by Steve Cole
‘I like what you’ve done with the place,’ Ryan said, straight-faced. ‘You don’t live here, do you?’
‘I live all over. I’m related to the praetorian prefect of Gaul. Vitus is a distant cousin. Our family helps govern the Gallic prefecture so we have estates all over the country.’ Licinia tugged hard on the arm of one of the statues. With a hiss and an eerie creaking sound, a hidden door swung open in the brickwork.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Ryan, ‘you’ve got a dog called Scoobus Doo-us in there, right?’
‘You have strange ideas, Ryan.’ She walked through the door, and Ryan followed her into the space beyond, which was lit with a dim green glow. ‘The light comes from a substance found in the wreck of a ship of space. One built to float on the dark ether from star to star, as our own ships sail from port to port.’ She looked at him, round grey eyes searching out his face, and smiled at the astonishment he couldn’t hide.
‘An alien spaceship?’ Ryan stared. ‘Back in Roman times?’
‘Back in Roman times?’
‘Um, figure of speech.’
‘You are a man of mystery, Ryan Sinclair. If I did not have mysteries of my own I would be jealous.’ Licinia pressed a particular stone in the wall and the sparkling green light grew stronger, giving a proper undersea glow to the crypt.
Ryan stared around at piles of what he could only describe as techno junk – lumps of metal with wires protruding, a crystal on a pedestal that seemed to flicker with light, a sort of stone altar which held the mummified remains of something that may or may not have been human, and stone tablets that looked like printed circuits. Dominating the far end of the hidden room was a pile of boxes stacked from dank floor to dripping ceiling, scrolls and papers spilling out from inside.
‘What’s all this?’ Ryan asked.
Licinia struggled out of her chainmail armour; underneath she wore a simple white linen tunic, wet with sweat. ‘The Legion of Smoke exists to track down, collect and collate items of supernatural and possibly extraterrestrial origin.’
‘You chase after aliens and ghosts?’
‘In secret.’ She stared back at him, imitating his intensity. ‘Interesting. The few people I’ve told about this either laugh in my face, or get freaked out by the idea that a small secret society know more about life’s mysteries than the millions on Earth. But you? You only look … rumbled.’
‘No need for an autopsy,’ Ryan said quickly. ‘I’m as human as you are.’
‘You assume I’m human?’
‘Uh …’
‘Of course I am.’ She laughed. ‘Our patron would never have anything else on his payroll. He hates the idea of visitors from the stars, rejects the idea that supernatural events are merely natural events we don’t yet understand and will do anything it takes to stop ordinary citizens – outside of the military, at least – finding out that the spooky stuff is real, it’s happening. Happening all the time.’
‘Take it from an ordinary citizen who found that out for himself,’ said Ryan. ‘Ignorance is kind of bliss. This stuff can burn. It can be dangerous. Terrible …’
‘But it can also be incredible.’ Licinia’s eyes were the definition of that word as she looked across at him, so intense. ‘When you open up to that world, let it get inside your heart … Right?’
‘Right,’ he whispered.
‘You,’ she said with a smile, ‘can call me Liss.’ She turned from him and started rummaging through a casket on the floor. ‘Anyway, that danger, the risk of burning, is why the Legion works to confiscate any objects that could confirm the existence of creatures from other stars. We keep dangerous, terrible, amazing secrets out of the minds of mankind, locked up in depots like this around the world. Everyone, from the beggars in the street to the Senate, is left in the dark.’
‘Except it’s not dark when the sky’s on fire, is it?’ Ryan said. ‘The people must know something’s up.’
‘The official line is that it’s just a natural effect, like the northern lights. But people are still superstitious. A lot of them think it’s the end of the world. And you know what?’ Liss looked at him with a sad little smile. ‘Sometimes I believe them.’
Chapter 12
Graham was moving more slowly now. He was exhausted from the strain of chasing around dark forests all night, and now dawn was lightening the sky his body was screaming for rest.
Something else was moaning, from nearby. It sounded like someone in pain. Graham tried to pinpoint the direction.
He crept towards a line of trees and realised it marked the edge of the wood. A thin, cracked road ran along the other side, and a thin, cracked man lay upon it, his face bruised and bloodied, snoring through a broken nose. A cloth-covered wagon lay partly in a ditch beside the road, and prints in the mud suggested the horses that pulled it had been taken; perhaps the poor sod had been mugged for his ponies? Or maybe for whatever was in his cart. It had been cleared out, now, save for some broken pots full of spice and a crust of bread. Graham gnawed at the crust hungrily, wincing at the stale, peppery taste. The bloke who’d been battered was maybe a merchant selling to soldiers wanting to sauce up their rations. He wore a deep-green cloth cloak fastened with a fancy brooch, and a tight-fitting tunic that did him no favours.
An idea occurred to Graham. In an ancient world, his muddy chinos and jacket marked him out at once as wrong and different; no wonder he and Ryan had been spotted a mile off. They needed to blend in …
Graham checked the man for broken limbs and, finding nothing conclusive, fumbled with the brooch ready to remove the cloak. The merchant’s rattling breath through his bust-up nose was horrible, seeming to grow louder and more indignant as the cloak was tugged bit by bit from under him. Graham was pleased to find that the heavy material came down pretty much to his feet, hiding his shoes. As he smoothed out the cloak he felt the pot of healing gel in his jacket pocket and pulled it out.
‘Where the hell are you, Doc?’ Graham said sadly. ‘You’d know how to get us all back together.’
The merchant broke the reverie with another bubbling breath. Graham grimaced, took the lid from the pot, dipped a finger in the cream and gently applied it to the man’s swollen purple face. ‘Doing us both a favour, mate. Consider it payment for the cloak. Cheers.’
‘What’s all this?’
Graham started, and looked up to find two Roman legionaries had appeared from the other side of the cart. They wore battered, mismatched armour, though neither had a helmet, and sported knee britches beneath their leather skirts. One had been wounded, a blood-soaked tourniquet tied round his ankle.
‘Sorry to disturb you, stranger.’ The able man, gaunt, bald and in his thirties, raised his sword. ‘We saw the cart and hoped for medical supplies.’
‘Not for me. Don’t get that idea.’ The injured man, black-haired and bitter, was clearly in a lot of pain and ready to inflict more. ‘I mean, I can hardly walk, but what do I matter when royalty lies bleeding!’
Graham stared at the soldiers; if he could only get them on his side, they might help him find Ryan at least. ‘Well … er, if it’s medical supplies you’re after, I’m your man. I was just helping this fella.’
‘Ricimer …!’ The wounded soldier was pointing at the merchant, open-mouthed.
Graham looked down and saw that the thick, purple bruising on the poor sod’s face was fading so fast you could actually see it, and the broken skin was healing over.
‘Magicks …’ Ricimer’s eyes narrowed at Graham. ‘You did this?’
‘Yeah. Just now.’
‘What are you? A consort to those barbarian witches?’
‘Nah! I told you, this is medicine, not magic. I travel around selling cures, you know?’ Graham held up the little pot of ointment. ‘Look, I reckon I can sort out that ankle for your mate, what’s his name?’
‘Zeno.’
‘Well, for Zeno, I’ll charge you zero. Can’t say fairer, can I?’
‘You speak funny,’ said Zeno.
‘I’m from Britannia.’
‘Ahh.’ Both men nodded as if this explained everything.
Ricimer looked at his friend. ‘Give it a go, Zeno? Might shut you up moaning.’
‘You try walking with your Achilles tendon hanging off!’
‘I wouldn’t let a Hun bite my foot in the first place.’
‘Lads,’ said Graham. ‘You saw my mate’s face get better. At least let me try.’ Ideally before this geezer wakes up and sees me wearing his clothes.
Zeno limped forward and sat on the end of the cart. ‘All right, Briton, you can try. But if you let me down …’
‘You’ll taste my sword,’ said Ricimer.
‘And he hasn’t washed it in a while,’ Zeno added.
Graham gingerly untied the blood-soaked rag around Zeno’s ankle and dabbed cream across the mangled Achilles tendon.
Zeno gasped with pain. ‘If you’re trying to trick me—?’
‘Hang on. You’ll want to see this.’
Within seconds, Ricimer’s eyes were out on stalks. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘What? It’s itching like mad, but …’ Zeno stared too as the wound stopped bleeding and grew less angry, scabbing over at incredible speed. ‘Impossible.’
‘You perform miracles.’ Ricimer kicked Zeno’s ankle, and smiled when Zeno put his weight on it to kick him back. ‘Think of the honours Flavius Aetius will heap on us!’
‘He might make us standard bearers. Double pay, Ricimer!’
‘Double pay, Zeno. Let’s take the Briton straight back to camp.’
‘Hang on, fellas …’ Graham frowned as the two legionaries closed in fast.
‘I hope you’ve got plenty more of that balm, Briton,’ Zeno hissed in his ear. ‘When you’re working for Rome’s Commander-in-Chief, it’s not wise to skimp!’
Chapter 13
Attila’s encampment on the plain had incorporated the small town of Catalaunum into its defensive border; there was a checkpoint there, a unit of soldiers guarding the entrance alongside carts and tents and huge siege engines. Yaz supposed that if the Roman alliance were to break through the combined ranks of the Hunnic forces, the settlement would mark the frontier between the battlefield and the camp beyond – a flowering of colourful tents, thousands of them across the endless field. With all the loot that Attila had gathered in Gaul, the gold and silver and art treasures – not to mention the slaves, the arms, and food and fodder – the Romans must be longing to get in here.
As she and the Doctor were marched down from the ridge and into the fringes of that frontier, Yaz surveyed the defensive line. Surely, she thought, it would be suicide to attack this. Hundreds of armoured carts, laden with kegs and bags and bundles of supplies, had been wheeled into position, line after line of them arranged in a circle around the camp like a wagon-train to confound the enemy riders, to break their charge. In front of the carts had gathered hundreds of swarthy men clutching long javelins, perhaps a thousand, and a thousand more sprawled behind them; a different people, Yaz assumed, with faces painted red and yellow, carrying scythes and slingshots. Hundreds more men, in copper armour clutching long spears, were ranged behind the cart formation. She noticed enormous cages set at intervals along the defensive line, huge, wooden affairs. In the one nearest, Yaz could see grey-furred animals, wolves perhaps, apparently piled up inside on top of each other, sleeping, waiting for release.
Yes, it would be suicide to attack this, she thought with a chill, but thousands of young soldiers would be ordered to do so just the same, to throw away their lives on a chance of crushing the enemy. She had policed a couple of demonstrations in Sheffield, and spent the whole time imagining the chaos that would erupt if things kicked off. Here she had that same feeling only cranked up to eleven; not just because of the sheer number of those involved, but because to fight – to conquer and to kill – was the only reason they were here.
‘The Battle of the Catalaunian Plains,’ said the Doctor darkly as they marched on. ‘Historians say it was a fight the like of which no ancient time has ever recorded. So terrible and so bloody that the ghosts of those who fell continued the struggle for three whole days and nights as violently as if they had been alive.’
‘They might not have been exaggerating.’ Yaz lowered her voice. ‘Who won?’
‘The battle wasn’t decisive. Except for the estimated three hundred thousand dead.’
‘In a single day?’ Yaz’s jaw dropped. ‘Still, we’re going to stop this battle, right? Avoid terrible bloodshed, save thousands of lives?’
‘We can’t. We mustn’t.’
‘Oh, what?’ Yaz felt her stomach turn. ‘You’re not telling me it’s another—’
‘—fixed point in time, yes.’
‘So if you stop this battle, it changes history and everything turns out differently and I was never born, and …?’
‘Elvis never had a hit, butterflies step on people and cause hurricanes to flap their wings, and even really clever people mess up their analogies and, yeah. Basically, that.’ The Doctor gave a forlorn shrug. ‘Besides, if I did try to stop a big, old battle here on Earth, where would I stop?’
‘I get it. I wish I didn’t, but I do.’ Yaz surveyed the colossal numbers jostling for position on the battlefield. ‘So, all these people. They’re going to fight today? And three hundred thousand of them will die – and then rise up again?’
‘That’s the bit I hope we can do something about.’
As they drew nearer the checkpoint, soldiers parted to allow Attila and his rescuers through. Yaz felt the men’s eyes on her as they were ushered past – and then the fearful whispers as Alp marched on behind them, shunned by the rest of the party, muttering under his breath. Physically, he was bucking the typical zombie trend; there was no shambling gait, no decaying flesh, no noticeable hunger for fresh blood. His skin looked darker and shinier. Where ooze had bubbled out to block his wounds, like fat from a frying sausage, it had hardened into lumps that distorted the lines of his body, and the muscles beneath kept twitching, contracting, breaking the natural flow of his movements.
Yaz looked at the Doctor. ‘Is there any chance he’ll get better?’
‘Better at being dead? Take it from one who knows: if you don’t come back from that one at the double, you never do.’
‘How can the Tenctrama be doing all this? D’you think they really are just some regular human tribe who’ve developed powers, or are they …?’
‘Aliens?’ The Doctor nodded. ‘Not enough of them to make up a race – but more than enough to make up the crew of a spaceship.’
‘That energy field,’ Yaz realised. ‘Could that be from a spaceship, a sort of cloaking device?’
‘A sort of something,’ the Doctor agreed, vaguely.
Their arrival was causing a stir of interest in more and more of the guards gathered around the opening to Catalaunum. The ripe smell of thousands of sweaty bodies and all they excreted made Yaz want to be sick – as did the jeers and catcalls from the men around them. She heard someone shout, ‘Mighty Attila, you have brought us entertainment on the eve of battle?’
‘Get back, dogs.’ Attila tossed the snarl over his shoulder. ‘Anyone who touches these two women will regret it. Clear the way.’
Another Hunnic nobleman came forward from the checkpoint; he was marked out from the rank and file by his impressive armour, leather studded with horses’ hooves and antlers rising up from the shoulders. A curved sword studded with turquoise dangled at his side. There was no bowing or scraping, he simply gripped Attila’s arm in firm greeting.
‘At last we find you,’ the man said.
‘I had not thought to see you for a sentry, proud Chokona.’ Attila surveyed him. ‘Does the Commander of the Ten Thousand Horsemen seek a quieter life?’
‘He seeks his king. Our scouts said you were coming, I wished to see for myself.’
‘Attila pretended to be Commander of the Ten Thousand Horsemen!’ the Doctor cried. ‘P
roud Chokona, that’s identity theft. If you want to report him to the police, my friend Yaz will be happy to take down some particulars.’
Yaz forced an awkward smile. ‘Any time.’
From beneath eyebrows as black and bushy as his ox-bow moustache, Chokona scowled at the Doctor and Yaz. ‘The scouts said that Enkalo was dead, and that you bring new witches.’
‘These witches have great powers,’ said Attila. ‘They will break this deadlock. They can do great feats that the Tenctrama cannot.’
Chokona looked unimpressed. ‘Do these feats include raising an army of dead against us?’
Yaz felt her stomach clench. ‘Army of dead?’
‘The Roman force tore through our blockade at the Aube,’ said Chokona. ‘They had beasts, like the Strava – just as big, just as fierce. Our men fell in their hundreds and the survivors scattered, easy prey for the scum of Rome …’
The Doctor was frowning. ‘Beasts like the what did you say?’
‘Like the Strava.’ Chokona pointed to the huge cage, some twenty metres away, scooped up dirt from the ground, and threw it. Dust showered through the bars – and in a heartbeat’s jump a colossal creature, big as a rhino but made from wolfskin and tusks, erupted from inside and threw itself against the wooden walls. Fearful shouts and the scrape of swords against scabbards filled the air as the cage shook and teetered, and it seemed the monster might get free. Yaz backed quickly away. Only the Doctor and Alp remained: her unmoving, eyes full of concern, him twitching and whispering to himself.
‘Inkri said that we alone would have the Strava.’ Attila’s voice was quiet and bitter. ‘We held them caged in secret to maximise their impact when unleashed.’
Chokona nodded. ‘Aetius has his own war-beasts and turned them loose against us. The dead were piled high. But within an hour, those that still had legs to stand on and arms to fight with were back on their feet. The Roman dead set off for their own camp, with our arrows in their backs.’
‘And the dead Huns?’ the Doctor demanded.
Chokona nodded back towards Catalaunum. ‘The town is now their crypt.’