Constantine jogged next to the covered wagon that carried Beshter and Antonius and tried very hard to breathe in and then out through his nose. But, it was proving difficult.
His father had taken to having him trained for his 25 years in the legion, but with short runs and weapon practice. Constantine was better with the sword, the gladius, than he was with the bow.
Which spurned Antonius to have him practice late in the evenings before dinner. If Constantine didn’t manage to get an arrow in the center by dinner time, then he got portions corresponding to his progress with the bow.
When Beshter had suggested that Constantine learns to shoot with his left hand, just in case, Constantine had gotten only a piece of bread and a bowl of olives for dinner.
But that only proved to motivate him to try everything he could. He had begun to write with his left hand every chance he got to get his wrist loosened up. His normally flowing script looked like scribbles at the beginning of his use with his left hand, but, two weeks later, it had become somewhat readable.
Constantine looked back at the Nubian slave who trailed behind him with a rod. The young boy knew full well the pain that this rod could inflict. He then stole a glance at the horizon. It was noon, and they would stop by the road soon for their midday meal.
Right on cue, a whistle was blown and the wagons and carts stopped. Constantine kept on jogging until he reached the head of the column and then stopped before the centurion and his unit who were guarding the front of the caravan. There were another twelve soldiers in the back and another twelve in the middle.
“Hail Dominos, you are on latrine digging duty before lunch,” Constantine resisted the urge to groan. He hated latrine duty. All that dirt got in his hair, and then he had to jog with it for the rest of the day. The centurion had let him complain the first time and then whipped him with a wet cloth. Yelling about Constantine’s disobedience all the while. The young nation knew not to complain anymore.
“It is my honor, sir!” Constantine did the salute and then took a shovel and followed the rest of the unfortunate few that would be digging the latrines. They were in the mountain now. One spanning across most of these lands.
It was beautiful, but Constantine missed the cool sea breeze that was now replaced with a whisper in the woods. As he dug along the rest of the people, most of them slaves, his minds wandered to all the legends he had heard about this mountain.
Of beautiful nymphs that would bathe themselves in the springs, naked and flawless. Would he see a wild elk? One crowned with a rack that was worthy for even a Roman villa to display? Or would he see a wild boar? Those could gore anyone, really, but if Constantine felled one would Beshter or Antonius congratulate him?
He felt a rod come at his back and he winced. Turning around, he looked apologetically at the centurion. The man was on his case all the time, and Constantine didn’t even know why.
“Dig, don’t daydream!” Snapped the hard man. Constantine nodded, and his shovel hit something hard. Getting on his knees, he expected to uncover a stone. Yet, he saw a jar with golden coins inside.
“I’ll take that,” said the centurion, and he pushed Constantine away. Constantine wanted to argue, to remind this man whose son he was, yet, one look from the centurion silenced him.
The Roman took the jar and left the slaves, century, and Constantine to their digging. Constantine sighed and began to dig once more. Again, his shovel hit on something hard. But, this time, it was a human bone.
With eyes as big as saucers, he realized what this was. A grave. They had robbed a grave, and now they were cursed! He wanted to go tell the centurion about it, but then, he remembered the road. Still, he couldn’t let people desecrate the grave further by using it as a latrine.
Careful not to break any more bones, he cleared them and laid them to the side. There was a purple fabric that was in a good condition. What was more, it was made of silk.
Constantine wrapped the stately shroud around the bones and tied it like a sack. Then, with an entire skeleton and the fearful eyes of the slaves, he walked to a nearby cave and placed the sack there.
“Why are you not digging?” Snapped the centurion who caught Constantine saying a prayer for the dead person.
“This is a grave, sir. We robbed it, if we use the bones as a latrine, the spirit will get mad,” answered Constantine.
“You were sent here to dig, not to bury savages!” Constantine was not certain that the dead person was a savage. For the silk was proving to the opposite. Despite the coins not being Roman ones.
“Sir, I accept my punishment!” Constantine did a salute again and waited for the rod to be brought down on his legs or hands, but, the centurion just stared him down.
“Tell me, boy, for what are your father’s legions know for?” Constantine was confused at the easy question.
“The best weapons and armor, the fiercest fighting spirit…”
“Discipline, you stupid worm! Until you show it, you will not be given food. You will learn, as a slave does, if you cannot learn as a Roman!” Constantine’s stomach grumbled, and he decided that he would have preferred the rod to that.
“Sir, yes, sir!” Constantine stood on attention until the centurion nodded and walked to go and harass the slaves. The young boy couldn’t understand the looks of disapproval the century were giving him. He had done the appropriate thing, honoring the dead native.
Going back, he picked up his shovel and hoped, for his own sake, that whoever else might get their grave desecrated today, he was not the one to find them. Least he starved to death.
