The First Book of the Pure (4 page)

“But you will
not
, husband. I’ve had
enough of this place, and of men, and of you. Two of those husbands
are dead by my hand, and the others are dead just because they grew
old, as you count years.”

“Stop now,” he commanded. “You will not speak
thusly. I forbid it. You’re my wife, and I will not have it.” When
she started to speak again he slapped her hard across the face,
leaving his handprint bright on her cheek. She stared at him
defiantly, and when he moved his arm to strike her again, she
stopped his hand in hers, stopping all momentum from his arm
instantly, with far more strength than he could have summoned.
Shocked at her strength, he gasped out, “What…”

Her other hand gripped his throat, causing
him to stop what he was saying very abruptly and gasp for a breath
that would not come. “Enough husband dearest.” She spoke in a
sickly sweet voice. “It is enough. You were all you could be I
suppose, but think, fool. You would force yourself on me when I was
so exhausted after childbirth that I feared for my life. But you
had needs, great husband, so you came to my sick bed, climbed on
top of me and took me, making me hate you. Don’t worry, for you
wouldn’t have lived many more years anyway, so this isn’t really a
great loss to you. You eat too much, drink too much, and have no
respect for me or women in general.” She brushed his hands away
with her other hand and gripped him hard. “Oh, you must like that,”
she said, mimicking his voice as she crushed him. His pain showed
in his eyes, and his lack of oxygen gave him a blue tinge. “You
think as a man, die like a man, husband!” There was clear derision
in her voice. Just before he fainted she told him what a lovely
shade of blue he was. She kept gripping his throat in her small but
strong hand, barely able to hold enough of it to choke the life
from him, but barely enough was still enough. Barely alive is still
alive, and barely dead is fully dead. She decided that “barely
alive” had no meaning, as she choked the life from him with even
more passion, crushing his windpipe. After she’d watched the life
fade from his body she shook him once and tossed his body aside as
she had her own robes before bed. “Darling husband.” She glanced at
his corpse sprawled on the floor. “You won’t even miss me.” She was
done with a world in which she was always defending herself against
men, against power, against things which might, in a better,
different world, not be issues at all.

***

When that decision was made, she gathered up
some coins, some small amount of gold they’d hidden away against
future need, the jewels she’d acquired over the years of which her
husband had known nothing, and walked through the quiet village in
the dark.

She snuck into the catacombs, walking further
into the dark than anyone she knew had ever gone, for these were
very old and somewhat feared. The dust was deep and undisturbed,
with the weight of decades, even centuries weighing down on her.
She sneezed several times as she walked on, and very carefully
brushed out her footprints with a length of sheepskin she’d brought
for this very purpose.

She sealed off a section with heavy blocks,
and lay down very carefully, arranging her body with great care,
knowing it would likely stay that way for a long time. She was
always amazed at the weight she could move when she had to do so.
None of her men could ever have understood or accepted the fact of
her strength.
Nobody could find me here but the Minotaur
.
This was not her first time to skip ahead like this, from the
present to a future time. Crete didn’t fit her very well, like a
poorly cut garment that sagged where it should cling and clung
where it should be loose. While she didn’t know for sure that she
would awaken, she did know for sure that she was fed up with this
life, and wanted to live it no more. Tears slid down her cheeks as
she tried to not think about her daughters, and the connection she
hadn’t been allowed to develop with them. She began to breath more
slowly, then very shallowly, and then stopped breathing
altogether.

Session 3

The following day the reporter rejoined his
host for breakfast as he had the previous morning. Again it was a
lavish meal, and today the reporter ate the exotic, fresh fruit,
fresh baked bread and tender meats because he had to eat, not
because he enjoyed it. This game was macabre, and he was getting
more and more nervous about it all.
Who kidnaps someone to tell
them a ridiculous story after all?

And who burglarizes an apartment to bring
a captive his own clothing to wear?
That filled him with
indignation again, for it was yet another violation. He would
remember that, along with the kidnapping and the assaults of his
captivity. He assured himself there would be an accounting for his
misuse.

His host however, was warming to his daily
monologues. “Today we shall learn of a great warrior, a giant of a
man, who will amaze you.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at his
captive guest. His slightly wrinkled forehead and something about
his eyes gave a strange look of age to this youthful, vigorous man.
One could almost believe his crazy claims.

“You sound as though you admire him.
Friends?”

“No, just acquaintances, and of late, on very
different sides of some business ventures. He and his partner are
not friends. But they do deserve some attention. This man of whom I
speak, Maximus, is a grand warrior of several eras, and I’m forced
to admit that his prowess extends to this day and time as well. I
do admire him in a way, and I’m not one to admire many. He’s more
of a respected adversary.” Again he flashed that grim smile that
displayed no humor at all.

Maximus,

Rome and Beyond…

Highly prized by his own Centurion and
appreciated by his fellow soldiers, Maximus was the finest of
warriors. When Maximus fought with you, the victory was almost
assured. None could recall him losing a battle. He was old for a
swordsman, but he was the best. He was what some would label,
“stolid.” He was solid but not fat, hard muscle without a swimmer’s
slenderness, and really didn’t have much of a neck. He was a
wrestler, and was built well for it. His black hair was cut close,
and his very Italian roots showed in his features. His aquiline
nose wasn’t overdone, but was noticeable. There was strength in
every part of him; no matter the task at hand, he exuded power.

He had been slashed, stabbed, nearly gutted
once, but he always healed. Even the scars, which would have been
marks of prestige in his sub-culture of soldiers, healed and
disappeared.

Sometimes he loved showing off his sword that
conquered the world. His Roman short sword, his own creation, could
both sweep and slash, and with its sharpened tip, it could stab
like a javelin. Its length could let it get inside the wide sweeps
of scimitars and other less precise blades, making it the deadliest
weapon on the planet.

Other times he regretted that he had designed
such a blade, for he’d taken serious wounds from it on the
battlefield, as other armies copied it for their own use. Once,
when he’d been skewered on one, and then immediately slashed on his
shoulder, he was sure death was close. Though he was right handed,
he used his uninjured left hand to grasp his sword and he fought
on. He became a legend to his legion that day. For the next week he
was sure he would die as he fought high fevers and screamed from
the poultices put inside his grievous wounds. But he lived. His
strength returned and he went back to march with his legion, second
in command only to Sergius Paulus, a fine commander.

He realized, with his years and his
reputation, that he had finally outlived his time. He took slow,
careful steps to deal with that issue. His wife was getting older,
and he wasn’t. He was a soldier and lived a hard life, yet didn’t
age. Nor did he display any scars from his many wounds, which he
knew perplexed his wife. She was an intelligent woman, but knew
better than to question her husband much. His wife lived a good
life from what he earned, but seemed to have aged noticeably each
time he returned from a campaign. His last wife, in a city a great
distance away, had died by his own hand as he left, for she had not
pleased him. This wife was different, and he grieved that he
wouldn’t see her again. He had moments of sorrow as he watched her
age and knew her life would be short. Already having determined
that this was to be his last battle, he didn’t have to think about
love, now or ever again. It was so desperately painful to love
someone you knew you would outlive by many lifetimes. Still, he had
arranged for her life to be as comfortable as possible after his
departure. He had stockpiled gold and silver from his campaigns and
from his private fights, which he always won, and put them where
she would find them fairly soon. There were stacks of salt also,
since often it was with salt that he and the other soldiers were
paid. And Maximus was always worth his salt. He kissed her goodbye
as he left to join his legion for a new campaign against the
southern barbarians.

One night in the moonless dark of the
campaign trail, he rose after the moon had started to hide behind
some clouds.
A denarius
, he thought, picturing the coin of
his empire,
dropping into the slot of tomorrow
. He saluted
the sentry he passed on his way, and took a sizable pouch of gold
he had saved, in a tough leather bag, and started walking. A day
later he found the caves he remembered from a campaign years
before. He went in and climbed down as far as was possible into the
cave system. It was dry for a cavern system, and thick with dust.
There he used his great strength and the staff he brought with him
to move some rather large stones. Dead or not, he had no intention
of being some animal’s supper. Beneath one stone he placed his
leather bag. It was beneath the farthest stone past the narrowest
area that allowed a body to pass. He committed it to memory and
turned away. In the battle they marched to in three days, he would
die.

He marched with his companions, telling
coarse jokes and passing the time as military men had always done,
and still do. Each man knew he could be marching to his last
battle. But they were Romans, and they were soldiers in service to
Caesar, so they marched.

Sergius Paulus was on his horse at the front
of the column, and Maximus marched next to him. Sergius sat tall on
his horse, even though he was barely over five feet tall. Horses of
late were a rare and coveted commodity, for most had been sent with
the legions fighting the great Hun hoards. It seemed the empire had
no lack of enemies. So Maximus marched. “Ho Maximus,” called
Sergius. “Another glorious battle for the Emperor.” He looked at
his old comrade shrewdly. “Or is it just another day to fight?”

“Glory to Caesar,” called back Maximus to his
old friend. “I’ve a bad feeling about this one though. It could
well be my last. I’m not so young anymore, my captain.”

“Nonsense,” shot back Sergius. “No man of
this six thousand can outfight you, no matter your age. You’ll
fight and kill, and have the strength to go whoring with the men
when we return.” He laughed as he said it, believing it to be true.
“Is your arm well enough from that deep wound you took last
season?”

“Aye it ‘tis, sir. It wasn’t so deep as you
thought. And as to how we fare today, your will, my lord.” Maximus
displayed the faintest of smiles. In that age, he had phenomenal
teeth, straight and white. Maximus gave a rare, toothy grin. “About
that whoring comment, you know my wife, right? Ha-ha, those days
are long gone, and rightly so. By the way, we all live just long
enough. My father understood that. He told me once I was just tall
enough, because when I stood my feet barely reached the ground.”
They both laughed. “We each live our lives long enough to reach our
deaths. Seriously, my comrade.”

The lines were drawn up as the Legion faced
its enemies across a great plain. With perhaps a mile between them,
each side looked at potential death or maiming, or potential glory
and life. “How many do you think, Maximus?”

“Too many,” the tall Roman answered tersely.
“There are thousands more of them than of us.” He wiped sweat and
dirt from his face and neck.
This armor had serious
disadvantages
.
We could die from the heat before we reach
the enemy.
Maximus worked with his armor and tried to let some
air get into his breastplate to cool him, and not for the first
time.

“Well, if it was going to be easy they
wouldn’t send us now, would they?” His commander and friend laughed
back at him, wondering why this great swordsman, fearless in every
way, was so uneasy. It spooked Sergius Paulus, but he shrugged it
off and returned to his duty. He led his troops with bravery and
honor. With sword raised high, and trumpets ready to relay his
command to charge, Sergius cut the perfect figure of a warrior:
hammered helmet ablaze in the sun, blood red cloak flowing over his
shoulders and the hindquarters of his mare. He leaned close to her
ear, patted the animal one more time to steady her. “Do me true,
girl.” His sword flashed high, catching the sunlight, and he
roared, “For Rome and Caesar!” The trumpets sounded the charge.

They charged, six thousand strong, tired,
hot, sweating their salt away. Unfortunately they charged into over
eight thousand crazed barbarians, waving axes, picks, and twenty
foot pikes, roaring straight at them. Nearly fifteen thousand
screaming, cursing men and thundering horses came together in a
clash that seemed to drown out the noise itself, numbing the
hearing of those within it. Hundreds were cut down in the first
onslaught, limbs gone, hearts stopped, some knocked senseless until
someone stabbed them to make sure they stayed down. One tall,
strong Roman fought his way through the hoard, saddened by the
sudden death of his long time commander and friend, Sergius, just
two feet to his right. He slashed with such strength at the man who
had cut Sergius down that his sword shattered and the enemy’s
shield split, numbing his arm. He moved close and took a fallen
comrade’s sword, still weaving above the body it was planted in,
like a plant in the wind, and with his next stroke detached the
head of his friend’s killer from his body, which is by no means as
easy as an amateur might believe. Even a headsman, with a huge ax
and a target neck held rigidly still at execution might require
two, or even three strikes. But Maximus fought with a vengeance,
and his great strength sent this particular head flying with but
one stroke. He kept going. He would drop an enemy with the swing of
his heavy shield, while moving inside the sweep of the long blades
of another enemy, skewering him. On and on he fought, losing
himself in the bloodlust of the moment. If they’d known the terms,
they’d have called him a Tasmanian Devil amid the chickens.