by Chuck Dixon
She stood upon the walkway before the house deciding which way to turn, a decision that seemed entirely inconsequential as she had no idea where she might find shelter in this city in spiritual as well as physical ruin. Tears started in her eyes and ran in chilled streams down her cheeks. She was afraid for her baby and for herself. The illusion of security provided by Mme. Villeneuve’s household was shattered—an illusion. Caroline and her child were hunted. Her enemies knew where to find them and had, literally, all the time in existence to locate them.
“Caroline.”
Caroline looked away, dropping the carpetbag and clutching Stephen tighter. She was moving to bolt away when the voice spoke again.
“It’s me.”
She turned to see a man in the tattered livery of a coachman stepping from the street toward her, a hand held out before him and a smile creasing his face.
It was Dwayne.
44
The Arbor Path
The children’s game that first optio Gaius referred to was being played in earnest.
Two centuries of the Thirtieth and an additional two centuries made up of survivors of the Twenty-third began their march before dawn. They moved into the woods following strips of red cloth left at intervals along a narrow game trail through the trees.
They were forced by the confines of the pathway into marching in a rank two men in width. The line of men snaked through the woods in a column over a mile long. Men in lighter armor and without shields trotted through the dark forest on either flank. More men ran ahead as scouts to find the sign left by Critus and his advance party.
Centurion Pulcher secured horses for himself and his optios and aquilifer from the local village. They paid a dear price for them, made dearer when Pulcher was informed that these were the same mounts captured earlier from the rebels they were pursuing.
Pulcher rode at the head of the column, ramrod straight in the saddle, to give the men an example to follow. The legionnaires of Caesar and the Senate were courageous to a fault, but their faults were many. They did not like surprises, and they did not like marching through close terrain like this damned wooded country. Pulcher had seen men under his command sleep through the night even knowing they faced a pitched battle the following day. Their bravery was not in question, and, in combat, they would die before yielding an inch of ground.
He also knew from bitter experience that they could be routed like sheep by a sudden change in fortune. Each man was valiant with a code of personal conduct that was inviolate. But often, as a unit, they would succumb to a kind of contagious terror—a hysteria. And so the centurion rode high in the saddle, head erect and looking neither left nor right. His aquilifer rode behind to his right with the banner of the Thirtieth held uncovered and aloft for all to see. The men following would take strength from that.
A scout returned down the path ahead with another man in his company. The man was soiled and bathed in sweat. His hair was matted black with dried blood.
Pulcher motioned for the column to halt and dismounted to meet the scout and his bloodied companion on foot and out of sight of the men. He did not need omens and portents to weaken the will of the soldiers.
“Is this one of the men who accompanied Critus?” he asked.
“He is, sir,” the scout replied. “We found him on the trail ahead. He says he was coming to meet us.”
“Is that true?” Pulcher asked directly. The man was missing an ear that had quite recently been sliced or torn away. His eyes were wide and shifting. His hands shook as though palsied. There was the stink of piss about him.
“I was sent back, sir. To warn you, sir,” the man stammered.
“Warn me?” Pulcher sniffed. “Of what?”
“We encountered the rebels last night. There was a battle, and many were slain. The enemy fled to the west.”
“And you did not pursue?”
“They were many in number, sir. Hundreds or maybe more, sir. Critus continues on after them even now, sir. He leaves the strips of cloth for you to follow as you ordered, sir.”
“And this is true?”
“Every word, sir.” The man bit his lip. By the gods, he was close to weeping. The display repulsed Marcus Pulcher.
“Where is your sword?” the centurion asked.
The man looked to his empty scabbard but offered no answer.
“You may have the temporary loan of mine,” Pulcher said and withdrew his own gladius from the sheath on his girdle.
He grabbed the coward’s proffered hand by the wrist and jerked the man toward him, at the same time driving the flat tip of the sword up under the man’s ribs to rip open his lungs and heart. The man sank lifeless to his knees. Pulcher twisted the blade hard and pulled it out with an obscene sucking sound. There was no blood. The man died where he stood.
“Drag this trash from the trail,” he said, stooping to wipe the blade of his sword with fallen leaves. “I won’t have my men offended by the sight of him.”
“What orders follow, sir?” the scout said.
“We continue on. We see if this dog was telling the truth that we might expect the way to our enemy marked with ribbons.” Pulcher turned then and walked back to where the aquilifer stood holding the reins of his horse.
The lead scout, an Umbrian named Nasum by his comrades for his prominent nose, came upon two bands of crimson cloth dangling from a branch that hung above the trail. Two ribbons meant a change in direction. The men they hunted had left the trail. Nasum placed his fingers in his mouth and whistled for the other scouts to join him. When they appeared, he pointed left and right of the trail and the men hared into the bracken to find the new pathway.
A call drew Nasum and the others to the north where a scout stood pointing at a ribbon hanging from the low branch of a cedar. Nasum ordered one of his scouts back to where the two ribbons hung. This man would wait for the column and direct them onto the new track and to the rebels they sought.
The rest of the scouts, led by Nasum, continued on at a trot following the red ribbon trail deeper and deeper into the woods under the midnight shadows cast by the canopy of trees overhead. They could not see the sky but for the occasional beam of sunlight piercing the roof of boughs. And so they could not see the wheeling rings of buzzards high in the sky to the west and growing ever further south of them as they ran after their intended prey.
The ground became too rough and the trees too narrowly spaced for the combined centuries of the two legions to continue in columns. They broke into disparate straggling lines urged on by the curses of their optios. Their pila and shields snagged on branches, and they swam in sweat under their armor. The men at the front used mattocks to clear a path through the undergrowth for the rest to follow. They attended to the whistles and calls of the scouts rushing ahead.
Pulcher took to foot. His aquilifer led both their mounts up a steep incline thick with trees and bracken. All around him was the din of hobnailed boots crashing over the forest floor thick with twigs and needles fallen from the crown of nature above them. They marched like the boar from whom they took their name, unmindful of the noise they made and scornful of any who would oppose them. They were good men, tough men, and eager to redeem the courage lost to the damnable Jew magic that slew so many of their brothers. No one was more eager than the men of the Twenty-third. Pulcher was pleased to see that they had taken the lead on the march. They rushed up the hillside, pulling themselves up using handholds of scrub and pushing off from the boles of trees. They moved like men with a purpose in which they had invested their hearts. Their faces were grim and hard. He could see in their eyes an overwhelming hunger to spill the blood of the rebels who slew their officers and their comrades and shamed them all.
A series of high whistles came from the left of the ragged line of march. A scout came stumbling along the slope to where Pulcher stood.
“Nasum found a better way up, sir!” the man said, gasping for breath.
“Is there sign there? Are we still following the trail left by C
ritus?” the centurion asked.
“Like a dog in heat, sir. A dry stream, sir. Runs straight to the top. It’s the way the rebels fled, sir,” the man said with head bowed.
The optios were called and the cornicen sent for. The soldiers followed the blasts from the trumpet and moved to the left, eastward, across the gradient following the calls of the scouts. There lay a deep cut in the hillside, a remnant of a seasonal waterway now dry in the late summer months. Broad and floored with river stones, it was as near to a road as the soldiers had seen since leaving camp. They reformed into columns by century and started up the wash at a trot.
Pulcher watched the men moving by in order once again and was gratified. Most pleasing was the sight of the Thirtieth, his own boar-topped banner bobbing overhead, taking the lead now for the crest of the hill.
Nasum knelt on one knee on the scorching gravel and looked about him with narrowed eyes.
He held in his hand a stone rounded by millennia of waters passing over it. Tied about it with a stout knot was a length of red wool cut from a soldier’s skirt. The trail followed up the dry wash to level ground at the top of a mesa. Here the earth had been deeply scored with steep banks above which the thick cedar forest formed a hedge either side.
Buca, a half-Greek, trotted up to him ahead of the first legionnaires reaching the crest far behind.
“I don’t like it, Buca,” Nasum said.
“What is there to like or not like? It is sign. Our quarry lies ahead.” Buca shrugged.
“The coward we found,” Nasum scanned the trees as he spoke “said there had been a battle. We’ve seen no sign of it.”
“Perhaps he lied.”
“And perhaps he cut off his own ear?” Buca tilted his head as a curious dog might.
“And there were wounded, he said. We’ve seen no blood,” Nasum said. “Where is the blood? Some of the men following the rebels would be bleeding, no?”
Buca nodded slowly then looked back at the dust cloud rising above the ranks of the approaching centuries.
“And this knot,” Nasum said, holding the ribbon-wrapped stone up for the half-Greek to examine. “It’s not the same as the other knots. I noticed it back when the trail turned north. Different knots.”
“You will tell this to old man Pulcher?” Buca asked. “You will tell him you are worried about a change in knots?’
“Mithra’s tits, I’m not mad, you pederast,” Nasum said and tossed the stone aside. “Come on. We’ll keep moving ahead to the next red marker.”
45
The Hares and the Tortoise
Jimmy Smalls recalled what Lee said about how being in a fair fight meant your plan failed.
He watched the army tramping up the gully toward him over the open sights of his M4. He was back in the trees away from the ledge and sheltered by the gloom that blanketed the ground between the big cedars. Byrus crouched by Jimbo, leaning his weight on the bundle of javelins held in his hands and watching the approaching centuries without the slightest sign of unease.
There were no bowmen among them, and for that Jimbo was supremely grateful.
Some skirmishers double-timed ahead of the first column. Jimbo let them pass. They gave him a bad moment there when two of them stopped at the last ribbon he left and took a look around. Then they just moved on. If they suspected something, they weren’t letting on.
He drew a bead on a rider in the lead of the ranks of marching men, an officious looking bastard in what Jimbo recognized as a centurion’s helmet with its sideways plume. The guy looked eyes front like they were in a parade.
A dude with a trumpet trotted to keep up with the officer. A rider holding the banner with the boar on top of it rode behind and to the centurion’s right. These were the guys he and Bat stood off on the road two days ago, Jimbo realized. And those horses they were riding looked awfully familiar. Those were the saddles they bought back in that market in Caesarea. Jimbo sincerely hoped that none of their gear got left behind intact. Boats swore it was all stacked in and around that tent back in the camp when things went ka-blam. Morris Tauber would have a fit if he found out they left any working ordnance for the locals to find. As it was, the ruins of that fort, if they were even still visible back in The Now, would be a chronal toxic waste dump of anachronistic bits and pieces.
Time for that later. Time for everything later. Right now it was Thermopylae with the odds flipped in his favor.
The Pima slid the grenade tube forward where it was slung from a rail under the fore-end of his rifle. He slid a fat 40mm HE round into the tube and snapped it back in place to the trigger action. He made a motion to Bruce to cover his ears then held the rifle up at a sixty-degree angle and eyeballed the three rectangular formations of men moving steadily closer, crowding the dry wash from wall to wall.
He’d never seen a prettier ambush in his life. “We call this Kentucky windage, Bruce,” Jimbo said and noted that the smaller man was dutifully holding his hands clapped to his ears. A grin split the Macedonian’s face as he anticipated what was to come next.
Jimbo depressed the trigger, and the rifle kicked back in his hands with a loud pop. The grenade rocketed skyward on a cloud of gas and looped back down at a steep angle to strike near dead center atop the rear block of men. He didn’t wait to see the results and fed a second round into the launcher and let it fly at a sharper angle. This one dropped to the left of the century in the lead and ripped a gash across the massed men that bisected the unit into two halves along a bloody tear.
Through the drifting smoke and dust, he could see that the whole line of march had come to a dead halt. The officer was fighting to stay on board his panicked mount. The horse fell finally, hooves kicking wildly. The guy with the banner was down on his ass, his horse going full out away down the gully at a gallop. Orders were being shouted, and Jimbo watched in astonishment as the broken units closed ranks and continued the march. The centurion was on his feet now with helmet gone. The three formations continued on, shields raised, and left a trail of their dead behind them.
Jimbo stood now and directly aimed at the first block of men to send a third round into them. This one skipped off the rocks just before the front wall of shields and tumbled under their feet before detonating. A bloody geyser of men and parts of men sprayed up, collapsing the center of the first five ranks. The screaming rose from the wash as Jimbo watched the block of men part then coalesce to close the awful wound as they marched on.
The centurion called again, and the formations morphed in one smooth motion. Shields were raised and held aloft to be locked in place to form a roof atop each unit.
“The tortoise,” Jimbo whispered. He’d just witnessed one of the legion’s signature moves with his own eyes. But it wasn’t going to do a thing for them. He fired a fresh grenade from the hip and bounced it off the shield roof of the lead century to hit the ground rolling toward the second. The blast caved in the front ranks of that formation as if they had collectively run into an invisible object in their path. They halted for only a few seconds then stepped over their own dead to close the gap with the block of men before them.
“Crazy bastards,” Jimbo said to himself and then to Byrus, “Time to move, dude!”
The Ranger had his pack shouldered and rifle slung. He looked back to make sure Byrus was following. That’s when he saw the men rushing toward them along the lip of the ledge. There were a half dozen stripped to tunics and girdles and sprinting with swords in their hands. They were close enough for Jimbo to see the fierce look in their eyes. He knew that look. The killing look.
He sighted and fired past Byrus, knocking down the lead runner. Byrus turned in time to see a second man drop into the wash, spilling entrails as he fell from a double tap to the abdomen. The little man freed one of the javelins and flung it in an overhanded throw with the athletic ease of an Olympian. The point of the spear took a swordsman high in the chest. The other three were closing the gap, swords held low for the jabbing motion that made the gladius fear
ed the world over.
“Get the fuck out of the way, Bruce!” Jimbo ran forward and shouldered Byrus aside. He sprayed the three remaining Romans with a burst of automatic fire and brought them down in a stumbling heap.
“Fuck me!” Jimbo muttered and yanked Bryce along with him into a run. He let the M4 drop onto its sling and pulled the pump shotgun clear of the sheath on his back. He could hear more movement through the trees above them. Jimbo trained the shotgun toward the sound as he ran and pumped double-ought and flechette rounds into the brush. A shriek rose from the foliage.
Caesar’s boys may have not known anything about non-linear warfare but they damned sure understood the value of throwing out a screen of flankers. The bastard down there leading them was no dumbass. He hissed to Byrus, and they both turned sharply to move into the woods and away from the gully where they could be trapped against the ledge.
Jimbo gave Byrus a shove to send the man ahead then turned and sent some suppression fire uphill at his invisible pursuers. He knew it wouldn’t stop them but it might make the Romans half-step it, and that’s all the edge he was looking for. He made to follow Byrus, running flat out and expecting a slinger’s stone to the skull or an Assyrian arrow in the back at any second. Nothing came after them but shouts. The fuckers were moving to ring them in, drive them toward the wash, and close the noose.
The Pima resheathed the shotgun and brought up the M4 to load a fresh round into the grenade launcher on the run. He snapped it closed and spun just long enough to loose a lateral trajectory shot back through the trees. It was a pure bonehead, backyard Rambo bullshit move. The grenade could strike a tree and bounce back at him. He heard the clonk, clonk, clonk of the steel round striking wood as it rebounded through the woods behind him. He collided with Byrus throwing them both flat. The ground shook under them. A storm of wood shards flew overhead in a ballistic sleet of deadly daggers. A black cloud of vaporized earth bloomed behind them. Clots of dirt rained down. Jimbo saw a length of timber taller than himself fly into the woods end over end. He pulled Byrus to his feet, and they ran at an angle up the incline and away from the animal screams rising at their backs.
