The old scribe shrugged. “That is certainly possible. Or perhaps a group that split away from the Survivors before the bridge submerged.”
“That’s all ancient history,” Marcus interjected, “and about as much use to us as a blunt sword.” To Karan, he said, “Would your Masters attack us if they could use the bridge you crossed?”
“Yes,” Karan said without hesitation. “They will come.”
“You sound awfully sure about that,” Marcus said in a low voice.
“My disappearance might go unremarked,” Karan told him, “but the disappearance of a hunting pack will not. The Masters are no fools. And they know that civilization thrives here from the boats and bodies that have washed up on their shores over the ages. Long have they looked with envious eyes across the sea.”
“What can you tell us about them, the Masters?” Valeria asked.
Karan seemed to withdraw into himself, as if mentally recoiling from the question. “They are like us in some ways, but in other ways, not.”
Valeria shook her head, confused. “I do not understand.”
“They are…” He glanced at the sleeping form of Hercules. “They are to us as the god Hercules is to four legged tigers.”
“What are you saying?” Marcus said, frowning. “That they’re bigger than we are?”
Karan nodded. “We are but children to their eyes.”
“So, they’re giants, is what you’re saying,” Septimus clarified in a wry voice. “That’s just lovely.”
“Giants, yes, but other things are different, as well,” Karan told him. “They are hairless, their skin thick and tough as leather, puckered and twisted as if they were covered with deep scars from birth.” He held up his hands. “We have four fingers and a thumb on each hand. They have four fingers and two thumbs. And their faces…their faces…” He had to pause for a moment, considering his words. “If you mixed two eyes, a mouth, and a nose into a bowl and poured them out upon the front of a skull, you would have a Master’s face. And each of their faces is different, no two quite the same. Many are born dead and are given to the animals of the hunt in sacrifice.”
Pelonius sat back, his eyes wide, and Valeria looked at him, her mouth gaping open with surprise. “So, the stories are true, then,” Pelonius breathed.
“What do you mean?” Paulus asked, confused. “What stories?”
“The stories about bodies of monstrous looking men being found along the shores of the Haunted Sea,” Valeria told him.
“Such stories are recorded in the Imperial Library back to the time of the First Spring,” Pelonius added. “We always assumed that they had been men from our own shores upon whom the gods inflicted their wrath before sending the bodies home. No one ever contemplated that such creations might have been born that way.”
“Have you ever seen one?” Marcus asked.
Pelonius nodded absently. “Well, the skull of one.” Turning to look at Karan, he said, “Karan’s description of the face was apt. And if the size of the body matched the skull in the classical proportions…” He stopped. “Well, suffice it to say that one on one our soldiers would be a bit outmatched.”
Septimus spat.
“I know this is an obvious question,” Marcus said to Karan, “but are they skilled in the ways of war?”
“All who once stood against the Masters were destroyed long ago, years beyond counting. Only we, their slaves, as you would call us, remain from the peoples of that time.” He paused. “Since then, the Masters have sometimes fought one another for power. So yes, they are skilled in making war.”
“What about man to man?” Septimus asked. “Could you defeat a master in a fight?”
Even in the firelight, Karan visibly paled. “To even think of raising a hand to a Master is forbidden.”
“As it is for slaves in the Empire, as well,” Pelonius said quietly. “But you are no longer bound to the Masters, nor need you fear them while among us. And by decree of the princess, you are now a free man to do and say as you please within the bounds of Roman law, which I will later explain to you.”
Karan looked at Valeria. “What would you have me do?”
“Take Pelonius’s words to heart,” she reassured him. “You may answer our questions or not, as it please you. But I would have you answer, for we very much need your counsel.”
After a moment, Karan nodded. “I, who stand the First among Swords, could perhaps defeat a Master in single combat with my sword or bow,” he said with great reluctance, “but it would be no easy thing. Armored and mounted upon their elephants or war horses…” He shook his head slowly.
Septimus whispered a doubly venomous oath under his breath.
“Do they fight in formations as we do,” Marcus persisted, “or as a group of individuals?”
“They fight much as you do,” Karan replied. “The inner walls of the Great Arena, where I have fought many times, are painted with scenes of ancient times. Some of those paintings show many Masters in great ranks not unlike how your men fight, destroying the host of an enemy. And I have seen soldiers among the Masters, even helped train some of them, but have not seen a great army with my own eyes.” He could see the disappointment in the faces of the others and bowed his head. “I wish I could tell you all that you wish to know, but my world was limited to the quarters where we were kept, the training arenas, and wherever the Masters chose for us to fight. The Masters give only commands to my kind, and the only words we returned were those of obedience. The only time I was ever free, even for so short a time, was during the Great Hunt, when I expected to die.” He paused. “That is one reason all of the Swords hope to be chosen for it, for it is our final release, our only chance to escape the lash.”
“Apologies, centurion,” a soldier said, emerging from the darkness, “but we found one of the supply wagons, its cargo of wine still intact.” He held up a pair of amphorae and grinned.
“Finally, some good news!” Septimus exclaimed as he stepped forward and eagerly took the fired clay containers. Pulling the stopper from one, he sniffed, then lifted it to his lips. After taking a brief taste, he waited a moment before handing it to Valeria. “No fast acting poison, anyway.”
“My gratitude,” Valeria said with a tired smile as she took it from him. Septimus gave the second amphora to Paulus after first taking a generous swig himself.
Marcus grunted. “Give every man a full day’s ration, but no more. They deserve that much after a day like this. But any man found drunk before we march tomorrow will have his head mounted on a spike. Make sure those words reach every ear.”
“Yes, centurion!” The man bowed his head and retreated into the darkness.
Valeria put the amphora to her lips and took a swallow of wine, but misjudged her handling of the container. Wine sloshed into her mouth, and she choked, spewing wine from her nose. Nearly dropping the amphora, she coughed, waving away the concern of the others as the gagging turned to a fit of laughter. “I’ve never had wine from anything but a proper cup,” she rasped.
“Your mother will be so appalled when I tell her,” Paulus said with a sly smile, and the others, save for Karan, laughed.
“Don’t you dare!” She handed the amphora to Karan. “Here, have some wine. You’ve earned it as much as any man of the legion.”
Karan took the clay container with reverent hands. “Only Masters have such things,” he said quietly. He took a sniff, then carefully took a small drink. Scrunching up his face, he handed it back. “This tastes good upon your tongue?”
The others laughed again. “It is what we call an acquired taste,” Paulus told him.
“So you don’t drink wine, do you?” Septimus asked, appalled.
“Swords are not given such things,” Karan told him. “Only Masters enjoy the fruit of the grape, and only the greatest among the Masters drink the fruit of the honey bee.”
“What kind of drink is that?” Paulus asked.
“Mead,” Pelonius said. “It has been with us since
before wine, and is made with honey rather than grapes.”
Valeria frowned. “Why do only these ‘greatest’ Masters drink it?”
“Because honey is rare to find, and deadly to gather. Many of my kind perish in the taking of it.”
“I’ve been stung,” Paulus said, shooting Valeria an accusing look. “It’s painful, but not that bad.”
“And there are ways of managing bees with relative safety,” Pelonius said, “with smoke, for instance.”
Karan pulled up the sleeve of his left arm. Amid the scars that crisscrossed the flesh was a deep circular crater as big across as his thumb was long. “The bees of these lands, perhaps, but not mine. When I was very young, I was among those chosen to gather honey and was stung. I returned with the honeycomb, but nearly died for my efforts.”
“By all the gods,” Pelonius whispered as he leaned closer to examine the wound.
“Rarely does one survive even a single sting,” Karan went on. “Because I lived, it was seen as a good omen and I was chosen as a Sword.”
“Forget the mead, then,” Septimus said with a grimace.
“You keep saying that you’re a Sword,” Paulus said. “Is that a caste or group? Are there other such groups of your people?”
Karan nodded. “My kind serves the Masters in different ways. Swords are trained for combat, for the sport and entertainment of the Masters, and as scouts in battle, but there has not been one in living memory. We are…privileged, given clean water and plenty of food that we may have strength to train and fight. Those of the other castes do not enjoy such things. Most suffer hard labor, and few live beyond twenty summers.”
That came as no surprise to anyone, for it was much the same for many Roman slaves. House slaves and, in some instances, slave gladiators, enjoyed certain privileges, even status. But most, particularly those consigned to working in the Empire’s mines, enjoyed brief, brutal lives.
“Did you know your mother and father?” Valeria asked.
“No child knows his parents. Most females are kept as breeders, shackled in cages except for mating with males chosen by the Masters. Once the young are weaned from the mother’s breast, they are given to a training caste that molds them like clay into the forms chosen by the Masters.”
“Even our slaves do not suffer so,” Valeria said in an agonized voice.
“The civilization of the Masters is almost like looking into a distorted reflection of our own,” Pelonius said in a thoughtful voice.
Paulus cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
Pelonius saw that Marcus was getting impatient with the course of the discussion, and raised his hand in a gesture of patience. “If we are to defeat this new enemy, we must first understand them. That is more important than tactics and formations.” Marcus granted him a reluctant nod, and Pelonius went on. “Let us consider Princess Valeria’s earlier supposition, that a second group of Survivors lived through Vulcan’s Fury and the Long Winter that followed it. Might they not have rebuilt their civilization along similar lines as our own?”
“Maybe,” Septimus countered, “but that doesn’t explain giants with two thumbs or bees with a sting that leaves a scar nearly the size of my thumb.”
“No,” Pelonius told him, “but we know the gods willed the birth of creatures such as Hercules just as they destroyed others. Perhaps the gods fashioned the Masters in the same way.”
“That’s not very comforting,” Paulus said quietly. “I don’t claim to know the will of the gods, but what if Vulcan’s Fury wasn’t the end of their wrath?”
That left everyone in an uncomfortable silence. Long held wisdom that had served the Empire over the many centuries since Vulcan’s hammer had struck the world, was that the gods had been wroth with men for having strayed, and that such must never happen again. The ancient pantheon was worshipped with great diligence and devotion, but over time, just as with Old Rome, new gods had begun to win the favor of men’s hearts, and more than one oracle had prophesied that Mankind was courting another, perhaps greater, Doom.
Valeria turned to Karan. “You obviously believe in gods, for you said that Hercules is one. Do the Masters have gods, as well?”
Nodding, Karan said, “They have their own. We do not worship them, nor do the Masters speak of them to us, so I do not know their names. But on the way to the Great Arena I have seen the temples erected in honor of those gods, and the blood of animals and those of our kind are given in sacrifice.” He shrugged. “Our own gods are of the world, of sun and sky, of the earth and moon.” He looked up at Hercules, who was still sleeping peacefully. “And of tooth and claw, that our spirits may find their way to the stars above.”
“So how does any of that help us?” Marcus growled, forestalling any more questions.
“It tells me that I’m way overdue in sacrificing a nice goat to Mars,” Septimus muttered.
Pelonius nodded. “Prayer and sacrifice are certainly in order, but the more practical implication is clear, and comes as no surprise to any of us: under no circumstances can we allow the Masters to cross the bridge in numbers. Imagine a legion of such beings as Karan described, backed by equally terrible versions of elephants and war horses.”
“Or worse,” Paulus said. “Just look what a single pack of dark wolves did to us. Who knows what other monstrosities they might be able to unleash on us?”
Marcus looked at Valeria and frowned.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I wish I had sent you back with the couriers,” he told her. “Had I any inkling of just how dangerous it could be for you here, even beyond this business with the dark wolves…”
“My place is here, centurion,” she said. Paulus, beside her, nodded in support. “We must learn and do all that we can to fortify this side of the bridge. Once that is done and we have had time to learn all we may from Karan, we’ll be ready to convince Father that the threat is real. Otherwise…” She laughed, but it was utterly without humor. “Otherwise, neither he nor anyone in the Senate will believe this. How could they? Even if we could capture a dark wolf and put it before the Senate, they will not believe.”
“But they must!” Paulus exclaimed.
“Accepting a truth that goes against all reason,” Pelonius explained, “is not something for which Senators are well known. Even if we could produce a living Master to parade before them, they would simply claim he was an aberration, a cruel jest of the gods, a modern day Cacus who stands alone. You know quite well that such jests by the deities, children born with malformed bodies, are not exactly rare. But an entire race of such creatures?” He shook his head. “No. They will not believe.”
“But my father will,” Valeria said with more than a tinge of vehemence.
“Yes, he will,” Pelonius agreed, “for which we must all be thankful. But the Emperor’s powers only extend so far. He can deploy the reserve legions here, but cannot move any from the provinces without express permission of the Senate or the soldiers will forfeit their pay.”
Marcus had heard enough. “Well, let’s leave that to the Emperor, shall we? It’s time we got some rest. Tomorrow is going to come early and we’ve a long way to go. Princess, I think we can manage a tent for you from what’s left of the supplies.”
“Thank you, but no, I’d rather stay here by the fire.”
“Suit yourself.” With a sigh, he got to his feet. “I’ve got to make my last rounds. Septimus, you take first watch. The rest of you get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Valeria awoke to the sounds of men shouting orders and curses as the legion began to strike camp in preparation for its march to the sea. Her body felt stiff as a plank, and every muscle ached. With a groan, she managed to prop herself up on her elbows to find Paulus grinning at her.
“About time you woke up,” he said. Handing her a spoon and wooden bowl filled with watery porridge, he added, “Since you didn’t seem too keen on meat, I got this for you from the cooks. It’s not o
f a quality of anything from your father’s table, but—”
“Who cares?” she interrupted, taking the bowl with a nod of thanks. She was famished, and even the thought of a hunk of meat was appealing. As she lifted the spoon to her mouth, careful to blow on the steaming porridge, her stomach growled loud enough to be heard above the organized bedlam of the camp.
“Such a lady,” Septimus quipped from nearby. He stood no more than a silhouette in the gathering twilight of morning.
“Oh, hush!” Looking around, she spotted Hercules close by, taking his own breakfast upon one of the dark wolf carcasses. Karan knelt beside him, his head bowed as if in prayer.
“He’s a queer one, he is,” Septimus observed. “And didn’t sleep a wink, either. He told me last night that he sleeps when he walks.”
Valeria paused in her very unladylike slurping of the porridge. “That’s impossible!”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Paulus said. More quietly, he added with all seriousness, “I think he may be a demigod sired by Mars.”
“Then we should count ourselves as doubly fortunate,” Pelonius said as he made his way to the fire. He had discarded his ruined tunic and had donned a full soldier’s uniform, which included a helmet that bore a bright red crest of horse hair running front to back.
“Pelonius,” Valeria said in a quizzical voice, “you do realize that you’re wearing the uniform and helmet of a tribune.” The rank of senior military tribune was typically second highest among a legion’s officers, answering only to the legatus, or commanding general.
The older man sighed. “That was my last rank before I left the Army long years ago.”
Valeria gaped. “You were a tribune?”
“I suspect this, too, falls into the category of stories for another time,” Paulus said with unabashed admiration.
“That it does, children,” Pelonius said with a smile. The smile faded. “But now I wear it as temporary legatus.”
“Wait,” Valeria said after a moment. “That means that…you are now in charge of Invictus, with Marcus as First Spear?”
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