Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Etruscans (12 page)
Being a warrior is fun
, thought what was left of the little boy inside Horatrim. He looked for the next man to hit.
, thought what was left of the little boy inside Horatrim. He looked for the next man to hit.
Storm clouds had swallowed the sun, and smoke from the burning compound further obscured the scene. In such a premature twilight it was hard to tell what was happening. Horatrim knew only that he fought and fought, knocking down one man after the other. With every blow he landed he seemed to grow stronger.
He never thought to look behind him.
In his wake, specters strode among the fallen Romans, extracting a terrible vengeance and taking more than lives. Souls were torn from the stunned bodies Horatrim left behind him; souls bound and ensnared by magic that was ancient when the world was young. The
hia
of the Roman warriors belonged to the shades of long-dead Etruscans now, forced forever to do their bidding. But their captors did not content themselves with taking slaves. Lovers of beauty, they must create beauty where none had existed before. The
hia
of the Rasne had spent many centuries in the Netherworld perfecting their talents. Moments of terminal terror were extracted from dying minds by the most skilled physicians, twisted and shaped into intricate, bloody beads by the greatest artisans, strung onto wire spun by the finest craftsmen from filaments of pain.
hia
of the Roman warriors belonged to the shades of long-dead Etruscans now, forced forever to do their bidding. But their captors did not content themselves with taking slaves. Lovers of beauty, they must create beauty where none had existed before. The
hia
of the Rasne had spent many centuries in the Netherworld perfecting their talents. Moments of terminal terror were extracted from dying minds by the most skilled physicians, twisted and shaped into intricate, bloody beads by the greatest artisans, strung onto wire spun by the finest craftsmen from filaments of pain.
When the Etruscan spirits were finished, only the man-boy and the mortally injured bodies of Wulv and Repana and the unconscious Vesi remained. No Roman flesh, no spilled blood spattered the earth where moments before a company of trained warriors had been slaughtered.
Horatrim stood rocking slightly on his heels, rubbing his knuckles and looking around with a dazed expression. “Where did everyone go?” he asked in bewilderment.
There was no answer.
A faint groan caught his attention. He dropped to his knees beside Repana and Wulv, who looked up at him with glazing eyes. “Don't touch her,” snarled the Teumetian.
“Wulv ⦠it's me, Horatrim.”
“Horatrim?” The Teumetian scowled. “You're not Horatrim.”
“I am, but something happened to me,” the boy replied. “And I came too late,” he added miserably. Suddenly he was a child again, eyes brimming with tears. He reached for Repana.
Wulv twisted sideways, interposing his body between them. “Leave her! She's mine now.”
“I only want to help; she's my grandmother.”
Wulv responded by clutching Repana still more tightly to his chest and baring his teeth like a wild animal. It was obvious he no longer recognized the child he had helped raise.
Repana turned her head and tried to look into Horatrim's face, but the effort was too much for her. She uttered one soft moan, then slumped lifeless.
Wulv's scarred features blurred with a grief too great to survive. He struggled into a sitting position and shook the still body. “No! You have to live, you have to live for me! With me! I'll do better. I'll get you soft cloth. I'll catch such lovely fish for your meal. Please. Oh, please. My ⦔
The Teumetian drew a long, anguished breath. In his throat Horatrim could hear the death rattle. Wulv made a final effort. “My dear one,” he murmured, the words of tenderness crossing his lips for the first and last time. Then he too was gone.
At the moment of Repana's dying, Horatrim had felt a pain as if something had torn loose inside him. The sensation was not repeated when Wulv died, but his sorrow was just as intense. Fighting back tears, he turned awayâso he did not see two shadowy figures slowly materialize to bend over the woman who lay on the earth. One was tall and elegant, the other stocky and coarsely formed. Each held out a hand to her.
Repana's
hia
hesitated, then accepted them both. Like a scarf of sheerest silk it floated upward from her corpse and, together with her two companions, faded into the Otherworld.
hia
hesitated, then accepted them both. Like a scarf of sheerest silk it floated upward from her corpse and, together with her two companions, faded into the Otherworld.
Meanwhile Horatrim, wiping furiously at his eyes, was stumbling back to his mother. Vesi was still unconscious but at least she was alive. He was determined to keep her that way.
T
he Roman garrison occupied a hill fort overlooking the river. Built many years before by a now vanquished tribe, the fort had been modified and reinforced by the victorious Romans to take full advantage of its position. A high timber palisade surmounted walls of rammed earth and rubble. New timber gates had been installed and secured by massive bars. Pyramids of stones warned of ballistae mounted atop the walls.
he Roman garrison occupied a hill fort overlooking the river. Built many years before by a now vanquished tribe, the fort had been modified and reinforced by the victorious Romans to take full advantage of its position. A high timber palisade surmounted walls of rammed earth and rubble. New timber gates had been installed and secured by massive bars. Pyramids of stones warned of ballistae mounted atop the walls.
From a level summit the hill fell sharply away, with clumps of parched cedar clinging to its steep flanks. Treacherous scree made any approach to the top difficult. Bronze-helmeted guards were stationed at the gates at all times, each equipped with a two-edged sword in a scabbard, a dagger, and a pair of throwing spears. Over linen undervests and woolen tunics they wore corselets of hammered bronze plates fastened together with rings to allow for mobility, while scarves around their necks served to keep the armor from cutting
into their skin. The entire outfit was meltingly hot in the summer sun, bitterly cold in winter.
into their skin. The entire outfit was meltingly hot in the summer sun, bitterly cold in winter.
Because the garrison was situated north of Rome on a tribal frontier, the guards were under orders to be constantly vigilant. They were human; occasionally their attention wavered.
“This isn't a frontier, it's a backwater,” Paulus complained to Sextus as they stood on either side of the main gate. “There's no fighting, no action. No opportunity for loot,” he added petulantly. “There're rich pickings on all the other bordersâI've heard of men making fortunes in Thrace, where even the slaves are bedecked in gold. But here ⦔ He shook his head and spat into the dust. “The Samnites haven't come down from their mountains recently because they're too scared of us, the Vestini are subdued, and as for the Etruscans, they've gone as soft as melting wax. The king says we'll be overrunning them soon.”
“You can be burned by melting wax,” Sextus reminded him. He had stood this watch with Paulus every day for a month and was weary of the younger man's constant complaining. Paulus wanted most desperately to be in the midst of battle; he longed for the clash of weapons and the stink of blood and the promise of loot. Since joining the military his only assignment had been guard duty, and he was frustrated.
Sextus, on the other hand, had fought in many campaigns and had his belly full of battle and bloodshed. Paulus did not appreciate how lucky they were to be simply standing here, doing nothing. He now tried to transmit this to his companion. “I fought the Etruscans ⦔ he began.
Paulus groaned audibly. He had heard the tales of Sextus's exploits a hundred times.
“I know the Etruscans well,” Sextus continued undeterred. “If they should decide to declare war on Rome before our king marches on Veii, we had better be ready.”
“I'll wager anything you care to name that it never happens.” Yawning, Paulus scratched himself in the armpit. A trickle of sweat ran down under his body armor and he dug with one forefinger in an unsuccessful attempt to reach his upper ribs. “The Etruscans have no interest in Rome. I've heard descriptions of the cities in Etruria. They have brick cities with public buildings as fine as temples and private houses fit for princes. What would they want with an overgrown village of mud-and-timber shacks on seven rocky hills? You worry unnecessarily, Sextus. In the meantime I'm mightily bored and that sun is too damned hot. There's no one in sight. Why not step into the shade of the wall and have a quick game of dice? We can see just as well from there, and I'd welcome the chance to win that cloak I lost to you in the barracks last night.”
A sharp voice cut through the stifling air. “If either of you desert your post for an instant, I'll personally skewer your guts.”
Paulus and Sextus froze as their captain, Antoninus, strode through the gateway with a grim expression on his sunburned, hawk-nosed face. “You're supposed to be standing guard, attentive and watchful. All I can hear is your chatter. And you underestimate the Etruscans,” he told Paulus. “They may seem peaceful now, but I wouldn't trust one of them if we had exchanged a blood oath and I was married to his sister. Guile is as natural to them as fighting is to us. They are an ancient, decadent race; they make the Egyptians look honest. Their current nonaggression could be just a clever ploy to make us relax our vigilance. While you two are dicing your pay away, a whole army could be sneaking past us under cover of those willows along the river down there, determined to sack and loot Rome.”
“That's hardly likely; we're not the only guards,” Paulus replied, smiling easily. His cousin was married to the captain's son, and he imagined it allowed him a certain familiarity.
Antoninus's backhanded blow drove him to the ground. “When you stand at this gate you stand as if you are the only guards between the barbarians and the gates of Rome. So keep a sharp lookout. And let me hear nothing further about playing dice!” Antoninus added as he walked away. “You ignorant whelps may not realize it, but the Etruscans you sneer at
invented
dice!”
invented
dice!”
Below the garrison, the Tiber undulated lazily through a land baked ochre by the relentless sun. Only the sway of willow branches against the wind betrayed any activity, but by the time Sextus and Paulus resumed their silent surveillance of the terrain, the trees were immobile. The bird song, which was the eternal heartbeat of the region, had been stilled.
The dark-haired young man leading the woman along the river's edge was careful to keep the trees between himself and the fort on the hill. Seeking cover in unfamiliar territory was as natural to him as breathing.
Vesi had been badly damaged in the raid. Her distraught son had held her in his arms and tended her wounds as best he could, using mud and leaves and scraps of half-remembered lore, lore that he should not know, had never been taught. Yet it came to him in his need and he accepted gratefully.
Horatrim had poured his love into his mother and was finally rewarded when she opened her eyes with a weary sigh. But when he looked into her eyes they were blank. No matter how much he pleaded with her to come back to him, there was no spark there, no sign of recognition. Yet she was alive; he comforted himself with that much. She was at least alive.
When Vesi had regained enough physical strength, Horatrim had taken her away from the island and its unbearable memories. He had set off through the forbidding, endless expanse of the Great Forest with no real destination in mind.
Then at night Horatrim began having vivid dreams of a wide river running through a fertile valley of rich black earth. In this unfamiliar land, exotically robed, dark-skinned healers worked in high-ceilinged temples. As he watched, they cured the sick and repaired the injured with incredible skill.
Where such dreams came from he did not know. But he awoke convinced the healers existed. Somewhere. In the Black Land, wherever that was. If he could only find them, perhaps they could help his damaged mother.
In the meantime, however, he decided to take Vesi to her own people. They might be able to heal her themselves, or they could at least look after her while he went in search of the Black Land and the wondrous healers of his dreams.
He did not discuss his plans with Vesi. Conversation was no longer possible with his mother. She could only be gently guided, told to sit here, lie there, eat this, drink that. He fed her by hand, pressed soft food into her mouth, then waited while she chewed slowly and swallowed, then fed her some more. When she soiled herself he cleaned and bathed her, unaware how recently she had been doing the same for him. Obedient as a child, Vesi followed his instructions. Sometimes she made small, erratic gestures or gaped dumbly with her mouth hanging ajar. But she did not speak; she had not spoken since that terrible day when Wulv and Repana died.
Slowly, limited by Vesi's ability to travel, they had made their way through the forest. Thanks to the hunting and foraging skills Wulv had taught him, Horatrim was able to keep them both fed. He asked for nothing but directions from the occasional Teumetians they encountered.
During endless, sleepless nights, he tormented himself with memories of his grandmother and Wulv and the life they had led together before the coming of the Romax. The little family on the island had bothered no
one, done no damage. In retrospect he realized they had been happy.
one, done no damage. In retrospect he realized they had been happy.
Yet the Romax had destroyed all that for the sheer pleasure of destruction. His stubborn mind re-created the images of that last terrible day again and again, refusing to accept them, refusing to forget.
He was taller than his mother, taller than most of the hunters or trappers or even the occasional Romax scout they encountered. He had burst from his clothes and been forced to make new ones from hides and pelts he trapped along the way, stitching the pelt with tiny neat stitches although he had never sewn before. Almost overnight his body had turned into that of a powerful young man. Yet deep inside a small boy still lived, peering out at the world through wondering, baffled eyes, and with the universal question of the child: Why?
Why had the Romax come?
Why had his grandmother and Wulv been slain?
Most important of all, where had his mother gone?
They had been traveling for the best part of a ten-day journey when they had stumbledâalmost accidentallyâupon a Teumetian village deep in the heart of the forest. While Vesi sat on a log, Horatrim chopped wood, using an ax with fluid ease, in return for some cheese and bread and sour wine.
Later that day, as he was being paid, the Teumetian headman had looked at him appraisingly, admiring the breadth of the young man's shoulders, the rippling muscles in his bare arms, the brawny length of his legs.
“Stay with us and join our warrior band,” the headman urged Horatrim. “We could use a big powerful fellow like you to stand with us. And in return you would enjoy the safety of our village. Wandering the forest is no longer safe; every year there seem to be more raiders from Latium. These are dangerous times.”
“I cannot,” Horatrim replied. “We are going to find my mother's people.”
“And who are they?”
“The Rasne. They have some sort of ⦠of city, I believe my grandmother once said. On the other side of the Great Forest. We will be safe there.”
“I wouldn't expect to find safety among the Silver People,” advised the bandy-legged village chieftain. “The Etruscans produced great warriorsâonce. But not anymore. Now they lack the will to resist any determined effort at conquest And conquest is what the Romax intend. They won't always be satisfied with raiding. Why settle for some loot when you can have all of it? The Teumetes will prove too tough for them, but remember my words, we'll see the day when they swarm over the Etruscan cities and make them their own. The Romax may be maggots, but at least they're lively maggots. The Silver People have become slugs.”
“That may be. But I have to take my mother to her own people. You see how she is; I cannot care for her by myself.”
“You won't get any help from the Etruscans. Just look at her, dressed in rags and as mad as a mouse under the full moon. The Silver People want everything to be perfect; they'll never accept her as one of their own. They'll either turn her away or sacrifice her to one of their gods.”
The headman rubbed his hands together, skin rasping. “But you're right,” he went on, “a young man like you should not be looking after a grown woman. I'm sure you have better things to do. Tell you what; I'm a generous man. Although I've already got two wives, I'll take her off your hands.” He grinned toothlessly. “Wouldn't mind having a woman who can't talk.”
The man's eyes glinted lasciviously; a thread of saliva drooled from his lips. Horatrim, repelled, took a step backward, pulling Vesi with him. The chieftain had followed.
In one hand he brandished a knife; with the other he reached for the woman. “Even a madwoman has her uses.”
In one hand he brandished a knife; with the other he reached for the woman. “Even a madwoman has her uses.”
But just as his grimy hand clutched the front of her gown, Horatrim's fingers closed around the man's hand. He squeezed so tightly he could hear the bones grinding together. “I think not,” he said softly.
For a single heartbeat the chieftain had contemplated driving the knife in his free hand into the youngster's chest, but the look in Horatrim's eyes stopped him. He knew without the slightest doubt that the boy could and would kill him first. He spun around and scuttled back to his village, leaving the young man and his mother standing alone.
That night as he had made camp for the pair of them in a forest glade, Horatrim thought over what the chieftain had said. What if Vesi's people would not accept her? Absentmindedly he scratched the stubble that had recently bloomed on his jaws. His body was becoming a man's, and men were supposed to know what to do. Wulv would have known.
In the dark, in the night, alone with the massive responsibility of his helpless mother, Horatrim felt like a very small boy indeed. Tears prickled at the back of his eyes, but he brushed them away with the back of his hand. He had used that same angry movement almost from the moment he learned to walk, whenever tears threatened. He had never seen Wulv cry.
“I'm worried, Mother,” he reluctantly admitted as he fed small sticks to the fire. “I fear nothing for myself, but I am concerned about you. The world is a dangerous place. Until the Rasne take us in, we have no one but ourselves.”
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