Silent

Syrus jolts upright in his bed, swallowing air as if he can’t get enough. His hands frantically press against his chest, searching for the wound that haunted him in his dream. Tears stream down his face. His heart pounds, and his stomach churns. He wants to vomit, to call out for his family, but his voice fails him.

After a few deep, shaky breaths, he slips from the bed. Outside the small window, dawn’s light hints at a new day, ready to chase away the darkness.

He tiptoes out of his room and through the main living area until he steps outside. He doesn’t have to look far to find Alexandros, already at work in the homemade field he built himself, a decent plot of land where he grows his own food. Ever since that dreadful night, Alexandros refuses to enter the city.

Syrus stands at the edge of the field, watching the muscular man till the soil. The rising Sol floods the horizon, warming the boy’s skin as it climbs higher in the sky. It’s going to be another sweltering day in Rome.

Alexandros groans as he digs neat furrows, drops in seeds, then covers them again. He picks up a bucket and waters the newly tilled rows. With a sigh, he turns, only to jump when he sees Syrus standing there.
“That’s the third time this week. You scared me, boy,” he gruff. Syrus stares at the ground in silent shame. Alexandros sighs, eyeing the field. “These plants aren’t going to water themselves.” He tosses the bucket at Syrus’ feet, pointing to the well. “Grab me some water, boy.”

Nodding, Syrus hurries toward the well, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he reaches for the hook. His heart quickens when he peers down into the darkness, where the water waits at the bottom. He swallows hard and drops the bucket, wincing at the loud splash.

Pulling it back up is tougher than he expects. His arms shake under the weight, but he keeps going. Syrus fears if he doesn’t prove his worth, he’ll lose this meagre refuge. He wrestles the bucket over the stone edge, relieved it doesn’t slip back in.

Alexandros watches as the boy struggles to carry the brimming bucket. He meets Syrus halfway, taking it from his hands with a curt nod.

“Well done.”

He returns to the field, and Syrus watches quietly as the morning sun climbs. Alexandros finishes his work, wipes the sweat from his forehead, then uses the leftover water to cool himself down.

Syrus can’t help but wonder if Alexandros is part boar, given his thick black hair, on his head, his chest, his arms, and legs. At least it’s not on his back, Syrus thinks. He has had enough nightmares already.

“We should get supper ready,” Alexandros says, stretching. “Sol will only be up so long before resting.” He heads inside, with Syrus following silently.

In the cramped house, Alexandros gathers pots and pans, then walks into the small room at the back, the culina. He sets the pans down, realises they have no wood, and curses under his breath. Syrus steps forward to see what’s wrong, and Alexandros jumps again.

“Stop doing that.” He exhales sharply. Syrus shrinks within himself and backs away. Alexandros pauses, his heart aches as he sees the boy scurry away from him. Kneeling to the boy’s eye level, he softens his tone. “I’m not used to having another person in the house. It’ll take time.”

Syrus relaxes and glances at the empty hearth.
“I can go get firewood. We’ll need it for tonight.”
Alexandros nods. “That would be helpful. Smart lad.”

Syrus gathers sticks and dried leaves on the edge of the forest, ignoring the murmuring travellers and marching guards who glare at him. He keeps his head down, eyes on the ground.

“It’s him,” someone hisses nearby. Syrus glances up to see three boys crouched behind a stone wall. Only their tufts of blond and brown hair peek above it.

“Mother said to keep away from the cursed boy,” one whispers.

“He is the reason my little brother died,” another grunts.

“He will eat your innards and drink all your blood,” a third mutters.

Syrus halts. Memories of that awful night swirl in his mind. He forces down the familiar lump in his throat. The other boys wait, expecting him to lash out. They look ready to bolt.

But he just inhales slowly and continues collecting kindling. Their jaws drop. Why is this feared child not reacting? He’s just a boy, they think. Where is the monster?

“Hey!” the tallest one yells. Syrus lifts his gaze. “My mother says you’re a monster! Is that true?” Syrus flinches at the word. A few guards slow their march. Syrus eyes a few of the men who reach for their sword.

He ignores them and picks up another stick. A sudden shout makes him jump:

“He is!”

Standing there is a boy three years older than Syrus, with similar features. But instead of relief or joy at being reunited, all Syrus sees is burning hatred.

“Porcius,” Syrus croaks, tears rising. Two weeks ago, he believed the chaos had claimed his brother. Before he could speak another word, Porcius smashes his fist into Syrus’ cheek, sending him sprawling. The sticks clatter to the dirt road. Pain blooms in Syrus’ face, and he winces as he touches his throbbing cheek.

His mouth hangs open, eyes welling with tears, and words stuck in his throat. Porcius’ fists tremble with rage, his jaw set tight.

“It’s all your fault,” he snarls. “You killed our parents. If it wasn’t for you, they would still be alive!”

Syrus glances at the nearby guards. Two of them have drawn their swords. He forces himself to stand, ignoring the stinging in his cheek, and bends to gather his scattered sticks again. He wants to deny Porcius’ accusations, to explain how none of this was his choice, but he keeps silent.

Porcius surges forward, yanking Syrus by his tunic. The sticks tumble from his hands yet again.
“You got nothing to say to me?” Porcius shouts in his face. “This is all your fault! All of it!”

Syrus lowers his gaze, his face set like stone. Porcius grits his teeth in anger. The guards watch with smug interest. Syrus looks between them and the boys behind Porcius, then back to the stick on the ground.

With a sneer, Porcius punches him again. Syrus crumples, and Porcius kicks dirt onto his already stained clothes.

“If I see you again, I’m going to make you pay.” Porcius spits on the ground and stalks away. The boys cheer him on, crowing about taking down the big bad vampyr.

Shaking, Syrus rises and holds back tears. One by one, he collects his sticks. His mind buzzes with dark thoughts.

I’m not a monster. I didn’t do this. Never did I ask for the death of all those boys. I didn’t kill my parents. Porcius, do you really believe their lives?

The guards disperse, though one lingers, watching Syrus gather every last twig before he heads back toward the wooded path.

When Syrus finally reaches the small stone house, Alexandros is finishing his work in the field. The man drops his hoe, eyes widening at the purple bruise already swelling on the boy’s cheek.

“What happened?!” He drops to his knees, cupping Syrus’ face. Syrus sees his own bruised reflection in Alexandros’ worried gaze.

“I got sticks for the fire,” Syrus whispers, lifting the bundle.

“Syrus.”

“I’m sorry it’s not enough. I’ll do better next time.”

Alexandros takes the bundle and sets a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to act tough around me, boy. Tell me, who did this?”

“My older brother. He survived.”

“I heard a noble family adopted him,” Alexandros says with a sigh. “Why didn’t you fight back?”
“There were guards. Watching. If I’d shown any hostility, they would’ve cut me down where I stood.”

Alexandros’ jaw drops at the calm honesty in Syrus’ voice.

“Clever lad,” he murmurs. “Come, let’s eat.”