the chairs as uneasily as water across a full cup. Faustus was immediately at her side, twisted so that he could grasp the back of her chair and force the damp heat of his arm against her shoulders. She had come unprepared, foolishly assuming Maximus would be here, and she had not thought of the need to protect herself. She had not thought he would advance upon her so swiftly.

Through numb lips, she wondered, "What will he think?"

"He is far from us," Faustus commented low in his throat and drew his clammy fingers across Arwa's brow. The muscles of her neck flexed with the sudden need to turn her face from him, but she didn't. She closed her eyes to face the calm darkness behind her lids and exhaled shortly through her nose as Faustus' hand fell to her thigh, too high to be innocent. "Let us forget about him."

Her hand swept over his if only to keep it from rising any higher. The thick fingertips stretched toward the valley between her legs, and her grip tightened around his palm, the bones of her slender hand digging into his fatty flesh. Behind her lids, she saw her ripping the wooden comb from her hair and burying it in Faustus' neck. Were the slender pieces strong enough to penetrate his paunchy neck and reach blood? She couldn't risk the chance, and how would she escape after? Razin had not come for her as he promised. She was alone. Her teeth gritted, and her eyelashes flickered open to consider the praetor from their corners. His attention was directed toward their joined hands in her lap, flickering hungrily in the candlelight, and she impulsively bent nearer to him. His gaze found her, his stained purple lips puckering in preparation, but she paused before reaching him.

"Let us eat, Proconsul," she said with a deceivingly malleable smile. "We will need our strength for such a long night." The words were acid on her tongue, so bitter and vulgar as they sunk into her ears that she fought the need to vomit them back out once more.

He grinned and chuckled greedily under his breath. "One night?" His eyes flickered in amusement at her naïveté. "We have days before they return."

Her stomach lurched, her breath shuddering as it left her lips, but she retreated to her seat and found her cup of wine on the table. She nearly drowned on the liquid flooding her throat, but it sunk into her blood and eased the tense grip on her gut. Despite the heaviness of her head, she felt she could think more clearly, consider her options and formulate a plan. Her immediate scheme to keep Faustus busy had the desired effect as he busied his fingers with tearing meat from the bone. The grease slathered his hands, and he paused to suck the fat noisily from his thumb. He looked at her in the midst, grinning around the finger in his mouth, and her brow twitched without the faintest notion how her alter-persona would react in such a situation. He reached and found her rounded shoulder, smearing the oil into her skin. She wanted to cut off his fat hands for touching her, but she smiled and looked toward the musicians in the far corner.

The three men pretended not to watch this exchange, but when she found one of their gazes, her eyes offered a silent plea. The man looked away. The others had heavy eyes, unable to look at her and watch this disgusting seduction.

You are cowards! she screamed at them. You've forgotten your people! You've forgotten your blood!

"I have a surprise for you," Faustus whispered to her, his voice dangerously low.

"What more can I need?" she asked and nervously licked her lips.

He snorted and clapped his hands. The music stopped, and a slave girl entered the room with a soiled and torn dress revealing her bronze flesh in bits and pieces. Her face was a stoic mask, her eyes hollow, and Arwa's heart stopped while staring at her as an overwhelming sense of her future faced her. The girl was younger than her, barely more than a child but already succumbed an empty shell. Her spirit, her soul, her life had been sucked from her, and all that remained was this beaten corpse. Faustus didn't notice. He grinned excitedly and waved his hand in the air to prompt them to begin some choreographed piece.

The music began once more, trailing lazily and heavily through the air, like the slave's shoulders rolling from her leaden body. The arms extended like serpents in the air as if the musical notes were strings pulling her skeleton into place. Her waist circled, flashing the bone of her hip through a tear in the dress. Her hair fell across her face, and Arwa was grateful to be rid of her slaughtered eyes with their chilling vacancy. Her fingers untangled the knotted rope at her waist, and it fell limply to the floor. The pin at her shoulder was removed next, and she began unraveling the layers from her body. Arwa could look no longer, so furious and so terrified her entire being was trembling. It was more hideous than murder to kill so young and innocent a spirit.

"Watch," he prompted like a child wishing to share a surprise, but Arwa was numb to his commands, having long lost her agreeable nature. Faustus' hand buried in her hair and ripped her head back to look at the naked girl dancing in the empty space. Her slender legs and arms acted separate from her body. Her breasts and hips not yet fully developed and swaying to the beat. "Watch," he growled with that flash of rage she had seen the first time they met. Arwa's hands curled. She wanted to bury her thumbs in his eyes for their lust and gluttony, and they shook with the restraints of her will shattering from around them. All at once, his greasy lips smothered her like he wanted to suck the life from her as well. He kissed her so vigorously, so clumsily, so ravenously. His sweating features smeared across her skin, she could smell the dense oil he had slathered into his skin and the even heavier stench of his body beneath that musk, his mouth tasted of innumerable disgusts as his tongue wormed into her mouth. It thrust too deep, making her choke against him, and his grip in her hair nearly ripped the hair from her scalp.

Her fingers blindly found the knife situated next to his plate of food, and she swept it into her lap, folding it within the waist of her dress in preparation for whatever her tried. It was short and dull. It would take her awhile to saw the fingers from his hand like his more favorite appendage… He'd never love another woman when she was through with him.

He released her, and she coughed loudly as she gasped for air and doubled over her seat. His kiss was deadly, making her too aware of what his seduction would be like. "You could be mine," Faustus offered as if she had any choice in the matter. "I am a benevolent master."

She thought he was a pig who needed to be gutted until his entrails spilled across the table. That grotesque would give her far more satisfaction than this girl's humiliation continuing before them.

Faustus' hand was slithering its way across her shoulders and to her neck, and her body was settling into place for her attack. Her fist curled, ready to pummel into his throat.

"Proconsul," a voice called from the door, and both turned from their separate purposes to consider the man stepping into the space. He eyed the naked girl who had ceased dancing like the music, and a brief flicker of disgust flashed across his features. So not all Roman men were swine. Perhaps he had a daughter of his own.

"What do you want?" Faustus growled angrily.

"A messenger has arrived with word from the border."

"I'll hear his news in the morning. Can't you see I'm preoccupied!"

"I wouldn't have interrupted you were it not of utmost importance," the man assured him.

Faustus grumbled under his breath, but his hand released Arwa's neck. Such a simple gesture spoke volumes, and her muscles relaxed their iron grip from her bones. Her fate was evaded for the night.

"Call Cassius and Hadrien as well."

"They are on their way already."

"I see…" Faustus settled angrily in his chair and arranged his robes around the growing excitement between his legs. Arwa had not noticed it before, and her lips curled in disgust. "Leave me!" he commanded and gestured for the entertainers to disappear. The girl gathered her clothes in her arms, wrapping her dress around her as she hurried into the corridor, the musicians after her, and Arwa stood to follow.

His meaty hand caught her wrist, and he leered like a dissatisfied wolf, taunted with the prospect of a fresh meal. "We will continue another night…"

"As you wish," she said near a snarl, and Faustus' eyes lit up to hear this tone from her. He enjoyed a rough companion in his bed: he enjoyed a challenge. He would break her until the tears ran down her cheeks and she begged him for mercy. Little did he know the woman he was setting his sight on.

Arwa could not march from the room quickly enough. The slave waiting to escort her scrambled to keep pace, but she could not care who surrounded her. Her thoughts were too tangled and unyielding for her to notice another's presence. She wasn't even aware that she pushed past Hadrien in the entryway and forced the general back a few paces to allow her space. His tongue curled with a curse poised to cut her down, but he was distracted by the fire in her eyes and the slave scurrying to keep pace with her long strides. She swept past him like a furious desert wind, and his brow knit uncertainly while watching her head toward Maximus' tent. Without a word, he turned and entered the Praetorium.

By the time Arwa reached the tent, she was uncontrollable. She tore the wooden comb from her hair, threw it into the dirt, and drove her heel down on it again and again until the comb had broken into splintered pieces. She was furious that she had been unprepared. It was a sign that her instincts were not as sharp as usual. She was lured into the safety this general presented her. Their night together had numbed her wounds, made her forgetful of her purpose, and blinded her to reason. She had walked into Faustus' sweaty hands without thinking. Had the messenger not interrupted them, she would be kneeling at Faustus' feet or captured while fleeing from the fort covered in the Praetor's blood. She thrust through the partition and into the private quarters precisely as barren and untouched as when she awoke that morning. She had the chilling realization that this was the sort of scene she would face if Maximus were injured, or worse killed.

She rushed to the wash table and wet the linen rag with fresh water. Ignoring her shaking hands, she rubbed her lips until the skin began peeling away, then her cheeks, her shoulder, and her neck. Anywhere he had touched her, she scrubbed vigorously, but she could smell his odor lingering on her. It sent a tremor down her spine. His fatty lips on hers, his slimy tongue probing her mouth… She shook her head unconsciously and slid beneath the sheets and into the bed without removing her dress or her sandals like a woman ready and waiting to run. As she settled into the familiar mattress, his scent surrounded her, a smell she had never noticed before. It was stronger at his pillow where his head had lain when they finally allowed sleep to overcome them, and she unrolled the knife from her waist and tucked it beneath the pillow. Her nervous fingers were soothed to have the blade beneath them, and her head was heavy atop his pillow, burying her face deeper into the smell.

She felt blindsided by the lack of him. No matter her attempts to evade it, she had grown accustomed to him, dependent even. It made her furious. It made her terrified. It made her worry. What if he doesn't come back? She dug her shoulder stubbornly into the mattress as if she could burrow her way beneath the sheets and ignore this line of questioning and the fear it strummed inside of her.

He's a strong soldiers… He'll return. Her eyes flickered open, too aware of Faustus' presence in his quarters, the lingering Romans guarding the fort, the wolves at her door. Any one of them could take her however they liked, wherever, whenever. But when will he return? her mind pressed anxiously.

Sleep barely touched her that night, and when it did, it was fitful and full of nightmares.


Author's Note: Hey dolls! So the plot with Faustus thickens, hm? I swear I write these scenes with him, and I end up pacing anxiously cause I badly want Arwa to stab him in the face...

Thank you to Miss Lynxx, KingofTruands, and klandgraf2007 for the reviews! :)

Lynxx: OMG such a long review! I felt so spoiled reading it :) Yes, Arwa does have something big planned. She hinted at it in this last passage without explicitly stating it. I'm a sucker for drawing out suspense hehe I'm sure you'll feel similarly disgusted by Faustus' advances in this chapter... Ew. I'm glad you enjoyed the action scenes! I love including those, and I thought it would be interesting to give Maximus and Arwa a rematch not to mention I thought it made perfect sense, oddly, as a segue way into their love making. Because they're so tangled up in this love/hate thing... HAHA you wanted to be her? Oh that's the best compliment! I fully encourage you imaging yourself in her place haha It's actually getting really hard in my head to get them past their stubbornness and together. I thought this chapter would be good for Arwa's evolution at least with her realizing that she doesn't want to be alone -that she kinda needs Maximus no matter how much she hates admitting it and that without him she doesn't know what would happen to her. But of course she's not easily subdued so you'll see what happens next chapter :) I have something a little evil planned... Thanks so much for the review, and adding this to your favorites'! Ah you spoil me, Miss. I hope you enjoyed this chapter xoxo

King: Hahaha your reviews always make me laugh. My friend saw what you said about what did she get herself into, and my friend was like, "Uh... awesome sex" haha But I can see where you're coming from totally. I'm glad you liked the duel between Maximus and Arwa. I'll have to see if I can work something similar into the next chapters, maybe? Thanks for the review, and I hope you liked this chapter :D xoxo By the way, sorry... I just realized I kept spelling your name wrong: Traunds rather than Truands :/

klandgraf: Shut up you old ghost hahaha I was so surprised when I got another review on the chapter, and then when I saw it was you, I was like OMG WTF? haha I'm so happy to hear from you again, and I can't believe you're reading another story. Jesus, I figured after Girl in the War, you'd be like screw this Nola chick and her verbose and ridiculously long and tangled stories BUT I'm so happy that you're following. I'm glad you like this. I was joking that this is "such" a departure from Girl in the War (sarcasm intended), but actually... it really is turning out differently. I was afraid Hector and Myrina were stuck in my head, and I wouldn't be able to keep them from this story. But I think Maximus and Arwa are quite different which is fun. Ah, I'm ranting. Thanks so much for the review and continued support, doll, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! xoxo