Past Lives (The Past Lives Chronicles Book 1)

by Terry Cloutier

  “You are here because I need your help,” Carbo replied. He looked up, motioning to Valerius. The centurion grunted a sharp command, and the legionnaires and all the slaves except for Felix and Claire stepped outside. Valerius moved to follow them and Carbo lifted a hand to stop him. “Not you,” he grunted. “Stay.” Valerius nodded, taking up a position by the entrance as Carbo focused back on the trader.

  “You need my help for what?” Quintus asked, his eyes suddenly cold and calculating. Claire had seen that look many times when he was engaged in making business deals. She realized with sudden clarity that that was exactly what was going on here. She just didn’t know what that deal was going to be yet.

  Carbo scratched at his chin, staring at Quintus thoughtfully. “You were there, Quintus, so you know what really happened.”

  “There?” Quintus repeated, looking baffled.

  “Yes, during the battle with the barbarians. The Senate believes I am responsible for the disaster that occurred, but we both know it was Titus who disobeyed my direct commands and attacked without provocation. I made a bargain with the heathens to let them leave, and I am a man of my word. But sadly, Titus took it upon himself to take the matter into his own hands without my approval.”

  Quintus Barbii’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, and Claire saw Malcolm’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “But…but, Gnaeus, that’s not what happened at all.”

  “Isn’t it?” Carbo asked, toying with his cup again as he studied the trader. “The other legates and officers who survived remember it that way, so perhaps your memory is going, Quintus.” The Consul shifted his weight in his chair as he waved a hand in the air. “No matter, old friend. Let’s speak of other things, then. I have heard talk that your family has applied to the king of Noricum for the exclusive rights to buy their steel, among other things. Is that true?”

  Quintus Barbii hesitated, suddenly looking unsure of himself. “Yes, that is correct,” he said, his eyes narrowing with caution. “Why?”

  Carbo motioned to his desk. “Over there is an official document that only needs my signature to be binding. One which will give the party of my choosing those exclusive rights to Noricum that you so covet.”

  “But you’ve been impeached!” Quintus protested. “You can’t do that.”

  Carbo waggled a finger. “No, I have been recalled to Rome, where I am to be impeached upon my arrival. There is a difference. Until that moment happens, I am still Consul, which means that document is perfectly legal.”

  “So, you want me to lie for you?” Quintus said, looking outraged.

  “Such an uncomfortable word,” Carbo replied. He smiled. “Truth and lies are all interwoven anyway, my friend. Sometimes it’s hard to tell one from the other.”

  “You’re insane,” Quintus said as he stood. “Titus was my friend, and I’ll have no part in sullying his good name and that of his family.”

  “Sit down, Quintus,” Carbo grunted, a clear threat in his voice. “We’re not through yet.”

  The trader glanced at the grim face of the centurion by the exit, who had a hand on his sword hilt. Quintus slowly sat, glowering at the Consul as he waited.

  “Thank you,” Carbo said. “I wonder, Quintus, have you heard mention of a man named Silvius Gabinus?”

  The trader grimaced. “I have,” he replied in a weak voice. Claire thought the man looked like he was going to be sick.

  Carbo slapped his forehead in mock surprise. “Well, of course you have. How silly of me.” He took a sip of wine, then gestured with the cup toward the trader. “He’s your rival, is he not?”

  “He is,” Quintus replied, the words low and filled with anger.

  “Ah, I thought as much,” Carbo said. He glanced toward the desk. “That document of which I mentioned earlier. The name of the rights holder has been left blank—at least for the time being. As Consul, I can’t let my personal feelings for you hinder my decision in any way, which I am sure you can appreciate. Exclusive trade with Noricum would be worth a fortune to whomever I decide would best fit Rome’s interests. It’s a matter that I’ll have to consider very closely over the next few days.”

  Claire could see Quintus Barbii smoldering with fury. “So, you would blackmail me then?”

  “Another ugly word,” Carbo said with distaste. “One that does not do you justice, old friend.”

  “You’re going to get impeached no matter what I say,” Quintus said. “You know it, and I know it. They have the votes against you in the Senate. So why go to such great lengths for something that will give you nothing in the end but the same result along with a broken friendship?”

  “Interesting that you should ask that,” Carbo said, his eyes alight with cunning. He signaled for more wine, then waited until Felix had filled his cup before continuing. “How is your lovely new wife these days, Quintus?”

  The trader blinked, clearly surprised by the sudden shift in topic. “She is well, Gnaeus. Why?”

  “And her dear father?” Carbo asked, ignoring the question.

  Claire could see something shift in the trader’s eyes, a sudden understanding of what was going on. He looked down, nodding to himself. “So, that’s what all this is about,” he said in a low voice. “You want me to sway the Senator’s vote.”

  “Why, Quintus,” Carbo said, his eyes wide and innocent. “The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. But now, come to think of it, I find the idea intriguing. I mean, it was your wife’s father, Senator Cornutus, who called for my impeachment in the first place. But now that you plan on telling him the truth about what really happened, I’m sure all of this nonsense will simply go away.”

  “You bastard,” Quintus growled.

  Carbo shrugged, looking smug and sure of himself. He gestured to the desk. “You will find a written statement of exactly what occurred during the battle of Noreia and the mistakes that my dear friend Titus made without my approval. I will need you to sign it. Once that is done, you will go to Rome immediately and convince Gaius Cornutus that my pending impeachment is against everyone’s best interest, including his.”

  “And if I can’t convince him?” Quintus Barbii asked.

  “Oh, come now, dear Quintus. I’ve seen you negotiate much more complicated deals than this without even breaking a sweat.”

  “You know he hates you, Gnaeus,” Quintus said, looking worried. “I don’t know if it can be done.”

  “Then use your influence and get me the votes I need elsewhere in the Senate,” Carbo snapped, his eyes flashing. The Consul sighed, composing himself. “Because if you don’t swing that vote my way, old friend, then I fear I will be forced to make a most difficult choice about Noricum.”

  The tent remained silent for several minutes as the trader thought, until finally he arose and moved slowly toward the desk. Felix followed him, showing Quintus where to sign the document.

  “There,” Quintus Barbii said when he was done, turning to glare at Carbo. “I hope you’re happy.”

  The Consul inclined his head. “I am Quintus, I am. I leave my fate in your trusty hands. Go to Rome and weave your magic for me. When the job is done, send word and I will come home.” He grinned, glancing down at himself. “I’m sure the wounds I suffered trying to save the legions from Titus’ blunderings will be healed by then.” Carbo gestured to Malcolm, who Claire thought still look stunned by the turn of events. “And when I do return, it will be in triumph, with the son of the barbarian king following me into Rome in chains.” Carbo stood, his eyes shining. “And once my position is secure again, I will rebuild the legions. This time, with the help of the gods, we will destroy these barbarians once and for all.”

  Quintus paused, his eyebrows rising as he assessed Malcolm with new eyes, then he nodded, heading for the entrance. “Come along, Marcella. This snake pit is no place for a child.”

  “Speaking of the girl,” Carbo said, holding up his hand. The Consul glanced over his shoulder at Claire and she felt her insides go cold at the predatory look o
n his face. “I have grown attached to this slave of yours. I would like to buy her from you.”

  Quintus Barbii hesitated, glancing at Claire uncertainly. “She’s not for sale,” he said, though with little conviction. Claire felt her heart sinking, knowing that the trader had no fight left in him by the look in his eyes.

  “Isn’t she?” Carbo asked, sounding amused. “You once told me everything is for sale—for the right price. Once your family owns the rights to Noricum, you can buy all the slaves you want.” Carbo hesitated, then added, “Or Silvius Gabinus will gain Noricum, and you will be left with this slave and nothing else.” Carbo smiled like a wolf about to devour a rabbit as he leaned forward. “The choice is yours, Quintus.”

  Quintus Barbii locked eyes with Carbo, but there was little fire left in the trader, only defeat and acceptance. He finally dropped his gaze to the floor in resignation. “I’ll have the bill of sale drawn up right away,” he said, so softly Claire almost missed it before he turned and headed for the exit. The trader looked as if he’d aged twenty years to Claire, and she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him as he paused and glanced at her. “I am truly sorry, Marcella. I don’t know how it came to pass that you got entangled in all of this, but I want you to know I’m sorry for how things turned out.”

  And then he was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  MALCOLM

  The metal shackles around Malcolm’s ankles were too tight, with the short chain attached to similar restraints on his wrists forcing him to lie on the cold ground in a back-breaking fetal position. Malcolm was exhausted, and though night had fallen long ago, he was afraid to fall asleep, worried that the unforgiving metal might cut off his circulation if he didn’t keep moving his feet back and forth. It had been daylight when Malcolm was dragged away to see Consul Carbo, but that had been many hours ago, and the tent he’d been returned to now lay in pitch darkness. Malcolm knew two legionnaires stood outside, for he’d heard them talking—not that he had any hope of going anywhere trussed up as he was anyway.

  Malcolm tried not to think about the pinching around his ankles, focusing instead on Carbo’s surprisingly devious plan. He had to admit that the man was far cleverer than he had given him credit for. Using someone like Quintus Barbii with all his connections to sway the impeachment vote was completely unexpected and, in Malcolm’s grudging opinion, nothing short of brilliant. The worst part was Malcolm knew the ploy had an excellent chance of success, all because he had allowed himself to be talked into viewing Aquileia by Claire. The Consul’s scheme hadn’t occurred in Malcolm’s timeline, at least not that he’d read about, so he had to assume either he or Claire had something to do with giving the man the idea.

  Malcolm had a sudden, uncomfortable thought, wondering if somehow Claire had hoped for just this kind of outcome when she’d insisted they see the city. It seemed hard to imagine, but he also knew changing the future by messing with the past was still very much on her agenda, regardless of what she pretended. But if Carbo actually succeeded in having his impeachment overturned—which at this point seemed likely—then there was a good chance that change was exactly what she was going to get. Though probably not in the way that she hoped.

  Malcolm knew he had to fix this mess, and soon. But to do that, he needed to be free first, which wasn’t looking all that promising at the moment. He shifted position on the ground, trying to ease the ache in his neck, while from outside, he could hear sudden voices raised in conversation. He recognized the deep bass of one of his guards and the other one’s higher tone, but now there was a third voice—one that sounded feminine. Malcolm felt hope stirring in his breast, and he strained his ears, trying to hear what was being said. But other than low laughter and a few meaningless words from the guard with the deep voice, he couldn’t make anything out. Finally, after only a few minutes, the voices ceased and everything went silent again. Malcolm closed his eyes, the faint hope that something was going to happen fading as he fought against his fatigue. But, try as he might to stay awake, his eyes eventually closed and he finally slept, dropping into a familiar dream from his past.

  Malcolm was twelve years old, riding in the passenger seat of his dad’s 1970 Buick Electra 225 custom convertible. The car was bright gold with a black top that lay folded open, allowing the wind to whip at Malcolm’s short hair. He was on a business trip with his father, the first time they’d ever been alone together. Malcolm couldn’t remember his dad actually acknowledging he even existed for more than three minutes before this and he’d never been so excited. All the windows were down, and Malcolm put his hand into the wind, making a fist and pretending he was a superhero. He laughed, feeling happy and invincible as the car hurtled along the highway.

  “What’s so funny?” his dad asked around his cigar. Gregory Foster was a big man, with thick shoulders and a waistline slowly going to pot. He’d had thick brown hair once, but now all that was left was a band around his ears and a long tuft that grew at the peak of his forehead like a dark island in a sea of white flesh. Malcolm thought it looked ridiculous, but his dad wouldn’t hear of cutting it off, even though he never went out in public now without his plaid fedora on his head.

  “I was just thinking that I’m as strong as a superhero,” Malcolm shouted over the howling wind.

  Gregory Foster frowned. “A what?”

  “A superhero,” Malcolm replied. “You know, like Batman or Superman in the comics.”

  Gregory Foster rolled his eyes. “Are you shitting me?” He pointed his cigar at Malcolm. “Get your head out of your ass, boy. You shouldn’t be reading garbage like that.”

  “It’s just comic books,” Malcolm said as he splayed open his hand and let the wind whistle through his fingers. “They’re fun.”

  “Fun!” his dad thundered. “You trying to get me bowed up, boy?”

  “No, sir,” Malcolm said, feeling his lower lip jutting out in a pout. He pulled his hand in and dropped it in his lap, sensing a lecture coming.

  “Those comic books aren’t worth a spit. Just a bunch of commie trash designed to make America’s youth as dumb as a box of rocks.” Gregory Foster shook his head, one hand on the wheel, the other holding his cigar as he puffed on it in righteous anger. “And from where I sit, boy, it sure as shit seems to be workin’ on you.”

  “It don’t mean nothing,” Malcolm said, knowing he’d be better off keeping his mouth shut, but unable to stop himself from defending his beloved comic books.

  “That’s what everybody says,” Gregory Foster grunted. “Right up until it does. Now, I don’t wanna hear no more about it, and I sure as shit don’t want you talking no crap about superheroes when we get to Mister Coglin’s place. That bastard will squeeze a nickel till the buffalo screams if you let him, but word is he’s got a soft spot for kids. That’s the only reason I brought you along in the first place, and I won’t have you spouting worthless nonsense that could chance blowing this deal. You hear me, boy?”

  “Yes, sir,” Malcolm said, sighing as he looked out across the green landscape dotted with houses that streamed past the car. He should have known better and stayed home with his mother, but she’d told him it was a good chance for the two of them to bond—whatever that meant. If this was bonding, then Malcolm wanted no part of it.

  Malcolm moaned, pulled away from his dream as someone shook his shoulder. He stirred, his hands coming up short as the chains holding them rattled. “What? What is it?”

  “Maximus?”

  Malcolm blinked, trying to focus on the speaker in the darkness. Whoever it was, the person smelled overwhelmingly of onions.

  “Maximus, you must wake up.”

  “Who’s there?” Malcolm croaked as his eyes started to adjust to the darkness. He could see a small form leaning over him.

  “Lepida,” came back the reply.

  “Lepida?” Malcolm repeated in confusion. “From the thermopolium?”

  “Yes,” the old woman whispered.

  Malcolm couldn�
�t keep the surprise out of his voice. “What are you doing here?”

  “Repaying a debt,” Lepida answered.

  Malcolm felt her tiny hands on him, probing until she found the padlock on the manacles around his wrists. “There’s no point,” he said. “Without a key, you’ll never get them off.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I have the key,” Lepida grunted. Malcolm heard the sound of metal grating, then felt unbelievable relief as the manacles clicked open, freeing him.

  “But, how?” Malcolm whispered as the old woman went to work on his ankles. He almost sobbed when the metal finally came off. He tried to stand, but his feet felt numb and he stumbled as Lepida tried and failed to hold him upright. Malcolm fell heavily on his behind.

  “Rest a moment,” Lepida said, panting from the effort of trying to support him. “We have time.”

  Malcolm nodded in the darkness. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Flavius told me.”

  Hope soared in Malcolm’s chest. “He’s alive? Flavius is alive?” Lepida paused for a long time, which was answer enough, and Malcolm felt the sudden light of hope fade to sorrow.

  “No, Maximus, I’m sorry, he’s not.”

  “But if he’s dead, how could he have told you about me?” Malcolm asked, even more confused now.

  “They dragged Flavius away from my place more dead than alive and brought him here,” Lepida said with a catch in her throat. “We were told they wanted to make an example of him to the legions.” She hesitated. “Which sadly, they did today at midday.”

  Malcolm took a deep breath, trying not to picture what he knew had been done to Flavius. The Romans treated those they viewed as traitors harshly, and his friend’s last moments would not have been pretty. “But, how could you have talked to him about me?” Malcolm finally asked, feeling resolve strengthening him. There was nothing he could do for Flavius now, he knew, but with this woman’s help, he could still get Claire away from Carbo and possibly stop him from retaining his Consulship.