The Phantom Queen Awakes (20 page)

And his drooped head
sinks gradually low–

And through his side
the last drops, ebbing slow

From the red gash,
fall heavy, one by one...

****

Biography

Michael Bailey is the author of the nonlinear
novel,
Palindrome
Hannah
, a finalist for the 2006
Independent Publisher Awards for horror fiction. He is currently
revising his overly-complex follow-up novel,
Phoenix Rose
,
and has started a third, titled,
Psychotropic
Dragon
.

A collection of short stories and poetry,
Scales and Petals
, is also in the works. In writing this bio
― in third-person, no less ― he has also come to realize that all
of his novels start with the letter P, which is disconcerting
because only one of them sounds like it. While he doesn’t write a
great deal of short fiction, some of his darker tales have appeared
in various literary journals, comics, print magazines and
anthologies in the United States, Australia, the United Kingdom,
Sweden and as far away as South Africa (from a Californian’s point
of view). His short story, ‘Defenestrate’, previously appeared in
the glorious
In Bad Dreams
anthology, published by Eneit
Press.

****

James Lecky

The Children of Badb Catha

“They’re savages,” Optio Olcinius said. “Worse
than the bloody Iceni.” He snorted and spat a wad of phlegm onto
the wet ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s
no way for a Roman to die.”

“It’s no way for any man to die,” Larcius
Servius said. “Cut them down, Olcinius.”

Optio Olcinius Decimus nodded curtly and spat
again, seeming to try and get the abattoir stench of the grove from
his mouth. He was a big, gray bear of a man, a veteran of the
campaigns in Caledonia and Germania and no stranger to violence,
but even he balked at the prospect of touching those ruined,
wretched figures.

There were eight of them, hanging like broken
playthings from the lower branches of the grove’s oak trees. They
had been soldiers once, before the Gaels had taken them, and now
they were meat for the crows.

How long did they take to die? Larcius
wondered, as he watched his men take the bodies down and wrap them
in blankets. Did they scream and cry out to the gods while the
flesh was stripped from their bones or did they face death like a
good legionnaire should, stoic and defiant to the last?

“What now, Centurion?” Olcinius asked when the
corpses had been tended to.

“Now we do our duty,” Larcius said.

Olcinius grinned wolfishly. “Some good,
old-fashioned Roman vengeance, eh, Centurion?”

“Roman justice, Optio Olcinius.” Larcius
corrected. “Civilized men do not indulge in vengeance.” He kicked
his horse into a trot while behind him, the centuria formed
together with practiced efficiency.

****

Roman justice or Roman
vengeance?
They were the same thing, Larcius decided, or at
the very least, they had the same outcome. He had seen it in Gaul,
Britannia and Caledonia. And now it had come to Hibernia, the
newest, farthest outpost of the Empire.

The decades since Gnaeus Julius Agricola and
his legions had crossed the sea that the Gaels called Muir Meann
had been years of steel and iron, blood and fire. Agricola himself
had boasted that he could subdue the whole island with a single
legion. He had been wrong.

True, he had smashed and scattered the tribes
with ruthless efficiency, slaughtered their druids and desecrated
the shrines of their gods, but the Gaels had refused to admit
defeat and it had become a war of attrition, hit and run, atrocity
and reprisal. More blood, more steel. More death.

That morning, as the centuria had set out from
Campus Roborum on the banks of the Modarnus River, Larcius had
known what they would find. The local tribes ― the Vennicnii and
the Erdin ― had been restless and belligerent for months now,
raiding across the river from Dungallum for cattle and slaves until
even Quintus Cassius, the sedentary and slow-witted commander of
the Roborum garrison, realized something had to be done.

But with typical caution, he had sent his
troops out in small patrols of no more than ten men.

“When they see the might of Rome, the Gaels
will flee back into the hills,” Quintus had announced. “No need for
a legion when a contubernium or two will do the same job. We’ll put
the fear of Mars into them, eh?”

It had been inevitable that Roman lives would
be lost, and equally as inevitable that Larcius would have to clean
up the mess.

The contubernium under Decanus Catulinnius had
been missing for over a week before word of their slaughter reached
Roborum, and another two days passed while Quintus wailed and
moaned and offered up sacrifices to his household gods in
repentance.

Finally, he called Larcius to his
villa.

“They have to be taught a lesson,” he said.
“If word of this gets to Eblana or, Pluto forbid, Rome itself, our
careers will be ruined. Take a centuria into Dungallum and show
these barbarian bastards what it means to take Roman
lives.”

“They will be punished, Tribune Cassius, you
have my word on it.”

Quintus waved a soft, podgy hand to dismiss
him. “Do it by whatever means you deem necessary, Larcius.” he
said. “Rome demands blood from those who kill her children. You
know your duty.”

“Quite so, Tribune.”

“One other thing, Larcius,” Quintus said as
the centurion turned to leave. “These Gaels make poor slaves ― I
don’t see the need to bring any back with you. Remember the words
of Cicero: ‘In time of war the law falls silent’.”

Larcius knew what the Tribune meant, just as
he knew that any disaster or scandal would fall on his own head. A
fool he may have been, but Quintus Cassius knew how to cover his
tracks. As commander in the field, Larcius would hold sole
responsibility for any decision.

“Do not concern yourself, Tribune Cassius. If
Rome demands blood, then blood she will have.”

****

By late afternoon, the centuria had reached
the Rapa hills, guided by Conall O’Ceirin, an Erdin collaborator
whose love for Roman silver far outweighed his tribal
loyalties.

“A mile, maybe a mile and a half to the next
Vennicnii settlement, centurion,” Conall told him. “There’ll be
plenty of work for your swords there.” The scout was a small, dark
man with braided hair: the broad axe and iron sword he carried were
those of his people, but his clothing ― the short tunic and red
battle cloak ― were readily accepted gifts from Rome.

“These Vennicnii,” Larcius asked, “they are
the ones who killed Catulinnius and his men?”

Conall shrugged. “Would it matter?”

Larcius did not answer.

But no, he thought, it would not matter. An
example needs to be made. Guilty or not, Roman justice makes no
distinction and laws fall silent during a time of war.

It was growing dark by the time they reached
the village and the autumn chill had begun to work its way into
Larcius’ bones. The gods must hate this country, he decided, and
who can blame them? Too wild, too savage, and too full of
hatred.

“Orders, centurion?” Olcinius
asked.

“Surround the village and burn it to the
ground,” he said. “Kill everything that moves.”

“Women and children?”

“I said everything,” he snapped. Then his tone
changed slightly. “But keep one of them alive ― someone will need
to tell the tale.” There was a sour taste in his mouth as he spoke.
He took no pleasure in this bloody work, but no matter what, he was
first and last a soldier of Rome and it was his duty to protect
her. In that, if nothing else, he could take pride.

The Gaels came to meet them when the centurion
attacked. A score of warriors charged from their roundhouses,
howling harsh battle cries. They were tall, fierce men who swung
their swords and spears as if they were no more than toys, but
their savagery was no match for Roman discipline and Roman steel.
They charged and they died.

And when the warriors were dead, the real
massacre began.

It took them over two hours and when it was
done, the night was full of blood and flame. They piled the bodies
in the centre of the village and put them to torch. Soon, the crisp
night air was filled with the foul stench of burning
flesh.

Larcius stood on the outskirts of the village,
head bowed, sword in hand. His tunic was drenched with gore and his
ears rung with screams.

Somewhere out in the darkness his men hunted
down the few women and children who had managed to flee from the
slaughter. He heard an infant crying, the sound thin and pathetic
then abruptly cut off.

He wiped his sword clean on the edge of his
cloak and sheathed it.

“Centurion.”

Larcius turned and saw Olcinius, Conall and
two legionnaires coming towards him. Between them the two soldiers
held an old woman. She struggled feebly in their grip, cursing
fluently.

“Let her go,” Larcius ordered.

The woman swayed and almost fell as they
released her.

“I am Gaius Larcius Servius, do you know of
me, old mother?” Larcius asked. Of course she would, his reputation
as a soldier preceded him, even into the wilds of
Dungallum.

She nodded, her gray hair falling across her
eyes. “I know you for the murderer you are, Gaius Larcius, just as
I knew you would come here. But do you know me?”

And it seemed to him for a moment that he had
seen her face before ― in the dead of a dozen campaigns.

“Who are you?”

She brushed the hair from her eyes and stood
erect. The hair was dark as a crow’s wing: her face was pale and
young, the lips a carmine slash in her alabaster
features.

“I am Badb,” she said.

She was old again in a heartbeat, but older
than any living human being could be, as though death itself had
refused to claim her. The fetid perfume of old blood clung to her
hair and tattered clothes.

“I am Macha.”

Her eyes were black, fathomless ― inhuman. Her
hands ended in long, gnarled claws and when she spoke her voice was
a cruel, staccato croak: “I am the Morrigu.”

Before he realized it, his sword was in his
hand, rising free of the scabbard with a soft and familiar swish of
steel. She stumbled forward to meet it on taloned feet and they
came together in a deadly lover’s embrace, her hands upon his
shoulders and his
gladius
stuck deep into her
abdomen.

“I know your soul, Gaius Larcius,” she hissed.
“I know your fears and your misery and I will make it a weapon to
destroy all that you hold dear. As you have slaughtered my people,
so I will slaughter yours.”

Larcius gave a startled yell and pushed her
away. She toppled backwards onto the muddy earth and when she
struck the ground she was an elderly woman once more, her rheumy
eyes unseeing and her thin hands held up in
supplication.

“You saw her, Olcinius,” Larcius said. “You
saw what she became, didn’t you?”

“I saw an old woman, Centurion,” the Optio
said. “Nothing more.”

With effort, Larcius gained control of his
shaking hands and put away his sword. When he spoke again, his
voice was measured and even, as befitted a Roman
officer.

“Throw her on the fire with the others,” he
said, then turned away, walking into the darkness.

****

“
I know what you saw, Centurion,”
Conall said.

The Erdin scout found Larcius by the edge of a
small stream not far from the burning village, meticulously washing
the blood from his hands.

“It was nothing,” Larcius told him. “A trick
of the light or a passing fever of the brain, nothing
more.”

Conall grimaced slightly. “Oh, it was more
than that, Centurion Servius, it was the Morrigu.”

“You heard her speak? You heard her name
herself?”

Conall shook his head. “Her words were for you
alone, but I recognized her all right.”

“What was she?”

“The goddess of life and death ― Venus, Juno,
Mars and Pluto all rolled into one.”

“It’s of no consequence, she’s dead
now.”

“Even you can’t kill a goddess that easily,
Centurion.” Conall squatted beside Larcius and stared into his
face. “What did she say to you?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with.”
Larcius stood and stared at the water, lost in his
thoughts.

The wind rose, bringing the smell of burning
wood and flesh, and with it came the harsh squawk of crows. Dawn
was hours away, the carrion birds should not have been stirring
yet, but their cries echoed over the hills as they called to one
another.