The Last Praetorian

by Christopher Anderson

  The Norse Goddess of the hunt moved so that her Pegasus looked down upon the little empress of Roma, snorting at the monarch and pawing at the marble. Freya looked at the empress and asked, “So you would have my Praetorian would you? I admire your ambition to take one so rough-hewn upon one so soft and delicate.” She laughed and turned her gaze back to Tarion.

  Freya looked Tarion up and down brazenly. With an expression equally appreciative and scathing, she observed, “The armor of the Praetorian and the years of strife have worn you well, but what are you doing? You know you cannot marry another; fate and fame curse you to be in love with me!” She laughed again and dismounted. As she did so, a white cat leapt from her lap to the marble floor. When it landed, it transformed into a large white lioness. The cat stayed on her heel as Freya approached the empress.

  Minerva’s fists formed trembling balls of rage. “I am empress here, Lady Freya,” she exclaimed, her pride overcoming her wisdom. “This is not Asgard but the world of men. As long as it remains our world I will have who I wish as husband! I will have Tarion!”

  “Hush child!” Freya ordered, but her voice carried less anger than her eyes, which were fiery darts directed at the empress. She walked forward and her boots rang on the marble. She stepped up to the dais and tapped the floor with the butt of her father’s spear Gungnir. It was but the slightest touch of the burnished brass upon the marble but the Pantheon shook. Outside thunder rolled and lightning flashed. Freya glanced at the lightning and cocked her head to the side. “Beware, my brother Thor loans me his favor. I warned you that this was not to be; Tarion is not to be yours. That is not his destiny.”

  “I do not bow to the barbaric Gods of Asgard. His destiny is for his empress to decide!”

  Freya struck Gungnir on the pavers again and this time the lightning split the air with a sharp, painful crack! Tarion stepped up to his empress, urging her not to tempt Freya’s fury but it was too late. Freya’s eyes grew instantly wide. A wind sprang up around her. The Goddess’s voice became wild, almost fey, “So you would defy me, defy Odin and defy all of world to have your way. That is the crux of this, isn’t it child?”

  With haughty disdain Freya strode to the doors, flinging them open to reveal the ruins of Roma. “You are empress, but empress of what—this? The Imperium has all but passed away. Despite the nobility of the Praetorian and his sire the Imperium crumbles because of the arrogance of unwarranted pride and the depravity of men who believe themselves answerable only to men! What do you think the Destructor preyed upon? Look at the result! Look well Minerva; you can complete the Destructor’s tasking by sinking into self-service like the men of the lost duchies of the Imperium. Do that, Minerva and even the memory of Roma and the Imperium will disappear. That will be a black day even amongst the Gods!”

  “You blame men for your own failings, is that it?” Minerva said defiantly. Her features became hard and imperious. “Oh that Olympus is gone and civilization with it! Are the timber houses of the Norse Gods the only example we have to live by? What’s the matter Freya? Has Asgard become bereft of Gods to entertain you, or do you no longer find pleasure in the company of dwarves?”

  Faster than the eye could follow Freya was back on the dais, Minerva’s slight chin cradled in the black scaly glove of her hand. Tarion moved to protect his empress but the point of Gungnir was instantly at his breast. “Stay where you stand Praetorian! Do not bring my wrath down upon you!”

  The Praetorian knelt before the wrathful Goddess. “Lady Freya, you have ever been the champion of men,” he pleaded in the tongue of Asgard that only she and Ancenar could understand. “Do not put the blame on the empress; place it on me. Take your wrath out on me. Do not take the last sovereign of men from us.”

  “Peace!” Freya replied abruptly. “Peace Praetorian; trust your Goddess!”

  Freya turned her frosty gaze to Minerva, raising the empress to her toes. “I should repay your insolence with eternal damnation,” she purred with quivering fury and the Pantheon quaked in her anger. A long moment passed and Freya released the empress.

  The anger faded from her eyes as quickly as it came. Turning away from Minerva, Freya approached Tarion and raised him to his feet. She smiled, glancing back at Minerva and straightened her gloves. “Fortunately for our empress her words carry the ring of truth, don’t they Praetorian?” She slapped his armored chest with the gloves, laughing again. “I won’t damn anyone for that. Besides you are right; Midgard needs the Imperium and the Imperium cannot afford to lose two rulers in a single day.”

  Whirling quickly on the empress, Freya admitted, “It would not please Tarion in the least if I were to take my righteous anger out on you. My Praetorian has a great deal of affection for you little empress. In fact, left to his own devices, Tarion would wed you simply to save you from the humiliation of being slighted—wouldn’t you Praetorian? You are so deliciously duty bound.”

  She patted him on the cheek and once again turned back to Minerva. Then the Goddess sighed and shook her head. Her expression took on a gravity that displayed the goddess’s momentary sincerity. “You do not lack courage or some level of wisdom Minerva. I lament the loss of Olympus no less than you. That part of me that was your namesake is lost to me; you are all that is left of Minerva. For better or worse Freya is what remains. So it is for all of us. We must endure regardless of the loss; for if we fail we fall—all of us.”

  Freya touched Minerva’s crown with the tip of Gungnir. The crown glowed momentarily. “You have what little blessing Freya still has to bestow. Alas, there is little enough power left in Gods, men, dwarves or elves. Therefore, we must recognize the paths that led us here in order to save our world. Ruin, eternal ruin is before us; we must do all that we can to avert it. No cost is too great; do you understand? We must find what we have lost.”

  “What have we lost lady?” Minerva asked. “For in this age I have learned much. Yet I still do not see what brought us to this pass.” Minerva lost her anger for the moment and again seemed a child waiting to be taught. “What can we possibly find that will lead us from this darkness?”

  “Faith, child,” Freya told her, touching the cheek of the empress tenderly. She looked up at the dome of the Pantheon. “Isn’t that why you came here to be crowned; to be married? Do not put your faith in men, elves, dwarves or Gods. That is not where the power truly lies. Have faith in what we must do, in what we are bound to do.”

  “That is what exactly,” asked Minerva boldly.

  “We must have faith in that which made the world; faith in each other and faith in the Prophecy—that is why Tarion Praetorian cannot wed you Minerva.”

  “I don’t understand,” she replied; her anger smoldering again. “What possible difference could the Prophecy make?”

  Freya sauntered up to Tarion again, smiling. She patted his cheek once again. “The Praetorian is not for me, empress, don’t worry your head on that account. Tarion Praetorian is the fulcrum of the Prophecy. Without him we are doomed; all of us.”

  “You love him,” Minerva said bluntly.

  “Do not tempt the fate of the world with love Minerva,” Freya told her, but she shrugged. “I do love him in my own way; of course I do—more sincerely than you do empress.” She shook her head and put her hands on her comely hips. “That’s a problem for you. You want the Praetorian’s love, it feeds your ego, but you can’t have it. Even if his duty called him to marry you, Tarion cannot love you; he still worships me—don’t you Praetorian?”

  She laughed as the white lioness rubbed against his armored legs, purring.

  Tarion growled back.

  “Goddesses, especially this one, need to be worshipped,” Freya said, planting herself in front of Tarion.

  “You speak of sacrifice but it all comes back to you, doesn’t it Freya?” the empress said with scorn.

  Freya sighed and suddenly seemed a shrunken woman bereft of glory, feeling the long slow years with a well of deep sorrow in her beauteous eyes. She shook
her head and said sadly, “Even Freya tries to mask her disquiet with a cloak of jest and bravado; but no, Minerva the times call for even me to lay aside my selfish motives. The Prophecy plays no favorites; it dictates more than our own wants and desires. The Prophecy dictates to elves, men, dwarves and Gods alike.” Her eyes went back to Tarion and there was something in them, something longing and yet dreadful.

  In a quiet voice Freya said, “If you only knew what I was sacrificing in this dutiful, masterful man, Minerva; if you only knew then you would no longer doubt me.” Freya took a deep breath and the strength returned to her voice. “I will endure the sacrifice for the good of the world. The Dragonheart curse is now ended. It is time for the Prophecy to move forward.”

  “Then the Wanderer has returned to battle the Destructor,” Ancenar exclaimed. “At long last the Wanderer has come forth!”

  “No!” Freya exclaimed. Everyone fell silent. Freya explained, “The Wanderer has not returned, at least not in a palpable sense, there is no sign of him—not yet. However, he is not in Limbo—the mournful bell of that land signaled his departure—but he has not come forth in Midgard either.”

  “Where is he then?”

  Freya smiled and walked up to Tarion. The sharp nail of her finger tapped the imperial eagle on his breast, making a ringing sound that made all within the Pantheon stand upright with anticipation. “That is why Tarion must be unencumbered. The Wanderer now wanders lost and alone. Plutarch the Seer foretold this. When time stands still, the Wanderer will wander the world, lost and unaware of his Twain, taken from himself by the Dread Lord’s hand. For an age the world will rest ere the hero of the men must seek and bring back the Wanderer, the Dread Lord’s bane. That is why Tarion must not marry you or me. Indeed, he must leave Roma this very day!

  “What does that have to do with me?” Tarion asked incredulously. “The hero of men was my father and he has passed on.”

  “Your father would disagree with you on both counts Tarion,” Freya told him sternly. “You are the hero of men Tarion. Tarius challenged the darkness—true. Yet what would be left of men, elves or dwarves had not Tarion Praetorian held the dark forces at bay?” Silence fell, and Freya stroked his cheek. “You esteem your father and rightfully so. Yet Tarion what of Tarius, what became of him?”

  “What do you mean,” he asked in amazement. “I watched him die! Ancenar was there.”

  “We saw him flung into the mountains by the Destructor,” Ancenar corrected, seeing Freya’s point.

  Freya nodded, and said, “So shall you find him, Tarion.”

  “Are you telling me he is still alive?”

  Freya looked at him with steely eyes.

  “Where shall I find him; is he still trapped in the darkness of Gorthronor?”

  “No, for the Destructor flung him far and wide, but Tarius flew to where his heart pulled him,” she told Tarion. “You must find your father Tarion. That is your first quest, though it will not be the last. That unfinished thread is the beginning of your tale.”

  “He would return to my mother, to Norrland,” Tarion exclaimed. He turned to Minerva and on his knee begged her leave to journey to Norrland.

  Minerva was shocked at the idea. “You wish to journey a thousand miles in search of your dead father with my realm thus? Look about you, Praetorian. Your place is here, at my side, maintaining the Imperium.”

  “There will be no Imperium if the hero of the age does not go forth and gather in the Wanderer,” Freya reminded the empress. “Tarius is not slain. It is a clear indication that is where Tarion’s journey must start. His quest will not be accomplished in Roma. If he fails to find the Wanderer before the Destructor does we will all fall.”

  Ancenar stepped up and told the empress, “Give him leave Minerva; there are no more armies to threaten Roma. Tarion has kept his promise to the emperor; he has given you peace. You must give him the freedom to make it a permanent peace.”

  “This is madness,” Minerva snapped, stomping off the dais. “The Praetorian’s place is here in Roma.” She stamped her foot. It echoed through the Pantheon. “Since the curse is over we need not be rushed. I want the city cleansed and restored for our wedding. Roma will be as splendorous as it was in song. Then, on the Creator’s Day when the snows glisten on the marble avenues and all the world is clear and white we shall be married. We will forge a new Imperium; one that will last to the ending of the world!”

  The empress strode out of the Pantheon and climbed into her carriage, shouting to the driver. The horses ran down the Palatine hill, the clatter of their hooves fading in the direction of the palace. The rest of the assemblage left after her. Tarion remained in the Pantheon with Freya and Ancenar.

  “She has a stubborn spirit to her and is worthy of my name, I’ll say that,” Freya sighed. She looked at Tarion. “What will you do?”

  “I’ve lived my life by the requirements of duty,” Tarion said with gravity.

  “Only you can decide whether to follow the Prophecy or your empress,” Freya told him.

  “The empress has spoken,” he said simply. With that, Tarion took off the medallion signifying his command. It was a heavy gold disk bearing a crowned golden eagle in a field of purple enamel. Across the top were the words “Semper Fidelis Imperium.” Below the talons, that held twin silver thunderbolts was the title: “Praetorian.” The title was synonymous with the General of the Legions; the Captain of the Praetorian Guard; and Steward of the Praetorian Council which elected the Imperator. When he added the title to his given name, becoming Tarion Praetorian, he became as singular as was the empress.

  With a look of grim consternation Tarion put the medallion back over his neck. “Minerva is my empress. She has my loyalty, but my duty is to the Imperium not the empress. The republic is greater than its ruler. I will go to Norrland.”

  Freya embraced him; it lasted longer than it should have. Tarion closed his eyes with guilt, thinking that he’d endure the hardships of the last age with joy for another such embrace.

  Freya, of course, seemed to be able to read his thoughts. She smiled, but her message was grave. “Follow your instincts Tarion. As you are the One destined to find the Wanderer and set him on his path, you may ask advice, but follow your own counsel—even beyond the Gods—especially beyond the AllFather, whom you are destined to meet again in this drama.”

  “That will be a merry meeting,” Tarion said sarcastically.

  She looked at him with sparkling blue eyes and a smile as radiant as the sun off winter snows. “Remember also that you love me and adore me. That thought will keep me happy when your road is long and dark.”

  Freya kissed his cheek and mounted her Pegasus. “Farewell, and remember, the more you think of me the easier your road shall be!” She galloped out of the Pantheon and up into the blue sky.

  “She’s been doing that to me for almost thirty years,” Tarion murmured.

  “Be thankful she adores you Tarion,” Ancenar told him. “Think of the men she doesn’t esteem!” They both winced. The elf sighed. “We owe her everything. As it is, we have a chance. It’s up to you now Tarion.”

  “It is indeed,” said Ankhura the Incantator darkly. He stepped up to the Praetorian. They’d always had a tense relationship, especially as Tarion had been friends with Ankhura’s two chief rivals: Alexandrus and Aetius before his betrayal. The Incantator took a deep breath and said, “I must agree with your course of action. Fear not for Empress Minerva, I will endeavor to convince her of the necessity of your actions.”

  “Thank you,” Tarion said, and he was about to turn away when Ankhura stopped him.

  “I have something more to offer than my support Praetorian,” he said uncomfortably. “The leader of the Norse volunteers, an able man named Hrolf of the sacred city of Trondheim has petitioned me for the use of the mystic gate to Norrland. Alexandrus will lead the remnants of the Norse party through this afternoon. The way will shorten your journey by five hundred leagues.”

  Tarion bright
ened. “Now that will aid me. Thank you Ankhura and good luck.”

  The Incantator bowed and hurried away.

  “Praetorian!”

  “Now what? At this rate I’ll never get going,” Tarion muttered. He turned to see the Bishop of Roma. Tarion, though never an overtly religious man, bit his tongue and bowed.

  The Bishop took some water and blessed him. Then he made a vertical pass in the air with his sheppard’s crook followed by a horizontal one. “May the Creator bless and protect you on the road until he sends you back to us. Have faith!” Pinning a golden brooch on Tarion’s breast, a large “P” surmounted by an “X,” the Bishop nodded with satisfaction. He explained, “Keep this as a sign of your faith. Nothing of evil may touch it; those who lie to you will find their tongues will burn with righteous fire.”

  Dipping his finger in a flask of golden oil the Bishop traced the symbol on Tarion’s forehead. “Go forth with the Creator’s grace Praetorian!”

  “Thank you father,” Tarion accepted the blessing and left the Pantheon. As they walked toward the imperial barracks where the mystical gate to Norrland could be found. On the way they began to find the dead as well, including a block heavy with Norse.

  Tarion stopped, and said, “I’m not going very far as the Praetorian. I’d best travel in secret while I can.” He took off his Praetorian armor, leaving it in Ancenar’s care, and took what gear he could from the dead. Tarion kept his sword, swapping the scabbard to his right hip. He did likewise with his wristblade, clasping it on his maimed right forearm. Although painful it was now serviceable.

  To complete the disguise, he put on a Norse helm with brass goggles and a fur cloak. To all he now looked at first glance to be yet another Norse warrior come in service to the Imperium.

  At the square Tarion parted with Ancenar, Fanuihel and Nar.

  “You will always have a haven in my house Tarion,” Ancenar told him. “Irevale will always be your home.”