Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  The village was large, with mud and thatch huts laid out neatly in lines, surrounded by a high palisade wall on three sides. Teutobod and his tribe had claimed the village, while the Cimbri had taken a second, larger one further north along the valley. Malcolm thought he saw a flash of blonde hair near Teutobod’s hut in the center of the village and he felt his pulse quicken, wondering if it was Alodia.

  “You really need to hide your thoughts better, my friend,” Caratacus said, his face serious.

  “How so?” Malcolm asked.

  Caratacus gestured to the village. “Rutting with Alodia is bad enough, but do you have to walk around looking like a little lost puppy every time you see her? Clovis is stupid, but he’s not that stupid.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Malcolm said, feeling his jaw tighten. Had he really been that obvious?

  Caratacus laughed, a short, hoarse bark with little humor to it. “Well, Artturi, my friend. I’m sure you do know what I mean, so I won’t say anything more about it other than you had better be careful. I’m rather fond of you, and I would like to see that ugly head of yours stay on your neck for a little while longer. Now come on, your father needs you. He and Teutobod have negotiated a meeting with the Norici dogs, and he wants you to be there.”

  Malcolm felt a thud in his stomach. So soon? He’d hoped for more time. He stood unmoving as Caratacus started making his way down a well-worn trail nearby.

  The Cimbri warrior paused to look back. “Well, are you coming or not?”

  “I’m coming,” Malcolm said, moving after his friend reluctantly, his thoughts now dominated by Consul Carbo and the beginning of a rein of violence that would soon become known throughout the Roman world as terror cimbricus.

  Roman Encampment: Eastern Alps

  Consul Carbo was a thin man with a long nose, beady, almost rat-like eyes, and an impatient way about him. He wore a red toga over a white tunic with a gold band around the hem and a pair of heavy leather sandals on his feet. His head was bare, though he held a red-plumed helmet on his lap as if to prove to all that he was as much a warrior as a politician. The Consul sat on a chair on a raised platform covered by white canvas, regarding Teutobod with distaste as the king approached on foot. Several men stood on the platform with Carbo, with one of them appearing to be a Celt by the look of him.

  Teutobod was dressed in sleeveless mail armor, with his great, heavily tattooed arms left bare. He carried a sword of Noric steel that he’d taken from a defeated Taurisci chieftain on his hip and wore a metal helm capped with a giant bird with outstretched wings on his head. Many of the Cimbri and Teutones favored the helms, as they believed they made them look taller and fiercer in battle. Malcolm walked beside the king, with a Teutone sub-king named Adalwolf on his other side. Adalwolf’s helmet bore the likeness of a snarling wolf on top, while Malcolm’s had only a simple plume of fine black horsehair.

  Boiorix and Teutobod’s son, Clovis, had remained behind with the tribes in case the Norici meeting was a trap, ensuring that both the Cimbri and Teutones retained their leadership if Teutobod and Artturi were killed or captured. The Teutone king had brought five thousand of his warriors with him in case of treachery, and they waited in a solid mass three hundred yards to the north, though no one but Malcolm had anticipated that it would be Romans they would be negotiating with. A vast army filled the flat plain behind and around Consul Carbo’s platform where the historical meeting was to occur—the first such meeting ever between the Cimbri, Teutones, and the Romans. If Teutobod was surprised by the presence of the legions, he hid it well, though Adalwolf could not conceal the worried look on his face. Malcolm knew the Cimbri and Teutones had been unaware that the Norici were allied with Rome. Had they known that fact, it’s doubtful that they would have pushed south to invade Noricum at all.

  The lowlands were almost completely encircled by jagged mountains, with a narrow pass cutting through the craggy walls to the south that eventually led to the city of Noreia, and beyond that, Italy. Malcolm noted the mouth of the pass had been heavily fortified in anticipation of an attack by the tribes, though that attack would never actually take place. He knew Carbo had waited for some time here, hoping that the horde of migrants would come to him and he could annihilate them. But when that didn’t happen, the Consul had finally lost patience and decided to take matters into his own hands by requesting a meeting.

  Silent legionnaires studied the three warriors as they walked along a twenty-foot corridor walled in by rows of heavy Roman shields, armor, and spears. Consul Carbo had come to Noricum’s defense with four legions—almost twenty thousand men—as well as a host of equites—Roman cavalry—and allied troops known as auxilia. There were also hundreds of immunes in camp—which were non-combatants like doctors, engineers, and architects. Each legion also had upwards of twelve hundred slaves who could be used to defend the camp if necessary. So in total, Malcolm knew the Roman forces numbered over thirty thousand men.

  Grim-faced signifers stood at the forefront of the tightly packed ranks carrying the signa militaria—the Roman army’s insignia—depicting either a horse, wolf, eagle, ox with a man’s head, or boar. Eventually, the legions would use only a single signa militaria—the famous Roman eagle—but Malcolm knew that wouldn’t occur until Gaius Marius undertook a bold reform of the military in 104 BC. He would need to do that in large part because of the actions of this day.

  “So,” Consul Carbo said as Teutobod climbed the short steps and paused before the seated man. Adalwolf glanced at Malcolm, then the two men followed, taking up a spot to either side of the king and several feet back. Carbo glanced briefly at Adalwolf, then at Malcolm, looking unimpressed. He focused back on Teutobod. “Who are you, and why have you made war on a friend of Rome?” Carbo leaned forward, his eyes glittering. “Doing so not only declares war on Noricum, you shit-covered barbarian, it means declaring war on Rome as well. Is that what you wish?”

  Teutobod’s face turned hard as the canvas over his head flapped in the steady breeze. The Cimbri and Teutones had heard of Rome, of course, and Malcolm knew neither Boiorix nor Teutobod had any desire to engage with them if they could avoid it. But he also knew Teutobod had a temper and was not the kind of man who would easily accept an insult, no matter who was giving it. The history of this time stated that the Teutones had begged for forgiveness when they met Consul Carbo. Malcolm was well aware that Roman history was mostly written by Romans, however, and therefore undoubtedly slanted. From the looks of things, he was beginning to think that the books might have gotten it wrong, as it was clear by Teutobod’s expression that violence was about to break out at any moment.

  Malcolm held his breath and waited, wondering if he should intercede. Teutobod was fingering his sword, his face dark and furious, while the men on either side of the Consul tensed, their hands lowering to their weapons. There were no other sounds except for the fluttering canvas and the faint, echoing call of a raven in the trees somewhere along the pass. The king and Consul glared at one another with mutual dislike in a battle of wills while the neatly formed ranks of the legion remained silent and immobile around them. Each soldier could have easily been mistaken for a rock statue if not for the sweat Malcolm could see dripping off the bronze cheek guards of their helmets. Malcolm had read many times of the discipline of the Roman legions, of course, but reading about something and seeing it first-hand were two entirely different things. It was impossible not to be impressed and feel intimidated at the same time.

  “Well?” Carbo finally grunted at Teutobod with a sneer on his face. “Are you truly beasts that you can’t even speak?”

  Malcolm knew the Roman would like nothing better than to provoke the Teutones into a fight. He saw the king’s shoulders tense, and he stepped forward before Teutobod could reply with what he was sure would be an angry retort. “Please forgive us, Your Generalship,” Malcolm said, knowing the title would stroke Carbo’s ego immensely. The man was obsessed with being loved and respected by the l
egions. Malcolm sensed the king stiffening in anger beside him, but he pressed on as Carbo looked at him in surprise. “Our tribes are merely looking for lands on which to settle. We were not aware of your relationship with the Norici, and I assure you we have no wish to antagonize the great Republic of Rome.”

  “Well, I should say not,” Carbo said with a sniff, though he did look slightly disappointed as he sat back in his chair. He studied Malcolm with renewed interest. “So, it would seem that there is a modicum of civility about you people after all. I must confess I was not expecting that.”

  Malcolm bowed his head. “We are simple folk from a frozen land far to the north, Your Generalship, but even we have heard of the greatness of Consul Gnaeus Papirius Carbo.”

  “Really?” Carbo said, looking intrigued.

  “Of course,” Malcolm said. He shrugged. “Who has not?”

  “Well, that news is certainly something of a surprise,” Carbo said, beaming with pleasure. His brows furrowed. “What is your name?”

  “Artturi, Your Generalship,” Malcolm said. He glanced sideways at Teutobod, but the king seemed to have gotten over his anger to some degree, and he gave Malcolm a slight nod to continue.

  “Artturi,” Carbo said, tapping his chin thoughtfully as he studied Malcolm. “Well, Artturi, you have caught me in a good mood today.” Carbo leaned forward, balancing his helmet on his knee. “This is what I propose we do to rectify this minor disagreement between our two peoples. You will stop raping and pillaging Rome’s friends and will leave the land of Noricum within two weeks. Do this, and you have my word as a Consul of Rome that you will be allowed to go on your way unchallenged.”

  “And if we refuse?” Teutobod growled.

  Carbo focused on the king, his eyes hardening. “Then I will unleash the Roman legions upon your heads, and not one child, woman, or man of your ragged band will be left alive when I am through with you. That is the choice I offer.”

  “It is a most generous offer, Your Generalship,” Malcolm said. He glanced again at Teutobod. “One which the Cimbri and Teutones will gladly accept.”

  “Good,” Carbo said, looking satisfied. “Then it’s settled. I will send you some Norici guides who will show you the quickest route through the mountains. Do not deviate from that route. If you do, I will consider it a breach of contract and my offer of free passage will be rescinded.”

  “We understand,” Malcolm said, trying to keep his face blank as Carbo smiled.

  The Roman’s expression showed nothing but sincerity, though Malcolm thought he could see a cold, calculating gleam in his eyes as he stood. The Consul held out his hand, and he and Malcolm locked arms, then the Roman shook the king’s hand and Adalwolf’s, sealing the bargain.

  “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Carbo said as the three warriors turned to go. “Just not on the lands of the Norici.”

  Malcolm looked back as the three men retraced their steps along the route through the silent legionnaires. Consul Carbo stood with his helmet under one arm, his other hand on his hip, watching them leave. He smiled when he saw Malcolm’s eyes on him and nodded, secure in the knowledge that the Cimbri and Teutones would honor their side of the agreement. He was right. They would. The problem was that the lying bastard had no intention of honoring his.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MALCOLM: 113 BC—On The Move

  Malcolm was on edge. He had been for two days—which was the exact amount of time the Cimbri, Teutones, and the rest of the migrant tribes had been on the move. The Norici had sent four guides to lead them through the mountains and away from Noricum, just as Consul Carbo had promised they would. But neither Artturi’s father nor Teutobod seemed the least bit suspicious that the guides were doing anything other than what they claimed. Why would they? The bargain that had been struck with the Roman Consul had worked out for both sides, avoiding what would most certainly have been a long and bloody war otherwise. Or so the Cimbri and Teutones thought. Malcolm knew the truth, however, and his insides roiled with apprehension.

  Malcolm was well aware that the guides were leading the tribes along a much longer route than necessary. That extra time would allow Carbo and his legions to take a shortcut, where they would be lying in wait for them somewhere along the way. Carbo was determined to return to Rome in glory, desperate for the adulation from the masses that a victory over the barbarians would be certain to bring him. But allowing the migrants to leave without raising a sword against them—though accomplishing his objective of ensuring Rome was safe from the invaders—would not give him the kind of adulation that he so desperately craved. That’s why the Consul had decided to go back on his word and attack the tribes, believing them to be weak after capitulating so quickly to his demands.

  But where would that attack take place? And more specifically, when? The Roman writings on exactly what happened were vague at best, though the conflict was thought to have occurred somewhere near the Norici capitol city of Noreia. Malcolm sighed in frustration, wishing he knew for certain when the attack would happen so that he could unwind a little and relax.

  “You look like you just sat in something unpleasant, Artturi,” Caratacus said. Arrturi’s friend rode beside Malcolm, having taken a horse from a Norici warrior he’d killed the previous year. The horse was big—bigger than Malcolm’s—with a shiny brown coat and a thick strip of white along its nose and across its eyes, giving the animal a sorrowful expression.

  “Something doesn’t feel right,” Malcolm said.

  They were following a meandering mountain pass upwards that led northwest, climbing ever deeper into the wildness of the Alps. Artturi and Caratacus had just helped a family repair a broken wheel on their wagon and had fallen back from their usual spot near the front of the caravan. Malcolm could see open land to his right when he looked down—that and a glittering lake of peaceful blue water surrounded by thick trees. The sight made him think of Alodia and their secret meetings. He dearly wished the two of them could have stayed in that place forever, as the times spent with her there had been some of the best of his life.

  Caratacus shook his head and laughed. “You’re like an old woman these days, Artturi, always fretting. What is it now? Do you think the Norici are going to try something?” Caratacus laughed again. “We have over two-hundred thousand warriors, Artturi. Men who have been blooded in battle time and time again. The dogs wouldn’t dare come against us.”

  Malcolm looked down at his hands as his horse picked its way over the rock-strewn trail. Should he tell his friend what he knew, or at least hint of it? Carbo was mistakenly under the impression that there were far fewer warriors among the Cimbrians and Teutones than there actually were. It was the main reason he felt so confident in attacking them—that and his unshakable belief that Romans were superior to all other men. That combination of inaccurate information and arrogance would soon turn out to be the Consul’s undoing.

  “What about the legions?” Malcolm finally asked, hoping to plant a seed in the other man’s mind and see if it grew. “You can’t deny they’re formidable.”

  “Bah!” Caratacus snorted with contempt. “Most of them are fat and slow. Romans spend more time hiding behind their shields with their knees knocking than anything else. There’s nothing to fear from the likes of them.”

  “Then why did Teutobod and my father both agree that we had to leave?” Malcolm asked. “Things were good here. So why not stay and fight the legions if they’re as slow and fat as you say?”

  Caratacus tilted his head sideways, thinking. “Maybe Boiorix and Teutobod are getting old too, just like you are. Maybe their appetite for war is beginning to wane and it’s time someone young and bold took over.”

  “Or maybe you’re just stupid and they’re not,” Malcolm retorted.

  “Well, there is that to consider,” Caratacus said with a chuckle. His face abruptly hardened as a rider appeared coming down the sloping trail above them. It was Clovis. “Speaking of stupid,” Caratacus said out of t
he side of his mouth.

  Teutobod’s son swung his horse around when he reached them, the habitual sneer on his face whenever he was near Artturi twisting his handsome features ugly. “You’re wanted up front,” Clovis grunted to Malcolm.

  “Why?” Malcolm asked.

  “You’ll see when you get there,” Clovis replied. Malcolm could tell the king’s son was annoyed that he’d been asked to fetch Artturi as if he were a simple messenger. It was a job the other man clearly believed was beneath him.

  “Very well,” Malcolm said. “I’ll be right there.” He felt a sudden, almost reckless need to antagonize Clovis in some way, and he added dismissively, “You can go now.”

  Clovis’s eyes turned hard at the obvious insult, and even Caratacus gasped. The king’s son leaned forward on his horse, his body shaking with suppressed rage. “Watch how you speak to me, Artturi of the Cimbri. I am the son of a king just as you are, not some worthless slave. It’s something you had best remember, or the next time you speak to me like that I’ll reply with my sword, not words.” Clovis snapped his horse’s reins then, urging the animal back up the trail in an angry cloud of dust.

  Malcolm glanced at his friend just as Caratacus opened his mouth to say something. “Not one word,” he warned, regretting having antagonized Clovis now.

  The young warrior was volatile, incredibly so, and Malcolm realized he might decide to take his anger out on Alodia later once the caravan stopped for the night. Malcolm had seen her several times in recent weeks with bruises on her face, though she’d begged him not to do anything about it. He’d reluctantly agreed—which had been one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. The Teutone and Cimbri men had no qualms about striking their women. In fact, it was expected of them from time to time, so no one would even raise an eyebrow if Clovis beat Alodia again.

  “Come on,” Malcolm growled at Caratacus, swerving his horse out of line and kicking the animal into motion. “Let’s go see what this is all about.”