APOLLONIA

Eleven

Apollonia had been walking for hours. She wasn't sure if she had ever walked so far in her life. Her feet ached and the irons on her wrists and neck were chafing her skin. The hot sun beat down on her and she wanted a drink of water. She looked around. Her two slaves were behind her and in front of her was a tall, muscular man. He wore no shirt and long, white scars, along with deep, ugly gashes ran all over his back. Apollonia cringed and her gaze returned to her feet as she trudged on. Dusk came as they stopped in a deep valley. The bandits built a small fire and sat around it, eating pork and barley and laughing with one another. The slaves were tied to a large tree with the horses. It felt like weeks since she had last rested. Apollonia gladly plopped on the ground with the others. Sighing, she caught a trace of cooked pork smell and her stomach growled. It seemed like days since she had last eaten. Looking at the poor, miserable people beside her, she felt ashamed of herself. She shouldn't complain. It would have been much longer since their last meal. Apollonia leaned over in order to sit more comfortably. A woman sat directly in front of her. She had a large bruise on her chin and she looked malnourished and dead-tired. More terrifying than all this was the burn on her forehead. She had been stamped with hot irons that spelled F-U-G for fugitive. A moment of realization hit Apollonia. This woman had tried to run away and had been caught. Usually runaway slaves were just killed or beaten half to death. Either way, her hope for freedom had been squashed. A cold breeze blew around Apollonia as she lay down on the hard dirt to fall asleep. She could not run and she could not go home. What will happen to me now? This thought crossed her mind before sleep overtook her.