Camp slave

I do not sleep that night.

How could I?

My mother's face keeps appearing before me. My father sacrificing himself for me. Sacrificing himself so I could become a slave. What for?

The faces of everyone I knew in Syracuse kept haunting me. The more I try to forget them, the more they appear before me. It feels like a curse. I would never see them again.

It finally settles in.

I began to cry like the child I was. I cry silently, making sure no one hears me. I feel watched and spied on. As if everyone is against me in this foreign camp.

Mabye they are.

The sounds of men laughing, metal clashing and fires cracking replace the lullabies of my mother and the songs of the olive groves of my father's gardens.

I am not Arian of Syracuse anymore.

I am now just a slave.

...

Before sunrise, we are dragged from our tents by the Quartermaster's aide.

He takes notice of me immediately and says:

"Hey kid. What's your name?"

"Arian." I answer.

He makes a disgusted face and said:

"That name is dead, boy. No one gave you a new name yet? We'll have to find you one then. Hmmm, let me thing."

With a pensive expression, he adds:

"Blonde hair, green eyes, fair, light skin. Ah! I have it. Well, kid, Flavus stands for blonde. Lucius is light like your skin. Hahahaha!"

With an ear to ear grin, he asked:

"So, kid, which one do you like most? Not everyone gets to pick their name do they?"

It took him just 30 seconds to find me these names. I hated how lightwork and irreveland my name is.

"Lucius... I choose Lucius." I say.

"Perfect!" He says, his face beaming.

Then, his face suddenly gets serious.

"Now, as for you role... You're going to be a camp servant. You haul shit, carry water and scrub what the soldiers piss on. Even if it's yourself. You sleep when the work's done and eat what's left. If you steal, you get whipped. If you run, you die. Understand?"

I say nothing in protest. The aide doesn't care. He shoves a bucket into my hands. It makes my eyes water from disgust.

...

And that's essentially what I do. Day and night. The first days I don't ever make it in time for sleep. I always have to work during the night too to get the work done. When I finish, I go straight to bed and cry myself to sleep. I suffer. Through mud and shit. Day after day, night after night. The soldiers disrespect me. I am never fast enough, never clean enough, never good enough.

"Faster, you wretch!" A drunk soldier shouted at me the third day, before I got punched.

This is also part of my routine. The soldiers are disciplined and well-trained during the day, I had to give them that. But when the sun set, they become a bunch of drunkards.

That's because Syracuse is already conquered and there's no danger around. They had gotten a lot of prizes too so they are living their best lives. Usually with some groups of willing Syracusan women, which I immediately learn to hate with some intensity.

...

Soon enough, I get into a routine. I start getting faster and faster. My moves more efficent. Don't misunderstand, the job still sucks. But at least now I can sleep early so I don't wake up tired the next day. Some nights, I even finish before sleep time so I can take a walk around the camp, learning it's layout and structure.

I don't have any friends. The soldiers don't just mingle with slaves. Even more so if they are camp servants, the lowest of the low.

I learn the two Legions Sulla is leading were the 9th and the 10th Legions.

I am currently in the Legio X's camp.

The 10th Legion is apparently Sulla's Legio Praetoria.

I keep the routine for many days and get better and better at it. No one seems to notice or care though but at least I can use the surplus time to gather more information I feel I could need later.

...

On my 8th day, I was carrying two buckets as usual. But I stumble and one of the wooden buckets slams into my leg, wetting my tunic. A soldier laughs nearby and says:

"Watch it, piss boy."

Rage wells up within me but I continue walking.

Ahead, by the latrines, an old man sits in a crate sharpening a knife. He doesn't have an armor so I immediately know he isn't a soldier. No cloak either. No ornaments. Just worn leather and calm, brownish, almost black eyes.

"Too small to haul two buckets," the man says, not unkindly.

I freeze but he doesn't move.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to whip you. What's your name, boy?"

I hesitate in the beginning but then I finally manage to murmur.

"L-Lucius."

No one except for my superior slaves had asked for my name in this camp yet. It's as if I don't exist. This old man did though.

He nods but doesn't say anything. Then he stands and takes the heavier bucket from my shaking hands.

He helps me get to my destination and I ask, surprised:

"Thank you, but why did you help me? No one ever cares..."

"Must I have a reason to help someone, boy?" He answers with a caring face.

I lower my head in shame and to my surprise, my eyes start watering. In front of this old man, my stoic facade was falling apart.

He sees me and put a hand over my blonde hair. I know I must smell. I'm full of shit. But he still hugs me.

"Oh boy, let it all out, it's okay. No one ever comes here to smell the shit for fun anyway."

So I do. I'm not sure how long I cry. Could've been 10 minutes, could've been an hour. But I do let it all out.

"Boy, I won't ask where your parents are. I'm just sorry. Life isn't fair. But you've been given a second possibility here, kid. There is no better place to rise, even if you're a slave, than in a camp of the Aureline Empire. Trust me, I've seen many go from slaves to Centurions, kid. And you will do it too. I can tell you're a bright kid. You will rise.

Per aspera ad astra, kid.

Through mud, literally, to the stars."

I look up at him and let him go.

I bow my head in gratitude.

"Thank you, sire. May I know who you are though?"

He smiles and then answers kindly:

"My name is Gaius Varro. I come from Athens and I'm the mentor of Sulla's son. I don't think you've met him yet. Between us, he's a bit of a spoiled brat haha." Then he winks at me and grins.

I smile too and tell him.

"My name is Arian. I come from Syracuse. You saw my city get conquered and sacked some days ago. I lost my family there and I have nothing now. It's a pleasure to meet you sir. I hope to see you around the camp often."

"See you around, kid." And then, I watch him leave with a melanconic expression.