Perpetual March

Aleron took his seat after his new servant departed and the Grama began her work on his wounds again. They sat in silence for a moment before the Grama resumed her normal character. As the Grama was about to say something, Aleron spoke instead,

"You know you're not allowed to ask questions either, right?"

The Grama shrugged as she wiped away some residue on his back, "You mean like, 'Why did you buy a capture?' Why did you do that by the way?"

Aleron couldn't help but grin despite her blatant disregard for his directive. Aleron said flatly, "I don't need to satisfy your curiosity, and I won't."

The Grama asked, "Are you sure about that? I think you'd tell me if I asked kindly enough."

Immediately, the Grama put a finger into one of the still open wounds in his back. She pressed her boney finger in the deep gash harder and twisted her nail in the wound causing a surge in pain that would make any other man with less masochistic tendencies scream in terrible agony. As she did so, she asked again, "Why did you buy a servant?"

Instead, Aleron felt this pain, and almost winced when she twisted the nail. Aleron only turned his head towards the woman behind him asking dryly, "Are you trying to torture me for information, Grama?"

The elderly slave instantly withdrew her finger from the wound and continued her cleaning work, "Wouldn't dream of it Mr. Aleron. Just trying to close this wound a bit before rewrapping..."

Aleron knew this was a lie, and that only made the man smile again, smile at the balls of that loyal yet strangely defiant slave woman. As she finished her cleaning work, Aleron said, "I have to report back with Lord Interfector once you're done, and I'm keeping the slave here till the lock order. Our reinforcements should be here by midday, so make sure nobody kills her during the pack up, would you?"

The Grama put her cloth away and began rewrapping his torso with fresh bandages as she said, "You got it Mr. Aleron. I have to see Mr. Montano after you, but I'll ensure she knows what to do before the order"

"Good. How is Decanus Montano by the way?" said Aleron.

Grama was tying up the spare end of the bandage before tucking it in when she said, "Healing up same as you, far as I seen. Clara must be doing most of his healing work cuz I aint-… Wait. Is that why you got a servant?"

Aleron turned his head in curiosity at the slave's revelation, completely unaware of where her thoughts landed. Aleron still answered the question honestly as he figured it, "I purchased the woman for encampment duties… But whatever else I do with her is hardly your business."

At that, the Grama stepped into Aleron's peripherals with the bottom of her long slave dress pulled all the way up to the hip, and the words, "It could've been" escaped seductively from her withered voice. When Aleron saw the exposed leg, he cackled in revulsion and hilarity. Instinctively, he caught his laugh, but the millisecond long squeelish noise that escaped before that could've broken glass. The Grama stepped back behind him, finished her work, and Aleron thought of how it felt stabbing a human neck to stop any more humor from escaping.

Back in control, the decanus asked the healer, "Would you happen to know if Clara is subject to regular servant protocol?"

"Far as I know," said the healer, still grinning from nearly making the young Legion diehard laugh.

Aleron didn't expect Grama to know the answer to his prior question. He then asked her, "Would you kindly give Gabriella the rundown on how to not get herself killed?"

"If you say 'please'," said the Grama, still feeling smug.

"Do so, or I'll gut you… Please." Said Aleron, now wearing a grin himself.

The Grama swallowed hard, recognizing the cue, "That's better…"

Just then, the tent flap re-opened, Grama was done, and Gabriella entered the tent, water bucket and jar in hand. Aleron's eyes told her to set the bucket down, and she did just that, and as he motioned for the young servant to step forward, he asked, "Did anyone give you trouble?"

Gabriella paused, her eyes shifted to the elderly slave for some hint on how to respond, and stepped forward. The Grama gave no hint, didn't even look at her, so Gabriella said, "No"

Aleron stayed silent and gestured for the jar he told her was for drinking. She handed the jar to him shakily, he took it, and went to drink but stopped. He looked into the water, smelled it, and swirled it around, staring into the container all the while. When he was done examining it, he looked up, his eyes met Gabriella's, and he gave it back to her with only the words, "Drink. Now."

The woman accepted the jar hesitantly as if not expecting this, and unsure if she was suspected of something or if he was being genuine. The woman lifted the jar to her lips slowly and began to drink, wishing Aleron would stop staring at her as she did. It was as if he was daring her to stop with his mind. He watched her throat gulping down the liquid until he felt she was about done. She looked to him wondering if she should keep going, wondering if he was going to make her drink it all. His eyes still commanded her to continue, and she again did just that. "He's probably having me drink it all so he can punish me for not leaving him some," she thought as she continued drinking and watching the man becoming more and more monster-like despite not doing anything at all.

When it was all gone, Aleron knew, and said: "Stop…" The woman stopped.

"Turn the jar upside down," said Aleron, and the woman complied. Not one drop hit the ground.

"Here" said Aleron, and the woman handed him the jar. Aleron stood with the cup in hand, and the woman recoiled as if about to be struck. Gabriella watched him as his attention turned to the old woman walking her way over to the opening, and he followed her. As the old woman exited the tent, Aleron called, "You'll be back for the servant, correct?"

The Grama said, "You got it" as she left, and Aleron turned back to Gabriella. Locking eyes again, the woman looked away instantly as she said, "I got you your water" delayed in her announcement by nearly 3 minutes and an empty jar later.

Aleron stayed silent by the opening for several long seconds, feeling the jar still in his hands before saying, "As if I'll ever trust you enough to drink anything you fetch me. I get my own drinking water..."

Not understanding what he was talking about, the woman still refused to raise her head as Aleron ran his eyes up and down her frame. Somehow, his words only made her feel the strange and bewildering feeling that she should "Do better next time?" whatever that even meant. She didn't understand how she had a sister, a past, a family, and a tribe 30 minutes ago, to all those memories becoming blurred in so little time. Her memories were distant, her personality still intact, but the overwhelming image occupying her mind's entirety was that of the already dead man holding a hammer, and the feelings of those chains on her wrists that rendered her completely powerless to that fate. Over that image were the echoing words, "You are no longer human" and every thought that guides her actions till the end of her days would be darkened by her new life purpose "Don't make him hurt you."

When Aleron had taken in as much of her physique as he wanted, he said, "Stay in this tent or die, I'll be back" and walked out of the tent.

Meanwhile

Montano stirred awake to the kind of image he thought he corrected out of existence: Clara's head lying on his chest, rubbing his hand, and staring into his eyes. As Montano saw this he smacked the sleep from his eyes, saw the dirty but pretty face staring at him, and asked her, "What are you doing?"

Clara cooed, "Just watching you sleep, baby."

Startled by the words, Montano asked commandingly, "And who gave you that directive? Also, it's 'Decanus' or 'Sir' to you, servant. This is the field."

She sat up as Montano did, and he swatted her hand off his as she said, "Nobody 'gave me the directive', I just like watching you sleep… You look so peaceful when you sleep."

Montano heard that last part more than anything and took it as a personal insult. He immediately stood with fists clenched. Clara, still not having broken her love through to Montano sat back in fright at the half-dressed monster. Montano pointed a finger at Clara and sputtered, "I am not peaceful, woman. I am the embodiment of war and hate. Haven't you figured that out yet?"

Both remained uncomfortably silent until Montano collected himself enough. When Clara fell back into her old self, somewhat familiar with "Her man" and his occasional outbursts, Montano began getting dressed for the day, throwing on his boots, and strapping on his lower armor. Montano turned his back to the woman who on cue began unwrapping his torso. Going about her routine task, Montano was tying up his boots as she asked,

"When are you getting another respite?"

"Don't know, I hear we're marching to the fortress at Mica, I hear called 'Long Shadows' or something. Why?" replied Montano unconsciously.

Clara asked, almost done with her unwrapping, "Is Mica Mountain near Two Sun?"

"I believe so, why?" asked Montano, too busy with his stuck bootlace to realize he was "Conversing" with the woman.

"If it is, I'm sure you'll get plenty of respite time. We've been out here for months, you deserve a break after all of this with the Ajoans…"

"I've gone whole years on campaign marches without respite. Just wait till we join Legate Graham's push into New Mexico." Thought Montano.

Clara continued talking to Montano, but really to herself, "… I've always wanted to go to Two Sun. I hear the hotels there are so wonderful and actually cleaned! I'd so love that, just to get some time with you, alone, preferably in a bed. I really miss sleeping in a bed, and wouldn't it be amazing to sleep in, not have to worry about waking up and marching all day just to battle someone? Remember how you loved me all cuddled up in your arms back in Gold Canyon? I miss that. You'd always wake me up just like I…"

Montano still couldn't believe it, "You know who you decided to 'love', right?" he thought in his mind as he tightened one of his shin plates.

"... just like that time in my kitchen. I thought you were so sweet, always showing up after the moon was high and somehow always when I was wanting you. I know you don't, but I thought that was romantic..."

"I only showed up at your residence when Lizzie Perez was booked for the evening, and you were the only woman dim enough to put out free of compensation," commented Montano internally.

Clara continued as she started cleaning his back "… Unlike that bitch 'Lizzie Perez'. Plus, I heard she was selling herself. Not me, I'd never do something like that. I actually like myself enough to not sell my body like some, 'Profligate whore' as you'd say..."

"No, you gave me what I wanted free of charge, and then legitimately sold yourself into servitude because you're delusional enough to honestly believe I care about you," Montano continued thinking.

"... Anyway, in Two Sun we could stay in bed all day and not have to worry about any interruptions. Would you like to do that with me? If you get some respite at the next camp?"

Montano heard all the parts he cared to and commented on where he preferred, the end, "Can't say that'll happen. If I get any respite, it'll be because the 6th is due for time at a breeding camp up north."

The Decanus knew the face she made at that despite his back being turned because she stopped her cleaning for a second. Montano felt the eyes on the back of his neck as Clara asked genuinely, "What are those? I've heard slaves and some of the legionaries talk about those."

Montano grinned as he strapped down the other shin plate, "You still fall under regular servant protocol, so it's where you'll go if I die in battle, if not auctioned off to another officer."

Seemingly somewhat aware of what she offered herself up for as a "Personal Servant" to a Legion officer, she scrubbed a mark on his back saying, "That hardly answers the question."

Montano was done with his lower work and was waiting for Clara to start wrapping again when he felt like toying with her, "Sure, it's one of two places you'll go if I die in battle. Of course, you know if I trip over a rock or die some other way, you'll be accused of my assassination regardless of guilt and killed outright..."

The woman continued to finish up her cleaning, more focused on dressing up a particular spot on his back than listening to him. She acknowledged him accordingly with the appropriate, "Mmhmm"s, still hardly hearing.

Montano, believing she was taking the bait, went on, "… of course I don't have to review what you already know about personal servitude. So, the Breeding camp is where you'll go to be used by legionaries as their plaything, with the eventual goal being your delivering of a new servant to Caesar… I wouldn't worry about that if I were you though. You're pretty enough to be purchased by any officer in the cohort if I were to perish. I can't tell you my brothers are very gentle with their beautiful properties."

As she rewrapped his torso, she heard the only words she happened to, and responded, "You aren't going to die in battle."

Montano continued to "toy" with her, "You don't know that. I could die in a big Ajoan revolt before the backup gets here. Or I could be outnumbered and surrounded by the next swarm of tribal giants we face. If that happened, I'd most certainly die, and then your life would be utterly miserable."

Almost done, she said again casually, "You aren't going to die…"

Hearing the words again from that mouth made Montano feel the sudden need to offer his unprotected neck to the next tribal warrior he fought. He imagined himself being beheaded in the chaos of battle and thought of his severed head wearing a smile since his final thoughts would be about Clara being ravaged by legionaries on respite till the end of her days. Fantasies of his own brutal end in battle danced dreamily through his mind, all images making him feel warm inside if it meant the young woman would be made miserable from the event.

As he fantasized about his death and her life of pain that would create, he was snapped back to the moment when the woman added, "… I ain't going to kill you, you never met a tribal you couldn't take, and not even that Aleron asshole could really beat y-"

Montano stood in a flash and whipped towards the woman who recoiled in shock, "You will NEVER speak ill of a Legion officer!..."

His gaze full of fire, the woman cowered further into the tent wall, still not able to predict the outbursts of "her man." Montano, narrowly stopping himself from pummeling the young woman to death, barked, "That understood!?"

Clara nodded and curled into her knees. Over the course of several long and silent seconds, Montano relaxed and unclenched his fists, making Clara ease herself down as well. Montano looked at her for a moment, contemplating "Clara" in general. No particular thoughts about her, just looking at her and feeling like he was staring at an undiscovered life form. Montano tucked the remainder of the bandage into his chest, and both turned their attention to a rustling sound by the tent opening.

The Grama entered, looked at Montano wrapped in clean bandages, and said, "Looks like Clara got you situated."

Clara nodded and Montano replied, "Yes. Your assistance isn't needed. Leave."

The Grama gave a thumbs up and departed as quickly as she entered while Montano tossed on his tunic, and reached down to pick up his chest protector beside the cot.

As he threw the opening over his head, Clara spoke softly, "You shouldn't put that on. Your wounds are still healing."

Montano felt the sting of the heavy padded chest piece made from blackened steel and hardened plastics. He tightened the studded leather core protector around his abdomen and straightened the spiked pauldrons on his shoulders. Feeling the armor and its weight burning the deepest wounds on his wrapped back, he acknowledged the woman, "Good. We're leaving today, and I love a suffering march."

Helmet and face mask in hand, Montano began walking to the exit.

Before leaving, he stopped and turned back to Clara, "They will call a lock order today, don't leave your post when they do."

Clara responded, "I heard. I know what to do. Have a good da-" and Montano left.

It was still the early morning, and the camp stirred to life. Many legionaries were out and about, most of whom were changing shifts with the previous sentries after only a few short hours of sleep. This wasn't unusual since the Interfector's forces were still incredibly understrength, and poor conditions for the soldiers only seemed to liven their spirits, unlike what it did to the masses in the pens. Montano walked his way over to the command tent of the 6th. Montano entered to see Centurion Theracos speaking with Decanus Gula and the other two officers of the staff. Upon seeing Montano enter, Theracos walked over to him with Gula. After their standard greeting, Centurion Theracos said,

"Decanus Montano, I see you in armor again. I was considering discarding you if you still couldn't pull your weight. I'm sure you'll wear the burden of your punishment proudly on the march."

"There is no pride in any failure to Caesar, my Centurion. It is only an honor to suffer on the march to battlefield victory." said Montano directly.

"You are correct, and that is why you were born to slaughter." said Centurion Theracos as he pulled up a leather harness from a nearby table. "It is because of that, I'm putting you as my century's Signifer."

Centurion Theracos handed the harness over to Decanus Montano, who accepted the role with the words, "I am honored, Centurion."

The Centurion pointed towards the command table that had the formation banner of the 6th lying in the center. The three walked to the table accompanied by the other two staff officers, and the Centurion said, "We leave soon. Get the last of your counts. Begin deconstruction and prepare for the lock order."

"Yes, Centurion, true to Caesar." said the two staff officers in unison before filing out of the command tent with Gula. Montano began to go as well when Theracos said, "Montano, equip yourself now. You are my Signifer, not my logistics administrator." Montano turned, and saw his centurion pointing at the banner on the table.

Harness in hand, Montano approached the command table and saw the two connecting rods leaning on the centurion's chair. The long poles were leaning there, weighed down by two severed and mummified heads sitting on the sharpened tops. Montano took the poles from the table, holding up the rebar and examining the heads belonging to the first two chieftains the 6th annihilated. His eyes drifted down to the banner on the table, a red downward triangular flag bearing the standard golden bull atop a red background, and just below the symbol sat the roman numeral "VI." Spattered across the whole thing was the dried blood of the people those chieftains failed to protect, and that of many more fallen peoples since the raising of the 6th.

Montano slid the banner onto the rods and locked them onto the harness. He strapped the hefty rig onto his back tearing into his wounds, and adding to the pain he loved. Emerging from the command tent and bearing the weight of the bull, that banner sat over his head for the camp to see. With Montano wearing the flag over his shoulders, shining gold, and covered in blood of the Legion's expansion, the order to march was called, and preparations began.

Midday

The backup entered the camp earlier than expected, in the late morning. As nearly 5 centuries worth of legionaries from the reserve pool marched onto the scene, the mass dispersed and reported in with the Interfector. With the packing up of the encampment underway, a force of nearly 250 began the continuation of the Ajoans' assimilation, and the lock order was called.

The lock order was just a standard procedure enacted during the large transfer of slaves or captures during a maneuver, and especially during a changing of the guard or unit replenishment. The entire procedure was centered around accountability and accuracy. As the soldiers brought out the slave beams, all unit slaves were sent to their ordered rally points to sit and not get up until the end of the order. Since there would be many captures and soldiers moving about during a shipment up north, slaves had been know to use the confusion to slip away. During a lock order, slaves of a unit were to remain in there assigned spots under continuous supervision and sit with their faces up to be recognized until over. Or face death. The necessity of the order in this case was critical since the Interfector's cohort section was so undermanned, in the middle of replenishment, still packing up, and devising resource distribution from the conquest.

Still, The Interfector filled the ranks of the 5th, 6th, and 9th, as the assimilation force brought the Ajoans out of the pens like a machine. The beams were brought out, and each Ajoan who survived the week of suffering was chained to the heavy logs 5 on each side. Bound to the iron links, each capture was forced to uphold the weight on the march, a simple contraption that kept them from scattering while reminding them of the kind of burden they would forever carry. So, the column of log bound souls formed alongside the bolstering ranks of the Interfector's force as the camp was steadily brought down and readied to move. With slaves immobile, and captures resigned to fate, it wasn't very long before the soldiers were done and the two columns were ready to move. One column ready to escort nearly a thousand people into a slave life up north. One column heading south, full of fresh, newly equipped, and covered faces, all ready to bolster their brothers fighting in the southeastern front of the campaign.

Decanus Aleron stood directly behind The Interfector in the diamond formation of his staff, completely armored, and face covered by black metal, feeling the pain of the heavy armor and field pack against his healing back. Decanus Montano stood behind Centurion Theracos and next to his new senior, Gula, staring at the back of the 5th century before them and feeling the added weight of the bull on his back.

With the sun at its highest point, The Interfector stepped forward without word, Aleron and the staff followed, a horn blew from one of the 5th's explorers, and the whole cohort section comprised of the 5th, 6th, and 9th centuries began their slow march into the south. On the same cue, the Ajoans began their escorted march into the Legion tamed north, burdened and at gunpoint. On the march, Aleron walked in the footsteps of the Elite while Montano marched under the weight of the bull