The Last Roman: Book One: Exile Page 11

  As he pulled his weapon free, Marcus saw Charles ahead of him, surrounded by an entire group of Saracens. Marcus urged his horse forward and drove his weapon down upon one of them, splintering his pointed helmet. The impact jarred the mace from his hand. As Marcus watched it fall to the ground, a sharp pain in his side drew his attention to a soldier next to his horse. The Muslim had stabbed him with a broken lance; the tip slipping between the plates of armor and digging into his hip. Marcus spun his horse to the left, knocking the man over as he grabbed the lance from him. Twirling the shaft around, he buried the blade into the man's chest.

  As Marcus looked back toward Charles, he was bludgeoned in the head, nearly unseating him. He somehow stayed mounted, but the blow knocked the helmet from his head. Dazed, he twisted to face a new threat, but Thomas had already dispatched the man. Thomas still wore his helmet, his face splattered with sweat and blood. The Muslims had surrounded their tiny party, trying desperately to keep them from the sultan. Just a few feet away, Charles stood up in his stirrups to see over the tangle of riders. His gaze fell upon a bright Muslim banner, less than thirty feet away. As he whirled back toward the others, Marcus could see in his eyes what he planned to do.

  "To Charles!" Marcus drew his sword and urged his mount forward.

  Thomas and a few other knights joined him, and together they drove through the Muslims, slashing and cutting their way toward the rival leader. The fighting grew desperate, and soon they faced the very last of the Sultan's bodyguards.

  "Charles, the sultan!" Marcus drove the tip of his sword into the nearest foe, ducking from the stream of blood that spurted from the resulting wound.

  As Thomas and Marcus fell upon the remaining Saracens, Charles galloped toward the sultan. As they tried to follow, a Muslim impaled Thomas's horse. Both rider and horse tumbled to the ground. Marcus dismounted and joined Thomas, turning his back to his old friend.

  "Are we the only two left?" Thomas deflected an attack.

  "Apparently!" Marcus sidestepped a lance thrust and skewered its owner.

  They fought for what seemed an eternity, struggling to stay afoot on the fertile pasture that had now become a gory bog. Both men had lost sight of Charles, and they resigned themselves to the fact they would die upon that nameless field. Marcus dispatched a rather portly man and waited, expecting to find another soldier in his place. But there was none. There was a wide circle of dead bodies around them, and beyond, dozens of Muslims were screaming as they raced for the distant tree line.

  "What are they saying?" Thomas stuck his sword into the mud.

  "They are terrified of me."

  "And me?"

  "They seem to be amazed you made it this far." A smile split Marcus's bloodied face.

  "Not bad, considering I only started this warrior thing a hundred years ago."

  "I can't believe we survived."

  "All part of God's plan, I guess. So what are they really saying?"

  "Something about their camp. I think they said it's under attack."

  "Why didn't we think of that?"

  "I guess we're not that smart."

  As they startled to chuckle, a shadow fell upon them. Fearing a Saracen horseman had stayed to fight, they prepared to face the newcomer. Instead, it was Charles, sitting upon his massive horse. The sultan's severed head hung from the pommel of his blood-soaked saddle.

  "What the hell are you two smiling at?" Charles glared at Thomas, then Marcus.

  They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  They spent the next day watching the Muslim army. The Saracens had no stomach for prolonged conflict with the sultan dead, and by nightfall, they had slipped off to the south. Charles sent some knights to shadow their retreat, but he was confident the battle was over.

  Marcus returned from a reconnaissance mission, guided his horse through the crowded camp, and stopped in front of a large, white pavilion. He dismounted and tossed the reins to a nearby squire.

  "Wipe him down and make sure he gets a full bag of oats," Marcus instructed.

  "Yes, sir."

  Marcus pulled off his gloves and ducked into the pavilion. The aroma of stewed beef intensified the rumblings in his stomach. Grabbing a chalice from a passing servant, Marcus took a long pull of wine and moved toward the back of the tent where Charles was talking with a group of men.

  "I don't know where he is," Charles said.

  Joining the group, Marcus realized a woman was in their midst. He recognized her, despite the shawl wrapped around her head and shoulder.

  "Isabella!" Marcus called.

  She rushed toward him. "Marcus! I've been looking for you. No one knew where you were."

  "What are you doing? I asked you to stay in Orleans with Rebecca. It's not safe here."

  "Can we talk alone?" Her eyes pleaded with him.

  "Yes, of course."

  They found a quiet spot near the front of the tent.

  "Why are you here?" He held both her hands.

  "I sent a letter yesterday, but no one answered."

  "I didn't get a letter. How did you get here?"

  "I rode…I had to find you.".

  "Why? What's the matter?"

  "Rebecca. Archbishop Rigobert has charged her with heresy. One of her servants went to the Archbishop, telling him she was a witch. She swore that Lady Rebecca had cut her hand on Sunday, and the wound was gone by the following day!"

  Marcus clenched his jaw but did not reply.

  "He arrested her, and I heard they did awful things to her. And that she confessed. They are going to burn her at the stake."

  "When?"

  "Tonight!"

  "I have to find Thomas…and go to Orleans." Marcus looked around the room, finally finding who he was looking for. "Nico!"

  The older gentleman was talking to a courtier, but looked up when called. Marcus waved for him to join them. Nicodemus excused himself and made his way over to the pair.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Have you seen Thomas?"

  "I saw him about an hour ago; he asked for you." Nicodemus frowned. "Then he left in a hurry. Is something wrong?"

  "I'm not sure, but I need to find out." He looked from Isabella to Nico. "If I'm not back by morning, assume the worst. Stay close to Charles; he'll keep you safe."

  "Marcus, be careful." Isabella placed a hand on his forearm.

  "Careful doesn't work." He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. "I'll be fine."

  Marcus walked out of the pavilion. He hurried to the tent he shared with Thomas and stepped inside. A single candle burned on a nearby table. He scanned the room and saw a crumpled piece of parchment on the bare ground. He leaned over, picked it up, and read the contents. The signature at the bottom was Isabella's.

  "Damn it!"

  Marcus went over to his cot and pulled a heavy cloak from his bag, slipping it over his head and attaching it to his tunic as he ran over to the tent that served as a stable. When he arrived, the attendant was still brushing down his horse.

  "I need the fastest horse you have and be quick about it!"

  "This one!" The young man dropped his brush and sprung to action. Marcus grabbed his saddle and followed him, throwing it over the back of a jet-black mare.

  "She's one of the fastest we got." The teenager slipped the harness on her. "Sir Thomas took the only one who can outpace her."

  "It'll have to do." Marcus secured the straps.

  Marcus grabbed the reins, pulling the horse toward the exit and leaped onto the saddle, spurring her forward as he slipped his boots into the stirrups. He galloped through the camp, almost running down several men. Once past the tents, he sped unchecked through the picket lines and into the dark forest beyond.

  After what seemed like forever, Marcus beheld the welcome glow of Orleans, its dull radiance seeping over the distant ridge. His mount was panting as he reined her in before the city's gate. A single guard stepped out from the portal. The sentry, still a teen, eyed Marcus suspiciou
sly as his eyes fell on his winded horse.

  "What business do you have in Orleans?"

  "I am a messenger from Charles Martel. I bring news to the Archbishop." Marcus looked through the opening.

  "You are the second messenger from Charles." The sentry squinted.

  "Where did the other go?"

  "He said he was meeting someone at the cathedral. I'll need to talk to my sergeant." His hand moved down to his sword. "I am not to admit anyone without proper authorization."

  "And why did you let the other pass?"

  "He was already expected."

  "By who?"

  "The Archbishop."

  Marcus's gaze shifted from the young man to the opening beyond. The guard realized his intentions, reached for the horse's reins and yelled back over his shoulder. Marcus spurred his mount forward, leaned over and swung for the chin. The blow caught the point of his jaw, and the guard crumpled to the ground, his helmet skittering across the stone path as Marcus sped forward. Two more soldiers appeared from behind the wall but scrambled away from the approaching mare. Once inside, Marcus guided his mount along the shadow of the city walls.

  Marcus knew the cathedral was near the center of town, so he wove his horse through the deserted streets. Twice she almost tumbled, her hooves slipping on the smooth stone. But she was stubborn, and she kept moving forward. On one occasion, she almost threw Marcus from the saddle. He somehow stayed atop her by clinging to the pommel and sitting upright, soon realizing that he was on the edge of an open promenade, on the other side of which stood the towering cathedral.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood up when he saw a smoldering pile of charred wood in the center of the square.

  Marcus dug his heels into the mare, raced across the square, pulling the mount up next to another exhausted and trembling horse. He sprung from the saddle and landed at the foot of the stairs, freeing his sword as he dashed up the steps. He pulled open the oak door and stepped over the dead body of a soldier and into the foyer beyond. Two more bodies slumped against the walls, their blood forming a single pool on the cold stone floor. Marcus avoided the growing puddle, and moved into a spacious room beyond, guided by the candles that hung throughout the chamber.

  Marcus followed a ghastly trail of butchered corpses to the front of the room, where a shadow enveloped the stone altar. Thomas sat on the steps, holding a charred body in his arms. A sword lay by his side, while three more bodies scattered in unnatural positions all around him.

  "Thomas?"

  Silence enveloped them as he sheathed his sword and knelt beside his friend. The corpse, burned beyond recognition, was cradled in his lap. Marcus looked down at the left hand, and could see the gold ring that Rebecca had always worn. Marcus covered his mouth with one hand as his body slumped to the ground.

  He looked up at Thomas, who was rocking back and forth. His handsome face was stoic, save the tears that cut through the drying blood. Marcus noticed a pool of dark liquid expanding toward the lip of the steps. Standing, he moved toward the platform and the body that lay upon it. The unfamiliar face was gripped with terror. The man's torso was split open from throat to groin, the organs removed and discarded in a pile on the floor. Looking away in disgust, Marcus stepped toward Thomas and placed his hand upon his shoulder.

  "Get away!" Thomas screamed. He laid Rebecca's body down and picked up his sword. Standing, he stumbled down the steps, fury consuming his handsome face.

  "Thomas—"

  "They killed her! Burned her like a witch!" He stepped forward, his face contorted with rage. "They did it in the name of God!"

  "These are not men of God. This is not His work—" Marcus raised his hands, unable to continue. A long silence hung between them. Marcus pointed toward the altar. "Who was that?"

  "Rigobert…" Thomas's response was less than a whisper.

  Nodding, Marcus looked around the room at the carnage wrought by this one vengeful man.

  "Thomas, we have to get out of here." He glanced toward the exit. "You cannot stay—not after this. Come with me, come with me to Rome."

  "No!" Thomas spun back. "For seven hundred years, we preached, fought, and bled for Him!" He pointed his bloodstained sword to the enormous crucifix behind the pulpit. "And while I'm away fighting the infidels—defending their land, their church—He allows them to do this to me? A man of the cloth murders my wife!" He paused, fighting back the tears. "And I'm supposed to walk away? Just turn the other cheek?"

  Marcus had no answer. He watched as Thomas paced back and forth.

  "The others…I'll find them. I'll kill them all." He moved back toward the front of the room, head lowered as he mumbled to himself.

  "Thomas!"

  Thomas stopped.

  "They will not let you pass." Marcus pointed to a large group of soldiers who had entered the cathedral, weapons drawn. Marcus stepped forward and placed his hand on Thomas's shoulder. This time, Thomas did not pull away. "I know your pain…believe me, I do. But she would not have wanted you to die here tonight. You must leave…these men will not stop until you're dead. I'll hold them off until you are safe, and then we shall grieve together."

  After a long silence, Thomas looked him in the eyes. "I can't do this alone."

  "You won't have to…"

  After a few moments, Thomas nodded.

  The emptiness of his farewell almost destroyed Marcus.

  Marcus pushed the feeling aside, drew his sword, and turned to meet the advancing guards. Marcus would not see his friend for another seven hundred years.

  CHAPTER NINE

  History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived,

  but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.

  —Maya Angelou

  Modern Day

  Paris

  Marcus sipped his coffee and watched the heavy raindrops splatter against the nearby window. A winter gale had blown in from the channel, catching them in its chilly downpour. Sam was purchasing tickets for the overnight train to Milan, which would take them about seven hours.

  Samantha returned, taking a deep breath as she dropped into the seat.

  "You look tired," Marcus said.

  "Yeah, I didn't sleep much while you were gone." Sam set the tickets onto the table. "Why aren't we just going to Rome directly?"

  "Thomas is expecting us. He'll be monitoring the central station in Rome. It's safer to drive in from Milan."

  "Is he watching Milan?"

  "Probably. Smile when you look up at the security cameras."

  "Now you tell me."

  Marcus shifted his attention to the crowd of passengers moving about the cavernous station, some of them looking up at the giant digital timetable hanging on the far wall. Unfortunately, it would be impossible to tell if anyone was following them. When their train was ready for boarding, they paid the bill and headed toward their assigned terminal.

  Once on the platform, they found two porters sitting on a pair of wooden crates, engaged in a lively conversation. The younger of the two stood as they approached, his dark blue uniform hanging on his thin frame like a scarecrow on a pole. A wrinkled hat sat atop his black, cropped hair. Ears that would fit a man twice his size jutted out from beneath his cap. He stepped forward to take the bag from Marcus, his smile revealing a mouthful of crooked teeth. The other man reluctantly stood and tossed a mangled toothpick to the ground. His stained coveralls clung to his portly frame, the seams straining against his bulk—the displeasure of having to work written upon his chubby face.

  "Tickets, monsieur?" The thinner porter looked from Sam to Marcus.

  Samantha pulled out their tickets, which the porter took and scanned.

  "Ah, sleeper car six, no? Please follow me, monsieur."

  The younger man gestured for his co-worker to take Sam's bag, then led them to a car near the end of the train where they stepped up into the stairwell. The man carrying Sam's bag had somehow fallen behind during the brief journey. Annoyed, Sam motioned for the man to
hand her the bag, then waved. Relieved of his burden, the Frenchman shrugged and turned away. Sam shook her head and caught up with Marcus, who was speaking to the porter in the narrow hallway.

  "No, we don't want to be notified for dinner. And honestly, I'd like to make sure we're not disturbed at all." Marcus pulled cash from his pocket and removed a crisp one-hundred euro note. "Now, take this as a token of my appreciation. I'll be even more generous at the end of our journey—if things go well."

  "Oui, monsieur." Eyes wide-open, the young man accepted the bill and slipped it into his pocket. "I will make certain no one disturbs you for any reason—any reason at all."

  Marcus entered the sleeper but paused. "One more thing—"

  "Oui?" The porter stopped, eyebrows raised.

  "I'd like to know if anyone asks about us. Who we are, which cabin we are in, you know. If that happens, I'd appreciate it very much if you can inform me immediately."

  "Oui, monsieur." The little Frenchman frowned and nodded his head up and down. "I will tell you first thing. Enjoy the journey."

  The porter smiled as he squeezed past Sam in the hallway.

  "You expecting trouble?" Sam closed the door.

  "Yeah." Marcus set his bag down near the lavatory door.

  "Any reason?"

  "Just paranoid."

  "Comforting."

  Marcus ignored her and pulled down the lower bench to form a makeshift bed. He slipped off his coat and hung it on a hook near the door, rolling the sleeves of his shirt. He pulled off his holster and set it near his bed. Sam prepared the other bunk. When they were both ready, Marcus flipped off the light, and they slipped into their beds.

  They were both oblivious to the bustle that accompanied the train's departure from Paris. Their journey carried them east, through the open countryside of eastern France. In the early afternoon, they passed the old Maginot Line and swept through the historically disputed Alsace Lorraine.