Empire Of The Undead (12 page)

“Then look again,” Zuste said, “the elephants are turning around.”

The edge of the camp was still held by many long spikes, with a deep pit before it. Even animals as mighty as the elephants could not charge through that without harm. The elephants turned with complete synchronicity, all wheeling to their left to prepare for another charge. As they turned, they slowed, and as they slowed, the lifeless began to press in on them, and as the lifeless pressed in on them, the elephants stumbled.

One rider was low enough for several lifeless to reach. They tugged onto his foot and the man toppled into the ravenous arms of the monsters.

“Oh gods no,” breathed Rowanna, “no, no, no.”

The beasts were being boxed in. A man stood high on his mount—from here he was a small shadow, but Zuste felt sure that the man was Iullianus. The elephants started moving again. Slowly at first, but gathering momentum, the elephants regained speed. The beasts could not attack the lifeless beside them or behind them, but they trampled another wide swath of walking corpses before them. The lifeless did not flee or panic. They remained in place and accepted their destruction.

The elephants charged through the channels between the Roman forces. Here they could turn at their ease. A centurion climbed the riderless elephant, and quickly, men grabbed more arrows and spears.

“Those animals are amazing. So intelligent and yet,” Rowanna said, smiling like a little girl, “I did not realize they could be that destructive.”

“They brought them to fight us,” Zuste reminded her. “It would have been nigh as bad as the lifeless.”

Rowanna said nothing as more smoke billowed up. Roman archers were lighting their arrows and sending them into the horde before them. It was a sound tactic—fire burned through the lifeless as though they were dry papyrus, but the damp rain mitigated much of the damage it could do.

“We need a better weapon,” Rowanna fretted. “Even the elephants have to turn around, and they’re vulnerable. When can your elixirs be ready?”

Zuste looked a long time at the battle before answering. “I don’t have the necessary ingredients, nor the equipment to create them. Another couple days and I could have begun in earnest. Now it may be moot—the Romans are as good as defending their camp as they are at finding aprus or seba.”

“You often speak ill of those risking their lives to save yours,” Rowanna observed.

“They care not for my life,” Zuste answered. “And but for a stroke of luck—otherwise ill I’d grant you—those men would be raping you and slitting my throat. Maybe even the other way around, from what one hears about these men.”

The Dacian woman snorted but said nothing. Before them, at the edge of sight, the elephants charged once more. Once again, they crushed the hapless walking corpses before them, churning them into muddy pulp. This time, the elephants turned sooner and much wider. This kept them going, but still they slowed down a bit. The lead elephant charged into a large group of lifeless.

It gored and stomped the advancing monsters, but there were so many that the impossible happened. More and more of the undead flowed from the dark forest. One after another flung itself onto the beast, climbing over each other until the creature was obscured by rot. The rider, his telltale red hair visible, rose and stabbed at them with his long spear and short sword.

His beast stumbled and the man lurched. Though he was three meters high, he leaped to the ground, where he was instantly surrounded by waves of the creatures.

Zuste looked to Rowanna. The look on her face matched the feeling in his gut; neither had any words to offer. They could just see the events unfold.

Iullianus struck one lifeless through the neck, swept low and grabbed a fallen soldier’s sword, and still in the same motion, drove a blade into each of the oncoming lifeless’ eyes.

He leapt back, withdrawing both blades. He snarled, his hands full of death. Seconds later, he was enveloped by the undead and was no longer visible in the seething mass of purification.

Even without their leader, the Roman army did not break. Three more elephants and riders had been similarly taken down, but the rest had returned from their loop. With careful precision, the archers shot into the seething mass of horror again and again. Before them, those with shields braced for another impact.

“We should go help them,” Rowanna said.

Zuste glared at her in annoyance. “You are good with a spear, but they won’t welcome us. No, I think maybe you were right earlier. I think we should leave. Now.”

Rowanna nodded. They had each climbed down the tower and were walking quickly toward the south gate when Rowanna stopped Zuste.

“I was just thinking. Iullianus will turn into one of those.”
“Probably, unless they eat him entirely,” he said.

“We could … We could save him. You still have one more elixir.”

“By Zalmoxis, woman!  There is one cure left in the world, and you want me to waste it on a Roman?”

“That Roman helped us. He saved our lives,” she said. The battle behind them roared as the undead warriors engaged the Romans.

“He came to kill us. Just as he and his kind always have.”
“Maybe he did, at first, but in the end, he saved us, protected us. What about

forgiveness, alchemist?”

“What about saving the elixir in case one of us gets bit out there?” Zuste hissed. “Even with your spear, we don’t have much a chance against this many lifeless. We need it.”

“Iullianus could protect us,” Rowanna said softly, “and he could help guide us back somewhere safe.”

“Somewhere safe?  Like Rome?  You’re quite taken with this fellow, aren’t you?  Your own kind isn’t good enough for you anymore?”

“Gods damn it, Zuste, you know that isn’t how I mean it. You’re right that we can’t survive out there. We need him.”

Zuste sighed. “Even if I agreed, which I don’t, we’d never find him amidst all those shamblers.” 

Rowanna smiled. “We can try,” she said. They both knew then that she had him.

CHAPTER XIV

ROME:  88 CE – Winter

Felix had time to take one deep breath and then the
mappa
fell. The gates flung open and he surged forward. He stood, legs apart, in a
quadrigae
, a large chariot led by four horses. They were a mismatched quartet of beasts clothed in the same scarlet colors that he himself wore.

His eyes flicked to the track ahead of them. In the first place, the closest to the
spina
, was Pharnaces. The man had not failed to win for months now. He was the pride of the White team, and had been so since being bought from the Blues some time ago. Today was meant to be another victory for him. Pharnaces had been a rising star when Felix had first lost to him. He was now as successful as any slave in Rome, save perhaps for some of the elder gladiators. His horses were magnificent white stallions from Thrace and there were rumors that he had dined with the Emperor. The two other White racers, a savage Syrian and a long-haired Greek, excelled at creating dissension and carnage amongst their rivals. Neither ever tried to win; they simply destroyed the other racers.

Felix understood their role all too well. He himself had no chance at winning. He was one of two Reds racing today to ensure that Italicus had a chance at defeating Pharnaces. The Green and the Blue factions had three racers as well, but Italicus was understood to be the greatest threat to Pharnaces.

On this, the first part of the first lap, all twelve of the
aurigae
were close together. It would take some time—or an accident—before any of the riders could create separation. Felix checked his reins, making sure they were tied tightly around his waist. They were fastened tightly enough to make breathing more difficult. There was some risk if he fell, being attached to the reins could lead to serious injury or death, but with that risk came the reward: he could control the horses with all of his body weight. That made no small difference on tight turns.

Italicus caught Felix’s eye and grinned. Felix smiled back, suppressing his jealousy. He had been racing for eight years and accrued an improbable amount of success, but the
equos
nutriebat
still would not let him challenge Italicus for the red team supremacy. The other Red
aurigae
was a German boy of fifteen, all arms and elbows whose raw talent had elevated him over more experienced racers today.

The twelve men and almost fifty horses raced along the
spina
and quickly reached the
meta
, the turning point in the Hippodrome. Felix cracked his whip and leaned into the turn, his horses mere spaces away from the blue racer’s own. Sand flew up as his wheels skidded through the turn. A scream drew his attention. There was trouble in the chariot beside him.

One of the Green
aurigae
had tried to take the turn too quickly, and both of his wheels were in trouble. Felix knew of him—he had been a champion at Joppa who had recently arrived in Rome. The first wheel snapped in half and the second, torqued with tension through the turn, quickly followed. The Green racer’s body tumbled heavily to the earth, bouncing with bone-wrenching force. It was called a
naufragia,
or a shipwreck, and this one was magnificent. The crowd of a hundred thousand people roared their approval at his fall. It didn’t seem that he would have long to enjoy the comforts of Rome.

Within seconds, slaves appeared. They carried a litter, but he could not tell if the man was still alive. All this he assessed in a fraction of a second as he whipped his horses into faster speeds. There was no time for further thought. There was a gap now, and instantly, Felix leaned his horses into it.

The other Green
aurigae
was trying the same thing, and he was less than a heartbeat behind. Felix did not hesitate. His hand lashed out and his horses surged forward. The Green man, a swarthy Egyptian, cursed as he aborted his move, but Felix was already looking at the racers ahead of him.

Italicus and Pharnaces were next to each other, just beginning to emerge from the rest of the racers. This being a shorter, five lap race, Pharnaces would not hold back as he was accustomed to. Felix looked to his left and saw the long-haired White rider. The man grinned at him with an evil confidence.

Felix was ready for whatever he tried. He hadn’t survived these long years without learning enough to defend himself when necessary. The man reached beneath his white tunic and Felix could see something shiny out of the corner of his eye.

He held a slim blade, much smaller than a
falx.
Just as Felix could see what was happening, the man flung the blade at him. It pierced his red jersey but not his leather jerkin beneath it. That was odd. The man would have known that he wore light armor, as did most racers. Felix glanced at him to see another maliciously confident smile, and then the next turn was on them.

There was more room, so Felix leaned in even harder. His chariot scraped against the marble
spina
as his horses turned. He leaned into the turn, crouching to better center his weight. His whip slid into his hand and he cracked it over his horses, spurring them into a faster gait.

Above them, he knew, one of the five dolphins had lowered. There were four laps to go. The racers were spreading out now. Felix was in the middle of the pack, between a Green racer and the White knife-thrower.

A pulsing in his gut alerted him to the knife. He angrily yanked it out and let it drop at the bottom of his chariot. He’d like to throw it back, but his aim was poor. Even standing still, throwing at a stationary target, he usually missed. Throwing at a moving target while he himself was moving was utterly useless. His gut twinged again, and it felt like something was clawing at him. But there was no time to think about it. He glanced behind and saw the German boy was falling behind while battling a Blue and a Green
aurigae.

Another glance ahead of him revealed that Italicus was still matching Pharnaces step for step. He was apparently feeling confident, but Italicus used his whip on the side of Pharnaces’ horses. Felix winced. It was a bold tactic, one that could gain him valuable time if the horses shied away from the blow, but it surely would warrant retaliation from the older man. Even as Felix watched, Pharnaces slowed his horses. Italicus missed his next whip stroke and leaned, just barely off balance.

“Little red bitch,” a voice yelled to him. It was the Greek
aurigae.
“I’d like my knife back. You won’t need it, not where you’re going.”  The man smiled at him again. He was neck-and-neck with Felix as they approached the next turn.

“Why, does your mother need it to shave her beard?” Felix called back.

The man’s smile did not disappear, but it certainly lessened.

Some instinct warned Felix that someone was on his right, on the outside of the track, and he glanced to see the Syrian there. His baldhead gleamed in the sunlight as the crowd roared their approval at the White team’s tactics. It was unusual for the second or third rider to have horses that were so fast, but Syrians were well known for their excellent steeds.

Felix was boxed in. He could slow his chariot, but that would leave three White riders to confront Italicus. He could not even turn, other than in the area that his foes would allow him.

Neither of them was turning. The bloodstained wall loomed ahead of them. It suddenly made sense to Felix. The two men would crash him into the wall. Then they could turn and deal with the third red rider as he caught up. They must trust that Pharnaces could deal with Italicus himself. Or they would let the Red
aurigae
lap them and deal with him then.

The crowd was really roaring now. Felix slowed his horses as the wall loomed imminently close but the men surrounding him whipped at his horses and they sped up. The beasts would shy away from the wall, of course, but his chariot would not fare as well. He might not die, but at this speed that was not certain. His gut ached as he stood on the front edge of his chariot, precariously balanced. His long hair, still worn in the Greek style, streamed behind him. He grasped his
falx
and cut all four of the reins entirely from his body. Then he slid the blade into a small scabbard under his tunic and took a deep breath.

The world slowed down, just a little.

He saw the sneering Greek man to the left of him, and the deadly serious Syrian to the right. His horses, sweat lathering on their heated skin, charging forward. The wall of the hippodrome was ten meters high and stained with the blood of other racers. He could hear nothing but the beating of his heart.

Felix jumped.

He had been hoping to hit the Greek driver, perhaps knock him out of the chariot. But he’d misjudged their speed. He just grabbed the back of the chariot. His body was suspended, but his legs and feet dragged painfully in the sand. Something sharp—a rock or rusted blade—cut deeply into his leg.

Then the speed of the world was back to normal. He felt his body bouncing painfully as the chariot sped on. The spectators had hushed as all watched this unexpected confrontation take place.

The Greek driver glanced back and grinned. He seemed to be genuinely amused. “We weren’t going to kill you,” he said, “or maybe just a little bit kill you.”  He gripped his
falx
menacingly.

Felix grabbed at the back of the chariot with his right hand and slowly pulled himself up. The chariot began to turn to the left. They would only just avoid the wall. The Syrian was trapped between the wall and Felix’s chariot. He would be fine, but would fall behind the other racers. The Greek, however, would have only missed a few beats. His chariot was already heading back into the turn.

Felix grabbed at the other side of the chariot with his other hand. The muscles in his arms screamed. He could scarcely see in the dust, and his battered body was threatening to give up. The blade sheathed on his body bruised into his skin. The Greek was busy whipping his horses back into top speed, but he kicked back at the edge of the chariot. His foot narrowly missed Felix’s left hand. He lashed his whip out, driving the horses into a greater frenzy.

The man laughed. “You are a worthy foe, Red. It is rare to meet one who can see the unexpected.”  He spoke without looking back, as he whipped his horses into a frenzy. They were well past the
spinae
now. Two Green racers had passed them, but they were still ahead of the pack.

The whip lashed again. Felix was shocked to feel it hit his hand, and he instinctively let go. It was, of course, the worst possible thing he could have done. His body fell back to the ground. Only his right hand kept him attached to the chariot. There were too many racers behind them, and if he let go, it was not at all sure that he could get off the course before they caught up with him. From far away, he heard the sound of a massive impact, and moments later, screaming.

He could taste the grit of the track in his mouth, could feel it in his eyes. His leg felt sticky with the blood that coursed down it. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep or die. Instead, he pulled himself up again. This time he got his left foot onto the chariot. He had mere seconds, and tied the snapped off reins together around the back of the chariot. The White racer, still amused, glanced back at him. “Such an enterprising little fuck,” he said, and then swung his foot savagely at Felix’s head.

He missed. This time, the battered and bloody lad was ready for it. He leaned as far back as he could and let go of the chariot entirely. He grabbed the smiling man’s sandaled foot. “What are you doing?” the Greek cried. “We’ll both die.”

“So be it,” Felix spat out, mouth too dusty to say more. Both of his feet were on the edge of the chariot now, and he could use all of his weight to pull. He was not sure if the hastily tied knot around the post could hold his weight and there was no time to check. He yanked the man’s foot with as much force as he could. The Greek lurched forward, stumbling to the edge of his chariot.

His opponent smiled grimly. “You made a mistake,” he said. He raised the blade in his hand and struck at Felix.

This, too, Felix had anticipated. Striking more quickly than the eye could follow, he let go of the man’s foot and grabbed his knife hand by the wrist. Felix just had time to see the surprise in the man’s eyes before he was flung from the back of his own cart.

The Greek screamed as his body bounced, caught on his own reins as he was dragged down the track. Felix fell, too, of course. He hit the ground on his back with an explosive oomph and lost all the air in his body, but he hadn’t fallen as far, and was attached to a much closer area.

The knot around the chariot strained, but held. Felix grabbed the knots with both hands and slowly, excruciatingly, pulled himself back onto the chariot. There was scattered applause from the crowd, but most were too stunned by the maneuver. Nothing like that had ever happened, not in Felix’s memory.

He was still tied to the back post and there was no blade in the chariot. He could not control the horses either. They were at least running in the right direction, but he could not compete without taking control. Though his side would long be bruised, he was glad of the blade. Within seconds, he was free from his reins and the Greek driver was cut from his. His unconscious body tumbled far down the track, into oncoming drivers.