“Consul!”
Claire felt relief wash over her as Carbo’s hand dropped away and he turned to a messenger hurrying toward them.
“Yes, what is it?” Carbo asked the man.
“The barbarian vanguard has entered the valley, Consul.”
“Very well,” Carbo said. He nodded to the suddenly silent men in the tent. “You all know what to do, so I suggest you get to it. I want every barbarian warrior’s head on a pike by sundown.” The Consul glanced at Claire again and winked. “Try not to kill the women and children if you can help it. Rome can always use more pretty slaves like this one.”
Claire tried to smile because she knew it was expected of her, but she was sure it came out as more of a grimace filled with loathing. Consul Carbo had already turned away, though, she was relieved to see and clearly hadn’t noticed. Quintus Barbii had seen her look of revulsion, however, and he took her arm and drew her aside.
“Listen to me, Marcella,” the trader said softly as he glanced around. “I’m sorry I brought you here. I should have known better when the Consul asked specifically for you. Gnaeus is not such a bad sort once you get to know him, but he does have something of a peculiar taste. One which I do not condone.” Now it was Quintus Barbii’s turn to grimace in distaste. “You have my word that I won’t let him touch you in that way.” The trader lifted Claire’s chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Do you understand me, child? Nothing is going to happen to you, so you can stop looking so afraid. All right?”
Claire nodded, feeling tears start to fill her eyes at the look of kindness on the trader’s face. She had seen precious little of that in this life so far, and she knew Quintus Barbii was a decent man compared to most in his position. Claire felt sudden affection for the trader come over her before she blinked the tears away, angry at herself for allowing any weakness to invade her thoughts. She was finally going to be with Gerald soon, and that’s where she needed to focus her attention. Quintus Barbii, Consul Carbo, and all the people around her were just shades from the ancient past, long forgotten by the world she came from. Claire needed to remember that and not let her emotions overwhelm her real purpose for being here.
Quintus shook his head as he regarded her thoughtfully. “It’s strange. I’ve surrounded myself with slaves who cannot speak, but of them all, you are the one that I’d most like to have a conversation with, Marcella. There’s something different about you. Something ancient and wise, almost timeless. Your eyes are filled with so much grief and misery, yet there is something else in there too. Something I can never put a finger on.” Quintus sighed, releasing Claire as he dropped his hand to his side. “No matter, child.” He gestured to the hulking slavecatcher, who had just entered and stood waiting near the tent’s entrance. “I’m going to watch the battle from the ridge with the others. You will go back to the wagons with Sextus. Gnaeus believes these barbarians will fall quickly and easily, but I’m not so certain. Something tells me it might be a long day, so you’ll be safe there until I return.”
Claire nodded her understanding, setting the amphora down on a table as she turned toward the slavecatcher.
“Oh, and Marcella,” Quintus said. Claire hesitated, looking back. “Don’t do anything foolish. Sextus will have his eye on you, and you know what he can do. Best not to make him angry. Just stay put and do as you’re told until this is over with.”
Claire bowed her head in acknowledgment, then walked meekly over to Sextus, who placed his large hand around the back of her neck and squeezed, smiling as she gasped at the pressure. The big man then drew her outside, where the boy, Lulius, was waiting with several other slaves belonging to the trader.
The temporary Roman camp was situated deep in a sprawling forest that sat back a hundred feet from a rocky knoll. Claire had heard talk of a second, much larger and more permanent camp lying somewhere to the west. The hill looked down on a valley almost three miles wide where it cut through the mountains far to the east. The valley then ran west in a meandering line from the mountains for two miles before finally tapering almost to a point at the base of the hill where the legions waited. A wide path churned by years of travel ran through the center of the lowlands, leading up the incline and through the forest beyond. Thick trees rose on either side of the valley, effectively boxing it in, with the width no more than two hundred yards where the flatlands met the sharp incline. Claire knew Consul Carbo had planned his ambush carefully, having placed a legion in the woods on either side of the valley near the hill’s base, with two more waiting hidden in the forest at the top.
“Get moving,” Sextus grunted, kicking Lulius in the behind. “Back to the wagons.” The boy glared at the slavecatcher with undisguised hatred, then reluctantly turned and headed off through the trees as Sextus, Claire, and the rest of the slaves followed.
Quintus Barbii had brought three wagons with him that stood in a clearing half a mile to the west along with the horses and carts from other observers who had come to watch the spectacle. Few people were about other than some silent slaves, as most of their owners had already moved north to a high ridge that overlooked where the battle would take place.
“All right now,” Sextus grunted as he halted near the rear of one of their wagons. “Let’s get this over with.”
Long, thin chains hung in rows from the backboard of the wagon, and Claire’s eyes widened as she realized what was about to happen. Each of Quintus Barbii’s slaves wore a metal collar around their necks, with the chains hooked to them each night to prevent escape. Claire hadn’t even considered they’d do something like this during the day, and she cursed herself for not anticipating it.
“I said move it!” Sextus grunted as he shoved a girl named Seneca forward. The girl was perhaps twenty years old, and she stumbled beneath the strength of the big man, then moved to stand meekly by the rear of the wagon, her eyes lowered to the ground. Sextus took a hanging chain and locked it to her collar, then gestured to Lulius. “Come here, boy.”
Lulius licked his lips, his eyes flicking to the trees, then back to Sextus and the chain he held.
“Don’t waste my time, boy,” Sextus growled impatiently. “You won’t get more than a hundred feet before I catch you.” The slavecatcher swung the loose end of the chain in a circle as he grinned. “But go ahead and try. I could use the exercise. Just don’t blame me for what happens when I catch you.”
Lulius stared at the swinging chain, looking suddenly uncertain as Sextus laughed, clearly enjoying himself.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” the slavecatcher grunted. He gestured to the north. “I’d go that way if I were you. There’s a bog half a mile from here. If you can make it that far you might lose me.” Sextus grinned mockingly. “Or, you can be a good little sheep and get over here.”
Claire saw something in Lulius’ eyes at being called a sheep, a sudden spark of anger before he lowered his head in defeat and stepped forward.
“Ah well,” Sextus sighed, shrugging his great shoulders. “I thought for a moment that you’d found some nerve hidden inside you, boy. I guess I was wrong.”
Lulius said nothing, his face expressionless as he stopped in front of the slave trader, his eyes on the ground.
“You’re next, little one,” Sextus said, reaching for Lulius’ collar as he glanced at Claire.
That’s when Lulius moved, smashing the fist-sized rock he held hidden in his hand against the slavecatcher’s head. Sextus bellowed in surprise, staggering beneath the blow as Lulius turned and ran, heading north. Sextus leaned against the back of the wagon, cursing as thick blood poured from a jagged gash along his temple before he straightened and drew a knife from his belt.
“Stay here,” the slavecatcher hissed, fixing his eyes on the rest of the slaves one by one. “If any of you move even an inch from this spot, I’ll skin you alive and feed your carcasses to the hogs.”
Sextus dashed after Lulius then, still clutching his wound, clearly confident that none of the other slaves would da
re try to get away while he was gone. But Claire had other ideas, and the moment the slavecatcher was out of sight, she turned and ran southward. She didn’t know how long it would take Sextus to catch Lulius, but having run from him before, she guessed not long. Which meant she didn’t have much time before he returned to the clearing and found her gone. Claire felt her heart lurch, trying not to think about what would happen if the bastard caught her before she reached Gerald and the Cimbri.
Claire knew Carbo’s legions were massed along the treeline on the knoll, so she cut through the forest in a southeasterly direction, hoping to skirt around them. Finally, after more than ten minutes of fighting her way through trees and thick underbrush, Claire heard the low murmur of men’s voices and the subtle clink of armor and weapons. The legions were trying to remain silent as the migrants walked into their trap, but keeping ten thousand men along with their horses and other equipment quiet was no easy task.
Claire slowed her pace, then stopped, ignoring the roaring in her ears from her rapidly beating heart as she peered cautiously through the foliage to the east. She could just make out the rear lines of Carbo’s army less than fifty yards away—the men who were known as the triarii. Claire could hear them whispering back and forth to each other, safe in the knowledge that they were too far back from the front lines to be heard by anyone down in the valley.
Claire pushed on, picking her way carefully southward past the soldiers until she eventually reached their left flank. She walked for a hundred more paces, then shifted to the east, crouching low as she moved step by agonizing step. If she ran into any soldiers ahead of her now, everything she’d just risked would be for nothing. Claire shuddered as a sudden vision of what Sextus Acte would do to her rose in her mind if he found her. But despite her fears, there was no one waiting to block her path, and finally, with a sigh of relief, Claire came to the treeline. She dropped to her knees behind some bushes, surveying the valley that stretched out beneath her as she fought to catch her breath.
Claire could see from her vantage point that hundreds of carts, horses, and people on foot were moving slowly along the beaten road that led toward the knoll. There were women and children among them and she felt her heart flutter, knowing that in mere moments the Cimbri and Teutones were going to get slaughtered. She wondered if Gerald was somewhere in the front or further back, but with so many people all clumped together, it was impossible to tell. Either way, she knew her one chance to find him was to stop the caravan before they got to the knoll and the legions fell on them. If she didn’t, then there was a good chance Artturi would be killed, which would send Gerald back into the timestream and leave her trapped and alone in this one. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Claire stood, breaking from cover as she ran down the incline, waving her arms wildly in the air. Gerald will know that it was her, Claire told herself as she hurtled down the slope. Somehow, he will know.
Behind Claire, Sextus Acte appeared along the treeline. He hesitated in the shadows, cursing as he watched the fleeing girl before turning his gaze to the long line of oncoming migrants. The barbarians were still some distance away and moving slowly, and Sextus knew if he hurried there was still time to catch the little bitch. Sextus started to sprint down the incline, his eyes fixated on the thin back of the escaping slave. She wasn’t getting away from him, he vowed, not even if he had to fight the entire Cimbri and Teutone nations to get her back. Nothing was going to stop him from making that slave pay for her disobedience.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MALCOLM: Eastern Alps, Six Miles West of Noreia
The valley was spectacular, Malcolm thought. Lush, green, and surrounded by magnificent, snow-capped mountains and thick forests. He could smell the heady scent of flowers and hear the drone of thousands of bees busy pollinating the purple harebells and burgundy orchids that filled the lowlands to either side of the road. A fur-covered head suddenly appeared in the weaving grass thirty feet away from him, staring in wary interest as he trotted past on his horse. The creature was a marmot, Malcolm knew. Basically, a bigger, heavier cousin of the squirrel, though to him, it looked more like the North American groundhogs that he was more familiar with. Another marmot appeared beside the first, both sitting up on their haunches while staring comically at the endless procession of horses and canvas-covered carts as they passed by. Malcolm couldn’t help but chuckle at the rodents’ expressions before something suddenly startled the creatures and they were gone.
Malcolm breathed in deeply, enjoying the sun and peacefulness, knowing that very soon it would be shattered by blood and death. He guessed that the pristine valley would likely become a resort town or haven for nature lovers in the twenty-first century. But right now, in the second century BC, the beauty around them was just a temporary façade. Perhaps being a marmot wasn’t such a bad fate, Malcolm mused, feeling a sudden melancholy take over him as he thought of what awaited at the other end of the valley. His sword hand started to open and close on its own and he nodded, knowing that was Artturi’s way of telling him to shut up and focus on what really mattered—killing.
Artturi was not as strong-willed as Edward Thache had been, and Malcolm usually had little trouble keeping him restrained. But occasionally, an emotion like this would get out for a moment—usually when there was fighting involved.
“Soon,” Malcolm said softly, clamping down on the Cimbri. “You’ll get all the blood you want very soon.”
“Did you say something?” Caratacus asked, looking across at Malcolm from the back of his big stallion.
Artturi’s friend was dressed in striped trousers tucked into thick leather strips of cloth wrapped around his feet and then tied at the ankles cords. The warrior’s head and chest were bare, and his arms and body were covered in dark blue and red tattoos. Caratacus, like many of the Cimbri and Teutones, preferred going into battle without any armor, believing it demoralized the enemy. He was right about that, Malcolm knew, having seen the fear on many of their opponents' faces as the nearly naked warriors descended on them in a frenzy.
An axe hung strapped to Caratacus’ saddle within easy reach of his right hand. He also wore a knife on the silver belt around his waist and carried an elongated shield of bronze backed by wood on his left arm. The shield had a raised spine down the middle with a central boss and roundels at each end. A charging boar was painted across the stretched leather outer surface. The Cimbri and Teutones normally hung their shields behind their saddles or across their backs when they traveled, but with the thousands of javelins about to come their way when the Romans attacked, they’d opted to carry them on their arms. Malcolm doubted the Romans would find that fact suspicious, since they knew next to nothing about the ways of the Cimbri and Teutones.
“I was just saying it won’t be long now,” Malcolm finally said to Caratacus, gesturing ahead.
He could see their destination almost two miles away—a steep hill rising from the valley floor covered in heavy forest that seemed to shimmer in the distance from the heat. The Romans would be stationed at the top of that hill in the trees and along the base to either side, according to Aengus, the Norici guide. The legions down in the valley were planning to attack first. Then, once the tribes were disorganized and pressed in on two sides, the main body of the Romans would pour down the hill—assuming they were needed. It was a good plan, Malcolm knew. One that would have done great damage had they not been aware of it.
The confident Romans believed themselves to be the hunters and the migrant tribes their prey—but they had no idea yet that they had everything backward. Thousands of Cimbri and Teutone warriors were even now moving stealthily through the forests on either side of the valley toward the Roman positions. Once they reached a spot roughly a quarter-mile behind the legions, they would then wait for the enemy to advance into the open and assault the caravan before tearing into their rear.
Malcolm knew the early Romans had attacked with spears in a single phalanx formation, something that they’d adopted from the Greeks. B
ut he didn’t expect to see that here. As Rome quickly grew in stature and power, those in charge realized that the formation had its limitations, especially in mountainous or uneven terrain like the Alps. The phalanx moved at a ponderous pace at the best of times, and after suffering multiple defeats against the Samnites in the third century, the Romans came up with the far superior maniple system. They now fought in three staggered lines in a checkerboard formation, called a triplex acies. The lines were broken up into smaller, box-like formations called maniples, each commanded by a centurion and assisted by a tesserarius and an optio. This new formation gave the Romans a sound command structure within each unit, allowing each maniple the ability to advance, retreat, or shift to a flank to face a new threat on their own almost instantly.
Skirmishers, called velites, would be the first out from the forest, Malcolm knew, followed by the hastati, the principes, and then the triarii. The velites would be lightly armored, if at all, and would be carrying wooden shields, short swords, lead-weighted darts, and javelins. The velites all wore animal skins on their heads to identify them to their commanders and were this century’s equivalent of cannon-fodder, designed to soften up the enemy for the more experienced men coming behind. Malcolm guessed it would take a while for all three of the Roman lines to clear the trees on both sides—which meant he and the rest of the warriors around the caravan were going to be very busy until the hidden Cimbri and Teutones attacked them from the rear.
“Tell me about these Romans we’re about to kill,” Caratacus said, picking at his teeth with a small, pointed stick. Caratacus was fastidious about his grooming, be it his hair, beard, teeth, or fingernails—something that never ceased to surprise Malcolm.
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