Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  A heavily bearded veles managed to dive forward, grasping hold of Malcolm’s mail coat at the hem on his left side, with the man’s fingers somehow becoming entangled in the rings of metal. The veles’s face beneath his wolf-skin headdress was twisted with hatred as he tried to maintain his balance on the uneven ground and swing his sword upward at the same time. Malcolm slammed his elbow into the veles’s face before the blow could land, but though the Roman sagged and dropped his sword, he didn’t fall free as more and more of the enemy converged on the quickly tiring horse.

  Malcolm desperately parried a slash from a screaming Roman on his right, then hacked down, cutting open the man’s face before he twisted in the saddle, holding Claire firmly as he swung at the veles’s hand that was trapped in his mail. The man screamed as blood spurted and then he fell away, twirling to the ground in a heap of churning grass and flying dust with his bloody hand severed at the wrist still stuck in Malcolm’s chainmail.

  Suddenly, the press of bodies around them began to lessen as Malcolm heard the excited war cries of the Cimbri and Teutones. Hundreds of warriors on horseback appeared in front of him, plunging into the velites and slashing down at them with wild-eyed joy. Within moments, the savage tribesmen had cut a path through the enemy ranks wide enough to allow Malcolm and the girl through.

  “You crazy fool!” Caratacus shouted at Malcolm as he guided his horse through the gap. A spear hissed past the Cimbri warrior, tearing a gash along his shoulder, but Caratacus didn’t seem to notice. Artturi’s friend grinned as he held his prancing stallion in check and pointed his great war axe at Malcolm. “I don’t know why you did that, Artturi, but it was a joy to behold! One man against thousands! Beautiful! I knew there was a reason I liked you!”

  Caratacus swung his horse around then, whooping as he charged toward the enemy, chopping downward with his axe. The warrior split open a man’s skull and kicked him away, his face and tattooed chest splattered with blood and gore as he howled in pure joy at the sky. Thousands of eager Cimbri and Teutone warriors on horseback and foot swarmed forward like angry ants to engage the velites with axes, swords, and spears. A wild melee began then as the two lines collided in a screech of shields, weapons, and shrieks of agony while the carnyces along the back lines of the migrants filled the air with their harsh, insistent notes.

  Malcolm heard a sudden shout of warning and he looked up just as hundreds of dark shafts began to fill the sky. The massed hastati coming up behind the velites were in range now and had thrown their javelins, he realized with dread. He cursed, pressing his body over Claire even as he glanced back up. The deadly spears seemed to hover in the air above the battlefield before arcing downward into the midst of the combatants, plunging into vulnerable flesh on both sides indiscriminately. Malcolm waited, closing his eyes and expecting to feel the heat of iron piercing his body, but though men screamed and dropped all around him, neither he nor Claire were hit. Finally, once the skies were clear, he sat up as horns began to blare from the west. The Romans were recalling the remaining velites, Malcolm guessed, which meant the hastati would now face the tribes’ wrath. Malcolm urged his horse further eastward, intent on getting far enough away before the second round of javelins flew.

  “Where are you going?” Caratacus shouted, pausing to wipe blood from his eyes as he looked over his shoulder at Malcolm.

  “I’ll be back as soon as the girl is safe,” Malcolm called out in reply. “Don’t kill all the Romans before then, you greedy bastard.”

  “No promises, my friend!” Caratacus cried before he jumped from his horse and slapped the big stallion away. The Cimbri warrior plunged into the heart of the battle, cutting a wide swathe with his axe through the retreating velites until he was lost from sight within the press of bodies.

  Malcolm wondered if he’d ever see his friend again as he continued riding east along the road. He clutched Claire tightly to his chest and pressed his lips to her ear. “Are you all right?” he asked the silent girl, concerned that she might be injured.

  Claire nodded, squeezing the big arm he’d wrapped around her reassuringly, but she said nothing. Malcolm continued down the length of immobile carts as the sounds of screams and weapons crashing together rose behind him.

  “Alodia?” he called out as he rode. He felt Claire stiffen and then shift anxiously in the saddle in front of him and he held her tighter, thinking that she was still frightened by all the bloodshed. “Alodia?” he called again. “Where are you?”

  “Here,” came back a muffled reply. The blonde girl appeared suddenly from beneath one of the wagons and she stood, shielding her eyes from the sun as Malcolm approached. He lowered Claire to the ground and then glanced past her toward Alodia. “Take care of this child for me,” he said. “She got caught in the battle.”

  “Of course, Artturi,” Alodia replied as the faces of several children poked out from the cart beside her. “She’ll be safe with us.”

  Malcolm nodded his thanks as he focused back on Claire, who stood looking up at him, her small hands braced on his knee. “Listen to me,” Malcolm said, trying not to think about the obvious love he could see brimming in her eyes—love that he knew was meant for Gerald, not him. He shook that thought away angrily, wondering why he’d had it at all. “I have to return to the fighting,” Malcolm told Claire. He gestured to Alodia waiting behind the girl. “Stay here until I get back. We can talk then.” But Claire just shook her head emphatically at his words, motioning for him to pull her back up onto the horse. The girl’s mouth moved, trying to say something, but no sounds came out except for a strangled gurgle. Malcolm frowned, realizing that he hadn’t heard her speak yet. “What’s the matter, Claire? Can’t you talk?”

  Claire shook her head in dejection as tears began to form in her eyes.

  “Oh boy,” Malcolm whispered, knowing how much this was going to complicate things. “All right,” he finally said in a firm voice. “We’ll figure this out when I get back.” He pointed a finger down at the girl. “Until then, you get under that cart with Alodia and stay there. Understand?” Claire shook her head again, her eyes angry now and Malcolm sighed. Why can’t anything ever be easy? “I’m not kidding,” Malcolm scolded. “I don’t have time for this right now. Get under there and keep your head down until this is over.”

  Malcolm glanced at Alodia briefly and she nodded to him before he swung his horse around, not waiting to see Claire’s reaction as he urged the animal forward, back toward the battle. His brain told him that Claire was a grown woman inside that little girl’s body and that she could probably fend for herself, but even so, he couldn’t stop thinking of her and treating her as if she were a helpless child.

  Malcolm reached the head of the caravan and paused his horse, marveling at what he was witnessing. The Romans had converged the ends of the hastati maniples, essentially creating three solid lines of almost twenty-five hundred men across the width of the valley. The center maniples were facing the enraged Cimbri and Teutone warriors head-on, while the outer maniples on the flanks, led by centurions shouting orders, were slowly curling around the teeming mass of battling men, encircling them. Malcolm could see hundreds of equites forging along the treeline on both sides of the valley as well, knowing that once they were through, they’d be free to create devastation all along the caravan, which meant Alodia and Claire were in danger.

  “Father!” Malcolm shouted in warning. Boiorix was sitting astride his horse a hundred feet away, the sword in his hand flashing as it rose and fell across the heads of the struggling Romans around him. The king looked up, glancing around until he saw Malcolm waving. Malcolm pointed with his sword to the moving cavalry and the shifting hastati. “They’re trying to flank us!”

  Boiorix studied the Romans along both sides of the valley, and then he barked a command to the warriors fighting around him. The king paused, glancing back at his son as he gestured to himself and then to the north, then pointed to Malcolm and the south. Malcolm nodded, understanding what Boiorix
wanted. He forged ahead, calling for Caratacus and those fighting with him to follow on foot as he moved southward. Within moments, he had more than five hundred men trotting behind him as they skirted the back lines of the migrant army, with more joining them as they progressed.

  Cimbri and Teutones were throwing themselves against the impenetrable wall of Roman shields, many of them wielding axes and swords and dressed only in trousers like Caratacus. The Romans fought in a determined, disciplined formation, maintaining their lines as the warriors hammered against their wall of shields ineffectively. Malcolm could see hundreds of the Roman short swords, called the gladius, appearing and disappearing through the gaps in the shields of the front rank as they ripped into the attacking migrants with devastating efficiency.

  Cimbri and Teutone warriors were being cut down all along the front line, but for every man that fell, more eagerly took their place. Malcolm watched as the howling warriors, frustrated at being unable to get to the Romans, finally began tossing men over the front rank into the massed soldiers behind. The warriors didn’t live very long, of course, but the distraction of their presence was enough to cause confusion in the enemy ranks, breaking the wall briefly in places. The Cimbri and Teutones roared whenever a gap appeared in the line, and they surged into it while others began to throw more and more warriors onto the Roman wall. The hastati sagged backward from the strain, starting to give ground as their unswerving discipline began to crumble while more and more of the screaming barbarians dropped in amongst them, creating havoc.

  In another minute or two, the Roman lines would break, Malcolm guessed, though he could see the principes were already marching forward into the gaps in the hastati formation, shoring up the demoralized younger ranks with calm efficiency. The triarii and their great spears wouldn’t be far behind them, either, Malcolm knew, as he glanced to the hilltop. The rock-covered ridge was choked now with Roman troops wearing gleaming armor, with several thousand more velites streaming down the hill, following after the mounted equites along the forest lines. A horn sounded from the hilltop, and the hastati, principes, and triarii waiting there that numbered almost ten thousand men began to march down the incline with unhurried precision. Consul Carbo would need them after all, it seemed.

  “Wow,” Malcolm muttered, held spellbound, hardly able to believe that he was witnessing the awesome power of the Roman legions firsthand.

  Something suddenly clattered against Malcolm’s helmet, stunning him back to reality as he sagged in the saddle and started to list to one side. He clutched at the reins, just able to keep himself from tumbling to the ground as Caratacus screamed in warning from behind him. Malcolm shook his head, trying to regain his senses even as a Roman on horseback bore down on him, his spear leveled for the Cimbri warrior’s chest. Malcolm didn’t have a shield, and even if he had, the chances that the thin bronze and wood could withstand the impact of the iron spear tip were slim, so he did the only thing that he could think of and tossed himself from his horse.

  Malcolm landed heavily in the grass, the wind knocked out of him as the Roman tore past, his spear ripping through the air where moments before Malcolm had been. The eques hauled on his horse’s rein’s, trying to turn the beast for another try, but by then, Caratacus and several other warriors were upon him. The tribesmen snatched the howling rider from his saddle and began pummeling him with their swords and axes.

  “Caratacus,” Malcolm shouted, waving his friend over. He pointed south toward the advancing equites. “We can’t let their cavalry get through. We need to hold that flank until Lugius and Claodicus attack them from the trees. If those bastards get past us, they’ll go after the women and children.”

  Caratacus glanced to the south and then he grinned, looking unworried as he patted Malcolm on the shoulder. “So, why are we standing here talking about it?”

  Malcolm shook his head, unable to contain a grin of his own as he followed after Caratacus, with more than a thousand shrieking warriors running after them. They reached the southern flank near the treeline where the Roman cavalry were assaulting the remnants of the Cimbri left wing that had shifted to try and cut them off. The equites, with the help of the hastati, had managed to punch a sizable hole through the teeming wall of warriors, though most of the riders hadn’t had a chance to slip through it yet, so there was still time to stop them.

  “Kill the Roman dogs!” Caratacus screamed as he launched himself toward a mounted rider coming through the gap who’d just skewered a warrior with his spear.

  The man looked up at the sound of Caratacus’ cry, his eyes beneath his plumed helm widening in surprise before the Cimbri crashed into him, sending both men tumbling to the ground. The Roman fell with his round shield twisted awkwardly beneath him as Caratacus landed on his chest. Malcolm saw the eques lift his free hand to protect himself just as Caratacus swung his axe downward. He lost sight of his friend after that, as the Cimbri wall in front of him suddenly broke apart and Romans on foot and horseback surged forward. The deafening screams of fear, fury, and mortal agony were competing now with the harsh clang of metal on metal as iron weapons clashed together or against shields and armor. The triumphant equites and hastati barely had a moment to celebrate their hard-fought victory through the Cimbri lines before Malcolm and his warriors fell on them in a sea of howling, merciless tribesmen, pushing them back.

  A Roman hastatus appeared in front of Malcolm with blood streaming from a gaping wound on his face where his cheek guard had once been. The man was young and small in stature, wearing a bright red tunic, a bronze, plumed helmet, and a bronze breastplate hanging from a chain around his neck that barely covered his upper torso. The hastatus’ left arm was streaked with blood, and his curved, rectangular shield was gone, leaving him armed with only the gladius, which he waved menacingly.

  Malcolm crouched and hefted his sword as the Roman advanced on him with a look of contempt on his face.

  “Barbarian dog!” the hastatus hissed.

  “Roman pig,” Malcolm responded calmly. He could see a glimmer of fear burning in the young man’s eyes, despite the Roman’s bravado, and he smiled back at the youth mockingly.

  The hastatus cried out in rage at the look and stabbed forward just as he’d been taught to do in the legions. Normally the legionnaires would lead an attack with their shields, ramming it into an opponent to knock them off balance before stabbing at the enemy the way this boy had with the gladius. But the Roman didn’t have a shield and he didn’t seem to know how to fight in any other way. Malcolm easily twisted sideways to avoid the thrust, then grabbed the youth by the elbow and yanked him forward onto his waiting blade. The cold steel bit deep into the boy’s belly, three inches below the bottom of his bronze breastplate, cutting through muscle, sinew, and vital organs before coming to rest against his spine. The hastatus grunted, looking at Malcolm in surprise as he dropped his sword from nerveless fingers. He tried to say something as he wobbled, but nothing emerged from his mouth except a fine spray of bright red blood. Malcolm put his hand on the youth’s breastplate and shoved him away, barely glancing at him as he fell before pushing further into the melee.

  “Artturi!” Malcolm heard Caratacus shouting. “Artturi, where are you?”

  Malcolm forged his way toward the voice, cutting down a Roman who’d become unhorsed and then another crouched on his knees and screaming for his mother as blood poured from a gash across both his eyes. Finally, he reached his gore-splattered friend, who was twirling his axe in his hands as he paced back and forth like a caged beast behind the battling lines, staring at the suddenly retreating Romans.

  “The bastards don’t have the stomach for a real fight,” Caratacus spat with contempt. “We’re not even warmed up yet. We’ll crush these cowards before Lugius and Claodicus even arrive.”

  The migrant tribes had closed the gap in their wall, bolstered by Caratacus and his men, and the equites were now milling about uncertainly on their horses behind the shaken lines of hastati and principes. The R
omans had given up any thought of trying to flank the warriors, doing everything they could now just to hold their lines as they gave back the ground they’d fought so hard to gain moments before inch by bloody inch. Malcolm grunted in satisfaction, knowing the caravan was safe now and that they only needed to hold the riders and infantry here for a little while longer until the carnyx was blown, signaling the Cimbri and Teutones waiting in the trees to attack. The fact that the Romans had struck sooner than expected had clearly changed Boiorix’s and Teutobod’s plans, and he guessed they were probably waiting until all four Roman legions were caught in the trap before summoning the others.

  Malcolm glanced over the combatants' heads to the hill where a small knot of men watched the battle from the crest. That would be Consul Carbo and his entourage, Malcolm guessed. He wondered what the pompous Roman general was thinking right about now as he watched his plans slowly unraveling before his eyes. Malcolm could see Carbo’s last two legions marching smartly across the valley toward the battle, men who the Consul was no doubt pinning all his hopes. But Carbo didn’t know about the forty thousand eager warriors waiting, hidden on his flanks, and it wouldn’t be long before his entire army found themselves besieged on all three sides.

  Several Roman equites appeared along the front line, bringing Malcolm’s attention back to the battle as they bashed their way forward, stabbing downward with their spears. Caratacus turned and scanned the battlefield, then strode several paces away and yanked a javelin from the body of a dead warrior.