The Nine Shadows: Chapter One

CALEDONIA, 387 ADE

By Christopher Mitchell

One

Tiberius adjusted himself in the saddle, ignoring the numbness in his legs and backside. Argos was a steady horse, but the continual jostling of these uneven goat paths had grown tiresome with the damp cold setting in. Sixty-five suns had risen and set since they’d left Rome. He missed the women, the bustling commerce, and, most importantly, he missed his bed.

“How much further to the wall?” Tiberius’ bodyguard pulled a waterskin from its place in his saddle, taking a long pull, then hissing at the sour taste of its contents.

Tiberius chuckled. “You’ll wake and be upon it, Marcus, if you keep mistaking your water for the wine skin.” He reached out in request, and Marcus dropped the skin in his hands. The wine was sweet and strong—not yet cut with water. It was the last of their stores, and a small memory of home.

It was also all they had to keep out the grey.

The grey was in everything; the ground, the sky, even the waters here were stripped of color. The only source of vibrance lay in the dense forest canopy that stretched beyond visible sight. It coated the landscape in a dark, verdant contrast to the monotonous hue of ash.

The two soldier’s moods, like the clouds, were sullen and quiet. Neither man had said much over the past fourteen sunrises, allowing the cold damp of October shift to a colder damp of November in silence.

They passed wary faces—locals headed to and fro on the road north to Pictland. The barbarians from this mountainous wasteland were said to be the most fearsome of the Caledonians, though Tiberius didn’t see it. Indeed, he longed to set Marcus upon them and truly test their worth.

Tiberius looked over at Marcus. The man’s ruddy features and scar-riddled skin were hidden under layers of undyed wool, shaking against wind that cut like knives…Marcus was no fan of the cold.

Neither was Tiberius, for that matter. The days in this hellish place were like the nights of his beloved Rome; not even the sun warmed their bones as it shone in brief moments between gloom. He longed for the comfort of a consort; some warm embrace to combat the chill set upon his bones like a fell beast, gnawing and ravenous.

“You’ve got that look again, Tiberius.” Marcus sneered, his eyes accusatory.

Tiberius feigned innocence. “What look?”

“The one with you bedding concubines under a bearskin.” Marcus took another small draught from the skin and offered it to Tiberius.

Tiberius held his hand up and shook his head; one sip at that strength was enough. “I was doing no such thing.” He noticed a small tear in the fabric of his rough-spun wool sweater. It peeked from beneath the nondescript cloak of colorless fabric wrapped tightly about him.

Christ, even our clothes are bleak.

They’d stowed their colors in the packs behind their saddles. It would do no good to be skinned by these people north of Hadrian’s Wall for wearing the garments of oppressors.

Marcus grumbled a laugh. “It was the Portuguese one, wasn’t it?” It turned into an uproarious, full-bellied laugh at Tiberius’ sharp eye.

Tiberius waited for Marcus’ laughter to die down to small howls. “Not so loud, my friend; I feel eyes on us already. Your cackling does us no good if it costs us our belongings.”

Marcus’ laughter began anew. “You think we’ll be robbed upon this road? Half the men we’ve seen look as though I should be snapping them over a fire to stay warm!”

Tiberius laughed with his partner. He’d noticed that many of the locals looked sickly the further north they’d come. His laughter died, and he moved his hand in a stifling gesture. “Let us not laugh at their frailty, my shield. These men bested ours at every turn.”

Marcus’ laughter stilled, eyes hardening back to their usual watchfulness. “Aye, Spear.”

They continued in silence, watching the landscape darken. Even Sol, it seemed, had grown weary of this incessant dullery.

Tiberius sighed. “We’ll stop here for the night.” He stretched his arms upward, loosening his sore muscles. “I’ll stow the horses while you look for firewood.”

“Oh, no.” Marcus shook his head. “It’s your turn for firewood.”

Tiberius feigned indignance. “But you’re so good at it.”

Marcus was the largest man Tiberius had ever seen. He towered over others, but he reserved his dour mood for Tiberius only. “You mean to make me a pack animal, Spear.”

“Only stronger, Shield…” Tiberius chuckled. “… only stronger.”

Tiberius hobbled the horses, tying them to a nearby tree. Marcus brought in a few felled logs from the nearby trail, then secured the dolabra from his pack. The axe had been specifically forged for his large hands, the metal spanning almost two whole hands wide. He split the logs and had a small fire going before night swallowed the sky. Tiberius set about preparing their rations of dried meat and puls. He sparingly used what few herbs he had remaining to add some flavor to the bland meal, longing for salt.

“Missing the salt, aren’t you?” Marcus wore that sneer again. He always seemed to know what Tiberius was thinking.

Tiberius glared. “Okay, so I was wrong to think we’d bought enough supplies at the last tavern.”

Marcus chortled. “Did it hurt to admit that?”

Tiberius paused his stirring of the thick wheat paste. “Yes, in fact, it did.”

Marcus laughed, the deep resonance bouncing from the oaks and pines nearby. They settled in, Marcus unfurling their bedrolls while Tiberius put the finishing touches on their bleak meal.

Tiberius gave the porridge a taste, then grimaced. “Christ on his rotten cross, this is awful. Give us the wine, Marcus. Maybe it will at least make this pitiful meal somewhat edible.”

Marcus glared, dark eyes reflecting the dancing firelight. “I wish you wouldn’t speak that way.”

Tiberius huffed from his haunches, peering over the fire at the large man. “You’ve seen beasts from beyond the visible stars, my large friend, yet you cling to that faith like it’s the blanket from your very crib.”

“You mistake me, Tiberius.” Marcus shook his head and handed the wine skin over the fire, careful not to drop it. “I do not ‘cling’ to the faith of those men back home.” He sat back against his pack, the dolabra’s handle jutting from its opening and reflecting the dull orange flames against the sturdy, polished ash. “I like what it represents.”

“And that would be?” Tiberius mixed some of the wine with the puls and tasted… no, evidently it could taste worse.

“A stand against those who would dictate our thoughts.” Marcus stared at the sky with passionate eyes, longing for the obscured stars overhead.

Tiberius knew this, of course; he’d been Marcus’ road companion for twenty winters and knew everything about him. Marcus’ hopes, his dreams, even his preference for Turkish women. Marcus liked that they were voluptuous and tender-hearted, and the thought made Tiberius smile.

“What’s so funny?” Marcus glared at Tiberius’ look of amusement, making the imperial enforcer laugh aloud.

“Nothing, Marcus. Only that you are a conundrum.” Tiberius’ smile faded as he handed the wine skin and bowl of puls to his partner. “That, and I’m almost certain this porridge is poison.”

Marcus laughed and gave it a sniff. Then, mischievously, he pulled a small pouch from his pack. Tiberius looked on with wonder… it couldn’t be…

Sure enough, Marcus unstrung the pouch and withdrew a pinch of white dust, sprinkling it over his unmixed gruel.

“You son of a Shit-shoveler, Marcus!” Tiberius felt himself grow hot. “Have you been with salt this whole time?”

“A true Roman is worth his weight in it.” Marcus’ broad grin lingered as he stirred his bowl of slop with a finger shorter than the rest; he’d lost it on campaign in Germania to a very upset shroud.

Tiberius held his hand out and made a beckoning gesture. “Well! Don’t just sit there stirring that muck with your damned stump! Hand it over!”

Marcus finished the gruel that coated his snipped digit. “I believe an apology is in order…”

Tiberius sniffed. “I already apologized, you lumbering oaf!”

“Not for the tavern, Tiberius.” Marcus grew stern.

Tiberius knew what he meant.

“Fine, you sensitive bastard… I apologize for insulting Constantine’s error.” Tiberius had no intention of making this easier.

Marcus stood, scowling, and Tiberius held his free hand upward disarmingly. “Alright, alright…” Tiberius paused, the very thought of apologizing making him irate. He held his hand over his heart. “I’m sorry, Marcus. I spoke poorly of your idol and beg your pardon.”

He grudgingly meant the words. Marcus was the closest thing he had to family, and the large man was incredibly sensitive. Not in frailty— never that. He felt deeply about all things. He was tender, kind-hearted, traits that belied his staggering size. Those who saw him and his voluminous scars immediately assumed him a threat, but Tiberius had once watched him nurse a baby raven back to health, cooing to it and feeding it small scraps until it was healthy. When he released it back into the wild, the bird refused to leave his side. So, the carrion fowl had stayed…

Until…

Best not to think on it now.

Marcus eyed him. He sat back on his bedroll, reaching into his pack and tossing the small pouch of salt to Tiberius.

Tiberius caught it, and some of the cold that gnawed at him withdrew. “Good man! Good man!”

“It won’t help now that you mucked it about with the wine.” Marcus eyed Tiberius and sat up straight. “And not too much! There’s no telling when we’ll see salt again on this godforsaken road.”

 Tiberius tied the pouch and tossed it back to his friend. They ate in silence, each staring into the fire, remembering moments they would much rather forget. Memories were like that; the cherished ones slowly fading to dim recollection while the worst ones… well, those never dulled.

“Thinking back to Adrianople?” Marcus was finished with his mush and tearing at the last of their bread stores, using the small measure of crust to sop up the remnants at the bottom of his bowl.

Tiberius grimaced. “It’s been almost ten winters, Marcus… ten.”

“Best not to think on it, Spear.” Marcus leaned his head back. The moon had risen, glinting a dull silver against the cloud cover. A single streak of black appeared overhead, letting the pinpricks of light that were stars peek in at their small campfire…

Bearing witness to the creeping shadows of men moving slowly toward its glow.

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