Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  Malcolm followed after the four Romans through the line of silent tents that he knew would have each contained a contubernium, a unit of eight men. He paused here and there to poke his head inside a tent, drawn onward by a feeling he couldn’t quite understand. Claire had been here not that long ago; he was certain of that, though if you asked him how he knew, he couldn’t have even begun to explain. Finally, Malcolm reached a narrow street dividing the tents in half—called the via quintana—and crossed it. Nothing moved, and he could see very little in the shadows cast by the tents other than the faint glow of the moon on the canvas above him that rippled softly in the breeze. He finally reached the via principalis and paused at the edge of the road to get his bearings. There were no signs of the others, though he could see a darkened wooden dais four hundred yards to his right, with a line of tents in front of him and a larger tent behind them in the center of an open square.

  “The praetorium,” Malcolm whispered to himself, knowing the big tent was where Carbo would have stayed. The smaller tents lined in front were for the general’s staff, as well as the legates in charge of the legions along with other officers or high-ranking officials.

  Malcolm made straight for Carbo’s tent, his gut telling him that’s where Claire might be. An open square lay to the left of the Consul’s quarters, which was a marketplace within the camp called the forum, with more tents sitting to the right of the praetorium, called the quaestorium. Malcolm reached Carbo’s tent and cautiously stepped inside, but there was nothing to see other than some polished furniture and lush carpets on the floor, as well as intricate tapestries hung on the canvas walls. Carbo liked his luxuries, it seemed, though not enough to waste time to pack them when he’d fled. Malcolm stepped back outside, frowning as he looked around. The girl had been here at some point, he was certain, but she was gone now and he knew he couldn’t waste any more time looking for her here in the camp. She had to be with the fleeing Romans. Malcolm headed back the way he’d come, making it only a few feet before a sudden, high-pitched scream arose, echoing out across the campsite.

  “Claire!” Malcolm cried as he started to run back to the main street.

  He reached the via principalis and paused to look around, not certain exactly where the scream had originated. Then he heard the sounds of a struggle coming from the darkened dais to the west. He raced that way, drawing his sword, while ahead of him, he saw the dark form of a man squatting near the base of the dais, then a brief flash of blonde hair in the moonlight. Malcolm knew the hair belonged to Claire and he bellowed, still a hundred feet away. The man stood and turned to face him, clutching the wrist of the struggling girl. Malcolm didn’t fail to notice the gleam of a sword in his other hand.

  “Back off!” the man holding Claire growled in warning. “This is no affair of yours.”

  “Let her go!” Malcolm said, slowing his pace as he approached more cautiously now. He didn’t need to see the man’s face to know who his adversary was. His demeanor and sheer size were enough. Malcolm glanced toward the girl as she kicked and punched at her captor to no avail. “It’s all right, Claire,” he said. “It’s me, Artturi.”

  Claire stopped struggling for a moment, moaning in surprise before she began to redouble her efforts at escape. If the big man holding Claire felt any pain from her tiny fists, he gave no sign of it.

  “I told you to back off,” the man said again. “I won’t tell you a third time.”

  “And I’m telling you to let her go,” Malcolm replied, moving forward until he was less than ten feet away from the pair.

  The man opened his mouth to say something else, then he hesitated as the sound of running footsteps could be heard coming along the road behind Malcolm.

  “Optio?” Remus said, out of breath as he and Gervais approached with drawn swords. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” Malcolm grunted over his shoulder. “Go back to the others. I can deal with this.”

  “Maybe you should tell us what this is first,” Remus said, his voice cold and unfriendly. The squat Roman moved to flank Malcolm to his left, while Gervais automatically shifted to his right. Malcolm wasn’t sure by their body language if they were moving to help him or to stop him.

  “Well, isn’t this interesting,” Claire’s captor said with a low chuckle as he took in the situation. “Trouble in the ranks?”

  “Sextus Acte, is that you?” Remus asked. “It’s me, Remus Nepos, from Aquilea. Remember? We played together as children.”

  “Yes, I recognize you now,” Sextus said, sounding unimpressed.

  “What happened to your face?” Remus asked as the big man turned and the moonlight revealed the extent of his injuries.

  “This little bitch happened,” Sextus answered. He grabbed Claire by the neck of her torn dress and dragged her in front of him, then put his sword to her throat as he glared at Malcolm. “Now, all of you leave me to my business.”

  Remus shrugged. “We’ve got no quarrel with you, Sextus.”

  The big man gestured to Malcolm. “Well, he sure does for some reason.”

  Remus glanced at Malcolm. “What’s this all about, Optio? This is Sextus Acte, a slavecatcher from Aquilea. I’ve known him for most of my life. The girl is obviously an escaped slave and he’s just doing his job, so I say we leave him alone. We’ve got bigger problems to worry about than this.”

  “Nobody asked for your opinion,” Malcolm grunted. He pointed at the hulking figure holding Claire against his body. “This is your last warning.” Malcolm turned to look at Gervais, then glared at Remus. “If this bastard doesn’t let that girl go free unharmed right now, we cut him down. Understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gervais said dutifully, looking nervous as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  Remus stood silent and unmoving as he studied Malcolm with hooded eyes. “None of this makes any sense, Optio,” he finally said. “Sextus Acte isn’t the enemy here and we could use his help to get away from this place.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Malcolm said. “So, you’re either with him or with me.” He raised an eyebrow. “Which is it going to be, soldier?”

  Remus glanced at Sextus, then back to Malcolm, his eyes calculating before he slowly lowered his sword. “Neither, sir. I’m not lifting a blade against a friend, orders or not. You can write me up for it if you wish, I really don’t care anymore. The chances are we won’t live to see Rome again anyway.” The squat legionnaire spun on his heels and strode away then without another word as Gervais watched him go, looking thoroughly frightened.

  “Well?” Malcolm said to the tall man. “What about you?”

  “I…I don’t know, sir,” Gervais said. He wet his lips. “Nothing about this seems right.”

  “Then do what I told you to when you first got here,” Malcolm ordered. “Go back and join the others. I’ll deal with this on my own.” Malcolm could see the indecision lying on the man’s face and he glowered at him. “That’s an order, soldier. Get those wounded men ready to move out. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Gervais swallowed loudly, then finally nodded, lowering his eyes before he turned and headed back the way he’d come.

  “So,” Sextus Acte said with a sneer. “I guess that leaves us back where we started.” The slavecatcher shifted his weight onto his back foot just as Claire chose that moment to dig her fingernails into his forearm. Sextus Acte grunted in discomfort, glancing down at her in annoyance before he grabbed her wrist again and squeezed until she squealed. The big man looked at Malcolm, his ravaged face twisted in amusement. “Before we get into this, care to tell me why a Roman optio gives a rat’s turd about what happens to some runaway slave?”

  Malcolm smiled and slowly removed his helmet before he tossed it aside. His long blond hair spilled out from beneath his helm and he saw the other man’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Because I’m not an optio,” Malcolm grunted. “And I should have killed you earlier when I had the chance.”

  Sextus Ac
te started to laugh then, surprising Malcolm with his calmness. “You’re that savage who attacked me on the hill,” he finally said through his mirth. “I recognize you now, even without that ridiculous beard.” He yanked on Claire’s arm, dangling the girl several inches off the ground as she cried out in pain. “This little she-bitch your daughter or something?”

  “Something like that,” Malcolm growled. He could feel Artturi tensing, preparing himself to pounce. Not yet, he thought. Wait for the right moment.

  That moment came seconds later when Claire used her free hand to pull herself upward on her captor’s arm before she sank her teeth into the hardened muscle beneath his bicep. The huge man howled in surprise as Claire ripped a chunk of flesh from him and spat it out, with blood flowing freely from the gaping wound. The slavecatcher tossed the girl aside and she landed hard on the ground, grunting before lying still.

  Now! Malcolm shouted in his head to Artturi. The Cimbri warrior roared, darting forward with his sword already cutting through the air for the big man’s head.

  Sextus Acte recovered from the surprise of Claire’s attack in the blink of an eye, and he dodged Malcolm’s blade, then cut backward with his own gladius, which clanged with force against the bronze plates of the armor covering Malcolm’s ribs. The sharpened edge didn’t cut through the armor, but the power of the blow knocked the wind from Malcolm’s lungs. He retreated several steps, gasping and holding his side as he brought his weapon up defensively. Sextus Acte growled like a beast, his face a twisted mass of bleeding and torn flesh as he swept toward Malcolm with frightening speed and fury.

  “You stinking barbarian!” Sextus Acte spat. He swung his gladius high, forcing Malcolm to block, then kicked out with his right foot, hooking Malcolm’s leg at the knee. Malcolm cried out in dismay as he fell, already rolling to the side as the steel blade of the slavecatcher clanged against the hard surface of the road. Malcolm jumped nimbly to his feet, crouched and ready as Sextus Acte paused, the same look of amusement on his face. “You’re fast,” the slavecatcher conceded. He grinned. “But that won’t save you.” He glanced to where Claire lay curled and motionless on the road. “Nor will she, this time. And when I’m done spitting you like a pig, I’m going to take my time and peel the skin off her body inch by inch.”

  Malcolm said nothing as he and Artturi waited. The big Roman was fast and powerful, without question, but he hadn’t spent the last few years battling Angles, Saxons, Swabians, and the Scordisci like Malcolm had. He knew Artturi could take this man; he just needed the Cimbri to remain patient and let his adversary bring the fight to him.

  “Well then,” Malcolm said with a contemptuous laugh, hoping to goad the bigger man into doing something rash. “What are you waiting for, you ugly piece of dog shit? Your face isn’t getting any prettier while we stand here, you know.” Malcolm grinned. “Tell me again how that happened. Wasn’t it a weak, defenseless little girl who did that to you?”

  Sextus Acte’s torn lips pressed together in anger and he strode forward, the sword he held looking almost like a child’s toy as it twitched back and forth in his massive hand. “You’ll be wishing you looked this good when I’m done with you,” the slavecatcher said.

  Malcolm chuckled as the two men circled each other. Despite Sextus Acte’s obvious anger, the slavecatcher seemed in no hurry, his remaining eye above his torn face cold, hard and calculating. Malcolm could feel Artturi’s unease at the constrictive Roman clothing and armor they were wearing, knowing the warrior would be much more comfortable in his loose mail shirt and trousers. Sextus Acte suddenly leaped forward, stabbing outward with the gladius. The move was unexpected and blazingly fast, and it was only by sheer luck that Malcolm managed to avoid it by twisting sideways in desperation. The big man’s blade cut through empty air, narrowly missing Malcolm’s torso, and as it passed, Malcolm drew his left hand back and jabbed hard and fast, cracking his balled fist against the jagged rip along his adversary’s cheek. Sextus Acte’s head snapped back at the force of the blow and he staggered and took several paces backward.

  Malcolm just grinned mockingly at him. “Texas Golden Gloves champion, nineteen eighty-nine,” he said.

  Sextus Acte shook his head, staring at him in befuddlement before he squared his shoulders and came on at full speed, screaming in fury. The big man hacked wildly at Malcolm’s head, but he easily dodged the blow, then struck the slavecatcher a second time in the face with a stinging left jab. Sextus Acte bellowed in frustration and rage, fresh blood streaming from the wound on his cheek as he slashed wildly with his sword, but Malcolm had already danced nimbly away.

  “I can do this all day,” Malcolm taunted, stopping ten paces away as he crouched on the balls of his feet, waiting. He could feel Artturi’s enjoyment radiating from him, glad to be able to offer something to a fight for a change. The Cimbri warrior had never experienced the art of boxing before, though Malcolm knew the Romans were very familiar with the sport, which they called pugilatus.

  Sextus Acte paused, his great chest heaving now as he wiped the blood from his face. He glanced at his crimson hand, then spat red wetness on the ground in contempt. “Little taps from a little man,” he grunted. He strode forward again, this time with more caution. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

  Malcolm said nothing. He could see Claire stirring on the ground behind the big man and he felt a lurch in his chest. Knowing that stubborn woman, the moment she saw what was happening, she’d rush forward to help. Which meant there was a good chance Sextus Acte would get his hands on her again and use her against him. Malcolm decided he needed to do something before that happened, so he bounded forward, attacking with a series of lightning-like slashes, catching the slavecatcher off-guard. The bigger man gave ground, barely able to parry the blur of strokes coming his way. Malcolm saw Claire getting to her feet out of the corner of his eye and he turned, forcing Sextus Acte to put his back to her.

  The slavecatcher suddenly stumbled over a wagon rut in the road, dropping to one knee as Malcolm surged forward, seeing his chance to end this. But Sextus Acte was not so easily beaten, and he lashed out with his left hand on the way down, imitating Malcolm’s boxing technique. The slavecatcher’s ham-like fist careened off Malcolm’s temple, stunning him even as Sextus powered himself back to his feet, driving his shoulder into Malcolm’s solar plexes. Air whooshed from Malcolm’s lungs as Sextus Acte grabbed the back of Malcolm’s thighs with his upper arms, lifting him into the air before slamming him down hard against the unforgiving surface of the road.

  Malcolm’s sword went spinning from his grasp from the impact, and desperate, he swung a weak right cross up at Sextus Acte, catching the big man a glancing blow to his chin. The slavecatcher shrugged off the punch, bringing his elbow down hard on Malcolm’s chest just above his heart. Malcolm couldn’t breathe suddenly and he tried to suck in air as his head swam with dizziness. He clutched at the slavecatcher’s arms, trying to tie them up, knowing the sword would be coming next just as Claire appeared, jumping on Sextus Acte’s back and tearing at his face with her nails. Sextus cried out and twisted, trying to dislodge her with one hand while he swung his sword down at Malcolm with the other. Malcolm used both hands to stop the downward slash, bracing his left on the man’s elbow and the right around his wrist.

  Sextus Acte bellowed in pain and fury, unable to free his sword arm as Claire tore at his face with the girl screaming and crying at the same time. Malcolm knew the big man wouldn’t be distracted for long and he released Sextus Acte’s elbow and stabbed upward into his armpit with three stiffened fingers like a knife, aiming for the axillary nerve. The slavecatcher shuddered at the impact and Malcolm felt the strength in the man’s arm fade. He twisted his adversary’s wrist, gratified to hear him grunt in pain as the gladius he held slipped from numb fingers and landed on the dusty road by Malcolm’s head.

  The big man’s single eye was wide with pain and he wavered and almost fell off Malcolm’s pinned body before he righted himself and
smashed his forehead down into Malcolm’s face. Blood instantly filled Malcolm’s vision and he heard Claire scream as her grip loosened just as Sextus Acte reached behind him and grabbed her by the hair before he tossed her over his head. Malcolm shook the blood from his eyes, snarling as he wrapped his hands around Sextus Acte’s throat. He wrenched his body sideways with all his strength, sending the slavecatcher onto his back, then pounced on him, using his body weight to hold the big man down as he squeezed. Sextus Acte gagged, his eye bulging from its socket as he struck at Malcolm’s arms and face with his right hand, while his left lay paralyzed and useless by his side.

  Malcolm grinned as he saw the light fading from the slavecatcher’s eye. “Die, you son of a bitch!” he hissed, leaning forward to give even more strength and weight to his arms.

  Sextus Acte gave one last, feeble attempt at life, his questing fingers running across Malcolm’s face, searching for a hold. But Malcolm just used his left shoulder to shrug the hand away, keeping his fingers clamped around the man’s neck until finally, he was certain the bastard was dead. Malcolm slowly relaxed his grip, then dragged himself painfully off the corpse and crouched in the dirt on his hands and knees, his breath rattling in his chest as he fought to draw air into his bruised lungs.

  “I knew you were lying, you bastard!”

  Malcolm looked up into the hate-filled eyes of Remus just before the man crashed the hilt of his gladius into his face. He moaned and collapsed in a heap three paces away from where Claire lay prone and unmoving, reaching out for her just as a shadow fell over him and the sword hilt flashed downward again. Then stars filled his eyes and he knew nothing more.