“I see you need some convincing. Very well.” He tossed the whetstone aside and moved to attack.
Almost dropping Octavia to the ground, the legionnaires drew their standard issue spathas and moved to defend her. The men worked as a team, parrying the first few blows from Corbus.
Octavia had a hard time keeping track of what was happening as the weapons moved faster and faster, Corbus raining punishing blows down on both men. He was easily outstripping their abilities, obviously toying with them. Finally he sidestepped Queris’ tired parry and his sword cut neatly through the legionnaire’s right arm. The wounded legionnaire spun away.
Draxe tried to take advantage of Corbus’s exposed posture, stabbing straight for the gut. With a nasty scrrrrrinnnggg, his sword skittered off some hidden piece of armor. Corbus turned in a flash, bringing the sword up in a curving arc, decapitating Draxe. Blood fountained out onto the white patches of snow. The man’s head bounced away as his body collapsed to the forest floor.
Queris threw himself at Corbus, awkwardly wielding his belt dagger in his left hand. The two tussled briefly, until Corbus managed to roll on top of the wounded soldier. He raised his sword and struck at the legionnaire’s unprotected head. The fighting abruptly stopped.
Octavia felt tears trickling down her cheeks. It was simply too much. Too much to handle. So much death and loss. Corbus was busy cleaning his blade on Queris’ jacket. Octavia looked around desperately. Maybe she could make a run for it. She tried to crawl for the nearest large tree.
Her battered body had only moved a few feet when Corbus spoke. “Seriously, Senatora! I’m insulted that you think me dense enough not to notice your escape attempt. You’re very lucky that I consider you more useful alive. Now, it’s time you came with me.”
“Where are we going?” Octavia whimpered.
“To a place where not even your Roman gods can save you: Midgard, home of the cold, copper-crowned kings of the north. I hope you will. . enjoy your stay.”
Chapter 15
Julius
“I suppose I should be thankful to be alive,” Julius said to no one in particular. “But then, I wouldn’t be in this frozen underworld now, would I?”
Julius wrapped himself tighter in the thin blanket his captors had provided him. He shivered again-really more of a supremely long shaking that had been going on for days now. Thank the gods that they let me keep my cape. He used the blood red centurion cape as a second blanket, the thicker wool helping to ward off the cold. Two layers are better than one.
He lay curled into a tight ball on his cot, his sprained ankle bandaged and splinted with whatever odds and ends he could find. At least the time in the cells had done him good in one way. He felt far steadier on his feet now that he’d had some time to recuperate.
With only the weak light from the hallway torch to light his cell, Julius lived in perpetual gloom. He had lost all track of day and night, and found himself sitting on his straw pallet for hours, listening to the drip, drip, drip of the water trickling down the walls. At first, the sound had driven him nearly mad. It brought him to tears, made him laugh. At one point, Julius even wondered if he was going crazy, like so many of the other occupants of the dungeon. Their ravings were only bearable because he couldn’t understand a word that they were saying.
It was only by the thinnest of margins that Julius had maintained his sanity. The seed of his newfound strength came from an offhand comment by one of his jailers: “This one won’t last as long as those others we brought in.” That from the jailer Julius had dubbed Redbeard.
His sniveling sycophant, Half-Face, so named for the huge burn that marred half his face, had readily agreed. “Yes, yes, I bet he won’t even last as long as those puny women and children they brought back-”
There were the sounds of a brief scuffle, then a whimper. “Do not speak of that around here,” Redbeard’s voice said.
Julius smiled grimly in his cell, willing himself back to sleep. Soon.
When Julius woke again, it was to the sound of slamming iron gates and screeching wheels. Rising, Julius walked unsteadily to the barred opening of the cell-a short tube hewn from the living bedrock of the mountain, with the rough granite comprising three sides and stout iron bars plugging the end. They slid aside to provide entrance. The barred gates could be operated by hand, and also by machinery, it seemed, as the gates had opened several times before the guards had appeared at the door.
Not that he left the room often. The only other place that he had seen was the inside of the so-called interrogation chamber. Call it anything but a torture chamber, and it still sounds ominous.
At first, the guards seemed to take pure pleasure in hurting him. Kicks when they delivered his meals, or even dumping his meals on the floor and having him eat off the rock surface. But his bruises were beginning to fade, and Julius could not figure out why.
Until today.
Sure enough, something was happening. Julius could hear the guards’ boots stomping on the rock floor, the sound echoing down the cellblock. Finally, the guards themselves turned the corner, a man hanging limply between them. His feet were dragging; the man was definitely unconscious. Julius moved close to the door, craning his head to get a good look.
They dumped the man unceremoniously on the floor. His body, the clothes disheveled, fell limply. Julius felt his heart leap into his throat. The man’s exposed leg bore a legion tattoo. Another legionnaire could give me information about what’s happening outside. Or help me escape.
The guards moved to open the door. “Back away, prisoner,” one of them said gruffly.
Julius shambled away to the corner of the cell.
One guard pulled his sword while the other slid open the iron door, the metal parts shrieking protest. Julius clapped his hands over his ears.
The guards dragged the man into the cell and tossed him, mercifully, onto the small cot. The guards turned and left without a word, slamming the gate shut with a loud crash.
With the guards gone, the cellblock returned to its usual gloomy atmosphere. Julius spent several hours torn between the urge to shake the man awake and ask him questions, and letting the man, who had obviously been bruised and battered on his way here, rest.
At last, Julius could wait no longer. He shook the man. The man awoke as though coming to from a deep coma, his body responding slowly. “Hgghh. . water. .”
Julius scrambled about the room, finding the tin cup left for him hours earlier and pushing it under the trickle of water that forever wound its way down the back wall of the cell. After a few minutes, enough water had accumulated that Julius was able to give the man a drink.
The man’s eyes flew open at the shock of the cold water hitting his system. He coughed and spluttered before finally resting his eyes on Julius. “Here, let me get you up,” Julius said kindly, guiding the legionnaire into a sitting position against the wall. “What’s your name, legionnaire?”
“Legionnaire Second Class Felix Scipio.”
“Well, Felix, it appears you’re in the same mess I am. I’m Julius Caesar, former centurion. Well, I guess I’m still a centurion,” Julius said wistfully.
The conversation paused as Scipio drank more water and Julius pulled up an overturned bucket to serve as a stool.
“So tell me, Felix, how on earth did you end up here in Midgard? At least, that’s where I assume we are.”
Scipio shared that his legion was part of the expeditionary force sent to invade Nortland. Julius was excited by this, and revealed that he was part of the expedition as well.