by James Wilde
‘I did not know there were this many people alive in the world.’ She clamped her hands on her ears at the din. In awe, she craned her neck up at the towering stone buildings that clustered around the forum, the temple of Divus Iulius and the arch of Augustus, and then to the great white walls of the basilica of Maxentius, a wonder to anyone, the largest building in all the empire. She gaped, her hands slowly falling away.
‘If it helps, not many of them are worth knowing,’ he replied.
Her eyes darted around the ceaseless activity in the forum. ‘I could never grow to like it here.’
Corvus flinched. ‘You’ll be well looked after during your stay,’ he said, softening his voice.
She looked at him and he was pleased to see some warmth in her face. He felt responsible for her. Perhaps he felt more than that, but he wasn’t quite sure. Not one for reflection, Corvus.
‘Your brother is a sour man.’ She glanced over at Ruga. ‘He is not like you at all.’
‘Crack that stone face and you’ll find some kindness underneath.’ I hope. Truth be told, he had not seen it himself.
‘You are kind.’
He flinched again, this time at the honesty of her words. ‘Let’s not have talk like that here in Rome,’ he said, sardonic. ‘In this city, everyone wears a mask. Truth doesn’t come to the lips easily.’
‘You do not say what you feel?’
‘Not usually, no.’
‘Why?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Survival.’
‘In the forest, we must kill to survive. Beasts, for food, men who wish to take what we have.’
‘I have a lot to learn from you, I can see that now.’
‘Then keep your ears open and I will teach.’ She half turned away, but he could see her watching him from the corners of her eyes, a faint smile on her lips.
‘Corvus. Stop your gibbering. Bring her over here.’ Ruga was scowling at him and beckoning.
Corvus sighed. As they walked, he could feel the warmth of Hecate’s cheek as she leaned in to him. ‘Where are we going?’ she whispered.
‘To see our mother. She comes here at this time every day to conduct her business.’
‘And your mother will welcome me?’
‘Of course. Gaia has a big heart.’
They pushed through the multitude towards the basilica of Maxentius. Corvus heard his mother before he saw her, her mellifluous voice floating at a pitch that carried above the rumble of the forum. She drifted among the men, elegant in an ochre dress, slender, still beautiful for all the lines on her face and the silver in her hair. A touch on an arm here, eye contact there. Laughter.
‘She is a queen?’ Hecate asked.
‘In her mind.’
One of the men caught in Gaia’s orbit locked eyes with him. Gnaeus Calidus Severus. Once seen, never forgotten. They called him the Hanged Man. His head was permanently twisted at an angle to one side, the result of a failed hanging when he had been waylaid in the countryside beyond the city walls by, some said, rivals who blamed him for a business deal gone sour. He loomed over those around him, needle-thin, with hollow cheeks and bulging eyes and a shock of white hair swept back from his forehead.
Once Severus had recognized him, Corvus watched his mother’s eyes dart towards them. She smiled and babbled and charmed, winding up her audience without once letting the men around her realize they were being dismissed.
When she came over, she hugged Ruga to her breast, holding him there for a long moment, then whispering something in his ear. Always Ruga first.
Once she was done with him, Corvus returned her smile. She cupped his jaw in her hand and held his eyes. ‘My son. My beautiful son,’ she breathed. ‘You have returned to me.’
‘Mother. Still tormenting Rome?’
‘Oh, Corvus.’ A silent laugh, but he saw that her attention was already moving on. She looked her sons’ companion up and down. ‘And you. Look at you.’ A sweet, welcoming smile.
‘I am Hecate.’
‘Of course you are.’ Gaia reached out to brush the strands of hair from the woman’s forehead. Hecate recoiled. ‘Indulge me.’
Hecate looked to him for guidance and he nodded. With clear reluctance, she held firm as his mother traced her fingers over hair, tweaked cheeks. ‘You are a beauty,’ Gaia said. Corvus watched her frown when she saw the witch’s eyes become like grey pebbles on a winter beach. ‘Please. Do not worry,’ she said. ‘You will be welcomed into our home like a daughter.’
A flicker of relief in Hecate’s eyes.
‘We were strangers in Rome once too, and we relied upon the kindness of others,’ Gaia continued, her voice warm. ‘You will be safe here, and well fed, and cared for, have no doubt about that.’
Corvus was pleased to see his mother’s response, though he’d expected no less. She might at least take the edge off whatever Ruga had planned.
From the other side of the forum, a cry rang out. Corvus turned, trying to see past the bobbing heads straining to spot the cause of the disturbance. Merchants arguing over a price, perhaps, or a debate between friends that had turned sour.
Yet the trouble didn’t die away, and within a moment he could hear that furious yell leaping from tongue to tongue until it became a wave crashing down across the great square.
‘What is it?’ Hecate exclaimed, frightened.
Before he could find an answer, the crowd surged in wild panic and he spun back, the flood of bodies thrusting him along in the flow. Through the confusion, he glimpsed Hecate’s frightened eyes, and his mother, aghast, and then they both disappeared in the swell.
‘Hecate,’ Corvus yelled into the storm of screams. He felt himself lifted up, spun around, swept away. Finally he wrenched his arms free and lashed out. Thrusting bodies left and right, he carved out a space where he could stand his ground.
On the other side of the forum, he could now see fifty or more men wearing purple sashes, each of them swinging a cudgel. Heads cracked, blood spattered. Cold fury glowed in those faces, the kind he had seen in enemies ready to die on the battlefield.
Grabbing the arm of a terrified man, Corvus yanked him to a halt. ‘Who are they?’ he demanded.
The man flailed, fighting to wrench himself free. When he looked back at the carnage, he trembled. ‘The followers of the anti-pope Ursinus, the bishop who did not win the election. They will not back down.’
Hurling the man off, Corvus dived back into the stream of fleeing people. Not far away Ruga was gripping their mother’s arm, dragging her away from the fighting towards the basilica of Maxentius. Good old Ruga. He would be showered with gratitude later.
On he pushed, towards the sound of breaking bones and screams and thudding sticks. On every side, men and women, young and old, sprawled on the blood-spattered stones where they’d fallen and been trampled by the mob.
Ahead he could see the anti-pope’s men drawing forward on three sides, cold-eyed fanatics all, chanting Ursinus’ name with each step. Taking the brunt of the attack, a smaller group pressed forward, perhaps the followers of the elected pope. What madness was this, Christian fighting Christian in the heart of Rome?
And then he glimpsed Hecate, crouched on her hands and knees, looking round, dazed. Blood was trickling from a gash on her forehead.
Beyond her, the line of zealots advanced, like farmers beating the crops to drive the rats out.
Corvus threw himself forward, shielding the witch from the crashing sticks with his own body. The cudgels rained down and bolts of agony seared through him. Almost driven to his knees, he hooked one arm under Hecate’s waist and dragged her free.
Away from the fighting, she fell into his arms. What was it he saw in her face when she looked up at him? Gratitude? Perhaps even affection? This was something he hadn’t experienced before.
‘Come,’ he murmured in her ear. ‘We have to find somewhere safe.’
Grasping her wrist, he pulled her up the steps of the basilica of Maxentius and into the central
nave. The screams from the forum echoed through the vast space up to the vaulted ceiling high overhead.
By the apse at the western end, Ruga and his mother were crouching alongside other shuddering refugees from the bloody battle. Corvus knelt beside them. ‘If they dare to break in here, I’ll fight them off as best I can. Take the door to the Via dell’Impero and get away.’
‘You cannot sacrifice yourself,’ Hecate said, her voice heavy with concern.
‘Corvus is a fighting man,’ Ruga said. ‘This is what he does.’
His brother was right, as always. That was his value.
Gaia held his stare as Ruga tugged her away. He felt a familiar frustration as he watched the three of them disappear out of the door to the Via dell’Impero, leaving him alone.
Once the sound of fighting had died away, he wandered outside. Men and women were lying in puddles of blood, their groans rising up in one rumbling exhalation.
Pavo was sitting on the steps, sunning himself.
‘You survived, then,’ Corvus said.
‘Don’t I always?’
He slumped down beside his friend. The followers of the anti-pope had melted away before they could be called to face the consequences of their actions.
‘In case you were thinking of asking, my mother and brother also escaped,’ he said.
‘Your kin don’t like me very much, you know that.’
‘To be honest, very few do.’
‘This is true.’ Pavo closed his eyes, basking.
For a long moment Corvus watched the gulls wheeling across the blue sky above the blinding white stone of the temples. ‘I’m a simple man, as you well know,’ he said, ‘and not given to much in the way of worrying, or deep thoughts.’
‘But?’
‘I worry for our new friend.’
Pavo turned on to his side. Corvus recognized the meaning behind the smile on the other man’s lips. His friend was his conscience, always had been, and Pavo said things that he himself could never consider. ‘You don’t trust your own blood?’
‘I trust my mother.’
‘Ah, if only she’d given you the care and attention you truly deserved, instead of diverting it all to your brother, the favoured son.’
‘I’ve made my peace with that.’
‘And that is where you are wrong. You should be angry. You’ve sacrificed so much, fought so hard for your family, since your father died. You’re owed some recognition, and some gratitude.’
Corvus flinched. Why had they ever fled Britannia? If they’d stayed at home, none of it would ever have happened. For a moment, he was clinging on to the rail of that ship on the heaving black seas in the middle of the night, the fire-pot trailing flames as it swung wildly in the gale. Soaked in brine, he was watching his father go over the side, watching one desperate hand reaching out before he was sucked down to the depths.
‘I don’t want to think about my father.’
‘Think about the witch, then.’ Pavo flipped back, slipping his hands behind his head. Always relaxed. Nothing ever seemed to trouble him. That was one reason why Corvus liked him so much. From when they were children, Pavo had been there, guiding him, helping him through the difficult times, and never once did he ask for anything in return.
‘She seems to have a good heart. We’ve all heard tales about the Company of Women, how they live in the forests, clinging on to days long gone and gods that everyone else has forgotten. Plotting. Weaving their spells that bewitch good men. Agents of the fates. Cursing and hating and shaping … to what ends?’ Corvus shrugged. ‘And yet now I’ve met one of them, I see they’re just women like any other.’
‘Did you see Ruga’s eyes?’ That sly tone in his friend’s voice. Corvus did not look round.
‘They’re blue, the same as mine.’
‘The way he looked at Hecate. Lust, that’s all there was.’
‘Ruga has some plan for her, you know that.’
‘That too. But answer this question: does he deserve her? You’ve seen the way Hecate looks at you. I spy an opportunity there. How many times have you deferred to your brother? He’s risen up because you’re too kind, too thoughtful. You’ve never demanded what is rightfully yours. Are you going to carry on down that road?’
‘Ruga’s my brother. I’m not going to pick a fight with him.’
Pavo shrugged. ‘Then he wins again. And you’re left with nothing. Again.’
Corvus felt something stir inside him. He liked Hecate. He didn’t want to see her suffer. But what could he do?
He watched an oddly silhouetted figure shamble out of the glare of the sun towards them. Gnaeus Calidus Severus, the Hanged Man, came to a halt in front of them. Corvus felt unsettled by the scrutiny, something in the angle of the stare created by that twisted neck.
‘Severus. You are well?’
‘As well as can be expected.’ He looked around at the men and women mopping the blood from their faces. ‘The Christians fight among themselves now. But soon there will be a victor, and then they will turn their eyes back to the business at hand. They will not be satisfied until they have crushed the last of us. And only a few of us remain, you know that.’ He sighed. ‘Once the worship of Sol Invictus reached from the frozen wastes of the north to the hot lands in the far east. Now look at us. A frightened sect, clinging on to what we had. We are the chryfii now, the hidden ones, just like the pagans who followed the gods of the wood-priests. And the Christians will soon destroy all trace of them too. We are at war. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Father,’ Corvus said. Father. Priest. Wise Man. Did he harbour any suspicions about Ruga’s intentions, or did he truly see the feted brother as a dutiful follower of Mithras?
‘Good. Then know that this is not a time for faint hearts. Only boldness will prevail.’ The Hanged Man looked round once more to make sure they were not being overheard and added, ‘We are in a last desperate fight, Lucius Aurelius Corvus. The weeks to come will decide who survives, and who thrives.’
In those words he heard something that made his neck prickle. He glanced at Pavo, who nodded; he had heard it too. ‘Plots, Father?’
The Hanged Man pursed his lips in thought. ‘In a short time, your brother will ascend. You will be there to raise him high. And then perhaps we can discuss what is to come next.’
Corvus steeled himself and asked, ‘Next, Father?’
Severus turned his head so that the sun threw his face into shadow. ‘There is a mistake that all our emperors and our generals have made since Rome was first founded upon these seven hills. Things that are driven out of the light do not die. They hide in the shadows, biding their time until they can rise up again.’
‘A secret world? What are you saying?’
‘It is the arrogance of many to believe that the sun shines its light upon all. But there is much that is hidden from the eyes of men.’ Severus folded his hands together in front of him. ‘We are a civilized people, Corvus, and our wise men write down what we do so that it will be remembered. The Greeks did too, and the Persians …’ He let the words trail off. ‘But there is much that is never written down. In a hundred years there will be no record of those things and people will therefore believe they never existed. That there was only what the scribes put down. But those who do not write their histories are the wisest of us all, for they live on into eternity.’ He shifted his head, a bow, Corvus thought, but the twisted neck made it hard to tell. ‘Some of those secrets will be revealed in due time, Corvus, and the world will change because of them.’
And then he was gone, lurching back across the forum, past the wounded.
Corvus was not sure why, but Severus’ words troubled him deeply. He imagined great powers shifting away in the dark, things of which he had no knowledge, perhaps could never know. At that moment, he felt insignificant and perhaps a little unnerved. He didn’t like to feel that way.
A secret world, hidden from the eyes of men.
‘I’d planned to while away our time here in
Rome with wine and women,’ he said. ‘But now I think it would be wise to turn over some rocks and see what scurries out from beneath.’
‘You want to know more about what your brother plans,’ Pavo mused.
‘There’s little point in asking him. He tells me nothing, even when he says he’s telling me something.’
‘Clever. Men who know things are powerful. Why, they might even become the favoured son.’ His friend chuckled to himself. ‘The invincible son.’
‘The more we know, the more chance we have of keeping Hecate safe and well,’ Corvus said, refusing to rise to his friend’s baiting.
‘A maiden who needs protecting,’ Pavo said. ‘It seems we have the beginning of a story.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Lake
Caledonia, far beyond Hadrian’s Wall
THE BARBARIAN’S DYING breath whispered out. Lucanus had curled one arm around his foe’s chest from behind, the other hand pressing the knife hilt-deep into the throat. He let the lookout slide to the ground.
Here, deep into Scoti territory, this warrior would never have expected to encounter an enemy creeping alone and silent through the endless forest. And so he’d been in a reverie, watching the pink and silver streaks of the dawn reflecting off the placid lake’s surface when Lucanus had ghosted out of the trees behind him.
The morning was silent, with barely a breeze soughing through the branches. Pearly strands of mist crept down towards the water’s edge.
Lucanus slithered to the edge of the platform of scrubby grass and looked down a precipitous drop to the vast expanse of water that Myrrdin had described to him. An inland sea, the wood-priest had said, and he was right. The water was like polished steel reflecting the blue sky. He could dive in and fly there like a bird. On the other side of the lake steep hills rose up, slopes as dense with pine as the woods he’d trekked through for the last five days.
Nothing moved. No sign of where Marcus might be held. But that didn’t mean he was alone. Since he’d left the ruins of Trimontium, he’d spent every waking hour creeping past his enemies. Scouts roamed through the woods. Lookouts watched the rivers and the crossroads. War-bands crashed across the land, their horn blasts ringing out.