by M. A. Mott
“Is that so,” the centurion answered. “The commander was last seen being kidnapped. How would you know where he is?”
“I know,” said Oolaht, stepping forward. “I am his physician.”
The centurion sneered at her. “You? You’re a witch. Our orders are to deliver you to Marcus to be crucified,” he said. He cast his gaze on the acolytes, who crouched afraid behind the priestess. He nodded at them. “Them too.”
The soldier with the whistled looked sidelong at his commanding officer, frowning. “All of them? I thought we could have some fun with them, first.”
Namron turned away from Tychus to glare at the soldier. “Shut up,” he said. “This isn’t about....” He stopped. The man he had started to yell at now had a dagger protruding from his throat where Tychus threw it. Blood gushed out in a stream. The dying man’s eyes stared incredulously ahead, went glassy, and the whistle fell from his lifeless fingers as he toppled to ground.
Namron turned back to face Tychus and felt the sudden shock of Tychus spatha longsword thrust into his gut, just as he was instinctively bringing his shield around into a defensive posture. The edge of the shield banged into the blade, sending a wave of pain through Namron’s midsection. Namron looked up from the sword into the grimacing face of the man he’d just been about to take into custody.
“Very sloppy, sir,” Tychus said. He lifted up his right foot and shoved the dying man off his blade. Namron crumpled to the ground, wheezing out his last breath.
The fight exploded. Oolaht retreated to her acolytes, and reached into her robes for something Tychus couldn’t see. The four remaining soldiers rushed Tychus. Next to him, Quintus drew his spatha, and the two men faced off the four, who now stood in formation, their shields drawn up before them in the classic defensive posture, their swords pointed across the tops of their shields.
“Who else wants to die?” Tychus said. “’Cause that’s the traitor’s lot. Stand with me, you stand for commander Maximus. Stand against me, and you stand against him. And you’ll die just as surely.”
The men hesitated. Then one of them craned his head up slightly, looking behind Tychus. He smiled slightly.
Tychus spared a glance around. The girls were falling back, into the rocks.
He turned back to face the shield wall of Roman men.
“Looks like your witch is leaving her hero behind,” joked one of the soldiers.
So, what, he thought. She should try to get out if she could.
“She’ll live longer, then,” Tychus said. “Longer than you, Pollius.”
The man looked up and to his side. The others standing next him did too. Tychus glanced up to see something flutter in the air, like shadowy feathers. There was a flash. The men facing him suddenly shouted and grunted, backing up, as something in the air caught fire. Their helmets and shields caught with flame. One man screamed, his face on fire. He dropped his shield, sword, and ran backward, beating at the flames. They did not go out. Quintus ran forward and ran him through. The man collapsed dead, his head on fire.
Tychus stepped up and ran the tip of his sword across the top of the shield of Pollius, driving the point deep into the man’s throat. An arc of blood jetted out, spraying Tychus, along with the pony behind him. The man’s eyes flew open wide in surprise, his helmet comically on fire, and he dropped his weapons and clutched his neck as Tychus drew out his blade.
“Told you,” Tychus muttered to the dying man.
The remaining soldier dropped his weapons and ran, tearing off his flaming helmet, shouting for others to help.
Tychus snatched up a spear from one of the dead men and threw it, perfectly, straight into the soldier’s back. It sank with a thud. The soldier fell to the ground, stone dead.
Tychus wheeled around to face Oolaht, who apparently had clambered up a rock above the fray. She clutched a small, empty leather pouch. She stared back, her eyes fierce.
“What in the hell was that?” Tychus said.
“A surprise. A burning powder I always kept for such a need.”
“Gods and chariots,” Tychus muttered. “Well, that saved us, but not for long.”
“There are more?”
“Of course there are more!” Tychus snarled. “That was twenty-fifth foot. They’ll be back with a hundred at least. We’ve got to leave the wagon and the chest and make for the river.”
Her face grim, Oolaht nodded. “All right. I will gather the girls.”
“Best be quick,” Tychus said, turning back to the scene. He glanced over the bodies of his former squad-mates. He knew them well enough, but had little cause to weep. They all knew the score. Probably facing company punishment, lashes, even decimation for the brawl back at the fort. It was find Tychus or die. So, they died. He retrieved his dagger from the first dead man, a couple of coin purses from the others. All their water skins were at least half-full. He took them. All the while, tension was mounting. They had to go now. He strode back to where the acolytes gathered.
They stood in a circle around one of their number, the young blond girl, perhaps in her teens. She was clutching her leg in pain, a deep gash long her shin. Oohlat knelt next to her. The open chest sat next to them. She was applying a poultice. She looked up at Tychus.
“She’s hurt her leg. It will heal later, but she can’t walk right now. We need to carry her.”
Tychus looked at her grimly. The leg wasn’t broken. It would heal, but not if they were caught. Nothing would heal that wound. In the Legion, they might just dispatch her with a sword, but...
Suddenly it occurred to him. They didn’t have a wagon, but they did have a pony. He strode to the front of the cart and to the pony, tied to its harness in the wagon, wide-eyed, fearing.
“It’s not your fight little fellow,” he said. “But we need you a little longer.” He drew his dagger, the one with which he’d just killed a man, and cut the traces from the harness. The empty wagon’s shafts thudded to the ground. He led the pony by the bridle back to the waiting girl. They lifted her to the back of the animal. Although wobbly, she was able to stay on.
Tychus started to walk forth, leading the child and pony. He stopped and turned. Oolaht stood unmoving, staring at the chest. She stepped to it, reached inside, pulled out a few items, then closed the lid, latching it. Eventually, she looked up and met his gaze.
“These are all the potions and powders I have,” she said, pointing to the chest. “All of Maximus’ treatments. Is there no way we can carry it?”
“Ma’am, we may not make it as is. But if we take too much more time, or are slowed by that thing, then I have little hope.”
“Can we hide it?”
He looked around. One of the rocks had an overhang, with a deep depression under it. He hefted the chest up, walked over, and shoved it under the overhang. The small cave-like area was dry. He picked up a rock and put it in front of the chest, obscuring it. Then he stood up, gesturing to it.
“That’s going to have to do, ma’am.”
She nodded. “That must do.” Then, from her robes, she pulled out a small pouch, one she’d taken from the chest, poured a little of a brownish powder into her open hand, then sifted it around the ground where they stood.
“What’s that?” Tychus asked.
She smiled slightly. “Another surprise for our pursuer.”
Tychus shrugged, then turned to take the pony’s bridle in his hands. Together, they led the others forth across the rock-strewn plain toward the mountains.
Chapter 18
RENATA STUMBLED, TRYING to recover her stride and catch back up with the others. In the hurry to leave the farm, she just couldn’t keep up, and then the nasty fall. She’d come to relatively quickly, but when she got up, the other acolytes where nowhere around. She clambered up a rock, then saw their white robes, bobbing and weaving across the plain among the boulders in the distance. She shouted. She screamed. She jumped and waved. No one seemed to see or hear her. So, Renata scrambled down from the rock and ran, following
She ran now, in the direction she saw them. Why had they not seen she was missing? Was it too chaotic, too desperate that she would not be missed?
She ran, stumbling. She felt dazed from her fall. At times, the rocks seemed to gather closer, to block her, to smother her. Her vision swam. She climbed up occasionally on a boulder, trying to peer ahead. She cried out. But aside from a few glimpses of white in the distance, she saw little of them. She began to think she would never catch them. Alone in a wild land. Her training had never prepared her for this.
She climbed down from another perch—this time, no glimpses at all in the growing dusk. She was frightened. She ran between two large limestone outcroppings—-
—and the soldier caught her. His eyes were wild. His helmet was missing. His hair...he was burned! It stank like it was burned. He had no sword or shield. He clutched her with a fierce fury. He grinned savagely with a gapped-tooth smile.
“Well. What have we? A little bird left by her flock?”
She froze in his grasp. “Priestess!” she screamed. “My Goddess!”
“Oh, there’ll be no priestess here,” he said in a low growl. “No Priestess. She’s gone and left you. No goddess either. Just me. Old Pollius has you now.” He chuckled. “Someone to keep you warm!” He clutched her, his hands gripping with an iron strength that had trained for years with sword and shield, built roads, spanned rivers. “I think this will do fine.”
He hauled her around, slamming her against a rock face, pinning her with a strong forearm across her throat. She gagged. He let off a little—just enough for her to breathe. Of course. He wanted her to live for a bit. With his free hand, he felt underneath her linen robe. His hand was coarse on her smooth skin, like a rat on a cake.
With this, she remembered, distinctly, her constant observation of the soldiers over recent days. They always carried that small knife in their belts. She’d seen them carve fruit and eat with it, spear chunks of meat from their plates. A pugio, they called it.
His attentions were very direct. She felt him fumble through her undergarments with a directness that was unmistakable.
Her own hands flailed against his armor, struggling, but...searching. She felt a knob. She had only one chance. She spat in his face.
He blinked slightly, then grinned his ugly, rotten-toothed grin even wider. “Ah, a spitter. Well, child, I spit myself!” He did so, in her eyes.
She convulsed, but even doing so, she drew the dagger, and with all her strength, drove it into the side of the man, just underneath the shirt of mail he wore.
The man screamed and released her, clutching his side and stumbling back.
Now free, she looked around and spied a rock near her feet, a large one, about four hand breadths across. She crouched down, pulled it free from the dirt and lifted it over her head.
The man was in shock, staring down at the knife. She brought the rock down on his head with all her strength. It hit the side of his head and glanced off, but his eyes locked as if on something unseen, and he crumpled to the ground.
Renata stood, trembling, staring at the man on the ground. What would she do? What would happen if they caught her? How would she find the others?
She ran. Stumbling from one rocky outcrop to another, she ran in the direction she’d last seen the glimmer of robes from her acolyte sisters. She ran until she stumbled again, and fell, and lay catching her breath, panting with effort of never seeming to get a breath full enough. Then she heard voices. She looked up from the ground where she lay, and stilled her breathing as best as she could. She heard snatches of conversation—in Latin, the language of the soldiers.
“...went this way. They seemed to be carrying something...”
“...they were burned? I told him I didn’t believe...”
“...what will The Hound say if we come back without...”
“...that’s what he said. Caught on fire right on the top of his head...”
The voices grew louder. It was a patrol. Renata looked around, desperate for a place to hide. She saw a rock face with a jagged fissure in it. She leapt up, ran to it, and squeezed herself in to the crack between two large outcroppings of limestone. She waited. The patrol stopped where she had just been laying.
“Well, someone came this way,” said a gruff voice in Latin. “I think the tracks...”
She shrank back into the stone, into the darkness of the crack into which she’d crawled. She heard running.
“It’s Tarkenus! Someone has stabbed him!” yelled the runner. “The witch! The witch and her helpers did it. They have gone for the river!”
They blamed the priestess! Renata felt shame well up in her. She...had to save herself, but they would hold it on her mistress! But then, if the Romans caught them, they were all dead anyway. And wasn’t that probably what was happening? They were closing on them at the river? Her sisters, her priestess mother, soon would all be dead. Renata would be alone in the world.
The footsteps faded into the distance. In the dark she lay until she had not heard a sound for what seemed like hours. She crept out into the dusk. The moon was on the rise, full and golden. She could see passingly, and could avoid tripping. Against the darkening sky she saw the mountains, and the one peak she had visited before with her sisters and Oolaht. Waiting a while longer, listening intently, she heard nothing but the wind. Then she strode off into the night, toward the mountain. Tanit was in the Mountain. Tanit would guide her. Tanit would not leave her bereft and at the hands of the Romans. She was saved for a purpose. Renata looked down at the blood on her gown, now black in the moonlight. I am washed, she thought. I am washed in the blood of the men who killed our people.
The long, dark way stretched before her. She ran.
Chapter 19
MAXIMUS REELED FROM the cave’s entrance and ran down the pathway. Soon, his clothing was shed and he galloped, lithe and lean, into the forest and down the mountainside. The trees flashed past him. He ran, rage carrying his steps. What had happened to his men? What would the Hound do to them? He knew the costs; when Lucullus came to the fort, he could declare Maximus’ command a mutinous Legion. He could order Decimation upon them. Every squad would have to draw lots and kill every tenth man who drew the short stick. He could declare Maximus a deserter and replace him—yes this was very likely. He would make Marcus the commander. The Hound of Lucullus would set his dog in charge of Maximus’ men. Maximus’ name would be stricken from the roll and declared an Enemy of Rome. His own men would be honor bound to hunt and kill him.
Not him. He would kill The Hound first. He ran on.
In time, he came to the bottom of the mountain. Before him stretched the rocky plain over which he and his Goddess had run to the Mountain. And what of her? What would he do? He would be her lover, he decided. He longed for her. But first, he had to finish this.
He came to the river they had crossed. He waited in the trees. When he saw and heard nothing but the small creatures that lived on the banks, he stepped to the edge of the water and drank. He drank long gulps, until his thirst was slaked. The cool water refreshed him, but it made him conscious of hunger. He would eat, but first he wanted to cross. Then he would seek sustenance. The plain had plenty; wild deer, aurochs, even herds from which he could select a meal at will.
He plunged in and swam against the lazy current to the other side. Once over, he crawled into the bushes, waiting, watching. In the far distance, he heard a sound. It called longingly. It was desperate. It sounded like a lost lamb or goat. A single animal, cut off from the herd? That would be the best outcome, Maximus thought. He could feast, rest, then be on his way. He loped in the direction of the bleating. It seemed to be coming from among a group of rocky crags. He pawed the ground. There had been a large movement of men and horses recently in the area. Was it a search party trying to find him? He’d need to be wary, in that case. He sniffed the dirt. Hours ago. Perhaps in the night, while he had made his way down the mountain.
The sound came again. Ble
ating. Definitely a goat. It seemed in distress. He stalked toward the sound, just ahead through the crags. He looked side to side, watching, listening. Every rustle met his ears and pricked his fur along his back. Would he find more than just the one goat? He could smell more. In the distance he smelled horses. It was much farther than where the goat seemed to be. Did he face danger trying to find and eat the hapless animal?
He came to an area surrounded by crags. The goat was close now, bleating. Perhaps it sensed him. Perhaps it knew it was facing its own death. Maximus stomach rumbled. He growled low in the back of his throat. Warily, he crept forward through the rocks. In the darkness of an overhang, Maximus saw the hapless animal. It stood tied to a stake, the lead stretched in a bid for freedom. The black-and-white spotted goat bleated longingly, clearly begging to be untied so it could join its herd. Maximus watched for what seemed like an hour. No shepherd came. He heard nothing but the goat’s complaints.
Eventually, hunger claimed his instincts. The goat had been staked out, but then left unattended. Well, Maximus thought, this would be once lazy shepherd’s loss. He walked warily into the clearing between the rocks, staring at the goat.
Now the goat’s cries renewed, loudly, a high-pitched crying that should have brought down all the bats in hell on them. He would have to make this quick. He darted for the goat, which was straining in the opposite direction. Too late, Maximus noticed lines on either side of the clearing, trailing into the ground...
He pitched forward as the ground beneath him gave way, his charge cut short. He tumbled into a hole, revealed as the ground around it fell away. A trap! He fell into a net suspended in the hole. Tightly it wrapped around him, his own weight pressing him into the weave, tangling him the harder he fought. He roared in anger. The net stopped his fall, even as it pulled on the lines he’d glimpsed only moments before. He heard the clanging of cow bells—that would be the alarm to bring those who made the trap. Maximus roared again in powerless rage.
