Chapter 27

Blood, mixed with saliva, dripped to the ground as it gathered on her lower lip.

Marcia could not muster enough strength to spit the liquid away from her body, instead she simply allowed it to run past her lips and down her chin before staining the thick rugs beneath her.

The image made Marcia feel a small amount of achievement rise in the back of her mind.

No one could take that away from her, even as another fist found its way into her abdomen.

Marcia's body jolted in reaction but the pain, though bright upon impact, soon faded into the background as mist.

Torches had been lit but Marcia could see daylight slipping in through the bottom of the drapes making the air humid and hostile.

Her skin sweated from the heat whilst her throat became parched from dehydration; Marcia was panting at the moist air, trying to lubricate her throat.

Nothing worked as she leant forward, the small length of chains between her wrists and the post, allowing her body to sway softly from side to side.

Her hair dangled in front of her face, slick from sweat and oil, shielding her from the world.

Marcia tried not to think of how long she had been there because if she did, she would start to fear that no one was coming for her.

Though she knew that to be wrong. Her parents loved her; they would not allow her to remain here.

Marcia just had to hold on until they get a plan together.

They'll be storming the camp any day now, Marcia told herself. She just had to hold on.

As she thought this, the natural light sneaking in under the drapes was blocked by a figure stood before her.

They did not warrant her gratitude so Marcia remained as she was, swinging from the post with her head bowed towards the ground.

A firm hand gripped her chin and forced her head backwards.

Marcia let out a small moan as her neck protested at the sudden movement, her muscles tensed.

As her eyes parted, blinking against the sudden gush of air that blew into her face, Marcia observed Octavia staring down at her.

Her oval face, with resonating cheek bones, and olive skin was enough to fool anyone into thinking she was nothing more than a young girl with no past.

Marcia knew different as she gazed into her eyes, deep with experience and past pains.

Their eyes connected. Octavia was searching for something whilst Marcia just watched; unable to do anything and that, Marcia realised, was more painful than any torture she could muster.

Octavia sighed.

If she had seen anything in Marcia's eyes, she did not like it.

"I can see that you will not speak," Octavia narrowed her eyes, "Even if it is for your own good."

Marcia coughed as she tried to speak, her voice as rough as she felt, "Oh good, you might as well let me go then."

Octavia laughed, "I can hear your mother in your voice."

The corner of Marcia's lips tilted ever so slightly upwards at the compliment.

"I can see that you admire your mother," Octavia abruptly released Marcia's chin and her head dropped forward suddenly, "You are following in her footsteps after all; the fighting, the stubbornness . . ."

Marcia forced herself to lift her head as more guards entered the tent, carrying a small black pot filled with burning coal.

Octavia dismissed the men once the pot had been set down, positioning her body so that Marcia could not see past her at the pot.

Octavia's back was to Marcia as she continued to speak, "You are so much like your mother,"

Marcia frowned, swallowing with difficulty, as she heard the coals being moved around the pot. Her heart began to beat faster.

"So much like Frieda," Octavia declared, "But there is one thing your mother has that you do not."

Marcia did not understand until Octavia turned to face her and everything became clear.

Fear erupted throughout Marcia's body as her eyes widened, taking in the long iron bar that Octavia had clasped in her hand with difficulty.

Octavia swung the iron bar until it was pointing her in the face and she regarded it carefully, the tip burning a bright orange.

"I had this especially made," Octavia gushed over her newest weapon.

"No," Marcia's legs struck out beneath her as she forced herself to stand, her fingers curling around the chains that bound her wrist for support.

"Did you know that I never had slaves of my own?" Octavia took a step forward as Marcia made a small noise of fear, "I always bought them off someone else, so I never needed to brand anyone."

Marcia pulled at the chains above her as she tried to make herself smaller, pushing her back against the post as Octavia approached.

"Hence why I never needed to get a branding iron of my own made," Octavia's lips spread into a smile as she pointed the tip of the iron bar towards Marcia's face.

Marcia's lips clamped shut as she turned her face away, the heat from the iron warming her flesh as it hovered just above her cheek.

Octavia pulled it back slightly and Marcia began to breath heavy, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

"I think it's only fitting that you get branded with an 'O'."

Marcia's heartbeat doubled.

"Oh, I know it won't be the same as your mother's," Octavia smoothed the hair back from her face.

Marcia shook her head, trying to dislodge Marcia's grip.

"But really, who wants to be exactly like their mother?" Octavia's eyes widened as she nodded to her guard and he grasped Marcia's shoulders, holding her immobile.

"No." Marcia struggled, the burning iron highlighting the beads of sweat that had formed on her brow, "Octavia, No! Please, No!"

Octavia heard Marcia's pleas but she had learnt at a very early age to ignore the pleas of others if she was to become a good Commander.

And Octavia, if nothing else, was a good Commander.

* * *

His nails bit into his flesh as he heard her screams.

Lazarus could almost swear he heard her skin sizzling beneath the brand, the scent of burning flesh reaching his nostrils.

He wanted to vomit.

He wanted to run into the tent, grab the branding iron and run it through Octavia's eye.

He wanted to take Marcia away from here but most of all he wanted to turn back time. He wanted to go back to that night in the clearing and keep Marcia from running out to aid her parents.

Lazarus could not do that, so instead he remained where he was, stood on guard outside Octavia's tent, and waited.

He tried not to imagine where they were disfiguring Marcia.

If he ran in there now he would get them both killed. That, and the knowledge that they were alone, was the only thing that was keeping Lazarus stood there.

Blood seeped through his clenched fist and dripped to the ground.

For his sanity, Marcia's screams only lasted for a further few seconds when the tent shifted behind him and Octavia left with her personal torturer.

Lazarus watched them with anger from under his helmet.

"We shall leave her to reflect upon these new events," Octavia told the man, "I shall send for you when I need you."

The man gave his salute and left, no hint that his recent actions weighed heavily upon his shoulders.

Lazarus wanted to follow him and run his blade through his flesh but he could not leave Marcia.

Octavia must have felt his heated gaze upon her back because she turned and regarded them curiously.

Lazarus blinked and looked straight ahead. He prayed that his helmet obscured his features enough for her not to recognise him.

He had met the Commander back in Rome; he just prayed to the Gods that she did not remember what he looked like.

If she did then this would all have been for nothing.

Lazarus's heart began to palpitate in his chest as the Commander's gaze settled upon him, soaking up his image carefully.

His teeth clenched as he saw her take a step towards him but, at the last moment, she spun and spoke to the other guard.

"Our guest shall require some water. Fetch her some."

"Commander" The guard saluted her and left, marching off in search of aid.

Lazarus refused to let it change his opinion of the Commander. She had been the one to brand Marcia.

"Keep your eyes open," Octavia instructed him, "Krista shall come for her."

Lazarus nodded and saluted, mimicking the other guard. He dared not speak in case she heard his accent and suspected.

Octavia narrowed her eyes but said nothing else as she turned and left, stalking down the small strip of earth between the tents before she disappeared around the corner.

Lazarus waited for a few more moments before he turned and entered the tent.

He had to be quick but as he stepped inside, his feet faltered almost immediately.

The smell of sweat, smoke, blood and burnt flesh swarmed his nostrils, making him want to gag, but as his eyes consumed the image of Marcia, Lazarus froze.

Bloodied, beaten and now branded, Marcia looked as defeated as she could possibly be.

Lazarus's throat closed up as he saw her, dangling from the post as her legs gave way beneath her.

His eyes travelled across the tent to where the branding iron rested inside the pot of coal, still burning.

A fire of equal temperature burned in his chest.

A conversation between passing soldiers outside reminded Lazarus that they did not have a lot of time.

Hurrying forward, Marcia's eyes flew open as she heard his heavy footfalls.

Panic flashed across her face as she stood and backed away, whimpering softly.

"Marcia, Marcia, it is okay," Lazarus stopped before her, his hands hovering lightly over her face as he wasn't sure where to touch her.

His eyes roamed her face, looking for a brand but there was none there.

He thanked the Gods that her face had been spared when the hair fell over her shoulder and exposed her upper arm.

The breath seemed to leave his body as he observed the angry, red 'O' that marked her flesh. Her skin around the wound almost seemed to be bubbling from the heat.

"Marcia," Lazarus looked away and cupped her face, forcing her to look at him, "Marcia!"

Her eyes slowly opened, flickering across his face with recognition, "Lazarus?"

Lazarus nodded, "I am going to get you out of here, Marcia," He told her.

Life began to seep into her veins as she pulled on the chains, "Have you got the key? Where are the others?"

Lazarus looked at the chains, "No, I haven't got the keys." He decided not to answer the second question.

He needed Marcia to think that they would survive this. He needed her to hope, but more than that, he needed her to believe in him.

"Listen to me, I know this hard, but I need you to stay strong for a little while longer," Lazarus whispered, his head turning towards the entrance when he heard a loud conversation.

Their time was drawing to a close.

"Longer?" Marcia's face began to crumple, "Lazarus?"

And as she spoke his name he heard all of her hope and fear in that one word. It made his chest ache.

"I'm sorry," Lazarus cupped her cheeks, his eyes roaming over the cuts to her face, "I can't get you out yet but I will. I just needed you to know that you're not alone."

Marcia's eyes closed briefly as she tried to find some reserve of strength and came up empty but she could not let Lazarus see her like that.

So, Marcia gave a small nod of her head, "I trust you."

Lazarus's lips parted.

Marcia heard the voices returning, "You should go."

"I will return."

 Marcia nodded as his fingers slipped from her cheeks, leaving her cold.

"Hey," Marcia lifted her head and looked after Lazarus, not sure why she was saying it but knowing she should, "Do not forget about me, will you?"

Lazarus watched her with a hooded gaze. Marcia could see herself reflected in his eyes but nothing else.

"I shall see you again very soon." Lazarus turned and ducked back out from the tent.

Marcia took a shaky breath as she felt a new type of energy fill her limbs. It took her a moment to realise what it was.

It was hope.