Empire Of The Undead

by Ahimsa Kerp

  With sudden strength, he tore away from the bloody things, stood up, and faced them. He drew his second blade as they stumbled up after him, and acting on the impulse that had come to him too late, removed the other elixir and coated his blade in it.

  The lifeless were before him, vexed still to be fighting when they’d rather be eating. The former soldiers were too well protected by their armor for him to think of another strike at their chest or heads.

  Instead, he dropped low, slashing at their legs, at their fleshy calves. He sliced shallowly, trying to avoid bone. His blade hit and the flesh sizzled. The big lifeless he’d hit stared stupidly, more stupidly than usual perhaps, and collapsed.

  The other two were trying to flank him again, but this time the alchemist was too fast. He coated his blade twice more, and twice more it flew out, stabbing until the creatures fell.

  He chuckled deeply. Were I not here to see this, he thought, I would be highly dubious of it have ever happened.

  Zuste sat down at the side of the road and checked his vials. That took some time. Two of them had burst, and one was showing cracks, but the rest were safe. That was a relief beyond all reliefs. Only after he had carefully placed them all in his pack again, with the wool surrounding it, did he look to his shoulder.

  The wound was revolting. The drying blood mixed with the dust of the road. He cleansed it with some of his elixir vitae, and then with some fortified wine. Then he tore a long piece from his shirt and tied it around his shoulder, as tight as he could. It took some time to do, as it was an awkward angle.

  A shadow suddenly blocked the sun. He looked up to see a centurion looming over him. His heart raced as he realized his blade was not at hand.

  “Saluton, friend. Could you tell us what has happened?” the lead soldier asked uncertainly. Behind him, the other two were squatting in the grass, their bowels evacuating. “We have lost the events of days.” Zuste looked up at him, his breath catching. He had pupils. They were men again!

  "It's simple," the alchemist said. "I am enough of a genius to cure you, and enough of a fool to try to save Rome."

  "Rome," the centurion echoed uncertainly.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Italy: 89 CE, Spring

  “I cannot do it,” Felix said dully. He stared vacantly at the broad road, surrounded by burnt fields and hard earth. They had left Rome three weeks ago and already forty men who had left the city with them breathed no more. It was still too muddy to use the chariots, but the aurigae were growing better at riding horses.

  Winter had ended and the year of the Consulship of Augustus and Nerva had begun. The Libereralia was over, but it had been a cruel jest this year. A holiday meant to celebrate freedom from evil, burdens, and care, was sadly difficult to honor, and not that they would have had much time to celebrate.

  “Kill her,” Rufus commanded again. The blonde girl stared up at them with wide-eyed fear. She could have been no older than six.

  “Senator, she is alive,” Felix said. He could not keep the shock from his voice.

  “Her parents are dead. She will be one of them before the morrow.”

  “Yet, she still lives,” Felix said. His hand moved away from his sword. Bodies were scattered around them—some had been human, but most had been lifeless. All were bloody messes.

  “For now. Would you rather wait until she became one of them?” The girl was ever so slightly, backing away down the road.

  “Yes, I would. I am not in the habit of killing children.”

  “You are in the habit of doing what I say. I am your dominus.”

  Felix stepped toward the girl, trying to hide his reluctance.

  “What you do is a technicality. She’ll be meat for the monsters tonight.”

  “We can bring her with us.” He drew his blade, knowing the futility of his argument. They were a small, quick-moving military force, and there was no role for children. The Senator was right.

  The girl screamed at the sight of the blade and turned to run. Felix caught her within three steps, plunging his sword through her back and into her heart. Her small body fell quivering to the cracked ground. “It’s all right,” Felix said to the gasping girl as he withdrew his blade. “It’s all right. Nothing can hurt you now.”

  She coughed, and blood bubbled from her mouth. The light in her eyes slowly died. Felix slowly wiped his sword on her body, feeling a sadness he had not known he was capable of. Hers was just another body among so many others.

  “If I ever,” Felix snarled, storming past the Senator. “If I ever find out that this was created, as the Emperor suspects, woe to the men involved. I will kill them all.”

  The Senator lifted an eyebrow. “There is no room for children in this world.”

  Felix marched back to the horses, only belatedly realizing that the Senator’s words had been aimed at him. He clenched his fists and sighed, and then looked to his mounts. These, at least, he understood. The horses were noble beasts that seemed to stay above the sordid world humans constantly slogged through. Felix felt himself shaking, though he knew not if from anger or shame.

  Hyacinthus stepped carefully toward Felix, who continued to comb his horses. For all his usefulness, the man could not abide the sight of blood and he always hung back during battles. He had used the war fire three more times, but as of yet, they'd only met small groups of the lifeless.

  “I saw what happened,” he said. “Felix, war isn't easy. Life isn't easy. But you—"

  “What do you know?” Felix snapped. “It wasn’t you out there. It’s never you out there.” He stopped, realizing he was not being reasonable. “Apologies. This adversity grows beyond my ability to cope.”

  Hyacinthus nodded slowly. “I suspect it's only going to get worse.”

  “Worse? I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “He’s right,” said the Senator, approaching both of them from behind. A horse whinnied at him in recognition.

  “He’s right,” he said again, more softly this time, “it will be much worse.”

  Felix looked to the two men. His hands stopped moving on the horse. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

  “Felix, we’ve been fighting these monsters for three weeks now,” Rufus said. “We have barely managed to move a day's ride outside Rome. Take a look around,” he instructed. “We’ve burnt the crops, destroyed the homes of people, and yet, we lose men we cannot spare.”

  “There are more arriving,” Felix said.

  “Yes, the Praetorian Guard should arrive here soon. If Domitian keeps his word—which is no sure thing. His paranoia knows no bounds, but should they arrive, they are no long term solution. In time, they too will die. There are too many lifeless, and every day they grow. They grow while we lessen.”

  “There is a logical solution,” Hyacinthus put in, “but it is too dreadful to be of any practical use.”

  “What?” cried Felix. He thought he knew what was coming, now. Perhaps he had known all along, but he still needed to hear it said.

  ‘“The lifeless prey on the living,” Rufus said. “As long as there are people who are alive and cannot defend themselves, we cannot defeat them.”

  “No,” Felix said. He didn’t want to hear it said after all.

  “We will have to kill all the people who are still alive. Once they are dead, we can finish killing the lifeless,” the Senator said. “That’s why the Praetorians are coming. They will aid us.”

  “Why not evacuate them? Move them to someplace safe?” Felix asked.

  “Where? Nowhere is safe,” the Senator said. “Nowhere. It just takes one of those creatures and an entire city is lost.”

  “Rome hasn’t been lost yet.”

  “Felix,” Hyacinthus said admonishingly, “Domitian burnt half the city and has the other constantly on patrol.”

  “You know that to be true,” added Rufus. “The races have been cancelled. The gladiatorial games too. Even the Emperor is not feasting as he once did. Rome relies on the
grain of Egypt. With the ports closed, food grows scarce.”

  "Why do you make me lead," Felix asked suddenly. "The other men are veterans, and they know I am ill-equipped for the task. They don’t respect me, and rightfully so. I’m not a warrior, nor have I led men, Senator.”

  “You’re a killer, and that’s close enough," Gaius Rufus replied. He must have seen the look on Felix's face, for he added: “Do you know why I have you lead? Because I trust you. You belong to me, and you have a habit of making good decisions. Most importantly, we need a little luck on our side, Felix.”

  Felix stared out to the horizon, doubting the truth of his own luck. There were thousands of people out there. People who dared not leave their homes for fear of the lifeless, and now something worse was coming. A legion of humanity. A legion of death.

  ****

  The days grew warmer and longer as spring began to bloom, but no blossoms budded—no trees sprang forward with green leaves. It was a time of blood, smoke, and death. The numbers of lifeless grew ever more, despite the vast quantities that had already been killed and burnt. Domitian’s Praetorians arrived—big burly Celts and Germans, with great two-handed swords.

  They had taken to burning alive most of whom they found. At first, Felix had been adamant to kill the living as humanely as possible, but there wasn’t time. Their horses were constantly lathered from rough riding, and the tide of walking dead pushed ever more adamantly toward Rome. That could not happen, because that city was too vulnerable, had too many people to allow even one of the walking dead into the city.

  So, they butchered men, women, and children—burning them alive or riding them down. After a while, Felix stopped paying attention to whether or not they were lifeless. He told himself that all were enemies of Rome, witting or no. Gritting his teeth, he killed everyone. He was far from the best fighter in the forces, but the other aurigae looked up to him, and he found himself gaining a mantle of leadership.

  Spring rains had caused great amounts of mud, which mixed from the ashes of the burnt crops and towns. The already-exhausted horses really struggled, and Felix’s chariot was strapped to a wagon. Overhead, the grey sky gleamed damply.

  Felix found Hyacinthus at the campfire. The big man smiled at him sadly. “It’s very fitting that we are so close to Tarentum,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Felix. He sat down next to his friend and grabbed some roasted rabbit. There was no food but what they could catch.

  “You’ve not read your Dionysius of Halicarnassus then?” Hyacinthus asked.

  “Not for some time.”

  “Not since I insisted upon it, when you were but a boy. You are not alone. Few people have time to read anymore. Not with so many other things to distract them.”

  “What happened?” Felix asked.

  “This was many years ago, three hundred years or more. After Rome was founded, but before she had really become herself.”

  Several of the other men at the cook fire took notice of the Greek’s speech.

  “Tarentum then was a Greek colony, and the Greeks were the power of the day. A proper civilization, mind you. Not this copy you see here.”

  “You Greeks always remind us of that,” one of Praetorians interjected. “I guess we need to remind you that we won.”

  “You Latins always need reminding. The world is always changing,” Hyacinthus said. “Anyway, Rome had just destroyed the Samnites, and was in the process of defeating the last great power—the Etruscans. Tarentum knew that they were doomed, unless they did something.”

  Hyacinthus paused, taking a great bit of the meat before him and chewing slowly. It began to drizzle, and the fire smoked angrily in protest. He continued, his mouth enunciating around the food.

  “But the Greeks were a culture of wisdom, of learning. They knew little of fighting, and did not wish to drag themselves a fight that was not theirs. So they did the intelligent thing.”

  “They negotiated?” Felix asked. If he’d heard this story before, it was lost in the recesses of his mind.

  “Even better,” the Greek said, “they hired someone to do their fighting for them.”

  “Ah,” said a swarthy Praetorian, “King Pyrrhus.”

  “Indeed,” Hyacinthus said. “Pyrrhus was king of the strongest of the Greek colonies at that time—Epirus.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” a German soldier said.

  “Of course not,” Hyacinthus said. “This was three-hundred years ago. The world changes! Think you that Rome will still be here in three centuries?”

  “Rome is eternal,” Felix said, a little shocked. The rain was coming down harder now, and some of the soldiers were erecting a cover to shield them from the worst of the downpour.

  “Then what are we doing out here? And even if the Empire survives the lifeless, it won’t last forever,” Hyacinthus said. “But that’s not immediate." They moved under the cover as the rain started falling in cold hard balls of ice. The weather seemed an appropriate accompaniment to Hyacinthus' regretful tone.

  "The Romans sent their legions against the Greek phalanx. It was, by all accounts, a very close thing. The legions were strong, though they could not break the phalanx, but for all its strength, the phalanx was used for defense and could not overrun the opposing army. They might have battled for days, but Pyrrhus had another weapon. It was late in the day when he sent his war elephants into the fray. None of the Romans had ever seen such a thing, and they were routed.”

  Hyacinthus was silent for several long moments. “Accounts differ about how many died on each side. Rome lost the battle, but Epirus had fewer men and had suffered grave losses. Suffice to say, Pyrrhus was recorded by Livy as saying, ‘If we are victorious in one more battle with the Romans, we shall be utterly ruined.’"

  The big man rose and walked away into the rain. He disappeared almost immediately into the gathering darkness.

  “Well, bugger that. Greeks just don’t like to admit when they’ve lost,” said the swarthy Praetorian, and the soldiers began to laugh. A German produced some dice and the gambling commenced. Felix did not join them—he never won at dice. His name did not, it seemed, apply to games of chance.

  Felix sat beside them, not at all listening to their banter. Hyacinthus was right, as always. These victories were ruining them, ruining him. What good was saving Rome if it came at the cost of slaughtered children? There had to be another way. That or perhaps the Eternal City deserved to die.

  A trumpet sounded an alarm. The sentries were banging their swords on their shields.

  Felix leapt to his feet, thoughts replaced with instinctive action. Someone was attacking the camp.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Italy: 89 CE, Early Spring

  “If I ever,” grumbled Iullianus, “get out of this alive, I will live somewhere with no mud. Be it the hottest desert or the bottom of the ocean, I will make my way there and call it home.” His feet and legs were caked with dark wet earth. That wasn't so bad. Each night they had to sleep on the least muddy patch of ground and he woke in the mornings to find mud in his mouth and ears. He was surprised each morning when he took his morning piss and no mud came from his cock. Each day he thought he was as filthy as possible, and each successive day proved him wrong.

  “I’d happily live in mud, if it had neither the lifeless nor any Romans,” Rowanna answered. They had waded through waist-deep mud in some parts, as the rains continued ceaselessly throughout the miserable spring. Iullianus scowled in concentration as he scraped more of the caked earth from his boots. It was a futile gesture, but it made him feel better to be doing something. He did this every night, to Rowanna’s amusement. She more readily accepted her current state.

  The mud had slowed them down, but it was the Romans that had sent them into hiding. They had found their first patrol several days ago, and had approached them carefully. The centurions had attacked them without questions, despite their protestations of life.

  Iullianus had killed three of them before he and Row
anna had managed to escape. Since then, they had done everything they could to avoid the patrols. It was growing harder. They were everywhere, and they were not looking for survivors. Not only were crops being burnt, but so too were entire forests. The villages they had marched into were deserted or burnt out. They avoided even other living villagers, as they were just bait waiting for whichever type of doom would be the first to find them.

  “It makes sense,” Iullianus said, only half-aware that he spoke out loud.

  “Moving somewhere with no mud?” asked Rowanna, her eyes closed. “I thought you said you didn’t enjoy living in desert.” She was thoroughly soaked and shaking from the cold. Her hair plastered against her face reminded him of the first time he had seen her.

  “I didn’t, but I meant the Romans. They’re killing everyone.”

  “That’s what they do,” she said quietly.

  Iullianus laughed a little. “Yes, who better suited for this catastrophe but the most heartless Empire that ever existed? Still, it’s rather inconvenient for us. They’ve given up on killing the lifeless, or only killing the lifeless. They’ve gone for their enemies supply lines. The living.”

  “You mean they’re not just heartless bastards, they’re heartless bastards who are also quite ruthless?” Rowanna asked.

  “Indeed. It is what I would do,” Iullianus said. “I wonder who is commanding them. At any rate, it does us few favors. We stay near the roads, and the Romans get us. We head into the countryside, and the mud slows us long enough for the lifeless to find us. We’ll never reach Rome.”

  “Without the cure, we have no role to play there,” she said.

  “It’s a pity we came to Italy at all. It would be nice to let the Romans and lifeless slaughter each other without us getting caught in the middle. At this rate, I worry more about their patrols than I do the walking dead. Though, it is odd. I cannot find which legion it is. I had thought I might perhaps know the commander.”

  “They are smarter, and quicker,” she said. “It is hard for Dacians to understand how ruthless they are.” She lay down on the wet ground and withdrew a large cloak they had confiscated from a dead farmer. It smelled of the grave and had bloodstains that no amount of washing would remove, but it was large and was the best blanket they had found. "I suppose you can't find an Empire by accident."