The remainder of this Roman stint passes in a flurry of planning, packing, and negotiations wrapped up in banquets. Asharru hardly sets foot in the villa but to change clothes, submit her hair and cosmetics to Xil, and breathe passing prayers to her shrine. Occasionally she sleeps, bathes, or nods approvingly over her staff’s arrangements for their return journey to Seleucia.
The breakneck rhythm of it all is familiar, almost meditative. So much of her formative life was spent in the whirlwind of court that all the posturing and sleight of hand over final contracts amuses her more than anything. Her culture invented the concept of a signed contract, and the Romans think to sneak some disadvantageous language past her? For those few days she rises above her exhaustion and enters a kind of brilliant fugue state, lit from within by the need to finish this latest task.
Then all is done, the ink is dry, and Damian hands her up onto her horse. Carvilius and a handful of the other consuls she’s wined and dined see her off, and Asharru does not think she imagines the creeping shade of resentment in his eyes.
He’s made a bad deal. His peers will point it out to him soon, if they haven’t already. He’ll gain much wealth from her brokered holdings, but he’s conceded more in social standing to obtain the right of ways she demanded in exchange. Best that she leaves his sphere of influence before he catches on. Without her, he’ll have no one to scapegoat, and can begin the process of justifying his own brilliance to himself.
“I pray for the health of our mutual endeavors,” she demurs at their farewells, and that’s that. She can leave this place and its oppressively ascendent pantheon.
They travel within a larger caravan bound for the port of Brundisium. mostly merchants but a spattering of officials and scholars. The caravan maintains its own guards, which suits Asharru’s preference for keeping a low profile on the road. Later, they’ll strike off on their own or make arrangements with other traveling trains, but for now they camp inside the circle of torchlight and pay for the protection of retired soldiers. Local inns are ill equipped for a group so large, and infested with lice besides.
“It’s a long way back to Seleucia,” she tells Alexander on the second day, thwarting her horse with hand and knee as it tries to shy away from him. She can’t blame it, poor thing. “Overland and by ship. You could go almost anywhere from Brundisi, if you’ve a wish to leave.”
There’s been no time to speak of his plans, and less freedom to do so among the caravan. Asharru can only glance towards Sekhmet’s mark, hidden beneath his clothes, and leave the choice to him. No one would remark on a hired guard completing a contract.
By the third day they’re well into the hinterlands. Here, older gods still hold sway in the hills and rivers, clinging to their well-worn toeholds alongside Roman dogma. Asharru removes her covering scarves as they travel though a grove of ancient olives, their limbs weighed down with ripening fruit. Harvest time approaches, and with it the usual quickening in her blood. She must be home by the solstice, must arrange the rites—
A covy of quail burst from the underbrush, startling her horse. Asharru bends low over its neck as it rears, her body tilting and shifting along with her mount. Something hisses angrily past her ear as she wrestles the horse back under control, pulling at her scarf as it zings behind her neck.
With a solid thwack, an arrow strikes the wagon she’d been riding beside. In the same moment, Jiah sends up a cry: “Ambush, we’re under attack!”
Old as he was, he'd never been in the midst of a household packing for travel. Under Sekhmet's rule, their possessions had always been left behind, to follow on with the rest of her retinue, while she and her Right Hand utilized more...animalistic ways of travel, opting to don fur and fangs and migrate as predatory cats might, given prey and the chance to hunt it. Thus, the previous days had been a whirlwind of activity; his mistress's people going about their chores with good grace and good will, high spirits indeed now that they were heading "home" once more.
He'd assisted when asked--he never volunteered--but never denied otherwise. Carrying baskets of linens, carting chests of clothes, reaching objects high out of reach for Xil and the boy, Jiah, these were but a few menial chores Alexander suffered himself to service, but always, always, he kept his eye, ear and nose vigilant to the Lady of the House. Not a moment passed that he did not know of her whereabouts. And when she departed for whatever meeting or consultation in those last days, regardless of the hour she returned, he was always there, awake and attentive. He still spoke very little, having other ways to make himself understood, and he seldom had to "repeat" himself, particularly in his campaign to have Asharru get at least a few hours undisturbed rest as often as possible.
Nor did he exhibit any qualms about curling up at her back whenever he did manage to shove the rest of the world out of her bedchamber. He asked no permissions, inquired nothing about her preference; he simply nested down behind her, rumbling the contented purr of a very old feline beneath the sweetness of her ear, the heavy beat of her heart solid in his hand. It was comfort both given and received, for he too slept peacefully with her near.
He'd understood his "position" in her retinue, however; a hired sword--though the weapon felt heavy and wrong belted at his waist. And yes, he'd also understood the need for the leather armorings, the greaves, pauldrons and irksome chestplate, but as soon as he was able each night, off they came and he could finally breathe deeply again. But on they traveled, Alexander always keeping easy pace with Asharru's left stirrup, until the fields of Roman influence gave way to wilder territories, places that surged his blood with longings he'd almost forgotten.
She'd been speaking to him of places he didn't recognize, but his ears pricked in sudden alarm, and Alexander jerked around just as the first arrow twanged spitefully by to embed into the wagon. The horse had reared, but Alexander was dragging Asharru out of her saddle before the animal's front hooves touched the ground, unceremoniously shoving her beneath the wagon with a pointed growl to stay there.
The first unfortunate cretin to burst from the underbrush with sword upraised suddenly fell slack with a gurgle, toppling to the dirt with his throat taken out. Four more followed in similar fashion, and then Alexander was reaching beneath the wagon again to retrieve his mistress, resolutely keeping her behind his left arm as he surveyed the situation. Armed men were swarming the wagons behind theirs, and Alexander's eyes narrowed, a low growl beginning down in his chest.
No sooner has she gotten her horse back under control than someone - Alexander - plucks her from the saddle and propels her away. Asharru finds herself stuffed behind a wagon wheel while the caravan explodes with shouts and screams and panicked beasts of burden. A familiar sound crests over the ruckus: the roar of an attacking force, voices raised in ragged unison.
Asharru takes a breath, lets out a prayer, and reaches for her skirts. She'd dressed practically for riding and travel, but they're still too long for running or dodging. A body thuds to the ground as she ties knots them up, blood spurting from its maimed neck and spattering her sandals. Something presses against her bond to Inanna as the blood cools and tacks on her skin; a ghost of heat, like the last of the day's warmth trapped in stone, a tantalizing shade of the real thing.
It's the energy of this man's death, brushing by the conduit by which she provides for her god. His soul is consecrated to whichever deity he chose in life, but the taking of that life is a boon all on its own. Inanna presides over the death in battle, but this kill was not Asharru's or that of anyone sword to her service. It didn't count, but it came close enough to raise the hairs on her arm. How--
A hand grasps her wrist, and only the fact that Alexander's been putting those hands on her for a week now saves him from the knife at her belt. Asharru ducks out from under the wagon to butchery in process, nearly half a dozen bodies scattered about already, the air full of screams and ringing metal.
On the wagon behind her, Damian produces a bow of his own and puts an arrow through an oncoming bandit's gut. The man goes down with a shriek that escalates into a frantic scream as the arrow spontaneously bursts into flame. Jiah hunkers down beside Damian, one hand fixed in the back of his tunic as he works to maintain the djinni's illusion. XIl is--she's nowhere to be seen.
"Jiah, keep them covered!" Asharru shouts, her voice breaking as the burning arrow does its work and hammers that bandit's death into her veins. A group of three men overturning the cart behind theirs look up at the sound, and Asharru feels the sudden needlepoints of their attention. It isn't lust or bloodlust, but there's a kind of satisfaction to it that's strangely out of place. She has no time to consider it as they converge on her and Alexander. Two of them rush him with shortswords drawn, while the third circles around to try and grab her out from under his arm.
She reaches for the death Damian's just granted her, shakes it out across the ocean of her mind and casts it at these men, at their strange interest in her. "No," she says, tangling that desire up and bogging it down, momentarily fogging their conviction. They falter, blinking and shaking their heads.
It's only for a few seconds, but it should be enough.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for cagingthebeast
[continued from here]
The remainder of this Roman stint passes in a flurry of planning, packing, and negotiations wrapped up in banquets. Asharru hardly sets foot in the villa but to change clothes, submit her hair and cosmetics to Xil, and breathe passing prayers to her shrine. Occasionally she sleeps, bathes, or nods approvingly over her staff’s arrangements for their return journey to Seleucia.
The breakneck rhythm of it all is familiar, almost meditative. So much of her formative life was spent in the whirlwind of court that all the posturing and sleight of hand over final contracts amuses her more than anything. Her culture invented the concept of a signed contract, and the Romans think to sneak some disadvantageous language past her? For those few days she rises above her exhaustion and enters a kind of brilliant fugue state, lit from within by the need to finish this latest task.
Then all is done, the ink is dry, and Damian hands her up onto her horse. Carvilius and a handful of the other consuls she’s wined and dined see her off, and Asharru does not think she imagines the creeping shade of resentment in his eyes.
He’s made a bad deal. His peers will point it out to him soon, if they haven’t already. He’ll gain much wealth from her brokered holdings, but he’s conceded more in social standing to obtain the right of ways she demanded in exchange. Best that she leaves his sphere of influence before he catches on. Without her, he’ll have no one to scapegoat, and can begin the process of justifying his own brilliance to himself.
“I pray for the health of our mutual endeavors,” she demurs at their farewells, and that’s that. She can leave this place and its oppressively ascendent pantheon.
They travel within a larger caravan bound for the port of Brundisium. mostly merchants but a spattering of officials and scholars. The caravan maintains its own guards, which suits Asharru’s preference for keeping a low profile on the road. Later, they’ll strike off on their own or make arrangements with other traveling trains, but for now they camp inside the circle of torchlight and pay for the protection of retired soldiers. Local inns are ill equipped for a group so large, and infested with lice besides.
“It’s a long way back to Seleucia,” she tells Alexander on the second day, thwarting her horse with hand and knee as it tries to shy away from him. She can’t blame it, poor thing. “Overland and by ship. You could go almost anywhere from Brundisi, if you’ve a wish to leave.”
There’s been no time to speak of his plans, and less freedom to do so among the caravan. Asharru can only glance towards Sekhmet’s mark, hidden beneath his clothes, and leave the choice to him. No one would remark on a hired guard completing a contract.
By the third day they’re well into the hinterlands. Here, older gods still hold sway in the hills and rivers, clinging to their well-worn toeholds alongside Roman dogma. Asharru removes her covering scarves as they travel though a grove of ancient olives, their limbs weighed down with ripening fruit. Harvest time approaches, and with it the usual quickening in her blood. She must be home by the solstice, must arrange the rites—
A covy of quail burst from the underbrush, startling her horse. Asharru bends low over its neck as it rears, her body tilting and shifting along with her mount. Something hisses angrily past her ear as she wrestles the horse back under control, pulling at her scarf as it zings behind her neck.
With a solid thwack, an arrow strikes the wagon she’d been riding beside. In the same moment, Jiah sends up a cry: “Ambush, we’re under attack!”
no subject
He'd assisted when asked--he never volunteered--but never denied otherwise. Carrying baskets of linens, carting chests of clothes, reaching objects high out of reach for Xil and the boy, Jiah, these were but a few menial chores Alexander suffered himself to service, but always, always, he kept his eye, ear and nose vigilant to the Lady of the House. Not a moment passed that he did not know of her whereabouts. And when she departed for whatever meeting or consultation in those last days, regardless of the hour she returned, he was always there, awake and attentive. He still spoke very little, having other ways to make himself understood, and he seldom had to "repeat" himself, particularly in his campaign to have Asharru get at least a few hours undisturbed rest as often as possible.
Nor did he exhibit any qualms about curling up at her back whenever he did manage to shove the rest of the world out of her bedchamber. He asked no permissions, inquired nothing about her preference; he simply nested down behind her, rumbling the contented purr of a very old feline beneath the sweetness of her ear, the heavy beat of her heart solid in his hand. It was comfort both given and received, for he too slept peacefully with her near.
He'd understood his "position" in her retinue, however; a hired sword--though the weapon felt heavy and wrong belted at his waist. And yes, he'd also understood the need for the leather armorings, the greaves, pauldrons and irksome chestplate, but as soon as he was able each night, off they came and he could finally breathe deeply again. But on they traveled, Alexander always keeping easy pace with Asharru's left stirrup, until the fields of Roman influence gave way to wilder territories, places that surged his blood with longings he'd almost forgotten.
She'd been speaking to him of places he didn't recognize, but his ears pricked in sudden alarm, and Alexander jerked around just as the first arrow twanged spitefully by to embed into the wagon. The horse had reared, but Alexander was dragging Asharru out of her saddle before the animal's front hooves touched the ground, unceremoniously shoving her beneath the wagon with a pointed growl to stay there.
The first unfortunate cretin to burst from the underbrush with sword upraised suddenly fell slack with a gurgle, toppling to the dirt with his throat taken out. Four more followed in similar fashion, and then Alexander was reaching beneath the wagon again to retrieve his mistress, resolutely keeping her behind his left arm as he surveyed the situation. Armed men were swarming the wagons behind theirs, and Alexander's eyes narrowed, a low growl beginning down in his chest.
no subject
Asharru takes a breath, lets out a prayer, and reaches for her skirts. She'd dressed practically for riding and travel, but they're still too long for running or dodging. A body thuds to the ground as she ties knots them up, blood spurting from its maimed neck and spattering her sandals. Something presses against her bond to Inanna as the blood cools and tacks on her skin; a ghost of heat, like the last of the day's warmth trapped in stone, a tantalizing shade of the real thing.
It's the energy of this man's death, brushing by the conduit by which she provides for her god. His soul is consecrated to whichever deity he chose in life, but the taking of that life is a boon all on its own. Inanna presides over the death in battle, but this kill was not Asharru's or that of anyone sword to her service. It didn't count, but it came close enough to raise the hairs on her arm. How--
A hand grasps her wrist, and only the fact that Alexander's been putting those hands on her for a week now saves him from the knife at her belt. Asharru ducks out from under the wagon to butchery in process, nearly half a dozen bodies scattered about already, the air full of screams and ringing metal.
On the wagon behind her, Damian produces a bow of his own and puts an arrow through an oncoming bandit's gut. The man goes down with a shriek that escalates into a frantic scream as the arrow spontaneously bursts into flame. Jiah hunkers down beside Damian, one hand fixed in the back of his tunic as he works to maintain the djinni's illusion. XIl is--she's nowhere to be seen.
"Jiah, keep them covered!" Asharru shouts, her voice breaking as the burning arrow does its work and hammers that bandit's death into her veins. A group of three men overturning the cart behind theirs look up at the sound, and Asharru feels the sudden needlepoints of their attention. It isn't lust or bloodlust, but there's a kind of satisfaction to it that's strangely out of place. She has no time to consider it as they converge on her and Alexander. Two of them rush him with shortswords drawn, while the third circles around to try and grab her out from under his arm.
She reaches for the death Damian's just granted her, shakes it out across the ocean of her mind and casts it at these men, at their strange interest in her. "No," she says, tangling that desire up and bogging it down, momentarily fogging their conviction. They falter, blinking and shaking their heads.
It's only for a few seconds, but it should be enough.