Night & Demons (24 page)

Dama chuckled with relief to be out of his saddle again. He used his tunic to fan the sweat from his legs, looking inconsequential beside the two powerful soldiers. Though he was a civilian, a sword slapped against his thigh. In the back country, weapons were the mark of caution rather than belligerence. He nodded toward the still-silent building, his blond hair gleaming as bright in the moonlight as the bronze helmets of his two companions. “If it weren’t for the light, I’d say the place was empty.”

The door of the station creaked open, making answer needless. The man who stood on the threshold was as old and gnarled as the pines that straggled up the slopes of the valley. He faced them with wordless hostility. The last regular courier had passed, and he had been dozing off when this new party arrived. Like many petty officeholders, the stationmaster reveled in his authority—but did not care to be reminded of the duties that went with his position.

Vettius strode forward holding out a scroll of parchment. “Food for us,” he directed, “and you can give our horses some grain while we eat.”

“All right for you and the other,” the stationmaster rasped. “The civilian finds his own meal.”

“Government service,” Harpago muttered. He spat.

Vettius began kneading one wrist with his other hand. The little merchant touched his friend’s elbow, but Vettius shook him away. “I’ll take care of it my own way,” he said. His temper had worn thin on the grueling ride, and the stationmaster’s sneering slovenliness gouged at his nerves.

“Old man,” he continued in a restrained voice, “my authority is for food and accommodations for me and my staff. The civilian is with me as part of my staff. Do you dispute the emperor’s authority?”

The stationmaster reared back his head to look the soldier in the eyes.
“
Even the emperor can’t afford to feed every starving thief who comes along,” he began.

Vettius slapped him to the ground. “Will you call my friend a thief again?” he grated.

The old man’s eyes narrowed in hatred as he sullenly dabbed at his bleeding lip, but he shook his head, cowering before the soldier. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Then take care of those horses—and be thankful I don’t have you rub them down with your tongue.” Vettius stamped angrily into the station, Harpago and Dama behind him.

“Food!” Vettius snapped. A dumpy peasant woman scurried to open a cupboard.

“I could have paid something, Lucius,” the merchant suggested as they seated themselves at the trestle table. “After all, I came because I thought I could set up some business of my own here.”

“And I brought you because I need your contacts,” his friend replied. “The traders here won’t tell me if they think the governor really is trying to raise money for a rebellion.”

He paused, massaging the inside of his thighs where they ached from holding him into his stirrupless saddle since early dawn. “Besides,” he added quietly, “it’s been a long day—too long to be put upon by of some lazy bureaucrat.”

Dama sighed as the serving woman set down barley bread and cheese.
“
Not much of a meal anyway, is it?” he said. “I thought the empire fed its post couriers better than this, even in the back country.”

“And I thought we were going to get directions here,” Harpago complained. “If we don’t get to Aurelia before the fair ends we’ll find all the merchants scattered—and then how are we going to learn anything?”

“We’ll find a way,” Vettius assured him sourly. He took a gulp of the wine the woman had poured him, then slammed the wooden cup back on the table. “Gods! That’s bad.”

“Local vintage,” Dama agreed.
“
Maybe I should try to sell some decent wine here instead of silk.”

The older soldier swigged some more wine and grimaced wryly.
“
Old man!” he shouted. After a moment the stationmaster came to the door. He limped slightly and his swollen lip was a blotch of color against his tight face.

The soldier ignored the anger in the old man’s eyes.”How far is it to Aurelia?” he demanded.

“By which road?” the other growled.

Vettius touched the pommel of his spatha so that the long straight blade rattled against the bench. “By the shortest way,” he said testily.

“You have to . . .” the stationmaster began, then paused. He seemed to consider the matter carefully before he started again. “The shortest way, you say. Well, there’s a road just past the station. If you turn north on it, it’s only about twenty miles. But you’ll have to look well, because nobody’s been over that road for fifty years and the beginning is all grown over with trees.”

The serving woman suddenly chattered something in her own language. The man snarled back at her and she fell silent.

“Could you catch any of that?” Vettius asked Dama under his breath.

The little Cappadocian shrugged. “She said something about bandits. He told her to be quiet. But I don’t really know the language, you know.”

“Bandits we can take care of,” Harpago muttered, one finger tracing a dent in the helmet he had rested on the table.

“How else can we get to Aurelia?” Vettius questioned, half-squinting as if to measure the stationmaster for a cross.

“You can keep on into Pasini, then turn back west on the Salvium road,” the other replied without meeting the officer’s eyes. “It’s several times as long.”

“Then we go by the straight route?” Vettius said, looking at his companions questioningly.

Harpago rose and reslung his shield.

“Why not?” Dama agreed.

The stationmaster watched them mount and ride off. His gnarled face writhed in terrible glee.

“What did they do, tear the whole road up?” Harpago asked. Even with the stationmaster’s warning they had almost ridden past the junction. The surfacing flags and concrete certainly had been taken up. Seeds had lodged in the road metal beneath. They had grown to sizable trees by now, so that the only sign of the narrow road was a relative absence of undergrowth.

“The locals must have torn up this branch because it wasn’t used much and they were tired of the labor taxes to repair it,” Vettius surmised.
“
They probably used the stone to fill holes on one of the main roads.”

“But if this leads to the district market town, it should have gotten quite a lot of use,” Dama argued.

“At least it’ll guide us to where we’re going,” Harpago put in, plunging into the trees.

The pines grew close together and their branches frequently interlocked; riding through them was difficult. Vettius began to wonder if they should stop and turn back, but after a hundred yards or so the torn up section gave way to regular road.

Dama paused, looking back in puzzlement as his fingers combed pine straw out of his hair. “You know,” he said, “I think they planted those trees on the roadbed when they tore up the surface.”

“Why should they do that?” Vettius snorted.

“Well, look around,” his friend pointed out. “The road is cracked here, too, but there aren’t any trees growing in it. Besides, the trees don’t grow as thickly anywhere else around here as they do on that patch of road. Somebody planted them to block it off completely.”

The soldier snorted again, but he turned in his saddle. Dama had a point, he realized. In fact, the pines might even be growing in crude rows. “Odd,” he admitted at last.

“Sir!” called Harpago, who had ridden far ahead. “Are you coming?”

Vettius raised an eyebrow. Dama laughed and slapped his horse’s flank.
“
He’s young; he’ll learn.”

“Sorry if I seem to push,” the adjutant apologized as they trotted onward, “but I don’t like wasting time on this stretch of road. It’s too dark for me.”

“Dark?” Vettius echoed in amazement. For the first time he took more than cursory notice of their surroundings. The swampy gully to the left of the road had once been a drainage ditch. Long abandonment had left it choked with reeds, while occasional willows sprouted languidly from its edge. On the right, ragged forest climbed the slope of the valley. Scrub pine struggled through densely interwoven underbrush to form a stark, desolate landscape.

But dark? The moonlight washed the broken pavement into a metal serpent twisting through the forest. The trees were too stunted to overshadow the road, and the paving stones gleamed against the contrast of frequent cracks and potholes. Even the scabbed boles of the pines showed silver scales where the moon touched them.

“I wouldn’t call it dark,” Vettius concluded aloud, “though you could hide a regiment in those thickets.”

“No, he’s right,” Dama disagreed unexpectedly. “It does seem dark, and I can’t figure out why.”

“Don’t tell me both of you are getting nervous of shadows,” jeered Vettius.

“I just wonder why they blocked off this road,” the merchant replied vaguely. “From the look of the job it must have taken most of the district. Wonder what that stationmaster sent us into . . . .”

Miles clattered gloomily by under their horses’ hooves. It was fell, wasteland, a wretched paradigm for much of the empire in these latter days. This twisting valley could never have been much different, though. The humid bottoms had never been tilled; perhaps a few hunters had taken deer among its drooping pines. For the others who had come this way—lone travelers, donkey caravans, troops in glittering armor—the valley was only an incident of passage.

Now even the road was crumbling. Although only a short distance had been systematically destroyed, nature and time had taken a hand with the remainder. The flags had humped and split as water seepage froze in the winter, and one great section had fallen into the gully whose spring torrents had undercut it. They led their horses over the rubble while the pines drank their curses.

The usual nightbirds were hushed or absent.

Even Vettius began to feel uneasy. The moonlight weighed on his shoulders like a palpable force, crushing him down in his saddle. The moon was straight overhead now. Occasional streaks of light pierced the groping branches to paint the dark trunks with swordblades.

It
was
dark now. No white face would gleam from the forest edge to warn of the bandit arrow to follow in an instant. Was it fear of bandits that made him so tense? In twenty years’ service he had ridden point in tighter places!

Letting his horse pick its own way over the broken road, Vettius scanned the forest. He took off his helmet and the tight leather cap that cushioned it. The air felt good, a prickly coolness that persisted even after he put the helmet back on, but there was no relief from the ominous tension. Grunting, he tried to hike his shield a little higher on his back.

Dama chuckled in vindication. “Nervous, Lucius?” he asked.

Vettius shrugged. “The woman at the station said there were bandits.”

“On an abandoned piece of road like this?” Dama laughed bitterly. “I wish she were here now. I’d find out for sure what she did say. Do you suppose she knew any Greek besides ‘food’ and ‘wine’?”

“No, she was too ugly for other refreshment,” Vettius said. His forced laughter bellowed through the trees.

After a short silence, Harpago said, “Well, at least we should be almost to Aurelia by now.”

“Look where the moon is, boy,” Vettius scoffed. “We’ve only been riding for two hours or so.”

“Oh, surely it’s been longer than that,” the younger man insisted, looking at the sky in amazement.

“Well, it hasn’t,” his commander stated flatly.

“Shall we rest the horses for a moment?” Dama suggested.
“
That pool seems to be spring fed, and I’m a little thirsty.”

“Good idea,” Vettius agreed.
“
I’d like to wash that foul wine out of my mouth too.”

“Look,” Harpago put in, “Aurelia must be just around the next bend. Why don’t we ride on a little further and see—”

“Ride yourself if you want to be a damned fool,” snapped Vettius. He didn’t like to be pushed, especially when he was right.

Harpago flushed. He saluted formally. When Vettius ignored him, he wheeled and rode off.

Vettius unstrapped his shield and looked around while the Cappadocian slurped water from his cupped hand. The adjutant was out of sight now, but the swift clinking of his horse’s hooves reached them clearly.

“If that young jackass doesn’t learn manners, somebody’s going to break his neck before he gets much older,” Vettius grumbled. “Might even be me.”

Dama dried his face on his sleeve and began filling the water bottles. “It’s something in the air here,” he explained. “We’re all tight.”

The soldier began scuffing at a stump fixed beside the roadway. Decayed wood flaked away under his hobnails and the wasted remnants of a bronze nail clinked on the pavement. “They crucified somebody here,” he said.

“Umm?”

“These posts along the road,” Vettius explained. “There were several others back a ways. They’re what’s left of crosses when the top rots away.”

Around the bend the hoofbeats faltered and a horse neighed in terror. Vettius swore and slipped his left arm through the straps of his shield. Metal crashed on stone.

Someone screamed horribly.

The big soldier vaulted into his saddle. With one swift jerk Dama loosed the cloak tied to his pommel, snapped it swiftly through the air to wrap protection around his left arm. He scrambled astride his horse.

“Wait!” Vettius said. “You aren’t dressed for trouble. Ride back and get help.”

“I don’t think I will,” the merchant remarked, drawing the short infantry sword that was belted over his tunic. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Vettius said. His spatha shimmered in his hand.

They rounded the bend at a gallop. Wind caught at their garments. The Cappadocian’s tunic bulked out into a squat troll shape while Vettius’s short red officer’s cape flew straight back from his shoulders. When a man looked up at their approach, the soldier let out the terrible banshee howl he had learned from his first command, a squadron of Irish mercenaries, as they slaughtered pirates on the Saxon Shore.

One of the men in the road howled back.

Harpago’s horse pitched wildly as two filthy, skin-clad men sawed at its reins. Startled by Vettius’s howl, a dozen similar shapes in the middle of the road parted to disclose the adjutant himself. He lay on his back with his eyes wide open to the moon. One of the slayers was still lapping at the blood draining from Harpago’s torn throat.