The Last Roman: Book One: Exile

by B. K. Greenwood

  Thomas hesitated, his mouth going dry. "And then what?"

  "Then I take this world."

  "And the humans?"

  "They'll have their place…someone has to do all the work."

  Thomas looked down, a chill running up his spine. He tried to picture those demons spilling out of hell, or at least what he imagined them to look like.

  "Don't worry, Thomas. You'll have a place in the new world."

  Thomas shook his head. "I don't want one. Like we agreed, when this is over, I'm done. I want out."

  "If you say so."

  "I don’t understand. If that's the plan, why haven't I been collecting the pieces of the seal?"

  "What fun would that be? And to be honest, I don't trust you, or anyone, with the seal. Who knows, the seal might even control me." He smiled, "How awkward would that be?"

  Thomas forced a smile, then asked, "Okay, where do we start?"

  "We have the center piece already, in the Vatican vaults. They just don't have any idea what it is. As for the rest, let's say I have my sources."

  "Tell me where, and I'll send teams to get them."

  "Nope, we do this one at a time, and I go on every mission. Like I said, I don't trust anyone." The grin reappeared. "You know, this all should have been so much easier."

  "What's that?" Thomas asked.

  "The plan I brought to God was simple; all the souls come down in human form. We let them live their lives, by the rules, of course. We don't let them sin, or stray, or rebel. I promised to return every soul to heaven." His eyes smoldered, and his voice turned to gravel. "But that wasn't good enough. God wanted man to have free will…God wanted man to choose redemption, not be forced back to Him."

  Thomas swallowed but did not speak. There was a long, painful silence that He used to regain his composure.

  "So, we disagreed. And I left."

  Thomas suspected otherwise, but remained silent.

  "And here we are." He stood to leave. "Get some rest, Thomas. We begin in two days."

  Thomas watched him leave, then tugged at his bandage, smirking; Marcus, you self-righteous son of a bitch, I can't believe you just shot me! Then, just as swiftly, his expression shifted to somberness as a new, ominous thought crossed his mind: My God, what have I done?

  DEAR READERS

  Thank you for reading my debut novel!

  This book has been twenty+ years in the making. It has endured endless edits, cuts, additions, tweaks and rewrites. My hope is that you enjoyed the end product! If so, then please spread the word! And do not worr, Book Two: Abyss will release in late summer or fall of 2021! The final installment is targeted for release in Spring of 2022.

  Now, I am going to ask for one more thing. If you enjoyed the book, please take a few moments to leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads (links on the following page). It may not seem important, but reviews are the absolute lifeblood of independent authors. You don't even have to write anything, just tossing me a few stars will suffice (the more, the better). Thirty seconds of your time can help me for a lifetime!

  I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,

  B.K.

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  Click Write a product review button next to your book order.

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  Search for by author or book title

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to all those that have supported my writing endeavors. My family for putting up with my endless hours of hidden away in my office. Friends who suffered through terrible Beta versions of my book. Professional colleagues who guided me through the publishing process.

  I have enjoyed incredible support from my wife Sonya and kids, Chris and McKenna. As well as friends and family (you all know who you are). I am forever grateful for their steady praise, honest feedback, harsh criticism, and above all, endless encouragement.

  Any success I have as a writer will be erected upon the foundation of their enthusiasm. Lastly, thank you, the readers, for making it all worthwhile.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  B.K. Greenwood was born in New Hampshire but moved to Chandler, Arizona as a young kid. In 2014, he relocated to Austin, Texas, where he now resides with his wife and wolfpack of 4 rescue dogs. When not writing, he enjoys board games, taking the pups on new hikes, and building things in his workshop.

  B.K. loves to travel and has incorporated his experiences into his writing. He reads works of fiction and nonfiction, emphasizing history, adventure, and classics. His passion for history is on display in his series, The Last Roman.

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  BOOK TWO: ABYSS - PREVIEW

  There is no greater unknown than the sea

  and no greater mystery than a lost ship.

  —Clive Cussler

  November 1910

  Vienna, Austria

  The dull, gray sky glared at him like a tyrant. His ragged clothes, soaked by a recent downpour, clung to his shallow frame and caused him to shiver so violently that he dropped his weathered journal. The leather notebook splashed into a shallow puddle by his feet. Falling to his knees, he watched in horror as the water crept onto the pages and consumed the charcoaled lines of his grandiose designs. A gust of wind carried the flipped pages forward, revealing one ruined drawing after another. He reached back with one hand, found the step behind him, and settled onto the cold stone. As the water consumed the last of his sketches, he realized the previous three months spent on architectural designs had been a complete waste of time. No one would ever look at the work of a wretched street artist. He was a complete failure.

  He snatched up the journal, tore out the pages, and squeezed them in his bony hands as he lifted them above his head and cursed at the angry clouds. A couple walking near the bottom of the steps gave him a wide berth as they hurried by. He looked down at the crumpled papers and tossed them to the ground. As the wind swept away the tattered sheets, he turned and skulked up the steps to the entrance of the Schatzkammer. At least the museum would provide shelter from the cursed winds.

  The young man ignored the suspicious look he garnered from the attendant at the door, stepped inside, and wandered the cavernous halls of the royal treasure house. He paid little attention to the various items on display, preferring to sneer at the brief descriptions posted by each exhibit. In his mind, none of the relics represented the true origins of the Germanic people. They were merely tokens to appease the mass of tourists that poured through the museum each summer. The Hapsburgs needed something to legitimize their rule, and so the Reichskleinodien, a collection of crowns, scepters, and swords, became the symbol of their teetering dynasty.

  He turned a corner, paused before a large mirror, looked at his filthy clothes, and then down at dirt-encrusted hands. There was no need to reach into his pocket to confirm that no money lay within. All of his belongings lay in the corner of the rat-infested hovel he shared with a dozen other vagrants. He had lived so long in perpetual starvation that he rarely acknowledged the constant pangs of hunger that gripped his body. It was during this appraisal of his bitter existence that a small cluster of foreigners invaded his solitude. Annoyed by their intrusion, the young man tried to ignore the female guide lecturing the group. He was successful in doing so until
a single phrase punctuated his sanctuary and shook the very foundations of his soul.

  "There is a legend associated with this spear. If the possessor can solve its mysteries, he will hold the destiny of the world in his hands, be it for good or evil."

  Heart pounding in his chest, the young man looked at the guide and waited for her to continue.

  "This is the Spear of Longinus; the very weapon that was thrust into the side of Jesus Christ." She nodded towards the item on display. "The talisman's history is traced back to the Emperor Otto the Great and several other German leaders, such as Frederick Barbarossa. Frederick was carrying the relic the day he died. He was crossing a stream in Sicily when he dropped the spear and soon fell from his horse and drown."

  Shifting his eyes from the speaker, the young man studied the object in question. It was two pieces, both of which were lying in a faded leather case. One was the head of the spear, broken off just below the blade. A long spike was lying along its length, held in place by various colored threads. A second piece, the base, was covered with several gold crosses.

  The guide continued, "During the last five hundred years, only one man had given credence to the legend of the spear. After defeating the Austrians at the Battle of Austerlitz, Napoleon demanded the talisman. But his designs went unfulfilled. Government operatives smuggled the spear from Nuremberg, its historical resting place, and hid it in Vienna. It has resided here ever since. Shall we move on to Crown of Bohemia?"

  The young man ignored the last question and stepped closer to the rope marking the boundary of the exhibit. The iron blade called to him as if it longed for a familiar touch. Looking down at his open hand, he could feel the cool surface of the spearhead on his sweaty palm. The stirring within his soul confirmed that he had held the ancient talisman long ago. Lifting his gaze once again to the weapon, he fell into a hypnotic trance broken only when the guards announced the museum's closing.

  Weakened by the experience, he stumbled down the steps of the Schatzkammer, oblivious to the driving rain. He had climbed the steps a poor, broken wretch. He came back down them a driven young man. Adolph Hitler had found his destiny.

  Summer, 1945

  South Atlantic

  "Captain, sonar reports a contact." The young officer looked up at his superior.

  The captain, a middle-aged man that looked more like a schoolteacher than a royal naval officer, grabbed the pair of binoculars hanging around his neck and moved to the front of the bridge.

  "Heading?"

  The officer spoke into the headphone, waited for a reply, then turned back to the captain.

  "Bearing 190, speed six knots."

  "Who's on sonar?" The captain was scanning the horizon.

  "Donnelly, sir."

  The captain lowered binoculars and glared at the ensign. He turned back toward the front of the ship and called back over his shoulder.

  "Is Mr. Donnelly sure we are not chasing another sperm whale?"

  Several of the men around the bridge snickered, but none of them dared to laugh outright. The ensign, smiling, spoke back into his radio. After a long silence, he turned back to the captain.

  "Mr. Donnelly is positive this is not a sperm whale, sir."

  "Very well then. Mr. Hansen, battle stations."

  The ship's crew, mired in a midsummer's lull, sprang to life. As the men scrambled across the sizzling deck, the captain moved to a nearby battle map and plotted the contact's last known location and bearing. Within minutes, the destroyer crashed through the tender sea, making full speed as she turned in pursuit of the submarine.

  The ensign read off a steady stream of numbers, which the first mate documented on the map. Twenty minutes later, the captain looked over at the first mate.

  "Well, Jack?"

  "I'd say we're right on top of her."

  "Let's give it a go."

  The first mate called to the weapons officer,"Nolan?"

  "Yes sir?"

  "Launch full spread, racks one and two."

  "Yes sir!"

  The young man spoke into the radio. A few seconds later, they heard the thump as the launchers fired the canisters into the pale blue sky. The captain looked at his watch, his lips moving slowly as he counted. He looked up at his first mate and winced just before the first charge exploded, followed by a steady series of comparable explosions, the massive plumes of water showering the decks.

  "Bring us back around," the captain said.

  "Yes sir." The first mate turned back toward the helm and barked a series of orders.

  "Sir, Mr. Donnelly reports a secondary explosion, bearing 187!"

  The captain moved back to the battle map. After studying the plots for several minutes, he looked up at the first mate.

  "What do you think?"

  "Captain, we either got very lucky, or we ran into the worst U-boat captain in the German navy."

  "Oil!"

  The cry came from an observer on the port side of the bridge. The captain and first mate stepped from the bridge and onto the gangway. They leaned over the railing and scanned into the sparkling green sea. About two hundred feet away, they saw a dark teardrop stain spreading across the rolling swells. A few minutes later, several pieces of wreckage broke the surface.

  The first mate glanced at the captain. "Not a very big slick."

  "No, it isn't." The captain picked at his chin, then looked at his watch. "Bring her back around, but real slow. Let's see if we can pick up anything. She either shut it down and went deep or blew this decoy and made a run for it."

  "Which do you think it is?"

  "I think she ran."

  "Then we should pick her up on the next sweep."

  "Yes, we should."

  "Captain, we just passed seven hundred feet."

  "Keep going."

  "Sir?"

  "Keep going. Make her depth eight hundred feet."

  "But captain!"

  "Enough! Eight hundred feet!"

  "Yes sir!"

  The men watched the exchange, then waited as the walls creaked and moaned. Several pipes burst, filling part of the tiny compartment with sea spray. The crew sprung to action, closing off the broken pipes.

  "Seven-seventy five…seven-eighty."

  The captain took a drag from his cigarette and watched the gauge as it crept into the red. He exhaled and picked at his teeth with his thumb. The first officer placed his hand on the driver's shoulder as the boat reached eight hundred feet.

  "Level her off, Johan."

  "Yes sir."

  "Fredrich shut her down."

  "Yes sir."

  The silence consumed them, only to be broken several minutes later by the deadly whine of distant screws. They waited as the wail grew louder. The screeching reached a near-deafening level, and then it faded. The first mate, sweat pouring down his forehead, smiled at the captain. The captain looked back at his old friend and shook his head.

  The first explosion was the closest and knocked several men into the bulkhead above. The captain peeled himself from the metal grating and looked at the depth gauge. It was holding steady. The second explosion was not so close but still tossed the ship like a rag doll. Water was pouring in from a dozen places, and the hull sounded like it would implode at any moment. With the subsequent explosion, the lights went out, and the sub faded into the icy grip of the Atlantic.

  Spring, 1946

  Manuas

  The black river slithered through the emerald forest like a greedy snake. The dark surface, smooth as glass, consumed the noonday sun and then gave back the energy as a sticky vapor that clung to the muddy banks. The canopy, drooping in the summer heat, watched the river creep along. Somewhere in the trees, a pack of monkeys shattered the sultry air with their frightened shrieks. The warning sent a flock of bright-colored birds fluttering toward the clear blue sky, their exit triggering a shower of leaves.

  As the last leaf floated down onto the dark surface, the object that had triggered the alarm floated down a narrow
bend in the river. Technically, it was a raft. But it could have easily been mistaken for a random collection of shattered branches if not for the vines that held it together. Then there was the scrawny, almost naked body wedged into the craft. The man was lying face down, with one arm draped into the water. His skin was scorched and blistered, but what set him apart was his long, blonde hair.

  The bundle crawled down the river, somehow avoiding the eddies that marked the lazy bends. By early afternoon, the current had carried the raft to a mile wide section of the river, and it was there that its long journey ended. The makeshift vessel floated into the shadows of a muddy bank, eventually coming to rest near a collection of more native canoes.

  The local fisherman had retreated from the river to avoid the sweltering heat but returned as the sun dipped below the distant canopy. It was a young boy, not much older than twelve, who found the new arrival. The lad stomped into the shallow water and used a stick to pock the lifeless body. There was no response, so he poked it again. He was ready to give the man up as dead when the fellow groaned and tried to roll over. The boy jumped straight up into the air, clearing the water by at least a foot. When he landed back down, he was facing the other direction.

  "Father!" He splashed through the water and up the bank.

  The old man, not much taller than his young boy, looked up from the net he was mending. He rolled his eyes and went back to his task.

  "Father! It's alive!"

  "What's alive?"

  "The man!" The boy was pointing at the pile of wood in the shadows.