Warrior of the Ages (Warriors of the Ages) (5 page)

The dog raced away as Kahtar approached the log cabin he had built with his own hands. It stood two stories high with a sloping porch wrapping all the way around, a large stone chimney jutted from the middle of the roof. The corners of the cabin were jointed and squared off, not a single nail had gone into the finely crafted home. The green swell of an open field and several old outbuildings were visible behind it, and the smell of fresh cut grass greeted as welcoming as the sprawling front porch.

Dropping into one of the giant Adirondack chairs, Kahtar waited less than thirty seconds for his dinner.

Two dark haired boys banged out the front door. They both had long hair and too pretty faces. Without bothering to look directly at them Kahtar knew they were brothers, and judging by the green eyes they were Palmers by blood. Despite the heat of the day they wore the thick quilted tunics, hose and high boots of a plebe. Both nervous, they were over attentive to the needs of the clan’s Warrior Chief, hurrying to bring him drink and food and almost dumping his plate in his lap.

Usually Kahtar gave plebes grief, but he was simply too tired today. He bowed his head over his plate, offering thanksgiving for the food and hoping that it was edible. Twelve and thirteen year old boys weren’t famous for their cooking skills. While he shoveled mushy vegetables, rice, and chicken into his mouth, the two plebes waited anxiously in the doorway. Wolves galloped up the porch steps and sniffed his bowl of food suspiciously, glanced towards his master looking for mercy and then sucked the food down in three loud swallows. Deciding that Wolves had the best approach, Kahtar followed suit and then told the boys to return to the Arc.

Closing his eyes, Kahtar listened to their footsteps as they raced across the yard and did as he bid, their exit both silent and instant. Then, only the sound of Wolves running in circles in the field out back, chasing imaginary rabbits, remained. He muttered another prayer of thanksgiving for the solitude of his veil. The hustle of twelve thousand living in the confines of an Arc had long ago appealed, but for a long time now he had preferred not to get too attached to his clans. Soon enough he’d have to get used to a new one anyway.

TRYING TO SLEEP that night in the oppressive heat wasn’t working. Scenes from what may have led to Honor’s being shot kept flashing through his mind, like the distant lightning flickering outside the veil. When thunder began to rumble within the veil, Wolves started scratching at the front door and whining. Kahtar turned on his side and held a pillow over his exposed ear. His bedclothes were fresh and their clean smell made him remember that morning, before Honor had wiped every other thought out of his mind. It seemed so long ago now, but the memory came back clearly.

The woman, Beth White, danced into his head just as rain began to fall inside the veil. Refusing to allow forbidden thoughts to take any form, he closed his eyes and breathed the clean scent of rain, wondering if the woman had any idea what rain was supposed to smell like. For some inexplicable reason, he really hoped she did. Sleep came easy then.

Longinus’s sandals soaked with the blood of his kinsmen and mixed with the dust of the road. It made a gruesome mud that caked and dried and made the sandals as heavy as his heart. Disguised with the weapon, helmet, and cloak of a Roman Centurion, he plodded a path over a hill where few dared trespass. The red cloak was far too short and the metal helmet squeezed his head, biting against his exposed ears. Small groups of people, mostly women, huddled at the bases of ruined trees sobbing and wailing in grief. Consumed with their own misery they paid no attention to him.

So close to the walls of the city the pain and suffering of these wretches provided him safe passage. The remnants of the Centuria searching for him were unlikely to come here. It was a place even hardened soldiers avoided. Two similarly dressed real Romans stood arguing nearby, debating ways to torment one of their victims and not paying any attention to him. Longinus heaved woodenly onward. If the Romans noticed his unusual size or ill-fitting clothing, they showed no sign of it. He held the stolen spear reassuringly in his hand and kept to the path. There were only two of them and he would kill them only if forced.

The call of Longinus’s people sounded faintly in his mind, wordless voices beckoning, whispering for his return to the safety of the Arc. It was time to leave this dark place and he wanted only to make his way down the hillside to them. Heart aching, Longinus moved past the cruel despair of wailing strangers, their pain pressing against him like the dark clouds gathering overhead. The Romans ignored him until he was close enough to touch them. Then one of the soldiers turned towards him and ordered, “You! Halt!” Longinus’ hand slid down the shaft of the spear and he turned to face them, but both soldiers returned their eyes to their victim.

“Just check for a pulse,” the darker of them said, a Tribune.

“I’m not touching him,” the other replied. With barely a glance at Longinus, the Tribune motioned to the bloodied mess of a man bound in the tree and ordered, “Check him for signs of life.”

“Do you need us?” The second voice of one of his warriors spoke into Longinus’ mind. He replied silently with a firm negative. To prove it and hasten his escape, he stepped forward. Longinus didn’t raise his eyes to the body hanging in the twisted old olive tree. He had seen enough inhumanity today. Sensing an odd mixture of both death and life in the ravaged flesh above, he hefted the spear higher. It would be a kindness to dispatch the man. Surely his people would not object. Mercy was not killing. Plunging the stolen spear brutally upward, through flesh and muscle, forcing a path past bone he pierced beneath the ribcage of the soul hanging there.

Unwilling to lift his eyes to the sight of this victim of scourging and torture, it wasn’t until blood and water ran thick and hot down his arm, splashing into his mouth, that he glanced up. And then the realization of what he had just done burned into his very being with blazing clarity. Longinus began to scream.

Where am I? Am I blind? Dark sat on him. How did I get here? Longinus wanted to touch his eyes to be certain they were still there, but his body was shaking so violently he couldn’t feel his limbs. A cloak wrapped around his neck so tightly he could barely breathe. And blood…he felt it trickling down his face, over his lips, warm and salty. It was not his. Awareness of what he had done seared through him. His dishonor scorched lava hot in his veins, and the memory burned into the core of his being. There could be no atonement. Anguish formed a scream in his throat, but all that came out was a strangled sob. The pain in his heart should have turned every atom of his being to ash. He welcomed the pain. It was all the penance he could offer.

Clarity came to Longinus in drops. It was night. He was not blind. The blood was actually sweat and it was all his. There was no cloak, only bedclothes twisted around his neck. Without the use of his arms or legs, he managed to turn, escaping the choke hold of damp sheets around his throat. He could breathe. Awareness of his limbs arrived slowly and he cautiously moved them in the strange bed. Memory synapse gelled. I am not on the hillside. I have not been called Longinus for millennia. Where am I now? Who am I this time? He sat up. Kahtar, I am called Kahtar this time.

MOONLIGHT FLOODED HER bedroom on Pearl Street and Beth sat straight up, wide awake. After a moment she slid to the edge of the bed and felt around the floor with her toes until she located her slippers. Debating exactly what had roused her, besides hunger—which wasn’t unusual. It felt as though she’d been laughing really hard and she tried to remember what she’d been dreaming. It was vague, but it had involved friends that she didn’t have, and food, really good food that, in this little village, was as elusive as friends. Thudding across the hardwood floor in fuzzy, heeled slippers, she shoved the lid off a cooler and stared at the sad contents.

The ice had melted and a container of strawberries floated in the water, she snagged it and crossed to the window. The late night rain had left stifling humidity in its wake and not even a breeze stirred the hot air. Kicking a long leg out the window she maneuvered onto the fire escape and tiptoed around the south side of the house to peek at the small house next door. She caught a whiff of something wonderful. It had to be a restaurant. As a matter of fact, she was fairly certain it had starred in her dream about food.

In the moonlight she could tell that the restaurant’s hedges had been trimmed, and wondered when that had happened. Her own grass had become a sea of yellow dandelion, though she liked the overgrown look of her flowering bushes. Clusters of snowball flowers glowed creamy in the pale light, ghosting bright against dark leaves. Dropping soggy strawberries into her mouth, Beth breathed the scent of lilacs and joy settled through her so intense that her eyes watered.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the night, wondering again why she was so happy in this place. Why she had spent an insane amount of money to buy this behemoth of a house sight unseen in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio? Where winters had to be miserable and even springtime was stormy and hot, and good food existed only in her dreams! Leaning against the newly painted wall, Beth slid down until she was sitting on the metal fire escape, propping her feet on the iron railing. The feeling of following her heart instead of her head taunted her. She’d fallen in love with both a house and the idea of running a business in a place that Brenda had dubbed a “ghost town”. Closing her eyes against the moonlight, enveloped in the scent of lilacs, Beth willingly allowed her dreams to pull her back to laughter and good food, away from common sense and logic.

The dull metallic thud of a slamming dumpster lid woke her up. Beth scrambled to her feet, tugging her big t-shirt to make sure she was decent. An older man stood in the alley behind the furniture store, and though she waved at him, he didn’t notice her. Peeking over at the restaurant, that supposedly wasn’t, she found it blank and empty as always, however, a new row of daffodils now ringed the red tulips rioting around the house. Really? Who planted flowers before dawn? She’d been hoping to spot the landscapers, her grass needed cut and she wanted to hire someone. In the middle of crawling back inside the window, Beth noticed her own grass and stopped, one foot inside and the other out. Then she hurtled through the window and dashed through the labyrinthine rooms of the huge old home.

Slamming out the front door Beth looked around in disbelief. Her grass had been cut, not a single dandelion remained, and hundreds upon hundreds of purple crocuses now grew thick all along the front of the house. Those flowers had absolutely not been there yesterday. Squatting beside them, Beth tugged on a plant and it lifted easily from the earth. It had definitely been freshly planted. Standing abruptly she jogged through the damp grass in her slippers, racing to the house next door. Determined to get answers she stormed right up to the front door and started pounding on it. Not a sound came from inside, not even the echo of her own banging. Beth stood, still hammering away, when Brenda teetered up the sidewalk in her sparkly pumps.