That night, Alana tried to sleep by resting her head and shoulders over the other captives. She did not sleep. Instead, she sobbed and look around, almost paralyzed with fear; and the women and children around her seemed to feel the same way. A few babies cried, annoying the already fatigued soldiers, and Alana could only tremble in fear, thinking of the worst possible outcome. Luckily, no one else got hurt that night, but their wailing was routinely threatened by the armed soldiers.

When the morning broke, they marched out into the cold forest. Alana felt exhausted and her stomach roared like an angry wolf. They gathered in a forest clearing where the soldiers had set a platform of wood. They stood with their lances around the crowd, ever threatening. Alana saw the one who had killed Badratz, and the soldier who had chased Tor through the streets. She hid her glance from them.

The centurion climbed the platform and shouted:

“Listen to me! We will separate you according to the last census. I have the numbers from the local registry. We have counted seven hundred and seven women who are not married. You will be assigned to a soldier, and so will your children. Nothing to worry about, these soldiers have been selected for you.”

Irema wept next to Alana. She hugged her.

“Promise me you will never give up, Alana,” Irema said.

“I will not, Irema.”

Alana felt as if the world on which she had lived and dreamed had already come to an end. And all the dreams she had built for herself were now being eroded and turned into dust. What could she build up from that dust? For an instant, she thought life was not worth living, and that beyond that realm of physical matter, Father had to be somewhere. Even Atila, with whom...

Whom...

Why would the goddesses of fate do something like that to her?

Why? He could have been with her forever. Irema could have been with Karus. Why had life become worse than death?

Was there a way to bring them back to life? Was there a way to turn back time?

Father, are you there? Can you hear me?

She shut her eyes for a second, and instantly, the wind shook the leaves above her. A handful of them fell to the ground, red like the Sun of Ares.

The centurion started calling names. At first, no one responded, pretending not to be there, or fearful not to break the vows they had already made.

Alana worried for Gitara, pregnant and married to a Gadalian Legionnaire far away. She looked around and did not see her. Then, Irema told her Gitara had been separated from the group before. The soldiers or whoever was giving the orders had not decided what to do about the women that had married legionnaires.

After continuous threats, the women started to step out and be given, like child sacrifices to a wicked idol.

Then, Irema was called. She clung to Alana, weeping. Alana looked into her eyes. her brown hair was unruly, and her round face was stained by dirt and coagulated blood, so was the knitted dress that covered her.

“No!” Irema said with all her soul. Alana wished she could stop it. One thing was losing her dreams and the man she loved, another was being given to a soldier, an entity she now hated. A cruel inversion of her hopes.

“Don’t take her!” Alana said, holding her friend in her arms. Two soldiers quickly intervened and pushed them apart. They grabbed her by the arms and Alana watched helplessly as Irema was given to a tall and muscular soldier. On the platform, an Itruschian lawyer pronounced them as husband and wife. That was not a ceremony. They did not even ask for her approval.

Irema looked back at Alana, her eyes open wide, and her figure faded and was carried away into the forest.

Alana clenched her fists until she felt blood coming out of her palms. Righteous anger burned in her soul. Her mind raced, thinking of vengeance. Or rather, justice.

Against whom?

Yes, all those soldiers deserved a punishment. But who had been the mastermind of such a terrible massacre? Who would have thought of that, and to what purpose?

Alana looked around.

Names were called, lives were turned around before her face.

And suddenly, she heard her name.

Alana of Adachia.

For an instant, she hesitated. She pretended not to be there.

“Alana daughter of Alan the artisan.”

“Alana...”

She blinked, her heart pounding.

“Another rebel, huh?” The centurion chuckled.

Suddenly, a soldier pulled a random woman from the crowd, holding her with a sword to her back.

Alana could not bear it and stepped forward.

“It's me!” she yelled.

“Your cowardice almost cost the life of one of your sisters,” the centurion said coldly. “Be more careful next time.”

Alana rolled her eyes.

Stolen story; please report.

The lawyer checked the other side of the list.

“Procurator Tiberius, that is the one.” A rugged voice was heard, belonging to Walerius, the soldier who had threatened Tor earlier. The lawyer, Tiberius, looked at the soldier and narrowed his eyes. Then, he turned to her, as if a previous agreement had been made.

“I have heard about you. Huh. Different from what the reports say. Alright. You will go with Walerius Octavius.”

Alana lowered her head. Her blonde locks covered her view as she stepped forward. Walerius was standing there, arms crossed.

She could feel nothing but resent.

“Follow me,” he muttered.

She sighed and clenched her teeth.

“Come on!” he grabbed her hand, and she pulled it away quickly. Walerius reacted by pulling his hand back to slap her. Alana had hit him in the head earlier. Nothing could be a worse prelude. He was surely planning a long and cruel revenge on her. “I don't have all day,” he said, lowering his hand.

Alana sighed. There was nothing left to do but plan for her escape.

She finally nodded and followed the man up into the woods. She turned back, and the pale, dusty faces of the women and toddlers seemed like abandoning her family. Like dying and taking a final look from a casket about to be interred.

“Don't try to run away or you’ll get killed,” Walerius said when only the trees could hear them.

Dying would be a bad idea. There would be no way to plan.

“I did not kill the mute boy, as you saw,” Walerius said, as if that could justify him.

“Good. But how many did you kill?”

Walerius turned to her. He was an old man, maybe around forty. A big scar crossed his smallpox-beaten face. Not a nice sight. The worst husband she could wish for. Really? She had prayed for months to get a nice one like Atila.

“And where are we going?” she asked anxiously.

“It seems like you don't have a house anymore, do you?”

“I do have a house!” Alana said, eyes wide open. There, she could find her father's weapons and make an escape. “It's the forge on the hilltop!”

[https://i.ibb.co/t3QDbrs/SOLDIER.png]

“That’s an important post. It’s not yours anymore.”

“What do you mean it's not mine?”

“We need production. We’re moving an advanced apprentice there and a few slaves.”

“What?” She opened her eyes wide.

“Indeed. So do not worry about it.”

“You are liars, thieves, cowards, and murderers. May the gods curse your wicked Empire of evil.”

“You do keep talking.” He smiled.

The monster smiled.

Oh, please; Ares, Venus, whoever is listening, get me the heck out of here.

“So… Tell me about yourself,” Walerius asked.

“Do you think this is funny? You killed my people and now you want me to open up?”

“I was only doing my job!” he said.

Alana clenched her fists.

“Now, tell me,” he insisted. “Now we are married, so you better forget all that rubbish and welcome your new life.”

She kept the tears from flowing and refused to speak.

Or should she? How could she prepare better? Yes. Patience. That was all she needed.

The soldiers had set up camp on the other side of the river. There, as the sun was setting, Walerius said, not being asked, that most other girls got to keep their houses, so the soldiers were expected to be in the bed of their wives’ former husbands or fathers.

The tents were wide, made to serve as a place for about ten soldiers each, with their small beds, separated by curtains. Alana followed Walerius into the messy tent and through cheap curtains. There was nobody, and the living space between curtains was small. He entered first, sat on the mattress, and removed his sword. Alana sat on her haunches in the corner, the hood of her cloak covering her eyes and hair.

“We are lucky the mission required few men, and they all have places to stay; if not, the camps would have been crowded. Take off your cloak, at least.”

“I'm cold,” she muttered.

“Fine,” he said, as the armour clanked on the ground. Alana fixed her eyes on small figures that stood on a makeshift table. Small wooden figurines, common in ancestor worship. One represented a woman with black hair. The other two were young boys.

“Is that your wife?” she asked.

“Was,” he said. “She’s dead.”

“Oh.” Alana cleared her throat.

He sighed.

“Come here. Take off your cloak.”

Alana rolled her eyes. But she agreed. She shivered lightly.

“By Apollo, your arms are so thin. They're like toothpicks.”

She did not make eye contact.

“How old are you?” He asked.

“Fifteen.”

Walerius stood up slowly.

“My gods, you're still a child.”

She looked up.

“And were you married?” Walerius asked, with slight disgust in his face.

And then, Alana's eyes opened widely. She cleared her throat and sighed.

Better to try that old trick than end up tied to that old guy's bed for the rest of her life.

“I was,” she muttered.

“Too bad. I guess you are sad, but now, believe me; life will be much better for you. Whenever I finish my service, I will get a farm for myself.”

“I had a farm with my father... And my husband has one too.”

“Your husband?” Walerius chuckled. “Stop joking. A piece of land and a few goats is not land. I am talking about a big farm, with slaves to make your bed, to pick up the napkins you drop. One day. When you're ready you'll have my children, and we’ll build a good family.”

Alana did not see the body of her friend Kassius. He was probably still alive.

“I am telling you I am married,” she insisted.

“Darling. Your man is dead,” he said, pulling up an old broken mirror. He set it on the table and took out his own knife and a small vase of water on the side. It smelled bad. He shaved slowly, staring at his sideburns. “I am sorry, but your marriage to a barbarian does not count. Now, our life will...”

“Who said I was married to a barbarian? I was married to a citizen!”

Walerius paused. He narrowed his eyes, then, suddenly, he chuckled again.

“What are you saying? That's impossible.”

“It is true,” she said. “My husband has a farm. Well, he's a half-breed, in fact, but his father is a General who married a Gadalian woman.”

Walerius sat on the mattress. His expression had changed into fear and awe.

“But then...”

“Yes. We just got married last month. My father was waiting for me, he wanted his father to come for the main ceremony.”

“It must have been written somewhere,” Walerius shook his ugly head.

“We do not keep written records. You have our names from the last census. And it's been more than three months since the last one.”

Walerius put his hands over his head.

“No way,” He started laughing angrily, then jumped to his feet.

He was panting. He clenched his fists and violently kicked the wooden table. Alana covered her face in fear. Walerius turned to her, frowning, and his scars made him look more frightening than ever.