The Lost Centurion

by Monica La Porta

  A gurgled sound escaped from his lips when he cursed himself and the gods who had finally decided to listen to him. Water washed over him. A sea of white foam engulfed him, and he found his voice again.

  He foolishly screamed, “Not now!” then gulped down another mouthful of water and sand.

  The sea was claiming him as it had taken possession of the land. His whole head was submerged. The same loop of memories played the nightmare from the day before again. And again. Eyes covered by the white froth of the crashing waves, he saw Diana beaten and looking at him, terrified. The men’s hands touched her. Their fingers marred her skin. She called his name, begged the men to leave him alone. Her kidnappers laughed, tearing at her clothing and exposing her body to humiliate her. Marcus’s anger built with every image. It had been growing inside of him since those men had left with her. He couldn’t die and leave her to her fate. He wouldn’t lose her.

  He focused on his rage and forced his limp body to action. His right arm shot forward and his fingers reached for a root that had been dug out by the constant motion of the tide. He pulled up his torso with great fatigue, but didn’t stop until his nose and mouth were above water. Panting and retching, he heaved himself to the side and threw up until his throat was so sore it bled. Then he passed out or thought he had passed out. Triggered by his present condition, painfully detailed memories played for him and wouldn’t let him rest.

  The cuirass was cutting the circulation on Marcus’s right arm. He had trained his field army the whole night, wearing full armor, the bronze shield, and his spatha—the broadsword his father in law had gifted him when he had married Aurelia. He had led his men for thirty kilometers through treacherous paths, moats, up and down hills, and when they had reached their camp he had ordered them to build a palisade wall. He always led by example and he had hauled logs like everybody else.

  The focale, the scarf he wore around his neck to prevent the chafing from the constant contact with the armor, was soaked through with his sweat and smelled. The fibula fastening his cloak over his shoulder banged against the armor with every movement he made, causing him headache. Or maybe it was dehydration. Or not having slept or eaten for more than twelve hours.

  His men had grown weary of him. It pained him to have lost their unconditional love, but since Aurelia had died, life hadn’t made sense to him anymore. His recklessness had won him sympathies in the higher spheres though. He had never set out to be promoted, but it happened twice in a short period of time and he had been given a cohort. Rumors had come back to him that there were wagers about him being the most plausible candidate to be appointed as the youngest to command the senior century, the whole cohort—thousands of men.

  Once, he would have daydreamed of commanding the legion. Now, he only wanted to lose himself in a hard day of working followed by a long night of drinking. In three years since Aurelia’s death, he had drunk himself to stupor every night to no avail. He hadn’t had a woman in all that time. When his soldiers started sending handsome young men to his tent, he realized they were worried for him. He didn’t care enough to correct them. He gave the young men a place to sleep and a few hours respite from a job they had not chosen for themselves. Sometimes, he even gave them his bed; he spent his nights elsewhere in any case.

  He opened his eyes several times before he woke. Mosquitoes and other nocturnal bugs wouldn’t let him sleep, but he was too tired to swat them away. By the time he could string two complete thoughts together, the light of dawn was illuminating the sea in a silvery-pink light, and he itched everywhere. Both his arms were embracing the tree root and it took him some effort to disengage his stiff limbs. When he tried to sit up, his vision blurred and his blood rushed toward his extremities. He fell back to the ground, his left cheek landing over the uneven terrain. Something hard and spikey cut into his skin, and through the sharp pain, it gave him clarity of thought. He needed water, but he had to move first.

  The lights from the house spilled down to the beach, reminding him that drinking water was a few minutes away, but to reach it, he had to climb the steep path with the treacherous stairs carved into the rock walls. He raised his knees, one leg at a time, then pushed on the soles of his feet with his palms down on the sand for balance. At the fourth try, he succeeded in standing upright, but it lasted the span of a few inconsistent heartbeats. He went down like a falling statue, heavy and unbending, and he acquired a new set of scrapes and cuts on his exposed skin.

  He spat the blood that had pooled at the back of his throat and resumed his fight against gravity. The sky was light and a few scattered clouds passed over a white-yellow morning sun when he managed to reach the beginning of the winding trail. He made it there mostly on all fours, dragging his legs behind, but had to sit and rest on the first step to catch his breath. When he lifted one hand over his eyes to shield them from the blinding sunrays, he saw two men coming out of the pine forest.

  They wore non-descriptive clothes, but were too bulky and moved too stealthily to be Alexander’s gardeners. Marcus crawled backward and flattened against the rocky wall, all of his senses straining to catch any movement the intruders made. From the safety of his spot, he peeked over the low wall bordering the first section of the trail. The two men stood over the shallow hole his body had created on the sand during the tide.

  Marcus knew that his slow escape had left traces even a kid could follow. Adrenaline finally made an appearance in his system and, still crouching for fear of being seen, he slowly back stepped until he reached the next turn in the path. He made sure the men couldn’t see him from the beach and left the trail. Hoping he wouldn’t dislodge any pebble, he climbed over the side of the cliff, using the sturdy bushes covering the rocky terrain to push himself up to a natural ledge. From there, he cautiously followed a path more suitable for goats than humans. One step after the other, his boots soaked wet and heavy with sand, he climbed toward the villa. He had chosen his route wisely because the northern flank of the cliff turned away from the beach and hid him from sight. The obvious problem with his decision was that the natural path was at least three times longer than the manmade trail.

  The orange trees’ foliage was already in sight from below, when Marcus heard steps ahead. The two men had run all the way up, looking for him. He ducked under one of the oleander bushes and waited for the steps to move away from the ledge over his head.

  “The bastard can’t be gone.”

  “No, he’s still here.”

  The voices sounded too close and Marcus squatted lower.

  “Do you have your syringe ready?”

  “Yes. We’ll finish him in no time. He’s in no condition to fight.”

  Any other time, Marcus would have confronted the two thugs, but they were right. He could barely stand and needed whatever was left of his strength to escape. If he didn’t have water soon, he wouldn’t be able to make any plans. His thoughts were fogged once again. After that sudden boost of energy, fatigue had reclaimed his body and mind. Only his fears for Diana kept him awake.

  “The poison is still in his system. Once we give him a second dose, he won’t be in any shape to fight back.”

  The last statement was followed by receding steps. Marcus sighed in relief. For a moment, he had thought they knew where he was and were playing with him. He forced his body to remain in the same crouching position for more than five minutes to be sure they had gone, then moved on the path. Instead of going up, he trailed along the curb and moved farther north of the garden and toward the entrance to the property, passing the house.

  His plan was to reach the main road and hitch a ride down to Amalfi. As soon as he peeked over the low wall bordering the edge on that side of the gardens, he realized he was trapped. One man was running toward the gate at the end of the private lane, the other was waiting for him, pacing along the side of the house. He considered using the big terracotta vases dotting the street to cover his escape, but the man closer to the house would have spotted him the moment he jumped
over the wall.

  The sun was higher in the sky, and although the natural light was hard at work healing him, Marcus’s tolerance to the warmth was dwindling. Salt had stuck his clothes to his skin, and the constant itching from the bug bites was magnified by the sharp pain from the numerous cuts and the swelling of clotted blood where he had been hit. He welcomed the hurt that kept him awake, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep operating under those conditions. His military training under the greatest army the world had ever known kicked in, and he sat against the wall to assess his situation.

  He was alive. The poison still slowed him down, but he had the advantage of operating during the day with the sun on his side. The two men were waiting to catch him at different places. He needed them somewhere else, possibly together. His heart raced and his breath came in quick pants. It was imperative he get to fresh water. The severe muscle spasms could be attributed to several factors. His metabolism had probably depleted all his sugar supply long ago.

  Thinking took a toll on him, but his mind kept showing him images of Diana. A movie of the time they had spent together played before his eyes. Starting with the night he had rescued her to the moment he had discovered her passion for antique cars. At that memory, his addled brain stopped the replay. He recalled the geography of Alexander’s villa and a hastily hatched plan formed in his mind.

  He focused on the here and now, took long gulps of air that felt hotter than a moment earlier, raised his head just above the low wall, waited until the pacing man was at the opposite corner from where he wanted to go, then sprang into action. Heart pounding in his chest, he cut a beeline toward the façade of the house that overlooked the back gardens and the beach. Had he been in better form, Marcus would have tried to be inconspicuous, but as it was, he went in like a bull, head low and all reasoning lost when he heard the first shot. He followed the contour of the house and his legs pumped in time with his heartbeats as he headed toward the French doors opening to the immaculate backyard.

  The shots were fired closer.

  “He’s getting inside the house!” the pacer called.

  Marcus entered the house and ran across the atrium, hoping both men would follow, but not so fast that they would see him disappear behind the panel in the wall under the staircase. Fatigue mixed with pain led him to stumble upon the furniture disseminated in his route to the corridor connecting the house to the garage. More shots were fired, now inside the atrium. A chair was blown into smithereens, a coffee table lost two legs, and antique vases fell and broke. He slid inside the corridor and lowered the lever on the wall to seal the place.

  Hungry shouts and the sound of more punishment inflicted on Alexander’s priceless belongings echoed inside the corridor. Without slowing down, Marcus kept his senses on maximum alert, but nobody followed him and he entered the garage. He took care to close that entry as well, then ran to the blue Bugatti, pushed the button to lower the pedestal, jumped inside the car, opened the glove compartment where he knew Alexander left his keys, ignited the engine and hit the gas pedal. A blink of an eye later, he was out of the garage and exiting the main gate while sirens blasted through the night.

  Without a cell phone handy, stealing one of Alexander’s cars was the fastest way to get in contact with him. Marcus let the police stop him not far from Amalfi center; he had depleted his energies driving at breakneck speed along the sharp turns of the coast, and the whole point had been to be apprehended. Two policemen had to help him enter their car. Once at the station, he asked for water and sugar, then explained he had permission to take the car. Given the way he looked, Marcus didn’t take it personally when the tired man behind the desk wouldn’t believe him, and instead threw him in a cell. He refused medical attention and asked for his phone call. Water and even food were brought to him, and by the time a worried Alexander appeared around the bars, Marcus’s strength had come back.

  Alexander studied his appearance. “What happened?”

  “We were attacked.” Marcus grabbed the bars, then lowered his forehead to them.

  “Where is Diana?” Alexander placed one hand over his knuckles. When Marcus didn’t immediately answer, he leaned closer to the bars. “I’m so sorry—”

  Marcus shook at the mere suggestion she could be dead. “No, she’s alive. I know she is. I can feel it in here.” He released one of the bars to press his hand over his heart.

  Alexander exhaled a long breath, then nodded at him. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  An hour later, Alexander escorted him out, had him drive the Bugatti back to the house, where he took a cursory look at the damages, spoke to his majordomo, Giovanni, who had been warned by the alarm and already called the insurance, then they were on the road toward Rome.

  “The Council is furious. I was on the phone with them the whole way here. They say the nest operated under their rights.” Alexander had kept quiet for the first stretch of the ride, and even stopped to buy sodas and sandwiches on the road to feed him. Once on the freeway, he had asked him if he were up to talking. Marcus had taken a swig from the can and nodded.

  “I wasn’t expecting anything different from them.” He shrugged, not interested in listening to politics.

  Alexander canted his head. “Even without you being a renegade and all, the Council couldn’t have stopped Claudius from getting back what is rightfully his.”

  Marcus cursed a string of profanities. “Diana isn’t a thing.” He looked heavenward, bumping fisted hands against each other for several counts, then turned toward his friend. “I’m sorry for the house.”

  Alexander sighed. “I know you are.” He patted Marcus’s arm. “It wasn’t your fault.” He turned to look at him. “So, how did those vampires manage to overpower you?”

  “They injected me with something that paralyzed me.” Marcus had had plenty of time to think about the poison in the syringe. “My guess would be a massive dose of curare.”

  Both of Alexander’s eyebrows shot up in a worried frown. “Curare?”

  “I’m afraid so.” The poison, in a much smaller percentage, was one of the ingredients used to make the Immortal Death, a potion used to temporarily revert immortality. It was the poison of choice for both immortals seeking death and their enemies who could kill them without incurring in the Council’s wrath. Once an immortal became mortal, the Council’s jurisdiction became null, and the murderers could only be prosecuted by the human courts that were easily swayed to the paranormals’ bidding.

  “But usage of curare is against the Peace Pact’s amendments. Maybe I could use it to build a case against Claudius—”

  Marcus stopped Alexander. His thoughts were stretched in several directions, but he had only one purpose in mind. “I know I don’t have the right to bring you in this mess, but I need help to find her.” He put his hand over Alexander’s. “Please. I have no one else to ask.”

  Alexander looked down at Marcus’s trembling hand, then raised his eyes to look into his. “No need to ask.” He frowned. “How did the nest find you at my place?”

  “I don’t know.” He hadn’t had any time to think about it, but there could be only one explanation. “Someone must have heard you talking—”

  Alexander pushed his open palm in the air as if he were braking. “No. Absolutely not. Nobody heard me say anything at all. You know me better than that.”

  “I apologize. You’re right.” Marcus passed his hand to the back of his head. “Is just that your house is always full of people and…”

  “Except for my paranormal parties once a year, only humans are invited to my house. My guests are blissfully clueless about the supernatural and usually inebriated. And I never take private calls before my guests. Not one of the men and women passing through my house would’ve called in the nest.”

  “No, of course. But then who did?”

  “I have no clue, but I’ll ask around.”

  He released the breath he had been holding. “No other member of the immortals council involved
though.”

  Looking at the road, Alexander shook his head. “I can’t promise that and you know it.”

  Marcus nodded. “I’ll get some sleep if you don’t mind.” He closed his eyes and a fitful slumber claimed him.

  Several nightmares later, Alexander tapped on his shoulder. “You’ve arrived at your destination.”

  He had faked the Northern Italian accent of his navigator and that made Marcus smile every time. “I miss my tutor.”

  “I’ve always missed my young master Marcus.” Alexander looked up at the sky showing from the sunroof.

  Marcus opened his door. “Sometimes, I think that kid never existed.” He exited the car, then leaned back in. “I will stir things up.”

  “Do what you must. I’ll try to clean up after you.” Alexander brought two fingers to his temple and saluted him.

  Back in his house, Marcus ran to the shower to soak his clothes with warm water. The stiff fabric of his jeans and shirt clung to his skin where the blood from his wounds and cuts had dried. Dark red pooled down onto the shower stall’s floor, swirling toward the drain. By the time the water cascading over Marcus’s head became lukewarm, he was able to remove his clothes without ripping his wounds open. As an immortal, he healed faster, but he still needed time to knit himself together, and myriads of small cuts crisscrossed his body and still bled.

  He exited the shower without bothering with a towel he would soak with blood right away, and instead went upstairs to the terrace to expose his skin to the sun. When anything else failed, the healing power of his god would take care of him. He raised his hands to the sky, kneeled on the terracotta tiles, and sent his prayer upward. “Apollo, help me find her,” he repeated, rocking back and forth. “Apollo, please don’t leave your son alone in this time of need.”