A Note on the Chapter Title: Angerona - goddess who relieved people from pain and sorrow.
The bathhouse was comprised of a series of hastily erected plank buildings, badly outfitted against Britannia's winters, which meandered up a sloping hill overlooking the rest of the city. Londinium was sodden with snow and ice, and from the bathhouse's height, it looked ragged. The burnt-out husks of buildings were being torn down and rebuilt everywhere Kurama could see by gangs of slaves and bellowing workmen, the air still reeking of smoke and ash. Kurama was proud of Mukuro, their late leader, for destroying so great a city.
His captors seemed belligerent about the cold, especially their short general. Kurama wondered if that was the source of their victories, the fire in their blood. It had to be fire: this was not a particularly harsh winter, though the soldiers muttered and swore and beat their captives to make up for it. Kurama wondered if the beatings kept the slavers warm, and if that was why they happened so often. The thought was quickly quelled. It brought the Romans joy, that's why they did it; it pleased them.
The wooden prows of the Roman triremes collecting along the River Tamesas bobbed lethargically; even from this distance, the cursing of Roman soldiers and sailors eager to reach the mainland and then march to their far-off country echoed over the calling gulls. The distant reverberations of drums for the galley slaves beat incessantly from the holds of the long, thin boats, with oars like the legs of an insect dipping and rising below square grey sails, belled out with a brisk wind.
Kurama watched them, reviling his own awe, unused to boats so large. They were nothing like the skiffs he'd seen men use for fishing. Kurama had never been on a boat—all of his own fishing had been done in lakes or on the seashore, up to his waist in the bracing water, casting the weighted ends of his self-woven nets into the brine and dragging it back, reeling in his catch of crabs and eels, fish and whelks, whatever he happened to have caught.
Kurama's breath eased out as he was overwhelmed by memories. The song of the thrushes and the chirruping skylarks that marked the summers in Kurama's thatch cottage couldn't be heard here. Memories of home were dismal, and to distract his thoughts Kurama studied a plover that clung to the top of the bath's walls, its brown and tan feathers fluffed against the cold.
Kurama examined his breath as it fogged from his mouth. Yet again he had been bathed. Yet again the warm greasy oil had been slathered over his body and scraped off, and yet again balms were massaged into his skin. Kurama couldn't understand it. His hair was carefully and routinely cleaned, brushed, and trimmed, and treated with oils that made it curl and shine, thick and lustrous when he looked into one of their cursed mirrors. The soft fuzz of a man's beard he'd been trying to cultivate had been shaved over and over again until there was no trace of hair. Other parts of him had been slicked and run over with a straight razor as well, such as his legs and arms, and a woman who spoke no Celtic daily plucked stray hairs from his eyebrow, and, embarrassingly and painfully, from his nether region, examining him to make sure there were none and then coating his lips, sac, and cock with lotion. Kurama endured the humiliation with a tight jaw.
His fingernails were trimmed with a tiny metal instrument like a sheep's shear, and a rough stone was used to grind them down into a beautiful curve that he stared at, fascinated, whenever he moved his hand. He was fed regularly and well. Already, the starvation was stemmed off and his ribs were disappearing under soft new fat and, oddly, muscle. He was forced to run in circles inside and perform bizarre exercises every day, probably to keep the rich food from making him pudgy, and unlike the others he did this with alacrity, even worked at them when nothing had been ordered. He wanted to be fit—fit to fight, fit to plan, fit to run. He and the others that had been taken from that long line of soldiers and captives were treated like royalty, or royal children at least: forced to wash and clean, pick their teeth and their nails. None of them were touched, though Kurama had seen women and children, even men raped by the soldiers, the slavers.
Why was he not in pens with the rest, waiting for the ships that would carry them to Gaul, the slave lines that would march them on to Rome? Kurama knew of Gaul, though he had never been there. He wondered how far it would be to Rome. He wondered many other things as well.
Most of the others who had been chosen seemed relieved to be away from the dismal slave pens and out of the cold. The women were over on the other side of the bathhouse's yard, playing idly with the jewelry and pretty silks they'd been dressed in and chattering softly. The men lounged, too, pleased with the way they looked now in mirrors, but Kurama was not fooled. He knew the Romans wouldn't give them this for nothing. He had resigned himself to fate, but he would not suffer it quietly. Given half a chance, he would throw himself into a method for escape—but he could not escape without Shuuichi, and he was given much less than half a chance. He hadn't clapped eyes on his brother in weeks. Knowing that anything could happen to his last remaining relative made him anxious and tense, and he was under no illusions. They might not want him bruised, but Kurama saw that undue attention was paid to his loin, and he was far too clever not to reach the right conclusion.
They would be sold to someone high up, a leader of some sort. This person would need to be rich and powerful for the bastard Generals to take a whole line of the best slaves and ready them for him. Kurama thought that for there to be so many, this man must be cruel, and wasteful. The prospect of cruelty frightened Kurama—the prospect of waste terrified him. To have so many, it was clear that any who disappointed would be gotten rid of. How that would happen, precisely, was a mystery, which opened enough possibilities that Kurama remained in a constant state of dread, dread that lay over his eyelids and invaded his head, the seat of his power, befuddling it.
Kurama was determined to learn their language, and just as determined not to let on he was picking it up. One of the others chosen knew a little Latin, and Kurama had grimly drained him of all useful knowledge and bundled it up for himself, listening silently to any words the soldiers said, putting them aside for later use. Each meaning discovered was a triumph, each new word a puzzle. They treated him like a hare, easy to catch, easy to kill, easy to skin; in reality, he was a fox. A druid had once called him that—little fox—and Kurama rather liked the name. So, like the fox, cleverest of the forest, he would bide his time, even into the gates of Rome if he had to. Soon enough, he would be free.
He was not the only one who'd noticed something wrong. Kurama traded looks yet again with the brooding grey eyes of the handsome young warrior who lounged against the bathhouse wall across the courtyard, under the skeleton of a young tree. Kurama was polite to the others, though he felt distanced from them. This man was not. When no one who knew their language was around, he frequently berated the men for rolling over like hounds for a belly itching, and insulted the women with far worse. Kurama hardly liked him—he considered him a patriotic fool—but Kurama was also aware of the searing in his belly, what he called a fox's admiration for a wolf. It was a turn of phrase to distance himself from the burning in his stomach when he saw other men, agreeably bodied and in control. It was the reason he avoided service to the druidic orders, which would have seemed natural for one of his build and intelligence, and favored the warrior class. Wolves were unendingly pleasing to Kurama, while women, though he often loved them for their company or their minds, were not. When he thought about it, and he rarely did, Kurama had decided long ago that it was no matter. His love of men was just one more quirk that separated him from his surroundings, one more eccentricity in an already eccentric lad.
Kurama realized he was staring at the man, and immediately turned away and began strolling along the wall, eyes on the dead vegetation of a winter garden and mind running mad fantasies fueled by memories of the man being plucked, images he held close to his heart.
Kurama looked up from the trailing vine he was fingering when the gate opened to the side and the two generals entered, the short and surly one leading and the fat one behind, leering at them with pig eyes. Kurama tensed, and the legionaries who'd been guarding them stood to immediate attention.
The self-important traitor (as Kurama knew her) who translated for the prisoners waddled in with them, a round old woman who rarely deigned to speak to her countrymen if it wasn't a demand barked in a bad accent. The little general growled something and she ordered them to line up, looking grim. Soldiers were coming in after the generals and Kurama tensed quietly, feeling like a jackdaw fretting as crows took its nest. He lined up with the rest, eyes bright as he watched the two generals searchingly, knowing that the order would come from them.
The short general asked something, clearly unhappy. "Who is the prisoner called Zeru?" the translator repeated brusquely, a look on her face like she was shoveling knee-deep in an old wastepit.
There was a moment of shuffling silence, and then the young warrior, eyes proud, stepped forward.
"I am Zeru."
The woman repeated this to the generals in their own language. The fat general grinned and the other nodded grimly. Zeru got one punch in before he was restrained, five big legionaries leaping into the fray to subdue him. Zeru snarled, but they just grinned at him.
The short General spoke in a flurry, the woman attempting to keep up with him.
"The slave Zeru of the Iceni people has been caught conspiring against the Roman Empire with the cook Lara, and hoarding weapons. He will be crippled, and then sold at the market. A similar fate awaits any man or woman who follows in his footsteps."
The warrior reared up at the word 'crippled,' but it was too late. Zeru's eyes raced and he shouted insults, but his fine pants were being peeled off.
Kurama made himself watch, forcing his eyes to remain on the man Zeru's face as it contorted in fearful agony. It was done bluntly, quickly, and unfeelingly, his Achilles tendon severed in both legs with all the ceremony of a chicken's neck being wrung, or a lamb being slaughtered for the table. The repeated bite of the blade, the screaming, thrashing man, the blood that gushed out and then stopped when a brazier was brought over and the wound cauterized, imprinted themselves in Kurama's brain.
They are not men, Kurama thought hollowly, meeting the short general's eyes coldly. Zeru was dragged away from the bloodstained courtyard, weeping like a child, the air reeking of burnt flesh. He would never walk again.
Glossary:
Londinium – Londinium stood where modern London stands today, though at that point it was still only a small city, an outpost for Rome. Londinium was destroyed, as were most of the Roman outposts, cities, and towns, during the warrior woman Boudica's uprising. By the way, since I haven't gone into it, the uprising started because Roman officials denied Boudica's right to her throne and raped her daughters. In retaliation, Boudica led a rebellion that almost made the Emperor Nero pull all troops out of Britannia, modern day England. It was unsuccessful, but very cool regardless.
Triremes – These were ancient warships, galleys, and common during this period in Rome, Greece, and other ancient societies.
River Tamesas – The Thames, as it's known today.
Service to the druidic orders – Kurama is too old and not of noble blood, so he couldn't become a druid, but he could certainly work as a servant for one, which would have granted him a place of respect.
Jackdaw – An English bird that's rather like a magpie or crow in its habits and appearance.
Iceni people – The Iceni were a large and powerful tribe in Ancient Britannia.