She turned and crossed the few steps to Alaric. Though her head reached only his shoulder and his bearlike frame made her look delicate as a child’s toy, it was clear she had a spirit strong enough to match his.
She held out her hand and he took it gently. “I accept,” she said one more time. “Let us be wed in the morning.”
Behind her, Honorius sank slowly back into his seat, well and truly defeated.
Callestina looked at her brother, smiling down at Placidia’s face. It’s over, she thought. We’ve won. Now there will be time for peace—and time for love.
She looked over at Darius, but he was not looking at the handfast couple or the room full of men. His gaze seemed to be seeking something far away, something only he could see.
Do you look to the future, Darius? Callestina wondered. What do you see? Do you see a time to put down your sword, despite this Game of which Gray son spoke? I have dreamed of the future also—and I know that ours will be such a love as the gods themselves will envy.
Callestina smiled. Tonight she would go to Darius, wherever he was. She was Alaric’s sister in all but blood, and if her brother could be bold enough to face the Roman Empire and win what he desired, she could do the same with the man she loved.
Chapter Twenty-five
They washed themselves in Roman baths, attended by Imperial servants. They were given royal apartments filled with soft cushions and sheets of eastern silk. This was the life of which Alaric dreamed and for which he had fought. Soon, he would call the rest of his people south and he would Romanize the Gothic nation.
That was not what Darius wanted. He had lived among the Romans two centuries before—as he had lived among the Persians and the Chinese. He had, at different times during his Immortal life, traveled throughout the East and down into Africa, and he had seen warriors grow soft with too much luxury and warmth.
His travels always brought him back to the north, back to the lands of the Gothic kingdoms. His heart drew him home to where men shunned a life that would turn their muscles into jelly, to where what was prized was a strong arm and a sharp sword—back to the place where even the wind and the rain, the snow and the storm, were enemies to be conquered and friends to be embraced. In the north, men knew that the struggle to survive kept a man’s mind sharp and his body hard.
It was back to the north Darius longed to go now.
He paced the confines of his room, of his ornate cage, waiting for Grayson to return from his errand. Darius had sent him to spread the word among their own men to meet them at the gates at dawn. Darius had fulfilled the call of friendship by fighting at Alaric’s side and helping the mortal win his heart’s desire. Now it was time to be gone; Darius wanted nothing more than to put all of the obligations and associations of the long winter past to rest.
Those of his men who wished to stay with Alaric could do so with Darius’s blessing. Darius was heading toward the destiny he had been born to fulfill and he wanted no one with him who would be pining after warmer climes or deserted women.
He could feel the call of that destiny pulsing in his veins, calling him north again. He would soon establish a kingdom such as the world had never seen. It would be the kingdom from which he would conquer and rule.
Darius planned to leave Rome no later than dawn—earlier, if Grayson could have the men ready. Darius had no desire to see this farce of a royal wedding. He’d had enough of mortal concerns and mortal desires. If only Grayson would return…
Darius felt the approach of another Immortal. There was a knock on his door and he spun around eagerly.
“Enter,” he called, expecting Grayson to walk in, and to see him wearing the smile lie so rarely showed to the world.
The door opened slightly—and it was Callestina who slipped inside.
She stood still and quiet for the barest moment, then she ran to him and threw herself into his arms. It was instinct rather than desire that made him catch her. When her lips closed hungrily upon his own, it was his body that responded, not his mind—or his heart.
The kiss ended and he disengaged her arms from his neck. She stood smiling at him, and Darius could see that she was waiting for him to speak. What was it the girl wanted from him now?
“Why are you here, Callestina?” he asked, not bothering to keep the frown from his face or his voice.
“I’ve come to talk about the future,” she answered. “Our future.”
“What do you mean?” Darius’s voice was sharp. He did not care, not anymore. He wanted to be gone from the place—and he wanted her gone from his life.
“It’s all right, Darius.” Callestina’s voice was light and cheerful, oblivious to the look of distaste that was spreading across his features. “I’m like you now—Immortal. We can talk openly with each other. The fighting is done. We’ve won against Rome and now our people can live in peace. We can live in peace—together.”
Darius saw the eagerness in Callestina’s eyes. He could feel the shape and the force of the fantasy she had built in her mind. He threw back his head and laughed.
“Like me?” he said, his voice heavy with scorn. “You’re nothing like me. You—with your petty little dreams. You dare to think you have ever been a match for me?”
He laughed again. It was a cruel and biting sound. “There is no peace, Callestina,” he continued. “Not for our kind. We must live by the sword until at last only one of us remains. That will not change, no matter what mortal empires rise or fall.”
“But there is peace now.”
“Peace.” Darius spat the word. “We are not creatures of peace. You will learn that—or you will die.”
Callestina had never heard him speak in such a way, and Darius could see the traces of fear growing in her eyes, replacing the happiness that had been there just seconds before.
Darius was glad to see the change. It was time and past that she knew the truth. By the gods, why had she followed him? Why couldn’t she have stayed where she belonged and saved him from this—annoyance?
“You say we may speak openly with each other,” he said, not softening his tone. “Then let us do so. We have no future together, Callestina. None. You were only a diversion to fill the long winter. Nothing more—never anything more. Well, the winter is over now, and you are boring.”
Callestina backed away from him. She looked as if he had struck her. Darius did not care. He was tired of being genial to fools.
“I… I don’t believe you,” Callestina stammered. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper. “I love you—and you love me. You said—”
“Never. I have never said a word of love or made a promise of anything more than the moment. If you thought otherwise, then you are as much a fool as that man you call brother.”
Again there was a knock on the door, this time hesitant and deferential.
“Come,” Darius snapped, and a young woman entered, carrying a tray of wine and food. Her downcast eyes and the slave collar around her throat proclaimed her status, and the belted, thin linen shift she wore did nothing to hide the ripe perfection of her body.
Darius looked at her with a satisfied, predatory smile. He would make Callestina understand the finality of his words. He waited until the slave had placed the tray on the table and turned to leave the room. Then he grabbed her around her narrow waist and pulled her to him, one of his hands coming up to fondle her breast.
Callestina shook her head slowly from side to side, as if the action could make what she was seeing untrue.
“No,” she said. “Darius, don’t. We’re meant to be together. Everything I’ve done has been so we could be together.”
“Everything you have done has been for your own sake. But don’t worry, little Callestina. I’m sure you will have no trouble finding someone else who can satisfy your lust. There is no great secret to it—after all, you’re just a woman. Go away, Callestina-—I’m tired of you.”
She took another step back from him. Then another. “I’ll go to Alaric,” she said.
“I’ll tell him how you used me. He’ll make you marry me.”
Once more, Darius threw back his head with laughter. “Do you think I have any fear of your brother—of any mortal? Go—and perhaps in a century or two, if you survive that long, we will meet again.”
Tears gathered in Callestina’s eyes. “I’ll survive,” she said, “if only to repay you back for this moment. Somehow, I’ll find a way to make you suffer.”
She turned and fled—and Darius’s laughter followed her out the door.
Callestina ran from Darius’s room, down the corridor—and straight into Grayson. He caught her before she could run from him, too.
“I warned you, Callestina,” he said, not bothering to ask where she had been. Her tears told the tale eloquently.
She tried to pull away, but he would not let her go. “You won’t stop him—and neither will Alaric,” he continued, guessing at her destination and intent.
Damn him, Callestina thought, how does he always know?
She stopped struggling, and Grayson loosened his grip slightly. “Let it go, Callestina,” he said. “It is over. You cannot force love from an unwilling heart. But you have so much ahead of you now—centuries of life and love. Learn to use your sword well, so that you can live all the possibilities that await.”
Callestina looked into Grayson’s eyes. The intensity of his gaze had darkened his pale blue-gray eyes to the color of smoke on a winter’s night, and she wondered what more he was not saying.
And she knew he was right. She had to let Darius go—for now. But only until she was strong enough in her new life to follow him.
She nodded briefly and turned her face away. Grayson dropped his hands from her arms.
“Good-bye, little Callestina,” he said softly.
There was such an odd tone in his voice that Callestina looked up quickly, but Grayson had already turned on his heel and was walking away. Callestina fell a shiver race through her. She knew that she would see both Grayson and Darius again.
Someday.
She had time…
Grayson walked into Darius’s room without stopping to knock. He found the other Immortal staring broodingly into a goblet of wine.
“The men will be at the gate,” Grayson said without preamble. “Many seemed nearly as eager as you are to depart.”
“And you?” Darius asked, not bothering to look up.
Grayson shrugged. He crossed the room and poured himself some of the wine from the pitcher that stood near Darius’s elbow.
“I go where you go,” he said. “It makes no difference where that happens to be.”
Darius finally looked up and smiled with his usual wry amusement. “You’re a liar, Grayson,” he said. “But your lies are welcome ones. I know you did not want to come here and you’ve wanted to leave since we arrived.” Darius downed his wine and stood. “So let us depart this place and leave mortal affairs behind us. We have other, better things ahead.”
Grayson downed his wine too. Then, side by side, they strode from the room.
Over the last days they had become familiar with the Imperial Palace and it did not take them long to go to the room where they had stabled the horses. As Grayson swung onto the back of his stallion, it seemed to him as if the animals were just as eager to be off. Darius must have sensed it too, for he laughed and reached down to pat his own horse’s neck.
“To the gate, then,” he said to Grayson, “and then north—to Gaul and, perhaps, Germanica. From there, we’ll found a kingdom that will shake the very pillars of the earth.”
“Then let us ride,” Grayson answered.
The horses’ hooves made a loud clatter on the tiled floor, but soon they were in the streets. It was the last time Grayson would ride through this city, and he was not sorry to leave it behind. He was sorry to leave only one thing.
Good-bye, Callestina, his heart whispered. Yes, he loved her, as Darius did not—but he loved Darius more, owed Darius more, and had already pledged his soul in that service.
When they reached the gate, many of the men had already assembled, mounted and waiting. They cheered when they saw the Immortals approach. Grayson drew his horse to one side and waited, letting Darius ride forward among his men. He saw how their expressions brightened when Darius spoke their names and called to them individually, making each man feel important. Darius was the perfect commander; Grayson knew that each man here would happily give his small, mortal life at Darius’s whim.
“We will wait for one hour,” Darius announced, “then we will ride. Those who are not with us can follow or stay, as they will. You, too, are free to stay if you desire. Alaric has won his dream of Roman citizenship and it is offered to all who remain with him, here in this land of sunshine.
“But I will not stay. I ride north, back to the lands where we belong. I have no wish to be part of another man’s dream or another King’s empire. I ride north to build a kingdom of my own. Of our own.”
Again, a great shout arose from the men. Grayson looked at the adulation on their faces and at Darius, sitting so tall upon his horse, the breeze ruffling his tawny hair.
In the end they will make him not just their King but their god, Grayson thought. I wonder if he knows that. I wonder if that’s what he really wants.
And the cheer went on.
Chapter Twenty-six
They rode north, as Darius had commanded, but not along the route by which they had arrived. They had neither the need nor the desire to return to Cremona or to cross the Alps again into the Danube Valley. They rode along the western coast of Italy into southern Gaul, following the curve of the land until they reached the Seine. Then, with the river, they turned north again.
The miles passed swiftly beneath their hooves. It was a good time of year to ride. There were lush grasses to provide fodder for the horses, and game was abundant for the men. They rode at ease, following their leader, content to serve his purpose with their swords.
Paris was their destination. Darius had decided to make that great and ancient city his base and the capital from which his new kingdom would be founded. It had stood on the Seine since before recorded history; now that Rome had fallen, both in symbol and in fact, Paris would rise from its ashes as the new Eternal City—with Darius as its eternal King.
Although his men were in good spirits, Darius battled a black mood such as had not touched him for over a century. He kept up a pleasant face to his men, for such was the duty leadership laid upon him, but in truth he was tired of them all. Mortals.
They are tools, he had often told Grayson, and his was the skilled hand that wielded them. But now he was like an artisan who has wearied of using worn and awkward tools and longs for new, better ones.
Immortals, an army of them—a kingdom of them.
Now that he had granted life to the idea, its possibility would not leave him alone. Centuries of frustration with the pettiness of mortal lives fed it until each day now, each moment, it loomed larger in his thoughts. He knew Grayson was right.
But the old tools must be used until they were broken. Death would do that for him—death from battle, death from age. Poor little mortals; they did not realize that from the moment of their birth they were already in the grip of death.
Darius laid no battle plans as they neared Paris. He wanted to occupy it, not destroy it. He left his men two miles from the city gates with orders to make a temporary camp. He and Grayson would ride through the city alone, to scout out its weaknesses and take note of its population and weaponry. In a few days, they would return.
Riding away from the army, with only Grayson by his side, Darius felt as if he was leaving a great weight behind.
“It will not be long now, my friend,” he said. “Are you ready for what is to come?”
Grayson gave him a genuine smile, untouched by the bleak shadow that seemed to have haunted his eyes so often of late. “I have been ready for decades,” he replied.
Darius laughed; it was the first true laughter that had
come to his lips in these past weeks. Decades, he thought. Such a little time. He had been waiting, preparing, for centuries. Yes, he too was ready.
“On, then—to destiny.” he said aloud.
Darius frowned. Even from a distance he could see that the gates of Paris were closed. Why? he wondered briefly. Why are they closed on a summer day? He reined in his horse and sat for a moment, staring at the high walls and the shut gates, his mind racing through possibilities.
Overhead, the raucous caw of a crow suddenly split the semisilence of the hot afternoon. At the sound, a shiver ran down Darius’s spine. In more superstitious times, the times in which he had been born, the crow’s presence would have been called an ill omen.
Darius gave his head a small shake. Such superstitions were part of his past, part of his early days of mortality; they owned no place in his soul now. He, alone, governed his destiny.
But the crow’s presence had disturbed his concentration. He frowned as he urged his horse forward once again.
It was Grayson who first saw the man dressed in priest’s robes, who stood unmoving as a statue before the barred gates. He quickly pointed him out to Darius and both sensed the presence of an Immortal. Despite the clothes of a holy man he wore, his hands rested on the pommel of a sword. Its tip was stuck in the ground at his feet, so that it looked like the symbol of his professed faith, like an oversized cross, clearing the way before him.
Darius dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to Grayson. “Wait here,” he said as he drew his own long and deadly sword.
“He wears the robes of a Religious,” Grayson said. “He may not fight.”
Darius’s smile was dark and humorless. “He’s one of us,” he replied. “He’ll fight—or he’ll die undefended. Either way, his Quickening is mine. And so is Paris.”
Darius walked away. Soon the little dips and rises in the land so easily ignored on horseback created a barrier between himself and Grayson. Darius did not care; this was a battle for which he neither wanted nor needed an audience—and Grayson would be waiting when the Quickening was over. Darius would return to his friend even stronger and more unstoppable than before.
Highlander: Shadow of Obsession Page 17