Science-Fiction Smackdown Continues! This round is Alternate History & Anti-Heroes where, you guessed it,  a well-known anti-hero must be incorporated into a famous historical event. Let me if you know who (and which event) I got. =D As always, enjoy!

The smell of blood and rot clung to the back of Scarlett's throat as she fanned herself, the thick ostrich feathers quivered as she flicked her wrist forward, backward, forward; in perfect time with the crack of the whip, the cries of tormented convicts, and drone of flies. The paved ground was hot through the soles of her sandals.

She didn't flinch as the roman soldier painted another bloody stripe across the convict's back. The war had hardened her past that. In truth, the procession bored her. She pitied the dull souls who mistook this for entertainment; who cheered as they cut off the hands of thieves and the heads of heretics. Sometimes (more practically in her opinion) they sold convicts into slavery. She was here for her mine, and nothing more; it needed workers, and she'd be damned to spend even a single piece of gold paying for honest work that dishonest men could do equally well.

The whip struck its mark again, brushing hot air against her face. Other women swooned at the sight. Weak, useless things. For appearance's sake, she leant backwards onto Samuel: her hired hand, her 'husband' for all points of practicality, and her mouthpiece for today's transaction; heaven forbid a woman speak on her own behalf. Scarlett scowled, pulling her scarf around her face. She was adept in running a plantation, perhaps better than any man in this dusty, death-ridden square; if she could run a lumber mill, she was damn well sure she could manage a mine.

Samuel squeezed her hand. A silent reminder. Hold your tongue. She lowered her chin meekly and glanced to the whipping post. It would be that or worse if she raised her voice. Spoke her mind. Looked too fiercely at a man. She knew it wasn't husbandly devotion that drove Samuel. He wouldn't be paid if she were caught. A faux wedding band adorned her left hand. Not enough to attract pickpockets, but enough to keep trouble away.

The gory show ended, and the crowd dispersed. Scarlett watched Samuel haggling with the soldiers over the price, having pointed out earlier which of the convicts she wanted. Three of them, their backs striped and bloody. They were thin, weedy things, but she had an eye for choosing good workers. Hold your tongue.

The convicts were clothed in rough muslin shirts, and shackled. Pride stirred in her breast, but she stopped it from reaching her face. Laughter or a wide smile would betray her. It was hard pretending to be nothing more than a meek puppet, being pulled by the strings on the whim of her 'husband.' 

Pale bricks covered the buildings around them as they left the city. When they passed through its high walls, and she felt herself relax. The Romans ruled the town. With their red capes, soaked in red blood, they policed the town and dealt punishments where they saw fit. Inside, it was a boiling pot of discord. She would be glad to be home. Every step away was a step closer to freedom.

Samuel led the convicts down the path, cracked like overbaked cake in the relentless heat. Dust lingered on the wind, clinging to her hair, her skin, her scarves and skirts. Large crosses thrust out of the earth beside the path. Corpses were bound to them. She averted her gaze to their nakedness, but the stench of their rotting flesh permeated the air.

The afternoon sun bleached the landscape; even the vibrant green of the palms was dulled. Scarlett felt surge of homesickness. A few more hours, and she could cast her headscarf aside, brush the dust from her hair, and enjoy the relative freedom her home offered her.

In the distance, there was a flash lightning. Then the ground began to rumble, roaring in her ears like an enraged lion. Her world shook ferociously. She could scarcely believe it; one moment the ground was there, the next it wasn't. She tumbled down into the deep maw of the Earth.

"Ms Scarlett?" Samuel's voice came from above. "You alive down there?"

"Samuel?" Her voice was hoarse.

A man's gurgling scream pierced the air around her. It was dark. Scarlett felt around. Rough walls entombed her. The coolness shocked her, as did the blood slick against her head. There was just enough room to prop herself into a sitting position. She looked up. A small chink of light bled down the narrow walls of dirt and rock. It looked so far away.

"Samuel? What's happened. Are the convicts-"

"They're all down there with you, Ms O'Hara. I was 'fraid you'd all been squashed like ants."

She held in a cry of frustration. It had taken months to save the money for her convicts. Months. The awful, gurgling cries continued. She recognized the sound of blood filling lungs, and wished she were close enough to smother his suffering; it would take him hours to die like this. And his cries were already beginning to get on her nerves.

Of the second convict, there was only an arm, suspended in the narrow wall above her head. Mere feet from her own, she found the third. Lying on his front, his chest moved in and out. Scarlett was stricken. Her dignity. They stoned women to death for spending time alone with men. Let alone convicts. In dark, unchaperoned holes. No Roman would offer to help a tainted damsel.

"There's nobody down here. Nobody alive, anyway," she lied, forcing a carefree laugh from her lips. "Samuel, leave me your water and dates. You'll have to return with some help."

Alone, she glanced at the body at her feet. Long brown hair covered his face and concealed the worst of his back's injuries. Scarlett considered killing him; it would ensure her standing in society. The ground around her was unsettled. She felt it shaking, heard rocks shifting above and around her. Not wanting to risk a cave-in, she decided he'd have to live. She hoped he'd never wake.

The sun abandoned her to darkness as she nibbled on a date. It was a poor excuse of a dinner, and the water was an even poorer substitute for her whiskey bottle. While waiting for Samuel, she wondered idly if he'd actually return. Her gold was enough for his loyalty, and she prayed that it stretched this far.

She slept fitfully, the rocks digging into her back, the plummeting temperature. The gasps of the dying convict woke her frequently. He was buried somewhere in the rocks to her right, choking on his own blood. His awful gurgling sounds faded as the world acquired a dull orange tint. Her second day, trapped.

The convict at her feet stirred. His eyelids flickering to wakefulness.

"I'm alive then," he said.

"You appear to be," she replied, looking meaningfully around the small tomb."Otherwise someone has severely over exaggerated the beauty of Heaven."

He didn't respond, but rather, resumed lying motionless on the ground, his head a short distance from her feet.

"What's your name?" she asked him.

"Isaiah."

She remembered his crime: stealing half a satchel of dates. A bit of a religious nut too, according to the soldier. He was eerily still. She noticed the wounds on his back had become stuck solidly to the fabric of his shirt. Every breath forced his rib-cage to grate against the fabric;  like barbed hooks sunk deep into his flesh.

"I have some water left," Scarlett said. "If you like, I can get the shirt off your back."

His gaze flicked from the ring on her hand, and back to her eyes. "Not many married women would dare say that."

"I'm not most married women," Scarlett replied, moving over to him. "Here, bite down on this."

She offered him a date and began the painstaking process of separating fabric from skin. Isaiah let out a sigh as she tore the last of the fabric away. he

Time passed lazily, before Samuel's voice broke the silence: "Wife? Beloved wife, where are you?"

Scarlett rolled her eyes. He was laying it on thickly-- obviously there were people with him - and two could play at that game. She bit her lip, bringing a tremor to her voice, and all the desperation that three decades of practice could bring forth. No tears though: they were a waste of water."Husband? You came for me?"

Isaiah looked up at her curiously. She signed for him to remain quiet, highlighting the consequences of not, by dragging a finger across her own pale neck.

Scarlett and her 'husband' exchanged further pleasantries, as he lowered her a skin filled with water. She gulped down the cooling liquid and passed the skin to Isaiah.

The Roman guard had come, doing something useful for once. Above them, she could hear rocks being moved. Gravel and silt rained down on them. She removed one of her scarves, using it to cover Isaiah's angry wounds, the other she pulled further forwards, protecting her dark hair from the falling particles. Her scarf was rough, the fabric starched with her own blood.

As the sun passed the horizon, her rescue mission was called off. What pathetic Roman values, not working through the night. A proper contingent of Southerners would have rescued her before noon. Over the hymns, she'd only heard the complaining voices of three soldiers. Three. Was that all she was worth? Her scowl deepened.

"I'm going back to town," Samuel said as night fell, the husbandly air to his voice fading with the soldiers.

"You'd leave me here alone?" she asked sarcastically. She didn't relish the thought of another night trapped here. It would exasperate the bruises steadily blossoming along her back. There was still a meter of rock between her and freedom.

He laughed quietly. "Ms Scarlett, you're trapped in that hole real good. If someone steals you overnight, then they're the hardest working bandit that ever walked the earth, and I'd tip my hat to them."

His laughter faded into the night.

"Tell me something," Isaiah said, as they shared a small package of bread and cheese Samuel provided. "How does someone like you end up buried under the ground with a thief?"

Scarlett scowled. "An act of God, perchance?"

"Maybe." He was silent for sometime. "That man isn't your husband." It was a statement rather than a question.

It was a statement she didn't care to confirm or deny. Scarlett stroked the ring hidden in her pocket. It was cold from disuse. The misshapen diamond thing was much too large for practically. The remnants of Rhett. She would have pawned it in a heartbeat to fund her mine, but it was some broken part of her that she couldn't bear to amputate.

"I heard the soldiers talking above us," he tried again. "Why do they think you are the sole survivor?"

"It's hard to build a reputation," she said, "and I won't have mine ruined by spending unchaperoned time with a thief." The fact that his 'death' had drawn a crowd of singing mourners had soured her mood too, but she didn't care to mention that.

"Yesterday, those soldiers said I was to be crucified." Isaiah said. "Your husband is merciful to have saved me from that fate." His gaze lingered to the still-dangling arm above Scarlett.

She scowled, her pride getting the better of her. "I bought you. Someone has to work in my mine."

"Women can't own property."

"Tell that to my mine," she retorted. "Tara is going to be the fastest growing enterprise the Roman's have ever seen. You'll see. You should know better, anyway: I'm not telling you that you can't worship your God."

"You can not sway my belief," he said resolutely.

"Just as you can't sway mine. The mine, which I own, will be a success."

She noticed the scratches, etched around his forehead almost symmetrically. "What happened to your face?"

"I was running along a rooftop, and misjudged a jump. I landed face-first in a thorn bush, it's lucky I wasn't blinded."

"Serves you right for being a greedy thief," Scarlett said.

"I wasn't stealing for my sake," he said. "The orphans in my town are starving."

Scarlett frowned, and turned away from him.

The third day dawned, and the chink of light grew in size as more rocks were pulled away. This had its negatives. At midday, the sun burned into the hole like an angry tongue of fire. Her prison became an oven. Isaiah suffered in silence alongside her.

When it was apparent she would soon be free, Isaiah spoke quietly.  "Wherever you are, know that God has a path for you that is filled with good things."

"Then I'd very much appreciate a map, good sir," she replied. "For I seem to have taken all of the wrong turns."

"You need only ask."

"Well I'm asking you now, if that counts," she said. "For my sake, and your life, stay down here until I am far from this accursed place."

The hole grew larger still, and a pair of gauntleted hands reached down to her. She grabbed ahold of them, and was lifted from the hole. She winced at the sudden brightness. Freedom. The air had never smelled so sweet, the sky never such a bold shade of blue. 

The best puppet that had ever lived,

 Samuel thanked the soldiers on her behalf, while she seethed internally. She'd lost two able-bodied workers, and could never reveal the survival of the third. She was eager to get away from her losses. The experience wasn't all a loss though. Something Isaiah mentioned had sparked an idea in her mind. He'd mentioned starving orphans. Orphans were quite similar to convicts, in that she wouldn't have to pay them wages. She wouldn't have to part with Rhett's ring for gold. 

A quick trip home, and then to the streets; the orphans and her mine were waiting. They had barely passed three unfortunate, crucified souls, when an elated voice cried out from behind them: "He's alive! Praise the Lord, Isaiah has been returned to us!"

"What do they mean?" Samuel asked.

Scarlett fixed her green eyes on the horizon. "It's a miracle."