Heart & Soul, part 1
"What shall we call him?" the Priestess of Caesar asked her companion as she shaved Heart's dreadlocks off. They were two old women speaking in english and Heart couldn't understand them.
They were in the ruins of Kingman, which was not Legion territory yet, but the locals had granted the Legion the right to make camp. The trip wasn't far and Heart was used to long marches. In fact, he had been to Kingman once before in a Twisted Hair raiding party. It had been the first time he'd killed another person. A man almost twice his age, and Heart had cut him down with a chop to the knees and then hacked his head off. He hadn't thought anything of it at all, too caught up in the raid to consider the enormity of his act. As he was marched into Kingman with the Legion local tribals who came to watch jeered at him.
"The prince of the knotty hairs is a slave now!" they shouted, but Heart couldn't understand them any more than he could understand Caesar's priestesses. He wouldn't care anyway. Aram Heart had lived as the chosen son of the Twisted Hairs for his scant ten years, and it had given him a deep reserve of arrogance to draw upon even at his most vulnerable, as he was right at that moment, flanked by legionaries twice his size. He hadn't been brought to Kingman in chains, but the locals were right. He was a slave now.
The legionaries knew better than to say anything, but each in turn sneered at the young tribal's confidence. They had seen other young boys walk into Legion camps the same way, head held high and an impudent pout on their well-fed lips. The legionaries knew that for children not broken by the walk to camp itself, training would soon begin.
They lead him to a large tent in the center of the camp. If Caesar was visiting it would be his tent, but for now it was being used by the Centurions and the Priestesses of Mars. It was the nerve center common to any Legion outpost. Heart thought it was where he would be staying. As he was brought inside by a Priestess he looked around and decided that the accommodations were acceptable. In a dark corner a man wearing metal armor wrote something down on a piece of paper. He watched Heart walk past but he betrayed no emotion. He had a large scar gouged across the center of his face.
The inside of the tent smelled reassuringly of brahmin leather. It was hot even though the sun was near gone over the horizon. The priestess lead him to a part of the tent which smelled heavily of incense, mixing with leather to create a pleasing if not nauseating aroma. Small sculptures of animal bones were scattered about. It reminded him of Dark Mother's tent, except much nicer. Thinking of Dark Mother reminded Heart of his sister.
Heart was suddenly deeply sad. It hadn't occurred to him how his leaving might affect his little sister. Arama was in trouble all the time, and he looked out for her. Now who would beat up Big-Nose so he would leave her alone? Who would give her food when their grandfather sent her to bed without any? Who would Arama even talk to now that Heart was gone? Heart's eyes got glassy and far away, and he struggled to stay in the chair the priestess had sat him in. He was filled with an overwhelming urge to return, to head back to Dry Wells and envelop his sister in his arms. But he knew it was too late. He vowed someday to make it back to her, to find his little sister again.
"What shall we call him?" asked the Priestess of Mars, her voice dry and sharp like crackling wood. She and her companion had been trusted with a most important mission by the mighty Caesar, their task of assimilation. They were smart and cruel older women, and they took to their task with the religious fervor their titles implied. They looked over the Twisted Hair's peace offering and realized his symbolic significance. Many more Twisted Hairs would join the Legion, they knew, but here was the soul of the tribe. The priestess took a clean knife from a ceremonial bowl and set to hacking off Heart's beautiful dreadlocks. She innately understood their importance, even if she didn't understand the intricate and personal story woven within them. Ten years of bravery and strength were torn away with each pull of the knife. Victories and defeats, hunts and festivals were all torn away from the little boy of the Twisted Hairs. Heart didn't react at all, his eyes still glassy and far away with grim thoughts of his precious little sister.
"Look at his eyes. Empty as a beggar's bowl," said the other priestess. Her gnarled hands shook with delight as she pointed at Heart's big brown eyes. She smiled a vicious little smile. "We'll call him Dead Soul. Mortuus Anima, the dead soul."
The ritual complete, they informed the centurion of the recruit's new name and the centurion noted it in his ledger. The priestesses informed him with vicious glee that the Twisted Hairs were Caesar's property now, even if they didn't know it. While they were distracted, Mortuus grabbed a piece of his dreadlocks and stashed it on his person. It was the only piece of Aram Heart that he had left.