Callestina nodded silently and Grayson was glad she gave no further argument. Once she was safely back in the hills, he would be done with his duty toward her and he could return to fighting at Darius’s side.
The place where he belonged.
He bent and picked up the short, ornate sword he had found clutched in her hand when she fell. It was a pretty piece of work, but it would not keep her alive through the centuries. Soon she would have to find another and she would have to learn how to use it. But that was a problem for another day.
“Here,” he said, holding the sword out to her and drawing his own. “Stay close.”
Grayson had brought the horses inside the temple, unwilling to lose them to rioters. They waited patiently by the door, no doubt glad to be away from the chaos. Grayson’s horse nickered softly as he approached, and before mounting Grayson took a moment to run a practiced hand down its legs, checking for strains and injuries he might have previously missed.
Callestina was already mounted by the time he was finished. He gave her a brief nod of approval as he opened the great temple doors and swung himself into the saddle.
“Stay close,” he told her again. “Keep your sword drawn. If anyone comes close, use it.”
Without further word, he led the way through the temple doors and out into the madness that was Rome.
Darius strode through the ornate corridors of the Imperial Palace. Although his sword was still in his hand, the fighting was nearly over. Most of the famed Praetorian Guards lay as mangled heaps of dead flesh, overrun by the force and number of Gothic swords. The few who remained were holed up in the inner council chamber with the Emperor and several of the Roman Senators.
Walking next to Darius, Alaric was smiling. His soot- and blood-streaked face turned the expression into a primal war mask; his eyes, red from smoke, looked painted in fire and his gapped, yellow teeth seemed the grin of a death’s-head. But his spirits soared.
They had taken the palace; they had taken Rome.
“Do we go for Honorius, then?” Darius asked him, returning his grin and knowing that his own face made an equally gruesome vision.
Alaric shook his head. “Let him wait,” he said. “Let them all wait. Let them cower in their chamber while they listen to the screams and breathe in the smells of death from their city. Let them wait while hunger and fear take turns gnawing at their bellies. Honorius will not say no to me again, I promise you that.”
Darius’s smile broadened. He was as amused as ever by the mortals surrounding him. Their lives, their deaths, their victories and defeats, all fed his own plans—plans of which they had no inkling. Only Grayson knew of the world Darius envisioned.
It was a world Darius would rule and mortals would serve.
Oh, Darius knew that Grayson still held to his dream, despite all the times Darius had told him that such was foolishness. But just lately, the possibility had begun to whisper within Darius’s mind as well.
An army of Immortals—vast, unstoppable.
A kingdom, an Empire, ruled by Immortals that stretched across the earth.
The thought, if he let himself think it, was intoxicating. Perhaps, just perhaps, it might work.
The time for that world might be nearing—but it was not yet. Darius had watched empires rise and fall while he studied their mortal inhabitants. He had fought by their sides while he watched for weaknesses that could be used. And he waited.
For over three centuries now he had waited, prepared, grown stronger with each Quickening, as the tide of human history ebbed and flowed. He knew that soon it would crest—and he would ride that crest to domination.
Once more, Darius thought of the dream Grayson had proposed so often in the decades they had been together. Could it be? he asked himself. They lived The Game, facing one another in battle. They did not bond together in a common cause. But with the right leader—perhaps…
And he was that leader. If he could win their loyalty, as he had won Grayson’s, he would make them see that ruling the world was the greatness for which they were destined.
There would still be mortals enough for menial tasks, the front-line fodder, the servants and slaves; mortals had been Darius’s tools for centuries. But the Immortals who joined him would be generals, princes, Kings.
And he would be at their head.
He would kill those he must; he did not fool himself into thinking Immortal loyalty was easily given. Yet, some would join him; enough would join him. Against an army of Immortals, what could a mortal army hope to do?
And if in the end there could be only one… Darius intended to be the one that remained.
Darius laughed out loud. Yes, it was good to be alive—and to be Immortal.
“Come, my friend,” he said to Alaric. “While we leave Honorius to do battle with his fears, let us find the kitchens and the wine cellars before they are cleaned out. No doubt the vintages served to the Emperor will be very pleasing indeed.”
“We will drink to our first night in the Imperial Palace,” Alaric agreed. “The first of many.”
Darius clapped Alaric on the back. “The first of many,” he repeated, laughing again at the unsuspecting irony of Alaric’s words.
As they strode down the palace corridors, Darius wondered after Grayson. He did not fear for his friend’s safety—Grayson’s skill with a sword was almost, almost, as great as Darius’s own—but he missed the man’s company. Grayson, alone, would understand the true nature of his laughter, and that understanding was the greatest bond between them.
Hurry back, Grayson, he thought to his absent friend. Our time to be patient is nearly ended, and we have new plans to make.
Chapter Twenty-four
For three more days, the pillage of Rome continued. Alaric’s only orders to his men were, as always, that the Christian churches be spared; Darius ordered that all holy places were to be left in peace. The lucky of the Roman citizens found surcease from the violence within those walls.
But there was carnage in plenty. Rome burned as it had not since the time of Nero. Not the conquest of Egypt or of Gaul, nor the madness of Caligula, had caused so many deaths.
Grayson divided his time between the hours with Darius and traveling back to Callestina’s camp to make certain of her safety. Although nothing in her words or actions showed that her attitude toward him had changed, his own feelings had only heightened since seeing her lie so still and fragile in death and being with her at the moment of her awakening into Immortality. He felt compelled to go to her. driven by a bond between them that he knew she did not yet feel.
And she would run to him as soon as she saw him approaching—but never for his own sake. She came to him always with the same questions: What news of Darius? Is he safe? Why doesn’t he send for her? The questions ate at Grayson’s heart, yet he answered them and continued to keep his growing feelings for Callestina hidden.
Yes, Darius was safe. He had laughed when he learned of Callestina’s fall. Beyond that, he did not spare her a thought. He was too busy amusing himself with the treasures and whores of Rome while he awaited Alaric’s next gambit, which the Gothic leader assured him would be a true coup de grâce.
Grayson told none of this to Callestina. Instead, he told her of the chaos that still filled the Roman streets. Darius and Alaric, he said, had been busy restoring order and preparing their demands for the Emperor. These were not petitions such as they had presented before, but the demands of conquerors that must be worded carefully if conciliation was to take place.
Callestina accepted everything Grayson told her. Sometimes, when he looked into the blue depths of her eyes, he felt a twist of guilt grip his heart. He hated lying to her. He wished Darius would come to Callestina himself and put an end to the girl’s pitiful dreams of a future together.
And if he told her the truth about Darius? Grayson knew Callestina would never believe him. So he continued the charade—but for whose sake? he wondered. For Darius’s? Surely not; Darius did not care.
For Callestina’s? Perhaps. She did not love him, but she was coming to trust him and eagerly awaited his visits each day.
There was the truth. He did not tell her the truth about the person Darius was for his own sake. He liked to see the eagerness on Callestina’s face when he approached. He wanted the hours they spent so well together. The gentleness in her voice when she spoke to him was unlike their past conversations, which had been only what courtesy demanded. Now there were smiles that he alone saw and that he thought of often during the hours they were apart.
These would all disappear once she knew the truth of Darius’s plans—and that she had no place in them.
Darius’s plans—Grayson thought of them as he rode once more up the hill toward Callestina’s camp. Not tomorrow or the next day, but very soon they would leave Alaric behind and begin gathering their new army of Immortals. Finally. Darius had said so just last night, and with each passing hour Grayson felt himself more eager for that day to arrive.
But what of Callestina? something deep in his heart whispered—and he knew the answer. If Callestina survived these next few years, her pace in Darius’s kingdom would be small. She would be one of a hundred, or a thousand, women Darius used or cast off at a whim.
Grayson wanted to be sure she survived. Each day he drilled her with her small sword. In the few hours they had, he could not teach her enough to keep her alive throughout the centuries, but it was a beginning and Callestina was a good student. Grayson knew he taught her for a selfish reason—he taught her in the hope that someday she would turn to him for comfort, perhaps even for love.
She was waiting, sword in hand, when he approached. She smiled and dropped into the slight crouch that imitated the posture her brother used when circling an opponent. Grayson laughed as he drew his own sword and swung himself from his saddle.
“So, little Callestina, you are impatient today,” he said, keeping his sword raised and slowly turning to match her movements.
“Bored, mostly.” she answered. “I practice the things you’ve shown me, but there is so little to do here alone. When may I come into Rome?”
“Today,” Grayson replied, smiling. “I will take you back with me today.”
“Finally,” Callestina cried—and she lunged.
Three hours later, Grayson and Callestina rode through the broken gates of Rome. Callestina had grown increasingly quiet as they neared the city, and now all words left her. She could only look away in horror as they passed the bloated and stinking bodies that lay where they had fallen, rotting in the hot Italian sun. Rats, their bellies distended with fresh meat, scurried everywhere and smoke still hung like a putrid haze among the buildings.
Why would anyone want Rome now? Callestina wondered as their horses picked their way through the ruinous streets.
When they reached the Imperial Palace, Alaric was waiting for them. Callestina hardly noticed her brother; by his side stood Darius. In Callestina’s eyes, the trampled gardens, the bloodstained tiles and steps, all faded away. She saw only Darius. Standing in the sunlight, with the soft breeze lifting the hair from his shoulders and the Imperial Palace at his back, he looked regal, almost godlike, in her eyes. He smiled at her and for a moment Callestina’s breath caught in her throat. He was so beautiful, so perfect.
Next to Darius, Alaric held out his arms to her, and with the movement, the moment was shattered.
“Callestina,” Alaric shouted, hurrying down the palace steps. Gone was any sign of the anger her presence had caused him. He reached her horse and, as she started to slide from the saddle, caught her and twirled her around twice before letting her feet touch the ground.
“Well, my sister,” he said, smiling broadly at her. “What do you say of your brother now?”
“The same as I have always said, Alaric,” she replied, returning his smile. ‘That you can do anything you say you can do.”
She was proud of him, of this man whom she had called brother all of her life. He had promised his people he would conquer and he had given them Rome. But she knew now that she had been a foundling and that she and Alaric bore no blood together. Alaric, twelve years her senior, had never said a word or treated her as anything but the sister of his body. Her eyes filled with sudden tears at his kindness.
Alaric saw them and frowned. “Tears, Callestina?” he said. “Not for Rome, surely.”
“No, my brother, not for Rome. Tears are a woman’s way in more than sadness. They are tears of pride, and of joy, that you have always kept your word.”
“Hmmph.” Alaric looked away, embarrassed as ever by such emotion. “Women’s ways are unfathomable, hey, Darius?” he said over her head.
“One of the true mysteries of the universe,” Darius agreed.
Alaric pulled Callestina briefly into one of his gruff bear hugs. When he released her, he smiled at her once more.
“Come, sister,” he said. “I am not yet done humbling Rome, and I want you, as my only family, to share this last victory with me.”
He put an arm around Callestina’s shoulders and began to lead her back up the stairs and into the palace. She glanced over her shoulder to see if Darius was following, but he was deep in conversation with Grayson.
As she watched, Grayson nodded once, then swung himself back into the saddle. He and Darius exchanged a few more intent words. As Grayson turned his horse and began to ride away, Darius hurried after Callestina and Alaric, his long strides quickly covering the distance that separated them.
He smiled at Callestina, but said not a word as he began to walk beside her. His smile had been pleasant enough, but there was a warmth missing from his eyes. Callestina wanted to throw herself into his arms and kiss him until she saw the fire of desire burning brightly again. Yet, with Alaric’s arm around her shoulder, she could do nothing more than struggle to keep up with the pace the two men set.
They walked down the many twists and turns of the corridors. Callestina saw that most of the palace had been left untouched by looters. Statues stood unbroken in their niches—busts of past Caesars and images of gods—plaques, some adorned with gold and precious stones, still hung upon the walls, as did finely woven tapestries. The beauty of the tiled floor over which they moved so swiftly was marred by stains of blood, but no bodies remained. For this, Callestina was grateful; she had seen enough of death.
They reached the inner chamber where the Emperor Honorius awaited them. He sat upon the great carved and gilded chair. Those who were left of the Senators and bodyguard, all worn and bedraggled, ranged around him like the tattered petals of a dying flower. Honorius, alone, drew himself up straight when Alaric entered, striving at least for a moment to look like something other than the defeated ruler of a conquered city.
But the pose lasted only a moment. Soon his shoulders slumped and he hung his head once more. Too weary to even meet Alaric’s eye, Honorius rested his forehead on the heel of his hand.
“Name the terms it will take for you to leave us in peace,” he said, every nuance of his voice announcing how much he wished this meeting over.
Alaric stepped forward. As he neared the Emperor’s throne, the few members of the Imperial Bodyguard who remained moved to place themselves between Alaric and the Emperor. Honorius waved them away with a weary gesture.
“Speak, Alaric of the Goths.” he said.
Alaric waited a moment more, waited to show that he, and not Honorius, controlled the day. Callestina was again proud of her brother, and she sensed, even if Honorius did not, that he would soon wish he had not been so eager for Alaric’s words.
“Honorius of Rome,” Alaric began, his great booming voice filling the room, “weeks ago I sent you terms. Had you accepted then, we would have dealt with you in honor and our nations would now be living together in peace. It was you who chose to deny my message and to kill my messenger. It was you who chose this war. On your head lies the death of your people and the destruction of your city. It is your family who must, therefore, bear the price of your people
’s redemption.
“The majority of my terms are unchanged. My people demand full Roman citizenship, with all the rights and privileges such status accords. In return, our arms shall be made ready in defense of the Empire and of Rome herself. We also demand land of our choosing on which to settle our kingdom—and so that we might settle in prosperity, you will pay us four thousand pounds of gold and two thousand of silver. This we demand from the Roman Empire as tribute to their conquerors.
“But it is from you, Honorius, and from your house, that our final term of peace must be paid. I demand the union of our families by the hand of your sister, Galla Placidia, in marriage. By this, the world will see the place of honor the Visigoths hold in the Roman Empire, and only by this will a contract of peace between us be sealed.”
A collective gasp ran through the room. Callestina was as shocked as the rest of them by her brother’s words. But then she smiled; it was a bold and daring stroke.
Honorius’s eyes had grown wide and his face blanched. He came slowly to his feet as the chalk of his cheeks changed into the high flush of rage.
“Never,” he cried. “I will not soil my family line with the blood of barbarians. I will never—”
“I accept,” a voice shouted from the back of the room. A woman pushed herself through the tired collection of men behind the Emperor’s throne. Callestina looked her over. Placidia’s face was dirty and her clothes wrinkled from three days of wear, but her bearing was royal. It was easy to see that the blood of the Caesars ran more true in her than in her brother, despite who sat on the throne.
“For the sake of my people, I accept,” she said again. She turned to Honorius. “Because of your weakness and your arrogance, our people lie dead in the streets. Children wander, crying for parents who can no longer answer, and our beautiful Rome smolders in ash and destruction. Fool that you are, you listened only to the counsel of fools who had no care for anything but their own pockets. I care for our people, and I care for Rome.”
Highlander: Shadow of Obsession Page 16