Rise of Merovech: Chapter Four

    The figs were delicious this time of year. It was still early enough for them to be both tart and sweet, but not the sticky sweetness of over-ripeness. They melted in your mouth this time of year. Livia had been saving up all year for the chance to buy some--what little she could save of her mean wages. She was going to buy a basket at the market this morning and share them with Caecilia tonight after supper.

    Her whole body ached. She had been pulled suddenly out of bed, dragged through the halls and out into the yard, where those terrible men had...had…

    Livia closed her eyes and hid her face into the soft fabric of her savior’s shirt. Her fingers could barely curl as she held on, but why was she seeking sanctuary in this man’s shirt? He was one of them, one of the men who had invaded, attacked her city, taken her out of bed to abuse her. Yet, he was not the one who had done this to her. He had saved her. He had killed those horrible brutes to save her.

    She let out a choked sob, only to be cradled closer to the man holding her. What was going on? Had he saved her merely to have her himself? Why did he not just take her on the road the way those others had done?

    Livia heard a strange sound, like a group of men celebrating amongst each other. She looked over slowly, her head barely moving from his chest. It was a group of large cloth tents and horses tied to wooden posts all centered around various fire pits and places for eating and sitting. The rugged men who stood laughing and congratulating each other frightened Livia more than when that first terrible man had ripped her from her sleep. There were more men here than had been at the villa--more men to brutally violate her all over again. This man holding her… Would he continue to protect her? Or would he take advantage of her himself before he either tossed her to the other men or killed her?

    Her tears had soaked the man’s shirt, but he did not seem to mind. He cradled Livia closely, the warmth coming from his body almost comforting. She felt her eyes growing heavy and closing against her will.

    They snapped open when her back gently touched some sort of padding. Livia now found herself lying down on a makeshift bed inside one of those cloth tents. She looked around, attempting to keep her panic in control. .He wasn’t going to protect her anymore. She shivered and tears streamed silently down her cheeks as she sat herself up, pulling her knees into her chest. But, his eyes were soft and warm as he looked at her. They were almost sad. What was he waiting for?

    “You do not have to be afraid of me,” he said quietly. “I want to help you.”

    Livia’s brow furrowed a little with her confusion. The way in which his men had handled her and how he and his men had attacked the city did not support his comment at all. And now he had her alone in his tent.

    He watched her carefully for a moment before he stood calmly and walked to one of the many chests in the tent. Livia watched with both fear and curiosity as he pulled out another tunic and brought it to the bed. she had no idea what he intended to do with that. Then, she watched as he grabbed a long strip of linen and a wide basin of water. She watched him wet the linen and jumped as the now chilled fabric touched her feet. But, even as bits of blood and dirt began to wash away, he grew frustrated and opted for another piece of cloth--this time what appeared to be a proper washing cloth.

    “What is your name?” he asked quietly.

    Livia did not know what to say. One of the barbarians from the tribes that had just looted her town only hours ago was now washing her feet and asking her name She had no idea what he could possibly do with her name. She was a nobody. Knowing her identity would do him no good.

    He watched her carefully as he moved closer to her, then, wringing out the cloth, he gently placed it on her cheek. She could feel the bruise forming already from where she had been struck and the chilled water was soothing on her inflamed skin. Even through the cloth, Livia knew that his touch was gentle. It surprised her and she could not help but stare, trying to make sense of it.

    The man lowered the cloth back into the water and returned it promptly to her face. “Telling me your name is not a crime,” he coaxed.

    “It’s Livia,” she whispered. Livia was surprised at how thick her voice sounded. It must have been all of the crying. She would have thought, though, that all of her screams would have stolen her voice.

    Finally, he breathed a small sigh of relief as he stared steadily and confidently at her. She stared back, still confused and still terrified, yet completely convinced that he was not going to hurt her. At least not at the moment.

    “What do you want with me?” she asked quietly.

    “I want to help you,” he repeated, continuing to clean her face and moving down over her neck and shoulders. She stiffened but he did not seem to notice as he continued to wash her.

    “Why would you help me?”

    He stopped washing her again, staring less confidently at her. Livia did not think he had an answer for her. He looked lost and confused, but not nearly as confused as Livia was feeling. She could not make sense of anything that had happened. The man before her now had been served at the dinner party last night only to turn around the next morning and take his hosts captive after killing his own men. Now he was treating one of his captives as if he cared about her and as if nothing had happened.

    She looked up in panic as the front of the tent opened and panicked even more when one of the men from outside stepped in. His eyes flicked briefly over the scene before they landed on Livia’s confused and confusing guardian.

    “Guntram,” he began. Was that her guardian’s name or some foreign greeting? Then she remembered that Caecilia had mentioned that this was his name “The girl is in the tent.”

    Livia blinked. Of course she was in the tent...He was staring right at her!

    Guntram thought for a moment. “Bring her here,” he ordered. The other man nodded and left them alone again. Livia did not understand. Who were they bringing here? Guntram turned back to her and smiled a little, an attempt at reassurance. “You can change into the tunic I brought out. I have socks as well to keep you warm.” He pointed to the fabric he had first pulled out of one of his chests. “And I have food for you to eat and wine to drink if you wish it.”

    The tent opened again and the same soldier from only moments earlier entered, this time with Caecilia. Livia’s heart leapt into her chest, excitement and relief flooding her. Caecilia was alive! And, from the look of it, had not been hurt. Livia could barely believe her eyes.

    Caecilia’s eyes lit up and she broke free of the man holding her rushing forward to kneel next to Livia. She practically pushed Guntram away from the bed, but he brushed it off easily. He stood smoothly and walked to the man, ready to walk out with him. “There is fresh clothing for her,” he stated quietly.

    “Fine,” Caecilia responded dangerously. Livia looked between the two, wondering what would happen next. Caecilia wasn’t even looking at him and Guntram was returning the favor. His eyes were on Livia.

    She lowered her gaze, choosing instead to stare at her legs. The cuts, bruises and blood only brought the tears back to her eyes and the hot wet pearls slowly streamed down her cheeks. Caecilia gently brushed them away with her hand, still not turning to Guntram, even as he left the tent. It was silence then as Caecilia sat with her, wiping Livia’s face clean of tears.

    “He did not touch you, did he?”

    Livia shook her head. “He washed my feet.”

    “He washed your feet?!” The shock in her voice was understandable, as Livia did not really know how to explain it either.

    “And my face,” she continued lamely.

    Caecilia huffed as she reached for the water and cloth. “I won’t let him touch you again.”

    She washed all of the blood and dirt from Livia’s skin and hair, her touch firm but cautious of Livia’s wounds. As the grime washed away, Livia could now see all that had been done to her, but she had no tears left to cry. Lifting her arms to peel her tattered dress from her body was difficult, exhaustion already settling into her joints where pain had yet to intensify. Guntram’s tunic was surprisingly soft for what Livia would think a barbarian would wear and it was a great deal thicker and warmer than her night clothes.

    “Why did this happen?” Livia asked quietly, mostly to herself, but Caecilia shook her head.

    “I am so sorry, Livia.”

    She looked to her friend, at a loss for words “Why? This was not your fault.”

    The perpetually strong Caecilia finally lowered her eyes, her cheeks flushing as tears welled in her eyes. It was a heart-breaking sight. There were no words to describe all of the emotions in Livia, no one phrase to explain--only images. Grey swirled violently down into a maelstrom of black, as fluid as water and as sharp as a blade. It cut through her so completely it incapacitated her. She could not even process everything that she was feeling.

    She had no home. Her family had either been sold off or killed years earlier, so Castell Menaporium and Caecilia’s family were all that she had. Now, though, her town no longer belonged to Rome and any hopes of a future, no matter how base or low it would have been, was gone. There was nothing. The fact that Caecilia had survived in a relatively unharmed condition was a small comfort, but Livia knew the life that laid ahead of her mistress. Any captives taken in a war could only hope to face the fate of a save to the conquerer. A female slave generally only had one occupation.

    The men outside the tent burst out into loud, joyous applause, shouting in a gutteral, wild language to each other. Caecilia stood slowly and walked to the tent’s entrance, carefully peeling the flap back. Livia craned her neck, trying to see the cause of the sudden surge in celebration, but she could only see the backs of soldiers framed by the sun.

    “What is it?” she asked in a whisper.

    She was not sure if Caecilia had heard her, it took so long to get an answer. “Merovech has brought Rogatus,” she said in a hushed, horrorstruck voice. “My father and Nerva as well.”

    Livia’s heart sank and she knew the color had drained from her face. As if the situation was not bad enough, it only seemed to grow worse the longer she sat in his tent.

Rise of Merovech: Chapter Three

    Moisture hung in the air like a thick blanket. It was going to be a hot day, hopefully one with a clear sky. Guntram did not think rain would impede the men too much, but it always complicated other details of a mission that they could not control. It was far easier for an army to march through a dry maze of streets than a maze of mud and muck. The men were in high spirits, a very good thing for mornings like this morning. He looked around as he chewed his breakfast, taking in the slopes of the hills and the direction of the wind. Merovech had briefed everyone on their specific roles and the strategy as a whole late in the night. The plan was perfectly suited to the environment and the morning should be over quickly.

    Guntram stood and placed his now empty bowl on the ground. His men were layering on their armor. t was nothing like the armor of the Roman army, made of cloth rather than metal and only covering the necessary parts each man thought he needed to protect. Guntram only had part of his chest and one arm covered. Other men, such as Corbus and Merovech, wore even less. Guntram admired their bravery, but if he had to fire an arrow, he certainly did not want the string biting him once it bounced back.

    He picked up his bow and his axe and walked over to his men. They were ready, greeting him warmly and without the fatigue of early morning. And they were keeping their eyes out for their leader.

    Merovech finally appeared from his tent and gave the signal to move out. Guntram’s squad was small but comprised of men he had known for most of his life. He knew he could trust every single man with him now. They followed Merovech in silence down the hills toward the still sleeping Castell Menaporium. Guntram had always been mystified at how many hours made the difference between when his men rose for the day and when the Romans rose from their beds. Hours of the day were wasted--even on the battlefield. He had been concerned that attacking at such an early time in the day was an unfair strategy, but Merovech knew the schedules of the civilians better than he ever could. The city was awake; Merovech’s men had only been awake longer.

    “Guntram,” Merovech called out quietly. Guntram looked over at his commander, so confident as he had been the entire journey. “I do not want her hurt.”

    Guntram nodded. “Of course,” he answered. “You need not worry.”

    Merovech nodded and signaled for Guntram’s men to separate from the rest of the army. Guntram looked over his men with pride--the finest his village had to offer, but still only a fraction of what the army had once been. The huns had seen to that and then the Romans had all but finished them off. This victory would be a victory for all of the men and not just Merovech.

    The city was laid out in a mass of squares, making it laughably easy to navigate. The tour of the villa just the night before had not only been polite but incredibly generous for the strategy Guntram had to realize. He knew exactly where to go.

    The Greek slaves stared dumbly as they approached but soon ran as Guntram and his men fought their way into the house. His troops scattered, knowing exactly who or what to find, staying perfectly calm as the rest of the house flew into a panic.

    “Lothar, Childebert,” Guntram called out. Two men stepped forward obediently. “Bring the girl to me.”

    His men left quickly, just as more of his men were bringing a struggling woman before him. Her brown hair was half up in one of the strange fashions of Roman women, but that was the only part of her appearance that was even remotely ready for the day. Guntram’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. The fabric of the normal day wear for Romans was thin enough, but this nightwear was even thinner. Nothing was left to the imagination. He was almost glad when the woman opened her mouth to begin thrashing insults his way.

    “Vile, filthy barbarian rat!” she spat. “Rome will have your heads for such insolence! How dare you do this to us?”

    Guntram watched as his men brought in two more, children this time. The little girl looked to be around ten years old and the soldier who carried her had thankfully wrapped her in a blanket. Guntram shuddered to think how thin the fabric of her gown may be. The other child was a very young boy who could not have been any older than five years old. He, too, was wrapped in a blanket, but the wrapping could not conceal the tangled and tousled mass of red hair on his head. It was nearly as red as Merovech’s hair. Guntram had never seen that shade of hair on any Roman, and usually only saw it on peoples from the North.

    “Are you even listening to me? How dare you come into my house uninvited and then proceed to ignore me? What kind of incestuous pig are you?”

    Guntram finally looked back at the woman impatiently. She must be the mistress of the house. Seeing as how women were not normally permitted to attend Roman dinner parties, he had not had the opportunity to meet the Councilman’s wife. He now knew that this had been a blessing rather than an insult. “We were not uninvited,” he replied smoothly. “Your husband sent for us personally.”

    The venom continued to seep from her mouth, but Guntram’s eyes found Childebert, dragging in a young woman who was putting up quite a fight. He fought with her until she stood right in front of Guntram, who recognized her immediately as being the correct girl. She stared up at him with defiant brown eyes.

    “You?” she asked, stunned. “What are you doing?”

    So she recognized him. Good. “What my King ordered.”

    She stiffened. “There are no kings in Rome.”

    “We are not of Rome.” Her eyes widened as she looked up at him. Guntram looked around at his men, surveying their work as he did so. The house was wrecked, as he had expected to happen, but something was off. Something was wrong. Lothar was missing, as well as a few others. Where had they gone? They were supposed to meet back in this atrium once they had completed their orders.

    He had no time to waste. They knew how to get back to camp. “Move out,” Guntram ordered his men.

    The city outside was completely different than the city they had walked through such a short time ago. The assault and invasion had been more than successful and Guntram was not certain how much of the city would survive. Not that they had shown any consideration for his village. He led his men and their captives through the streets and around the house, sending most ahead as he planned to find his missing men.

    He stopped short then as he came to the back of the villa, his blood running cold then boiling hot. Lothar was easy to spot, as well as the other missing men, as they hovered over a tiny shape. They were laughing as the tiny little blonde servant girl from the dinner party wept, pleading softly for them to stop.

    With an angry cry Guntram tore his axe from his belt and hurled it precisely into Lothar’s back. The soldier collapsed almost immediately on top of the young woman and Guntram glared at the other men. They were frozen in fear as he approached them. It was obvious that these men had participated in violently ravaging the girl. Quickly, roughly, he pulled his axe out of his victim’s back, kicking the corpse away from the girl. She was covered in dirt and blood, crying weakly at his feet.

    Guntram had never felt like this before. Anger, confusion, sadness, betrayal and the oddest sense of relief clouded his thoughts, but anger most of all. Another pained cry tore from his chest as he drove his axe swiftly into the neck of the closest assailant. And, as the other man ran from his punishment, Guntram simply took his latest victim’s axe and hurled it into his final victim.

    His own axe he cleaned of all matter on the clothes of his second victim before he slowly knelt down beside the girl. She looked at him with terrified eyes, her whole body quaking with violent shudders. Her injuries only fueled his anger, but none so much as the blood on her inner thighs. Pain accompanied his anger and he carefully used the shreds of fabric of her dress to cover her legs. “I will not hurt you,” he whispered, smoothly and gently taking her into his arms. “I will make everything well again.”