by James Gawley
Seneca rallied, pushing himself onto one knee and turning aside a vicious cut from the remaining legionnaire. Suddenly one of the slaves backed away, hesitated, then dropped his club and ran. Two more quickly followed him. Seneca stood up, and as the last slaves fled he faced his opponent alone. Varro cursed the deserters blisteringly, then suddenly fell quiet. “No. Gods, no. Not now.” Primus became aware of a ululating howl that seemed to rise from all directions. The noise was otherworldly, like the singing of the restless dead. The dagger drifted away from Primus’ throat. He did not hesitate.
He pushed backward into Varro, knocking him off balance. As they stumbled, Primus grabbed Varro’s knife arm in both hands and stomped down hard on his instep. The old man roared in pain. Primus twisted away, leaving a clump of hair in Varro’s fist. He glanced at the others. Furio fought like chain lightning, striking at one opponent, then the other with unholy speed. Seneca attacked his man with terrible savagery, but he held one arm close to his side and beneath his greaves his woolen leggings were dark with blood. In his fear Primus forgot every lesson Titus ever taught him. He simply threw himself at Varro.
The two of them went down in a tangle. Varro pushed against Primus’ face with one hand and with the other tried to stab him in the ribs. As they crashed into the mud Primus felt the blade slide along his ribs without slipping between them. Varro writhed beneath Primus, impossibly strong for a man built of bones and sinew.
Primus wrapped his arm around Varro’s, trapping it before he could draw back the knife for another try. Varro stopped trying to push against Primus’ face, and instead tried to gouge his eye out, fingers gripping his skull and thumb pushing into his socket. He cursed Primus viciously as he fought, his words devolving into bestial snarls of hate. Primus pulled his head away and screwed his eyes shut against the bony, grasping fingers. His free hand groped in the mud, looking for the hilt of Varro’s sword.
He could not pull it free. He gripped the wooden hilt in his fist and tugged with all his strength, but the scabbard had become tangled beneath Varro as they fell and the angle was wrong. He could not draw the sword and lean back to keep Varro’s thumb from his eye at the same time. Somewhere behind him, his father cried out in pain. Primus clenched his teeth and dropped flat on top of Varro. His vision exploded red and black as Varro’s thumb thrust deep into his eye socket. He screamed and tore the gladius free of its sheath. When he managed to push himself up and raise the sword above his head, Varro finally released his eye in order to grip his sword arm. Varro’s other arm was still trapped against Primus’ side.
Primus drove the blade down with one hand, but Varro wrenched it aside and the tip stabbed into the cold mud. Still gripping Primus wrist, Varro heaved his body upward and sank his teeth into Primus' cheek.
Primus screamed. He jerked backward, and the old man's teeth came free of his face. Primus glimpsed his own flesh clenched in the old man's jaws. He stopped trying to control Varro's knife arm, pushed himself up on one knee and lifted his sword high above his head. Swift as fate, Varro plunged the dagger into Primus' thigh. Primus brought the sword down on Varro's chest. Its tip pierced the boiled leather breastplate and stopped. Primus leaned his weight on the hilt, driving it down until he felt the blade grind to a halt against the back of the old man’s ribs.
Varro's yellowed eyes grew wide, and he drew one shuddering breath. Blood bubbled from his lips. The chunk of Primus' flesh slipped out of his mouth and snailed down his cheek. His hand slipped off the dagger, still buried in Primus' leg. The old man tried to speak, but only a watery hiss came forth. Primus read the hate in his eyes. Even when the last breath had rattled out of him, the hate remained.
Primus leaned upon the pommel of the sword. He stared down at Varro, watching his own blood drip down onto the lifeless face. His whole body began to shake, and the edges of his vision dimmed. The sounds of struggle all around him became a voice down a distant corridor. He could form no thought.
When he next became aware of his surroundings, he was being pulled to his feet. Furio was saying something to him, but Primus could not understand. There were slaves running in every direction, pounding across the main thoroughfare, darting between buildings consumed by fire. The otherworldly howl that had distracted Varro was much louder now. Primus could open his left eye–Varro’s thumb had not plucked it free–but it stung and watered freely. He covered it with one hand and looked around the camp. There were demons loose within the walls: blue-skinned giants who howled as they came, white eyes and teeth terrifying in their midnight faces.
Furio was kneeling beside Primus, wrapping his leg tightly with a strip of his cloak. The knife was already removed. “They’ll chase the slaves as long as it’s good sport, but when they notice us... you don’t want to know what they’ll do to a man in legion uniform. We have to move.”
Primus finally understood. The Woade. They had come back to finish what they’d begun. He cast another glance around. The Woade looked twice as big as any soldier he had known–even Marius in all his armor did not seem so large. The barbarians wore the skins of wolves and hinds, and they had manes of wild hair that hung down to their belts. They carried clubs of bone and wood and wore no armor that Primus could see. As he watched, one barbarian caught his prey with a blow to the base of the head. The slave crumpled to the snow, and the barbarian was on top of him in a heartbeat, lifting his club and bashing the poor wretch until he lay still.
“We have to get inside,” Furio said. Primus looked blankly at him. “We’ll be safe in the stronghouse. Trust me.” And he lifted Primus’ arm over his head and put an arm around his waist, taking some of his weight. Together they turned back toward the stronghouse. Then Primus saw his father.
The general lay where he had fallen, on his side in the half-frozen slush. Mud spattered his red cloak, and his helm was dented and its crest trampled. He lay with his back to them. “We have to go, Primus. There’s nothing we can do for him now.”To his shame, a part of Primus wanted to obey. It would have been easier. Instead he hobbled toward his father, pulling Furio along with him.
“You can’t help him, Primus.”
Primus forced himself to breathe steadily. He lowered himself to the ground, careful of the leg that Furio had so hastily bandaged. The general slumped into the cold mud as Primus rolled him over. He looked away from the ragged gash across his father’s throat. The legionnaire who had fought him had collapsed a dozen steps away.
Furio shifted his feet impatiently, but Primus gathered up his father’s lifeless hand. For a time he simply pressed his face against the brass inlay on the general’s armor. Then he sat up and looked into his father’s face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I am so sorry I brought this on you. If I’d only obeyed...” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I vow... I vow to Orcus, I will return someday and lay your bones to rest. You will not be trapped in this place forever. You will have peace. I swear it.”
Primus kissed his father’s lips and shut his eyes. Then he prized the general’s magnificent sword loose from his fingers and slid it back into its sheath. After a moment’s hesitation, he unbuckled the weapon and belted it around himself. No barbarian hands would sully his father’s sword. He lifted the general’s hand and worked the heavy gold signet ring free from his finger. Then Furio put a hand on his shoulder, and Primus let himself be pulled to his feet.
They left the general lying in the freezing mud, the blood of his last battle still wet on his face, while the camp burned down around him.
***
Primus limped along in silence. The earthen walls radiated cold. The only light came from cracks in the trapdoor at the beginning of the tunnel; the men in front of him were simply darker shapes in the gloom. The noise of the camp was muffled here; the loudest sounds were their breathing and the crunch of their boots on patches of hoarfrost that spotted the ground. Primus’ cheek was a dull ache and the skin pulled painfully whenever he moved his mouth. A bandage wound around his face had stopped the bleeding.
His leg was a sharper throb and he leaned heavily on the crutch that Furio had hastily fashioned for him as soon as they were inside the stronghouse.
The door had opened immediately to their knock–the single man inside had been watching them through the door-slit. The room was small and cold, for it was built directly on the ground with no furnace to heat the floor tiles. Primus immediately saw why: a trapdoor stood open in the corner of the room, and a brief staircase led to a tunnel below. The only other furnishings were a desk, a scale, and stacks of empty sacks and small wooden chests.
The soldier behind the door wasted no time on introductions. “The scouts will have gone by now,” he said as soon as they were inside. “We’ll have to try and make it on foot.” He glanced significantly at Primus’ leg, but said nothing. So they clambered down the steep steps and into the tunnel, Primus leaning on Furio’s shoulder as he followed him down.
A few steps into the tunnel it became clear that the passage went far beyond the walls of the camp. He could have left, Primus realized. Varro had promised him the chance to save his father... but the general was never in any danger. He could have left. Instead he stepped out of the stronghouse and doomed himself to save his son.
It was a poor trade, and Primus knew it.
At length they stood at the end of the tunnel. It was nearly pitch dark, but Primus sensed the wall before them, and he heard the creak of wood as Furio climbed a short ladder. Furio unlatched a trapdoor above their heads and shoved it open. The wind howled down through the gap, bringing a cascade of snow with it. Primus was glad Furio had stopped to strip the cloak off of a fallen soldier for him. It was a heavy piece of red wool, and whoever had owned it had lined the collar with a pelt. The fur stank of blood and fear-sweat, but it was warm against Primus’ neck.
The soldier from the stronghouse climbed the ladder behind Furio, and Primus dragged himself up last. He expected to emerge into an empty clearing. Instead he found Lucan and Furio confronting one another silently. The tunnel had taken them just beyond the tree line. The air stank with the smoke from the camp. The legate sat astride his horse, and in his hand he bundled the reins of four more. His cloak was splattered with blood. When Primus drew himself up beside the tunnel mouth, Lucan looked him over slowly. “Your father?”
After a moment, Primus shook his head.
Lucan looked down for a time, studying the mane of his horse. When he raised his head, he did not meet Primus’ eyes. “I have sent the others on ahead of us. Longinus travels on the highway, with some of the silver. The rest is with Cassius, who will go south along the Finger Lakes. The gold is with me.” Primus saw that two chests rode behind Lucan’s saddle. Each was perhaps two feet wide and another foot deep. “We push north, to the Black Arbor. We’ll pick up the old northern road from there.”
Furio folded his arms. “The Black Arbor is no place for us.”
Lucan’s face was still as he stared down at Furio, but his horse stamped and pulled at the bit. “The Woade will pursue us. You know what happens if we’re caught. I have divided us in three, to give our enemy three trails to choose from. Our group will travel with the gold by the northern route, because the Woade are loath to follow that path. If we are very lucky, they will hunt down our brothers instead of us. Now mount your horse, or be left behind.”
Furio glared at him a moment more, then came forward to claim his reins. “That place is cursed,” he muttered.
“Pray that the Woade share your superstitions.”
They mounted up with difficulty, Primus because of his injured leg, and Gracchus–the soldier who had waited for them inside the stronghouse–because he had never mounted a horse before. By the time they set out Primus could no longer hear the howling of the Woade across the field. He knew what it meant. The slaves were dead; the barbarians had finished with their sport.
***
Trees stood like gods, the very titans that held aloft the sky. The space between them was filled with snow and silence. The scouts’ horses chuffed through the powder, and Primus was lulled by the steady rhythm of the saddle until it seemed he had always ridden through the winter world with his three mute companions. Only the throb of his cheek and the burning in his leg convinced him that he was still alive, and not trapped in some cruel white underworld.
They were far, far north of the road. No one said so, but Primus could sense it. There had been no sign of the Woade for two days, and somehow the air felt heavy here, as though an enormous blanket lay across the world. Primus’ thoughts drifted as he rode.
They had seen several runaway slaves when they first fled the camp: ragged men and women moving away from the mine by ones and twos. They wore the clothes they’d escaped in and carried little else. Once, not far from the wood-and-stone bridge that crossed the river, Primus saw two men and a woman huddled together between the gnarled roots of a greatwood tree. They shared a soldier’s red cloak between them, pulling the cloth tight around their backs. Furio caught Primus staring at them as they passed. “Running was the first thing most of them thought to do. Soon as the fire started, they pushed their way out.”
“Where were they going?”
“I doubt they thought about it. They just wanted to be free.” Furio leaned over in his saddle and spat. “Well, they’re free now.”
Primus took a final look at the shivering figures huddled together in the snow. He wondered if the Woade would find them before they died of exposure. If they did, would the barbarians take them as chattel or simply kill them? He pulled his cloak tighter about himself, and rode on.
Soon after that, they left the road.
Primus had never traveled through the forest before. He recalled the words of Sextus, on the night he slipped out of camp and deserted them. There’s something in this place that’s even older than our gods. Something that doesn’t want us here. Primus shivered, and tried to put the thought from his mind. The farther they went from the road, the more still and silent the forest became. At first, the tracks of animals crossed their path: the splashing leap of northern hares, the plodding steps of wolves. But eventually there was only a smooth white blanket, and the pillars of the earth. Then the ruins began.
Primus noticed them as lumps beneath the snow. At first he mistook them for deadfalls, buried by winter after winter. But they were too regular, and too many. Finally he saw a row of granite slabs peeking up from the white, and he knew that these were the bones of an ancient city, now reduced to its foundations. There was little left to see, but once he knew what he was looking at Primus recognized the pattern of buildings laid out between the trees. Finally they came to a broad clearing, a smooth flat space free of ruins. In the center of the clearing stood the Arbor.
The tree was twisted and black, like a rotten arm thrust up through the earth to clutch at the sky. It was as wide as a greatwood, but stunted and obscene. As he stared, Primus felt a familiar buzzing behind his eyes. He blinked and shook his head. The buzzing receded, but he could not help thinking of the temple, and the strange chanting of the hierophant. No one to save you from what’s coming, the mad priest had whispered in his ear. Primus shook his head again, and slapped himself lightly to clear his mind. The throb in his cheek flared red hot, but he could think no clearer.
“We should rest,” Lucan was saying. “And build a fire. The horses are weary and no Woade has ever come within a league of this place.”
“So far as you know,” Furio reminded him. “We have no fuel for a fire, and I mislike the idea of cutting down...” his voice trailed off, and suddenly he drew his sword. Lucan pulled free his weapon and Gracchus did the same.
“What is it?” Lucan hissed, and Furio pointed with his blade.
“There. At the base of the tree. It’s a man.”
Primus started. He had looked so intently at the tree he had not seen what huddled between its roots. It was indeed a man, in ragged black. He was curled over on his knees but he was definitely alive, for he rocked back and forth unceasingly. As Primus listen
ed, he could make out strange, rhythmic muttering in the still air.
Lucan gestured for them to fan out, and they moved forward slowly. No one spoke, but the snow creaked as the horses’ hooves packed it down. Primus slid his weapon free. As they surrounded the ragged, skeletal man Primus tried not to listen to his muttering. It was a chant he was sure he already knew.
“Identify yourself.” Lucan’s voice broke the stillness and the stranger jerked upright and twisted to face them. Furio sucked in a breath and made the sign of the evil eye. Lucan swore beneath his breath. Primus leapt down from his horse.
He waded through ankle deep powder toward the starveling man. The poor wretch’s hair bristled ragged and thin around his head, and his eyes were burning with fever despite the cold that had blackened his fingertips. He was still muttering his strange chant.
“Sextus?” The starved man’s eyes locked on Primus, and there was something in them of recognition... and of shame. “Gods beneath us, what has happened to you?”
Primus came forward to embrace his friend, but Lucan got there first. He strode up behind Sextus while his attention was fixed on Primus and cracked the flat of his blade across the back of his head. The poor wretch dropped facedown into the snow.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Lucan only glared at him across the crumpled form of his friend. “Tie him to a horse,” he growled. “We’re moving on.”
My father knew of the citadel from childhood tales. All the Woade are raised to fear the ancient places; even their bravest warriors shun them. We sought to take advantage of the clansmen’s superstition. We thought we knew the real faces of the gods. The world will pay the price for our arrogance.
–Lucan Venator,
Testimony before the Senate
LEGIONNAIRE