by Frank Morin
“Listen to me,” John whispered, thrusting his face far too close.
The only reason Gregorios didn’t rip out his soul right there was the spark of sanity in John’s eyes. It looked like the repeated exposure to Paul’s machine was reversing his mental instability.
“Give me a good reason,” Gregorios said.
“They’re after the runes,” John said.
“Didn’t you notice the big burning symbol in the sky? I’d say they got it.”
“They’ll need more. We’re holed up somewhere in the city.”
Gregorios flexed his fingers. “I’m underwhelmed.”
“It’s some kind of tunnel.”
He gave the man a disgusted look. “Do you have any idea how many tunnels there are around Rome?”
“It’s decorated real nice, but it’s a ruin, I can tell.”
“You’re an idiot,” Gregorios said. “They’re going to kill you.”
“Not if you find us first. I’ll try to get a signal out.”
“Do better.”
John cringed at a shout that echoed out of the smoke. It was beginning to clear, and Paul might catch sight of them talking together, so Gregorios decided to help John with his cover story.
He punched John in the chest hard enough to knock the other man away. Before he could add a couple of kicks for good measure, John faded from the memory.
Not good. Gregorios spun, seeking the others through the fog, but he was alone in a vast, empty room. For the first time, he felt worried. In the confusion of the explosion, he hadn’t even felt the jolt of the world reshaping around him. That much control worried him. If Paul had managed to separate him, he might have done the same to the others.
He closed his eyes and concentrated. It took a moment, but he felt the tug of another will in the memoryscape and threw his mind into the current dragging him in that direction.
Hopefully he would arrive before it was too late.
Chapter Seventy-One
Can the world not see that Octavian is but Julius reinvented? Is Mark Antony to secure a second life before I? What shame is mine to stand as triumvir, yet lack still access to even a basic enhancement? Is my soul of such little worth?
~Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, least-known member of the Second Triumvirate
Eirene rose to face Spartacus, retreating slowly out of reach. He made no threatening move, but she summoned a chainsaw anyway. The soft chugging of its engine eased her tightly-wound nerves.
The dust from the recent explosion dissipated, and she was surprised to find they’d changed memory locations. No longer did they stand in the theatre. The hills of Rome stretched away in every direction, and she recognized the palaces of the nearby Palatine Hill overlooking the Circus Maximus. The huge chariot-racing track was a wildly popular place, and from the roaring of crowds that echoed past its high wall, it sounded like a race was just beginning.
Tomas approached, empty grenade launcher in his hands, stopping a couple paces away. Between them, they could take Spartacus, no matter what devilry he might have learned to summon.
Few memory people moved nearby, and those were all hurrying toward the Circus. She felt Gregorios as a distant presence in her mind, but wasn’t even sure he was in the same memory. Alter and Sarah felt close, perhaps within the Circus. She yearned to go to them, worried they might be facing Paul, but had to trust their courage. She could not pass up the chance to speak in private with Spartacus.
The Thracian released the haft of his spear and retreated a step, hands raised in a sign of peace. “I’ll fight you if I must. In these memories, I feel the rage that once drove me, and I’ll embrace it if that makes you feel better.”
“What would make you feel better?” Eirene asked carefully. Again Spartacus was talking instead of raging like a mad bull. Even though she’d seen it before, it still startled her and she expected him to revert to his old self any second.
“I’d like to talk!” Spartacus exclaimed. “I have so many questions. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to hear the world but see nothing? By Zeus, I got so much wrong!”
“All right,” Eirene said. “We can talk.”
“Talk didn’t help much with Paul,” Tomas said. It was clear he wanted to fight.
Spartacus shrugged. “Paul is what he is. I owe him a debt for restoring me to life, but his goals are not mine.”
“What are you goals?” Eirene asked.
“I long asked myself that,” Spartacus said. “For years without counting I would have answered with ripping out your heart and eating it while it yet pumped your life’s blood.”
“Sounds about right,” Tomas said.
“Do you mind?” Eirene asked.
He shrugged. “Given the situation, I can understand where he’s coming from.”
“Thank you,” Spartacus said. “But thirst for revenge can only fuel a soul for a few centuries. Eventually I needed something more.”
“Like what?” Eirene asked.
He didn’t answer for a moment. “Did you know before we were taken as slaves, my Iltea was a prophetess of the Maedi?”
“I knew that,” Eirene said, tensing. The topic usually triggered violent rage.
This time it didn’t. “I was a sculptor.”
“Really?” That was one trade she’d never imagined he followed.
Spartacus nodded, dropping into a padded chair that appeared behind him. A howling cat ripped its way out of the fabric and Spartacus twisted off its head without even seeming to notice it.
“I loved fashioning things with my hands, finding the hidden images buried within a stone. During those long decades forced to become a bystander to history, I began crafting sculptures in my mind, images to reflect the distant sounds of the invisible world around me.”
“So are you saying you want to set up an artist shop?” Tomas asked incredulously.
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m not making much sense. I’m not used to anyone responding when I babble.”
“Take your time,” Eirene said, fascinated despite her long feud with this man. They had assumed the Thracian’s mind would be broken from his forced isolation. Many minds began to break down within hours, most within days of isolation. His resilience was astounding. She still barely believed that the long dispossession might have led to enlightenment.
It was a terrible thought. Millennia of hatred was now being challenged by this thoughtful man in front of her. She glanced at her chainsaw and reluctantly released the trigger.
Tomas took a step closer, his expression hard. “You play the victim well, Spartacus, but you must return my body, or we’re going to have a serious problem.”
Spartacus grinned. “As a warrior of much honor, I expect nothing less from you. Indeed, you cannot but challenge my possession of your property.”
“Right.” Tomas looked disgusted that he was agreeing with Spartacus. “So let’s meet so you can give it back.”
“We’ll find a replacement for you,” Eirene offered, allowing herself to hope it would be such a simple exchange.
She knew better.
Spartacus laughed. “And dishonor your strength by surrendering without proving the quality of the very body you wish to regain? I would never present such an insult to a brother at arms. Nay, but we shall meet in single combat and prove the valor of your claim.”
“Usually I’d agree that’s the best way,” Tomas said. “But I actually need the body intact when I assume ownership.”
Spartacus considered that for a moment, his grin fading. “Such a conundrum I have not faced in the past, but I concur. Yet in this new world where violence is glorified only in fiction, while so many refuse to recognize its presence in reality, the accepted means to resolve this question of honor is difficult to ascertain.”
“You could always try rocks, scissors, and paper,” Eirene offered. The conversation had drifted so far from anything she’d experienced with Spartacus, she was struggling to accept it as real.
; Spartacus slapped a palm on his thigh. “As always your wisdom is present when most needed.” He turned to Tomas. “Choose your weapon then. Will you meet me with rocks or scissors?” He frowned. “I have never found much use for paper in the art of war beyond sending correspondence.”
Tomas kept up with the strange twist in the conversation without missing a beat. “Eirene is suggesting a game that is more chance than contest, and I don’t think it fits our need.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Eirene was amazed to see Spartacus actually seemed interested in hearing another’s point of view.
“Perhaps a test of will and strength,” Tomas said after a brief pause. “To see whose commitment to ownership is the greater.”
“To the victor goes the glory and one of the best battle suits I have ever worn,” Spartacus boomed. “To the loser falls the spare. I applaud your suggestion.”
“Where and when?” Tomas asked, and Eirene caught her breath, barely hoping he’d agree.
Spartacus opened his mouth to answer, then cocked his head to one side, as if listening. “Our time grows short. Your woman is worthy of you. She shares your warrior spirit.”
“Where and when?” Eirene asked again, hoping the reference to Sarah meant she’d escaped Paul’s advances again.
Spartacus turned toward the main gate of the Circus, but paused. “Come to this place on the morrow, and we will make arrangements.”
His eyes lingered on Eirene and she tensed for resumed hostilities.
“You cannot hurt her any longer. She lives in my heart. I don’t begrudge you the use of her form.”
He turned and walked toward the gate. Eirene watched, chainsaw dangling from her hands, until he disappeared through the huge portal.
“Tomorrow,” Tomas said when she turned. His eyes glowed with anticipation. “What are you going to do with him after I defeat him?”
“For the first time in over twenty centuries, I have no idea.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
Shahrokh will die the final death, and Julius shall fall. The Tenth legion is indeed mighty, but with these enhancements from the hunters, my Nervii fighters are more than mortal men. The Roman eagles will belong to me.
~Boduognatus, commander of the Belgic Nervii at the Battle of Sabis, Gallic Wars, the day before his army was routed by Julius, 57 B.C.
The explosion from Tomas’ grenade tossed Sarah flying. She crashed into the sandy ground, sliding several feet.
Sand?
Grit stung her eyes and filled her mouth. She spat and squinted against the dust and billowing smoke. Her ears rang from the concussive blast and she felt like she’d been trampled by a pack of angry horses.
The smoke disappeared as quickly as her runes drained away the pain, and she blinked against the blinding daylight of a blue sky. Thunderous cheering from tens of thousands of voices replaced the echoes of the explosion.
Sarah rose to her feet and looked around in wonder. She stood in a vast arena, split down the middle by a stone wall capped with statues of Roman gods, flat-topped alters, and shrines. Tiers of seats encircled the horseshoe-shaped arena, which extended at least two thousand feet and stood about three hundred feet wide.
“The Circus Maximus,” Alter said, joining her and echoing her thoughts. He was now dressed in a short blue tunic, with leather bands encircling his arms, legs and bare chest. He was staring. She glanced down at herself and found she was wearing a similar costume, except hers included a barely modest leather halter-top, colored green.
“What happened?” she asked, and Alter was wise enough to tear his gaze off her exposed skin to look her in the eye.
Paul appeared about twenty feet away, closer to the flat end of the arena. “You will witness my ascension, along with one hundred and fifty thousand Romans.”
A high wall reared across that end of the circus. A dozen wood slat gates were built into its face, with four horses stomping and snorting behind each one. Paul wore an outfit similar to Alter’s, but red.
“You mean everyone will witness me rip your head off,” Alter said. He extended his hands as if holding a rifle, but nothing popped into his arms.
Paul smiled. “No modern weapons to spoil this moment. Your facetakers aren’t here. I control this memory and you will obey my rules.”
“He doesn’t know about you yet,” Sarah hissed. “Can’t you take control?”
Alter shook his head after a couple of seconds, his expression pained. “He’s got an iron grip on it. I can’t shake anything free.”
The distant gates snapped open in unison and horses erupted from them, pulling light, wooden chariots, drivers balanced on the precarious platforms.
Sarah wished Tomas was there. She might need Alter’s Cui Dashi strength, but she yearned for Tomas’ presence. She couldn’t allow Paul to escape with that new master rune. She tried to summon her favorite little KSG shotgun, but got only a headache.
No modern weapons. So be it.
She summoned a crossbow, which appeared readily enough. Raising it to her shoulder, she snapped off a shot.
The bolt transformed into a rose just before reaching Paul, and he plucked it from the air, saluting her. “I accept your first token of devotion.”
The sickle-shaped blade appeared in Sarah’s hand and she growled, “I’ll show you a token.”
“Do try to keep up,” Paul chided as the chariots thundered down upon them.
Alter rushed past Sarah, sprinting toward Paul, but he leaped into the air in a magnificent arc that terminated on the tiny chariot platform of the lead team. The driver wore a red tunic just like Paul’s, and the horses were draped in the same color.
For the first time, Sarah realized the various chariot teams all sported one of four colors. She hadn’t realized it was a team competition.
Paul made a mock salute as the lead chariot he rode upon passed between her and Alter. She couldn’t give chase because a chariot from the white team was heading right toward her and showed no signs of slowing.
Sarah vaulted the charging horses and their charioteer. The man barely noticed her. She took advantage of the looser laws of gravity and altered course to land on the platform of another chariot, from the blue team.
She landed hard and nearly fell off. The little chariot wobbled dangerously under her shifting weight and the driver shouted, “Ware the balance!”
Sarah summoned a pair of binoculars. She felt some resistance, but they did materialize after a couple of seconds. She focused on Paul, who was about fifty feet ahead.
He was cutting into his side with a little knife.
Uh oh. The rune they had just acquired might not be as powerful as the one Mai Luan carved into her cheek in Berlin, but Paul was already freakishly powerful. If he tapped into the power of that assassination, he’d gain that much more the advantage.
The charioteer pushed Sarah and she nearly tumbled off the chariot.
“Careful,” she snapped.
“Get off,” he said. “You’re not even on my team.”
“I need a ride.”
He glanced at her and then looked again. His belligerence faded as he took in her fantastic curves in the all-too revealing outfit. “My lady, but change your colors and visit my quarters this evening, and the gods above will blush when they see what wonders you and I can make together.”
She summoned a gladius. “Catch up to that lead chariot or I’ll turn you into a gelding.”
He blanched. “Very well, but ware to your left.” He gestured toward the barrier wall blurring past.
Sarah turned in that direction and realized a fraction of a second too late that she’d been duped. His elbow caught her in the side of the head and he shifted his weight at the same time, tipping the unstable little chariot up on one wheel. Sarah overbalanced and toppled out.
She hit the ground and bounced along the hard sand for thirty feet before plowing to a stop. Her vision was still spinning and every inch of exposed skin burned from road rash, but her ears
still worked all too well.
Other chariots barreled toward her at full speed. She pressed herself against the smooth inner wall just before steel-rimmed wheels tore the earth beside her. Three chariots passed, one so close its inner wheels scraped the leather on her back. Another half inch and it would have gouged out her spine.
She lay panting with fear for several seconds. She could scarce believe she’d fallen for that stupid line.
“Sarah!”
Alter pulled her to her knees. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll survive.” She let him help her up, even though the pain was already fading. Her runes worked even faster in the memoryscape than they did in real life.
“We have to catch him. He’s inscribing the master rune onto himself.”
“Abomination!”
“Well, unless you have a chariot in that tunic of yours, we’re in trouble.”
“I think I can summon one,” Alter said. “Paul didn’t block your crossbow, and he only mentioned modern weapons.”
That seemed as strange as it was infuriating. “How can he do that?”
Alter shrugged. “I’m new at this. I don’t know the nuances of how much of the memoryscape we can control.”
“Fight him for it.”
“Working on it. I’ll try for a chariot.”
His brow furrowed in concentration, but Sarah tugged his arm. “Can you drive a four-horse chariot?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither. We need something better.”
“We could try a regular horse,” Alter suggested.
Sarah wasn’t listening. She had close to zero experience riding horses and doubted even if they conjured a world-class racer she’d be able to hold on long enough to catch up with Paul. They needed better wheels.
An image popped into her mind, one she didn’t remember studying before. It seemed promising though, and she decided to trust what she’d learned from the old-time rune warriors. If it felt right to her, that should be enough, especially for simple needs.
“Paul’s blocking us from summoning things,” she said as she stooped and drew the mark in the packed sand of the arena. “Let’s see if he’s got ciphers covered.”