There was a world ahead to conquer. And someday, Darius knew, it would all lie at his feet.
Chapter Nineteen
The army marched from Cremona to Ravenna, passing villas and farmsteads, temples and hovels. Everywhere they passed, the people fled before them. When the army turned no hand to destruction, the more overtly brave—or overtly curious—returned to watch their passage.
The attitude of the men changed as they neared Ravenna. Everyone, including the leaders, grew more watchful, more wary. Within the stone walls of the city, the Roman Legions and their first battle could be waiting.
The city gate was closed against them. Alaric called a halt five hundred yards from the walls; he and Darius would ride forward together while the men stayed in their formations, ready to spread out at the first signal.
Side by side the leaders rode, their great horses prancing with matching steps. They knew that, of themselves, they were a formidable sight and with the army at their backs they were enough to fill even the coldest heart with fear. As they neared the city, the gates opened slightly and a single rider emerged.
“Now we will hear Honorius’s reply to my terms,” Alaric said to Darius without taking his eyes off the approaching rider.
The Immortal made no reply. Let Alaric have his hopes, he thought. They will not last for long.
Darius’s eyes saw what Alaric’s did not. Darius saw the bundle that hung from one side of the messenger’s saddle, and he had no doubt of its content—he had sent many such gruesome replies himself.
The rider stopped a mere twenty feet away. For a moment there was silence. Alaric sat easy on his horse, still dreaming his dream of Roman citizenship. Darius kept his eyes on the messenger’s face, yet peripherally he watched the man’s sword arm and concentrated on noticing the slightest movement. It was a talent he had long ago trained in himself and it had saved his life on more than one occasion.
The man made no move. He waited for the Visigoth to speak.
“Hail, Roman,” Alaric said at last, shouting over the distance in his great rumble of a voice. “You bring a message to me, for I am Alaric, leader of the Visigoths. Speak—what words does the Emperor send to my people?”
“No words,” the man shouted back, his voice as clear as the summer air. “The great Honorius, Emperor of the Roman world, sends this to speak for him.”
The messenger loosened the bundle from his saddle and threw it. It landed with a sickening thud. As it rolled toward Alaric’s horse, its covering fell away and staring up was the severed head and sightless eyes of the man Alaric had sent to Rome.
The Visigoth gave a cry that was half anger, half anguish. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. As the animal shot forward, he drew his ax and began to swing. He was on the Roman before the man knew what was coming. The Roman barely had time to raise an arm, no time at all to draw his sword, before Alaric’s ax bit deep into his flesh. His blood shot a crimson geyser that sprayed the Visigoth’s face like fierce war paint.
Alaric paid no heed. He hacked again and again. Behind Darius, a slow rumble grew as the men saw their leader attacking. The sound mounted. It became a shrill cry as, to a man, the army surged forward to siege the city.
Grayson brought his horse close to Darius’s side. “Shall I stop them?” he asked.
Darius shook his head. “No,” he said. “Let them go.”
“But you’ve given no order for the attack.”
“It doesn’t matter—not today. Today they fight with their hearts, not their heads, and their passion will carry them to victory. Tomorrow and all the days after that we will have order.”
Darius made no move to join the fray. This was a mortal battle and, as he said, a battle of passion—a passion he did not feel. He would fight, and in plenty, in the days to come, especially when they reached Rome.
But not today.
The army flowed around him and Grayson like a great river swerving around a rock. He was a boulder of calm in the midst of their roaring madness. Not even a great city like Ravenna would stand for long against such numbers and such ferocity. By tonight, the gates would be broken and the city within reduced to flame and rubble; most of the young men would be dead, the women ravaged, art destroyed, gold and jewels confiscated.
Darius would not ride into the city. While the mortals ate and drank and celebrated their victory, he would be looking ahead to the battles that would serve a greater purpose than this petty revenge.
Callestina traveled carefully, not too close to the army but neither too far away. She did not want her presence to be discovered—not yet, not when it would be so easy for her brother to send her back to the camp outside Cremona.
She had never traveled alone before and the first night on her own she found terrifying. The night noises were so different here than in her homeland and each one of them, as they built upon each other throughout the night, seemed magnified by the darkness. Callestina had sat awake, huddled between her fire and her horse, waiting for the dawn to come.
But sometime during the days that followed, a change took place. She began to revel in the feeling of freedom. She had no one to think about but herself, no one whose needs must be met but her own. She ate when she was hungry, slept when she was tired, and thought only of her own plans and dreams. In some ways she felt like a flower that had finally found the warmth of the sun and was able to blossom at last.
It was not that her brother was unkind or her life unpleasant. But life within the Visigoth camp for a woman, any woman, was a life of looking after the needs of the men. They were the warriors and the hunters and it was, as they often proclaimed, through their prowess that the people survived and were strong.
Until now, Callestina had accepted that life without question. These last few days, however, as she snared rabbits and small birds for food, drank water from the streams she passed, and made her own camp at night, she began to doubt that she needed a man for anything. Except love.
And for that, she had Darius.
She was wearing men’s clothing, and she found she liked the freedom they gave her as well. The doeskin breeches and short tunic were a welcome change from the heavy weight of a wool gown. When she finally did reveal her presence to the army, Darius would see that she was capable of riding by his side. She would persuade him to teach her to use a sword—something Alaric never thought she had needed to know—and then she and Darius would never be separated. She would be able to ride beside him even into battle….
And so Callestina’s thoughts continued as she followed the army. These dreams were her close companions, filling her hours with sweet company.
It was the sounds of the siege that disrupted her idyll, ugly sounds of destruction and death. The brightness of the day was suddenly dulled by the crash of swords, the screams of the dying, the smell of smoke and blood. Callestina drew her horse far off the road and under the trees where she could wait out the hours away from the battle.
But the sounds followed her. All through the afternoon and into the night she could hear them. She tried, at first, to stop her ears—but no, she told herself firmly; this was Darius’s life and if she was going to be with him, she must become as inured to it as he was.
She unstopped her ears, hardened her heart, and waited for the long night to be over.
Grayson found himself slightly disgusted by the events of the day. It was not the killing itself he minded: he had killed more times than he could count or remember. What disgusted him was the lack of order, the disregard for discipline that was present in Alaric’s army today.
Yet the men merely reflected the attitude of their leader and Alaric’s reaction to the severed head of his messenger had given them all the inducement they needed. This siege had been nothing less than a rout; even after the city had surrendered, the killing had gone on.
It was not only the men of the city who had been killed. The old, the infirm, the children—anyone who had been in the way of a sword or who had not been kept alive f
or some other purpose, all now lay like abandoned trash in the streets.
And for what? Grayson wondered as he walked his horse through the death-choked scene. What did we gain here? Nothing done this day has furthered us toward our final aim.
This, above all, was what annoyed and disgusted Grayson. He did not shun battle, but killing was meant to serve a purpose. Darius had taught him that long ago, just as Darius had taught him the need for order and discipline—both within his own life and within their army.
Order, discipline, and purpose: Those were the three elements that had made the Roman Empire the power it was, Darius had told him one night many years ago, when Grayson had first been with him. Grayson had been eager to go out and test his new Immortality, but Darius had other plans—as Darius always did. Even while he was honing Grayson’s skill with a sword and teaching him a hundred different ways to kill an opponent, he was training Grayson to use his mind as the greater weapon.
“Order, discipline, and purpose—above all, purpose,” Darius said until it was ingrained into Grayson’s every thought and action. It offended him now when purpose was not served.
Not that he always understood Darius’s purpose. But Grayson had learned that Darius put great thought into everything he did.
And today? Grayson wondered as the smell of blood choked his nostrils. Off in the distance more than one woman’s scream could be heard, and Grayson could well imagine what they were suffering. What was Darius’s purpose in letting our army behave like Alaric ‘s rabble? Now that they have broken discipline, how will they behave tomorrow?
Grayson’s horse rounded a comer in the city streets and he had his answer. A group of young men stood together, men Grayson recognized as his own. On their faces he saw the same look of disgust he knew his own wore.
He knew they would not break discipline again.
They saw him and raised a hand in greeting. Grayson returned the salute and they walked toward him, picking their way around the rubble and the dead.
“You’re not celebrating your victory,” Grayson said.
One of the men turned and spat on the ground. “This was no victory,” he replied. “Women, children, old men—there was hardly a man here worthy of battle. They had already surrendered—there was no need for… this.” He waved a hand in a curt, expressive gesture.
“Where’s Darius?” another of the group asked.
“Outside the city,” Grayson answered. “He took no part in today’s… campaign.”
“Nor will we again, unless Darius orders it,” the first man said.
There were answering nods from within the group. They turned and began to walk toward the city gates, back over the path Grayson had just traveled.
Grayson watched them go. Darius’s position as their leader had already been exalted, but now Grayson knew it was impregnable. Any doubts or questions that might have grown in their minds over the long winter had been wiped out today.
Grayson nearly smiled. Darius was always clever, always understood what his men needed—he knew them better than they knew themselves. He had silently let them go and now, just as silently, he would watch them return—more loyal, more committed, more willing to serve him without question.
Grayson knew he still had a lot to learn.
But, perhaps, so had Darius, an inner voice whispered. Why could he not see the greatness that an Immortal army would bring? Darius had won the hearts, perhaps even the souls, of his mortal followers; Grayson believed—knew—Darius had the power to do the same with those whose lives were Immortal.
It was a dream Grayson would never abandon, no matter how often Darius rejected the idea. Someday Grayson would convince him, and then they would establish a kingdom that would truly cover the earth. It would show the Roman Empire for the petty concern all things mortal must be.
He moved his heels against his horse and it resumed its slow walk. There would be other groups to meet and tell that Darius awaited them outside the gates. Eventually the word would begin to spread on its own. Before the moon had begun its downward arc, Grayson was certain that the army of Darius would stand free from the debacle of Ravenna.
And tomorrow they would march toward Rome.
Chapter Twenty
Blurry-eyed and hungover, Alaric emerged from the ruined city shortly before dawn. Slowly, straggling in small groups and looking no more alert than their leader, came the men of his army. Their sallow skin and glassy-eyed stare told of a night spent in drinking and other, more dubious pleasures.
They were, indeed, a sorry sight.
With them they brought much of the city stores—food and wine that would be consumed during the journey, or outside Rome if the siege of the city turned long. They also brought treasures to be divided later. Many wore necklaces draped around their shoulders, jeweled broaches pinned to their cloaks, and earrings that shone brightly in the rising sun. But these did not offset the blood and gore that still covered their hands and stained their clothing.
No tents had been pitched for the night. Darius and his men had slept on blankets around small fires that had been more for light than for warmth. When Darius saw Alaric approaching, he stood and went out to meet him. Grayson. as always, followed; as always, he watched Darius’s back. Even here, even now.
Alaric greeted Darius with a wan but genuine smile. “This is a cold place for warriors to sleep when there is a conquered city but a few paces away,” he said.
A thousand retorts, all of them insults, hammered at Darius’s lips. He uttered none of them. Neither did he smile at Alaric’s words, as was his usual wont. He stood in stony silence while behind him he could hear his men rolling up their blankets and falling into ranks.
As if shamed by the sight, Alaric turned and waved his own men forward. Looking at them, both leaders knew the march today would be slow. It was still almost two hundred miles to Rome—two hundred miles in which the Roman Legions, the most renowned fighting force in the known world, might yet be waiting for them. If they were in today’s condition at the time, the Roman Legions might also defeat them.
The rebuke, unspoken, hung in the air between the two leaders as Alaric turned once more to face Darius. There could be no repeats of Ravenna during the long march south. The destruction of this city and the condition of Alaric’s men today had won for Darius the point he had so often argued during the winter. This was not a campaign to conquer Italy, city by city. That day still might come, but it was not now. If Alaric wanted Roman citizenship for himself and his people, then Rome was all that mattered and they must save their strength until they reached her.
Order.
Discipline.
Purpose.
By nightfall the tension between Alaric and Darius had dissipated and they sat together around a small cooking fire. Though both of them drank sparingly, it was enough to ease Alaric’s pounding head and loosen his tongue. He was once more talking expansively.
“I say we can reach Rome in a week,” he was saying. “The men have rested and grown strong all winter. They’ll handle the march—you’ll see.”
“And we will arrive at Rome too tired to fight,” Darius countered.
“No,” Alaric said, putting down his cup. “I have a plan.” He picked up a stick and began to scratch out a drawing on the ground where Darius could see it.
“Here is Rome.” he said. “Remember, I have been there. I do not need maps to remind me that Rome is not built on flat terrain. Just as she is built on hills, there are also hills around her. Through these, the roads wind. We will take our positions in the hills, covering them with our men and surrounding the city.”
Alaric’s drawing was crude but effective enough for Darius to see his strategy. Darius nodded. “From there we will have full view of the roads so that none of the legions or guards can come upon us unaware and neither can the Emperor escape the city.” he said.
“That’s it, exactly,” Alaric agreed, smiling broadly. “Then we will once more send a message to the Senate,
giving them a final chance to surrender and our men a chance to rest while we await a reply.”
“There is still the water route that the Emperor might use to flee.”
“True,” Alaric agreed, “but we will have men stationed here and here,” he pointed on his map, “who can warn us of any sudden or unusual activity in that quarter. Then we attack at once, regardless of what the Senate has or has not said.”
Alaric sat back and picked up his cup once again, waiting for Darius’s approval. The Immortal slowly nodded.
“Very well, my friend,” he said. “One week to Rome. It will not fall as easily as Ravenna. We must be prepared for a long siege.”
“Perhaps,” Alaric agreed. “Or. perhaps, they will see they cannot stand against us. Either way. Rome will fall.”
Alaric held his cup high and shouted these last words again. All through the camp his shout was returned. Only Darius and Grayson remained quiet.
“And when Rome falls, then what?” Darius asked as things grew quiet again.
“Then we will have our place in the empire—and in history,” Alaric answered. “Had Honorius treated fairly with us before, I would have been happy to settle my people on farms and been done with fighting. Now he will find it takes much, much more to still my sword.”
“What is it you desire now, Alaric?” Darius asked.
With a smug smile, Alaric lifted his cup to his lips. “You will see soon enough,” was the only answer he would give.
Darius looked over at Grayson. In the silence, Grayson could almost hear Darius wondering what foolishness Alaric might have planned. Then Darius smiled his slow, amused smile and Grayson knew that whatever the Visigoth was going to do. Darius would find it an entertaining diversion.
But Grayson was tired of this particular band of brothers. He stood and walked away from the campfires and out into the clean air of the night.
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