by James Wilde
‘Let no one out alive,’ he murmured, stepping back.
‘Do you think they’ll put up a fight?’ Pavo whispered.
‘They won’t have a chance. They’ll be drunk, their blades set aside. Their blood will be draining into the floor before they even realize we’re there.’
‘And if they raise the alarm?’
‘We’re soldiers of Rome. Who will the good folk of Londinium heed – mud-spattered men one step out of the ditches of the north or their cherished defenders?’
‘You’ve thought of everything,’ Pavo said with an appreciative nod.
‘There’s no escape for any of them.’ Corvus drew his sword, and the blades of all his men sang as they were unsheathed. ‘Kill them all,’ he said, louder this time. The moment for subterfuge had passed.
A foot thundered against the door. Again and again, until the cracked wood burst off its hinges. The soldiers surged in.
Corvus breathed in lavender and woodsmoke and heard a man’s voice booming in song deep inside the house. He felt his blood hammer into his head. He had not felt this exhilarated since he’d murdered his brother.
A half-naked woman swung open a bedroom door and shouted at the disturbance. Corvus smiled as the words died in her throat. She fell back, stabbed in the belly. The man who was with her sprawled in his own blood a moment later.
Into a larger room in the back they crashed, and the singing choked off. As his men levelled their blades around the edge of the chamber, Corvus pushed his way inside.
They were all there.
Lucanus and the woman with child. The other arcani, a wood-priest, some women he didn’t recognize. Corvus drank in their expressions of shock, slowly shading to grim realization of the fate that awaited them.
‘You?’ Lucanus said.
Corvus shrugged. ‘In different times, we could have been friends.’
The Wolf half pushed himself to his feet and three blades flashed towards his chest. He slumped back down, glowering.
‘We were friends.’
‘Words are slippery things.’
The wood-priest jabbed the tip of his staff towards him. ‘What do you stand to gain?’
‘From killing you all? Why, everything. Londinium deserves to eat, I think.’ He waved his hand towards the remnants of their feast, and said to his men, ‘See? They fill their bellies while everyone else goes hungry.’
‘Take me, then,’ Catia said. ‘Do your deal with the barbarians.’
‘Ah, if only it were so simple.’ He paused, looking her up and down. How strange it was to see his own flesh and blood after imagining her for so long. There was nothing of Gaia in her. She might have been born to another entirely.
He felt nothing.
‘Did you know your mother is here in Londinium?’
He watched Catia flinch and felt a wave of pleasure.
‘Your mother … my mother.’
Her brow furrowed, the slow-witted cow. ‘I have no …’ The words trailed away.
‘Gaia couldn’t bear to be around you any more. She fled to Rome to escape your failings and raised children … a child … who would truly do her justice.’ He could feel Pavo’s eyes on his back, urging him on. How good it felt to unburden himself of all these thoughts.
The wood-priest chuckled.
‘Mirth? Is this what fear for your life does to you?’ said Corvus, turning towards him.
‘It’s always good when a rival is revealed. No more skirting each other in the shadows.’
‘Oh, the skirting is long since over. In fact, there’ll be no skirting for you again.’ He pursed his lips in reflection. ‘It’s true, I have a dragon eating its own tail branded into my back. And a rightful heir awaits. All will be as it should have been before my mother was driven from Britannia.’
He sensed his men stirring around him, puzzled by the conversation. ‘Kill them now,’ he said. ‘For Rome. For Mithras.’
He’d won.
In that moment of victory, the whirlwind struck.
Corvus jerked at sudden shouts and crashes. Bodies churned around him. Rough hands gripped his arms. Swords clattered to the floor, and through his daze he realized the room was suddenly filled with men. He glimpsed bafflement on the faces of his sister and Lucanus – not their doing. And then he spun back, dragged out of the chamber and along the corridor, a din ringing around him, faces whirling by.
In the bitter cold of the night, those rough hands flung him down. The icy street burned his cheek where his head cracked against it. Clawing his way on to his back, he looked up, trying to pierce the confusion. Soldiers swirled all around. A familiar face stared down at him.
‘All the lies that left your lips.’ Theodosius’ features looked as frozen as the whorls of snow around him.
‘My friend—’ he began, but the other man’s wintry glare silenced him.
‘You pretended to be a follower of the Christ, even knelt and prayed with me. But all along you were a treacherous heathen. A follower of Mithras.’ Theodosius’ voice was as icy as his face. ‘I’ve been watching you very closely, Corvus. I suspected you long ago, back in Rome. You’re a man who understands words, and you found all the right ones to say to me, but you never seemed like a Christian. When the Lord is in the heart, a man sees these things. I’ve been biding my time, until I could be certain you were an unbeliever. A traitor in our midst, looking to return the empire to the worship of Mithras. But it will never be. The emperor demands we are Christians, and I will do all in my power to ensure that comes to pass. We will only be safe when your kind no longer walk among us.’
‘Keep your tongue still,’ Pavo whispered to Corvus.
Alas, he couldn’t. ‘So friendship means nothing in the face of zealotry,’ he said.
‘Take him away,’ Theodosius commanded.
As the soldiers hauled him to his feet, Corvus saw Lucanus step out on to the street. Theodosius turned to him. ‘I have my doubts about you too. But that is a matter for another time. You still have a chance for the light of God to be brought into your life. For now, know this: your woman is under our protection. We are men of Rome, and men of God, and no honourable man would throw a fellow citizen to the wolves, even to save a starving town. We will find another solution to our problems here in Londinium.’
Corvus glimpsed the relief in Lucanus’ face, but that was the last thing he saw. One of the men holding him raised his sword. The hilt cracked against the side of his head.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
At Still Midnight
AD 368, Londinium, 13 January
THE SCREAMS ECHOED into the dawn quiet. Outside the House of Wishes, Lucanus stamped his feet and blew into his hands. Still no respite from that bitter winter. Some said it would never end, that the season had turned for good and that the gods had abandoned this world.
Of course, some had said that the previous winter too. And the one before that. Men had short memories.
The screams ebbed away and his stomach unclenched.
Bellicus clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Catia is a fighter.’
‘I’ve seen childbirth take women just as strong.’
His friend cracked his knuckles. ‘If you listen to the wood-priest, this child will be a gift from the gods—’
‘Aye. And they gave me this magic sword too.’ Lucanus choked down the acid.
The waters had broken at the witching hour – a sign, Myrrdin had said. The child would stand at the gateway between two worlds, and show two faces, like the Romans’ Janus, the holder of the key. The world of men, and the Otherworld, where the gods lived. Between Lugh, the god of the reborn sun, and the Morrigan, queen of night. Between life and death.
So Myrrdin had said.
The druid was inside now, muttering his prayers and waving his charms and burning strange herbs in the hearth, filling the room with bitter smoke. As another scream rang out, Lucanus imagined Catia lying on the birth-bed, sleeked in sweat as Amarina, Decima and Galantha bathed her head a
nd whispered in her ear.
Three ministering women. Five people in total. He’d been told to watch out for those numbers. They were a sign the gods were active.
The Wolf closed his eyes and prayed he wouldn’t lose her now that they had finally found each other.
Clattering footsteps jerked him from his thoughts and he turned to see Mato, Solinus and Comitinus striding along the street from the east. Wrapped tightly in their cloaks against the cold, they’d pulled the snouts of their pelts low over their eyes.
‘Any news?’ Comitinus said quickly.
‘Do you think we’d be standing out here freezing our bones if there were?’ Bellicus snapped. ‘You and your fool questions.’
‘I was only asking.’
‘Go and give Catulus a bone.’ Comitinus hung his head and sloped off.
‘Nothing?’ Lucanus asked.
Mato sighed and shook his head. ‘No one in the house had seen or heard of a Gaia.’
‘You ask me, that bastard was making it up,’ Solinus said. ‘He’d heard the stories, pretended to be Catia’s brother, just so he could lay a claim to the bloodline.’
‘We have to keep looking,’ Lucanus said, ‘for Catia’s sake.’
The other men nodded, but he knew they all thought it was a waste of time. Londinium was choked with people. If someone wanted to disappear, they could do so, easily. Corvus would say nothing, however many times Lucanus questioned him in the filthy cell in the fort where he was kept prisoner. His life hung by a thread, he knew that, and he was not about to incriminate himself. Theodosius had not yet found good reason to have him executed – perhaps he still hoped his old friend would become a follower of Christ. But Theodosius was a hard man when it came to religion, and his patience for tolerating unbelievers would soon wear thin.
Another scream, cut short this time. As one, the Grim Wolves turned their heads towards the open door of the House of Wishes. Lucanus felt any warmth drain from him as the silence went on, and on.
Then, from deep in the recesses of the house, the cry of a babe.
Reeling from the rush of euphoria, Lucanus threw himself through the door and into the narrow corridor. He half heard the other Grim Wolves pounding behind him, but his thoughts were flying ahead.
In the birth-room, Catia’s face was drawn and dark rings circled her eyes, but she was smiling. In that moment, he thought he might burst. Amarina looked over, and with a nod silently communicated her congratulations.
Myrrdin was whirling around the room as if dancing, his robes flying. A pink bundle was nestled in his arms. The wood-priest threw back his head and laughed, deep and long and joyously. Lucanus felt that joy infect him too. But then he looked deeper and saw how brightly the light was burning in the wood-priest’s eyes, and he felt a pang of apprehension.
‘A boy,’ Catia croaked. ‘All is well with him. The gods have given us a gift, Lucanus.’
‘The gods have given all the folk of Britannia a gift,’ Myrrdin roared. ‘Here is the beacon that will shine for all the days to come.’
As cheers and laughter rang out, Lucanus whirled to the Grim Wolves, each man slapping him on the back.
‘Another little Wolf,’ Bellicus roared.
‘A name, a name,’ Mato chanted.
‘His name has already been decided.’ Myrrdin spun to a halt, and eyed each man in turn as if to tell them he would brook no argument. From the corner of his eye, Lucanus could see Catia frowning.
‘He will have two names,’ the druid continued. ‘Both are old, and have been with us as long as the wood-priests have walked upon this green land. And it is right that it should be so, for within him days long gone are being reborn.’
‘Speak,’ Lucanus said.
‘Weylyn is the name by which he will be known to the world. It means Son of the Wolf.’
‘A good name,’ Bellicus said. Lucanus tried to decide whether he should show his annoyance that the druid was trying to steal the right of naming from him, but he had to agree that Bellicus was right.
‘And he will have a secret name, at present to be known only to those gathered in this room,’ Myrrdin continued. ‘And you must tell it to no other, for once a secret name is revealed all power is lost. Do I have your agreement?’
Lucanus watched everyone nod their assent – the wood-priest seemed to have them under his spell. When it came to him, he hesitated, holding the druid’s eyes, and then relented.
‘Good,’ Myrrdin said. ‘His secret name is Reghan. It means “of royal blood” in the old tongue. By this name he will be known among the true followers of the path of the Dragon, and by this name his destiny will be sealed.’
A little reluctantly, Lucanus thought, the wood-priest handed the child back to Catia. She nestled him to her breast.
‘There is hope here, brother,’ Mato said, squeezing his arm. ‘All the forces of evil may crash against Londinium’s walls, but in Catia’s arms is the beacon the wood-priest spoke of. We must never forget that.’
Tilting an amphora, Amarina splashed wine into goblets and handed them round. When she came to Lucanus, she said, ‘A saviour, born in a house of whores. What stories they will tell in times to come.’ Amarina’s wry tone drew a bitter smile.
‘And now?’ Mato asked, looking round.
‘Now,’ Solinus said, raising his goblet for a toast, ‘we only need to survive.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The End
AD 368, Londinium, 17 March
THE RIVER WAS on fire. A pall of black smoke lowered over the Tamesis to the east, the waters shimmering with an orange glow. Flecks of ash whisked on the wind, and when he cupped his ear Lucanus could hear throat-rending screams rolling out of the inferno.
Racing along the city wall, he pushed his way through a group of watchmen to the end where the fortification met the river. Bellicus and Solinus squeezed in next to him.
Now at last he could see what was happening, and understood the anxiety in the babbling voices of those who manned the walls.
‘Boats on fire. Four … five of them.’ He shielded his eyes against the stinging ashes. The low spring sun glinted.
‘They’ve cut off our supply lines.’ Solinus gaped. He knew what this meant as well as any of them. The screams whipped up into a fever pitch of agony and he clasped his hands on his ears. ‘The bastards must have tied up the men on board so they couldn’t jump into the water.’
‘Letting us know what’s to come,’ Lucanus said.
Bellicus eyed him. ‘This is it, then. It’s started.’
Lucanus watched the first blazing boat sink down in the boiling water. The barbarians must have brought the vessels upstream from where they’d taken them, and set them at anchor, just for this spectacle. That meant the horde had moved to the east, perhaps even crossed the water into the safe lands to the south.
Solinus cursed. ‘We’ve barely made it through to spring with the food we were managing to sneak in.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Once that lot realize even that’s gone, it’s all over.’
When the snows had melted, they’d readied themselves for the worst. When the trees began to bud, and the birds roosted, and there were mornings when the breath didn’t cloud. Day in, day out, the watchmen gripped the parapet and searched the countryside. As each day passed, shoulders had grown tighter. They’d survived the winter, against all the odds, but when … when … when would the barbarians begin their final assault?
Every few days, messengers had ridden to the Saxon shore forts, hoping for news from Rome. No word came back. Not even any sign of the usual early ships bringing wine for the parched throats of the men on the defences. For all they knew, the Alamanni and the other tribes in Gaul and Germania could have been victorious, and the empire was crumbling everywhere.
Perhaps they really were on their own.
Lucanus glanced back across the rooftops to the north-west corner of the town. Their two armies had been waiting in the crowded fort for this day, the me
n under Falx’s command and Lucanus’ band of farmers. His own men had trained hard enough during the cold months, learning how to use sword and shield, grasping battle tactics. They would never be as good as the true army of Rome, but they would fight to the last.
Yet bellies were empty and some were too weak to lift their weapons. Others had been lost to the sickness that had swept through Londinium during the last few weeks. Theodosius and some of the other commanders had scratched out a few plans for resistance, but every suggestion seemed feeble in response to what gathered beyond the walls.
How long could they last in the face of that vast horde?
‘Mato isn’t back yet,’ Bellicus said.
Lucanus turned his attention once again to the marshes to the east. The others fell silent. Mato had been gone for two days, using all the skills he’d learned as one of the arcani in the Wilds to scout as close as he could get to the horde’s camp.
‘Ah, he’ll be good and well,’ Solinus said with a flap of his hand. ‘The gods look after the soft-hearted, not miserable bastards like us.’
Lucanus thought of Catia, and his son, and he pushed aside a pang of despair. Weakness would not help them now.
‘They’ll be coming before nightfall,’ he said. ‘Ready yourselves. First, I have some unfinished business.’
The door creaked open, and for a moment all Lucanus could see was an abyss.
‘Misplaced but not forgotten.’ The sardonic voice floated out from the dark. ‘Step into my home and let us entertain each other.’
Falx leaned in and whispered, ‘Keep this to yourself. If Theodosius finds out you’ve been visiting this unbeliever, you’ll end up in the next cell.’
‘You’re a man of Christ now?’
‘The light of the Lord burns in my heart. Come, make haste.’
The centurion thrust the lamp into Lucanus’ hand and shoved him into the cell. The fort’s apple-sweet stink of horse dung and clatter of marching feet ebbed away and the door slammed shut behind him. His nose wrinkled at the reek of piss and shit, wet straw and dank walls. He shivered. It was as cold there as if he were out on the wind-blasted river.
