CHAPTER TWENTY
MALCOLM
Malcolm awoke to find himself lying on Carbo’s bed in the Consul’s tent. He blinked in confusion, trying to clear the haziness from his eyes, feeling a warm body pressed against his. He glanced down to see Claire stretched out with her head on his chest and her arms wrapped possessively around him. The girl’s eyes were closed, and her mouth was parted open a crack as she snored softly. Malcolm shifted his weight, wincing at the stabbing pain coming from his temple and his ribs on his right side. He wondered if one or two of those ribs were cracked or broken as he glanced cautiously around him. Several metal braziers glowed red embers nearby, giving off enough light to reveal that he and Claire were surprisingly alone in the tent. Where were Remus and the other Romans? And why was he even alive at all?
Claire grumbled softly and shifted against him before her eyelids fluttered open. She stared up at Malcolm, the exhaustion on her face quickly changing to an expression of relief when she saw that he was conscious.
“Are you all right?” Malcolm asked in a low voice.
Claire nodded and sat up, still looking half asleep. Her brows furrowed in concern as she put a hand on Malcolm’s arm, using her other hand to turn his head so she could examine his bruised temple. Claire made a clucking sound, looking worried.
“It’s nothing,” Malcolm said, responding to the question he saw in the girl’s eyes. He gently pushed her hand away, then sat up and swung his legs over the bed. The Romans had taken his sword and armor, of course, and he looked around, hoping to see something that he could use as a weapon. There wasn’t much, and he decided one of the heavy braziers would have to suffice when the time came. “I’ve dealt with worse in this life, believe me,” Malcolm added as he stood, hesitating when his vision blurred for a moment before it cleared. He carefully probed at his tender ribs through his tunic, then satisfied that they weren’t broken, he turned and looked at Claire. “Where are our friends?” he asked.
Claire pointed to the tent’s entrance and then got to her feet, almost running as she hurried to hug him. The girl’s dress was torn and soiled with dirt and blood, and it barely hung on her thin frame as she buried her face in his chest. Claire clung to Malcolm, trembling, surprising him with her strength before she suddenly started to cry. Malcolm stood with his arms at his sides, unsure of what to do. He wanted to console her, but he knew Claire believed she was hugging her husband, not Malcolm Foster, and he didn’t want to encourage anything. He knew she needed to know the truth about what had happened to Gerald, but this didn’t seem like the right time for it. Malcolm wasn’t sure what Claire’s reaction was going to be when she finally learned who he was, but one thing was for certain—it was not going to be pretty.
“We need to try to get away while we’re still alone,” Malcolm said after an uncomfortable moment.
Claire just clutched at him harder, shaking her head and making odd grunting noises. Malcolm sighed, really wishing she could talk. He finally put his arms around the sobbing girl, trying not to let his impatience show as he waited for her to gain control of herself.
A sudden memory of the first time he’d seen Claire came flooding back to him, and he closed his eyes, remembering. They’d met at Westlake High School in Austin. Claire had arrived at the school halfway through the first semester, and she’d sat in front of Malcolm in both his History and English classes. Claire had been so young then, petite, with long, straight black hair and thick-rimmed glasses that made her eyes seem bigger than they were. The two had instantly felt a connection, and it wasn’t long before they were dating. Claire had always seemed happy to Malcolm. She had a quick smile for everyone and a sharp mind that made her a favorite among her teachers. But behind the girl’s carefully created façade lay a terrible secret, one that might never have come to light if her mother hadn’t taken her own life a month after he and Claire had met.
Claire had changed dramatically after her mother’s death, becoming cold and withdrawn with Malcolm and everyone else in school. Malcolm had done everything he could to try and break through the girl’s wall of grief, but nothing he’d said had worked. Eventually, they’d broken up, which probably would have been the end of the relationship if Malcolm hadn’t forgotten his Sony Walkman at Claire’s house. He’d ridden over to her place one Saturday afternoon on his bicycle to get it back, and that’s when ‘IT’ had happened, changing both of their lives forever. Malcolm never told a soul what had occurred in that house, having sworn to the girl that he wouldn’t. He wondered if the two of them would still be where they were right now if he hadn’t lied for her that day.
Malcolm opened his eyes as Remus and Gervais appeared in the entrance with drawn swords in their hands. “I was hoping that little crack across your thick skull would be the end of you,” Remus grunted with a sneer as he and Gervais entered the tent. “Too bad.” He stepped aside, making room for Flavius, who hobbled painfully forward. Malcolm could see through the entrance behind the three legionnaires that dawn was quickly approaching.
The triarius grimaced as he drew a padded bench away from the wall and sat down with a grateful sigh. “I must admit, Maximus,” Flavius said after a moment, crossing his arms over his chest as he studied Malcolm. “Or whatever your name is. I have mixed emotions about all of this, since it was you who saved my life back there.” He shifted his eyes to the squat Roman for a moment. “Remus thinks we should have just killed you and the girl and headed off through the trees hours ago when we still had the chance.”
Flavius sat six feet away from Malcolm, with Remus and Gervais watching him warily several paces behind the older man. Malcolm wondered if he could reach the wounded soldier and take his sword before the two Romans cut him down. “So, why didn’t you kill us then?” he asked to buy time. Claire sniffed and rubbed at her nose before she shifted to his right side, where she huddled against his body. Malcolm automatically put his arm around her thin shoulders, wincing as pain shot across his ribs. He could feel Artturi tensing and he held the warrior back, wanting to hear what Flavius had to say before making any attempt against the three men.
Flavius sighed and fidgeted with the bandage that encircled his head. “Because the moment Remus told me what he’d overheard you and Sextus Acte talking about, I remembered where I’d seen you before.” Flavius shook his head in admiration. “I have to admit—” He paused with one eyebrow raised expectantly as he stared at Malcolm.
“Artturi,” Malcolm finally said into the silence, seeing no reason to lie now.
“Ah,” Flavius grunted. “I have to admit, Artturi, you certainly do have an impressive set of balls on you. To not only pose as an optio, but to pull it off and fool us like that.” Flavius clucked his tongue. “Quite remarkable—for a barbarian.”
“He didn’t fool me,” Remus growled. “I knew there was something wrong with the bastard the moment I laid eyes on him.”
“Yes,” Flavius agreed. “So you did. But not even you could have guessed that our strange optio was not only a Cimbrian warrior, but the son of their king as well.” Malcolm’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “That’s right, Artturi,” Flavius said. “I remember you now. I was near the dais when you and Teutobod and that other one met with Consul Carbo. You have a face and voice that are hard to forget. Shaving the beard was smart and it threw me off, but I think I would have figured it out eventually.”
Malcolm glanced at Claire, sharing a look with her before he shrugged and turned back to Flavius. “So, now that you know who I am, what are you going to do about it?”
“We’re going to use you to barter with your people,” Flavius answered bluntly, his face looking drawn from fatigue and pain. “Dawn will be here soon, and I expect when it arrives, the entire countryside will be swarming with barbarians.” Flavius winced, unconsciously putting a hand to his wounded side. “I’m sure they would have caught us, even if we’d left right away last night. Especially with Dario and me slowing us down. That’s the only reason you’re still alive,
Artturi.”
“You want to trade my life for all of yours,” Malcolm said, understanding now.
“Exactly,” Flavius agreed.
“What makes you think it will work?” Malcolm asked.
“Because I too am a father,” Flavius said with a wistful smile. “And I know what lengths I would go to keep one of my sons alive. What are the lives of four unimportant Romans like us when compared to that of a king’s son?”
Malcolm nodded. It wasn’t a bad plan now that he thought about it. Flavius was right. With two wounded men slowing them down, it’s doubtful they would have gotten far before the Cimbri and Teutones had found them. Boiorix was a tough, uncompromising man, but Malcolm knew when it came to his one and only heir, the king would gladly trade the Romans’ lives for his. Malcolm stared back at Flavius with grudging respect. “And what happens to us when you’re finally safe?”
Flavius shrugged. “We let you go, of course.”
Malcolm studied Flavius carefully, looking for any signs of deceit in the man’s eyes. But the Roman was either a spectacular actor, or he was telling the truth. Not that it mattered what Malcolm believed one way or the other, he knew. These men were going to go ahead with their plan regardless of what he thought.
A shrill horn sounded from the east just then and Flavius nodded. “That will be Dario on the wall. They’re coming.” The triarius stood, wincing as he crooked a finger at Claire. “Come here, girl,” he said, not unkindly. Claire glanced up at Malcolm, then shook her head stubbornly. Flavius sighed in resignation. “Please don’t make this any harder than it needs to be. We can all get out of this unfortunate situation alive. We just need to cooperate.”
“She stays with me,” Malcolm said, pulling Claire closer to him in a show of solidarity.
“Don’t be a fool, Artturi,” Flavius said, with the first signs of anger alighting in his eyes now. “I know this girl means something to you. Why else would you have gone to such lengths to find her? I just want the child out of the way so you won’t try anything stupid during the negotiations with your father.” Malcolm hesitated, and Flavius added in a harsher tone, “Do as I say, Artturi or Remus will cut her throat right now, and we’ll truss you up like a hog.”
Malcolm studied the older Roman, searching for any signs of weakness in the other man’s features. He could see a deep weariness in his eyes but also a hardness that gleamed with steely resolve. Flavius wasn’t bluffing, he realized. “Do you swear you won’t harm her?” Malcolm asked, making up his mind.
Flavius inclined his head. “You have my word, Artturi. No harm will come to her as long as you cooperate.” He smiled wistfully. “I meant what I said earlier. I want to live to see my sons and wife again, but I owe you a life for what you did for me. I consider it a matter of honor for that debt to be repaid. You and I are both reasonable men, so I see no reason why we can’t all live through this.”
Malcolm felt a hand on his arm and he looked down at Claire, who met his gaze with a question in her dark eyes. Malcolm took a deep breath, knowing there was little choice if he wanted to get them out of this. He nodded to the girl and she returned the gesture, then patted his arm affectionately before making her way over to Flavius.
“A wise choice,” Flavius said, looking relieved. He put his hand on Claire’s shoulder and smiled at her before glancing at Malcolm. “I assume this child is your daughter?”
Malcolm shook his head. “No, she belongs to a friend.”
“Ah,” Flavius grunted. He chuckled. “That must be some friend, Artturi.” The older Roman turned, motioning to Gervais. “Take the girl to where we agreed and wait there until you hear from me. Make sure no harm comes to her.” Flavius paused to glance at Malcolm. “Unless, of course, Artturi does something rash.”
“Very well, Flavius,” Gervais said. He stepped forward and grasped Claire’s elbow and then guided her away through the entrance.
“Shall we get this over with?” Flavius asked, motioning for Malcolm to follow the girl and the tall Roman out.
Malcolm grunted his assent, then passed close to Remus, the two of them looking at each other with mutual dislike before he stepped through the entrance. Malcolm had a feeling he and Remus would end up crossing swords at some point before this was over—something that he knew Artturi was greatly looking forward to. Outside, the crest of the sun was already breaking above the trees, though Malcolm could still see his breath in the crisp morning air. Flavius hobbled out of the tent, and Malcolm extended his arm to help the wounded man walk out of habit.
“If only we had met in a different time,” Flavius said, accepting his arm as they headed for the via principalis. “I have to admit that you fascinate me, Artturi. I have always believed, wrongly it would seem, that only Romans and perhaps the Greeks could aspire to be something more than just simple savages. I was mistaken about that, as you have clearly shown me.” He paused then, taking a moment to rest with his chest heaving from the exertion. “I hope you believe me when I say I wish you no harm, Artturi. There is so much that I would like to speak with you about. Perhaps if the gods and your father allow it, I’ll get the chance someday.” The Roman gestured ahead, his breathing steadier now. “But that will have to wait until our business is concluded, so let’s get going, my friend. Your people will be at the walls any time now, and I’d like them to see you before they get any violent ideas.”
Malcolm and Flavius—with Remus trailing—reached the via principalis, and Flavius gestured ahead through the massed tents, indicating that they were to head for the porta praetoria. Malcolm could see a shadowy figure hunched over in one of the guard towers as they approached, knowing it would be Dario. The wounded legionnaire was shading his eyes from the rising sun as he peered eastward, while a burning torch attached to the wall flickered in the wind beside him.
“You’re taking quite the gamble,” Malcolm said to his companion, keeping his voice low so Remus wouldn’t hear.
“Am I?” Flavius asked, a slight smile on his face. He chuckled. “I’ve always been a betting man, Artturi.” He winked. “And I win a lot more than I lose. I think I’ve got a winner in you, and if your father is even half as intelligent as you are, then I think the chances of us seeing Rome again are pretty good.”
Malcolm took a deep breath, not sure he completely shared the older man’s confidence. There was no guarantee Boiorix would be leading the assault on the Roman castrum or that the king was anywhere in the vicinity, for that matter. Malcolm had a sudden uncomfortable thought, picturing the look on Clovis’s face the last time that he’d seen him. There was always the possibility that the Teutone warrior would be the one in command of the force coming to attack the fortress. If that was the case, Malcolm knew he and the four Romans were as good as dead. Malcolm chose not to mention that to Flavius. The triarius had enough to worry about as it was.
“How far away are they?” Flavius shouted up at the wooden watchtower as they reached the eastern gate, which was now closed and barred.
The wounded Roman shuffled over to look down at them. “Less than a mile,” he said. “There’s plenty of the bastards, too. This better work, Flavius.”
“It will,” Flavius grunted, sounding confident.
Malcolm glanced around for Claire, frowning when he saw no sign of her. “Where is the girl?” he demanded.
Flavius put his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder and squeezed. “She’s safe, Artturi, just as I promised. Gervais has her tucked away somewhere close by.” The Roman shrugged apologetically. “I feel I can trust you, my friend, but my father always told me there’s no such thing as too much caution, so this is the way it must be.” Flavius gestured to the watchtower ladder. “Now, up you go. There’s no time to waste.”
Malcolm started to climb, knowing there was little he could do now but see things through. The Roman watchtower was not very tall—maybe twenty feet high—and roofless, built on thick wooden posts with only a simple platform at the top protected by thick planks walls. Malcolm knew
the Romans would normally dismantle and carry the materials for their camps—walls and all—with them to rebuild the next night, but they’d chosen flight over protection in this instance. With two-hundred thousand blood-thirsty warriors only a few hours away and not enough manpower left to disassemble the fort, Malcolm could hardly fault them for the choice.
Malcolm reached the platform and turned to help Flavius as the older Roman struggled to climb the rungs, while Remus brought up the rear, helping to steady the wounded man from behind with his shoulder. Once everyone was up top, Flavius made his way to the eastern wall, muttering to himself as he stared out over the palisade. Malcolm moved to join him, saying nothing as he watched the rapidly approaching Cimbri and Teutones. The warriors were still some distance away, but he could already hear their excited war cries echoing in the crisp morning air.
“The gods preserve us,” Remus whispered in awe as he stared at the thousands of men bearing down on them.
“Having second thoughts?” Malcolm asked Flavius, sensing the man’s tension.
Flavius turned to look at him and he grimaced. “I’d say it’s a little late for that now, Artturi.” He gave a nervous chuckle, then motioned toward the teeming mass of warriors, many of whom had broken into a run and were waving their weapons over their heads as they raced across the thick grass toward the castrum. “I must admit when I came up with this idea last night that it seemed quite plausible.” Flavius rubbed his chin, his face white with pain and stress. “But now that I stand here in the light of day, I’m beginning to think we should have tried to run after all.”
“Well, as you said,” Malcolm grunted. “It’s too late to do anything about it now.”
“Indeed,” Flavius agreed.
They stood in silence for a minute more, watching the warriors swarming across the swaying grass like angry ants. Finally, Flavius grunted that it was time, and he turned and gave the squat Roman waiting behind them a quick nod. Remus moved to the wall and removed the burning torch, then leaned out and tossed it onto a large pile of bramble and dried wood that had been prepared before the sun had risen. The wood had been thoroughly doused in oil, and it instantly burst into flames, sending up great plumes of dark smoke that quickly filled the sky.
Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1) Page 26