by Frank Morin
“Oh, Walter, you look wonderful,” Gladys exclaimed.
He stood to show off his new form. “Hey, what’s with the glowing tattoo?”
The healing rune on his side was glowing blue-white. Sarah silently exulted and smiled her thanks to Alter. Sometimes runes took hours or even days to bond. That the bond came so quickly was a good sign.
“It’ll fade soon,” Sarah said.
“I’m glad you only have one tattoo,” Gladys said. “That last body was covered with them.”
“This one is a symbol of your commitment to each other,” Sarah explained, and on one level that was true. “It’ll help you return to a normal life. In fact, I recommend you get one too,” she added to Gladys.
“What would I do with a tattoo?” Gladys chuckled, waving away the suggestion.
“Trust me,” Sarah pressed. “This will help.” Gladys was in poor health. The upgraded healing rune wouldn’t reverse aging, but it could ensure several more good years at least.
Eirene gave Sarah a warning look and Alter ground his teeth together. She ignored them both. This was her moment. She felt close to this wonderful old couple and she wanted to help them. If she could see one family restored to a better place after so much struggle and horror, it would help her cope.
The old couple exchanged questioning looks. Walter took his wife’s hand. “Sarah’s responsible for everything we’ve achieved today. I trust her.”
“Oh, Walter, of course you’re right,” Gladys said.
Sarah didn’t waste a moment. With the help of a willing Tomas and a scowling Alter, she eased Gladys onto a gurney and took out her scalpel.
“Wait, I thought tattoos were made with little needles,” Gladys protested.
“This is different,” Sarah said. “The tattoo is a medical symbol and needs to be inscribed differently. It won’t hurt much. Please trust me.”
Gripping her husband’s hand, she nodded and Sarah marked the rune as carefully as she could. Gladys barely winced. Sarah pressed a cloth over the symbol and felt it clearly against her skin in a way she never had before. She took it as a good sign, although she suddenly felt exhausted. She hadn’t realized how much of a toll the emotional moment would take on her.
The feeling passed quickly, and Alter joined her beside Gladys. After a final angry look, he raised his hand to the symbol. Sarah removed the cloth and just as Alter touched the symbol, it blazed with blue-white light.
Gladys gasped.
“What is it, dear?” Walter exclaimed. “Does it hurt?”
“No. I feel good, like I haven’t felt in years.” Gladys laughed and gripped Sarah’s hand. “Oh my dear, what did you do?”
“There are some proprietary components to the procedure,” Sarah said. “But I’m glad you’re feeling so good already.”
After the two of them left, Sarah gripped Alter’s hand. “See? Wasn’t that wonderful?”
His smile had faded to a thoughtful look.
“Is it so hard to admit this was a good thing?” Sarah asked. Tomas moved to her side and she slipped an arm around his waist, happy to feel him beside her.
“It’s not that,” Alter said, his voice distracted. “That rune activated too soon. I barely touched it.”
“You’re more efficient than you thought,” Sarah teased.
“Maybe. But I hadn’t even started concentrating over it.”
“Your rounon was already active,” Eirene suggested. “You’d just used it on Walter’s rune.”
“Maybe that’s it.” He didn’t look convinced.
Tomas clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Alter. Mission accomplished. Well done.”
“Come on,” Eirene said, linking arms with her great-grandson and leading him from the room. She had a date with Gregorios that evening, but she continuously worked the relationship with Alter with the care of a master builder.
Sarah turned to Tomas and gave him an enthusiastic kiss. She loved his new look, had been thrilled to learn this muscular, godlike figure was the real Tomas. Everything about who he was now felt so right, she could have kissed him for an hour.
“I’m happy to see you too,” he said when she let him breathe.
“Wasn’t that awesome?” She squealed with delight and kissed him again.
“You’ve had a good day.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder as they headed out of the room.
“How was yours?” she asked.
“It’s looking up. We’ve got a fix on that heka woman we’ve been tracking. We’re going to pick her up in the morning.”
Tomas was captain of the Tenth, the facetakers’ elite company of enforcers with origins dating all the way back to the days of Julius Caesar. They had been hunting members of Mai Luan’s heka cell ever since the explosion a couple weeks ago.
“That’s wonderful. Let’s get some dinner.”
“You’re coming tomorrow,” he added. “I need some cover. You’re it.”
“Are you saying I’m fat?”
“Not that kind of cover,” he apologized quickly. “You’re my date.”
“I’ll be your date tomorrow, but only if you take me out tonight,” she said. “I feel like celebrating.”
“Deal.”
Chapter Three
The arrogant Romans regard us as a tumultus of slaves, lacking nobility and generosity of spirit. They shall learn to their dismay that honor is won not only in the arena. When my sword strikes down the legion that disparages my very existence, my glory will eclipse that of the pompous Glaber. Rome will quake with fear, and Eirene shall rue the day she took my Iltea’s life. I will be avenged!
~Spartacus
Eirene stood at the top of the steps leading into the imposing temple of Summanus, facing north across ancient Rome. The early morning light outlined in sharp relief the other grand buildings clustered atop the peak of Palatine Hill. The nearby Capitoline Hill was still visible, but most of the distant Quirinal Hill was obscured by a dark pall of smoke.
The dream was very old, but still as sharp as a dagger in her mind. It usually started in a different moment, but she recognized it as soon as she took in the panoramic view of the ancient skyline the day the eternal city fell.
That and the distinctive feel of Iltea’s face layered over her own.
“They have breached the wall, just as your augury predicted.”
Flamen Titus stood to her left. He wore the battle garb of the priests of Summanus, with the addition of the dyed black crest that proclaimed him flamen. In honor of the day, Eirene wore a hooded, crimson robe and black leather mask. He was wise enough not to ask about it.
“It was no augury,” Eirene said through her layered sets of lips. That day had been the first time she had attempted to wear another soulmask atop her own and it proved a challenge.
Titus shrugged. “Do not disparage your gifts, priestess.”
He always addressed her with strict formality. It was the best way to pressure her to respond in kind. He was the youngest facetaker and his ambitions blinded him to the truth of his appointment as high priest.
“It was simple logic. I knew Spartacus’ supporters would find a way to open a gate,” Eirene said. “It was just a matter of time.”
“As you say, Priestess.”
Eirene barely paid attention to the conversation, one she had re-lived hundreds of times. This time she was actually looking forward to the upcoming confrontation. Vanquishing her oldest enemy always soothed her nerves.
Your very breath defiles my lips. Iltea’s mind-voice growled with hatred in Eirene’s head.
Cease interfering or you’ll die knowing he was only moments away.
The Thracian woman’s consciousness faded to sullen silence. She had fought savagely to reclaim her lost body when Eirene first restored enough connection to allow the flesh to seal over her stacked soulmasks. Although Iltea had been born in the body, Eirene had worn it far longer. Still, the struggle had been taxing.
A lower priest rushed u
p the steps to report. “The Visigoth hordes are approaching at speed.”
Titus spared a surprised glance at her. Despite how many times they re-lived the moment, it always amazed her that he never believed their temple would be singled out during the sacking of the city. Then again, for him it was always the first time he faced the nightmare.
She had seen Rome fall more times than she cared to count. Modern historians considered it an example of a restrained event, but they had not lived it. There would be nothing restrained about the upcoming confrontation.
In less than half an hour, even as most of the Visigoths still pillaged around the distant Salarian Gate, a force of over one hundred heavy infantry approached at a quick trot. At their head ran a powerful figure who she recognized instantly, despite the distance.
Spartacus.
Their animosity spanned centuries, all the way back to the waning days of the republic. Their struggle in many ways defined the history of Rome.
Today during his victorious conquest, she would vanquish him.
Iltea’s consciousness surged against Eirene’s restraints as the woman caught sight of her long-separated love. It’s him! Oh I’ve missed him.
Eirene squashed the resistance. Keep to our agreement and he will live.
The woman quieted, but her powerful emotions still radiated across the connection to Eirene’s mind. The heat of her love boiled like the heart of Mount Vesuvius. That pure emotion was the reason Iltea still lived.
Eirene was a sucker for a good love story.
Better yet, it would prove the downfall of both of the Thracians.
Eirene smiled as she slipped back across the wide portico supported by Corinthian columns of delicate white marble. The first volley from catapults concealed in outbuildings near the base of the steps launched their deadly barrage of caltrops and stone shot. Distant screams confirmed the hits.
She stopped in the grand entrance and surveyed her forces. Although lacking the glory of earlier days before the Christians began usurping power from the elder gods, the temple to Summanus still demanded respect. More than its high granite walls or columned porticoes, the reputation of the priests of the god of nocturnal thunder ensured continuing devotion.
Unlike standard legionnaires, her forces wore armor of alternating plates of black leather and iron, fastened in overlapping horizontal sheets. White lightning bolts ran across the shoulders and down both arms. They wore simple iron helms and carried rounded parma shields painted black, with crisscrossed lightning bolts.
If any other force of forty-eight soldiers faced Spartacus and his enhanced century, they would be destroyed in minutes. Even her well-trained force was destined to fall, but they would make it a Pyrrhic victory, whose importance would be lost to history.
None of it mattered. All of their sacrifice was but the backdrop for the real contest.
As the Summanus devotees moved forward to take positions at the top of the steps, Eirene scaled a rope ladder to a wooden platform concealed in the shadows atop the fifty-foot columns. All nineteen raised platforms held four sagittarii, bows at the ready, arrows already knocked.
Eirene crouched beside one young archer who quivered with eagerness to join the fray. The air up there smelled of clean marble and wisps of lingering smoke from last night’s cook fires.
Spartacus’ forces had passed the catapults and begun to climb the steps, rectangular scutum shields at the ready to ward off the expected missile barrage. She frowned as she scanned their lines. Every other time she had returned to this memory in her dreams, the catapults had winnowed a full tenth of the attackers, but not this time.
Spartacus led at the center of the front rank, a powerful presence that drew the eye. Most superstitious citizens would attribute the almost-tangible weight of his presence to the favor of his patron god, Quirinus. They knew nothing of his singular enhancements. He pointed at Titus with his signature oaken spear and his enhanced barbarians howled battle cries and surged up the long granite steps.
They were armored much the same as any Roman legion, with breastplates or chainmail coats. In addition to the scutum shields, many carried thrusting spears known as hasta. The rest waved swords over their heads. Those swords were half a foot longer than the typical Roman gladius and were much preferred by the barbarians.
“Pilum and martiobarbuli,” Eirene ordered, her voice calm.
Her caller, who perched on the ladder just below her platform, whistled four sharp notes.
Battle priests all down the line at the top of the steps launched their javelins or barbed darts at the onrushing horde. Spartacus, who carried no shield, batted several missiles out of the air with his thick-hafted spear. Many of his men were not so lucky.
Most of the javelins were blocked by raised shields, but still served their purpose. They were designed to drive into the shields before the shaft broke off, leaving the heavy iron head embedded and nearly impossible to remove. The weight made the shields unwieldy and more than a few frustrated Visigoths dropped them instead of dealing with the hindrance.
The lead-weighted darts proved more deadly. They could be thrown much farther than the pilum, and with fantastic accuracy. The barbed tips pierced faces, necks and legs, and soldiers fell screaming from the ranks. Many of those men would cut the darts free or simply rip them from their flesh, trusting to their tattoo-like runes to heal them before blood loss claimed them.
Strangely, as the two forces closed, and despite the many fallen from Spartacus’ host, the barbarian lines looked undiminished.
Time to change the odds.
Eirene spoke again. “Sagittarii.”
Two shrill, whistled notes. Composite bows thrummed from the concealed raised platforms. Arrows whistled down past Titus and his force and drove into the unsuspecting barbarians just four strides below the top of the steps. The front ranks of Spartacus’ force wilted under the onslaught. He caught five shafts himself, although three of them glanced off his heavy armor. One drove deep into his left bicep and the other gashed his neck.
That was unusual. Always before, Spartacus was struck in the arm only.
No! Iltea shrieked. You said he’d live!
He’s not dead yet, but if you don’t remain silent, that will change.
She didn’t usually have trouble shielding her thoughts from Iltea. This time Titus did not wait for her to whistle the next order. He led the charge that descended upon Spartacus’ confused mass of barbarians in a coordinated strike. Spears and swords drove into the barbarians and cut down the second line.
Instead of pressing the advantage, Titus’ little army retreated back through the portico, leaving three dozen barbarians dead or wounded. Eirene descended the ladder with the sagittarii and led the retreat. Her movements were a little jerky as Iltea fought against her control.
You lied to me! All we ever wanted was freedom.
Then you should have taken more care who you believed, Eirene retorted, severing all but the final shred of connection between Iltea’s soulmask and their combined form. Lies can never set you free.
Iltea fought with greater determination than usual. By the time Eirene regained her composure, the enemy had already re-formed ranks and advanced into the portico, their numbers again restored.
That was definitely wrong. It was as if someone was tampering with her dream, even though she wasn’t walking this memory through the machine. That meant her own mind was twisting the memory. Why would she do that? The question unnerved her more than she cared to admit.
There was no time to figure it out. Time to bring this dream to an end.
Eirene spoke a command. Despite a look of surprise, her caller whistled the order.
Titus looked angry, but even he obeyed. Their little army abandoned their positions and retreated again, across the outer sanctum and through the wide doors on either end of the heavy, interior partition wall. The outer sanctum had been cleared and was little more than a rectangular room one hundred and fifty feet wide and fifty fee
t deep, paved with smooth tile.
Spartacus and his forces gave chase and, despite her concern about the twisting of the dream, Eirene still paused to enjoy the next part.
Four ballistae were waiting in the doorways. As soon as her forces flowed past, the giant crank crossbows fired five-foot shafts as thick as her forearm. They missed Spartacus but shattered at least twelve of his men.
Screams echoed in the empty sanctum and the scent of fresh-spilled blood filled the temple. As the assault faltered, Eirene drew her small force to the far end of the inner sanctum. They could have held the doors for a while, but none of that mattered. She was irritated and wanted to finish it.
The inner sanctum was a huge vaulted room lined with more columns and paved with an intricate mosaic in the form of their god with lightning bolts raised. Eirene’s forces gathered on the final set of stairs that led up to the immense propylaeum, the gateway to the secret heart of the temple that only priests were allowed to enter. It was upon those grand steps that her force would make their last stand.
Eirene moved off to the side and breathed deep to settle her mind. Despite the strange alterations of the dream, she knew what to do and the outcome would not change. The air held a hint of roses above the ever-present incense that Titus insisted on burning just because this was a temple.
Spartacus’ forces charged across the huge open expanse, howling like barbarian berserkers. In his greatest moment of glory, Titus led the counter-charge. He had embraced his nevra core to motivate his troops and instill fear in his enemies. His eyes burned with purple fire and flames danced along his fingers.
Sagittarii filled the air between the forces with waves of arrows, while the relocated ballistae blasted enemies off their feet. Screams rent the air and echoed endlessly in the cavernous space, while the copper scent of blood clung to everything. The armies came together with a crash of bodies and they began hacking at each other with wild abandon.
Eirene ignored all of that and focused on Spartacus, who had detached himself and approached with an implacable stride, oaken spear half-raised. His eyes remained fastened on her mask.
