Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  Remus hesitated, then slowly stood and headed for the ladder as Malcolm made it to the ground. He waited until the legionnaire had joined him.

  “No hard feelings, I hope,” Malcolm said once the man was facing him.

  Remus paused, his dark eyes unreadable before finally he shrugged and pointed to Malcolm’s temple. “I guess that makes us even, barbarian.”

  Malcolm grinned. “I guess it does, Roman,” he said. He turned and headed for the gates, unbarring them and opening one just enough to slip his body through.

  Caratacus laughed from atop his horse when Malcolm emerged. “You look ridiculous without that beard.”

  “I missed you too,” Malcolm grunted

  Caratacus chuckled. “You took so long in there I thought maybe you’d turned tail and run.”

  “Ha!” Malcolm said as his friend dismounted and came to join him. “And miss the chance to smash in that bastard’s ugly face?”

  Caratacus glanced toward Clovis, who stood waiting near the bonfire. The Teutone warrior was sweating from the heat of the flames, but he remained where he was, leaning on his sword as he waited. “You’re risking a lot, Artturi,” Caratacus whispered, once again glancing toward the skies superstitiously.

  “It will be worth it to finally be rid of him,” Malcolm grunted.

  “Are you doing this for the Romans or Alodia?” Caratacus asked, his face twisted in disapproval.

  Malcolm shrugged. “Both, I guess.”

  “She might be dead already,” Caratacus pointed out. “The wound was deep.”

  “I know that,” Malcolm said. “But after I win, whatever taint Clovis will have cast on her will be gone.”

  “And if you lose?” Caratacus asked.

  “I won’t,” Malcolm said in a firm voice.

  “But if you do?” Caratacus persisted.

  Malcolm sighed and turned to face his friend. “Then get Frida and Alodia somewhere safe so Clovis can’t find them. Will you do that?”

  Caratacus hesitated, searching Malcolm’s eyes with his before finally he nodded. “I will. You have my word. But even if you kill Clovis, you know that won’t be the end of it.”

  “Why not?” Malcolm asked. He hefted the Roman gladius he’d taken from Remus. The weapon was perfect for stabbing but not as handy for slashing. He wished he had his own sword that lay buried beneath leaves and branches miles away in the woods.

  “Because his brothers and friends will keep coming after you until you’re dead, that’s why.”

  “Not if Teutobod tells them to leave me alone,” Malcolm said.

  Caratacus snorted. “You know how he feels about Clovis. He won’t say anything at council, but I’m sure in private the king will be telling his sons to gut you the moment they can.”

  Malcolm grimaced, thinking. “You really believe he’d jeopardize the alliance of the tribes that way? Teutobod has two more sons, and duels like this happen all the time.”

  “Not between the heirs of kings, they don’t,” Caratacus replied. “Besides, the alliance between us is already on shaky ground as it is. This could break it. If I were you, Artturi, I’d make myself scarce for a while after you kill Clovis. I’m sure even Boiorix won’t be happy with you once he finds out why you two were fighting. As for Teutobod, his grief and anger are bound to blow over eventually, and when it does, you can come back.”

  “If I leave after I kill Clovis, they’ll think I’m running away,” Malcolm said. “They’ll think what he said about Alodia and me is true. They’ll kill her.”

  Caratacus lowered his voice, his expression turning angry. “That’s because it is true, Artturi. I warned you not to chance the wrath of the gods with that woman, but you wouldn’t listen to me.” He gestured to the massed ranks of warriors. “It’s going to be hard enough to keep the tribes away from each others’ throats as it is once Clovis dies. At least with you out of the way, there’s a chance to contain things.” Caratacus sighed, his features turning thoughtful as he glanced up at the men watching from the platform. “What if we tell your father and Teutobod that these Romans decided to keep you as a hostage until they reached safety?”

  Malcolm met Flavius’ eyes above them, and the older man lifted a clenched fist to show his support. Malcolm returned the gesture, sharing a brief bond of friendship with the other man. He could see Claire standing beside Flavius, just able to peer down at him over the top of the sidewall. Claire’s face was white and strained looking, with what he took to be an expression of anger in her eyes.

  Malcolm sighed, not surprised as he turned back to Caratacus. “All right, I agree. I’ll stay with the Romans after I kill Clovis.” He stabbed a finger against Caratacus’ bare chest. “You just make sure nothing happens to Alodia while I’m gone. We’ll figure all of this out once I get back.”

  “Nothing will happen to her, Artturi,” Caratacus promised, looking relieved. “You have my word.” He drew a knife from his belt and held it out. “As the challenged, Clovis has his choice of weapons,” the warrior explained. “And we both know he’s going to pick knives.”

  Malcolm nodded wordlessly, accepting the weapon. He knew Clovis was an expert with knives, having seen that prowess displayed more than once over the years. Artturi was good as well, Malcolm knew, but not nearly as accomplished as his adversary.

  “Good luck,” Caratacus said. He glanced up at the sky and shuddered. “And let’s hope the gods are distracted drinking and making love right now, or you’re going to be in big trouble.”

  Malcolm grunted, glancing at Clovis, who, as expected, now held a gleaming knife in his right hand and wore a confident look on his face. He felt a sudden sensation of unease emanating from Artturi—the first time he’d ever felt that emotion coming from the Cimbri before a battle. If Artturi was worried, then Malcolm knew he should be too.

  “I think I already am in trouble,” Malcolm muttered under his breath to his friend as he slowly made his way toward Clovis.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CLAIRE

  Nothing ever seemed to go right for her and Gerald, Claire thought as Gervais led her away from the Consul’s tent. The tall Roman held her by the elbow, shoving her along the open square toward a line of tents. Claire wasn’t struggling or trying to get away, and she looked up at him with pleading eyes, hoping he’d see that she wanted to cooperate. But Gervais didn’t seem to notice or care; he just gripped her harder with his steel-like fingers, sending waves of pain radiating up to her shoulder.

  “Don’t you even think about trying to run,” Gervais grunted as they reached the wide road that spanned the fortress from one end to the other. Gervais turned right, dragging her with him. “That barbarian back there is the only chance we have,” he added. “And you’re the only thing that he seems to care about.”

  Claire wrinkled her nose at the man’s breath and the overwhelming smell of body odor coming from him. But the Roman seemed unaware of it as he drew her onward at a fast walk, forcing her to trot to keep up to his long legs. They eventually reached a small side gate and turned left along a row of tents, following the palisade wall of pointed stakes until they reached the end. Gervais paused to peer east around the last tent on the corner, then he stepped out and put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Claire could see the outline of a man standing beside a burning torch on one of the watchtowers guarding the main gate. She saw the wink of his helmet in the sunlight before a faint, answering whistle came back.

  Gervais grunted in satisfaction, then drew Claire back behind the protection of the tent. “We stay here,” he said. The Roman put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her to the ground. “Don’t move from that spot,” Gervais commanded. He drew his dagger and began cleaning his fingernails, occasionally pausing to peer around the tent wall. “There they are,” Gervais finally muttered after ten minutes of waiting. He glared at Claire, pointing with the blade for emphasis. “Not a sound out of you, girl. You hear me?”

  Claire just nodded, helpless to do anything
else. The sun was rising rapidly, but even so, she was cold where she sat in the shade of the tent. She wrapped her arms around herself as they waited, then, when that didn’t help, began to rub her bare arms, trying to warm them.

  “Stop your fidgeting,” Gervais growled with impatience. He took another look around the tent, then cursed, the unmistakable shake of nervousness in his voice. “Why haven’t they lit the fire yet?” The tall legionnaire cocked his head sideways, listening. “The barbarians are almost here,” he muttered, though whether he was talking to Claire or himself, she wasn’t sure. “Ah, finally,” the Roman said after a moment, sounding relieved.

  Claire held her breath and strained her ears, just able to hear faint cries coming from the east now. She could smell the unmistakable stench of woodsmoke on the wind just as the sounds of men’s angry voices echoed out over the tents. She thought one of the voices belonged to Artturi but didn’t want to risk the tall Roman’s wrath by trying to see what was happening. They continued to wait as the voices grew louder, and at one point, Gervais stiffened in alarm when a shout of pain rang out. He cursed and started to move forward, then he hesitated, looking unsure of himself. Finally, the Roman relaxed as another legionnaire appeared around the tent. It was the short one with the surly attitude, Claire realized. The one known as Remus.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” Remus said to Gervais. He glanced at Claire, his dark eyes expressionless. “We’ve made a different deal. Flavius wants the girl up top.”

  “Different how?” Gervais asked, looking worried.

  Remus spun on his heel and headed back the way he’d come. “You’ll see soon enough,” the Roman grunted over his shoulder.

  Claire stood to follow the short legionnaire just as Gervais snatched her by the elbow again. “No, you don’t,” he said. “We go together. Flavius told me not to let you out of my sight, and that’s just what I’m going to do.” Gervais headed toward the watchtower, pushing Claire ahead of him until they reached the ladder. “Up you go, girl.”

  Claire climbed the rough wooden rungs, helped when she reached the top by Flavius, who smiled reassuringly at her. “I have you.”

  Claire paused to look around. All four of the Romans were present, but Gerald was not. She felt a flutter of dread in her stomach as Flavius guided her to the eastern wall. He motioned with his eyes for her to look down. Claire propped herself up on the tips of her toes and peered over the railing. Gerald stood below her near an earthen ditch, talking with a huge, almost naked man covered in tattoos. She remembered from her days with the tribes that the warrior’s name was Caratacus. Hundreds of Cimbri and Teutones stood massed a hundred yards from the palisade walls, with a roaring fire on Claire’s right spewing voluminous black smoke into the air. What was going on? She glanced up at Flavius with the question in her eyes.

  “Artturi is going to fight that man over there,” Flavius explained. “He’s secured an agreement that whatever happens, the rest of us get to go free.”

  Claire looked to where the Roman was pointing and groaned when she recognized who Gerald’s adversary was. It was Frida’s father, Clovis. She knew Clovis and Artturi hated each other and she felt sudden anger rippling inside her. Her husband had chosen to fight rather than to be with her—just like every time they’d been together in their past lives.

  “Artturi is a brave and honorable man,” Flavius continued. “Few in his position would have chosen to risk their life this way to protect others.” The Roman smiled as he looked down at her. “What we mere mortals won’t do for love, eh?”

  Claire felt her anger toward Gerald instantly dissolve as she realized what Flavius was saying. Her husband was doing this for her, she realized. She didn’t understand why he needed to fight Clovis, but it was obvious to her now that he was doing it to protect her. Claire felt a momentary flash of guilt. She should have known better. Overwhelming emotion welled up in her chest and she had to force back the tears as she stared down at Gerald, vowing not to jump to conclusions about him ever again.

  “Your mother is a lucky woman,” Flavius added as he looked back out over the wall. He chuckled. “I’m not so old yet that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young and in love.”

  Claire recoiled as if she’d been slapped. Alodia? Frida’s mother? That’s who Flavius meant? That’s why Gerald was fighting Clovis? She glared down at her husband, her body starting to shake with fury. The bastard! Everything made sense to her now in one blinding moment of understanding. Alodia was why Gerald had avoided her like the plague when she was still with the tribes. And why he’d been so cold and aloof with her ever since. Claire shook her head in disbelief. She felt Frida’s anxiety welling up inside her and she squashed it savagely.

  “Are you all right?” Flavius asked, frowning in concern at her.

  Claire ignored the Roman, gasping for air as she held onto the wall. It felt like she was suddenly drowning in a sea of molten rage. Gerald, cheating on her, of all people—Gerald! It seemed impossible to imagine. Her husband had been one of those rare men back in the twenty-first century who cared nothing for other women. He never looked at them when he and Claire were out together dining or shopping, no matter what. In the beginning, Claire had thought he was just being overly attentive and that eventually, his attention would wander just like all men’s did. But it never happened.

  The few times Claire had mentioned Gerald’s lack of interest in other women to him, he would always respond with, “Why go out for hamburger when you can have steak at home?”

  It was a cheesy line and undeniably lame, yet just the same the words always made Claire’s heart melt because she knew he actually meant them. Claire blinked back hot tears, still in a state of shock. She replayed in her mind the few times the two of them had been together since all of this had started and how odd her husband had acted each time. Now she knew why. It had all been because of Alodia—the little slut! After everything Claire had been through to try to change the past—all the years living other people's lives—she had been nothing but faithful to their mission and her husband. Yet from the moment Gerald had arrived in this timeline, he’d turned into a stranger—one, who it seemed, had fallen in love with another woman. A part of Claire’s mind struggled with the question of Edward Thache, realizing that Alodia hadn’t been there in the eighteenth century, yet Gerald had been just as odd in that timeline as well.

  He was probably banging some hot little pirate slut too, Claire thought as her anger coiled like churning smoke within her. She felt the first faint whispers of a familiar darkness from her youth arise in her mind, stoking her rage, and she welcomed it like an old friend. Claire had been broken once, and it had been Gerald who had saved her from herself, healing her shattered mind with a mixture of love, patience, and understanding. The darkness had tried several times to return after Julie died, but just like always, Gerald was there to push it back into the recesses of her mind. Even after he’d gone to prison, Gerald’s influence remained, calming her when she visited him. And when she couldn’t see him, with long letters of encouragement, emails, and phone calls.

  But now, Claire felt the wall Gerald had helped her to build against the darkness shattering like glass at his unforgivable betrayal. She suddenly felt like a teenager again, confused, alone, and angry as she stood pressed against the wood, smoldering with pent-up rage. She could feel that long-dormant stain of black despair and hatred spreading like a virus within her body and sensed Frida whimpering in terror as she tried to escape the ugliness inside her. Claire ignored the girl, her face white with hurt as she looked down at Gerald. He will pay for this, she thought, her mind unconsciously picturing him and Alodia together. They both will.

  “Anytime now, child,” Flavius said from beside her, unable to hide the excitement in his voice.

  Whatever concern the Roman had felt for Claire from moments ago had passed quickly, she realized, just like everyone else’s that she’d ever known. Her father had been right, she thought with a hollow fe
eling of despair, picturing the drunken bastard with his ever-present bottle of whisky. She could hear his voice in her head as if it were yesterday. “You’re worthless, girl,” he would say in that slurred, trailer-trash drawl of his. “Nothin’ but a waste of skin.” He’d always smile and take a pull from the bottle after that statement, looking pleased with himself as if he’d said something clever. Then he’d take several long drags from his cigarette, examining her with cold hatred before flicking the butt at her. “You think you’re so special, don’t you? Too good for the rest of us. But the truth is, girl, nobody will ever give a shit about you. Not now, not ever.”

  Claire felt herself being pulled down into the spiraling darkness that had almost consumed her once as Flavius lifted a clenched fist in the air beside her. “May the gods be with you, Artturi, my friend,” he muttered in a low tone.

  Claire watched with steely eyes as her husband returned the gesture before he paused to lock gazes with her. She held his look, letting him see the rising blackness in her soul that his betrayal had resurrected. Claire thought she saw sudden guilt cloud Gerald’s features before he quickly shifted his gaze away, accepting a gleaming knife from Caratacus. Gerald turned then and strode toward Clovis, looking relaxed and confident. She could tell he was favoring his ribs as he moved, though he was doing his best not to show it. How Gerald expected to fight someone like Clovis in his condition was a mystery to her. Men, she snorted to herself, feeling the anger rippling across her skin like tendrils of emotionally charged flame. They all think they’re invincible. She thought of one of the many sayings her mother used to read to her from the Bible. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. Claire’s mother had been a deeply religious person—not that that had stopped her from copping out on Claire and her sister when they needed her the most, she thought bitterly.

  Cimbri, Teutones, and other warriors from the lesser tribes began cheering in a deafening roar as Gerald paused ten feet from Clovis. Claire forced all thoughts of her mother’s cowardice away, feeling her hot anger toward Gerald morphing into a cold, unfeeling mask. She remembered that mask. She’d worn it after her mother died—right up until Gerald Blackwood had entered her life. Now it was back, feeling as though it had never left.