Everything looked the same to Dael as he was marched along behind the other captives.  Why had he never noticed this monotony before?  Every field, every house, every village…why was each so identical? He cast a hateful glare over his shoulder at the back of the line where a tall olive-skinned man was keeping rear guard, brandishing a switch threateningly.
“Ignore him,” Avery whispered.
Dael turned his head to stare at the ground again, jaw set stubbornly. “We’re going to get out of this, Avery. We will be free.”
“And go where?” Avery retorted. “We’re slaves, Dael. Don’t get us into any more trouble than we’re already in. These invaders obviously understand Breton. Don’t stir them to anger.”
Dael didn’t lift his head, but his shoulders remained defiantly straight. He refused to display submission and adopt the slumped position of defeat that the others had.
“Aye, keep your mouth shut, foolish lad,” the man in front of him muttered. He spoke Breton with an accent – he was probably a Norman. “These guards will have it in for you anyway.”
Dael bristled. He was angry and he was tired, his candle burning swiftly at both ends.
The older man laughed bitterly. “Look at yourself, man. You must be the only Angle this close to the Norman lands. You will fetch a good price.”
The anger faded slightly, and Dael lifted his head, surveying the other men and women tied in a line. By the Goddess…he was the only fair-haired one there. Sure it had been that way in his family – he’d known he was adopted always, but here, now, it was totally different.
The olive-skinned soldiers had been mumbling in broken Breton as they’d tossed him across the saddle of a horse before riding away, letting him watch his home go up in a golden blaze in the night.
“Look at him – he has pale hair but he’s not old,” the first soldier said.
“He is no albino either,” the other agreed. “I got a good look at him. His eyes are blue, like the color of the sky.”
Avery and I are going to be separated, Dael realized. No!
The guard at the front of the line yelled a command in the soldiers’ mother tongue, and the procession ground to a halt. The slaves were left standing, one guard keeping an eye on them while the other four hurried to pitch tents.
Dael struggled to keep his balance as the line of people sat down. One mishap and a dozen people would fall as one.
The ground was hard, not like the soft pile of bracken that he usually slept on with a sheepskin for warmth. Dael gazed up at the moon, whispering a prayer to the Mother while on either side of him the men were asleep.
I wish I were home, he said to himself. Home is a pile of ashes, his mind retorted. Dael bit his lip, struggling not to cry. His heart was crying inside, crying for home, soul-wrenching sobs that no one could hear. Just three days ago he’d imagined himself a man, able to handle the harvest and the responsibility of a wife when his family returned from the village with a girl.
I knew those ‘lost travelers’ were bad news, he thought grimly, working himself up into anger. Anger he could handle, anger was so much easier than tears.
“Rome,” the soldiers said. “We’re taking you to Rome.” Goddess curse these barbarians with no respect for life. She would serve justice when the time came.
Dael gazed up at the sky, filled with the thousands of pinpricks of light. The sky was huge, was the roof of the world. He turned his head from side to side, hoping to catch a glimpse of either end of the land. It wouldn’t be coming any time soon. They’d been marching for three days now, and the edge of the world wasn’t coming into sight at all.
Dael shut his eyes, trying to will himself to sleep. Home is these fields, he told himself. Always remember this place, come back here before you die. He bit his lip again, stifling a sob. Come back here, stay as long as you can until you die. Home is where the heart is, and until you’re here your heart will cry.
He drifted off, engraving those words into his soul.