The Eventide Child (2 page)

Morning arrived with little acclaim, the sunlight not having the chance to stir Alexandra from her sleep. A sudden jostling caused her eyes to open wide as she saw her father standing above her bed. First light had not even shone and there he stood, ready to depart. Sleep never came easy to her. Not with her nightmares. She could practically taste the ash in her mouth this time.

“It’s a long journey. You wanted to come.”

She didn’t need his reminder, she needed more sleep. Sleep which was not plagued with such haunting visions. She groaned and dragged herself from her bed and threw her clothes on.  Her feet felt heavy, a yawn cracking her lips as she stepped out into the crisp morning air. Her father checked the cart one last time before he beckoned her.

Just as they were about to leave, Petros gave pause, all movement ceasing as he eyed her up and down.

“You’re not wearing it.”

“Wearing what?”

Petros gave her an annoyed look. A slight twitch in his brow as the laughter faded away and he turned his attention from Caius back to his daughter.

“The bracelet your mother gave you, girl. Fetch it, hurry up.”

She gave a groan. In the height of her excitement, she had completely forgotten the brass ornament that belonged to her mother's family. Father seemed convinced it was "lucky." His superstitious mind assumed that wearing the bracelet somehow protected her. Not even Mother believed it anymore. Alexandra didn’t understand
why
he insisted she wear it, only that he demanded it. A moment later and she returned, the bronze glimmering in the light. She thought little of it, only knowing that it had fit her wrist perfectly for the entirety of her life.

“C’mon then, get off already!” Caius barked. Petros gave him a stern laugh in return as Alexandra climbed into the cart beside her father. He lifted the reins to give them a sharp crack as the donkey hee-hawed and set off along the road. Alexandra felt overwhelmed with a sense of adventure, a call to leave home and see new places.

It was just a trip to the market, but somehow she felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, a voice in the back of her head telling her to jump.

The journey to the city was an uneventful, but bumpy ride.

She passed the time in idle conversation with her father—the only person alive who seemed capable of actually listening while Alexandra prattled on. She shared everything with him. Well, almost everything. She did not speak to him of her dreams. No, those thoughts she never shared with anyone. With his superstitious mind, she was certain he’d think she was cursed by the Gods. She’d wondered it herself, honestly. It was the same, recurring dream that plagued her throughout life. As the years passed and she grew older, so too did the dream. Now it was longer and more vivid. She could still taste the ash in her mouth, though it was hours past dawn. Was it prophetic, memory, or madness? She dared not ask.

“...And that was how Neleos got caught embracing Delia, even though he’d already courted Adrasteia, who was the one that caught them!” Alexandra laughed as she threw her hands up before collapsing back against the wooden cart seat/bench. Petros just smirked, though she was certain her father cared little for the story.

“So... Tell me a war story, then, if my story was so bad.”

“Another? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Petros asked with a laugh, cracking the reins again before turning back to Alexandra. “Should I tell you of the Battle of Marianus’ Pass, where Jupiter himself threw a thunderbolt to shatter the mountain and create a rockslide, allowing us to retreat? How about the Ambush at Adrianople, and the heroes of the 14th Legion who refused to stop fighting until the rest of us had fled? Tales of glory, of young boys promised eternal glory and sent to die?”

She knew he wasn’t serious. Alexandra pouted, even going so far as to stick her tongue out at her father in protest before she leaned back.

“I get the point.” Alexandra groaned, eyes rolling. “You could just say no, Father.”

“War is not glorious, Alexandra.”

“Uncle Caius likes to tell war stories, though.”

“Caius was a fool then, and he’s a fool now as you saw last night. Caius actually believed the Centurions when they promised us fame and riches. Hard to get a pension out of a defunct government, though.”

It was the truth. In its waning days, the Empire often promised riches and glory to those willing to swell the ranks of the Legions. For many young boys the choice was a life on the farm or a life in the Legion, and at least the Legion promised adventure and riches. The farm just promised dung heaps.

“What about the ancient heroes, though? Surely they were mighty? Hercules? Achilles? Alexander the Great.”

Petros paused at the last name, turning a discerning eye to his daughter.

“I’ve told you before, he’s not your name sake. Don’t get any foolhardy ideas, girl. Those times are long past.”

“I didn’t have any idea," Alexandra huffed as she settled back against the cart.

“Father ... there’s something...”

“What?”

She paused in that moment, her head leaning back as she glanced at the blue sky, watching the fluffy white clouds drifting by. She debated telling him. Telling him about the horrible dream she had. Telling him about the darkness. A voice gnawed at the back of her mind, a twisting in her gut compelling her not to.

The time isn’t right

“Nothing. I just thought I saw something in the sky.”

“Always with your head in the clouds, Alexandra. You always did like Caius’ stories too much... He embellishes most of them, you know.”

“I know, Father... But that’s what makes them good stories.” She replied with a smile, her father returning a smirk in kind. His strong arm lifted, a finger pointing to the distance. Gleaming marble structures came into view, the impressive stone wall offering the city and its denizen’s protection from raiders and bandits.

As they crested a hill and drew closer to the city, Alexandra could see the true state of the city. The days of glory and splendor had long since passed. The walls of Tripolis were now surrounded by shanty towns and squalor as families fleeing the North flocked to one of the last few free cities. She felt her heart sink and she drifted closer to her father, the warrior. He gave her a shallow nod of comfort as the ass pulling the cart began to slow.

“This is the reality of war. Only the broken lives, hearts, and bodies remain.”

She’d never heard her father speak in such a grim voice, the words almost sending a shiver down her spine. Still, she dared not look away. The cart wheeled closer to those massive gates, barring the squalor entry to the city. A wooden post outside the gate bore parchment decrees from the governor. Soldiers still clad in their finest Legionnaire garb stood with menacing scowls, guarding the gate. None passed without permission or set business.

“It seems so cruel. “ Her words came as little more than a whisper. Her father nodded in silent agreement.

“If the Governor let everybody in the city, there’d be no where to house them. Disease would spread rampantly, many more would die.”

Even as she listened to her father explain, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of remorse for those people. Many of them still wore the tattered garb of Legionnaire, some maimed and others infirm, their families huddled around close. Some had lost limbs. Others, their homes. Some had served years, since the start of the war, and others were young men who had enlisted, as was their duty, only to lose an eye or limb in some far away battlefield. Beyond the soldiers were the ordinary folk, the citizens of other cities, razed during the collapse of the Empire. Though they were civilians, they too bore the scars of war. Some lost relatives. Some lost friends. All lost friends.

Religion, however, they did not lose. Granted, religious difference didn’t matter, not here— never here. There was no room for persecution or pointless bickering when one had lost all there was to lose. Enemies and friends shared and shared alike. Old Gods, the Messiah, and even stranger, far off religions were all represented in the slums of Tripolis. Nothing mattered anymore.

The whining groan of chains grabbed her attention as the gate cranked open and the large metallic bars lifted from the efforts of the gatekeepers. A flood of soldiers rushed out, their capes billowing behind them, their sharp whistle bringing pain to her ears. They lined up in formation, parting only at the center as several well-dressed figures stomped forward. Their cart stopped, Alexandra watching the scene with a keen eye and inquisitive mind.

“Right! Listen up you lot! I got twenty work orders! Means access to the fuckin’ city behind me, but it’s not pretty work. Hard labor. Ya’ll hardly make a dime, but ya’ll get in.”

Not even Caius held a tongue so vulgar. Alexandra wondered if all men in the city were so crass, though her father's grimace told her that it might not have always been so. She turned back to the display, to the stout little man who’s pudgy, sausage like fingers clutched a handful of parchment slips. Work orders.

There was an immediate clamor as refugees surged forward, only for a whistle to sound again as the Legionnaires closed ranks and their tower shields created an impenetrable wall

“ORDER! ORDER I SAY!” the Centurion cried. A refugee made a run for the work orders hoping to steal one, only to be met with a swift jab from a spear. His stomach ruptured and blood gushed out.

“This is what war does.” She heard her father’s words, and her stomach churned when the man’s entrails spilled from his body and the Legionnaires pushed him back into the crowd. Suddenly, the city did not seem so glamorous. Silence fell. Order was restored and the deceased man was removed from sight.

The men who were selected collected their work orders and shuffled inside, then the crowd slowly dispersed as the Legionnaires retreated back beyond the gate. Her father gave a nod, the mule pulling the cart forward once more. She was silent, concentrating her effort on keeping her bile down.

“State your business!”

“Trade,” her father replied. His strong hand gestured at the wool and the collected jugs, which stored the milk. Likewise, his other hand lifted a Writ of Trade. Men would kill for such a thing. Often a Writ of Trade was the only thing that could open the gates of a city. It was like a key to all the cities in all the provinces.

“Right. All seems to be in order.”

The Legionnaire’s arm flew up, pumping his fist three times as the creaking of the wheel screeched once again and the chains strained to hoist the metal gate open. The Legionnaire’s poured out again, this time forming around the cart as their shields pointed out. There was a whistle and the donkey crept forward and through the gates.

The churning in her gut was quickly replaced with that sense of splendor once again as her eyes absorbed all there was to take in. The sights, the sounds, the smells... Gods, the smells! Some were foul, and yet others were so sweet and tempting. The city of Tripolis stood in stark contrast to the shanty town that had formed around it. Everything inside was clean and pristine, and people went too and fro. Along one street, she saw the group of men recruited as they hauled  stone to a construction site not far off.

“Welcome to Tripolis.” His rough voice reached her ears, but she was too enamored with everything around her. Her eyes fell briefly upon a group of girls her age, passing by the cart wearing the most elegant of clothing and she could only stare on in envy. Finery. It was a luxury she could never afford and one which a shepherd girl ill needed. Could life have been different if they’d lived in the city? If father had become a merchant instead of a shepherd? Still, she could sense her father’s unease. His eyes shot around from sight to sight, scoping down every alleyway and mapping out every possible path to flee. He preferred the wide open. He always said.

The road they traveled eventually took them to the market center. Merchants competed with each other, shouting over the din of the massive square packed with people browsing the various wares. The sound of gold, bartering, and laughter filled her ears and that aching sense of discomfort slowly faded away.

In the crowd, Alexandra could see the City Guard. Their armor was far less impressive than the metal and silk worn by the Legionnaires, but the simple leather and round metal helmets offered them adequate protection and mobility. Unlike the Legionnaires, the City Guard were armed with clubs, short-swords, and round shields and were obviously more suited for law enforcement.

“We should set up a stall.” Petros gestured. “Over there. There’s a spot I can put the cart down. It won’t take us long to barter our wares.” Father pulled the cart aside and unhitched the donkey, guiding him to a nearby paddock. Petros slipped the stableman some denarii to keep the animal safe and fed before he grabbed the cart and pulled it toward the empty slot. His strength hadn’t left him in old age.

“Sheesh. Showing off?”

“Would you rather I go find some slave?”

“Point taken.”

Alexandra quickly dismissed her argument, moving up so she could grab onto the cart and help him by pushing it. From the corner of her eye, Alexandra caught a glimpse of several hooded figures. Their black attire set them apart in the sea of whites and grays. Though her glimpse was brief, she could feel their eyes on her. Even as she stared forward and pushed, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. With a thud, the cart was set in place and Alexandra relaxed in the shade. She adjusted the wares, making sure they all looked fine and on display while her father stepped out into the afternoon sun to market their goods.

His voice blended with the other merchants, crying into the crowd and trying to muster attention. He was an intimidating sort of figure, but his scars drew the compassion of the more patriotic citizens. They knew he had been a Legionnaire, and some even respected him for trying to make a living. A man approached, clad in a full white toga with a stripe of red along the side. He threw his hand back with his palm facing outward in salute.

“Hail, Good Petros!”

“By the Gods...”

She’d never heard her father so excited before, his eyes practically aglow.

“Centurion Tullius, you old dog!” he cried. His strong arms reached to embrace the other man. It seemed odd to Alexandra, the two men like night and day. Her father was tall, Tullius short. Her father scarred, Tullius free of most blemishes. While her father’s age showed, Tullius looked as if he were no older than forty summers.

“It’s Senator Tullius now, Petros.”

“I thought the Imperial Senate was dissolved thirty years ago by Emperor Septimius Sextus?”

“Aye, that it was. You’ll have to come to my estate once you are done here. I’ll tell you in depth then. Local politics, really. Exciting stuff.”

“I see... senator now, hm?” Father seemed less than impressed. “Still getting paid to sit on your ass, then?”

“You forgot the wine and whores, Petros, how unlike you.”

“By the Gods Tullius, my daughter is present!”

The sudden attention on her wasn’t entirely appreciated. Her cheeks flushed as she averted her gaze and did her best to look busy. She shuffled wool, readjusted containers and even finished an entire transaction while attempting to avoid the gaze of the two men.

“What of her, Petros? She’s clearly doing busywork. Has marriage unmanned you so?”

“Ya’ll never change, Tullius.”

“If I did, I’d be a shepherd... Money aside, I think you got the better deal. To listen to grown men whine all day, it numbs my skull and poisons my humors. Old men who’ve never known war like you and I, Petros. They’re what ruined us.”