Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  Malcolm studied the majestic marble columns that towered above them as they walked the road, each column supported by bulky plinths decorated with the faces of Medusa and Jupiter Ammon, which was a horned deity from both Greek and Roman mythology. There seemed to be an air of panic within Aquileia, he realized, with small groups of people talking together in excited whispers everywhere he looked. Carts and slaves loaded with heavy bundles hurried past them onto side streets or out through the gates, though few if any paid any attention to the dirty, disheveled strangers.

  “They have heard of Carbo’s defeat,” Gervais said, his forever-nervous features looking even more pinched than normal.

  “So it would seem,” Flavius said with a frown, glancing at Malcolm. “Perhaps your father and Teutobod changed their plans and are coming here after all, my friend.”

  “I doubt it,” Malcolm said with a shake of his head. “This is probably just hysteria and nothing more.”

  “Perhaps,” Flavius grunted. He paused to stop a grey-haired man in a white, sleeveless toga with gold trim. “Pardon me. We were with Consul Carbo on the expedition against the barbarians and got separated from him. Have the legions returned?”

  “Yes,” the man sniffed with disdain. “What’s left of them, at any rate.” He hooked a thumb to the west. “They’ve made camp in the fields a mile from here while Consul Carbo recovers from his wounds.”

  “The Consul isn’t returning to Rome?” Flavius asked, looking surprised.

  “Word is he’s been recalled to the Senate,” the Roman said, sniffing a second time. “But his injuries won’t allow for him to be moved just yet, or at least, that’s the official story. If you ask me, the Consul is just afraid to show his face in Rome because he knows what’s waiting for him there.” The man’s face turned hard. “Probably a good idea, come to think of it. I expect the mob would tear him apart for his failure before he ever reached the Senate.”

  “Thank you for the news,” Flavius said. The grey-haired man bowed his head, then hurried away as Flavius glanced at Malcolm. “We will need to report to camp as soon as possible.” He fixed his gaze on Gervais and Remus. “You two head over there now and find an officer. I’m sure strays coming in from the mountains aren’t that uncommon, so there shouldn’t be any issues. Let him know I’ll be along shortly. I want to get Artturi and Frida settled first.”

  “Yes, Flavius,” Gervais said. He offered Malcolm the sack containing his armor as the two men shook hands. “It has been an honor, Artturi. May the gods always watch over you and the girl.”

  Malcolm nodded as Gervais clapped him on the shoulder before Remus moved forward and took his place.

  “I almost killed you once,” Remus grunted. He took Malcolm’s hand. “I’m glad I didn’t. You’re not a bad sort—for a stinking barbarian.”

  Malcolm laughed at the familiar jibe they’d been using between them. “You’re not so bad either—for an ugly Roman.”

  Remus chuckled before he and Gervais headed back the way they’d come, heading for the gates.

  “The place I spoke of earlier isn’t far from here,” Flavius said once the legionnaires were gone, drawing Malcolm and Claire further along the thoroughfare. “Many of the finer citizens refuse to go there, the snobs, but the pinsa is superb and is made with care and passion, which is something that is sadly lacking these days. We’ll go there and eat and get a room for you. Then, if you like, you both can use one of the public bathhouses to scrape the grime from your bodies.” Flavius glanced at Claire’s worn and stained stola. “And we’d best get you two new clothing while we’re at it.”

  “I thought you needed to report to camp?” Malcolm said.

  Flavius paused to let several slaves hurry past him, and then he shrugged before continuing onward. “I think another hour or two without me will hardly matter at this stage, don’t you?”

  “If you say so, Flavius,” Malcolm said, already turning his attention back to the wonders of Aquileia.

  After a short walk, they reached their destination, which turned out to be a roof-covered courtyard open to the street that led to a modest house behind. Several long benches of granite lined the walls inside the courtyard, and a massive stone oven with rounded openings on all sides dominated the center of the brick floor. Two slaves slick with sweat stood by the oven holding long, flat paddles as they stared at the contents cooking inside with rapt attention while smoke drifted up and away through a large opening in the ceiling. A doorway at the back of the courtyard led into the house, with stone counters decorated with marble slabs set in a U-shape around the door. Terracotta vessels were built into the countertops, holding ready-made meals along with wine and beer. The place was what was known as a thermopolium, Malcolm realized, which was essentially a fast-food restaurant much like what he’d known in the twenty-first century.

  Malcolm’s stomach rumbled at the smell of baking dough, knowing the flatbread called pinsa cooking in the ovens would likely be covered in cheese and onions, and perhaps some bacon or ham as well. The pinsa was actually the forerunner of modern pizza. The back wall of the courtyard and both sides depicted brightly painted murals, and Malcolm noticed most of them were of food such as fish, meat, vegetables, eggs, olives, and sweets. Only a few unsavory-looking patrons sat on the benches or at the counters as a bent, wizened woman approached, smiling toothless gums.

  “Why, if it isn’t Flavius Geta,” she said, clasping her wrinkled and age-spotted hands together in front of her. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  “Lepida!” Flavius cried with obvious delight, his face breaking out in a wide grin as he embraced the woman. “I was hoping to see you here. It’s been far too long.” He broke the embrace, shaking his head as he looked down at her. “You appear younger and more beautiful every time I see you. How is that possible?”

  “And you lie even better now than you did the last time you graced my humble establishment,” Lepida said with a twinkle in her eyes.

  Flavius laughed as he glanced around the room. “Where is Vopiscus? I wish to say hello.”

  Lepida’s eyes shadowed for a moment. “Sadly, the gods chose to take him almost three years ago now.”

  “I am truly sorry to hear that,” Flavius said, his smile fading.

  Lepida waved a hand. “That is the way of all things.” She winked. “The gods must eat just like everyone else, and they knew there was no one who can make pinsa like my Vopiscus. I’m just surprised they waited so long to take him.” She smiled, putting her hand on Flavius’ arm. “I imagine my dear husband is getting little rest these days, for the gods are always hungry.”

  “I expect you’re right,” Flavius said, smiling once again. “And speaking of your delicious pinsa, I’ve brought my dear friend Maximus here, telling him grand tales of your wonderous food.”

  Lepida bowed her head in gratitude at the kind words as she glanced at Malcolm, ignoring Claire. “Then we must not let your friend down, must we? Do you wish to dine here, or will you be going elsewhere to eat?”

  “Here will be just fine,” Flavius said with a grin. “That way, I can bask in the light of your presence for as long as possible.”

  Lepida rolled her eyes, smiling fondly at Flavius as she gestured to several benches. “Then please sit. Wine will be brought for you shortly.”

  “Dear lady,” Flavius said, lowering his voice as she turned to go. “This is somewhat embarrassing, but my companion and I have been on the road for some time. We have no money on our persons at the moment, but will gladly pay you as soon as possible.”

  “Nonsense,” Lepida said, waving a hand in dismissal. “The debt my family owes yours can never be repaid; we both know that. But perhaps some wine and pinsa on the house will be a good start.”

  Flavius bowed his head in acceptance, looking relieved as Lepida walked away.

  “What was that all about?” Malcolm asked as he set the sack he held on the floor, then sat down on a bench along one sidewall with the others.

&
nbsp; Flavius shrugged. “My father lent Vopiscus and Lepida the money to buy this place many years ago. He refused any interest for the loan, and they have never forgotten his generosity.” Flavius rubbed his hands together, smacking his lips and breathing in the fragrances of the cooking food with appreciation. “It seems like an eternity since I’ve had the pinsa here, Artturi. You are in for a rare treat, my friend.”

  “You used to come here a lot?” Malcolm asked. He was surprised, actually. Flavius was from a wealthy family, and the thermopoliums, even in this time, were already gaining a bad reputation for attracting rascals, gamblers, and alcoholics. Most of the wealthier Roman citizens looked upon these establishments with contempt and refused to frequent them. Eventually, Emperor Claudius would close most of them down several hundred years from now due to public dissatisfaction.

  “Yes,” Flavius said. He grinned, his eyes sparkling. “I was something of a troublemaker in my younger days, which you probably will find hard to believe.” He sighed, remembering. “You could always depend on a fight or two occurring in one of these places in the old days.”

  Malcolm grunted his understanding as he looked around at the sparse clientele. Two men sat at the counter sipping wine as they played a lackluster game of dice. The few others were all sitting alone and minding their own business. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen this time,” he said. “At least, not until we’ve eaten.”

  Flavius laughed, his experienced eyes studying each man with professional ease. “There’s nothing here to worry about, Artturi. Just a bunch of down and out peregrini. Take my word for it.”

  Malcolm nodded. Peregrini were not full Roman citizens and therefore looked upon with disdain by their superiors. He watched as a pretty young female slave appeared, carrying a wooden slab that held three clay cups and two larger vessels with swooping necks made of bronze called askos. Unlike the Greeks, who mixed water and wine together in a single container, the Romans liked to mix theirs in their cups. The slave set the slab down on the bench beside Flavius, who said nothing as he took a cup and began to pour wine into it.

  “You may go,” he said absently to the slave. The girl nodded and left as Flavius held the full cup of wine out to Malcolm, then proceeded to pour water into a second, adding a small amount of wine as well before offering the cup to Claire. Claire looked disappointed but nodded her thanks anyway as Flavius filled his cup with wine, then raised it in the air. “To your health, Artturi,” he said, not waiting as he took a long drink. Both Malcolm and Claire followed suit as Flavius smacked his lips and wiped his mouth. “I must admit, I didn’t expect to see Aquileia again, or any other Roman city for that matter.” He smiled ruefully. “The gods sent you to us, Artturi, and to show my gratitude, I will make a public sacrifice of a bull the moment an opportunity presents itself.”

  “Perhaps it was just dumb luck that I found you, and the gods had nothing to do with any of it,” Malcolm said. He grinned at the startled look on his friend’s face. “If that’s true, then you’d just be wasting a fine bull for nothing.”

  “Do not jest about such things,” Flavius said gravely as he poured himself a second cup. “The gods do not react favorably to such callous words.” The Roman glanced toward the street as the sudden sounds of many marching feet arose. He cursed under his breath, his features turning hard as a contingent of legionnaires in gleaming bronze armor appeared, heading directly toward the thermopolium. The legionnaires were led by a grim-faced centurion with a magnificent, plumed helmet. “I warned you not to tempt the gods,” Flavius said out of the side of his mouth. Malcolm started to rise, but the Roman put his hand on his arm. “No, stay where you are. It’s too late now. Say nothing and let me handle this.”

  The centurion paused at the entrance to the courtyard as the legionnaires spread out across the street. The Roman soldier’s eyes narrowed with recognition when he saw the three of them sitting on the bench. He removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm as he approached with clipped strides.

  “You are Flavius Geta, I believe,” the centurion said, stopping a sword length away from the older Roman. The man’s voice was hard and cold, matching the look in his eyes. Malcolm knew they were in trouble.

  “I am, Centurion,” Flavius said, his words precise and filled with caution. He glanced toward the street and the silent legionnaires waiting there. “Is there something wrong? I was on my way to report to the camp the moment I’d eaten. I’m not a deserter, if that’s what you think, Centurion.”

  The centurion flicked his eyes to Malcolm, then back to Flavius, not hiding his disdain. “I am aware of exactly what you are,” he said with a sneer. “Consul Carbo wishes to speak with you and your companion.” The Roman soldier shifted his feet, resting his free hand on his sword. “Now.”

  Flavius stood, setting his cup down first before facing the centurion. “This is Maximus Decimus Meridius, an old friend of mine from childhood. What could the Consul possibly want to see him for?”

  The centurion smirked then, looking unimpressed. “Maybe you should worry more about what the Consul has in store for you, Flavius Geta. You know what we do to traitors here.”

  Flavius hesitated, suddenly looking uncertain. “I am no traitor, Centurion.”

  “No?” the man said, one eyebrow raised. He turned and gestured to the street.

  Malcolm saw Flavius’ face go white as several legionnaires shuffled a battered and bruised Gervais forward, holding the man by his arms. Gervais kept his gaze fixed on the ground as blood dripped unheeded from his nose.

  “Then perhaps you can explain to me why you brought a barbarian spy into our midst and said nothing about it?” the centurion challenged. “A spy, who it turns out, is actually the son of the heathen king, Boiorix, no less. That is treason, is it not?”

  Flavius looked down, closing his eyes for a moment in resignation. Malcolm didn’t fail to notice his friend had put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Malcolm stood and stepped forward before the older Roman could say or do anything more. “I helped these men get through the mountains. They didn’t know who I was.”

  The centurion laughed, the sound harsh in the enclosed space. “Do you really expect me to believe that, Artturi of the Cimbri?” He gestured to Gervais. “Because I already got the truth from him and the other one, so there is little point in lying.”

  “If you already know the truth, then why ask at all?” Malcolm grunted, groaning inwardly. To have risked so much to get here only to ensnare his friends in this mess because of his selfishness was beyond maddening.

  “Because I wanted to hear it from this dog’s lips first before we execute him,” the centurion said as he glanced at Flavius, who was now staring up at the ceiling with a rueful look on his features.

  The courtyard had gone deathly silent, with the few patrons shrinking back against the walls, trying to make themselves as small as possible. Malcolm saw Lepida standing in the house's doorway, her lower lip quivering with tension and worry. He felt Claire’s hand grasping his as she moved to stand beside him, looking confused and unsure of herself.

  “A shame, really,” Flavius said after a moment with a sad smile on his face as he turned to Malcolm. “I really was looking forward to that pinsa.” He shrugged. “So, it won’t be a bull the gods require, then, but something more substantial.” He sighed. “Fate is a fickle mistress, my friend. Good luck. I hope you make it out of this.”

  Malcolm started to shout in protest, realizing what Flavius was about to do, but it was already too late. The older Roman snatched his sword from his scabbard, then slashed the blade across the centurion’s breastplate as metal scraped. The startled soldier cried out more in surprise than pain, staggering backward as Flavius glared at Malcolm.

  “Go, Artturi!” Flavius hissed, motioning with his head behind him. “Out the back. I’ll hold them off!”

  “Flavius—” Malcolm started to say.

  “Now, you fool!” Flavius shouted. “Don’t make my sacrifice be for nothing!”
He hesitated. “Please,” he said in a softer voice before he turned and rushed forward to engage the first of the charging legionnaires.

  Malcolm waited a moment longer, but the legionnaires were already swarming into the courtyard, hacking at Flavius. He saw his friend go down beneath a pile of bodies as the soldiers roared, then he turned and snatched Claire in his arms before he started to run. Malcolm reached the counter, using one hand to help propel himself over it as Lepida scurried aside, her face white with fear. Malcolm charged through the house's doorway, finding himself in a short passageway that led into the kitchens. He drew his sword, holding Claire in one arm awkwardly as he raced past startled slaves working over cooking ovens, making his way to the back where an open archway awaited. He passed through, then hesitated, finding himself in a modest-sized atrium. Malcolm’s eyelids flickered as he reviewed what he knew about Roman floor plans. Straight ahead should be the study, followed by a garden court called the peristylium, then another dining room mainly used in summer called the triclinium, which should lead outside.

  Malcolm felt Claire slapping at his shoulder and he looked at her in surprise as she motioned for him to put her down. He set the girl on her feet, then took her hand as they ran, while behind them, they could hear the shouts of the pursuing legionnaires. They made it to the courtyard, which was small and rectangular and had a square fountain in the center of a manicured lawn. A statue of Edesia, the goddess of food and drink, stood in the middle of the fountain, while around the exterior of the courtyard rose delicate white columns that supported the stone roof of a high portico.

  “Come on,” Malcolm grunted, yanking Claire along as they hurried around the fountain. They reached the triclinium, then burst outside onto a narrow alleyway covered in shit and garbage with broken-down buildings of cracked and weathered brick and stone rising to either side. They were in the slums of the city, Malcolm knew. “Damn!” he cursed in frustration as shouts arose almost immediately at the sight of them. Five legionnaires were sprinting forward from his right, screaming for them to halt. Malcolm turned and ran in the opposite direction, with Claire sobbing from the effort as she tried to keep up.