Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  Quintus shrugged as he limped along. “I’m just a simple trader, my friends. I know nothing of military matters.”

  “Well, know this, then,” the legionnaire said. “If that bastard thinks we're going back there again to die, then he’s in for a rude awakening.”

  Quintus gave Claire a knowing look. “I imagine he is,” the trader mumbled as they reached the gates.

  The Roman camp was in an uproar when Claire and Quintus entered, with the few surviving centurions and optios screaming at the soldiers scurrying back and forth to hurry. Horses and carts were drawn up in a line along the road cutting through the center of the camp. Men were salvaging whatever they could for the long journey back to Noreia, though Claire wondered if even the city's high walls would be enough to save the occupants from the rampaging tribes. She could see Consul Carbo near the wagons engaged in a heated conversation with two other Romans. Both men were dressed in rich scarlet cloaks with matching waistbands and wore brightly plumed bronze helmets and fine armor that somehow still managed to glint in the firelight despite the layers of blood and dirt encrusting them. She knew by their dress that these were the men known as legates, each of whom, along with the Consul, commanded one of the four legions. Claire wondered where the last legate was as she glanced at Sextus Acte, who stood off to one side of the three men with a look of amusement on his ravished face. The slavecatcher saw Claire’s gaze fall on him and his twisted smile fell away, replaced with naked hatred.

  “I am in command here!” Carbo was saying in a high, angry voice as Claire and Quintus approached. “And I say we stay and stand our ground against these barbarians.”

  “With all due respect, General,” a tall man with short grey hair said as he removed his helmet and placed it beneath his arm. Claire could see a ragged gash down one of his legs that was covered in dry, crusted blood. “We couldn’t defeat these barbarians with four legions, and now we barely have one left. Staying here to be slaughtered is pointless. We need to return to Rome and warn the Senate that these Cimbri are a much greater threat than we thought.”

  “Nonsense,” Carbo scoffed. He noticed Quintus and waved a hand at him. “Tell them, old friend. Tell them that I’m right.”

  Quintus Barbii cleared his throat, not meeting Carbo’s eyes as he studied the legates. “Where is Titus Antoninus?” the trader asked. “His opinion on this matter would mean much more than mine.”

  “Dead,” the grey-haired Roman said bluntly. “I saw him fall with my own eyes.”

  “Ah,” Quintus said with a weary sigh.

  “Well?’ Carbo demanded as his bushy eyebrows rose. “Do you agree with me or not, Quintus?”

  The trader turned to Claire, not answering. “Girl,” he said in a gruff voice. “My throat is dry after our journey. Go fetch me some wine.”

  Claire bowed, not missing the message in Quintus’ eyes. This was her moment. She hurried away, heading along the road past the line of wagons as Quintus turned back to Consul Carbo. She heard the trader telling his friend he did not agree, followed by an angry retort from the general before their voices were blocked as she headed down a pathway between several neat lines of rectangular tents. She selected one of the tents at random and pushed her way inside, disappointed to find that the interior held only eight cots arranged four per side with a narrow passage between them. Claire considered hiding under one of the cots, then discounted the idea, knowing that was the first place anyone would look. Instead, Claire stepped back outside, heading north along the row of tents. Occasionally, she’d see a slave hurry past or a soldier come out of one of the tents, but no one paid her any attention at all.

  Claire finally reached another passage running perpendicular to the one she’d been walking. A raised dais sat facing her, with a line of tents behind it and another, much larger tent to her left at the edge of a wide-open space. Claire hurried past the wooden platform, heading for the larger tent that she guessed had to be at least twelve feet long, with nine-foot sidewalls and a twelve-foot high peak. She assumed the tent belonged to Consul Carbo, thinking that it was unlikely anyone would chance going inside without the general’s permission. Claire pulled aside the tent flap, gasping as she almost bumped into a man coming out.

  “Yes, what is it?” the man snapped once he’d gotten over his surprise. He was dressed in a brown and white toga with a silver belt around his waist and was short and bald, with a thin mustache and neatly-trimmed beard. Claire just stood there helplessly, not knowing what to do as the short man waited impatiently. “Well?” the man demanded. “Speak up, girl.”

  Claire pointed behind her, then to the tent as she made a drinking motion.

  “Oh,” the man said, spying the slave collar around Claire’s neck. “You’re one of Quintus Barbii’s tongueless wonders. Are you telling me the Consul wishes some more wine? Is that it?” Claire nodded eagerly as the man rolled his eyes. “At a time like this,” the man muttered to himself. “Very well, child. I already loaded several barrels on his wagon, but I guess that’s not good enough for him. Go ahead and take whatever you want.” The man stepped aside to allow Claire entrance. “It’s not like we’re going to be back to this cesspit anytime soon.”

  Claire stepped into the lavishly decorated tent, pausing three paces inside the entrance.

  “Over there, the short man grumbled, pointing to a table. An amphora was sitting on the gleaming mahogany surface and Claire hurried over to it. “Hurry along now,” the man hissed as she hesitated with the amphora in her arms. “I don’t have all day. I’ll not be missing that wagon because of some slow-moving slave girl.” Claire reluctantly headed back to the entrance, then exited with the short man. A woman was waiting for them outside, looking relieved when she saw Claire’s companion.

  “Juno, by the gods, there you are,” the woman said, her face twisted with anxiety. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. “Laurus can’t find the Master’s silver belt buckles.”

  “Cunnus,” the short man grunted under his breath. “Do I have to do everything?” Juno grabbed the woman by the elbow, physically leading her away as he scolded her.

  Claire couldn’t believe her luck. She turned to head back into the Consul’s tent, then hesitated as she focused on the dais. A small door lay along the base at the back, just big enough for a crouching man to get through. Could she hide there? She thought she could see cracks between some of the planks, but they were small, and with the darkness and the panic within the camp, she doubted anyone would think to look there. Claire glanced around, her mind made up. No one was about that she could see, so she hurried to the dais and pried open the door, then peered inside.

  Pitch darkness and the reek of damp earth and rotting vegetation, as well as something long dead, greeted her. Claire smiled. She couldn’t have cared less about the smells. Claire dropped to her hands and knees, dragging the amphora of wine along with her before closing the door behind her. She had no idea how long she’d have to remain here, but at least she had the wine to keep her company, though she knew better than to drink too much. Claire might have been well versed in the pleasures of alcohol as an adult, but Frida was small and had little experience other than the occasional sip of wine when Camilla or the Master weren’t looking. Getting drunk now that she was so close to freedom would not be wise.

  Claire waited, sitting cross-legged on the ground beneath the center of the dais in the dark while taking the occasional sip of wine. She could hear the faint sounds of the Romans shouting and moving about the camp, but no one came anywhere close to the dais. Then, finally, after what she guessed must have been at least an hour, she heard the unmistakable sounds of the horses and wagons moving out. She waited, listening to the squeak of wheels and thud of hooves on the road, hardly daring to believe she was almost free as her heart raced. Had she done it? Had she finally escaped these bastards? Claire started to tick off the seconds in her head, and when she reached half an hour without a single sound rising from the campsite, she lifted the amphora
in the air and then took a sip, toasting her good fortune. That’s when something banged loudly above her, followed by the sound of a man chuckling. Claire froze, watching through one of the cracks with her heartbeat thudding in her ears as a dark form jumped nimbly to the ground.

  The door slowly swung outward, creaking on rusted hinges before Sextus Acte appeared, squatting back from the entrance as moonlight washed over him. “Did you think it would be that easy, my troublesome little bitch?” the slavecatcher hissed.

  Claire could only stare back at her nemesis in disbelief for a moment before she opened her mouth and screamed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MALCOLM

  “Well, that’s it then,” Flavius said in a deflated voice as he leaned against Malcolm wearily. “They’re gone. Which means we’re dead men come morning.”

  Malcolm said nothing as he studied the abandoned camp filled with long, neatly laid out lines of darkened tents. It was obvious from his vantage point that the occupants had left in a great hurry, leaving the tents in place, the walls up, and the four gates swinging open in the light breeze that had followed the storm. Clothing and debris lined the side of the road leading from the main gate facing him, known as the porta praetoria, with a clear trail made by marching men, horses, mules, and wagons heading north across the grassy plain. Malcolm wondered where Carbo was going, knowing that the Consul would eventually make it back to Rome, though the hero’s welcome that he had been coveting would not be waiting for him when he did.

  Malcolm sighed in disappointment. There had never been any guarantee that Claire would be here, he knew, yet just the same, he’d been convinced somehow that she would be. Maybe it had only been foolish hope, or perhaps his conviction had come from the belief that the two of them shared a connection because of the serum they’d taken. But whatever the reason, Malcolm couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that she was somewhere close. He paused in indecision, wondering if he should heed that feeling and take the time to search the deserted camp or head out after the Romans right away.

  Malcolm only saw four torches burning feebly along the palisade walls, and he couldn’t decide if that was a good sign or a bad one. Did the fact that there were only those few still alight mean the Romans had been gone for hours or did it mean they’d just missed putting them out and hadn’t been gone that long? Either way, he knew he had to get moving soon if he hoped to catch up to them. Malcolm decided he’d take a quick glance inside the walls, and then, if there was no sign of Claire, he’d head off after Carbo. He glanced sideways at his companion out of the corner of his eye, knowing there would be no chance of catching up to the fleeing Romans with Flavius along. He had come to like the man and didn’t relish the idea of leaving him behind for the tribes to find, but there seemed to be no other choice.

  Malcolm turned his mind elsewhere, not wanting to think about the tough decision he’d soon have to make. Consul Carbo’s bold plans of a counterattack had clearly fallen through once he’d gotten back to the camp. The surviving officers of the massacre obviously wanted nothing more to do with the Cimbri and Teutones and must have convinced the Consul to leave, which wasn’t much of a surprise given what had happened. The question was, had Claire been with the Romans when they’d abandoned the fortress or had the man who seemed so obsessed with the girl taken her somewhere else? If that was the case, then Malcolm’s gut instinct had been wrong all along and he’d come all this way for nothing. Alodia had sworn that whoever the man with the torn face was, he intended to hurt Claire. And from what Malcolm had seen of the bastard so far, he had little reason to doubt that she was wrong. The question was—why was he so focussed on her?

  “I think we should go down there and search the camp,” Malcolm finally said to his companion. “Maybe they left some horses or mules behind.”

  Flavius snorted. “Not likely, Optio.” He sighed and shook his head. “You know protocol as much as me. There won’t be anything left alive down there. I’m surprised they didn’t burn the place before they left.”

  Malcolm glanced at his companion and gave him a wry smile. “Do you have anything better to do right now?”

  Flavius chuckled and shook his head. “No, Maximus, I truly don’t.”

  Movement suddenly arose from the treeline bordering the road and Malcolm spun around, drawing his gladius. He’d tossed his shield aside miles ago to help Flavius, so he crouched with the sword ready, waiting as he placed himself in front of the wounded Roman protectively. Shadowy forms appeared, fighting their way through the thick undergrowth, and Malcolm slowly relaxed as he recognized the unmistakable armor of Roman soldiers. There were three of them, with two of the soldiers supporting a third between them. The legionnaires paused in surprise when they saw Malcolm and Flavius standing in the middle of the road.

  “Thank the gods!” one of the men finally exclaimed. “I thought we were the only ones left alive in this cursed land.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe it’s really you, Optio.” The man was tall and thin, and he turned to the soldier suspended between him and a squat legionnaire that was missing his helmet. “See Dario, it’s my optio, Tavian Tertullus. I told you Remus and I would get you out of this alive.”

  The tall soldier turned back to Malcolm, smiling as he and his companion half-carried, half dragged the wounded man onto the road. Malcolm could see the injured legionnaire’s head lolling back and forth as they moved, though his eyes were open and he was mumbling something in a weak voice.

  “We got turned around after we left you, Optio,” the tall man continued with obvious relief in his voice. “I thought we were done for—” The legionnaire hesitated, now less than ten feet away as he got a good look at Malcolm’s face in the moonlight. “Oh, forgive me. I could have sworn with that helmet and armor that you were Tavian Tertullus from my century.”

  “This is Maximus Meridius,” Flavius explained. “Of the Third Legion.”

  The squat man, Remus, frowned in puzzlement at that. “I’m from the Third, but I’ve never seen you before, Optio.”

  “Promotion by necessity,” Malcolm growled, thinking quickly. “Dead men can’t give orders. Now, do you want to continue on with this conversation of who knows who, or do you want to live?” He pointed back down the road. “Because every minute we spend talking means those bastards back there have a better chance of finding us.”

  “My apologies,” Remus muttered. He dropped his eyes. “Of course, you’re right.”

  Malcolm tried to keep his features blank and hard like he thought a true optio would, but inside, his stomach was roiling with apprehension. He recognized these men now. They were the soldiers he’d seen in the woods just before he’d killed the optio he guessed had been Tavian Tertullus.

  “Very well,” Malcolm grunted. “Now that that’s settled, I’m glad you three made it.” He gestured down the ridge. “But I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. The legions are gone.”

  “Gone,” the tall legionnaire said in disbelief. “You mean we survived all of this just to be left behind to die anyway?”

  “Nobody is going to die if I can help it,” Malcolm said with an edge to his voice. He turned and put his arm around Flavius’ waist, helping the wounded man down the incline. “Come on. We’ll figure something out once we get to camp.”

  Malcolm took a casual look over his shoulder at the men following behind him. His bluff seemed to have worked, at least so far, but one mistake and he knew they’d be on to him. He shook his head, wishing just once that when it came to Claire, something would go right for a change. The Roman camp was really a giant fortress known as a castrum, and was so large that it was actually two forts combined into one, with each fortress able to house two legions. Malcolm and Flavius reached the open gates of the porta praetoria and stepped inside, pausing to listen as eerie silence greeted them. Malcolm wondered how he could possibly search such a massive fort as this, while behind him, Remus and the tall man arrived with Dario.

  “Take him to the valetud
inarium and see what you can do for him,” Malcolm ordered the two legionnaires. He turned to Flavius. “You’re going with them. I’ll be along in a moment.”

  “We can’t stay here, Optio,” the tall soldier holding Dario said, his voice sounding nervous and on edge. “This is the first place the barbarians will look once the sun rises.”

  “I know that,” Malcolm grunted as he positioned Flavius on Remus’s free arm. He glanced at the nervous Roman. “What’s your name?”

  “Gervais, sir,” the legionnaire replied.

  “Well, Gervais, we’re not staying here any longer than we need to,” Malcolm said. “You can bet on that. I’m just going to take a quick look around and maybe gather some supplies. I might get lucky and find a horse and wagon.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Remus said. “We can cover more ground that way.”

  “No, you do as you’re told and get these wounded men to the hospital,” Malcolm ordered. “Do what you can for their wounds, then bind them up tight. It’s going to be a long journey.”

  “If that’s what you want, Optio,” Remus said, looking doubtful.

  Malcolm thought he could detect a hint of resentment in the man’s voice, and he hadn’t failed to notice the squat Roman staring at him with an odd expression on his face whenever he thought Malcolm wasn’t looking. The soldier was clearly suspicious, but not enough to do anything about it—at least, not yet. Whatever the man thought he knew wouldn’t matter once Malcolm was rid of them, since he planned on making a quick sweep of the campgrounds, then slipping out the open western gate. He just needed to be on his own to do that. The fate he knew would be coming for these legionnaires was unfortunate, and he wished there was a way around it, but finding Claire was more important than anything else right now.

  Malcolm watched the four Romans as they shuffled away through the tents toward the wide main street that dissected the camp, known as the via principalis. Malcolm knew that despite the vast size of the fortress, it would be laid out like all Roman camps and the via principalis would measure exactly one-hundred feet wide. The Romans were fanatical about their marching camps and would build and dismantle them every day when on the move. This one was more permanent, of course, since the Romans had been here a while, but the basic concept of the layout remained.