Free Enslaved by Brittany Barefield

“I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword.”
    ~Gladiator’s Oath
    Chapter One
    2 nd Century AD, Pax Romana Era, City of Velia
    Marcella Calpurnia surveyed the overcast sky far in the distance. While her mortal eyes couldn’t discern it, priests claimed it was the storm god, Jupiter, amassing his celestial harem of cloud-women. They congregated above the sea in opaque billows of gray-toned debauchery.
    She envied those deities and their coital freedom. Although, she worried that their orgy would erupt into the coming rainy season and delay the lighting of the ritual bonfire. Putting the dead to rest wasn’t a thing to postpone.
    She stared at the body, now only a hollow cast shrouded in brown linen. It was placed atop its funeral pyre and sprinkled with petals and oil. A coin rested on the mouth to pay the ferryman of the underworld. A breeze stirred up dust around the platform and carried to the onlookers a floral fragrance coupled with the salty ocean air.
    Standing nearby, the eulogist talked sadly of loss during such a tranquil period for the internal empire of Rome. Many heads in the audience nodded. The Reign of the Five Good Emperors brought an end to civil wars and a flourishing of architecture, commerce, and the economy. It was one of the most prosperous and peaceful ages to date, yet staring at that square heap of wood and the figure it held, Marcella’s grim thoughts overtook the speaker’s words.
    She endured much tragedy within her own house. Her mother died giving birth to her youngest child, Maro, when Marcella was twelve. Within months, her paternal grandmother passed away, forcing her to assume the role of infant caretaker. Her father, Bestia, sought assistance by taking a second wife; however, she suffered a fatal fall off a horse six years later and perpetual despair hung over their villa like a mourner’s veil.
    Prayers went unanswered, so Marcella had developed an obsession in what caused and prevented necrosis. She hoped to find a cure for mortality via her own volition. She read literature on anatomy, diseases, and medicine. She experimented with herbs. She accompanied the doctor when he visited wounded gladiators of her house, most of which didn’t survive their injuries.
    By her early twenties, she had seen many of her father’s combatants die either in battle or on the surgeon’s table, and now she attended another funeral. She was numb to it and quite bored. She was only there because her father insisted it was an important someone. The sooner it ended, the sooner she could go home to more titillating activities with her special someone.
    “May the gods bless us,” the orator concluded. This signaled the start of cremation. It was a traditional rite of passage and for the living to witness a spirit travel into the afterlife.
    Marcella looked about, observing familiar faces come to pay their final respects or merely to watch a corpse burn. Cool weather encouraged a large assembly, some sitting, others standing, all waiting for flesh to become ash and soul to turn to smoke, ascending to the heavens. As a torch ignited the woodpile, hungry flames lapped at their target. The fiery trilogy of colors resembled a sunset, reminding her that the time was almost near to escape to her gladiator.
    A tap on the shoulder woke her from her daydream. She turned to see Macer Licinia, a childhood friend, seated behind her. The days of tugging her braids to get her attention were gone. Instead, he leaned forward, the leather on his uniform crackling, and whispered, “Do you have any idea who the decedent is?”
    “I was hoping you could tell me.”
    “No. I was ordered to be here.”
    “As was I.” She cut her eyes toward her father.
    Macer attempted to say something else, which immediately invoked a shushing from others, and he sat back in his chair. Then she heard a cacophony of voices and crackles as several soldiers were called away by their officer.