“My apologies, friend,” Malcolm said as he crouched down and removed the man’s helmet. “But it was necessary.”
The helmet, or cassis, was made of bronze, with bronze cheek guards and red feathers for the plume. Malcolm set aside the helmet and started removing the rest of the optio’s gear. He looked upward as he worked, realizing that the wind from the storm had abated somewhat and the hail had stopped, though the rain was still falling briskly. Once the corpse was undressed, Malcolm took the optio’s dagger—called a pugio—and moved to a depression where rainwater had puddled. He soaked his beard and mustache the best that he could, then began the laborious and uncomfortable task of shaving off his facial hair. When he was done, Malcolm returned to the dead men and rubbed some of the optio’s blood on his cheeks and chin, hoping that it would make the poor job he’d done at shaving less obvious.
Ten minutes later, Malcolm was heading west again through the darkened forest, dressed in the optio’s helmet, his armored cuirass and red tunic, and his caligae—which were a pair of sandal-like boots. Malcolm had hidden his clothing and weapons near where he’d killed the two Romans, knowing it wouldn’t do to show up in the Cimbri camp after he’d rescued Claire dressed as a Roman soldier. He now wore a gladius on his right hip and the pugio on the other and carried the heavy rectangular Roman shield called the scutum on his left arm. He’d considered bringing the spear as well, but decided against it since the original optio hadn’t been carrying one. His biggest concern now that he had a plan was the passcode. Malcolm knew that every day at dusk, the Roman commander would hand four officers’ wooden tablets that contained that night’s passcodes. Malcolm wasn’t sure what the protocol was for returning legionnaires after a battle, but he knew there was a good chance he might be asked what that password was. He had no idea what he would do if that happened.
As if in answer to his worries, Malcolm came across a trail of bright red blood, which he followed until he located a legionnaire lying in the bushes on his back. The man lay still with his eyes closed, though Malcolm could see that his chest was moving. The Roman was one of the triarii, Malcolm guessed, judging by his expensive armor. Malcolm could see that armor was punched in on his right side, with several of the overlapping plates missing. Malcolm approached cautiously, scanning the forest around him for any signs of danger. The fallen Roman’s eyes fluttered at Malcolm’s approach, and he turned his head painfully to look up at him.
“Optio?” the man said in a hoarse voice. “Is that you?”
Malcolm knelt beside the man. “Can you stand?”
The Roman blinked and licked his lips. “I think so. My head hurts.”
Malcolm glanced at the legionnaire’s helmet, which was punctured and dented from a sword or axe blow. He gingerly removed it, revealing thick, greyish-blond hair smeared with blood that oozed from a deep gash.
“You’ve got a nasty cut there,” Malcolm said. “But you’ll live. We have to return to camp. I’ll help you up.”
Malcolm stooped and helped the Roman to a sitting position, then put the wounded man’s arm around his shoulders as he dragged him to his feet. The legionnaire gasped in pain but said nothing as Malcolm paused, giving him a chance to recover.
“What’s your name?” Malcolm asked.
“Flavius Geta,” the man said. He glanced sideways at Malcolm. “I thought you were my optio at first. I don’t know you, do I?”
Malcolm shook his head as he thought quickly. “No, we’ve never met. I’m Maximus Decimus Meridius,” he said, wincing as the name rolled off his tongue without thinking. No one would know that name, of course, since the character was fictitious in Russell Crowe’s Gladiator movie. But even so, Malcolm wished he’d thought of something else to call himself.
“You’re from the Third?” Flavius asked as he and Malcolm began to walk awkwardly together.
Malcolm inclined his head slightly, saying nothing and hoping the Roman would just accept that and let it go. The two men walked in silence for a time, with Malcolm guiding them in a westward direction as far as he could tell in the darkness. He had no idea where the main Roman camp was nor how far away it was, but he knew he couldn’t just ask his companion about it in case it made him suspicious.
“Optio, I must rest,” Flavius finally said, his voice quivering with fatigue. “I’m sorry, but I’m feeling dizzy all of a sudden.”
“We’ll take a moment,” Malcolm said, halting as the man wavered unsteadily in his arms. He added in a gruffer tone,” But only for a short time. We have to get back.” Malcolm surveyed the darkened trees. “I’m completely turned around in this cursed forest. Are we still going in the right direction?”
“I think so, Optio,” Flavius said, looking uncertain as he pointed northeast. “I’m pretty sure the road is that way.”
“Ah,” Malcolm grunted. “That’s what I was thinking, too. How far away from camp are we, I wonder?”
Flavius shrugged. “Maybe a mile, I’d guess.”
“Can you make it?” Malcolm asked.
“I’ll make it, Optio,” Flavius said with a determined nod.
“Good man,” Malcolm said as he patted the wounded man on the back. “We’d best get moving. Word is Carbo is planning a counterattack.” Flavius didn’t say anything to that, though Malcolm could feel the unease emanating from him. “You don’t agree?” Malcolm asked.
“If the plan is to ensure every last one of us dies tonight, then it’s a fine plan,” Flavius grunted. “The Consul isn’t exactly a military genius if you ask my opinion.”
Malcolm had to suppress a smile, finding he liked the Roman. “Perhaps not,” he said in a gruff tone, playing his role. “But it’s not our place to question him.”
“Agreed, Optio,” Flavius said, his voice sounding more cautious. “I meant nothing by that. I’m not thinking clearly is all.”
“Of course you’re not,” Malcolm agreed. “I understand. Best to keep your thoughts to yourself then until you are.”
The two men moved in silence after that, and it seemed to Malcolm that it took forever before they finally found the narrow road snaking through the trees. The rain had stopped some time ago, and the clouds that had brought the storm to the valley had cleared, revealing a half-moon that lit the landscape in faint light. Malcolm and Flavius eventually reached a shadowy ridge that overlooked a massive clearing, and they paused on the crest. Malcolm cursed at what he saw.
They’d found the Roman camp—but it was deserted.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CLAIRE
Claire lay facedown, wedged in between the neck of Sextus Acte’s stolen mare and the saddle on its back, trying to ignore the sharp pain in her side. The slavecatcher had one hand pressed against her back, while with the other he urged the horse along a narrow road filled with panicked Romans. A thick rope encircled Claire’s waist, with the other end wound around the pommel of the saddle several times and then tied off, effectively holding her in place. Tall trees hemmed the road in on both sides, and Claire could see the occasional faint glint of armor as men tried to fight their way through the shrouded forest around them. Dark, menacing clouds swirled above the struggling mass of humanity, twisting and coiling like angry snakes ready to strike, adding to the fear. A cold wind came with the clouds, whipping through the trees and along the road with a high-pitched whistling sound, leaving Claire shivering in her thin dress.
Legionnaires were crying out and pushing at each other in terror as mass hysteria took hold of the Romans, infecting both men and horses alike as they tried to escape the demons behind them. Sextus Acte cursed as he fought to make headway through the mob, yelling at the packed soldiers milling around the jittery mare to move out of the way. Claire could hear screams echoing from the east where the hill lay, and she twisted her head awkwardly to look in that direction, half expecting to see the forms of nearly naked warriors charging from the trees. She dearly wished for that to happen, hoping that they would kill every last Roman this night—including
Sextus Acte.
The sky suddenly lit up as lightning crackled overhead, carving a jagged path through the darkness, followed instantly by a thunderclap that rattled the ground, hurting Claire’s ears. Rain and hail began to fall then as Sextus’ mare shrieked and reared back in terror while the slavecatcher held onto the reins in desperation. Fearful legionnaires scrambled to get out of the way of the crazed horse while rock-hard ice pellets dinged off their armor and helmets, ricocheting wildly in all directions. Claire heard Sextus cry out, then the weight of his hand was suddenly gone from her back as he twisted and fell hard to the ground.
Claire instinctively grabbed for the horse’s fluttering reins but missed as more lightning flashed, lighting up the road for a brief moment. She saw Sextus Acte lying still in a crumpled heap on the ground and couldn’t help but grin at the sight before another boom of thunder arrived that rattled her teeth. The mare shrieked a second time and started to run north, barrelling through the densely-packed legionnaires, sending several spinning to the ground before the panicked animal reached the trees and plunged into the darkness. Claire was helpless to do anything but lie where she was as her body bumped and gyrated with the mare’s wild gait. She tried to reach beneath her to free herself from the rope, ignoring the pain as hail sliced through the branches above her and bounced painfully off her head and body, but she couldn’t reach the knot. Finally exhausted from the attempts, she gave up, making herself as small as she could against the mare’s flanks, hoping for the best.
The frightened horse continued its wild flight, heading for deeper woods just as a low-hanging branch struck Claire a glancing blow on her right hip. She screamed in pain and fear as the terrified mare kept going, racing through the darkened trees while thunder continued to shake the ground and lightning flashed overhead. The rope around Claire’s waist bit into her flesh relentlessly as prickly bushes and tall weeds scraped against her face and body and wet branches slapped with force against her head and shoulders. Claire knew she had to get off the horse now before one of those branches disabled her completely, and she turned her attention to the pommel, fighting with the wet rope tied there as she tried to loosen it.
Eventually, Claire managed to get a finger into the knot and she worked at it, sobbing in frustration as the slick rope resisted her attempts before finally it slipped free. A monstrous tree appeared in front of the charging horse just then, illuminated in another flash of lightning and the mare instantly swerved to avoid it. Desperate, Claire started to unwind the length of rope as the tree loomed in front of her, but it was too late and she felt a vicious blow strike her across the right temple. Claire’s arms went instantly numb and she tumbled to the ground, rolling over and over as the rope came free from the pommel, trailing behind her until finally she came to a rest curled up in a ball.
Claire lay where she’d fallen on the wet forest floor for long minutes, stunned and hardly able to believe that she was still alive. A part of her wished that she wasn’t. She slowly sat up, moving her arms and legs and twisting her neck back and forth, surprised that nothing was broken. Lightning flashed above her head again, revealing fir and alder trees covered in creeping lichen all around her. The forest floor felt spongey beneath her, covered in layers of leaf mold and dead plants that had helped to cushion her fall. Claire stood, gasping as sudden dizziness hit her. A stabbing pain arced across the back of her head, and she tentatively rubbed her skull, searching for any depressions or cuts. Maybe she wasn’t all right, after all, she thought, wondering if she might have a concussion. Her examination didn’t reveal any damage, though she winced whenever she came too close to her right temple.
Claire leaned against the giant alder tree that she’d hit her head against while she undid the rope around her waist. She tossed the rope aside, then shivered in her soaked dress as she rubbed her scratched and bleeding arms to try and stay warm. The mare had initially run north, she believed, but could have changed directions at any point during its headlong flight. Claire hadn’t exactly been worried about which way the terrified horse was going at the time, which meant she wasn’t certain where Gerald and the Cimbri were. She tilted her head to listen, trying to hear past the sounds of the storm, but there was nothing that might indicate people were anywhere close. She knew she could always try to follow the mare’s trail back to the road, but she couldn’t be certain the Romans weren’t still there or even if that bastard Sextus was actually dead. She had no intentions of falling into his hands again if he wasn’t.
Claire pushed herself away from the tree, coming to a decision. She would assume the mare had run straight north like the crow flies, which meant the valley and Gerald should be somewhere to her right. Claire set off, planning to circle around where she’d left the road and join with it further east to avoid any chance of meeting up with the Romans. Each step brought a flaring pain to Claire’s right hip, and after a few minutes of walking, she paused to pick up a fallen branch that was roughly the same height as she was. She broke off the smaller limbs until she had a decent walking stick, then moved onward.
Claire’s stola was in tatters and her teeth were chattering, but despite that and the many scrapes and cuts on her skin, she felt her spirits lifting at the thought that soon she’d be with Gerald and this nightmare would finally end. She felt a sudden twinge in her chest at the thought of Alodia, knowing Frida was still grieving somewhere inside of her.
She’ll be all right, Claire thought, trying to ease the frightened child’s pain. You’ll see. Your mother is a tough lady. She’ll pull through.
Claire fought her way through the foliage with stubborn determination as forked lightning sizzled overhead every few minutes, followed each time by a sharp crack of thunder. She wrinkled her nose at the heady scent of the lightning-produced ozone and nitrogen dioxide that hung all around her. Each lightning strike heated the air to roughly 50,000 degrees Fahrenheit, Claire knew, with the rapid expansion of that air causing the sonic boom heard right after. She realized that the hail had mercifully stopped, though the rain was still falling hard enough to continue to penetrate the layers of branches over her head. She reached a small clearing just as lightning flashed again, revealing a basin of water with long grass and dead trees growing from the murky surface. A body lay near the edge of the water, and Claire groaned as she drew closer, tossing her walking stick aside and falling to her knees by the corpse. She shuddered, looking down at the remains of Lulius as tears started to roll down her cheeks.
The boy looked as though he’d been torn apart by wild animals, but Claire knew better. Only one type of beast had done this to him—Sextus Acte. She closed her eyes, saying a silent prayer for Lulius just as she heard movement coming from behind her. Claire scurried away from the body on her hands and knees, darting behind some bushes as the shadowy forms of men appeared in the clearing. Lightning chose that moment to flash again, revealing the cold features of Consul Carbo surrounded by six legionnaires and another man. Claire felt her heart leap, recognizing Quintus Barbii standing beside the Roman general. She felt a moment of happiness that the trader still lived, then squashed it angrily. Quintus Barbii had brought Sextus Acte here, so he was just as responsible for Alodia and Lulius as the slavecatcher was.
“Which way,” Carbo demanded in a high voice as thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm was rapidly moving away, taking the cold wind along with it, though the rain still fell at a steady pace.
“I’m not certain, General,” one of the legionnaires replied with reluctance.
Lightning flashed again just as someone gasped in surprise. They’d seen Lulius, Claire guessed. She heard the creak of leather and the clink of armor and watched as a shadowy form broke from the rest and moved to kneel beside the dead boy.
“Is it one of ours?” Carbo asked.
The kneeling man stood and strode back to the others. “No, General. It’s just a boy wearing a slave collar.” The man paused. “Looks like wolves or something got to him.”
“Better hi
m than us,” Carbo sniffed with disinterest. “Quintus, you always had a good head for direction. Which way do you think the road lies?”
“That way,” Quintus Barbii said without hesitation. “But if we return to it, you can bet those savages will find us sooner rather than later. We’re fairly safe here in the trees, Gnaeus.”
“But we’re vulnerable without horses,” Carbo said, his voice heavy with bitterness. He shook his head. “Damn the luck. An inch to the right with that barbarian’s spear and Adonis would have carried me away from this cursed place.”
“He got you farther than anyone could have hoped for with that wound, Gnaeus,” Quintus Barbii said. “A noble beast, that one.”
“True,” Carbo agreed in a lackluster voice.
“What do we do now, General?” another man asked with a slight whine to his tone.
“Do?” Carbo said. He snorted. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“We should try to get back to your camp, Gnaeus,” Quintus said. “If anyone has survived this thing, then that’s where they’ll be.”
“But we don’t even know where that is from here,” Carbo grunted in exasperation.
Lightning flashed once more, revealing the clearing and bog in vivid detail for the briefest of moments. Claire had pushed aside some of the branches of the shrubs she was hiding behind to hear better, and she froze as her eyes locked onto those of a young legionnaire staring right at her. She saw the youth frown just as darkness fell again, her heart racing as the soldier remained rooted in place.
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