Empire Of The Undead (7 page)

CHAPTER VIII

Rome: 83 CE, Autumn

The official didn't even look at Felix as he took his equipment, carefully ticking each item as he received it. Two Red faction guards loomed behind him, and slaves were closely watched to ensure they did not steal anything. Felix handed the items over, one piece after the other: helmet, shin guards, leather breastplate, a sweaty red jersey, a whip, and his falx. He was left only with his sweaty, dusty toga.

Felix scowled as the crowd roared above. This far below the Circus, it was muted but clear, like distant thunder. He rubbed his body down with oil, removing most of the stench, and entered the large door that led into the Red Faction’s quarters. They could do near-everything in these quarters; train, eat, sleep, bathe, fuck, piss, and shit. When the next races began, the chambers would rumble and vibrate as the chariots passed overhead. It had been a distracting sound at first, but he was growing to like it. It reassured him.

Several Red faction aurigae were preparing for later matches. They were all young, for two reasons. Aurigae needed to be tall, but light. Teens fit that profile perfectly. Secondly, chariot racing was a dangerous sport. Very few survived it for more than a year or two.

As he entered, his friend Italicus was waiting for him. Italicus was of a similar age to Felix, and one of the only young racers who consistently beat him. His own race would be later that day, amongst stronger competition.

“Great race, Felix,” Italicus said. “This is your best finish yet in the Circus, before the Emperor.”

“Second place be damned in a pool of four racers, only three of whom finished. Twenty sesterces. Bah,” Felix said. It was an amount that would have boggled his mind only a few years ago. “I will get little of the purse, regardless, but to have had Caesar himself witness my victory?  It was an ill day.”

“At least you finished the race, amicus. I saw what happened to the white driver. He was lucky to survive, and will owe his master a new chariot, and remember—it was Pharnaces who beat you. I have not bested him yet myself.”

Pharnaces, like all chariot racers, was infames, a slave of low cast, but he grew more famous with each passing day. Already, there were billboards throughout the city with his face. His horses were always of the highest pedigree, with champions on both sides of the family. He was seen about town with women far above his station.

“Pharnaces is a fraud,” Felix said. “He risks much with his tight turns, and those will come back to haunt him, and his advantages. With steeds such as his, I could win all matches…”

“He has earned those horses, friend. He was like me, like you, not long ago. There is much to learn from a man like Pharnaces,” Italicus said. “I used to race with him, you know.”

“Bah,” Felix waved him away. Italicus was right, but was in no mood to hear it. It was time for a soak, he decided, brushing the sweaty hair from his face. Like many aurigae, he had adopted the Greek style of long hair. Hyacinthus thought it was a sign of Greek superiority, but then Hyacinthus thought everything was a sign of Greek superiority. Felix had asked him to watch the matches today, but he suspected the large man had not made it. Not only did the Greek not enjoy the Circus, he was busy working on one of his experiments. Of late, he would talk of nothing else but his inventions.  He aimed to be another Archimedes.

In truth, he did not see much of the Greek man anymore. Since Felix had won his first competition at the inaugural games of the Flavian amphitheatre three years ago, he had done little other than race. He’d been sold twice. His current owner owned many aurigae, and it was rumored he owned slaves in all four factions. Felix had met the man two or three times, but like his compatriots, he lived at the training grounds not far from the Circus.

Felix stretched and headed towards the baths, which were located closer to the entrance. He passed the stable-master, who was eating his midday meal from a couch on the edge of the room. He caught Felix’s eye and waved him over. Across from him sat an old man. Felix scowled as he noted the man’s presence.

Felix walked toward the stable-master and his dining companion. “Salve, equos nutriebat.”   He glared at the old man. “And you, magician. I paid you many sesterces, near half my winnings, and yet, there was no curse cast on Pharnaces!”

“I did curse him, his horses, his chariot, and the ground beneath him,” the old man said mildly. “He was protected. The blue magician is powerful.”

Felix was too angry to speak. The old man was good for nothing, but he would still gladly collect money from all the aurigae of the red Faction. The man was, or claimed to be, a Druid from Britannia. That was old magic, strong magic. “His horses were too fast. Did you not poison them, you fraud?” Felix asked.

The old man looked to the equos nutriebat. “Must I go through this every time a brazen youth loses?”

The stable-master nodded. “Felix, you did well. No one has come so close to beating Pharnaces, but insulting your team negates that credit.”

Felix sighed. He always tried to stay in control but of late, he increasingly found himself growing angry.

He took three deep breaths. “My apologies, druid, equos nutriebat. I spoke from emotion and disappointment. War brings out my emotions.”

“Good,” said the stable master, “but you are wrong. It is not permitted to blunder twice in war. Tonight, we can discuss the four mistakes you made. Pharnaces only made two of them, which is why he won.”

****

Felix leaned back and scrubbed his back without thought. He was racing in his mind, taking the corners tighter and driving more aggressively. He wished he’d gotten close enough to use his falx. Without realizing it, he sighed heavily.

“Cheer up,” Italicus said. He had joined Felix in the baths soon after the boy’s arrival. They’d left the compound which had its own small but simple bathhouse and sat in a large public bath. There were several other men in the baths, but they were older men of no faction. “There’s plenty going on in the world apart from your race, you know,” he said.

“I’m in the mood for good news. Tell me.”

“The Senate has added an African Senator. The first black politician ever to serve. We live in a modern time, amicus.”

“This is supposed to cheer me?”  He scrubbed at his back, frowning at the unexpected effort.

“You are from Africa. Do you not feel some emotion toward that kindred spirit?” Italicus was laughing.

“Not much. Here, all are Roman,” Felix said. The bath had done little to cleanse his foul mood. “Still, you implied tidings of more import.”

“Idle gossip is now of no interest to you?  That race must have affected you more than I thought. The real news is guaranteed to improve your mood.” 

“Has Pharnaces caught syphilis?” Felix asked.

Italicus smiled. “Not that I know of. But this is almost as good. You remember what happened to Afer?”

Felix shuddered, and glanced reflectively down at his penis. Still there. He'd seen Afer two days after it had happened. They had gotten drunk together, until Felix had enough courage to ask.

“It was horrible,” Afer had said, drinking deeply from his wine. “The worst thing that has ever happened to me. And I was born a slave—I didn’t have the golden free years that you did.”

“My early years were spent starving in the desert, surrounded by maniacs. Slaves are spoiled compared to that,” Felix had complained. “But,” he had lowered his voice, “did it really happen?”

“It really did,” Afer had said, drinking more wine. “He crushed my balls with his big pink fingers. So hard I thought they might pop. Fuck it hurt!”

He had another drink. Then another and he had continued. “He had an old knife. Old but sharp as Cicero. Only a little bit rusty. With my balls scrunched up, he just chopped them right off. Didn't even let me get drunk first.”

Felix could feel his own jewels clenching in sympathy.

“It could have been worse,” Afer said. “Afterward, they told me sometimes they take a slave, cut off the balls and then his cock too. The next day, they make him drink water.”

“Drink water?” Felix repeated, slow to reach comprehension. "Why?"

“So much water that he burst and pees a new hole. That or he dies,” Afer said. “At least I’ve still got my cock.” 

Someday, you'll be fucked by half the noble women in Rome, Felix thought. A handsome, sterile slave was in high demand. Still, he did not begrudge his friend the slightest. The image of that blackened and bloody member was never going to leave him.

“Yes, I remember. I never should have asked him to show me.” Felix said to Italicus, unconsciously shaking his head in rejection of the memory. “It was horrible.”

“I saw it too. He’s still lucky to have his shaft. The good news is that we won’t ever have to worry about that. The Emperor has banned castration for slaves.”

“Truly?  Why have I not heard?”

“It was only announced this morning,” Italicus said.

“Caesar is a great man, the greatest Emperor since Augustus.”  A thought struck Felix. “But who will the matrons use to please them?”

“Maybe they’ll need some handsome, famous aurigae to sate their lust.”

“Maybe. Pity they will end up with you instead,” Felix said.

Felix grabbed his testes and whooped. Italicus joined him. The old men in the bathhouse stared at them with mild disapproval, but the two cheered even louder.

Their laughter died as the famous Pharnaces entered the bathhouse. He had a faction-mate on either side of him—both competent racers in their own right but clearly hanger-ons. He glanced at the two charioteers in the bath and stiffened. A smile slowly spread across his face.

He undressed and splashed into the pool, right next to Italicus and Felix.

“Did I hear you talking about castration?” he said. “Fitting conversation topic for men with no cocks.”  His friends slid in beside him.

Felix felt he had no patience for this. His anger, so strong earlier, had faded, sunk away to the deeps of the pool. “You raced well today, Pharnaces.”

The older boy laughed in shock, trading unbelieving glances with his friends. “Of course I did. I don’t need second-rate amateurs to comment on my ability.”

“Gods, Pharnaces,” Italicus said. “Three years ago you weren’t such a prick. Does it only take a little Roman cunny to change you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never only gotten a little Roman cunny.”  His friends laughed. His face did not so much as crack a smile. “Why don’t you leave now?  I don’t want my water dirtied by red factioners.”

“We were just leaving,” Felix said. He still felt no anger. Or rather, any anger he felt was buried beneath a weary sadness. There was no need for this aggression, not now. The very idea of factions suddenly seemed divisive and unnecessary to him. What would it take for humans to join together?

“Oh no,” Italicus said. Felix felt suddenly like he was looking into a mirror. “Am I not good enough to be your friend anymore?  Is Felix here not good enough either?  You act like you’re high and mighty, but I remember when you wet yourself before your first battle. Ever tell any of your new friends about that?”

He stood, fists clenched. “I think you were right, Felix.  Apologies. Italicus is a miserable bastard.”

At that, all three of the others stood up.

“Mithras,” Felix hissed. He glanced to the other men bathing, but seeing the violence unfold they had quickly departed. They had, wisely, probably anticipated a turn of events when rival factions had shown up in the same place. He did not feel Italicus’ burning anger, but he did not want to lose to Pharnaces again.

“You are a failure,” Pharnaces said. “A waste of life, a slave and a dog. Get them.”

At his words, his companions advanced. The struggle was as brief as it was one-sided. Pharnaces and his faction mates were older, bigger, and stronger. Soon Italicus and Felix were restrained. Pharnaces watched, and then impassively said, “Dunk them.”

Both went under beneath strong hands. Italicus struggled and thrashed but Felix merely held his breath. It was not so hard. Still, moment after moment fled and his head began to ache. His lungs compressed, eagerly hoping for air and getting nothing.

At some unheard instruction, the red faction mates were dragged up. Then, a brief hoarded breath later, dunked again. This continued to happen, and Felix lost all track of consciousness, until at last they were brought up for good. Italicus looked awful—red faced, eyes lolling, and water dribbling from his mouth. Felix suspected he didn’t look much better himself.

“…not ever want to see you in here again,” Pharnaces was saying. It was difficult to hear. “Not here, not anywhere where I, or your betters are. Understand?”

All he could do was nod. Felix did so, miserably. Beside him, Italicus vomited into the pool.

They stumbled out of the baths, arm in arm. All Felix could think about was what a waste it had all been. Why couldn’t they all just have been friends?

PART II: THE DEAD WALK

CHAPTER IX

Dacia: 88 CE, Autumn

Rowanna's buttocks had grown numb and cold. She had been sitting in the massive apple tree for the best part of a day, and no amount of shifting could now prevent her arse from aching. Her eyes ached with weariness, but the woman hadn't dared sleep for more than a handful of moments. Sleeping was too risky--to sleep was to fall, and to fall was to meet death—and worse.

The forest was silent as she listened. No birds sang or trilled. No squirrels played in the branches or buried food. All had fled from the lifeless menace. Rowanna said a prayer of thanks to Zalmoxis, grateful once more that
they
could not climb. She pressed her back into the comforting safety of the trunk behind her, and then glanced down to the base of the tree.

Those unliving demons were below her, at the base of the trunk. Waiting. As she watched them, one raised its ruined face to her, staring with blank white eyes. Its face, smeared with coagulated blood, sickened her. Her stomach was a broiling pit of fear and revulsion.

Three days ago, no one had ever heard of these monsters, and then, as if by magic, they had appeared.  A crawling, dreadful, menace lurking in their midst. The news of two destroyed villages had reached them yesterday, while the morning mists still hung on the mountains. She had still lived with her son just outside Sarmizegetusa, in one of several makeshift villages on the edge of the large city. Men from her village had joined a larger contingent of warriors from the city. Her son Dapyx had been chosen to join them; his first such honor. He was the only child of four that had survived his first year. He had been a beautiful boy and had grown to be a tall fifteen year-old man. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that this wasn’t some new perversion from the Romans. The memory of the legions burning towns and villages was less than a year old.

She shook as she recalled how brightly he had smiled that morning, only a day ago, only a lifetime ago. His pride had been a glowing nimbus suffusing his body with light and honor, but it was no match for hers, little though had he known it. They were the wolf-people; warriors and hunters without peer. As her son grasped his spear tightly, she felt a sense of fulfillment stronger than any she’d ever had before. She saw in him his father, who had died years earlier fighting the Romans.

The men marched away, singing and laughing. The day dragged for those left behind, as they waited for tidings. By the time the war party returned, the sun was sinking behind the mountains and the air had grown chill. Rowanna hurried with several others to the edge of the village to await them, but as the men came into sight, the women stopped short.

Warriors had left in the sunshine, and in the gathering gloom, a nightmare had returned. Bloody, twitching corpses of men, some they knew and some strangers, shambled menacingly into the village. They moved disjointedly, emitting low moans as they shuffled closer. Dogs throughout the village barked in alarm. The woman next to Rowanna gasped.

“Their eyes. What’s wrong with their eyes?” she asked.

Rowanna had heard her, but she wasn’t listening. She stared in horror, unable to accept the creeping truth. Dapyx had come home. Rowanna had screamed when she saw, in the torchlight, his vapid bloody face. His eyes were completely devoid of pupils, were just white beacons of forlorn hunger. She had screamed his name, as all of the women were screaming.

Men too old or frail to have been on the raid appeared suddenly at their side. They were armed with axes, spears, and swords. Even this far from the border, years of the warring had taught them to be ready for a fight at any time. They stepped forward uncertain, but defiant. If these creatures who had been friends and family meant them harm, they too would find what it meant to confront the wolf people.

Rowanna had little time to feel relief. The men quickly discovered that their weapons did not hurt their foe. The village cooper was overwhelmed by the lifeless creatures and they dragged him to the ground. They began to eat him as he screamed in anger and fear. Rowanna looked on in horror as Dapyx drew closer to her. Terror rooted her to the ground.

Dapyx was coming for her and her alone. Whatever had happened to him, he still recognized her. He moved slowly and she realized that part of his foot was gone. Flesh and bone poked out of a ruined boot that was roughly hewn, as though it had been chewed off. She had cried then as the blacksmith leapt before her. He had a long spear in his hand.

“Run!” he cried to the motionless women. He stabbed powerfully with his spear into Dapyx’s heart.

“No!” she screamed, and she wasn’t sure who she was speaking to. The other women were running away, but she remained transfixed on the scene before her.

Her son walked through the spear, the point bursting through his back. He then proceeded to grab the man who had stabbed him and take a large bite of his face. With a roar, the blacksmith had pushed the spear deeper into the boy and flung him away. Then he’d fallen, moaning, to the ground. His hands were clasped to his head.

She leaped to the blacksmith. The bite had been impossibly deep and she could see grey pulpy bits of brain leaking through his fingers and out on the earth. Her son was several feet away, still on the ground but struggling to rise. More of the shambling wretches drew closer.

“Gratias,” she whispered to the blacksmith. She then drew his knife. She stood with it held before her, challenging the monsters. She meant to fight them with it, and die gloriously. Then a better idea struck her. She cut the smith's throat, ending his agony. With that, her courage deserted her and she ran.

Without thought or reason, she ran from that which should not exist. There were more shambling creatures coming from Sarmizegetusa and she realized that anywhere with people was a danger. There was only one place she could think of, and she ran, as behind her, blood spilled and the dark of night settled upon the land.

****

Rowanna shuddered against the great trunk of the apple tree. She had always thought herself brave. But yesterday she had learned otherwise. When confronted by those abominations, she had run away, away from the song of death and violence. She had returned home to reclaim the one thing of value she owned, and then carrying the spear that had belonged to her husband, Brasus, she fled. Stumbling and tripping, she buried herself deep in the forests at the slope of the mountains. At last she had come across this ancient apple tree that she knew well. Her family had enjoyed many fruits from these branches over the years. When she was younger, she had slept on the grass beneath the tree and it felt safe. The lowest branches were higher than a grown man’s length, but she had always been a good climber.

Rowanna had been exhausted by the time she had found the tree, but some instinct had told her to get off the ground. Placing the spear against the trunk, she jumped to the bottom branch and pulled herself up. She had fallen asleep, wearier than she could ever recall, with her head resting on a branch and her body pressed between two branches. The ground was littered with fallen fruit and the smell of apples was around her as she dreamed.

The aching woman awoke in the morning and barely stifled a scream. The creatures had followed her, slowly, menacingly, impeccably. As the sun rose, she caught sight of some that had stumbled into the clearing below her. She didn't know if they could smell, but they had a hunger so intense it could devour the world. It was only a little surprising when the monster that had been Dapyx, limped after her in the wan morning light. His chest had a hole so large she could see where his ribs had been snapped backwards.

Trapped. She had climbed higher up the tree. The leaves were changing, on the verge of dropping, but for now, it was still hard to see through them. When she peered through them, her heart beat faster. There were at least a dozen of the dead down there, milling about. Some scratched at the tree trunk, and one tried to bite it, but it was made of an armor they could not pierce with teeth and nail. So, they waited, waited for her with the patience of the dead.

The pale thing that had been her son was still staring at her.

She rubbed at her sore buttocks, thankful she didn’t have any splinters. Picking an apple, she threw it down at the creature watching her. It hit it in the head and bounced off. The thing didn't even notice. Rowanna sighed.

Whatever happened, she wasn't going to give them the chance to kill her. She certainly wasn't going to become one of them. She stabbed the knife deep into the tree. It was no good against the monsters, but might be useful still if she could escape them. Her eyes closed wearily as she brooded.

Some time later, her eyes opened. A need even more immediate than survival had awoken her, and was pressing at her bladder even as she crawled out on the branch. Several of the walking dead were below her. Rowanna squatted carefully, balancing, hanging onto a branch above her, and emptied her bladder. The amber fluid hit one directly and splashed two others, but they paid it no more attention than they had the apple core, but the one with piss in its eyes stumbled, and fell. She felt somewhat better, discovering this small way to fight back. She was of the wolf people.

Then, unhurt, the creature slowly rose and moaned softly. The others started moaning too, in a nightmarish chorus. Dapyx’s voice was unrecognizable, but she knew he was part of the eerie ensemble. Fear assaulted her deep in her body. Rowanna crept up carefully and moved back towards the trunk. She leaned against the sturdy base and ate an apple. Then she ate two more. Her stomach growled at her. She would need some real food soon.

The creature that had been her child stood there, mouth gaping stupidly, chest gaping stupidly. She laughed aloud as she watched the ridiculous creature that had, ages ago, been her son. Her laughter rang through the forest. She grabbed onto the branch above her and braced herself as she kept laughing. Her feet dangled below her and she swung them back and forth. The creatures were all watching her, alert to her sound, but they could do nothing but stare.

“Stop looking at me!” she screamed. Bloody faces and vacant stares. She realized that she’d go mad if she stayed up here for much longer. Perhaps madness was a blessing. Perhaps it had already happened.

Something was moving on the tree. Rowanna flinched, fearful that a creature had somehow climbed up. The yellow leaves rustled and she relaxed. A squirrel climbed along a branch and moved toward her. She relaxed for a moment and then sat straight up.

Something was wrong.

The squirrel was missing a piece of its back, and the hole was surrounded by blood soaked fur. Its little rodent eyes were completely white. Rowanna screamed and swung her foot up and around the branch, booting the animal off onto the ground below. It landed with a thump and skittered away. Rowanna’s heart beat quickly as she watched it disappear. Things were worse than she had thought. Whatever this curse was, it affected animals too.

****

The moon was high and night air freezing when she awoke. Rowanna’s bladder was full again. It seemed that apples were better at quenching her thirst than satiating her hunger. She crawled carefully in the blackness along the branch. Her hands found the branch above her head and she clung as she carefully adjusted her clothing.

She sighed as the liquid flowed down onto the ground. It was too dark to see if she was hitting one of the lifeless or the ground. As the pressure on her bladder ceased, she shifted to be sure she didn’t splash on her foot. Her left foot slipped and her balance was lost. Her hands tightened on the branch above her as her foot swung out over open air. She pushed herself backwards, trying to get back onto the branch.

Crack.

She fell backward, into the darkness. Her hands held onto the branch, but it no longer held onto the tree. She fell through branches and leaves and landed awkwardly. Her ankle landed on a round apple and cracked with the impact. Pain seared brightly through her body. She couldn’t afford to think about injuries though, as low moaning alerted her to the presence of the lifeless.

Below the tree, away from the leaves, enough star and moonlight filtered down that she could make out the dark shapes. One form was in front of the others. It reached out with shadow hands, its white eyes reflecting white moonbeams.

Rowanna swung the branch in her hand with all her force. It slammed into the side of the undead creature’s head with a sickening crunch. The thing collapsed onto the ground but almost instantly started crawling towards her.

There were groans coming from behind her. Suppressing her fear, she snarled and spun around on her good foot.

The creature that had been creeping behind her was too close for her to swing the impromptu spear again, so she jabbed fiercely toward its face. The broken, jagged branch end jammed into the creature’s eye. It kept walking, hands full of need as it reached for her. As its fingers brushed her, she pushed the branch further into its eye. Its white eyes dimmed and the thing collapsed heavily, wrenching the wooden weapon from Rowanna. Through her fear, she felt an unbearable sense of loss and sadness.

Fingers grabbed at her foot as the crawling thing reached her. Other creatures loomed closer, moaning forlornly. She wished for her knife, but it was high away, sitting uselessly in the tree, and there was no way she had the time to extract her spear. Her only hope was to get back to her tree. She leaned down and scooped up a rotting apple.

Ignoring the pain splintering her ankle, she leaped through two of the shambling creatures. She slammed the apple into the one on the right’s forehead. The flesh of the juice and fruit streamed into its eyes and it stupidly swung its arms through the air, temporarily blinded.