LUCIUS

The barbarians stripped him; cut the straps from his armor, and removed it from his body, leaving him with only his red tunic. They bound his wrists tightly behind his back until his skin burned red, and then they dumped him next to the other Roman soldiers who were still alive while several barbarians kept watch over them.

Lucius couldn't speak to the others, he realized this soon when he tried to talk to a soldier next to him, only to have a barbarian slap him hard across the face and threaten to cut his tongue out if he uttered another word.

After the barbarians finished raiding the Roman carts and the dead soldiers' belongings, taking their food, jewels, and coins, they prepared to leave.

Night had fallen when they began to trek out of the Teutoburg forest.

Lucius walked in line with his countrymen, most were injured or hurt, and three men bled out and were slaughtered. Whenever his eyes wandered, a barbarian came into view, but he didn't see the yellow-haired barbarian.

They trekked for two days out of the forest with little to no food, and only water to quench their thirst. It was like a terrible dream, one he couldn't wake up from. He had been hit, thrown to the ground, spat at—but he still considered himself lucky when the others had it worse. When they finally arrived out of the forest, the barbarians took them to a clearing—let them see what was to come—while they began constructing an altar.

Lucius watched them work for three days. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. The barbarians worked like madmen, building their altar under the open sky. There was nothing godly about it—just a pile of wood and stone smeared with the blood of several Roman captives they had slaughtered. It resembled a cursed shrine, raised to appease their cruel and wrathful gods. It mocked the order and purity of Rome.

When the chanting started, his stomach twisted as dread settled in and the realization that he and his countrymen would be the barbarians offering to their gods.

The Roman soldiers next to him tried to be resilient, but their resilience crumbled with time. One soldier attempted to run away, but a barbarian caught him and skinned him alive in front of the others to see what would become of them if they did the same.

Lucius listened to the chanting for another day—the blasphemous sounds of the barbarians chiming accompanied by hostile laughter while they indulged in the wine they stole from the dead Romans, and he grew weary as he sat with the others, bound and dirty on the ground next to the newly constructed altar where he would soon meet his demise.

He didn't know what was worse: stayed and let the barbarians slit his throat or severed his neck, or try to escape and let them skin him alive.

Fear consumed him.

He was a soldier of Rome.

But now he was defeated and afraid.

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On what Lucius thought might be the fifth day—when the chanting had stopped—he saw the yellow-haired barbarian again, but this time he was with another.

The two barbarians were walking by and stopped three feet away from where Lucius sat with the other Roman captives. They were observing the captives, and Lucius observed them in return, but his eyes lingered more on the one who he had fought in the battle.

The one next to the yellow-haired barbarian seemed to be slightly older than Lucius' twenty-seven, but younger than the yellow-haired barbarian. He resembled the other tremendously. He also had yellow hair; however, his was darker. He seemed to be at least three inches shorter, too—but his stance was as mightly as the yellow-haired barbarian. Their faces shared many similarities, too. Both men had the same laugh and nose and deep voice.

Perhaps they were brothers?

Why did he care?

He didn't. He was just trying to rid his mind of what would come.

"What are you looking at, Roman?" the darker yellow-haired barbarian snarled when he caught Lucius staring. He looked mean and angry—a vicious creature. Lucius quickly looked downward, his heart spiked with worry. "That's right—keep your head down if you don't want to lose it."

Lucius could feel the yellow-haired barbarian's stare, his piercing blue eyes on him. He despised them. He wished for the generals back in Rome to hear of their defeat and send an army of forty-thousand men next time.

"I'm thinking of taking a Roman as a thrall," the yellow-haired barbarian said to the other. "I can't take care of Ivar alone."

Lucius listened as he chewed on his lower lip.

"I think you should—it'll give you more time to go hunting with me."

The two men broke out in laughter.

When the laughter died down, the darker yellow-haired barbarian spoke again, "We have at least forty here. Pick a good one, brother. Or do you want me to pick one for you?"

So they were brothers.

"Not now. I'll think about it later," the yellow-haired barbarian answered.

"Take your time, I'll—"

"Odinolf!"

A barbarian shouted from several feet away, and the darker yellow-haired barbarian stopped talking. He was named Odinolf. He turned to look at whoever had called and hissed in irritation before he stepped away without another word.

The yellow-haired barbarian stayed behind.

Lucius wanted to lift his head and look at him because he could still feel the other man's stare.

He mustn't, though.

He shouldn't.

He wouldn't.

He swallowed, and before he could stop himself, his eyes flickered to the barbarian, who stayed motionless, looking down at him. The other man had no expression on his face—just stoic and flat, but he showed no signs of annoyance at Lucius' eyes on him. He seemed rather... entertained as he observed him. A small smile curled on the barbarian's lips before he tilted his head slightly. Without the paint on his face, his eyes were not as cold as Lucius expected.

What was the barbarian thinking?

Lucius didn't know, yet he couldn't take his eyes away from the man.

They continued to look at each other for a minute or two before the barbarian said, "You fought well, Roman."

When he didn't answer, the barbarian sighed, drew his eyes away, and left.

When he was gone, the painful reminder of what was to come clogged Lucius' thoughts.

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Maybe he should've died on the battlefield. It would've been a more honorable death and he would've suffered less than what would come.

Night had fallen when the barbarians' sacrificial rituals started.

A lump appeared on Lucius' throat as he knelt in line with the other Roman captives next to the sacrificial altar. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, blood, and fear. He stared straight ahead, biting back a shuddering breath when the barbarians' priest—should he call him that?—came up to him. The man mumbled a strangeness that he didn't understand before the priest smeared his face with ash and blood. His heart spiked, but he kept his jaw tight when the priest left to the other Roman next to him, repeating his actions.

Before, he didn't know enough about the barbarians' culture, but Quintus had told him about these people's wicked ways. He could see it now and he shuddered when their ritualistic cries echoed in the air.

A coldness seeped through Lucius' skin before his eyes traveled to where the barbarians were painting themselves until he found the yellow-haired barbarian. The man watched him with folded arms and studied him with a heated gaze. Lucius held his gaze for a moment. He didn't think anything of it, but this barbarian intrigued him.

Maybe because they fought.

Maybe because this barbarian defeated him with little effort.

His attention went elsewhere when the chanting stopped and he realized the sacrifice was about to begin. When he looked beside him to the soldier who trembled where he knelt, Lucius; heart felt heavy in his chest. The boy looked young, possibly eighteen or nineteen. He was scared with his head lowered to hide his fears, but his soft whimpers betrayed him. When Lucius' eyes went to the others, he realized he didn't recognize any of them. They belonged to the other Legios, but nonetheless, they were all soldiers of Rome, they were all brothers.

When a barbarian picked up the first Roman line, who struggled and pled as he was yanked toward the altar, Lucius' stomach coiled. He was no coward. He had been a soldier for years, so he knew of death like it was a second skin. He tried to be resilient—tried to show no fear, but in the end, he was only a man.

The Roman soldier cried out when he was shoved to his knees at the altar and his head was positioned on a stone slab. He shivered and struggled, but his cries went silent when the barbarians cheered. Lucius watched. He couldn't bring himself to look away, knowing that he would also suffer the same cruel fate. The soldier was then held down, and Lucius' mouth fell open in a silent gasp when the barbarian swung his sword—with a dull blade—and the soldier's head was severed. The cheers from the barbarians grew thunderous.

Lucius' head quickly dropped as he swallowed down bile. His head went light for a moment and his breathing faltered. Beside him, the young soldier wetted himself—the ground was socked in piss, and his trembling cries grew. Lucius wanted to hold and comfort the boy, but for the first time in his life, he found himself also wanting to be held and comforted.

The next Roman to be taken cried out louder. He trashed, refusing to move when they dragged him. He only yielded and grunted when he was punched in the stomach., but his pleads lived on. He begged them not to—he said he was useful—but he spoke in Latin. When he was placed against the blood-covered stone. Tears shone in the Roman's eyes. They severed his neck, too, but the blade was too blunt. It took three strikes for his head to fall.

The barbarians laughed and cheered again.

Lucius' heart dropped in an instant. He couldn't breathe because of what he'd witnessed. He grew numb.

When they grabbed the young Roman beside him, the boy screamed and cried and begged for his mother who wasn't there to protect him. Lucius could no longer look, his eyes dropped to the ground, trying to think of better memories. What was there to think of? He had no family back in Rome. No lover. No children. He had a friend, though. He had Quintus—

The boy's screams brought him back to reality, and when it stopped at the sound of a blade slicing through skin, Lucius' heart stopped along with it.

He was next.

He blinked back tears.

He thought of facing death with a fight. Surely he could take down a barbarian if he put strength into it. In the end, he decided against it. He would spare his dignity and die like a brave man—like a soldier.

When the barbarian approached and grabbed him with rough hands by the shoulders and dragged him to his feet, he found them weak and lax in his movements, and he instinctively tried to pull away from the man's cruel grip. His attempts were futile, though, and before he knew it, they arrived at the execution alter where the barbarians worshipped their demonic gods.

He was shoved to his knees. For a split second, he looked at them all—stared at their sneering cheerful faces with hatred. They could take him, but he could never take his spirit. But then, his eyes—shielded with unshed tears—found the yellow-haired barbarian, and it settled there, boring into the other man's face with a wordless plead.

Why was he pleading? Could it be hopelessness? He didn't know.

"Slit this one's throat!" someone from the crowd yelled, and the others laughed.

Lucius swallowed thickly while his heart thundered in his chest. He never liked the thought of a blade to his throat. His father was killed similarly.

"Very well," the executor agreed with a burst of sneering laughter before slithering his fingers into Lucius' hair and yanking his head upward with a fierce grip.

Lucius tried to bite back a hiss, but a pitiful sound left his mouth instead. His breathing wavered and his eyes strained to return to the yellow-haired barbarian with a last pleading look before he relented and closed his eyes. Perhaps a blade to his throat was better than a dull one to the back of his neck. Perhaps. He took a deep inhale and readied for the moment the cold-blooded blade would touch his skin. Any second now, any—

"Halt!"

The cheers died down replaced with silence.

"That Roman belongs to me."

Slowly, he opened his eyes to see the yellow-haired barbarian approaching and stopped in front of the altar. His expression turned cold and unyielding. Lucius took in a shuddering breath.

The man who had Lucius by the hair didn't relent. Instead, he pulled his head higher and pressed the blade to his throat. He chuckled. "Bladric, the Roman's already here. If you wanted him, you should've taken him before, no? Besides, his blood will be of better use to Tiwaz."

"My words are final."

The yellow-haired barbarian, Baldric, stepped up to the altar. Lucius could see him better—hovering above him beside the executioner. A sneer appeared on Baldric's face toward the other man before he yanked the sword away. Lucius' head dropped, but his heart spiked faster and harder—more painful.

"I defeated this Roman in battle. I put him on his knees. He's mine."

The executioner snarled but relented, letting go of Lucius' hair with a powerful push that sent him falling forward, "Fine—take him."

Before he could ponder what happened, Baldric seized him by the shoulders and yanked him onto his feet. Lucius stumbled from exhaustion, his throat dry, and his heart raced when he was dragged away from the altar. Baldric took him to the corner and harshly twisted him to face each other. The barbarian loomed over him as he inspected him, and Lucius' eyes dropped. The yellow-haired barbarian had his eyes on him since the battle, he spoke of taking a slave. Was that what would become of him? His thoughts were interrupted and his breathing went haggard when Baldric him by the jaw—his hand massive, and his fingers were strong and callused. The barbarian tilted his face from side to side to inspect him while Lucius watched him.

"Nōmen," Baldric said—or tried to—in Latin.

Lucius' eyes widened. He didn't expect to hear his native tongue on the barbarian's lips. He thought of refusing to answer, but it quickly disappeared when he realized if he didn't comply, he'd be back on the altar for execution. "Lucius Valerius Magnus," he answered.

Baldric hummed.

Their eyes met for a moment, and Lucius' face turned red beneath the muck with heat. He quickly looked downward while his heart thundered. What odd feeling this barbarian evoked.

Baldric released him before he called to another, who instantly arrived. "Take him away," he instructed. "Tie him next to Hrafn." Then his attention went back to the altar for the next sacrifice.

The executioner shoved him away from the sacrificial site. The wretched screams of his countrymen echoed in his ears as he stepped away and his body went tense. He refused to look over his shoulder, and he refused to meet the eyes of the other barbarians who he passed by so he dropped his eyes to the ground. But even so, he felt their poisonous stare on him every step of the way to a clearing where the horses were tied. They stopped next to a black horse before the barbarian shoved him down and tied him to a tree with a piece of rope before he left.

There, Lucius stayed, exhausted and deeply pained by the screams from the distance. It wouldn't die down—it wouldn't stop. He tried to distract himself. He thought of what would become of him. He would become a slave. He knew what happened to slaves in Rome—how harshly they were treated. What would it be like to become a slave to a barbarian? Only time would give him the answers. But one thing was certain, and that their customs might've been different, but a slave was a slave regardless of where they were from.

Lucius shivered at the thought.

Perhaps if he had never caught Gaius' attention, he would've still been in Rome with Quintus. Perhaps he would've been able to confess his love for his dear friend, they would've found a way to run away together. But no. Instead, he chose to keep his feelings concealed. He chose to follow orders. He chose to enter the Germanic lands. So now he must suffer his fate.