“No,” Malcolm lied. “I’m just taking a moment to catch my breath.”
The Cimbri warrior grunted acknowledgment, then stooped to snap the string holding a bronze locket around the neck of a motionless legionnaire pinned beneath a dead horse. The Roman moaned and moved at the contact, surprising Malcolm as he stammered something unintelligible at them. Malcolm had thought for certain that he was dead.
“Be quiet, dog!” Caratacus growled before he gave the trapped soldier a savage kick to the head. The Roman cried out at the blow, then lifted a shaking hand toward Caratacus as he pleaded for help. The Cimbri warrior just growled in annoyance and swung his axe, silencing the soldier for good. Caratacus leaned his weapon against the still twitching corpse and held up the locket, turning it over several times in puzzlement. Finally, he put it to his ear and shook it, grunting in surprise when the locket sprung open and a small, dark object dropped to the ground by his feet.
Caratacus snorted as he picked the object up and showed it to Malcolm. “He was wearing a cock around his neck,” Caratacus said with a grin, holding up a small silver amulet shaped like a penis with wings. “Don’t Romans have cocks of their own?”
“It’s a bulla,” Malcolm said in surprise. Bullae were normally worn by Roman boys until they came of age and donned the toga virilis that signified manhood. Why this older man still had his on him was a mystery to Malcolm. Perhaps this was a special bulla that had been awarded for valor, he thought, which he’d read had happened occasionally.
“What’s it for?” Caratacus asked as he examined the amulet.
“It’s supposed to protect the wearer against harm,” Malcolm answered as he leaned on his shield wearily, thinking that the amulet hadn’t done the man much good in the end.
“But why a cock?” Caratacus asked, looking perplexed. “What’s wrong with the one he was born with?”
Malcolm gestured to the tiny talisman. “The Romans call this a divine penis. It’s a symbol of fertility and power to them, much like the runic charms and torques our own people wear.”
Caratacus looked doubtful. “Power and fertility? This thing? It’s pretty puny, Artturi.” He fixed his gaze on the retreating legions. “These Romans aren’t real men if they have to carry tiny cocks around to keep them safe.” The warrior laughed. “Maybe if their own were bigger, they’d fight better.” Caratacus shook his head, still chuckling as he tossed the bulla aside. The Cimbri bent and took up his axe again and pointed west toward the hill. “See you up there, Artturi,” he said before wading back into the fray.
Malcolm watched until his friend was out of sight, then he headed back toward the caravan where Claire and Alodia were waiting for him. The heavens were going to open soon, and Malcolm would much rather find shelter beneath a cart when it did instead of chasing Romans up that hill.
Malcolm was still a hundred yards away from where he’d left Claire when he realized that something was wrong. A crowd was milling around one of the carts, most of them with their backs to the battleground. Malcolm could see several bodies lying on the ground, with people weeping over them. He felt a sudden thud in his gut and started running, knowing somehow that whatever had happened had to do with Claire. He pushed his way through the crowd, calling Claire’s name, then stopped in his tracks as he saw Alodia lying in the grass with her dress covered in blood. Two women knelt on either side of her, with one of them pressing a red-stained tunic to her stomach while the other held her head up and gave her water.
“Alodia!” Malcolm cried in dismay. He ran to the girl and dropped to his knees beside her as Alodia began weeping uncontrollably at the sight of him. “What happened?” Malcolm asked as he gently lifted the tunic off her belly, wincing at what he saw.
“You have to get her back, Artturi,” Alodia choked out through her tears. “That bastard took Frida!”
“Frida?” Malcolm said as he suddenly realized why Claire had looked so familiar. He groaned out loud, feeling nauseous at the thought that Claire had been Alodia’s daughter all along. He remembered the grunting and odd noises that the child had made whenever he was around and he cursed himself for not putting two and two together.
Malcolm held Alodia’s hand. “Who took her?” he asked gently. “Who took Frida?”
“I don’t know who he is,” Alodia said, pausing as she hissed in pain. “He’s a big man with a torn face and a missing eye.” She held onto Malcolm’s hand with surprising strength, drawing him closer. “He knew her, Artturi. The bastard knew Frida and I could tell he hates her. He’s going to do something bad to my child. You have to stop him, Artturi! Please!”
“Shit,” Malcolm muttered, knowing who she meant. He should have killed the son of a bitch when he had the chance.
“Please, Artturi,” Alodia said. “You have to go now.”
“But I can’t just leave you like this,” Malcolm said, filled with uncertainty.
“Kaija and Padma will take care of me,” Alodia replied. She saw a stubborn look rise in Malcolm’s eyes and added, “There’s nothing you can do for me that they can’t, Artturi.” She stroked Malcolm’s cheek with blood-stained fingers. “Please, you saved my girl and brought her back to me once already. Do it again, I’m begging you.” Malcolm lowered his eyes to the ground as he thought. As far as Alodia knew, Frida was just a terrified seven-year-old girl who’d miraculously been returned to her after being missing for five years. What mother would ask anything different of him in her position?
“I don’t want you to die,” Malcolm whispered, reluctant to leave her.
Alodia smiled bravely. “I won’t. I promise you I will live if you promise that you’ll get Frida back. Please. For all we’ve meant to each other, find my little girl.”
Malcolm took a deep breath, knowing he could not say no. “All right,” he finally said. “I’ll get her back. You have my word.”
“Thank you, Artturi,” Alodia said with relief. She closed her eyes as Malcolm reluctantly stood. “The man who took Frida ran into the trees to the north,” Alodia added, her voice weaker now. Padma gently lowered the wounded girl so that she was lying prone. The older woman stroked Alodia’s hair, talking softly to her as Kaija gingerly probed at the wound with her cloth. “Please hurry, my love,” Alodia mumbled.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Malcolm promised, trying not to let the despair he felt inside show on his face.
He took one last look at Alodia, burning the memory of her features into his mind before he turned and pushed his way through the crowd. She can’t die, he told himself. She just can’t. He’d found happiness and contentment here in this timeline, all because of Alodia, and he couldn’t imagine going on with this life without her. Malcolm made it less than six feet, and then he paused as his gaze locked onto the cold, hate-filled eyes of Clovis. Alodia’s husband stood with a bloody sword clutched in his hand, his face twisted in rage. Malcolm knew with a sinking feeling that the man had heard every word that he and Alodia had said to each other.
Malcolm started to move past the warrior, then halted as Clovis blocked his path with his sword. “You’re a dead man,” Clovis growled under his breath, his eyes burning with molten fire. “Not even your father can protect you from me now.”
“You can kill me after I get your daughter back,” Malcolm stated bluntly. He locked gazes with the other man. “Which is something you should be helping with as well.”
“I care nothing for the girl,” Clovis replied with a sneer. “I was glad when she disappeared.” Clovis put the edge of his sword against Malcolm’s throat. “But I do care about what you have been doing with my wife.”
Malcolm slowly rested his finger on Clovis’s blade, then pushed it aside as he lowered his other hand to the hilt of his sword. “We can deal with this later, Clovis,” he said. “Man to man. But right now, I have a job to do, so I suggest you stay out of my way.”
Malcolm stalked past the Teutone and headed for the front of the caravan, half expecting Clovis to come after him. B
ut Teutobod’s son just watched him go, saying nothing until finally Malcolm cut toward the north and entered the trees. Malcolm was surprised that Clovis had let him go, though the promise of violence in the other man’s eyes hadn’t changed any. One of them was going to die over this, that was clear.
“I hope you’re tracking skills are still up to snuff, Artturi,” Malcolm muttered as he thrust Clovis from his mind and began circling, looking for fresh spoor along the forest floor.
Malcolm was guessing that the man who had taken Claire had gone west, but he needed to be certain of that fact first. In less than ten minutes, he came across the trail of someone moving west in an erratic line over the densely packed leaves, pine needles, and broken branches that covered the ground. He started to follow, moving fast until he came to an area choked with green vines blooming with hundreds of white, bell-like flowers. Malcolm’s eyelids automatically fluttered as he fought his way through the clinging vines while the sweet scent of the flowers filled his nostrils. Convolvus arvensis, also known as hedge bindweed, his brain told him. Not the worst looking weed out there, he knew, though if you let the bindweed get out of control it would quickly take over everything just as it was doing here in the forest.
Malcolm suddenly paused, crouching down to examine a smear of darkness on one of the petals. He rubbed some of it off with a thumb and forefinger, then grimaced—dried blood. Claire and the man who’d taken her were ahead of him, but they had a good lead. Malcolm stood, breaking out into a trot now as he followed the obvious path his quarry had cut through the bindweed. He came to a spot where the man had knelt on one knee, with the clear impression made in the vines of a small body lying beneath him. Claire, Malcolm guessed. He moved on without slowing, coming across the beaten trails of hundreds of men, all of them moving southward. That would have been Clovis and his Teutones, Malcolm knew, and the man who had taken Claire had hidden in the bushes until they were gone.
Malcolm finally reached the base of the hill, not looking for tracks now as he sprinted upward through the trees. He could hear the howling of the tribes clearly now and the terrified cries coming from the Romans. He broke out into the open along the hilltop, then instantly darted back behind a large aspen as Roman legionnaires streamed up the incline, running past him in panic into the forest to the west. Cimbri and Teutone warriors were hot on their trail, picking off the stragglers with swords and axes and whooping with joy as they cut them down.
A determined centurion rallied his men near the western forest line, setting up a shield wall of about fifty men, allowing their brothers a chance to escape. Malcolm admired the spirit of the Romans as they gamely fought off the surging warriors, though even now, bare-chested tribesmen were moving to flank them. It would only be a minute more before the shield wall collapsed, Malcolm knew.
He shifted further to the north, heading through the trees just as a bolt of lightning sizzled down from the heavens and struck a sprawling oak standing behind the doomed Roman shield wall. The tree cracked in half with a sharp snap as smoke poured skyward and flames rippled along the severed trunk. The attacking warriors all hesitated, staring at the burning tree in wide-eyed shock.
Malcolm could hear more than one of the tribesmen muttering Thor’s name in awe. “Shit,” he said under his breath as thunder boomed, shaking the earth beneath his feet just as a deluge was let loose upon the world. “Here we go.”
Malcolm ran northwest, heading for thicker forest as the wind began to howl and rain mixed with stinging hail cut through the branches above him, slapping against his helmet and mail. Behind him, the Cimbri and Teutones were shouting in fear as they turned and fled, running back the way they’d come. The remnants of the Roman shield wall watched the flight of the tribes in disbelief, unable to comprehend their good fortune until finally, the centurion barked for them to move out and they disappeared into the trees.
The description Malcolm had read of this battle by the Roman historian, Theodor Mommsen, suggested that almost six thousand Romans had survived the day, managing to slip away after darkness fell and a terrible storm struck. Malcolm knew he was now alone and isolated in his quest, just one man against thousands. Yet he pressed onward into deeper forest anyway, protected to some degree from the fierceness of the hail, wind, and rain by the thick layers of branches over his head. He tried not to think about the many Romans somewhere ahead of him, focusing instead on the promise that he’d made to Alodia. He would find Claire and bring her back if it was the last thing he did.
A voice suddenly arose from Malcolm’s left, calling out a name repeatedly over the howling storm. An answering reply came moments later before the sound was abruptly cut off as lightning lit up the trees, followed instantly by a crackling boom that shook the forest. The brief flash of light revealed two Romans fighting their way through the underbrush, with a third moving toward them. Malcolm saw one of the soldiers was badly hurt, leaning heavily on his companion as they moved toward the third man. That man took the wounded soldier’s other side, and together, the three men continued west.
Malcolm decided to follow them simply because there didn’t seem to be any other options at the moment. A fourth Roman wearing a plumed helmet appeared coming from the west several minutes later. The four men stopped to talk and Malcolm crept closer so that he could hear what they were saying.
“But there’s too many of them, Optio,” the wounded soldier was saying, the whine in his voice obvious despite the storm.
“Nobody asked for your opinion,” the optio grunted. “Besides, word is the barbarians have broken and are retreating. Everyone is to regroup at the main camp.”
“And then what, Optio?”
“That’s up to people with bigger brains than you or me,” the optio growled. He gestured to the east. “Did you see any more of our men back there?”
One of the legionnaires helping to hold up the wounded soldier shrugged. “Could be, Optio. Everything happened so fast.”
The optio grunted, waving a hand for the three men to continue west while he headed back toward the hill. Malcolm waited as the man passed, using the giant aspen he’d hidden behind for cover. The branches over his head were swaying wildly in the gale, and it felt to him as though the trunk itself was moving back and forth despite its impressive thickness. The optio finally disappeared into the darkness while Malcolm remained where he was, listening. He counted to sixty, then satisfied, cautiously stepped from cover and began following after the other three legionnaires.
Malcolm only took a few steps before he paused as a thought struck him. The optio had said they were regrouping at the main Roman camp, possibly for a counterattack. That would be foolhardy, Malcolm knew, considering what awaited them in the valley. But after having met Consul Carbo, such an arrogant move wouldn’t surprise him in the least, though no mention had been made of such an attempt that Malcolm had ever read. If Carbo really was regrouping at that campsite to attack, then the chances were that’s where Malcolm would find Claire and the man who had taken her. The problem was the Romans would be on high alert after the disaster that had befallen them. Which meant he had no chance of getting anywhere near that camp dressed as he was.
Malcolm glanced back toward where the optio had gone. It was risky, he knew, but he couldn’t see any other way to get into that camp undetected. He began to cautiously retrace his steps, stopping every few paces to listen, searching for any sound that might indicate that any Romans were close. A branch snapped ahead of him, followed by a muffled curse, and Malcolm immediately ducked behind a bush as a lone legionnaire appeared. The man was hobbling as he used a spear to support himself. Malcolm wondered if he should settle for the soldier or go after the optio as planned, but then the decision was made for him as his quarry appeared, hurrying to catch up to the wounded legionnaire.
Malcolm waited, tensing with his sword braced on the ground as the optio caught up to the limping man and put an arm around his waist. The two were heading directly for Malcolm, and as they came abreas
t of him, he burst from his concealment with his sword already in motion. Malcolm slashed at the optio first, hacking into the surprised soldier’s neck, then spun, using his left leg to kick the spear out from under the wounded man. The optio stood for a moment, his eyes bulging as he tried to stanch the flow of blood from his neck, then he fell facedown and lay still. Malcolm barely glanced at the man as he pounced on the second one, wrapping a strong hand around the off-balance soldier’s wrist as the Roman tried to draw his gladius in desperation.
“Sorry about this,” Malcolm said as he head-butted the legionnaire in the face with the crest of his helmet.
The Roman cried out, his grip automatically loosening on the hilt of his sword as Malcolm brought up his blade and rammed it into the man’s stomach where his plated armor joined. The legionnaire fought back valiantly, trying to push himself off the hard steel, but Malcolm just bore down and drove the weapon in deeper. Lightning flashed, illuminating them both briefly as they fought, with only the sounds of their low grunts and the rain and hail pattering off their helmets and armor making noise in the otherwise silent forest. Malcolm saw the Roman was young—no more than twenty—and that his eyes were wide and filled with terror at the realization that death had come for him.
“Just let go,” Malcolm whispered as the man’s struggles weakened. He could feel the legionnaire’s hot lifeblood rolling down the length of his sword onto his hand, making it hard to hold onto the slippery wooden hilt. “There’s no point in fighting it.”
The Roman shook his head in denial just as he slipped in the muck covering the forest floor. He fell to one knee, gasping as the blade cut through the leather thongs keeping his armor together, tearing upwards through his abdominal wall and slicing through his small and large intestines, liver, and spleen. Malcolm steadied the man, feeling no pleasure in what he was doing as he waited. The Roman tried to speak, but his strength was gone as the light slowly dimmed in his eyes and then went out. Malcolm sighed, letting the corpse collapse before he wiped the blade of his sword on the dead man’s clothing. He stood and moved toward the optio, then used his foot to flip the body over, barely glancing at the hideous slash in his neck.
Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1) Page 21