Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  “That should get their attention,” Flavius said as he drew his sword. “Forgive me for this, Artturi,” the older Roman added as he put the cold blade to Malcolm’s throat. “The key to theatrics is believability, after all. Whatever you do, please don’t make any sudden movements. I would hate to cut your throat by accident. Just follow my lead and stay calm. Hopefully, we can all live through this.”

  Malcolm and the legionnaires watched in silence as the Cimbri and Teutones poured across the plain, heading directly toward the eastern gates and the roaring fire. Malcolm heard the wounded Roman, Dario, whispering intently to the gods, begging them to spare their lives. The wall of screaming men began to slow as they drew closer, anticipating a flurry of spears coming from the ramparts of the fort now that they were in range. But no spears came, and finally, the leaders stopped a hundred yards away from the crackling flames, muttering to each other in surprise as they stared up at the four men waiting on the watchtower. Remus began to wave a bright red tunic over his head at another signal from Flavius just as several riders appeared through the massed warriors. The man in the lead was big, sitting his horse arrogantly as he advanced. Malcolm stiffened when he got a good look at him, then cursed. It was Clovis, just as he’d feared.

  “Is something wrong?” Flavius asked at Malcolm’s reaction.

  “See that man down there? The one in front on the white and brown horse?”

  “Yes, I see him,” Flavius said.

  Malcolm shrugged. “He promised to kill me just a few hours ago.”

  “Oh,” Flavius said soberly. He clucked his tongue. “That doesn’t sound good. Do you see your father anywhere?”

  Malcolm searched the faces below, focusing on the riders still making their way through the warriors on foot. But there was no sign of Boiorix’s stern features anywhere among them and he eventually gave up. “I don’t think he’s here,” Malcolm finally responded, knowing in his gut that it was true.

  “And does that man who wants to kill you have sway over your tribesmen?”

  Malcolm nodded. “He’s the son of the Teutone king. They will listen to him.”

  Flavius digested that grim news for a moment, and then he sighed in resignation. “Well, death comes for us all eventually, Artturi.” The Roman lowered his sword to his side. “It was a worthy gamble. But it would seem the gods have turned their interest elsewhere this day.”

  “Flavius,” Dario said. The legionnaire stood hunched over in one corner, staring down at the assembled warriors as he used the intersecting walls to support himself. Malcolm could see the fear evident on his sweat-streaked face. “What do we do now?”

  “What do we do?” Flavius repeated with a regretful smile on his lips. “Why, we die like men, of course. What else is there for us to do?”

  “You said they would let us go if we kept this bastard alive,” Remus growled. The squat Roman advanced on Malcolm aggressively.

  Flavius hobbled in front of Malcolm, shielding him from the angry legionnaire as he lifted a hand. “Enough, Remus. Killing Artturi won’t change our fates.”

  “Maybe not,” Remus grunted. “But I’ll feel a whole lot better about things before I die.”

  “Romans!” a voice shouted from below. Clovis had moved closer to the wall, well within throwing distance of a spear. If the Teutone warrior was worried about that fact, he didn’t show it. “I see you’ve caught yourselves a rat.” Clovis chuckled as he saluted Malcolm mockingly with his sword. “And a treacherous one at that. Have you shorn your beard along with your manhood to stand with Romans, now, Artturi?”

  “Of course not,” Malcolm said, his voice dripping with contempt. He pointed north. “The remnants of the Roman army went that way. There’s still time for you to catch them.” He motioned to Flavius. “There’s no one here except for a few wounded men. They’re not worth your time.”

  “Says who?” Clovis demanded.

  “Says the son of Boiorix, king of the Cimbri,” Malcolm responded loudly, hoping his voice would carry to his many friends that he knew stood among the massed warriors. “So hear my words, Clovis, or deal with my father.”

  “Words from a traitor mean nothing to me,” Clovis growled, his features turning dark. “Besides, your father isn’t here, and I am.”

  “Where is he?” Malcolm demanded.

  Clovis’s top lip curled upward in a sneer. “Gone to attack Noreia with my father.” He grinned strong white teeth. “Which means this fortress and everything in it belong to me now.”

  More warriors on horseback were pushing their way to the front, and Malcolm was relieved to see Caratacus among them along with one of the Cimbri sub-kings, Lugius. Adalwolf was there as well, he noticed, looking perplexed by the turn of events. The Teutone sub-king was normally a calming force and voice of reason among the tribes. But Malcolm wasn’t sure if he would go against Clovis’s wishes or not in this instance. “Hear me, brothers,” Malcolm said, leaning on the wall as he peered down at the tribesmen. “I speak with the voice of the king, and I say you will let these wounded men go free.”

  Caratacus, Adalwolf, and Lugius urged their horses forward, with the two Cimbrians circling the bonfire before stopping directly beneath the watchtower, while Adalwolf halted beside Clovis.

  Caratacus shook his head as he peered up at Malcolm. “You certainly do find a way to make things difficult, my friend.”

  “It’s a talent,” Malcolm replied.

  Caratacus chuckled, then his face turned serious. “I heard about what happened with Frida.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe that child is still alive after so long.” Caratacus glanced back at Clovis with contempt before looking up at Malcolm again. “At least someone was brave enough to do something to try and get her back.” He waggled a finger at Malcolm. “But you really should have waited and asked for my help, Artturi.”

  “There wasn’t time,” Malcolm said. “Everything happened too fast.

  Caratacus raised an eyebrow. “Did you find her?”

  “She’s in here with me,” Malcolm replied. He hesitated, afraid of the answer, yet needing to know at the same time. “What about Alodia?”

  Caratacus shrugged. “Alive the last I saw. I can’t say how long that will last, though.”

  “Your interest in my family’s welfare is truly inspiring, Artturi,” Clovis cut in with a sneer. He waved a muscular arm behind him. “But since we’re here, why don’t you tell everyone why you’re so interested in my wife, since it appears we have nothing better to do than listen to you women talk anyway?”

  “They’re friends, that’s why,” Caratacus snapped, glaring back at the Teutone. “At least he had the balls to do something, unlike you.”

  Malcolm could see a subtle shift occurring among the massed warriors as the conversation went on, with many of the Cimbri moving left behind Caratacus and Lugius and the Teutones flanking Adalwolf and Clovis.

  Clovis brushed off Caratacus’ words with a laugh, the sound harsh and guttural in the morning air. The Teutone half-turned in his saddle to look behind him. “Don’t listen to this one,” he said, pointing at Caratacus. “He’s had his nose up Artturi’s ass for so long that he thinks the man’s farts smell like flowers now.” Clovis stabbed a finger up at Malcolm. “No, the reason this bastard is so concerned about my wife is not that they are friends. It’s because he’s been rutting with her!” Gasps and angry shouts arose as Clovis looked up smugly at Malcolm. “Which means by law that their lives belongs to me now.”

  Clovis grinned, basking in the glow of triumph as the angry shouts grew louder and more vocal. Malcolm didn’t fail to notice even some of the Cimbri were voicing their disapproval. Adultery was not something the tribes took lightly, no matter who had committed the offense.

  Clovis lifted a hand for silence, then leaned on the pommel of his saddle as he waited for the noise to die down. “Who speaks for you, Romans?” he finally asked, his voice cold and hard now as he glared up at the watchtower.

  Flavius cl
eared his throat and glanced briefly at Malcolm. “I do. My name is Flavius Geta.”

  “Do you wish to live, Flavius Geta?” Clovis asked.

  “What man would say no to such a question?” the Roman responded with a shrug.

  Clovis sat back in his saddle and smiled. “Then all you have to do, Roman, is slit that rat’s throat and toss him down here. Do that, and you and your men can go free. You have my word on that.”

  “He’s lying,” Malcolm hissed between his teeth. He turned to face Flavius, very much aware of the sword the Roman held in his hand. “I know this man, Flavius. He has no honor at all. No matter what he promises you, he will slaughter you all regardless of what you do.”

  “I have eyes, Artturi,” the triarius said, not looking surprised as he glanced over the wall. “I’ve seen more men like him in my life than I care to admit. I know what his promise is worth. Don’t worry, we won’t be giving in to his demand.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Remus snapped. He waved his free arm at the older Roman while clutching his sword in his right hand. “Get out of the way, Flavius. Killing this bastard is our only chance. If you won’t do it, then I will.”

  “No, it’s not our only chance,” Flavius growled in warning. “Keeping Artturi alive is. If we do what that man down there wants, then we’re as good as dead.”

  Remus hesitated, his eyes filled with impotent rage. He shifted his gaze to Dario, who looked as though he could barely stand now. “Are you with me?”

  Dario nodded weakly, fighting to push himself away from the wall before he drew his sword. The Roman was wheezing, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “I’m with you, Remus. The gods help me, but I’m with you as much as I can be.”

  Remus grunted and focused back on Flavius. He stepped forward until they were eye to eye, less than two inches apart. “This is going to happen whether you like it or not, Flavius,” Remus growled. “So either get out of my way, or I’ll cut you down right here. At this point, I really don’t care which you choose.”

  Malcolm could see fresh blood staining the bandage around Flavius’ head as the triarius stood tall in defiance, glaring back at Remus. “You’re not killing anyone,” Flavius said. “We can still make this work.”

  Remus snorted. “Make it work. How?” The squat Roman pointed a finger at Malcolm. “He’s the only leverage we have over these barbarians.”

  “That’s right,” Flavius agreed. “And the first rule of negotiations is never giving up your leverage, no matter what.”

  “Bullocks,” Remus cursed in impatience. The legionnaire swept his arm sideways, knocking Flavius out of the way even as he stabbed his sword at Malcolm’s gut.

  Malcolm was surprised by the move, but Artturi had been expecting it, and the Cimbri warrior twisted sideways. The legionnaire’s blade hissed past Malcolm as he used his shoulder like a battering ram, crashing it into the squat Roman. Remus grunted at the impact, using the hilt of his sword to pound at Malcolm’s back as Malcolm wrapped his arms around the other man and used the strength in his legs to propel him backward. Remus crashed into the wooden wall protecting the platform, his body sagging from the blow to his kidneys. He tried to swing his sword, but the effort was weak and Malcolm just blocked the attack. He hammered two quick blows into the Roman’s stomach with his right fist, followed by a left cross to his jaw. Remus dropped like a stone, unconscious as he cracked his head against the planks of the platform.

  Malcolm stooped and picked up Remus’s fallen sword. He glared at Dario, who still stood against the far wall, looking stunned. Malcolm noticed blood at the corners of the man’s mouth. “What’s it going to be?” Malcolm growled. Dario blinked, glancing at the sword he held before he let it fall to the planks. “A wise choice,” Malcolm grunted. He turned to face Flavius, shifting the sword into his left hand as he extended his right. “My thanks, Flavius. You are an honorable man.”

  “As are you, Artturi,” Flavius said, taking Malcolm’s hand with a firm grip. The Roman frowned. “But, be that as it may, it would seem we are no closer to freedom than before.”

  “Perhaps we are,” Malcolm said. He moved to the wall and looked down at Caratacus sitting below on his horse. “Do I have your support in all this?” he asked.

  “Need you even ask?” the Cimbrian responded with a snort.

  Malcolm chuckled and shifted his gaze to the sub-king. “And you, Lugius? Where do you stand?”

  Lugius was almost thirty, with sloping, powerful shoulders and a nose that had been broken many times. “Does the boy speak true?” the sub-king rumbled, his eyes beneath his bushy brows probing Malcolm’s features relentlessly.

  “It’s his word against mine,” Malcolm replied, evading the question. “But either way, his grievance against me must be heard by the council. That is the law. Until then, it’s just rumors spread by a sour man who can’t make himself an heir.”

  “You bastard!” Clovis hissed in sudden fury, startling his mount beneath him. The white and brown horse skittered sideways, and Clovis hauled on the reins, bringing it back under control. He pointed at Malcolm. “I’ll make you pay for that.”

  “He’s right, Clovis,” Adalwolf said from where he sat his horse beside the Teutone warrior. “Your claim of adultery must be heard before council before anything is done here. Once Boiorix and your father return, then we will see to this matter. Until then, we will abide by Artturi’s wishes. The wounded Romans may leave unharmed. The matter is settled.”

  “No, it is not!” Clovis shouted. “I demand that bastard’s head for the shame he has brought to my family.”

  “Then take it,” Malcolm said in a contemptuous voice. Clovis hesitated, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as Malcolm grinned at him. “You and me, Clovis. Right here, right now.” Malcolm let his eyes roam over the crowd of warriors. “This man claims that I have done something which I have not. He calls me a liar and an adulterer. So I say let him prove it. If he speaks the truth, then the gods will punish me for it. And if he lies, then his death will be the validation that I am owed, and no more need ever be said of it.”

  Malcolm could hear the warriors talking excitedly among themselves at the idea. The Cimbri and Teutones loved single combat, but none had ever seen two sons of kings fight each other before.

  “Are you sure about this, Artturi?” Caratacus asked, looking worried. Malcolm hadn’t failed to notice him glance up at the sky as if expecting a lightning bolt to come sizzling down from the heavens. Of all the people gathered around the castrum walls, only Clovis and Caratacus knew the truth about Malcolm and Alodia.

  “I’m sure,” Malcolm said with a curt nod. He looked at Clovis. “So, what do you say? Will you fight me, or are you afraid the gods will punish you for your deceit?”

  “You’re the one about to feel their wrath,” Clovis growled. He untied his cloak, shrugging it off his shoulders, revealing a naked, heavily-muscled torso that gleamed with health and power in the growing sunlight. The Teutone swung a leg over his horse and dropped nimbly to his feet. “Come on then, son of Boiorix,” he sneered. “Come face the anger of the gods and meet your fate.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Malcolm promised. He glanced at Lugius, then Adalwolf. “One last thing. Whatever happens here, I want the word of the tribes that the Romans inside these walls will not be harmed.”

  “You have it,” Lugius muttered after a brief pause, looking worried. Malcolm knew he wasn’t looking forward to having to face Boiorix if his son fell to Clovis’s sword.

  “Agreed,” Adalwolf replied, his dark features unreadable beneath his helm. “No harm will come to them, regardless of the outcome.”

  Malcolm nodded, pleased as he turned to face Flavius. “Those two can be trusted,” he assured the Roman. He glanced toward Remus, who was sitting up and fingering his jaw. The squat legionnaire was staring at Malcolm with grudging respect. “Whatever happens, keep your heads down until they leave. Then get away from here as fast as you can. I trust Lugius and Adalwolf,
but Clovis has many friends, not to mention two brothers who are just as mean as he is. They still might come after you, so be careful.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Artturi?” Flavius asked, looking concerned. “I don’t doubt you are a formidable warrior, but judging by the way you’re holding those ribs there, you’re not at your best right now.”

  Malcolm chuckled, unaware that he had pressed his hand over his aching ribs. “Is there an alternative you’ve suddenly thought of that I should know about, Flavius?”

  The Roman grimaced, looking regretful. “If only there were.”

  “Then I’d best be going,” Malcolm said. He made to brush past the triarius, then hesitated as the older man put his hand on Malcolm’s arm.

  “Tell me something, Artturi,” Flavius said. He gestured to the wall. “What that bastard down there said about his wife, is it true?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “Every word,” he said with a wry grin. He put a finger to his lips. “But I suggest you keep that knowledge to yourself if I were you.”

  “Sound advice,” Flavius agreed. “She must be quite a woman,” the Roman added. “For you to risk so much for her love.”

  “She is that and more,” Malcolm said as he headed for the ladder. He paused with one foot on the top rung. “Her name is Alodia. She’s Frida’s mother.”

  Flavius’ brows furrowed. “Frida?”

  “The girl that started all this,” Malcolm said as he started to climb down. “The one your man is holding somewhere.”

  Flavius looked startled for a moment, and then he started to laugh. “Why am I not surprised, Artturi.” He chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced at Remus. “Go fetch Gervais and the girl. There’s no need to hide her now.”