Who Watches the Watcher?
A Highlander novel by Sisiutil
This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.
Chapter 9: Cergitorix
"Here. You should wear this."
Marcellus handed Theresa his Kevlar vest. They were getting ready to leave, to set his elaborate plan in motion. Marcellus had gathered up his coat and his swords; Theresa had grabbed her jacket and was about to pull it on when he held the bulletproof vest in front of her. She stared at it, then shook her head.
"No," she said, "you're the one going directly into the line of fire. You need it more than me."
"I'm an Immortal," Marcellus explained, a hint of impatience in his voice. "I'll survive bullet wounds. You won't. And I don't have a spare."
"And what if Ortega decides to pull a Lizzy Knight maneuver on you?" Theresa asked pointedly.
"He won't. His twisted sense of pride and honor won't let him."
"Are you sure of that?" Theresa fired back at him. "He spent eighty years hiding from you, Lucius. Maybe he follows his twisted code of honor with other Immortals, but you might be different. Don't take that chance. Wear the freakin' vest!" She paused and glanced at the vest, then down at the ample curve of her breasts. "Besides, I don't think it'll fit me," she remarked as she cocked an eyebrow.
Marcellus' eyes wandered down to examine her chest as well. They remained there a moment longer than Theresa felt comfortable with, but not long enough so she felt obliged to say something about it. Still, she shifted her weight uncomfortably and cleared her throat. Marcellus raised his eyes and looked into hers.
The Roman sighed. He laid his swords and coat on the sofa and began to undo the buttons of his black silk shirt. Theresa's eyes widened slightly as he opened the shirt and pulled it out of his pants, revealing his bare chest. He had a strong, well-developed torso, muscular but not muscle-bound. Short black hairs were spread evenly across his upper chest; they tapered gradually as they ran down to his washboard stomach and waist. Marcellus removed the shirt then pulled on the Kevlar vest and fastened it beneath his arms. He then put his shirt back on and began to button it. Theresa watched silently, somewhat taken aback, through the entire operation.
"Glad I'm not the only one who has trouble making eye contact," he remarked.
Theresa's eyes shot up to his, which regarded her with an undeniably lascivious mirth. She turned away, put her jacket on, and walked to the door. Behind her, Marcellus' lips curled into a wicked grin. He watched her shapely backside flexing as she struggled with the heavy door. He threw on his coat, grabbed his swords, helped her with the door, then followed her out.
"Okay, so, after the battle," Theresa said, anxious to change the subject as they left the apartment and walked out to Marcellus' car. She opened the right side door and slid into the passenger seat. "I thought you would have been happy. You won, and now Alodia was Immortal and you could take her away and be with her, right?"
"It wasn't that simple," Marcellus explained patiently as he placed his swords on the back seat, then settled himself into the driver's seat. "Her death was witnessed, and her body taken to be prepared for burial. She would have to go through a terrible ordeal when she revived amongst her friends and family, as all Immortals do. And I had no guarantee that she would accept what she had become, or accept me once she knew what I was. For all my careful planning, this was not a contingency I had expected—because I dreaded even thinking about it. I had wanted to spare her this fate, and the suffering it involved."
Marcellus started the car and put it into gear. As they left his warehouse abode, he continued his story.
South-West England, 878 AD
That night, after the great battle, Marcellus sat in his tent, disconsolate and anxious. Throughout the West of England that evening, the Saxons were celebrating the day's victory as the second night of a full moon shone upon the land. In Thane Aldred's large communal tent, however, that celebration was muted by the death of the couple's only daughter. Alodia's body had been cleaned and dressed in a white linen robe. They had wreathed her long red hair with flowers and laid her out on a raised platform in the tent. Her family, along with their servants and retainers, had gathered there to mourn the beloved young woman. But Marcellus stayed away.
"Marcellus?" a young male voice inquired from just outside the entrance to his tent. Marcellus stood and walked outside. Alodia's brother Alden stood there, his eyes red from weeping. "Are you not coming to the wake?" he asked, his voice made rough from his cries of grief.
"Not just yet," Marcellus answered. "Perhaps later."
Alden nodded. As a member of Marcellus' elite hundred men, he had been present every day to see his sister and the foreign warrior training together and falling in love. He had eagerly hoped to see his new friend bound to his family by marriage. Though Marcellus lacked land and a title, Alden knew that would not be the case for long; there were more battles to be fought and won, and the brilliant foreign strategist would be properly rewarded by King Alfred for his assistance. More importantly, however, Alden much preferred the foreigner to Deogol, lost that day as well; Deogol had always regarded Alden with a superior, knowing contempt, as though he were twenty years older than Alodia's brother rather than two. Both he and his beloved sister would have been much happier if she had married Marcellus instead. Now, Alden thought, that would never happen.
"I understand and share your grief, my friend," Alden said softly, gently placing a hand on the Roman's shoulder. "I am...nearly inconsolable myself," he said, his voice cracking. Marcellus placed his hand over the younger man's. "But I am taking comfort from the company of family and friends. You should come do the same."
Marcellus opened his mouth to answer Alden when he was interrupted by a woman's scream of absolute horror. They then heard muted shouts and raised voices coming from the same direction
"That came from my father's tent!" Alden said, and began to run towards the origin of the commotion.
Behind him, Marcellus closed his eyes and sighed heavily. He knew what had transpired. And so it begins, he thought. Though it had been over thirteen hundred years, he had not forgotten his own first revival as an Immortal. How could he forget? In his mind's eye, he could still see the fear and repulsion in the faces of his family and friends. They had pelted him with rocks and garbage to drive him away, cursing him as an evil spirit. Their blows had not hurt him nearly so much as their rejection. Everyone he had ever loved, his family, his friends, the people of his village—all had turned against him in their fear and ignorance. He had wandered, bitter and alone, little better than a wild animal, for nearly a decade before that foppish Egyptian found him, told him what he was, and taught him their ways.
Now Alodia would suffer as he had, he thought as he walked towards Thane Aldred's tent. The commotion grew louder in his ears as he approached. He had never wanted this life for her; any temptation he had felt to make her Immortal was purely selfish on his part. As his love for her had grown, so had his selfless regard for her. He wanted her to enjoy the normal life of a mortal, no matter how short it would seem to him, no matter how painful it would be to watch her die. Why would he want to rip her so painfully from the loving bosom of her family, from the only world she had ever known? Why would he want inflict upon her the eternal wandering, the loneliness, the never-ending fight to stay alive? She would never have forgiven him; he would never have been able to forgive himself.
So he had thought he could keep her safe, that he could ward off the violence surrounding them in this land, in these times. He shook his head and cursed himself. He cursed his arrogance, cursed his over-confidence in his cunning and shrewdness. He also cursed his ruthlessness and his appetite for vengeance; all it had taken was a brief absence from her side so he could exact revenge on his murderous rival for her affection, and she had suffered a violent death. The Fates were punishing him for his hubris, but those perverse sisters knew better than to punish him directly. Instead, he would watch, helpless, as a person he had come to love more than himself would suffer for his sins.
As Marcellus approached the entrance to the communal tent, he felt the tingling in his head that alerted him to the presence of another Immortal. From inside the tent, he heard a female voice cry out in pain. The first few times a new Immortal encountered another, the tingling felt like a splitting headache. Marcellus knew Alodia had sensed him; it was her voice he heard crying out. He could also hear voices around her gasping and shouting as every movement of the revived dead woman terrified them.
"Please," Alodia said in a strained voice as she gritted her teeth to ward off the sudden headache, "do not be afraid! This is a miracle, surely!" She spread her arms and looked down at her body, clad in its white linen dress. She remembered her painful death on the battlefield hours before. What other explanation could there be for her sudden and mysterious restoration?
"We shall see," her father said stonily. He stared at her, his face ashen, his eyes wide, as he held his sobbing wife. He turned over his shoulder to look at a servant. "Fetch the priest. Now!" he shouted when the still-shocked man did not move.
Marcellus watched the frightened servant race by him as he stood at the entrance to the tent. Of course, he thought despondently, a holy man to provide explanations though he has none. He had seen this drama played out a number of times over his many centuries. He knew all the players, knew all their lines. He hung back, morosely watching the scene unfold. He resisted the urge to grab her and carry her away. She may never forgive him for it, but he knew she had to go through this.
Centuries before, he had encountered another potential young Immortal, a young man of Palestine. Marcellus had spirited away the man's body from his village after he had fallen in battle, but before he had revived. He had thought he was doing the young man a favor. But the obstinate youth had returned to his village as soon as Marcellus' back was turned. His horrified family and friends had inflicted every possible sort of mortal wound on him, trying to destroy what they thought was an evil spirit, before they finally cut his head off.
"Father, Mother, please!" Alodia was pleading. "It is I, Alodia, your daughter!" She took a step towards her parents. Her mother screamed in horror; her father drew his sword to hold her at bay. Alodia's green eyes opened wide in shock; she shook her head in disbelief. "Father! I mean you no harm! I could never harm any of you!" she cried, looking around at her family. "Alden, Algar, do you not know me?" she begged her brothers.
Alden, who had pushed himself to the front of the crowd upon his return to the tent, stared wide-eyed at his sister whom he had seen slain only a few hours before. Tears streamed down his face; he only cared that his precious sister, the beloved playmate of his youth, stood alive and well before him when he had thought her lost. He reached out towards her and took a step forward.
Algar stopped him, throwing his strong arm across his younger brother's chest. "Stop, Alden, do not approach her!" he ordered. Alden looked back and forth between his stern older brother and his younger sister, uncertain as to what he should do.
"But Algar," he cried, "it's Alodia! God has given her back to us!"
"We don't know that," Algar, thoughtful and cautious despite this most upsetting event, answered. His dark brown eyes remained guardedly fastened on Alodia, watching her every move. His hand rested on his sword hilt. "We saw her die, Alden. This is most unnatural."
Alodia shook her head, unable to understand her family's rejection. Couldn't they believe their own eyes? "I do not understand it myself, Algar!" she cried, her voice cracking. "But here I stand! The Holy Bible speaks of people being brought back from the dead..." she began to say.
"Our Lord Almighty himself raised Lazarus," a deep sonorous voice intoned from the entrance to the tent. The crowd parted as the priest walked forward. The man wore a long, plain brown robe, the hood pulled back to reveal silver-grey hair, long and neatly combed, and a matching beard. His blue eyes fastened upon Alodia as he strode towards her, holding a carved wooden cross in front of himself.
"On Judgment Day," the priest said in the same tone he used for his sermons, "He will return and raise the dead from their graves." He came to a stop a few feet from Alodia, standing alongside her father. "That day is not yet come." He addressed the crowd over his shoulder. "This...creature you see before you is a blasphemy. An evil spirit has possessed the body of your beloved daughter. This is the work of the devil himself!"
The priest's words were greeted with cries of horror and anger. The Saxons had been converted to Christianity centuries before. In such violent times, when mortal lives lasted only a few short years, the hope of eternal salvation offered the only solace and hope. The presence of an evil spirit could only be indicative of terrible wickedness, some colossal sin that condemned the entire community and their souls to damnation. For this to happen on the eve of their great victory...
"Destroy her!" a voice in the crowd cried out.
"Drive it away!" shouted another. Other voices began to angrily yell for similar action.
"No!" Alodia cried, he eyes terrified, "Please! I am not an evil spirit! I am Alodia! You know me, you all know me!"
"Silence, demon!" the priest shouted, stepping forward and holding the cross in front of her. "We'll not listen to your lies!" The priest turned his head towards Thane Aldred, but did not take his eyes off the confused young woman. "We must act quickly, my Lord."
"What should we do, Father?" Aldred asked as Alodia listened to their conversation in horror.
The Thane was a devout man. All his life he had done his best to live by the teachings of the holy church. And the priest was old, wise, and respected, not just because of his holy orders, but because of his position as one the local elders in the village near Aldred's estate. The Thane would do whatever the priest recommended, and everyone in the crowd knew it.
The priest looked at Alodia with a mixture of fear and contempt. "Your daughter's spirit has fled. It is safe in the bosom of our Lord. This...empty shell must be destroyed so the evil spirit can no longer inhabit her body." He paused and glanced at the Saxon thane. "Burn it at the stake. It is the surest way."
"NO!!" Alodia screamed, her eyes wide with terror as she saw her father glance at her and slowly, sadly nod. "Do not do this!"
But her fear only seemed to confirm what the priest had said. She saw the looks in the eyes of the priest, her father, and others in the crowd grow more determined because of her response. Like a cornered animal, she began to look for a way to escape. She ran towards an opening in the crowd.
"Stop her!" the priest shouted. Arms reached towards her; Alodia struck out wildly, desperately, at the grasping hands, but they caught her. "Restrain her!" the priest ordered. "Fetch some rope! She must be restrained!" he yelled as the young woman fought madly against the arms of her friends and family which held her fast, determined to destroy her. She screamed in terror as tears ran down her cheeks.
At the back of the room, Marcellus' stomach clenched in horror. He had hoped they would banish her; then he would leave, catch up with her, and take her away to teach her what she needed to know. But to be burned alive!
Several centuries before, Marcellus had once been caught inside a burning building and had suffered a similar fate. It had not killed him, of course, but it had been one of the most hellish experiences of his long life. The flames had scorched and burned away his flesh, in places to the bone. He had screamed in agony until his lungs filled with smoke and they, too, had burned. His revival had been worse. He awoke in an agony unlike any he had known before or since. The mere minutes it had taken for his Immortal body to repair the damage had seemed like hours; he remembered his burnt flesh crackling away as new tissues slowly grew and knitted together. The pain had nearly driven him mad. He could not bear the thought of his beloved suffering that way. He had cursed his cleverness before, but now he had to call upon it to save her.
A servant had returned with a coil of rope. As Alodia screamed and struggled, several men bound her arms behind her back, her forearms painfully folded over one another and tied together. They then tied a length of rope around her neck to serve as a sort of leash. Their work done, they backed away and pulled her, sobbing and helpless, to her feet.
"Burn her!" voices in the crowd cried out. "Destroy the demon!"
"Take her outside!" the priest shouted, and the crowd, now an angry mob, began to move towards the entrance to the tent.
"YOU FOOLS!!" Marcellus exclaimed in his battlefield bellow, bringing the crowd to a halt.
He strode forward angrily through the mob, which parted before him. Alodia's eyes opened wide when she heard the voice of her beloved. She searched for his face in the crowd. As he emerged from the mass of onlookers to stand in front of her, he saw her lovely face fill with hope, hope that the man she loved would rescue her from the madness of this crowd. Marcellus looked away from her, knowing he had to dash that hope in order to fulfill it. He prayed to all his gods that she would be able to forgive him for what he had to do.
The priest looked at him angrily. "What right do you have to interfere, foreigner?" he asked.
"I interfere to keep you from destroying yourselves!" Marcellus answered, glaring at the crowd. His words had impact. Everyone knew the warrior had seen much in his travels. He saw the crowd, including the priest, look at one another uncertainly. Good, Marcellus thought, I've got their attention.
"What do you know of such things, Marcellus?" Aldred asked.
Marcellus turned to the priest. "I mean no disrespect, Holy Father, but have you ever encountered such an terrible event before?"
The priest's eyes darted about uncertainly. "No," he admitted, "but the Bible..."
"...the Bible says that hellfire is the devil's home!" Marcellus interrupted. "By submitting this creature to the flames, you will only make it stronger! It will destroy you all!"
The crowd shifted uncomfortably and a frightened murmur arose. Marcellus' words appealed to their beliefs and superstitions, as he knew they would. Alodia, meanwhile, shook her head in disbelief. She could not accept that her beloved would reject her as well. It was too much. Tears ran freely down her soft cheeks.
"No!" she cried, "Lucius, my love! Please, can't you see that it is I...?"
"Silence, demon!" Marcellus shouted at her.
He stepped towards Alodia and violently backhanded her. She cried out in pain and shock, and the surrounding crowd gasped despite their growing abhorrence of her. Alodia spun about and fell to her knees. Marcellus fought to hide his own self-loathing at that moment. Romans had always frowned upon violence towards women. Wife-beaters in ancient Rome were an embarrassment to their class; they became social outcasts. For him to strike any woman, let alone one he loved, was anathema to him. But he had to make his performance as convincing as possible if he was to prevent the crowd from burning Alodia at the stake.
It was all he could do, however, to maintain his composure when Alodia turned to look at him after he'd struck her. He saw no anger in her wide, cornered eyes. Instead he saw only complete and utter despair. In that instant, Alodia lost all hope. Everyone she loved had now turned against her. Her head fell to her chest as her body was wracked by desolate sobs. Inside, Marcellus felt his heart break for the pain he had just inflicted on her. He wondered if perhaps it was worse than anything the flames could have done. But it was too late now; he had to press on.
"I have encountered such a thing in my travels, and more than once," he told the crowd, who now hung on his every word. "The first time was in a village in Bavaria. The villagers attempted to destroy the possessed corpse with flames. They only fed the demon and made it stronger. It destroyed their village and killed the inhabitants. I barely escaped with my own life, I suspect only because I was not a local resident. Or maybe because the proud demon wanted someone to tell its tale to others."
The terrified crowd looked around nervously. Once again, it was their leader, Thane Aldred, who spoke. "What can we do, Marcellus? Is there some way to cast out this evil spirit?"
Marcellus nodded. "After that horrible event, I sought out an order of monks in Italy who had knowledge of such things. They taught me a ritual to banish the spirit."
"I have never heard of such a thing," the priest objected.
"Be glad that you have not, Holy Father," Marcellus told him. "For the ritual is dangerous and the demon will fight horribly; whosoever performs it risks not just his life, but his immortal soul. This is why the monks keep the knowledge secret, so the uninitiated do not suffer eternal damnation by performing the rites incorrectly." Several people in the crowd gasped in horror at Marcellus' words; the priest's eyes went wide. He and several others crossed themselves. Marcellus knew he had them.
"Marcellus," Aldred said, "we cannot ask you to do this. You have done so much for us already..."
The Roman held up his hand. "You do not have to ask, my Lord. This spirit has desecrated the body of your daughter and of the woman I loved. I have performed the ritual once before. I can do it again." Alodia gave an anguished wail as he spoke; Marcellus did his best to ignore her.
Aldred nodded sadly, his eyes filled with admiration for the foreign warrior's bravery. "What must be done, my friend?"
"I must take the possessed corpse far from here, immediately, tonight. I must perform the ritual alone." He turned to speak to the assembled crowd. "If any of you attempt to follow, you risk death and eternal damnation!" More frightened gasps told him he would not have to worry about curious onlookers tailing him. He turned back to Aldred. "I will not return to you. When the deed is done, I will leave this place. The memories...are too painful to bear."
"I understand, my friend," Aldred said sadly. "And...Alodia's body?"
Marcellus shook his head and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I am sorry, my Lord, but her body will be destroyed. But take comfort in the priest's words: her soul is in heaven. This is an empty shell the devil now tortures us with." Aldred's face tightened as he held back tears, and he nodded.
"Go fetch my horse from the stable," Marcellus ordered a nearby servant. "You," he said, pointing to another servant, "retrieve my things from my tent. Place my saddle and all my bags upon him."
He then turned to Alodia. She still knelt on the grassy floor, her body shaking with quiet, anguished sobs. Though it made bile rise to his throat, Marcellus grabbed the rope that was tied around her slender neck and pulled her to her feet. She gasped, then cried out as she felt the mob push her forward and the man she loved pull her towards the door.
"Please...no...I beg you!" she sobbed as they went outside.
"Silence!" Marcellus ordered with a sharp tug on the leash. Her desolate cries cut him to the core. It would not do if he broke down in tears now.
Shortly thereafter the servant brought Sulla, saddled and loaded, out to Marcellus. A crowd of other Saxons from the camp had gathered outside, drawn to the mysterious disturbance. Gasps and screams sounded throughout the crowd at the sight of Alodia, mysteriously returned from the dead. Thane Aldred's retainers and villagers spread through the crowd, explaining what had happened as Marcellus led Alodia to his horse.
Marcellus realized he could not seat Alodia on the horse behind him, not if he had to maintain the illusion that he believed her possessed by a demon. So he tied the free end of the rope that was around her neck to his horse's saddle, praying again that she would find it in her heart to somehow forgive him for his despicable treatment of her. Marcellus climbed up onto the horse's back and turned to the crowd.
"Remain here, if you value your immortal souls!" he ordered, and allowed some of the anguish he felt to creep into his voice. "Pray for my safety," he said. He saw Aldred and the priest nod.
"Go with God, my friend," Aldred said.
Marcellus urged Sulla forward. He heard Alodia cry from behind him as she felt the rope around her neck pull her forward. He prayed she did not fall over and get dragged out of the camp. He heard her footfalls as she desperately ran to keep up with the trotting horse and sighed with some small measure of relief. Now turned away from the crowd and out of their sight, Marcellus allowed the tears to flow from his eyes.
He rode for some time, away from Athelney to the East. The lingering presence of Vikings in that area would also ensure no curious onlookers would follow him. Alodia ran behind him, doing her best to keep up. Her sobs and cries of anguish filled his ears.
As soon as he felt he had ridden far enough, he began to look behind him. He wanted to be certain that no one had followed. He brought Sulla to a stop and climbed down off the horse's back. Alodia, emotionally and physically exhausted, collapsed to her knees. Marcellus' grey eyes studied the vast, empty plain that surrounded them. He saw no movement in the moonlight, and heard nothing but the calls of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl.
He turned to Alodia. Her hands were bound painfully behind her back, her shoulders slumped in exhausted resignation. She had stopped sobbing; she was too tired for that. Resigned to her fate, she knelt in complete despair, waiting for the man she loved to take her life. Marcellus knelt before her. She didn't look up. He could hear her drawing ragged breaths. He pulled a knife from his belt.
"In God's name, I beg you, Lucius...make it quick," she mumbled, her voice utterly despondent.
Marcellus tenderly placed his fingers beneath her chin and lifted her head. He gently pushed back the tangled red hair that covered her face. She did not raise her eyes to meet his. In the pale light of the full moon, he could see that her alabaster skin and long robe were stained with mud thrown upon her by the horse's hooves. He could still see wet tracks her tears had left on her soft cheeks, and her eyes were red and sore, the skin around them puffed from weeping.
To her surprise, he lowered his head and softly brushed his lips against hers. He then reached up and used the knife to cut through the rope around her throat. Her green eyes went wide with startled confusion as he moved behind her and began to slice through the ropes that bound her arms.
"I am so sorry, my love," he said, his voice quiet and choked with emotion. "So sorry for what I had to do. I couldn't let them hurt you." He cut through the last of her bonds and remained on his knees behind her, his eyes fixed on the ground. "I am so sorry that I had to hurt you myself."
"Lucius?" Alodia murmured, a note of hope in her voice as she massaged her aching forearms with her hands. She turned to look at him. His face was pained, his brows knit together as if some terrible agony gnawed away at his insides.
"Can you ever forgive me, Alodia?" he asked. He felt her hands upon his face. She tilted his head to look at her. Her eyes were wide in astonishment, and her lips quivered on the verge of a relieved smile.
"Lucius!" she cried. Her voice trembled as she spoke. "You know it's me? You don't believe I'm a demon?"
"Of course not!" he declared. He smiled sadly. "You're no demon...you're an angel."
Alodia threw her arms around him in relief. She fell against his chest and wept. Marcellus held her close, stroking her hair and rocking her sobbing body to soothe her. He blinked away tears of his own. After several minutes, her sobs died down and she swallowed deep breaths. She pushed herself back a little, but stayed in his arms. She laid her hands flat upon his chest and shook her head.
"What has happened to me, Lucius?" she asked, her voice hoarse from weeping. "Do you have any idea?"
Before he could answer, Marcellus felt the distinctive tingling in his head signifying the nearby presence of another Immortal, layered on top of the similar sensation Alodia's presence produced. It was like hearing a single musical note and then hearing another similar yet distinctly different note played over top of the first.
Alodia's eyes clenched shut; she pressed her hands against her temples and groaned. "W-what is that? Why does my head hurt so?" she asked him through clenched teeth.
"It's another one of our kind," Marcellus said, rising to his feet and looking around. It was the Gaul. It had to be. Come back to finish the job he'd started. "You're not ready for this," Marcellus told her, pulling her to her feet and leading her to his horse.
Across the plain, a few dozen yards away, he saw a hulking figure atop a large horse. Marcellus silently cursed. He'd hoped the man would be afoot so he could simply ride away. He lifted Alodia onto Sulla's back, climbed on the horse himself, and stirred the beast into a gallop away from the other Immortal. He looked behind and saw the man pursuing.
Damn! Marcellus thought. He had hoped, once he'd managed to get Alodia away from her home, to introduce her slowly to her Immortality and what it meant. The Gaul would force the issue; she may not be able to accept everything at once. And Marcellus worried that the Gaul would challenge her rather than him. According to the rules of the Game, he would not be able to interfere. Alodia was a formidable warrior, but she was not yet prepared to take on an Immortal several centuries older than herself. Of course Marcellus would take the foolish brute's head afterwards, but that would be little consolation.
There was only one possible solution: to get Alodia to holy ground. But the closest church was back near Athelney, and they couldn't return there. Marcellus looked back over his shoulder. The Gaul was gaining. Marcellus had never regretted choosing Sulla for his might and war training rather than his speed until that moment. He could feel Alodia's body pressed against his, felt her arms around his chest clinging desperately to him as they fled. Though she didn't completely understand the situation, the tension in her arms and hands conveyed the fear she felt.
Marcellus looked desperately around the moonlit plain. He had ridden out to this empty area to be away from prying eyes. Now he tried to remember where the nearest town was located, but knew he would not make it there in time. Just as he began to despair, he spotted a strange formation ahead of him, atop a slight elevation in the plain. In the moonlight, he could make out a ring of carved stones, all rectangular, some stacked intentionally into arches. He recalled recently seeing a similar but much larger formation, made of much larger stones, on the Salisbury Plain, a few miles further to the East. He smiled. Holy ground—it had to be.
It didn't matter how ancient the ground was, or that the religion that had blessed it was lost to the ages. Not even the most evil of their kind would violate that rule. He grabbed the reins and slapped them against Sulla's neck, and jabbed his heels into the horse's ribs, urging him to make one great burst of speed that would carry them to the ancient holy site and safety.
As he reached the edge of the stone circle, he heard the Gaul bring his horse to a stop a few yards behind him. Marcellus exhaled with relief as he slowed his own panting steed to a stop within the ancient construction. The dark gray stones appeared black in the moonlight. Marcellus couldn't help but marvel at the race that had carried the stone blocks here and erected them so long ago, before the advancements of Roman engineering that would have simplified the construction of such a site. He dismounted and held his arms out to Alodia, who climbed off the horse as well. Marcellus tied the animal's reins tightly around one of the narrower stone monoliths.
"Why are we here, Lucius?" she asked. "Why did our pursuer stop?"
"This is holy ground, my love," he explained. "Our kind cannot fight on holy ground. It is our most sacred rule."
Alodia stared at him in confusion. "Holy ground? Our kind? I don't understand, Lucius! What's going..."
"Roman!" the Gaul called from outside the stone circle. Marcellus and Alodia turned towards him. They stepped around one of the stone monoliths to look at their pursuer. They could see his dark silhouette atop his horse, a few yards outside the stone circle.
"This is holy ground, Cergitorix of Gaul," Marcellus called out to him. "You know the rules of the Game."
"Indeed I do, Lucius Gaius Marcellus of Rome," the Gaul shouted back. It sounded as though he spat when he said the name of Marcellus' beloved home city. "How long do you think you can stay there, trembling behind the stones with your woman? You must come out some time. And I will be here."
Marcellus cursed silently; he'd entertained a hope—faint, he knew—that the man would simply leave in frustration. Now he would have to fight the Gaul. He had no idea how Alodia would react upon witnessing her first Quickening. Marcellus briefly considered merely wounding or killing the Gaul without taking his head, then dismissed the notion. It would only make the man angry, and he would catch up to them another time. No, better to nip this problem in the bud, whatever its effect on Alodia.
"I'm a sporting man, Lucius Gaius Marcellus," the Gaul bellowed back as Marcellus considered his options. "Send the girl out to do your fighting for you. You can escape while I enjoy her favors and take her head." The man laughed.
"I'll teach this Viking a lesson in proper manners," Alodia hissed as she reached for Marcellus' sword hilt. She had had enough, and now she was presented with a target so she could vent all her frustration, her anguish, her torment. Marcellus caught her wrist.
"Don't be foolish!" he told her. "You're not ready to face one of our own kind—you won't be for years!" She looked at him and frowned, unable to comprehend the full meaning of his words. "Damn it! There's not enough time to explain..."
"I'm waiting, Lucius Gaius Marcellus," the Gaul called out. "I can wait all night. Who will come out to face me? You or the girl?"
"I defeated you in battle once today, Gaul," Marcellus yelled back. "Are you so eager to have me finish you off?"
The Gaul only laughed. "I am eager for a rematch, Roman. I await your pleasure."
Jupiter! Marcellus thought. There was no getting rid of the man. He had no choice. He would have to fight him. He turned to Alodia.
"Listen to me carefully, Alodia. You must listen and obey my orders now as if we were on a field of battle. I do not have time to explain them, you must trust me."
"But, Lucius...," Alodia began to say.
"No, listen!" he hissed. He hated to be harsh with her after everything she had suffered that day, but he had no choice. "You must stay here, within the stone circle, while I fight this man. Do not leave it. Do not interfere. When the fight is done, remain here. Do not leave, no matter what occurs, no matter how strange a sight you may see." Marcellus turned and took a step forward, out of the ancient circle of stones. Alodia caught him by his arm.
"Lucius, please!" she pleaded. "I recognize this man now. He's the one who...who wounded me, who killed me earlier today! I'm sure I saw you kill him in turn, yet here he stands! How is that possible? How is it possible that I'm standing here?"
"Alodia, we don't have time!" Marcellus answered impatiently. "I will explain everything, I promise, when the battle is done!"
"But what if...what if you don't win?" Alodia asked. "Lucius, please...I'm afraid, my head is whirling, and only you seem to know what's happening!"
Her question brought him up short. Especially after the fall of Rome and with the many centuries he'd been alive, Marcellus had begun to grow blasé about the possibility of his own defeat and death. Ironically, it seemed to have made him more formidable when fighting other Immortals—he focused on the moment rather than worrying about the outcome. Now, however, he had someone to live for—someone who needed him to guide her. But what if he wasn't there? She would be truly and completely alone. He walked back to his horse and pulled his old Roman legionary sword from a saddlebag. He handed it to Alicia.
"If I lose," he said, brushing her cheek with his fingertips, "take this and cut off the Gaul's head. Do it immediately, no matter what strange things you see. He will be weak, and you must strike at that moment. It's the only way to kill him. Then take Sulla. You must leave Britain. There are coins in the saddlebags. Go to Paris. Find a church called Saint Julien le Pauvre; there's a priest there named Darius. He will help you." Once again, Marcellus turned to go, and once again she caught him.
"I love you," she said. "Come back to me."
Marcellus nodded. "I love you as well. I fully intend to." He kissed her and strode out into the night, away from the protection of the ancient stone circle.
"Finally," the Gaul said as he approached. The huge man climbed down from his horse. He pulled a large, heavy Viking broadsword from his saddle. Marcellus held his own sword, a fine rapier forged in Toledo, before him.
"What, no battle-axe?" Marcellus asked nonchalantly.
The Gaul smiled. "I saw how the Saxons ducked and weaved around the Viking battle-axes today. You taught them that, didn't you?" Marcellus nodded, a bemused smile crossing his face. His eyes glanced at the Gaul's belt, where he saw the old Roman legionary sword still hanging there. The Gaul followed his gaze. "Yes, the same blade that killed your woman and made her Immortal. I got it back after the battle; it's an old trophy I took from one of your Generals before I fed him to our pigs. Perhaps I'll use it to take the girl's head once I have yours."
"Talk is cheap," Marcellus snarled, and lunged forward with his blade. The Gaul quickly parried, stepping back.
The two opponents circled each other. The Gaul had the definite advantage in size and reach, and strength as well. He moved surprisingly fast for such a large man. Marcellus knew instantly that victory, for him, would come down to skill and whatever slight advantage in speed he might have. The Toledan steel of his blade could easily take the punishment of the Gaul's heavier weapon, but trying to match the larger man's strength would be foolish. Marcellus waited for the Gaul to make a move.
Cergitorix feinted a stroke to Marcellus' legs, then switched to a lunge to his mid-section. Marcellus saw the restraint in the Gaul's muscles that indicated a feint and parried the lunge. Hoping to catch Cergitorix off-balance, he slid his sword over his opponent's and towards the large man's torso in a counter-attack. But the Gaul stepped back and fended off Marcellus' attack, swiping his blade away.
The Roman swung his sword over top of his opponents'; the Gaul parried and stepped back. Marcellus again swung, attacking the Gaul's opposite side; again Cergitorix parried and backed up. Marcellus pressed his attack, but Cergitorix sought to turn the tables; using his strength against Marcellus' skill, he swatted away Marcellus' attack angrily. Marcellus allowed the force of the swing to pivot his body; he swung around quickly and struck towards his opponent's stomach. The Gaul barely managed to parry the blow and stumbled backwards quickly, away from his opponent.
Regaining his balance, Cergitorix laughed heartily. "I'm glad to see you're going to make a contest of this, Roman. I could use the exercise!"
With that, he sprung forward on the attack, swinging his sword to alternating sides and heights, forcing Marcellus to parry blow after blow and back away. Marcellus allowed him to attack. He noticed the Gaul had already begun to sweat in the cool night air. The man had considerable girth and a broad belly; he was probably far to fond of ale for his own good. Perhaps, Marcellus thought, he hadn't the stamina for a long fight.
The Roman began to take a more defensive posture as they fought, allowing his opponent to exhaust himself. The Gaul attacked again and again but didn't seem to get anywhere against his smaller but skillful opponent. Marcellus could see Cergitorix starting to breathe heavily and gnash his teeth in frustration. He was content to play a waiting game. Sooner or later the big man would make a mistake.
To Alodia, watching from beside one of the stone monoliths, it appeared as though the Viking suddenly had the advantage. Why didn't Marcellus counter-attack? Her beloved kept backing away, parrying, moving in circles as his huge opponent kept coming. Marcellus had saved her, had believed in her and cleverly rescued her when everyone else she cared for had turned against her. She couldn't allow this brute to take him from her, even though he had ordered her to not interfere. She drew the short Roman sword from its scabbard and ran out from the stone circle.
Marcellus parried yet another lunge from Cergitorix and smiled. The bigger man's blows were weakening. Soon, he thought, the Gaul would over-extend himself, or stumble, or make some other mistake, and then, Marcellus knew, he would have him. He stepped to his right to avoid another blow. As he changed position, he saw, in his peripheral vision, a form advancing upon them from the stone circle. In the moonlight, Alodia's long linen robe made her glow like a ghost against the dark field. She ran towards them with the ancient Roman sword in her hand.
"Alodia, no!" he cried out, but she ignored him and kept coming.
Cergitorix had seen the slender figure advancing upon them as well. He caught the concern in Marcellus' voice. Though he would shortly face two opponents, Cergitorix knew he could use the Roman's affection for the girl to his advantage.
As Alodia drew near, the Gaul swung and used his tremendous weight to deal Marcellus a heavy blow; Marcellus parried, but felt the force of the blow through his entire arm, and it drove him back several paces. Cergitorix then made a quarter-turn towards the advancing woman. She swung the short sword, but the big man easily swatted it aside. He then swung his hands forward and struck her in the face, knocking her down. As she fell, he swung his sword over his head, aiming for her neck.
Marcellus, forced away by the Gaul's heavy blow, watched this in a panic. The Gaul's side was open to attack, but that would not stop the blow that would sever Alodia's head from her body. The woman he loved had one chance. Marcellus lunged forward and extended his rapier. It caught the Gaul's sword just before it struck Alodia's neck. She fell to the ground and rolled away instinctively. But though he had saved his beloved, he had doomed himself. His desperate lunge had left him over-extended and off-balance. Marcellus drew back his sword to protect his vulnerable neck. Cergitorix anticipated this and instead stabbed his broadsword into the Roman's exposed abdomen.
Marcellus' back arched and his eyes went wide as he felt the blade plunge deep into his midsection. The sword ran through him and out his back, impaling him. A sharp, burning pain extended from his abdomen and enveloped his entire body. His arms went limp, and he dropped his own sword. He hung there like a piece of meat on a skewer, waiting for the deathblow that would take his head. He had failed. Failed himself, and failed his beloved. The Fates would have their final, utterly complete victory over him.
The Gaul smiled malevolently and leaned forward. "Know this before I take your head, Roman: I will also take your woman. When I am done with her, I will take her head as well."
Marcellus heard the words. They stirred some last ounce of resistance and strength within him. Cergitorix pulled back on his sword; it didn't budge. He looked down. Marcellus had reached forward with one hand and laid hold of the broadsword's crossguard. He then reached out with his other hand and, before the bigger man could react, drew out the Gaul's trophy sword, the old Roman gladius. With a strength born of desperation, Marcellus wildly swung the short sword and severed the Gaul's head from his neck.
The Gaul's hands clenched his sword-hilt in an iron death-grip. As his body fell back, it pulled on his sword. Marcellus now pushed forward on the crossguard. The broadsword slid painfully from his body. Marcellus screamed in agony until blood filled his throat and mouth. Once the tip of the sword left his body, he collapsed to the ground, first falling to his knees, then on to his side, like some puppet whose strings had been cut.
"LUCIUS!!" Alodia screamed from where she lay on the ground, seeing her beloved fall. He had won the fight, but at the cost of his own life. She pushed herself up.
Marcellus lay on the cold wet ground, his lifeblood seeping from him. He heard Alodia's cry; it sounded as though it came from the far end of a long, dark tunnel. Then he saw a flash of light, the first sign of the Quickening. He watched it in a detached manner, as though it were happening to someone else. He entertained an idle thought that he'd really prefer to die and be unaware of the Quickening—they were always so exhausting and painful, and he didn't fancy enduring one with a mortal wound in his stomach.
Another flash of light arced over him. He felt a sudden wind blow against his face. Then it hit him. The Gaul's Quickening illuminated the field like a lighting strike. It slammed into Marcellus, flipping him onto his back and arching his body painfully. The Roman felt the mystic energy released from his opponent wash over him, lighting every nerve on fire. Unseen by him in his agony, the Quickening's energy leapt towards the ancient stone circle and flowed across and around the ring of monoliths, lighting them like huge stone candles. Trapped within the circle, Marcellus' horse, Sulla, whinnied in a panic, but his tether held him; the Gaul's horse reared and fled across the plain. In surprise and terror, Alodia fell back to the ground. A ring of fire appeared around the stones, scorching the earth. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the Quickening ended. The circle of fire died down. Marcellus' mortally wounded body collapsed onto the ground. The Roman Immortal's eyes rolled back into his head and he died.
For several minutes, Alodia lay on the ground, terrified by the awesome spectacle she had just witnessed. Her green eyes, opened wide, looked about the vast Plain, wondering if anyone else had seen the strange, fantastic display. Then her frightened eyes fell upon the unmoving body of her lover, and all concern over what she had seen vanished from her mind. She scrambled on her hands and knees to Marcellus' side, then lifted his body and cradled him in her arms, as he had done with her body earlier that day when she'd fallen in battle. She didn't think she could cry anymore, as she had shed so many tears already that night, but she felt her face growing wet again nonetheless.
"Oh, Lucius, no, what have I done..." she groaned in sorrow as her fingertips caressed his face. "Please...don't leave me alone..." She leaned down to kiss him.
At that moment, Marcellus' eyes flew open. His back arched and he drew an agonized, wheezing breath. Alodia screamed and pushed his body away. She scrambled backwards away from him as he rolled and coughed. Then his head lifted and he looked back towards her.
"Alodia..." he called to her, his voice weak and reedy.
"NO!!" she cried in horror. This was too much, it had all been too much. It was madness, a nightmare! She scrambled awkwardly to her feet. She turned and prepared to run, to flee, she didn't know where, she only knew she had to get away.
Marcellus watched as she turned her back on him and started to run. He was weak from the Quickening and from the mortal wound in his abdomen that was still healing. He couldn't catch her; he could barely stand. If she ran, he didn't know what would happen to her. She might go back to her family, and they'd burn her or try to kill her some other way, or she would encounter another Immortal, and then all his effort to save her would be for naught. He had to stop her. Desperately, he called after her.
"Alodia!" he cried hoarsely. "Do not turn from me as your family turned from you!"
He looked up. She had stopped. But her back remained turned to him. He had to choose his words carefully. Mercury, he thought in silent prayer, guide my tongue.
"I know you are frightened," he said as he pushed himself to his hands and knees. "I know you are horrified by what you have experienced and what you have seen. I know you are hurt, hurt deep in your heart, by everyone you love turning against you. I know because it happened to me."
Marcellus pushed his body up so he sat on his haunches. He looked towards her. She had turned her head over her shoulder to look at him. Good. He kept talking.
"I also lived when I should have died, Alodia, as I did just now," he told her. "I was banished by my people, by my family; they feared me and drove me away. They did not understand what I was, and neither did I. I feared myself, as you fear yourself now. Until one of our kind found me, and taught me what I am."
"One of our kind..." Alodia repeated. She remembered he had used the phrase earlier. Her body turned to towards him.
"Yes," Marcellus said, shakily pushing himself to his feet. "We are Immortals. We live among mortal men until a violent death brings out our true nature. We cannot die, Alodia."
She shook her head, unable to believe what he said. It contradicted everything she'd been told, everything she believed. "No," she said, "this is madness. This cannot be..."
"Alodia, it is not madness," he said, taking a tentative step towards her. She took a step backwards, away from him, and he stopped. "Think about what you have seen, what you have experienced. And look into your heart! You know what I am saying is true. You suffered a mortal blow in battle today. Now you stand before me, whole and alive. I suffered a mortal blow just now, and look," he pulled open his bloodied tunic, revealing the unharmed skin of his abdomen, "I am healed, just as you were." He took a step towards her, and this time she did not back away.
"We are alike, Alodia! The feeling in your head when I am near, when the Gaul drew near," he said, and saw her raise her hand to her temple, "that is the Quickening. All Immortals possess it. When we near one another, we feel it, like a string on a lute that vibrates in sympathy to its companions. And when we take a head," he said, gesturing towards the decapitated corpse of the Gaul, "which is the only way we can die, our defeated opponent's Quickening, their knowledge and power, becomes part of us. That was the lightning you saw, leaping from his body to mine, after our fight." Alodia's eyes cast about the dark plain, trying to fathom everything he told her. He walked slowly towards her. She did not move away, but warily watched him approach.
"I know your mind is awhirl, Alodia," he said softly. "I know you feel as if your world has been turned upside-down. And I know you have a thousand questions you want answered. And I can answer them. But only if you trust me. And you must trust me, my love, for as hard as it may be to accept, as terrible a truth as it is, there is no one else you can trust now."
He stood a mere yard away from her now. He held out his hand to her.
For a very long moment, she stared at the hand he offered to her. Slowly, she raised her own hand and moved it towards him. She placed her hand in his. His fingers gently closed about hers and he smiled tenderly. Suddenly she stepped towards him, throwing her body against his. He threw his arms about her and held her as she trembled within his embrace.
"I am so sorry, Alodia," he whispered into her ear. "I never wanted this life for you. I tried to protect you, but I...I failed. You were right. My plan went awry. I hope...I pray you can forgive me."
Alodia tilted her head back so she could look into his eyes. She frowned slightly. "I don't understand, Lucius," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You said...I am Immortal. How could you have prevented that?"
Marcellus sighed. "I told you. Our Immortality is only produced by a violent death, such as the one you suffered in the battle today. If you had never suffered a violent death, you would have lived out the normal life of a mortal."
Alodia's frowned deepened. She pushed back from him. "Lucius—why would you want to deny me Immortality? Why would you want me to live a short life and die like everyone else? You said you loved me!"
"I do, Alodia, I do!" Marcellus insisted as he gently pulled her back towards him. "We pay a terrible price for our Immortality. The rejection by those you love is only one small part of it. You saw that tonight—your family, your friends, you are dead to them. They will never accept you. We must leave here and not return, not for a very long time, if ever. And even if we find another place and other people to love, the vast majority will be mortal. We will have to watch them grow old and die, Alodia. And children," he said, his voice choking as he tried to imagine how the news would sadden her, "Oh, my love...we cannot produce children! We are forever alone. The loneliness—the terrible loneliness of living so long is the highest price. I would have spared you that if I could. I am so sorry."
She placed her head on his shoulder. For several minutes, they clung to one another in the middle of the broad, moonlit plain. Alodia stood still in his arms, absorbing everything he had said. Eventually, she asked softly, "How long have you been alive, Lucius?"
"A very long time," he answered, his voice low and gentle. He looked into her eyes. "You heard the Gaul call me a Roman, did you not?"
Alodia nodded. Marcellus continued to look at her, his eyebrows raised. Her eyes grew wide as she comprehended his meaning.
"God in heaven..." she breathed, her head shaking in disbelief. "Those...ancient battles you described at dinner..."
"I was in most of them," he said with an abashed grin.
Alodia suddenly smiled. "You must have so many stories..." she said, her mind boggling.
"A few," Marcellus said with a nod. He smiled back. It was promising, her reaction. She seemed to be accepting it. Marcellus couldn't help but admire her. She was displaying the strength and resiliency he'd seen her show on the battlefield.
Suddenly her smile vanished. She reached out and touched his cheek with her fingertips.
"But you've been lonely...?" she murmured.
"I have indeed," he whispered back, thinking of all the lost friends, all the lost loves, and of the fall of his beloved Rome.
"No more," she whispered, her green eyes gazing lovingly into his. She leaned forward and softly pressed her lips against his. "And never again."
Marcellus' eyes stared at her in amazement, then clenched shut. It was more than he could have hoped for, more than he thought possible, more than he could bear. He felt as though a great weight, one which he had been carrying for centuries as it got heavier and heavier, was lifted from him. Here he'd thought she would have so much trouble adjusting to her existence as an Immortal, but it was he who had never, in thirteen hundred years, been able to completely accept his lot. A tear ran down his cheek. Alodia kissed it away. She shushed him gently.
"No tears, my love," she whispered. "If we have no one else, at least we have each other. It will have to be enough. We shall make sure it is."
Despite her words, or truly, because of them, Marcellus wept. His body shook and he clung to her, his soul venting the anguish of thirteen centuries of wretched loneliness. Despite his remarkable age, he felt like a child in need of comfort. She stroked his head and back and held him, her voice gentle and soothing as it reassured him. Tears came to her own eyes as this extraordinary man, strong enough to survive centuries of conflict and struggle, broke down in her arms. All because, for the first time, he had found the love and companionship he hadn't fully realized he needed.
Finally the tremors that shook his body died down. He looked at her, his face streaming with tears, and looked embarrassed by his outburst. She touched his cheek and shook her head, silently admonishing him for being ashamed of sharing his deepest feelings with her.
Alodia took a deep breath. "I suppose we must go."
"Yes," Marcellus agreed. Together, their arms about one another, he and Alodia began to walk back to the stone circle where Sulla, still a little distraught by the Quickening, was tethered. They reached the anxious horse and Marcellus cooed to him in Latin to settle him down.
Suddenly Marcellus turned to Alodia. "I'll never leave you," he declared solemnly.
The strong-spirited, red-haired Saxon warrior woman looked at him and smiled demurely. "I know," she said simply.
They climbed atop the midnight-black horse and rode off into the night, across the dark plain, and into their long, shared future.