Claire jumped guiltily, realizing that he was shaking that goblet at her where she stood along the wall of the dining room—called the triclinium. Claire saw Quintus’ new wife frowning at her in disapproval. She hurried to the couch the mayor was reclining on, careful to pour the wine slowly from the amphora she held and doing her best to keep her arms from shaking. Spilling red wine on the master’s white couch—or worse—on one of his guests would guarantee her a painful flogging from Camilla. Claire managed to pour the wine successfully before drawing back to the shadows in relief as the mayor grunted his satisfaction. Several other slaves stood around the room as she did, waiting silently with trays laden with olives, bread, and various cheeses. Claire thought they could have been statues if not for the fact that she could see their chests moving.
“So, Quintus,” the king’s representative said as he slurped his wine. He was a squat man with a bulging gut and little humor about him. Claire thought he’d seemed tense all night and guessed that he had come for an entirely different purpose than any of the others. “The king keeps hearing talk of a Roman settlement at Magdalensburg,” the fat man said sourly. His eyes glittered as he glared at Quintus in challenge. “Such foolish talk makes him nervous. I imagine we have you and your infernal ambitions to thank for that.”
Quintus laughed. “My dear, Seisyll, I assure you there’s nothing foolish about it.” The Roman leaned forward, his cleanly shaven face flushed with excitement and drink. “Think of what we can accomplish together, your people and mine. Rome requires steel, fine steel, which the Norici can provide. Our working together will make all of us rich!”
“We already trade enough with you now,” the mayor said with a disinterested shrug. He swirled his wine around in his goblet. “Everyone is pleased with the arrangement as it stands. So why would we allow Romans to settle on our soil? Usually, where the legions go, conquest soon follows.”
Quintus laughed as he sat back on his couch. “Who said anything about the legions, my friend? The Norici have hospitum publicum with Rome. We are friends and allies, that is all.”
“Yet meanwhile, other lands in Germania and elsewhere feel the weight of the legions boots on their necks more and more,” one of the traders said, his voice sounding bitter. He scratched at his shaggy beard. “What happens when Rome has no one left to conquer? Will the weight of the Republic’s boots fall on us, then?”
“Of course not,” Quintus chuckled. He glanced at his wife, who sat listening without saying anything. Claire was surprised she was allowed to stay at all, as Quintus never permitted his previous wife to attend when he talked business. Claire guessed Quintus was still enamored with her, as she had to admit the woman was striking with her dark hair and fine, almost regal features. “No legionnaire will step on Norici soil without the permission of your king,” Quintus promised with a grand sweep of his hand. “You have my word as a close personal friend to Consul Carbo on that.”
“Actually,” Seisyll said, looking thoughtful. “Since you brought that up, your friendship with the esteemed consul is why the king sent me here to speak with you, Quintus.”
The Roman trader’s eyebrows furrowed in surprise. “So, what is it about my friendship with Gnaeus Papirius Carbo that your king finds so intriguing, Seisyll?”
The stout man sighed. “We have something of a problem, and he was hoping that perhaps Rome would be inclined to help. The king would, of course, be most grateful should that occur.”
“I see,” Quintus said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Claire could see his keen mind working, already planning how he could turn the Norici’s need into something profitable for him. “And what might this problem be?”
“A horde of Germans have recently crossed the Danube in the north,” Seisyll stated with a blank face.
Quintus shrugged. “Hardly unheard of,” he said. He glanced at his wife. “These people are like thoughtless animals, my dear. They tend to strike fast like snakes and then crawl back under whatever rock they slithered out from.”
“Not this time,” Seisyll said with a quick shake of his head. “This band doesn’t seem inclined to turn around like those others, despite repeated warnings to do so. They even had the audacity to demand that we give them land on which to settle. If we refuse, then they say they will take it anyway with steel and blood.”
“And the Taurisci are considering this?” Quintus asked, incredulous. “Why bother trying to negotiate with these barbarians? If they want steel, then I say show them steel and watch them run.” The Taurisci were Celts who lived in the northern part of Noricum and were part of the coalition of tribes—including the ruling Norici—that made up the vast kingdom.
Seisyll snorted. “They did just that, Quintus, I assure you. These barbarians, as you Romans like to call them, are too strong. If the reports from the Taurisci are to be believed, then the Germans number three hundred thousand, if not more.”
“Belbog!” one of the merchant’s muttered softly in agitation as he reached to the tiny white figurine hanging around his neck. Belbog was the Norici god of the day, sun and sky.
“You should have spoken of this to me earlier, Seisyll,” Quintus admonished the other man. “We have lost precious hours feasting when we could have been preparing.”
Seisyll bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Forgive me, Quintus. But I did not wish to seem presumptuous, since I did, in fact, invite myself to your lovely party. I felt the grave news I carry could wait at least until after the meal had been served.”
Quintus frowned, though he said nothing as he stared moodily into his empty goblet before finally, he motioned to Claire for more wine.
“Where are the invaders now?” the mayor asked into the sudden silence, his own wine forgotten, his face serious.
“Moving slowly southwest, the last we heard,” Seisyll answered. He glanced around at the tense faces. “We think they’re heading for the mountains.”
“To go where?” the mayor demanded, looking worried now.
Seisyll grimaced. “Here, we believe,” he said. “The city of Noreia.” He glanced at Quintus. “After that, who knows? Rome, maybe? Anything is possible.”
The room had gone deathly silent again at Seisyll’s words as the implications of what he was saying became apparent. Claire moved closer, concentrating on pouring Quintus’ wine as her master shook his head in disbelief, clearly seeing all his plans falling apart. “Who are these people that would dare such a thing?” he asked.
“They call themselves Cimbrians,” Seisyll said. “Their king is a man named Boiorix.”
Claire gasped out loud, her hand unconsciously pulling back the amphora as red wine spilled on the floor. She stared at Quintus in horror, but the master seemed not to have noticed as he focused on Seisyll. “I will speak with Consul Carbo about this immediately,” Quintus said, rising and stumbling slightly as his right leg almost gave out beneath him. Quintus had been injured badly as a young man and he still walked with a noticeable limp. The Roman trader offered his hand to Seisyll. “I am sure the Consul will wish to take this grim news to the Senate. I promise you the people of Rome will stand shoulder to shoulder with you in your time of need.”
Seisyll got to his feet, a look of satisfaction on his face as he locked arms with the taller man. “And when the legions have helped us crush these interlopers,” he said. “I promise you, Quintus Barbii, that the talk of a Roman colony on Norici soil will not sound so foolish then.”
CHAPTER TEN
MALCOLM
Malcolm was having the time of his life. He lay on his back, drifting in the cold, mountain-fed waters of a small, secluded lake as he stared up at a group of white clouds moving across the blue sky above him. One of the clouds looked faintly like an elephant, he thought idly. The tribes had stopped in a rich valley a mile away from the lake—a valley that lay snuggled deep in the Eastern Alps in what Malcolm knew would someday become modern-day Austria. There had been settlers in the valley when they arrived, of course. Taurisci, Ma
lcolm guessed, but most had abandoned their villages and fled when they saw the combined might of the migrating tribes approaching. Those that hadn’t run had been slaughtered, with their villages taken over by the Cimbri, Teutones, and Ambrones anyway.
Both Boiorix and Teutobod seemed content to stay long term, though several smaller tribes had left in recent weeks to search for lands of their own. There were too many people to live and work the soils in the valley, they’d said, and they were right about that. Even with those other tribes leaving, it was obvious that the area was still too crowded. Everyone agreed that at least half their current number would have to move on once the coming winter had passed if they hoped to make things work. But despite Boiorix’s and Teutobod’s belief that the tribes’ wanderings were finally over, Malcolm knew they wouldn’t be staying put for very long. The coalition of migrants would be long gone from the valley before the first snow fell several months from now.
The Romans would be coming soon, and when they did, the Cimbrians and Teutones would decide to move on rather than provoke them into a fight. Malcolm felt a moment of unease come over him as he thought of the events that would soon transpire. He cursed Consul Carbo, knowing that if not for the man’s petty ambitions, none of the bloodshed about to be unleashed would have happened at all. The Cimbri and Teutones only wanted a better life, somewhere that they could find happiness and raise their families in relative peace. But the world they lived in was harsh, and sometimes happiness and peace had to be carved out with a sword first. He knew the tribes were more than willing to fight even Rome itself if they were pushed hard enough—and that push was not far away.
Knowing the future wasn’t everything that it was cracked up to be, Malcolm thought—not for the first time. He finally thrust his unease aside, content to just enjoy the day and the moment as he closed his eyes and floated, arms spread wide. Artturi was twenty-four years old now, and his body was fit, healthy, and in the prime of life. A life that Malcolm had to admit he was enjoying immensely. What was going to happen in the future would happen no matter what, and he understood that he was just a bit player on a massive stage. Worrying endlessly about what was coming would change nothing, so why bother?
Thoughts of Claire and the world that he’d once come from had long ago slipped into a dark corner of Malcolm’s mind—a corner that he kept locked away from scrutiny. Any guilt he felt for not looking for Claire and trying to stop her from changing the future had faded into that darkened corner, replaced instead by the pure happiness he felt at just being alive. Malcolm was his own man in the past, strong, vibrant, and real, and he had decided that he owed the future nothing—at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
Malcolm felt sudden movement below him as the water was displaced, then something grabbed him around his naked waist, dragging him down into the depths. He had only a moment to give a half-cry of surprise before water filled his mouth and he gagged. Malcolm twisted, writhing to get away from the strong grip holding him before shooting back up to the surface, spluttering as he choked on cold lake water. He heard laughter behind him and turned, treading in place angrily as he glared at the girl who had pulled him below the surface.
“Some mighty warrior you are, Artturi,” Alodia giggled, using one hand to push a clump of wet blonde hair from her eyes. “You screamed like a girl!”
“I did not,” Malcolm growled, embarrassed that he’d let his guard down. He should have known better. “That wasn’t very nice,” he added sulkily. “I was relaxing.”
“Relaxing gets you killed,” Alodia said as she leisurely guided herself through the water toward him.
“I’ve done all right so far,” Malcolm pointed out, his heart beating faster as she approached. Her bare shoulders were tanned and smooth, with just the hint of her firm breasts showing above the water.
“That’s because Caratacus is always watching your back,” Alodia said with a grin. She paused less than a foot away, both of them treading water.
Malcolm snorted. “That fool? It’s a wonder either of us is still alive after some of the things he’s done.”
Alodia came closer and wrapped her arms around Malcolm’s neck, their noses almost touching as she hooked her strong legs around his waist. Malcolm could feel the hair nestled between those legs tickling his belly pleasantly. “Perhaps now that Caratacus is a father, it will make him a little more cautious,” Alodia said.
“Ha!” Malcolm grunted, thinking of his friend. Caratacus was always the first warrior to attack the enemy lines and the last to leave it. Malcolm felt a moment of guilt, knowing the same thing could be said about him as well. The Malcolm Foster who had so enjoyed being a bloodthirsty pirate was alive and well in Artturi’s body—a fact that Malcolm tried not to dwell on too much. He kissed Alodia deeply. “Caratacus was hoping for a boy,” Malcolm said after the kiss. “He doesn’t seem all that interested in the child. He told me girls are nothing but trouble.” Alodia’s face suddenly darkened—the pain from losing Frida still evident in her blue eyes. Malcolm cursed himself for being a fool. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Alodia traced the long, rigid scar on Malcolm’s cheek where she’d cut him with a knife five years ago. “There’s no need to be sorry, my love. Death walks among us all, even the children we bring into this world. Frida is with the gods of Asgard now, and someday I will see her again.”
“She might have survived, you know,” Malcolm said. “We never did find her body. I’m still not sure she wasn’t in one of those wagons.”
“Survived as a slave?” Alodia asked softly. She shook her head. “No, I have spoken with the goddess, Freya, and she has assured me my daughter is with her and has been since that day.” Alodia looked thoughtful, a faint smile on her lips. “I think it’s better that way, don’t you?”
Malcolm nodded, not wanting to push the issue. Artturi and Alodia might believe in the Norse gods like Freya, the goddess of fate and destiny, but his faith remained intact. Malcolm was convinced that there were no gods and that all people, regardless of their timeline, were on their own. Though he always pretended otherwise for the sake of those around him. “Then we should rejoice that the goddess has taken Frida under her guidance,” Malcolm said, drawing the girl closer. “Now, let’s not waste a perfect day like this talking of death and gods.”
Malcolm bent his head to kiss Alodia again, his legs starting to feel the strain of constantly kicking in the water. “You know Freya is not only the goddess of fate and destiny,” Alodia said coyly, putting her hand over Malcolm’s mouth the stop his kiss. “She’s also known to be a seeker of pleasure.”
Malcolm grinned behind her hand as Alodia started to grind against him. He began to backpedal, searching urgently for shallower water so that he could get his feet on solid ground. Finally, they were less than waist-deep in the water, and all thoughts of gods, Romans, the man he’d once been, or anything else flew from Malcolm’s mind.
Two hours later, Malcolm cut through a thick stand of larch trees, whistling softly to himself as he walked. He had a bow strung over one shoulder and a string of five dead squirrels, one hare, and several ptarmigan—which was a type of grouse—slung over the other. It wouldn’t do to show up from a hunting trip without anything to show for it, Malcolm knew. He stepped out from the trees into bright sunshine, pausing at the edge of a rock-covered, grassy ridge overlooking the meandering valley where the tribes had settled.
The cool wind rustled Malcolm’s clothing as he studied the towering ring of snow-covered mountains encircling the lush greenness far below. The Alps would still be here long after the Cimbri, Teutones, and even the Roman Empire had turned to dust, Malcolm knew, looking much the same today as they did in the twenty-first century. That thought made Malcolm feel very small and insignificant all of a sudden, in comparison to the sheer power and timeless scope of mother nature around him.
Malcolm shifted the bow on his shoulder, not having had to use it that day, even though Artturi was a
n expert marksman. The Cimbri warrior was also deadly with the sling he carried in his pouch, so why potentially waste an arrow when small rocks were everywhere in the mountains? He thought of Alodia, unconsciously smiling, certain that he had given her plenty of time to return ahead of him. His smile faded as he thought about why. Alodia was still married to Clovis, though the Teutone warrior rarely paid her much mind anymore.
Alodia had been unable to conceive again after Frida’s birth, a fact that was making Clovis more and more impatient. The king’s son wanted an heir, which Malcolm could understand, even though he secretly despised the man. Clovis had amassed a large stable of young female slaves to occupy his time at night, several of whom had given him sons already, though tribal law didn’t acknowledge them as such. The concept of divorce didn’t exist for the Teutones yet, so both Clovis and Alodia were stuck with each other, at least for now.
Malcolm had hoped Clovis would fall in battle, knowing that if his secret liaisons with Alodia were ever discovered there would be hell to pay for them both. Warriors could rut with slaves all they wanted without repercussions. But should their wives be unfaithful—even with a lowly slave—then the answer was death on the altar as a sacrifice to the gods in hopes of gaining forgiveness. It wasn’t fair, Malcolm knew, but few things were at this point in human history.
“I thought that was you,” a voice said from behind him.
Malcolm turned to see Caratacus as he stepped out from the trees.
“Your father has been looking all over for you,” the huge warrior said with a frown. “Where have you been?”
Malcolm gestured to the game he’d killed. “Hunting dinner, where else?”
“Uh-huh,” Caratacus muttered. He strode forward to stand beside Malcolm, both young men looking down at the bustling village snuggled against the ridge wall far below them.
Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1) Page 11