XXI.
Rome Wasn't Built In A Day…

"Mark! Mark!" She screamed, racing to the top of the steps after her brother. She wasn't so fast, not as fast as him. "Give her back! Giver her back!" Her long dark hair was supposed to be pulled up, but it had already fallen out of its braid and it streamed down her back. She tripped on the last step, bruising her shin. She would have cried out for her mother, but she had to catch Mark. She had to catch him, else who knew what he would do to her?

She ran into her bedroom, hoping he was hiding there but he wasn't. As she was looking she heard footsteps stop outside her open door. She turned and there he was with his cruel brown eyes and short dark hair. They looked very much alike, but they didn't act anything like one another. She was soft-spoken and shy. Mark was cruel and loud and mean. Especially to her. He hated her. She didn't understand why he hated her so much, she admired him so much. He was only a little under a year older than her and not much taller than her.

"Want your stupid doll back, Mary?" He taunted dangling the doll by one arm. "Come and get her!"

"Give her back!" She screamed again, chasing after him. He stopped near the steps.

"I'm going to throw her in the fireplace!" Mark yelled as she raced towards him. He turned to go down the staircase but she dove, grabbing her doll's leg. "Hey! Let go!"

"Give her back! She's mine!" Mary never yelled and hardly ever fought, but her mother had made this doll for her. It was her favorite one because of that. She wasn't going to let Mark destroy it. She tugged and he tugged harder. The doll began to rip, she heard it and she pulled harder. Mark tugged again and then…

Mary watched as he hit the stairs. He yelled out the first two times he hit the stairs and then there was a disgusting cracking sound and he was still and silent at the bottom of the steps. She stood at the top, staring down, her mouth open.

"Mark!" She called down. "This isn't funny! Stop it!"

She heard the sound of boots on the floor and then saw her mother coming. Her long black hair was tied up in a complicated style on the top of her head. She looked down at where Mark lay and then up at Mary. Mary hurried down the steps, stopping at the bottom, looking at Mark. She bent to touch him, to wake him up but her mother caught her arm and pulled her away. She looked up to meet her mother's disappointed eyes. Tears began to flow down Mary's cheeks.

"I'm sorry" She whispered. "I didn't….I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

Her mother said nothing, she just looked disappointed. That scared Mary. She clung to her leg and she felt herself sob. She kept saying how sorry she was as she looked at Mark and her broken doll. All she had wanted was her doll. That was all. She hadn't wanted this, and she didn't know how she could fix it. Her mother eventually kneeled down by her and took the girl by her shoulders.

"Hush now, Mary. I know how we're going to get through this but you have to promise me that you'll be a good girl and do just as I say" Young Mary nodded her head, trying to wipe the tears from her eyes. "You'll do just as your mother says?" Mary nodded again. "Of course you will, you've always been such a good girl"

Mary stood very still as her mother cut off her hair. Her long, beautiful, dark hair, all gone. Mark lay on the bed nearby. She didn't know what she was going to do about him yet. He wasn't wearing his pants and shirt – Mary was wearing them and they were itchy. Mary scratched at her arm, not understanding why she was dressed like this right now. She didn't get it.

"Mother, why I am dressed like Mark?" She asked.

"Because, my sweet, sometimes we have to keep secrets" Her mother answered. The snip of the blades above her drew her into silence. She felt very light without all her hair. She felt like she could fly down the halls without her heavy, thick hair on her head. Perhaps that was how Mark was so fast – he didn't have all that hair.

"What secret are we keeping, Mother?" She asked as her mother stepped away from her. She was able to look in a mirror now, able to turn her head and look at herself. Only…she didn't look very much like herself. Her eyes widened – the person in the mirror's did too. She reached out to touch the mirror and that person mimicked the action. It was her. She looked like a boy.

"Mary…You know my Mother-in-Law doesn't like you" Mary's mother stated, walking over to where Mark lay. "And that's…well it's complicated, my sweet. But, with Mark gone, we won't be able to live a good life. You want to live a good life don't you?"

"Yes, Mother" She replied because she didn't know what else she was supposed to say.

"So you have to pretend to be Mark." She opened her mouth to protest, but her mother swooped over to her and kneeled by her once more. "Hush now, my dear. Don't worry. It'll all be alright. Just do your best. You're still my good girl. You just have to pretend to be a boy. Is that so hard?" Her mother's voice was sweet but there was an edge to it. She was pushing Mary. Mary just looked at her with wide brown eyes.

"Of course, Mother"

"That's my sweet girl. My good girl. Come now, we have to arrange a funeral." Then she took her mother's hand and followed her out the door.

The funeral was a private affair and no one saw the body. Not many people came, but her mother wouldn't allow many to come. Only three people knew the truth of the body buried under the small tombstone. It said Mary Read on it, but that wasn't the truth of it. No, Mary Read stood by the grave, looking down at her own name. Only she couldn't respond to Mary anymore or her mother would be sour with her. She had to respond to Mark. She was Mark now…

At least that was what her mother said. Though, when they were home, sometimes she'd call her Mary. Just to remind her of how good of a girl she was. She turned when her mother said they were leaving. She didn't speak much as "Mark". She wasn't good at sounding like him, but her mother had her practice. Her mother told her that soon it wouldn't matter what she sounded like. Soon, she would be able to fool anyone.

"So, that bastard child you brought into my family has finally left us" A woman was waiting for them at the entrance to the graveyard. She was older and fierce looking. She stood strong and straight and glared at Mary's mother, even as she spoke. She was Mark's father's mother…Though Mark's father had been dead for years now, since before Mary was even born.

"She's dead and buried, Elmira. I wish you wouldn't speak of her so" Her mother bristled. "None of the blame was on the child and yet you treated her no better than a speck of dirt"

"Yes, dirt that you brought into my family. Shaming, my dear son's name." She turned up her nose at Mary's mother and then looked down at her. Mary put her gaze down so the woman wouldn't see her face too clearly. "Mark looks more and more like his father every day. You're going to be a Captain someday, Mark. Just like your father. Oh how my dear son would be so proud to see you growing so well."

She didn't bother with a reply, only nodding. The woman's face scrunched up, she could see it beneath her lashes and she wondered what to do. She didn't want to speak, less she give away their secret.

"Leave him be, Elmira. He saw his sister…fall. Despite everything, it put a bit of stress on him. He hasn't spoken since" She put a hand on her shoulder, warning Mary not to speak. She kept her head down and her mouth shut. For a moment it seemed like the old woman would argue but finally she bowed her head a little.

"I'll see you later, Mark. Make sure he's cared for properly. I'm not giving you that money for nothing" Then the woman stalked away. She watched her go back to her carriage, climb in and be off. Mary looked up at her mother who stroked her short hair gently. She didn't know what to say so she just kept her mouth shut. She had to get better at acting like Mark, else her mother might get in a lot of trouble.

Mary grew and as she did, problems arose. She was a girl still, even if she was pretending to be a boy. First off, she didn't look like Mark's father at all. She had always looked more like her mother. Mark had their shared mother's eye and hair color but other than that he had looked like his father. Mary looked very much like her mother and very little like her father – whoever that man was. Her mother never told her and as she grew older, she found she didn't very much care to find out.

Second problem was well…she began to develop when she turned eleven. Then her cycle began when she was twelve. Waking up to a bed coated in blood had given her a good scare and she had to call for her mother, who of course came in and helped her fix everything. She had learned to be careful after that. Her mother made sure she was informed on how to be a young woman and a young man – but more so a young man.

Still, this meant she had to bind her chest and watch her cycles less her secret came out. Mark's grandmother still hadn't figured it out and by this point in her life; Mary had become a master at her lie. She was easily able to fool her with her voice and actions. She walked like a man, she talked like a man, she acted like a man and she doubted there was a person who knew the difference. She enjoyed it, she supposed, on many levels. She had freedom that very few women had. She didn't have to get married; she didn't have to worry about some man courting her.

Though when she went to the market and saw the pretty women, with their nice dresses and makeup and long hair she felt…jealous. And a little empty. She was living a lie after all and soon she'd be diving even deeper into that lie for just before her thirteenth birthday. Her "grandmother" came to discuss her future in the Navy, just like her "father".

Her mother offered no advice on it – instead allowing Mary to choose if she wanted to or not. It wasn't much of a choice. Of course she chose to go into the Navy. Adventure, life at sea, fighting in wars... Well, she was a little young for that. She could only get simple jobs at the moment but she took them and she ran with them.

She would never forget standing at the dock with her mother and "grandmother", bidding them a goodbye. She promised to return as a real man. What a jest that was. She saw her mother's worried brown eyes but she turned away. If her mother hadn't wanted this life for her, she shouldn't have made her accept it.

Mary Read was fifteen years old and was considered experienced enough now to be a real solider. She had undergone plenty of training since she joined up two years ago. She knew how to fire a variety of guns as well as reload them. She also knew how to fight, somewhat. She wasn't so good at it yet, but she felt she could hold her own. She knew a lot about sailing. That had been her favorite thing to learn. That had been exciting.

Still as she stood in the line of other lads about her age, she couldn't help but compare herself. She was much smaller than any of them. Not in height, she was pretty even there, but she wasn't anywhere near as thick as any of them. She was small and scrawny. A man was walking up and down the row of them, looking at each of them. He was probably only three or so years older than them with dark hair and flashing blue eyes. She watched him with wary brown eyes. Finally, he stopped before her.

"And who are you supposed to be, lad?" He asked her. She didn't answer. "Well? What's your name?"

"Mark Read, sir!"

"And Read, how old are you?"

"Fifteen!"

"Not much of a lad, is he?" The man was asking the other men and a few of the salted soldiers chuckled a little. Mary straightened her back and tried to look as tall as possible, but the fact of the matter was that she was still smaller in bulk than the rest of them, her uniform a little more loose on her. "Look at that, perhaps he has some spunk to him. We'll see how long he lasts at any rate. You lads any good with a sword?"

James Fitzpatrick was the name of the man with blue eyes. He was nineteen years old and the son of a Captain. He was a born fighter and brilliant with a gun. He was in charge of teaching the lads how to better themselves when he wasn't out fighting himself. They were heading out towards Holland, where he was front in fact, and they could expect an attack from both the French and the Spanish. They were to defend the waters with their lives though. Mary had never felt more nervous. She knew she had to use caution as well as the skills Fitzpatrick had been pounding into their heads. He was a stern teacher and she couldn't blame him. Their lack of ability could get more than just themselves killed.

Mary loved the lessons though. She was quicker than most of the other youths. Her skill with a sword blossomed and grew. She was complimented often on her skill by the other sailors, though Fitzpatrick just watched her with keen eyes. Sometimes she could swear he could see beneath her uniform and realized that she was a young woman. Then she realized she was still safe and that no one knew. She was very careful with that. She had to be careful when she dressed and undressed and well…almost all the time she had her guard up.

Except when she was fighting. She really loved it, using the sword. She loved feeling it swing in her hand. It felt like an extension of herself.

That all washed away in her first fight. It scared the hell out of her. She wasn't even up on deck where the main fighting was. She was below, bringing the cannon fodder, helping maintain things below. She saw more dead people than she ever wanted to see that day. She felt sick with it. Worse, when they had to retreat, they found themselves in a storm. A nasty storm that tossed their ship as if it were no more than a toy. She was forced to go back on deck then, to help but her sea legs were failing her. She wasn't used to storms. Actually, this was her first one. She had been lucky in her first few years. She hadn't done any real sailing or battling. She stumbled across the deck.

The wind ripped at them and ripped a rope underneath her feet. She cried out as she went over the edge, grabbing on where she could. No! She was going to fall into the sea and drown! She didn't want to die.

"I got you!" A strong hand clamped around her wrist and she looked up into Fitzpatrick's blue eyes. "Hang on, lad!" He pulled and she manage her way back onto the ship. She climbed to her feet and put her hands on her knees as she panted. She was alive. Holy shite, she was alive! Fitzpatrick patted her hard on the back and then rolled his eyes at her and her inexperience. "Back to work, lad. Storm's fading off but we still have a lot of work to do"

The air was heavy with smoke and fire. Mary had been a solider for well over a year and in that year she felt she had proved herself well. Fitzpatrick was ever hard on her. She was one of five lads who had made their way through his training to get here. The battle was hard and Mary peeked over the edge to fire her gun and hit a Spaniard in the head just as he was swinging across to board them. She went to reload by a man landed by her. She jumped back just in time before his sword came own on her.

She gored him with her sword and then turned as someone shouted. "Our helmsman is dead! Our helmsman is dead! Someone take the wheel! We're about to crash upon the rocks!" Mary was close and she thundered up the steps to grab the wheel. She twisted it hard the other way and their ship just missed the rocks. She twisted it again, sharper this time and their ship bumped against the other.

"What are you doing?" she could hear someone shouting. It sounded like Fitzpatrick. She was steered the ship out of reach of the Spaniard's ropes. Any who tried to swing now would have a swim.

"Fire! Fire upon them!" She shouted and by some relief the men listened to her. There was the teeth-rattling boom of the canons firing. It still hurt her ears. The other ship cracked and broke as their cannon tore through their main mast, splitting the thing in half. Men screamed and shouted as it fell upon them. She brought the ship closer and now it was their men boarding. The Spaniard were too busy trying to find a way to sail their ship. It would catch no winds without its main sail.

"Let's take them lads!" Someone was shouting but she had to keep her hands on the wheel, even as the others fought. She guarded the wheel and the upper deck. Soon enough they took the ship, robbed it of anything they could use to repair their own and punched holes so deep in its hull it would be no time at all until it sank.

Mary pulled the ship away and coughed a little at the smoke and sulfur still heavy in the air. She would never get used to breathing those fumes in. It was disgusting. Soon another man came and took the wheel from her. She gave it up happily and trotted down the steps to the lower deck where Fitzpatrick was waiting.

"What did you think you were doing?" He asked.

"Winning the battle" She replied, becoming wary. He seemed angry. She couldn't imagine why. They couldn't allow the Spanish to keep boarding them. That was a bad battle tactic.

"You think you got something to prove, eh lad?" Fitzpatrick was mad. No, insulted. Somehow she had slighted him with taking control of the battle. Oh…she got it. She could take the credit for winning it and not him. He wasn't insulted, he was jealous.

"Come off it" She rolled her eyes. "I just wanted to survive, much the same as you"

"I think you got something to prove. Well let's see what you're made of lad" He raised his fists. He wasn't going to let this go. So she readied herself. She wasn't much of a brawler though and he was bigger and stronger than her. Besides that, that kind of contact could easily dislodge her corset and that was not something she could have.

He made the first move, aiming for the side of her head. She blocked it and aimed for his upper stomach, hoping to knock the breath out of him. He dodged and gave her a good punch to the face, sending her reeling. She stumbled against the ship, barely holding herself up as she saw stars. Christ, he had a good hook. She pushed herself away and faked a low punch and returned him a fist to the head. She went under though, hoping to send him to the ground. She struck true and he stumbled back into one of the men in the growing ring. They fought, exchanging punches while the rest of the men jeered and cheered. They didn't seem to have a side they wanted to win, they were just cheering for the sake of a good battle. She made sure to keep on her feet and keep moving. Their fight lasted long – too long. She was getting tired. She had to win else…

So she decided to fight a little dirty. She aimed high, hit low and followed it up with a kick to the stomach which sent him straight to the ground. She stood over him with a nose bleed and a glare in her eyes. "You lose" Then she spat blood at him and stormed away to get herself cleaned up.

Another day, another skirmish.

It had been almost a month since she and Fitzpatrick had fought and strangely afterwards, he seemed to have gained much respect for her. She supposed in a way they were becoming friends. She guessed she finally proved herself to him in her own way and now…well…

The battle was not going so well. They were being boarded even as they tried to pull away. The cannon fire has ceased only to be replaced by the popping sound of guns going off every few minutes. Shouts and jeers were exchanged and Mary understood little of it. She had never learned Spanish. Now she knew a little French, but Spanish she had very little understanding of. Fitzpatrick was by her side, helping her fend off the intruding soldiers. He was deadly with a sword – graceful even. Mary found herself envying him. There was no way she could fight as gracefully as he – and she was a woman yet. Not that he or anyone else knew that.

She moved away from him to help another sailor of their crew who was having trouble. She turned and slashed and killed – a deadly machine who would not be stopped. That was until she stumbled; pushed or tripped, she was not sure but stumbling, much like falling, it battle was never a good thing.

She heard the sword whistling down through the air and she turned, raising her own sword to block it but somehow – somehow – the sword came down, right over her left eye. She dropped the sword as the pain was terrible. She thought she lost her eye. She cried out, grabbing at her face. The man with the sword grinned, sensing an easy kill. Wounded, hurt, unsure if she was ever going to see properly again, but she would not die here. She took upon her sword again and rammed it through his gut and twisted. He dropped his sword and fell. She removed her sword and stumbled away, trying to get away.

She had already been wounded a few times; various small cuts from sword fighting and now the cut on her face…oh there was so much blood. It fell off her in waves. Suddenly someone was holding her up. When had she fallen down?

"Lad? Lad? Can you hear me?" Was that Fitzpatrick? "Hold on lad, I'll get you somewhere safe" She felt him dragging her and then suddenly it was a bit dimmer. "Doctor? Doctor! Read is hurt! He needs help!"

His words were fading and Mary couldn't pay attention any longer. It was too hard to stay awake…

"How bad is it?" She asked. She had been wearing a bandage over one eye for well over a month now. She had just removed it. She had been able to keep her eye and that was...such a relief to her. She couldn't bear to look at it yet though. Fitzpatrick was looking at her face hard. She dropped her eyes.

"Not so bad. You'll have a scar, but it could be worse. At least you kept your eye"

"True" She agreed looking up at him. "I'm fit for battle again too." She had to add that in. She had been kept out of battles for the last two weeks as the terrible wound healed.

She stood from her seat and walked over to a mirror that was in the wall. It was cracked and it distorted her image a little but she could see the terrible cut that went from above her eyebrow, down over her eye and down her cheek. It would leave a nasty scar, but on the plus side, it helped her face look less like a man's. She supposed she liked that. It made it easier to keep up with her lie.

The other thing she noticed in the mirror was that she needed to cut her hair soon. It was long enough that she could pull it back in a stubby ponytail at the nap of her neck. Most men had that length of hair, if they had hair at all. It reminded her of days where she had very long hair. How she had prided herself on her long, thick, dark hair. Even at her young age, she had pride in her hair's beauty. Those times were long past now. She was a young woman of nearly sixteen. If she had been a normal woman, she would have been seen fit for marriage. Perhaps…she was the bastard daughter so perhaps not. She had already been looked upon with much scorn from her mother's husband's family. Her mother's family had cut ties with her many years ago so she had no idea what they might think of her.

"Aye. I suppose I can let you find your way into battle again Read. Just be more careful next time right?" He clasped her on her shoulder, startling her out of her thoughts. She turned and gave him a lazy grin.

"Gottcha. I'll watch meself and all that blather" She waved her hand and they both laughed. It felt good to feel like she was of use once more. No telling what the next day may bring and what use she might be.

A/N; I hope all the jumping around wasn't too awful confusing. Part one of what will probably be three parts an a look into what made Mary in to Mary. I hope to have the second part up soon, so stay tuned.