Highlander: Shadow of Obsession

by Rebecca Neason

  The branches were lashed together into crudely shaped ladders by which the men would try to scale the walls. Their greatest weapons, however, were their numbers and, if necessary, their patience. Rome, that great and overpopulated city, had little within her walls to sustain her for long. If she could not be taken by force of arms, she could be starved into submission.

  Alaric did not hurry the men in their work; he knew that, as with the campfires last night, the sound of the army’s activities was a weapon itself. By the time the actual attack on the city came, the nerves of those within the walls would be fraying and mistakes would be more easily made.

  The sun had almost reached its zenith when the order to march finally came. Grayson’s face wore a grimace of anger that was close to pain as he watched the men, watched Darius, mounting their horses. Damn Callestina for her willfulness in being here and damn himself for his own stupidity in promising to keep her safe. His place was with Darius, watching Darius’s back, as he always did—not cowering in camp with some woman.

  But there was no help for it. He had given his word—perhaps in a moment of weakness, true—and keeping his word was part of the discipline that gave order to his life.

  The attack on Rome would go on without him.

  Forty thousand men, on horse or on foot, came down out of the hills. Grayson felt the earth shake with their passage; his heart pounded with their war cries. Even from where he stood, he could hear the answering cries from within the city.

  Or were they screams?

  Grayson strained his eyes to watch, to keep Darius in view as the army reached the city walls. He hardly noticed when Callestina came to stand beside him. No word was spoken; they both knew whom they watched, and why.

  The leaders of the Gothic army remained mounted, riding in all directions to shout orders and encouragement to the men. The gray wolfskin on Darius’s back shone like silver in the sun, making him easy to spot.

  A great pounding began to rend the air; the battering rams had reached the gates. The noise from the city increased as though in answer. Even from where Grayson stood, it sounded like a war within a war.

  Suddenly, from over the wall, poured a tide of spears. Gothic warriors fell, some wounded mortally, and others stepped into their places so quickly that the hole in the ranks seemed to disappear almost before it was made. Nothing would stop them today. Nothing.

  Grayson’s stomach churned as he watched fireballs, the dreaded weapon the Romans had learned from the Greeks, catapult over the walls. Horses reared, some throwing their riders; men screamed in agony as bits of the phosphorous fire fell on them. But still the Gothic army did not stop.

  The ladders went up to the walls. Men swarmed like ants up an anthill, like bees covering a hive. Soldiers, the great Roman Guards, massed at the top of the walls and fought them.

  And the tide of the Goths kept coming.

  The sound of the battering rams continued pounding, pounding, like the giant heartbeat of the earth itself.

  Suddenly, one of the gates opened. It was not shattered—it was opened from within. The army began to pour into the sudden gap like a dark river. Grayson looked around frantically, trying to spot Darius. The Immortal leader was near the gate, sword held high. In a moment, Grayson knew he would be through the opening and out of sight.

  Grayson felt his own sword thrust into his hands. He turned and found Callestina staring at him with eyes as bright as any fire, fierce as a wild animal about to strike. She looked like a warrior’s goddess.

  “Go to him,” she ordered, not bothering to say the name they both knew. “Keep him safe.”

  “But you—” Grayson began. She shook her head.

  “Go,” she ordered again.

  Grayson needed no further urging. He ran to his horse and, with a single leap, he was astride.

  He glanced once more at Callestina. She stood where he had left her, the sunlight making her blond hair look like a mantle of gold draping a fair and perfect statue.

  Then the statue moved; Callestina raised her arm in a salute, a farewell, a benediction. Grayson raised his sword high in return. Sunlight sparked along the blade as he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and galloped toward the battle.

  Callestina did not move as she watched Grayson ride into the crush of men. Her heart was pounding with the words she had spoken. Go to him, keep him safe, it repeated over and over. The words, the plea, were in her breath; it was part of the blood that rushed through her veins.

  Keep him safe…

  Darius….

  Callestina saw Grayson ride through the gate and into Rome itself—and she felt like someone suddenly blinded. Outside the walls the battle still raged, but she did not care. Everything—everyone—she cared about was within the city now and cut off from her.

  She began to pace restlessly, needing movement to stay sane. There was nothing she could do but wait—and waiting was an enemy against whom there was no weapon.

  Bright afternoon turned to starlit evening and still the sounds of battle raged from within the city. Callestina made a fire and tried to cook some food, only to let it burn while she stood watching the distance, waiting for a rider to bring her news. It seemed, however, that she was forgotten. No word, either good or bad, came her way as the hours dragged on. Uncertainty was near to driving her mad.

  Finally, Callestina knew she could bear it no longer. She must know that Darius still lived. Frantically, she began to search through the belongings the army had left behind. Somewhere, she knew, there would be an extra sword she could carry. She did not fool herself with the thought of giving great battle, but she would not enter the city helpless and unarmed.

  She found a short sword wrapped in a bedroll. Barely longer than a dagger, it was an ornate weapon, with gold wash upon a hilt set with rubies and lapis lazuli and etching that ran down the length of the blade. Callestina guessed it was a prize taken at the destruction of Ravenna.

  She lifted it, turning it this way and that, slicing through the air to feel the weight in her hand. It was too light and short a weapon for a man to carry into battle, but it fitted both her arm and her strength. With a smile, Callestina slipped it through her belt.

  She was ready.

  Quickly now, she braided her hair and tied it back with a scrap of leather. Then she ran to her horse and mounted it quickly.

  “Oh, great goddesses,” she prayed, “whatever awaits, guide me to my destiny.”

  Though brief, her prayer was fervent and she knew the Norns had heard. With the eyes of her soul, she could almost see the threads they were weaving and the shining strand down which she would ride. Gathering up her courage, she turned her horse toward Rome.

  She rode down the hills without incident, for the battle had taken itself inside the walls. But once she passed through the gate, it was like entering a madman’s nightmare. Rome was a holocaust of fire and blood.

  Callestina had seen the aftermath of battles before; she lived among a warrior people. But she had never entered a destroyed city, not even Ravenna when she was following the army. Somehow, seeing the dead litter the city streets and hearing the screams of the living echo off city walls made a more horrible scene than the same dead in an open field or forest.

  These dead were not only warriors, though the bodies of the Roman Guards were numerous; these dead were everyday people who, from the looks on their faces, had been unprepared to die. Women, children, landowners, slaves—unarmed and unprotected—lay side by side with the soldiers whose bloodstained weapons had not saved their lives or their city.

  Light from the fires that raged through the buildings gave the night a surreal cast painted in hellish shades of orange and red. Smoke muddied the air. Off in the distance, deep in the heart of the city, Callestina could hear the sounds of battle still ringing in the clash of swords, the war cries and shouts of men, the screams of wounded horses and the higher screams caused by wounded human flesh.

  She drew out the sword that she had found a
nd moved forward, gritting her teeth to keep from screaming as a woman dashed in front of her carrying a long knife. The front of her dress was soaked in blood. Her eyes were hollows of madness. Callestina saw the slave collar around her throat and wondered, briefly, from whom she had escaped—and how. Had death bought her freedom?

  Callestina rode on, urging her nervous horse forward when its instinct, like hers, was to turn and run. Nearer and nearer they drew to the sounds of fighting. It was only her need to know of Darius’s safety, to see him with her own eyes, that kept her moving.

  The bodies of the dead gave way to the bodies of the dying. Some made pitiful mewling sounds as she passed, reaching out to her for succor. Others screamed or cursed as they tried to drag their shattered bodies farther out of harm’s way.

  The stillness of death had also disappeared; slaves and beggars dashed about. Freed from the constraints of society, many had their arms loaded with wealth they had known only in their dreams. Others carried makeshift weapons or stolen swords by which to claim bloody payment for each past moment of pain, indignity, and injustice.

  Suddenly, a man grabbed the reins of Callestina’s horse. She moved by instinct and brought her sword down, slashing with all the strength of her fear. The man’s hand came away at the wrist. He fell back with a scream, his blood gushing crimson.

  Callestina drove her heels hard into her horse’s sides. It shot forward; she struggled to stay astride, despite the bile that rose in her throat. Her horse, finally given its head, charged ahead. Callestina struggled to stay astride, though trembling shook her body and her stomach threatened to disgorge its contents with each movement. Her horse ran and she hung on, uncaring of the direction.

  The battle was up ahead—or was it a battle? Callestina could see that some still fought, but many busied themselves with loot and rape.

  Where is Darius? her heart screamed as her horse continued its wild gallop. Her eyes searched frantically through the mad, twisted scene. Still, she did not see him.

  Her horse shied and reared as a javelin whizzed past its head. Callestina held on, pressing her arms against the horse’s neck to regain control and urge it forward, into the fray. The fighting closed around her, enveloped her, and she began to use her small sword once more.

  Then, up ahead, she spotted him. Darius lifted his head with laughter as his sword drove through a Roman Guard. The look on his face was one Callestina had never seen. It was a look of lust gone bestial.

  His arm came up again. He hacked and stabbed, howling a war cry that made Callestina’s heart freeze. How could this be the man she loved?

  And yet it was. It was.

  She felt the pain shoot through her, sudden and hot as fire. Callestina looked down and saw the arrow in her chest. Her eyes widened with disbelief; she felt her strength draining. So fast…

  “Darius,” she screamed once, using the last of the energy left in her body.

  The darkness closed in…

  She fell….

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Callestina did not feel the arms that caught her, that lifted her body and carried her away from the battle. She felt nothing.

  There is no feeling in death….

  With a sudden gasp, air forced itself into her lungs. Once. Twice. She was breathing…

  She opened her eyes slowly, afraid to see what strange afterlife awaited her.

  There was a ceiling high over her head, decorated with blue and white mosaic tile, like clouds drifting in a summer sky. A male figure, bright with gold and wearing a crown of thunderbolts, filled the center of the scene.

  Callestina opened her eyes a little farther. She turned her head to see… Grayson. He sat upon the floor a few feet from her body. His head was bowed and his shoulders slumped as if he carried a great burden.

  Where is this place? she wondered. It did not fit the description of any afterlife she knew. And why was Grayson here? Was he also dead? Was…

  “Darius?” She breathed her question in his name.

  Grayson looked up. He scurried quickly to her side and gently lifted her hand into his own.

  “He is unharmed.”

  Grayson’s words sent a Hood of relief through Callestina. She closed her eyes again and let the feeling warm her. Darius was safe; whatever awaited her now, she could face it with this knowledge.

  “Where?” she asked softly. She did not want to move yet, not until she knew what was to come.

  “This place?” Grayson glanced around. “A temple to Zeus, I think. Holy ground—you’re safe here.”

  “Safe? But the arrow… I’m…”

  “Dead?” Grayson shook his head and with a small, ironic smile said, “No, Callestina, you’re not dead. No arrow can kill you.”

  Callestina brought her hand up to her chest. The arrow was gone, but more—the wound itself was no longer there. Blood still stained the front of her tunic, but the skin beneath was whole and firm and her touch caused no pain.

  Her fingers trembled as she took them away. “I… I don’t understand.”

  Grayson gave another small smile. It was softer this time. “No, of course you do not,” he said. “But you will.

  “You are Immortal, Callestina—as am I, as is Darius. We live among mortals, that is true, but our destiny is different.”

  “Our Destiny” Callestina repeated. Then she started to laugh.

  Grayson felt bewildered and helpless as he watched Callestina laugh. She kept laughing until tears streamed from her eyes and her breath came in short, ragged gasps.

  “The Norns,” she said at last. “The Norns did this to me. The Goddesses of Destiny—it is their way of answering my petitions.”

  Callestina sat up and looked Grayson full in the face. There was a fierce light burning in her eyes that made him wonder if she teetered on the edge of madness.

  “They say the gods have no humor, Grayson,” she said to him, “but that is not so. They play with human lives as best amuses them.”

  Grayson had no idea of the meaning behind her words. One god or many, he had left such beliefs behind long ago.

  “Don’t you see?” Callestina continued, black laughter threatening once more in her voice. “I prayed to the Norns, the old goddesses my people served before the Christian God, and I made sacrifice to them in the ancient Women’s Way. I wanted my destiny to be joined with Darius. Now they have changed me into—this.”

  Grayson shook his head. “They have changed nothing,” he said. “You were born Immortal, Callestina. We all are.”

  “Who? Alaric? My people? Who is this we?”

  Again, Grayson shook his head. “No, Alaric is not Immortal,” he said. “But there are others. Not among this army, but in other lands, other places. And there is much you must learn if you are to survive.”

  “Survive? You said I was Immortal.”

  “Against such things as arrow wounds, yes,” he said. “Against old age and illness. But there is one way of death, and of that you must learn.”

  Grayson took a breath. He wished Darius were here to better explain. Grayson knew he did not have Darius’s way with words or with people. But Callestina had to know—and he had to tell her. He had given his word to keep her safe in her mortal life—but he had failed; he would not fail her now, as her Immortal life began.

  “We are born Immortal,” he said again. “No one knows how or why, but it is true. Death comes to us only one way…”

  The Game—Grayson explained its rules and its reasons. He told Callestina about the need for a sword and why she must carry one, about holy ground, their only true refuge of safety. Finally, he explained that in the end there can be only one—one Immortal to claim all Power; one Immortal who would rule throughout time.

  As he talked, Grayson watched the emotions play across Callestina’s face. First came the shock and disbelief, then the question whether he might be insane to speak such words. But she could not deny that she was alive, and disbelief slowly gave way to acceptance, even to excitemen
t at what her new life might offer.

  Oh, he could guess what she was thinking. She imagined centuries, eons, forever, by Darius’s side. But even if Darius had loved her now, and Grayson knew he did not, eternal love was a mortal concept. When life was so finite, forever was a word of hope.

  But not for Immortals. In the end there can be only one.

  Grayson knew he would not say these things to Callestina. She would learn; they all did. For now, this ever so short now, let her keep her illusions.

  “Rome has fallen,” he said, standing abruptly and holding out a hand to help her rise. “Alaric and Darius are within the Imperial Palace. The looting will go on, perhaps for days, depending upon their mood. Come, we must get you back to camp.”

  “But why?” Callestina asked. “If I am truly in no danger, why should I not go join my brother?”

  Grayson stared at her as she put her hand in his. It was smooth and white, with long tapering fingers and nails as delicate as tiny pink shells. She came to her feet with almost liquid grace. Grayson’s eyes roved down her body, down the generous curves the man’s clothing she wore did so little to hide. He wondered if her naïveté was feigned.

  “There is still danger, Callestina,” he said. “Rome is in revolt. The gates were opened to us—from within, by slaves who saw in our presence the means of their freedom. Do you think that they, who have killed their own masters and who run through the streets drunk on the heady nectar of revenge, will hesitate at rape?”

  Callestina’s eyes grew wide and then angry. “I am Alaric’s sister,” she began.

  Grayson snorted, a single dismissive sound. “From your own men that might save you—if they took the time to recognize who you are. But from the others in this city, from the slaves roaming free, from young men who have escaped the sword, from soldiers who have defected from protecting Rome—do you think any of these care that you are Alaric’s sister?”

  Grayson shook his head. “No, Callestina,” he said. “We must get you out of the city and back to the camp. Alaric and Darius are too busy to accord you any protection—and how long the madness in the streets will continue, I cannot say. Your brother is intent upon teaching the Romans a lesson in the might of Gothic fury, and the men are eager to comply.”