It was a voice Claire knew all too well. She felt the weight of a muscular arm pressed around her waist, realizing that she was draped over Sextus Acte’s left shoulder like a sack with her arms dangling above the ground. The big man was making his way through a forest cast in deep shadows. He moved unevenly as he walked, his breathing loud and raspy as his booted feet crunched over the many years of leaf mold and dead branches that littered the forest floor. Claire could hear the faint sounds of the battle still raging somewhere to the south, competing with Sextus Acte’s breathing and a brisk wind that whistled through the trees. She heard a distant rumble, thinking that maybe a storm was brewing somewhere to the east behind them.
Claire felt a wave of anguish rise up from Frida, knowing that the grief was for her mother, Alodia. Claire tried to console the girl, and when that didn’t work, she tried to clamp down on her emotions so that she could think better. But this time, Frida’s heartache could not be stopped, and after a while, Claire just gave up trying, allowing the child’s sorrow to roll over her as her captor pressed onward through the trees.
“You thought you could get away from me, eh?” Sextus Acte grunted as he walked. “You and that stupid boy.” The slavecatcher snorted. “Do you know how many slaves I’ve lost, girl?” Sextus hesitated as if waiting for her to answer, then he chuckled into the silence. “That’s right, bitch. Not a single one.”
A bird chirped from somewhere above them as the big man paused to shift her weight on his shoulder. Claire tensed, hoping his iron grip would loosen enough for her to wriggle free.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sextus said with a snort as he started moving again. “Just lie there nice and quiet, or you’ll taste my fist again. You’re good at keeping quiet, as I recall. Once we’re far enough away from this cursed place, then you and I are going to have a little talk.” Sextus cackled in anticipation as he used the spear he still held in his other hand to brush aside the undergrowth. “Well, I guess I’m going to talk. You’re probably just going to scream. You’re going to pay for what you did to my face, bitch. You’ll see.”
Claire tried not to think about Sextus Acte’s threat and what awaited her when they reached their destination. Instead, she turned her thoughts to Gerald, relieved that Frida and her grief had finally retreated into the shadowy nothingness of her awareness now, leaving her alone to think. Would her husband be able to save her a second time from this monster, or would she have to endure horrible pain before finally being released into a new life? She shuddered at the thought of what Sextus Acte planned, though a part of her welcomed the idea of finally being free from Frida. The current timeline she was in had been nothing but a disaster so far, and perhaps the big man’s revenge would be a small price to pay so that she could move on. At least in the next life, she’d be able to communicate, and once Gerald arrived in that time, then they could finally figure out together what they were going to do.
Claire had a sudden, guilty thought about the Titanic. It seemed so long ago now, yet the memories of that fateful night were forever burned into her memory. Gerald had warned her not to do anything rash until he arrived in the past, explaining that they needed to tread carefully and find the right moment, as one wrong move could have unintentional consequences for them and Julie in the future. But the euphoria of being alive in that first life had overcome Claire’s better judgment, and she’d made a tragic mistake that had resulted in the deaths of hundreds of innocent people.
Claire closed her eyes, the word murderer echoing in her mind. She remembered vividly the horrific screams coming from the stricken ship’s decks as it tipped upward while people jumped in desperation into the ice-cold water. So many had died that night for no reason, all because Claire had accidentally distracted the lookouts. Those lookouts had seen the iceberg well ahead of time in Claire’s original past, despite the fog that had blanketed the water and the moonless night. But Claire had changed all that, and she knew she would never be able to forgive herself no matter how many past lives she lived.
Gerald had made everything sound so easy when they had first discussed the idea of living past lives. They would go back in time and change the future together, he had proclaimed. And when they did, they would make the world a better place, one free of war and inequality and hardships while at the same time saving Julie. It had sounded so simple back then, but Claire knew now that they’d been incredibly naïve. Nothing was ever easy, nor did it come without a cost. The reality was that changing the future to save Julie probably meant other lives needed to be sacrificed to get the result they wanted. That grim truth hadn’t factored into their thinking at all when they’d been planning things, she was ashamed to admit. Neither she nor Gerald had even considered what effect they would be having on the people from the past, which she knew had been incredibly selfish. To them, those people were all long dead anyway and were nothing but distant memories, so what did it matter what happened to them?
But Claire knew now how wrong they’d been about that. The people weeping and pleading for their lives on the Titanic had been very real, with very real fears, hopes, dreams, and aspirations. Those lives should never have been cut short the way they had been if not for her, and she felt tremendous regret for her actions that night. Claire had vowed to herself not to try changing anything after the horrors of the Titanic until she and her husband were reunited. Gerald Blackwood was the expert on history, not her, and it was his expertise that was needed now. Claire had done her job and gotten them both into the past, but finding the right moment to change things was up to him. The problem was the man seemed almost uninterested now in doing the very thing that they’d risked everything to come here to do.
A sudden, clear picture of Gerald arose in Claire’s mind for the first time in a very long while. The two of them were sitting on the back deck, drinking wine and watching the yellow finches at the birdfeeders. Watching birds used to soothe Claire, she remembered, right up until Julie’s death. Nothing soothed her after that—though the wine had helped dull some of the pain, just not enough of it. Both she and Gerald had begun to drink heavily after Julie died, and if not for Gerald’s crazy idea about changing the future, who knew where all that drinking might have led?
Claire hadn’t given Gerald’s idea much thought that first night, as he’d been on one of his rants about the government and the evils of capitalism and had worked himself up into a frenzy. Gerald had joined the Communist Party USA while in college, and he’d gotten her to join as well after they were married, though Claire wasn’t as enthusiastic as her husband was—at least, not at first. Gerald had suddenly changed the subject away from the government about an hour into his rant, bringing up his book and all the research that he had done on it. He’d wanted to know if there was a scientific way that might allow him to go back and live in a past life for a time. One that might let him change things for the better in this one. Claire had thought he was joking at first, but Gerald had persisted with dogged determination. She had humored his delusion that first night, lost in a fog of wine and grief as he went on and on about it. Claire had forgotten all about the conversation the next morning, but Gerald hadn’t and he became obsessed with the idea.
From that day forward, changing the past to save Julie was all her husband talked about, right up until the verdict of not criminally responsible came in on DakCorp. Gerald had been incensed at the unfairness of it all. And though Claire had begged him to wait for the appeal, he’d gone to see Martin O’Shay anyway. Claire still didn’t know what the two men had said to each other—Gerald wouldn’t tell her—but when all was said and done, Martin O’Shay was dead, and Gerald had gone to jail for his murder. An incredible turn of events for a pacifist like Gerald.
That’s when she’d begun to seriously consider her husband’s ideas and had started going over his notes with more care. She probably wouldn’t have done anything about it, though, if not for the persistent headaches that had led to her cancer diagnosis. The knowledge that she had li
ttle time left to live had lit a fire under her, and she’d worked night and day after that on the serum, which, faint as it was, was the only hope that she and Gerald and Julie had left.
Claire was brought back to the present as Sextus Acte hissed under his breath, then crouched behind some bushes. He rolled Claire off his shoulder and pushed her to the ground, bracing a knee on her chest, then put a finger to his bloody lips as he peered anxiously ahead. Claire could hear the sounds of voices coming from the west—many of them—along with the sharp snapping of twigs and branches and the clink of weapons. It sounded to her like an entire army was moving through the trees somewhere ahead of them. Claire had no idea who the men were, but she decided anyone was better than the bastard holding her down. She opened her mouth to make some kind of noise just as Sextus wrapped a smelly hand over her lower face and pressed down hard, sending waves of pain along her jawline.
“No, you don’t,” Sextus whispered. He tightened his grip, hunkering down even lower as his fetid breath washed over her. “We’re just going to sit tight until whoever that is passes.”
It seemed an eternity to Claire before the sounds coming from the trees started to recede, heading southward toward the valley. Claire wondered if the men were Romans or were from the migrant tribes, deciding that they must be Cimbri and Teutones since Sextus Acte had seen them yet had chosen to remain hidden all this time.
“All right,” Sextus finally said in a hushed tone as the forest remained silent for several long minutes. “They’re gone.” He slowly stood, grabbing Claire by the neck of her stola and lifting her effortlessly with one hand while keeping his other one clamped over her mouth. He set her on her feet, then squeezed the back of her neck until Claire thought the bones there would snap. “One little sound out of you and I’ll break you in half, got it?” Claire nodded as the slavecatcher slowly removed his hand from her mouth. “Good. Now get moving.”
Claire walked ahead of Sextus, her eyes on the ground as the slavecatcher held her neck in a vise-like grip. A sudden horn sounded from the valley, the notes strange, deep, and guttural, followed by a roar of male voices erupting from the treeline. Within minutes she could hear renewed sounds of battle coming from the south and she wondered what was happening there. Were the Romans winning the fight, or were Gerald and the tribes?
They finally reached the hill and made their way upward through the trees. At one point, Sextus angled them toward the treeline, where they looked out onto the battlefield. The big man cursed at what he saw while Claire felt her heart soaring with hope. The Roman army was in complete disarray, with thousands and thousands of howling tribesmen hacking away at them from the front and both sides. The men coming through the trees just now had to have been migrants, she realized, understanding that the tribes had set up a trap of their own. The Romans were fighting valiantly, she could see, with their disciplined ranks of curved red shields slowly retreating beneath the relentless wave of warriors. Claire had never seen so many of the Cimbri and Teutones together in one place like this. She was no expert on war by any means, but even she could tell the legions’ position was hopeless and it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.
“Come on,” Sextus grunted, dragging her away from the treeline. “We have to get to the horses before those barbarians reach the top of the hill.”
Sextus started to trot, pushing Claire ahead of him and cursing in frustration every time she stumbled or fell over a tree branch. Just you wait, Claire thought, panting as she tried to stay on her feet. Just you wait until the tribes get their hands on you. Then we’ll see. Claire stumbled again, tearing open her shin on a branch before dropping to her knees in exhaustion. The big man grumbled something under his breath, then he threw her roughly over his shoulder again before breaking out into a sprint. A great roar arose suddenly from the south as he ran, echoing through the trees.
“The legions have broken,” Sextus muttered, sounding like he couldn’t believe it as he redoubled his efforts.
The slavecatcher finally reached the hilltop and he stepped out into the open, pausing to catch his breath as he peered down into the valley. He cursed once more, his great body heaving as he drew in gulps of air. The remnants of the legions below them were in full flight, many of them dropping their shields and weapons as they raced toward the hill. Romans on horseback were fleeing well ahead of them, clambering up the steep slope as dark clouds swept over the valley like vengeful wraiths and thunder shook the ground.
Seven horsemen in rich cloaks were halfway up the hill now, with the man in front wearing a gold-plated breastplate, golden greaves to protect his shins and a golden helm topped by a black, fanned crest. The man wore a cloak of fine fur across his shoulders and was shouting, slapping his sword against his horse’s flanks as he urged the beast up the incline. Claire felt a wave of hatred come over her. It was Consul Carbo. The Roman general reached the crest, pausing for a moment in surprise when he saw Sextus with the girl draped over his shoulder, then he spurred his horse past them, disappearing into the trees with the rest of his entourage.
“Coward,” Sextus spat in distaste as he watched them go. He glanced to the empty northern ridge where Quintus Barbii and some of the other rich merchants had planned to watch the battle. Sextus grunted, knowing the wagons and horses in the clearing to the west would be gone by now.
More Roman equites were streaming after Carbo, and Sextus lowered Claire to the ground, holding her by the back of the neck as he waited with hooded eyes while the stragglers galloped past them. A thin man with a greying beard was bringing up the rear, his face twisted with fear as his horse clambered up and over the hilltop. Sextus abruptly dropped his hand from Claire’s neck and spun her around, and before she could react, the slavecatcher backhanded her across the face. Claire grunted and fell, collapsing hard to the ground where she lay stunned.
Sextus Acte darted toward the approaching eques, who was glancing over his shoulder at the teeming mass of cheering tribesmen below as they chased the panicked Romans. The eques turned around, his face the color of ash as Sextus Acte suddenly appeared in front of him. The rider cried out in surprise, automatically hauling sideways on his horse’s reins as the slavecatcher swung his spear like a club, knocking the man from the saddle. Sextus Acte leaped onto the fallen man, slapping aside one of his arms as the rider tried to protect himself, then he punched the eques in the head with two vicious blows. The Roman sagged, still struggling weakly as Sextus drew the rider’s sheathed gladius with a practiced move and stabbed him in the heart.
Sextus Acte stood, weaving and breathing heavily as he turned and stalked back toward Claire. He loomed over her, the bloody sword dripping in his hand as Claire looked up at his hate-filled face, thinking that this was it—it was finally over.
“Come on, my little bitch,” Sextus Acte said as he stooped and lifted her effortlessly. He flipped the girl over his shoulder again, then headed toward the fallen Roman’s horse where it stood twenty feet away, watching them nervously. “I’m not done with you yet.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MALCOLM
The Romans were running! It seemed hard to believe, even though Malcolm had known it was going to happen. The Teutones and Cimbri had hit them hard from both sides of the valley, appearing from the trees in screaming waves of bare-chested, tattooed warriors. Carbo’s first two legions had already lost a third of their numbers before the Cimbri and Teutones had attacked, which alone must have been a shock to the Roman Consul. But after being bolstered by the reinforcements from the hilltop, the tide of the battle had seemed to be turning—until the carnyx was blown and the trap had been sprung. Now, pressed in by thousands of additional frenzied warriors, the ranks of the legionnaires that had seemed so poised moments before were beginning to crumble.
The usually disciplined maniple formations were the key to Roman military success, but those formations had disintegrated into mass confusion all along the front lines and the flanks. The ranks coming from beh
ind were wavering as well, reluctant to move forward to face certain death against the fury of the tribes. Some legionnaires had given up all pretense of fighting and were fleeing to the west, while others tried to retreat in some semblance of order as their centurions and optios screamed at them to hold the line. The iron precision and calmness of the maniples had mostly disintegrated, with small islands of men completely cut off and fighting alone against an endless sea of tattooed warriors. Those eager warriors encircled the doomed men like hungry wolves among lambs, laughing as they hacked the enemy down without mercy. The battle that had seemed so winnable for the Romans only minutes before had now turned into an all-out slaughter, with nothing left for Carbo’s legions this day except death and destruction.
Malcolm paused to catch his breath as he wiped the blood of the man he’d just killed from his eyes. A wounded Roman surrounded by three taunting warriors was begging for his life twenty feet away, but Malcolm knew it was pointless. There would be no quarter given this day. As expected, the soldier’s words fell on deaf ears as the tribesmen laughed before one of them thrust a spear into the Roman’s belly. The warriors moved on after that, still laughing as they searched for new prey. Malcolm looked away from the fresh corpse, feeling even Artturi’s almost insatiable bloodlust starting to wane. It seemed they’d both had enough killing for one day.
Malcolm could see the few Roman equites that were still mounted had turned and were racing west, already at the base of the hill as thunder rolled ominously across the sky. The battleground was cast in an eerie semi-darkness now, with a cold wind whistling along the valley floor that quickly dried the sweat and blood on Malcolm’s body. Soon, he thought as he looked upward. Soon the storm will arrive and the slaughter will come to an end.
“You’re not done yet, are you Artturi?” Caratacus asked as he came to stand next to Malcolm. “There’s still plenty of these Romans left to kill.” Caratacus’ shield was gone and he was grinning, twirling his red-stained axe in his right hand with ease. Malcolm couldn’t tell if any of the blood splattered across his chest belonged to him or not, but guessed by his friend’s demeanor that it didn’t.
Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1) Page 20
