Escape (1)

Come on, speed up!" barked a soldier, slamming his cane into the sand with a sharp crack.

The slaves flinched at the sound, their movements frantic as they scrambled to obey. Their feet sank into the coarse, burning sand, every step a small agony under the unrelenting sun.

As the day wore on and the sun climbed higher, the camp exploded into motion. Soldiers darted between tents, grabbing weapons and hastily strapping on armor. For most of the infantry, this meant little more than a dented helmet and a loose-fitting chainmail vest. It wasn't much, but it was better than facing steel bare-chested.

Among the slaves, the air was thick with tension, their faces grim and shoulders hunched. But there was one exception. Alpheo.

He fought to suppress the grin that threatened to spread across his face, though his racing heart betrayed his excitement. The signs had been clear. A battle was coming.

"Finally," he muttered under his breath.

Soon, the soldiers came for them. Rough hands forced the slaves into line, binding their wrists with coarse ropes that chafed against raw skin. Alpheo winced but offered no resistance, his face a mask of obedience. The line of slaves shuffled toward their makeshift cells, little more than crude wooden enclosures reinforced with ropes and canvas.

Once locked inside, the soldiers secured the entrance with a simple knot—enough to keep them contained. Alpheo knew this well. Lock up the slaves, keep them out of sight and out of trouble.

The other men in the cell groaned and sagged against the wooden walls, their spirits as worn as their bodies. But not Alpheo. His eyes gleamed as he watched the army outside, the bustling camp preparing for war. Soldiers sharpened blades and checked horses.

Alpheo's thoughts raced. Today. It has to be today

He'd always questioned why armies used slaves for labor instead of animals. Mules and horses could carry far more weight. True, they cost more to maintain, but at least they didn't try to escape or slit your throat in the dark. 

As the soldiers finished their preparations and marched out of the camp, Alpheo's view of the army was cut off, from now on he would have no way to know what would be happening outside the camp.

The hours stretched on—or what felt like hours. In truth, it might have been no more than half that time. Every second dragged like a lifetime as Alpheo's patience wore thin. He sat cross-legged in the sand, his fingers drumming a restless beat on the ground. Around him, seven other slaves sat in silence, their faces pale with fear.

Alpheo glanced at them and sighed. No more waiting. It's now or never.

With a swift motion, he leaned forward and opened his mouth. From under his tongue, he retrieved a shard of pottery, small enough to hide but sharp enough to do the job. He'd spent countless nights shaping it against a rock, whittling it into a crude blade.

Alpheo glanced around the cell, a sly smile creeping onto his face. His plan hinged on simplicity and precision, and he felt confident in its success. The proximity of their cells meant signals could pass easily between them—if everyone played their part.

With a decisive cough followed by two sharp inhales through his nose and another cough, Alpheo gave the prearranged signal. He waited, tense, until three distinct coughs echoed back in response.

They heard me. His grin widened as triumph surged through him.

 "Let's see how good that knot really is."

He wasted no time. Retrieving the shard of pottery, he began sawing through the ropes binding his wrists. The sharp edge bit into the fibers, and within twenty seconds, he was free.

Their first objective was clear: release all the other slaves in their cell and then spread the rebellion to the neighboring enclosures. Alpheo held up the shard for his companions to see, gesturing for silence and pointing toward their bindings.

Quick glances and a flurry of hand gestures communicated the plan. His fellow slaves stared in disbelief at the shard, then at him, their eyes lighting up with hope. Alpheo moved with practiced precision, freeing each man in turn. The seven others in his cell watched in awe as the ropes fell away, their silent amazement spurring him on.

As soon as his group was unbound, Alpheo crept to the wooden door. His blade made quick work of the knot securing it, but he held the door firmly closed to avoid alerting any passing guards. He turned to one of the newly freed men and handed him the shard.

"Take this," he whispered, "and pass it to the next cell. Tell them to cut their ropes and free the door, but keep it shut until I signal. Then spread the message."

The man nodded and slipped out, moving toward the neighboring cells. Alpheo stayed by the door, gripping it tightly. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he counted the seconds. The success of their uprising depended on the others.

The sound of soft footsteps snapped him back to attention. The first phase of their plan was complete. Jarza, Clio, and Egil had done their part.

Alpheo took a steadying breath and slowly opened the door. Motioning for his companions to follow, he stepped out into the open air.

Freedom, however fragile, was now within reach.

Slaves from other cells emerged like shadows in the night, their movements quick and silent. Alpheo exchanged glances with Jarza, Clio, and Egil, their nods affirming the plan. It was working.

But freedom was only the beginning. Now, they needed weapons.

The camp wasn't empty, even with most of the soldiers gone to battle. Camp followers—cooks, merchants, and workers—still milled about. And then there were the guards. Though their numbers were thin, they were armed and alert.

Every step carried risk.

Alpheo led his group toward the kitchen tents, slipping between shadows and avoiding the watchful eyes of the guards. The scent of food grew stronger as they approached, the tantalizing aroma mingling with the bitter taste of tension.

They slipped inside the kitchen tent, but instead of finding a quiet place to arm themselves, they were met with a cluster of women.

The women froze at the sight of them, their eyes wide with terror.

Screams erupted.

Of course. Fuck!Nothing ever goes my way. Alpheo cursed silently as chaos broke out around him.

"Arm yourselves!" he barked in a low, commanding tone. His voice cut through the panic like a blade. Fear might cripple most men, but in that moment, it also made them pliable—desperate for someone to lead. And Alpheo was ready to lead.

The others moved swiftly, snatching up knives, cleavers, and anything sharp they could find. Alpheo grabbed a blade for himself and slipped out of the tent, his senses on high alert.

But the commotion inside had already spread.

More women emerged from nearby tents, their shouts piercing the air.

"The slaves have escaped!" one cried in disbelief.

"Where are the soldiers?" another shrieked.

Alpheo's mind raced. Every second counted now. The guards would come soon, and when they did, the fragile hope of freedom could shatter in an instant.

Alpheo knew the moment had arrived—there would be no easy escape. The chance for stealth was gone. Their survival now hinged on one thing: battle.

More slaves poured out from the tents, driven by desperation and the fire of newfound hope. They seized whatever they could find as weapons: pots, jagged shards of pottery, even hardened bread that could serve as a hammers. The air was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, fear, and adrenaline.

Alpheo scanned the chaos, his sharp eyes darting between the throngs of slaves. Amid the mass of faces, he finally spotted Egil, his broad shoulders and determined expression cutting through the crowd like a beacon.

"Egil!" Alpheo barked, his voice rising above the clamor.

"Take forty men and secure the horses! Make sure no one rides out to warn the army. Do whatever it takes!"

Egil gave a terse nod and, without hesitation, began gathering a group. The number swelled beyond forty, but there was no time to count or correct them. Better too many than too few.

As Egil and his contingent moved toward the stables, another voice reached Alpheo through the din.

"Alpheo." It was Jarza, his calm tone different from the bedlam around them. "The guards. We need to deal with them before they organize."

Alpheo nodded, chewing on a thumbnail as he weighed their options. Finally, he snapped out of his thoughts and issued orders.

"Take half the men and handle the guards on your side," he instructed, locking eyes with Jarva. "I'll take the other half and clear out the rest. We outnumber them, there's no more than a hundred guards in total. That's fifty for you and fifty for me. Overwhelm them. Use numbers, force, and fear."

Jarva's jaw tightened as he listened, nodding with understanding. 

"Offer them a chance to surrender in the chaos. Most will realize they're outmatched and throw down their weapons." He paused, his gaze hardening. "Then slit their throats and loot their corpses. Don't leave anything behind. Once you're finished, send one of your men to find me. We'll strip the camp clean and get out before reinforcements arrive. Understand?"

Jarza stared at Alpheo for a moment, then gave a firm nod. "I'll see you on the other side, Alpheo."

"See to it you make it out alive," Alpheo replied, his lips curling into a grim smile.

Jarva turned on his heel, rallying his group with a sharp command. Alpheo watched as they melted into the chaos, heading toward their targets.

Now, it was his turn.

The camp had become a boiling cauldron of noise and movement. Slaves surged forward in disorganized waves, their makeshift weapons glinting in the sunlight. Cries of defiance clashed with the panicked shouts of camp followers and the barked orders of guards scrambling to form ranks.

Alpheo took a deep breath, the chaos around him sharp and invigorating. This—this disorder, this madness—was where he thrived. He wasn't a warrior or a hero. He wasn't strong or noble. He was, as always, a sneaky little rat.

And rats, as everyone knew, survived.