Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  “I already told my father and Teutobod and the others all about them,” Malcolm grunted. “And you were there, too, so you already know what I said.”

  Caratacus shrugged. “So tell me again. What else do you have to do until we get there?”

  Malcolm sighed. Caratacus and the others believed he’d learned about the Romans from one of the Taurisci slaves they’d captured last year. He doubted it would have gone over well if he’d told them the truth, which was that he’d read about Roman military ranks and tactics in books. Malcolm chuckled to himself, realizing none of them probably knew what a book even was.

  “What’s so funny?” the warrior demanded.

  “Nothing,” Malcolm said. He raised an eyebrow. “What do you want to know?”

  “These legions waiting for us,” Caratacus said. “How many men in each?”

  “Usually around forty-two hundred,” Malcolm replied.

  “Uh-huh,” Caratacus nodded. “And they fight in rows with shields and swords except for the one’s wearing skins?”

  “Yes,” Malcolm agreed. “The hastati will be first from the trees after the velites attack. They’re Rome’s youngest and least experienced fighters.” Caratacus grinned at that, his eyes lighting up with pleasure at the anticipated slaughter. “They’re usually armed with swords and several throwing spears, but will probably be wearing only light armor, as they’re mostly poor and can’t afford anything of quality. The hastati throw their javelins first, then advance in ten units of a hundred and twenty men each, with a gap between each unit.”

  “And the row of men coming behind them?” Caratacus asked.

  “Principes,” Malcolm said. “Much tougher soldiers to deal with. They’ll all be in their prime, with good weapons and armor. Once the hastati realize they are in trouble, they’ll retreat through the gaps and the principes will take their place.”

  “That’s foolish,” Caratacus said with a snort. “Why not attack us all at once? The Roman way makes no sense to me.”

  “Actually, it does make sense,” Malcolm responded as the professor part of his mind took over and he started to lecture. “It’s all about discipline and not wearing men out. The troops that fall back get a chance to rest and regroup away from the fighting while fresh ones keep the enemy busy. Think about that for a moment, Caratacus. The Romans continuously shift their soldiers forward so that the well-rested are always at the front, fighting against men who are most likely exhausted. Tired men make easy prey on the battlefield.”

  “I still think the entire idea is stupid,” Caratacus grumbled. “These people must be cowards. A battle should be fought man against man, not hiding behind a line of shields hoping the men around you will do the fighting for you.” The warrior shook his head with contempt. “Tell me about the last row, Artturi.”

  “The triarii,” Malcolm said. “These are Rome’s best fighters and will each be armed with a sword, a dagger, and a long spear. There won’t be as many of them as the hastati or principes, though. Probably about six hundred per legion. The men in the triarii are usually older than those in the principes, but they are all very wealthy and experienced. They’ll have the best weapons and armor, so my advice is not to underestimate them.” Malcolm chose not to mention to Caratacus that the triarii were rarely called upon to fight. By the time the veterans moved to the front line, most of the battles the Romans had fought in against the undisciplined Celtic and Germanic tribes had already been won.

  “What about the hill?” Caratacus asked, his eyes searching the skyline ahead as if expecting to see Roman helmets glinting there in the sunlight.

  “That’s where the equites and the last two legions will be waiting,” Malcolm said. “The equites will charge once the legions in the valley have softened us up, followed by the infantry if they’re needed. According to Aengus, the Roman commander doesn’t think they will be.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Caratacus said confidently. “These equites are Romans on horses, yes?”

  “That’s right,” Malcolm agreed. “Very rich ones. The legions usually only use them for flanking and for pursuing fleeing enemies, so I guess he’s expecting us to run.”

  “He doesn’t know the Cimbri,” Caratacus said with a grim expression. “We don’t run.” The warrior suddenly grunted in annoyance as the canvas covering the cart beside them shifted and a bearded face peered out. “Get back under there, you fool!” Caratacus hissed. “Are you trying to ruin everything?” The man muttered an apology before disappearing back under the cover as Artturi’s friend snorted with disgust. He turned back to Malcolm. “Sometimes I wonder where these Teutones keep their brains.”

  Malcolm didn’t bother replying as he let his gaze roam over the caravan. Hundreds of crude carts with heavy wooden wheels and wicker sidewalls were lined up two by two on the road that wound its way through the mountains behind him. Each cart was being pulled by a giant, dim-witted auroch with massive, curved horns. A warrior dressed as a farmer led each of the animals onward with a rope while mounted men flanked the small, two-wheeled carts as they rode in the long grass beside the road. More warriors walked crouched down between the carts, virtually invisible to the eyes of the Romans in the trees with all the dust, carts, people, and animals. Hundreds of throwing spears in baskets were strapped to the inside walls of the carts that the warriors would make good use of when the time came.

  Women and children marched along the outside of the carts. Some of the children were even playing, chasing each other in the long grass and giggling as though they hadn’t a care in the world. Malcolm couldn’t help but admire their bravery, knowing putting them in plain sight of the enemy was a necessary risk. Boiorix and Teutobod wanted the Roman commander relaxed and overconfident, and this seemed the only way to make certain of it. The chances were good that Carbo would have become suspicious without them being there, so Malcolm understood the reasoning behind the kings’ decision. He was just glad that Alodia would be well away from the fighting along with the bulk of the other women, children, and older people.

  The Cimbri women normally followed their men onto the battlefield to stand behind the lines, where they would reveal their breasts to the enemy as a distraction. It was a ploy that had worked before, though it was fair to say that sometimes it worked a little too well. Men were men regardless of which side they fought on, and the migrant warriors would more often than naught become just as distracted by the naked display as the enemy. For that reason, Teutobod and Boiorix had both agreed that the tribes couldn’t afford their men being anything but focused against such a formidable force waiting for them, so they had forbidden the practice for the upcoming battle.

  Malcolm glanced to the front of the caravan where Teutobod and Boiorix rode side by side, with the Norici guide, Aengus, and several of the sub-kings from each tribe riding behind them. Clovis and Adalwolf had left an hour before the caravan reached the valley, leading twenty thousand Teutone warriors into position behind the legion waiting in the trees to the north. The Cimbrian sub-kings Lugius and Claodicus also were leading a similar force of Cimbri through the forest to the south.

  The two kings riding in the vanguard would make a tempting target for the Romans, but Malcolm guessed the tribal leaders would probably be too busy trying to outdo each other to worry about it. The kings were not especially fond of each other, and both viewed the other man with an equal mixture of respect and distrust. Eventually, that distrust would lead to the breakup of the Cimbri and Teutone alliance, but that time was still many years away.

  “We’re getting close,” Caratacus said, carefully putting his toothpick back in a small leather pouch that hung from his belt. “He gestured to the hill that now rose prominently in front of them. “Half a mile. Maybe less.”

  Malcolm unconsciously adjusted the shield on his arm, scanning the hilltop first, then the forest lines to either side of the valley. Nothing moved that he could see other than a dark, lithe bird with white tail feathers swooping high above his head.
Malcolm’s eyes fluttered as his brain automatically retrieved the information he wanted. A crag martin, he realized as he watched the bird’s acrobatic flight as it snatched insects out of the air.

  “Why do you always do that?” Caratacus asked, cutting into Malcolm’s thoughts.

  “Do what?” Malcolm grunted, turning his gaze on the warrior.

  “That thing with your eyes,” Caratacus said. “Like this.” He blinked rapidly and made an exaggerated face. “You get this strange look every time you do it, too.”

  “I’m just thinking,” Malcolm replied. He hadn’t been aware he’d been doing that, believing he’d left that particular trait behind in the twenty-first century with his broken body.

  “I hope you’re thinking about killing Romans at least,” Caratacus said with a grin. “Because I know I am.”

  Malcolm shook his head and gestured to the martin. “No, I was thinking about birds.”

  Caratacus looked up and watched the martin for a moment before he snorted. “I swear by the gods you are getting stranger by the day, my friend.”

  Malcolm chuckled, about to reply when a sudden shout of warning rang out from one of the men riding in the vanguard.

  “It’s too soon for the Romans to attack,” Caratacus grunted. “We’re not close enough yet.”

  Malcolm and Caratacus swung their horses out of line, cantering forward to see what was happening. One of the sub-kings was pointing west toward the hill, where a tiny figure could be seen running down the slope along the southern forest line, with a second, much bigger form appearing momentarily at the crest before sprinting after the first. The caravan came to a lumbering halt behind Malcolm just as he realized in surprise that the first runner was a little girl who was waving her hands wildly over her head as she raced down the incline. Malcolm felt a sudden lurch in his stomach, remembering Margaret, the slave from 1718, doing the very same thing in the small fishing boat as it approached Blackbeard’s ship.

  “Claire,” he whispered, knowing instinctively that he was right.

  Malcolm drew his sword and kicked his horse into a gallop, not stopping as he heard Caratacus yelling at him to stop. He could feel sharp disapproval emanating from Artturi but thrust it aside as he swept past Boiorix and Teutobod, with both kings staring at him in mutual surprise. The girl had reached the base of the hill now, Malcolm saw, but she was laboring, her arms no longer waving as she tried to conserve energy. The figure coming behind her was a man—a big man—and he had a knife in his hand and was shouting something Malcolm couldn’t make out.

  Malcolm was still three hundred yards away, with the chasing man less than fifty yards from the girl. He leaned low against his horse’s neck, feeling the wind against his face and the long plume from his helmet whipping about him as he urged more speed from his mount. He only had two hundred yards to go, but the man was only ten yards away from the girl now, with one big hand already reaching out to grab her flowing hair.

  “Claire!” Malcolm shouted in warning. He saw the girl’s face light up in surprise and joy at his voice, then the man dove forward, knocking her from her feet as he fell tumbling after her.

  Malcolm cursed, the tip of his sword kissing the long grass below him as he held it low and at an angle, intent on skewering the bastard the moment he was close enough. Malcolm’s horse was heaving in exertion, the thud of its heavy hooves ringing loud against the ground as man and beast seemed to fly across the grass. He could feel Artturi’s excitement building as Claire tried to stand, only to fall again when the man grasped one of her ankles and hauled her back down. He dragged her toward him, then flipped her over and pounced his big frame on top of her, lifting his knife in the air with his face twisted in fury.

  “Artturi,” Malcolm whispered, knowing he’d never reach Claire in time. “Please.”

  Malcolm let the Cimbrian have control then, feeling his body straighten in the saddle even as Artturi flicked his sword into the air and caught it by the blade near the hilt. The Cimbrian warrior didn’t hesitate as he drew his arm back and flung the sword like a spear. The weapon flew straight and true, right at the head of Claire’s attacker as sunlight winked off the heavy blade and tarnished bronze hilt. Both Malcolm and Artturi were already raising their arms in triumph in expectation of a kill. But somehow, Claire’s assailant sensed his danger and he looked up, automatically dodging to the side and rolling in the grass as the weapon hissed past him harmlessly.

  Malcolm cursed at the miss. But at least Claire was free of the man’s weight, though she still lay in the grass as if stunned, staring at her assailant as he regained his feet.

  “Claire!” Malcolm shouted. The girl swiveled her head, fixing her eyes on him. “Run, dammit!”

  Malcolm’s words seemed to snap Claire out of whatever trance she’d been in, and she scrambled to her feet, turning away even as the big man reached her again. He grabbed the girl’s arm, shouting something that Malcolm couldn’t understand just as the horse and rider descended on the two. Malcolm tossed aside his shield and drew his knife, snarling as he flung himself from the saddle and collided with Claire’s attacker. The two men fell to the ground and rolled over several times before coming to a stop with Malcolm on top. He raised his knife to strike, but the bigger man wrapped his left hand around his right wrist, halting him in mid-stroke even as he stabbed upward with his own knife. Malcolm just managed to wrap his left hand around the man’s right wrist, stopping the blade an inch from his neck as they began to struggle, cursing and spitting at one another.

  Claire’s attacker was much bigger than Artturi, but the Cimbri warrior, though of smaller stature, was just as strong as his adversary, and neither man could gain the upper hand. A shadow suddenly loomed over the combatants, and Malcolm glanced up to see Claire standing over them, her face twisted in hatred as she awkwardly slashed Malcolm’s sword down at the bigger man. Blood splattered and the man screamed, dropping his knife and pawing at a hideous gash that had appeared on his face, running from his hairline, down his forehead and eye to end just below his ear.

  Malcolm rolled aside and stood, kicking the wounded man’s knife away as he writhed on the ground. He glanced at Claire, who was staring at him in wonder, her mouth working, though no words were coming out. There was something about her thin face and sorrowful eyes that he thought looked vaguely familiar. The girl finally hurled herself into his arms and hugged him, the sword forgotten as it fell to the grass.

  “It’s okay, Claire,” Malcolm said soothingly as the girl shuddered, making odd grunting noises as she cried against his chest. Malcolm stroked her hair. “You’re all right now. I’ve got you.”

  Malcolm suddenly became aware of shouts and the sounds of shrill horns and he glanced around in surprise. The Romans were breaking out from the trees, having obviously decided that their trap had been exposed. Screaming velites swarmed into the open from either side of the valley, though they ignored Malcolm and Claire as they shifted to the east, converging instead on the men in the vanguard. A great line of shields and gleaming helmets followed the velites from the north and south, marching forward at a forty-five-degree angle in disciplined formations. These would be the hastati, Malcolm knew. Horns sounded from the hilltop as well, and Malcolm looked back to see hundreds of horses and riders appearing all along the crest, with each man carrying an iron-tipped spear that gleamed in the sunlight. They had to get away before the equites charged, Malcolm realized in alarm. He took a glance down at the hideously wounded man, who was still clutching at his ravaged face and moaning, knowing the bastard was finished. Then he ran to pick up his sword before sprinting toward his horse.

  “Claire, come on,” he grunted, motioning to the girl as she stood indecisively.

  Malcolm could hear the deep, guttural sound of carnyces being blown from the direction of the caravan now and he grimaced, knowing if they didn’t hurry, they were going to get caught between two battling armies. The carnyx was a giant war trumpet made of bronze and shaped in a stretched-out
S with an animal face at the bell and a bronze mouthpiece at the other end. The trumpet towered six feet above the tallest man, with either a boar, dragon, serpent, or wolf’s head at the bell. The gleaming head and harsh sound coming from the carnyx had a deep psychological impact on the enemy, giving the illusion that a monster was descending upon them. Malcolm had seen the carnyces unnerve even the bravest foe over the last few years and was well aware of their impact.

  The deep, haunting notes continued to echo throughout the valley, summoning the hidden warriors inside the carts and those waiting between them to engage the enemy. Something whistled over Malcolm’s head as he swung himself up into the saddle and he instinctively ducked as a lead-weighted dart caressed the plume on his helmet as it passed by. A javelin followed the dart, burying itself in the ground near where Claire stood watching him.

  “Claire!” Malcolm shouted as he urged his mount forward.

  Claire stared at the quivering javelin in surprise, then finally started to move, breaking out into a run toward him. Malcolm reached down without slowing his horse as the distance between them closed, grabbing her with one arm and swinging her into the saddle in front of him when they met. He kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks once she was settled, heading back toward the caravan at a gallop as several more javelins flicked past them.

  “Stay low,” Malcolm grunted, pressing his body over the girl as best he could. A wall of velites clad in animal skins were running in front of him, blocking their path and waving their spears as they bore down on the caravan. Few of the Romans had noticed the horse with its two riders coming up behind them yet, but Malcolm knew that wouldn’t last.

  A single, shrill horn sounded abruptly from the hill, followed by cheers as the Roman equites charged down the incline. Malcolm gave the horse its head, trying to protect Claire as they reached the back ranks of the screaming velites. His horse snorted, not liking the smells coming off the skins the men wore as Malcolm plunged without hesitation into their midst. Velites in front of him were sent tumbling aside beneath the horse’s bulk, shouting in surprise and panic, though several did have the presence of mind to try pulling the man and girl out of the saddle as they rode past. Those men met a quick end from Malcolm’s sword as he hacked downward left and right madly. But for every man he cut down, two more took his place, surging angrily around the horse, with the sheer number of velites in front slowing the animal down. Malcolm knew it was only a matter of time before a spear or sword struck him or the horse, then it would be over.