SUMMER 339 AD/CE
Methos had taken many identities over the years, already he was old and already he had come to see the world as both infinitely more complicated and more stupefyingly simplistic than he had once thought. The nature of the two things being true somehow gave him a kind of peace of mind. Men had tried for eons to reconcile such differences. . . he now tried to step away from it.
He travelled now through northern lands, seeing people who lived among trees and in villages built in small clusters.
He'd left his past behind temporarily. The brighter, southern lands he had roamed for several thousand years were too busy for him and too populated with memories and people and other immortals.
He liked cities, he'd come to think of himself as an urbanite but just the same the earth was so large that he could travel for days without seeing anyone.
Rome had changed a great deal from what it had been when he had first seen her. Power was shifting East and it seemed that perhaps she had reached a point where she could no longer stretch herself any more.
Only time would tell and Methos went east to see what was happening there, passing through Roman towns and outposts and little, Dacian villages.
He was wary of course of both mortals and of other immortals. The road was dangerous for anyone and while he might survive a stabbing he didn't relish the idea of being robbed or of being stabbed if he could avoid it.
He'd travelled so far with groups of traders and people on pilgrimages, there was safety in numbers and often better food which he didn't mind.
They gave him news from the rest of the empire also and from beyond at times. The odd Persian far from home or other who had struck out to find something in the vastness of the world.
He kept news of his own travels to himself, never telling more than needed and letting them make their own beliefs up about him. Most thought he was some kind of wandering scholar which wasn't too far off.
He'd learned many years ago already to appreciate the written word and every now and then read something for someone in exchange for goods or extra food. It was a serviceable skill and something he had come to value a great deal.
Here though as they passed east he heard new languages which he was unfamiliar with. Most of the people they passed could speak some common language. Vast though the world was it was not so large that these things were impossible.
The general mood in the current caravan of travelers was congenial, they were lead by a Dacian who spoke five different languages and who had done well for himself escorting travelers along their way.
Aside from him the small groups of people had all found ways to get along, they had a common destination for the most part and so far the weather had been good.
Methos kept to himself although he had taken up talking with a Roman Jurist who was travelling east to study law where he felt he had a more lucrative chance at making a fortune. It was nice to have another literate man around and someone he could talk comfortably with.
The man's name was Sextus and he had a private passion for geography that interested them both and they often walked together in the caravan.
The good weather had put everyone at ease and so too had the complete lack of trouble along the way.
That however came to an abrupt end as they neared a small river that branched from the Danube and had to walk along it until they could reach a more narrow and easily crossed point.
The detour at first was an unwelcome though not unbearable adventure but within a relatively short amount of time Methos began to grow wary.
The path here was well trod and so they of course were not the first to have to take this detour but something struck him as wrong.
The first thing that caught his eye was a leather bag laying in the grass on the far side of the path.
The bag had been rained on and had been there for a while and when he stopped to look at it he saw the strap had been torn.
"What's that?" Sextus asked, looking over his shoulder.
Methos shrugged. "I'm not sure." He bent and opened the bag, finding it empty but stained.
The dark stain could have been a lot of things but he had been around too long to make any mistakes.
He knew old blood when he saw it and straightened up, looking around the trees as if expecting someone to come barreling out of them with a sword drawn.
Nothing was moving but he knew what he had in his hands.
A few more paces down the path and he saw a broken sandal laying half buried in mud.
A tickle of fear lifted the hairs at the back of his neck and he again looked around.
"You seem worried, my friend." Sextus said to him.
A bird called out and took flight near by, making him almost jump.
"Something bad has happened here." He heard himself say.
He knew the signs and soon enough a glinting bit of jewelry could be seen poking out of the grass.
He picked it up.
Dacian gold. . .
People didn't causally lose bags and sandals and gold bracelets.
Again the hair at the back of his neck stood up and he wondered if he should say something. The attack could have been months or weeks before. Whatever had happened probably wasn't going to happen to them and yet when he thought about their options he knew they weren't good. They were penned in by the river and trees.
It would be easy to accost someone here on this path.
It was almost made for it.
"Do you think we're in danger?" Sextus asked and he could tell the sunlight and the nice day had put the man at ease. He sounded more amused than anything else.
He shrugged. "No, probably not."
Yet just the same he made sure his sword could be drawn easily.
On they walked with a few scattered indications of a fight laying around on the road.
Another abandoned sandal, a broken jar. . . then the footprints on the path became sloppy and something told him yet again that this was not normal.
Sextus was saying something as a cry sounded from the front of the caravan. They were maybe twenty-six people, including four or five children and it was easy enough to see what had caused their companions to cry out.
A group of men, Goths were in their way and all of them were armed.
It was the state of their weapons and that of those who wore armor that most alarmed Methos because they were clearly more than raiders. These men were serious and most looked battle hardened.
He tried to draw to the back of the pack with Sextus but the men ahead of them were shouting.
His mind was working over time.
A robbery?
Likely but the scenes behind them. . . the small snippets of death and chaos had him doubting it.
The men ahead were all armed and they had horses too.
They were demanding valuables and possessions.
A woman began to shriek and a child cried out.
Something happened that he could not see and suddenly the crowd broke and began to try to run back the way they'd come.
He swore and turned with them, Sextus at his side but immediately something began to course through him. . . it burned and screamed and every one of his senses was suddenly on alert.
There was another immortal in their midst and if it was one of the caravan he'd have already known.
Fear clenched itself around his heart and began to cause cold sweat to form at his temple and along his back.
The men were attacking and turning back and forth he could not make out which of them was the immortal.
"Ah! We need to get- ash shit!" Sextus cried as he stumbled.
Methos turned and grabbed at him without thinking but before he could do anything else a sword came singing through the air and nearly took his arm off.
He jumped back in time to see one of the raiders cut down their Dacian guide.
His eyes strained as the mud turned red and then black with blood.
This wasn't a robbery, this was a massacre.
He'd been on both sides before and yet the immediate danger wasn't lessened. His heart was hammering in his ears as he turned and drew his sword.
One of the raiders was on foot and baring down on him. As far as he went physically he was not terribly imposing but Methos wasn't stupid. The same could be said about him and he knew battle lust when he saw it.
Sextus was on the ground and he realized then that when he'd spared his own arm the other man had taken the brunt of the blow.
He could hear him gasping and knew he had to get out of here.
"I am Darius." The other immortal said, eyes hard and ready for more battle. "There can be only one."
Methos stumbled away, pretending to be caught off guard but he managed to block the blow that came his way, metal meeting metal and ringing through the air even as his fellow travelling companions fell around him.
He could hear the water rushing behind him and between that and the pounding in his ears he could barely hear the sounds of violence around him.
"Are you a coward?" The other man sneered, enjoying himself in a way that Methos had not in a very long time.
"There are worse things." He heard himself say as he struck a blow back.
They clashed several times and he realized that the man was very good. He was clearly not too new of an immortal. He'd had time to learn what worked best for himself.
Methos however had been living a quiet life. He didn't participate in the game more than he had to of late and this man knew the terrain.
He struggled then against a barrage of blows and felt his heels sink into the now soft mud at his feet.
Danger, danger, danger.
The other man, the immortal Darius was smirking, eyes bright and eager.
Methos looked over his shoulder and then threw himself backwards.
The other man seemed to blink in shock for a moment before he reached out and grabbed at him.
Methos brought a knee up as he fell and met the man's groin, causing him to lose his balance.
The man lost his sword.
Methos didn't and then there was a pause and they both hit the water.
He let the sword drag him down and began to kick away from the other man, following the current of the river.
Once he could no longer feel a body near his he forced his head back up, weighed down by sword and by the bag on his back.
He bobbed, keeping his head above water long enough to see the other immortal strugeling to drag himself back onto the bank.
The others were all still on the ground.
Too high strung to become exhausted he let the river carry him some ways before swimming to the far side and pulling himself back onto dry land.
He lay for a long time, his possessions were mostly still with him although they were soaked through and his head was still firmly attached to his shoulders.
The main goal was accomplished.
He closed his eyes against a sinking sun and exhaled gratefully.
He'd gotten away.
He was soaked through and on his own and on the wrong side of the river but he had gotten away.
He groaned and lay for a very long time before slowly peeling himself out of the mud and starting on a make-shift camp among the trees.
He'd forgo a fire tonight and perhaps the next night as well, at least until he had put some distance between himself and the band of raiders who had just slaughtered his caravan.
He might not have liked it but he could handle a few days roughing it and as long as he kept walking he knew there would eventually be a village in his path.
Still, he'd be more careful if he ever came this way again. That much was for sure.