by Bob Mayer
“And the master skull—if there is one—” Van Liten said, “What about that?”
“Maybe,” Ariana said, “that’s still in someone’s head and hasn’t been transformed yet. I do think, though, that we need to start gathering up the pure ancient skulls. Just in case.”
“You can have mine,” Van Liten immediately offered.
CHAPTER NINE
THE PAST
25 AUGUST 79 A.D.
The blast of war trumpets echoed down the stone tunnel to the ears of the waiting gladiators, indicating that the next contest was about to begin. Falco lay on a bench, the fancy armor he’d worn during the pompa, or procession into the arena, to one side, his battered fighting gear on the other. A slave carefully oiled his body, paying particular attention to the numerous scars, kneading them to loosen the knotted muscle beneath the skin. It was the last day of the games. He was underneath the arena floor, the place dimly lit by smoky torches. The bellow of animals deliberately starved so they would perform—if eating poorly armed or even unarmed people were performing—adding to the din of the crowd above. The entire place stank of fear and death.
Tomorrow. It was all he could think of. He would travel to Pompeii. And he would see Phaedra and Fabron. His son would almost be a man now and his daughter approaching womanhood. He had last seen them when they were barely able to walk.
Falco heard the shuffling of feet and turned his head slightly to watch those going by, heading for the arena: a quartet of criminals, their eyes dull from the drugged wine they’d been given. He could tell from the inexperienced way they held their swords that none of them had any combat training. Execution in the form of entertainment. They had been condemned to the sword by the state court and sold to the Ianista under the provision that they enter the arena within one hundred days.
Falco lay his head back down on the scented pillow and relaxed his muscles, allowing the slave to do his job. Falco had never known his parents or even his country of origin. He’d been a slave from birth, his large size, apparent even as a baby, saving him from being exposed, placed on a hillside and allowed to die. His earliest memories were of working in the fields in Sicily at four. At seven, he was sold to the lanista of the emperor’s gladiatorial school outside Rome. The first three years were spent doing menial work around the stables. Then he was chosen to train for the arena. Every day of the year. From before dawn until after dusk. When the issue at stake was one’s own life, such training was taken seriously. His muscles grew as he matured, but more importantly, became attuned to instinctual moves with the various weapons he handled until they were an extension of his body.
He’d been pressed into the army during the civil war of ’69 and spent eight years serving in the X Legion, most of that time under the command of General Lucius Cassius. It was in Palestine that he had come to the general’s notice. He had been part of a cohort chosen to accompany the general on an inspection tour of the relay forts that allowed messengers to move speedily about the territory, exchanging horses at each small post.
Encamped at a post near the Sea of Galilee, the centurion in command had failed to properly encamp, feeling that the small enclosure of the post was sufficient for the general and himself, deploying his troops around the wall. It was standard procedure for any element of a legion to erect a barricade around any camp and for sufficient sentries to be posted. But the Jewish rebels had been smashed, only a few hands left, and the campaign was winding down.
Falco had noted the lack of preparations, but he was only a soldier, so he’d pulled his cloak over his body and immediately fallen asleep, always amazed how cold it could get at night after the boiling temperatures of the desert day.
He’d awakened to the screams of men dying. Grabbing his sword, he leapt into the fray, not even knowing who he was fighting, simply swinging at anyone he didn’t recognize as a legionnaire. All was chaos, the camp thoroughly infiltrated, many men having been slain in their sleep.
In the starlight, Falco made out a group of men, Jewish rebels, no doubt, in a tight formation, cutting their way toward the small post. And on the low wall, General Cassius sword in hand, yelling orders, trying to rally the soldiers.
Falco made his way toward Cassius, where five rebels were also headed. He reached them just before they got to the general. He killed two before they even knew he was upon them. Two others came at him, the one in the center continuing toward the general.
Trained for the arena, Falco’s skill and speed were no match for the rebels. He feinted at the one on the right, and when that man jumped back from the blade, he slashed left, severing the other man’s sword arm from his body, blood spurting from the stump as the man screamed and went to his knees, staring in disbelief at his arm lying on the ground. Falco went at the other man with a flurry of jabs and slashes, penetrating his defenses on the fifth strike, the edge of his gladius splitting the man’s head like an overripe melon.
Then he turned to the general, whose withered sword arm forced him to fight with his left hand. He was doing a credible job, off the wall now, giving ground slowly to his attacker, until he tripped over a rock and fell on his back. Cassius blocked the first blow aimed at his face. There was no second blow. Falco took the rebel leader from behind without warning, severing his head from his body in one vicious swipe of his blade.
Falco reached down and picked up the head, eyes still blinking as the blood drained out of it. Falco held it over his head, screaming loudly. The other attacking rebels, seeing their dead leader, scattered, disappearing into the dark.
Cassius slowly got to his feet and called for the centurion. When the officer arrived, Cassius had him remove his armor and strip naked. Then the general banished him to the desert on the spot for failing to camp properly. Falco knew that was a death sentence for the centurion. Either the desert would get him or the rebels; either would be slow and cruel. Then Cassius turned to Falco and offered him a commission as the cohort’s centurion.
“On one condition, General,” Falco replied.
“A condition?” Cassius slapped dust from his cloak. “I would say you were impertinent and not very grateful if it were not for the fact that you saved my life. What condition?”
“You buy my wife and children when we return to Rome and free them, General.”
Cassius had stuck out his hand. “My word as a Roman, Centurion.”
But it was not to be. While he was away, his wife Drusilla died of the plague, hurriedly buried in a mass grave. And Epione had swooped in, buying the children, sending him a copy of the bill of sale and a promise to take care of them if he returned to the arena. If he did not… the threat was obvious.
Offered a discharged from the army when the campaign was over, he did as she demanded and went back to the arena, the only life he knew, to ply the only skill he knew.
“Water,” Falco ordered, and another slave brought him a goblet. He went up on one elbow and drank deeply. His head throbbed; too much wine at the banquet opening the games the night before. He usually never drank before a contest, but his match today was an exhibition of skill with wooden swords, not a fight to the death. It was taking more and more wine for him to be able to spend time with Epione, to drown the rage in his heart at the woman who used him and was master to his children with the power of life and death over them.
“Gladiator.”
Falco lifted his head in surprise both at the choice of words and the tone. Gaius Marcus stood in front of the table, dressed in his fine tunic.
“Yes?”
“Prepare yourself for battle,” Marcus said.
Falco frowned. “I do not enter until this afternoon.”
“You enter when I tell you to. And that is now.”
Falco swung his feet to the ground and stood, oil glistening on his naked skin. “What is happening?”
“Your opponents await you in the arena,” Marcus’ eyes shifted, not meeting Falco’s harsh gaze.
“And they are?”
“You
will enforce the emperor’s laws against the criminals who have been sentenced to the sword. You will carry steel in your hand, not wood.”
Falco felt the bottom of this stomach fall. Not all the thought of having to fight but at the realization that someone was pulling strings. He had only fought like that in his early days, fighting both criminals and animals, honing his deadly trade. It had been years since the last time he had done so. This was an insult of the highest magnitude and he knew it didn’t come from Marcus.
Falco stepped closer to his owner. “Marcus. Tell me.”
“A distinguished senator has returned to Rome. He has made a special request.” Marcus said the words flatly.
“For me?”
“For you.”
“Who is the senator?”
“Domidicus. He arrived late last night.”
Epione’s husband. He was supposed to be in the Province of Gaul for another three months, but he had returned while his wife was still in Falco’s arms. Marcus met Falco’s eyes, and they both knew why Domidicus was back and why he had made these arrangements.
“I cannot refuse Domidicus’s request,” Marcus continued. “He is the nephew of the emperor, and the emperor concurs.”
Falco struggled to understand. Why make him fight the criminals? Even four against one, Falco felt confident he would be the only one left standing. There was more to this than Marcus was telling him.
“You should have kept that”—Marcus gestured at Falco’s groin—“under control.”
“I should have refused her?” Falco was angry now. “You were the one who first sent me to her.”
“Get your gear on,” Marcus ordered. He turned and walked out before Falco could say anything further.
*****
The Emperor Titus had a headache. He’d spent the morning in his audience chamber, listening to the petty squabbling of those who came to him for decisions. And now he had to sit here in the heat, sweltering even in the shade, and watch criminals die in pathetic and usually brief encounters.
Then there was Domidicus and his demand that a certain gladiator be put to death for cuckolding him. Titus knew if he did that in all such instances, there would be no gladiators left. Still, he had allowed Domidicus to bribe the lanista and arrange a match according to his own desires. After all, the senator was a very powerful man and his nephew. And the gladiator was Falco, Cassius’s friend. Killing two birds with one battle in the arena.
And there was still the issue of the Delphic priestess. So far, there had been no sign as she had indicated there would be. He had her seated in the back corner of the imperial box. If there were no sign by dusk, he would have her killed in the arena. It alleviated his headache somewhat to envision various ways he would have the woman dispatched.
Titus turned to Thyestes. “Where is Cassius?”
“In the Praetorian box.”
“Summon him.”
Titus looked over at Domidicus and Epione, who were below him and to the left. It would be interesting to see their reaction when her gladiator died.
“Emperor.” Cassius was in front of him wearing a plain white toga.
“Cassius.” Titus nodded a greeting. “There is a woman there.” Titus waved his imperial staff toward the priestess. “Go to her and listen to her story. I think you will find it interesting.”
“Yes, Emperor.”
Behind the emperor, Kaia was struggling to keep from being sick. The black emotion of the arena was overwhelming. She understood now why the oracle had kept her isolated for so many years. It was difficult to block out the array of feelings that bombarded her from the outside. She could feel the crowd’s blood lust, the fear of those in the arena itself, even the hunger of the animals. Under it all, though, there was something else. A presence, as if under the Earth itself. She pulled her focus on that by the appearance of a man.
“I am Lucius Cassius,” the man said.
Kaia could see the wounds, the leathery skin, and the look in his eyes. He was a killer, but not the one. “I am Kaia, priestess of the Oracle at Delphi.”
“The emperor has sent me to hear what you have to say.”
*****
Vesuvius had never been a quiet mountain. In 5960 B.C. and 3580 B.C. it had erupted with a force to rival the largest known in Europe. In 62 A.D., an earthquake, centered on the volcano, had rocked the entire area, causing great damage.
But the land was fertile with the volcanic soil, and the sea was close, making the area prime real estate, so cities grew under the smoldering brow of the mountain. The largest of these was Pompeii to the southeast, and not far from it the port town of Herculaneum, to the west, on the Bay of Naples. Twenty thousand people made Pompeii their home, while five thousand lived in Herculaneum.
On the slope of the volcano, facing the southern sun, was the smaller town of Oplontis, which catered to the rich villas that dotted the slope, with excellent views of the countryside in all directions. At one of these villas, Porta Vintus, lived Epione’s brother, the distinguished Flavius Lucella, although what exactly he was distinguished for other than inheriting the villa and great wealth from his father, no one was quite sure. There were twelve family members living at his estate, including his wife, six children and various cousins. There were also over two hundred slaves, including Phaedra and Fabron, Falco’s daughter and son.
Lucella had at first protested when Epione had pressed the two small children on him. Not that he was adverse to slaves, but they were too young to work. But as the years had gone by, he had changed his mind. They both worked hard, never complained as slaves were wont to do, and were both growing into quite handsome creatures. In fact Lucella was planning, the next time his fat wife was out of town on one of her insufferable trips to Rome where she spent uncounted amounts of his money, of having first one, then the other, summoned to his quarters. It would be an enjoyable experience, a dip in both waters, hot and cold, so to speak, and the thought of both of them virgins, and siblings, truly excited him.
At the moment that Falco was putting his armor on, Lucella was behind his main house in the shade of an olive tree, seeking relief from the terrible heat that had plagued the summer so far. The two slaves were on his mind because one was on either side of him, waving their fans in unison, back and forth, moving the humid air over his corpulent body.
“Faster,” Lucella ordered.
He felt his stomach rumble. Damn that new cook, he thought, before he realized it was not his stomach that was rumbling. He looked up. Thousands of feet above, the ever-present cloud hat tipped Vesuvius seemed darker than usual.
“The Earth mother stretches,” He muttered. He tried to remember the various gods his wife paid homage to. Which one was responsible for the underground again?
“Phaedra.”
“Yes, master.”
“Who is the god of the underworld?”
“That would be the goddess Proserpine, my lord.”
“You are very bright.”
Lucella smiled at her. She was thirteen and just coming into her womanhood. Her brother, a year younger, had already reached puberty, and he would be a large man, much like his father. Lucella had determined that Fabron would have to be sold before he became large enough to be a threat. He thought that game his sister played with the gladiator most dangerous, but that was her way. While his only interest was money, hers was power. He knew she hated men, particularly her husband, but she loved power more than she hated the male species. So she played all the men who crossed paths with her.
The ground shook, and Lucella reached out and grabbed the side of the couch he was on. He stared hard at Vesuvius, as if by sight alone, he could see the inside of the mountain. He waited. A minute. All was still.
“Ah.” Lucella put his head back on the pillow. “Faster,” he ordered.
*****
Falco entered the arena to the accompaniment of a blare of trumpets. He saw the criminals who had just passed but now there were six, not four. And the two addit
ions, even though they were armed as the others and as poorly dressed, Falco could immediately tell by their stance and demeanor that they were trained gladiators.
He turned toward the imperial box, raising his sword in the obligatory salute. “We who are about to die, salute you!” his voice echoed across the stones and the murmur of the crowd. The six did not give the salute, as they were not entitled, although he imagined the two impostors had been forced to resist their urge to raise their swords.
He saw the emperor, and below, Epione and Domidicus. He saw the surprise on her face, the satisfaction on her husband’s. He was about to turn back to the ring when he felt as if he had been hit by a bolt of lightning, searing through his very being. At the very back of the imperial box was Cassius, huddled next to a strange woman. It was her eyes that had transfixed him, straight to his soul. He had not experienced such a thing since seeing Drusilla the first time, but this was different; this wasn’t man and woman but a kindred soul, one that saw into the darkness.
He had no more time to ponder this as the trumpet signaling the beginning of battle sounded.
*****
Kaia had felt a sense of confidence in the old man the emperor had sent to talk to her. He had listened carefully to her story of the Shadow and the threat it posed. He had questioned her only once, when she told him that she had promised the emperor there would be a sign of the Shadow’s power this very day.
“In what form?” he had asked.
“Out of the Earth.”
He had simply nodded and asked her to continue, but when the trumpets blew, signaling another bout of butchery, she had fallen silent, her heart missing a beat. A man had walked into the sunlight and raised his sword to the emperor.
She knew immediately. This was the man she had seen in dreams and the man the oracle had told her to look for. The killer. With the heart of darkness.
And she saw what he had seen: the same mountain she had seen in a vision. Now she knew what was to come, what form the sign was to take.
