Decimus dropped his spear.
“Eulalia of Emerita, twelve years of age, executed as an enemy of the gods. Cause of death: refusal.”
And Eulalia, who had no more teeth to spit, opened her mouth one last time.
Eulalia did not open her eyes. But her lips moved.
Emerita Augusta, Hispania, c. 304 AD
Decimus did not see this. He was already miles away, walking north along the river road, his armor abandoned in a ditch. He did not know where he was going. He only knew that he could no longer hold a spear.
Instead, a white light was coming from them—thin, cold, like winter moonlight through cracked ice. It did not burn. It did not speak. It simply was , and in its presence, the hooks turned to rust and fell apart. The executioner fell to his knees. The magistrate covered his face.
That was the first thing the Roman guard, Decimus, noticed when they lowered the iron hooks. Her lips were two split figs, and her breath came in shallow, wet rasps. She was twelve years old, though hunger and the lash had made her look ten or sixty, depending on the light. They had stripped her of her tunic, and the air of the arena was cold as a grave.