Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  Finally, the old woman retrieved the fingerbone, switching it from hand to hand as it cooled while she stood to face Malcolm. “You have had no vision,” the seeress stated, heading back to her table. “That was a lie.”

  Malcolm felt his jaw drop open in disbelief. How could she have known? “You’re mistaken,” he finally managed to mumble. “The god of war came to me in my sleep just now. He told me Romans with shields and spears are waiting for us in the mountains, just as you foresaw days ago.”

  “I foresaw no such thing,” Gunda said, looking unimpressed as she sat back down. “I saw blood and death, that is all. The two are not necessarily the same.” She put her hands on the table, palms flat as she stared up at him. “So, son of a king, you come to me claiming that Tyr showed this to you? Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Malcolm said. “We have to warn the tribes.”

  “Yet, you come to an old woman with this grave news rather than speak with your father,” the seeress said. “I find that curious.” Gunda started to roll the fingerbone back and forth over the tabletop, the sound of the digit clattering across the wood harsh in the silence. “There is something else that I also find curious, son of a king,” she said after a time. Malcolm waited, saying nothing as he worked to keep his expression blank. “Why did you choose to keep going northwest rather than return to the valley as you truly wanted?”

  Malcolm hesitated, then shrugged. “I didn’t want to risk facing the legions if we returned,” he said.

  “Ah,” Gunda replied. “Those very same legions that you now claim are waiting for us with spears and shields anyway?”

  “Yes,” Malcolm agreed reluctantly.

  “An unexpected twist, wouldn’t you say?” Gunda grunted, looking amused.

  “Please,” Malcolm said, starting to think that he’d made a mistake by coming to the seeress. “The attack will happen tomorrow in a valley not far from here. But if I tell my father or anyone else what I saw, then there will be endless arguments about whether it’s valid or not. We don’t have time for that.”

  Gunda picked up the fingerbone and began twirling it idly in her hand as she studied Malcolm. “So, you wish for me to go to the kings and tell them your vision is genuine, knowing that there will be no disagreement then. Is that what you propose?”

  “It is,” Malcolm said. “I understand this is a lot to ask of you, Gunda, but I need your help. You can save us all from a great tragedy.”

  Gunda took a deep breath as she looked up at him. Finally, she nodded. “Very well, I will help you. But before I do, you must answer me a question.”

  “Anything,” Malcolm said.

  “Who are you really? Because I know you’re not Artturi.”

  Boiorix stood in front of the four kneeling men, a stern look on his face as he studied each of the guides with contempt. Their hands were tied behind their backs, and several bore fresh bruises, having tried to run when they realized that something was wrong. But they hadn’t gotten very far in their flight, and once the pursuing warriors had caught them, they’d made the men pay for the attempt. Malcolm watched from a crowd of silent Cimbrians, his face expressionless, knowing questioning the guides was the only way they would learn what Carbo’s exact plans were.

  Gunda stood next to Teutobod, who had ceded the questioning of the four Norici to Boiorix—at least for now. The Teutone king’s eyes gleamed with suppressed anger as he waited for Boiorix to gain a confession from the prisoners. Teutobod had no liking for Consul Carbo, and Malcolm was sure the man was relishing a chance to cross swords with him. But before that could happen, they needed to know everything the kneeling Norici did, no matter what it took to get the answers.

  The seeress began chanting softly, her palms uplifted toward the night sky. Malcolm tried not to dwell on the conversation he’d had with Gunda earlier. The old woman had insisted on hearing the truth about him first before she would help, so Malcolm had told her a lie, saying that he’d been ill lately and wasn’t himself. But Gunda had just shaken her head at his words, saying nothing as she stared at him with eyes that seemed to slice through him to his very soul. Finally, when the old woman refused to speak or move, Malcolm had given in and reluctantly told her that he was from the future, living in another man’s body. He had expected Gunda to laugh and call him crazy after that, but she hadn’t laughed at all. In fact, the old woman had seemed strangely satisfied by his explanation for some reason, almost as if she’d known it all along.

  “I asked you a question,” the Cimbri king grunted, cutting into Malcolm’s thoughts.

  Boiorix held a short sword in his hand, and the four Norici stared at it in fascination as the blade swished back and forth in front of them as though alive, glinting in the firelight. None of the guides said anything, though, despite their obvious fear.

  “Well,” Boiorix finally said, focusing on the man furthest to his left. The Norici was thin, with a tangled brown beard and oversized ears that stuck out from his head. “I know you men still retain your tongues and can speak, so that clearly isn’t the problem,” Boiorix said as he nodded to two warriors standing behind the guides. The men came forward and held the thin Norici as he began to struggle in their grasp. The Cimbrian king then grabbed one of the kneeling man’s ears, pulling it outward as the guide tried to wiggle away. “Perhaps the problem lies not with the tongue,” Boiorix said in a soft tone. “But elsewhere. Perhaps your tongues work just fine, and it’s your ears that are the issue.” Boiorix placed the blade of his sword against the base of the man’s skull below his stretched ear. He leaned forward. “Can you hear my words, dog? Will your tongue work now?”

  “I hear you, great king,” the guide managed to mumble, his body trembling in fear. “Please, I beg of you. I don’t know anything about any Romans. You must believe me!”

  “Must I?” Boiorix growled softly. He smiled down at the guide, then, without warning, sliced the blade upward, severing the man’s ear as the guide howled in shock and pain. Boiorix stepped back, holding the bloody ear up for the other bound Norici to see. “A man has only one tongue, and when it is gone, he can no longer speak. But the gods have blessed each of you with two ears when really you only need one to hear my words.”

  Boiorix tossed the severed ear on the ground in front of the sobbing man, then shifted to the next Norici in line. “What about you?” the king asked as two more warriors came forward to hold the second guide. The Norici’s hair and beard were long and dirty and his ears small, so it took Boiorix a moment to latch onto one before he drew it outward. The guide hissed but said nothing as he closed his eyes, wincing at the expected pain. “Will you make your tongue work now, or would you prefer to lose an ear as well?”

  The Norici guide just shook his head, his eyes still firmly closed. Many of the warriors watching began to chuckle in contempt as a wet stain started to spread across the front of the man’s trousers.

  “That is unfortunate,” Boiorix said, looking down with a smirk. “Pissing yourself like a frightened girl in front of so many will be difficult to live with.” Boiorix pulled harder on the humiliated man’s ear with his sword pressed firmly just below the earlobe. Malcolm could see blood trickling from a wound there. “Although, a little piss will be the least of your problems if you don’t tell me what I want to know. Are the Romans waiting to ambush us tomorrow in that valley? Yes, or no?”

  The Norici guide winced, his eyes still pressed firmly shut. “I do not know, great king,” he mumbled, the words barely spoken before he screamed as his ear was severed.

  Boiorix held up the second bloody ear, shaking his head in mock regret as he moved to the third man. “Perhaps the problem is none of you mind losing an ear,” Boiorix said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you think nothing I can do to you will be worse than what will happen if you talk to us.” Boiorix grinned, his scarred face looking red and demonic in the firelight. “Think again.” The king tossed the severed ear over his shoulder, then circled around the kneeling man and rammed his knee int
o his back. The Norici grunted in surprise and fell face down in the dirt, begging desperately for mercy. “Perhaps losing something of more value this time will start your tongues wagging,” Boiorix said.

  The king twirled the sword in his hand, then struck down, severing the pleading guide’s right foot at the ankle. The guide screamed, the sound high pitched and filled with horror as Boiorix kicked the foot away while blood gushed in a stream from the man’s fresh stump. Malcolm knew the Norici guide would be dead in mere minutes if the flow were allowed to continue, but no one moved to help him. Boiorix headed for the last man, who was shaking uncontrollably as his companion wailed, writhing in agony.

  The Cimbrian king ignored the screaming man and grabbed his new target by his greasy hair, drawing his head back and exposing his throat. He bent as close to the man as he could. “What is your name?”

  “Aengus, great king,” the Norici managed to say, his eyes wide with fright.

  Boiorix nodded. “A fine name. One to be proud of. Do you wish to die, Aengus?”

  Aengus tried to shake his head, but the king’s firm grip wouldn’t allow it. “No, great king,” he gasped out.

  “Of course you don’t,” Boiorix said. He casually placed the flat of his sword between the man’s legs, holding it there. “Do you have children, Aengus?”

  “Yes, great king,” the guide said, sweat rolling down his face. “Two sons.”

  Boiorix nodded. “Sons are good,” he said. “I have only one, but he is a man to make any father proud. I pray to the gods that yours will do the same for you.”

  “Thank you, great king,” Aengus said, swallowing loudly.

  “I imagine you wish to see your sons again,” Boiorix continued, not waiting for the man to reply. “To watch them grow with pride as I did. But the only way that will happen is if you tell me what I want to know right now.” Boiorix gestured to the other guides. “If you don’t, I’m going to start over again. But this time, after they see what I do to you, I promise you one of them will talk. But that won’t matter to you, because you will be dead and your sons will never see their father again. Is that what you want to happen, Aengus?”

  The Norici shook his head as Boiorix eased his grip on the man’s hair. “No great king.”

  Boiorix smiled. “Good. Then I offer you this single chance, from one father to another. Tell me what I want to know right now. Do that, and I will release you unharmed so that you can go home and make more sons. You have the word of a king on that. But, if the next words out of your mouth are that you know nothing, then you will have no one but yourself to blame for what happens next.” Boiorix released the man’s hair and stepped back, the point of his sword aimed between the man’s legs. “So, which is it to be?”

  Aengus glanced at his wounded companions. The two with the severed ears were sobbing softly, while the third man had fallen silent, either dead now or unconscious, Malcolm wasn’t sure. The guide turned back to Boiorix. “The Romans are waiting for you in the valley just as you say, great king.”

  Boiorix closed his eyes for a moment, then glanced at Malcolm with a look of satisfaction on his face before turning back to the guide. “You will tell me everything, Aengus. Do you understand? I want to know it all.”

  “I will tell you, great king,” Aengus said, lowering his eyes.

  “Yes, you will,” Boiorix replied. “And tomorrow, we will teach these treacherous Roman dogs a lesson that they will not soon forget.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CLAIRE: Roman Temporary Camp, Eight Miles West of Noreia

  Claire was frustrated. She had spent the last two days since Quintus Barbii and his entourage left Noreia looking for an opportunity to escape, but with little success. Her master hadn’t wanted to bring her along at all to begin with, but had finally agreed after Consul Carbo requested that she be included. Claire tried not to dwell on why the Consul was so keen to have her nearby, focusing instead on the fact that she wouldn’t have left the city at all if not for him. But getting away from Noreia hadn’t done her much good yet, since even though the master had left Camilla behind, he’d brought Sextus Acte along. Something Claire had not anticipated.

  Sextus was a slavecatcher from Aquileia—a brute of a man who plied his trade tracking down and recovering runaway slaves. He was also an acquaintance of the master and had agreed to join Quintus on the outing against the barbarians—which the Romans seemed to think was going to be an easy victory. Sextus had found Claire twice after she’d run, and she knew from experience that he was as unshakeable on the trail as a bloodhound. He was also cold and mean and loved nothing better than tormenting fleeing slaves after he’d found them, as the scars on Claire’s back could prove. Claire didn’t relish falling into Sextus’ hands again, so she’d been biding her time, looking for the perfect moment to run.

  But now word had come to the Roman camp that the barbarians were on the march and were expected to reach the head of the valley at any time. Claire knew she had to get away before they crossed the two-mile-long valley and reached the ambush, but she also had to make sure to stay away from Consul Carbo until then. Twice already she’d been alone with him, and both times he’d put his hands on her in a way that had made her skin crawl. The look in Carbo’s eyes every time he glanced her way promised it would continue that way until he eventually got what he wanted.

  “Are you certain you won’t join the ranks of the triarii, Quintus?” Carbo asked, a slight smile on his face. “Your family name alone warrants it, not to mention your glorious past service to the Republic. You need only ask, my friend, and I will gladly outfit you in some of my own armor.”

  Claire stood behind her master in the Consul’s tent with the ever-present amphora of wine clutched in her hands. The tent was large, yet it was still crowded with men and slaves as deep laughter rang out at Carbo’s friendly jibe. Claire understood from the talk of the men around her that the triarii were the last rank in formation to fight, being the oldest, wealthiest, and most experienced of the soldiers. Quintus Barbii was almost fifty years old and had a bad leg, so it was clearly nothing but a joke—one that the hardened men of the legions found amusing as they studied the trader with his slight potbelly and greying hair.

  Quintus laughed, looking relaxed and unoffended. “Would that I could, Consul,” he said. He gestured around him. “But I think your men have the issue well in hand. If you need an old cripple like me to take up arms against the barbarians, then that can only mean Rome is in serious trouble.”

  More laughter rang out at that statement as Consul Carbo strode over to his friend and clapped him on the shoulder. “Rome will never falter,” he said, sweeping a hand around the tent. “Not with great men like these to fight for her.” Carbo lifted his goblet. “To my dear friend, Quintus Barbii, who if not for a heathen arrow, would be joining the ranks of the maniples in victory today.”

  “Here, here!” the soldiers shouted, raising mugs.

  “Once a legionnaire, always a legionnaire, eh Quintus,” an older man with close-cropped grey hair said, pausing in front of the trader and Consul.

  “Indeed, General,” Quintus agreed. The man’s name was Titus Antoninus, and he was second in command to Consul Carbo.

  “You were the best of us, Quintus,” Titus said, shaking his head with regret. He nodded to Carbo. “Gnaeus and I used to marvel at you when we were fresh-faced recruits. Do you remember that?”

  The trader chuckled. “All I remember from back then, General, was having sore feet, a stomach forever grumbling for something half decent to eat, and little sleep.”

  “So true,” Carbo said as all three men laughed. “But there were good times, too, my friend.”

  “And pretty women,” Titus added with a grin.

  Carbo frowned as he glanced at the trader. “And as I remember it, they all flocked to Quintus and his tired feet, leaving the rest of us with nothing but boil-covered leftovers.”

  “I think your memory of those times is confused, old friend,�
�� Quintus said with a sheepish grin. “I was just a boy with little experience.”

  “That didn’t last long,” Titus chuckled. He tapped the trader’s forearm with his goblet. “Remember those two girls we met when we were stationed at Scalabis? The sisters with the black hair?”

  Quintus sighed, looking upward as he shook his head. “I knew you were going to mention those two at some point, Titus. That was a long time ago. You need to forget about those girls.”

  “Forget?” Titus said ruefully. “How can I? I still see those magnificent tits of theirs in my dreams.” He motioned to Carbo. “The least you could have done was share one of them with Gnaeus or me. But no, you had to bed them both yourself, you greedy bastard.” Titus shook his head in admiration. “You always were the lucky one, Quintus.”

  The trader snorted. “Lucky, am I? An arrow in the leg is not what I call lucky.” Quintus chuckled. “Besides, look at you both now. One a Consul of Rome, the other a beloved and respected general. I’m just a simple trader, which pales when compared to what you two have accomplished.”

  “Ha!” Carbo said with a laugh before draining his drink. “Hardly a simple trader, Quintus. You’re richer than both Titus and me put together. I don’t doubt in another few years you’ll own most of Rome at the rate you’re going.” Carbo spied Claire and he crooked a finger at her. “More wine, child.”

  Claire moved forward reluctantly and filled the Consul’s goblet, keeping her features blank as she felt his fingers on her back, tracing the scars through her stola. The hand started to move slowly downward, gently caressing like the touch of a poisonous spider.