Chapter Text
You are no stranger to death. You are a warrior and war is in your blood. That still does not make it any easier to face.
“Cover her mouth!”
You hope your defiance is shown in your eyes as the rag is shoved into your mouth. The guard in front of you wipes his face from the bloody spit you spewed on his cheek, and you snarl like an animal at the grip on your wrists as your arms are bound behind you. He gets into your face and squeezes your chin tightly.
“How did this woman get on board!?”
You are proud of the carnage you left behind, and you scan the five bodies on the deck of the ship, thick crimson staining into the dark wood and seeping through the boards. In retrospect your attempts at stealing this ship and freeing your brethren was a bold attempt, but at least you managed to kill five soldiers. But it is still an inkling to the devastation the Roman army left in its wake.
“Throw her into the hold with the others. If she is so desperate to be here, then she will face a fate like theirs.”
You enjoy the fear flicker on his face when you jerk towards him. You would think he would be less frightened of a simple woman tied and gagged, but even with your female curves and alluring features, you are as strong as a warrior, body toned from labor and combat. You think your long hair matted with blood likely makes you look a bit feral and only adds to your intimidating look.
You let out a groan when you are thrown roughly down the creaky wooden stairs into the hold, and your shoulder connects harshly against a thick beam. You stand there for a moment to gain your footing, and while your brothers eye you with adoration for your frankly, suicidal attempt at freeing them, the loss of your kingdom keeps them subdued in a deep depression.
“My child.”
Your head whips around towards the weak voice, and you stumble towards it in desperation, “Jubartha,” you fall beside him, caring little that you have scraped your knees as you hit the ground with little finesse, unable to brace your fall with your hands bound behind you, “My King.”
“Your spirit is never waving, Kahina, but you should not have come here,” Jubartha turns uncomfortably, and your eyes fall to his broken arm, bone poking through the forearm. His injury puts him at a disadvantage with what is to come. It is unknown, but certainly nothing peaceful.
“How could I abandon you when you have given us all everything, my King,” you will not let yourself weep, but the ruins of your Kingdom and its people will forever be seared into your memory. “You truly do not know me if you think I would ever spend even a second not fighting these scum.”
“You have your sister’s spirit. I am truly sorry, my child. Arishat’s bravery will forever be known by our people.”
“As will all the others,” you say softly, unable to fully let yourself face the reality that your older sister is dead. The only peace you are able to let yourself have is that she has crossed over with her husband. And you know that Hanno will forever be loyal to her even in death. Your eyes soften as they meet Jubartha’s kind smile, “I will protect you until my last breath.”
“Save your breath for yourself, Kahina. You must worry about keeping yourself alive.”
Jubartha has always been too kind, even as a king and a warrior. You had always been cared for deeply in the kingdom of Numidia, but you know you will find no love in this new place. And you know you will never be satisfied until you kill every last Roman soldier from the bottom to the top, until you are able to watch the life leave the eyes of its leaders and watch the Empire of Rome fall.
You will free your people. If it is the last thing you will ever do.
- - -
Emperor Geta is incredibly bored.
It is difficult to find enjoyment in life, even with food and drink and pleasures of the flesh, when everything in his life is so predictable. He stares at the woman laying beside him, and finds that she has yet to leave his chambers. It fills him with irritation, yet she is so inebriated she is incapable of getting up to leave. Geta feels enough effects of the burgundy wine to also find struggle to move, as he stumbles after freeing himself from beneath his covers, metal frame of his bed scraping against the marble floor unpleasantly.
He is unabashedly nude as he waves towards a servant waiting by the door with a pitcher of water, “Remove her. I have no need for her again.”
“Yes, Emperor Geta,” the servant pours him a glass, but instead he takes the whole pitcher and drinks deeply. He needs food, and he needs more wine.
So he finds himself drunkenly feeding on honey covered apples and various cheeses. He steadily makes his way through a few glasses of wine, and finds most of the days only tolerable beneath the effects of alcohol. It perhaps causes just as much gossip as his blistered covered brother as sickness spreads with each fuck. But Geta likes to think he is viewed as the more capable of the two, for a simple drunken flush and occasional manic outburst compares little to Caracalla’s embarrassing illness.
A high level guard walks towards him with a low bow, and Geta raises an eyebrow expectantly, “Speak or make yourself scarce.”
The guard stands, spine straight but shoulders slightly curled inward submissively, “General Acacius will be pulling into port later this day, Emperor Geta. He has successfully taken control of Numidia.”
Geta feels a lingering excitement settle in his stomach at the General’s return. He already imagines the richness of the games with a fresh batch of gladiators. A flicker of blood in coarse sand flashes in his mind and his lips curl into a vicious grin. He is hoping for something new, when the games have become so repetitive, and he has been eager to see the arenas his game masters have been designing. Geta is bored of many things, but he always enjoys a good game.
It is quite dangerous keeping a man like Emperor Geta so bored, and he is expecting things to change, or the people of Rome will surely be in for a massacre.
A single drop of blood is not enough to quench his thirst.