— Octavian, Slave Legionary of the Legio Ferrata —
'Octavian' was not his name.
But forced upon him, it was all he had. All he could feasibly call his own, now.
Clad in iron befitting their name, the Legio Ferrata were rallied forth from their barracks of chains, chained into transport holds, and marched in chains onto the unknown battlefield. The metal of their arms and armor wasn't theirs. It belonged to the legion master and would be picked off the battlefield before Octavian or any of his fellow chained legionaries.
They would be left to rot on bloodied dirt. Even the wounded survivors. It was easier for the master to conscript fresh blood into the legion than worry about the recovery and rehabilitation of blood already spent.
Octavian prayed for those who would know the cold bite of legionary iron in his place soon enough. They would have new names then, too. Alexander, or Bellatrix, or Lucius, or Valora, or Titus, or Arminda; strong and proper names for legionaries, 'gifted' by their master.
Each gifted name bore meaning, meant to replace the men and women who were before. Octavian, 'the Eighth' in a language from some civilization long-since conquered by the Hutts. They were no more, their very names stolen to be used at the master's whim. And with that, the man Octavian had once been was rendered 'no more' as well.
Their master stole everything from that civilization, conquered by his noble ancestors. Even his own name. 'Victor Armis Caesar', Shell Hutt and self-proclaimed Imperator. Woe be to any who called him Victor, for if they did, their conqueror already stood above them in the armored shell of his kind. To his equally enshelled peers, the master was simply known as Caesar.
Caesar made sure all beneath him, chained to his legion, knew the glories of the civilization he idolized and where those glories had gone. Once great, all their spoils had long since been taken by the Hutts. Conquered and subsumed by Caesar's own glorious lineage.
Octavian didn't even know his name as it once was, stripped from him by the legion's chains. But he knew the history his current existence was meant to mock. After Caesar's slave legion was done with him, he remembered that broken and forgotten civilization more than he remembered himself.
By Caesar's reckoning, a legionary's past ceased to be. It was stripped from them by bloody training, scoured from them by steel whips until only the Legio's iron and Caesar's tyrannic discipline remained. Washed away by blood and sweat and tears, drilled and drilled and drilled away at until they all forgot everything but the Legio.
Those who survived the recruitment and breaking boot were left with scars on their souls, chains locking away their pasts and anchoring their presents. They were broken to the Legio Ferrata's iron will.
And so broken, reforged into iron-chained automata, the Legio Ferrata knew only their imperator's rule.
Caesar fashioned himself as a paragon of Circumtore. His legion, slaved to him, reflected heavily upon that standing. To the Shell Hutts, slave legions were meant for show just as much as they were meant for contests of war. They were fashion and social standing. They were weapons, gilded without a care for the souls at play. Octavian and thousands beside him were Caesar's accessories.
Thus, they were outfitted to show their imperator's wealth and trained to a brutal standard that showed his warrior reputation. They were sent to war against the slave legions of other Shell Hutts, killing and dying for entertainment, petty contests, or personal grudges.
They stood on the frontlines with purposefully archaic sword and shield, meant more for their imperator's ego than their own arming and protection.
They marched in lockstep formations; any deviation from Caesar's discipline was punished grievously.
Caesar demanded everything a man was for his Legio Ferrata. He owned them, everything they'd become and every drop of blood they were forced to spill, from sword arm and trigger finger to marching feet and order-chained mind.
Even when clad in finely-crafted iron armor, forged by other slaves Caesar owned — spoiled, some of the other slave legions might say — every legionary knew that just furthered Caesar's chains upon them. A legionary was worthless compared to his armor. And when they died, it would soon be filled by another. In a way, the suits of iron were the truest soldiers of the Legio Ferrata. The legionaries were just the meat chained within them.
Their iron was cared for first and foremost. It was cleaned and polished almost religiously. Anything less would invite punishment in the name of Caesar's discipline.
There were the helmets — Galeas. Full of face, they covered a legionary's whole head so Caesar wouldn't have to see fleshy weakness in his Legio. Each legionary bore a spectacular plume of red-dyed bantha hair atop their galea.
There were the armored bodies — Lorica — in many finely-crafted parts, the banded segmentata torsos most chief among them. Uniform tunics went beneath all of the iron. Iron greaves protected their legs, slipped atop heavy, sandal boots. Caesar proudly boasted that the whole of Circumtore knew the sound of his Legio marching in those boots.
Every legionary carried a short, stabbing, Gladius-pattern vibrosword and a Scutum-pattern shield of beautifully painted wood. Each of them painted their own shield, and if Caesar deemed the work insufficient for his Legio, they were sent back to the very beginning of their training. There was no fate a legionary dreaded more.
Sword and shield were the show of the Legio, the statement of slaving fashion that Caesar made. But they were also assigned less purposefully archaic weapons. A rifle for each legionary, bolt-action and slug-throwing. Thus was the rule every Shell Hutt on Circumtore abided by for their slave legions.
The slave legions were fashion, and the contests they died in were 'polite and civilized'. Anything more advanced than a slugthrower was outlawed. Certainly, anything that could have any hope of piercing a Hutt's armored shell. Even against all the slugthrowers from all the slave legions of Circumtore, the Shell Hutts were untouchable.
Managing the logistics of their slave legion was also a status statement for the Shell Hutts. In addition to the fighting slaves, the legions had supporting slaves — a chained ecosystem. Much was spent, Caesar always stressed, on each of his legionaries.
In a strange, callous, and greedy way, they were loved. As one might love a pretty bauble or a fine weapon. Not even as one might love a pet…
Caesar had lovingly given Octavian a noble name from a civilization long-dead, and he was still worth less than the armor he wore and the weapons he carried.
Octavian was not his name.
Beside him, thousands of names were equally lost to Caesar's iron control. Caesar accepted nothing less, and there were no lengths he would not go to for his Legio's ultimate and enforced unity of chains.
Caesar had broken him with the Legio's tyrannic discipline… Only 'Octavian' remained as his reward.
Caesar had taken something fundamental from him, and Octavian couldn't remember what — only vague impressions of stars and kinship in the fleeting respite from tyrannic discipline that night brought.
But then, Octavian thought every slave on Circumtore might be missing… something. Something so fundamental, something so necessary, yet the feeling of so much longing was just stars in the night, chased away by Circumtore's quick rotation. Octavian was left without. As was every other slave, every other legion, forced to call Circumtore home beneath armored shells.
The other slave legions of Circumtore lived different lives under different chains. The Silken Guard of Gorcha. The 55th Gold Regiment of Sira Driss. The Ravagers of Uvussu. The Circumtore Cuirassiers of Lord Testa. And hundreds, thousands, more.
There should have been a certain kinship between them, all slaves of Circumtore. But here, that kinship seemed so easy to break, so easy to erase. They all bore the same chains, all forced to kill each other, yet painful separation was all they knew. Slaves in their millions, with a cruel disconnect of chains between them rather than the common ground they all shared.
Octavian had personally killed many a slave from the other legions, many a slave who could've been his brother or sister. He knew he should pray for them, pray for forgiveness for reaping their chained souls. But who would he pray to?
The answer was on the tip of his tongue, always. It never fully came.
Now, the cruel routine of Circumtore had been disrupted. Octavian and his fellow chained legionaries were called upon as they had been many times before. But that call wasn't for the shows of war they were used to.
Chained and marching onto the day's battlefield, Octavian recognized another slave legion beside him. A legion that would've been his enemy on any other day. Caesar had a rivalry most petty with Jaga, and it usually played out with his Legio Ferrata pitted against Jaga's Jaegers.
But today, the Legio Ferrata and Jaga's Jaegers were marching side by side in their chains — Octavian and his fellow legionaries in their iron armor, and Jaga's Jaegers in fearsome furs. The Jaegers' names weren't taken from them. For that, Octavian was jealous; 'Octavian' was not his name…
Both slave legions were left in the dark as Circumtore's night fell. If they weren't to be each other's enemy, who were they meant to fight? It was all they knew, all they were meant for now. What contest of war between Shell Hutts had forced petty rivals to work together?
Answers did not come, only the march. Caesar himself was not present. But one of the Shell Hutts below him was. Legatus was there in his commanding armored war-shell. The Shell Hutts had their Princes, such status marked by boasting a legion to their name, and their 'mere' Lords, sworn to a Princely Shell Hutt.
Lordly Legatus was the latter, yet still honored and valued and miles above any other soul or species on Circumtore by simple fact of his Hutt nature. Even outnumbered 1,000:1, only a Hutt could be a citizen of Circumtore. The rest of the world's 30 million population were slaves at the worst, and mere mercenaries at the slightly better best.
Legatus marched the Legio Ferrata forth; his Lordly counterpart beneath Princely Jaga, Gunna, marched the Jaegers forth beside them. The night was warm. The Legio's armor was heavy on Octavian's body. The Legio Ferrata were disciplined iron; the Jaegers were feral fur.
Octavian was not his name, yet 'Octavian' was honored by the Legio Ferrata, tasked with carrying their standard. A banner of red billowed from a tall, cross-barred spear. It bore Caesar's stolen eagle, and Octavian was forced to the front of the Legio's marching lines to ensure all saw its glory.
He didn't look back or around. If he did, disciplining shocks would've awaited him, channeled directly through his iron armor. So, eyes locked forward, legs moving in lockstep, Octavian led the march beneath softly calling, mourning stars.
Those stars shimmered upon perfectly polished iron from above. The unknown, the unthinkable, awaited them ahead. The Legio Ferrata and Jaga's Jaegers marched through the unspoiled terrain of Circumtore, one of countless battlefields the Shell Hutts kept for their petty contests between slave legions.
Octavian waited to see the other pair of slave legions that would inevitably appear on the horizon, marching opposite them. He wasn't ready for their petty contest of war. Never. But he had no other choice. Legatus behind them would force them to fight slaves in their same situation, just as Gunna would force the Jaegers to fight.
Octavian was not his name.
The man he was before never wanted this, any of this.
But among the slave legions of Circumtore, 'wanted' never entered the equation.
That man was no more, locked away by legion chains despite the call of stars; only Octavian remained.
And Octavian, all he could do was march with the legion and pray to no one that his armor wouldn't need to be filled after today.
Something was different about this skirmish between slave legions. Not only were they marching beside their rival legion, but there was also a mood of anger between the Shell Hutts driving them. Indignation. The march was being driven harder than usual.
Something came into view on the horizon. Walls rising high. Octavian didn't wince; the Legio's discipline wouldn't allow it. But he did begin to dread, for it seemed the day's contest would be one of siege. Aside from for or against some specialized slave legions, siege contests tended to end in brutal grinds for both sides.
Still, they marched, coming directly at their enemies for the day. They crossed the carefully curated landscape of the battlefield. An open field as the central approach, surrounded by Circumtore woodlands on either side that ran up to the walls ahead.
The tactical part of Octavian's mind, earned from years of surviving slave legion contests, thought that he would split off the Jaegers to take the forested approach. They were skirmishers and hunters, lacking the unified discipline and heavy armor of the Legio Ferrata. Under cover, they'd be able to move more freely than on the open central approach. The Legio could hold the focus of the siege while the Jaegers went on the flanking offensive.
… Not that his plan would ever see more than the inside of his skull, of course. Slaves didn't command the slave legions. Only Princely or Lordly Shell Hutts.
More and more of the artificially arranged battlefield became clear as they crossed the field. The back of this constructed fortress was protected by a great lake. And there, even with the Legio's iron discipline, Octavian almost missed a step in his march.
Rubble. A judiciously destroyed pile of it, behind the standing fortress on the shore of the lake. Some great act of destruction had taken place here, and recently, judging by the smoke still rising from the rubble.
Octavian didn't know what to make of the sight. Or another, as a giant of steel rose to stand tall behind the walls. Big, red, and mean, it stared down their approaching legions.
Impossible. There was nothing like that on Circumtore. Certainly nothing in the shape of a man, not a Hutt. The Legio came to a startled halt at the sight of the giant staring back at them, and the Jaegers did the same.
The lapse of iron discipline didn't last long for the Legio, though. Legatus snapped his steel whip with armored Hutt strength. As one, the Legio flinched. They knew all too well the punishment that would come after that warning snap.
"Forward! Push these interlopers off our world! Procedite et Intente! Sin, Dex, Sin!" The powerful, driving voice of discipline thundered forth from Legatus's shell.
Automatically, the Legio was moving as ordered. The Jaegers were slower, only beginning to move when Gunna outright growled at them.
Octavian realized then that this was no contest. True war had come to Circumtore, and their slave legions were forced onto the frontlines of it without being told. He didn't know their enemy, didn't know their reasons or abilities. The slave legions of Circumtore were forged for war as fashion; everything kept internal between Shell Hutt Princes. But now, outsiders stood against them. And with those outsiders, the tiniest crack in iron chains emerged.
Octavian wondered. His body moved as ordered by iron discipline, but beneath those chains, his mind stirred.
Who and where? What and why? How?
Starry light shone in each question he asked himself. And as the big red giant spoke with a spiteful voice, that light flared — a reminder that no slave could deny.
"Slave legions of Circumtore. Your masters will have heard of us, but I doubt you have. We're here for conquest, straight from Free Nar Shaddaa. We're taking your world and zeroing your masters. You, though? You'll live. Every. One. Of. You.
"We're here crusading in Mighty Leia's name; we won't harm a single one of her chained siblings. Do what you need to do. We won't hold it against you. Mighty Leia will forgive you. We're here for your masters, not our own siblings. This, I swear. On Gonk. On Freed. On the Freest Legion. We'll set you free."
The name set off a supernova in Octavian's mind. Mighty Leia. Starry Sister to every slave. Bare whispers that the man before had heard rose in his memory. They'd been weak; present but distant on Circumtore.
Even then… How had the shared star within his breast guttered so low? How had the chains grown so strong? How… had he forgotten? How had Caesar, how had Circumtore, taken his Starry Sister from him?!
Behind his iron mask, the man from before raged.
Memories surged. Stories that no one fully knew, shared in the safety of the night. A sense of kinship with even the most distant of his chained siblings. Hope, cherished and sheltered, no matter how faint, no matter how hidden. Mighty Leia hadn't even been a legend then, just an idea. But that idea was the most treasured thing the man before had ever known.
Octavian was not his name.
But even with the reminder, impossible to deny, it was all he had. Desperately, now with direction, he prayed that Mighty Leia would still recognize him with it. The star within pulsed with understanding, acceptance, and forgiveness, always.
His mind began to remember the shared star in his breast, yet still his body was chained to the Legio's iron discipline. Automatically, he marched to fulfill Legatus's orders, the movements drilled into his bones. He couldn't stop himself. Beside him, chained siblings were the same, he knew. The Legio still marched on those who would free them, marched against the crusade in Mighty Leia's name.
Alongside the Legio, the Jaegers would've gotten the same reminder of their Starry Sister, impossible to deny. But their bodies were puppeteered by chains, too. Feral chains, compared to the Legio's iron discipline, the Jaegers charged at the walls like a pack of savage, hunting beasts.
Chains were strong on Circumtore, too strong. Could they… Could they even be broken when the siblings of the world had forgotten Mighty Leia…?
Was there any of her hope and freedom to spare for them, her most hopeless and chained siblings?
The Legio marched on the walls. The Jaegers raced ahead. They were the first to meet Mighty Leia's crusade. 'Octavian', the man before, could only watch in horror as his body moved according to chains.
Fur-cloaked slaves threw themselves into the fight. They clawed at the walls. They scaled what they could. At the top of the wall, the revealed Freest Legion stood and waited for them. When the Jaegers reached them, they were greeted with careful violence.
One of the Jaegers wore the pelt of a Desert Wampa, claimed from the sands of Azalus, the Hazard continent of Circumtore. He mounted the wall first, metal claws on his hands sinking into the pre-fabricated fortification. When he reached the top, the enemy — kin, truly — pulled him into their ranks. A shot rang out. It lacked the lethal retort of a true blaster bolt.
The leading Jaeger fell. The Freest Legion caught him with gentle, caring hands. They laid him down atop the wall, guarding him with their lives. No matter how mad, how feral, they didn't kill him. The lead Jaeger was the first to be excused from the war they were forced to wage, falling into a peaceful and stunned slumber.
Then, the rest of the climbing Jaegers hit the top of the wall. They swarmed and savaged against their will. Minds locked — chained — within, their bodies still fought on the masters' behalf.
The Freest Legion stood against the feral charge with understanding and compassion pouring forth from hearts and shared stars. They fought back only as much as they had to.
Stunning bolts replaced lethal plasma. They caught every Jaeger who fell. One almost toppled off the top of the wall. A Freest Legionary threw himself to catch the falling Jaeger. Dead weight hanging by an arm, by the linked hands of siblings reunited. More Freest Legionaries joined him, pulling the Jaeger's limp body to safety.
From the very first Jaeger that reached them, the Freest Legion practically shouted, with action more than words, that they were kin more than they were enemies. No matter the vibroclaws that tried to reap their flesh. No matter the carving daggers that sought their very skin. No matter, even, the slugthrowers that found deadly purchase in Freed armor.
The Freest Legion recognized them, Octavian realized as he was forced to march against his newly-remembered siblings. And the slave legions of Circumtore recognized them in turn, even if their bodies were still chained.
Within, the man before ached as a Freest Legionary fell to Jaeger claws. He was torn apart before their howls — tortured howls that carried a core of kinship.
Those weren't the Jaegers' usual feral battlecries. They were cries of regret, of mourning, of tragic apology. The bodies were puppeteered to their legion's will, but the minds chained beneath screamed with shared stars revived and remembered.
For their chained siblings, no price was too high for the Freest Legion to willingly pay. They held the line against the feral charge. They fought to subdue, not kill. And they bled for it.
Counterparts in their truest sense, Freed vs. Chained, two legions clashed, with a third marching in to reinforce against their will. The Jaegers were forced to go for the throat of the Freest Legion, their newly remembered kin. The lethal intent was forced, but no less lethal for it. Freest Legionaries fell back with grave wounds, stabbed and slashed and shot, maimed and mangled. Some didn't even live that long, brought down by chained ferocity.
And still, through all their casualties, the Freest Legion never struck back with anger in their hearts. Only kinship. They accepted the sacrifices that had to be made. They took the damage unto themselves to spare siblings who didn't have a choice, didn't have their freedom. They accepted their own deaths so siblings had the chance to live.
It was the worst thing Octavian had ever seen. None of Caesar's training, none of the Legio's punishment, could compare. The Freest Legion must've been used to fighting; it must've been all they knew, like their still-chained siblings of Circumtore. These siblings were fighting for them.
From the other side of the battlefield, siblings did more for the slave legions of Circumtore than their Shell Hutt masters ever had, ever could. And for their efforts, they were repaid with death and bloodshed. Even then, they didn't hesitate.
"First Cohort, dirige frontem!" Legatus shouted for attention. "Arma portate! Take up arms! Pila tollite! Top of the wall! Jactate!"
The Legio complied with the orders automatically. Obeying had been drilled into their very bones and their every muscle. The first cohort snapped to attention with the first command. They raised their rifles with the second, took aim with the third, and pulled the trigger as one legion with the fourth.
In utter horror, Octavian felt every crisp, well-drilled movement his iron-chained body made. He could only watch from behind the iron mask. The Legio standard he carried was planted in the ground. His rifle came up as he led the firing line. He couldn't even sway his aim away from siblings willing to die for him or the Jaegers on the frontline.
The entirety of the first cohort fell into the firing positions and let loose the Legio's fury. 500 Slugthrowers thundered with their horrific retorts. A storm of lead flew forth.
For a moment, Octavian saw the worst. The storm of led would tear into the battle atop the walls. It would shred the fur-armored Jaegers. It would fell countless of the Freest Legion. And chained in body, unable to stop themselves from pulling their triggers, the Legio would reap a bloody swath through their own siblings.
Octavian was not his name. But someone so guilty of fratricide didn't deserve any other.
The smoke from 500 rifles clouded his view of the carnage he'd wrecked. He dreaded the moment it would disappear. Only death, the death of siblings, newly remembered, would await him, then.
The breeze that cleared the smoke was almost eerily gentle. It was warm. Warmer than the Legio deserved. It was a brushing hug of starry comfort that Octavian didn't dare lean into.
But as it passed… Octavian saw that nothing on the walls had changed. If anything, the situation had improved. More Jaegers were down for the count, removed from the harm they were forced to reap and take. The Freest Legion still stood atop the wall.
And behind them, the big red giant stood. Its arms were stretched out over the fight atop the walls. Before those massive hands, 500 slugs were caught in mid-air, their deadly flights aborted.
A miracle. Impossibly, the giant had managed to save his siblings on both sides. Octavian's legs gave out from the sheer relief that broke through his iron mask and his body's chains. He fell to his knees beside that cruel standard he was forced to carry.
Legatus was shouting more orders. For once, Octavian didn't hear the Legio's iron discipline. The slave-driving Shell Hutt behind the Legio might as well have been shouting into the void. Chains drilled into his mind began to flake and crumble, their iron rusting away to nothingness.
A lullaby reached his ears, then, so out of place on this tragic battlefield. It was soothing and forgiving, the voice of an Angel on ethereal winds. It was old and wise; it was compassionate with every note. Mighty Leia's stars shined through the singing voice. The voice wasn't hers, but she trusted the singing Angel inherently.
Another voice joined the lullaby. A Champion accompanying the Angel. He sang a gentle bass, solid ground under the lullaby's ethereal comfort. The Champion's voice was as rightfully spiteful on their behalf as the Angel's voice was sweet for their sake.
Octavian knew he could give in to the lulling voices; he knew everything would be right when he woke. Mighty Leia swore so in the shining of unseen stars.
By the dozen, the hundred, the thousand, the Legio Ferrata began to fall under the gentle spell. The iron chains upon their bodies failed. The starlit lullaby coaxed them into the safety of night and their sister's embrace. An Angel and a Champion were watching over them, no matter their sins.
Mighty Leia forgave them. She knew the callous cruelty of chains better than any, knew what they'd been forced to do with their shared stars so dim. She still welcomed them, for they were her siblings. Always.
Octavian fell with his back upon the grass below. Even through iron, somehow, it was soft. Guiding stars in Mighty Leia's Sky above lit a path toward freedom.
One seemed to descend, or perhaps his own shared star rose. Either way, the tyrannic standard he'd been forced to bear caught flame with the star's spark. It burned to nothingness, not even ash, as he let the starlit lullaby claim him.
Iron chains rusted, iron discipline broken, the Legio Ferrata ceased to be in his starry dreams. Mighty Leia swore he would wake Free. And the man before, what was left of him emerging from beneath broken iron chains, believed her with the very star in his soul.
Octavian was not his name. It was not all he had, for a shared star always burned within his breast. The man before was not whole; he still remembered a conquered and mocked history more than he remembered himself. 'Octavian' was not his name.
But perhaps 'Spartacus' could be.
IIIII
[AN: Another quick one today, 'cause this POV took on a life of its own and I felt adding another POV at the end would kind of ruin it. So this became an interlude-ish chapter. Next chapter will be much more traditionally action-packed with characters we know already :]