Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  Claire was certain Gerald had to have known the notorious pirate was about to die. So why had he allowed that to happen? Why not talk to her about what his plans were first? In fact, if anything, Gerald had seemed almost cold toward her. She had no idea why. It was a mystery that Claire had no answer for and one she had been mulling over for years ever since. Soon, if things finally went her way, she hoped to be able to ask him what had gone wrong on that ship.

  Claire knew after overhearing the master and Seisyll talking that the Cimbrians and Teutones were somewhere close, and she prayed that Gerald was still with them. If he was, she needed to find him and make him understand who she was. But with Camilla watching her like a hawk all day long and being locked up at night, there had never been a good opportunity to run. Claire had managed to prepare a few supplies, which she’d stashed in one of the garden sheds, but they wouldn’t do her much good if she couldn’t get away.

  “Enough daydreaming, girl,” Camilla snapped, glancing Claire’s way for a moment as she stood watching Lulius polishing a bust of the master’s grandfather, Magnus Barbii, that sat in a place of honor in a wall alcove.

  Claire hastily returned to her work. She had never seen Camilla looking so tense, not even before the arrival of Quintus Barbii’s new wife, Felicitas. The domus had to be spotless, Camilla insisted, for it wasn’t every day that a great man like Consul Carbo came to visit. And that great man arrived less than an hour later just as expected, carried along through the streets of Noreia in a magnificent carpentum, which was a four-wheeled wagon with a wooden, arched rooftop and thick walls. The wagon was being pulled by four matching white horses and was guarded by a century of legionnaires, numbering sixty men.

  The citizens of Noreia all gathered to watch the procession, marveling at the precision and discipline of the famous legionnaires and the richness of the Consul’s wagon. Finally, Carbo reached the lane that led upward to Quintus Barbii’s domus, where the great building sat alone on top of a massive hilltop. The lane was wide, with giant silver fir trees lining each side, forming an impenetrable barrier.

  Quintus Barbii was waiting for the Consul outside in the courtyard as the procession came toward him, standing with his wife, Tristram, and Seisyll. Claire and three other slaves were waiting nervously in the atrium beneath the statue of Minerva, with Camilla standing in front of them, her normally sour expression twisted into her version of a smile. Claire was doing her best to smile as well, as were the other slaves, and she felt her cheek muscles starting to cramp from the effort. But the manageress’ orders had been explicit—keep a smile on your face at all times, or it was twenty strikes of the ulmas once their prestigious guest had left.

  Claire shifted the amphora of wine she held in her hands and leaned sideways discretely, looking past Camilla and down the passageway to the open door of the ostium. A closed curtain usually separated the entrance from the rest of the house, but it had been pulled aside for the great occasion. Claire could hear the master greeting Consul Carbo heartily before introducing his wife, the mayor, and the king’s man to him. The Roman Consul’s voice sounded soft and cultured, which for some reason sent a shiver of unease down Claire’s back. She felt her palms suddenly sweating, and she tightened her grip on the amphora, terrified that the vessel would slip from her fingers and crash to the tiled floor. She couldn’t imagine what horrible fate would await her if that happened.

  A shadow crossed the entrance to the house, then the bulk of Quintus Barbii appeared, limping as he stepped inside. The master paused, standing on a mosaic of fine tiles that depicted a growling dog. The words cave canem were inscribed below the picture, which Claire knew meant, beware of the dog! Quintus Barbii didn’t have any dogs that Claire had seen, having always found the inscription odd because of that fact.

  “Come, Gnaeus,” Quintus said, his handsome face twisted in a grin as the Roman Consul appeared in the doorway. “Welcome to my home.”

  “And such a fine home it is, my dear friend,” Carbo said in a tired sounding voice. “It wouldn’t look out of place anywhere in Rome, I assure you.”

  The visitor was dressed like a soldier, Claire saw in surprise, wearing a red tunic beneath an armored cuirass. A heavy belt encircled his thin waist, supporting a short sword with a gleaming hilt sheathed in an embossed brass and leather scabbard. He wore heavy leather sandals on his feet and had a thick red scarf wrapped around his neck.

  Quintus and Consul Carbo walked down the main entrance hall toward the atrium, laughing together as they talked. Seisyll and Tristram came in behind them, followed by Felicitas and her personal slave, Vita.

  “Would you care for something to eat or drink, Gnaeus?” Quintus asked, gesturing to the waiting slaves.

  Carbo nodded gratefully. “Perhaps some wine. It’s been a long trip.”

  Quintus glanced at Camilla, who instantly snapped her fingers at the slaves. Cups were produced, and Claire filled each one carefully, surprised when the Consul drained his immediately and then gestured for more. She went to him dutifully, trying to keep the smile on her face and focus on pouring the wine into his cup as he regarded her with interest.

  “What a lovely child,” Carbo said once his cup was full. He lifted Claire’s chin with a finger, studying her features with interest.

  “And one that likes to run,” Quintus said with a short laugh. “I named her Marcella, but perhaps I should have called her Rabbit instead.”

  Carbo chuckled, still holding Claire in place with his finger. She could feel his eyes on her, slithering over her face and body like a snake. Claire had seen that look from men before as a grown woman, and she felt nothing but disgust for what she knew the Consul was thinking. “Have you grown soft on me, Quintus?” Carbo asked, breaking eye contact with Claire almost reluctantly to look at the trader. “A few good strokes of the lash will cure a runner. Mark my words.”

  “One would think so,” Quintus said thoughtfully. He took a sip of wine, then shook his head. “But not our Marcella, I’m afraid. The lash only seems to encourage her to keep trying. Her back is proof of that.”

  “Is that so?” Carbo said with sudden interest. He turned to look at Claire once again. “Show me,” he said, wetting his lips.

  Claire started to tremble as she looked imploringly at Quintus, but the master just shrugged, gesturing to Camilla.

  “Turn around, you foolish girl,” the manageress hissed, spinning Claire in place. She felt the woman’s rough hands on her stola, then the whisper of cloth as it was pulled from her shoulders. Claire managed to grasp the garment just in time before it would have slipped past her waist to fall to the floor. She waited, holding the amphora with one hand, and clutching her dress with the other, mortified as all eyes fixated on her. Claire could feel her frozen smile fading, but she was helpless to do anything to stop it.

  “By the gods,” Carbo said softly. Claire could feel his eyes burning into her scarred back. She sensed his twisted excitement and her stomach churned with revulsion. “You weren’t joking, were you my friend?” the Consul added.

  “Unfortunately, not,” Quintus said. The master and Claire locked eyes for a moment, and she thought she saw a momentary flash of sympathy in them. “But she has great promise, so I’ve not yet lost patience with her.”

  “Well, if you ever do and decide to rid yourself of the child,” Carbo said, the huskiness in his voice slowly lessening as Quintus motioned for Camilla to replace Claire’s stola. “Then please consider selling her to me. I like a girl with spirit.”

  “Of course,” Quintus said, though Claire was certain she’d heard a hint of reproof in his voice. “So, my friend,” the trader added as Claire returned to her previous place by the statue, desperately fighting tears as she tried to return a smile to her face. “How did your meeting with the barbarians go?”

  Claire blinked in surprise, her tears instantly forgotten as her heart started to beat faster. Did he mean Gerald?

  “They have agreed to leave Noricum,” Carbo said
with an unenthusiastic shrug.

  “That is tremendous news, Consul,” Seisyll said. “The king will be overjoyed to hear of it.”

  “Perhaps not,” Carbo grunted. He looked down at his cup, pausing for a moment. “These barbarians have no honor. I don’t trust them to uphold the bargain we struck.”

  “But why not?” Seisyll asked, looking disappointed.

  “Because the words of men like this are worth less than horse dung stuck to the rim of a wagon wheel,” Carbo said. He looked around him. “Trust me, I know.”

  “You don’t think they intend to leave after all?” Tristram asked, looking worried now.

  “No, I do not,” Carbo said confidently.

  Quintus sighed in resignation before turning to his wife. “My dear, I think it would be best if you leave us now. You can speak with Gnaeus about the latest gossip in Rome later at dinner.”

  “Of course,” Felicitas said, bowing slightly to her husband before leading her slave away down a passageway.

  “A charming woman,” Carbo said, looking after the retreating women. “You are a most fortunate man, Quintus. A wife of extraordinary beauty as well as the daughter of Senator Gaius Julius Cornutus. Quite the coup, my friend.”

  “Is it?” the master said, a smile on his lips. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”

  Carbo chuckled and shook his head. “Same old Quintus, eh? Always looking for an edge in every trade.”

  “And you?” Quintus asked. “What edge are you looking for?”

  Carbo smiled. “One, like you, that can only benefit the great Republic that I so humbly serve.” He paused, glancing at the two other men in the room. “And benefit our friends as well, of course.”

  “You have a way to deal with these invaders once and for all, then?” Seisyll asked.

  “I do,” Carbo nodded. “But for it to work, I will need the help of the Norici.”

  Consul Carbo went on then to explain his plan while Claire listened intently, trying to keep her face neutral and her heart from bursting from her chest. Gerald and the tribes were coming here, led by the Norici and Romans to a location less than eight miles from the city. A place where the legions planned to fall upon them and wipe them out. The Consul and Quintus had been in the legions together as young men many years ago. During that time, the trader had been wounded in the leg, ending his soldiering career. But it seemed the fire from his youth still burned in him, as he’d eagerly agreed to an invite from Carbo to join him so that he could witness the coming annihilation of the barbarians.

  Claire knew Quintus Barbii would be taking some of his slaves with him on the journey, and she was determined to be one of them. She might not be able to escape the domus under Camilla’s watchful eyes, but the manageress was too fat and ungainly to travel, so she would undoubtedly be left behind.

  Claire’s opportunity to get away had finally come, and she had every intention of taking it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MALCOLM: Cimbrian Camp, Thirty Miles Southeast of Noreia

  Malcolm was nervous. He knew he shouldn’t be, but as he approached his destination, he could feel his heart beginning to thud faster in his chest. The sounds of laughter and voices deep in conversation rose all around him as families and friends sat around campfires, swapping jokes and telling stories. Darkness had fallen like a great blanket across the sprawling campsite more than an hour ago, but no one seemed tired just yet, despite the long day of travel. The tribes were still blissfully unaware of the coming Roman ambush and had reacted to the news that they would be moving on once again with almost casual indifference. They had done the same thing many times since leaving Jutland, so no one was the least bit surprised by the decision to leave Noricum.

  After marching for three straight days while anticipating Carbo’s ambush at every turn, Malcolm finally had solid information as to when and where that attack might occur. He’d learned from one of the Norici scouts that tomorrow the migrants would be passing through a valley near the city of Noreia. A valley that they were told would lead them northwest through the Alps and eventually into Germania, where it was hoped they could finally settle. Malcolm was convinced that valley was where Carbo was most likely to attack them. Historians had all agreed that the battle happened somewhere near Noreia. But the city’s exact location was lost over the centuries, though it was thought to have been located somewhere deep within the Eastern Alps. Now Malcolm knew that belief to be true.

  Malcolm paused in front of a tent that stood a short distance away from the others, wondering for the hundredth time if he should chance interfering or not. He had voted to walk into Carbo’s ambush despite what he knew would happen out of fear that the future would be irrevocably changed if he didn’t. He’d come to accept that decision as being the right one since then, despite his initial doubts. But now, Malcolm had learned that Teutobod planned on leading the vanguard through the valley himself tomorrow, which meant his family would be at the forefront of the caravan along with him. Malcolm didn’t care much about what happened to Clovis or the rest of Teutobod’s equally unpleasant family, but he certainly cared about what happened to Alodia.

  The consensus among historians was that the Norici scouts must have forewarned the Cimbri and Teutones about the Roman ambush. But that theory wasn’t exactly written in stone, and Malcolm knew there was another possibility that might explain what had happened. One which was looking more and more likely as each day went by without any of the Norici scouts saying anything. Malcolm was beginning to believe that Carbo’s plan had worked initially and that the tribes had been caught completely by surprise. But what Carbo had failed to realize was that there were almost two-hundred thousand experienced warriors amongst the migrants. Warriors who would have become incensed by the Consul’s treachery and who had undoubtedly overwhelmed the waiting legions with sheer ferocity and numbers. If that was what had actually happened, Malcolm knew some of the women and children at the head of the caravan could have been killed at the beginning of the ambush. Which meant Alodia would be in grave danger, with no guarantee that she would survive tomorrow.

  Malcolm knew Teutobod and Boiorix would live through the battle, but other than that, there was scant information about what casualties the Cimbri and Teutones had suffered. And nowhere in anything he’d read of this time had there been any mention of Alodia or Artturi, so there was no way of knowing what their fate had been. Malcolm was well aware that he was being selfish, but he just couldn’t allow anything to happen to Alodia, whether it risked the future or not. That’s why he’d decided to warn the tribes himself.

  Malcolm had toyed briefly with the idea of just asking Alodia not to ride along with her husband, but then had quickly discarded the notion. Clovis would insist she be there, as was his right, and to make any kind of fuss over it would only arouse his suspicions. No, Malcolm needed to find another way to warn the Cimbrians and Teutones of the coming attack, and the best way he could think of was to talk to someone who already seemed to know.

  “Are you going to stand out there all night, son of a king?” a harsh voice grunted from behind the heavy canvas.

  Malcolm swallowed, then carefully pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside. The interior was cramped, with a weak fire burning within a circle of stones, sending wispy white smoke out through a hole cut in the tent’s roof. A grey-haired woman sat cross-legged on the ground before a small table with short legs, polishing a fingerbone. Dried rushes were piled in one corner for a crude bed.

  Malcolm shifted on his feet, suddenly uncertain about what to say. He’d planned his words carefully beforehand, but now that he was here, he was suddenly speechless.

  “You have the look of a man with a problem,” Gunda finally said bluntly, pausing in her work to study him. The seeress’s face was cast in deep shadows from the dancing flames, with her features nothing but dark crevices and sharp bones beneath a crown of scraggly grey hair.

  “I have received a disturbing vision of death and blood,”
Malcolm said, plunging ahead. “Much like the one you have already seen.”

  Gunda stared at him for a moment in surprise, not blinking as Malcolm withstood her gaze uncomfortably. Only trained seeresses could receive and interpret messages from the gods, and only their visions were acknowledged by the tribes as having any significance. Malcolm knew his claim of receiving a message would bear little weight with Teutobod, Boiorix, or any of the other leaders without some kind of proof, despite his being the son of a king. That’s why he’d come to Gunda in hopes he could convince her that his vision of an attack tomorrow was real. The others would listen to the seeress if she agreed with him, and because of her support, they would take the threat seriously.

  The old woman stared at Malcolm for a moment longer, then muttered something to herself as she carefully set down the fingerbone and polishing stone. She groaned as she got to her feet, using the table for support before shuffling over to look up at Malcolm appraisingly.

  “Stick out your tongue,” Gunda said as she clutched his arm with a dry, leathery hand and drew him closer to the fire.

  “Don’t you want to hear about my vision?”

  “No,” Gunda answered. “What I want is for you to stick out your tongue.”

  Malcolm hesitated, then did as he was asked. The seeress peered into his mouth for a long time, finally nodding to herself before taking her little finger and inserting it into one of his nostrils without any warning. Malcolm started to protest, but the old woman just told him to be quiet and not move. She finally dug out a dried piece of snot, nodding in satisfaction. Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment, feeling queasy as the seeress moved to the table and took up the fingerbone, then wiped the snot on the tip. She stood over the fire, chanting in a low voice before placing the bone on a rock with the tip of the finger inches away from the flames. She squatted then and stared without saying anything as she watched the snot on the end slowly curl and blacken.