Vulcan's Fury: The Dark Lands (21 page)

“Again, you have come.”
 

He pulled back the hood of his robe at the sound of the priestess’s voice. She had been old and withered when he had first found her all those years ago, and yet still she lived. Despite her age, her voice was that of a young woman, full and vibrant. Had her appearance matched the sultriness of her voice, he very well might have found himself yearning for satisfaction, but that was not what had brought him here.

Slowly mounting the steps, he found her as he always did, sitting before the altar upon a black velvet pillow embroidered with gold, her legs crossed, back toward him. She did not turn to face him, for her eyes had been gouged out long before he had first come to her, probably before he had even been born. She had willingly sacrificed her eyes, she had once told him, that she might be able to see more clearly with her inner sight, to better discern the visions the gods chose to reveal.

As with every time in the past, aside from the priestess and himself, the temple was empty and silent. He had never seen another patron visit, nor any other priestesses or priests, or even a temple slave. It was as if only the ancient priestess dwelt here, awaiting him alone, and that no time passed within these walls except during his visits.
 

The thought made him shudder.

“I come for your counsel and blessing, priestess.”
Priestess
was the only name she had ever given him. She had never even told him what god or gods she served, and after their first encounter, when a few words from her lips had lifted him from inglorious anonymity to the first rungs of power and prestige for which he had always thirsted, he had never again asked.
 

As before, she gestured for him to kneel before her, with the altar behind him. He never questioned doing so, but even after so many visits over the years, every time he knelt, a queer jolt of uncertainty lanced down his spine, as if the gods themselves were perched on the ancient gray stone of the altar behind him, watching him with calculating eyes.

Between them on the immaculate white marble floor sat a wide brimmed cup half filled with wine. To one side lay a small dagger, its blade gleaming in the candlelight.

The priestess nodded, and he picked up the dagger. Drawing the blade gently across his thumb, he let a few drops of blood fall into the wine.
 

With unerring precision, as if she had the eyes of an eagle instead of empty sockets in her skull, she took the knife from him and drew it across her own thumb to release more drops of crimson into the cup. Setting the blade aside, she took the cup in both hands, swirling it gently, mixing blood and wine. In his mind, Livius counted silently, for the priestess never varied her ritual. Precisely when he reached the count of thirty, she raised the cup to her lips and slowly drank every drop.

Running her tongue along her lips as she returned the cup to the floor, she sighed and tilted her head back as if she were looking at the plain, unadorned ceiling above, for that was how she received her visions.

She was silent for a long time, longer than he ever remembered from previous visits, and Livius struggled to contain his impatience. His worry.
 

At last, just as he was about to risk her wrath and ask what visions the gods were granting her, she lowered her head and fixed him with an eyeless gaze of startling intensity.

“The darkness gathers,” she said in a fearful whisper. Reaching out, she took his wrists, which elicited from him a gasp of surprise; she had never before touched him. “The Old Ones, those the gods made in the hour of their wrath at the sins of our forefathers, stir in their lair of fire and smoke. Rome sleeps beneath their hungry gaze like a besotted harlot, whose time of atonement has come at last.”

Unable to help himself, Livius leaned toward her. “When? How long do we have?”

“When the moon blots out the sun,” she hissed, “Neptune shall rise in anger, and Rome shall be bathed in blood and darkest despair.”

Before he could ask her anything else, the priestess spasmed, her hands clutching his wrists so hard he thought the bones might break. She threw back her head, her mouth wide open. Something wet gurgled deep in her throat as she spasmed again. Then her body pitched forward, a torrent of blood pouring from her mouth, spattering Livius’s face and clothes with crimson before she collapsed upon the floor, dead.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Be careful or you might go blind.”

Valeria turned at the sound of Pelonius’s voice, his words tinged with a bit of good-humored sarcasm. “Men have no monopoly on admiring beauty,” she replied primly before returning her gaze to the training area that had been established beyond the walls of the castrum. Pelonius and Marcus joined her and Paulus upon a shaded platform that allowed them and the other officers (and herself) to observe and direct the daily training of the men. While construction of the wall, which had come to be called the Wall of Hercules, or just The Wall, continued at a relentless pace, Pelonius had grudgingly allocated men to improve the living and working quarters after the makeshift barracks had collapsed under a recent deluge. Now the fort boasted sturdy wooden barracks where the men could sleep, the officers had equally sturdy (if rather more lavish) quarters of their own, and the castrum now had all the various administrative and support buildings necessary to keep a legion functioning.
 

A fresh influx of recruits had provided an additional pool of labor, but had also led to the daily training typical of a legion in garrison being resumed. The veterans who had formed the core of
Legio Hercules
could get away with not training for a time, but the fresh blood streaming in from all over Aquitania, most without prior military training, could not. Word of “Valeria’s Legion” had spread like wildfire through the province and beyond, and Pelonius had found himself with the unusual luxury of selecting only the best potential recruits. Those not accepted for service in the legion, however, were not simply turned away. Any who so desired were hired as paid laborers to help build The Wall. Now a veritable army was at work from dawn to dusk shaping and hauling stone into place. All at Sergius’s expense, of course.

Along with the volunteers had come blacksmiths, leather workers, and merchants who, for what Pelonius privately complained to Valeria was an outrageous sum, outfitted the new legionaries with armor, weapons, and equipment, and replaced the damaged or lost gear of the veterans. And right behind them had come the other camp followers that could be found anywhere a legion made its home, running the gamut from questionable soothsayers to whores. A small city sprang up, seemingly overnight, as close as Pelonius would allow between the fort and the ridge of rocky hills, ready to serve the every need of the legionaries for a small — or large — bit of coin.

Perhaps the greatest change involved Septimus. Over his vehement protestations, he was promoted to centurion and put in charge of sword training, while Paulus, as senior tribune, oversaw the training program as a whole (with a great deal of “advice” from Pelonius, Marcus, and Septimus, of course). Other soldiers who were the best in the legion with the other weapons, such as the spear or bow and arrow, were chosen to lead the training in those particular arts. Pelonius felt that Valeria was sufficiently safe at the center of nearly six thousand men who adored her that Septimus could be spared from guarding her person. Septimus, of course, thought the entire affair was an affront to the gods.

Her recollection of the look on Septimus’s face when Pelonius informed him of the promotion made her giggle. Septimus was the logical choice for the duty, of course, for no one was better with a sword.
Well
, she thought as she watched the sweating, grunting men before her,
no one was better…except Karan
.
 

The training field was divided into areas devoted to the different martial skills, but training in the use of the sword, which was the heart and soul of the legion on the battlefield, took place directly before the observation platform on which she sat. Hercules reclined beside her, observing the goings-on with feline interest, his tail twitching now and again.

Hundreds of men, each armed with a wooden sword and a shield, were arranged in sets of opposing lines on the training field. Some were drilling in close order fighting as a group, while those nearer her vantage point worked on individual swordsmanship. Every man in the legion, from Pelonius on down to the lowliest cook, trained each day. Her ears rang from the hammering of wood on wood, not to mention the cries and curses when wood slapped flesh.

But her interest was focused on the pair of men who now circled one another like the wary predators they were. One of them was Septimus. The other was one of the newest recruits, a mountain of a man with azure blue eyes and an unruly lion’s mane of blond hair. Born into slavery from parents taken from one of the barbarian tribes, he had been trained as a gladiator since he could grip a sword, and had eventually won his freedom. He and Septimus had forsaken their shields and held only their swords, and like the other soldiers wore only loincloths in respect of the tropical heat.
 

She covered her mouth as her lips curled into a smile. The chiseled muscles of their sweat covered bodies were a wonder to behold.
 

“Come on, Haakon,” Septimus goaded the larger man, who stood over a full head taller and weighed half again as much, every ounce of it rippling muscle. “I saw you fight in the arena once. After what I saw of your performance, I would’ve sooner given a pig his freedom.”

Haakon grinned. “And you would have an almost even chance against the pig, little man.”

As if on an unspoken and unseen cue, the two men suddenly crashed together. After exchanging a flurry of blows, Septimus went flying as if he had been fired from an onager. Rolling as he landed, he got to his feet with deft grace, a look of grudging admiration on his face.
 

“I’m going to call that one in favor of Haakon, Septimus,” Paulus called, and the men applauded.
 

Septimus frowned, uttered a venomous curse, and spat.

Turning to Pelonius, Haakon pointed his sword at Septimus and said with a laugh, “If he is the best you have, the Empire is doomed.”
 

The soldiers who had gathered around to observe the spectacle laughed. Every man in the legion respected Septimus, but none of them would confess to liking him, for he was a difficult man to like. Haakon, who was well known in the region and an entertainer by trade, had instantly become popular.

But his humiliation of Septimus had wiped away the goodwill Valeria had felt toward him. She had no doubt that with steel in his hand and a true cause in his heart, Septimus would lay the larger man low, just as he had put others to the sword countless times before. More than that, Septimus, despite having the personality of an annoyed badger, was at heart a good man.

“This could get interesting,” Pelonius muttered as a murderous scowl clouded Septimus’s face.

“He’s going to want justice for that,” Marcus added with a sigh.

“And he might get more than he bargained for if he does,” Pelonius said. “I, too, have seen Haakon in the arena. He’s far more formidable than even his appearance would lead you to believe. Even against Septimus, I would be hard pressed to wager against him.”

Valeria turned at that. “You won’t let him hurt Septimus, will you? I won’t stand for that.”

“If Septimus feels his honor is at stake,” Pelonius said, “I may have no choice.”

Haakon solved the problem for them. “I heard a rumor that you have a true fighter here, a warrior from the Dark Lands? Is this true?”

“It is,” Pelonius replied. “His name is Karan. But he is a free man, not a legionary. I have no authority over him to make him face you.”

Karan, who had been sitting quietly, legs crossed, on the other side of Hercules, uncoiled and stood.
 

“I’m not through with you, yet!” Septimus hissed at Haakon.

Haakon turned to him, his face again breaking into a smile. “We can play sword games later, little centurion. I meant you no insult.” He waved his arm toward the onlooking soldiers. “I simply wanted to entertain my friends a bit and enrich their bets.” As the soldiers laughed, Haakon’s eyes locked on Karan. “But mostly I wanted to meet this Ghost I have heard so much about.”

“I don’t believe it,” Marcus growled.

Valeria looked at him. “What?”
 

“I think that daft idiot enlisted in the legion just to satisfy his curiosity about Karan. He’d never be able to cross swords with him otherwise.”

“He would give up ten years of his life in an enlistment just for that?”

“You’d be surprised what men like that might do,” Marcus told her. “Besides, he’s probably been bored out of his mind since becoming a freedman and leaving behind the arena.”

Turning to Karan, Pelonius said, “This is entirely up to you.”

Karan shrugged. “He is of my kind, and perhaps will be worthy of my sword.” With that, he stepped down from the platform to the sand. He paused to set down his sword and retrieve the wooden practice sword he had made, which reflected the size, shape, weight, and balance of the real one.

“This is the famous Ghost?” Haakon gawked at Karan, then sighed with disappointment. “You are but a boy! Never mind. I have not come to kill a babe still sucking on his mother’s teat.”

Karan stared at him for a moment, then exchanged a look with Septimus, who was mouthing a nonstop stream of invective. “I accept your challenge,” Karan said in a quiet voice. Driving the tip of his wooden sword into the sand, he removed his clothes down to a white loincloth, folding the garments carefully before setting them aside.
 

“By all the gods,” Valeria whispered. None of them had seen any more of Karan’s skin than his face and neck, hands and wrists, for he always bathed alone in the stream near the fort. The scars he had thus far revealed spoke of terrible cruelty, but had been merely a prologue to the tale told by the rest of his body. His back was a mass of deep crisscrossed scar tissue, as if he had been scourged, probably more than once. More scars curled and twisted around his arms and shoulders like intricate scrollwork, streaming over his chest, sides, and stomach, then down over his buttocks and legs to his feet. She counted eight puckered scars resulting from deep stab wounds, three of which were in his chest, and one of which must have speared him clean through.