Written By: Peyton Hays
Graphic By: Audrey Pomeroy
[Non Roma sumus. Nos, silentia affectae, sumus mulieres quae id aedificamus.]
Apollo’s sun burned at noon, casting away all shadows from the heart of the city. There was not even a sliver of darkness that stained the white marble that paved the way to the city gates. It was a shining city. A new city. A strong city. A beautiful city. The very walls themselves seemed to welcome outsiders with outstretched arms, gathering them into the folds of her tunic and holding them close, and filling their eyes with rich garments and their noses with the sweet scent of honey and milk. I return often to that place, that city called Rome. I come to it again in dreams and nightmares and on the backs of wolves, filed-down nails digging desperately into coarse fur. The city at first welcomed me like it welcomes everyone else, with an all-encompassing sort of proudness, of prestige and ancient tradition despite its apparent youth. Rome is a preening bird, a young man; haughty, but not without reason. The headstrong and lush conviction that the city holds is enchanting. Addictive. Dangerous. I could not see it then, though I doubt anyone could. There were no signs at the gates telling us to turn back, no indication of the blood-stained darkness that lay ahead. There were no warnings for those women, me, or you. No, I now know that Rome’s great achievement lies not in its might or affinity for conquest, but in its deception. It is a shining city. A new city. A strong city. A beautiful city. But beneath the polished marble and vibrant garments lies a pit of vipers, a den of wolves. A house of men.
Still, even now, I cannot help but admit that there was and never will be anything like it. There is something to be said about how beautiful it all was, even for a moment. The years I would reside there after the fact were muddled and blurry, like a part of a distant dream. But that day is always vibrant in my mind, a brief paradise to return to. When I lay awake at night, and the cold light of the stars becomes too much to bear, I return to those memories before we knew. I return to days of clean tunics and spotless breastplates, only meant to adorn and awe. I stare into the eyes of the Sabine women, my women, filled with childlike wonder. Street corners are filled with stalls of warm food and drink, not with blood. The faces of the women beside me are filled with awe and
exhilaration, not stained with hot tears. All around me, the world is bright, beautiful, open, and free.
The dream is always fleeting. Because those were just mere moments in the expanse of a lifetime. What would come after would be our eternity.
The crowd roared upon our arrival—hungry, savage, and insistent. Yes, maybe that was the first of many small omens, but their eyes were fixed on the games. Not us. Never us. Of the games I remember very little; I do, however, remember the young Romulus. From the moment he stepped out on the precipice of the new arena, one could not help but to look. I suppose even after the fact of the tragedy he retained this sort of power—the power to seduce, seize, and slither his way into conquest. Everything about him, from the decorative armor that he wore to his
narrowed eyes, gleamed with a cold and precise light. Even his hair, lightened by the sun, was cool as it stuck to his head. He was not like the light of the sun, warm and safe, but blinding and sharp. This was the light of his empire. This was the might of Rome.
“Do you suppose anyone will die in these games, Hersilia?”
Sylla, a young girl of about eight, looked up at me from the folds of my tunic. She clung onto the thick orange fabric, her eyes wide. A crown of poppies sat crooked on her head, one of the vibrant red flowers lying just above her left eye. I let out a breathy chuckle and straightened it for
her, combing a few stray strands of chestnut hair out of her face. She smiled at me brightly, her tiny hands reaching up to grope at the crown of flowers. I smiled in return, shifting my attention back to the arena.
“No, dearest Sylla,” I responded. My heart lurched, though at the time, I did not know why. “I’m sure they will be swift and clean. Besides, those aren’t the kinds of games we are here to play.”
Satisfied, Sylla went back to tending to her crown of poppies. I, on the other hand, was much more preoccupied with my surroundings. I had to give the Romans credit—the city really was magnificent. Hundreds of spectators lined the seats of the arena, all from surrounding cities. A
Caeninensen woman was dancing with a couple of the Roman men, laughing as her bracelets flashed in the sun. A few other of my Sabines were merrily conversing with some of the other Romans, cheeks flushed from the heat. At last, my eyes landed once again on Romulus, who had
sat down to enjoy the games playing out before him. He was close—too close. If he hadn’t been sitting above me, I might have reached out and touched him. Almost as if he sensed my presence, he turned his head down and to the right, looking directly at me.
His eyes. I think that is what I remember the most clearly. How cold, how dead, and how sharp were his eyes. My entire body turned to ice, as though I had been plunged into freezing water. The young wolf leered at me from atop his stone throne, a small smile tugging at his lips. That
too was devoid of warmth. I found that I was inclined to look away, and I did, quickly snapping my head away from his gaze and toward the games. It was just in time, too. As soon as my eyes refocused on the arena, a sword flashed through the air, drawing a crimson arc in the sand.
The first blood, it seemed, had been spilled in the arena. I remember feeling my stomach clench as the sanguine blood continued to flow, staining the hot sand red. Around me, the crowd continued to cheer, growing more frenzied as the blood continued to pour. The gladiator in the arena raised his sword, which was likewise stained with the man’s blood. I pressed my fist to my mouth, feeling my chest tighten. I wasn’t sick because of the sight of blood—that I had seen, and would continue to see, for the rest of my days. I felt sick because I had lied to Sylla. These would be bloody games after all.
That was when Romulus stood up. As he rose, he folded his cloak around him. The crimson fabric rippled before flying outward, just like the blood in the arena, as he threw it around him again. All of the arena settled into a baited silence, like the very world itself was holding its
breath. I too ceased to breathe, my attention entirely fixed on the grinning wolf above me.
The first scream came from Sylla.
All of the Roman men around us, who just moments before were smiling and laughing joyfully, suddenly turned on us like savage wolves. Large, meaty hands pawed at the women around me, my women, as the men began to take them. They took them away. They snatched them from the
arena into their gaping jaws, intent on devouring the prey before them. Before I knew what was happening, I was running. Sylla was just in front of me, a man gripping her by the hair and dragging her back. I reached out for her, screaming as my fingers brushed just inches from her
outstretched palm—
My head slammed into the ground as something—someone—pulled me away from her. Sylla’s cries echoed as my head swam. A loud, high-pitched ringing filled my ears, and I felt something warm pool and mix in my hair. Blood. Only able to muster enough strength to raise my head, I lifted my gaze to find a wolf towering above me, a snarl splitting its face in two. No. Not a wolf. A man. An emperor.
Romulus.
The world around me plunged into silence.
⊱༺༒︎༻⊰
It has been nearly a year since I last saw a free sunrise.
Romulus—my husband—puts on his armor with a careful sort of gentleness. His fingers brush over the metal breastplate, which boasts a snarling wolf surrounded by laurel leaves. I catch myself in the reflection of its eyes, pale and undisturbed. Romulus pays me no mind. I sit in the
corner, as quiet as I am able, as he finishes adorning himself with iron and teeth. He turns and says that he will be back soon. That he will see me after the battle. That once this whole affair with the Sabines is over—much like how it is already over with the Caeninenses, the Antemnates, and the Crustumini—then Rome will finally be what it was always meant to be. A shining city. A new city. A strong city. A beautiful city.
Little does he know that he will see me sooner than he expects.
As soon as Romulus leaves, I make my own quick escape. It is not difficult to leave the palace—nearly all of the men have been called to arms, and the ones who are left do not question me as I race toward the city gates. As I near the gates of Rome, the gates I once crossed not
knowing that I would never walk out of them again, I begin to run faster. Heat beats down on my brow, unrelenting. I do not stop. My sandals slide over the rocks, and I throw them off. Still, I do not stop. My bare feet pound against the dirt, blood flowing freely from my heels. And I am not alone—there are women behind me, scheming women who I met with in the darkest hours. Sylla is here too, her once small and pitiful frame now taller. Stronger. Forged by iron, flame, and the hands of men. There are brave women who conspired with me, lied with me, and deceived with me. Beautiful women, the Sabine women, all racing toward the light of the blazing sun. And we do not—
—Stop! The guards have finally spotted us, then. No matter. We keep running. The growing sounds of the bloody battle outside keep me fast and strong. I race past the herd of women, ignoring the guards and keeping my gaze fixed solely on the gate outside. The sun, setting in the
west, burns like fire in my vision. Everything is bathed in a searing, golden light, as if Apollo himself has poured liquid fire over the earth. I am exhausted, but I do not yield. I keep running faster, and faster, and faster, and faster until the sun burns my eyes.
I am immediately thrown into the fray. Swords and spears alike flash all around me, and I stumble half-blind through the battlefield. No one is spared from the slaughter. Around me, Romans and Sabines fall, landing together in clumped heaps on the muddied ground. Yet there is
clearly an advantage—the Sabines are more thinly spread, and the Romans are steadily pushing them back from the city gates. The clear lines of the battle join at the confluence of two rivers. That is where I see him: my husband.
He looks more natural this way, clothed in blood rather than silk. I see him smiling atop of a berm, raising his spear in triumph. Below him, Sabine men’s faces contort into roars of fury as they charge up at him. Futile. They will be cut down like all the rest of them.
Unless we stop it.
Letting out a sharp cry, I raise my arm and rally my women behind me. We make our way through the bloody fray—some never make it out. But we keep pushing forward, toward the rivers and our fathers and their sons, because this will not end unless we put a stop to it. The Sabine women roar behind me, a raging lioness. Before me, Romulus’ armor burns in the light of the dying sun. But we, in all of our fire and rage, burn brighter. I reach the hill first, planting my feet on the shifting soil. Unwavering, I stand between the great conqueror—the wolf of
Rome—and my people.
And all around me, the world succumbs to silence.

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