Chapter Text
The slaves tasked to wash clothes and collect water did so by the riverbank at the Fort, in a secluded section far from the main entrance where sniper towers and Legion patrols loomed to ensure zero escapees.
And that was where Mirembe requested to have her bath.
So there she sat, loosely hugging her knees, and her body felt light with the river supporting her weight. It was strange that simple pleasures like bathing in clean water were so taken for granted, but it was especially blissful now, after having been covered in blood, with its stench and smell unpleasant on the skin.
This was a rare moment of peace.
Mongrels barked in the distance, abruptly reminding her of where she was, and where she had been just a short while ago. Behind her, some of the slaves were speaking in hushed voices.
“I had no idea women were allowed to compete in the arena,” one whispered. “Willingly, I mean.”
“She didn’t compete,” another replied. “She was sent there to die. It’s obvious that didn’t work out.”
Mirembe couldn’t help a tiny smile, some part of her relieved that her earlier spectacle gave the slaves cause for amusement. The arena was an… interesting experience, to say the least. If only they had more skilled legionnaires to pit against her.
She didn’t actually count how many people they sent in; they were so unchallenging that it wasn’t worth notice. What really worried her was her own nakedness that whole time. She spent the better part of her concentration ensuring the blood of her enemies didn’t get under her nails, and even then, the Mojave sun dried it up fast.
She was a sticky mess by the end of it. Now that was a bother.
Bringing her mind back to the present, she concentrated on the view: the great river stretched into the horizon, blue water as far as she could see, winding down into the valley.
Then, gradually, a creeping feeling weighed down on her shoulders and she shuddered, closing her eyes as goosebumps washed over her skin.
She knew she was being watched.
By every.
Single.
Fucking.
Man.
The recent memory of her time in the arena replayed in her mind. She had been nude and covered in gore, holding her breath from the putrid stench of blood that wasn’t hers. Caesar had called her into his tent, but she had asked if she could wash away the red before then, because no way was she letting it sit another moment in her hair. Didn’t they know the smell could last for weeks?
And though she would’ve liked to pay more attention to scraping blood off her nail beds, it didn’t escape her attention how every legionnaire’s gaze followed her. Of course, women get used to being ogled at, but to have the attention of everyone — everyone being fanatical misogynistic scumbags— was quite unnerving.
And it wasn’t just a few. From the fresh meat to the senior ranks, their attention was hers.
Feeling those same keen gazes on her shoulders, the discomfort was becoming too great. She scooted deeper into the river to find some semblance of security; water touching her upper lip now.
Subtly assessing her surroundings without seeming too obvious, she noted the snipers with their eyes on her; the groups of patrolling legionnaires throwing furtive glances her way; the young boys whispering amongst themselves instead of diligently training.
The passive-aggressive, polite-with-subtle-insults Cursor Lucullus was observing her, as well. He was standing near the docks, watching her with… a newfound interest? It was awkward that they made eye contact several times when all she was trying to do was enjoy the scenery. Hopefully he didn't think she was trying to look at him. Disgusting.
Antony, master of the hounds and general lowlife with nothing to do except bully kids, was taking a mongrel out for a “walk”. She frowned. Did legionnaires do that? She didn’t think so, but even if they did, by the river? When she was bathing?
Could he be any more obvious?
Otho, who was so adamant for her to “know her place”, was watching her. She wasn't sure if it was out of caution or interest. He sure as hell didn’t mind how clumsily his soldiers dragged dead bodies out of the arena, or the fact that almost half of their men were gone anyway.
She had assumed Lucius as head praetorian (read: Caesar's boyfriend) just stayed with his warlord all the time, but there he was, taking a high position just above the gates. His gaze burned onto her back. She’d look up, but she wouldn’t want to catch another glimpse of his goods again, thank you very much.
She’d seen enough of everybody’s "jewels" when they were all seated so high up in the arena. Standard Legion boxers were uncomfortably form-fitted.
Vulpes, whose voice entranced her but plain face crushed her dreams, had just exited the camp and was heading to a shack near the riverbank. He might be the master of subterfuge but no, she didn't miss the predatory glance he threw her way.
The whole gang was here, she thought drily. Perfect . Now all that was left was for Caesar himself to come down and take a good look at her.
Closing her eyes to pretend like she wasn't being watched by half the camp, some talk reached her ears over the water. It was a legionary messenger, relaying the news about… a wife for Legate Lanius?
The Legion’s trophy? What?
They seriously thought they could keep her here?
Ew.
Reigning in her disgust, Mirembe took a deep breath. She made a mental note to kill them after dinner.