‘There are no coincidences,’ the young man said fiercely. ‘That is the first rule we are taught. Existence moves us like pieces on a board to where we should be at the right time.’ His eyes blazed with a fierce intelligence. He motioned to Church’s arm. ‘You have a scar?’
Not understanding how the young man could know, Church cautiously revealed the scar where the spider had been in his arm.
The young man blanched. ‘Jack, Giantkiller,’ he said with awe.
‘What are you saying, you little runt?’ Decebalus demanded.
‘Long, long ago, when the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons first emerged from the Blue Fire, my ancestor met the great hero to whom we all owe allegiance: Jack the Giantkiller.’
Church looked into the young man’s face and saw something he recognised in the line of his jaw or the shape of his eyes. ‘Conoran,’ he said. ‘He was your ancestor.’
‘The King of the Land,’ the young man continued, ‘who disappeared across the water to the Isle of Apples, accompanied by the Golden Lady, to return when we needed him most.’
‘And this is he?’ The North African stared at Church in awe before bowing his head.
‘You are Jack, Giantkiller?’ the centurion asked.
‘He is!’ Jerzy chimed in with a note of hysterical relief. ‘A great hero!’
‘I prefer to be called Church.’
Dazed, the young man ran his hands through his ringlets. ‘This is … beyond belief! I never thought I would see the day!’
‘Your ancestor was a good man,’ Church said. ‘He saved my life.’
The young man smiled shyly. ‘My name is Joseph. I am a shepherd in the Church of Christ, and a Watchman. Legends say our society was established by my ancestor before its knowledge spread into all religions.’
‘It was.’ Church recalled his final conversation with Conoran, which was only a few months ago by his reckoning. ‘You have all the secret knowledge of the Culture?’
Joseph nodded. ‘Knowledge of the stars and the animals and all growing things. Knowledge of the Blue Fire that is in everything. Knowledge of all the lands, both here and beyond the veil, and of the beings who reside there, and the threats that humanity faces in coming times. I am here to ensure we are always prepared.’
The centurion shook Church’s hand. ‘I have heard many tales of the Great King Beyond the Water. I am proud to serve you. My name is Marcus Aelius Aquila of the Sixth Legion, stationed here in Eboracum.’
Church was stunned that events he had set in motion had taken on a life of their own, rolling out across the centuries right up to his own time. The others introduced themselves with varying degrees of openness. Decebalus had once been one of Rome’s enemies in Dacia, the region that would become Romania. The Dacians were renowned as fierce, brutal warriors and Decebalus was clearly of that tradition. Even after the introduction, he continued to regard Church with suspicion.
The dark-haired woman was Lucia Aeternia Constans, originally from Rome. Her husband had died in undisclosed circumstances. Decebalus called her strega, which Church knew meant witch’ though he couldn’t tell if it was a description or an insult. She had a seductive though kindly nature and reminded Church a little of Ruth.
The North African was Secullian, another Christian with an introspective nature and a wry sense of humour. He spoke repeatedly of prophecy and magics and how information came to him in what he called ‘day-sleeps’. And finally the blonde-haired woman who was the most closed-off of all of them: her name was Aula Fabricia Candida, born in Britain and married to a scholar now travelling across the Empire. Church couldn’t define her role within the group, but she regularly touched an unusual brooch that featured a circle of interlocking leaves.
‘You have come because of the dreams?’ Marcus asked. ‘Are these the End-Times of which Joseph speaks?’
‘I’m searching for a missing … god.’ Church was unsure how much he should tell them. ‘Do you know anything about that?’
Lucia leaned in. She smelled of exotic perfume. ‘There is talk of gods all over the Empire. They come and go, tormenting people as they always have, making their secret plans over our lives. But not here! Not in Eboracum. And this is a land of many gods, for it is a land of travellers who have stayed awhile and brought their gods with them.’
‘We were all afflicted by terrible dreams in our own mundane worlds,’ Secullian said, ‘dreams that brought us here, where we learned of our destiny as Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, Champions of the Blue Fire, of Existence itself.’
‘What kind of dreams?’
The North African winced. ‘Dreams of spiders.’
‘Swarms of them, streaming out from behind the world around us as if it were a theatre set.’ Decebalus put on a show of bravado, but Church could see the unease behind it.
‘Black spiders,’ Church said. Unconsciously he fingered his scar, recalling what he had confronted in the fogou at Carn Euny, and the thing that had controlled the Redcaps.
Aula touched her brooch again for comfort. ‘The spiders are eating their way through the world,’ she said. ‘Soon there will be nothing left.’
There was a long moment of uneasy silence until Joseph said, ‘We gather here to understand what these portents mean. Will you aid us?’
3
On the way back to the tavern to report to Niamh, Jerzy capered beside Church like a monkey. ‘Good friend, I do not understand,’ he said with frustration. ‘If you help these people in their task, you will not be free to search for the queen’s brother and earn your freedom.’
‘There’ll be time for that later.’
‘The mistress is not a patient woman, and you need your freedom to help your loved one.’
‘Of course that’s what I want,’ Church said, a little more sharply than he had intended, ‘but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a bigger threat here. How can I turn my back on that?’
When they reached the forum, they were instantly aware of a radical change in the atmosphere. All the cities of the Empire thrived on gossip and rumour treated as news, swapped in taverns, on the street and in the bathhouses. The forum was abuzz with people talking wildly, running from one group to the next to pass on whatever was exciting them. Church could see from the frowns and the muttered prayers that it was not good news.
An overweight tradesman hauling a full amphora stopped as they approached, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘It is indeed the end of the world,’ he gasped.
‘What’s happening?’ Church asked.
‘Then you have not heard? A scout returned this morning from the north. He passed through the city walls and went straight to the fort, speaking to no one. But all who saw him said his face was frozen in fear. And now word has emerged from the legato, or so people say. The Ninth Legion! The Ninth Legion is marching back to Eboracum from the very shores of Underworld.’ The tradesman shuddered, shouldered his amphora and hurried off.
‘Why is he so scared?’ Jerzy asked.
The time of the Roman occupation had been Church’s chief area of study. ‘The Ninth Legion is the most written about of all Rome’s legions. It disappeared nearly two hundred years ago, and in my time scholars are still arguing about what happened to it. There aren’t enough records left to uncover the truth. Some say the legion was disbanded, others that it was reassigned to the Netherlands.’
‘That did not happen?’
‘The last positive sighting we have is that the Ninth marched north from Eboracum to disperse a large group of Celts in Caledonia who had been launching marauding raids on Roman territory. The most famous explanation is that the entire legion of fifteen thousand men was slaughtered while they camped, the bodies burned and the armour melted down to destroy all evidence of their existence.’
‘Then how could the legion be returning today?’ Jerzy asked.
‘It can’t.’ But Church could see that the tension in the forum was not abating. Real terror lay in many faces.
Back at the inn, Niamh sat at the sunlit table next to the window, poring over the cards Church had seen her with outside Carn Euny. Her expression was troubled. They were tarot cards, he noted, but some of them were unfamiliar to him. There were the familiar suits — cups, wands, swords and coins — and he instantly linked them to the four great treasures the Tuatha De Danann had brought with them from their distant homes, according to myth: the cauldron of Dagda, which became the template for the Holy Grail; the spear of Lugh; the sword Caledfwlch, which Church had been mysteriously carrying when he was found by Tannis and his men; and the Stone of Fal, which let out a scream when the true king of the land put his foot upon it. Yet as he approached the table he could make out another suit: a bird in flight.
‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘There are only four suits in the tarot.’
‘In the cards allowed for the use of Fragile Creatures.’ Niamh did not lift her eyes from the complex spread. ‘These cards provide an insight into the workings of Existence. Do you think we would allow their full power to fall into such hands?’ She looked up as if seeing Church for the first time. ‘Five suits. Five. The number of power. Do you not understand anything?’
‘I understand that the arrogance of your kind is going to result in a little hubris one day.’ Near the door, Jerzy whimpered.
‘The suit that is denied Fragile Creatures is Ravens. The eaters of the dead, the messengers of the gods. The fifth suit provides true contact with the great beyond. And how fitting it is for you — do the ravens still hover at your back, little Jack?’ She stared into Church’s face for a long moment, but her arrogance slowly faded like a light being dimmed. She returned to her cards, her fingers toying with lips grown sad. ‘Any word of my brother?’
‘No. Nothing in the cards?’
‘I see too much. For you, for me, for all Existence.’ She swept the cards aside in a burst of emotion, then turned away from him to look over the rooftops. Church retired to the bed, but as he drifted off to sleep he was sure Niamh was crying.
4
Church met Marcus the centurion in the shadow of the basilica just as night came. The rain was falling again and had driven all the tradesmen and hustlers off the excrement-stinking streets.
‘They allow you to come and go from the fort?’ Church asked as he huddled inside a sodden cloak.
‘I have free passage for the moment. Constantius is ill and minds are exercised elsewhere.’ He glanced up and down the empty street. ‘You have heard about the Ninth?’
‘I’ve heard the rumours.’
‘All true. Fifteen members of an advanced scouting party were slaughtered. Only one escaped, but now he too has died. The Ninth Legion has marched back out of hell and is returning to Eboracum.’
‘And you think this has something to do with your dreams and the reason you’ve been brought together here?’
‘It is the reason. And it may well be linked to your missing god. Secullian conducted a ritual at the theatre after you left. He took hashish, some other spices and herbs unknown to me, and slipped into one of his day-sleeps. And then …’ Marcus tugged at his hood to free the rainwater gathering on top. ‘Something spoke through him. Something evil. It told us the Ninth Legion now belongs to the Kingdom of the Spider, and it is coming to wipe us all from the face of the Earth.’ He swallowed painfully, his mouth dry. ‘Secullian clawed out an eye to escape what was being shown to him inside his head. He is being cared for by the others.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘He will live. Sometimes that is the best we can say.’
Though Marcus still carried the deeply troubled air that Church had sensed immediately when they had met earlier, there was a strength of character to him that Church found reassuring. Clearly, Existence knew what it was doing when it chose its champions. ‘Is your legion planning to ride out to meet them?’
‘Indecision is rife. With the Emperor sick, his advisors are obsessed with omens and portents. The men await orders, but fear runs rampant amongst them. Who in their right mind would want to face a legion of the dead? But orders have been sent to secure the gates. The defences are strong.’
‘You think that’ll be enough?’
‘I think five Brothers and Sisters of Dragons will not be enough to defeat an entire legion, even with a hero of legend at our side.’
‘I’d be the first to agree with that. Any suggestions?’
‘Aula waits in the cemetery beyond the walls to seek aid or advice.’
‘From whom?’
‘Her patron. He will meet her there shortly. But first-’
From three different directions, guards rushed up to grab them. The sound of their approach had been masked by the driving rain.
‘Wait!’ Marcus said. ‘I am Centurion-’
The shaft of a spear glanced his skull and laid him out cold. Church struggled as several arms grasped him, protesting loudly before he too was beaten unconscious.
5
Cold white marble chilled Church’s cheek. The room smelled sweet from perfumes thrown on hot coals. He forced his aching body into a sitting position and squinted around. Thick drapes hung on the walls and exquisitely constructed furniture made by the best local artisans stood all around. Church could see at a glance it was quarters for the wealthy.
An elderly man in a white toga held in place by a gold clasp talked with a quiet intensity to two guards near the door. He exuded power and prestige, but there was a weariness to his features, which had a greyish pallor. When he saw that Church was conscious, he motioned for the guards to leave and poured himself a goblet of wine, before sitting to look down on Church with a degree of suspicion.
‘I have nothing to do with the Ninth Legion-’ Church began.
The dignitary silenced him with a raised hand. ‘I know.’
‘Then why have you brought me here? I am a free man. And where is my comrade?’
‘He is a traitor who will face swift military justice.’ The dignitary took a sip of his wine. ‘I am Numerius Didius Agelastus, advisor to Emperor Constantius. At this moment, the Emperor lies on his sick bed, unable to govern. And so the task falls to me.’
‘Why have you brought me here?’
‘Why?’ Numerius’s eyes flickered with unease, as if the memory of his motivation was lost to him. He moistened his lips with a flick of a nervous tongue. ‘Because …’ Panic flared in his face. ‘Because-’
‘Because I told him to.’
Church started at the familiar voice. A man swathed in a thick cloak and hood had entered. The temperature dropped a couple of degrees as the Libertarian threw off his hood to reveal his glaring red eyes. ‘Brother of Dragons.’ The greeting was laced with sarcasm. ‘I never expected to see you again so soon.’
Church turned to Numerius. ‘You can’t work with him — he’s some kind of devil. Look at his eyes.’
Numerius shivered, but did not turn. The Libertarian came over and clapped one hand on Numerius’s shoulder before patting it in a patronising manner. Then he gently lifted the fold of Numerius’s toga that fell across his shoulder to reveal a black spider embedded into the skin.
‘My good friend Numerius Didius Agelastus may see the reason in your words, but I shall win the argument every time.’
‘You control him with that thing. How many others?’
The Libertarian pretended to count on his fingers, then gave up with a smile.
Church made the connection. ‘You tried to control me.’
‘You were doing so well at the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh, lopping off heads and limbs like a fully trained butcher with that silly little sword-that-is-not-a-sword. One of those lumbering Fomorii cretins managed to impress a Gravix upon you. It removed you from the field of play, but sadly did not turn the course of battle. Nor did it weaken you enough to be slain.’
Church recalled Niamh telling him at their first meeting that he had fought in the battle between the Tuatha De Danann and their ancient enemies, but he had discounted it a
s one of her deceptions.
‘The Gravix tried its hardest to turn you, but that damnable fire burns too brightly inside you. Oh, if only we could have eliminated you at that point. Alas, it was not to be.’
‘So you control the Fomorii?’
The Libertarian laughed silently. ‘We work towards the same aims. You would not find us drinking in the same bar. Or even in the same town.’
Church saw his sheathed sword on a table across the room and weighed up whether he could reach it before the Libertarian intercepted him. The Libertarian saw his eye movement and divined his intentions.
‘Please,’ he said with world-weariness, ‘can we not have a simple conversation? It is very difficult to find in my line of business.’ He pushed Numerius out of the way and poured himself a goblet of wine. ‘Not the best I have tasted, but the best for this era.’
‘This era?’ Church repeated. He watched a spidery smile crawl across the Libertarian’s face, just as quickly removed. ‘Your language … it’s not archaic. You’re from the future, like me.’
‘The future?’ the Libertarian sneered. ‘Oh yes. The “future”. The “past”. The “present”. What a quaint way of seeing things.’
Church edged towards the sword. The Libertarian noticed, did nothing. Numerius moved his mouth in a sticky, troubled way as if he were paralysed.
‘Keep playing your games — I don’t care,’ Church said. ‘But if we are both from a different time, how can we operate here and now without changing what’s to come?’
The Libertarian mused. ‘Well, consider this, perhaps: time is a river. One may swim upstream, or downstream, if you like. Or: one throws a rock into that self-same river. The water hits it, flows around it, recovers its original course. There are eddies here and there, but it still continues to the sea.’
‘You’re saying we can make little changes around us, but nothing long-term.’
‘Or perhaps what your kind call reality changes all the time, but you are unaware of it because you change with it. You alter, and are reborn with new memories of your new reality so you presume it has always been that way. Yet ghosts invade your memories. Impressions of a different place, with a different you, fading even as they come. Dreams of other realities, so strange yet somehow real.’ His red, lidless stare grew more intense. ‘Everything is fluid. Nothing is fixed. Poor you! Poor Fragile Creatures! The curse of your existence.’
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