Gorgon: An Alex Hunter Novel (13 page)

Alex leaned against the wall, brooding. Hammerson had debriefed him, making him watch the VELA playback from the mission. He’d seen himself hurling the dead body like it was a sack of trash. The HAWC commander hadn’t raised his voice, thumped the table or even cursed. But Alex knew he was furious. Hammerson’s personal judgement had been called into question by the harshest judge of all – himself. That Alex had been able to pull it together later in the mission was his only saving grace. Marshal had been in the room, and had supported Alex. ‘Small setbacks are to be expected,’ he’d said. He was sure that while they were working on eradicating the rages, they would be able to help Alex manage them, perhaps even make them work for him.

Control it before it controls me – that’s the plan
, thought Alex now.

He, Sam, and Matt Kearns were in Hammerson’s office, trying to understand what it was they’d actually liberated from Gianfranco Monti. Alex felt Matt Kearns staring at him. The last time Matt had seen him was on the peak of Black Mountain in the Appalachians. Alex bet the guy still had nightmares about giant beasts … and probably about Alex too. Initially Matt’s expression had suggested he’d seen a ghost. Now he just looked disorientated.

Alex nodded to the languages professor, who shook his head as though to clear his mind. He looked back down at the ancient paper in front of him, and ran his fingertips over its surface.

‘Papyrus – not great quality – working man’s paper.’ He leaned down to sniff the paper, then pulled back to scrutinize it with a magnifying glass to one eye. ‘Aluminum salts in the fibers; also egg and tree gum used to starch out the edges … definitely not fake.’

‘Old, huh?’ Hammerson said, circling the young paleolinguist as he hunched over the illuminated desk.

Matt nodded. ‘Oh yeah, it’s old all right. Hey, did you know this type of paper was probably sold in bulk to the Romans, and all along the ancient Mediterranean? Egypt exported tons of it.’ He looked up. ‘Around 2000 years ago.’

Hammerson nodded, not looking impressed. ‘So, old. What else you got?’

Matt turned back to the parchment. ‘It was written by a soldier in the year 334 AD. It’s a record of sorts.’

‘And?’

‘And . . . weird.’ Matt shook his head as he scanned the faded Latin text.

Hammerson gritted his teeth. ‘Jee-zuz, man, don’t make me pull this out of you. Weird, how? Give me something, Professor.’

‘Okay, okay … have you heard of the Roman emperor Constantine?’

Hammerson snorted. ‘Flavius Valerius Aurelius Constantinus Augustus – the warrior Caesar. Of course; we studied his tactics. He was a great man. Go on.’ He half-turned toward the two huge men who were standing back, listening. ‘Alex, Sam, get over here. I want your eyes on this.’

‘The warrior Caesar – yeah, that’s certainly true.’ Matt tilted his head. ‘As well as being the first Roman emperor to convert to Christianity, he also defeated the emperors Maxentius and Licinius during civil wars when he was little more than a youth. Then he fought and beat the Franks, the Alamanni, and the Visigoths, retook the parts of Dacia that had been lost during the previous century, and also had time to build a new imperial residence at Byzantium, which he named New Rome. The people loved him so much they renamed it Constantinople in his honor.’

‘Constantinople, now Istanbul,’ Alex said.

‘That’s right. Formally renamed in 1923 by the Turks. So, what we seem to have recovered from Gianfranco Monti is a record of one of Constantine’s campaigns by someone who was involved.’ Matt bobbed his head side to side. ‘Hmm, maybe a bit less formal than a record; more like a soldier writing about his adventures for his loved ones back home. The guy was a centurion – in charge of hundreds of foot soldiers. The Roman army was unbelievably organized, and –’ He stopped at a flat stare from Hammerson. ‘But you know all that.’ He cleared his throat. ‘About 1800 years ago, give or take, the world was a wild and dangerous place. Russia was still largely unknown to the Romans. It was populated by clans of wild bearded giants, and tribes with filed teeth or body decorations made by scarifying or searing the skin.’

Sam snorted. ‘Sounds like the New York subway.’

Alex grinned.

Hammerson’s glare shut them both down. ‘Continue, Professor.’

‘Anyway, in southern Russia there used to be a kingdom called Sarmatia, or Sauromatia in ancient Roman, in the land of Scythia.’

Hammerson folded his arms, his jaw jutting. ‘Will you get on with it, son?’

Matt nodded. ‘Look, the thing about the Sauromatian was that no one really knew where they came from. They were a race out of time and place.’

Hammerson exhaled loudly, and Alex and Sam grinned.

‘Okay, got it.’ Matt cracked his knuckles, cleared his throat again, sipped some water, and began to read the parchment’s text aloud.

A time of my service for the great Emperor Constantine during the Sauromatian campaign, by Aleianus Drusus Cornelius Cassianus, Centurion of the 5th Cohort.

We stood obediently, pretending the pummeling rain caused us no discomfort, but it was hard and cold, and bounced back up from the sodden earth to coat us in mud to the thighs. The rain is never-ending in this accursed place. I miss the sun, and the fields of Rome, and most of all, Aemilia my darling, I miss you. I will come home, I promise you.

In this place I feel there is no love and the Gods jest with us. It is said that no man can defeat the army of Rome under Constantine, yet we fight something far stranger than mere men, and it tests our nerve as well as our metal.

This very day, I saw the first of these beings up close. The bound warrior was dragged before our Emperor and let fall at his feet. Even though the great man stood upon reed matting, some mud splashed upwards, and we held our breath. But he ignored it, his eyes moving over our foe, looking over its armor, its decorations, its physical form. Like all the warriors we have fought in this campaign, this too was a woman, dressed for war, with battle-armor plating that was like the scales of a snake.

Constantine drew his sword, and ran it down the breastplate, and then back up, lifting some of the shingles. We saw that they were sliced segments of horses’ hooves, sewn together in an interlocking fashion.

‘
Strong and light,’ our Emperor said. We nodded, and he added, ‘But no match for Roman steel.’

He laughed, and so did we. It filled us with pride.

He used his sword again to examine the armaments in more detail. The helmet and gauntlets were of leather, but carved with a design of intertwining snakes. On the front of the skullcap helmet, an etching of a vile snake covered the woman’s face.

Constantine curled his lip in distaste. ‘Sauromatian,’ he muttered.

It was the ancient Greek name for the race of peoples we had come to make war on: the followers of the Snake Goddess.

‘
Remove her gag,’ he ordered.

Matt lightly turned the page. ‘I’ve heard of this race of people, the Sauromatian,’ he said. ‘The women were bloodthirsty as hell – they fought to the death. It’s believed they were the source for the stories of the giant female Amazonian warriors. This is amazing stuff.’

He turned back to the ancient parchment and continued.

The cloth binding her lower face was ripped away, and the creature immediately convulsed and tried to fling herself at Constantine’s legs. He stepped back quickly, pointing his sword, as the woman’s blackened teeth, coated in a sticky resin, clacked shut just inches from his foreleg. One bite, and the black poison rotted the flesh.

Constantine did not recoil at the sight of her monstrous teeth filed to wicked points, even though they were more like the jaws of a wild animal than of a human. One of our men stomped a large mud-covered foot onto her chest, pinning her writhing form to the ground. She spat and convulsed before lying still, but her eyes were filled with venom. These people did not fear us, or even death at our hands.

Constantine commenced to turn away, but, like us, saw her body shake again, a little at first, and then more, until she erupted with laughter.

‘
Arknoah unsor Magera. Urganoha enhoka, Magera!’ she snarled, her burning eyes never leaving our Emperor.

Her words were harsh, like the growl of a low beast, and the sound revolted us. She laughed again, but there was only scorn in the expression, and something else … A mocking tone of victory. Even now, I remember her scarred and ugly visage twisted in perverted triumph.

Constantine was unmoved and waved the miserable creature away. She was dragged backward, her horrible laughter ringing loudly over the falling rain, until it was abruptly cut off by a soldier’s blade … at last.

The great man called to me, as I am one of his advisors, and spoke soft to me. ‘Did you hear her words?’

I told him I had, and asked if it was the thing he sought.

He nodded once, then looked beyond me to the walled city. ‘It is the Magera. The legend is real.’

Matt looked up again. ‘That name: Magera – exactly like the script carved into the wall of the chamber. I’ve been doing some research, and for the life of me I can’t find any reference to it. It’s driving me nuts as it rings a bell – I’m certain I’ve heard it before.’

‘Make a note and move on. I want to hear the rest,’ Hammerson said.

Matt nodded. ‘Picks up again with Aleianus seeing a rider approach.’

A centurion rider skidded his horse to a halt in the greasy soil and jumped down. On seeing the Emperor, he threw himself to the wet ground, prostrating himself. It was young Varinius, son of Nonus, whom we had met at the theater one score years ago. He is a fine young man now.

Constantine looked down at him, sheathing his sword. ‘Speak.’

Varinius sucked in a huge lungful of air, and spat some mud. ‘We have reached the inner temple, sire.’

Constantine did not speak; he just looked again to the city. From our position on the hillside, it was possible to see inside the high wooden palisades that surrounded a collection of several hundred squat wood and stone buildings, which grew larger as they approached the city’s center. It had taken our men only days to breach the walls, but twice that time again to reach its middle. Instead of a palace, we found a temple, larger and richer than all other buildings in the compound. It seemed their god was their royalty.

The battle was hard; fanatics always fight to the death. We had done our best to ensure the Sauromatian got their wish. Now, at last, we had reached their heart.

Constantine stood for many minutes staring through the rain at the smoldering city. He held out his hand, and immediately a dry cloth was placed there for him to wipe his face.

I know a little of what our Emperor seeks in this hellhole, from the few details he has shared with me. A Greek legend, older than Rome itself, has drawn him here to this god-forsaken place filled with endless rain and worthless tribes of fanged pagan warriors. This kingdom of Sauromatia in the land of Scythia has stood for untold ages, secretive and savage. Its people are said to be the keepers of a weapon that has made them invincible to the surrounding hordes.

Our Emperor’s best scholars have spent many years unraveling the secrets of the first Greeks, and his men have purchased, stolen or unearthed fragments of their myths from their mountains, and islands, and from the lands of the ancient bull dancers. All spoke of something of great religious significance here; maybe even proof of the Gods themselves. Our great Emperor’s determination is as strong and unyielding as the iron of his sword, and I know that whether what lies within the Sauromatian temple is a sacred relic, a weapon, or even just a vase with the writing of the angels upon it, he intends to possess it.

Varinius looked up. ‘We have not yet entered, sire, but …’ He paused to suck in more air.

Constantine looked hard at the man, perhaps really seeing him for the first time. There was a gash on his neck that was still bloody and dirty with soot, a piece of his ear was missing, and there were many marks to his armor – the injuries of a soldier who leads by example; a fighter. Constantine smiled and motioned for the young man to get to his feet. He called for water, and handed his cloth to the soldier to clean his face.

‘
Their warriors still fight?’ he asked.

 ‘
No, sire; this time there are men, priests, but …’ His lips worked for a few seconds without forming words. We waited, with just the sound of the drumming rain falling in gray sheets all around us. At last he went on. ‘They are all blind. I mean blinded … their eyes have been removed. And their heads … tattooed.’

Constantine motioned the young soldier to drink. He stood close for a few seconds, studying his face. After a time, he said softly, ‘Blinded, all of them?’

Varinius nodded jerkily. ‘The priests have formed a line in front of the temple, but will not enter it themselves, even for their own protection. It seems they fear their god more than they fear our steel.’

One of Constantine’s generals, Titus, laughed. ‘Woman and blind priests; is it any wonder they have fallen so easily before us.’

Our Emperor rounded on Titus, his voice fierce. ‘But stood undefeated for more centuries than you can count.’

The general, a huge bear of a man, went down on one knee.

Constantine turned back to the city and spoke as if to the large stone temple at its core, rather than to us, his assembled heads of war. ‘Those who behold the Gorgos will be forever imprisoned in stone.’

His eyes were slightly glazed, as if seeing something far removed from the rain and mud around us. I recognized the name from an ancient legend in the work of the philosopher Pliny the Elder, of creatures far too horrible to be real.

He turned to the kneeling general. ‘Dear faithful Titus, if their city was truly protected only by women and priests, it could never have stood for so long. There must be something else.’ He turned to us all. ‘A hidden weapon perhaps?’