The trek to Rome was arduous and brutal. Streams of captives were shackled together like animals and driven near death beneath an unrelenting sun that scorched the sand until the grains burned beneath our feet. Many perished on the trek from either starvation or sunstroke or often a combination of both. Those of us who survived the first days, though, somehow found the strength to defy death. We knew that someday we would find our freedom again. That we would exact our revenge in the name of our ancestors and revive the glory that was Napata.

For the girls and women, captivity was doubly merciless. As much as we hated the days of blazing heat, we dreaded the nights even more. As was wont of any captive people, the females were seen as nothing more than chattel to be used by the captors in any way deemed convenient. Screams of protest were succinctly met with violence. Quickly, the women learned to bear their suffering in silence or risk broken bones, seared flesh, or worse.

By the grace of Isis, I escaped the degradation suffered by so many. And again, my savior was my enemy. That first night, after I thought that I could no longer bear the pain of metal chaffing against my skin, or the blisters beneath my bare feet, I was relieved when the sun finally set and the soldiers went about putting up tents. I thought here was the first chance to rest. I expected no luxury; to lie on the now cooling ground would be a luxury in itself. And I could mourn my fate in silence. But then, a soldier unshackled me and several women from the rest. And I knew.

I did not understand his words. But I did not need to. There are things universally understood. Soon, nearly all the women and even the young girls who were not of age were paired off with soldiers and forced into the shelter of tents where inhuman acts were silhouetted against the blue of the moon. At first, I thought I would be spared for no one came for me. But then the soldier who had unshackled me started toward me, the orbs of his eyes illuminated by the torch-lit night.

He grasped my arm and began pulling me to a tent on the outskirts of the camp. As I attempted to pull away from him, he yanked my arm nearly out of its socket. The pain was excruciating and I fell to my knees with the onslaught of it.

He began yelling, his visage angry in the light of the torches set all around. He pulled me up, kicked me when I stumbled, and I thought then that I could die, and that it would not be unwelcome. But at that moment, when he would have pulled me inside his tent, I felt someone come up beside us. I heard his voice before I saw him. And his words were angry as they had been several hours ago.

Unlike before, this soldier did not give obeisance, and it was then I figured that they must be of equal rank. They argued as they would over a piece of animal flesh, over an ass or goat. I stood, in pain, abased, utterly humiliated.

Finally, the younger soldier stomped away. And I was left alone again with my savior - the one who was to raise his stature for capturing the daughter of Nutem.

“I am sorry if he hurt you. I left word that no harm was to come to you.”

Even in my pain, I found enough pride to counter, “Obviously, your word means nothing to some.”

“Marius is a favorite of Petronius and feels he should answer to no one other than the Praetorium,” he said with an edge in his voice. “But trust me, he will answer for his treatment of you. I swear it.”

“And who is to say that this won’t happen again, with some other soldier? How can you guarantee my safety?”

He could not help but hear the pain in my voice, saw me favoring my arm. “You’re hurt. Come with me.” And with a gentleness that belied our situation, he took me by my uninjured arm and guided me further away from the melee of soldiers, captives, animals, smells and noise until we were a distance above the camp. Several tents stood sentry over the others. By their distance and expansiveness, I gathered that these were the officers’ tents. Surrounding the camp were temporary walls built up by what I was later to learn was called a vallum. Within hours, these soldiers had constructed a small city with ditches and walls and a tower.

My rescuer led me inside his tent. I was not unfamiliar with war. My father had regaled me with tales of his exploits; of military strategems; of nights like these, when heady with the victory of war, the soldiers pitched camps and retired to the temporary refuge of tents, with only the barest accoutrements. But within the leather tent of the Roman were water skeins made of lambskins, metal basins filled with water for bathing, bowls of fruit and grain, luxuries surely not afforded to the ordinary soldier.

He lead me to a pile of lambskin heaped on the floor, and helped me down. Then he offered me food and water, which I gladly accepted, my pride overriden by the pains in my stomach that I had endured for hours. I had not thought to have even this bit of comfort for my mind was set on a future of pain and uncertainty.

Maybe it was this simple kindness that finally put me at ease. At least for this night. And then he said,

“I can guarantee your safety...only if you stay with me...as my woman.”

As I pondered my answer, wondering whether I even had a choice, I knew that whatever I decided that night would alter the course of my life.

And it did.