Freedom to Die (Part 1 of 5 of the New Years Wishes Saga)
Summary: A wealthy slave driver manages to get hold of a strong young slave from Greece, Alexander, a poor man named for a hero who was forced to sell himself into slavery to pay his debts. But when the High Priest Bomani buys Alexander with a scheme to save Egypt, will anyone step in to help a lowly slave?
Subjects: Slavery, Ancient Egypt, Destiel
Triggers/Rating: PG-13
Author’s Note: This story would not have been possible without the help of these amazing people: jgranados300, bands-and-stuff, and tearsandbloodofmyenemies. They helped me with the names and as sort of a test group for the initial story.
“Slaves! Slaves here! The auction starts in a few moments!” the fat Arabian slave driver yelled though a mouth full of rotten teeth. “Fresh from Persia, Greece, the great city of Timbuktu, Nubia, and Arabia! Both genders and all healthy strong, ready for work!”
This was not entirely true. Half of the thirty or so slaves lined up behind him were so thin you could see their ribs through the dirty rags they wore, if they wore any at all. Most of the Greeks were sunburned a bright cherry red and the Nubian and Niger slaves were covered in blisters that were stark white against their ebony skin, most of them around their feet and on their chests. None of the slaves could move beyond the shifting of their feet because of heavy collars around their necks and the somewhat thinner bands around their ankles. Their hands were also bound, but with only rope that chaffed the skin when it was rubbed against it the wrong way, resulting in rubbed raw wrists. Many of the men wore nothing more than loincloths and although the women were in somewhat better shape than the men, they still were dressed in little more than them. This was resulting in quite a crowd as the time ran closer to when the auction would start.
Many eyes were drawn to the six Greeks who were chained together at the end of the line. Of a paler skin tone than the other slaves, they were nearly a red like the color of a ruby and looked much better fed and taken care of than the other slaves. This was mostly due to being closer to Egypt than the other slaves. Many a potential buyer was looking for a good slave, and the slave trader knew that the Greeks would sell for the most profit.
One of the crowd members, far to the back and standing in a chariot with a driver, was Bomani, High Priest to Ra. He watched the proceedings with a small smile, examining the slaves with a look that said flat out that he controlled their fate. And his face held nothing good. This was also true about the reason he was even there.
For the past year, Egypt and many of the surrounding lands had been plagued by misfortune.
First, a drought right at the beginning of the rainy season that forced the priests to hand out their stored grain to the peasants of all people.
Second, a series of embarrassing scandals in the religious and diplomatic (Embezzlement from the Temple of Ra’s treasurer, the accidental burning of a Lebonese ship, the corruption of the Priestesses of Hathor, and how could anyone forget the infamous Meso-Pot-Amia fiasco)
Then, a string of deaths in the royal court, including Minkah (The royal vizier) Pharaoh Aasim and the then crown prince Ahmose‘s betrothed, Abayomi, from a rancid animal falling into the ritual bathing water and poisoning the water. The only reason the prince had been spared was because he was on an extended hunting trip with his good friends, Aches and Amenaa, the two sons of Hasani, Pharaoh Aasim’s half-brother.
They had left with celebration and returned to nothing but grief and new responsibility.
The new pharaoh had to choose new advisers, generals, managers of the finances, and a new betrothed.
For his general, Ahmose chose Aches, the eldest son of Hasani. A fairly tall, strong man of twenty six years, with the deep brown, almost flawless skin of the royal family with scattered drops of golden sun that covered his body and eyes the color of amber. Fearless and clever in battle, Aches was said to never pray to any of the gods for bravery or safety but instead for the protection of his family, especially for his brother. He always kept his head clean-shaven and wore a wig only for important ceremonies.A brilliant strategist, he was the best qualified choice for the part.
For his vizier, he chose the younger son of Hasani, Amenaa. The more mature of the two, Amenaa had lost his betrothed as a child and had never taken another, making him ideal for the position. A tall man with darker skin than his brother’s and curly, black hair that reached to his shoulder’s he made for an intimidating figure that loomed over the other court members. He had been educated in the best university and under the wing of Thoth himself, as some said. As with his brother, he was the most qualified of all the advisers.
However the new pharaoh and his advisers decided to handle the crises plaguing their land, Bomani knew the true way to fix things. There were three facts he knew:
1. Egypt could not handle many more crises before they fell to their knees.
2. There was an ancient way that his ancestors had satisfied the gods’ fury.
3. And there was one other nation that had been experiencing even greater prosperity from their gods than any other nation: Greece.
Which was why he was there that day. And why his eyes were continuing to be drawn to a male slave at the end of the line with the stunning black hair and eyes the color of lapis. The time being captive had not done the slave any favors besides a scruffy beard that was actually adding the appeal of the slave.
Bomani grinned and reached down by his feet for a sack of gold. He began counting the gold pieces as the auction began, just to double check the amount.
“One hearty slave from Niger,” the slave driver called out. “He is skilled in many techniques of farming, especially in the drier areas of the world. Bidding starts at two copper pieces.”
The bidding started heartily and very quickly, the slaves were being sold to their new owners and soon they reached the Greeks.
“And here, from the land across the sea, we have Greeks,” the slave driver announced. “With them they bring new gods, new skills, and a morality. Leave them at home with your wife and have nothing to fear! These slaves come with names! Biding starts at five silver pieces. First up, Cassandra from Sparta…”
Only now did Bomani look at the crowd who were looking over the other slaves and appraise what was the least amount of money he needed to win at this auction. From the looks of things, he would win easily with only a quarter of a deben, but with some trends that the new nobility had picked up, one couldn’t be too sure.
“And now, as the last item for bid, we come to Alexander of Ithaca,” the slave driver said. “He is a former house slave. He can read and write in both Coptic and Greek, claiming patronage of his goddess, ‘Athena’ and will make an excellent scribe in any noble house,” the driver said, gesturing to Bomani with a small hand that looked comical in contrast to his large girth. “Bidding starts at six silver peices-”
“I will bid a quarter deben of gold,” Bomani announced loudly, holding up the sack of gold.
The slave driver looked shocked at the large amount, but continued with the auction. “Will anyone raise a bid?” he asked, almost hopefully.
There was silence from the crowd and the slave driver raised his hand. “Going once… Twice… Sold! To High Priest Bomani for one quarter deben of gold.”
Bomani gestured for his bodyguard to go fetch the slave, who had been cut loose from the remaining unsold slaves and was attached to a long rope like a leash. Alexander was looking a bit bewildered by all that was going on and Bomani prayed to Thoth that his Greek was still up to par.
“Πως σε λένε? (What is your name?)” Bomani asked. “Το ορυχείο είναι Bomani. (Mine is Bomani.) Είμαι νέος master σας. (I am your new master.)”
Alexander did not answer, just stared at Bomani with those wide blue eyes. He looked extremely confused.
“Πως σε λένε? (What is your name?) Και η απάντησή μου στην αιγυπτιακή. (And answer me in Egyptian.)”
“Alexander,” he said quietly in Coptic, not wanting another slap.
“From now on, it will be Moswen,” Bomani decided, flicking his hand to the charioteer. “We will need room for our honored guest to ride in the chariot with us.” Bomani stepped up into the golden chariot and extended his hand to Alexander.
For a moment, it seemed that Alexander wasn’t going to take his hand and was going to walk back to the temple. but the man made up his mind and seized Bomani’s hand, lifting himself with difficulty into the chariot. Bomani smiled and held onto the edge of the chariot tightly as they started galloping away from the auction block.
So, I’s been receiving good responses from readers of the Opportunity cycle and I wanted to announce that the last chapter, Liberty, will be online by Sunday (April 19th, 2015). Please keep an eye out and please send in any questions, opinions, or requests that you have that are related to the story or are not!
I know you've been getting a lot of asks about winchistory, but I had something cool to say; I am actually really excited to see how winchistory pulls off the Destiel sexual tension in the next update. :)
Sweet nonnie, I understand the need to get promos for a new blog, it’s okay. And look followlings, AU/ Gangs of New York type Destiel! I know I don’t actively ship/post it, but maybe some of y’all do.
For all of you Destiel lovers, there is some really intense sexual tension between Castiel and Dean in the next chapter, Pledge, of the Opportunity series. :)
Summary: Two young Italian immigrants run into trouble when they realize how corrupt and unlike the posters America is. When Samuel is sentenced to hang for a misunderstanding, it is up to older brother Dean to find a way to save his younger brother. No matter what it takes.
Word Count:
Subjects: The horrible treatment of Industrial workers, brotherly devotion, foreign language, political machines
Triggers/Rating: PG-13, mention of violence, flagrant racism (Based in historical truth), nothing real major.
Read Part Two, Incarcerated
"Quante volte devo dirti? (How many times do I have to tell you?)" Dean asked Samuel, walking the length of their small one room apartment in the ghettos od New York City as he scolded his younger brother. Despite his own rule to only speak English to each other, in his anger, he broke it and was speaking in their native Italian. "Non discutere con il caposquadra. (You do not argue with the foreman) Farete entrambi perdere il nostro lavoro. (You will make us both lose our jobs.)" He paused in front of their single oil lamp and carefully turned the light up higher. The new light flickered across the whole room and cast shadows across the it. Dean's eyes seemed to light up yellow and the sharp corners of his face caught shadows and warped his face into that of a demon as he yelled.
Sam was sitting on the edge of the straw filled bed they shared, holding a rag to his broken and bleeding nose and taking the scolding as it came. He was scowling with his eyes and kept his gaze trained on the floor. Around them, the other residents of the cramped tenement home were going about their business. A floor up, the Slonans' baby was crying and next door, very distinctly, Samuel could hear the young just married couple, the Kouzes, talking about their relationship and the long hours they worked.
"Ora, dimmi cosa diavolo ha fatto pensare che si possa fare questo (Now, tell me what the hell did you think you could do this)," Dean said, crossing his arms and planting himself right in front of his brother. They barely had five feet from each other and he was trying to raise his voice over the surrounding noise. This influx in volume made Samuel wince.
"Stava facendo il lavoro... Avrebbe potuto risparmiare così tanto tempo, se avesse ascoltato me (He was doing the job... He could have saved so much time if he had listened to me)," Samuel said, taking the rag off his face so he could speak clearly. Within seconds, his nose began bleeding again and Samuel's hand, still clutching the rag, shot back up before any of it could drop to the floor.
"Idiota, non possiamo permetterci di avere si perde il lavoro? (Idiot, we cannot afford to have you lose your job) Guardate questo appartamento!(Look at this apartment!) Vuoi essere per le strade, invece? (Do you want to be on the streets?) Un buon numero di aspiranti, come ci avrebbero questo appartamento. (A good many hopefuls as us would have this apartment.)" Dean ranted, continuing to pace. He walked five steps to their small, scuffed table and seized a cup of cheap beer he had purchased from the tavern down the street. He chugged the cup and paused before continuing. "Voi sapete che il padrone di casa, che dimenticato da Dio donna, Elle, raccoglie sempre l'affitto. (You know that the landlord, that godforsaken woman, Elle, always collects her rent.)"
"Sono peggio di sua collera, Dean. (They are worse than her wrath, Dean.) Guardano un uomo perde un braccio non fare una piega! (They watch a man lose an arm and don't bat an eye!) Hanno appena assumono uno nuovo e se è ferito il giorno successivo, ripetono il processo (They just hire a new one and if he is hurt the next day, they repeat the process.)," Samuel argued, sounding sort of nasally as he pressed the rag tight to his nose.
Dean slammed the cup on the table and spun around, roaring at his brother. "Non importa Samuel! (That doesn't matter Samuel!) Sapete la punizione per aver attaccato un caporeparto? (Do you know the punishment for attacking a foreman?) Hai off facile! (You got off easy!) Se si tenta di nuovo, si bloccherà! (If you try this again, you will hang!)"
"Io non attaccarlo! (I didn't attack him!) Ha detto che perché inciampò e cadde su di me! (He said that because he tripped and fell on me!)" Samuel shouted, rising to his feet and shouting at his brother. His eyes, normally calm and color of a pine tree's needles. seemed to be flaring red as he shouted and his long nose made half of his face covered in shadow.
"Qualunque cosa, mi recherò alla taverna. (Whatever, I will go to the tavern.) Non lasciare questa stanza! (Do not leave this room!) Saprò se lo fate (I will know if you do)," Dean said, waving a hand in disdain at his brother. He headed to the door, gave his brother a meaningful look, and slipped out. He didn't catch the door as he left, leaving it to slam shut. The noise wasn't loud in the general chaos around them, but the mere act of the slam made Samuel wince again. He pulled the rag from his nose and dabbed at the place he had been bleeding and sighed in relief when he didn't begin bleeding again. Letting himself be pulled down, Samuel fell back onto the bed and sighed again. As he mused over whether or not to sneak out, he began to drift off and was soon asleep.
About three hours and three pints and three black face comedy shows later, Dean stumbled up the rickety and barely held together stairs to the apartment. He miscalculated only by one room and accidentally stepped into a room where an elderly woman was arguing with the landlord in broken English.
"What are you looking at," Elle snapped. "Get out of here, you lousy Dago. And your rent is due in three days. Don't forget it." She resumed the argument with the tenant.
Dean bowed his head and shut the door, scowling only once the latch clicked into place. He briefly nodded to the landlord's daughter, Josephine, who was waiting near the door. He tried to move past her to the correct door, but the girl put out her arm to stop him. She cleared her throat while Dean waited and stumbled over her next words.
"Mi... dispiace (I'm sorry)," she said, looking him in the face to see if she was speaking Italian correctly. Dean smiled gently at her and put her arm down. She was smiling widely and looked very excited that she had said it right.
"Thank you," he said quietly in response, not meeting her now cheerful face and eyes. "I must go to my fratello..."
"Oh, right," she said, pressing herself against the wall to give him space to pass by.
Dean nodded briefly to her and went into the door that really led to the apartment. He shut the door quietly, never feeling the envious gaze of Josephine. He went to the bed, where Samuel was still flopped. Since he had fallen asleep, Samuel had pulled himself up onto the bed and shivered in the night air blowing in through the open window. Dean tried to shut it with a flick of the wrist, but all he got for his efforts was a splinter in his palm. Gasping from the pain, Dean tried to throw his weight behind the window on his non-injured arm. It finally gave and Dean slammed his elbow on the window frame. It was all he could do to keep from screaming in agony, so he rolled onto the bed and shoved Sam at the wall.
"Scoot over, ya lump," he muttered as he tried to get comfortable. Dean fell asleep to the lovely thought of living in New York's uptown, where the streets were paved with gold and they would never go hungry or sleep in lice-ridden beds. They just had to earn their keep.
-------------------------------------------------------
"Let me in," he shouted, pushing, almost jumping through the crowds and crashing into a police man in his struggle. "Let me in, where is my brother," he shouted, almost screaming over the crowd's babble. The police officer tried to calm him down, but when Dean continued to try and force his way through, the police officer cuffed him and tried to force him to the side.
The police chief came over to where Dean was struggling and gestured for the officer to let him go. Once Dean was free, the chief walked closer to the panting man. "Sei Dean Winchester? (Are you Dean Winchester?)" he asked, hearing Dean's accent and slipping into almost flawless Italian.
"Sì, sì, è mio fratello al sicuro? (Yes, yes, is my brother safe?)" Dean asked, holding very still. The cuffs were cutting into his wrists and he could clearly see the keys to them dangling from the police chief's waist.
"Sì, sta bene. E 'stato chiesto di te (Yes, he is fine. He has been asking for you)" the chief said, unlocking Dean's handcuffs.
"Can you speak English?" the chief asked next when Dean raised his eyes to meet the chief;s.
"Yes, a bit," Dean admitted, rubbing his wrists gently. "What did Samuel do?"
The chief glanced around him and lowered his voice. "He murdered the foreman; pushed him into a newly finished furnace and lit it with the man still inside."
Dean stared at the chief in shock, trying to wrap him mind around what had happened. The chief obviously took his silence as a cue to go on. "We have several other workers who claim to have seen it. Your brother refuses to tell us anything-"
"Take me to him," Dean said suddenly, cutting the chief off and looking up and down the street. "I will get him to speak and tell the verità."
The chief gestured for Dean to follow and hurried up the street. "We took him to the station for questioning."
Dean followed at an almost run and prayed that Samuel had not given into confessing to a crime he did not commit. There was no way that Samuel had committed this crime. Right?
Hey, I saw that you liked history AUs. There's a new blog that is specializing in them and that needs some good starting prompts. Their URL is winchistory if your interested in checking it out.
I will definitely think about submitting there if I ever write a nice historical AU fic! Thank you for telling me about it! I love it when you guys tell me things. (And that is a really clever URL!)
Remember, you can ALWAYS send me stuff to look at or read or talk about! I just love you all :)
